Everyone warned me not to go to Varanasi, the most religious city in India, the spiritual soul of the country. As you may have heard on the news (I’ve gotten many emails making sure I was alright. Answer: yes), the day before I was leaving to go there, it was the location of terrorist bombings – at the most sacred temple and the railway station. Matt, my Delhi friend, was assigned to cover Varanasi for the AP. Even he told me to sit this one out. But…I couldn’t be deterred. I’m in India once, the likelihood of coming back here again in my lifetime is slim, I’m going to Varanasi. I have to see it, have to experience it, and I felt no anxiety about that decision. I just got on the plane and went, not really focusing on the “bomb” part. Crazy, maybe. Rewarding, completely. Varanasi was the best city I visited in India. Easily. I couldn’t have made a better choice in visiting.
Varanasi sits on the Ganges River, one of the most polluted bodies of water in the world, however, to Muslims, it is the heart and soul of their religious beliefs. In a lifetime, one must cleanse their soul in the Ganges, disrobe (if you’re a man) or ruin a gorgeous sari (if you’re a woman) and jump right in. This ritual takes place EVERY morning at sunrise on the ghats (staircases) leading down to the riverbank. Some cleanse daily. Some travel long distances to cleanse once. I will never cleanse. But, I would watch, fascinated, as others did. On the way to the sunrise ceremonies, the streets of Varanasi (circa 6 AM) are just starting to come to life. Children pump water out of rusty wells, storefronts open their doors, massive cows, chained to fences, wake from slumber, forget yesterday’s bombings – ALL of these buildings look bombed in their total dilapidation. The stench of waste and excrement, the norm in every town in India, is more overpowering here. It wafts off the river and smacks you right in the face, first thing in the morning. A truly pleasant alarm clock of sorts. The car horns, a ubiquitous sound in India, are just starting to kick in, pushing pedestrians, rickshaws and bicycles out of the way. My driver actually hit a pedestrian on our way to the river. Did we stop? No way – the pedestrian just glared at my driver, who glared right back with a look that said “but, I blew my horn, buddy! Now move.”
After finagling our way through the streets, through the homeless, through the limbless, through the begging babies, my guide and I arrived at the riverbank for our boat. The banks are lined with holy men, sitting under umbrellas, praying, dispensing wisdom, cleansing souls in their own way. You see head shaving rituals – five year old boys being shaven for the first time, beaming proudly in their mother’s arms and old men, being shaved by young men, possibly for the last time, their bodies so weak and frail. Music plays, drums beat, voices chant, all in honor of the gods. As we step into our boat, we slowly start our descent down the river, me awed all the while. I see groups of people dunking, lathering, washing their faces: necks, hands, feet. I see homeless shacks on the ghats, men and women doing their laundry in this filthy body of water, people swimming through the water shouting the name of their chosen god back and forth with each stroke. I see people lighting candles and sending them offshore, flower chains being thrown into the water, ashes blown downriver…all in deference to their gods, small prayers and offerings in the AM’s glow.
As we near each end of the river, I see the huge funeral pyres, or cremation sites. The Muslims cremate their dead, usually within hours after their passing. The pyres are basically huge mountains of ashes (human) that have accumulated through time. The pyres are going twenty-four hours, and the vision of smoke, stack of logs and men in prayer, is both ghastly and beautifully mind-blowing. Only men are allowed AT the cremation (I’m told by my guide because women cry too much…), so after the body is carried through the streets, it arrives at one of the sites. There, a bundle of logs is prepared on which the mourners lay the body. Then, the body is sprinkled with sandalwood oils and powders (to null the smell of human flesh burning) and then more logs are placed over the body. A holy man comes, cleanses himself in the river, then performs a ceremony, at conclusion, the body is lit and burns down to ashes, which are left there, with the heaps of other ashes. It’s UNBELIEVABLE to watch this. Cows are lingering in the background, bodies float past in the river (fives types of people ARE NOT cremated – lepers, holy men, children, pregnant women, and people bitten by snakes – these bodies are merely thrown into the river to decompose naturally), and boats carrying hordes of tourist witnessing it all. The Ganges is insane. A place I’ll never forget seeing, moreover, learning from.
From the Ganges, we went to my guide’s house in the backstreets of Varanasi. A traditional Indian home, it’s three stories high, open-air in the center. Navigating to his house was tricky, backalleys filled with shit of every kind (cow, goat, dog, human) to step around, animals to part ways for, schoolchildren to wave to, stares to endure. The top story is merely a rooftop. People travel from home to home via rooftop, rather than go out into the streets. The middle story is the main house – with bedroom (paper thin mattresses on the floor, sleeping possibly 12-15 across in a space the size of a California king), kitchen (pots/pans/spices and food on the floor of a room that looks otherwise bare), sitting room (similar to bedroom, with more pillows/beaten cushions and junk – papers, worn furniture handed down from more wealthy owners, some clothing strewn in corners). Obviously, no bathroom, running water, or electricity. The bottom level is for….the COWS! I swear, their digs are NICER than the rest of the house. Their rooms have doors and when opened, there are 3-4 cows lying with blankets and hay! I almost died when my guide opened the door. COWS? “Oh yes, Madam, you know the cows is very important to Indian people.” LO-fuckin-L.
Also inhabiting this particular bottom floor is a small shop for a local medicine man, who mixes oils and spices into intoxicating syrums that will cure most any kind of ailment. Chest cold, sinuses, migraines, stress, fatigue, concentration … you name it, he can fix it. I’m a skeptic on that kind of thing, herbal remedies. So, I just bought some masala tea spices and called it a day (Mom – wait until you try it!! I have the recipe and all the ingredients coming home with me!). An absolutely AMAZING day, I am thrilled I didn’t miss Varanasi. Granted, I wasn’t allowed to leave hotel property after dark, and prohibited from going to the temples where the bombings took place (shocker…), and had a bit of trouble getting a guide who was willing to take me out touring, day after, BUT the daily life, that one trip down the Ganges, was worth the visit alone. A fantastic way to spend my second to last day in India.
Back at Matt’s, I detoxed. First, I went to buy more gym clothes (soo cheap here!), then to TGI Friday’s (I’m over Indian food, though I think I mastered it pretty well…), and thought of my high school girls (Sket-e-rete) and our own Friday’s in Huntington and ordered French fries, a fountain Coke and a hot fudge and extra caramel vanilla nut sundae and pigged out on U.S. junk food, HAPPILY. Then, got on my flight to the Maldives reminiscing about, but leaving behind, the woes of India – the stenches (places, food, people), the traffic (laws or lack thereof, pollution, cab/rickshaw drivers), the limbless (WHY are there so many limbless people? How many accidents can ONE country have?), the power outages (at least 10/day. No lights, no worries…), the excrement (all sorts as mentioned), the segregated male-female security lines at the airport (rude, rude, rude), the visions of fat women in saris with peek-a-boo hip holes (not pretty…), the Muslim men (lest I forget the perverted men!?!?! As if…), as well as the beauty of it – the forts, the Victorian architecture, the colors and fabrics of the clothing, the sunsets, the curiosity of the people (about me), the smiles of the children, aloo parantha (delish potato filled bread) and paneer (cheese used in the veg meals that I came to love), the candies they give you on the airplanes, the belief in traditions, the servant’s pampering (especially Matt’s maid Jaya who I adored), morning banana and pomegranate breakfasts, and … the experience as a whole.
The past few weeks were really tough, constantly challenging, and often, depressing. They were maddening at points, sobering at others. Leaving India, I know I likely won’t be back, but wouldn’t trade those weeks for anything in the world…
I’m still wrapping my brain around it all. Sigh…India.
More soon.
xoxoxo
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Thursday, March 09, 2006
My Porter, The Hero
At some point, it was bound to happen, I guess….
My awful, awful experience in India. So, here goes. Being a woman here just sucks.
Everyone warned me on taking trains, but in the same breath, would say I had to experience the railways to truly get the idea of what travel is like for the people of this country. Flights are a luxury here, as they’re quite expensive. So, after my train to Agra was cancelled and I took a car in the interest of saving time, I opted to book an overnight train from Hyderabad to Delhi. About 27 hours. I booked a first class sleeper compartment, to be shared with three others and boarded at 6 AM in a very hectic, very crowded and chaotic Hyderabad station. The cabin left much to be desired, plastic-covered blue and white striped beds that folded down, mud-caked windows, and insane-asylum white formica walls, browned by years of use. But, it was FINE. The conductor informed me that nobody would be joining me until 10:30 PM that night, in Bhopal.
At about 1 PM in the afternoon, I was awoken by the sound of rapping at my locked cabin door. “You have another passenger, Madam,” and into the car walked a seemingly distinguished looking doctor making his way to Delhi for a conference. He was very nice, immediately talking to me, chatting, telling me about his family (late 40s, married, 5-year old son) etc.... Then, decides to "relax." That entailed getting comfortable in his bed, a mere 2 feet of space separating him and I, no curtains, no divisions, just empty space. At this point, he’s wrapped in his sheet, and starts asking me more pointed questions that started to take on a sexual theme. About promiscuity in the States, about unsafe sex, about how arranged marriages lead to lots of cheating b/c it “just gets old, especially, like him, if you’re not attracted to your chosen wife in the first place.” I am nodding respectfully (why, not sure…), I guess feeling that I have to spend another 10 hours with this person before others join us, might as well try to not be rude, even though I am uncomfortable with the way the conversation is going. Then, he asks me what kinds of movies I like:
“Um….I don’t know, all kinds. Dramas, comedies, I don’t know,” I say, “and you?”
“I like romancees….and porn.”
GULP…
“Excuse me?”
“Pornographics, I like those a lot. You know," he pauses, "all pornographics feature western women, just like you.”
GULP, GULP….my heart is starting to race. I don’t like this. AT ALL.
“I DO NOT like pornographics, as you say,” I say definitively and go back to reading my book.
