I'm working on Jaipur part II, but I wanted to take a brief minute to point something out about what happened in the Olympics today.
People say that there is no doubt: Phelps is the greatest Olympian of these games. However, allow me to introduce a track star by the name of Usain Bolt:
* Only 9 men have ever won gold medals in two sprinting events during the same Olympics. The last time the 100 and 200 were won in the same year was 1984. Bolt just did it.
* Nobody has ever broken the 100 and 200 world records in the same Olympics before. Bolt made it look easy.
* Since 1996, when Michael Johnson set the old world record in the 200, nobody had even come CLOSE to matching him. Other than Johnson, the fastest other time ever recorded in the event is three tenths of a second slower than Bolt, meaning that for years, all the best runners in the discipline could only run at around 19.65 seconds. Bolt and Johnson are the only two people to ever break 19.6, and they both did it in 19.3.
* Not only did Bolt break the world record in the 200, but during his world record breaking time in the 100, he SLOWED DOWN TO CELEBRATE. That would be like Phelps swimming breaststroke during a freestyle race and still winning. Umm...no.
* While most of the swimming world records are being broken on a yearly basis anymore, Johnson's 12-year old record was still fairly new in terms of track records when Bolt ducked under it. Some records have been in existence for over 25 years. What I mean to say is this: in swimming, the world record means that the athlete was competing in a really fast pool with a brand new, top of the line Speedo. In track, the world record means that the athlete ran faster than anybody has ever run before.
* Had you ever heard Bolt's name before he came to these Olympics? Didn't think so. He apparently was completely a no-name as of a year ago.
* If you took Bolt's time in the 200 as the sum of two 100s, both of the 100 splits would have beaten his record in the 100.
Now, I'm not arguing that Phelps isn't a great athlete, or isn't the greatest Olympian at these games - but I do think the argument exists to say that Usain Bolt has equaled him - not just by beating everybody else (by over half a second in the 200), but by beating, through skill and not technology, everyone who has ever come before him.
Ok...object as you like.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Jaipur, Part 1
Note: if you are my mom or dad and have somehow gotten hold of the URL for this, please, please, PLEASE do not read this post until I am back in the US. I am currently in good health and returning home in a little over a week. I’m not doing any of this stuff again, so knowing about it will only make you unjustifiably nervous. Plus you'll enjoy it more when I tell you in person anyway.
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They say that truth is often stranger than fiction. I think that at the very least it tends to be more entertaining. Either way, I can tell you that this story WILL be the definitive tale of my trip to India, and one that I will consider life-changing many years from now. It also makes a great blog post.
This weekend contained the rare coincidence of Indian Independence Day (August 15) and the Festival of Sisterhood (there’s another name for it, but I don’t know what it is – it’s according to the Indian lunar calendar and thus is on a different day every year). The ensuing three-day weekend provided a perfect opportunity for a trip except for the issue of companionship – because of the Festival of Sisterhood, every Hindu in Delhi was returning to their parents homes and was unable to travel. I originally had planned to accompany one of my friends to her family’s home in Hyderabad, but the combination of being unable to stay on a military base (her father is in the navy, and I am not an Indian citizen) and the fact that the plane ride alone would cost 600 USD, sort of spelled the end of that plan.
So two days before Independence Day, and I had plans for a three-day weekend staring at my wall (I even had a spot picked out). But it was also my next to last weekend in India, and I couldn’t let that stand, so I got a friend to help me book a last minute train ticket and a hotel in Jaipur, the Pink City and the capital of the desert-state Rajasthan. There are no train tickets available for Thursday night, Friday or Sunday, so we settle on a 6:30 am Saturday train with a return by bus. I am supposed to get the bus ticket upon arrival in Rajasthan.
I spend Friday in boredom – it’s Independence Day, but it’s sort of like the US Independence Day without big fireworks shows – just not all that much to see. I go to bed that night excited, and awake at 3:30, a full hour before my 4:30 am alarm. Note the time: if you are careful here, you will be able to spot at least one misfortune that befalls me for every two hours I am awake today.
The cab company I got to take me to the train charges extra if you begin the ride before 5 am, so I wisely settled on 5 as my pickup time. Unfortunately, what they neglected to tell me was that if the cab gets there early, regardless of the time you booked the it, they will still charge you extra if you get in at 4:55. And the cab driver doesn’t speak English. The ride to the train station costs me an extra 100 rupees or so (about a 33% hike). Yikes. One misfortune in the bag. Trust me though, this is one of the minor ones.
It is still dark when we arrive at the station. While it is early in the morning, there are still over 100 people waiting, including a couple of foreign tourists, easily recognizable by their large, stuffed backpacks. Oh, yeah, and the fact that they’re white.
There’s a voice recording that announces the train arrivals and departures. Unfortunately, they missed the entire point of a speaker system, and opted to begin each message with a loud “TA-DA” just to make sure you weren’t confused into thinking it was the guy right beside you yelling directly in your ear. And there was one going off maybe every 30 seconds. At 5:30 am.
At around 6:00, THE VOICE (and I say it in all caps because it was almost as pervasive as the “TA-DA” announcing it) says something in Hindi that includes my train number, and all of a sudden my train is no longer listed on the departure board. Figuring it’s been delayed an hour or two, I sit down for about ten minutes, then begin to explore my surroundings. I stop close to some steps leading to the train platforms, and while I am standing there a man gestures to me. I walk over to him.
“Which train?” he asks.
I show him my ticket, and he points somewhere off in the distance. I look, and see in the darkness a hidden platform.
“That track,” he says.
“And it’s on time?”
“Yes,” he says, a grin spreading across his face.
I walk over to the platform, and sure enough there it is, ready to go. I take a seat, and stare out the window as the train pulls out of the station.
Two hours later, the man next to me starts a conversation. His name is Kaifi, a Muslim from Delhi. He and I talk about the differences between India and the US, religion, work, even our names (which surprisingly, mean nearly the same thing). He is traveling to Jaipur for the Festival of Sisterhood.
A quick bit about the Festival of Sisterhood. It is a Hindu ritual recognizing the bond between brother and sister. Sisters take a band or a bracelet and tie it around their brother’s wrist. That’s the formal ceremony, at least. The fun part is that often girls will approach men who are not their brother and try to give them the bracelet, making them their brother – this is apparently particularly common with children, and leads to girls chasing guys around the playground (for a change). In fact, my coworkers told me that if I saw a girl approaching me with a bracelet, (at least, if she was hot), to run like the devil himself was at my heels.
Anyway (and I hope I have this right), Kaifi met a young girl at a train station one day and helped her with her bags. Through another series of events, they became pretty close and stayed in touch, and became sort of like brother and sister to each other. Kaifi, being Muslim, does not celebrate the Festival, but his “sister” does. And so this year, his sister was asking him if he would come down for the festival. Kaifi originally said no, but was now taking a 5-hour train ride to Jaipur with the intent of surprising her.
While I am talking with Kaifi, we arrive at the train station in what seems like no time. Note that I have now been awake for 8 hours and only one thing has really gone wrong. Don’t worry…I’ll catch up soon.
When I exit the train station, I am immediately hounded by a bunch of rickshaw drivers. I pick one who, surprisingly, gives me a fair price with almost no bargaining. Be wary of that sort, by the way.
As I tell him which hotel I am going to, he immediately pipes up. “No, no, no, that hotel is no good.” He tries to explain why in some garbled Hindi that I can’t understand, but another rickshaw driver comes over, apparently hoping for my business. When he hears us talking about hotels, he asks my driver something in Hindi. When my driver responds with the hotel name, he looks at me and goes “oh…that hotel is no good.”
I have never seen this before, but I recognize it immediately as a scam – and a bad one at that. Besides, my friend called his uncle, who lives in Jaipur, and had him book me the hotel. I can’t just turn it down.
I get into the auto, and the driver starts asking me about my visit to Jaipur – what I plan on seeing, things like that. He brings up the hotel again, and warns me that it’s not good and that I should let him take me to one that is a third of the price.
“Really, is it close to tourist things?” I ask. He doesn’t understand me.
We pull up to the hotel. He tells me to go check the room and figure out if I like it, and that he will wait here. I tell him it’s ok. He asks if I want him to show me around the city or go to some of the touristy spots. I respectfully decline.
He leaves, and I go inside, to face problem #3 – I am now operating under a false identity. According to my reservation, I am now a member of a certain corporation known for making baby shampoo – the name of which will be left out here with the thought that, since I am obviously NOT a member of said baby shampoo making corporation, there was obviously something awry.
The minute I walk in, the manager comes over, shakes my hand, introduces himself, and tells me that as a member of this baby shampoo-making corporation, I will be getting a discount – which turns out to be what I was told by my friend that the room would cost. I am baffled, so after hearing the price and inspecting the room, I try to call my friend to just make sure this is what was intended.
Problem #4 – no cell phone reception.
I go on ahead and decide to operate under my new false identity, and so Nic of the baby shampoo-making corporation signs everything he needs to sign and heads to the bus depot. Where he learns that there is not a single bus available for his return on Sunday. The first bus available bus is 8:30 am on Monday, and I buy a ticket while I still can.
Frustrated, I do the logical thing, and wander around until I am totally, unbelievably lost.
Yeah, I know…genius, right?
The walk is actually quite nice, though. The people here are extremely friendly, with kids jumping in front of my camera to get their picture taken (I have a really cute one that will be on photobucket once I upload) and walking alongside me. Everybody says hi and waves. However, there are some…issues.
Take, for example, the man who pulls away from his group of friends as I approach and starts to walk beside me. We talk, he introduces himself, asks my name and where I’m from, and then says that he loves the US, and wants to sit down for tea and have a talk with me about it.
I tell him respectfully no. He asks again.
