En route from Jaipur to Agra, I had a number of very pleasant diversions. First, I stopped in a place called Galta, home of the Monkey Temple. This backwater village was way out in the jungle up a winding dirt road, wedged in between two mountains. As you walk in the temple entrance, there is a very slick monk/guru sitting inside who takes money to ‘register your camera’ – a sneaky way of getting around the fact that you cannot charge an entrance fee to a temple. The slick monk then tries to keep the change as a donation. At first, this angered me, but then he smoothed things over by putting some orange ink on my forehead, saying a prayer, and giving me a little crumbly piece of sweet cornbread. I noticed there was a little bowl with a bunch of 10 rupee notes and 1 and 2 rupee coins. I relented and let him keep the change.
The Monkey Temple is this dilapidated series of stone structures that look like they were built 500 years ago (and maybe they were), and they look straight out of Indiana Jones. They are covered in old murals and vines, and unfortunately, scattered rubbish and even graffiti. And there are monkeys, monkeys everywhere. According to the person I asked, the monkeys are rhesus macaques. They are fuzzy, sociable, and have bright red bottoms. They are simply streaming over the walls of this place like it’s monkey mecca. There are also a number of placid cows meandering around, just as there have been in all places I have seen in India.
As you continue through the temple, you go up a steep stone staircase in the mountainside and pass by three baths. The lowest bath is a beautiful long pool, and this is the women’s pool. I scuttled by when I realized there was a naked woman in there, just hanging out. Note to self, find out why it is OK to publicly bathe naked in a country with such conservative dressing standards. Up higher, past a few beggars, there is a smaller pool with an elephant head fountain filling it, and in this pool there were about twenty screaming wet boys. They took the opportunity to scream ‘I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOUUUU!’ at me as I kept hurrying up the steps. I had decided that no matter what strange things I ran into, I wanted to hike to the top of the mountain where there would be a view over Jaipur. I continued on and came to an even smaller pool in a courtyard, this was the monkeys’ pool and they were diving and splashing there. Further and further up the mountain I went, until the last of my admirers had fallen away and I was alone. I had almost made it to the top when I rounded a corner and ran into a man peeing in the road, pointed my direction. That was the last straw, I virtually ran back down the mountain with “I LOOOOVVEEE YOUUUU!” echoing behind me.
Next stop was at a national park called Keoladeo. This is a man-made wetland that is home to many many types of marsh birds and other animals. This was my first chance to ride a famous Indian rickshaw, although I had to run a small gauntlet of park rangers who wanted me to hire them as my guide. I refused because my driver had informed me that the rickshaw drivers know everything about the park anyway, but I felt guilty since these rangers are just trying to do the job they’re trained to do, and not getting much public support for it. Anyway, my rickshaw driver was this elderly Sikh gentleman, almost so elderly I felt guilty having him ride me around, though he was very spry. He knew where all the birds were and would stop and seem to know exactly what branch the birds were in without even looking for them. We saw a jackal, an antelope, a deer, tons of storks, doves, peacocks, partridges, parakeets, and a bunch of other things I can’t remember the names for. Oh, and I even saw a monitor lizard! They look ultra-prehistoric and wild. When you get to the end of the road, the rickshaw drivers are in league with this little Hindu temple there and they strongly suggest you make a donation. Did you know peacocks made a loud yowly meowing noise to communicate with each other? It certainly must be embarrassing to be so pretty with a voice like that. My driver told me “You tell friends, I am best driver, #5 rickshaw! You happy-happy, you like, you pay me good tip.”
Final stop of the day was an old fort known as Fatehpur Sikri. It is made up of some palaces, a mosque, and various outbuildings that are in states of ruin. Although there is a lot of garbage scattered everywhere in the ruins, it still manages to be an incredibly beautiful place, which says a lot about Fatehpur Sikri. I boarded the bus from the parking lot and immediately this kid glommed onto me like a barnacle and started insisting I use him as a guide. I had refused him about 10 times, but then he cut his price down to nearly nothing and said “and I will make sure the people up there don’t bother you.” “It’s a deal!” I said.
Unfortunately this deal was too good to be true. My guide actually had quite good English and knew a lot about the fort, and I was able to hide behind him to skirt some hawkers, but there were other hawkers he was clearly in league with, and he kept telling me these were poor students and the money they make goes to educational charity, which I think was probably all lies. So I ended up getting ripped off by a crew of mosque con children, which I suppose is better than getting ripped off by a crew of raging terrorists or something. I don’t know how they sleep at night after telling lies to people all day like that. As the icing on the cake, my guide started to make some very sketchy comments to me towards the end of the tour, I’ll spare you the details but it started off with a rumination about how sexy Brazilian ladies are in their short skirts, and was I familiar with that? Then he appeared truly surprised when I became offended, threw his pittance of a fee at him, and ran away. “I am sorry madam! You are not happy??” My driver chastened me for giving in to this guide character’s con game, and I spent the rest of the night in a stormy mood, picturing myself getting vengeance on the hawkers and touts of the world.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
High Intensity Begging: Street Techniques in India
I have heard your requests and will begin to focus on the great things about India... after this post.
These are the strategies I have learned from observing beggars and touts in India.