At this point, I’m intently trying to focus on reading. But the words are a blur and my instinct is telling me something isn't right. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the sheet moving suggestively, unnaturally (well, actually, quite naturally for the nature of what was going on underneath…). His eyes are shut and he is touching himself. Quite obviously, and quite enthusiastically. I freeze. He sees me see him, and starts to gyrate his hips under the sheet, looking at me trying NOT to watch him. Staring at me, hard. I am locked in my head. WHAT IS GOING ON? WHAT DO I DO? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? THIS IS NOT HAPPENING. PLEASE TELL ME THIS IS NOT HAPPENING.
It continues, he’s tossing and turning and jerking off in the bed two feet away from me. And, as I’m about to get up and leave, he takes his hand out from the under the cover and goes:
“I really think that what you are doing is fantastic and I admire you. Shake my hand,” and offers his sweaty palm to me.
I bolt. I unlatch the door, shaking, and run into the passageway of the train, where three young porters see my visibly agitated state. They are asking me what is wrong in whatever Indian dialect they speak. I am trying to ask for a conductor, who I KNOW speaks English. They keep asking: "What is wrong," their body language says…. So, I make a jerking off signal with my hands to my crotch, and start to cry. Immediately, one porter, who probably isn’t 20 years old turns to stone, goes into my cabin and starts to remove all of my luggage, transferring it to the next cabin over (there are three first class cabins). He is so incensed by what I’ve tried to express, and spits on the doctor in his hasty transfer of my belongings. Settled in the next cabin, he shows me the panic buttons, the “help” light, and tells me in halting English, “no worry anymore, I right there,” pointing to the wall – indicating he resides on the other side of it. “You need me, ANYTHING, you call. I here," and hits the wall we will share. "You safe now.”
I lock the door, close the curtain and cry hysterically for about an hour. I have never felt so violated, dirty, unable to defend myself, as the nature of my crime in India is merely being born a white woman. I’m in hate with India, as it's SUCH a beautiful and interesting country but the people need to learn respect of other cultures and, of women. I’m angry, I’m scared, I’m furious, I’m hurting.
The porter sends in a variety of officials to hear my story, taking them aside and explaining to them in his native tongue his rendition of the incident. They all apologize profusely. The problem is that at 10:30 PM, in Bhopal, a member of Parliament and his family have reserved the compartment they put me in after the this all happened. So, they explain, I might have to go back to the other one, when others join the room. I'm miserable the thought of such a thing. But, the porter won’t hear of it – he’s taken on my defense with a passion. So, as the Parliament member boards, he goes over to him and explains the situation (a porter, speaking directly to a member of Parliament!!! Underheard of!!!) and Mr. Parliament was equally appalled. So, he had his eldest son sleep in that cabin and his daughter and wife with me (and him).
I woke in Delhi, after sleeping under Parliament’s watch, to a new day. A day to start fresh, try to forget the disgust I felt on the train ride that I JUST HAD to take. Well, I certainly got my “experience.” One I’ll never forget, that’s for sure. Michele and Jeff met me in Delhi that evening, easing me out of the anger, keeping me laughing all night. Seeing them couldn't have been timed better. And now, onto my last India city, tomorrow. Varanasi, the spiritual soul of India.
More from there, hopefully with less dramatic incident.
xoxo
My awful, awful experience in India. So, here goes. Being a woman here just sucks.
Everyone warned me on taking trains, but in the same breath, would say I had to experience the railways to truly get the idea of what travel is like for the people of this country. Flights are a luxury here, as they’re quite expensive. So, after my train to Agra was cancelled and I took a car in the interest of saving time, I opted to book an overnight train from Hyderabad to Delhi. About 27 hours. I booked a first class sleeper compartment, to be shared with three others and boarded at 6 AM in a very hectic, very crowded and chaotic Hyderabad station. The cabin left much to be desired, plastic-covered blue and white striped beds that folded down, mud-caked windows, and insane-asylum white formica walls, browned by years of use. But, it was FINE. The conductor informed me that nobody would be joining me until 10:30 PM that night, in Bhopal.
At about 1 PM in the afternoon, I was awoken by the sound of rapping at my locked cabin door. “You have another passenger, Madam,” and into the car walked a seemingly distinguished looking doctor making his way to Delhi for a conference. He was very nice, immediately talking to me, chatting, telling me about his family (late 40s, married, 5-year old son) etc.... Then, decides to "relax." That entailed getting comfortable in his bed, a mere 2 feet of space separating him and I, no curtains, no divisions, just empty space. At this point, he’s wrapped in his sheet, and starts asking me more pointed questions that started to take on a sexual theme. About promiscuity in the States, about unsafe sex, about how arranged marriages lead to lots of cheating b/c it “just gets old, especially, like him, if you’re not attracted to your chosen wife in the first place.” I am nodding respectfully (why, not sure…), I guess feeling that I have to spend another 10 hours with this person before others join us, might as well try to not be rude, even though I am uncomfortable with the way the conversation is going. Then, he asks me what kinds of movies I like:
“Um….I don’t know, all kinds. Dramas, comedies, I don’t know,” I say, “and you?”
“I like romancees….and porn.”
GULP…
“Excuse me?”
“Pornographics, I like those a lot. You know," he pauses, "all pornographics feature western women, just like you.”
GULP, GULP….my heart is starting to race. I don’t like this. AT ALL.
“I DO NOT like pornographics, as you say,” I say definitively and go back to reading my book.
At this point, I’m intently trying to focus on reading. But the words are a blur and my instinct is telling me something isn't right. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the sheet moving suggestively, unnaturally (well, actually, quite naturally for the nature of what was going on underneath…). His eyes are shut and he is touching himself. Quite obviously, and quite enthusiastically. I freeze. He sees me see him, and starts to gyrate his hips under the sheet, looking at me trying NOT to watch him. Staring at me, hard. I am locked in my head. WHAT IS GOING ON? WHAT DO I DO? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? THIS IS NOT HAPPENING. PLEASE TELL ME THIS IS NOT HAPPENING.
It continues, he’s tossing and turning and jerking off in the bed two feet away from me. And, as I’m about to get up and leave, he takes his hand out from the under the cover and goes:
“I really think that what you are doing is fantastic and I admire you. Shake my hand,” and offers his sweaty palm to me.
I bolt. I unlatch the door, shaking, and run into the passageway of the train, where three young porters see my visibly agitated state. They are asking me what is wrong in whatever Indian dialect they speak. I am trying to ask for a conductor, who I KNOW speaks English. They keep asking: "What is wrong," their body language says…. So, I make a jerking off signal with my hands to my crotch, and start to cry. Immediately, one porter, who probably isn’t 20 years old turns to stone, goes into my cabin and starts to remove all of my luggage, transferring it to the next cabin over (there are three first class cabins). He is so incensed by what I’ve tried to express, and spits on the doctor in his hasty transfer of my belongings. Settled in the next cabin, he shows me the panic buttons, the “help” light, and tells me in halting English, “no worry anymore, I right there,” pointing to the wall – indicating he resides on the other side of it. “You need me, ANYTHING, you call. I here," and hits the wall we will share. "You safe now.”
I lock the door, close the curtain and cry hysterically for about an hour. I have never felt so violated, dirty, unable to defend myself, as the nature of my crime in India is merely being born a white woman. I’m in hate with India, as it's SUCH a beautiful and interesting country but the people need to learn respect of other cultures and, of women. I’m angry, I’m scared, I’m furious, I’m hurting.
The porter sends in a variety of officials to hear my story, taking them aside and explaining to them in his native tongue his rendition of the incident. They all apologize profusely. The problem is that at 10:30 PM, in Bhopal, a member of Parliament and his family have reserved the compartment they put me in after the this all happened. So, they explain, I might have to go back to the other one, when others join the room. I'm miserable the thought of such a thing. But, the porter won’t hear of it – he’s taken on my defense with a passion. So, as the Parliament member boards, he goes over to him and explains the situation (a porter, speaking directly to a member of Parliament!!! Underheard of!!!) and Mr. Parliament was equally appalled. So, he had his eldest son sleep in that cabin and his daughter and wife with me (and him).
I woke in Delhi, after sleeping under Parliament’s watch, to a new day. A day to start fresh, try to forget the disgust I felt on the train ride that I JUST HAD to take. Well, I certainly got my “experience.” One I’ll never forget, that’s for sure. Michele and Jeff met me in Delhi that evening, easing me out of the anger, keeping me laughing all night. Seeing them couldn't have been timed better. And now, onto my last India city, tomorrow. Varanasi, the spiritual soul of India.
More from there, hopefully with less dramatic incident.
xoxo
Monday, March 06, 2006
Beaches, Bush, Bangles...and Marriage.
After my days in crazy Mumbai, I was eager to take some time out in Goa, the beach district on the mid-western coast of India. Founded by the Portugese, and a hippie colony in the 60’s and 70’s, Goa is VERY laid back and easy going with a European flavor. Their local beer’s slogan is “It’s Goa (chilled).” Which about sums it up…
Watching sandy beaches lined with palm trees pass by the window of the airport transfer, I made my way to North Goa, known for it’s nightlife AND beaches, whereas South Goa has little or no nightlife to speak of. I wanted to have the option of joining the party or not, especially considering I was given NO such choice in Mumbai. So, to Sinquerem Beach I went, which boasts a group of resorts nestled in the remains of Fort Aguada (yep, another fort…). At the base of my hotel, where water and land meet, the solitary arm of a previously massive red brick fort jutted out into the water, the perfect spot to watch the amazing Goan sunset. In Goa, I got back on schedule. Having been on the road for over two months now, my body is starting to crave a little normalcy in schedule and ritual. Traveling Asia is starting to wear me a bit. Each morning, I got up around nine, had a huge breakfast of eggs and fruits (breakfast is included in almost every hotel room (budget or luxury hotels, alike) and the spreads are always worthwhile. I’ve become a hard-core breakfast girl, incorporating bananas into the meal each day, OBV… (yes, Marisa, I’m yours for banana desserts when I get home…) Then, I’d lay out, walk into town and back, hit the gym, eat fresh grilled seafood and salads for dinner at seaside, and get to sleep early. It was the same kind of existence that I had in Uruguay, an escape from the hectic schedule of a traveler.
