After a 22 hour train ride (the longest single mode of transport journey of our travels), we arrived at 10pm in Bombay [the official name of Mumbai was designated by the extreme right wing Hindu Shiv Sena party, so many people not in agreement with their ideas continue to call the city Bombay].
We took an auto rickshaw to Lucia's, the 91-year-old mother of Alfin, Rachel's parents' next door neighbor. She lives in Santa Cruz, a northern suburb. Lucia woke up to greet us when we arrived after 11pm--although she has a little trouble hearing, she's otherwise in terrific health, and was a wonderful host to us. It felt great to end our time in India staying with her, and we enjoyed hearing her life stories. Her servants Sunita and Laksmi were also really friendly, and Sunita had an adorable baby.
The next day, we took the train into what the British dubbed the "first city in India." Bombay commuter trains are often horribly overcrowded, but since we took them on a weekend and at off times, they were ok. A couple English women we met in Dharamsala said that Bombay felt like London to them, and while that may be an exaggeration, it certainly felt very, very different from any other place we'd been in India. These differences are more than superficial: Bombay produces a whopping 60% of India's GDP, and 40% of its manufacturing.
Our train arrived at the Victoria Terminal, a really crazy looking Gothic and Baroque building which looked like some buildings we'd seen in Australia. We walked around downtown, which felt much cleaner, more attractive, and calmer to walk than anywhere else in India. After a good afternoon at the Prince of Wales art museum, we sampled some of Bombay's street food: sugar cane juice, a grilled vegetable sandwich, mango juice, and pani puri (little shells of dough filled with a sweet or salty soup). Also better food here than elsewhere in India! Despite being more humid and still pretty hot, the temperatures were also considerable lower than other places we'd been, which was nice.
The next day we visited the house where Gandhi stayed in Bombay, and where he launched his nonviolent movement. We also walked along Chowpatty beach, which was mostly empty. We ate bhel puri (almost tasted a little Mexican, a mix of starches with cilantro and onions) and falooda, a delicious drink with pieces of kulfi ice cream. That evening we ate dinner with Lucia's extended family, all of whom are very well educated, successful and friendly.
Our last day in Bombay was relaxed- Rachel did some shopping with one of Lucia's relatives, and we went to a Bollywood movie called Bheja Fry (unfortunately not very good). Leaving that night for the airport, we were grateful to have been able to stay with Lucia. I read an anecdote somewhere about Gandhi's slogan to the British "Quit India," and how a British soldier had added under one of the posters "I wish I could." Despite feeling that way sometimes ourselves in India, we had some great experiences there, and enjoyed our time in Bombay.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
City of Light, Jungle of Tigers
The week after leaving Agra was dominated by train rides-- about 40 hours of them-- along with another 10 or so hours sitting in hot, filthy, crowded stations. In between these long rides and waits, though, were some iconic Indian experiences. From Agra, we headed east to Varanasi, a city on the Ganges that is one of the holiest places in Hinduism. This is not the right time of year to go there (or anywhere in India, really), as the temperatures the week we arrived had been daily hitting 115 degrees F; the blast of heat as we stepped out of the train was frightening. Although the heat was no better 10 kilometers away in Sarnath, where we had a SERVAS host, the noise and crowding were less. Our host was Christine, a German Buddhist married to an Indian man named Nehru. Christine runs a small eco-guest house that is also their home; they use solar power, build with natural local materials, and cook simple vegetarian food. There is no running water, but a pump in the yard provides plenty. Unfortunately Christine fell ill soon after we arrived, so we didn't get to spend much time with her or Nehru, who was either working in his saree shop or caring for Christine. There were some other travelers at the house, though, who were good to talk to.