When he realizes that I’m not going to come for tea with him right now, we turn back to conversation. He says he is trying to learn English and would like to practice. I tell him that it’s a very good thing to know. He asks me where I am staying. I tell him I am staying in a hotel. He asks which one. I ignore the question. He asks if I am traveling alone. I lie through my teeth.
Then he asks me again to come sit and have tea with him. I turn him down again. Please note that I am currently in a strange city, on the other side of the world, alone, with no cell phone reception, fighting to keep from being conned tooth and nail by a guy who is in the middle of his own neighborhood. What could possibly make this any worse?
…
At that point, it begins to rain.
…
Seriously. I’m not making this up.
The conversation continues relatively as follows:
“You know, you can see all these touristy things all you want, but you should really get to know the real Jaipur.”
“I know. That’s why I’m on a walk over here.”
“But you could get to know Jaipur even better if you sat down and talked to somebody from Jaipur.”
“I know, but to be honest, I’m away from my friends right now and I don’t know that I can trust you. I don’t mean to be rude, but…”
“No, you aren’t being rude.”
A moment of silence.
“You know, I know there are a lot of people here who come and want to take your money because you are a rich American. But…they don’t know how hard you work for it.”
I don’t have a response, other than a seething anger that he immediately assumes that I have money when the only reason I'm able to be here is because I'm being funded (and thanks to those guys, who I know definitely read the blog). I hide it though, and just say that we’re not all rich, and that I’m not rich. I refrain from chewing him out.
He offers to show me around if I get tea with him first. I ask him how I get to the City Palace, a tourist attraction that is not near my hotel (although I tell him it is). He says he’ll get me a rickshaw, and begins to talk to one of the nearby ones. They’re obviously not bartering for a price.
I wait for him to get engrossed in talking to them, and then start walking away. When he notices I am leaving, he calls out to me. I turn and wave and continue walking.
Two blocks later, after he is out of sight, I get a rickshaw back to my hotel. I walk in and collapse on my bed for a minute, before deciding to venture out again. Mysteriously, in the time between abandoning the con man and getting to the hotel, my cell phone has connected again. But now it’s not sending texts and nobody I know is picking up the phone. Not a worry for right now, though.
Eight mishaps. But we’re not out of the woods yet.
When I get back down to the lobby, two things that are important happen: I sign up for a tour of Chowki Dhani, this traditional Rajasthani restaurant/theme park. The price is 700 rupees, including the ticket to Chowki Dhani. I confirm that two or three times. The second important thing is that the manager tells me that the places I would like to go touring at are only about a mile away, and that I could walk there.
The rain has stopped, and so I start out on another walk.
Not five minutes later, another guy comes up to me. This one is a little better with his con. He talks to me a little first, then starts asking the personal questions. Am I traveling alone? Of course not. What’s my name? Phil.
“This today is the festival of sisterhood. Sisters give brothers a bracelet like this:” he pulls out a bracelet of red yarn with some gold tassels. “You are my friend, and so I want to give you this bracelet.”
“I don’t know, dude. I don’t know you very well, and I don’t think I’d feel comfortable taking your bracelet. Especially if your sister gave it to you.”
He looks hurt, but changes the subject. “So the people you are traveling with…two couples? Boy and girl?”
“No. I’m with my team.”
“Your team? How many people?”
“Six.”
“But there are 11 on a cricket team. My cricket team has 11. Where is the rest of your team?”
“No. It’s my wrestling team.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Wrestling…like, beating people up.”
The look on his face was jaw-droppingly, eye-wideningly PRICELESS. But he decided to go for the con anyway. “I would really like for you to meet my mother. Will you come back to my house with me to meet her?”
Ummm…no.
I dodge another couple feeble attempts, and then I ask him where City Palace is, that I am meeting my friends there. He says he will get me a bicycle rickshaw. The rickshaw driver gives me a price that is heinously expensive, and I then demand one that is equally cheap. My new “friend” begins yelling at the rickshaw driver. Meanwhile, I sneak away, grab the next rickshaw I can find, and get him to take me to an attraction called the Hawa Mahal, or Temple of the Winds.
On the way, the rickshaw driver starts acting funny. He stops in the middle of the street two or three times and gets out to adjust the back wheel. He is calling out to other rickshaw drivers and asking in Hindi for a price to go to Hawa Mahal. Finally I notice: the bicycle has a huge crack in it, and is about to break in half.
It has been approximately two hours since I arrived in Jaipur.
He finds a rickshaw driver who is willing to split the fare with him 50/50 after we get a ways down the road.
In 1876, Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Albert came to visit Jaipur, and in preparation, the entire city was dyed pink. Not sure if pink was Prince Albert’s choice of color, but the end result was a great reception for the Prince and a new name for Jaipur: the Pink City. As I ride by in the rickshaw, the city is a swath of pink dotted by the whites and grays of newer shops. There is a large wall surrounding the inner city, and we go through that. A few minutes later, we arrive at the Temple of the Winds.
The temple is a (pink) structure built into the surrounding city. It really isn’t a temple – it is a set of open air spaces and walkways – a building with no roof. The side of the Temple that is facing outwards is quite ornate, and the other walls barely exist – once you get to the second floor it is like being on the roof. Other than the lack of walls, the twisting passageways on the sides and the number of locked doors remind me of a Zelda game, and a structure that looks like a block with a crescent moon in the center confirms to me that this is where Miyamoto’s team conceived the idea. Besides – its name is the Wind Temple, and the Jal Mahal, or Water Temple, is nearby.
With some confusion because of the passageways and some trick walls, I make my way up to the top of the structure. There is a small crowd up there, and I get an Asian man to take my photo. We chat for a quick minute – he is from China, and I ask him why he is in India instead of watching the Olympics. He says he wanted to come to India. I say “Go China” in what I’m sure is a very bad, very garbled Chinese (I only know the phrase because my friend Zoe mentioned it in an E-mail to me), and he responds with “Go USA.” Touching moment indeed.
I leave and go on to the next attraction, the Jantar Mantar, or magical instrument, which is next door geographically, although tricky to get to. On the way there, a young child starts walking in front of me. “Jantar Mantar?” he asks. “Yes,” I say. He begins to lead the way (which is definitely helpful). Before too long, a veritable army of five children has joined us, walking in front of me.
We reach the entrance to the Jantar Mantar, and one of the more talkative children, possibly the only one who knows English, turns to me and says “Ok. Give us our rupee now.” You could tell that they expected it, probably because every white man who passed that way before probably gave one to them. I gave them one apiece, not only because they were cute but because there was no way this cycle was possibly going to break. May as well just go along with it.
The Jantar Mantar is a series of large devices for measuring time, the season, the constellations, etc. It is sort of like a very modern (built in the 1700s, I believe), much more Indian Stonehenge, and includes the biggest sundial (or equivalent) that I have ever seen – it actually has steps in the center so you can walk up to the top, although the steps are now blocked.
After Jantar Mantar I went to look at the City Palace, but the tickets were expensive and I had to stay an extra night at the hotel, so I decided to pass and go home. In retrospect, that was probably my biggest mistake all day. And no, the craziness isn’t over yet.
I finish Jantar Mantar, and got ripped off by a rickshaw driver on the way back. This time, his boss says the driver will take me to a Western Union to change money, and he totally doesn’t. The guy doesn’t speak English, and I don’t know how to communicate to him an idea as complex as “We agreed on going to a money changer and then the hotel,” so I just let it lie – the price he charged was somewhat reasonable anyway.
I go into the hotel and rest for a bit, then come downstairs for the Chowki Dhani tour. When I get in the taxi, the manager of the tour service asks me to give him 500 rupees up front. No problem, but I’m smelling scam.
The driver drives me into the middle of nowhere. Luckily, Chowki Dhani is also in the middle of nowhere, so I’m ok. While I’m standing in line for a ticket, I realize the con: he’s making me pay for my own ticket, which makes the whole trip 120 rupees more expensive. I explicate very briefly to myself, and then walk in.
Chowki Dhani is a world unto itself. Originally created as a shack that served all-vegetarian, traditional Rajasthani food, it has expanded to include games, rides, and performances.
In the rush of arrival I had skipped lunch, but before dinner, I wandered around a little bit. Women with 8 pots balanced on their heads danced on daggers, shards of glass, and spikes (I believe all of them were blunt and not dangerous, but it was impressive nonetheless). There was a magic show, a puppet show, and a large number of musicians and dancing. Children were getting elephant rides, while adults were shooting real arrows at a target. There was also a haunted house, and some museums and shops.
After walking for a bit, I decided to sit down to dinner. According to my friend, previous dinners involved the Chowki Dhani staff spooning food onto your plate until you could eat no more. The format had changed recently, however, and was now a buffet. The meal was still vegetarian, though.
I got a plate and tried every dish they had. My favorite was the Alu Piaz, or potato and onions. Every dish, though, was buttery and delicious, and I ate until I was full.
I wandered around and watched some more shows. Some were good, others were boring. I had said that I wanted to ride an elephant before I left, so I rode one. I was out of change, otherwise I would have ridden the camel too, but I had already sort of done that, so I was happy.
Towards 9 pm (the party goes on until around 1 am if you stick around long enough), I began to watch some traditional Indian women’s dancing. I was in the dark, towards the back, but at some point, I happened to make eye contact with one of the women on stage, who gestured to me to come up. She tried to teach me a couple of her dance moves, but I have trouble doing modern men’s dance moves – learning traditional women's dance is just a little out of my league.
And then after about 30 seconds comes the bomb. She looks at me and furrows her brow questioningly. “Tip?” she asks.
“Huh?”
“Money? Tip? Change?”
“Oh, uh…I’m out of change.” I still had 9 rupees in my pocket, plus an insurance 500-rupee note that I was not about to break.
“Tip?”
This went on for another couple seconds, until I realized that not only was I having a conversation with this woman on the middle of the dance floor, but that I was no longer dancing. Given what I had seen of Jaipur so far, I figured that the odds of her making a scene if I walked away were not in my favor. So I dug the coins out of my pocket, turned, and walked out of Chowki Dhani.