The main preoccupation of the Indian people while I was in Goa was the impending arrival of Bush to India (Rik, I KNOW you wish you were here for this, right…?). Every news outlet carried 24-hour coverage of the big man’s trip, his schedule was dissected each day in the papers, and the state of the Indian government judged by opinion pages. I became obsessed with reading about Bush’s visit in the Indian papers, the impact such a nuclear deal meant to the world, to India, to the States, with how the people of India would receive him (72% were against his visit), how the people would respond (riots, protests, demonstrations), and how he would conduct himself (well, I thought). It’s interesting, if you ask many of the educated Indians about Bush, they like him, they think he’s a good man doing the job that others have been afraid to do, etc… If you go by the papers, which represent polls of much of the uneducated religious sects, they hate him. That feeling is decidedly coming from a Muslim faction, however, that is what is getting reported. My sister sent me MANY emails during the time Bush was here “making sure” I was ok, as seemingly the news over there was a little exaggerated. (I’m FINE…and love you lots, Cher). But, there were a fair share of situations that were accurately reported and interesting to note – especially being an American in India watching from the sidelines: mock funeral processions with a coffin carrying Bush with the pall bearers tagged “Iraq” and “Iran,” cartoons of Bush wearing a turban riding the Indian PM like a horse (the PM broke protocol and met Bush at the airport, the first visiting dignitary for which this happened), harsh demonstrations outside of Raj Ghat (Ghandi’s resting place) when Bush put an ironic peace wreath on the gravesite, the city of Hyderabad was declared a no-fly zone for the majority of March 3rd as Bush visited, another first. I think more than anything else, the Indian people seem to be angry at THEIR government’s handling of the situation, and the way he was treated (royally) and portrayed (regally), not Bush’s actions during his visit per se. At least being here, that’s the way I’m seeing it.
Anyway, my flight, OF COURSE was delayed into Hyderabad, because I picked the day Bush was visiting to get there myself. My trip from Goa to Mumbai was supposed to land at 2:45. My flight from Mumbai to Hyderabad was supposed to take off at 3:30. 45 minutes to get from Point A to Point B in the airport. Do-able, no? But, as I watched my G-Shock change from 3:29 to 3:30, while we were taxi-ing to um…Sri Lanka, for sure, I started getting anxious. I had tried to just “go with it” the whole trip, but as we landed with such a close call to make the next flight, I was agitated. It didn’t help when my flight to Hyderabad was also delayed, but nobody told me. This would’ve settled me down automatically, but they just kept pointing me in “that” direction (which was straight) and I kept walking, with no clear idea of where I was going, what new flight I was looking for, at what time it was leaving. I then had to wait on the “women only” security check line at the airport, which is at least 10 times longer than the men’s security check lines (of which there were three). Grrr……. I was sweaty, miserable, and agitated. So much for my beach holiday feeling lasting very long. Thanks, Bush.
When I finally got to Hyderabad, the saving grace was Ehrenberg (thank you K&C for making that happen), who is doing business in India for the next two months. I was able to just shoot over to his hotel, check into his room, and vent. FOR ONCE. See, here I don’t have any vent partners, so when I’m frustrated, I only have my own head to freak out in. It’s close quarters up there a lot with how much anguish travel like this can sometimes create. It was SOOO nice to just be hugged by someone who knows you so well, gets you, doesn’t need explanations for ANYTHING that comes out of your mouth. Oh...so good to see you, Steve!!!
We spent the next few days just hanging out in Hyderabad, a modern city full of business and technology, as husband and wife. It’s just easier for a man and a woman staying together to declare marriage, than deal with the disdain for unmarried cohabitation within their hotel, using the services he’s entitled to without being related to him, blah blah… So, for the duration of my stay in Hyderabad, I was Mrs. Ehrenberg. Oddly, though, everytime they called us on the phone from the front desk or otherwise, they called him Mr. Martinez (Dad, you would’ve been proud!). I watched him try to recover from his jet-lag and culture shock, navigate his way through Indian food and Indian hospitality. It was great to witness it all from that perspective, as that’s probably what I look like as I enter each new culture/country and have to stumble through the transition. I loved that it was ME (the wife, in chauvinistic India, no less) who knew how to solve his Indian-themed problems, make sure he didn’t get ripped off, or teach him how to accept the level of service and divisions of caste here. For once, I was teaching, not learning. Felt different. Felt good.
We wined and dined with his other ex-pat friends, went running, sampled Indian food, and made friends with the military guys stationed in our hotel (they were on Bush detail, building and deconstructing all of the helicopters deployed for the President’s visit). I spent an afternoon at the Old City of Charminar and Fort Golconda (yep…another fort) filled with sights and sounds similar to Old Delhi, buying bangles galore – a Hyderabad must. I think I whiled away at least two hours in a bangles shop, shimmying my wrist in mirrors as the vendors gave me yet another set of bangles to try on. I left with ten sets of bangles, wooden ones, mirrored ones, jeweled ones, ceramic ones, antique silver ones – you name it – I bought it. Will I wear them, who knows? (You can all borrow… except you Cher, as you don’t jewel up. You either, Davs – it might be like the pirate earrings situation…)
I’m now on a train to Delhi, where I’ll stay for a night to meet back up with the Hanfts. Then, a sidetrip for a few days to Varanasi on the Ganges, the spiritual home of India (I WILL bring my long sleeves and long pants this time), then I move onto the Maldives for a week. I can’t believe India is almost over – three weeks gone. As two little birdies told me, stick with the food, and you’ll come to love it, and I can proudly say I am learning to appreciate Indian food. More than anything, I like to dip the breads (nam, chipati, parantha) in the leftover sauces from the curries and masalas, rather than eat the meals themselves. I’m into the dip: Cohen, it’s your kinda country…all fingers, broken pieces and dips. And while I don’t think I’ll be hitting Indian restaurants with the same vengeance I plan to hit Thai ones, I won’t balk when someone says, “Hey, wanna go for Indian tonight?” I’ll say, with the attitude of a true Goan, “Why, sure…sounds great.”
xoxo
Watching sandy beaches lined with palm trees pass by the window of the airport transfer, I made my way to North Goa, known for it’s nightlife AND beaches, whereas South Goa has little or no nightlife to speak of. I wanted to have the option of joining the party or not, especially considering I was given NO such choice in Mumbai. So, to Sinquerem Beach I went, which boasts a group of resorts nestled in the remains of Fort Aguada (yep, another fort…). At the base of my hotel, where water and land meet, the solitary arm of a previously massive red brick fort jutted out into the water, the perfect spot to watch the amazing Goan sunset. In Goa, I got back on schedule. Having been on the road for over two months now, my body is starting to crave a little normalcy in schedule and ritual. Traveling Asia is starting to wear me a bit. Each morning, I got up around nine, had a huge breakfast of eggs and fruits (breakfast is included in almost every hotel room (budget or luxury hotels, alike) and the spreads are always worthwhile. I’ve become a hard-core breakfast girl, incorporating bananas into the meal each day, OBV… (yes, Marisa, I’m yours for banana desserts when I get home…) Then, I’d lay out, walk into town and back, hit the gym, eat fresh grilled seafood and salads for dinner at seaside, and get to sleep early. It was the same kind of existence that I had in Uruguay, an escape from the hectic schedule of a traveler.
The main preoccupation of the Indian people while I was in Goa was the impending arrival of Bush to India (Rik, I KNOW you wish you were here for this, right…?). Every news outlet carried 24-hour coverage of the big man’s trip, his schedule was dissected each day in the papers, and the state of the Indian government judged by opinion pages. I became obsessed with reading about Bush’s visit in the Indian papers, the impact such a nuclear deal meant to the world, to India, to the States, with how the people of India would receive him (72% were against his visit), how the people would respond (riots, protests, demonstrations), and how he would conduct himself (well, I thought). It’s interesting, if you ask many of the educated Indians about Bush, they like him, they think he’s a good man doing the job that others have been afraid to do, etc… If you go by the papers, which represent polls of much of the uneducated religious sects, they hate him. That feeling is decidedly coming from a Muslim faction, however, that is what is getting reported. My sister sent me MANY emails during the time Bush was here “making sure” I was ok, as seemingly the news over there was a little exaggerated. (I’m FINE…and love you lots, Cher). But, there were a fair share of situations that were accurately reported and interesting to note – especially being an American in India watching from the sidelines: mock funeral processions with a coffin carrying Bush with the pall bearers tagged “Iraq” and “Iran,” cartoons of Bush wearing a turban riding the Indian PM like a horse (the PM broke protocol and met Bush at the airport, the first visiting dignitary for which this happened), harsh demonstrations outside of Raj Ghat (Ghandi’s resting place) when Bush put an ironic peace wreath on the gravesite, the city of Hyderabad was declared a no-fly zone for the majority of March 3rd as Bush visited, another first. I think more than anything else, the Indian people seem to be angry at THEIR government’s handling of the situation, and the way he was treated (royally) and portrayed (regally), not Bush’s actions during his visit per se. At least being here, that’s the way I’m seeing it.
Anyway, my flight, OF COURSE was delayed into Hyderabad, because I picked the day Bush was visiting to get there myself. My trip from Goa to Mumbai was supposed to land at 2:45. My flight from Mumbai to Hyderabad was supposed to take off at 3:30. 45 minutes to get from Point A to Point B in the airport. Do-able, no? But, as I watched my G-Shock change from 3:29 to 3:30, while we were taxi-ing to um…Sri Lanka, for sure, I started getting anxious. I had tried to just “go with it” the whole trip, but as we landed with such a close call to make the next flight, I was agitated. It didn’t help when my flight to Hyderabad was also delayed, but nobody told me. This would’ve settled me down automatically, but they just kept pointing me in “that” direction (which was straight) and I kept walking, with no clear idea of where I was going, what new flight I was looking for, at what time it was leaving. I then had to wait on the “women only” security check line at the airport, which is at least 10 times longer than the men’s security check lines (of which there were three). Grrr……. I was sweaty, miserable, and agitated. So much for my beach holiday feeling lasting very long. Thanks, Bush.