Our first morning in Sarnath, the sun did not, as it usually does, burn through the clouds and start scorching the ground by 7. Taking this as a sign of a cooler than usual day, we headed into downtown Varanasi with another guest, a friendly, starry-eyed guy named Tom. He had already spent three months in Varanasi just hanging around, so he made an excellent guide for us in our one day there. We had to fight to get out of Sarnath though-- the auto-rickshaw drivers demanded exorbitant prices, and the public buses one after another refused to stop for us. Finally we all piled onto the narrow bench of a bicycle rickshaw-- incredibly hard work for the driver, with only one gear, but he was very happy to have such a large fare. It took an hour to cover the 10k into Varanasi, giving us a chance to look around calmly at the street scene. (From an auto rickshaw, all you can see is what's at eye level, which tends to be the underbellies of trucks and the front wheels of other ricks, all of which seem to be coming straight toward you at terrible speeds.) Once downtown, we headed toward the ghats. Ghats are, architecturally speaking, just wide steps leading up from the river; spiritually, though, each ghat has a different name and significance, and pilgrims make a certain circuit of the ghats, dipping in the holy water of the river at each of several different places. Many of them have shrines or temples on them or behind them, while others are backed by hulking castle-like buildings. The light, reminiscent of Nice, had a weightless, shimmering quality that covered everything with a sprinkling of fairy dust. We spent much of the day on the ghats, mostly walking, but also taking a rowboat ride on the river to see them from another view. They were endlessly engaging to look at because of the swirl of activities that centered on them. Huliking water buffaloes were scrubbed and polished in the water by their keepers; old goats napped in the shade while young ones chased each other; boys played small-scale games of cricket, oblivious to the pedestrians in their midst; tea-sellers sat and chatted with the regulars; unoccupied boatmen played cards. Meanwhile, groups of male prilgrims stripped to their underwear and jumped into th water, while the women mostly sat in groups on the steps. Tow of the ghats have a singular purpose, as cremation sites. Hindus believe that to die in Varanasi guarantees instant transport to heaven, and even for those who don't die here it is an honor to be cremated here. From the boat, we watched a group of men carrying a corpse, covered with a sheet, on a bamboo stretcher, then taking wood from the huge stockpile and lighting it, and the body, on fire. At any one time there are several cremations happening, at various stages; the male family and friends stay and watch the fire until it burns down, and then one person (generally the oldest son, I think) pours a bucket of Ganges water over the ashes. It was a powerful ceremony to observe. Sarnath is also a holy city in its own right, and we spent the following day exploring it a bit. There is an archeological site that is said to be where the Buddha preached his first sermon, making it a pilgrimage place for Buddhists from all over the world. That day the heat was relentless, though, and as we'd been having trouble sleeping (the solar powered fan only lasted a couple hours in the night), we spent much of the afternoon in the relative cool of the internet cafe.
The next day was the least complex of the marathon travel days: just one long train ride from Varanasi to the town of Satna, where we arrived at 9 p.m. and found a place to sleep and, as ever, a thali to eat. (A thali is a metal tray of rice, bread, one or two "vegetables"--almost invariably meaning potatoes--and lentils. It's good, once or twice. But in northern India it is both ubiquitous and exclusive-- most restaurants, except in very fancy or touristy places, serve nothing else. If I never eat thali again, I think I'd be okay with that.) The next morning we got on a train at 6:30, then another, then a bus-- and that was an experience. It started out great; we had a seat at the front, and it seemed to be leaving, unthinkably, ahead of schedule. But then it stopped a few minutes away, and proceeded to sit, in full sun, for an hour. During that time more and more people piled into the bus, to the point that people were squatting on seatbacks and there was no room to so much as shrug one's shoulders. Then, when the bus finally pulled away, another 20 or so people pushed and scratched to get on! There were people riding on the roof and a dozen hanging out the door. A 10 year old child had been put into my lap; soon after the bus pulled away, he started vomiting-- mosty out the window, but some on me. Then the old women who was sitting on Erik started hacking in a very ominous way; luckily we found a plastic bag in our backpack, and she managed to spit mostly into that and not on Erik. There were at least 85 people crammed into a bus that was half the size of a school bus or city bus at home. Suffice it to say that the hourlong ride dragged.
