Just about an hour ago, we stepped of our 24 hour train (direct from the 6.5 hour bus) outside of Mumbai. We downed some spicy daal and a Kingfisher to maintain our energy, and soon we'll be on our way to the home of a new friend we are staying with. I read Shantaram on the train ride, and it was sureally awesome to be reading about the city I was en route to. I'm very excited to be back here for the next 2-ish days. Late sunday/early monday, we fly out to Paris and we'll have to bid fermelenghie to this great country.
Any last requests for silk rugs or gold bangles now being accepted with payment.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
jungle beasts
We just crawled out of the jungle. No tigers spotted, but we did see bison, elephants, many birds, a black bear at very close range, and some delicious guavas.
Currently faced with important decisions regarding the next few days and getting to Mumbai, as well as some really confusing roommate/subletter situations for our return home. It should work out, though, seeing as how I can now sleep in the jungle and wrestle black bears.
I am very, very muddy and would like an ayurvedic masage now pls kthx.
Currently faced with important decisions regarding the next few days and getting to Mumbai, as well as some really confusing roommate/subletter situations for our return home. It should work out, though, seeing as how I can now sleep in the jungle and wrestle black bears.
I am very, very muddy and would like an ayurvedic masage now pls kthx.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Somewhere else
I have now been a certified diver for about 24 hours. I still have the ocean in my ears to prove it.
Hopefully that'll come back out at some point soon.
I made friends with some sea turles, a cuttlefish, a pufferfish, a nurse shark, lots of coral and an eel, though I wouldn't say the eel and I are so much friends as acquantices.
We found the internet on Agatti island. We had to rent bicycles and ride into the village to a high school (currently on holiday). Trying to upgrade our 26 hour train to Mumbai so we can go in a car where we can fit all of our luggage.
anyway: alive, well, still going.
besos.
Hopefully that'll come back out at some point soon.
I made friends with some sea turles, a cuttlefish, a pufferfish, a nurse shark, lots of coral and an eel, though I wouldn't say the eel and I are so much friends as acquantices.
We found the internet on Agatti island. We had to rent bicycles and ride into the village to a high school (currently on holiday). Trying to upgrade our 26 hour train to Mumbai so we can go in a car where we can fit all of our luggage.
anyway: alive, well, still going.
besos.
Monday, April 6, 2009
March of the Elephants
We're in a town outside Thrissur (or Kochi, depending on how you look atit) in Kerala. The pace is slow out here, but the internet is even slower, so I have to make this quick.
In about 20 minutes, our taxi will be here-- we'll go to Kochi airport and fly out to Agatti Island.
Last night we went to a major festival about 25km away. It is an all-night thing, but we only went from about 10pm -1am. There were some extravagently decorated elephants, massive booming fireworks (such that we felt the force of the boom and the heat, though we were a rice paddy away) and frenetic, frantic drums and horns. There were a couple thousand people out there, though I am really bad at estimating crowds, so I will leave it at that. If I had the World's Best Camera, I would've taken the World's Best Photos, alas, I have but some blurry reminders. But pretty!
Really have to run. Thanks for tuning in.
In about 20 minutes, our taxi will be here-- we'll go to Kochi airport and fly out to Agatti Island.
Last night we went to a major festival about 25km away. It is an all-night thing, but we only went from about 10pm -1am. There were some extravagently decorated elephants, massive booming fireworks (such that we felt the force of the boom and the heat, though we were a rice paddy away) and frenetic, frantic drums and horns. There were a couple thousand people out there, though I am really bad at estimating crowds, so I will leave it at that. If I had the World's Best Camera, I would've taken the World's Best Photos, alas, I have but some blurry reminders. But pretty!
Really have to run. Thanks for tuning in.
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Promised Hand Sign
We're alive!
We've just stayed the night in Kochi. Bartley is trying to get our host to explain cricket in the other room, and I am hanging out with the awesome lizard crawling up the wall beside me. (S)he is adorable.
Today, we'll take a train to Alleppey and hop on a houseboat that has come recommended from two friends. When the ride is over the next day, we're going to Thissur to see a giant festival that involves 60 elephants. Our host, a native Keralan, was impressed with our plans and told us that the one of the things Keralans love best is elephants.
Time to go find out what Keralan breakfast is!
We've just stayed the night in Kochi. Bartley is trying to get our host to explain cricket in the other room, and I am hanging out with the awesome lizard crawling up the wall beside me. (S)he is adorable.
Today, we'll take a train to Alleppey and hop on a houseboat that has come recommended from two friends. When the ride is over the next day, we're going to Thissur to see a giant festival that involves 60 elephants. Our host, a native Keralan, was impressed with our plans and told us that the one of the things Keralans love best is elephants.
Time to go find out what Keralan breakfast is!
Thursday, April 2, 2009
PLZ BRING WODKA
This is hilarious.
I had an email exchange with my potential diving instructor in the Lakshadweep Islands. They are an energetic team of Germans, and so far they've been very helpful and friendly. Today, she had new advice for me (anonymity preserved out of respect):
"Hi Rachel
We only ask for a certificate of health for people older than 60years. I guess that you are younger, so you don't need one.
Did anybody inform you that there is no alcool available on A----(it is a moslem Island). But it is no problem at all to bring some along. Just don't put is in the handluggage for flying. If you have enough space, can you bring us a bottle of gin or wodka too(no matter what brand).
Thank you!
We are looking forward to welcome you on A----
Warm and sunny regards
B----- "
I'll see what I can do, B, I'll see what I can do...
I had an email exchange with my potential diving instructor in the Lakshadweep Islands. They are an energetic team of Germans, and so far they've been very helpful and friendly. Today, she had new advice for me (anonymity preserved out of respect):
"Hi Rachel
We only ask for a certificate of health for people older than 60years. I guess that you are younger, so you don't need one.
Did anybody inform you that there is no alcool available on A----(it is a moslem Island). But it is no problem at all to bring some along. Just don't put is in the handluggage for flying. If you have enough space, can you bring us a bottle of gin or wodka too(no matter what brand).
Thank you!
We are looking forward to welcome you on A----
Warm and sunny regards
B----- "
I'll see what I can do, B, I'll see what I can do...
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
When You Look at Me with Your Inner Eye
24 hour countdown in Hyderabad.
I can't believe we're already leaving. We've established routines here and left every weekend for adventures, so it is hard to fathom that after this adventure, we won't come back. I've been trying to pack all week, laying my clothes in meaningful piles around my room that are ever so slowly being absorbed into luggage.
For those who are interested, our itinerary for the remainder of our time in India goes something like: Kochi, Alleppey (backwaters, houseboat), Lakshadweep Islands (dive, swim, not believe we are there) Kochi, Periyar (overnight jungle trek), one unblocked day for improvisation, 27-hour train, Mumbai (eat street food, take in Bollywood screening), flight to Paris. Then a few days in sweet Pair-ee (une cafe, un pain au chocolat, du vin...) then New York, New York, New York. The first thing I will do when I get home is kiss my dog for 20 hours. The second thing I will do is eat a slice of pizza. The third thing I will do is miss India terribly.
Internet access should be spotty, if available. When possible, I'll try to throw in some sort of hand sign here to indicate we are alive and well, if mosquito-bitten and dirty. Otherwise, assume everything is fine. If it isn't, you'd hear from my traveler's health insurance. Otherwise, we love you and will see you soon!
I can't believe we're already leaving. We've established routines here and left every weekend for adventures, so it is hard to fathom that after this adventure, we won't come back. I've been trying to pack all week, laying my clothes in meaningful piles around my room that are ever so slowly being absorbed into luggage.
For those who are interested, our itinerary for the remainder of our time in India goes something like: Kochi, Alleppey (backwaters, houseboat), Lakshadweep Islands (dive, swim, not believe we are there) Kochi, Periyar (overnight jungle trek), one unblocked day for improvisation, 27-hour train, Mumbai (eat street food, take in Bollywood screening), flight to Paris. Then a few days in sweet Pair-ee (une cafe, un pain au chocolat, du vin...) then New York, New York, New York. The first thing I will do when I get home is kiss my dog for 20 hours. The second thing I will do is eat a slice of pizza. The third thing I will do is miss India terribly.
Internet access should be spotty, if available. When possible, I'll try to throw in some sort of hand sign here to indicate we are alive and well, if mosquito-bitten and dirty. Otherwise, assume everything is fine. If it isn't, you'd hear from my traveler's health insurance. Otherwise, we love you and will see you soon!
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
The Value of a Dollar
This auto shakes like a catastrophe with every crack we hit in the road. I'm on my way to work, clutching my lychee iced tea to my chest, hoping the straw won't pierce my palate on the next bump. On the side wall, there is a photo of a vase of roses, yellow and pink. The color is very faded, and the plastic cover speckled with grime.
I think about Thursday evening. I was standing in line at the train station, hoping to book tickets from southern Kerala to Mumbai on a 27 hour train in mid-April that will get us to our flight out of India. The problem being that there are only two tickets left, reserved for foreign tourists, for this reason, we can't purchase them online. The waitlist for regular tickets is already topping 100+. The first lady we spoke with told us that we have to pay in US dollars. Why would I have USD? I have $1. Bartley also has $1. Also, it is not possible (not legal) to change INR to USD in India. No one will do it. We have to have those tickets. We can't pay in Rupees, we can't pay with an American credit card. Basically, we're screwed.
So we split up to try our luck with two different bureaucrats. While Bartley waited to speak to another Foreign Tourist representative, I was in the Credit Card line. Behind me, a mother and her two children, around 5-7 years old. They are Asian, I wondered if they were Japanese or Korean, and if they live in India. When she asked sweetly to borrow my pen, her English was accented, but her kids spoke together in what seemed to be unaccented American English. They were a pretty cute family, and I smiled at the daughter a few times as she ran around us, and consider talking to them.
We wait for a long time, maybe 25 minutes, though there are only 2 people in front of me. Its hot in the station, and I try not to betray my impatience by shifting my feet. I finally get to the window, and Bartley joins me, having had no luck in his line. The man-to-decide-our-fate looks down his nose through small spectacles at our inquiry form and sighs. Before long, we're explaining our situation for the third of fourth time that day.
We need that train. We don't have American dollars. Please.
This goes back and forth for a while, with him insisting we can't process it, us insisting that there must be some way. We ask for alternatives, or, where would they let us change our money? The man scoffs, raises his gray eyebrows over his glasses. "That," he says, eyes steadily on us, "is your problem." He seems relieved in his resignation and repeats, "that is your problem". I don't expect tenderness from bureaucrats, and I know he is probably a powerless tool in this system, but I am still taken aback-- why has he turned this into a personal attack? He really seems sort of disgusted with us for not having this in order, as if we're doing it on purpose to make his life difficult. He has zero sympathy for our situation and our complete lack of alternatives.
The line behind us is pressing. A man shoves in, trying to wedge himself between me and the counter and begin his order. We tell him to hold on and Bartley continues our plea. I'm sweating bullets and trying to stay calm, but all of my frustration from the difficulties of making plans these past few weeks is boiling up. I am so sick of total opaque confusion-- no one even knows what we're supposed to do.
Another man approaches on my side. I hear him say, "American dollars? How much do you need?" He appears to be the husband of the woman who was behind me. We whip our heads to look at him, eyes wide. The train bureaucrat has confirmed that there are two seats only available on this train. Sleeper class, non A/C. Fine, fine-- how much? We tell the Korean man we need $50, he frowns. No wait, its only Rs 1,000-- $20, we need only $20, sir. We're desperate. he's hesitating.
From here, it is a little blurry. He pulls out an American twenty, still frowning, not handing it to us. The currency looks so familiar and yet so foreign at once, shining like a beacon of hope amid the squalor. I'm already pulling out my rupees to give him--I pull out Rs. 1,100 and begin to thank him for his kindness. We give the twenty to the train man. The line is still pushing behind me. The Korean man seems dissatisfied, says he needs more money. For a moment I think its a joke-- like, no, of course I'll give you the money you desperately need. I've already over-paid him. His position of power in this situation is all too obvious. Then I realize he is dead serious. Bartley asks what his exchange rate was and calculates it on his phone. Still not enough. We ask how much he wants. I have no idea when I started crying, but I knew I wouldn't be able to stop once the first tears came. Even as I am standing there sobbing, the man is asking us for 100 more rupees, saying he paid a very high rate. We say fine, and Bartley gives him another 100. He takes it gingerly, as if its dirty. His daughter is looking up at me and saying something I can't hear to her mom. I'm not sure, but we may have given him around Rs 300 extra.
