Mirabilia

The Calcutta Indian Museum

2008-07-04T08:09:00.005+02:00

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

2008-07-04T07:26:00.003+02:00

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

2008-07-01T06:33:00.011+02:00

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

2008-06-27T13:04:00.026+02:00

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

2008-06-25T12:44:00.004+02:00

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

2008-06-04T14:55:00.006+02:00

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...

2008-05-18T16:04:00.003+02:00

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?

Allahabad

2008-05-07T10:56:00.014+02:00

The train ride to Allahabad (after a jaunt to Satna by bus) , was the most crowded we had seen. As a woman, I, at least, was offered a seat. According to a book I picked up on 'the life of a Hindu,' (first published in the 1890s), this practice is some sort of compensation for the fact that more likely than not, a woman will die giving birth to her first child around the age of 15. Apparently they also have a big party when she gets close to going into labor, explicitly to give her a last taste of life.

So, as compensation for the hardships I endure as a woman, I was forcibly offered a square-foot perch on the corner of a third bunk, with about 2.5 feet of head room and a fan spinning inches from my nose. (August got a groundfloor seat a few minutes later. Sigh.) As much suffering as standing would have spared my spine, this position at least gave me a bird's-eye-view over the aisle. Are those men watching me amusedly as I take take pictures like the tourist I am? No. They were staring before I got out the camera, and long afterwards. I think that is the main reason I've heard that foreigners don't take second class. It doesn't really bother me too much, though, strangely. I just think about how Americans would react to a 8-foot tall albino.

Allahabad turned out to be the most expensive stop we made in India, being more of a pilgrimage sight than a tourist destination. The cheapest hotel we could find was Rps. 550 ($14) and dinner cost a whopping Rps. 400 ($10)! It's funny how upset we were about it - we really have learned to think in rupees. Just think - Rps. 550 will buy you 100-200 cups of delicious chai, or around 90 samosas.

Then next morning we set out with the pilgrims to catch a boat to the exact spot where India's three holy rivers converge - the Ganges, the Yamuna, and the Sarswati (a mythical underground river). We found an early breakfast standing at a sweet shop, and eventually decided we liked the polite but persistent rickshaw-wallah who had been chattering at us in hindi as we finished our cold coffees. It was a nice long ride across town, with the shade-roof pulled up to keep the sun off our necks. Before we even got within sight of any of the rivers, we had a boatman ride up along side us on his bicycle. When we got there an outright crowd of them descended. It became clear that the first boatman was a kind of boat-pimp. We regularly use the term 'auto-pimp' to describe the one guy in a parking lot with good English who aggressively catches customers, haggles marked-up prices, then distributes the customers to the actual drivers, keeping a profit. Usually the auto-pimping system works out for the drivers as well, because the mark-up is small, and they don't have to lower their prices competiting with each other. And in exchange, we tourists get to haggle with someone we know understands English. I don't mind a little unionization.

The boat-pimp was intolerable, though. The beach was covered with Indian pilgrims and tourist, peacefully piling into boats for a charge of 20 rupees a head. The boat pimp insisted we pay him Rps. 350 for a private boat. When we explained we wanted to share, he said, okay, we could share, then quoted the same price. We walked (or rather nearly ran) along the beach trying to approach a boat, but every time the pimp would sprint ahead and fix the price (or at least some price, since the boatmen didn't seem to speak English). After about the fifth time, we were pretty frustrated, and went up the beach, trying to lose him in the chaos of wet pilgrims changing their clothes after bathing. He kept reappearing, though. I suppose we weren't that hard to pick out in the crowd.

In the end I resorted to my usual maneuvre in difficult situations - throwing myself upon the goodwill of youngmen. I spotted a group of five men in their 20s negotiating for a boat and temporarily confused the boat-pimp by talking to them instead of the boat man. They seemed a bit shy at first, but agreed to let us share their boat. I trusted myself to the flurry of Hindi that exploded between them and the pimp, and didn't question when one of them abruptly turned and said 'Get in.'

The five young men turned out to be soldiers from Darjeeling (explaining their asian-ness) completing an excercise in Allahabad, and taking advantage of a few hours leave to make their pilgrimmage. We rowed out to the middle of the water, where dozens of boats were tied together, held in place against the current by poles lodged into the shallow riverbed. Once we were moored, the men performed a short prayer ceremony, sending a little paper boat down stream, with flowers and a lighted candle. Then they stripped to their underwear and went to bathe in the murky polluted water. I took off my shoes and dipped my feet into the water, not taking various boatmen's advice to follow the men's example. Most women would bath fully dressed, but I didn't have a change of clothes and was wearing white besides. The men seemed pretty amused by my purified feet, though.