Now I want to be clear about this: I had fun at Chowki Dhani. A lot of fun. But I just could not abide the image I had gotten of Jaipur today, and this woman’s complete shamelessness in asking for a tip after humiliating me on the dance floor was just too much.
I walked back to the driver, who took me to the cab and we left to go to the hotel. I spent the entire ride doing two things: fuming about the woman at Chowki Dhani, and swearing to blow a gasket if the taxi driver asked for a tip.
He didn’t ask for a tip. He asked for the rest of the payment – the other 200 rupees.
I tried to explain to him that I had to pay for my own ticket and was not about to get cheated again, but he didn’t understand. Finally, I resisted enough that he decided to come in so we could get the hotel staff to sort it out.
He talked to one of the men behind the counter, who then turned to me and said in a brusque, dismissive voice “give me 200 rupees.”
I took a step back and started defending myself. The argument started to grow heated, me talking in English and the concierge in Hindi, neither of us understanding the other.
Finally, another concierge came out. He spoke better English. “What is the problem?” he asked.
I explained to him the situation. It took about 4 tries. Finally, he responded. “It is a misunderstanding. The 700 rupees did not include the ticket.”
I responded with the honest truth. “But he told me it did. I specifically asked him. ‘The ticket is included?’ I asked, and he said ‘Yes.’ ‘And the food?’ ‘Yes, yes, it is all included.’”
“Yes, but the price is 700 rupees. It is a misunderstanding.”
“I know, but I would not have signed up for it had he asked for 700 rupees. That price is INSANE.”
He shakes his head. “But the price is 700 rupees for the cab.”
We go back and forth for a little longer. By this point I am apologetic, but unwilling to pay.
Finally, the concierge has a solution. “You keep the money for now, and I will talk to the manager in the morning.”
“Fine,” I say. “But can I talk to him as well?”
“Sure.” He agrees. He then explains the plan to the driver, who agrees. He leaves for the night.
I go up to my room, furious. I pace for about 10 minutes, then lie back on my bed. After a while, I start to wonder: I know what he said and what I said, but what is a fair price? Was I cheating him by keeping the money? Or was he cheating me by making me pay it? And either way, should each of us get something because it was, legitimately, a miscommunication?
While I was pacing my belt broke.
Thoughts racing, I tossed and turned for an hour or two, and then finally went to sleep at around midnight with a solution to the problem. But like any good cliffhanger, you’ll have to hear about that in the next post.
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As an aside, a number of people have told me so far that these adventures would make a good book. While I was hesitant at first, this trip to Jaipur has made me wonder if a book might actually make sense – there are a lot of funny moments and a good number of overarching plotlines that I could put together. I’m thinking sort of like Vikram Seth’s From Heaven Lake except a little funnier and dealing with a different set of themes (the clash between the traditional Indian Hindu culture and modern Indian Western culture and what that says about American culture and whatnot)
So if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask whoever has read this far to post a comment, acknowledging that you’re reading it (so I can tell how many of my friends are interested enough to read the blogs), and (voluntarily, of course) answering a few (meaning any of the following) questions:
1.)Do you think I could pull this off as a book? Keep in mind that many of the stories (Jaipur, Agra, Megan in the Hospital) may wind up being put in practically word-for-word. This is a question both about me as a writer and about the stories in general.
2.)What improvements would you like to see made to my writing style? What (other than an overarching connection between everything blogged so far) do you think a book would need that these posts don’t have?
3.)What other things about India would you be interested in hearing about?
Post anonymously if you don’t want me to know who you are. I know there are enough people that have read these blogs in the past that I won’t be able to know who it is from one comment. But please be honest – lavish, undeserved praise is one thing that gets me upset, and I genuinely do love hearing about how I can improve.
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They say that truth is often stranger than fiction. I think that at the very least it tends to be more entertaining. Either way, I can tell you that this story WILL be the definitive tale of my trip to India, and one that I will consider life-changing many years from now. It also makes a great blog post.
This weekend contained the rare coincidence of Indian Independence Day (August 15) and the Festival of Sisterhood (there’s another name for it, but I don’t know what it is – it’s according to the Indian lunar calendar and thus is on a different day every year). The ensuing three-day weekend provided a perfect opportunity for a trip except for the issue of companionship – because of the Festival of Sisterhood, every Hindu in Delhi was returning to their parents homes and was unable to travel. I originally had planned to accompany one of my friends to her family’s home in Hyderabad, but the combination of being unable to stay on a military base (her father is in the navy, and I am not an Indian citizen) and the fact that the plane ride alone would cost 600 USD, sort of spelled the end of that plan.
So two days before Independence Day, and I had plans for a three-day weekend staring at my wall (I even had a spot picked out). But it was also my next to last weekend in India, and I couldn’t let that stand, so I got a friend to help me book a last minute train ticket and a hotel in Jaipur, the Pink City and the capital of the desert-state Rajasthan. There are no train tickets available for Thursday night, Friday or Sunday, so we settle on a 6:30 am Saturday train with a return by bus. I am supposed to get the bus ticket upon arrival in Rajasthan.
I spend Friday in boredom – it’s Independence Day, but it’s sort of like the US Independence Day without big fireworks shows – just not all that much to see. I go to bed that night excited, and awake at 3:30, a full hour before my 4:30 am alarm. Note the time: if you are careful here, you will be able to spot at least one misfortune that befalls me for every two hours I am awake today.
The cab company I got to take me to the train charges extra if you begin the ride before 5 am, so I wisely settled on 5 as my pickup time. Unfortunately, what they neglected to tell me was that if the cab gets there early, regardless of the time you booked the it, they will still charge you extra if you get in at 4:55. And the cab driver doesn’t speak English. The ride to the train station costs me an extra 100 rupees or so (about a 33% hike). Yikes. One misfortune in the bag. Trust me though, this is one of the minor ones.
It is still dark when we arrive at the station. While it is early in the morning, there are still over 100 people waiting, including a couple of foreign tourists, easily recognizable by their large, stuffed backpacks. Oh, yeah, and the fact that they’re white.
There’s a voice recording that announces the train arrivals and departures. Unfortunately, they missed the entire point of a speaker system, and opted to begin each message with a loud “TA-DA” just to make sure you weren’t confused into thinking it was the guy right beside you yelling directly in your ear. And there was one going off maybe every 30 seconds. At 5:30 am.
At around 6:00, THE VOICE (and I say it in all caps because it was almost as pervasive as the “TA-DA” announcing it) says something in Hindi that includes my train number, and all of a sudden my train is no longer listed on the departure board. Figuring it’s been delayed an hour or two, I sit down for about ten minutes, then begin to explore my surroundings. I stop close to some steps leading to the train platforms, and while I am standing there a man gestures to me. I walk over to him.
“Which train?” he asks.
I show him my ticket, and he points somewhere off in the distance. I look, and see in the darkness a hidden platform.
“That track,” he says.
“And it’s on time?”
“Yes,” he says, a grin spreading across his face.
I walk over to the platform, and sure enough there it is, ready to go. I take a seat, and stare out the window as the train pulls out of the station.
Two hours later, the man next to me starts a conversation. His name is Kaifi, a Muslim from Delhi. He and I talk about the differences between India and the US, religion, work, even our names (which surprisingly, mean nearly the same thing). He is traveling to Jaipur for the Festival of Sisterhood.
A quick bit about the Festival of Sisterhood. It is a Hindu ritual recognizing the bond between brother and sister. Sisters take a band or a bracelet and tie it around their brother’s wrist. That’s the formal ceremony, at least. The fun part is that often girls will approach men who are not their brother and try to give them the bracelet, making them their brother – this is apparently particularly common with children, and leads to girls chasing guys around the playground (for a change). In fact, my coworkers told me that if I saw a girl approaching me with a bracelet, (at least, if she was hot), to run like the devil himself was at my heels.
Anyway (and I hope I have this right), Kaifi met a young girl at a train station one day and helped her with her bags. Through another series of events, they became pretty close and stayed in touch, and became sort of like brother and sister to each other. Kaifi, being Muslim, does not celebrate the Festival, but his “sister” does. And so this year, his sister was asking him if he would come down for the festival. Kaifi originally said no, but was now taking a 5-hour train ride to Jaipur with the intent of surprising her.
While I am talking with Kaifi, we arrive at the train station in what seems like no time. Note that I have now been awake for 8 hours and only one thing has really gone wrong. Don’t worry…I’ll catch up soon.
When I exit the train station, I am immediately hounded by a bunch of rickshaw drivers. I pick one who, surprisingly, gives me a fair price with almost no bargaining. Be wary of that sort, by the way.
As I tell him which hotel I am going to, he immediately pipes up. “No, no, no, that hotel is no good.” He tries to explain why in some garbled Hindi that I can’t understand, but another rickshaw driver comes over, apparently hoping for my business. When he hears us talking about hotels, he asks my driver something in Hindi. When my driver responds with the hotel name, he looks at me and goes “oh…that hotel is no good.”
I have never seen this before, but I recognize it immediately as a scam – and a bad one at that. Besides, my friend called his uncle, who lives in Jaipur, and had him book me the hotel. I can’t just turn it down.
I get into the auto, and the driver starts asking me about my visit to Jaipur – what I plan on seeing, things like that. He brings up the hotel again, and warns me that it’s not good and that I should let him take me to one that is a third of the price.
“Really, is it close to tourist things?” I ask. He doesn’t understand me.
We pull up to the hotel. He tells me to go check the room and figure out if I like it, and that he will wait here. I tell him it’s ok. He asks if I want him to show me around the city or go to some of the touristy spots. I respectfully decline.
