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.

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.

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.

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 . . .

One or Two Things You Didn't Know About India

1. 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.
2. 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?

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 Care Hospital.”

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.

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.