- In rural Uganda, beggars are generally children repeating ‘some money, some money please’ or ‘mzungu give me money’. If you reply “no, you give ME money!” They generally giggle and leave you alone. It’s mildly annoying at worst. But here in urban India, begging is high-intensity. These beggars have no sense of humor and never smile, just vacillate between a look of eternal suffering and a look of scornful ‘how dare you pass me by?’ They don’t bother trying to speak English. They just point at whatever their personal guilt-and-shame inducing device is (leg in a brace –come on, couldn’t you have cut it off for realism?-, infant being used as a prop, etc.) and then hold out their hand. Then they put their hand to their mouth and make a sign for ‘eat’, then hold out their hand. It’s painful for everyone involved. What kind of psychological impact does growing up doing that all day have? If I sound cynical, which I must, I can promise you I didn't start off that way and the continuous onslaught of beggars over time has brought it on.
- There are little children selling postcards, and they will say ‘promise you will not buy from anyone else! Meet me here after going inside!” And the first time I heard this, I relievedly said “OK! I definitely won’t!” But then I came back out and the child looked at me like I killed his puppy, and the guide said to me “you must buy. You promised.” Don’t these people understand semantics?! This would never stand up in court.
- Hated technique #1: the seller involves you in a conversation about where you are from that is much more pleasant than the harassment of a moment before. They ask you what you do for a job. If you say doctor, it is a huge mistake because doctors have money, and trying to explain about residency and student loans is lost on hawkers (which my driver says “hookers”… hm. ) I specifically noticed after telling my guide that I was a doctor, he would say something to the hawker when I asked the price of something and the price would be very high – yes, I confess, I did buy one thing from a hawker! That guide did not get a tip from me, and now I am saying I’m a ‘student’, which does not make hawkers smile.
- Clearly, most people in the world who have any street sense do not chat with hawkers, they simply ignore them, or say “get out of my face’ or ‘leave me alone’ or something. However, I have realized that my brain is wired as a small-town girl and that’s very hard to unwire. When someone says, “hello, where are you from?” and smiles at me, I instinctively say “I’m from the USA!” and smile back like a fool. I also noticed that although my guidebook suggested that I adopt the local greeting “Namaste” (delivered with hands clasped together like a prayer) to avoid being a rude American, I decided to do so only to discover that the handshake reflex is in my American genes. When I meet someone new, it’s like Roger Rabbit hearing ‘shave and a haircut…’ – I think “Namaste! Prayer hands!” but my hand uncontrollably shoots out and I loudly say “Hi there! Nice to meetcha!”
- Final technique is just to create the most severe annoyance possible. This one boy who looked about 10 years old must have thrust a bunch of cheap bracelets in my face a hundred times as I walked around the ruins of an old fort. He was so persistent, keeping an auctioneer’s patter going “5 for 100, good price, I give you, only 100 rupees, cheap for you, you buy from me, you must buy, 5 for 50 rupees, I must sell this morning, good luck for me, please help me and buy something from me, I need to sell something, 5 for 20 rupees, only 20, nothing to you, it is nothing!” He was getting as close to me as possible, so as my guide walked forward in a straight line, I was veering sharply off to the side and had to perform defensive maneuvers to get back on track numerous times. I showered him with “no thank yous”, and also tried telling him several times “listen, I get what you’re saying, but it doesn’t matter what the price is, I don’t want this stuff! I’m sympathetic to you needing to sell something, but I don’t want to buy this!” This of course was ineffective. Towards the end, he just kept repeating “please, you buy something, just one thing, then I go. Just buy something and I leave you alone.” This was starting to actually sound like a good deal, but there were a number of factors to consider – he could be lying, and would redouble his efforts if shown money. If I paid him to get away from me, it would encourage him to use the same tactic again. What if he was a child slave owned by a cruel master who would chop off his finger tonight, and that’s why he was so desperate? This decision was complicated by the fact that he really looked like he was about to either cry or throw a temper tantrum. And he was just a child. My guide resolved this by grabbing the kid by the shoulders, looking at me and saying “do you want this stuff?” I said “no” and the guide yelled something in Hindi and practically tossed the boy across the courtyard.
- Such is the experience of visiting tourist destinations in India. Serenity, now…
These are the strategies I have learned from observing beggars and touts in India.
- In rural Uganda, beggars are generally children repeating ‘some money, some money please’ or ‘mzungu give me money’. If you reply “no, you give ME money!” They generally giggle and leave you alone. It’s mildly annoying at worst. But here in urban India, begging is high-intensity. These beggars have no sense of humor and never smile, just vacillate between a look of eternal suffering and a look of scornful ‘how dare you pass me by?’ They don’t bother trying to speak English. They just point at whatever their personal guilt-and-shame inducing device is (leg in a brace –come on, couldn’t you have cut it off for realism?-, infant being used as a prop, etc.) and then hold out their hand. Then they put their hand to their mouth and make a sign for ‘eat’, then hold out their hand. It’s painful for everyone involved. What kind of psychological impact does growing up doing that all day have? If I sound cynical, which I must, I can promise you I didn't start off that way and the continuous onslaught of beggars over time has brought it on.
- There are little children selling postcards, and they will say ‘promise you will not buy from anyone else! Meet me here after going inside!” And the first time I heard this, I relievedly said “OK! I definitely won’t!” But then I came back out and the child looked at me like I killed his puppy, and the guide said to me “you must buy. You promised.” Don’t these people understand semantics?! This would never stand up in court.