He leaves, and I go inside, to face problem #3 – I am now operating under a false identity. According to my reservation, I am now a member of a certain corporation known for making baby shampoo – the name of which will be left out here with the thought that, since I am obviously NOT a member of said baby shampoo making corporation, there was obviously something awry.
The minute I walk in, the manager comes over, shakes my hand, introduces himself, and tells me that as a member of this baby shampoo-making corporation, I will be getting a discount – which turns out to be what I was told by my friend that the room would cost. I am baffled, so after hearing the price and inspecting the room, I try to call my friend to just make sure this is what was intended.
Problem #4 – no cell phone reception.
I go on ahead and decide to operate under my new false identity, and so Nic of the baby shampoo-making corporation signs everything he needs to sign and heads to the bus depot. Where he learns that there is not a single bus available for his return on Sunday. The first bus available bus is 8:30 am on Monday, and I buy a ticket while I still can.
Frustrated, I do the logical thing, and wander around until I am totally, unbelievably lost.
Yeah, I know…genius, right?
The walk is actually quite nice, though. The people here are extremely friendly, with kids jumping in front of my camera to get their picture taken (I have a really cute one that will be on photobucket once I upload) and walking alongside me. Everybody says hi and waves. However, there are some…issues.
Take, for example, the man who pulls away from his group of friends as I approach and starts to walk beside me. We talk, he introduces himself, asks my name and where I’m from, and then says that he loves the US, and wants to sit down for tea and have a talk with me about it.
I tell him respectfully no. He asks again.
When he realizes that I’m not going to come for tea with him right now, we turn back to conversation. He says he is trying to learn English and would like to practice. I tell him that it’s a very good thing to know. He asks me where I am staying. I tell him I am staying in a hotel. He asks which one. I ignore the question. He asks if I am traveling alone. I lie through my teeth.
Then he asks me again to come sit and have tea with him. I turn him down again. Please note that I am currently in a strange city, on the other side of the world, alone, with no cell phone reception, fighting to keep from being conned tooth and nail by a guy who is in the middle of his own neighborhood. What could possibly make this any worse?
…
At that point, it begins to rain.
…
Seriously. I’m not making this up.
The conversation continues relatively as follows:
“You know, you can see all these touristy things all you want, but you should really get to know the real Jaipur.”
“I know. That’s why I’m on a walk over here.”
“But you could get to know Jaipur even better if you sat down and talked to somebody from Jaipur.”
“I know, but to be honest, I’m away from my friends right now and I don’t know that I can trust you. I don’t mean to be rude, but…”
“No, you aren’t being rude.”
A moment of silence.
“You know, I know there are a lot of people here who come and want to take your money because you are a rich American. But…they don’t know how hard you work for it.”
I don’t have a response, other than a seething anger that he immediately assumes that I have money when the only reason I'm able to be here is because I'm being funded (and thanks to those guys, who I know definitely read the blog). I hide it though, and just say that we’re not all rich, and that I’m not rich. I refrain from chewing him out.
He offers to show me around if I get tea with him first. I ask him how I get to the City Palace, a tourist attraction that is not near my hotel (although I tell him it is). He says he’ll get me a rickshaw, and begins to talk to one of the nearby ones. They’re obviously not bartering for a price.
I wait for him to get engrossed in talking to them, and then start walking away. When he notices I am leaving, he calls out to me. I turn and wave and continue walking.
Two blocks later, after he is out of sight, I get a rickshaw back to my hotel. I walk in and collapse on my bed for a minute, before deciding to venture out again. Mysteriously, in the time between abandoning the con man and getting to the hotel, my cell phone has connected again. But now it’s not sending texts and nobody I know is picking up the phone. Not a worry for right now, though.
Eight mishaps. But we’re not out of the woods yet.
When I get back down to the lobby, two things that are important happen: I sign up for a tour of Chowki Dhani, this traditional Rajasthani restaurant/theme park. The price is 700 rupees, including the ticket to Chowki Dhani. I confirm that two or three times. The second important thing is that the manager tells me that the places I would like to go touring at are only about a mile away, and that I could walk there.
The rain has stopped, and so I start out on another walk.
Not five minutes later, another guy comes up to me. This one is a little better with his con. He talks to me a little first, then starts asking the personal questions. Am I traveling alone? Of course not. What’s my name? Phil.
“This today is the festival of sisterhood. Sisters give brothers a bracelet like this:” he pulls out a bracelet of red yarn with some gold tassels. “You are my friend, and so I want to give you this bracelet.”
“I don’t know, dude. I don’t know you very well, and I don’t think I’d feel comfortable taking your bracelet. Especially if your sister gave it to you.”
He looks hurt, but changes the subject. “So the people you are traveling with…two couples? Boy and girl?”
“No. I’m with my team.”
“Your team? How many people?”
“Six.”
“But there are 11 on a cricket team. My cricket team has 11. Where is the rest of your team?”
“No. It’s my wrestling team.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Wrestling…like, beating people up.”
The look on his face was jaw-droppingly, eye-wideningly PRICELESS. But he decided to go for the con anyway. “I would really like for you to meet my mother. Will you come back to my house with me to meet her?”
Ummm…no.
I dodge another couple feeble attempts, and then I ask him where City Palace is, that I am meeting my friends there. He says he will get me a bicycle rickshaw. The rickshaw driver gives me a price that is heinously expensive, and I then demand one that is equally cheap. My new “friend” begins yelling at the rickshaw driver. Meanwhile, I sneak away, grab the next rickshaw I can find, and get him to take me to an attraction called the Hawa Mahal, or Temple of the Winds.
On the way, the rickshaw driver starts acting funny. He stops in the middle of the street two or three times and gets out to adjust the back wheel. He is calling out to other rickshaw drivers and asking in Hindi for a price to go to Hawa Mahal. Finally I notice: the bicycle has a huge crack in it, and is about to break in half.
It has been approximately two hours since I arrived in Jaipur.
He finds a rickshaw driver who is willing to split the fare with him 50/50 after we get a ways down the road.
In 1876, Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Albert came to visit Jaipur, and in preparation, the entire city was dyed pink. Not sure if pink was Prince Albert’s choice of color, but the end result was a great reception for the Prince and a new name for Jaipur: the Pink City. As I ride by in the rickshaw, the city is a swath of pink dotted by the whites and grays of newer shops. There is a large wall surrounding the inner city, and we go through that. A few minutes later, we arrive at the Temple of the Winds.
The temple is a (pink) structure built into the surrounding city. It really isn’t a temple – it is a set of open air spaces and walkways – a building with no roof. The side of the Temple that is facing outwards is quite ornate, and the other walls barely exist – once you get to the second floor it is like being on the roof. Other than the lack of walls, the twisting passageways on the sides and the number of locked doors remind me of a Zelda game, and a structure that looks like a block with a crescent moon in the center confirms to me that this is where Miyamoto’s team conceived the idea. Besides – its name is the Wind Temple, and the Jal Mahal, or Water Temple, is nearby.
With some confusion because of the passageways and some trick walls, I make my way up to the top of the structure. There is a small crowd up there, and I get an Asian man to take my photo. We chat for a quick minute – he is from China, and I ask him why he is in India instead of watching the Olympics. He says he wanted to come to India. I say “Go China” in what I’m sure is a very bad, very garbled Chinese (I only know the phrase because my friend Zoe mentioned it in an E-mail to me), and he responds with “Go USA.” Touching moment indeed.
I leave and go on to the next attraction, the Jantar Mantar, or magical instrument, which is next door geographically, although tricky to get to. On the way there, a young child starts walking in front of me. “Jantar Mantar?” he asks. “Yes,” I say. He begins to lead the way (which is definitely helpful). Before too long, a veritable army of five children has joined us, walking in front of me.
We reach the entrance to the Jantar Mantar, and one of the more talkative children, possibly the only one who knows English, turns to me and says “Ok. Give us our rupee now.” You could tell that they expected it, probably because every white man who passed that way before probably gave one to them. I gave them one apiece, not only because they were cute but because there was no way this cycle was possibly going to break. May as well just go along with it.
The Jantar Mantar is a series of large devices for measuring time, the season, the constellations, etc. It is sort of like a very modern (built in the 1700s, I believe), much more Indian Stonehenge, and includes the biggest sundial (or equivalent) that I have ever seen – it actually has steps in the center so you can walk up to the top, although the steps are now blocked.
After Jantar Mantar I went to look at the City Palace, but the tickets were expensive and I had to stay an extra night at the hotel, so I decided to pass and go home. In retrospect, that was probably my biggest mistake all day. And no, the craziness isn’t over yet.
I finish Jantar Mantar, and got ripped off by a rickshaw driver on the way back. This time, his boss says the driver will take me to a Western Union to change money, and he totally doesn’t. The guy doesn’t speak English, and I don’t know how to communicate to him an idea as complex as “We agreed on going to a money changer and then the hotel,” so I just let it lie – the price he charged was somewhat reasonable anyway.
I go into the hotel and rest for a bit, then come downstairs for the Chowki Dhani tour. When I get in the taxi, the manager of the tour service asks me to give him 500 rupees up front. No problem, but I’m smelling scam.
The driver drives me into the middle of nowhere. Luckily, Chowki Dhani is also in the middle of nowhere, so I’m ok. While I’m standing in line for a ticket, I realize the con: he’s making me pay for my own ticket, which makes the whole trip 120 rupees more expensive. I explicate very briefly to myself, and then walk in.
Chowki Dhani is a world unto itself. Originally created as a shack that served all-vegetarian, traditional Rajasthani food, it has expanded to include games, rides, and performances.
In the rush of arrival I had skipped lunch, but before dinner, I wandered around a little bit. Women with 8 pots balanced on their heads danced on daggers, shards of glass, and spikes (I believe all of them were blunt and not dangerous, but it was impressive nonetheless). There was a magic show, a puppet show, and a large number of musicians and dancing. Children were getting elephant rides, while adults were shooting real arrows at a target. There was also a haunted house, and some museums and shops.