The goal of all this travel had been to reach Bhavangarh National Park, which according to our guidebook had one of the highest concentrations of tigers of any park in India. By the time we finally arrived, we were already questioning the wisdome of this quest; when we learned that prices had more than doubled since our book was published, it really started to feel like a mistake. But, having gotten there, we figured we should do the safaris we had planned on doing. Being the hottest time of year, the tourist presence was minimal and hotel rates were reduced, so we were able to stay in a much nicer room than we normally would have-- a shower with good water pressure instead of a bucket, and a powerful fan. Our evening "safari" (ride around the park in a jeep) did not yield any tiger sightings, but being in an open, clean, beautiful natural environment had a calming and rejuvenating effect on us. The next morning, we were back in the park at 5:45 (the park closes from 9:30 to
3:30, when both animals and peoples need to just be immobile and attempt to keep their blood from boiling). We saw herds of deer grazing in the meadows, a stork, sleeping owls, showoffy peacocks, lots and lots of monkeys, and a tree full of vultures. And then, at last, we saw a tiger. She was a 22 month old cub, not fully grown but spending the morning out on her own (her mother and 3 siblings are all around, we were told). She was up on a rock ledge, about 50 feet away and 30 feet above us. We never got a full view of her; mostly she was just lying around, gracing us with the sight of her head. We wished, temporarily, that we had an 18 inch camera lens like the other several tourists all did; our photos, I'm afraid, aren't too impressive. But she was truly gorgeous, and we were glad we got to see her. We spent a few hours after the safari luxuriating in our room, trying to prepare ourselves for the travel to come. Then we went back to the train station-- by taxi this time-- and retraced our commuter-line steps back to the hub, where we waited, and waited, and waited. Finally the train came, and we got on for our 20 hour ride to Mumbai.
Our first morning in Sarnath, the sun did not, as it usually does, burn through the clouds and start scorching the ground by 7. Taking this as a sign of a cooler than usual day, we headed into downtown Varanasi with another guest, a friendly, starry-eyed guy named Tom. He had already spent three months in Varanasi just hanging around, so he made an excellent guide for us in our one day there. We had to fight to get out of Sarnath though-- the auto-rickshaw drivers demanded exorbitant prices, and the public buses one after another refused to stop for us. Finally we all piled onto the narrow bench of a bicycle rickshaw-- incredibly hard work for the driver, with only one gear, but he was very happy to have such a large fare. It took an hour to cover the 10k into Varanasi, giving us a chance to look around calmly at the street scene. (From an auto rickshaw, all you can see is what's at eye level, which tends to be the underbellies of trucks and the front wheels of other ricks, all of which seem to be coming straight toward you at terrible speeds.) Once downtown, we headed toward the ghats. Ghats are, architecturally speaking, just wide steps leading up from the river; spiritually, though, each ghat has a different name and significance, and pilgrims make a certain circuit of the ghats, dipping in the holy water of the river at each of several different places. Many of them have shrines or temples on them or behind them, while others are backed by hulking castle-like buildings. The light, reminiscent of Nice, had a weightless, shimmering quality that covered everything with a sprinkling of fairy dust. We spent much of the day on the ghats, mostly walking, but also taking a rowboat ride on the river to see them from another view. They were endlessly engaging to look at because of the swirl of activities that centered on them. Huliking water buffaloes were scrubbed and polished in the water by their keepers; old goats napped in the shade while young ones chased each other; boys played small-scale games of cricket, oblivious to the pedestrians in their midst; tea-sellers sat and chatted with the regulars; unoccupied boatmen played cards. Meanwhile, groups of male prilgrims stripped to their underwear and jumped into th water, while the women mostly sat in groups on the steps. Tow of the ghats have a singular purpose, as cremation sites. Hindus believe that to die in Varanasi guarantees instant transport to heaven, and even for those who don't die here it is an honor to be cremated here. From the boat, we watched a group of men carrying a corpse, covered with a sheet, on a bamboo stretcher, then taking wood from the huge stockpile and lighting it, and the body, on fire. At any one time there are several cremations happening, at various stages; the male family and friends stay and watch the fire until it burns down, and then one person (generally the oldest son, I think) pours a bucket of Ganges water over the ashes. It was a powerful ceremony to observe. Sarnath is also a holy city in its own right, and we spent the following day exploring it a bit. There is an archeological site that is said to be where the Buddha preached his first sermon, making it a pilgrimage place for Buddhists from all over the world. That day the heat was relentless, though, and as we'd been having trouble sleeping (the solar powered fan only lasted a couple hours in the night), we spent much of the afternoon in the relative cool of the internet cafe.