- Hated technique #1: the seller involves you in a conversation about where you are from that is much more pleasant than the harassment of a moment before. They ask you what you do for a job. If you say doctor, it is a huge mistake because doctors have money, and trying to explain about residency and student loans is lost on hawkers (which my driver says “hookers”… hm. ) I specifically noticed after telling my guide that I was a doctor, he would say something to the hawker when I asked the price of something and the price would be very high – yes, I confess, I did buy one thing from a hawker! That guide did not get a tip from me, and now I am saying I’m a ‘student’, which does not make hawkers smile.
- Clearly, most people in the world who have any street sense do not chat with hawkers, they simply ignore them, or say “get out of my face’ or ‘leave me alone’ or something. However, I have realized that my brain is wired as a small-town girl and that’s very hard to unwire. When someone says, “hello, where are you from?” and smiles at me, I instinctively say “I’m from the USA!” and smile back like a fool. I also noticed that although my guidebook suggested that I adopt the local greeting “Namaste” (delivered with hands clasped together like a prayer) to avoid being a rude American, I decided to do so only to discover that the handshake reflex is in my American genes. When I meet someone new, it’s like Roger Rabbit hearing ‘shave and a haircut…’ – I think “Namaste! Prayer hands!” but my hand uncontrollably shoots out and I loudly say “Hi there! Nice to meetcha!”
- Final technique is just to create the most severe annoyance possible. This one boy who looked about 10 years old must have thrust a bunch of cheap bracelets in my face a hundred times as I walked around the ruins of an old fort. He was so persistent, keeping an auctioneer’s patter going “5 for 100, good price, I give you, only 100 rupees, cheap for you, you buy from me, you must buy, 5 for 50 rupees, I must sell this morning, good luck for me, please help me and buy something from me, I need to sell something, 5 for 20 rupees, only 20, nothing to you, it is nothing!” He was getting as close to me as possible, so as my guide walked forward in a straight line, I was veering sharply off to the side and had to perform defensive maneuvers to get back on track numerous times. I showered him with “no thank yous”, and also tried telling him several times “listen, I get what you’re saying, but it doesn’t matter what the price is, I don’t want this stuff! I’m sympathetic to you needing to sell something, but I don’t want to buy this!” This of course was ineffective. Towards the end, he just kept repeating “please, you buy something, just one thing, then I go. Just buy something and I leave you alone.” This was starting to actually sound like a good deal, but there were a number of factors to consider – he could be lying, and would redouble his efforts if shown money. If I paid him to get away from me, it would encourage him to use the same tactic again. What if he was a child slave owned by a cruel master who would chop off his finger tonight, and that’s why he was so desperate? This decision was complicated by the fact that he really looked like he was about to either cry or throw a temper tantrum. And he was just a child. My guide resolved this by grabbing the kid by the shoulders, looking at me and saying “do you want this stuff?” I said “no” and the guide yelled something in Hindi and practically tossed the boy across the courtyard.
- Such is the experience of visiting tourist destinations in India. Serenity, now…
Monday, October 4, 2010
Day 4: Agra Voyage
Day 4: Agra Voyage
Do you want to know if you could hack it traveling in India alone? I did, before I came here. I conducted an informal poll which was inconclusive, because a number of the people I asked encouraged me to go it alone, and a number of other people told me definitely not to make this trip by myself. I then performed a highly scientific analysis of the subgroups in this survey, and found that the people I asked who told me I could do it alone were non-Indian women. The people who told me not to do it alone were Indian men and friends of my parents. Interestingly, the reasons given by Indian men were that it is fairly safe in terms of violent crime, but the harassment will be too much – very sympathetic of them. Since I presumed that non-Indian women would probably have the best perspective for advice, I came here alone.
They were both right, though, in different ways. I’m really happy I decided to come here and would take the opportunity again in a flash now that I know what it’s like, but I would not want to return here without a travel companion. I am not a city girl. I like quiet, pastoral getaways. I am a New Englander. I believe that if you leave people alone, they ought to leave you alone. This personality type does not mesh well with India, where everyone is all up in your business and in your face, and people from ages 3 to 90 are all clattering after you everywhere you go begging you for some money (well, the senior citizens just sort of lie pitifully in the mud, pointing to it as a part of their shtick). Part of the technique that touts, hawkers, and beggars use is to ask where you are from and try to start a conversation with you about that, then find some cruel way to twist the conversation towards money that you need to give them. I think this is true psychological warfare. Did you notice I used the word ‘tout’? That is because I am hip to the lingo of travel in India. Touts are basically con men and other such tricksters. More on touts later. When I'm not so exhausted from touts wearing on me all day.
Do you want to know if you could hack it traveling in India alone? I did, before I came here. I conducted an informal poll which was inconclusive, because a number of the people I asked encouraged me to go it alone, and a number of other people told me definitely not to make this trip by myself. I then performed a highly scientific analysis of the subgroups in this survey, and found that the people I asked who told me I could do it alone were non-Indian women. The people who told me not to do it alone were Indian men and friends of my parents. Interestingly, the reasons given by Indian men were that it is fairly safe in terms of violent crime, but the harassment will be too much – very sympathetic of them. Since I presumed that non-Indian women would probably have the best perspective for advice, I came here alone.
