I'm back and safe and exhausted and just glad to see and use plumbing again.
For those of you who don't know, about 6 months ago I queried this group asking if I should spend my vacation in the air-conditioned comfort of my home or risk discomfort and visit India, staying with some of my wife's friends.
I was soundly told to get off my #$@ and go to India. Well I did.
What was it like? Well get out the chips and then sneak out when the lights go out and the travel slide start playing for I plan on giving you all the gory details, from the first bit of airport frustration, through the maurauding monkeys, and right down to my present 32 hour day.
Each day was so interesting, and so special, I want to write a post for each. It will take me some time to get it right, so here is my plan: I will post each evening, at least one day of my India Adventure.
If you find them amusing, feel free to read and comment. If you don't, just skip this tread. When I am done, I will put them all together and send them out to a magazine or two.
You, lucky jatraqueros, are my test audience.
Besides, all through the trip I kept thinking about how Hatrack would like/hate this or that. You were all there with me, so you all have to endure my written travel slides.
A limited number of photos may end up on the photo gallery. Why limited? Well, that's part of the long story.......
posted
OK. I missed my 1st selfimposed deadline. @#$@#$ jet lag. I started falling asleep at my desk at 3pm yesterday. I got home around 8 (had a craving for Prime Rib after 2 weeks in India, so I went to dinner) and fell asleep.
Well here goes chapter 1, day 1. Um, they do get more exciting, more interesting, and less introspective, once I get to India--day 2.
What am I doing here? Day 1, June 15th, 2003 (Fathers day)
I sat, cramped and uncomfortable, on the aisle seat of the 747, surrounded by over 400 other people and realized I had never been so alone in my life.
Oh, I had traveled before. I had left the country before. I had been on my own before. Yet always before I knew I could contact someone, my wife, my friends, my family, within a few minutes. Here I sat, flying over the Northern Atlantic ocean, and racing into the next day and my friends and family were disappearing behind me while my wife was half a world away.
I was alone. I was relying on forces beyond my control for my safety, my future, and my life. It made me appreciate how emotionally difficult such journeys were for my ancestors, who came from Europe without cell phones and the internet. It made me appreciate how much I depend on other people as anchors in my life. Mostly, the nervousness and unease made me wonder what exactly was in the anti-malaria drug I was taking.
What am I doing here? That is a good question. I asked myself that over and over again as I ended my first day. I was flying to India, where my wife waited with her friends. I was on vacation. I was going to relax and explore and be awed by the strange new world that is India. That still doesn’t answer the question.
My wife has a way of making friends whereever she goes. When she discovered the internet, she went about attempting to make friends around the world. She has a passion for different cultures and different people. She has succeeded. Among those friends she’s made were two families in India. One is headed by a gentleman named Amit, the other by a man named Sanjay. After a couple years of internet chatting with each, they invited her to visit.
I let her go--alone. India was one of a few countries that were on my list to Not visit. I percieved it as overcrowded, dirty, and dangerous. Besides, that year my vacation days were used up, her’s were not.
She had a great time and came back with gifts and stories and a request from both families. She had to return. She had to stay longer. She had to bring the wonderful husband she always talked about.
Great, I thought.
A year went by and I got to know both of these men, and their families. They insisted I come. My wife did not. She started work at a school and knew the only time she could visit was in the summer, and I don’t handle the heat very well. She asked me if I would be upset if she went. I trust her. I said no. Tentativly, she asked me if I wanted to go.
I said yes.
Why? I didn’t want to insult my new friends. I did want to see the wonders she spoke of. I wanted to spend more time with the woman I love. I wanted to share this adventure with her.
I also wanted to do some personal exploring. I hoped that by visiting new places, hearing new ideas, meeting new people I would get a better understanding about myself.
Now, sitting in an airplane racing against time zones I considered what I had learned today. I left St. Louis on time, realizing that e-tickets would have gotten me through the check in line faster. I changed planes in Detroit and discovered that from the air, you can recognize Detroit by the cars filling every flat level space the eye can see. Mostly I learned that I can be a real whiner when I am all alone at 30,000 feet. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep I endured, being too excited/worried to sleep well the night before. Perhaps it’s the Malaria medication. Perhaps slipping out of my comfort zone would do me some good.
I had tried calling my wife (Cindy) and Amit from Detroit. I was too busy in St. Louis getting to the plane on time. Neither answerd. I spent $5 for 15 minutes of internet time to send them an e-mail, but I couldn’t hang around for an answer. Tomorrow I have a short stop in Amsterdam, hopefully. Tomorrow I will land in India, hopefully. Tomorrow I will meet my wife and Amit, hopefully. Alone over the Atlantic all I can think of is everything that could go wrong. I try to sleep but the stewardesses and the other passengers bump me as they walk by.
I know this is going to be a fun trip, a trip of discovery and enlightenment. I discovered one final thing as the day ends. Sarcasm is wasted on oneself.
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I awaken to the sound of stewardess passing out airline food. Egg, uncooked sausage, crunch croissant, not really bad. I stare out the window and between the clouds I see England beneath me.
Its early. Considering the time differences, its very early or very late. Already I have been confused by the time. I carry a pocket watch but buckled into my seat I can’t check it. Instead I just watch Euope roll under me until we reach Amsterdam. This would bother the guy in the windowseat, but I have good vision and see right past him and the lady between us.
Amsterdam from the air looks very European. There are the red slate roofs and the dikes and the Christian churches. The landing is gentle for such a big plane and I leave it. Little do I realize that I am leaving the last bit of US I will find for two weeks. The rest of the trip will be Indian.
I have four hours before my next plane, long enough to be really bored but not long enough to get out of the airport and explore the city. I am saving that adventure for my return trip. My own internet friend will meet me in two weeks and escort me around her city. For today I wait and wonder where my wife is.
Discovery time. I discover two things about Amsterdam. Number one, I discover my cell phone doesn’t work outside the US. Number two, I discover the pay phones have trouble reaching India. No word from my wife. No word too my wife. I start to worry again.
To combat the worry, and to make sure I do not fall asleep I do three things. First, I finish Lovelock. It’s a story by Orson Scott Card and Kathryn Kidd. It tells of small town politics set in the alien environment of outer space. I will see it reflected in the behaviors of my Indian friend Sanjay, his family and neighbors, but at the time I do not know this.
Second, I begin reading “The DaVinci Code” by Dan Brown. I loved this book, but I must warn everyone: Do Not READ This Book on your way to visit India. It is full of mythological references, symbolic definitions and religious ideas that haunt me the rest of my journey.
I also pulled out my computer and played Ceasar III. You can build quite a city waiting for a plane to arrive.
The plane from Amsterdam to Dehli is a 747 like the plane I took from Detroit to Amsterdam, but it is older. We load in from the rear of the plane, which is fortunate since my seat is in the rear. I share my row with a Sihk, whom I talked to before boarding. Despite his wardrobe, including a large red Turban, he speaks perfect English. We both would rather sleep than talk on the plane though.
Another nine hours of flight to India. This time, two major movies are played. One is the Recruiter which is better than the previews showed it to be. The other is an Indian movie with sub-titles. Indian movies have many interesting notes to go with them. One is that like India itself, much of the conversation is in English, while the rest is in Hindi. Sometimes you can understand what they are saying, and sometimes you need the sub-titles.
Another peculiarity is that every movie has atleast one dance/musical number. This included the murder drama I was watching. The murderer claims split personality. He is sent to an insane asylum where he lets the truth spill to his lawyer, who also has fallen in love with the murder’s girlfriend. It gets complicated from their. The music did not add much to the movie.
At 10pm we started our descent into Dehli. I was about to land in India. The movie screen shows flight information when the movies are not playing. I watch as the time to landing shrinks and the miles to Dehli shrinks and I am excited. One other bit of information is also recorded on the screen—the temperature outside the plane. It is useless information—until we land.
At 10:30 we touch down. I glance up at the screen to see 0 Miles to Dehli. Then I notice the temperature. 98 degrees Farenhiet.
I begin to panic. Its 10:30 at night and its still almost 100 degrees outside. That can’t be right. I can’t handle heat well. I am subject to heat exhaustion. 100 during the sunny daytime hours I could expect. 100 at night scared me. I hoped and prayed that the temperature listed there was wrong, that it represented some fluke of the landing. As we taxied to our spot at the airport I was rewarded with a change of temperature. It dropped to 97.
As I sat there fearfully wondering how I would survive the harsh weather to come I was notified that we were ready to disembark. The AC in the plane quit. I grabbed my bags, dug out my passport and made sure I had my paperwork.
My wife believes to be safe we should hide our money during our travels. That way, if we are robbed, the crooks only take some of our money. She hid the money in Toilet Paper rolls (yes, bring your own TP if you are traveling in India. Many places you are staying do not have it, and others have sandpaper on a roll and call it TP), up umbrellas, and in shoes. I had some hidden where I hid my passport. Several thousand Rupees fell out of my bag as I grabbed my stuff. The gentleman sharing my row saw it and kindly returned it to me.
I love most of the people in India.
Then to paperwork. Due to the SARS outbreak, I had to fill out a form guaranteeing my health (or atleast my Sars free condition). According to the man behind me, in Ireland, he had to stick a thermometer in his mouth before they let him in that country, so a form was nothing difficult. We then had to present the form and passport to one official, then our passport and another form to another official, then grab our bags and present the forms, our passport, and our word of honor we were not smuggling, to the officials with guns at the gate.
All of those officials wore surgical masks and plastic gloves. It was like being robbed by beaurocrats.
It took my wife two hours to do this when she arrived. She decided that since my plane landed at 10:30, I would not need to be picked up until 12:30.
It took me half an hour to get through this procedure, we were the 1st plane to land that night. So I walked up to the waiting area, in dire need to see a familiar face, and found a see of people I did not know, all heavilly disapointed that it was me walking through that door.
My wife loves to wear India clothes. They are bright and good looking and very comfortable. They also help me find her in a crowd, unless that crowd is all India. I spent ten minutes wandering the un-airconditioned arrival hall searching for her before giving up, finding a fan, and sitting on my luggage.
A swarm of taxi drivers descended on me, ready to take me to their prefered hotels (can you say kickback?). I fought them off and waited. I had several 500 rupee bills on me, but they wouldn’t help me use a pay phone. I was stuck and all I could do was wait.
One driver offered to call using his own phone. He claimed that there was no answer, then offered to take me to a good hotel he knew and I could call in the morning. I declined.
There was nothing to do but wait and hope that my missing wife would appear, that she was safe and I would be too. Glancing around, there were a half a dozen booths offering refreshments and diversions. None looked appealing. One had in big bold letters STD!. I declined that.
Half an hour later Amit, dressed in white, descended upon me like an angel. Cindy, not believing that I could possibly be out of customs yet, had gone straight to the arrival gate, and not looked around for me. Amit, who had to push her to get here as early as they did, thought to look. He found me. I was saved.
Amit tried to grab all my bags, but I insisted on carrying one. Cindy grabbed another still unsure how I got out of customs so fast, and not willing to apologize for leaving me waiting. We hugged and kissed hello anyway. I missed her and she missed me so together I was happy.
We left the airport and found Amit’s car. He paid for parking. Space is valuable in Dehli so you always pay for parking. Amits car was a small white vehicle we would consider a compact. It fit four snuggly, so was tight with the three of us and my luggage. When we hit the road I discovered that his car was considered a medium sized vehicle.
I also learned that driving in India is insane.
On a standard two lane road you will have three cars, a bus, and a three wheeled scooter all passing a pair of bicycle rickshaws despite the tractor pulling a wagon as oncoming traffic. Horse traffic, pedestrians, cows all fill the road, with equal rights to be their. The right of way goes to whoever has the biggest horn, and the cows seem to be well equipped for this ruling.
In the US, a honked horn is a sign of anger, of audio violence. Honking is considered a threat and an insult. In India, it is mobile conversation.
In the US you pass in passing lanes or face police fines. In India, you make passing lanes.
In Dehli, half the stop lights are no longer legal after 9pm. In India fault falls to people who stop, not to people who refuse to stop. In India they drive on the left side of the rode, as in England, but this too is optional depending on the crowds.
The only thing that keeps people from being killed at ridiculous rates in Indian traffic is the fact that speed never exceed 40mph. How can you drive faster when an oxen drawn wagon my be in you lane around the next curve.
I flew half way around the world, at altituded where breatable air is so thin you would suffocate before falling to your death, and it did not bother me. I was in Amit’s car for half an hour and wanted to run screaming--accept running in traffic, though common, would have been just as suicidal as staying in the car. At least in the car some steal protected me.
I soon got lost on the back roads and turns we took to reach Amit’s home. He lived on the second floor, in a condominium arrangement he called a house. The only thing I remember of the directions on how to get there was to turn right at the Marriage Broker/Real Estate Agent/ Fabricator office.
We went up to his apartment and I met his parents. His father was a friendly man, who shook my hand and told me great things about my wife. Amit’s mother was a quiet small woman who showed up with tea and snacks. I dumped my luggage in the room I’d be sleeping in, watched as they turned on the limited AC, then drank my tea.
Already Amit was showing me his plans for our trip, written out, in triplicate, in color coded binders. His father was smiling. His mother started into the kitchen to make more food. I was overwhelmed. Cindy took over. She calmed everyone down and insisted that there would be time for this later. It was after midnight and we were all tired. She ushered everyone out of our room and showed me where to change. I came back and found the bed, ready to let the reality of India sink in.
The bed, Amit’s that he surrendered for our comfort, was a wooden box with a half inch of padding on top. If you sat on it too quickly, you would bruise your sitter. Cindy didn’t seem to mind so I didn’t.
“You sleep here, in front of the fan.” She insisted. Then she laid behind me, cuddling close.
“Thanks.” I said. She didn’t answer, but I felt a smile behind my back. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be too bad after all.
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Sorry, I got busy over this weekend. A minor emergency may send my wife home early. The wife of Sanjay has picked up rumors and gossip that we were going to the US with Sanjay and their kids. It was wrong, but she thinks the best thing to do is leave Sanjay and return to Amit's family. Since Amit is working, she thinks she'll be bored in Dehli and wants to come home early. I spent the weekend working on details and didn't get to writing out what happened. I'll try now:
Exploration of Dehli Day 3 6/17/03
As I went to sleep, I was told that Tuesday was scheduled as a day of sleep, to allow my jet lag to wear off.
Ha! I am an experienced international traveler. I am never bothered by jetlag. Maybe this was the first time I was almost exactly 12 hours off of my regular habits. Big deal. I awoke bright and early, 7:00am, and prepared to enjoy my first full day in India. (Besides, I couldn’t sleep on the hard bed.)
As I awoke, and people started moving through my bedroom, I turned to Cindy and asked, “What first.”
She sniffed the air and said, “Why don’t you get cleaned up.” She handed me my overnight bag and directed me to the bathroom.