It was amazing how you really could see the line where the two rivers came together - the yellow waters of Mother Ganga swirling together with the turquoise Yamuna. When we got back to shore, the boatman started arguing with the men, and it became clear that he was demanding Rps. 1000 for the boat, and saying they should just make the foreigners pay for it. The boat pimp returned and I would hypothesize that the men from Darjeeling swore at him with the phrase "No, these are our friends" thrown in somewhere. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but we all walked away as a group, with one of the men holding the proper fare out to the boatman, who wouldn't touch it demanding something higher. So in the end, I think we paid less than Rps. 20 each. I never would have tried that myself, but I think the soldiers were outraged at their country's way of treating foreigners. I hope the boat pimp learned a little bit of a lesson, at least. We offered to buy them a coke or cup of tea, but their commander herded them back into a giant truck, and they drove away.

Khajuraho

2008-05-06T16:32:00.005+02:00

Khajuraho may be famous for its erotic temple sculptures, but for me it means only sickness. Just to give fair warning, this post might be considered gross on both accounts.

It had a bad start. When we arrived at the bus station in Jhansi, we were immediately rushed to a bus that was leaving 'right now.' We hurriedly paid our fare and gave our luggage to the trunk-man, and climber onto the bus, where we sat and waited for two whole hours. About two hours after we finally started moving, I realized I was having motion sickness for the first time in my life. I tried looking out the window, and taking deep breaths of fresh air, but to no avail. I managed to limit myself to choking and gagging until we got to the half-way stop.

I got off and went in search of a bathroom in the crowded bus station, unsure how long I had before the bus would leave again. I didn't make it, though, and that was the first time I have vomited in public since a particularly embarrassing moment in first-grade PE class. I am used to being stared at in India, but standing right in the middle of the dirt-floored station area with a slightly soiled shirt front and a puddle in front of me, I wasn't sure whether it was pity or condemnation they were feeling for the poor weak white girl. I have since seen an Indian traveller surrendering his lunch in a train station, so I don't feel quite as bad. In terms of sanitation, you also have to keep in mind that almost every street in an Indian city has a man urinating on it at any given moment....

Back on the bus I had to make do with a bag held outside the window, and pitied the people around me. August tried his best, but there wasn't really anything he could do. When we finally got to Khajuraho, he grabbed all our bags and led me to a bench where I sat while he arranged a rickshaw to the hotel. I wasn't much in a mood for bargaining (and would have looked pretty desperate, so while he went into the hotel to negotiate I sat on a bit of curb. Some youngmen asked me where I was from. I responded by throwiung up into my already splashy bag. They helpfully pointed out that I was sitting across the street from a doctor's office.

I was so glad to see that bathroom, though I didn't have much left in my digestive system at that point. The luxury of a nice clean tiled floor to lie on. A few hours later, August's system exploded, too, and we had quite the night. By about noon the next day I was feeling up to the task of seeking out more water and a bowl of vegetable soup. I ate it over the course of two hours, in between semi-conscious rests.

The next day we were still pretty helpless, and August's stomach issues had changed direction. But we finally managed to see the temples, taking a few bathroom breaks. Almost every inch of the ten or so buildings in the complex was elaborately carved. Most famous are the explicit depictions from the Kama Sutra, but there were rows of individualized elephants wrapping an entire temple.

It was interesting, if a little awkward, to see whole Indian families visiting the temples. Even if we were just examining the detail of a female statue's jewelery, we didn't want the grandmother walking by to think we were looking too long at the four-person scene carved right above.

These temples were also inhabited by monkeys, who seemed rather interested in stealing shoes. Most temples will have a shoe-check of sorts before you enter the consecrated area barefoot, but all Khajuraho had was a uniformed guard with a big stick. He comicly chased the monkeys around the site, yelling in Hindi.

As for the sickness, we recovered completely withing a few days, without even taking the antibiotics I brought with.

Orchha

2008-05-06T15:35:00.004+02:00

Orchha was really more of a pit-stop on the way from Gwalior to Khajuraho, but we spent two nights there, taking it easy (and getting food poisoning).