They were both right, though, in different ways. I’m really happy I decided to come here and would take the opportunity again in a flash now that I know what it’s like, but I would not want to return here without a travel companion. I am not a city girl. I like quiet, pastoral getaways. I am a New Englander. I believe that if you leave people alone, they ought to leave you alone. This personality type does not mesh well with India, where everyone is all up in your business and in your face, and people from ages 3 to 90 are all clattering after you everywhere you go begging you for some money (well, the senior citizens just sort of lie pitifully in the mud, pointing to it as a part of their shtick). Part of the technique that touts, hawkers, and beggars use is to ask where you are from and try to start a conversation with you about that, then find some cruel way to twist the conversation towards money that you need to give them. I think this is true psychological warfare. Did you notice I used the word ‘tout’? That is because I am hip to the lingo of travel in India. Touts are basically con men and other such tricksters. More on touts later. When I'm not so exhausted from touts wearing on me all day.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
India, Day 3: Jaipur
A fantastic day in Jaipur. Today I had a tour of the sights with a local guide. I was so thankful that I hired the driver and had the guided tour, because walking the streets here alone as a white person is so horrible, it would have ruined my vacation. The hawkers are so aggressive – for example, one hawker took my photo at one of the monuments, and cried out to me “look for me, Johnny, at the parking lot!” (all the Indian photo guys claimed their name was John, Johnny, or Tony). In the parking lot, to my distress, he met me with a packet of photos of myself that he had had printed glossies made of. He kept thrusting them at me, despite my thousand “no thank yous”, and reducing his price by a hundred rupees every few steps. When I got into the car, he managed to throw the packet of photos into the car with me THREE TIMES, and each time I had to somehow give them back to him because he was chasing the car and banging on the windows. It really took some serious focus on “serenity now!!!” to keep saying “no thank you” instead of starting a knock-down fistfight with this guy or at least having him arrested for assault and battery. The worst part of it was that there were hundreds of hawkers like Johnny, everywhere. I think if they asked tourists to make a contribution to a welfare fund for India so that these people could be subsidized by the government to go perform some actual useful service, everyone would gladly contribute.
The guide and driver really didn’t do much to dissuade these people, but at least I could use them as a physical barrier to hide behind. The first thing I did was ride an elephant up into Amber Fort. I wished I hadn’t read Lonely Planet, since the book insinuates that these elephants are treated poorly and riding them is like supporting the circus. Well, I enjoyed my elephant ride, and I think if the elephants have to wear a feather and walk up and down a hill every day to be useful, that is probably better than being poached into extinction for ivory. The ride was really fun and relaxing. Even though you were being chased by an army of hawkers and beggars, you were too high up for them to reach you, and there was an element of enjoyment to that, aside from the whole calming, swaying-up-the-hill, looking out over a view of a magical Arabian city element.
The fort itself was incredible. I have to say, a lot of what the guide said was strangely redundant and uninformative, i.e. “The name of the fort is the Amber Fort. A-M-B-E-R. Amber Fort. In the town of Amber. In Hindi, Aamer, in English, Amber. For the color Amber. Amber for the color of the fort…” But it was lulling in a singsongy way and I liked it, it kept me company. He also had a cutesy way of saying some things that made me wonder if he was doing it on purpose, for example, he repeatedly said “queenses”, saying it about a hundred times, in every sentence, almost like he was daring me to correct him (which I didn’t, because I was getting the giggles from it). For example, “this ramp design is for the wheelchair of the queenses. The queenses do not need wheelchairs because they cannot walk, no, the queenses can walk. The wheelchair is for special occasions, when the queenses wear their dresses and jewelry which weighs 21 kilos, then the queenses cannot walk and must be carried in the wheelchair. The queenses are carried by eunuchs, one for the push, and one for the pulling.”
The tour of the fort really impressed upon me that the Indian men have been, historically speaking, jealous people. Basically, once these queens were married, they get closed into a little private apartment with slits for windows and heavy curtains blocking them from ever being seen by anyone except the raja. He had 12 wives all in separate little apartments set into a square, and he could travel between their rooms through a series of tunnel-like hallways, but they were not allowed to visit with or talk to each other, or know where the raja was at any time he was not with them. There were eunuchs in watchtowers surrounding them who would report them for punishment if they were caught speaking. A polygamists’ dream. I think the royal lapdogs probably had more freedom. Wandering the hallways alone, I could hardly imagine how claustrophobic and small the life of a Rajasthani queen was, compared to my wide open and wonderful world of a life. I had the urge to yell out “hey, queenses, we’ve come a long way, baby!” But instead I just felt sad.
(in case you were wondering what the queens’ punishment was, like I did, the guide told me it was grinding flour for chapatti)
We then stopped to view the beautiful Water Palace, and I also saw the City Palace where the Rajasthani king still lives. In between, I also was brought to some specialty shops where they showed me how certain handicrafts of the region are made. It was charming enough that I spent some money there, and I shall say no more, because these gifts are going to be surprises. I probably paid more than I would have at an open air bazaar, but it was kind of fun getting schmoozed like a VIP for hours on end, with assistants bringing me drinks and laying all sorts of gorgeous treasures out in front of me. One particularly slick salesman gave me a palm reading, and tried to use what he read there to sell me certain things that he said would get my chakras back into alignment. He kept saying “I’m not a god, just a human being.” So many times it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Oh and by the way, apparently I’m going to have some horrible ailment of my heart strike me at age 37, so keep an eye out for that. The palm reading was hilarious to me because he was trying to do the classic fortune telling ‘say what you think they want to hear’ routine. He was like “I see you have a lot of pain in your past. Someone has hurt you.” “I think that’s true of anyone,” I said. “Your childhood was unhappy,” he told me.
