West Lake

Breathing a deep sigh of relief that we’re going to be in the countryside for a few days.  We are now in Hangzhou, in the courtyard garden of Wushanyi International Youth Hostel having our morning coffee.  We feel amazingly secluded here… we’re closed in by bursts of green, gnarly little trees and big fanning palms, clusters of bamboo, lime and pomegranate trees, careful little rocky pools that sing with frogs at night.  It’s a bit of peace in this chaotic country.

Yesterday we rambled around West Lake.  It is meant to be an ideal of classical Chinese beauty, much like the grounds of the Summer Palace in Beijing.  It is a sprawling landscape of twisting pathways, carp ponds, exaggerated arch bridges, and pagodas.  Also much like the Summer Palace, there is a crush of people at the main entrances and tourist areas.  But we persisted and pushed through it (between a number of requests for photos with Whitey!) and found ourselves some peace.

When you can actually stumble upon a quiet area of one of these huge Chinese gardens, it is the most delicate and humming serenity in the world.  Everything is designed with a graceful curve.  Nature is subdued, but encouraged to bend organically.  Nothing like the pomp and grandeur of the royal gardens of Europe, where nature is held by the neck and forced into formation, topiary, symmetry.  The Chinese garden is not symmetrical.  It bends, curves, and invites exploration.

Religion in China: Tibetan Buddhism and "Touch Evil Cypress"

We’ll start with another smell: incense.  Big, wafting clouds of it at the Tibetan Lama Temple in Beijing.  Tibetan Buddhism seems more mystical, more “religious”, than other forms of Buddhism.  Prayer wheels spinning, deep fire pits of incense, smoke bulging in the courtyards, smoke curling up among heavy wooden beams painted with golden dragons.  Pilgrims light giant sticks of incense and bow repeatedly toward the Buddha.  It’s clearly meant to be a sensual experience.

There are many Buddhas, of course.  Many manifestations.  Stelae covered with rows and rows of micro-Buddhas seem to be a favorite.  But in the Lama Temple in Beijing there are three dominant Buddhas: one for past, one for present, and one for future.  The temples are progressive, growing in physical stature as you go toward the “future”.  The largest Buddha’s noggin brushes the ceiling rafters!  There are also other, much more savage-looking statues with bulging eyes and blue skin.  These are meant to thwart the invasion of evil spirits, and they are dutifully terrifying.

There are plenty of ways to honor the gods: depositing money in the coffers, buying incense, having a snack, or taking home a souvenir.  Religion and capitalism* are a contradictory enough marriage of ideologies anywhere… but in China!  Mao is turning over in his grave as all these influences creep in.  On top of it all: the oppression of Tibet.  And here, right in the middle of Beijing, sits one of the most active Tibetan Buddhist temples in the world.  Visiting the Lama Temple is a rather dizzying experience.  It's a sensory overload.  We explored the temple grounds for quite some time, and when we finally made our exit, it was with incense smoke clouding our heads.

The Confucius Temple, on the other hand, was quiet and dead by comparison.  There was no ritual, not much evidence of religion.  It felt more like a neglected park than a temple.   There’s a sprawling 700-year-old tree along the path to the temple buildings called “Touch Evil Cypress”.  Legend has it that one of the branches plucked off the hat of a duplicitous public official passing by, earning the crafty tree the reputation for discerning evil.  Well, whatever the case, it’s very old and very gnarled.  Among the knobby trees were a dozen or so pagodas inhabited by gigantic stone turtles.  There was something very Neverending Story-ish about it.

In Maoist China, of course, religion was outlawed for decades.  Recent history revealed a cultural void, so religion was again reinstated (though with governmental restrictions).  However, for the time being, only atheists* are allowed to hold government positions.  But it is said that Christianity is the fastest-growing religion in China.  It will be interesting to see how that narrative plays out.

*I do use the term loosely.
**As a side note: why is atheism not considered a religion?  Its followers are far more fanatical than your average run-of-the-mill agnostic.  Fanaticism aside, I think it can definitely be defined as a religion using several of the accepted definitions of religion.

Mickey Mao and the Forbidden City

After 15 hours of sleep on the first night (not hyperbole), we hit the ground running.  In a city where taxi drivers look at you blankly when you say “Forbidden City”, we decided to trudge all the way there on foot.  Walking around it to find one of the entrances is one way to appreciate the magnitude of the place.