When I finally got to Hyderabad, the saving grace was Ehrenberg (thank you K&C for making that happen), who is doing business in India for the next two months. I was able to just shoot over to his hotel, check into his room, and vent. FOR ONCE. See, here I don’t have any vent partners, so when I’m frustrated, I only have my own head to freak out in. It’s close quarters up there a lot with how much anguish travel like this can sometimes create. It was SOOO nice to just be hugged by someone who knows you so well, gets you, doesn’t need explanations for ANYTHING that comes out of your mouth. Oh...so good to see you, Steve!!!
We spent the next few days just hanging out in Hyderabad, a modern city full of business and technology, as husband and wife. It’s just easier for a man and a woman staying together to declare marriage, than deal with the disdain for unmarried cohabitation within their hotel, using the services he’s entitled to without being related to him, blah blah… So, for the duration of my stay in Hyderabad, I was Mrs. Ehrenberg. Oddly, though, everytime they called us on the phone from the front desk or otherwise, they called him Mr. Martinez (Dad, you would’ve been proud!). I watched him try to recover from his jet-lag and culture shock, navigate his way through Indian food and Indian hospitality. It was great to witness it all from that perspective, as that’s probably what I look like as I enter each new culture/country and have to stumble through the transition. I loved that it was ME (the wife, in chauvinistic India, no less) who knew how to solve his Indian-themed problems, make sure he didn’t get ripped off, or teach him how to accept the level of service and divisions of caste here. For once, I was teaching, not learning. Felt different. Felt good.
We wined and dined with his other ex-pat friends, went running, sampled Indian food, and made friends with the military guys stationed in our hotel (they were on Bush detail, building and deconstructing all of the helicopters deployed for the President’s visit). I spent an afternoon at the Old City of Charminar and Fort Golconda (yep…another fort) filled with sights and sounds similar to Old Delhi, buying bangles galore – a Hyderabad must. I think I whiled away at least two hours in a bangles shop, shimmying my wrist in mirrors as the vendors gave me yet another set of bangles to try on. I left with ten sets of bangles, wooden ones, mirrored ones, jeweled ones, ceramic ones, antique silver ones – you name it – I bought it. Will I wear them, who knows? (You can all borrow… except you Cher, as you don’t jewel up. You either, Davs – it might be like the pirate earrings situation…)
I’m now on a train to Delhi, where I’ll stay for a night to meet back up with the Hanfts. Then, a sidetrip for a few days to Varanasi on the Ganges, the spiritual home of India (I WILL bring my long sleeves and long pants this time), then I move onto the Maldives for a week. I can’t believe India is almost over – three weeks gone. As two little birdies told me, stick with the food, and you’ll come to love it, and I can proudly say I am learning to appreciate Indian food. More than anything, I like to dip the breads (nam, chipati, parantha) in the leftover sauces from the curries and masalas, rather than eat the meals themselves. I’m into the dip: Cohen, it’s your kinda country…all fingers, broken pieces and dips. And while I don’t think I’ll be hitting Indian restaurants with the same vengeance I plan to hit Thai ones, I won’t balk when someone says, “Hey, wanna go for Indian tonight?” I’ll say, with the attitude of a true Goan, “Why, sure…sounds great.”
xoxo
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Mumbai: The Soundtrack, Author's Note
I've gotten about 10 emails in the last 20 minutes remarking on how clever my Soundtrack was, how did I pick the songs, etc...
Those are the songs THE DJ PICKED in the Mumbai club in my hotel that kept me up all night. They were played IN THAT ORDER, during the time I was writing. I know I am prone to bouts of extreme exaggerations, embellishments and exclamations, however, outside of (Last Dance), which WAS used for creative effect and continuity, it's all REAL.
And who chooses a soundtrack and adds "That Thing You Do"? I mean, really....
I am NO James Frey!!! ;)
Thank you.
Those are the songs THE DJ PICKED in the Mumbai club in my hotel that kept me up all night. They were played IN THAT ORDER, during the time I was writing. I know I am prone to bouts of extreme exaggerations, embellishments and exclamations, however, outside of (Last Dance), which WAS used for creative effect and continuity, it's all REAL.
And who chooses a soundtrack and adds "That Thing You Do"? I mean, really....
I am NO James Frey!!! ;)
Thank you.
Mumbai: The Soundtrack
So, I’m sitting in my hotel room in Mumbai as I write this, The Gordon House, a charming little boutique hotel in Colaba, the downtown area of Mumbai, which is constantly jumping. Street bazaars, coffee shops, restaurants abound in Colaba and The Gordon House is right in the center of the action. It’s around the corner from the Gateway of India which is the main port of Mumbai, a city that is so cosmopolitan, so full of energy and life, that I easily fall for it. Thus far, Mumbai is my favorite city in India. The architecture of Mumbai reeks of the British; beautiful Victorian buildings, brownstones on side streets, parks everywhere but with palm trees for a tropical touch, or the reminder that you’re not in Europe. Mumbai ranks with London, Paris and New York, it’s a modern city, with old school charm and loads of character.
The Gordon House, painted baby yellow and white in all the common areas with stressed-wood country French furniture and shabby chic accents in all of the rooms is a hotel where you feel you can relax and escape the hecticness of the Mumbai streets. My room could easily double as a guest bedroom in my future home (one day, one day…) because the taste is exactly mine (Kar – you AND CAROL - would LOVE it). The ONLY drawback is the nightclub downstairs. Yeah. When I checked in, they warned me:
“You like noise?” the receptionist asked devilishly.
“How much noise, why?” I shot back.
“Oh, we have nightclub underneath, noisy,” he replied.
I had NO IDEA just how serious he was….
Hence, my writing this entry at 4 AM on a Saturday night, after my own long evening, tired, weary from a day of exploring and a night of making new travel friends (repeating the same story to new people all the time gets tiring…). The bass is kicking, the walls are pounding, the people are yelling below as the soundtrack continues. I’m NOT sleeping, so I might as well be writing. Fodor’s forgot to mention “the nightclub” when they gave this hotel a starred review. So, to Saturday Night Fever, I begin my Mumbai blog.
I’m not only (Staying Alive), I’m most definitely staying awake…
In my first hours in Mumbai, I went to the Haji Ali mosque, and while Mumbai is so lovely in so many ways, the poverty here rocked me harder than it did in Delhi. The Haji Ali is set at the end of a long pier in Back Bay, off the Arabian Sea. My taxi driver begged me to let him wait and take me my next place, or to let him accompany me to the mosque, but tired of being taken as a female tourist in need of “help” through India, which usually turns into being taken advantage of is some fiscal way, I refused. (Chaka Khan/I Feel For You) As you walk the length of the pier, you are accosted by the poor. Both sides of the pier are lined with beggars and children, holding out silver pans for change. There isn’t room between one family, one group, to the next. And each set of desperate eyes implores you to aid them in some way. The limbless form circles on the ground, drumming their stubs in unison while chanting religious songs, the babies are malnourished, their bellies swollen while their limbs are bony, the blind walk with canes in one hand, jars in the other, mothers with broods and little clothing put their hands to their mouths as you pass, and you can’t help but stare. I was completely aghast at the intensity of the poverty on the pier. I was emotional, trying hard not to make eye contact, not to crack. (Electric Avenue) Then, I got to the mosque. I guess that because I was so focused on the homeless, I wasn’t seeing that I was being watched by a thousand Muslim eyes. I was wearing a tank top (I keep forgetting!!) and knee length skirt. My head wasn’t covered, I was “announcing” myself, seemingly. And, as I made way into the mosque (where I wasn’t asked to cover) I felt the oppression of the women of this country. Signs everywhere in the mosque denoting where “women only” should be. Men leering in hordes, closing in, surrounding me. I kept wandering through, “I’M FINE” running as a mantra in my head. But, clearly, I wasn’t. Between the pier and the mosque, I had had my fill. I started back the way that I came, spinning a little from the sensory and intellectual overload. (YMCA) And, there, on the pier was my taxi driver, relentlessly waiting. My relief at seeing him, at being “rescued” even if I was going to get a whopping “wait charge” on the taxi that was bullshit, was overwhelming. Seeing my body language – he whispered, “Let’s go, ok?” I rightfully offered him the “you were right” once we were back in the cab. Polite as always, he replied, “No madam, it was my duty,” and smiled, secretly loving that I had given him his due. Of course, he ripped me off anywy, that’s par for the course. I’m always ripped off in Asia, that’s what Asia does best.
(Land Down Under) I spent the next two days merely wandering Mumbai. The city is one big bazaar. The tunics, colorful skirts, silk and gorgeously patterned Kashmiri pashmina scarves and shawls, the bangle bracelets, the rugs, the linens, the jewels, it’s all eye-candy and Oh-So-Enticing. But, between the stalls lie naked babies sleeping alone on scorching concrete sidewalks that you practically trip over, looking down to see what you’re about to step on and – gasp – it’s a CHILD, bums and beggars in nooks and crannies, distracting you from the myriad of colors and cottons. But, like Delhi, next to beggars on corners, are Hugo Boss clad business men with Rolexes on cell phones, drivers waiting to whisk them to their next meeting. India’s contrasts are country-wide, seemingly, all cities are plagued by the highbrow-lowbrow gap. (Don’t You Want Me) As you walk through the streets, the market places, you’re pestered by the sellers: “Pst, hello,” “Look at my shop,” “Take a peek, it doesn’t cost you anything to LOOK,” “Sssss, tourist, my store,” “Come inside, you, you, hello.” You are also hissed at, whistled at by the men. They “brush” into you as you go by, gently swatted on the rear as you pass. Try as you might to avoid it, the density of people everywhere allows such transgressions to occur, and as you turn to ball out the dirty old man that “accidentally” fell into you, he’s gone – swallowed by the throng that’s just passed you by. (Get Into the Groove)
One of the other things specific to Mumbai is the Bollywood agents. India’s movie industry is HUGE. Second, in international size, only to Hong Kong. Hollywood pales in comparison to the obsession that Indians place on cinema and their stars. All over the streets of Mumbai are men looking for foreign women to “go to Bollywood.” There isn’t an hour that passes that foreigners, both male and female, aren’t approached by shady looking dudes asking “You want to be a star?” “You want to be in a Bollywood movie?” (Billie Jean) Friends I made in the city, Kiera and Rowena (from Ireland) and I couldn’t understand JUST WHO actually says yes to these Bollywood agents. Do people REALLY fall for this schtick?? They pay 500 Rupees a day, which is roughly $10 for 8 or so hours of work, and they’re NOT selective. The girl with purple hair, a cheek tattoo and freckles is equal to the blond haired, blue eyed, C-cup model next to her. Is this how one gets discovered or makes money? We can’t imagine either possibility. (I Will Survive ) It’s a scam!