“No, not at all, I had a wonderful childhood!”
“Your parents, perhaps they did some things to harm you.”
“Certainly not, my parents are great!” “Of course they are.” He replied gravely, raising an eyebrow.
“Your husband is like fire, hot, and you are more cool, like water,” he suggested. I just smiled and drank some chai, because it was really getting funny how far off the mark he was.
India really makes me prolific! I am truly enjoying my trip.
The guide and driver really didn’t do much to dissuade these people, but at least I could use them as a physical barrier to hide behind. The first thing I did was ride an elephant up into Amber Fort. I wished I hadn’t read Lonely Planet, since the book insinuates that these elephants are treated poorly and riding them is like supporting the circus. Well, I enjoyed my elephant ride, and I think if the elephants have to wear a feather and walk up and down a hill every day to be useful, that is probably better than being poached into extinction for ivory. The ride was really fun and relaxing. Even though you were being chased by an army of hawkers and beggars, you were too high up for them to reach you, and there was an element of enjoyment to that, aside from the whole calming, swaying-up-the-hill, looking out over a view of a magical Arabian city element.
The fort itself was incredible. I have to say, a lot of what the guide said was strangely redundant and uninformative, i.e. “The name of the fort is the Amber Fort. A-M-B-E-R. Amber Fort. In the town of Amber. In Hindi, Aamer, in English, Amber. For the color Amber. Amber for the color of the fort…” But it was lulling in a singsongy way and I liked it, it kept me company. He also had a cutesy way of saying some things that made me wonder if he was doing it on purpose, for example, he repeatedly said “queenses”, saying it about a hundred times, in every sentence, almost like he was daring me to correct him (which I didn’t, because I was getting the giggles from it). For example, “this ramp design is for the wheelchair of the queenses. The queenses do not need wheelchairs because they cannot walk, no, the queenses can walk. The wheelchair is for special occasions, when the queenses wear their dresses and jewelry which weighs 21 kilos, then the queenses cannot walk and must be carried in the wheelchair. The queenses are carried by eunuchs, one for the push, and one for the pulling.”
The tour of the fort really impressed upon me that the Indian men have been, historically speaking, jealous people. Basically, once these queens were married, they get closed into a little private apartment with slits for windows and heavy curtains blocking them from ever being seen by anyone except the raja. He had 12 wives all in separate little apartments set into a square, and he could travel between their rooms through a series of tunnel-like hallways, but they were not allowed to visit with or talk to each other, or know where the raja was at any time he was not with them. There were eunuchs in watchtowers surrounding them who would report them for punishment if they were caught speaking. A polygamists’ dream. I think the royal lapdogs probably had more freedom. Wandering the hallways alone, I could hardly imagine how claustrophobic and small the life of a Rajasthani queen was, compared to my wide open and wonderful world of a life. I had the urge to yell out “hey, queenses, we’ve come a long way, baby!” But instead I just felt sad.
(in case you were wondering what the queens’ punishment was, like I did, the guide told me it was grinding flour for chapatti)
We then stopped to view the beautiful Water Palace, and I also saw the City Palace where the Rajasthani king still lives. In between, I also was brought to some specialty shops where they showed me how certain handicrafts of the region are made. It was charming enough that I spent some money there, and I shall say no more, because these gifts are going to be surprises. I probably paid more than I would have at an open air bazaar, but it was kind of fun getting schmoozed like a VIP for hours on end, with assistants bringing me drinks and laying all sorts of gorgeous treasures out in front of me. One particularly slick salesman gave me a palm reading, and tried to use what he read there to sell me certain things that he said would get my chakras back into alignment. He kept saying “I’m not a god, just a human being.” So many times it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Oh and by the way, apparently I’m going to have some horrible ailment of my heart strike me at age 37, so keep an eye out for that. The palm reading was hilarious to me because he was trying to do the classic fortune telling ‘say what you think they want to hear’ routine. He was like “I see you have a lot of pain in your past. Someone has hurt you.” “I think that’s true of anyone,” I said. “Your childhood was unhappy,” he told me.
“No, not at all, I had a wonderful childhood!”
“Your parents, perhaps they did some things to harm you.”
“Certainly not, my parents are great!” “Of course they are.” He replied gravely, raising an eyebrow.
“Your husband is like fire, hot, and you are more cool, like water,” he suggested. I just smiled and drank some chai, because it was really getting funny how far off the mark he was.
India really makes me prolific! I am truly enjoying my trip.
India, Day 2: Jaipur Voyage
After some various travel frustrations which I will not bore you with (kids, don’t ever travel without 3 backup ways to get yourself money), I spent the day en route from Delhi to Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan. I was surprised to find that it would take nearly 6 hours to travel 230km, because somehow I didn’t picture a highway in India being more like the town lounge for cows. The cows seem to truly enjoy hanging out on the dusty center strip of the divided highway, rather than something you’d expect them to like to do, like frolicking and grazing in a green pasture. Plus, they are unflappable. You can lean on the horn all you want, they won’t flick an ear at you. It’s like they know they are bulletproof around here.