Massive.  Ostentatious.  Imposing.  Calling it a city is pretty accurate, because there’s never been a fortress on this scale before.   The architecture is gracefully muscular, all meant to evoke imperial power.  And yet… there are endless little hideaway places to discover.  Places we never even saw.  We did our best to avoid being herded (which I find the Chinese seem to be ok with... they seem accustomed to it), and sought out little secret places…  a courtyard with a single twisting tree… glazed dragons marching down low, sloped terra cotta roofs… a doorway leading into darkness.  In such places it was possible to breathe for a minute before pushing through more crowds to see the thrones of emperors or their concubines’ bedchambers.

After nosing around the back alleys and courtyards of the Forbidden City, we came upon one of the grand plazas and were surprised by a sudden downpour.  The storm thinned out the crowds a bit, and a prism of umbrellas opened across the wet, grey stone, bunching together in little clusters of color.  The rain saturated the colors of tile and stone, transforming temples, pagodas, palaces, and gates into enameled jewel boxes.  In the rain, the Forbidden City is a magnetic place.

Eventually, the sky broke and the crowds pressed back in.  We meandered our way out through the infamous Gate of Heavenly Peace, right under the enlarged nose of Mao Zedong.  And there he was, gazing benevolently over his kingdom, out to the vast stretch of Tianenmen Square.  You have to wonder what old Mao would think about his China now… communist wrappings with a capitalist heart!  And you also have to wonder… what is it exactly that China wants?  Not so long ago, Mao’s giant visage on the Gate of Heavenly Peace was angrily pelted with paint-filled eggs.  Others have tried to burn it.  But not to worry, Mickey Mao!  The government has back-up portraits at the ready in case there should be any more “accidents”.

After our Mao moment, we ambled over to Tianenmen Square (honestly, though, you can’t really call it ambling when you have to pass through a series of metal detectors).  At that hour, there wasn’t much to do at Tianenmen other than gape, gawk, and be overwhelmed at the sheer size of the place (they had to compete with Red Square in Moscow) and the sobering moments of history that have played out there. 

The crowds and the heat were getting to us, so we decided to round out the sight-seeing that day with a trip to the park.  We tromped over to the curious little mountain next to the Forbidden City, called Jingshu (is that correct??).   After winding up a foot-path, we were rewarded with a glorious bird’s-eye view of the Forbidden City.  We spent a good bit of time lounging around in the park; it was a calming relief after the crowds and chaos.  There were families playing games and couples strolling about the grounds.  We were content to just watch, soak it in, and try to catch our brains up to the fact that… we’re in China

Beijing: A New Smell

The first thing is always the smell.  The new smell of a new country when you step off the plane.  Beijing air hung over us like a wet rag.  Even in the glisten and gleam of Beijing’s international airport, there’s a rotting, mildewy smell that seems to steam up from the ground.  It’s this oldness, dampness, wetness that creeps over the city, as much as they try to cover it in glass and steel.  Glittering Beijing is sweating.

We arrived exhausted and confused.  In a country emerging as one of the world’s great superpowers, it is surprising (and a trifle disconcerting) that so few people speak English.  It took us a surprisingly long time to find an English-speaking taxi driver at the airport.  But we finally found one with nominal English skills, and he whisked us off to Old Beijing.

The “hutong” area of Beijing is the old city, thronged with bicycles, vendors, and old men playing mah jong on the street.  The taxi driver dropped us off at the end of Nanluogo Xiang and told us to walk.  A tiny woman appeared out of nowhere, and came running at us, struggling to pronounce my name.  There were smiles of relief on all sides as she led us to our hotel, down a street barely wider than the stretched arms of a man!

This mini hutong became our own little moldy corner of the world.  The courtyard was a burst of life: green plants and tendrilly things hanging from every crevice; a swirl of goldfish on the floor; a Mandarin-speaking Macau; a naughty little black dog that always tried to sneak into our room.  At all moments of the day were the sounds of squawking, chirping, and yipping.  Our room was an odd little 2-level, with a mattress on the floor at the top of a steep flight of stairs and under a sloping roof.  The room became a sanctuary from the frenetic crush of people outside the hutongs.

Moments after we arrived, I fell into that mattress and dreamt of creeping things, wrapping their green fingers around me, and swallowing me up into the Beijing night.