The next day was the least complex of the marathon travel days: just one long train ride from Varanasi to the town of Satna, where we arrived at 9 p.m. and found a place to sleep and, as ever, a thali to eat. (A thali is a metal tray of rice, bread, one or two "vegetables"--almost invariably meaning potatoes--and lentils. It's good, once or twice. But in northern India it is both ubiquitous and exclusive-- most restaurants, except in very fancy or touristy places, serve nothing else. If I never eat thali again, I think I'd be okay with that.) The next morning we got on a train at 6:30, then another, then a bus-- and that was an experience. It started out great; we had a seat at the front, and it seemed to be leaving, unthinkably, ahead of schedule. But then it stopped a few minutes away, and proceeded to sit, in full sun, for an hour. During that time more and more people piled into the bus, to the point that people were squatting on seatbacks and there was no room to so much as shrug one's shoulders. Then, when the bus finally pulled away, another 20 or so people pushed and scratched to get on! There were people riding on the roof and a dozen hanging out the door. A 10 year old child had been put into my lap; soon after the bus pulled away, he started vomiting-- mosty out the window, but some on me. Then the old women who was sitting on Erik started hacking in a very ominous way; luckily we found a plastic bag in our backpack, and she managed to spit mostly into that and not on Erik. There were at least 85 people crammed into a bus that was half the size of a school bus or city bus at home. Suffice it to say that the hourlong ride dragged.
The goal of all this travel had been to reach Bhavangarh National Park, which according to our guidebook had one of the highest concentrations of tigers of any park in India. By the time we finally arrived, we were already questioning the wisdome of this quest; when we learned that prices had more than doubled since our book was published, it really started to feel like a mistake. But, having gotten there, we figured we should do the safaris we had planned on doing. Being the hottest time of year, the tourist presence was minimal and hotel rates were reduced, so we were able to stay in a much nicer room than we normally would have-- a shower with good water pressure instead of a bucket, and a powerful fan. Our evening "safari" (ride around the park in a jeep) did not yield any tiger sightings, but being in an open, clean, beautiful natural environment had a calming and rejuvenating effect on us. The next morning, we were back in the park at 5:45 (the park closes from 9:30 to
3:30, when both animals and peoples need to just be immobile and attempt to keep their blood from boiling). We saw herds of deer grazing in the meadows, a stork, sleeping owls, showoffy peacocks, lots and lots of monkeys, and a tree full of vultures. And then, at last, we saw a tiger. She was a 22 month old cub, not fully grown but spending the morning out on her own (her mother and 3 siblings are all around, we were told). She was up on a rock ledge, about 50 feet away and 30 feet above us. We never got a full view of her; mostly she was just lying around, gracing us with the sight of her head. We wished, temporarily, that we had an 18 inch camera lens like the other several tourists all did; our photos, I'm afraid, aren't too impressive. But she was truly gorgeous, and we were glad we got to see her. We spent a few hours after the safari luxuriating in our room, trying to prepare ourselves for the travel to come. Then we went back to the train station-- by taxi this time-- and retraced our commuter-line steps back to the hub, where we waited, and waited, and waited. Finally the train came, and we got on for our 20 hour ride to Mumbai.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Ambiguities in Agra
In Agra, we were looking forward to staying with our first Servas hosts since Australia. However, it turned out to be our strangest (and least pleasant) Servas experience, although also very interesting.
Leaving Mcleod/Dharamsala, we caught the overnight bus to Delhi, which provided some beautiful views of sunset (after a downpour of rain that afternoon) with the mountains and town in the background. Back in Delhi, we caught the train to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. The ride wasn't very scenic, with lots of flat, dusty land cultivated into small fields.
After giving up on making train reservations at the crowded station, we were happy to get to Krishna, a former member of parliament, and his wife Saroj's house, where they live with their son Vikram, his wife Varsha, and their two children Baras and Nina. While it was cooler that day because of clouds and even a little rain, after lunch we were still glad to retire to our room for a siesta during the afternoon heat. After that, Saroj, a social worker who is involved in many community functions, invited us to accompany her to the innaugeration of an area summer school. The school itself was a good example of our surprise at the state of infrastructure in India- given how it's portrayed in the media (IT jobs, such a fast growing economy, etc.), we expected to see at least a moderate level of infrastructure, but in terms of things like roads, schools, and sanitation India is more like the least-developed places we've visited, about on par with Ghana.