After walking for a bit, I decided to sit down to dinner. According to my friend, previous dinners involved the Chowki Dhani staff spooning food onto your plate until you could eat no more. The format had changed recently, however, and was now a buffet. The meal was still vegetarian, though.
I got a plate and tried every dish they had. My favorite was the Alu Piaz, or potato and onions. Every dish, though, was buttery and delicious, and I ate until I was full.
I wandered around and watched some more shows. Some were good, others were boring. I had said that I wanted to ride an elephant before I left, so I rode one. I was out of change, otherwise I would have ridden the camel too, but I had already sort of done that, so I was happy.
Towards 9 pm (the party goes on until around 1 am if you stick around long enough), I began to watch some traditional Indian women’s dancing. I was in the dark, towards the back, but at some point, I happened to make eye contact with one of the women on stage, who gestured to me to come up. She tried to teach me a couple of her dance moves, but I have trouble doing modern men’s dance moves – learning traditional women's dance is just a little out of my league.
And then after about 30 seconds comes the bomb. She looks at me and furrows her brow questioningly. “Tip?” she asks.
“Huh?”
“Money? Tip? Change?”
“Oh, uh…I’m out of change.” I still had 9 rupees in my pocket, plus an insurance 500-rupee note that I was not about to break.
“Tip?”
This went on for another couple seconds, until I realized that not only was I having a conversation with this woman on the middle of the dance floor, but that I was no longer dancing. Given what I had seen of Jaipur so far, I figured that the odds of her making a scene if I walked away were not in my favor. So I dug the coins out of my pocket, turned, and walked out of Chowki Dhani.
Now I want to be clear about this: I had fun at Chowki Dhani. A lot of fun. But I just could not abide the image I had gotten of Jaipur today, and this woman’s complete shamelessness in asking for a tip after humiliating me on the dance floor was just too much.
I walked back to the driver, who took me to the cab and we left to go to the hotel. I spent the entire ride doing two things: fuming about the woman at Chowki Dhani, and swearing to blow a gasket if the taxi driver asked for a tip.
He didn’t ask for a tip. He asked for the rest of the payment – the other 200 rupees.
I tried to explain to him that I had to pay for my own ticket and was not about to get cheated again, but he didn’t understand. Finally, I resisted enough that he decided to come in so we could get the hotel staff to sort it out.
He talked to one of the men behind the counter, who then turned to me and said in a brusque, dismissive voice “give me 200 rupees.”
I took a step back and started defending myself. The argument started to grow heated, me talking in English and the concierge in Hindi, neither of us understanding the other.
Finally, another concierge came out. He spoke better English. “What is the problem?” he asked.
I explained to him the situation. It took about 4 tries. Finally, he responded. “It is a misunderstanding. The 700 rupees did not include the ticket.”
I responded with the honest truth. “But he told me it did. I specifically asked him. ‘The ticket is included?’ I asked, and he said ‘Yes.’ ‘And the food?’ ‘Yes, yes, it is all included.’”
“Yes, but the price is 700 rupees. It is a misunderstanding.”
“I know, but I would not have signed up for it had he asked for 700 rupees. That price is INSANE.”
He shakes his head. “But the price is 700 rupees for the cab.”
We go back and forth for a little longer. By this point I am apologetic, but unwilling to pay.
Finally, the concierge has a solution. “You keep the money for now, and I will talk to the manager in the morning.”
“Fine,” I say. “But can I talk to him as well?”
“Sure.” He agrees. He then explains the plan to the driver, who agrees. He leaves for the night.
I go up to my room, furious. I pace for about 10 minutes, then lie back on my bed. After a while, I start to wonder: I know what he said and what I said, but what is a fair price? Was I cheating him by keeping the money? Or was he cheating me by making me pay it? And either way, should each of us get something because it was, legitimately, a miscommunication?
While I was pacing my belt broke.
Thoughts racing, I tossed and turned for an hour or two, and then finally went to sleep at around midnight with a solution to the problem. But like any good cliffhanger, you’ll have to hear about that in the next post.
***************************
As an aside, a number of people have told me so far that these adventures would make a good book. While I was hesitant at first, this trip to Jaipur has made me wonder if a book might actually make sense – there are a lot of funny moments and a good number of overarching plotlines that I could put together. I’m thinking sort of like Vikram Seth’s From Heaven Lake except a little funnier and dealing with a different set of themes (the clash between the traditional Indian Hindu culture and modern Indian Western culture and what that says about American culture and whatnot)
So if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask whoever has read this far to post a comment, acknowledging that you’re reading it (so I can tell how many of my friends are interested enough to read the blogs), and (voluntarily, of course) answering a few (meaning any of the following) questions:
1.)Do you think I could pull this off as a book? Keep in mind that many of the stories (Jaipur, Agra, Megan in the Hospital) may wind up being put in practically word-for-word. This is a question both about me as a writer and about the stories in general.
2.)What improvements would you like to see made to my writing style? What (other than an overarching connection between everything blogged so far) do you think a book would need that these posts don’t have?
3.)What other things about India would you be interested in hearing about?
Post anonymously if you don’t want me to know who you are. I know there are enough people that have read these blogs in the past that I won’t be able to know who it is from one comment. But please be honest – lavish, undeserved praise is one thing that gets me upset, and I genuinely do love hearing about how I can improve.
Jaipur
Oh man, I totally did not think I was gonna make it back from Jaipur this weekend. Update to come soon. Right now, I'm relaxing with a Pepsi and trying to figure out exactly how I'm not either dead or stranded somewhere.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Nic’s Search For Beef, Take 2
Quick Note: I’ve decided to postpone (or maybe just not include) my blog posts about having home cooked meals (which are probably much better face to face), and Megan’s departure and how I dealt with it (which could be the subject of a book). There’s just too much stuff going on here and I’m not going to be able to get it all up. If you’re really curious about that stuff, E-mail me or call me when I get back to the states.
Anyway, here goes.
My search for beef didn’t just stop with the lambburger. Since then, I have been asking around, collecting information, and hoping that sooner or later I might find what I’m looking for. For a long time now, I have been hearing whispers about my prize being at a certain ancient restaurant, deep within the heart of Shahjahanabad, which you may have heard of from my adventure about two months ago to the Red Fort and Jama Masjid. And while yells oftentimes are false, whispers tend to be true, so I picked up one day at around lunchtime and made my way back into the ancient city-within-a-city, along with a couple friends.
As mentioned previously, Shahjahanabad is impassable to automobiles, and so we parked a ways outside the city and took the subway, arriving deep within the heart of the city. As we walked back out onto the street, I realized how much I had changed in the past two months.
I have never seen a place more crowded than Old Delhi – people are EVERYWHERE, and the chaos is apparent. Our rickshaw ride to the restaurant was less a ride and more a prolonged stop that somehow seemed to end in a different place than it began. Multiple times we actually hit the rickshaw in front of us and were simultaneously hit by the rickshaw behind us, a double crash that might be cause for concern in the United States but here is just another way of saying “I’m behind you” (along with the horn, flashing your brights, and yelling out the window). Somehow, though, where before I felt guarded and insecure, unwilling to embrace the atmosphere around me because of the crowds and my own unwillingness to be a part of them, that day I felt almost comforted by the massive chaos going on all around me.
The weather was perfection itself – not too hot, not too cold. We passed by literally thousands of shops, selling everything from stolen automobile parts to decorative plates to, yes, even kitchen sinks. And again, instead of being confused by the commotion and the overwhelming amount of people, goods, and animals, I sat there and peacefully took it all in.
Along the way, I heard stories about this fabled restaurant. Begun hundreds of years ago, it had been maintained since by a family of chefs who originally served the Mughal kings. The recipes were all secret, of course, but the food is still authentic Mughal recipes, served in the finest form, worthy of kings and queens.
I should point out here that in India, food is a higher calling. It’s a traditional source of sharing and bonding, and people here take their food VERY seriously. So when I say that the Prime Ministers of Pakistan and India were served from this restaurant to seal an incredibly difficult and incredibly important truce over the state of Kashmir, I want you to understand that this is not something to be taken lightly.
When we stepped out of the rickshaw, I was a bit confused. Where was the restaurant? I could only see a mass of buildings – no fancy doors, no signs to proclaim its existence, nothing. Then my friend Samir grabbed me and we ducked into a small alleyway.
The alleyway, as it turns out, was the entrance to the restaurant. It opened up into a sunlit corridor with small rooms on each side. Waiters in long gowns scurried around between the rooms, taking orders and carrying food. One gestured to us, and we walked over into his room and took a seat.
As we looked over the menu, I and my friends noticed two things. One was almost every dish on the menu had meat, an extremely rare thing in India today and reflective of the Mughal culture fueling this restaurant. The second thing was that there was no beef on the menu.
My disappointment was acute but short lived, for not five minutes later, I began one of the greatest feasts of my life.
We began with some murg sikh kebabs – soft, minced chicken, perfectly prepared and served with a dash of lemon and some green chutney, which is a somewhat spicy, very green sauce. Sikh kebabs are cylindrical and hollow, while their alter ego, kalmi kebabs, are flat and look like sausage patties. These were the best kebabs I have ever had, but weren’t nearly the best part of the meal.
The next course consisted of two chicken dishes and a mutton dish. The chicken tasted as though it had been cooked over woodchips for days, and the mutton melted in your mouth. All three were served in buttery, oily gravies, so heavy you could barely eat them and yet so well flavored that you could barely help coming back for more. One of my friends noted that for breakfast each morning, they serve mutton that has been cooked overnight and literally disintegrates upon contact with the inside of your mouth. I was awed.
These dishes were served with this fluffy, golden roti, like nothing I have ever seen. Most of the roti here (in fact, most of the bread in general) is pretty flat and dry, but these were like a much fluffier, softer, more buttery version of a pizza crust. Just writing about them gives me shivers, and I can see myself at some point later in life becoming obsessed with trying to reproduce them.