Back to Jaipur and the End

We’re back in Jaipur now, in the back garden of the Madhuban Hotel. We only have a few minutes left before we leave for the airport…

Yesterday, Jaipur was a very different animal from when we first arrived at the beginning of our trip. Yes, dusty. Yes, smelly. Yes, anarchic. But we could breathe it more easily, like adjusting to high altitudes. It was teeming with life and color and energy, and we relished the last few hours spent wandering Indian streets.

Now, Matt’s settling the last bills and we’re waiting for the taxi to bring us to the airport.

I… can’t really sum things up neatly. There’s nothing neat and tidy about this country. It’s chaotic and bewildering. It’s a rush of color and raw humanity… there’s nowhere in the world where you can see the full spectrum of the human experience smack in front of you so viscerally, so unforgivingly. You can’t slip through anonymously and expect the scenery to sit still; India doesn’t allow it. There’s deception and harassment at every turn, but also staggering generosity and kindness. We allowed ourselves to get pulled in. You have to. Everything is clamoring to pull you in, by force. And all these saturated images and experiences are crowded into me, packed up messily into my brain, crammed into my heart (a suitcase too small). I’m changed. I’ll never be able to wash India off me.

Pushy Pushkar Priests and Stoned Dreadlocks

Pushkar is an anomaly. On the one hand, it’s a den of hippie tourism and all kinds of cheaply-made hippie crap for sale in the bazaars. Throngs of smug dreadlocks roam the streets like they own the place, stocking up on their hippie gear and getting stoned on bhang lassis.*

On the other hand, it’s a major pilgrimage destination for Hindus, where they bathe in the holy waters and visit one of the only Brahmin temples in the world. It all seemed faux-spiritual to us. They were pumping chant music (tape or CD player?) from a loud-speaker over the ghats. Fake priests lurk at the entrances to the ghats, offering you a flower. If you accept, they demand a hundred rupees per family member so you can offer them “blessings” (is it such a blessing to your family that you’re a sucker?). A colored string around the wrist signifies a so-called “Pushkar Passport”, which means that you’ve already gone through this absurd process. Mr. Commission from Jodhpur, bless his crooked heart, gave us string in advance in order to avoid these pushy “priests”. It fooled almost everyone, although one or two were sober enough to notice that it wasn’t from Pushkar, and that we got it from a hotel. Nonetheless, we politely declined the flowers despite their accusations of disrespect. Meanwhile, they’re extorting money from dumb tourists, and there are donation boxes all over town! Disrespect, indeed.

There was also some kind of strange scam going on with the children. Two different boys came up to us at two different times asking us to buy them chapati butter… an odd request. They wouldn’t take money, and they insisted on going to particular market stalls for it. They also wouldn’t let us buy them a meal. When we allowed the second boy to take us to a stall, they asked 200 rupees for the butter! We refused. 200 rupees proved that this was a scam. Clearly, the kid either gets a commission and the butter, or he gives the butter back to whatever family member is selling it. It’s a horrible practice, but it’s also very sad to involve children in it.

The one reason to go to Pushkar is to stay at the Seventh Heaven Hotel. Unfortunately, for this reason it was booked, so we could only eat dinner there. It was aptly named, elevated above the grimy streets and the rampaging bulls (yes, we were almost gored by 2 that were running full speed through the streets!). It really is a haven. All muted red silk, cushions, and swinging lights. We watched the sun set over the temples and buildings, and suddenly Pushkar was beautiful. We had some fascinating conversation with other travelers (all far more experienced than us), and spent an evening soaking up the atmosphere.

Unfortunately, our own hotel was a disaster. We had been staying in nice places everywhere in India thus far (due to very nice prices), but in Pushkar there just aren’t many options. This one was relatively clean (bed sheets were booger-free), but toilets were outside and of the traumatizing squat variety (for those that haven’t experienced them, it’s just a hole in the floor with a bucket and spigot). Also, it was situated right on the ghats and shared a wall with a tiny and very creepy temple to Shiva. Just a few steps down was an evil-looking Ganesh with a severed elephant trunk, painted a lurid red. All through the night, stray dogs gathered on the ghats beneath our window. They were rhythmically yelping like they were possessed! Or birthing! Then they would suddenly erupt into fighting, growling, tearing at each other. Then the yelping and whining again. Meanwhile, I kept picturing that dark temple on the other side of the wall, with those bulging white eyes staring from the shadows. I actually had moments of panic and sleep paralysis. Maybe insomnia makes you a little crazy and paranoid, but it was a dark presence.