So, a girl I had met earlier in the day, Jodi from Australia, had given me the idea of going to see a Bollywood movie in the theater. Michele and Jeff also said it’s a must-do in India as Bollywood movies come with all different plots, but what they all have in common is these overdone music/dance scenes. They’re like music video diversions to the actual story line. And, supposedly, the audience is interactive at Bollywood movies, ala Rocky Horror Picture Show, shouting at the hero that the bad guy is behind him, cheering with the cops catch the killer, and clapping and singing along with the video sidebars. (Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go).
We go to meet Jodi to see Taxi 9211, a psychological thriller, which opened the night before. But when we arrive, Jodi is talking to Harry. A tall, spiky-haired Australian with a skin-pigmentation disease who is…recruiting for Bollywood!!! I couldn’t have scripted this better!!! The two of them are in the deepest of conversations. See, Harry was already in a Bollywood movie, but the agent hasn’t paid him (shocker…). He has to round up 10 girls for ANOTHER movie and IF Harry does that, he’ll get paid for BOTH. Makes sense, right?!?!?!? (Grease Lightning). Enter Jodi (again), who now shares with the group that THE REASON she came to India was to be in a Bollywood movie, but she hasn’t been approached yet (Really? I thought any Tom, Dick, Jane or Susan with sideburns gets approached) and she had planned to leave tomorrow. BUT, Harry has saved her! He approached her! He righted her Indian fantasy! Kiera and I can’t even make eye contact. My mouth is agape, I cannot believe the look in this girl’s eyes, what is transpiring in front of me. Then, as if the whole scene wasn’t ridiculous enough…Jodi exclaims “I’m a bellydancer at home! This is PER-fect!” (Like a Prayer) Bollywood. Go figure.
My questions answered as to just WHO goes Bollywood, we (sans Jodi who left to help Harry recruit 9 more women), still laughing, go to see Taxi 9211. The only tickets we can get are from a scalper (I kid you not…) dripping in goombah gold and tripling the price. After we are shown to our assigned seats (ala Broadway not Loews), and pay respect to the National Anthem (please rise, hats off), the movie starts. (That Thing You Do) On cue, the audience starts chattering, laughing, clapping, cheering. The musical interludes, that J-Lo couldn’t top, break up murder scenes, and the half-Hindi, half-English dialogue semi-amuses. Everything will be in Hindi, and then the main character will go – “Take it easy, man.” Or “Bye, I love you, babe,” at the end of a phone conversation. So random. At intermission (yes, intermission), we head out. We were stuck in the third row, necks craned, dizzying ourselves from the manic dance scenes. Outside of John Abraham (lead actor), the hottest Indian man I’ve EVER seen, possibly the hottest MAN I’ve ever seen, we decide we’re over Bollywood, and sticking with Hollywood.
But…it was good while it lasted. (Last Dance).
xoxoxo
The Gordon House, painted baby yellow and white in all the common areas with stressed-wood country French furniture and shabby chic accents in all of the rooms is a hotel where you feel you can relax and escape the hecticness of the Mumbai streets. My room could easily double as a guest bedroom in my future home (one day, one day…) because the taste is exactly mine (Kar – you AND CAROL - would LOVE it). The ONLY drawback is the nightclub downstairs. Yeah. When I checked in, they warned me:
“You like noise?” the receptionist asked devilishly.
“How much noise, why?” I shot back.
“Oh, we have nightclub underneath, noisy,” he replied.
I had NO IDEA just how serious he was….
Hence, my writing this entry at 4 AM on a Saturday night, after my own long evening, tired, weary from a day of exploring and a night of making new travel friends (repeating the same story to new people all the time gets tiring…). The bass is kicking, the walls are pounding, the people are yelling below as the soundtrack continues. I’m NOT sleeping, so I might as well be writing. Fodor’s forgot to mention “the nightclub” when they gave this hotel a starred review. So, to Saturday Night Fever, I begin my Mumbai blog.
I’m not only (Staying Alive), I’m most definitely staying awake…
In my first hours in Mumbai, I went to the Haji Ali mosque, and while Mumbai is so lovely in so many ways, the poverty here rocked me harder than it did in Delhi. The Haji Ali is set at the end of a long pier in Back Bay, off the Arabian Sea. My taxi driver begged me to let him wait and take me my next place, or to let him accompany me to the mosque, but tired of being taken as a female tourist in need of “help” through India, which usually turns into being taken advantage of is some fiscal way, I refused. (Chaka Khan/I Feel For You) As you walk the length of the pier, you are accosted by the poor. Both sides of the pier are lined with beggars and children, holding out silver pans for change. There isn’t room between one family, one group, to the next. And each set of desperate eyes implores you to aid them in some way. The limbless form circles on the ground, drumming their stubs in unison while chanting religious songs, the babies are malnourished, their bellies swollen while their limbs are bony, the blind walk with canes in one hand, jars in the other, mothers with broods and little clothing put their hands to their mouths as you pass, and you can’t help but stare. I was completely aghast at the intensity of the poverty on the pier. I was emotional, trying hard not to make eye contact, not to crack. (Electric Avenue) Then, I got to the mosque. I guess that because I was so focused on the homeless, I wasn’t seeing that I was being watched by a thousand Muslim eyes. I was wearing a tank top (I keep forgetting!!) and knee length skirt. My head wasn’t covered, I was “announcing” myself, seemingly. And, as I made way into the mosque (where I wasn’t asked to cover) I felt the oppression of the women of this country. Signs everywhere in the mosque denoting where “women only” should be. Men leering in hordes, closing in, surrounding me. I kept wandering through, “I’M FINE” running as a mantra in my head. But, clearly, I wasn’t. Between the pier and the mosque, I had had my fill. I started back the way that I came, spinning a little from the sensory and intellectual overload. (YMCA) And, there, on the pier was my taxi driver, relentlessly waiting. My relief at seeing him, at being “rescued” even if I was going to get a whopping “wait charge” on the taxi that was bullshit, was overwhelming. Seeing my body language – he whispered, “Let’s go, ok?” I rightfully offered him the “you were right” once we were back in the cab. Polite as always, he replied, “No madam, it was my duty,” and smiled, secretly loving that I had given him his due. Of course, he ripped me off anywy, that’s par for the course. I’m always ripped off in Asia, that’s what Asia does best.
(Land Down Under) I spent the next two days merely wandering Mumbai. The city is one big bazaar. The tunics, colorful skirts, silk and gorgeously patterned Kashmiri pashmina scarves and shawls, the bangle bracelets, the rugs, the linens, the jewels, it’s all eye-candy and Oh-So-Enticing. But, between the stalls lie naked babies sleeping alone on scorching concrete sidewalks that you practically trip over, looking down to see what you’re about to step on and – gasp – it’s a CHILD, bums and beggars in nooks and crannies, distracting you from the myriad of colors and cottons. But, like Delhi, next to beggars on corners, are Hugo Boss clad business men with Rolexes on cell phones, drivers waiting to whisk them to their next meeting. India’s contrasts are country-wide, seemingly, all cities are plagued by the highbrow-lowbrow gap. (Don’t You Want Me) As you walk through the streets, the market places, you’re pestered by the sellers: “Pst, hello,” “Look at my shop,” “Take a peek, it doesn’t cost you anything to LOOK,” “Sssss, tourist, my store,” “Come inside, you, you, hello.” You are also hissed at, whistled at by the men. They “brush” into you as you go by, gently swatted on the rear as you pass. Try as you might to avoid it, the density of people everywhere allows such transgressions to occur, and as you turn to ball out the dirty old man that “accidentally” fell into you, he’s gone – swallowed by the throng that’s just passed you by. (Get Into the Groove)
One of the other things specific to Mumbai is the Bollywood agents. India’s movie industry is HUGE. Second, in international size, only to Hong Kong. Hollywood pales in comparison to the obsession that Indians place on cinema and their stars. All over the streets of Mumbai are men looking for foreign women to “go to Bollywood.” There isn’t an hour that passes that foreigners, both male and female, aren’t approached by shady looking dudes asking “You want to be a star?” “You want to be in a Bollywood movie?” (Billie Jean) Friends I made in the city, Kiera and Rowena (from Ireland) and I couldn’t understand JUST WHO actually says yes to these Bollywood agents. Do people REALLY fall for this schtick?? They pay 500 Rupees a day, which is roughly $10 for 8 or so hours of work, and they’re NOT selective. The girl with purple hair, a cheek tattoo and freckles is equal to the blond haired, blue eyed, C-cup model next to her. Is this how one gets discovered or makes money? We can’t imagine either possibility. (I Will Survive ) It’s a scam!
So, a girl I had met earlier in the day, Jodi from Australia, had given me the idea of going to see a Bollywood movie in the theater. Michele and Jeff also said it’s a must-do in India as Bollywood movies come with all different plots, but what they all have in common is these overdone music/dance scenes. They’re like music video diversions to the actual story line. And, supposedly, the audience is interactive at Bollywood movies, ala Rocky Horror Picture Show, shouting at the hero that the bad guy is behind him, cheering with the cops catch the killer, and clapping and singing along with the video sidebars. (Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go).