Now would be a good time to tell you about Amits wonderful house, and the homes of most of the people I met in India. When people in the US think of a home, they think of a complete building, with a yard and a garage. In India that is far from the norm. To them a home is more like an apartment. Think “I Love Lucy” more than “Leave It To Beaver”.
Amit’s house consisted of five rooms, a hallway, a storage room and two balconies. He lived on the second floor of a thin, long building, snuggled between to other thin long buildings. Despite the similarities, none of the thin long buildings in his section of town looked alike. Confused yet?
The balcony at the front of his house overlooked the street below. It was a wonderful place to stand in the evening and watch the people below go about their activites. There was a bench swing to sit upon and a stone railing to lean against. The door to the rest of the home was on the right hand side (as looking in the house). It led to the living/dining area.
The living room/ dining room was 10’ by 20’ or so, with a large table near the balcony, and a new TV with all the latest electronic gear surrounded by chairs and a couch on the other end. Also on the other end, on the right hand side, was the doorway to the Parents Bedroom.
Yes, you had to walk through their bedroom to get to the rest of the house. This 10’x 10’ room not only held their bed and cabinets, but the refrigerator as well.
Following the path on the right you entered Amit’s bedroom, which Cindy and I were given for our stay. It held the computer on one desk, a second desk opposite it, and the bed. The bed could be curtained off from the walkway that connected to the rest of the house.
There was a door that could be closed here, seperating the house into two areas. This was done at night, when the AC was turned on. That way they had to cool only half the house.
The kitchen was to the left of the main hall, a small room the size of a large walk in closet. This was Amit’s mother’s domain. I never entered. The next door on the left led to the spiral stairway leading outside. There was another storage area/small closet, and finally, on the left, the bathroom. If you continued down the hall another step, there was a door leading to a back balcony/fire escape.
The bathroom takes a bit of comment. It was an uncooled room with a toilett raised one step, a sink, and a showerhead that was used for scrubbing. Baths consisted of taking a scoop of water from one of the buckets, and pouring it over yourself. Then lather up, and repeat.
The water was not hot. It was chillingly cold. It was refreshing and guaranteed to wake you up. It wasn’t pleasant.
I showered quickly, cleaned up and changed and went back to my room just in time for breakfast. Fresh fruit and Indian bread and a wonderful tea-- I was stuffed. It was there I noticed a ten or twelve year old girl helping serve and clean. I smiled at her but she made no conversation. She was their hired maid. I was trapped, should I complain of this child labor in my friends own home, or should I remain silent and let this girl earn money that she and her family needs. There was no abuse going on here, and she seemed well fed and well paid. I remained silent.
Next came the gift giving. It is a tradition that guests and hosts exchange gifts. We brought books and electronics for everyone, and they gave us clothes and trinkets and carved elephants with baby elephants carved inside. We spent a good couple of hours oohing and ahhhing over everything. I had brought some simple magic tricks and displayed a few for them, especially some card tricks since Amit’s father was a bit of a card shark.
I then filled my computer case with MP3, and cheap (probably illegal) CD’s and DVD’s that Amit gave me.
Lunch and dinner are served late. That’s fine by me, for by 3pm the jet lag I denied started to asert itself. I asked to lay down for a moment to rest. Cindy and Amit left to go shopping. I closed my eyes and it was 7pm when I opened them.
Cindy and Amit came back and we settled in for a traditional Indian feast. Indian rice, with various sauces to make ones mouth burn for days, combined with chicken peices fried and served hot. I ate surprising much, considering my stomach for spicy foods is limited.
Then we were off to buy me some shirts, and finish up on the shopping Amit and Cindy had begun. We went first to the fabric store and exchanged a beautiful patterened cloth that was too small, for one that was not quite as pretty, but was big enough to make an outfit from. Cindy was very upset they were out of the prettier one, so the proprieter let her keep the smaller bit she had at no charge. It was too small to make a full outfit out of, but it was enough for a fancy blouse.
Then we stopped at a streetside vendor to have some blank cloth died for several outfits Cindy had purchased earlier. Before complaining that my wife was buying a lot of clothes, you must realize she had a shopping list from relatives and coworkers that would upset several international trade treaties if it became public. We then went to a tailors, bringing our cloth, and gave them instructions for making the outfits. We also bought our train tickets for the following week. We then went back to the dyers to see if they were finished, they were not.
Let me explain the Indian Khurta, which was what this was all about. In Indian Khurta is a three piece outfit favored by most Indian women, and a male version, white, or not very colorful, is worn as the traditional suit for many politicians. It consists of a light pair of slacks, wide, but held closed by a string. Over this sits a long blouse that reaches almost down to the ankles. The women wear a matching long scarf that can be draped low around the neck, or used to cover the face if bad weather permits. It is cool and comfortable and easy to wear. I was given two of the men’s suits as well. They have another name, derived from the Pajam district where they are made—Pajamas. That’s right, the English colonizers thought they were cool and comfortable, so they began wearing them at night, when English suits were removed. What became standard night-ware for us, is standard day-ware for India.
It was these scarves that needed to be dyed, along with the draw strings.
A Sari is a formal dress, which I’ve rarely had the priviledge to see put on. I do know it has about 30 feet of train that must be wrapped appropriately around the woman. When I tried to help Cindy don one, we both became lost in the train.
By now it was after 9:00pm, so my shirts would have to wait. I was not disappointed.
I was just happy to be finished driving through those streets, not to mention walking. The rule of life is, never stop. If someone hits you, its their fault. That may not mean much as you are left injured on the ground, but the system works. I survived.
We returned to Amits house where IceCream and tea awaited. We stayed up for an hour, but the next day demanded an early start. We watched a bit of TV, but soon all headed back to bed.
As I lay on the hard semi-matress I began to yearn for my TV, my comfortable bed, my usual food and my usual toilette facilities. I nodded off to sleep dreaming of a inch thick, heavilly salted but lightly seasoned prime rib.
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Road Trip. Day 4. Wednesday June 18th, 2003
We woke early. For everyone else it was because we had places to be. For me, it was because I couldn’t sleep. Hard bed and jet lag and strange surroundings kept me tossing and turning all night. I was also beginning to panic about the heat. In southern India, before I arrived, several thousand people had died from the heat. That is like saying there is a heat wave in Florida, so be careful on your visit to Ohio. Still, I was worried about the heat.
We awoke and found that among the many things Amit had done to prepare for our visit, he had hired a car. We would have a professional driver take us everywhere. I had seen Indian roads. I certainly didn’t want to spend days on the driven by a amateur.
I had brought two large bags and two small bags. We filled up one of my large bags with the stuff we had been given by Amit’s family, and the stuff Cindy had already bought. To save room I also decided that my computer bag didn’t need to go on this trip either. My computer was safe at Amit’s. I just took my book, a spare book, and a magazine, and I was happy.
As I said, I was reading “The DaVinci Code”, and had gotten to a really interesting part. The hero was on the run and couldn’t go to a hotel. Every hotel required your passport, and once they had that, the police would know where our hero was. I was thinking about the book as I zipped up my passport into my computer case where I knew it would be safe at Amit’s house for the few days I was away in Agra, at the hotel.
I blame the Anti-malaria medication.
I grabbed a couple small bags and headed down to the awaiting car. Its not that I’m lazy. Amit would not let me carry the big bag. He wanted to ensure I had a good time, so that I would return again. Down at the car I met our driver. He did not speak English. I did not speak Hindi. We smiled at each other. I decided to get another bag or two.
As I grabbed the last remaining bag, Amit’s parents sat there and prepared to send us off. I shook his father’s hand. His mother had a container of sugar. I was informed it was good luck to eat something sweet before leaving. I took a pinch of sugar, and a quick hug from the sweet lady, grabbed the bag and left.
We got down to the car. It was an SUV, and a big one by Indian road standards. It was small by US standards. It was about the size of a “Runabout” with room for 2.5 people in the back seat and a bit of luggage behind them. It was very cubic. Compared to the oxen and bikes and three wheeled carts that filled the road, we were huge.
Next to an elephant, we were a speed bump.
We climbed in, Amit in front with the driver, since they could talk to each other, Cindy and me in the back. The AC was turned on, and off we went. Also in front with Amit was his detailed maps, descriptions, travel plans and alternates. He was a bit prepared, considering the same list was made for each of us, all color coded in matching folders.
How can I describe driving in India? Here is a good example. Imagine driving through rush hour traffic on the multilane highway that surrounds a major city near where you live. Now imagine the lane nearest the median, the lane that is for the fastest traffic, suddenly comes to a dead stop because in that median is a shrine to a local god.
Our driver was many things, aggressive, friendly, helpful, and religious. He stopped to donate to this roadside shrine, despite traffic.
We spent several hours on this rollercoaster of a drive, zooming across the center of the road, passing slow moving tractors pulling trailers full of bricks, avoiding the cows. I finally closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
The road from Dehli to Agra was very plain and monotonous. I didn’t miss anything with my eyes closed. We passed the tech district. Here great new buildings, shiny and spotless, filled with the most current and futuristic designs and equipment rolled by as in front of them ox driven carts made way for horse drawn wagons and men relieved themselves in every ditch.
Amit gave a running travelogue of the wonders of Indian economic history. He was thrilled that a few years ago one had 3 choices in cars, and 1 choice in motorcycles. That number has now tripled.
Should I go into details about the Indian economic history that Amit told me? No, there is enough boring info here as it is. Instead let me state that my own eco/political theories were reinforced when I witnessed how too much government control, and too much free wheeling cronyism and corruption turned a resourceful hard working people into a poor dispirited mob. There is one thing missing from the workers of India—hope. If they could believe in their government and in their future and in the value of their hard work, the rest of the world would tremble at their might.
Enough preaching. Back to the road trip.
Dotting many of the fields we crossed were what I took to be cute grass huts. I guessed that the workers in the fields made small huts out of the reaped grasses in the fields. They either were shade spots to rest in the sun, or perhaps shrines to the gods or goddesses of the fields, or perhaps traditional huts for just wed couples to spend their first nights. I have a wonderfully romantic imagination.
As we progressed I learned the truth. It was all a bunch of manure. Literally. Take cow chips. Stack them up as high as you can. Let them dry for a few days. Now cover them with dried grasses or sugarless cane to leach out even more water. Let bake for a few weeks. What you have when it is all done is a stack of burnable fuel, highly efficient, that burns long and very hot.
Now put that fuel in one of the kilns that are built every mile or so, with their tall smoke stacks reach 100 feet into the air. Place blocks of the clayish mud into the kiln, and you have the recipe for bricks.
With these bricks the growing population of India stays housed and cool and when sold to the growing cities, the inhabitants of the country gain a little extra money. They are a resourceful and hard working people, if you can ever describe a diverse nation of millions with so broad a stroke.
Driving between states is simple in the US. It goes by mostly unnoticed except for the welcome sign posted over the highway, and maybe the state tourist board offering information at a rest area. In India armed guards patrolled each state boundary. Talk about “States Rights”.
After driving for only 2 hours we stopped for a snack. We were not hungry, but our driver insisted we stop. It was a tourist trap, with overpriced souvenirs, pushy salesmen, and waiters insisting we tip well. They fed our driver for free, so we went in and I had a Coke.
Coke/Pepsi, cold on a hot day, is an addiction I must admit too. The fact that this was comfort food for me, something normal, American, routine, scored big points in my enjoyment of it. No ice was allowed near it. We declined the food. Our breakfast still held sway.
Soon we were back on the road (don’t ever think about how we got across the divided highway at this point. I can never condone driving the wrong way down a street for a quarter of a mile.)
We were heading to Agra, famed capital of the Mogul/Indian Empire, and home to the Taj Mahal. First Amit wanted to show me some other special places. The first was the holy city of Vrindavan. For this story, you need a bit of Hindu beliefs.
Hindu is a religion of many things that I could never begin to explain. Try about three years of comparative religions or Indian studies and you will have a beginning. However, high in their pantheon of god is Krishna. He can best be seen as something similar to Jesus—human, of human parentage, but divine; the way to truth and enlightenment as well as a model for truth and enlightenment. Where angels and saints, each patron to different ideals, worship Jesus, so to do the other gods of the Hindu pantheon worship and follow Krishna.
Vrindavan is the region and the city where Krishna grew up. He was a precocious child, which is not necessarily good in a child with divine powers. I did not get the whole story from anyone, but let it be said that Krishna had a lot of fun (Trickster God) in the area, woo’d a maiden who was not interested, and eventually put the whole region under a curse.
Several thousand years later, the curse stands. According to Amit (upper middle class) the people of this state were accustomed to their accursed existence. They used that as an excuse not to try and better themselves. Why get a job when you are going to lose it to the curse. Why build a factory when your employees are cursed to poverty. It can be difficult but easy to live a life under a know curse. Where poverty and joblessness are a birthright, what do you need to try for?
We visited the great Govind Dev Temple in Vrindavan. We doffed our shoes outside, leaving them with a registered shoe watcher, and went inside the shrine. Water sprinkled overhead, and workmen were rebuilding the temple. I have been on tours to famous churches/cathedrals in Europe and the US. I love the architecture and the art to be found in them, but I feel uncomfortable touring a place of worship. The people in the temple were there for holy and sacred reasons. I was there to gawk. I felt wrong and we left, to be overrun with the beggars outside.
In all my visit to India I have run across the hungry sounding and the ill looking. Nowhere were they as thick as in Vrindavan. What could have been a spiritual experience became a lesson in ignoring other people, for you had to ignore the beggars. To give one money only attracted a flock of others. I had to be hard and impolite and I hate being either.
We got lost in the alleys that made up the city, but eventually found our way back to the car. Amit stopped to get his favorite drink—take fresh Milk, set it in a pan and some heat, add some sugar and skim the cream/thickening crust off of the top. That is your drink. He offered Cindy and I some, and we watched the flies buzzing around the concoction being brewed in front of us. We both declined quickly.
From Vrindavan we went to Mathura. Mathura is the birth place of Krishna. Krishna’s Uncle was king of the region—King Kamsa. He received news that his nephew would kill him. Instead he killed all of his sister’s children. When she complained about this, he locked her and her husband up in jail. You can’t jail love, and it soon became apparent that she was about to deliver her 8th child. Immediately Kamsa ran to the prison where they were kept in order to kill the child after it was born. Instead, the moment it was born all the doors in the jail burst open. Krishna and his parents walked out for nobody could stop them.
I stood at the spot where he was born.
Near me a group of believers were playing traditional instruments and singing traditional songs.
Some people dropped to their knees. One lay flat on the floor. This was the spiritual moment I had traveled to India to have.
Then I stepped outside and was met by loud voiced men hawking plastic Krishna’s and toy guns. A market of relics and comic book religious books spread out before me. Worst than that, the entire prison/shrine was surrounded by bored armed soldiers, barbed wire, and military paraphernalia. Recent terrorist attacks and threats had turned this holy shrine into a military compound.