Finally, the dogs quieted down and I was able to sleep for a couple of hours. But at 5 AM, in the dark of early morning, they suddenly started blasting that trance music from the loudspeakers again, and madly clanging the temple bells! The noise was filling the room, and Matt and I had to just lie there and pray for it to end.

We were glad to leave Pushkar. It was an experience in its own right, but not one that we need to repeat… unless we can book a room in Seventh Heaven!

*You've probably had a mango lassi at an Indian restaurant. I'll leave it to you to figure out what a bhang lassi might be. And no, I didn't have one.

Gettin' Scammed, Jodhpur-style

One day in Jodhpur, we allowed ourselves to be scammed (a little). It was a guy from the hotel who we had struck up several interesting conversations with, and we let him take us to a couple shops (and yes, we do know better!).*

The first one was an eight-floor Aladdin’s cavern of finely-woven textiles, carpets, pashminas, glittering wall-hangings. The quality was by far the finest we’d yet seen in India. While sipping chai masala, the young men unfolded blanket after blanket, almost reverently describing the qualities of each one. They were stunning. Delicate swirls of silk and wool, all different and all very special. He showed us a scrapbook filled with newspaper cuttings and pictures of themselves with celebrities and designers. There was an old one of Valentino. Richard Gere (in all his eastern mystic glory). The entire cast of Darjeeling Limited. Bill Murray was wearing his familiar expression: that combination of crestfallen yet slightly hopeful.

We bought a number of things there (and we didn’t need any prompting from Richard Gere), including a gorgeous throw (more like an enormous pashmina) flowing with intricate patterns and peacock feather colors (my favorite). We were actually happy with our friend Mr. Commission from the hotel for taking us there, because the prices were still half what they’d be anywhere else. And the quality surpassed everything we’ve seen.

However, we should have said no to the spice shop, which was in the touristy area of town. Yes, we knew better. It was so apparent that this place was exclusively meant for tourists. Everything was nicely packaged and labeled… unlike the real spice markets where the spices are piled up in burlap bags and the spice seller weighs everything on a silver scale.

Oh, well. These spices and teas were meant for western convenience. Like the Jodhpuri tea, which includes the black tea, nutmeg, cardamom, anis, and vanilla all together. An Indian would never buy that. The saffron was about triple what we could have paid in the spice market. But again… oh, well. We allowed ourselves to get ripped off, and when you put it into perspective, it all amounted to about 10 bucks. Nothing to us, a lot to him.
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But later in the day, we were reminded again of the inherent generosity and hospitality of Indians. While taking photos of an extravagantly painted haveli in a back street, a nice man struck up a conversation with us and invited us in for tea. We sat down and he shouted out of the window to a chai wallah, who brought it in a plastic bag! After the tea was poured (or, more like squirted from a hole in the bag), our host opened a book about Jodhpur and explained each picture in the book (all 200 pages of it) in very halting English, giving us a bit of history about the city. Then he gave us a thorough tour of his narrow, creaking old house, and finally, with a burst of energy, he rushed up the final little set of stairs, which opened onto a rooftop. From there, you could see the whole city and the fort. He was positively glowing with pride.

When we left the house, we met an aunt, a grandmother, and a little girl. They wanted their picture taken, and I was happy to oblige. Clearly, they weren’t accustomed to being the subjects of photos, so they just sat there looking off or sucking their gums (particularly the one who had no teeth). We parted with an exchange of mobile numbers, email addresses, and general goodwill.

We were warned that Jodhpur would be a mass of hustlers and hassle, but we found the people to be very obliging and helpful (even Mr. Commission). They were always happy to point us in the right direction (in that maze of streets), or have their picture taken, or offer us a smile and a friendly “namaste”. We were equally happy to lose ourselves in the commotion of the bazaars or the quiet, winding back streets. Again… it was magic.

*These guys get a commission for taking you to a shop/hotel/whatever. They act like they're just showing you around, being nice. But they come back later to get a percentage of whatever you bought. I'm pretty sure this is common practice all over the developing world.