At the school, we sat around for awhile with the group of other dignitaries/speakers, and then the ceremony began, with some students and the local tv station cameras in the audience. In a lineup that also featured school girls chanting, people giving speeches and enthusiastically reciting poems, and a dance routine by 3 boys straight out of Bollywood, we were also asked to speak. It was nice to be part of the ceremony, although still a little weird to be viewed as so important just because of our foreign status. Just like our appearance in a local newspaper back at the start of our trip in Turkey (at the eco-village Pastoral Vadi), we made the news, apparently both in tv news and the newspaper (unfortunately we never saw any of this).
The next day we rose early (but not early enough for sunrise) and went to the Taj Mahal, where we stayed for several hours. It was very impressive, and we could notice changes in the color of the marble with the changing light (the main reason to stay while there); but of course it was very hot and some hassles. Returning to the house, we left again shortly to buy groceries (to cook for the family tonight) at a store they said "had everything." When we arrived, not only did we discover that they certainly didn't have everything, but also what they did have was of pretty poor quality. We bought ingredients for pasta, and back at the house vegetables from a cart the the vendor pulled through the neighborhood.
That afternoon, Saroj brought us to a Hindu ceremony where a young "guru" was presiding. The ceremony was in a covered courtyard space in the middle of the old city, where the street life looks like it was lifted directly out of the Middle Ages--people, animals, goods, garbage, everything all jammed together in such tight spaces. Like at the summer school innaugeration, again we were guests of honor, going up to the front to have an orange saffron and sandalwood paste dot put on Rachel's forehead, and stripes on mine. The ceremony consisted of dancing, singing, and the guru speaking; Rachel was recruited several times to dance in front with the main women. At the end, we were given "holy food" (sliced cucumbers and a bag of potato chips), and touched with holy water. At one point, we were again pulled aside to talk to the tv cameras. The ceremony was really interesting to see, and one of those things that we definitely couldn't have done on our own. We cooked the pasta that night, but it seemed strange that only Vikram ate with us- Varsha watching the kids, Krishna in the other room drinking whiskey with some political friends, and Saroj not joining us because, as Vikram told us, it's not respectful for a son to drink in front of his mother.
It was interesting to talk with Vikram and his wife (separately) about their marriage, which was arranged. In India there's an entire section of the newspaper called "Matrimonials," with ads seeking both brides and grooms. The ads include caste, profession- strange to us, but maybe not that different from the personal ads at home. Varsha asked to see the perfumes we had with us, she said she collects them so Rachel gave her some of hers.
The following day Vikram gave us a tour of his marble workshop. He said that he is the 11th generation marble worker in his family, which did the marble work on the Taj Mahal. Vikram's workshop is currently responsible for the maintenance of the marble in the Taj, still using the same methods as his ancestors. The marble inlay work is so detailed and beautiful, and it was really interesting to see the process. He said the workshop is closed except to friends and dignitaries--one of the recent famous Americans who visited was Bill Clinton! That afternoon Saroj took us to a fabric store and tailor to get some clothes made- we thought for another ceremony we were attending that evening, but that turned out to not be the case.
Our final interaction was what made us look at everything a little differently: we were taken "to a friend's to have a drink," which turned out to be a jewelry store, where we did have a drink, but then were given the tour and expected to buy something, which we didn't. After this, it wasn't ambiguous to us whether or not we were being manipulated to buy things, but rather whether this was the only motivation, or it was mixed with some genuine hospitality. We think the latter was true, but still it was a sour note to end the time in Agra as we boarded an overnight train to Varanasi.
Leaving Mcleod/Dharamsala, we caught the overnight bus to Delhi, which provided some beautiful views of sunset (after a downpour of rain that afternoon) with the mountains and town in the background. Back in Delhi, we caught the train to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. The ride wasn't very scenic, with lots of flat, dusty land cultivated into small fields.