We ate until we could eat no more, and then ordered desert. I don’t remember the name of it now, but it was a sort of creamy, rice-based concoction served in a clay bowl. A perfect finish to a perfect meal.
We paid, washed up, and left. The cost of one of the best meals I have had in my life? $5.
I love India.
On the ride back to the office, we all basically passed out. I didn’t fall asleep, but as I relaxed in the back of the car, I felt the same sort of peace and contentment I might find swinging on the swing at the lake watching the sun go down after a full day of wakeboarding. And those of you who know me well enough know what a powerful statement that is.
I think there is a moral to this story – you don’t always have to find what you’re looking for. Sometimes, the fact that you searched is enough.
That doesn’t mean that I’m giving up on beef though – I have two more leads and I’m hoping to try each of them in the next week and a half.
This weekend I am going to Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan and one of the most popular tourist attractions in India, and next weekend I will be going to Dharamsala, the exiled Dalai Llama’s encampment deep in the Himalayan Mountains. I may not have a chance to post again until I get back to the States. But I will continue to update from home until my story is finished.
Anyway, here goes.
My search for beef didn’t just stop with the lambburger. Since then, I have been asking around, collecting information, and hoping that sooner or later I might find what I’m looking for. For a long time now, I have been hearing whispers about my prize being at a certain ancient restaurant, deep within the heart of Shahjahanabad, which you may have heard of from my adventure about two months ago to the Red Fort and Jama Masjid. And while yells oftentimes are false, whispers tend to be true, so I picked up one day at around lunchtime and made my way back into the ancient city-within-a-city, along with a couple friends.
As mentioned previously, Shahjahanabad is impassable to automobiles, and so we parked a ways outside the city and took the subway, arriving deep within the heart of the city. As we walked back out onto the street, I realized how much I had changed in the past two months.
I have never seen a place more crowded than Old Delhi – people are EVERYWHERE, and the chaos is apparent. Our rickshaw ride to the restaurant was less a ride and more a prolonged stop that somehow seemed to end in a different place than it began. Multiple times we actually hit the rickshaw in front of us and were simultaneously hit by the rickshaw behind us, a double crash that might be cause for concern in the United States but here is just another way of saying “I’m behind you” (along with the horn, flashing your brights, and yelling out the window). Somehow, though, where before I felt guarded and insecure, unwilling to embrace the atmosphere around me because of the crowds and my own unwillingness to be a part of them, that day I felt almost comforted by the massive chaos going on all around me.
The weather was perfection itself – not too hot, not too cold. We passed by literally thousands of shops, selling everything from stolen automobile parts to decorative plates to, yes, even kitchen sinks. And again, instead of being confused by the commotion and the overwhelming amount of people, goods, and animals, I sat there and peacefully took it all in.
Along the way, I heard stories about this fabled restaurant. Begun hundreds of years ago, it had been maintained since by a family of chefs who originally served the Mughal kings. The recipes were all secret, of course, but the food is still authentic Mughal recipes, served in the finest form, worthy of kings and queens.
I should point out here that in India, food is a higher calling. It’s a traditional source of sharing and bonding, and people here take their food VERY seriously. So when I say that the Prime Ministers of Pakistan and India were served from this restaurant to seal an incredibly difficult and incredibly important truce over the state of Kashmir, I want you to understand that this is not something to be taken lightly.
When we stepped out of the rickshaw, I was a bit confused. Where was the restaurant? I could only see a mass of buildings – no fancy doors, no signs to proclaim its existence, nothing. Then my friend Samir grabbed me and we ducked into a small alleyway.
The alleyway, as it turns out, was the entrance to the restaurant. It opened up into a sunlit corridor with small rooms on each side. Waiters in long gowns scurried around between the rooms, taking orders and carrying food. One gestured to us, and we walked over into his room and took a seat.
As we looked over the menu, I and my friends noticed two things. One was almost every dish on the menu had meat, an extremely rare thing in India today and reflective of the Mughal culture fueling this restaurant. The second thing was that there was no beef on the menu.
My disappointment was acute but short lived, for not five minutes later, I began one of the greatest feasts of my life.
We began with some murg sikh kebabs – soft, minced chicken, perfectly prepared and served with a dash of lemon and some green chutney, which is a somewhat spicy, very green sauce. Sikh kebabs are cylindrical and hollow, while their alter ego, kalmi kebabs, are flat and look like sausage patties. These were the best kebabs I have ever had, but weren’t nearly the best part of the meal.
The next course consisted of two chicken dishes and a mutton dish. The chicken tasted as though it had been cooked over woodchips for days, and the mutton melted in your mouth. All three were served in buttery, oily gravies, so heavy you could barely eat them and yet so well flavored that you could barely help coming back for more. One of my friends noted that for breakfast each morning, they serve mutton that has been cooked overnight and literally disintegrates upon contact with the inside of your mouth. I was awed.
These dishes were served with this fluffy, golden roti, like nothing I have ever seen. Most of the roti here (in fact, most of the bread in general) is pretty flat and dry, but these were like a much fluffier, softer, more buttery version of a pizza crust. Just writing about them gives me shivers, and I can see myself at some point later in life becoming obsessed with trying to reproduce them.
We ate until we could eat no more, and then ordered desert. I don’t remember the name of it now, but it was a sort of creamy, rice-based concoction served in a clay bowl. A perfect finish to a perfect meal.
We paid, washed up, and left. The cost of one of the best meals I have had in my life? $5.
I love India.
On the ride back to the office, we all basically passed out. I didn’t fall asleep, but as I relaxed in the back of the car, I felt the same sort of peace and contentment I might find swinging on the swing at the lake watching the sun go down after a full day of wakeboarding. And those of you who know me well enough know what a powerful statement that is.
I think there is a moral to this story – you don’t always have to find what you’re looking for. Sometimes, the fact that you searched is enough.
That doesn’t mean that I’m giving up on beef though – I have two more leads and I’m hoping to try each of them in the next week and a half.
This weekend I am going to Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan and one of the most popular tourist attractions in India, and next weekend I will be going to Dharamsala, the exiled Dalai Llama’s encampment deep in the Himalayan Mountains. I may not have a chance to post again until I get back to the States. But I will continue to update from home until my story is finished.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Lodhi Gardens, Lotus Temple
This is Part 2 of a 2-part post that starts with Lost, or Just Wandering?
The rickshaw driver dropped us off on the side of the block that was nowhere near Nienke. Which by this point is basically same old, same old. We took a hike, and met her about five minutes later.
As we were talking, I noticed a Western Union. Now, I had no money with me at all, and so I figured I’d be best off running over there for a minute. So I did, and cashed out. When I came back, Megan and Nienke were…
wait for it, wait for it…
looking at shoes.
Go figure.
I got back and we talked for another couple minutes while the girls selected what shoes Nienke should buy. We were just about to leave when I realized that I had forgotten my passport in the Western Union (yes, I know, I know…I’d forget my own feet if I could go anywhere without them). I went back, grabbed my passport, and we went to the Baha’i Lotus Temple.
The Lotus Temple is absolutely gorgeous. It’s like a cross between a lotus flower and the Sydney Opera house. Pictures are on Photobucket. We walked onto the grounds, and, after shrewdly stashing our shoes in my backpack so we didn’t have to check them, we made our way up the steps to the temple in our bare feet.
We filtered up and joined a line right next to the door. The doors were shut, so I figured the line was just meant to be for getting into the temple once the doors were opened. So imagine my surprise when just a minute later a cute Indian woman is next to the line yelling out instructions in Hindi. My first thought was that we had accidentally joined a tour group…as it turns out, she was just giving instructions for entering the building. I understand maybe 3 words, but enough to recognize that one of the commands was to turn off our cell phones. Unfortunately for me, though, after my cell phone is off, she repeats the instructions in English, so I don’t get that rewarding feeling of having a heads up because I can understand enough Hindi to know what she’s talking about.
We walk in, and it’s more beautiful on the inside than on the out. Far from the extravagance that marks Hindu temples, the Baha’i temple was as plain as could be. Other than a small, clear podium and a rug at the end of the pews, the only other decoration was a golden symbol at the highest point on the ceiling (which looked to be over a hundred feet above me).
The beauty, though, was in the simplicity and harmony. The place was silent, and yet simultaneously the light from the windows made it bright and welcoming. A bird flapped its wings as it flew from side to side. All in all, the image was nothing short of serene.
Megan, Nienke, and I sat at a pew for a few minutes and took it all in, then walked outside. We headed down to a poster presentation that was spread out below the temple, under a walkway and out of the sun, which talked about the Baha’i faith.
Baha’i is one of the most forward thinking meta-faiths that I have ever seen. Its basic premise is that there is a god or gods who changes his appearance to suit the needs of the era, and that notes that each incarnation suggests that another will come after him. According to the Baha’i, that final god is the Baha’u’llah, who lived in nineteenth-century Persia.
While the religion is based in the 1800s in a land that is still a ways away from racial, religious, and gender equality, the Baha’i faith is almost as modern as the western world. It recognizes and practices gender equality, and treats itself more as a belief system than as a faith – there is no church hierarchy or services, per se, although there are occasionally speeches made by members of the community. Its belief system is very loose, and the affairs of the church are managed through a republican form of governance.
In other words, this was one of the most interesting things I’ve ever stumbled across by accident. When I was done looking at the posters, though, and joined back up with Megan and Nienke, it began to rain. We had two choices – pack out all our garb, in our bare feet, in the rain, or wait it out. And so we sat down.
A few minutes later we were joined by a random Indian woman in a saree with a young child. I have no earthly idea why – maybe they just wanted to hang out with the white people. Either way, I made faces at the infant for a couple minutes and we tried to carry on a conversation with the woman, who didn’t speak a word of English. Most of the 15 minutes that we sat there together were spent in awkward silence. Meanwhile, a second parent was trying to attract my attention so I could make faces at her baby as well. Go figure.