We go to meet Jodi to see Taxi 9211, a psychological thriller, which opened the night before. But when we arrive, Jodi is talking to Harry. A tall, spiky-haired Australian with a skin-pigmentation disease who is…recruiting for Bollywood!!! I couldn’t have scripted this better!!! The two of them are in the deepest of conversations. See, Harry was already in a Bollywood movie, but the agent hasn’t paid him (shocker…). He has to round up 10 girls for ANOTHER movie and IF Harry does that, he’ll get paid for BOTH. Makes sense, right?!?!?!? (Grease Lightning). Enter Jodi (again), who now shares with the group that THE REASON she came to India was to be in a Bollywood movie, but she hasn’t been approached yet (Really? I thought any Tom, Dick, Jane or Susan with sideburns gets approached) and she had planned to leave tomorrow. BUT, Harry has saved her! He approached her! He righted her Indian fantasy! Kiera and I can’t even make eye contact. My mouth is agape, I cannot believe the look in this girl’s eyes, what is transpiring in front of me. Then, as if the whole scene wasn’t ridiculous enough…Jodi exclaims “I’m a bellydancer at home! This is PER-fect!” (Like a Prayer) Bollywood. Go figure.
My questions answered as to just WHO goes Bollywood, we (sans Jodi who left to help Harry recruit 9 more women), still laughing, go to see Taxi 9211. The only tickets we can get are from a scalper (I kid you not…) dripping in goombah gold and tripling the price. After we are shown to our assigned seats (ala Broadway not Loews), and pay respect to the National Anthem (please rise, hats off), the movie starts. (That Thing You Do) On cue, the audience starts chattering, laughing, clapping, cheering. The musical interludes, that J-Lo couldn’t top, break up murder scenes, and the half-Hindi, half-English dialogue semi-amuses. Everything will be in Hindi, and then the main character will go – “Take it easy, man.” Or “Bye, I love you, babe,” at the end of a phone conversation. So random. At intermission (yes, intermission), we head out. We were stuck in the third row, necks craned, dizzying ourselves from the manic dance scenes. Outside of John Abraham (lead actor), the hottest Indian man I’ve EVER seen, possibly the hottest MAN I’ve ever seen, we decide we’re over Bollywood, and sticking with Hollywood.
But…it was good while it lasted. (Last Dance).
xoxoxo
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Wax on, Wax Off ... in Agra.
So, I decided that to get to Agra to meet the Hanfts (Rikki’s parents who are in India for a month, the coolest parents around besides my own (well, there’s also Bob Schwartz, my email buddy, but I digress. This sidebar is for those who aren’t ‘in the parents-of-my-friends-know’), I’d take a train. Everyone told me that I should hire a car/driver to take me there/back and transport me around Agra, but I deferred. No, no….I want to EXPERIENCE the trains in India. Ok, everyone sighed reluctantly, knowing that an Indian tourist pressed for time shouldn’t be wasting precious hours on the trains, they rarely leave on time, they rarely get where they’re supposed to get in the said amount of hours. It’s fine, I say. MY train will be on time. Morning of, I grab a rickshaw and headed to Nizabuddim train station, filled with people immediately surrounding the rickshaw (before I even step out, and elderly woman hopped in with me, pinned an Indian flag on my shirt, then asked for a “donation.” Uh, donation…right.).
GUESS WHAT? Train is delayed.
GUESS HOW LONG? 4-5 hours. They’re not sure.
They tell me to come back around 6 to see if there’s further delays. REALLY? Is this any way to run a train service? No, it is not. DO THEY CARE? No, they do not. So….beaten, I head back to Matt’s for the “I told you so”s. I call the travel agent that I’ve hooked up with here in Delhi (who has basically in one fell swoop – or is it foul swoop, I never get that right – did the rest of my trip thru coming home) and he tells me he’ll have a car for me in 30 minutes. I really want to meet the Hanfts, I do not want to idle the day away at a train station or Matt’s apartment, so….I take the chauffeured car. I guess I’m starting to cave on my NO HIRED HELP policy I felt weird about , um….YESTERDAY.
The four hour car ride to Agra was uneventful except for the kamikaze driving (130 kms/hour!), traffic weaving around cows, camels and donkeys peeing in the middle of the road, braking for women with bushels of wheat piled high atop their head, staring at the rickshaws PACKED with 20-30 people hanging out in all directions from the roof, back, front, sides (to highlight, me and my luggage are a tight-rickshaw squeeze…20 people is insanity), being ignored by my very sweet, cute driver who balked when I offered him some banana (obv...), then some peanut M&M’s (I wanted to ask if he was allergic to nuts b/c his reaction was THAT severe) then stopped talking to me because seemingly, I offended him by disregarding the caste lines in the vehicle – he’s my DRIVER, not my snacks partner.
Agra itself is a dirty, rundown little town. The streets are a mess, the sewer stench which is omnipresent in India seems worse here, the town lacks character, and the poverty seems intensified because of how unsavory Agra is. I’m disappointed, as in my mind’s eye, Agra – the home of the Taj Mahal – should be lovely. However, the Taj Mahal MORE THAN makes up for it. Magnificent, stunning, breathtaking, inspiring, overpowering, perfect. There’s no way for me to convey with any measure of success just how amazing this work of art is, because that's what it is...a work of art. A mausoleum for Shah Jahan’s second (and favorite wife), I was under the impression that the Taj was a residence, inhabited by the Shah and his wife. But, it’s actually just the tomb that the Shah built after her death to honor her. She never even saw it!!! The whole concept is beyond comprehension when you see the Taj, this massive and shining white marble structure of perfection against a cloudless blue sky. Every movement of the sun creates a new moment. You cannot take your eyes off of it, you cannot stop taking pictures TRYING to capture the beauty, you cannot believe you’re seeing it in person. Seeing the Taj is just one of those life moments. It was utterly unreal.
After seeing the Taj Mahal, Michele, Jeff and I went around Agra in THEIR chauffered car (see, everyone's doing it...) to see various shops that specialize in custom marble pieces. The process is unbelievable, a myriad of working chipping slices of colored marble and hammering them into stenciled designs. Then, to see centuries old embroideries at stores housing centuries old jewels. Michele and I trying everything on, admiring ourselves in mirrors, while Jeff sat back and watched quietly. Such a fun day, so nice to spend the day them. I meet so many people at night, at dinners, or having a cocktail, that it was nice to SIGHTSEE with people I adore, rather than just kick back with other travelers. The parental TLC felt good (and made me miss my own mom and dad, of course … ) Retiring back to our respective hotels (they stayed at the Oberoi which was one of the most amazing hotels I’ve ever seen…), I decided to put myself back into the gym at my hotel to kill an hour, start to run again, make myself presentable for Lukoff’s wedding. And then, the fun really started…
I’m all into my run, it’s 30 minutes in, I’m going, I’m sweating, I’m feeling good. I’m alone in the gym, so I’m just wearing a sports bra and running pants, the treadmill is next to the window overlooking a back garden at my hotel. Along comes an Indian window washer, slowly ‘wax-on, wax-off’-ing the window of the gym. Then, he notices me. As per usual in India re: being a western woman, he stares for a bit, making me uncomfortable circling the window in the same place, then moves on. Great, back to running, focus, keep on pushing. About 5 minutes later, though, he’s back. This time he’s not making any false show of washing the windows, he’s just stuck his face to the glass, with his hands over his forehead to block out the sun, and get a better look. Staring right into my eyes as I notice him, he’s starting to glaze a little and SLOWLY, SLOWLY, one hand disappears below the window sill. I FREAK OUT. So, I put my feet on the side of the treadmill to balance myself and start to pull the blinds closed – reaching and stretching to get the pulley stick – when, one foot goes back onto the moving treadmill, knocking me off balance and into motion, pulling me down down down with it. It was, when I pictured what I must’ve looked like, A Naked Gun movie scene. Fully. But, with much lewder content. I’m splayed out on the floor, bleeding, pissed, sweaty. And, I look up, and see, through the sliver of curtain that didn’t close, Sanjay Sex Fiend still stuck to the glass watching me!!!
Welcome to India, as a Western gal.
I’ve now got a huge bandage on my right knee and have frequent “ow!” moments when I do things that involve … bending my leg. But…I “told on” Sanjay the window washer and didn’t see him working the next day when I checked out. Justice. Hopefully. But, likely not, the rest of the male staff probably patted him on the back.
More from Mumbai…
Hopefully, less lascivious behavior from the locals.
xoxo
GUESS WHAT? Train is delayed.
GUESS HOW LONG? 4-5 hours. They’re not sure.
They tell me to come back around 6 to see if there’s further delays. REALLY? Is this any way to run a train service? No, it is not. DO THEY CARE? No, they do not. So….beaten, I head back to Matt’s for the “I told you so”s. I call the travel agent that I’ve hooked up with here in Delhi (who has basically in one fell swoop – or is it foul swoop, I never get that right – did the rest of my trip thru coming home) and he tells me he’ll have a car for me in 30 minutes. I really want to meet the Hanfts, I do not want to idle the day away at a train station or Matt’s apartment, so….I take the chauffeured car. I guess I’m starting to cave on my NO HIRED HELP policy I felt weird about , um….YESTERDAY.
The four hour car ride to Agra was uneventful except for the kamikaze driving (130 kms/hour!), traffic weaving around cows, camels and donkeys peeing in the middle of the road, braking for women with bushels of wheat piled high atop their head, staring at the rickshaws PACKED with 20-30 people hanging out in all directions from the roof, back, front, sides (to highlight, me and my luggage are a tight-rickshaw squeeze…20 people is insanity), being ignored by my very sweet, cute driver who balked when I offered him some banana (obv...), then some peanut M&M’s (I wanted to ask if he was allergic to nuts b/c his reaction was THAT severe) then stopped talking to me because seemingly, I offended him by disregarding the caste lines in the vehicle – he’s my DRIVER, not my snacks partner.
Agra itself is a dirty, rundown little town. The streets are a mess, the sewer stench which is omnipresent in India seems worse here, the town lacks character, and the poverty seems intensified because of how unsavory Agra is. I’m disappointed, as in my mind’s eye, Agra – the home of the Taj Mahal – should be lovely. However, the Taj Mahal MORE THAN makes up for it. Magnificent, stunning, breathtaking, inspiring, overpowering, perfect. There’s no way for me to convey with any measure of success just how amazing this work of art is, because that's what it is...a work of art. A mausoleum for Shah Jahan’s second (and favorite wife), I was under the impression that the Taj was a residence, inhabited by the Shah and his wife. But, it’s actually just the tomb that the Shah built after her death to honor her. She never even saw it!!! The whole concept is beyond comprehension when you see the Taj, this massive and shining white marble structure of perfection against a cloudless blue sky. Every movement of the sun creates a new moment. You cannot take your eyes off of it, you cannot stop taking pictures TRYING to capture the beauty, you cannot believe you’re seeing it in person. Seeing the Taj is just one of those life moments. It was utterly unreal.