The bus from Gwalior left several hours late, so that when we arrived in Jhansi, it was already almost 10 pm. From there we had to take a 20-km ride in an autorickshaw, which took some hard bargaining. Even that late at night, a hoard of drivers pounced on us before we were even off the bus. Their numbers gave us a little leverage, but they knew we were desperate to get to our hotel. Being more experienced in such things, I was handling the haggling, sticking to a price a little below what we had read in the guidebook. I finally decided to give in to their price, which was slightly higher than the guidebook, and turned to August for the okay.

"Nah. Let's just go to that hotel here," he says. I look at him blankly as he starts walking away. We don't know of a hotel. Where is he going? I'm about to ask if he really thinks it is worth the inconvenience, when the auto-wallah breaks in - "Okay. One hundred rupees."

August had learned how to play the game.

The only thing to do in Orcha, really, is to see some palaces for a very over-priced ticket. Once again, August and I opted to check out the free ruins. The landscape was rather desolate, but wandering around gave me an unprecedented opportunity to photograph the second type of monkey we've seen in India.

Fatehpur Sikri

2008-04-25T15:47:00.006+02:00

On a day trip from Agra I dragged August out to see the ruins of Fatehpur Sikri, a ghost town built by the great Mughal emperor Akbar. I was especially excited having seen the 4-hour Bollywood period-epic, Jodhaa Akbar, at a theater in Delhi. Admittedly it was a bit hard to figure out the details of his life without subtitles, but I filled in that Akbar conquered most of Northern India in the 17th century, and generally promoted religious tolerance. He built Fatehpur Sikri as a utopian city for philosophers of different religions. Unfortunately he chose a location in the desert with no reliable water source, and the city was soon abandoned.

We decided to skip the expensive restored palaces, in favor of wandering the neglected ruins of the city that spread out over the valley behind. We had them entirely to ourselves, with the exception of some boys playing cricket and some men staying cool in a tower near the caravan serai.

When we went back to town to catch the last bus home, we found out it had been canceled. A mob of touts tried to hustle the ten or so stranded foreigners into taking a taxi, but August and I escaped the crowd, sticking like glue to some young Indian men August had been sitting next to on the bus out. While everyone else piled into the taxi, we went with our new friends to catch a train leaving in an hour for a 5th of the price.

As it turned out, we spent the next three and a half hours sitting in the station, attracting clouds of mosquitoes and staring men. The young men who had come to our aid told me they were also visitors to the area, training in Agra to become hoteliers (explaining their remarkable English). As we sat talking together on a ledge in the station, a crowd gathered around us, listening attentively in a semi-circle as though we were gurus dispensing wisdom. I think they were actually just fascinated by the sounds of the foreign language, but it was quite the illusion from my perspective.

When the train finally came we got to have our first experience with traveling on the Indian railways. It was a second class coach, which meant there were no reserved seats. Indians on the whole have much less of a sense of personal space than we do in the US, and are generally much less standoffish. What this means for train travel is that the carriages are packed beyond anything we would tolerate back home. Technically there are demarcated seats, but in second class carriage the boundaries are entirely ignored. What sense would it make for one person to lounge about in a whole seat and make another passenger stand or even miss the train, when they could both fit? On average, they can fit about 16 people into seating intended for 6, in addition to people standing back to front in the aisles. No one is truly comfortable, but at least the comfort is fairly distributed and everyone gets where they need to go.

Admittedly, the higher price of the touted taxi did sound a lot more reasonable when we finally collapsed in the hotel around midnight, without having had dinner. But what kind of a story would we have to tell then?

Gwalior

2008-04-25T14:32:00.008+02:00

After a short jaunt up to Mathura, birthplace of Krishna and modern home of the Hare Krishna "movement" ("cult" seemed a little more accurate when we got lost and wandered into their commune), we caught a bus down to Gwalior. Gwalior is known primarily for its hilltop fort, which overlooks the bustling modern city.

Inside the fort were an assortment of palaces and temples. This palace, you will notice, is decorated with some very unique tiling.

We were pretty overheated when we came down, and stopped to have a cold drink. Coca Cola has never been so appealing as it is here. I think I have had more Coke in India than the last five years in the US. The glass bottles (which you have to return immediately for return to the factory!) make all the difference cold against your lips, and it doesn't hurt that the pop is made with sugar instead of corn syrup.