Even the ancient architecture fought against the experience I was trying to have. The building was adorned with Swastika’s. Cindy even noticed them, wondering what the Nazis had done to this place. She didn’t realize that the Swastika (a Sanskrit word from India) have been around for centuries. They used to represent light and good fortune. Now they fit in with the electric lines crossing the sky, the litter filling the grounds, the soldiers with their guns and the merchants hawking “Radium Krishna’s that glow in the dark.” There was a poem in this somewhere, but I was too hot and too tired to put it to words. As Cindy went searching for a gift a friend wanted, I sat back and tried to find just the right words to encompass the disappointment I felt leaving Krishna’s birthplace.
If I ever find it I’ll let you know.
We left though the security gate, past the soldiers, and headed on into Agra. The day was half over, but this chapter is getting long. I’ll finish it tomorrow.
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You know, if you think Krishna's birthplace is bad, you should visit the Church of the Nativity. Posts: 37449 | Registered: May 1999
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Dan, I'm really enjoying this thread. I feel like I'm right there with you. Heck, I even came down with disentery reading your description of that milk drink.
Posts: 22497 | Registered: Sep 2000
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Thanks all. It should take me three times as long to write it all out than it did for me to experience it.
The Taj Mahal Day 4, part 2
We finally made it to Agra, old capital of the Indian Empire.
It is a large town filled with tourist shops, STD stores and hotels. I was tired so I don’t remember much about it other than that.
We went to our hotel, who’s name escapes me today, and checked in. It was a wonderful place, where turban headed doormen grabbed our luggage and had it whisked up to our room before we could check in.
Amit jumped to the lead and signed us in. They handed us forms to sign and requested our passport number.
Passport! I remembered locking it away in my computer bag in Amit’s house. Doh! I explained it was probably in my bags that the staff had already sent to our room. I would bring it down later.
I felt like an idiot.
We went up to our rooms and checked in. Though the rooms, up on the 6th floor, were no better than those of a Super 8 or Holiday Inn, at that time the full shower and real mattress defined heaven. Out our window we had a view of theTaj Mahal and the Imperial Palace known as the Red Fort.
There was also an open pavilion below us where they were setting up some celebration.
By now it was only 2:00pm. We decided to visit the Taj Mahal, and grab a late lunch, after taking an hours rest. I confirmed that my passport was back in Dehli but Amit assured me that there would be no problem. We were guests at a good hotel. They wouldn’t bother us about that silly paperwork.
At 3 we got up, got dressed, and headed for lunch and the Taj. On the way out the hotel desk demanded my passport. We put them off again.
We went to a fancy Indian restaurant for lunch. It was called “Pizza Hut”. Don’t get me wrong, there was little anyone would find familiar between our American Pizza and India Styled Pizza. The ingredients were all Indian. We settled for a Hawain Pizza—Ham and Pineapple.
In the middle of my lunch I started to laugh. Here I was eating the Native Hawaian version of the American version of a classic Italian dish served in India. International Cuisine at its grandest.
Here we picked up our Guide. He was a man steeped in the lore of Agra, and knew all the secrets we would ever want to know. He was one of the top ten most boring men I ever met. His English was slight, and it became apparent that it was too hot and too monotonous for him to be here with us.
Amit climbed into the back seat with Cindy and I (a very tight fit) and we went off to The Taj Mahal. Due to terrorist threats, an area of several thousand yards around the Taj had been sealed off from regular traffic. This meant we got to go the last way not in our comfortable airconditioned car, but by Rickshaw.
Rickshaws are bicycle powered cabs. The foot powered ones were outlawed as being cruel to the drivers. Imagine a big tricycle with the drive pedaling, and Cindy and me in a covered bench over the back two wheels. It was an interesting experience.
When we arrived Amit got into a shouting match with the drivers. There was a dispute on the fee arranged for us to go. I do not understand arguing over what was less than $1, but Amit seemed to take it personally, and seemed to enjoy the argument.
We paid our fee to enter (Amit was upset. Last time he came was during a special celebration, and the fee was waived. This time, being off season, he hoped for the same. Instead, due to the cost of the Terrorist security, the fees, especially for foreigners, were raised.) We walked to a the center of an enclosed courtyard and our guide began to talk (too quietly). I will spare you his dull interpretation of things, and give you instead, a history lesson of the Taj Mahal.
Babar, not that fun little talking elephant on TV, but the Great Grandson of Tamerlane (look Tamerlane up and be impressed. He beat up on King Richard the Lionhearted) and descedant of Genghiz Kahn (from his mothers side) came to India in 1526, about the time the US was being considered to be colonized. A local king invited him to help take care of an upstart empire to the east. He ended up becoming the great empire in the East. Within 100 years his descendants held what was argueably the greatest empire on the earth at that time.
The only problem was that Babar and his descendants were Muslim. The Hindu’s still haven’t forgiven them their conquest despite a tolerant veiw towards religion that the rulers tried to create. Heck, some even married three wives, a Hindu, a Muslim and a Christian.
In 1627 Shah Jahan succeeded to his throne and continued to rule the empire wisely, compasionately, and reasonably. He had previously married a 14 year old girl who became the love of his life. For nineteen years they lived happilly together, deeply in love. She gave him 14 children. (WOW!) However, as the fourteenth was born, she died. In Shah Jahan’s grief, he decided to build a monument to their love.
He built the Taj Mahal.
(This was at the time the great unborn US was building everything out of wood, and if sophisticated, painting it.)
It is a perfectly symmetrical monument, including all of the out buildings. The courtyard we stood in at first was a shrine/hostel where people came and for a small donation, could spend the night. There was no Holiday Inn nearby for the first visiters to stay. Twenty Two rooms surrounded this courtyard, for 22 thousand men worked on the Taj and Twenty two years were needed for its completion. You walk through the entrance way, where inlays of koranic verses are written down the sides. Unlike Star Wars opening, these words were sized against the perspective. When you looked at them, the letters at eye level appeared to be the same size as the letters 200 feet up.
When you step through the opening you see the picture of the Taj that we are all used too. There are a series of reflecting pools in front of it. They use a gravity fed water system to become beautiful fountains, but this uses a lot of water so is rarely done. To the left and right, out of most photos, is a sound stage. Here musicians would play music for the courtiers. Only one stage was needed, but one stage would not be symmetrical.
Then there is the white marble monument itself. Four marinet towers surround it. Each tower leans outward, so if a disaster hit and they fell, they would not fall on the Taj itself. Then on the raised platform, the domed Taj itsem is seen. Covered in milky white carved marble, inlaid with semi-precious, and a few prescious stones, it practically glows in whatever light is available. It looks different under moonlight, or sunlight, or the lights of the setting or rising sun.
Behind the Taj there is nothing. It stands atop a small cliff overlooking what once was a beautiful river. That river is mostly gone now, and what is left stinks of pollution and refuse. Across the river is a series of fields. Since anything standing behind the Taj would distract from its majesty, it is illegal to build anything there.
Ever wonder what’s inside the Taj? Two coffins. Here the queen was buried, in the exact center of the monument. In the lower level is her tomb. In the upper level is a duplicate of her tomb, for it would be too crowded for people to go below.
Shah Jahan is also buried in that tomb, ruining its perfect symmetry. This was not done out of love, but out of economics and political intrigue.
When Shah Jahan saw how wonderful the Taj Mahal was, he decided that he should start working on his tomb. He wanted a bigger one, jet black, built on the other side of the river, where he could eternally look at his love. Plans were made. The deep foundations were begun to be dug.
His son, Aurangzeb, realized that the empircal treasury was sorely taxed, and another, greater monument would ruin the empire. He arrested his father, became emporer, and ruled wisely again.
Shah Jahan was imprisoned in the nearby red fort. His only wish, that he be locked in rooms from where he could see the Taj Mahal, and hence, see his wife. His son agreed. He was kept there for many, many years. Finally his eyes grew so strained they could not see the mile to the Taj. His son had a room built and a special diamond (the Star of India?) installed in the wall. This acted like a lens so that Shah Jahan could gaze upon the Taj Mahal until he died.
It was his son who ordered he be buried there, by his beloved wife. That is where he is to this day.
My visit to the Taj was impressive. I took photos and video, but it was Amit who commadered my cameras and took many more. We filled up the digital camera, and we could not empty the memory cards until we returned to his house. Luckilly I brought a sparce camera, and lots of film for the video camera.
We photographed the large Mosque built next to the Taj, and we photographed its empty twin that completed the symmetry. We photographed the native green parrots flying among the trees. It was hot and started to get uncomfortable, but also unforgettable.
We left the Taj exhausted, happy for the rickshaw ride out. Unfortunately this was an uphill ride, and I was not a light person. Several times I offered to step out of the rickshaw as the driver got down and started pushing us up the hill, breathing heavilly. Cindy wouldn’t let me, for I was turning red myself.
We made it back to our car, and Amit went back to argueing with the rickshaw drivers again over fees.
Our guide had one more stop for us. The inlayed stones in the Taj were beautiful. He took us to a shop where to still do that work. Cindy and I can watch craftsmen at work for hours. (Cindy could watch them for days). Our guide smiled. We were shown in the Air Conditioned room. We were shown the certificates of craftsmanship that proved these people were not con artists. We were shown wonderful inlay work.
We spent several hundred dollars.
I know some of it went into our guides pocket. Probably some went into our drivers pocket. That is how they do business there.
We finally returned to our hotel. Again we were pressed for my passport. I feared that tomorrow would be spent racing back to Dehli to pick it up and return it to our hotel keeper. Amit continued to tell me not to worry.
I laid down and wanted to sleep. Cindy and Amit were not ready for that, despite this being a very long day. They wanted to go to dinner. All I really wanted was to get my hands on the remote control and veg out for a while in front of the TV. I feigned exhaustion and they left without me. I did sleep for about an hour, then the cool AC drove away my heat exhaustion and I moved around the room.
Looking out the window I watched the party below. It was a wedding reception. In an Indian wedding, the groom shows up dressed in traditional clothes, riding a white horse. I will never complain about wearing a tuxedo again. The reception was loud and musical and fun. I found out later that Amit tried to get Cindy to crash the party. She isn’t into loud parties though.
I watched some TV, and some of the wedding party, and before too long Amit and Cindy returned bringing with them a chocolate Mousse for me. It was delicious. They started playing cards, while Amit brought his remote over from his room and also took control of the TV. Slowly I faded back to sleep. It should have been a good nights sleep on the soft matress in the cool room. It wasn’t. I kept worrying about my passport. I kept blaming myself for leaving it. I kept worrying about everything else that could go wrong on this trip. Sometime in the night I had a minor panic attack over everything.
I realized that I was totally out of control. I was in a land where I could not drive, could not eat, could not drink, could not talk without serious help from others. I could do nothing. An example, the water everywhere could get me ill, and to order some, I had to talk to people who did not understand me, or who saw me as a rich foreigner to be taken advantage of, or who might sell me dangerous tap water in a refilled bottle. I could not go outside in the sun for long, nor could I stay in my hotel without my passport. I could not even control the TV I was watching, for Amit had a fixation for turning channels continously. I counted the days and the hours and the minutes until I would be safely home, in my house, surrounded by my stuff, in control once again.
Counting down the hours until it ends is not the way to spend ones vacation.
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I've sent some photos to NDra to put in the album. I don't have many due to some events that happen later.
My goal is not to get you to want to visit India, or to drive you away. Its to retell about my visit, and as I will later point out, show you my problem--so many people want me to go back.
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Heh, I never carry my passport with me when I'm abroad. Although, I've never stayed at a hotel before...
Posts: 5700 | Registered: Feb 2002
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I will not ask where Kama sleeps when she goes abroad.
Three Royal Gems Day 5: Thursday June 19, 2003.
I awoke with one of those ideas that was so simple and so obvious you feel like an idiot for not thinking of it first. All the hotel needed was the numbers off of my passport. Amit’s father is at home. He can get them and either fax the hotel a copy of my passport or give us the numbers.
When the guy came to our room asking for the passport, we told him to expect it to be faxed soon. We then called Amit’s father and arranged for it. I felt giddy I was so relieved.
Amit had come over to our room and we made plans for the day. If the weather was too hot, we’d lounge around the rooms and hit the swimming pool. However, a storm had moved through early that morning, bringing cooler weather. If it was not too hot, we would go to The Red Fort this morning and drive to Fatehpur Sikri, the earlier capital of the Mughal empire.
The newspaper came, in English. It was not that interesting until Amit showed me the wedding section. This is not a section for people getting married. This is a large want ad section for parents seeking mates for their children. It was divided up by caste (Brahman-religious caste for example) and religion and a few other family specific trade divisions. Talk about your family values, your traditional values, your meddling parents. Amit opened the paper one day to find out his parents had put him up for marriage, without consulting him.
We went down to breakfast and to check the weather. Since we were running a bit late, I ordered a chicken sandwhich instead of an omelete. Here I discovered another difference in culture. Chicken Sandwhiches in the US are usually a breast of chicken cooked somehow, or possibly a patty of processed chicken. Here it was chopped chicken pieces mixed with filler—chicken salad minus the mayo. The better the restaurant, the less the filler. This was a good restaurant so the sandwich was good.
I got chips too. Since I had been sweating much over the past few days the salt was definitely needed.
We went outside and discovered it was not overbearingly hot. He headed for the fort, with our driver and our guide.
Instead of a detailed, boring, step by step retelling of our tour, I’ll give you the highlights of the Red Fort itself.
Emporer Akbar (Grandson of Babar, Father of the maker of the Taj Mahal) was revered as the builder king. He built his first capital Fatehupar Sikri, then unhappy with its final look, and its economic position, started contstructionof the Red Fort in Agra. His son and grandson finished it, then built its twin in Dehli.
The Red Fort is an imperial palace and an imperial fortification all in one. It is several miles large, but to this day 3/4ths of it is used as an active military base. We toured only the non-active historical part consisting of the royal chambers and audience chambers.
The whole place is surrounded by two moats. The first drops down ten feet, then you came across a water and crocodile filled moat. (no longer active, sad to say). If you managed to breach that obstacle, a thirty foot wall led you to a second mote. This one was full of pretty trees and flora, and tigers. That’s one way to discourage your Avon lady. A final outer wall stood about fifty feet taller, with all the usual arrow slits, canon holes, and places to drop deadly objects on people below.
There was the grand entrance, including a 100 yard long straight road where more sharp or heavy or hot things could be dropped on you. This lead to the main courtyard where for two hours every day the Emporer sat to judge the grievances of the common people. Here he sat on a beautiful expensive gold and gem inlaid Peacock Throne. That thone, along with almost all the valuables in the Red Fort, were stolen by the Persian army and now reside in Tehran.
We toured the palace area, but it was not overly impressive as it now stands. Great water works, all gravity fed, would have kept the place cook, but they were not working for tourists. Beautiful Tapestries, which could be moved to catch or guide the breezes were missing, leaving large empty archways that, while nicely carved, became redundant. The view, looking over what was once a beautiful river, were fantastic. Many of them had the Taj Mahal as backdrop.