Meanwhile, the train man wants our passports. I have only a copy of mine, and he is again disgusted. "Oh, so many problems you are having!" This is not a sympathetic statement, it is accusatory. As if he may as well give up now. He berates me for not carrying my passport. In fact, he berates Bartley, even as he is copying down our passport numbers. The photocopy is certainly sufficient for his paperwork, but he continues his lecture.
Simultaneously, the Korean man is not happy. He declares that Bartley has insulted him by throwing down the last 100 rupees. He is lecturing us from the other side, demonstrating repeatedly how NOT to THROW money at someone-- it is a disgrace! He is glowering. I am apologizing in two directions, shaking, still crying. A crowd of Indians have gathered around us to watch the spectacle. There is no polite physical space reserved for watching; they are right behind and beside us, inches from our faces. I can't figure out what anyone wants from us or why they are all against us. When did these teams form?
As the paperwork is completed, the Korean woman shoos her husband away, and attempts to make small talk with me. She seems embarrassed. She says they have had the same problem. I still can't stop the tears, but I don't blame her and want to show that, so I ask her about her kids, where they live, etc.
We finally get tickets in hand and turn to leave. The Korean man is standing, defiantly, flanked by a white-bearded Sikh in purple turban and gold framed glasses and shorter, mustachioed Indian fellow who have decided to become involved. He continues his lecture, how insulted he feels, saying he really wanted to help us. I can't tell if what he wants is more money, an apology, or his feet kissed. But he is extremely persistent. And I still haven't stopped crying. Aware that we may have genuinely bruised a cultural sensitivity, Bartley explains.
"Sir, I am sorry if we have offended you-- we were in a tight spot, and we're very grateful for your assistance. We meant no disrespect..." But his words seem to be meaningless. Our angry money exchanger tells us, repeatedly, that he was in this same position three weeks ago, that he is South Korean but has traveled very much, that he really wanted to help us but then-- this? We fling the money at him?? The whole situation is bizarre, and yet I feel deeply shamed. Especially when he says something about Americans being ungrateful, then I am really struck. I try exceedingly hard to be a conscientious and respectful traveler, and we have even already thanked this man and excused ourselves (for what?), even as he continued with his condescending airs! I am dumbstruck and deeply hurt, and sofuckingtired of people assuming that Americans are disrespectful hooliogans-- some of them are, yes, but I actively work to destroy this generalization, and for all the compliments I have gotten for wearing modest Indian dress and beautiful communication I have had by being respectful of others, for a moment, this man's accusations shatter all of that and I feel like one more bratty white kid.
We apologize several more times before side-stepping him (and the spectators) and making our way to a small counter to collect ourselves. The Indian Sikh follows us over, apparently for a casual conversation.
"Ah, so, where you are from? America! Ok!" Bartley replies to his queries passively, I wrap my dupatta around my head and, still sniffling, walk quickly out of the train station. I remind myself that privacy doesn't exist here and this man isn't trying to be rude, but I simply cannot talk to anyone else.
As we drive away on the two-wheeler, we attempt to make sense of what just happened. There wasn't much we could've done differently. We can't decide if the S. Korean was psychotic.
If I could've known, in my heart of hearts, that this man was somehow truly injured by us, I would sincerely want to conduct a conversation with him. I don't like causing hurt or negativity. I would want to open up and reassure him of our true intentions and thankfulness, and leave in peace.
But if I could've known that what he wanted was to wield power over us or take advantage-- well, then I would probably have punched him square in the face, because I am also a bit vigilante. Not that violence is an answer, not that it would have created justice. But seriously.
As it was, I know nothing of this man or his heart. But I would hope that whatever caused his distress can be resolved for him, as I am certainly not the one to do it for him. And we've got a ticket--for the longest, dirtiest train ride, ever-- but it will get us there.
I think about Thursday evening. I was standing in line at the train station, hoping to book tickets from southern Kerala to Mumbai on a 27 hour train in mid-April that will get us to our flight out of India. The problem being that there are only two tickets left, reserved for foreign tourists, for this reason, we can't purchase them online. The waitlist for regular tickets is already topping 100+. The first lady we spoke with told us that we have to pay in US dollars. Why would I have USD? I have $1. Bartley also has $1. Also, it is not possible (not legal) to change INR to USD in India. No one will do it. We have to have those tickets. We can't pay in Rupees, we can't pay with an American credit card. Basically, we're screwed.
So we split up to try our luck with two different bureaucrats. While Bartley waited to speak to another Foreign Tourist representative, I was in the Credit Card line. Behind me, a mother and her two children, around 5-7 years old. They are Asian, I wondered if they were Japanese or Korean, and if they live in India. When she asked sweetly to borrow my pen, her English was accented, but her kids spoke together in what seemed to be unaccented American English. They were a pretty cute family, and I smiled at the daughter a few times as she ran around us, and consider talking to them.
We wait for a long time, maybe 25 minutes, though there are only 2 people in front of me. Its hot in the station, and I try not to betray my impatience by shifting my feet. I finally get to the window, and Bartley joins me, having had no luck in his line. The man-to-decide-our-fate looks down his nose through small spectacles at our inquiry form and sighs. Before long, we're explaining our situation for the third of fourth time that day.
We need that train. We don't have American dollars. Please.
This goes back and forth for a while, with him insisting we can't process it, us insisting that there must be some way. We ask for alternatives, or, where would they let us change our money? The man scoffs, raises his gray eyebrows over his glasses. "That," he says, eyes steadily on us, "is your problem." He seems relieved in his resignation and repeats, "that is your problem". I don't expect tenderness from bureaucrats, and I know he is probably a powerless tool in this system, but I am still taken aback-- why has he turned this into a personal attack? He really seems sort of disgusted with us for not having this in order, as if we're doing it on purpose to make his life difficult. He has zero sympathy for our situation and our complete lack of alternatives.
The line behind us is pressing. A man shoves in, trying to wedge himself between me and the counter and begin his order. We tell him to hold on and Bartley continues our plea. I'm sweating bullets and trying to stay calm, but all of my frustration from the difficulties of making plans these past few weeks is boiling up. I am so sick of total opaque confusion-- no one even knows what we're supposed to do.
Another man approaches on my side. I hear him say, "American dollars? How much do you need?" He appears to be the husband of the woman who was behind me. We whip our heads to look at him, eyes wide. The train bureaucrat has confirmed that there are two seats only available on this train. Sleeper class, non A/C. Fine, fine-- how much? We tell the Korean man we need $50, he frowns. No wait, its only Rs 1,000-- $20, we need only $20, sir. We're desperate. he's hesitating.
From here, it is a little blurry. He pulls out an American twenty, still frowning, not handing it to us. The currency looks so familiar and yet so foreign at once, shining like a beacon of hope amid the squalor. I'm already pulling out my rupees to give him--I pull out Rs. 1,100 and begin to thank him for his kindness. We give the twenty to the train man. The line is still pushing behind me. The Korean man seems dissatisfied, says he needs more money. For a moment I think its a joke-- like, no, of course I'll give you the money you desperately need. I've already over-paid him. His position of power in this situation is all too obvious. Then I realize he is dead serious. Bartley asks what his exchange rate was and calculates it on his phone. Still not enough. We ask how much he wants. I have no idea when I started crying, but I knew I wouldn't be able to stop once the first tears came. Even as I am standing there sobbing, the man is asking us for 100 more rupees, saying he paid a very high rate. We say fine, and Bartley gives him another 100. He takes it gingerly, as if its dirty. His daughter is looking up at me and saying something I can't hear to her mom. I'm not sure, but we may have given him around Rs 300 extra.
Meanwhile, the train man wants our passports. I have only a copy of mine, and he is again disgusted. "Oh, so many problems you are having!" This is not a sympathetic statement, it is accusatory. As if he may as well give up now. He berates me for not carrying my passport. In fact, he berates Bartley, even as he is copying down our passport numbers. The photocopy is certainly sufficient for his paperwork, but he continues his lecture.
Simultaneously, the Korean man is not happy. He declares that Bartley has insulted him by throwing down the last 100 rupees. He is lecturing us from the other side, demonstrating repeatedly how NOT to THROW money at someone-- it is a disgrace! He is glowering. I am apologizing in two directions, shaking, still crying. A crowd of Indians have gathered around us to watch the spectacle. There is no polite physical space reserved for watching; they are right behind and beside us, inches from our faces. I can't figure out what anyone wants from us or why they are all against us. When did these teams form?
As the paperwork is completed, the Korean woman shoos her husband away, and attempts to make small talk with me. She seems embarrassed. She says they have had the same problem. I still can't stop the tears, but I don't blame her and want to show that, so I ask her about her kids, where they live, etc.
We finally get tickets in hand and turn to leave. The Korean man is standing, defiantly, flanked by a white-bearded Sikh in purple turban and gold framed glasses and shorter, mustachioed Indian fellow who have decided to become involved. He continues his lecture, how insulted he feels, saying he really wanted to help us. I can't tell if what he wants is more money, an apology, or his feet kissed. But he is extremely persistent. And I still haven't stopped crying. Aware that we may have genuinely bruised a cultural sensitivity, Bartley explains.
"Sir, I am sorry if we have offended you-- we were in a tight spot, and we're very grateful for your assistance. We meant no disrespect..." But his words seem to be meaningless. Our angry money exchanger tells us, repeatedly, that he was in this same position three weeks ago, that he is South Korean but has traveled very much, that he really wanted to help us but then-- this? We fling the money at him?? The whole situation is bizarre, and yet I feel deeply shamed. Especially when he says something about Americans being ungrateful, then I am really struck. I try exceedingly hard to be a conscientious and respectful traveler, and we have even already thanked this man and excused ourselves (for what?), even as he continued with his condescending airs! I am dumbstruck and deeply hurt, and sofuckingtired of people assuming that Americans are disrespectful hooliogans-- some of them are, yes, but I actively work to destroy this generalization, and for all the compliments I have gotten for wearing modest Indian dress and beautiful communication I have had by being respectful of others, for a moment, this man's accusations shatter all of that and I feel like one more bratty white kid.
We apologize several more times before side-stepping him (and the spectators) and making our way to a small counter to collect ourselves. The Indian Sikh follows us over, apparently for a casual conversation.
"Ah, so, where you are from? America! Ok!" Bartley replies to his queries passively, I wrap my dupatta around my head and, still sniffling, walk quickly out of the train station. I remind myself that privacy doesn't exist here and this man isn't trying to be rude, but I simply cannot talk to anyone else.
As we drive away on the two-wheeler, we attempt to make sense of what just happened. There wasn't much we could've done differently. We can't decide if the S. Korean was psychotic.
If I could've known, in my heart of hearts, that this man was somehow truly injured by us, I would sincerely want to conduct a conversation with him. I don't like causing hurt or negativity. I would want to open up and reassure him of our true intentions and thankfulness, and leave in peace.
But if I could've known that what he wanted was to wield power over us or take advantage-- well, then I would probably have punched him square in the face, because I am also a bit vigilante. Not that violence is an answer, not that it would have created justice. But seriously.
As it was, I know nothing of this man or his heart. But I would hope that whatever caused his distress can be resolved for him, as I am certainly not the one to do it for him. And we've got a ticket--for the longest, dirtiest train ride, ever-- but it will get us there.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Playing house on a boat
No one can argue with the lazy cruise of a houseboat on a river.
In sharp contrast, there are plenty of objections to be raised concerning crowded, overnight, sleeper class trains.
Anyway, it took one to get the other. And all together, they make a weekend adventure.