So, after the Coca Cola ad ended, we went to see a more recent palace, part of which is still inhabited by the ruling family. The luxuries of which extended beyond pink hand-blown chandeliers to a dining room served by a miniature train!

As we were walking across town, a group of young boys insisted I take their picture. Who was I to refuse?

Agra

2008-04-24T13:56:00.012+02:00

You've waited for pictures, and now you can see that when it rains it pours. About a month ago now, August and I woke up at 5:00 am and went to see the Taj Mahal at sunrise. I might usually aim at being inconspicuous as a traveler, but it is a little known fact that after people hand over the $20 (!) to visit India's icon, they have no choice but to turn into picture-snapping maniacs. So we decided to go all out, and make the most of this opportunity for shameless glamour shots. I even dressed up for the occasion in the beautiful silk outfit from Pratishtha's mother. Hope our fans appreciate the effort.

Oh, and the Taj was pretty, too, built of glowing white marble inlaid with semi-precious gem stones (as demonstrated in one of August's characteristic angle-shots). But what picture of the Taj could be original, except one personalized with our smiling faces?

Constantly Changing Plans

2008-04-11T06:49:00.002+02:00

(More troubles with computers, so no new pictures yet.)

The Chinese government certainly seems to be taking an interesting tactic on handling tourism during the Olympics. Besides the block on permits to visit Tibet, they have canceled all international trains from Beijing to Russia or Mongolia from June to September. I guess they want everybody to be in town for the Games?

Our new solution is to get to the Mongolian border on a national train, walk across, and catch a Mongolian train to Ulan Bator. After a week or two seeing the wonders of a beautiful country free from tourism (who's been to Mongolia?), we can catch the Mongolian branch of the Trans-Siberian express near the end of July.

As for Tibet, we are getting closer to giving up and finalizing our flight reservations from Kathmandu to Beijing. We still have to decide where to spend the extra time, though. In India, we have decided to add Darjeeling, and possibly Calcutta. Maybe a week long Himalayan trek in Nepal? And it would be nice for August to see a little more of China before he flies out.

But for now, we are enjoying a slightly more leisurely pace here in Varanasi. In fact, I think we are going to go and have a very very rare cup of coffee at a fancy cafe this very moment.

The Step Well

2008-04-02T15:56:00.002+02:00

I never could have expected how much time, effort, and stress this picture would cost. August read in the Lonely Planet guide about a day-trip we could take to see a unique ancient well in Abhaneri a tiny village an hour and a half out of Jaipur by bus. That sounded like the perfect opportunity to get out into the countryside, and meet more people who would be friendly instead of greedy. So the day after the Monkey Temple we woke up early and headed to the bus station, ready for adventure. And adventure is what we got.

To get to Abhaneri, the guide said to take a bus to Sikandra and then catch an expensive jeep, or catch a bus to Gular and walk 5 kilometers. So, preferring to walk, we wandered around the bus station asking for a bus to Gular, and some nice men pointed us to one. The driver confirmed when we asked if the bus went to Gular, and we were off. Two hours and a Rps. 150 ticket each later, we started to get pretty worried. Some more questions revealed it was the bus to Delhi. Where else would tourists want to go? So we got off and caught a packed 2-hour bus back to Jaipur. I was forcibly offered a third of a seat next to a reluctant family, and August had to stand.

So, we weren't to be stopped by a 5 hour, $10 detour. We continued asking. I've now figured out that there are two towns called Sikandra, one of which has the great Mughal Emperor Akbar's tomb. And that there wasn't a bus to Gular. There is a bus from Sikandra to Gular, that you can take instead of the jeep. Once we got to Sikandra, the tiny bus onwards to Gular was very friendly. A beautiful woman offered me a small fruit, sort of like a miniature pear, and they seemed very amused at the ten or twenty words of Hindi I've picked up so far.

As we were walking on from Gular, some wood workers called us over and suggested we take a picture of them working. I obliged, though the man in the picture seemed a little embarrassed. Further along the road, a nice man pulled up on a motorcycle, and was very insistent that we should take him up on the offer of a ride. We zipped along through the lush farmland, watching the women look up at us from harvesting wheat by hand. Children ran out of the houses to wave and yell hello, and it felt like our adventure was turning out all right after all. When we got to Abhaneri a few minutes later, I thanked the man profusely for his generosity, and was about to offer him something for the gas when he held out his hand and said something I couldn't understand. I gave him a confused look, and he said, very distinctly, "fifty rupees." Now, Rps. 50 comes to about $1.25, but you have to keep in mind that a proper auto-rickshaw from the town would have cost about Rps. 25. He continued to insist, and a 13-year-old came over and started heckling us in English, suggesting he should demand even more. We gave him the money, not wanting to make the village angry, and went to see the step well, followed by the young heckler.