There was the prison of Emporer Shah Jahan, inlaid with semi-precisious stones in the style of the Taj, with its veiw. Not surprisingly, the legendary Diamond Lens was missing.
There was the Queens Bath Room. I am not refering to a toilet and tub here. This large room of hot and cold baths. The walls were inlaid with reflective gems. One lone candle would reflect into a ceiling of stars. One bath had inlays cut into the wall for holding candles. Water poured down in front of the candles into the baths below. This would and a lit waterfall to the room. Finally, hollow spots covered with different material were set everywhere around the room. When they were struck, with a hand or a stick, different sounds would emerge. Not only could they sing in the bath, they would have accompaniment.
The baths were in a stage of being reconstructed. Security precautions were being installed to make sure the semi-prescious inlays were not pried out by visitors. However, our guide knew a guy, who for a little cash, gave us a special tour. We exited the locked baths greatly impressed. As we slipped the secret guide a few rupies, an army guard noticed us and started marching toward the man with the key. We left quickly.
There was a giant well, twenty feet across and a handred feet deep that supplied water for several hundred years.
There was a solid ebony bench, ten feet square, from which the emporer sat and gaver empirical decrys in the noble court. (I got to sit on it and take my rightful place as emporer. Cindy refused to obey my commands though. Usual wife.) A mirror image of the bench, but in white, sat across the noble court where the Prime Minister gave his audience.
There was a long row of rooms surrounding a large courtyard, that contained the royal concubines.
Below these rooms was something even the richest person today does not have in their own house. Where the women’s rooms were on the second floor, the first floor contained thirty alcoves where only female merchants were allowed to come, and only female buyers allowed to shop. That’s right, this emporer had his own built in shopping mall.
By one I was getting overheated and Cindy was getting tired and Amit still wanted to take a few dozen more pictures of us. Finally he agreed it was time for us to go. The Guide decided to talk to us about the wonderful tapestries that the royal families used, and promised to show us how they were made.
Great, I realized, another shopping spree coming up.
First, we had to go to the original capital, well the original one that Akbar built. We rushed off to Fatehupar Sikri, about 50 kilometers outside of Agra.
Along the was I saw a bear. Actually, I saw dozens. Each was tethered to its owner as they stood on the side of the road promising to do tricks for passers-by. This dancing-bear routine is highly illegal, so the practioners stay away from the cities. It was too hot to break the law and pay to see a whipped bear prance. We went on.
Sikri has one item of major importance. It has the largest gate in the east. You climb up 100+ steps to reach this massive gate. Unfortunately you have to fight your way through a throng of beggars and merchants before you can do that.
We went in the backway instead.
The back entrance was newly opened by the Indian Historical Survey. This English originated organization set out to record and recover ancient Indian sites before they were lost to time. Their first leader was Dr. Everest, who lies buried with honor in the Red Fort. (PS they also named a mountain after the guy.)
This fortress capital was only recently reopened to the public. It was very impressive. There were judging rooms, and a spot for the court astrologer. There was the house of Akbar’s favorite wife, and her special vegetarian kitchen, with flattering paintings still partially visible to this day.
Then there was a large, empty, cooling pool in the center of the court. In the center of this pool was a platform. When the pool was full, you could walk along some 18” narrow stone bridges to reach the platform and be cooled by the surrounding water. With the pool empty, those bridges were surrounded by upto 30 feet of nothing.
Cindy hates to fly. She walked across the stone bridge with no problem. I started across the bridge, then quickly turned around. Two more times I started, and two more times the voice in my head yelled, “ARE YOU NUTS!!!!” The fourth time I did not look down at the hard stones 30 feet below me, or on the too narrow bridge in front of me, but on the goal in sight. I crossed it.
I was ready to go home, or at the very least, back to the hotel. We toured the old capital for another half an hour, looking at the “Chess Board” that was cross shaped, and where the concubines were used as pieces in olden days. I drank water and mango juice and decided I was too hot to do anything else.
We left and went back to Agra, but not to our hotel. Our guide had to show us where they made the beautiful tapestries.
We did not want tapestries.
For our anniversary I had my wifes wedding ring and engagement ring reset. It looks wonderful now, but it left us with her old ring minus the diamond. She knew that some gems were inexpensive in India, so she was hunting for a good stone. The merchant, who invited us into his airconditioned show room, and was half way through his memorized tapestry speech, jumped at the idea of selling us a gemstone.
He looked at the ring, pulled out a box, and started making us offers. Then the power went out. Its amazing how fast people will move in a jewelry store with no power. I kept my hands out and open and empty.
We started haggling over the price. Amit could not resist. He started making counter offers. I found a comfy chair and tried to sleep. Fifteen minutes later we were rushing off to another store, because the guy in the first store had dropped his price to much to quickly. Cindy and I agreed on a $200 limit for the stone. Its amazing that a $600 stone can be bought for $200 if they know that all the money you have.
The second store offered us a better price, but it was not airconditioned. Nor did it have any really comfortable chairs. It did have a lot of other interesting items, but I was too tired to shop. Half an hour later, and my wife wore the new ring out of the building. $250 or so for blue saphire, set in her gold ring, was not bad. I hope its not.
We returned to the hotel with good news and bad. The water had gone out for a while when we were gone. My passport papers had come in. I took a nap for a couple hours, then wanted a shower, then dinner.
The shower was a bit of a dissapointment. The water problem meant I had to run the water for a few minutes before the rust color went away. Dinner was no disappointment. I ordered a sizzler—this is a grilled chicken with potatoes and vegetables, still on the hot iron plate it is cooked on. It was delicious, and would come back to haunt me later.
By now it was late. We went back to our room, played some cards, and then Amit left and I headed off to sleep.
I was not haunted by my passport problems, or by the fear of heatstroke, since the next day was our trip up into the cool mountains. I still found myself counting the hours until my vacation was over.
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From Missouri to Mussori via Misery Day 6 Friday June 20th, 2003
Today Amit planned a road trip. We were leaving the hot plains of Agra for the cool mountains, in the area called Mussori. This was a bit funny since Cindy and I are from Missouri in the US.
Ok. It wasn't that funny.
We got up, if not early, atleast not late, showered, got dressed, and said farewell to our comfortable hotel and hit the road again.
First we took, a quick trip down to the restaurant for breakfast. Scrambled eggs are the same everywhere, though this cook put a little more milk in them than what I would consider usual. Did I mention I am a bit lactos intolerant?
We got in our car, without our guide, but with our driver, and headed out again. We had to go back to Dehli, where we would change drivers and head off to the mountains. The drive was the same as our trip here, so there would be little to tell you, unless I took a moment to describe the driver.
He was a tall thin man who was pleasant, obliging, and an excellent driver, if excellence includes the ability to find a fifth lane on a two lane road. Compared to the rest of the drivers in India, he was normal. The fact that we survived unscathed made me consider him great.
To keep awake on the long trips he listened to music. His music was a cross between classical Indian music (that Amit informed me was Sihk, a sub-group in India) and modern rap. He had six tapes, but would not take the time to trade them out after listening too them once through, or perhaps he was rebelling against Amit’s attempt to control the radio by oh so kindly trying to pick which tapes to be played and when they should be traded. Either way, there are refrains in Hindi, Sihk music, that still haunt my dreams. Whenever I hear the starting beats of any Hindi song I get flashbacks to the back seat of that car.
We stopped at the same restaurant as we did on the way to Agra. Again, over priced souvenirs and questionable food were offered. I got a Coke. Amit promised us a great treat when we reached Dehli.
Back to the car for more of the fun trip. I know I mentioned Ox carts and bicycles. We also passed a number of Camel pulled carts. The area just outside of Dehli is a desert. In June, when the pre-monsoon winds pick up, it blows through the town leaving an orangish tinge to the sky. Its perfect camel weather.
That is why, during the heat of the Indian summer, most people head for the mountains. That’s where we were headed.
First two quick stops in Dehli:
Amit knew a great little restaurant that served good Ice Cream. He was disappointed that I only ordered another Coke. I tried to explain that with six more hours of driving ahead of us, dairy products were not a good idea. Next to the restaurant there was a shoe store with a sale going on. It was decided that I needed sandals. My work shoes were just too formal for running around in shorts. Besides, I had bought some socks just for this trip. Unfortunately they were too tight and were very uncomfortable. With Sandals I could go sock-free. Leather bound sandals on a thick comfortable sole (1/2 inch or more thick rubber/plastic) for under $5. I would have bought some good leather shoes, but I have big feet, and most Indians do not. I needed an 11 ˝ wide. The best they had was a 10.
We left Dehli.
Our driver received a call on his cell phone. There was a scheduling readjustment. He was to stay with us for the rest of our trip. He agreed. Just like that he agreed to be away from his home for three more days. It was work. I tried to sleep while his music filled my mind.
After a few more hours in the car the driver called a lunch break at the half way point between Mussurie and Dehli. It was a restaurant built into two parts. Part resembled a classic 50’s diner. The other part was an outdoor bar and grill.
The driver got to go to the outdoor grill, which was fine by me in the 90 degree heat.
We went into the diner. It was round and gaudy, containing a small aquarium and video games that predated Spyhunter. I checked out the bathrooms. Those soda’s were beginning to get to me. The bathrooms were out back. The Urinal was what I had expected, but I thought to check out the cleanliness of the um, sit down facilities. There I met my first Squatters Hole. Instead of a nice flushable throne to sit upon, there was a mat showing you where to place your feet, then you squatted down, and aimed for a hole in the floor. I decided I didn’t need to use those facilities after all.
I went back to the restaurant, and just dreamt of our next stop, the Savoy.
When everyone was finished eating, we got back in the car and headed on. I hardly noticed the driver cutting across two lanes of oncoming traffic and avoiding the ten people on the sidewalk as we left the restaurant.
As evening approached we entered the foothills of Mussorie. It wasn’t the mountain road, just a twisty, curvy, dangerous stretch of several miles that had us tossing and bouncing around. To make matters even more exciting, we came upon one of India’s largest military installations. Convoys of military vehicles played tag with us on the road. Our driver took it in stride.
It was when we reached Dehra Dun, the city at the foot of the mountains, that I got worried. Our driver took a quick detour to a shrine. He explained that he prays every time he drives up the mountains.
Boy did that make me feel comfortable.
The drive up the mountain was filled with all of the same dangers and obstacles driving throughout the rest of India contained, except that one wrong turn here could send us either careening into a rock wall, or plummeting thousands of feet down the sides of the boulder strewn mountain.
I can’t describe the drive to well. My eyes were closed most of the way.
We were heading to the Savoy. If you have ever seen any of the old films on India, or read any of stories set in the 19th century, then you should recognize the name Savoy. It was the British who discovered mountain retreats were great for escaping the summer heat. It was their trains that enabled seasonal migration. And when the rulers of India wanted to build some grand retreat, they built the Savoy.
The brochure on the Savoy promised the lavish luxury of the British elite. Since everything was built on the sides of the mountains, space was a premium. Since they were first, they claimed, they had the space for things such as Tennis Courts and BIllard Rooms.
It took us a while to find it, but we did. We arrived, but couldn’t find anyone to help us. When they did show up to help us with our bags, we went off to our rooms.
They were terrible.
Amit’s room was so full of mildew he couldn’t sleep there and demanded a second room. Ours was not much better, but it was livable. No remote for the TV. Paint splattered on the walls where they had tried to paint the trim. No AC, but large fans. This quaint inn was state of the art when constructed, in 1865, but it was terrible.
I crawled into bed with Amit assuring us that we would not be here long. The beds were pure fluff. I sunk down about four inches. I reached over for my wife and almost fell through the crack between the beds. Yes, our queen size bed was two singles pushed together.
The room to our right held other guests. A connecting door between us was closed, but the only latch did not lock.
I knew this would be another night of little sleep.
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Walking Day Day 7, Saturday June 21st, 2003
I awoke about 7 am, but my wife was still asleep. The Savoy’s rooms actually were two rooms, with a connecting door. The TV was in the far room, so I got up and watched the TV instead of trying to stay in bed.
I caught the movie “The Last Castle” where Robert Redford makes an ethical decision that winds him up inprisoned in a hell hole. I thought, “See, it could be worse.” Cindy joined me about half an hour later. Amit joined us a bit after 8. There was no remote for him to use, so he stood by the TV and made plans.
The Savoy was lousy. He had shortlisted five other hotels to stay at. The best didn’t have room, but may have a no show by 11am, the next best had a room but needed us to call by 10. He wanted to know what to do.
Cindy and I gave him our advice, but he was still unsure. He left us to the TV and went to make arrangements, as well as to yell at the Savoy manager for their less than promised accomidations.
We finished the movie.
I then went outside. The Savoy is a two story hotel, with the rooms forming a big U. At the bottom of the U were the main rooms, the restaurant, billard room, and a bar called “The Writer’s Room.” We were on the upper floor on the right arm of the U. Above and to the right of that arm were the registration building, the parking lot, and a small garden with a view overlooking the valley below. There was a tennis court and some out buildings above the left arm of that U. As I stood outside looking over the place I noticed a crowd of employees at one of those outbuildings. They were chasing away a monkey.
I ran inside and grabbed my video camera, but by the time I returned, the monkey was gone. I video taped the rest of the Savoy instead, and realized just how dingy the place had become.
The weather was cool and the fresh air felt nice, so I invited Cindy to come out and go for a walk. We did.
The Savoy has a lot of promise. Antiques and hand carved furniture and details fill the place. However the were not being maintained. They were loosing value every day they were unprotected in the damp mountain air.
I stopped outside the Writers Bar. When the Savoy was in its prime every English writer, and many American ones, that traveled to India between 1865 and the 1950’s had stopped here, wrote here, created here. Unfortunately at 10am in the morning, the bar was not open yet. I opened the door and looked in.
Hemingway had written in here. Had Verne? Wilde? Doyle? Any of the others too many to name? I did not know. I do not remember who had traveled and who had never left the quiet confines of their Victorian homes. It didn’t matter. I felt something looking into that room. Perhaps it was guilt for my lack of writing, or awe, or just a feeling I wanted to feel. Perhaps it was the left over presence of those writers, those creator, those creations.
Would it be worth the smell and the mess and the pain of the Savoy to stay here and enjoy this room, drink a whiskey where Hemingway had? No. This room crowded and filled with Indian waiters and cheap alcohol would not be as impressive as watching it in the morning silence, as banks of clouds fought up the mountainside, barely visible throught he windows. In the silence I could imagine the ghosts, if not see them.
I had all I needed from the Savoy right there. Cindy was bored and ready to go on with our walk. I inhaled one last deep time, swallowing their thin air, and felt giddy.
We walked outside. Cindy was talking about the waste of India. There was so many of these inspiring historical monuments, and without outside pressure, they were being run on the cheap, used for the fast buck (rupee?) and not maintained. Litter blew around the courtyard as we walked through the center of the U. I stared off at the promised tennis court. Could you play tennis on a gravel court with a hump in the middle?