This weekend was Konaseema, Andrah Pradesh. Our first trip with companions, Pranav and Pratik, both from Gujarat via Bombay. We were signed up for a 24 hour ride on a houseboat, which turned out to be a 6 hour ride and overnight docking on the river just behind the tourism department's hotel. This change in plans was fought tooth and nail, (but ultimately, unsuccessfully), by Pratik, who displayed a propensity to harass the staff for the rest of the weekend. This includes twice threatening to enter the kitchen and see what the hell they were doing, as they told him chapati would be fried (it isn't) and the pakoras would take half an hour (they shouldn't). We would laugh behind our hands when he started up, seeing the mock incredulity at their incompetence even where I couldn't understand his Hindi. Then he'd smile, shrug, and wait for them to figure it out, anyway.
Friday night, the four of us boarded in Hyderabad. Bartley and I haven't traveled sleeper class yet. This is a 3-tier (6 person) non-A/C arrangement. The windows are barred. The cabin is way dirtier than I've seen one so far, and I soon found out that Pranav was searching for a newspaper not to read, but to clean the vinyl(?) bunks with. I remarked that at least we'd put sheets over it, anyway, and Pranav, smiling sadly at me, realized that I thought we were going to get sheets in sleeper class. Oh. Luckily, dupattas are super-utility.
It's a little louder with the windows (er, barred holes) gaping by your head, and when it starts to rain (first of the season!) around 3am, I figure out pretty quickly how to slide down the wooden shutter. But all is well, it gets us where we're going.
The boat is awesome. We cruise out to an island where a very old, dark and stringy-muscled man squats in the grass and hacks open fresh coconuts for us to drink the water and eat the gelatinous, creamy raw meat-- more like sushi than fruit. Tastes quite unlike any coconut I've had before. Then we all have, like, 5. The water is almost fizzy and a little sweet, a little sour, the meat is so moist and soft. We pet the fuzzy brown calf and feed it grass. Pranav climbs the palm and Pratik tries his hand at the machete, until the old man stops him for fear his try will lose his hand.
The river is filled with gigantic jellyfish with tentacle shaped like carrots. But somehow, there aren't many where the boat is docked so we jump in. From the roof. My nose starts bleeding upon impact and everyone thinks I am dying. We have to insist to the tour guides (who giggled at us swimming) in a mix of English and Hindi that I'm FINE, though even Pranav keeps asking me if it hurts, anyway. Then he makes me swim closer and closer to a jellyfish so he can get a picture of me with it, prompting threats from me of what will happen to him if he should direct me too close (as I can't see the jellyfish while submerged).
If you sit at the edge of the boat's roof, and listen really hard over the Hindi jams the boat tour guys are busting out, you can hear the sounds of the adjacent palm tree forest. Birds and insects. Some of the most comforting sounds in the world, and no matter how weird they are, they always make me think a little of home. Maybe because nothing is more beautifully weird than a chorus of cicadas in the summer evening of the American South.
After dinner, on our way back to the boat, one of our day's tour guides points his flashlight into the water by the barnacled boat's base. He shows us the fish there: "small size", he pointedly indicates as the beam flashes over some tiny nibblers, "big size", as the light swishes to a much bigger biter. He grins hugely, pleased with himself and his tour-guiding.
The next day, we cram into an auto(rickshaw) to go see what's billed as the "river/sea mixing place". Bartley and I swim in the ocean, but the waves are too aggressive and the bystanders too curious for me to enjoy it much. We take a motor boat up the river to the sea, where the water changes color and the waves start. Dolphins are all around, but none come close to the boat, even though Pratik harasses the driver to cut the motor several times so we can wait in silence. We see a beautiful, unfinished temple, and a bigger one built on top of an ancient one. We eat strange spongey dosas in the town dhaba and dry our beach clothes out by hanging them on the rails in the auto.
Then a sleeper home, with little sleep to be had.
In sharp contrast, there are plenty of objections to be raised concerning crowded, overnight, sleeper class trains.
Anyway, it took one to get the other. And all together, they make a weekend adventure.
This weekend was Konaseema, Andrah Pradesh. Our first trip with companions, Pranav and Pratik, both from Gujarat via Bombay. We were signed up for a 24 hour ride on a houseboat, which turned out to be a 6 hour ride and overnight docking on the river just behind the tourism department's hotel. This change in plans was fought tooth and nail, (but ultimately, unsuccessfully), by Pratik, who displayed a propensity to harass the staff for the rest of the weekend. This includes twice threatening to enter the kitchen and see what the hell they were doing, as they told him chapati would be fried (it isn't) and the pakoras would take half an hour (they shouldn't). We would laugh behind our hands when he started up, seeing the mock incredulity at their incompetence even where I couldn't understand his Hindi. Then he'd smile, shrug, and wait for them to figure it out, anyway.
Friday night, the four of us boarded in Hyderabad. Bartley and I haven't traveled sleeper class yet. This is a 3-tier (6 person) non-A/C arrangement. The windows are barred. The cabin is way dirtier than I've seen one so far, and I soon found out that Pranav was searching for a newspaper not to read, but to clean the vinyl(?) bunks with. I remarked that at least we'd put sheets over it, anyway, and Pranav, smiling sadly at me, realized that I thought we were going to get sheets in sleeper class. Oh. Luckily, dupattas are super-utility.
It's a little louder with the windows (er, barred holes) gaping by your head, and when it starts to rain (first of the season!) around 3am, I figure out pretty quickly how to slide down the wooden shutter. But all is well, it gets us where we're going.
The boat is awesome. We cruise out to an island where a very old, dark and stringy-muscled man squats in the grass and hacks open fresh coconuts for us to drink the water and eat the gelatinous, creamy raw meat-- more like sushi than fruit. Tastes quite unlike any coconut I've had before. Then we all have, like, 5. The water is almost fizzy and a little sweet, a little sour, the meat is so moist and soft. We pet the fuzzy brown calf and feed it grass. Pranav climbs the palm and Pratik tries his hand at the machete, until the old man stops him for fear his try will lose his hand.
The river is filled with gigantic jellyfish with tentacle shaped like carrots. But somehow, there aren't many where the boat is docked so we jump in. From the roof. My nose starts bleeding upon impact and everyone thinks I am dying. We have to insist to the tour guides (who giggled at us swimming) in a mix of English and Hindi that I'm FINE, though even Pranav keeps asking me if it hurts, anyway. Then he makes me swim closer and closer to a jellyfish so he can get a picture of me with it, prompting threats from me of what will happen to him if he should direct me too close (as I can't see the jellyfish while submerged).
If you sit at the edge of the boat's roof, and listen really hard over the Hindi jams the boat tour guys are busting out, you can hear the sounds of the adjacent palm tree forest. Birds and insects. Some of the most comforting sounds in the world, and no matter how weird they are, they always make me think a little of home. Maybe because nothing is more beautifully weird than a chorus of cicadas in the summer evening of the American South.
After dinner, on our way back to the boat, one of our day's tour guides points his flashlight into the water by the barnacled boat's base. He shows us the fish there: "small size", he pointedly indicates as the beam flashes over some tiny nibblers, "big size", as the light swishes to a much bigger biter. He grins hugely, pleased with himself and his tour-guiding.
The next day, we cram into an auto(rickshaw) to go see what's billed as the "river/sea mixing place". Bartley and I swim in the ocean, but the waves are too aggressive and the bystanders too curious for me to enjoy it much. We take a motor boat up the river to the sea, where the water changes color and the waves start. Dolphins are all around, but none come close to the boat, even though Pratik harasses the driver to cut the motor several times so we can wait in silence. We see a beautiful, unfinished temple, and a bigger one built on top of an ancient one. We eat strange spongey dosas in the town dhaba and dry our beach clothes out by hanging them on the rails in the auto.
Then a sleeper home, with little sleep to be had.
Update re: Lakshadweep
We're going, we're going, we're going!!
At least, we've invested in the tickets and permits and such... the plans are set, April 7-13 we should be there!
At least, we've invested in the tickets and permits and such... the plans are set, April 7-13 we should be there!
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Que Sera, Sera, But That Doesn't Mean It Will Make Sense
In writing to a friend this afternoon about our travel plans for the coming month, I found myself remarking, "India is not the place to be if you're on a schedule". Thing don't happen on time, as expected or in logical order. (And that is assuming they happen at all.) Normally, I can keep this in mind and go with the flow, but for the 3 weeks between leaving Hyderabad and arriving in Paris, there are 1,000 things we want to do. We have a rigorous schedule to pack as much in as possible. There's even a mutually-edited spreadsheet.
We knew that visiting the Lakshaweep Islands was going to be a trial. And this fact alone added to the allure-- the more obscure and inaccessible they seemed, the more we wanted to go and discover them for ourselves. Very few first-hand accounts are available. However, silly, naive, me, I assumed that somewhere after purchasing plane tickets and speaking with a travel agent (which is mandatory-- there are authorized agents with whom you MUST plan your trip in order to get the necessary permits), the clouds would part and we'd be on our way.
Oh, if only.
In fact, getting in touch with the travel agent has made things far, far, foggier. Mostly because everything she says contradicts or complicates what I've read, and upon further research, I find that no sources are consistent. Meaning, I can't even assume that if 8 websites say the same thing and 2 say something else that the majority must be (closer to) right, because they are all different! The only points upon which they concur are:
A) The island is beautiful
B) The water is clear
C) It is near India
D) You can go diving
E) I am not there
I'm ok with A-D, but am working to rectify E as soon as possible. Unfortunately, no one can seem to tell us if it is best to go by cruise ship, speedboat, plane, or escorted by a gaggle of mermaids ( I am vying for the latter, obvi) and all information we do get comes with a huge, unexpected price tag. I am told (by the same person) that I have to pay today/tomorrow to book my room, and that the boats from the airport to the island where will stay "will be figured out when we get there". But, they also "may not run on your planned travel dates". The slow boat costs more than the fast boat, the ferry can't be bought one way, nothing runs to the island with the airport on the day we're to fly out, and if no one else shows up we have to pay for the whole damn boat.
Basically, the feat of arriving on the island at all should garner us some medals. And if we make it back, too, I'm expecting to be called Dr. Rachel from that point forward, because I will have a PhD in What Just Happened.
We knew that visiting the Lakshaweep Islands was going to be a trial. And this fact alone added to the allure-- the more obscure and inaccessible they seemed, the more we wanted to go and discover them for ourselves. Very few first-hand accounts are available. However, silly, naive, me, I assumed that somewhere after purchasing plane tickets and speaking with a travel agent (which is mandatory-- there are authorized agents with whom you MUST plan your trip in order to get the necessary permits), the clouds would part and we'd be on our way.
Oh, if only.
In fact, getting in touch with the travel agent has made things far, far, foggier. Mostly because everything she says contradicts or complicates what I've read, and upon further research, I find that no sources are consistent. Meaning, I can't even assume that if 8 websites say the same thing and 2 say something else that the majority must be (closer to) right, because they are all different! The only points upon which they concur are:
A) The island is beautiful
B) The water is clear
C) It is near India
D) You can go diving
E) I am not there
I'm ok with A-D, but am working to rectify E as soon as possible. Unfortunately, no one can seem to tell us if it is best to go by cruise ship, speedboat, plane, or escorted by a gaggle of mermaids ( I am vying for the latter, obvi) and all information we do get comes with a huge, unexpected price tag. I am told (by the same person) that I have to pay today/tomorrow to book my room, and that the boats from the airport to the island where will stay "will be figured out when we get there". But, they also "may not run on your planned travel dates". The slow boat costs more than the fast boat, the ferry can't be bought one way, nothing runs to the island with the airport on the day we're to fly out, and if no one else shows up we have to pay for the whole damn boat.
Basically, the feat of arriving on the island at all should garner us some medals. And if we make it back, too, I'm expecting to be called Dr. Rachel from that point forward, because I will have a PhD in What Just Happened.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Holi!
This is a week late, but last Wednesday was Holi. Holi doesn't have quite the same following in Hyderbad as it does in North India, but it was still celebrated with fervor by our assembled friends. I'm still trying to get the paint off my eyebrows! Check out the photos on my Flickr account for more Holi goodies.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
LakshAndaman Islands
Already I am feeling like time is running out on this trip. Our flatmates are leaving next Tuesday and we have to move on to new accommodations. Then, we have only 3 weeks left in Hyderabad, a few weeks of travel, and we're back to New York.
eek.
