The Calcutta Indian Museum

The Indian Museum in Calcutta had a remarkable collection of ancient statuary and a few sad cultural displays, but most exciting was the natural history wing. There were rooms of antique wooden cabinets filled with carefully labeled minerals and fossils. There were jars with pickled specimens of everything from cobras to a human infant! And then there were the dinosaurs! They also had the skeletons of all sorts of animals, including a whale, a giraffe, elephants and a Rhino family. It called for rather a lot of picture taking....

Calcutta Zoo

Ignoring Calcutta's rich cultural and artistic heritage, one of the first things we decided to go and see was the zoo. Poor sick August was quite the trooper, dutifully tromping around with only the occasional sprint to the nearest toilet. This was an old fashioned zoo, where the lions were kept in tiny cages, with the one advantage that people could actually watch as they lazed about in the afternoon heat.

The monkeys inside of the cages seemed to have made friends with the monkeys outside of the cages, who were intent on frightening groups of school children. This sloth bear had a lot of fun playing with his food, though the click-clack of his claws didn't sound so friendly as he paced back and forth behind the bars.

We were the only foreigners visiting the zoo, and were more exotic than the Bengali tigers. The Indian visitors were certainly more excited to have their pictures taken with us, anyway. Here I am with the captive elephants, in one of the suits I had sewn in Bodhgaya.

Arriving in Calcutta

Indian women may politely defer to the Indian men, but the elbows slip out from under the saris when they deal with other women. Most train stations have separate counters set aside for ladies, so I left the bags in a corner with August, who was sick again, and went to buy tickets. The line was rather a mob of women crammed between a railing and the wall, desperately pushing toward the counter. One particularly violent woman moved in on my right and trapped me between her chest and the bar. She pushed me so hard I actually gasped in pain. Not long after that, a security guard saw my blond hair and pulled me out from under the railing. I was ready to sacrifice my ribs with the rest of them, but he insisted I come up to the front to buy my tickets, being a guest in their country.

On the train, we were lucky enough to get a whole luggage rack to ourselves, where August tried to stretch out and sleep for part of the nine-hour ride.

We arrived at Calcutta late at night, and had quite the time finding a hotel. As soon as we climbed out of the taxi, a tout descended upon us. He followed us in and out of our three top hotels, all of which were full. We were exhausted and August was in desperate need of a bathroom, so we figured it couldn't hurt to at least have a look at the touted room. It was all right for a night, though we later discovered that our inspection of the bathroom hadn't included checking for a sink. The next day, when we went to find another hotel the next day, we learned that neither sinks nor toilet seats are the norm in Calcutta.

The British built Calcutta as their Indian capital, complete with huge imperial monuments, wide boulevards (with street signs!), and plenty of churches. It was like walking through a European city that had woken up one day to find it was in Asia, and didn't quite know what to make of the people and climate around it. We visited one church that was nearly overgrown by jungle, where fans dangled from the vaulted ceiling, failing to dispel the sweltering heat and humidity.

Over all the weather in Calcutta was the worst in India. It was impossible to sleep at night, and August and I both broke out in rashes from the constant sweating. To add to that, August was sick the whole time we were there.

Despite such unfortunate physical circumstances, we both loved the city. The food was the best in India, too. Our favorite meal was at Bengali-Rupasi (in case you are ever there). We ate prawn and coconut-milk curry, along with stewed banana flowers, and a traditional fried bread. We were the only people in the restaurant at 6 pm, and the frighteningly attentive waiter insisted on doing everything except lift the forks to our mouths.

The people of Calcutta were also nicer than average, with almost no touting and begging outside of the tourist neighborhood. This might be because they are more used to seeing ex-patriots than tourists, most of whom don't go further East than Varanasi. One of the most exceptional interactions we had was with a man who accosted us in the street. "Why are you here?! It is too hot this time for people like you!" He seemed very relieved to hear we were going up to Darjeeling next.

Another time as we were struggling to find a bus, a young man insisted on leading us across the parking lot. We were certain he must be a tout, and told him we didn't want a taxi. He did show us the bus, however, though we were even more nervous when he climbed on after us. As it turned out he was just an exceptionally nice man, and wanted to make sure we didn't get lost. He apologized for the way some people in his country treated foreigners and said that he hoped we didn't hold it against India as a whole. We couldn't help but be impressed this one man trying to uphold his whole country's reputation.

