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.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
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.
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