The well was amazing. It descended the full depth of a normal well, but in a steep cascade of stone steps, so that people could bath as well as draw water. The elaborate hand carving seemed completely out of context in the thatched huts of the modern village.

The sun was starting to sink towards the horizon as we turned back towards Gular, wary of any passing motorcyclist. No one offered us another ride, but my faith in the kindness of strangers had been shaken. It happened again later when we visited a mosque in Fatehpur Sikri, and a man started to lead us around like one of the many aggressive tour guides that descend whenever we approach a site. When we explained we had no interest in a guide, he took great offense and explained that he worked for the mosque. I apologized and explained how easy it was to make that mistake. He then followed us out and around the courtyard, insisting we visit a certain shop. Ah me.

Walking towards Gular, the children we had seen earlier came running out again, spouting what at first sounded like gibberish. Then it turned into a resounding chorus of "Pens!" "Chocolate!" "Five rupees!" and more strangely "Shampoo!" Apparently that is what tourists mean to them. Each group would eventually relent, when they reached the end of the invisible leash tying them to their houses.

After a long stretch of undisturbed walking, we saw some children come out on a crossroads a way ahead of us. Then more. And more! There must have been 20 children standing there, waiting for us with more shouted demands. We kept walking, but more and more came running out until they formed a mob all around us. I couldn't help but think of the monkeys the night before, and the feeling they would carry us off.

Eventually the mob mentality did turn ugly, and they started shoving, then throwing dirt and rocks. We kept stoically walking forward, not wanting to do anything to turn their parents against us as well. At last an old man walking th opposite way scolded them, and they gave up. We made it to Gular covered in dirt, just before dark.

The two buses back were packed like sardines, and almost completely devoid of light. Five men started asking a lot of questions, and kept laughing and talking about us in Hindi. When they asked where we were staying, my instinct of niceness overrode the what might have been better sense, and I told them. They left us alone then, and August saw a most disturbing turn of events: First one eyed me up. Then he gave some money to thuggish looking one, who started eying August up. Then they made some phone calls.

When we got off the bus, there was an auto-rickshaw waiting, and it was a choice of getting in, or standing around with the guys from the bus. We took the ride for a high price, but couldn't help worrying he was in on some plan arranged by phone. We got out as soon as we saw a landmark we recognized, though it seemed later that all he was scheming was to try and get us to go to his friend's hotel. However, our paranoia didn't cease until we were back in the hotel room, with the door firmly locked. We never got a knock on the door in the middle of the night, but I did jump a little extra high when we opened the bathroom door and a rat scurried behind the toilet.

I hope this story doesn't worry any of you that I'm not safe here in India. We were never in any real danger, never stepping out of well-populated areas. It was more a feeling of disappointment. That was a day that shook our faith in our ability to trust in strangers, but I think the effect will be short-lived. Just a few days later a nice young man gave us a ride across town when he saw that the auto drivers wanted to cheat us. It was a sort of antidote to the experience from before.

Jaipur: elephants and camels and horses and cows and goats and boars and cats and dogs and monkeys!

2008-03-29T13:06:00.004+01:00

And we are off! It is sort of a relief to be on the road, living on the high of insecurity instead of in suspense of it. And we certainly have had some adventures. On our second night in Jaipur, after a hard day's work seeing palaces and their 'ethnic' displays, I decided we needed to head out and see the Temple of the Sun God, on a hill way out on the edge of town. Why? Because of the monkeys!

Earlier that day we were sitting at Jaipur's Jantar Mantar, pondering the astronomical marvels, when August said, "Whoa! Look at that cat! Wait!? Is that a puma?!!" It was a monkey, running along the top of the park's wall. I think that was the high point of the trip at that point, and made me think of the picture a six-year-old Emma drew me of a monkey, becuase it was my favorite animal. So how could I resist going to a temple famous for the monkeys that live around it.