I also learned a few other things about highways in India, after spending all day on one. If you are on the divided highway and you decide you went past your actual destination, all you have to do is turn back so that you’re going the wrong way on the highway and then drive into several lanes of oncoming traffic until you get back there. This is expected and will not surprise anyone. I took part in this charming local behavior myself (sorry, Dad). Another thing is that rather than being like America, where we try to avoid all contact with other drivers aside from the occasional fatal shooting, or like Uganda, where drivers communicate intimately through a complex signaling pathway of flashing headlights and gestures, in India drivers like to liberally use their horns, honking them constantly to alert all other drivers to their position on the road. This is necessary because lane markers here are meaningless and people are constantly drifting around the road like aimless clouds, so if you are anywhere near someone’s blind spot you have to let them know not to drift into you. The trucks are even all emblazoned with the slogan “HORN PLEASE”. The trucks also tell you constantly “USE DIPPER AT NIGHT” – which naturally means flash your headlights instead of using the horn, but I have seen no evidence of ‘dipper’ use.
The trucks here are actually quite interesting because of how festive and decorated they are. Each one has delicate little painted patterns all over it and pictures of birds, hearts, Indian flags, whatever. They have gold and silver streamers flying from them, or strings of pompoms, or a variety of colored scarves, or all of the above. Even the construction machinery is decorated in this way. These observations lead me to believe that India could be far more accepting of a crew of gay, diva construction workers and truckers than the USA would be. I could be wrong about that though.
It’s amazing to see so many women crouched in the fields doing what looks like back-breaking manual labor in the stifling midday heat. They are like fallen flowers, surrounded by many-colored sari petals. The favored colors in this part of Rajasthan seem to be as loud and as unnatural as possible. The top favorite sari color appears to be ‘safety vest orange’, but neon green, pink, yellow and red are also popular.
Along the way to Jaipur, I was surprised at how similar the surroundings were to my road trips in Uganda. It was the same towns and shops, just populated with Indians instead of with Africans. I began to think that perhaps ‘developing country’ just has its own style. Then I arrived in the outskirts of Jaipur, and instantly, I was not in a place like any I’d ever been before.
The buildings were ornate and crowded together around tiny alleyways, like an old Arabian medina. The walkways were crowded with vendors, camels, and elephants, and the exotic-ness of it all seemed not at all apparent to anyone else. When I arrived at the hotel, a smartly outfitted doorman handed me a frosty glass of Coke and put a fragrant necklace of flowers on me. I couldn’t wait to see more of the town. I had a fancy dinner at one of the well-known restaurants here, which was sad only because I hate eating out alone, and I was mobbed by beggars when I stepped outside. I gave my leftovers to the beggars (a huge mistake as it redoubled their efforts), and fled across the street to ‘Lassiwala’, a famous lassi shop. The lassi was the most delicious I’ve ever had, cool and sweet and served in a little terra cotta cone that you throw away after using, which was a difficult concept for me. Enchanting!
I also attended a service at a Hindu temple that was all white marble on the inside, with serene looking god statues wearing pink and gold outfits in the front. They splashed me with water and the rest of the Hindu audience clapped and sang.
The major event of the night though came after this, when I went to see a Bollywood movie. A nice person in line warned me there would be no subtitles or English, but I decided to go anyway, which was the right thing to do, especially since it was only a dollar. The theater itself was brand new, incredibly ornate, and once inside, the crowd appeared awed and began snapping hundreds of photos. I have never seen so many people trying to take photos with their mobile phones all at the same time. We had assigned seats in the theater, which had an old-fashioned curtain and stage. When the movie started, though, the real wackiness began.
The audience was screaming, shouting, cheering, clapping, every time a new star came onscreen. The movie seemed designed for this and the first half hour consisted of very dramatic entrances for each star. The style of the movie (called “Dabangg”) was basically slapstick old Western meets Crouching Tiger and the Matrix. I regret to report that I think the title’s English onomatopoeia was intentional. I have no idea really what the plot was, but the hero was a police officer and so most of it was devoted to him beating up bad guys and then dancing and singing his way down the street while adjusting his belt buckle in a very studly way. Believe it or not, this movie was nearly 3 hours long, including intermission. I could not make it and had to give up after 1 hour, which I’m afraid greatly disappointed my driver, who was loving it. “This was a good movie, not a bad one.” He told me.
I also learned a few other things about highways in India, after spending all day on one. If you are on the divided highway and you decide you went past your actual destination, all you have to do is turn back so that you’re going the wrong way on the highway and then drive into several lanes of oncoming traffic until you get back there. This is expected and will not surprise anyone. I took part in this charming local behavior myself (sorry, Dad). Another thing is that rather than being like America, where we try to avoid all contact with other drivers aside from the occasional fatal shooting, or like Uganda, where drivers communicate intimately through a complex signaling pathway of flashing headlights and gestures, in India drivers like to liberally use their horns, honking them constantly to alert all other drivers to their position on the road. This is necessary because lane markers here are meaningless and people are constantly drifting around the road like aimless clouds, so if you are anywhere near someone’s blind spot you have to let them know not to drift into you. The trucks are even all emblazoned with the slogan “HORN PLEASE”. The trucks also tell you constantly “USE DIPPER AT NIGHT” – which naturally means flash your headlights instead of using the horn, but I have seen no evidence of ‘dipper’ use.