For the past few days, we've had some hard decisions to make regarding our time in April. There are some small islands off of the west coast called Lakshadweep, (brace yourself for the typically *amazing* web skillz). Lak means, literally, thousand, as it is an archipelago-- but only 2 or 3 of these islands are even legally open to non-Indians! Here, we could experience some awesome snorkeling, diving (for Bartley, as I am not certified) and amazing, uncrowded beaches (I hesitate to say "deserted", as I still think this is an impossibility, even though they actually cap the number or visitors). Unfortunately, cheap accommodation does not exist here.
Or, after our flight to Kochin in Kerala, we could take an overnight train back to Chennai and fly from there to the Adanman Islands. Also beautiful beaches, diving, snorkeling, etc... and a perhaps slightly less hefty price tag. At least, a greater choice of places to stay.
Yeah, yeah, life is hard when you're choosing your own island adventure. Boo-hoo.
In other news, at least we've found places to stay for our gap weeks in Hyderabad. Uma Banjara was starting to feel like home, so it was a bit sad when we came home last week to find furniture already disappearing as Emily and Andre prepare. This week they are voyaging through the north on camels and such, coming back just in time for their blowout bon voyage on Monday. By the way, the breadth and size of fireworks one can legally purchase in India is astounding. Good thing we're moving out the next day.
eek.
For the past few days, we've had some hard decisions to make regarding our time in April. There are some small islands off of the west coast called Lakshadweep, (brace yourself for the typically *amazing* web skillz). Lak means, literally, thousand, as it is an archipelago-- but only 2 or 3 of these islands are even legally open to non-Indians! Here, we could experience some awesome snorkeling, diving (for Bartley, as I am not certified) and amazing, uncrowded beaches (I hesitate to say "deserted", as I still think this is an impossibility, even though they actually cap the number or visitors). Unfortunately, cheap accommodation does not exist here.
Or, after our flight to Kochin in Kerala, we could take an overnight train back to Chennai and fly from there to the Adanman Islands. Also beautiful beaches, diving, snorkeling, etc... and a perhaps slightly less hefty price tag. At least, a greater choice of places to stay.
Yeah, yeah, life is hard when you're choosing your own island adventure. Boo-hoo.
In other news, at least we've found places to stay for our gap weeks in Hyderabad. Uma Banjara was starting to feel like home, so it was a bit sad when we came home last week to find furniture already disappearing as Emily and Andre prepare. This week they are voyaging through the north on camels and such, coming back just in time for their blowout bon voyage on Monday. By the way, the breadth and size of fireworks one can legally purchase in India is astounding. Good thing we're moving out the next day.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Don't Stop
Ahh, Suryalanka Beach, you are my new favorite. This weekend was the most-- wait, only?-- relaxing break we've had.
We got in at 5am Saturday to the thickest fog I have ever seen in my life-- like swimming. We couldn't see oncoming headlights until they were way too close, and the rickshaw ride from the train station down a long, un-lit country road to the beach left our clothes damp.
Coastal Andrah Pradesh is not known for its beaches-- if you want an Indian beach, you'll go to Goa or Kerela. Suryalanka is still fairly underdeveloped, even though we were lodging in an Andrah Pradesh Tourism run facility. There were few tourists, and those who were there were all Indian. Not that we were in solitude-- that doesn't exist here. There are simply too many people, so there is always someone around/underfoot/overhead. (In this case, it was huge visiting families, snack-wallahs, fishermen, hotel staff, ice-cream wallah with his cart bell ringing as it rolls down the sand...)
Just to the left of the hotel (actually, individual rooms, painted bright blue and elevated 10 feet from the sand), there is a tiny wooden fence running into the surf, over which is the fishing village and their rows of brightly painted boats. (we tried to get in on a fishing boat expedition, to no avail).
We spent the rest of Saturday swimming in the Indian Ocean (newly acquainted, as we were) and making kissy noises at our favorite stray dogs. The top number one pup would wag his tail heartily every time we made the noise at him without fail-- even when he was sleeping. I have no idea why this noise is so universally loved by domesticated dogs and cats, but now I suspect it is nature and not nurture.
Sunday involved further adventures in extreme hospitality (this time, friends of our Hyderabadi Hindi tutor). We were fed, and fed, and fed, and reminded that "More Subji?", "No, thank you", results in more subji on your plate. We had lunch and dinner at two different houses, and at each we were the only ones eating, at each we were given more upon each refusal, and in spite of stuffing ourselves silly, at each house they remarked that we must not like the food (!). It was possibly the most outrageous statement I have ever heard, and all we could do was laugh and swear otherwise, pointing at our huge, empty thalis.
We're getting very good at sleeping on trains, and I can even make my bed on the top bunk while I am sitting on it pretty fast. This is taking into account that I can't even sit up straight without smacking the ceiling with my head.
---
Something occurred to me this morning:
-When the power goes out in the office (as it does several times a day), we keep working
-When crossing the street with oncoming traffic, you must keep walking (you just have to figure out the flow and bob and weave)
-When your thali is filled repeatedly, you just keep eating.
-Buses and trains are boarded and disembarked while moving (not always, of course, but it is very very common, and even Bartley and I have jumped from a [slowly] moving bus)
India does not stop, for anyone. You just dive in.
We got in at 5am Saturday to the thickest fog I have ever seen in my life-- like swimming. We couldn't see oncoming headlights until they were way too close, and the rickshaw ride from the train station down a long, un-lit country road to the beach left our clothes damp.
Coastal Andrah Pradesh is not known for its beaches-- if you want an Indian beach, you'll go to Goa or Kerela. Suryalanka is still fairly underdeveloped, even though we were lodging in an Andrah Pradesh Tourism run facility. There were few tourists, and those who were there were all Indian. Not that we were in solitude-- that doesn't exist here. There are simply too many people, so there is always someone around/underfoot/overhead. (In this case, it was huge visiting families, snack-wallahs, fishermen, hotel staff, ice-cream wallah with his cart bell ringing as it rolls down the sand...)
Just to the left of the hotel (actually, individual rooms, painted bright blue and elevated 10 feet from the sand), there is a tiny wooden fence running into the surf, over which is the fishing village and their rows of brightly painted boats. (we tried to get in on a fishing boat expedition, to no avail).
We spent the rest of Saturday swimming in the Indian Ocean (newly acquainted, as we were) and making kissy noises at our favorite stray dogs. The top number one pup would wag his tail heartily every time we made the noise at him without fail-- even when he was sleeping. I have no idea why this noise is so universally loved by domesticated dogs and cats, but now I suspect it is nature and not nurture.
Sunday involved further adventures in extreme hospitality (this time, friends of our Hyderabadi Hindi tutor). We were fed, and fed, and fed, and reminded that "More Subji?", "No, thank you", results in more subji on your plate. We had lunch and dinner at two different houses, and at each we were the only ones eating, at each we were given more upon each refusal, and in spite of stuffing ourselves silly, at each house they remarked that we must not like the food (!). It was possibly the most outrageous statement I have ever heard, and all we could do was laugh and swear otherwise, pointing at our huge, empty thalis.
We're getting very good at sleeping on trains, and I can even make my bed on the top bunk while I am sitting on it pretty fast. This is taking into account that I can't even sit up straight without smacking the ceiling with my head.
---
Something occurred to me this morning:
-When the power goes out in the office (as it does several times a day), we keep working
-When crossing the street with oncoming traffic, you must keep walking (you just have to figure out the flow and bob and weave)
-When your thali is filled repeatedly, you just keep eating.
-Buses and trains are boarded and disembarked while moving (not always, of course, but it is very very common, and even Bartley and I have jumped from a [slowly] moving bus)
India does not stop, for anyone. You just dive in.
Friday, March 6, 2009
See/saw
Sorry to be so behind on updates!
We've been working all week, taking Hindi lessons, crashing weddings, eatingeatingeating, and traveling all weekend only to return to work dusty and deflated, straight from the overnight train.
Last weekend was Anaka's wedding in Chennai with one night in Pondicherry. Both awesome, of course. We rented a motorcycle south of Chennai in Mamalapuram and drove (2 hrs) to Pondi, and stayed in the Sri Aurobindo ashram (same founders as Auroville), which we did not get to visit. Pondicherry has a delicious French colonial influence and is the cutest thing I have seen in India (after Bartley, and the baby monkeys).
Photos are finally posted! Some taken by me, some by Bartley.
I'm at work now, trying to do 1,000 things, and will be on a train in a few hours to go to Suryalanka beach, coastal Andrah Pradesh, where we'll occupy a beach hut for the weekend. Train, hut, train, work!
Have a good weekend, you.
We've been working all week, taking Hindi lessons, crashing weddings, eatingeatingeating, and traveling all weekend only to return to work dusty and deflated, straight from the overnight train.
Last weekend was Anaka's wedding in Chennai with one night in Pondicherry. Both awesome, of course. We rented a motorcycle south of Chennai in Mamalapuram and drove (2 hrs) to Pondi, and stayed in the Sri Aurobindo ashram (same founders as Auroville), which we did not get to visit. Pondicherry has a delicious French colonial influence and is the cutest thing I have seen in India (after Bartley, and the baby monkeys).
Photos are finally posted! Some taken by me, some by Bartley.
I'm at work now, trying to do 1,000 things, and will be on a train in a few hours to go to Suryalanka beach, coastal Andrah Pradesh, where we'll occupy a beach hut for the weekend. Train, hut, train, work!
Have a good weekend, you.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Our weekend in 36 hours
Saturday at 6pm we board a bus to Arangabad. We travel bumpy, bumpy roads, parting seas of goat, jostling by 6 ft pyramids of watermelon for sale, the bus driver sounding the musical horn beneath his good-luck-garlanded windshield. Snuggle down, it's a long ride. Can't read, the light won't come on, so we eat take-away dosas in the dark (still not sure what "rava" means, even though I ordered it) and flashing brightness of the bootleg of a Hindi film about China which is only intermittently audible and scarcely comprehensible.
Our window won't close, it's 1AM and we're FREEZING. Some guys are sleeping in the aisle. Bartley goes to do so, too, until I wake up and foggily drag him back up to the seat. Somewhere in the early hours Bartley takes a blanket he finds up front and we get under, irregardless of this blanket's history. Wake, sleep, wake, confused, drowsy, confused, cold, sleep. no dreams.
Last stop! Aurnagabang-- it's 5:30 am, welcome, get off the bus! We stumble out, rubbing bleary eyes, not sure which way is up but we're walking towards it, maybe. Towards what? I forgot. Ok, buy tickets to go back home tonight-- done. Auto driver wants to take us to all the sights for Rs 400-- ok, but please can we pee first?
Our new friend takes us to his friend's motel as lavender streaks across the dewy sky and we're thankful for the dirty facilities as long as it means we can brush our teeth. Breakfast-- kichiri and "coffee", which tastes more like melted coffee ice cream.
The sun is up but we're down and dozing the whole rickshaw ride to the Ellora caves. Neither of us remembers how far we went; temporarily narcoleptic.
Great ancient stone Buddhas have been patiently sitting in caves. Inauspicious exteriors lead to extraordinary interiors, like weathered ballrooms, only all sliced from solid stone and made holy. Many hawkers eager to sell us guidebooks—we tell them, in Hindi, that we are illiterate.
We make friends with a class of 6th graders who all want to shake our hands, a lone Indian tourist from Hyderabad who accompanies us awhile, and a smiling set of middle-aged men who are delighted by all. A young girl says hello and asks (in English) my name. I respond in Hindi and her dad chuckles all the way down the path-- "Apka nom! Ahaha!"
We want lunch, our driver has other plans. His name wasn't Eli, but it sounds like Eli, so, Eli wants to take us to a mosque. Eli does this everyday, so we’ll go where Eli wants.