Amit came up the steps as we were going down to the parking lot. He was still unsure of where we were going, but the manager was heading to our room with papers to be signed before we could go. Again, passport numbers, visa numbers, beurocratic numbers. As we stood there talking, Amit decided to go to choice number two, the Shiva Inn. Repack and the men would take our bags as we signed out.
Fifteen minutes later we were heading for our car. I held the camera bag as we were getting ready to go. Amit was still in the hotel office, still letting the manager know of his disappointment. Then I saw the monkey. He was a large, (3 foot tall) monkey walking around the edge of the parking lot. I dug out the cameras. I had cleaned out some bad photo’s from my digital, so I was able to take one photo with that. The Video Cam was best, to watch him running across the porch in front of the main office.
If Amit had walked out then he would have freaked out. Amit is scared of monkeys.
Instead we had some time so I walked over to the wall and looked down over the valley below. It was beautiful. We were high enough that I could see the clouds below us, slowly ascending the mountain side.
There was a beautiful garden we could have walked in, but a band of wild dogs had marked it as their territory. I stayed by our car instead. The monkey left and Amit came out and we were of to the Shiva.
Today my eyes were open as we drove through Mussurie. The usual traffic worries were compounded by not only the risk of falling off the mountain, but with daylight, there were hordes of foot traffic, and pony rides, rickshaws and other entertainments filling the streets. There were also parked cars parked everywhere. Streets barely big enough for two cars now had to face two way traffic fighting their way around parked cars.
Luckilly the Shiva was not far. It was a five story hotel built on the edge of the mountain. The building did not go up. It went down. You entered at street level, then took an elevator down four levels to our room. Even then we had a good view of the mountain out our window.
We checked in relatively quickly. It was clean and 60’s modern. We had advanced a hundred years, but were still not current. Here too there was no remote with the TV. The staff was nice and quick and pleasant. They brought me up some tea for a late breakfast, and we settled in.
Ten minutes later they brought us the TV remotes.
We rested for an hour or so, then Amit came in and wanted lunch. Amit had grown up in a well connected family. This allowed him to spend many summers living in Mussurie. He knew all the good places to go.
We got up and decided to walk to lunch, then continue on a walking tour of Mussurie. We headed for the elevator. I have been in small closets bigger than this elevator. My wife doesn’t like elevators, so she started walking up the four and a half flights to the exit. We joined her.
We turned right, going down hill. Uphill there were only more hotels and some parking. We fought our way through traffic and stared at all the interesting shops. There was a walking stick shop based out of Wisconsin (imports to the US I guess). There were plenty of food shops. There was a United Methodist Church dating back almost 150 years.
We got to the main road, turned right, and headed off. We passed the movie theater (a cultural center of the town) and headed for traditional Indian fare—The Four Seasons restaurant, the best Chinese cooking in Mussurie.
I learned something new about Indian/Chinese food. 1) Rice is an option. It does not come with every meal. 2) Sweet and Sour is Hot and Hotter. 3) Chow Mein is considered an American dish, and it was assumed that we Americans would want it. 4) Good Chinese food is good Chinese food anywhere.
Now it was shopping time. Christmas gifts, birthday gifts, things required for our coworkers all needed to be bought, so we walked down the street, looking in shops, buying things.
Kashmir was not too far north of here. Kashmir shaws, sweaters, and other goodies soon found a way into our bag. Amit thought the lady running the store was nice and smart, to be able to run the entire store, and her family/employees, so smoothly.
We decided to get a top for one of my sister-in-laws. She was turning 40 in three days, and we wouldn’t be there for the big party. Unfortunately the tops were all made for Indian women who are smaller than American women (and my sister-in-law is not small). My sister-in-law is larger than my wife, so when something was not loose on Cindy, she knew it would not fit Sharon. The owner debated with her, until a passing woman of about my Sister-in-law’s size, was asked to model the top. It fit, but was tight. If left unbuttoned, it would be fine.
Then the power cut out. That had happened at least once before in the hotel. Within a couple of minutes the fans were going again.
I decided it was best that I leave the store and catch my breath outside. I did so and noticed a beautiful catholic church just across the road. It too was 100+ years old. I realized that when the British built their hill stations, they brought the churches with them. The Hindi and Muslim’s that followed hadn’t quite caught up yet.
We walked on down the hill and a few blocks over, when we passed a book store. I love books. There they had a big sign—Harry Potter, The Order of the Pheonix, on sale 6/21. I checked my pocket watch. Today was only the 20th. “Tomorrow we come back and check the price.”
Only later did I realize my watch was off. It was the 21st, and we wouldn’t be able to make it back to this bookstore (it was WAY down the road). I could have had Harry Potter before anyone in the states, but I couldn’t read a calendar.
There were a few spots where the road neared the edge of the mountain, here one could view the valley below. We stopped and watched as clouds below worked their way up the mountain.
Gun Point sits attop the mountain. It’s a cable car ride up. The only thing up there, said Amit, was a restaurant and a plaque saying how British guns on top of this spot could rule the valley below. Since neither Cindy or I wanted to ride the cable car we didn’t go.
There was a stone support wall on the mountain side of the road. Some entrepenuers had hooked up ropes to the top. For a small fee you could climb the mountain, practice for Everest. (Heck, with out lieing you could say, “Well yes, I’ve climbed in the Himylia’s. Boring.”) None of us were that athletically inclined. Now I wish I would have, and taken a photo from the correct angle, it would have proved my boast.
There were street merchants selling everything you could imagine, accept sex. There were no lewd magazines, not 900 numbers, no sex for sale anywhere I looked in India.
A couple of kids were selling bubble makers. These were handmade clay pots of bubble making liquid with wire blowers. Last time Cindy went to India, she brought bubbles to Sanjay’s house and the neighbors went wild. We brought most of the makings to create our own this time. It was nice to know that kids still loved it.
We ended at the Tibetan market. Thousands of Tibetans had fled Chinese invasion, and settled in India. Here was a market where they tried to make a living. I loved this idea, and imagined stalls full of inscence, ancient philosophies, perhaps that mythical enchanted dagger that would be the secret key to Shangra La.
Shangra La was based off of Mussurie, minus the merchants and the crazy drivers.
Instead I found the same cheap junk and useless items I find at my neighborhood flea market. Mucho disappointing.
I did find one stall that sold magic tricks.
I was scheduled to perform a magic show at Sanjay’s house in a few days.
I watched. He had a rope that when held just right, became stiff. You could hold it up by the center and it wouldn’t droop. I bought it. I just thought of all the funny jokes I could make that would go right over the kids heads, and get the parents giggling.
It was a few hours later that I realized that on my journey to India, from a Tibetan refugee, I had purchased an authentic Indian Rope Trick.
We headed back to the hotel. The light fluffy clouds that had been working their way up the mountain had started to arrive.
With them came a cooling mist.
That was good since itt was going to be a long walk. Amit offered to get us rickshaw’s to ride, but they are not too comfortable. Cindy suggested I ride a pony, or at least get a photo on one. I said that would be too cruel for the pony.
We got a quarter of the way back when those nice little clouds broke into a torrential storm. We ran to the nearest cover, the city court house had a nice overhang. Cindy and Amit and about thirty other people ran for the porch. I squeezed in between a parked car and a collumn. Two minutes later my spot was shown to be where the guttering above pours down. I moved with as much dignity as I could find, to the back of the crowd.
Within ten minutes the rain went away.
On the trip back we stopped for chocolate at a bakery. Ummmmm.
We stopped for some water and cokes for the trip the next day.
We stopped at the tailors to pick up our purchases.
Then we crawled back to the hotel. We climbed down the steps to our room. It was 5pm. I was feeling a bit over heated and requested a rest time. Cindy and Amit said sure, and started to play cards. I suggested they go into the other room while I slept. The truth was, I wanted control of the @#$@# remote. With them gone I rested, but did not sleep.
I had worn my new sandals all day. They did not bother my feet. Yay!
Around 7:30 they came back into the room and a decision was made to get dinner. We went back outside (this time I took the elevator), back down the street, and walked the half mile down to a different restaurant. This one, right on the corner of the main street, was not as fancy as the Four Seasons, but had a great view of the party like atmosphere on the streets below.
There was a strange place across from this restaurant that was a family place. They had costumed characters and mimes entertaining the crowd.
Here we ordered our food. Amit mentioned that this place was once famous for its Sizzlers. I ordered one.
A grilled chicken with seasonings and vegetables is one thing. A grilled mixture of chicken, breading, and vegetables, like a grilled Indian seasoned chicken meat loaf, heavy on the loaf, was what I got.
Yuck.
I drank my coke, smiled, and requested that they continue to have fun, I’d go back to our hotel after dinner.
Amit and Cindy returned to the hotel with me. I felt bad about cutting their night short, but Cindy seemed to be as tired as I was.
We picked up a candy bar for desert on the way back. Amit picked up something more exotic. It was a mixture of sugar and ground rice and spices, wrapped in a mint leaf, wrapped in a silver paper. It was sticky. It was sweet and minty and chuncky. He insisted I try one, and since I wanted to try new things, I did.
It was different.
Cindy said from the look on my face she knew I hated it. I didn’t. It was unusual, but not bad. The problem was that the silver foil it was wrapped in stuck to the leaves. Amit was pushing me to ignore it, but I have trouble ignoring metals in my food.
It did make my breath fresher. That has to count for something.
By 10 Amit left us. We cuddled in the comfortable bed and headed off to sleep. As I lay there I realized that 1 week was up, just over 1 week to go. Two days would be spent with Amit, then off to Sanjay’s. That was good and bad. I was getting a bit tired of Amit’s controlling ways, yet Sanjay had no AC. There was also the possibility of two 12 hour bus rides to Amit’s inlaws in hot busses. I fell asleep figuring the number of hours until I would be home and secure. There was the time zones to figure in, and distance from the airport and……
We awoke to a cool morning, with the clouds once again dancing across the mountains below us. We showered, cleaned up, and Amit showed up with our schedule for the day. We were going to the fun and exciting Kempke Falls, a tourist spot only one mountain away.
First breakfast, ordered into the room. I had tea and fried potatoes. I just couldn’t summon up the digestive courage for anything bigger. Besides, I am not a breakfast person. My stomach doesn’t wake up until lunch.
We had arranged for our driver to meet us at the hotel entrance at 10am. It took us until 9:15 to decide what to order for breakfast. We just didn’t seem to be in any hurry.
Cindy walked up the steps to the hotel exit. With the random power outages continually hitting the city, I decided the hotel elevator was not the best idea either. Besides, when putting on my sandal’s I mentioned how happy I was they had not bothered my feet since today promised to be a day of walking.
Amit insisted there would only be little walking. This is called a cultural mistake. Apparently in India walking a mile down a hill, then another half a mile to the lake, then climbing all the way back to the top, was considered a little walking.
Anyway, I ran up the steps sure that I would not be needing that energy later. The road in front of the hotel was up another flight of steps (The hotel was on the side of a mountain cliff.) There we waited, where the road was only 1.5 lanes, with our camera bag and snack filled cooler, for our driver to show up. We were only fifteen minutes late.
And we waited.
After three minutes with the foot traffic on the road staring at the strangers, Amit could not handle it. He took off down the street to find our driver. Before he disappeared around the first bend of these twisty streets, our driver came down the road, from the oppisitte direction. We yelled for Amit, but he did not hear us. Cindy threw me her bag and said, “I’ll get him.” She took off into the crowd to find him.
I decided to guard our bags and tell our driver what was going on. Our driver looked at me and I realized, I can’t tell him anything. The best I could do was to point to Amit who was even then disapearing around the corner. The driver took off chasing him. Our car was up the hill, but everybody was running down the hill.
Three minutes later Cindy returned. She had not been able to find Amit.
Five minutes after that we spotted Amit and the Driver laughing and joking as they walked up the hill. How far Amit had walked I never did learn. Five minutes later we were loading up the car and racing to Kempke Falls. I use the term Racing on purpose. I believe the newest Video Racing Game could be the Mussurie Mountains. Imagine the thrill of zooming around hairpin curves, over 1 lane roads, and swerving into oncoming traffic while a 3000 foot fall menaces you on one side. You are not only avoiding oncoming traffic, but also cows, goats, motorcycles, horses with riders, large brightly painted trucks and boulders. We would have to throw in an elephant or two. I never saw one on these mountains, but for the game, we’d have to throw a few in.
Just when you are about to lose your mind, or your lunch, you swerve around a corner to find a fantastic view. It could be a 2000 foot waterfall, or a lush green valley, or a lake so blue it makes your eyes water.
Yes, the roads of Mussurie, especially to Kempke falls would make an exciting game.
It was a terrible ride.
I pulled out my video camera, and set in quietly between Amit and the driver where it could view out the front window. I then taped five minutes of the trip. We ended up behind a truck load of a family, where a little girl waved to us for a couple minutes and we wove through traffic.
Cindy closed her eyes the whole way and clung onto the handstrap. I was wondering how long before she got sick. She didn’t.
I on the other hand, started feeling the heat, and the weaving and the bouncing. The car did not us the AC while climbing the mts. It put too much strain on the engine. It was uncomfortably warm in the car. I have a minor sinus condition that when infected, affects my sence of balance. I believe it was acting up. That is my story and I am sticking with it. As we neared the home of Sir Everest, my head began swimming and my fried potatoes started demanding release into the fresh mountain air. I unceremonially dumped the camera and equipment into the back of the car, and laid down across Cindy’s lap.
I believe research should be done on the effect of laying down across the back seat of a moving vehicle, with eyes pointing upward, in regards to motion sickness. The inner ear canals work to notify the brain of any motion the body makes going forward or backward, up or down, left or right. However, in the position I described, laying flat and traveling basically due right of the head, I felt better. I believe that there is no evoltionary reason for the brain to worry about movement as I described it, because prior to the invention of the ship, the body could not move that way. Even then ships and carts allowed the body to move that way only very rarely, and with lots of other motions (jolts, waves, etc) to alert the body to what was going on. Laying as I was, my queasyness slowed and I dozed for a bit.
We passed a modern looking circular house/temple that I mentioned briefly above. It was the house of Sir. Everest. Who is this man to have the tallest mountain in the world named after him? Well, when the British took over India they discovered a world of ancient wonder. There were ruins of antiquity everywhere, and most of it was being torn down to be used as squatters housing or road gravel.
Sir Everest decided that a survey of all India’s national treasures should be done, and that any found should be prioritized for reconstruction, examination, and exploration. He saved India from destroying its cultural past. For that, they have thanked him with numerous honors, including turning his old house into one of those monuments.
Back to my journey.
It took us fifteen minutes to negotiate parking the car. The falls were crowded. There was very little formal parking, and nothing on these mountains that resembled a parking lot. Some folks owned the side of the road and charged for you to park there. They made sure that as many people as possible could cram into as small a place as possible.