The trucks here are actually quite interesting because of how festive and decorated they are. Each one has delicate little painted patterns all over it and pictures of birds, hearts, Indian flags, whatever. They have gold and silver streamers flying from them, or strings of pompoms, or a variety of colored scarves, or all of the above. Even the construction machinery is decorated in this way. These observations lead me to believe that India could be far more accepting of a crew of gay, diva construction workers and truckers than the USA would be. I could be wrong about that though.
It’s amazing to see so many women crouched in the fields doing what looks like back-breaking manual labor in the stifling midday heat. They are like fallen flowers, surrounded by many-colored sari petals. The favored colors in this part of Rajasthan seem to be as loud and as unnatural as possible. The top favorite sari color appears to be ‘safety vest orange’, but neon green, pink, yellow and red are also popular.
Along the way to Jaipur, I was surprised at how similar the surroundings were to my road trips in Uganda. It was the same towns and shops, just populated with Indians instead of with Africans. I began to think that perhaps ‘developing country’ just has its own style. Then I arrived in the outskirts of Jaipur, and instantly, I was not in a place like any I’d ever been before.
The buildings were ornate and crowded together around tiny alleyways, like an old Arabian medina. The walkways were crowded with vendors, camels, and elephants, and the exotic-ness of it all seemed not at all apparent to anyone else. When I arrived at the hotel, a smartly outfitted doorman handed me a frosty glass of Coke and put a fragrant necklace of flowers on me. I couldn’t wait to see more of the town. I had a fancy dinner at one of the well-known restaurants here, which was sad only because I hate eating out alone, and I was mobbed by beggars when I stepped outside. I gave my leftovers to the beggars (a huge mistake as it redoubled their efforts), and fled across the street to ‘Lassiwala’, a famous lassi shop. The lassi was the most delicious I’ve ever had, cool and sweet and served in a little terra cotta cone that you throw away after using, which was a difficult concept for me. Enchanting!
I also attended a service at a Hindu temple that was all white marble on the inside, with serene looking god statues wearing pink and gold outfits in the front. They splashed me with water and the rest of the Hindu audience clapped and sang.
The major event of the night though came after this, when I went to see a Bollywood movie. A nice person in line warned me there would be no subtitles or English, but I decided to go anyway, which was the right thing to do, especially since it was only a dollar. The theater itself was brand new, incredibly ornate, and once inside, the crowd appeared awed and began snapping hundreds of photos. I have never seen so many people trying to take photos with their mobile phones all at the same time. We had assigned seats in the theater, which had an old-fashioned curtain and stage. When the movie started, though, the real wackiness began.
The audience was screaming, shouting, cheering, clapping, every time a new star came onscreen. The movie seemed designed for this and the first half hour consisted of very dramatic entrances for each star. The style of the movie (called “Dabangg”) was basically slapstick old Western meets Crouching Tiger and the Matrix. I regret to report that I think the title’s English onomatopoeia was intentional. I have no idea really what the plot was, but the hero was a police officer and so most of it was devoted to him beating up bad guys and then dancing and singing his way down the street while adjusting his belt buckle in a very studly way. Believe it or not, this movie was nearly 3 hours long, including intermission. I could not make it and had to give up after 1 hour, which I’m afraid greatly disappointed my driver, who was loving it. “This was a good movie, not a bad one.” He told me.
India, Day 1: Delhi
The morning got off to a slow start. Although people speak English, we have trouble understanding one another. For example I had trouble grasping that breakfast was complimentary, but once I found out, I was delighted, and it was Nescafe coffee powder which I am absolutely in love with, despite how weird that is. There was a man at breakfast who hovers over the toaster and gets really excited if you want toast so he can make it for you. The rest of the breakfast was parantha and some sort of aloo dish.
Food is terrifically cheap here. Dinner only cost me about $1.50 and I got a full vegetarian thali. Then I was terribly thirsty because it’s tropically hot as hell here and tried to order a sweet lassi, but they misunderstood and I got a ‘sweet lime soda’ which scared me because I drank it and was expecting yogurt. My driver was looking at me strangely because I was eyeballing this soda so carefully thinking that maybe in India, lassi is made with soda water, but there might be chunks of yogurt hidden in it, and I asked him if he thought it was safe to drink.
After a visit to the tour office where the boss plied me with anise cookies and chai, I visited several beautiful tourist sites and monuments. I was proud of myself because I only got suckered into giving a guy $1 for being my tour guide. Really I just felt bad for him, and he had really smooth moves as a fake tour guide, sidling up and just starting his tour spiel without giving you a chance to say no. Everyone at these monuments tries to get you to give them money for watching your shoes and being a tour guide and things like that, which is frustrating, but I suppose better than simply begging. Plus even though I brought conservative clothing with skirts that go below the knee, it turns out that unless the skirts are to the floor, you have to wear these ridiculous pink and orange flowery polyester robes at the temples so that all the tourists look like idiots. The people who designed this system are definitely having a laugh about it. I was lucky they even let me in, I suppose, because the signs say no unaccompanied women are allowed.