Finally, a guard came to stop people from loitering. We pretended we didn’t understand him because he wasn’t speaking English, and did nothing. However, about 5 minutes later the rain stopped, and so we got up and left.
When we exited the grounds, we were set upon by the auto drivers who wanted to either charge us 200 rupees (an exorbitant amount) to get to the Lodhi Gardens, or 20 rupees (an exorbitantly small amount) if we agreed to visit a shop they new first. If it was a con (and I expect it was) it was a pretty horrible one, and I can only hope they didn’t get any takers. We walked down to a major highway and hailed a rickshaw to get us there for a reasonable price.
Before we entered the Lodhi Gardens, we ate at the Habitat Center, which is where I tried my first Raj Kachori. I can’t really describe it, but here’s an attempt. It is a big hollow ball of fried dough with lots of good stuff inside. It tastes sweet and spicy at the same time and is nothing short of beautiful. If you’re ever in India, I highly recommend trying one (and yes, they are vegetarian). And that’s as close as I can get.
The Lodhi Gardens include a collection of structures built in the 16th to 18th centuries. I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know what they actually were, other than that they were built as early as 1517 and thus are OLD. We saw two tombs and a mosque. In the mosque, I was standing around when a bunch of Indian men came up and wanted a picture with me. Again, there are enough white people around here to see one or two on occasion, so I don’t know what the big deal is…but I took 3 pictures with these guys before they left.
After the Gardens we went back to Dillihaat, the sight of the Indian Food Tour from the weekend we went to Old Delhi. There we ate and the girls shopped a little. Finally, we went back to Nienke’s flat. I should note that the rickshaw driver dropped us off at the SAME PLACE as before. Luckily this time we knew which way to go (Nienke hadn’t been to that side of the market before). Did I mention I’m getting used to things just not working the way they should?
We went back to Nienke’s and hung out until about 9, then caught a rickshaw back to the guest house. All in all a good day.
The rickshaw driver dropped us off on the side of the block that was nowhere near Nienke. Which by this point is basically same old, same old. We took a hike, and met her about five minutes later.
As we were talking, I noticed a Western Union. Now, I had no money with me at all, and so I figured I’d be best off running over there for a minute. So I did, and cashed out. When I came back, Megan and Nienke were…
wait for it, wait for it…
looking at shoes.
Go figure.
I got back and we talked for another couple minutes while the girls selected what shoes Nienke should buy. We were just about to leave when I realized that I had forgotten my passport in the Western Union (yes, I know, I know…I’d forget my own feet if I could go anywhere without them). I went back, grabbed my passport, and we went to the Baha’i Lotus Temple.
The Lotus Temple is absolutely gorgeous. It’s like a cross between a lotus flower and the Sydney Opera house. Pictures are on Photobucket. We walked onto the grounds, and, after shrewdly stashing our shoes in my backpack so we didn’t have to check them, we made our way up the steps to the temple in our bare feet.
We filtered up and joined a line right next to the door. The doors were shut, so I figured the line was just meant to be for getting into the temple once the doors were opened. So imagine my surprise when just a minute later a cute Indian woman is next to the line yelling out instructions in Hindi. My first thought was that we had accidentally joined a tour group…as it turns out, she was just giving instructions for entering the building. I understand maybe 3 words, but enough to recognize that one of the commands was to turn off our cell phones. Unfortunately for me, though, after my cell phone is off, she repeats the instructions in English, so I don’t get that rewarding feeling of having a heads up because I can understand enough Hindi to know what she’s talking about.
We walk in, and it’s more beautiful on the inside than on the out. Far from the extravagance that marks Hindu temples, the Baha’i temple was as plain as could be. Other than a small, clear podium and a rug at the end of the pews, the only other decoration was a golden symbol at the highest point on the ceiling (which looked to be over a hundred feet above me).
The beauty, though, was in the simplicity and harmony. The place was silent, and yet simultaneously the light from the windows made it bright and welcoming. A bird flapped its wings as it flew from side to side. All in all, the image was nothing short of serene.
Megan, Nienke, and I sat at a pew for a few minutes and took it all in, then walked outside. We headed down to a poster presentation that was spread out below the temple, under a walkway and out of the sun, which talked about the Baha’i faith.
Baha’i is one of the most forward thinking meta-faiths that I have ever seen. Its basic premise is that there is a god or gods who changes his appearance to suit the needs of the era, and that notes that each incarnation suggests that another will come after him. According to the Baha’i, that final god is the Baha’u’llah, who lived in nineteenth-century Persia.
While the religion is based in the 1800s in a land that is still a ways away from racial, religious, and gender equality, the Baha’i faith is almost as modern as the western world. It recognizes and practices gender equality, and treats itself more as a belief system than as a faith – there is no church hierarchy or services, per se, although there are occasionally speeches made by members of the community. Its belief system is very loose, and the affairs of the church are managed through a republican form of governance.
In other words, this was one of the most interesting things I’ve ever stumbled across by accident. When I was done looking at the posters, though, and joined back up with Megan and Nienke, it began to rain. We had two choices – pack out all our garb, in our bare feet, in the rain, or wait it out. And so we sat down.
A few minutes later we were joined by a random Indian woman in a saree with a young child. I have no earthly idea why – maybe they just wanted to hang out with the white people. Either way, I made faces at the infant for a couple minutes and we tried to carry on a conversation with the woman, who didn’t speak a word of English. Most of the 15 minutes that we sat there together were spent in awkward silence. Meanwhile, a second parent was trying to attract my attention so I could make faces at her baby as well. Go figure.
Finally, a guard came to stop people from loitering. We pretended we didn’t understand him because he wasn’t speaking English, and did nothing. However, about 5 minutes later the rain stopped, and so we got up and left.
When we exited the grounds, we were set upon by the auto drivers who wanted to either charge us 200 rupees (an exorbitant amount) to get to the Lodhi Gardens, or 20 rupees (an exorbitantly small amount) if we agreed to visit a shop they new first. If it was a con (and I expect it was) it was a pretty horrible one, and I can only hope they didn’t get any takers. We walked down to a major highway and hailed a rickshaw to get us there for a reasonable price.
Before we entered the Lodhi Gardens, we ate at the Habitat Center, which is where I tried my first Raj Kachori. I can’t really describe it, but here’s an attempt. It is a big hollow ball of fried dough with lots of good stuff inside. It tastes sweet and spicy at the same time and is nothing short of beautiful. If you’re ever in India, I highly recommend trying one (and yes, they are vegetarian). And that’s as close as I can get.
The Lodhi Gardens include a collection of structures built in the 16th to 18th centuries. I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know what they actually were, other than that they were built as early as 1517 and thus are OLD. We saw two tombs and a mosque. In the mosque, I was standing around when a bunch of Indian men came up and wanted a picture with me. Again, there are enough white people around here to see one or two on occasion, so I don’t know what the big deal is…but I took 3 pictures with these guys before they left.
After the Gardens we went back to Dillihaat, the sight of the Indian Food Tour from the weekend we went to Old Delhi. There we ate and the girls shopped a little. Finally, we went back to Nienke’s flat. I should note that the rickshaw driver dropped us off at the SAME PLACE as before. Luckily this time we knew which way to go (Nienke hadn’t been to that side of the market before). Did I mention I’m getting used to things just not working the way they should?
We went back to Nienke’s and hung out until about 9, then caught a rickshaw back to the guest house. All in all a good day.
Lost, or Just Wandering?
So I’m going to skip around on the road map a little here and tell you what is perhaps my favorite story so far (although I highly expect it to be supplanted by my trip into the hills).
Megan and I hadn’t interacted with any Americans since my first weekend here. So about a week before she went back to the states, we decided to head into Greater Kailash to see our friend Nienke, who technically isn’t an American, but is about as close as you can get. Nienke is a fellow Princeton student who lives in South Africa. She’s a tall white girl, which makes her stand out about as much as you possibly can in India. And I’m pretty sure (although by no means certain) that this was her first weekend after settling into her apartment, so we figured we could hang out and pretend like we actually knew something about India (which by this point we realized was probably never going to be true).
GK is a part of Delhi, and since Megan and I were in Noida, we first had to take a cab in. We told Nienke we’d call her when we got there, and so on about 11:00 we arrived at nearby Defense Colony, and called, waking her up in the process. She told us we should kill an hour or so and then give her another call. We figured we could spend the time in Defense Colony Market.
We got the cab driver to drop us off in the parking lot at DC Market. The cab fare was around 250 rupees, and the driver asked for exact change. Megan didn’t have change, and I actually had no money at that point, and so we sat around for a second not knowing what to do. Finally, the driver says he can make change if absolutely necessary, and so we give him a 500-rupee note. The driver subsequently opens the door and gives the note to a complete stranger, who upon receiving it runs into a nearby store. Megan and I look at each other skeptically. The driver lounges back in his chair, completely unconcerned.
We sit for about 5 minutes, and finally the man comes back with change. We settle the score and Megan and I get out. Our tour of Defense Colony Market takes maybe 15 minutes. Nothing to see.
Next we go…well…er…I don’t exactly remember where. Nor did I remember at the time. I guess that’s sorta the definition of being lost, right? Not knowing where you came from or how to get back?
Our story after the fact was that we weren’t really lost because we didn’t really have anywhere we were trying to go – and so we didn’t actually have any issues finding anything we needed to find. Of course, had we needed to find anything, it might have been an issue.