After giving up on making train reservations at the crowded station, we were happy to get to Krishna, a former member of parliament, and his wife Saroj's house, where they live with their son Vikram, his wife Varsha, and their two children Baras and Nina. While it was cooler that day because of clouds and even a little rain, after lunch we were still glad to retire to our room for a siesta during the afternoon heat. After that, Saroj, a social worker who is involved in many community functions, invited us to accompany her to the innaugeration of an area summer school. The school itself was a good example of our surprise at the state of infrastructure in India- given how it's portrayed in the media (IT jobs, such a fast growing economy, etc.), we expected to see at least a moderate level of infrastructure, but in terms of things like roads, schools, and sanitation India is more like the least-developed places we've visited, about on par with Ghana.
At the school, we sat around for awhile with the group of other dignitaries/speakers, and then the ceremony began, with some students and the local tv station cameras in the audience. In a lineup that also featured school girls chanting, people giving speeches and enthusiastically reciting poems, and a dance routine by 3 boys straight out of Bollywood, we were also asked to speak. It was nice to be part of the ceremony, although still a little weird to be viewed as so important just because of our foreign status. Just like our appearance in a local newspaper back at the start of our trip in Turkey (at the eco-village Pastoral Vadi), we made the news, apparently both in tv news and the newspaper (unfortunately we never saw any of this).
The next day we rose early (but not early enough for sunrise) and went to the Taj Mahal, where we stayed for several hours. It was very impressive, and we could notice changes in the color of the marble with the changing light (the main reason to stay while there); but of course it was very hot and some hassles. Returning to the house, we left again shortly to buy groceries (to cook for the family tonight) at a store they said "had everything." When we arrived, not only did we discover that they certainly didn't have everything, but also what they did have was of pretty poor quality. We bought ingredients for pasta, and back at the house vegetables from a cart the the vendor pulled through the neighborhood.
That afternoon, Saroj brought us to a Hindu ceremony where a young "guru" was presiding. The ceremony was in a covered courtyard space in the middle of the old city, where the street life looks like it was lifted directly out of the Middle Ages--people, animals, goods, garbage, everything all jammed together in such tight spaces. Like at the summer school innaugeration, again we were guests of honor, going up to the front to have an orange saffron and sandalwood paste dot put on Rachel's forehead, and stripes on mine. The ceremony consisted of dancing, singing, and the guru speaking; Rachel was recruited several times to dance in front with the main women. At the end, we were given "holy food" (sliced cucumbers and a bag of potato chips), and touched with holy water. At one point, we were again pulled aside to talk to the tv cameras. The ceremony was really interesting to see, and one of those things that we definitely couldn't have done on our own. We cooked the pasta that night, but it seemed strange that only Vikram ate with us- Varsha watching the kids, Krishna in the other room drinking whiskey with some political friends, and Saroj not joining us because, as Vikram told us, it's not respectful for a son to drink in front of his mother.
It was interesting to talk with Vikram and his wife (separately) about their marriage, which was arranged. In India there's an entire section of the newspaper called "Matrimonials," with ads seeking both brides and grooms. The ads include caste, profession- strange to us, but maybe not that different from the personal ads at home. Varsha asked to see the perfumes we had with us, she said she collects them so Rachel gave her some of hers.
The following day Vikram gave us a tour of his marble workshop. He said that he is the 11th generation marble worker in his family, which did the marble work on the Taj Mahal. Vikram's workshop is currently responsible for the maintenance of the marble in the Taj, still using the same methods as his ancestors. The marble inlay work is so detailed and beautiful, and it was really interesting to see the process. He said the workshop is closed except to friends and dignitaries--one of the recent famous Americans who visited was Bill Clinton! That afternoon Saroj took us to a fabric store and tailor to get some clothes made- we thought for another ceremony we were attending that evening, but that turned out to not be the case.
Our final interaction was what made us look at everything a little differently: we were taken "to a friend's to have a drink," which turned out to be a jewelry store, where we did have a drink, but then were given the tour and expected to buy something, which we didn't. After this, it wasn't ambiguous to us whether or not we were being manipulated to buy things, but rather whether this was the only motivation, or it was mixed with some genuine hospitality. We think the latter was true, but still it was a sour note to end the time in Agra as we boarded an overnight train to Varanasi.
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