After seeing the Taj Mahal, Michele, Jeff and I went around Agra in THEIR chauffered car (see, everyone's doing it...) to see various shops that specialize in custom marble pieces. The process is unbelievable, a myriad of working chipping slices of colored marble and hammering them into stenciled designs. Then, to see centuries old embroideries at stores housing centuries old jewels. Michele and I trying everything on, admiring ourselves in mirrors, while Jeff sat back and watched quietly. Such a fun day, so nice to spend the day them. I meet so many people at night, at dinners, or having a cocktail, that it was nice to SIGHTSEE with people I adore, rather than just kick back with other travelers. The parental TLC felt good (and made me miss my own mom and dad, of course … ) Retiring back to our respective hotels (they stayed at the Oberoi which was one of the most amazing hotels I’ve ever seen…), I decided to put myself back into the gym at my hotel to kill an hour, start to run again, make myself presentable for Lukoff’s wedding. And then, the fun really started…
I’m all into my run, it’s 30 minutes in, I’m going, I’m sweating, I’m feeling good. I’m alone in the gym, so I’m just wearing a sports bra and running pants, the treadmill is next to the window overlooking a back garden at my hotel. Along comes an Indian window washer, slowly ‘wax-on, wax-off’-ing the window of the gym. Then, he notices me. As per usual in India re: being a western woman, he stares for a bit, making me uncomfortable circling the window in the same place, then moves on. Great, back to running, focus, keep on pushing. About 5 minutes later, though, he’s back. This time he’s not making any false show of washing the windows, he’s just stuck his face to the glass, with his hands over his forehead to block out the sun, and get a better look. Staring right into my eyes as I notice him, he’s starting to glaze a little and SLOWLY, SLOWLY, one hand disappears below the window sill. I FREAK OUT. So, I put my feet on the side of the treadmill to balance myself and start to pull the blinds closed – reaching and stretching to get the pulley stick – when, one foot goes back onto the moving treadmill, knocking me off balance and into motion, pulling me down down down with it. It was, when I pictured what I must’ve looked like, A Naked Gun movie scene. Fully. But, with much lewder content. I’m splayed out on the floor, bleeding, pissed, sweaty. And, I look up, and see, through the sliver of curtain that didn’t close, Sanjay Sex Fiend still stuck to the glass watching me!!!
Welcome to India, as a Western gal.
I’ve now got a huge bandage on my right knee and have frequent “ow!” moments when I do things that involve … bending my leg. But…I “told on” Sanjay the window washer and didn’t see him working the next day when I checked out. Justice. Hopefully. But, likely not, the rest of the male staff probably patted him on the back.
More from Mumbai…
Hopefully, less lascivious behavior from the locals.
xoxo
Friday, February 24, 2006
Bananas about Bananas
I’m in INDIA.
That, to me, blows my mind. I don’t think at any point in my life did I ever think I’d be visiting INDIA. And yet, here I am. I know so little about Indian culture, that I’m awed by every turn of my head, every moment of time that I experience in this country. I feel like I’m learning just by having stepped off the plane. And, there’s so much to learn, as India full of contrast. You have uber-rich and filthy poor living next to each other, Hindus and Muslims praying next to each other, East and West culture vying for representation, North and South, old and new. India may be a lot of things, but it will never be boring, that’s for sure. There’s drastic differences everywhere – dress (saris being replaced by jeans and t-shirts), food (North Indian vs. South Indian cuisine – on the plane they asked what I wanted for breakfast “a North Indian breakfast or a South Indian one.” I shrugged and asked dumbly, “what’s the difference?”), religion (Hindus and Muslims), castes (Sikh, Punjabi, Brahim, to name a few), and the chasm between all of these competing differences is deep.
I arrived into Delhi at around 6 AM. My friend Matt is an Associated Press correspondent (Chief Correspondent, sorry…) here, so he’s graciously offered his place. I arrive to his neighborhood which is called Sunder Nagar. It is one a few enclaves of the wealthy in New Delhi and it is beautiful. New Delhi surprises me. As the car Matt sent to pick me up (so nice to see signs with your name at the airport in India, trust me…) at the airport whisks me through Delhi at sunrise, I’m shocked to see how clean and expansively green New Delhi seems. The streets are wide, properly paved and spotless, surrounded by much grass, beautiful gated bungalows (that is the word use to describe an estate here, go figure…) and quiet. Matt’s apartment is another surprise. It’s a house really, that he occupies the second floor of (but the first floor is non-functional), and it’s enormous. 12-15 foot ceilings, all with fans creating breezes and hums, 2 bedrooms, 2 studies, a living room/dining room that is easily 30 x 40 feet, kitchen with a breakfast nook area beyond, a verandah overlooking a meadow out front, marble floors, French doors opening out from most rooms. It’s fantastic. A place like this would cost $5 million in NYC. MORE, who am I kidding? Then, of course, India being a service country, he has Jaya, his housekeeper ($120 a month!!!! That’s two cleaning lady sessions for my 500 sq foot apt in NYC) who cooks, shops, launders, cleans, and generally, loiters all day long, re-sweeping and re-straightening. There’s a variety of other service people, the one who presses his shirts, takes the garbage, drives him. It’s a cultural thing. Me, I’m like, cleaning the floor WITH Jaya, and for every “Ma’am, I washed your sleeping clothes. Ma’am, can I get you anything at the market? Ma’am, is there anything you like to eat?” I cringe. No, no, no, no…I’m fine. Even if I’m starving, I’m just FINE. I’m just not used to having a servant, I guess. I’m like stealing bananas for sustenance rather than ask Jaya to COOK for me. Oh god, I cannot!!! (I’m coming thru Delhi four times, though, so…..maybe on my last visit, I’ll have her do me up a dosa or something, just to have the EXPERIENCE of being servant-fabulous in India…Maybe.)
We spent the day exploring New Delhi, continually astounding with it’s very beautiful British built government buildings on Raj Path. As Matt remarked, it looked like when the British built New Delhi, they thought they were going to be around for a while. Too bad they got booted. It’s that impressive. Raj Path runs to India Gate on the other end. Around India Gate is a park space where tons of Indian families were out relaxing and enjoying the day. Then, onto Lodi Gardens, another outdoor space, the Central Park of Delhi, if you will. It just seemed so normal, so comfortable.
That perception changed quickly the next day as I headed into Old Delhi in a rickshaw. Being a Monday, the traffic was insane, the pollution from the traffic, making it worse in my open-air taxi. I was breathing in my hands (looking as if I was continually sneezing -or vomiting - the whole ride) to keep the air from the exhaust from getting into my lungs (like this really helped). We arrived at the Red Fort, which is off Chandi Chowk, the main thoroughfare in Old Delhi. What a difference!!! Old Delhi vs New Delhi. Night and day. THIS is your National Geographic India. This is your CNN Presents. This is what I was prepared to see.
There were people EVERYWHERE, millions of them (probably an accurate # given Delhi’s population). First thing I noticed, all the different ways of getting around competing for road space – pedestrians, rickshaws, cyclos, moto-cyclos, buses, horse/buggies, bicycles, taxis, cars. Insanity. And there’s no such thing as safe driving here. There are NO lanes, no rules. The government actually has put up road signs all over that say “Lane driving is Sane driving” b/c the driving is so out of control. Kinda funny. I was probably stepped on 20 times, and fell over/into potholes or off curbs (a VERY normal occurrence for me here in Asia (you should see the bandage on my knee TODAY (there have been many). I just made peace with the fact that I’m an awful klutz). Then, I notice all the people. Beggars, just like you’ve seen in photos, holding out silver pans, coated in grime, filthy children with lice ridden hair - you can SEE the bugs moving all over their scalp, dirty fingernails, years worth of life on their clothes, old men laying on the pavement, blind men with canes navigating the chaos, limbless flaunting their lack of, business men on cell phones oblivious to it all flying past, women in saris – colorful beautiful saris traveling in numbers, throngs of hungry, homeless crowded and kneeling 10 -15 people deep on the ground outside food establishments waiting for leftovers from the plates of diners, vendors hawking junk, fortune tellers offering to read your palm, little boys with scales to guess your weight, it’s INSANITY. Then, you notice all the animals roaming the city freely: cows (very very sacred here, they don’t serve beef anywhere, it’s a black market item, Matt informs), pigs, goats, camels, monkeys, sheep, parrots (sooo pretty and green, flying all around), dogs and, gulp, elephants being ridden thru the streets. It’s unbelievable. I spent the better part of the day walking through the bazaars and markets around Chandi Chowk, mezmerized.