Bodhgaya

The 10:50 am train from Varanasi to Gaya (Bodhgaya's bigger neighbor) departed from a secondary station outside of the city, so we left early to catch an auto. We were in the middle of negotiations with five drivers who had swarmed us on a street corner (demanding the usual double or triple fare), when a smiling young man broke through their ranks and asked us how much we wanted to pay. I told him, and, much to the other drivers' chagrin, he immediately said 'okay!' and led us off. At first I thought he might not even be a real driver, just some guy who wanted to play at being our auto-wallah for an hour and managed to borrow one. He was exceedingly friendly the whole way out, and soon made it clear that this was his very own auto, his pride and joy. He was twenty-two years old, and had owned the auto for three years. He also enthusiastically recommended the special Varanasi paan, which by the way, we had been seeing everywhere, mostly as red spit-stains on the pavement. There are countless varieties of paan but what most men (including our driver) chewed was made from a combination of tobacco and the ever-so-slightly narcotic betel nut, and came in packets available at every corner stall. I had tried to taunt August into trying the manly Indian vice since it wasn't an addiction he could bring home, but he somehow escaped unsullied.

A cramped train-ride and an even more cramped tempo-ride later, we arrived in Bodhgaya, Buddhism's most important site of pilgimmage. This is where, 2500 years ago, Prince Gautama Siddartha found enlightenment and became the Buddha, while meditating under a bodhi (pipal) tree. A descendent of the original tree grows in the same spot today, shading many hopeful monks sitting silently around it.

After enlightenment, the Buddha spent seven weeks in deep meditation at various nearby locations. In the sixth week, a storm threatened to interrupt the Buddha's meditated at a nearby lake, so the Snake God of the lake came and sheltered him, as commemorated by this pond and statue. Somehow I think the swarming of ravenous fish might have been a little more distracting than rain these days.

Like Sarnath, Bodhgaya seems to have more international monasteries than it does houses, but that didn't mean there weren't plenty of less-than-holy people around to plague the lives of the pilgrims. The children of Bodhgaya are by now world famous for demanding money for mythical books and school supplies. Three persistant but friendly boys accompanied us as we went to visit the various monasteries. One of them, having asked my tastes in music, tried to charm me with his sizable repertoire of Beatles songs. Just imagine this Tibetan monastery as having an ambient soundtrack of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" in a Hindi accent, and "A Hard Day's Night mixed with the mantras emminating from the hai temple below. I had to explain to the boy what a 'log' was, though, and how one could sleep like it.

The three days we stayed we ate in a tent restaurant run by Tibetan refugees, which served hearty vegetable soups (thukpa) and a variety of steamed dumplings (momos!). Bodhgaya's other culinary delight came from its Lassiwallah, who served the best sweet lassis in India for 15 rupees a glass. I think I had at least eight in the time I was there.

One other thing I have to thank Bodhgaya for is new clothes. Embarassing as it is, I had been wearing the same shirt and skirt almost every day up until this point, occasionally washing them at night. In Bodhgaya I finally bought a new outfit, and, moreover, had two Salwaar Kameez 'suits' sewn for me. I had bought the fabric (which comes in sets to make outfits) at a store in Varanasi, a city famous for its fabrics. Bodhgaya isn't exactly famous for tailors (though I did go to "Famous Tailor"), but it was certainly an experience to be measured and sewn for. I walked by the next day and see the old man working away in the window on my clothes. In the end, they weren't particularly stylish or even very well-made, but it still made a big improvement in my wardrobe. Besides being conservative and beautiful, suits have all the comfort of pajamas, especially nice in the heat.

And what heat there was! The next day August and I set off on an adventure to try and find the rather obscure Dungeshwari Cave Temples, where Prince Siddartha stayed as a penitant hermit before coming to Bodhgaya. The Lonely Planet guide said to take the tempo headed to Gaya, and ask to be let off in a tiny town along the way, "where you will have to cross the bridge. There you'll find a path on the right-hand side that leads you 5k to the caves." When the Tempo dropped us off, we were completely baffled. On one side of the road was an expanse of desert, and on the other was the tiny village, filled with curious eyes. The closest thing to a bridge was a road that interrupted the ditch on the village side. We 'crossed' to the village, where no one even seemed to recognize the word "Dungeshwari," let alone speak English. They vaguely showed us their rice paddies, but mostly just watched curiously as we floundered about. Eventually we went back to the road and tried asking at a shop down the way. They didn't speak English, but pointed vaguely toward the trees on the far side of the desert.

Walking across the sand, we finally realized that it was a dry riverbed and deduced that the LP writers must have visited the area after the monsoon when there must have been some sort of huge pontoon bridge. The bridge had evidently been taken down when the river dried up for the summer. I'm still meaning to write LP an email to save future travellers.... Nevertheless, a few hours walking in the sun did eventually bring us to the temples, which lay at the top of a small mountain overlooking our long hot journey. You can just see the dry river bed there in the distance. As we approached we met a nice Indian family who had just arrived by auto, and couldn't understand why we would want to walk anywhere in this heat, let alone that far. Apparently there is a phrase here - "Only mad dogs and Englishmen" - to describe who would be out in the noonday sun.