We take off our shoes and get a short tour from devout Muslims who can’t look me in the eye or let me enter one of the holy tombs (but I am permitted to listen to the history from outside). Everything is blindingly white in the noon sun, the marble is surprisingly hot underfoot, and two boys are hard at work on top of a dome, scraping it clean, barefoot and covered in white dust.
Time for a thali—daal, curd, curry, rice, paratha, mango pickle and another of the dirtiest bathrooms ever, uuugggh, but, too bad, there aren’t other options.
Next Eli takes us to a "silk factory"-- really a shop for saris and runners and shirts and samples of silk with a handloom for show, and they are all very disappointed that I am not buying anything today, after they have unfolded prisms of patterns unto the table before me and regaled me with the process and properties of each ray.
Next, we’re whisked to the “mini-Taj” (or Bibi-ka Maqbara), actually far larger than it sounds, and in fact a breathtaking white marble bubble that bears close resemblance to its namesake, having been designed by the same architect. We climb a mango tree (fruitless, sadly) and meet three young Aurangabadis who take a lot of pictures with us, and then tumble into conversation with an older Muslim gentleman with henna-dyed red beard who upon hearing we’re American lets out one belly laugh—“HA!” and exclaims, “B'rak! B'rak Mohammad Obama!” Well, yes, yes, ok, sure.
Another garment shop. An amazing old man who is one of (as the store-owner says) four or five people who knows how to operate this handloom before us—a crazy network of strings on a huge wooden frame and what looks like two big ancient horns on pulleys, for separating the string and holding it in place. Thank you, yes, beautiful saris, I have no money today.
When the sun is down, we’re back to the travel agency, really a desk on the side of the road with 6x6’ 3-walled enclosure behind it and posters of buses and city names in Hindi, English and Telugu, all lined up with the other travel agencies and paan shops, a little Indian strip mall in the mud. Next door, a man fries samosas and a chicken is pecking through the trash. The bus coming from Hyderabad today has crashed, so we’re refunded our money with a shrug. Two “shops” down, we buy the same tickets on a different bus line. Can we have our seat numbers? He tells me not to worry, in 10 minutes we will go to the bus pick-up location and he will show us.
45 minutes later, we’re crammed in the back of an autorickshaw with a fellow traveller and his giant bag, following our travel agent and another passenger on his motorcycle (no helmets for either of them, of course). We go far—much farther than we think it should be—and then keep going, and then stop some 15-20 km away by the side of a big road, between a movie theatre and hotel. When it is already too late, our agent reveals that there are no more seats on “this part of the bus” (while pointing to a picture of a bus) but assures us we can sit ‘here”—up front. i.e., the side-ways bench in the driver’s cabin. We protest out the window, but he just smiles and waves goodbye. So we perch there, with the driver, a man sleeping on a cot behind the driver, another man sharing our 5 or 6’ bench, and another man on a fold down seat between the bench and the door. I cross my legs under me and face out front, which is kind of scary—I’ve never been so high up on a road with such a big window, and going so fast. Every swerve feels like the bus will tip, every pass is a near miss that makes me hold my breath. I think about how to best position my legs because what if we crash, then I’ll break my shin bones on the metal bar in front of me. I decide I’d rather have broken shin bones than a broken head-bone.
Bartley tries to sleep, can’t, grabs a blanket and goes to sleep in the aisle. Around 2am, a man offers me his seat and I don’t hesitate, even though I feel a bit bad every time I wake up and he’s sitting up there on that bench. I actually end up sitting beside the Hyderabadi we met in Ellora, who tries to hold a conversation with me at 4am. At some point, someone gets off the bus and Bartley gets a seat in the back. Sometimes the bus stops and we let on people who seem to be hitch-hiking, though I think money was probably exchanged. Wake, sleep, ugh, where am I?
And somehow, we end up in Hyderabad at 7am. And after a shower(my first hot water in over a month!) and breakfast, I am feeling at least 70% human.
Our window won't close, it's 1AM and we're FREEZING. Some guys are sleeping in the aisle. Bartley goes to do so, too, until I wake up and foggily drag him back up to the seat. Somewhere in the early hours Bartley takes a blanket he finds up front and we get under, irregardless of this blanket's history. Wake, sleep, wake, confused, drowsy, confused, cold, sleep. no dreams.
Last stop! Aurnagabang-- it's 5:30 am, welcome, get off the bus! We stumble out, rubbing bleary eyes, not sure which way is up but we're walking towards it, maybe. Towards what? I forgot. Ok, buy tickets to go back home tonight-- done. Auto driver wants to take us to all the sights for Rs 400-- ok, but please can we pee first?
Our new friend takes us to his friend's motel as lavender streaks across the dewy sky and we're thankful for the dirty facilities as long as it means we can brush our teeth. Breakfast-- kichiri and "coffee", which tastes more like melted coffee ice cream.
The sun is up but we're down and dozing the whole rickshaw ride to the Ellora caves. Neither of us remembers how far we went; temporarily narcoleptic.
Great ancient stone Buddhas have been patiently sitting in caves. Inauspicious exteriors lead to extraordinary interiors, like weathered ballrooms, only all sliced from solid stone and made holy. Many hawkers eager to sell us guidebooks—we tell them, in Hindi, that we are illiterate.
We make friends with a class of 6th graders who all want to shake our hands, a lone Indian tourist from Hyderabad who accompanies us awhile, and a smiling set of middle-aged men who are delighted by all. A young girl says hello and asks (in English) my name. I respond in Hindi and her dad chuckles all the way down the path-- "Apka nom! Ahaha!"
We want lunch, our driver has other plans. His name wasn't Eli, but it sounds like Eli, so, Eli wants to take us to a mosque. Eli does this everyday, so we’ll go where Eli wants.
We take off our shoes and get a short tour from devout Muslims who can’t look me in the eye or let me enter one of the holy tombs (but I am permitted to listen to the history from outside). Everything is blindingly white in the noon sun, the marble is surprisingly hot underfoot, and two boys are hard at work on top of a dome, scraping it clean, barefoot and covered in white dust.
Time for a thali—daal, curd, curry, rice, paratha, mango pickle and another of the dirtiest bathrooms ever, uuugggh, but, too bad, there aren’t other options.
Next Eli takes us to a "silk factory"-- really a shop for saris and runners and shirts and samples of silk with a handloom for show, and they are all very disappointed that I am not buying anything today, after they have unfolded prisms of patterns unto the table before me and regaled me with the process and properties of each ray.
Next, we’re whisked to the “mini-Taj” (or Bibi-ka Maqbara), actually far larger than it sounds, and in fact a breathtaking white marble bubble that bears close resemblance to its namesake, having been designed by the same architect. We climb a mango tree (fruitless, sadly) and meet three young Aurangabadis who take a lot of pictures with us, and then tumble into conversation with an older Muslim gentleman with henna-dyed red beard who upon hearing we’re American lets out one belly laugh—“HA!” and exclaims, “B'rak! B'rak Mohammad Obama!” Well, yes, yes, ok, sure.
Another garment shop. An amazing old man who is one of (as the store-owner says) four or five people who knows how to operate this handloom before us—a crazy network of strings on a huge wooden frame and what looks like two big ancient horns on pulleys, for separating the string and holding it in place. Thank you, yes, beautiful saris, I have no money today.
When the sun is down, we’re back to the travel agency, really a desk on the side of the road with 6x6’ 3-walled enclosure behind it and posters of buses and city names in Hindi, English and Telugu, all lined up with the other travel agencies and paan shops, a little Indian strip mall in the mud. Next door, a man fries samosas and a chicken is pecking through the trash. The bus coming from Hyderabad today has crashed, so we’re refunded our money with a shrug. Two “shops” down, we buy the same tickets on a different bus line. Can we have our seat numbers? He tells me not to worry, in 10 minutes we will go to the bus pick-up location and he will show us.
45 minutes later, we’re crammed in the back of an autorickshaw with a fellow traveller and his giant bag, following our travel agent and another passenger on his motorcycle (no helmets for either of them, of course). We go far—much farther than we think it should be—and then keep going, and then stop some 15-20 km away by the side of a big road, between a movie theatre and hotel. When it is already too late, our agent reveals that there are no more seats on “this part of the bus” (while pointing to a picture of a bus) but assures us we can sit ‘here”—up front. i.e., the side-ways bench in the driver’s cabin. We protest out the window, but he just smiles and waves goodbye. So we perch there, with the driver, a man sleeping on a cot behind the driver, another man sharing our 5 or 6’ bench, and another man on a fold down seat between the bench and the door. I cross my legs under me and face out front, which is kind of scary—I’ve never been so high up on a road with such a big window, and going so fast. Every swerve feels like the bus will tip, every pass is a near miss that makes me hold my breath. I think about how to best position my legs because what if we crash, then I’ll break my shin bones on the metal bar in front of me. I decide I’d rather have broken shin bones than a broken head-bone.
Bartley tries to sleep, can’t, grabs a blanket and goes to sleep in the aisle. Around 2am, a man offers me his seat and I don’t hesitate, even though I feel a bit bad every time I wake up and he’s sitting up there on that bench. I actually end up sitting beside the Hyderabadi we met in Ellora, who tries to hold a conversation with me at 4am. At some point, someone gets off the bus and Bartley gets a seat in the back. Sometimes the bus stops and we let on people who seem to be hitch-hiking, though I think money was probably exchanged. Wake, sleep, ugh, where am I?
And somehow, we end up in Hyderabad at 7am. And after a shower(my first hot water in over a month!) and breakfast, I am feeling at least 70% human.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Whole Food? Try "Any Food".
In New York, I feel good about my lunch when the ingredient list is composed of locally sourced, organically raised food in a minimally processed form. I like to know the farmers got paid (fairly), that the watershed hasn't been bathed in pesticides, and that the food is in some way nourishing my body.
Of course, these factors aren't really factors at all in India. There is a shadow of a green and organic movement approaching, but for the vast majority these concepts are still, well, foreign. Only really privileged people can worry so much about their food being sustainable rather than about sustaining themselves with food-- any food. I'm not going to worry about that while I'm here, because it'd be really silly.
Today, I feel good about my lunch because my veg biryani, which cost Rs 25, filled me up. And I was able to leave Rs 10 for the server, and pack up half my plate (as if I even needed half of that mass of rice) in a bag which I carried around the corner to a set of old ladies on the sidewalk, who bowed heads to hands in thanks.
I know this sounds preachy, but forgive me, I'm happy about it.
Of course, these factors aren't really factors at all in India. There is a shadow of a green and organic movement approaching, but for the vast majority these concepts are still, well, foreign. Only really privileged people can worry so much about their food being sustainable rather than about sustaining themselves with food-- any food. I'm not going to worry about that while I'm here, because it'd be really silly.
Today, I feel good about my lunch because my veg biryani, which cost Rs 25, filled me up. And I was able to leave Rs 10 for the server, and pack up half my plate (as if I even needed half of that mass of rice) in a bag which I carried around the corner to a set of old ladies on the sidewalk, who bowed heads to hands in thanks.
I know this sounds preachy, but forgive me, I'm happy about it.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Ladoo Love
On Thursday, Bartley and I were the gracious attendee's of our new friend Latika's wedding party. Ok, so it wasn't her wedding, it was a party before the wedding. But not an engagement party. Something else, celebrating her upcoming marriage to Manish. Whatever the name, this was a gathering of family and friends at Latika's parents home for a day (they said they started around 2pm and it as still going on when we got out around 9:30). Like any good party, there was plenty of music (live!), food and high spirits. And like any good Indian party, lavish ornamentation, and unprecedented hospitality.
We were a bit concerned since we know only Latika (her groom Manish having already gone to Lucknow to be with his family before the wedding) and were unfamiliar with the customs, but her family was incredibly sweet and made sure we were involved. Many people were excited to talk to the foreigners-- some of them spoke perfect English, plus one sweet old lady who kept attempting to speak with me in Hindi and was unthwarted by my "Hindi, nayahai!", so I smiled politely and tried to drag Bart in to translate when he was near.
Latika had a killer ensemble --neon green and blue dress and veil with sequins-- and traditional bridal mendhi (in matching green and blue!!), bindi, and extravagant jewelry, complete with a huge nose ring that she had to remove in order to eat.