After Chandi Chowk, I head to the Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque. An old gorgeous architectural building with the typical architectural “balloons” (that’s that I call the hot air balloon looking domes of the mosques) floating above the city. Being a Muslim country, I’m stared at a lot, my clothing, especially tank tops (shoulders uncovered, fitted), the way I carry myself. I’ve learned QUICKLY to ignore it. It’s very interesting b/c the men would NEVER disrespect a Muslim woman the way they disrespect Western women. It’s also infuriating, I want to smack every man I walk past, but I refrain, obv... I’ll be hung and stoned in no time if I sass myself around India, creating a ruckus. But at the Jama Masjid, it was dreadful, not to mention, um…sacreligious. I was swaddled from head to toe before entry because of my “offensive” clothing. I looked like the baby Jesus, walking and female, and yeah, 31. Then, on entry, I was hissed at and followed by disgusting Muslim men, with leering, lusty looks dripping from their features. And these men are bold, they look you in the eyes, they speak to you, uttering dirty, perverted things. I try very, very hard to just ignore and focus forward. Sometimes it’s really hard. I’m not good at biting my tongues, as we all know. Two teenage boys (around 15, maybe) followed me around the the duration of time I was at the mosque going “I love your breasts, I want to squeeze your breasts. I love you American. Can I touch you? Let me touch you.” I MEAN……. They would be put to death if I were a Muslim woman. But all rules (shocker) go out the window with foreigners. I didn’t stay at the Jama Masjid too long, as you might imagine…
Then, I went to lunch. Ok….I’ve tried everything at this point. Dosa, Dal, Paneer, Kebabs, Aloo, Nam, Pokhra, Masala, Biryani, Tandoori. EW, EW, EW... I just can’t get into it. I love spice, I love the ingredients, but the way they’re put together here just DOESN’T work for me. It’s like spice mush with lots of ghee (the fat they use) floating on top. When I got to town, I said to Matt “I’m ONLY eating Indian food for three weeks. Big talker, me. Day three, he’s like – I don’t feel well, I think I’m going to get some soup from Chinese. My eyes lit up! YES YES YES, sounds great. I don’t even Chinese at home! So…yeah. Food sucks. And I have 2 more weeks of it . . . Instead, I eat lots of fruits. My P’s – pineapple, papaya and pomegranate are staples. And, ready kids….bananas. I know, I know, I’ve been a banana basher my whole life, shooting down sharing banana desserts all the time. Well…I love them now. The fruit, not the flavoring, mind you. I peeled a banana and ate it the other day, publicly. It felt amazing. I felt so cool. Peeling, eating a banana. I’ve never done that before. Like, carried one in my backpack and had it for snack. I had to come to India to realize this. The irony….
On that note – I’m going to go grab a banana and explore more of India. There’s just so much to see. More soon on Agra, Mumbai and the rest…
xoxoxo
That, to me, blows my mind. I don’t think at any point in my life did I ever think I’d be visiting INDIA. And yet, here I am. I know so little about Indian culture, that I’m awed by every turn of my head, every moment of time that I experience in this country. I feel like I’m learning just by having stepped off the plane. And, there’s so much to learn, as India full of contrast. You have uber-rich and filthy poor living next to each other, Hindus and Muslims praying next to each other, East and West culture vying for representation, North and South, old and new. India may be a lot of things, but it will never be boring, that’s for sure. There’s drastic differences everywhere – dress (saris being replaced by jeans and t-shirts), food (North Indian vs. South Indian cuisine – on the plane they asked what I wanted for breakfast “a North Indian breakfast or a South Indian one.” I shrugged and asked dumbly, “what’s the difference?”), religion (Hindus and Muslims), castes (Sikh, Punjabi, Brahim, to name a few), and the chasm between all of these competing differences is deep.
I arrived into Delhi at around 6 AM. My friend Matt is an Associated Press correspondent (Chief Correspondent, sorry…) here, so he’s graciously offered his place. I arrive to his neighborhood which is called Sunder Nagar. It is one a few enclaves of the wealthy in New Delhi and it is beautiful. New Delhi surprises me. As the car Matt sent to pick me up (so nice to see signs with your name at the airport in India, trust me…) at the airport whisks me through Delhi at sunrise, I’m shocked to see how clean and expansively green New Delhi seems. The streets are wide, properly paved and spotless, surrounded by much grass, beautiful gated bungalows (that is the word use to describe an estate here, go figure…) and quiet. Matt’s apartment is another surprise. It’s a house really, that he occupies the second floor of (but the first floor is non-functional), and it’s enormous. 12-15 foot ceilings, all with fans creating breezes and hums, 2 bedrooms, 2 studies, a living room/dining room that is easily 30 x 40 feet, kitchen with a breakfast nook area beyond, a verandah overlooking a meadow out front, marble floors, French doors opening out from most rooms. It’s fantastic. A place like this would cost $5 million in NYC. MORE, who am I kidding? Then, of course, India being a service country, he has Jaya, his housekeeper ($120 a month!!!! That’s two cleaning lady sessions for my 500 sq foot apt in NYC) who cooks, shops, launders, cleans, and generally, loiters all day long, re-sweeping and re-straightening. There’s a variety of other service people, the one who presses his shirts, takes the garbage, drives him. It’s a cultural thing. Me, I’m like, cleaning the floor WITH Jaya, and for every “Ma’am, I washed your sleeping clothes. Ma’am, can I get you anything at the market? Ma’am, is there anything you like to eat?” I cringe. No, no, no, no…I’m fine. Even if I’m starving, I’m just FINE. I’m just not used to having a servant, I guess. I’m like stealing bananas for sustenance rather than ask Jaya to COOK for me. Oh god, I cannot!!! (I’m coming thru Delhi four times, though, so…..maybe on my last visit, I’ll have her do me up a dosa or something, just to have the EXPERIENCE of being servant-fabulous in India…Maybe.)
We spent the day exploring New Delhi, continually astounding with it’s very beautiful British built government buildings on Raj Path. As Matt remarked, it looked like when the British built New Delhi, they thought they were going to be around for a while. Too bad they got booted. It’s that impressive. Raj Path runs to India Gate on the other end. Around India Gate is a park space where tons of Indian families were out relaxing and enjoying the day. Then, onto Lodi Gardens, another outdoor space, the Central Park of Delhi, if you will. It just seemed so normal, so comfortable.
That perception changed quickly the next day as I headed into Old Delhi in a rickshaw. Being a Monday, the traffic was insane, the pollution from the traffic, making it worse in my open-air taxi. I was breathing in my hands (looking as if I was continually sneezing -or vomiting - the whole ride) to keep the air from the exhaust from getting into my lungs (like this really helped). We arrived at the Red Fort, which is off Chandi Chowk, the main thoroughfare in Old Delhi. What a difference!!! Old Delhi vs New Delhi. Night and day. THIS is your National Geographic India. This is your CNN Presents. This is what I was prepared to see.
There were people EVERYWHERE, millions of them (probably an accurate # given Delhi’s population). First thing I noticed, all the different ways of getting around competing for road space – pedestrians, rickshaws, cyclos, moto-cyclos, buses, horse/buggies, bicycles, taxis, cars. Insanity. And there’s no such thing as safe driving here. There are NO lanes, no rules. The government actually has put up road signs all over that say “Lane driving is Sane driving” b/c the driving is so out of control. Kinda funny. I was probably stepped on 20 times, and fell over/into potholes or off curbs (a VERY normal occurrence for me here in Asia (you should see the bandage on my knee TODAY (there have been many). I just made peace with the fact that I’m an awful klutz). Then, I notice all the people. Beggars, just like you’ve seen in photos, holding out silver pans, coated in grime, filthy children with lice ridden hair - you can SEE the bugs moving all over their scalp, dirty fingernails, years worth of life on their clothes, old men laying on the pavement, blind men with canes navigating the chaos, limbless flaunting their lack of, business men on cell phones oblivious to it all flying past, women in saris – colorful beautiful saris traveling in numbers, throngs of hungry, homeless crowded and kneeling 10 -15 people deep on the ground outside food establishments waiting for leftovers from the plates of diners, vendors hawking junk, fortune tellers offering to read your palm, little boys with scales to guess your weight, it’s INSANITY. Then, you notice all the animals roaming the city freely: cows (very very sacred here, they don’t serve beef anywhere, it’s a black market item, Matt informs), pigs, goats, camels, monkeys, sheep, parrots (sooo pretty and green, flying all around), dogs and, gulp, elephants being ridden thru the streets. It’s unbelievable. I spent the better part of the day walking through the bazaars and markets around Chandi Chowk, mezmerized.
After Chandi Chowk, I head to the Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque. An old gorgeous architectural building with the typical architectural “balloons” (that’s that I call the hot air balloon looking domes of the mosques) floating above the city. Being a Muslim country, I’m stared at a lot, my clothing, especially tank tops (shoulders uncovered, fitted), the way I carry myself. I’ve learned QUICKLY to ignore it. It’s very interesting b/c the men would NEVER disrespect a Muslim woman the way they disrespect Western women. It’s also infuriating, I want to smack every man I walk past, but I refrain, obv... I’ll be hung and stoned in no time if I sass myself around India, creating a ruckus. But at the Jama Masjid, it was dreadful, not to mention, um…sacreligious. I was swaddled from head to toe before entry because of my “offensive” clothing. I looked like the baby Jesus, walking and female, and yeah, 31. Then, on entry, I was hissed at and followed by disgusting Muslim men, with leering, lusty looks dripping from their features. And these men are bold, they look you in the eyes, they speak to you, uttering dirty, perverted things. I try very, very hard to just ignore and focus forward. Sometimes it’s really hard. I’m not good at biting my tongues, as we all know. Two teenage boys (around 15, maybe) followed me around the the duration of time I was at the mosque going “I love your breasts, I want to squeeze your breasts. I love you American. Can I touch you? Let me touch you.” I MEAN……. They would be put to death if I were a Muslim woman. But all rules (shocker) go out the window with foreigners. I didn’t stay at the Jama Masjid too long, as you might imagine…
Then, I went to lunch. Ok….I’ve tried everything at this point. Dosa, Dal, Paneer, Kebabs, Aloo, Nam, Pokhra, Masala, Biryani, Tandoori. EW, EW, EW... I just can’t get into it. I love spice, I love the ingredients, but the way they’re put together here just DOESN’T work for me. It’s like spice mush with lots of ghee (the fat they use) floating on top. When I got to town, I said to Matt “I’m ONLY eating Indian food for three weeks. Big talker, me. Day three, he’s like – I don’t feel well, I think I’m going to get some soup from Chinese. My eyes lit up! YES YES YES, sounds great. I don’t even Chinese at home! So…yeah. Food sucks. And I have 2 more weeks of it . . . Instead, I eat lots of fruits. My P’s – pineapple, papaya and pomegranate are staples. And, ready kids….bananas. I know, I know, I’ve been a banana basher my whole life, shooting down sharing banana desserts all the time. Well…I love them now. The fruit, not the flavoring, mind you. I peeled a banana and ate it the other day, publicly. It felt amazing. I felt so cool. Peeling, eating a banana. I’ve never done that before. Like, carried one in my backpack and had it for snack. I had to come to India to realize this. The irony….
On that note – I’m going to go grab a banana and explore more of India. There’s just so much to see. More soon on Agra, Mumbai and the rest…
xoxoxo
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