Cindy and Amit took me to a roadside restaurant to get my stomach in order. I downed a coke, but refused food. After another five minutes sitting in a breeze cooled shade without the world shuffling under me with bumps and hairpin turns every few moments, I felt better.
The road we had been on formed a giant U around a deep valley below. Our path was to walk on a twisty curvey walkway, down the side of that deep valley, to where the waterfall ended its cascade.
We began the descent, and immediately notice the merchants. All along the left hand side, the side facing the drop, are shops, then tents, then people squatting down and offering food, items, junk and a few other things.
There were several places where you could get dressed up in traditional Indian Royalty costumes, and have good photo’s taken of you with your back to the falls. I was tempted, but it just screamed TOURIST. Besides, my size would make finding a well fitting costume difficult.
There was the monkey trainer who had his monkey dance for anyone who dropped coins into his plate. Amit ran by him.
There were the snake charmes, who manhandled their large snakes and offered to let us pet them. Cindy ran by them.
There were the corn sellers, people who took corn still on the cob and roasted it over an open flame of twigs and wood chips. Amit explained that this was cheap horsefeed corn, and that they were hard to chew and not tasty. I love good corn. I could tell this was not good corn.
There were the lame and the blind begging for money. There were women with hungry children begging for money. I learned to ignore them. I am not proud of that.
We reached the bottom of the hill and looked out upon the relaxation area of Kempke Falls. There was a pool, maybe thirty feet across, that was at the bottom of the falls. When Cindy was here last, in november, there were maybe 11 people total. Now it was full with fifty people in the pool, along with a couple cases of beer.
Around the pool were more shops, a small inflatable slide for the kids to play on, and a couple snack shops. There was a small wooden bridge that crossed over the stream that ran from the pool to what was billed as Kempke Lake.
All were crammed with people.
The sundeck of those snack shops were topped with alluminum umbrellas with Coke painted over them. They were beginning to rust and show signs of age. About a quarter mile away, at the base of a hotel, was a large swimming pool with water slides and other fun stuff. We were not staying at that hotel, so we couldn’t enjoy that stuff. I did note that it was colored the cool plue of Pepsi, and it did not need new paint.
Finding the base of Kempke Falls overcrowded and hot, we decided to walk on down to Kempke Lake. This was another ˝ mile hike down hill.
We had not gotten far when a herd of wild goats crossed our path. Cindy grabbed some grasses from the side of the path and tried to feed a couple. I helped. Amit video taped and held back his fear. He did not like animals.
We made it down to Kempke Lake, a new creation from the local tourism board. It was less than impressive (an Olympic sized pool would be bigger.). It was modern, and had good paths and walkways around it. It also had paddleboats, you know, the kind you move by pedaling. Cindy wanted to go, and Amit wanted to go. I looked at the steep long climb that we would have to make to get back to the car, and told them I would not.
From here I had a great veiw of the valley below, and the full length of the falls above. They tumbled down several thousand feet of shear mountainside. It was beautiful.
The water left the pool above, and tumbled down a few more rocks and falls to reach the lake. There was a stone walkway that crossed this creek. I photographed Cindy and Amit with the falls as their background. Then we all three sat on some rocks with our feet ankle deep in the water. It was good.
Then we began the return trip—not good.
I was hot and I was tired and I was worried about a heart attack. I’d climb 50-100 yards and stop to catch my breath. Cindy and Amit tired out too, but not as regularly. Cindy stopped to play with the goats on the way up from the lake. Amit smiled and walked around them. Across the valley we watched as a couple cows ambled down the hill. By the time I reached the crowded pool area, those cows had reached the bottom of the valley, and walked up to be standing nect to me. I considered riding them.
Then came the steep part of the climb. Again, I took it slow, stopping often. Cindy and Amit helped, never rushing me, and making sure they could run by the trained animals when neccesary.
Amit pointed out the monkey, and the man hitting it whenever it tried to walk too far away from him. Animal abuse? Probably.
It was a long walk. Several times I sat on benches that were part of peoples shops. I felt bad and we bought some drinks along the way. The worst part was just before the end. We stopped at a larger snack shop and had soda’s. Then Amit ran to another shop to get himself some food, which he ate in the first shop, that had the tables and chairs.
We got to the car. I laid down. And off we went—nowhere.
To this crowd of cars and critters and other strange taffic, we must not under stress the problem of poorly parked cars. Cars were parked everywhere, turning a highway into a parking lot. One lane of traffic could barely squeeze through. This meant that turns had to be taken between the people leaving and the people arriving. That was bad.
Add to this mess the newest thing on the roads in Mussurie, full sized busses. Now one would hope that busses would ease traffic congestion because they transport a lot of people in a relatively small space. However, these roads were not designed for large vehicles, including large busses. If the street was completely clear of cars, these big busses would barely make some of the turns. As these streets were anything but empty, we came to a complete halt for several hours.
It took us four hours to get back to our hotel. It took us 45 minutes to get to Kempke Falls.
We returned to our hotel and freshened up. Dinner? I wanted to stay in bed and rest, but I had rested for 4 hours in the car. OK. Dinner.
We walked the ˝ mile to the Four Seasons and had some good chinese food again. Then we headed off to the tailors. Amit wanted some of the good sweaters I had bought myself. I also think he wanted to talk to the cute woman who owned the store. I had read that walking sticks, hand carved, were a specialty of Mussurie. While Cindy and Amit debated on shaws for Amit’s mother, I looked around for a walking stick. Most cost between $40-$50. I wasn’t that interested. Besides, none could fold up and fit in my suitcase. There was no way I could carry one on the plane.
The power went out again. Shop by shop generators kicked on and the lights returned. Nobody paniced. Nobody made a grab for stuff on the counter. Nice neighborhood after all.
By now my legs began to give out. It had been a long tiring day. We worked our way back to the hotel and walked down the steps and went to bed. Amit didn’t even try to give me more strange food.
Ahh, my last night on a real bed. I tried to enjoy.
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Gateway to Heaven Day 9, Monday June 23rd, 2003
I got up and said goodbye to the soft bed. I would not be seeing one for a while. I took a nice medium warm shower. I was hoping for hot, but the electrical supply or the water supply or the hot water heater for the hotel just wasn’t up to the job. It would be the last full shower I would have for a while.
Then I got dressed and cleaned up and started packing. Today was our trip back to the desert heat of Dehli.
We ordered breakfast in again. Basically we split one of their large breakfasts between us all. The tea was good and woke me up.
We spent several minutes discussing Indian organized crime. It seems that recently in Portugal, a young lady was ordered to report to the immigrations office, her papers needed some adjustment.
There she turned out to be the girlfriend of the number 2 person in the Indian Mafia, who was hiding out in Portugal.
It seems that the number one money maker in Indian underworld is international monetary transfers. They take money from point A and send it to point B while keeping a chunk for their efforts.
Some of this was done for Al Queda. When the US started its war on terrorism, they demanded India stop these illegal transfers or else. Indian police were given the OK to shoot offenders, not just arrest them for trials that may never happen. Bang, bang, bang, suddenly every high ranking Indian crook has left the country.
We also discussed how our driver spent the night, and every night he drove for anyone. He slept in the car. Occasionally large hotels may offer some small room or dorm for the drivers. Usually, however, they just offer a pillow and a blanket.
It turned very cool that previous night and the hotel had not offered the driver anything thicker than a sheet. Amit was happy because now he had a complaint he could argue about with the manager.
We packed up everything and prepared to leave the room. Amit did his little ritual that had started to get on my nerves. He took our room key, locked the door, then handed the key back to me.
We checked out and met our car at the top of the steps. There was no running around this time.
Soon we were on our way down the mountain. I looked around, tried videotaping the movements again, and gave up to lay down in my wife’s lap. Things were much easier that way.
We did not go straight back to Dehli. First we had to make a pilgramage to Rishikesh.
I love saying that word-Rishikesh.
We arrived and it was HOT! We were back in the overwhelming heat of the Ganges valley. It was crowded. It was uncofortable. But before I get into my experiences there, I need to pass on some background history to the uninitiated.
The Himylain Mountains thrust up from the Indian plains sharply and dramatically. To the early peoples of India, those imposing dramatic mountains became the home to the gods.
From these mountains flowed the Gange’s river. This river gave life to the surrounding territory. Obviously pouring from the base of the gods home, it must be a divine gift in itself. One story tells how seven holy Guru’s spent 7 lifetimes in prayer, meditation, and fasting, all in order to convince God to grant man this divine gift which has become known as the Gange’s river. It is not water, but the power of God that runs down from the mountains and into the Indus valley. Rishikesh sits at the point where the Gange’s leaves the mountains and enters the plains. It is sometimes called, “The Gateway to Heaven”.
Heaven here refers to the home of God/gods.
It is filled with temples and shrines and color.
It is also across the wide Ganges river from the roads elsewhere. To walk in the Ganges, the gift of God, was to have your sins washed from you. To swim across the river was impossible.
Several centuries ago the heroes of one of the Indian epics did a bad thing. They killed a priest. Priests or Brahmans are hereditary. You did not/do not receive a calling from God to preach, but just followed in your father’s footsteps and took over the local shrine/temple/hermitage. This is similar to the Levite’s in the old testament. Brahman’s are a Caste, or a division of Indian society that determines your place in society by your family. This has been fought against over the last fifty years, but still has much power in India. Centuries ago it was the rule. This rule did not mean that a bad Brahman could be removed from his position. You could not defrock a Brahman.
Our hero’s ran across an evil Brahman. One thing led to another, and they killed him. Immediately they were outlawed. They had to run from everyone until they could wipe away this sin. The reached the far bank of the Ganges with their enemies in pursuit. They had to cross to reach the good Brahman’s who could relieve them of this sin. How could the do this?
One of the five brothers, for they were five brothers who were the heroes, was the greatest archer ever. “I will get us across” he said. He shot an arrow across the river. Like Robin Hood, he shot another that stuck into the back of the first. He continued to shoot, ever faster, always accurately. By evening he had built a bridge from his arrows and the brothers crosses safetly to the other side.
The eldest brother turned to the archer and said, “You are indeed a hero. Your name will last for the centuries, as long as this bridge lasts, people will remember you.”
He was wrong. The bridge was long since rotted away, but he is still remembered. Of course, I can’t remember his name. If you wish to look it up, please check into Indian mythology. It is a fascinating subject.
When the English took over control of the province they also wanted a way to quickly and easilly cross the Ganges. They built a bridge. Since auto traffic was not very popular at the time, and the area was not large enough to support a train, they built a walking bridge. They built a quarter mile long suspension bridge form cable and steel. Then they built a second, larger one, to handle the pilgrimage traffic. The people still thank the British for these bridges.
As we parked the car for the first time I looked out in anticipation at crossing one of those bridges. It would be fun.
First we picked up a guide to tell us everything we needed to know about Rishikesh. This guide did not speak English. Amit translated.
We walked through the town full of souveniers and interesting sights. The problem was that it was around noon and so hot I cold barely breath. We reached the bridge. Down by the water it was slightly cooler. Then the monkeys attacked. A family of monkeys lived in the area, and claimed the steel towers of the bridge as their domain. They were causing havoc on many people who crowded onto the bridge. Amit was afraid.
He ran past the monkeys and onto the bridge safely. I got some great video of the monkeys.
Did I mention the bridge was a suspension bridge. It’s the kind where if one person on one end jumps around, it makes a wave that send the person on the other end bouncing. Imagine one of those Ľ mile long, filled to maximum occupancy, each person walking in their own way. I’ve ridden roller coasters that were smoother. Cindy reached about a third of the way across the bridge before she realized she couldn’t handle it. She yelled to us as she ran the rest of the way across to wait for us on the other side. The guide was confused because he wanted to tell us all about it in the center of the bridge. We went on to meet Cindy.
We were soon overwhelmed with vendors pushing their post cards and henna art at us. We ignored them. We took a quick tour of the area, and then went to the main person Amit had brought us here to see. He took us to his Jeweler.
This is not just a jeweler, this is the second part of his Astrologers request. It is either a complex spiritual alignment or one of the oldest cons known to man. Let me explain, since Amit had Cindy go to the astrologer as well, and brought her to the Jeweler.
Many people of all classes believe in Astrology in India. You get your money together and visit a certified astrologer. He takes the date/time/place of your birth and runs it through his charts and graphs. The result is not a prediction of your future, but more of a psychoanalysis of yourself. “You are quick to anger,” he may say. Or “You have trouble with angry people.” He then prescribes a cure for your ills and shortcomings. These ills are usually gems that must be placed in contact with the skin.
Basically he sends you to a jeweler. Sometimes he may also send you to give alms to the poor or do some deeds to improve yourself, but usually its easier, if not cheaper, to visit a jeweler. They make special rings that allow the gemstone to touch the finger its on.
Amit and his family firmly believe in this. They were insistant that Cindy buy the five rings the astrologer requested. One, a gold ring with a good gem, would have been over $100. This convinced Cindy not to believe.
The salesman did show us a special crystal, pure clear, but harder than glass, that was found only in the Himylaia’s he swore. It was condensed water, so the story goes. NO, this was not Ice. This crystal, when struck against another, gave off sparks. They were each hand carved and promised to bring wealth and good things to whoever takes a carving of a temple they had, and placed it on a silver coin.
I bought one for my office desk. I could use some extra good vibes and wealth. However, the temple is a cross between a pyramid and a dome. It is supposed to represent the 13 levels of enlightenment for one of the female dieties. In truth, it looks like a breast.
Yes, slip some silver under a woman’s breast and you get lucky. That’s how I deciphered the symbology.
We went back to the car and said farewell to our guide. The monkeys had left the bridge by now, relaxing from the sun in some nearby trees. We drove a few miles to the 2nd bridge and crossed again. This bridge was wider. Cindy still felt queasy crossing back and forth. Before we crossed Cindy saw a nice fan made from peacock feathers. We told the man we would buy it on the way back.
We then crossed the river. Amit wanted to go boating across it, but the recent rains left the river muddy and dirty and very swift. Getting in an unairconditioned boat to cross a churning river in the sun did not sit well with me. Instead we visited a temple. Amit gave me a quick tour as we walked around it. I don’t know if I was disturbing him as he tried to observe the rituals, or if he felt odd about observing them, or if it was just Amit’s frantic energy. We flew around the temple before I had a chance to look at it closely.
We bought a fan and headed back over the bridge. Cindy was worried. We bought the fan from a different vendor. Would the first vendor be mad? Would he yell? No. He wasn’t there any longer. It was too hot.
We got back into the car and turned the AC to full and headed back to Amit’s house. Along the way we stopped at that same restaurant we had stopped at on the way out. This time I tried the chicken sandwhich. Again, it was more of a chicken salad sandwhich. The chips were not bad though, and the coke was perfect.
I was beginning to miss ice in my soda’s though.
We passed some twenty + story tall housing projects on the way back. They looked ugly and conformist and basically, the same type of housing projects reserved for low-income Americans. It turns out these are the newest and most wanted high end housing available.