I saw a beautiful old mosque with a pool of water in the middle that was all red sandstone (which burns on bare feet but I refused to pay for temporary slippers! Note to self: have to figure out why slippers are OK but shoes are not?). Then I went to the Red Fort which also was very lovely, it is half in ruins but being restored. Again, all red sandstone. There are a lot of stray dogs and adult people who seem to just lie around and sleep at these monuments on the ground. I guess it’s not a bad life. I went to a 3rd red sandstone place called Humayun’s tomb that was quite impressive, full of little marble coffins and beautiful geometric shapes in mosaics like stars and octagons. It seemed like a mini-Taj mahal. After that I had nearly run out of money, but my driver misunderstood my request to stop for the day and we went to a place called Lotus Temple. Luckily Lotus Temple does not charge because it is run by the Baha’i, who are trying to recruit you. The Baha’i are very nice, so the recruiting is not very annoying. I didn’t know anything about Baha’i before, but it seems it is a very benign religion that just wants everyone to get along and love each other. The Lotus temple is a big white temple that looks like giant petals like a flower opening, surrounded by 9 little blue pools of water. It was gorgeous, and I tried to say a little prayer that people would all just get along, in honor of the Baha’i.
So I ended the day completely broke without even enough money for dinner, but was so tired from jet lag that I fell into bed at 6pm and woke up at 4:30am, excited for the next adventure.
Food is terrifically cheap here. Dinner only cost me about $1.50 and I got a full vegetarian thali. Then I was terribly thirsty because it’s tropically hot as hell here and tried to order a sweet lassi, but they misunderstood and I got a ‘sweet lime soda’ which scared me because I drank it and was expecting yogurt. My driver was looking at me strangely because I was eyeballing this soda so carefully thinking that maybe in India, lassi is made with soda water, but there might be chunks of yogurt hidden in it, and I asked him if he thought it was safe to drink.
After a visit to the tour office where the boss plied me with anise cookies and chai, I visited several beautiful tourist sites and monuments. I was proud of myself because I only got suckered into giving a guy $1 for being my tour guide. Really I just felt bad for him, and he had really smooth moves as a fake tour guide, sidling up and just starting his tour spiel without giving you a chance to say no. Everyone at these monuments tries to get you to give them money for watching your shoes and being a tour guide and things like that, which is frustrating, but I suppose better than simply begging. Plus even though I brought conservative clothing with skirts that go below the knee, it turns out that unless the skirts are to the floor, you have to wear these ridiculous pink and orange flowery polyester robes at the temples so that all the tourists look like idiots. The people who designed this system are definitely having a laugh about it. I was lucky they even let me in, I suppose, because the signs say no unaccompanied women are allowed.
I saw a beautiful old mosque with a pool of water in the middle that was all red sandstone (which burns on bare feet but I refused to pay for temporary slippers! Note to self: have to figure out why slippers are OK but shoes are not?). Then I went to the Red Fort which also was very lovely, it is half in ruins but being restored. Again, all red sandstone. There are a lot of stray dogs and adult people who seem to just lie around and sleep at these monuments on the ground. I guess it’s not a bad life. I went to a 3rd red sandstone place called Humayun’s tomb that was quite impressive, full of little marble coffins and beautiful geometric shapes in mosaics like stars and octagons. It seemed like a mini-Taj mahal. After that I had nearly run out of money, but my driver misunderstood my request to stop for the day and we went to a place called Lotus Temple. Luckily Lotus Temple does not charge because it is run by the Baha’i, who are trying to recruit you. The Baha’i are very nice, so the recruiting is not very annoying. I didn’t know anything about Baha’i before, but it seems it is a very benign religion that just wants everyone to get along and love each other. The Lotus temple is a big white temple that looks like giant petals like a flower opening, surrounded by 9 little blue pools of water. It was gorgeous, and I tried to say a little prayer that people would all just get along, in honor of the Baha’i.
So I ended the day completely broke without even enough money for dinner, but was so tired from jet lag that I fell into bed at 6pm and woke up at 4:30am, excited for the next adventure.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
India Voyage
My voyage to India was pleasant and easy, despite the fact that I had a feeling of impending doom all day on the day of departure. My husband must have been rolling his eyes the tenth time I said something like: “What is the absolute worst that could happen, is it that this is the wrong day or the wrong time and I have the wrong flight itinerary and I have to re-book my flight and it costs thousands of dollars and I have to cancel and I take the T home and walk through the pouring rain?” In any case, the flight went off without a hitch, and I had a little ‘I got a free flight to India’ spring in my step.
I even got a little lady in Heathrow to use a screwdriver to forcibly modify a plug converter I bought so that it works with grounded plugs. The only trouble was with my fellow passengers. Why are there so few good other passengers on any given flight? I fly a lot, and I can’t even think of the last time I completed a trip without some other passenger within a few seats of me causing a problem. Is it really that hard to sit quietly for a few hours without spewing something onto or whacking something into your fellow travelers? I think I need say no more. I spent most of the flight feeling guilty that I forgot to take aspirin before it as I promised one of the doctors I work with that I would, so every hour I got up and did some calisthenics in the aisle while other people stared at me.
I even got a little lady in Heathrow to use a screwdriver to forcibly modify a plug converter I bought so that it works with grounded plugs. The only trouble was with my fellow passengers. Why are there so few good other passengers on any given flight? I fly a lot, and I can’t even think of the last time I completed a trip without some other passenger within a few seats of me causing a problem. Is it really that hard to sit quietly for a few hours without spewing something onto or whacking something into your fellow travelers? I think I need say no more. I spent most of the flight feeling guilty that I forgot to take aspirin before it as I promised one of the doctors I work with that I would, so every hour I got up and did some calisthenics in the aisle while other people stared at me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)