It turned out to be a rather longer walk than I had calculated, but it made such a nice change. Jaipur is very heavily touristed, and every block we walk we are accosted by at least three very persistent rickshaw drivers. It's hard to remember that most Indians are probably as nice as Pratishtha and her family. But this night, walking out of town in the dusk, we finally got out of the tourist district. It was like being back in Syria, with people (mostly children and young men filled with bravado) saying 'hello,' and being both shy and delighted at getting a response. They seemed particularly amused if I gave them a 'namaste.'

It was completely dark by the time we got to the hill to the temple. But as we approached the path, we saw them. Dozens of monkeys sitting all along the edges of walls and prowling the darkened corners, watching. They were waiting for us. Apparently many visitors to the temple bring food to attract them, and they have come to expect it. During the day, maybe it would seem funny to see monkey scamper about you, like pidgeons at San Marco in Venice, but at night they seemed more likely to carry us off for dinner.

Accompanying the monkeys were several goats (who tried to eat my plastic bag), a cow, a cat and a boar(!). We walked part way up the hill, surrounded by strangely human stares, and one made a try for my shopping bag, giving us both a good scare. It was too dark to try for a picture, so you'll have to use your imagination. We eventually decided to turn back, not entirely out of fear of the monkey army, but because there were vagrant families cooking dinner on the path, and it seemed disrespectful. I don't know how sorry we were, though.

So it was quite the day for animals, considering we had already seen elephants and camels walking in the streets (camels are used for pulling carts here), and later that night a man galloped down the street on a bejewelled horse. But nothing could compare with the monkeys.

Happy Holi!

2008-03-23T14:44:00.005+01:00

Despite the situation in Tibet, my luck in timing also brought me to India for two birthdays and, more impressively, the Hindu holiday Holi. Holi is the festival of colors, celebrating spring. But one doesn't celebrate Holi, one plays Holi. In the two blocks August and I walked from the hotel we are now staying at to Pratishtha's Mummy's house, a couple of "Holi-gans" got us with handfuls of pink gulal (powdered color). When we got to the house, Pratishtha's Mummy added some more colors (in a more tender fashion), and her brother added some fragrant sandalwood paste.

But when Pratishtha and Saurabh showed up with the squirt-guns, the fight began in earnest and we had to move up to the roof.

We were all throwing colored powder at each other, and making good use of a hose and buckets of water. Luckily it was burning hot, and the water was more refreshing than anything. Saurabh was particularly playful, and had to put up with a good deal of retribution from his wife. See how cheerful he is while Pratishtha gets him with the hose:

Oh, and August is here now. He is even luckier, having inadvertently flown in on Holi Eve. India made quite the first impression on him, and his clothes. I washed all of our clothes five or six times that night, and I still have a tie-dyed bra. Not to mention that my ear was yellow for days afterwards.

Here's my final work of art. Unfortunately nobody took a very good picture of me, but you can imagine.

A few days later we left Delhi, and I had to say goodbye to Pratishtha and her family again. I just barely managed to hold back the tears this time, though it was pretty hard. It's sort of unbelievable how welcome they can make me feel, and how attached I have become for only having seen them for two weeks separated by a year. Mummy was very insistent that she would see me soon, though, as it looks like Pratishtha's brother will be getting married within the year.

Changing plans....

2008-03-17T12:08:00.002+01:00

So, given the way things in Tibet have been escalating, it looks like there is no way August and I are going to be able to go there. Staring at a map of Asia has told me that the only other land routes to China are either through Kashmere, Pakistan + Afganistan, or Burma, none of which are really viable options for land travel. There goes the epic overland adventure. I suppose there is always the possibility of going over water, though....

Pratishtha's Fake Birthday

2008-03-16T10:00:00.003+01:00

Yesterday Pratishtha celebrated the fake birthday that she was given so that she could start school a year earlier. We made all kinds of delicious food (I was instructed to make a casserole), and dyed Easter eggs with the kit I brought from home. Pratishtha got into the spirit, and was especially excited about the egg-wrappers that shrink in boiling water. We also had a fancy store-bought pineapple cake, which ranks among the best cakes I have ever had.

The other big news yesterday was the report of huge protests and riots in Tibet, and their violent suppression by the Chinese government. Today the Times of Delhi said that all foreign travel to Tibet had been forbidden. There is a slight possibility that things could smoothe out before August and I would be trying to go, but it seems like things will only get more tense as the Olympics gets closer. So, I guess I'll have to start working on a back-up plan. Ah me. I seem to have bad luck this way.