As we were about to reach Amit's house we discovered our train tickets for tomorrow had not be delivered yet. One more thing to do on this day.
As we pulled up to Amit's house, his father stood in the balcony and watched us arrived. He waved, a cold drink in his hand. His biggest disappointment in me was that I didn’t join him in a drink every evening.
We unpacked our stuff and said goodbye to our driver. He would get to spend one night at home then off he was running to take some Japanese tourists to Agra again. I would miss his silent profesionalism. I would not miss his music. It still plays in my head.
We spent the next few hours eating a late dinner, running to the travel agent to get our tickets and repacking our stuff. Tomorrow we would take the train to Sanjay’s house. It left at 7am. That would mean an early rise and a long day ahead, so the more prepared we were, the better. I grabbed my passport this time, but would not need it until I went home.
I also downloaded the program on Amit’s computer that would allow him to take my photo’s off the digital camera. We then downloaded them, and he made CD copies. I put my copy in the computer bag. There would be no need for it until I got home. By then, with my digital camera empty, I hoped to fill up the memory card with even more photos.
We go to sleep early. I find the hard un-bed of Amits just as unconfortable as when we left. I am scared of the heat tomorrow. Sanjay has no AC. What will it be like? I don’t even know where/how I will be sleeping. Sanjay’s house is crowded. With Cindy and I we may end up on the floor. Still, I think, I can’t be much harder than this Ľ inch semi-matress.
I thinks I slept a little then. I know I slept more in the car on the way to Amit’s house than at Amit’s house. I hope I’ll be able to sleep on the train.
posted
The Great Train Robbery Day 9, Tuesday June 24th, 2003
We got up early. It was five am and we had to clean up, get dressed, do all the last minute packing, and then load up Amit’s small car will our luggage, and ourselves. We brought two large suitcases an over night bag each, Cindy carried her purse and I carried our camera bag. It was a tight fit into Amit’s car, and then we tried to squeeze in.
Before hand we said goodbye to Amit’s parents. They offered us the traditional sweets before leaving, not to mention tried to get us to sit down to a big breakfast. Amit’s mother was very nice, though she didn’t understand a word I said.
We squeezed into the car and headed out to the Train Sation. It took us fourty five minutes weaving in and out of traffic. I tried closing my eyes but it wasn’t helping. I was looking forward to getting away from moving vehicles once we got to Sanjay’s house.
We missed the correct turn for our platform, and due to construction, went around in circles. Finally we arrived. Amit arranged for two authorized luggage carriers to stow our bags on the train. They actually carried everything on their heads.
I was a train virgin. I had only ridden a few city/metro trains around towns like St. Louis and Atlanta. This was my first trip across country in a train and I was worried. I kept picturing those oh so pretty scenes from movies like Ghandi, where people were packed into overheated cars, and climbed dangerously onto the train room to cool off.
I was very pleasantly surprised. The train we were taking was an Airconditioned full service train. Though we didn’t splurge for first class, the seats were wide and comfortable. Sleep would soon beckon.
We put our big bags above us in the overhead compartment, and I stuffed the cameral bag in my seat beneath me. My overnight bag, with my medications and tooth brush, I kept at my feet. Cindy tried to do the same.
Cindy had the window seat, I the Aisle. A nice gentleman leaned over me and tried to show Cindy how to put her bag under her seat. She thought he was train employee. I assumed that, like on an airplane, the need to stow luggage was a neccesity. However, I knew enough to watch this “nice” man as he played with my wife’s baggage.
I kept an eye on him, which was my big mistake.
It was not long after that I discovered my seat was larger than I thought, for now my overnight bag could fit under my seat as well. There was no way anyone could pull these bags out from behind, since the seats would not allow it.
It never crossed my mind to wonder about the side.
We kept our eyes on our luggage above us, just to make sure nobody left the train with it. Then with a small jolt, the train was off.
It was cool and cofortable, and airconditioned. It was early and I was tired. I could not see much of the passing countryside, and what I could see looked all alike, the flat plains of the Ganges basin. So I fell asleep on and off.
I was awakened by nice tea served by the train staff. It was followed an hour or so later by a good breakfast. I was riding in style and I enjoyed it. It was smooth enough to read and quiet enough to sleep. The day, and this second part of our trip started to look up.
We came to a stop, or a quick halt. Some people lined up before it was even announced. I found out why. The train stopped for exactly two minutes, in which time everyone had to get off the train who was leaving, and on the train who were boarding. Cindy informed me that a similar rush would meet us at our stop Luhdiana.
Where, you may ask, is Luhdianna? Its North of Dehli by about four hours as the train goes.
What, you may ask, is Luhdianna? As best as I was able to determine, it’s the Pittsburgh of India.
Why , you may ask, would anyone choose to vacation in “the Pittsburgh” of India (or in Pittsburgh for that matter)? We had friends there. Sanjay was an underpaid employee of one of the many large companies that had strong presences in Luhdianna. His family begged us to visit them, so that’s where we were going.
I am reminded of Robert Silverberg’s “Valentine” series. He was one of the few writers who I found, have truly discovered the enourmous size of a truly world wide, or interstellar, empire. He has more depth and complexity in his one world than I’ve seen in most other SciFi multi-world governments.
However, in Valentine we begin at the top of the capitol city on top of a mountain. It is a city devoted to royalty. It was a castle built layer upon layer by each ruling monarch. It was the Red Fort of Agra taken to extremes.
You then come down off the mountain, and along the way you visit cities, each specialized in different areas. There were the tier of cloud encrusted amusement cities, much like Mussorie. There were the tier of religious cities, much like Rikishes. As you worked your way down lower on the mountain, and out across the planet, you visit other specialized cities. How much of this, I wonder, did he mine from India. I was now heading for the steel city of Luhdianna. It did not mine that much ore, but recycled scrap metal from around the world to make into new, useful products.
I had come a long way down the mountain from Agra.
Our four hours in luxury soon came to an end. I reached under my chair and grabbed my overnight bag and grabbed for the camera bag. We were still ten minutes out of Luhdianna, but we wanted to be prepared.
Except I couldn’t find my camera bag.
I got into the aisle and searched under the seat. I went up and down the aisle and searched. It was gone.
Cindy glared at me. Then she glared at anyone on the train who may have been part of the theft. I tried to glare, but was too busy looking.
The camera bag was a black leather bag we bought on one of our earlier vacations. There were several other black leather bags around us, but none of them were the right bag. Despite Cindy asking me to make sure, I could tell by the suspicious looks I got whenever I touched someone else’s black leather bag.
The train came to a stop and everyone exited. None were carrying our bag. Cindy grabbed several of our bags and headed out. I kept searching. Sanjay, whom I had never met in person, jumped on the train and grabbed a couple other bags. Cindy had explained to him quickly what had happened. He couldn’t find it either.
Time was ticking. I grabbed the last of our bags and headed for the front of the car. Suddenly the train began moving. Cindy had all our money. I had to get off of the train now or be stranded at the next stop. It was gone. With the skill and dexterity I normally reserve only for my dreams, I leapt off the moving train.
OK, so it was only moving a few feet per minute. How many of you can say you’ve jumped off of a moving train?
Sanjay was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, when the train was moving faster, he jumped off the back of our car, landing near us. We shook hands and did intro. He was thin man with a fun mustache, dressed in genes and a button down short sleeve shirt.
We grabbed some porters and headed for the station office to report the crime. I stayed with the luggage as Cindy and Sanjay spent twenty minutes talking to the Station manager.
They were less than helpful. Sanjay assumed that this was because they were in on the crime, or knew the crimminals. I believe it was because it was too hot to do the paperwork neccesary.
Frustrated with the crime and with the lack of help, the three of us took our bags and grabbed a rented taxi to go to Sanjay’s house. It was another half an hour trip from the city’s center to the outskirts. There was not a lot to see or mentin about the city.
Sanjay is from a much lower economic class than Amit, though his family Caste is Brahman. His house was smaller. His family larger. However, just like at Amit’s, when we arrived at Sanjay’s house his father greeted up. So did Sanjay’s wife.
Sanjay’s mother and two children were away at Sanjay’s sister. She has a knack for being the center of attention, and I believe that our trip put Sanjay in the center. She was trying to get us to go to her, where she could use our foreign charm to gain popularity. She was holding the kids and the mother as a kind of psycological hostage. However, she lived two 12 hour bus trips away. That would kill me. She would loose.
We got out of the car, which took up most of the street in front of Sanjay’s house, and were quickly escorted inside. Sanjay and his father, Madnan Lal, grabbed our bags and rushed us inside. There in the shade and the dark they turned on their cooler and Manju, Sanjay’s wife, arrived with food for us to eat and tea for us to drink.
We were greeted like royalty. In fact Sanjay had given us both nick-names. Cindy was Dharti which means Earth. I was Raja or King. I liked that.
The cooler kept the room at a bearable temperature. We sat on thin-cushion covered wrought iron couches and everyone began talking. The phone was pulled out and Sanjay got busy calling police and Amit and anyone else who needed to know that we had been robbed, or that we had safely arrived.
Madnan sat besides me and started talking religion. He was a thin old man with white hair and a determined opinion of the world. He also insisted we eat, eat Indian, and eat often.
Manju spoke no English. Nor did she read or write Hindi. She was pretty and worked hard and almost always seemed a bit sad, a bit left out, of everything we were doing. I knew that Madnan would be the one to favor us, but Manju would be the one to win over if we were going to have a pleasant stay.
How do you win over someone you cannot talk to? How do you avoid jealousy between a woman and your wife without creating jealousy between her husband and you? Small town politics is fun.
Everyone quickly agreed that they were very very sorry for the robbery. We got condolences and warnings and deep deep feelings of our loss. I didn’t care. Sure, we had lost cameras and pictures, film and video, but it was all stuff that could be replaced, or would not be missed terribly. Our papers, our pills, our clothing were all still safe. We were unharmed. I wrote the whole thing off as an interesting and expensive adventure.
Cindy and Sanjay refused. They made sure that I was safely out of the heat, then they went to the police station to make a report. They got there on Sanjay’s scooter.
One other resident of the house was there—Simba. Simba was the dog, a present from Sanjay’s sister, who no longer wanted the dog, he protected the house, and hated the scooter for taking Sanjay away every day.
Simba barked like crazy at the scooter as they drove off. Suddenly I was alone in an unfamiliar house with some unfamiliar people. I started to get nervous.
Manju got up and turned on the TV. She then motioned for me to sit on the bed she had just vacated while she went and got some food. Now before you get all confused about a bed let me describe Sanjay’s house and Sanjay’s family. You will hear much more of them as this writing progresses.
From the street you see a wall with a scragly tree growing in front of it. There is a lockable gate (though the wall is easily climbed). Inside the gate is a small courtyard, maybe five eight wide and eight feet deep. In this courtyard is a large tree that the family has used for years as a way of keeping the house cool. This is where the scooter is parked, as well as a bike.
The door out of the courtyard leads to the main room. Again this is eight to ten feet wide room, that stretches ten to twelve feet deep. The door is on the northern wall, the western corner. Indeed, from this door you can see all the way to the back of the house, for the main walkway is along this western wall. There is a couple of feet to the west of the door. This is closed off to make storage areas. The TV and Telephone sit in one of these storage areas on the south end of the western wall.
The rest of the room is filled with a pair of two person wrought iron couches with thin cushions, a ankle height table, and a storage/bed. This Bed/Couch lies across the southern wall, from the doorway into the kitchen to the eastern wall.
This is were I was told to sit and get comfortable. Sitting soon led to reclining. Reclining soon led to laying down and napping.
The TV played some Hindi soap opera.
On the other side of this southern wall was the kitchen area. Here a counter ran along both walls, and formed a U against the back of the next room, the WC. It was an uneven U for the WC (Water Closet) was only four feet wide.
South of the kitchen was a small open space, the lowest part of the floor with drains at the bottom. Large tubs held water here, and against this wall of the WC was a faucetless sink. Sanjay had no regular running water. Water arrived dailly, and filled up the buckets I mentioned. Water was taken from those buckets to be used for various chores, or to wash oneself, or to rince the WC.
Beyond these water buckets were a small flight of stairs leading to a small 8x8 room where Madnan and his wife slept. Beyond the stairs was a large room with a large bed. This was the main bedroom for Sanjay and Manju.
So I sat on the bed when Madnan came in with sliced washed mango. I was worried about the water used to wash the fruit. Would it get me ill? How could I politely decline the offer. He insisted. I could not decline. I at the mango and it was good.
He then pulled out stacks of pictures of the family and I learned much of their family history. I learned that Sanjay had only seen a couple of photos of Manju before they were married. I learned that once they lived in Burhmah, but moved for political reasons, leaving much of their wealth and prestige behind.
Amit’s family had a similar story. Where they lost much of their wealth, they kept their connections and prestige. That is the difference between these two families.
The phone rang. It was Madnan’s wife, Sanjay’s mother. She was with her daughter in the hills far to the north. She was crying that she wanted to meet me but couldn’t come. I didn’t understand much beyond that. Madnan took over and started making plans in Hindi.
When he was done he started questioning me on religion and philosphy. I politely shook my head in agreement and only offered opinions I knew would not get him upset.
Suddenly a car drove up and a young man walked in. Madnan and this young man spoke for a few minutes, than Madnan said, “this is my student”. Madnan teaches english. He has taught Sanjay very well. It’s a shame he never bothered to teach Manju. We shook hands.
“You will go with him now.” Madnan said. I would? Why? Where? “Go to his house. It has airconditioning.” Ok, I thought. I need to be polite. I need to be friendly. I knew that we were honored guests and a bit of a bauble to show off to the neighbors. I expected Cindy to be with me when we became an object to view. Instead, I went off on my own.
The young man was a student heading out to college shortly. He had hopes of going to the US for schooling. As the drive to his house progressed, and he learned more about my trip here, I learned that he wanted to be an engineer.
Then we were at his house. Wow. Large three story building with AC, plumbin, and a two story waterfall outside to cool their patio area. There were inlaid marble floors everywhere. The house was only 75% complete. Half of it would be rented out. It seems that they man’s father owned one of the bigger steel plants in the area.
I took the tour of the house than was given a grand seat in the airconditioned main room. Kids showed up and surrounded me, though the girls, bashful, soon left to prepare food.
We sat there for a few minutes, each afraid to talk. I was wondering what was the proper ettiquette for this situation. Suddenly it hit me. There was none. This was outside both our normal social situations. I relaxed and broke the ice.
“What do you want to know most about the US?”
They were shy. They all spoke English, but they would run to their older brother, the young man who had driven me there, and whisper questions to him. I then answered.
I expected questions about movie stars or politics. Instead the most asked question was, “How hard is it for kids in America to get a job.” Considering the most aske question by kids in America is “How can I get out of this work?” it took a lot to answer.
More food followed as they insisted I eat.
Suddenly, with little or no warning I was told it was time to go. We got up, said goodbye to the mother and everyone, and left. I returned to Sanjay’s home. Cindy and Sanjay were still gone. It had been hours. I was getting worried.