She was made to sit at the front of the room while many women brought her saris, jewelry, garlands and sweets, which they fed to her. Her lap and arms were completely full before too long, but by tradition she had to hold all of it until the end. She confided later that one of her aunts, who is very traditional, saw to it that she didn't put anything aside. Latika's sister and nieces danced, and to my horror, coaxed me to join them. No photographic evidence survives (whew).
They fed us until we could take no more, and then insisted we take home two parcels of food to boot. Ladoo and pista rolls were our sweet souvenirs.
We were a bit concerned since we know only Latika (her groom Manish having already gone to Lucknow to be with his family before the wedding) and were unfamiliar with the customs, but her family was incredibly sweet and made sure we were involved. Many people were excited to talk to the foreigners-- some of them spoke perfect English, plus one sweet old lady who kept attempting to speak with me in Hindi and was unthwarted by my "Hindi, nayahai!", so I smiled politely and tried to drag Bart in to translate when he was near.
Latika had a killer ensemble --neon green and blue dress and veil with sequins-- and traditional bridal mendhi (in matching green and blue!!), bindi, and extravagant jewelry, complete with a huge nose ring that she had to remove in order to eat.
She was made to sit at the front of the room while many women brought her saris, jewelry, garlands and sweets, which they fed to her. Her lap and arms were completely full before too long, but by tradition she had to hold all of it until the end. She confided later that one of her aunts, who is very traditional, saw to it that she didn't put anything aside. Latika's sister and nieces danced, and to my horror, coaxed me to join them. No photographic evidence survives (whew).
They fed us until we could take no more, and then insisted we take home two parcels of food to boot. Ladoo and pista rolls were our sweet souvenirs.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Mea Culpa Scooter
In Hyderabad, The scooter is king.
Like most cities in Asia, Hyderabadi streets are not dominated by the automobile: here, lesser forms of transportation rule. This is due in part to the fact that the price of a car is out of reach for most citizens (and despite some recent setbacks, cars are becoming a lot more accessible to "the great multitude"). In Hyderabadi streets, it breaks down thusly (in approximate order of density): auto-rickshaw, two-wheeler (scooter/motorcycle), car, bicycle, jay-walker, street cart-peddler, cow, donkey-cart. Now ato the mix the following conditions: the fact that at any time some of these transport vehicles are going the wrong way; that traffic laws (except in the few places where they are semi-enforced by uniformed officers) are totally ignored; that in traffic each lane often supports triple or more the number of vehicles that it should; that India has an astronomically high traffic-death rate; and that the density of exhaust fumes during peak traffic times reach truly hazardous heights. In other words, chaos, dangerous chaos.
So, of course I went ahead and bought a scooter! This despite the preceding, and despite voting with my feet (most of the time, anyway) for cleaner and better transportation. In NYC, I bicycle to work almost every day, even in freezing temperatures. I feel like a traitor somewhat to the cause, but considering the distance of my commute (9 km) and prevailing temperatures (90-95 Fehrenheit), I decided to go for motorized transport. Many people cautioned me against this decision, due to the hostility of the streets here. But in reality, I am finding that the challenges of bicycling in NYC are more or less the same as those of scootering in Hyderabad. It is a matter of degrees. The tricks I have learned back home in my 4+ years of zipping in and out of traffic carry over here.
Now if I could just get a decent battery . . .
Like most cities in Asia, Hyderabadi streets are not dominated by the automobile: here, lesser forms of transportation rule. This is due in part to the fact that the price of a car is out of reach for most citizens (and despite some recent setbacks, cars are becoming a lot more accessible to "the great multitude"). In Hyderabadi streets, it breaks down thusly (in approximate order of density): auto-rickshaw, two-wheeler (scooter/motorcycle), car, bicycle, jay-walker, street cart-peddler, cow, donkey-cart. Now ato the mix the following conditions: the fact that at any time some of these transport vehicles are going the wrong way; that traffic laws (except in the few places where they are semi-enforced by uniformed officers) are totally ignored; that in traffic each lane often supports triple or more the number of vehicles that it should; that India has an astronomically high traffic-death rate; and that the density of exhaust fumes during peak traffic times reach truly hazardous heights. In other words, chaos, dangerous chaos.
So, of course I went ahead and bought a scooter! This despite the preceding, and despite voting with my feet (most of the time, anyway) for cleaner and better transportation. In NYC, I bicycle to work almost every day, even in freezing temperatures. I feel like a traitor somewhat to the cause, but considering the distance of my commute (9 km) and prevailing temperatures (90-95 Fehrenheit), I decided to go for motorized transport. Many people cautioned me against this decision, due to the hostility of the streets here. But in reality, I am finding that the challenges of bicycling in NYC are more or less the same as those of scootering in Hyderabad. It is a matter of degrees. The tricks I have learned back home in my 4+ years of zipping in and out of traffic carry over here.
Now if I could just get a decent battery . . .
Sunday, February 8, 2009
One or Two Things You Didn't Know About India
- The ubiquitousness of 'Masala' English. Many Indians, particularly those with a high level of education, are highly fluent in English (and usually, a handful of other languages). Yet in a country where English is widely spoken, and where English is highly visible on official communications, road signs, and advertisements, misspellings and bad grammar abound. From what I have heard of restaurant menus in China, I think Indian menus could give them a run for their money. "REAL ESTEAT," "PHOTOGARAPHI NOT ALOUT," and "CHEEKEN" are some favorite examples.
- Hilarious Web design: Hi tech has come to India in a big way. India engineers our computers, writes the code for the software that runs on them, and then answers the phone when we call in for help. Consumer electronics are everywhere, and cell phones are better and easier to use than in the states. and India is leading the way in innovation in areas like mobile banking. Unfortunately, web page design has been left behind in the early 1990's. Or Indians are just really keen on Angel Fire-ish web layout and gif animations. The best example we have found is the web page for Nehru Zoological Park in Hyderabad. Also do yourself a favor and check out the page for Jurassic Park on this site. Who knew that triceratops could breathe fire?
Friday, February 6, 2009
I give you good price
“Hi, Road 13?”
“50 Rupees”
“Nayah—25 Rupees”
“45 Rupees, Madam”
“No, no, it’s very close-- I give you 30. Yes?”
And finally, a reticent head wobble. I confirm as I slide into the back seat, “30 Rupees, good? Road 13. Near
I’m starting to sometimes feel a little guilty for bargaining like this with the auto drivers. I’ve heard it said they make about Rs 200-300 a day for their work (usually 12 hours or more of work), and though it may well be above that, even after paying rent on their auto-rickshaw, I know they’re not exactly makin’ bank.
Of course, were I to concede and let them charge me the inflated price, it’s not as if my Rs 20 are going to drag them out of poverty. True, it may buy him some paan or a dosa to make his day a little shorter, and there is nothing wrong with giving someone a small pleasure, but it would also contribute to the idea of Westerners as easy targets, able to be cheated or taken advantage of. Though maybe to an extent, I do deserve to pay extra. Rs 20 just does not mean to me what it does to him, my driver. At most tourist sites, there is a separate charge for Indian tourists and foreigners, with a not insignificant difference (often 5 vs. 100). It is really only the principle that I am fighting—that I, as an American, or American woman at that, should be preyed upon.
I like the idea of “pay what you can” sliding scales for their extended access, but also because of the honesty they encourage. It forces you to consider fair wages, and how little it would matter (to some of us) to pay a little extra and contribute to those who do us a service. Poverty, after all, is in many ways more expensive, and this is what makes it so inescapable. Once you’re in, you can’t get a foothold of savings to boost you back out, so all of your income is thrown away immediately—and usually not in ways that support a healthy economy, anyway.
So what’s to be done? There is no ultimate solution, but a little consumer consciousness would certainly help. And though nothing will eradicate poverty, ever, I’m thankful for the uprising of micro-finance institutions (though their future remains unclear) and fair-wage programs, so perhaps at least we can hope to pull everyone up a bit. I’m not suggesting socialism, but I really like the adage, “Live simply so that others may simply live”—pay what you can and we all get something.
Monday, February 2, 2009
How to Make a Reservation (Without Reservations)
Bartley and I plan to make weekend trips as much as possible while in Hyderabad. Today, we started trying to get train tickets and accommodations for this weekend in several places-- mostly faraway, nature-y places, two of which have only one option for accommodation, requiring advance booking.
I called the tourist office of Hyderabad and indicated I wanted to book for this weekend in Tyda (because the hotel is state run). The first lady who answered just hung up on me. The second time I called, the phone was handed to someone new, who presumably spoke better English. She asked the date, place and number of guests before giving me a number-- which may have been a reference number or telephone number-- and saying I'd have to come into the office (I think). I tried to ask if there was anything open for this weekend, and she just said I have to come to the office. ok. I called the number, which had the right number of digits to be a phone number, and the operator asked the same questions then told me to come into the office, which she identified only as being "opposite Assembly. You know Assembly? Ok, madam".
So I called a man who runs a houseboat tour in Koroneema. The boat is rented for 24 hours and accomodates four, so the guidebook suggests asking them to pair you with two other guests if you only have two in your party. The conversation went something like this:
"Hello, yes, I would like to book for this weekend"
"Hello, Madam, ok"
"Is there something open this weekend?"
"ok, ok. Yes, yes, ok. What is your number?"
"How many? Uh, myself and my husband-- two"
"ok, ok, (garbled explanation of price and what the tour includes)"
"yes sir-- we are only two-- can we be placed with another two people?"
"ok madam, (same garbled explanation of tour)"
"yes sir, I understand. We are two. Do you have other two people who can go-- same boat?"
"ok, ok, madam, it is for four (price and explanation)"
"I'm sorry? Uh-- we are two only--we can go with two other, same boat? "
"ok, ok, madam. You must book Hyderabad." (possibly not what he said at all)
"to-- uh-- for this weekend-- book at Hyderabad tourist office?"
"yes, yes, ok, madam (repeats garbled explantion of tour). Ok, madam"
"I--uh... ok. Do I book in tourist office?"
Eventually, he hangs up.
When I call to book a treehouse accomodation in Orissa:
"Two for this weekend. Is ok?"
"ok, ok, yes madam"
"this weekend, you have? "
"yes, yes, come quick"
"Sir, can I have confirmation for this weekend?"
"oook, come quick."
"Sir-- is there a reservation?"
"ok, come, come"
I do not feel confident about this.
I called the tourist office of Hyderabad and indicated I wanted to book for this weekend in Tyda (because the hotel is state run). The first lady who answered just hung up on me. The second time I called, the phone was handed to someone new, who presumably spoke better English. She asked the date, place and number of guests before giving me a number-- which may have been a reference number or telephone number-- and saying I'd have to come into the office (I think). I tried to ask if there was anything open for this weekend, and she just said I have to come to the office. ok. I called the number, which had the right number of digits to be a phone number, and the operator asked the same questions then told me to come into the office, which she identified only as being "opposite Assembly. You know Assembly? Ok, madam".
So I called a man who runs a houseboat tour in Koroneema. The boat is rented for 24 hours and accomodates four, so the guidebook suggests asking them to pair you with two other guests if you only have two in your party. The conversation went something like this:
"Hello, yes, I would like to book for this weekend"
"Hello, Madam, ok"
"Is there something open this weekend?"
"ok, ok. Yes, yes, ok. What is your number?"
"How many? Uh, myself and my husband-- two"
"ok, ok, (garbled explanation of price and what the tour includes)"
"yes sir-- we are only two-- can we be placed with another two people?"
"ok madam, (same garbled explanation of tour)"
"yes sir, I understand. We are two. Do you have other two people who can go-- same boat?"
"ok, ok, madam, it is for four (price and explanation)"
"I'm sorry? Uh-- we are two only--we can go with two other, same boat? "
"ok, ok, madam. You must book Hyderabad." (possibly not what he said at all)
"to-- uh-- for this weekend-- book at Hyderabad tourist office?"
"yes, yes, ok, madam (repeats garbled explantion of tour). Ok, madam"
"I--uh... ok. Do I book in tourist office?"
Eventually, he hangs up.