The way back was even worse, since there wasn't any water to be found and we had only brought a few liters, underestimating the heat. I decided we should boost morale by singing. It's been an interesting experience living in a world that doesn't have recorded music. A world without an iPod, or even CDs. There is Hindi pop and the occasional Shakira hit on the radio, certainly, but no way to listen to something on demand. It made both of us more prone to singing, and made song lyrics a precious commodoty. It made me think of how some Athenian sailors stranded in Italy after the failed invasion of Sicily were able to make their way home because Italians were so eager to hear choruses from the newest Euripides production. Unfortunately the best August and I could both reliably remember were Christmas carols. So we walked through the burning sun of the Indian farm land, singing our way through "The Twelve Days of Christmas" to keep the heat at bay. The one farmer who came out of his hut must have thought we were pretty strange, but at least he didn't know what 'a partridge in a pear tree' meant any more than "falalalalalalalala."

Here's one for the August fans. I'm afraid anyone who was hoping to see me will just have to be patient and silently curse August for not bringing a camera.

Sarnath

We took a daytrip from Varanasi to see Sarnath, a 'deer park' where the Buddha first taught the Dharma. Because it is one of the four places of pilgrimmage designated by the Buddha himself, many groups from around the world have set up monasteries in Sarnath. Walking around town we saw architecture from Tibet, Japan and Thailand. Even more appealing to me, though, were the ruins of past temples and monasteies.


All of the particularly holy sites in the archaeological park were decorated with a spreading coat of gold leaf, pressed on by pilgrims one square inch at a time.

In memory of the original deer among which the Buddha taught, modern Sarnath has a mini zoo filled with deer, including what we dubbed the Gilled Antelope. The flap on its cheek opened and closed as it breathed. Any ideas?

On that rather non-sensical note, I'll add that the restaurant in Varanasi in which we ate that night had a large banner hanging outside its window, advertizing the following: "YES! WE'RE NOT AS DIRTY!"

Varanasi

Varanasi might not have had much in the way of tourist attractions per se, but there certainly was plenty to see along the banks India's holiest river, the Ganges. We saw pilgrims bathing and sending off candles in paper boats, bodies being cremated on tall wooden pyres, and even attended an evening prayer addressed to the river itself. The river certainly was the star in this town, turning every riverbank scene into a Matisse with its speckled reflection of the riot of color on the ghats. We took boat ride at dawn, which showed me the wonder of how the river changed with differences in the light. It also provided ample opportunity to make the most of my camera.

Somehow I failed to capture one of Varanasi's most distinctive characteristics on film - the labyrinth of narrow alleyways that comprises the old city along the river. We were there five days, and must have walked from the main square to our hotel at least ten times, but never managed to learn the twists and turns of what would have been a ten-minute walk. Luckily for us, almost every intersection was patrolled by a machine-gun brandishing policeman, who would tell us which direction to continue in. I wonder if they recognized us well enough by the fifth day to laugh at us.

Almost nightly power outtages made these winding walks even more exciting. Most of the lanes were only around two meters wide, with two- or three-story houses on either side blocking out any possible moonlight. One such night a man offered to guide us through a dark alley. We could have found some excuse to ditch him, but this particularly dark alley was well populated, and certainly would have been well lit if there had been electricity. In the alley he gave us a rather polite version of the Varanasi anthem of "Smoke hash? Good hash." When we declined, he still offered to show us the way to our hotel. Somehow I don't think there is a place in children's stories for the kind-hearted drug-dealer who helps you navigate through dark alleys.

One evening we attended the nightly Ganga Aarti prayer ceremony held right on the banks of the river. The prayer was addressed to Mother Ganga herself, and was attended by pilgrims crowded into dozens of boats and packed onto the ghat around us. Five priests performed the rituals at the same time, leaving behind five identical clouds of incense that drifted off in a mezmorizingly synchronized swirl.

This youngster was one of many children pressing pilgrims with flowers to offer to the river (along with the many men offering head massages...).

China cancels tourism...

In a new twist on preparing for increased tourism during the Olympics, China has stopped issuing visas to foreigners applying from outside of the country of their nationality. So, when August and I went to the travel agent in Kathmandu to finalize our ticket to Beijing we were informed that it would be impossible for us to visit China. August has booked a new ticket home, departing from New Delhi May 28th, and I am planning to spend a month living in Delhi before flying directly to Mongolia. I might be a little annoyed at China for the inconvenience, but overall I am exceedingly excited about getting to live in the same city as Pratishtha and her family, and take a break from the tourist beat. Mongolia looks to more than make up for China anyway, with a national festival with music and horse-racing, and a TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE SUN. My plan is to be on horse back in the deserted Western plains a little before sunset, when suddenly the sun disappears from the sky. Not so bad, eh?