Madnan and I returned to talking about religion. Well, he was talking. I was listening. He had an interesting view on Christianity. When Christ said, “The way to eternal life is through me” Madnan believed he was saying, not through belief in Christ, but by getting through oneself.
The phone rang. It was Madnan’s prize student. He wanted me to come back and spend the night. I declined. Sleeping in AC sounded great, but not the first night Sanjay had invited us to be there. I could picture the small town politics that my refusal set in motion. It was going to be fun.
Simba started barking.
The scooter could be heard. Cindy and Sanjay were back, and upset. The police refused to make a theft report, saying that the robbery occurred in Dehli, so that is where we had to go to make the report. Cindy did get them to sign a note saying we had our stuff stolen. That way we could report it to our insurance company.
There were apologies and accusations against the police. Everyone was upset. I was ready to move on.
Evening arrived by now. Dinner of rice and other delicacies was served. It was ok. A young boy showed up at the door. He was a friend of Sanjay’s boy, and wanted to come in and meet us. He remembed Cindy from her earlier trip. Still he was shy and bashful.
Talk was turning to my magic show. My first magic show in front of an audience was to be given here, in two days. I began to worry. Most of my show was displaying my verbal wit. How would I connect with kids who didn’t talk my language.
I worked my way next to this little boy. He was scared and tried to hide behind Manju. She would have none of it. He looked at me. I smiled and put out my hand for him to shake. Tentitavely he reached out to touch mine. I moved it out of his way. Confused he looked at me. I smiled and put my hand back. Faster now he moved to slap my hand. I moved mine again, but let him catch it as it went. He smiled. I put my hand back. We had created a game.
Within fifteen minutes he was my best buddy.
Sanjay was ready for an after dinner walk. Cindy and I joined him. I asked if this would be a long walk. He said, "No. We are just going to the shops."
We walked the five blocks to the main road, crossed it, crossed a large open field and two main parking lots, then a few blocks farther down to the store area. Basically, a mile or so, each way.
Sanjay kept asking if we wanted anything. There were all kinds of street vendors with foods, drinks, and assorted surprises. He was after cigarettes.
"Dish soap" I said. We were going to make bubbles for the kids and that required dish soap and some glycerine. We had brought the glycerine, so all we needed was the dish soap.
Dish soap does not translate easily. I was hoping for the universal Joy or Ivory. We got something else. Cindy glared at me. She had wanted to pack some dish soap but I had insisted, "No, they will have it there." I goofed again.
Sanjay got his smokes and we started the long walk back.
Cindy and I were both tired. After one more call from Sanjay’s mother, filled with apologies for the lost luggage and apologies for missing us, we headed off to bed.
First a quick trip to the WC. WC/Water Closet was the bathroom without a bath. It was a hole in the floor with a bucket of water to poor in when you were done. It was my introduction to the squatter system. It is best not discussed anymore.
The bed in the main room was to be ours. The cooler was turned on and we were told to enjoy a good nights sleep. I tried.
The bed was a sheet covered board. It made Amit’s bed feel like cushiony comfort. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. For the first time I considered what I had lost. I had lost a five year old Cam Corder, a six month old digital camera and a cheap 35mm camera. All of that was stuff. There were also my sunglasses, which would keep me squinting for the next week. There were all the photos and video that we had taken. Maybe that’s when I decided to write this, to give me something concrete to remember the trip by since all the photos were gone. There were a pair of Bushnell binoculars that Cindy’s stepdad gave us before he passed away. Of all the expensive stuff, it was those binoculars that I would miss.
On the other hand I had gained Sanjay and his family and his neighbors. They were friendly and caring and dedicated to me enjoying my self. There was the look on the kids eyes, both at the students house and at Sanjay’s where I turned from being a strange foreigner to a fun guy.
Perhaps things would be better after all. I still counted the days until I left.
posted
Dancing in the Rain. Day 11, Wednesday June 25th, 2003
I awoke early, but it wasn’t my plan. A motor cycle drove off to work and Simba barked it away.
Guilt got me up. I knew that come the heat of the day I would retreat like some wounded turtle, into this somewhat cooler shell. Laying here now was a waste of my time and my hosts time. I got out of bed, as did Cindy.
Almost immediately Manju came in and offered tea.
Cindy and I accepted, then stepped outside to try and catch some of the morning coolness before it disappeared.
The street in front of Sanjay’s house was never busy with traffic other than foot traffic. Cindy and I stood out there and watched the neighbors go about their dailly lives.
I am going to use directions, as I did with Sanjay’s house, though I doubt if they are correct. Any sense of direction that I carried with me was long gone in the twisting roads it took me to arrive there. Most of our trip the sun was covered by clouds or smog, so searching for the sun for directions was also useless.
I never saw the stars in India.
We are going to assume that looking out Sanjay’s door was looking North. Across the street was a nice home with a high wall. Just west of that home was a community garden, or perhaps the neighbors garden. It was fenced to keep the wandering cows out, and I saw a variety of people in it, but I don’t know what its status was. To the west of Sanjay’s house was a two story building. The lower room belonged to a young widowed woman who earned her bread knitting and sewing. Above them lived some neighbors who often looked over Sanjay’s wall to see what we were doing. More about them later.
To the east of Sanjay’s house was another small home we would get a good look at later in the day. Farther east, by about three blocks, was the neighborhood dairy. Sanjay grabbed a pail and said, “come with me. We must feed the cows.”
We walked down the blocks, past the houses where people gave us a stare or two, but tried hard to look normal. There was curiosity there, but nothing overt or dangerous.
A quick bit about India and the Cow. It is common knowledge that Hindu’s will not eat beef. This has struck some people as strange when there are thousands of starving people in India, yet cows and bulls, hamburgers on the hoof, walk the streets.
To a Hindu, that is not hamburger. That cow is the mother. She is the representation of “the Goddess” or divinity on earth. From one cow comes milk and butter and cheese, a much more steady stream of food and nourishment than a side of beef. From the bulls come more cows, more milk, more Mother. To strike, hurt, injure or eat a cow would be like them hurting or eating their own mother.
The Dairy was both a food center and a religious center. About thirty five cows were kept there. Those who fed and took care of them did so as their job, but their job was volunteer. Their work was back breakingly hard, but it was paid only upon the donations they received. The milk they supplied was likewise paid for by donation more than any set fee.
The whole area was surrounded by a tall fence. Over that fence the workers heaved piles of Sugar Cane remnants, the green part of the sugar cane plants grown locally. Other greens were used during other seasons, all donated. Inside there was a meeting house, a central open area, and two long covered pens where most of the cattle were kept. There was also a third section where special cows were kept, or perhaps that was the milking area. I did not understand everything I was told.
We donated some money and picked up a few balls of cow food, kind of like a cross between granola and a meatball, but the size of a softball. These we broke up and hand fed to the cows.
We met an older gentleman in a white pajama suit. Sanjay did the introductions with humility, though the man met me eye to eye, his handshake firm and friendly. He was an important man in town, but I did not understand his position then.
A group of women and girls had gathered in the open area and began singing and playing music. It was a fun time.
It was explained that the area the girls were singing at would be the area I would give my magic show in on Thursday.
“How many people were coming?” I asked.
“Not many. Twenty or so.” Sanjay was proud that so many wanted to see me. We said goodbye to the man in white, and to the women and especially the girls who were not paying attention to their music but were watching the strangers. Their mothers were not happy. Sanjay filled his bucket with milk and we walked back to his house.
A raven cawed over our shoulder. I looked up and could see dark clouds moving in. “It may rain” I said.
Sanjay looked up. “Possibly, but I don’t think so. It hardly rains in June.”
We got back and had a quick breakfast of toast and eggs. We then went over our plans for the week. A trip to Sanjay’s sister was out of the question. Madnan had left the previous night to get the kids from Sanjay’s sister. It was a long trip for him to make, but he was supposed to be back sometime this afternoon with the kids. We would then pick a cooler day on Thursday or Friday to visit the Golden Palace and the local amusement park. Today, however, was to be spent meeting the neighbors and such.
The phone rang.
It was Usha, Sanjay’s mother. The bus they had hoped to catch last night was filled. They wouldn’t be able to send the kids and Madnan home until Thursday afternoon. What followed was also a long talk between Usha and Cindy, and more talk with the kids.
That left today totally open. What should we do? Then the rain came.
Manju quit her cleaning to walk outside and watch the rain come. As if receiving a blessing, or perhaps a desert, she stepped into the rain and welcomed it.
Most of the neighborhood stood in the doorways watching the cool rain come down. It was a rara occurance, rain in June. It was welcome. Manju danced out into the middle of the road and welcomed it.
I looked back at the buckets of water I was planning on using to bathe in, to poor over my head to clean myself, and I thought, “What a waste.”
I walked out into the rain and embraced it too.
First it was a quick cooling walk, then back into the house. Everyone laughed and Manju beckoned me to come back out. I challenged Cindy and she and Sanjay walked outside too, to be cooled by the rain.
That wasn’t enough.
I started running in the rain. When I saw a child jump into a puddle, I did likewise. I splashed. I ran. I played. It felt good, and the neighbors started laughing. They loved the idea of the crazy American playing in the rain. Barriers were broken by that fun.
We returned, wet and laughing, to Sanjay’s house. The storm soon passed, but a much cooler day was left in its wake. That storm saved me much heat related suffering.
Cindy and I were invited to visit the Eastern neighbor’s house. Their main room consisted of one large bed (well, covered hard table people slept on). On this some eight ladies sat discussing the days event. There were two young boys who played and tried to avoid this women’s circle. Then Cindy and I entered. We were instructed to remove our shoes (my good comfy sandals) and sit on the bed. We did. Some of the younger women, girls really, spoke a few words of English. Most did not. They pointed and laughed and translations were attempted. Cindy reached into the bag she carried, a marvelous carry all that contained everything short of a kitchen sink, and pulled out a book. The bag was hand made, crotcheted by Cindy with a tight stitch that was just short of waterproof. It was a reusable shopping bag, and Cindy had made it as a gift for Usha.
Cindy’s job is the administrative assistant for a school for the handicapped. There she aquired a book written to teach lip reading. It showed a picture and the written word underneath. The idea was that someone read the word, and the deaf student could see how the lips moved.
Cindy brought it out to learn Hindi, and maybe teach a little English. She pointed at a picture and the women would yell out the Hindi word, or the English word, or a multiple choice of words.
There were some confusing pictures. Was it a shoe, a boot, a sandal? Was it up or an arrow?
There is also no Hindi word for Jello. (No wonder LDS has trouble recruiting there.)
While looking for her book Cindy’s crochet fell out of her bag, as did her crossstitch. Cindy was finishing up a crossstitched pillow for Amit’s mother. The crochete was the start of a second bag to go to Manju. The women pounced on these crafts, looking them over and comparing them to what they do now.
As the thrills over the book ended, the craft conversation sped up. Every lady and girl ended up adding a few stitches to what would be Manju’s new bag, except that many were done so poorly Cindy secretly undid them and redid them better.
For the rest of our trip Cindy had to keep a constant eye on the bag she was creating. Some girl or woman would grab the needle and begin working on it whenever she let it be seen.
As it is her Crotchet project may have started an entire new industry in Luhdianna.
Sanjay came by to see how we were doing. He’d just run out to the store and brought some Coke for us to drink. I used this as an excuse to leave these women, and went to the cooler, quieter home of Sanjay to relax.
Sanjay, also excaping the women, turned on the TV. Shanghai Noon was on. We are both Jackie Chan fans, so we sat back and watched.
Twice Cindy came running in to get more stuff to look at for the ladies. “They want all my measurements,” she explained. “I think I am turning into a large dressup doll.” She said it with a smile.
When the movie ended Sanjay asked if I wanted to go for a walk. “Sure.”
This time we headed North. Well, west, away from the dairy, then north. We passed several blocks of two or three story buildings and a few apartment complexes. We went through by a Sihk shrine.
“See those buildings there.” Sanjay pointed to a group of homes that covered about six square blocks. “The owner cannot live there. Many years ago there was much violence against the Sihks elsewhere. They were forced to leave their homes. Many came here where they found these homes just being finished. They moved in and refused to leave.”
“What did the owners do?”
“What could they do. They went to court. They cut off water and electricity, but the people, they run their own electricity and water. They claim squatters rights. The city, they say you can not build any more onto these buildings, but every year they grow taller as their families grow.”
I was reminded by a comment the Amit made. Over 60% of all electricity generated in India disappears from the grid. It is, as best can be explained, Napsterized. In a country where they routinely steal electricity, if not houses, and do not recognize it as a crime, can we be surprised that bootleg videos, cassettes, and software are more common than the originals?
We next came to a large open area, the site of perhaps some failed building. It was all level and flat now. In it were teen and kids playing Cricket. Don’t ask for an explanation of this game, I have no clue. I do know that everywhere we went there were fields and parks devoted to Cricket. It is an obsession there.
We got back home and I discovered the inverse law of rainfall in hot climates. Where rain cools for the moment, it creates humidity that stays. The walk was too long and I had over heated. I laid down for a while and the cooler and fan came on to keep me cool.
A couple hours later the sun set and I knew it was time to be sociable, but I felt terrible. Dinner was announced. Amit wanted to treat us to a dinner out. I tried to stay home. I should have. Instead I walked with them in the humid night air the mile plus journey to the restaurant. I almost passed out once inside. I did not eat, but drank some water and some coke and fought to stay awake.
Cindy says the food was good, roasted chicken in good Indian spices. I don’t know.
We started back home but Sanjay stopped to get a rickshaw to carry me home. I felt so foolish and useless. I started counting the hours until I was home again.
Laying down I recovered. Soon neighbors came over to chat and talk. Rumors of my magic show had gotten some of the people curious. I dug into my trunk of tricks and performed a few. The older daughter from the house we visited earlier was not impressed with my Indian rope trick or my Cup & Balls trick. However, when I did the magic bag trick she spent the rest of the night stumped while trying to figure it out.
The biggest hinderance to visitors was Simba. He had the entire neighborhood bullied because he had playfully snapped at a couple of the kids. He was kept on a chain so he didn’t chase after anyone for too long, but few of the kids dared to cross his path, and Dharti and Raja were on the other side of him.
Even some of the adults, the wives in particular, were nervous around Simba. Secretly, I believe Simba liked it.
I was worried that the student would call and ask me to spend the night. I didn’t want to disappoint my host (though the AC sounded good by then.) He did not call back. I think someone told him not to.
The neighbors did not stay long. Soon it was time for bed. More food was offered of course, but I was not in a mood to eat it. Worries came up about my being able to perform tomorrow. I said, no problem. I just wouldn’t go for long walks in the afternoon. The audience count was now in the mid 30’s or so.
We were soon deciding on sleep. With the ceiling fan blowing on me and the cooler cooling the room sleep of the exhausted came over me that night. Nothing would disturb my slumber.
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