When I call to book a treehouse accomodation in Orissa:
"Two for this weekend. Is ok?"
"ok, ok, yes madam"
"this weekend, you have? "
"yes, yes, come quick"
"Sir, can I have confirmation for this weekend?"
"oook, come quick."
"Sir-- is there a reservation?"
"ok, come, come"
I do not feel confident about this.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Preview
We have yet to write about three of the most important days we've had here so far.
1) When we went on a tour of the Dharavi slums (the largest slums in Asia) in Mumbai with Reality Tours
2)When we went with Anupam and his NGO, REACHA, to teach Mumbai kids about energy conservation
3) And, for me, yesterday-- when I went with Yatna to to meet the Lambada tribe outside Hyderabad. We'll be filming a documentary about them and the unfair medical practices being pushed upon them. Their language has no written form (though some also speak Telugu) and they have been nomadic for hundreds of years, so they are at a serious disadvantage when it comes to education and healthcare. (I'll go into it more in another post)
Its hard to right about this ultra-important events because I want the post to be an all-encompassing article for each. We will probably end up back-tracking to post our narratives and photos of these days (with the exception of Dhavari-- no photography allowed, which I think is good). For now, I can say that a common thread was my surprise at how kind and open the locals were to our prescence, and how much I learned by seeing their lives and interacting, even with huge language barriers.
For now, it is Sunday morning and we need to go meet Old Hyderabad, its markets and architecture!
1) When we went on a tour of the Dharavi slums (the largest slums in Asia) in Mumbai with Reality Tours
2)When we went with Anupam and his NGO, REACHA, to teach Mumbai kids about energy conservation
3) And, for me, yesterday-- when I went with Yatna to to meet the Lambada tribe outside Hyderabad. We'll be filming a documentary about them and the unfair medical practices being pushed upon them. Their language has no written form (though some also speak Telugu) and they have been nomadic for hundreds of years, so they are at a serious disadvantage when it comes to education and healthcare. (I'll go into it more in another post)
Its hard to right about this ultra-important events because I want the post to be an all-encompassing article for each. We will probably end up back-tracking to post our narratives and photos of these days (with the exception of Dhavari-- no photography allowed, which I think is good). For now, I can say that a common thread was my surprise at how kind and open the locals were to our prescence, and how much I learned by seeing their lives and interacting, even with huge language barriers.
For now, it is Sunday morning and we need to go meet Old Hyderabad, its markets and architecture!
Friday, January 30, 2009
Told you we'd find a place to live...
We've got a flat!
It's pretty fancy-schmancy, especially compared to what we get in Brooklyn for a much higher price. I can't get over the size of the place. They're 3 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, and we're only sharing with a British couple, Emily and Andre (though in the past, there were as many as 8 or 9 people here). Andre has been here 2 years, and Emily since November, so we've got great tips from them. Also, I am pretty sure that between my roommates and the affected Indian English, I will have a Brit accent by the time I return to the States.
Its in the upscale neighborhood of Banjara Hills and on the high end of our budget (though, our budget was pretty low), but its furnished, ok for a temporary stay, and gorgeous. It's been traded around among the small scene of NGO workers around here for some years, and like many apartments that go through cycles of friends, full of charming (and not so charming) remnants of past dwellers-- from colorful decorations to a plastic bucket supporting the bed.
Everything that wants to look fancy in Indian is made out of white and grey marble, so, most of out apartment is marble. I love the sound my sandals make as I shuffle up the 5 flights of smooth stone.
Also, regarding Bartley's post just below:
I still wake up every morning when the call to prayer begins, in that lovely pre-dawn pale blue light. Our first night in Hyderabad, as we slept on a rush mat and blankets in Manish and Saurabh's living room, I was startled out of my sleep just before 6am as the call began. I was pretty sure I knew what it was, but even so I was utterly overwhelmed by the sound. I remember thinking to myself it sounded like either the gates of hell, heaven, or both had just opened up. It is beautiful and chilling. I had goosebumps as I sat bolt upright on the mat and listened.
During the rest of the day, you hear a similar call (5 times), but only at dawn is it as ethereal and arresting. A day or two later, I recorded it as a sound memo on my camera as I held it out the window at arm's length, but, of course, no recording can really do it justice. Plus, I'm too technically incompetent to know how to retrieve the memo from my camera to post it (it didn't show up with the photo upon download...).
It's pretty fancy-schmancy, especially compared to what we get in Brooklyn for a much higher price. I can't get over the size of the place. They're 3 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, and we're only sharing with a British couple, Emily and Andre (though in the past, there were as many as 8 or 9 people here). Andre has been here 2 years, and Emily since November, so we've got great tips from them. Also, I am pretty sure that between my roommates and the affected Indian English, I will have a Brit accent by the time I return to the States.
Its in the upscale neighborhood of Banjara Hills and on the high end of our budget (though, our budget was pretty low), but its furnished, ok for a temporary stay, and gorgeous. It's been traded around among the small scene of NGO workers around here for some years, and like many apartments that go through cycles of friends, full of charming (and not so charming) remnants of past dwellers-- from colorful decorations to a plastic bucket supporting the bed.
Everything that wants to look fancy in Indian is made out of white and grey marble, so, most of out apartment is marble. I love the sound my sandals make as I shuffle up the 5 flights of smooth stone.
Also, regarding Bartley's post just below:
I still wake up every morning when the call to prayer begins, in that lovely pre-dawn pale blue light. Our first night in Hyderabad, as we slept on a rush mat and blankets in Manish and Saurabh's living room, I was startled out of my sleep just before 6am as the call began. I was pretty sure I knew what it was, but even so I was utterly overwhelmed by the sound. I remember thinking to myself it sounded like either the gates of hell, heaven, or both had just opened up. It is beautiful and chilling. I had goosebumps as I sat bolt upright on the mat and listened.
During the rest of the day, you hear a similar call (5 times), but only at dawn is it as ethereal and arresting. A day or two later, I recorded it as a sound memo on my camera as I held it out the window at arm's length, but, of course, no recording can really do it justice. Plus, I'm too technically incompetent to know how to retrieve the memo from my camera to post it (it didn't show up with the photo upon download...).
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Morning Wake Up Call
With a population of nearly 4 million, Hyderabad is home to one of the largest urban Muslim populations in India. For centuries Hyderabad has been a major seat of Islamic culture, and at its peak, during the reign of the Nizams from the early 18th century until Independence, was the wealthiest and largest of the princely states of India. A symbol of this legacy is the Mecca Masjid mosque, which was built in the 17th century under the reign of the 6th Sultan of Hyderabad. With space for 10,000 worshippers, it is easily the largest mosque in the city.
Each morning during our stay in the city, we have been rustled from our slumbers by the call to prayer, which this morning came around 5:50 AM IST. The sound is unlike anything I have heard. It sounds like a chorus of humpback whales performing their songs, as interpreted by Animal Collective. It is really something else.
Each morning during our stay in the city, we have been rustled from our slumbers by the call to prayer, which this morning came around 5:50 AM IST. The sound is unlike anything I have heard. It sounds like a chorus of humpback whales performing their songs, as interpreted by Animal Collective. It is really something else.
How do you get around?
The reassuring thing about traveling in a new city is that you can always check your handy map by the street signs. And, with the likes of GoogleEarth and their succinct directions, how could you ever get lost?
Uh, well, what if there are no street signs, winding, congested roads, and cabbies who don't speak English or understand your Hindi and are possibly illiterate? (like the cabbie in Mumbai who couldn't understand us and wouldn't look when we pointed at a map-- and eventually had to drop us a bit far from our destination at Mumbai Central train station, as this seemed to be all he could understand)
Oh, then you must be in India. So, like any other process here, it will be a little slower (like molasses), a little more foggy (like pea soup) and definitely scrambled (like a heap of eggs). Scrambled pea molasses soup? ewwww.
For the most part, we hail a taxi or an auto-rickshaw, which is a cool 3-wheeler that looks more like a carnival ride than a reliable means of transport. Here is the process: first, you hail a driver and them where you're going. If you're a tourist, the price is automatically inflated by 500%, and sometimes you have to walk away from a few before you can find one who will agree to charge something reasonable or use the meter. Then they navigate the city streets as if they are on speed, blind, deaf and unable to brake. Actually, I am pretty sure that when they want to brake, they just hit the gas instead. Eh, its a pedal, what's the diff? (in spite of this, I have so far seen zero accidents. They are actually incredibly skilled!)
So let's say that somehow, through the grace of Ganesh, you get to your desired location. Now you have to pay. If they actually used the meter as promised: in Mumbai, the number on the meter has nothing to do with what you pay. They state the price, and if you're a native you know if that is good or not, and if you're not you say "book!" until they roll their eyes (or wobble their head) and take out the laminated chart that indicates how to translate the meter into the rupees you pay. In Hyderabad, if the meter starts on 10.00 when you get in, you ask for the chart. if it started on 12, you pay what it says. But make sure the meter isn't, uh, rolling a little too fast, as some are known to do.
This morning I needed to go just a few kilometers in the auto. I asked the driver how much and he stated, "50 rupees". This, I knew, was outrageous, and indicated thusly. He smiled sheepishly, did the Indian head bobble and said, "ok ok, just checking". This is a typical reaction-- one guy laughed good naturedly after Bartley and I refused to pay him an extra Rs 10 he demanded for no reason. Bargaining is all in good fun, and they are amused that I won't be, um, taken for a ride.
Uh, well, what if there are no street signs, winding, congested roads, and cabbies who don't speak English or understand your Hindi and are possibly illiterate? (like the cabbie in Mumbai who couldn't understand us and wouldn't look when we pointed at a map-- and eventually had to drop us a bit far from our destination at Mumbai Central train station, as this seemed to be all he could understand)
Oh, then you must be in India. So, like any other process here, it will be a little slower (like molasses), a little more foggy (like pea soup) and definitely scrambled (like a heap of eggs). Scrambled pea molasses soup? ewwww.
For the most part, we hail a taxi or an auto-rickshaw, which is a cool 3-wheeler that looks more like a carnival ride than a reliable means of transport. Here is the process: first, you hail a driver and them where you're going. If you're a tourist, the price is automatically inflated by 500%, and sometimes you have to walk away from a few before you can find one who will agree to charge something reasonable or use the meter. Then they navigate the city streets as if they are on speed, blind, deaf and unable to brake. Actually, I am pretty sure that when they want to brake, they just hit the gas instead. Eh, its a pedal, what's the diff? (in spite of this, I have so far seen zero accidents. They are actually incredibly skilled!)
So let's say that somehow, through the grace of Ganesh, you get to your desired location. Now you have to pay. If they actually used the meter as promised: in Mumbai, the number on the meter has nothing to do with what you pay. They state the price, and if you're a native you know if that is good or not, and if you're not you say "book!" until they roll their eyes (or wobble their head) and take out the laminated chart that indicates how to translate the meter into the rupees you pay. In Hyderabad, if the meter starts on 10.00 when you get in, you ask for the chart. if it started on 12, you pay what it says. But make sure the meter isn't, uh, rolling a little too fast, as some are known to do.
This morning I needed to go just a few kilometers in the auto. I asked the driver how much and he stated, "50 rupees". This, I knew, was outrageous, and indicated thusly. He smiled sheepishly, did the Indian head bobble and said, "ok ok, just checking". This is a typical reaction-- one guy laughed good naturedly after Bartley and I refused to pay him an extra Rs 10 he demanded for no reason. Bargaining is all in good fun, and they are amused that I won't be, um, taken for a ride.
Hyderabad Blues
Our first day in the city was Republic Day , January 26th, the date that India celebrates the adoption of the Constitution of India. We spent the morning watching the Delhi parade on television. I am not keen on parades myself, but the parade was stunning to watch. One of the highlights was watching the president of India, Pratibha Devisingh Patil, hold a salute to the Indian armed forces for nearly fifteen minutes as they paraded by. How did she manage to keep her arm elevated for so long without so much as twitching a muscle? Puppet string? A prosthetic limb? Point is, inhuman strength!