Delhi

2008-03-14T07:48:00.001+01:00

I didn't realize how cold Austria had been until I got to Delhi. And I don't just mean the weather. Apparently the Viennese are famous for being reserved to the point of rudeness, but it is hard to get used to. For example, when I went to the ticket counter at the trainstation and tried to buy a ticket in my best German, the clerk seemed really annoyed that I was bothering him.

Pratishtha and her family are about as far from that as you can get. I'm staying with Pratishtha and her husband, Saurabh, in their condo in the suburbs. It's a very nice house by Delhi standards, with a full kitchen, two bedrooms and two bathrooms. They have also done it up very nicely since I saw it at the wedding, though there is surprisingly little hot pink involved in the color scheme, given what I know of Pratishtha's tastes. I even have a bedroom to myself, since Saurabh's mother is out of town this week.

Yesterday Pratishtha dropped me off at her mother's house before going to the University (where she is working on a MA in Italian). They talked me into taking a nap for a few hours. When I got up, Pratishtha's Mummi showed me how to make a kind of fried bread called Paranthas, and we had them for lunch with some spicy eggplant. She seems a little shy about the amount of English she knows, so we don't really talk too much, but I love being with her.

Then she and I went to the largest of Delhi's Gandhi museums. It was mostly photographs and text summaries (Hindi and English) housed in a fairly run-down building. They also had, displayed in glass cases, what were definitely relics: his glasses, the clothes he had been wearing when he died, wool yarn he had spun, books he had read. There was also a collection of spinning wheels, which introduced me to his economic philosophy, which you don't hear so much about in the US. After the museum we went across to Raj Ghat, where he was cremated, then Pratishtha picked us up and we went home.

Later that evening Pratishtha's Mummi presented me with a beautiful silk salwar kameez. Thinking it must be one of here own or Pratishtha's I tried to say I couldn't take it, and that it was too beautiful for the kind of travelling I was going to be doing. She explained that in fact she had had made for me before I came, and finished off by saying in very plain English, "You too are my daughter."

I suppose I brought a larger backpack precisely so that I could bring these kind of memories home.

Airports

2008-03-14T07:39:00.001+01:00

I wish I had taken a picture, but I want to mention the Dubai airport anyway. The airport was shiny and new, and filled to the gills with commercialism - more like a duty-free mall, really. To add to that, it was covered with sleeping people, mostly Indian. Walking from gate to gate, you had to navigate a narrow track between people lying on the floor, with scarfs pulled over their faces. Pratishtha's brother, Prateek, suggested it was because many Indians have been immigrating to Dubai, and they might stay in the airport for a few days before figuring out who to bribe in customs. Or something like that.

The Delhi airport, on the other hand, was very run-down, with holes in the ceiling. People seemed very concerned about me wandering around looking for my friend.

Vienna II

2008-03-12T07:05:00.014+01:00

A week in Vienna produced more pictures than that. So here they are:

Vienna is covered with monuments to all the various famous Austrians, from the Emperors to Goethe. This one is from the Heldenplatz.

The Kunsthistorisches Museum, with geometric shrubbery.

We went to see La Boheme at the Vienna Opera house. They sell standing room tickets on the night of the show for 3.50 Euros, which actually give you a better view than many of the seats. We were packed in in neat rows like sardines, with hardly any air to breathe. It was a little hard on the feet, too, but opera for $5!

The Museum of Modern Art (Mumok) was having a special exhibit on math and art, most of which was not very exciting (pictures of cubes, etc.), except when you get the Fibonacci sequence in neon. Had to sneak a photo for Katrina, at least.

The Mumok also had an exhibit of contemporary art, which was set up in aisles like a grocery store to artistically bring to mind the commercial nature of art. The lighting was horrible (so excuse the blurriness), but I find it hard to resist bizarre things like this. Don't really know how meaningful it is, though....

Maya and I pose in front of Vienna's fake temple. It could almost be Sicily, except for the heavy coats.

Vienna

2008-03-06T21:35:00.021+01:00

Most of what I have been doing in Vienna (besides setting up this silly journal) is going to art museums, and appreciating architecture both being skills I have had little chance to exercise in the last year. Vienna is quite the place for museums. With the notable exception of the Kunsthistorisches Museum, which has all sorts of beautiful Renaissance Italians and Dutch paintings, almost all the art is from the 1890s - 1930s. It's quite a change from museum going in Italy, but I suppose that is when Vienna was at its artistic peak. Most famous are the Klimts.