I guess now that you know where we weren’t (specifically, any place we knew existed), it’s probably time to tell you where we were. Although that is also kind of difficult. We were in a neighborhood in Defense Colony, but not one that I think sees many tourists. The streets were muddy, dirty, and narrow. Shops were EVERYWHERE selling everything from marriage paraphernalia (nose rings for the ladies, ornate feathered hats for the guys) to spices to groceries. All mom and pop stores – except with the number of stores in the area, it’s totally possible that mom and pop both own a store – and given the prices they may need it to make ends meet. The thing that most impresses the two of us though are the power lines – when you look up, there are at any point probably 7 or 8 wires above your head, criss-crossing in random tangles. Megan notes that if one of them became defective, it would be like untangling all the cords behind your desk, only a couple miles longer.
Megan sees a saree shop and wants to buy one, so we go in to see what’s available. Sarees are very colorful dresses that are very popular here – generally if you think of traditional Indian clothing back in the states, you’re probably picturing a woman in a saree. Anyway, we sit down and watch as the shopkeeper brings out dress after dress for Megan to inspect.
After a minute I get bored and strike up a conversation with the man next to me. He is a grocer at a store across the street, and we talk about good places to see in Delhi and what it’s like living in America (he’s never been but has friends that live in California). Finally, he sees a customer go into his shop and rushes back, leaving me to help Megan sort through about 6 different dresses to find this nice blue one, which she eventually buys.
The shopkeeper is the only person we’ve met so far who speaks English in this area, and I remember that we don’t know how much a good price would be for a rickshaw from here to Nienke’s place, so we decide to go to the shop and talk to him a little longer. We buy some of his wares (specifically some chocolates and cookies), find out a reasonable price, and head out. Remember that we still have no idea where we are.
We continue wading around through the mountains of shops, on occasion stopping in one or another. The streets are becoming narrower and narrower, and we soon notice that there aren’t any rickshaws around (meaning no public transportation). I step on a large pile of cow dung lying in the middle of the road, and we get a quick laugh out of it. At this point, our method of travel is to walk to alternate choosing the next direction we travel from each intersection. Thus, not only do we not know where we are generally, but we don’t even know how to backtrack along the streets because each of us is only paying attention to the half of the route that is our decision.
Finally we decide we’ve had enough of exploring – plus it’s been almost two hours and we told Nienke we’d be there soon. So we start trying to get to a road. Thing to note: generally when you’re trying to find your way OUT of a place, it’s best to NOT to have different people choose directions at each intersection. Because next thing we know, we have gone from a well lit street that can fit two abreast to a dark alley (keep in mind it’s the middle of a bright sunny day) in which we have to walk single file. On either side of us, door to door, are tiny, cramped apartments, and we occasionally have to dodge out of the way of a child running from building to building or press ourselves against the wall so some skinny Indian men can walk back the way we came. Nobody is going in the same direction we are. Finally, after walking for a couple minutes, we come to a small clearing, just enough for a small shack, and then we plunge our way back into darkness again.
After a few minutes of this, just as I’m starting to wonder if maybe we shouldn’t be turning back, the road begins to widen, and we make our way back out into the light. A couple children are playing cricket in the road, and we move quickly through in between hits so as not to disturb them. We are still passing through some overhangs and shadowy areas now, but nothing like the blackness that we had just been through.
We make our way onward, finally exiting this path out onto a real road. There are still no rickshaws in sight, but there are a group of well-dressed Indian men who look like they might know English. They don’t really, but we manage to communicate that we’re looking for a big road and they point us on our way.
Shops start reappearing, and we buy some bananas at a stand. I take a picture of a couple goats that are cuddling on the steps of a house (picture available on Photobucket). We see a well-trafficked road and try to make our way there, but we run into some deep, funny looking water that is covering the road and can’t proceed any further.
We finally run into a small group of bicycle rickshaws and are overjoyed. When we ask them how much it is to get to Greater Kailash, though, they respond with a figure that almost makes me laugh, and then go back to talking and ignoring us. We continue onward. Next thing we know, we reach an area that we have been to before, and all of a sudden, two and a half hours after we entered, we make our way to a road, find a rickshaw, and proceed to find Nienke.
Megan and I hadn’t interacted with any Americans since my first weekend here. So about a week before she went back to the states, we decided to head into Greater Kailash to see our friend Nienke, who technically isn’t an American, but is about as close as you can get. Nienke is a fellow Princeton student who lives in South Africa. She’s a tall white girl, which makes her stand out about as much as you possibly can in India. And I’m pretty sure (although by no means certain) that this was her first weekend after settling into her apartment, so we figured we could hang out and pretend like we actually knew something about India (which by this point we realized was probably never going to be true).
GK is a part of Delhi, and since Megan and I were in Noida, we first had to take a cab in. We told Nienke we’d call her when we got there, and so on about 11:00 we arrived at nearby Defense Colony, and called, waking her up in the process. She told us we should kill an hour or so and then give her another call. We figured we could spend the time in Defense Colony Market.
We got the cab driver to drop us off in the parking lot at DC Market. The cab fare was around 250 rupees, and the driver asked for exact change. Megan didn’t have change, and I actually had no money at that point, and so we sat around for a second not knowing what to do. Finally, the driver says he can make change if absolutely necessary, and so we give him a 500-rupee note. The driver subsequently opens the door and gives the note to a complete stranger, who upon receiving it runs into a nearby store. Megan and I look at each other skeptically. The driver lounges back in his chair, completely unconcerned.
We sit for about 5 minutes, and finally the man comes back with change. We settle the score and Megan and I get out. Our tour of Defense Colony Market takes maybe 15 minutes. Nothing to see.
Next we go…well…er…I don’t exactly remember where. Nor did I remember at the time. I guess that’s sorta the definition of being lost, right? Not knowing where you came from or how to get back?
Our story after the fact was that we weren’t really lost because we didn’t really have anywhere we were trying to go – and so we didn’t actually have any issues finding anything we needed to find. Of course, had we needed to find anything, it might have been an issue.
I guess now that you know where we weren’t (specifically, any place we knew existed), it’s probably time to tell you where we were. Although that is also kind of difficult. We were in a neighborhood in Defense Colony, but not one that I think sees many tourists. The streets were muddy, dirty, and narrow. Shops were EVERYWHERE selling everything from marriage paraphernalia (nose rings for the ladies, ornate feathered hats for the guys) to spices to groceries. All mom and pop stores – except with the number of stores in the area, it’s totally possible that mom and pop both own a store – and given the prices they may need it to make ends meet. The thing that most impresses the two of us though are the power lines – when you look up, there are at any point probably 7 or 8 wires above your head, criss-crossing in random tangles. Megan notes that if one of them became defective, it would be like untangling all the cords behind your desk, only a couple miles longer.
Megan sees a saree shop and wants to buy one, so we go in to see what’s available. Sarees are very colorful dresses that are very popular here – generally if you think of traditional Indian clothing back in the states, you’re probably picturing a woman in a saree. Anyway, we sit down and watch as the shopkeeper brings out dress after dress for Megan to inspect.
After a minute I get bored and strike up a conversation with the man next to me. He is a grocer at a store across the street, and we talk about good places to see in Delhi and what it’s like living in America (he’s never been but has friends that live in California). Finally, he sees a customer go into his shop and rushes back, leaving me to help Megan sort through about 6 different dresses to find this nice blue one, which she eventually buys.
The shopkeeper is the only person we’ve met so far who speaks English in this area, and I remember that we don’t know how much a good price would be for a rickshaw from here to Nienke’s place, so we decide to go to the shop and talk to him a little longer. We buy some of his wares (specifically some chocolates and cookies), find out a reasonable price, and head out. Remember that we still have no idea where we are.
We continue wading around through the mountains of shops, on occasion stopping in one or another. The streets are becoming narrower and narrower, and we soon notice that there aren’t any rickshaws around (meaning no public transportation). I step on a large pile of cow dung lying in the middle of the road, and we get a quick laugh out of it. At this point, our method of travel is to walk to alternate choosing the next direction we travel from each intersection. Thus, not only do we not know where we are generally, but we don’t even know how to backtrack along the streets because each of us is only paying attention to the half of the route that is our decision.
Finally we decide we’ve had enough of exploring – plus it’s been almost two hours and we told Nienke we’d be there soon. So we start trying to get to a road. Thing to note: generally when you’re trying to find your way OUT of a place, it’s best to NOT to have different people choose directions at each intersection. Because next thing we know, we have gone from a well lit street that can fit two abreast to a dark alley (keep in mind it’s the middle of a bright sunny day) in which we have to walk single file. On either side of us, door to door, are tiny, cramped apartments, and we occasionally have to dodge out of the way of a child running from building to building or press ourselves against the wall so some skinny Indian men can walk back the way we came. Nobody is going in the same direction we are. Finally, after walking for a couple minutes, we come to a small clearing, just enough for a small shack, and then we plunge our way back into darkness again.
After a few minutes of this, just as I’m starting to wonder if maybe we shouldn’t be turning back, the road begins to widen, and we make our way back out into the light. A couple children are playing cricket in the road, and we move quickly through in between hits so as not to disturb them. We are still passing through some overhangs and shadowy areas now, but nothing like the blackness that we had just been through.
We make our way onward, finally exiting this path out onto a real road. There are still no rickshaws in sight, but there are a group of well-dressed Indian men who look like they might know English. They don’t really, but we manage to communicate that we’re looking for a big road and they point us on our way.
Shops start reappearing, and we buy some bananas at a stand. I take a picture of a couple goats that are cuddling on the steps of a house (picture available on Photobucket). We see a well-trafficked road and try to make our way there, but we run into some deep, funny looking water that is covering the road and can’t proceed any further.
We finally run into a small group of bicycle rickshaws and are overjoyed. When we ask them how much it is to get to Greater Kailash, though, they respond with a figure that almost makes me laugh, and then go back to talking and ignoring us. We continue onward. Next thing we know, we reach an area that we have been to before, and all of a sudden, two and a half hours after we entered, we make our way to a road, find a rickshaw, and proceed to find Nienke.
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