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Learning to say no
Yesterday an event transpired which encapsulates much of what I have learned thus far in my brief time in India. We were walking along the water's edge near the Taj Mahal hotel when a man approached me with great vigor. He proceeded to grab me by the ear, stick a metal pick in my ear canal, and extract its (shamefully plentiful) contents. "I am expert," he said, and showed me his card, which attested to his 25 years' experience in ear canal health. Before I could say a word, the pick was back in, with my ear lobe again pressed between his fingers. "Please, no thanks," I said, as I tried to pull away, which only increased the tension on my ear. "NO," I said and pulled away again, to further protest from this man, until finally, "NO!!". I pulled away, and out popped my ear as I took Rachel quickly away. From behind, I could hear (better now from my right ear, I'll admit) the gentlemen say "you pay 60 rupees now."
What is so illustrative about this event? In Mumbai at least, the traveller is accosted on all sides by people trying to sell them something, or to get something from them. Taxi drivers, pitiful beggars barefoot and rag covered, shopkeepers, restaurant owners, all are vying for your money. This is particularly bad in tourist areas, where the aforementioned incident took place. Once a potential suitor has been engaged with eye or verbal contact, a casual "no thanks" will not suffice for peace, nor will a forceful "NO"; it takes a determined "NO!" (or "naheen naheen" if using Hindi) and a brisk head-downturned walk away to be left in peace. The art of saying "NO" is one which I have not mastered yet, but it is an art that I am improving with each passing day.
What is unfortunate about this state of affairs is that one learns to be guarded when approached by strangers, on the assumption that they want money. We have had many pleasant interactions with strangers who wanted nothing more than to offer helpful advice, or to hear about our lives back in New York, or what we thought about OBAMA. But when we approach the encounter prepared to say "NO," it leaves a bad taste in the mouth to never have to say the word at all.
What is so illustrative about this event? In Mumbai at least, the traveller is accosted on all sides by people trying to sell them something, or to get something from them. Taxi drivers, pitiful beggars barefoot and rag covered, shopkeepers, restaurant owners, all are vying for your money. This is particularly bad in tourist areas, where the aforementioned incident took place. Once a potential suitor has been engaged with eye or verbal contact, a casual "no thanks" will not suffice for peace, nor will a forceful "NO"; it takes a determined "NO!" (or "naheen naheen" if using Hindi) and a brisk head-downturned walk away to be left in peace. The art of saying "NO" is one which I have not mastered yet, but it is an art that I am improving with each passing day.
What is unfortunate about this state of affairs is that one learns to be guarded when approached by strangers, on the assumption that they want money. We have had many pleasant interactions with strangers who wanted nothing more than to offer helpful advice, or to hear about our lives back in New York, or what we thought about OBAMA. But when we approach the encounter prepared to say "NO," it leaves a bad taste in the mouth to never have to say the word at all.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
So much, so much!
India is giving me writer's block in the style of a Mumbai traffic jam. The worthy topics are far too ample, crammed together in little spaces in my head, barely evading collision as they zip about in unreliable patterns. There are not enough words from them to drive on together, so for the time being all I can spit out are cut phrases.
Here are some of the amazing things I have learned and observed thus far:
Construction in India is particularly, uh, interesting. The worker have no helmets, safety goggles, boots. Actually, they don't even wear shoes and often not a shirt. They squat around the site looking casual enough for Bartley to wonder out loud if they weren't possibly just here of their own accord, hacking at the road. Scaffolding is made of bamboo rods lashed together with rope.
Chai! Chai, chai, chai. I drink like 4 of them a day without trying. Yesterday, Bartley and I stopped at a chai-wallah (i.e., two guys crouching in what could be called a storefront only it was on a dirt road and was made of what appeared to be found object construction materials). There was a group of Indian fellows standing around it and chatting as if at the water cooler who seemed to be from all walks of life... this is where the neighbors meet. We got two chai (always served hot in spite of the heat, but I am getting used to that) and drank them. The men were not-so-surreptitiously observing us; I couldn't determine if it was friendly curiosity or something else. But as we tried to pay (Rs 6, each, and remember that Rs 50 = $1) they all smiled at us and the kid dishing out the tea indicated they'd picked up our bill. We hadn't even talked to them! All we could do was smile back and say "danya van!"
All the food is soooooooooooooo. good. So good! And I haven't once had a meal involving basmati rice or curry, the variety is endless. I am getting to just ordering something at random to find out what it is, as it is all veg anyway.
Hopefully I will soon be able to make cohesive thought patterns out of some of the other stimulation I've recieved.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
What is Hindi for "thank you" again?
Indian hospitality is tireless.
We are fed a huge, delicious breakfast every morning, and when we say "no thank you" to offers of more samosas, more vada, more chapati, it some how ends up on the plate anyway. There is no such thing as "we are full, thank you". If you like the food, then you must want more of it, and if you do not take seconds, it must be too sweet, too spicy, and so they run to the kitchen to offer us another dish.
"No, no, but we are finished! It was wonderful, but there is no more room!!" And thusly our plates are replinished.
Yesterday, Bartley and I debated casually evading mealtimes so as not to give them the obligation to feed us. At the the same time, who can turn down homemade chai (offered to us first thing as we stumble from sleep) ?
Last night, I made a fatal mistake: one of the (many, many) dishes on the table was a fresh salad, something I'm very excited about since uncooked vegetables are not relaible in restaurants. I took some red carrots, onion and tomato, and a long green bean, which I promptly took a huge crunch from. It was not a bean. It was a raw, tiny, magnomiuously hot green chile.
I never knew that spicy food could actually give you tunnel vision.
So in spite of the giggles this incited from the family, they thrust at me yogurt (which I was instructed to sugar), a cookie, a chocolate bar, and a glass of water with all the urgency of putting out a fire. I ate yogurt and chapati til I felt less like a fire-breathing dragon, laughing as tears trickled from my eyes. Of course, Mrs. Sorabh eats these things like candy, and this morning Mr. Sorabh had three on his plate with his samosa breakfast.
So as it, I've been here for about 2.5 days, and only bought two meals (one of which Bartley and I fought Anupam to pay for, and he won. I later found the rupees I had tucked in to the tab in my purse. Sneaky!!). And, I have yet to have spent the $40USD I exchanged at the airport. Do you know how long it takes to spend $40 in New York? Less than an hour, and that's if you stay home.
We are fed a huge, delicious breakfast every morning, and when we say "no thank you" to offers of more samosas, more vada, more chapati, it some how ends up on the plate anyway. There is no such thing as "we are full, thank you". If you like the food, then you must want more of it, and if you do not take seconds, it must be too sweet, too spicy, and so they run to the kitchen to offer us another dish.
"No, no, but we are finished! It was wonderful, but there is no more room!!" And thusly our plates are replinished.
Yesterday, Bartley and I debated casually evading mealtimes so as not to give them the obligation to feed us. At the the same time, who can turn down homemade chai (offered to us first thing as we stumble from sleep) ?
Last night, I made a fatal mistake: one of the (many, many) dishes on the table was a fresh salad, something I'm very excited about since uncooked vegetables are not relaible in restaurants. I took some red carrots, onion and tomato, and a long green bean, which I promptly took a huge crunch from. It was not a bean. It was a raw, tiny, magnomiuously hot green chile.
I never knew that spicy food could actually give you tunnel vision.
So in spite of the giggles this incited from the family, they thrust at me yogurt (which I was instructed to sugar), a cookie, a chocolate bar, and a glass of water with all the urgency of putting out a fire. I ate yogurt and chapati til I felt less like a fire-breathing dragon, laughing as tears trickled from my eyes. Of course, Mrs. Sorabh eats these things like candy, and this morning Mr. Sorabh had three on his plate with his samosa breakfast.
So as it, I've been here for about 2.5 days, and only bought two meals (one of which Bartley and I fought Anupam to pay for, and he won. I later found the rupees I had tucked in to the tab in my purse. Sneaky!!). And, I have yet to have spent the $40USD I exchanged at the airport. Do you know how long it takes to spend $40 in New York? Less than an hour, and that's if you stay home.
Monday, January 19, 2009
landed
Safe, and happy in Mumbai!
Update to come.
Apparently, we might go se the Black Lips tonight in an ampitheatre made from old fort ruins?
So far: <3
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Caution/Congratulations
"I always get excited when some one new comes to India for the first time.
Some of my own personal advice:
...Just about everyone has a why-did-I-come-here moment (or many moments) of culture shock. Knowing it comes (and goes) helps a little."
...India will attack your senses. Sights sounds smells and tastes-- sometimes it can be a bit much."
...india is the land of no. you will be told no about everything. keep on asking until they say yes. i've seen miracles occur this way: literally it's gone from 'there are no trains today to delhi' to 'oh yes, there's one coming in two hours' and then this magical, full train appears in two hours at your station and you're the only one that gets on."
...I feel like in India there is almost no such thing
as organization...like at all."
...Nothing works. If you make a plan your bus will be late and ruin it, if you are calling home the power will get cut, if you wash your clothes they will get ruined. Just relax and take a big deep breath the more you are able to be flexible the more you will love it."
...Indians are some of the nicest people you will ever meet. Indians are some of the worst people you will ever meet."
...We would get horribly ripped off and then we would meet someone who would bring us into their home and offer us anything they had just because they were curious. The people are incredible..."
... If you go to some ones house you have to eat your own weight in what ever they give you."
...It is the land of contradictions. Five star hotel built next to a slum. budda on a beer bottle.
love it hate it.
I hope you spend more time loving it. i sure do."
...I loved India, but I also hated it and I don't think I've every truly
known what that expression meant till I my trip there."
...The pace of life in India is different - things usually take longer."
...Their fundamental belief is in the continuity of life, and the Western notion of 'seizing the day' is less current in India than 'going with the flow' "
...In India, it is very easy to feel like you are losing control, and... there is only one way to regain that control--to dive in and swim"
...and when all else fails: sometimes you just have to submit to india. smile because i promise you, no matter how bad it seems at the time, you'll miss it when you're gone."
"Just keep an open mind and try to keep your expectations to a minimum."
...best of luck, and as we say here, 'happy journey' "
(quotes amalgamated from personal correspondence and travel guides. Thanks to Ike, Jeff, Laurel, Bhavana, etc.)
Some of my own personal advice:
...Just about everyone has a why-did-I-come-here moment (or many moments) of culture shock. Knowing it comes (and goes) helps a little."
...India will attack your senses. Sights sounds smells and tastes-- sometimes it can be a bit much."
...india is the land of no. you will be told no about everything. keep on asking until they say yes. i've seen miracles occur this way: literally it's gone from 'there are no trains today to delhi' to 'oh yes, there's one coming in two hours' and then this magical, full train appears in two hours at your station and you're the only one that gets on."
...I feel like in India there is almost no such thing
as organization...like at all."
...Nothing works. If you make a plan your bus will be late and ruin it, if you are calling home the power will get cut, if you wash your clothes they will get ruined. Just relax and take a big deep breath the more you are able to be flexible the more you will love it."
...Indians are some of the nicest people you will ever meet. Indians are some of the worst people you will ever meet."
...We would get horribly ripped off and then we would meet someone who would bring us into their home and offer us anything they had just because they were curious. The people are incredible..."
... If you go to some ones house you have to eat your own weight in what ever they give you."
...It is the land of contradictions. Five star hotel built next to a slum. budda on a beer bottle.
love it hate it.
I hope you spend more time loving it. i sure do."
...I loved India, but I also hated it and I don't think I've every truly
known what that expression meant till I my trip there."
...The pace of life in India is different - things usually take longer."
...Their fundamental belief is in the continuity of life, and the Western notion of 'seizing the day' is less current in India than 'going with the flow' "
...In India, it is very easy to feel like you are losing control, and... there is only one way to regain that control--to dive in and swim"
...and when all else fails: sometimes you just have to submit to india. smile because i promise you, no matter how bad it seems at the time, you'll miss it when you're gone."
"Just keep an open mind and try to keep your expectations to a minimum."
...best of luck, and as we say here, 'happy journey' "
(quotes amalgamated from personal correspondence and travel guides. Thanks to Ike, Jeff, Laurel, Bhavana, etc.)
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