I had forgotten how interesting looking at art can be, though it's been a little overwhelming. I've been looking in particular at how different artists paint the lines between things. The Renaissance portraits, for example, are all very soft, while Klimt and Kokoschka favor thicker lines highlighting the outer shape of a subject. And in between looking at art and making pretentious amateur observations, I've been out eating cake and taking pictures of Vienna:

The Belvedere, and its gardens.

A statue in front of St. Carl's, which features two imitations of Trajan's Column.

The other side of the Belvedere.

A detail from inside Stephen's Cathedral.

P.S.
I never knew a museum could make me sick, but this one sure came close. Hidden in the basement of the Vienna Mumok (Museum of Modern Art) is a gallery featuring works from the Viennese Actionism movement. Hm. I was about to describe it, but actually you can do a google search if you really want to know. No pictures of this.

Salzburg

2008-03-06T10:45:00.008+01:00

In booking my ticket to Vienna, I arranged to have a 6 hour layover in Salzburg. It struck me as one of those hugely over-touristed towns, where every shop sold Mozart candies and perfumes, and every site cost about 10 Euros. I mostly stuck to churches and exploring on foot.

And there certainly were some beautiful churches to look at. This is the main Cathedral. The white plaster ornamentation has black paint rubbed in the crevices, giving the relief an unreal contrast.

After walking around in the miserable rain for a few hours, I gave in and went to a cafe for my first experience of the Austrian afternoon meal of cake and coffee. It was delicious, if over-priced. I don't quite understand how coffeehouses can be such a mainstay of the culture here, and yet you can't get a cup of coffee for less than 3 Euros. I couldn't help but peak, and it was even more at a Starbucks.

One of my favorite sights so far in Austria remains the formal gardens, with geometrically arranged plant-life haunted by white marble statues. I'm sure they walk the grounds at night.
One last view of the gardens, with the representative storm clouds swirling around the famous fort I didn't cough up the money to enter. I think it's going to take some adjusting before I am comfortable spending my money instead of saving it. I'm just so out of practice.

Munich

2008-03-05T11:40:00.012+01:00

I spent two days in Munich, walking around in an exhausted daze for the most part. I did however notice some of the sights around me and even took some photos of them.

The building I was most impressed by in Munich was the Neue Rathaus, the new town hall, built around 1900 in a Neo-gothic style. I was surprised to find out that over half of Munich had been destroyed by American bombing in WWII,and that towers in particular had been targeted and destroyed. The Rathaus, like most of Munich's buildings, was reconstructed according to the original architectural plans.

On my second day in Munich, I explored the city with Samuel Schneider, a fellow from Brazil who I met at the Hostel. He was very curious about how an American felt about the buildings in Munich, seeing as it was I who had destroyed them. He also commented that the US had earned the right to dominate the world by defending justice in WWII. It certainly made a nice change from walking around alone, at least.

Here are few more pictures from Munich. I didn't spend hardly any money on entrance fees, so most of what I saw was architecture and Churches. I did have to try out my much extolled new camera, after all. Also, all the pictures are links to full-size (i.e. huge) versions.

Gate into the Rathaus

Baroque Church interior

Me at the top of a reconstructed tower

(Look! I'm alive!)

"Ich fahre um halb acht mit der Zug nach Wien"

2008-03-04T08:26:00.003+01:00

I arrived in Vienna on Friday, just in time for the windstorm 'Emma.' The weather in Munich and Salzburg had been fairly miserable, but this was something else, with winds over 140 km/hr. Sunday evening one of the English teachers Maya work for had us over for dinner, and insisted on picking us up from the U-bahn station, lest we be hit by a tree. In the city the wind speeds were less tangible, except for the impression you might fly off like a kite.

My one year of German is not, as it turns out, getting me nearly as far as I had hoped. I am surprised by how much I can understand in a conversation, if people are enunciating clearly (and toning down the Austrian accent). I think I could even manage my end of a conversation, albeit slowly and circuitously. But generally if someone is talking with me, they will switch to English. Everyone here knows English much better than I know German, having started it in school at the age of 8.

I've generally been taking it pretty easy here with Maya, but I have managed to get out and see some sights. And I'll add some more about them when I can get my pictures to load onto the computer.