Setting out on a perfectly balmy Dubai night, we climbed into the back seat of a taxi and asked for the Boardwalk at the Dubai Creek Golf and Yacht Club. We were meeting friends for a drink on a terrace to soak in the last days of paradise before Dubai turns into a furnace. Usually we sit in silence or exchange a few pleasantries with the driver. Not this time. We got his whole life story.
From his accent, I could tell that he was from somewhere in the vicinity of the sub-continent, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t Indian. He confirmed this: Pakistani. But he’s lived for 22 years in Our Glittering City, a.k.a. Oz, a.k.a. Dubai. Came as a salesman, ended up a cab driver. I asked him if he liked Dubai (knowing the answer already).
“I will tell you, my life is destroyed. This city destroyed my life. 22 years ago, things were different…”
For those of you who don’t know, the UAE has only been a country for 37 years. Before the discovery of oil, it was mostly a barren desert, inhabited mainly by bedouins and pearl divers. Dubai was a port town due to its prime location on the edge of the Persian Gulf and Arabian Sea. But it’s only recent history that has brought vast amounts of wealth to the emirate.
“22 years ago, the emiratis were different. They sat with us along the road and played cards. They shared meals with us. We were all the same then.”
But all that changed when wealth hit the country suddenly. All at once the emirati people became privileged beyond their wildest dreams. Now they are comfortably sitting atop a very defined hierarchy. They receive free health care; they can receive free education through a PhD; they are guaranteed jobs; they are favored in disputes. And so… they shut themselves off from everyone. It is very common for an expat to never meet an emirati or speak to an emirati for the entire duration of their contracts (our situation is different, because the school is almost entirely emirati). They have become virtually untouchable.
“They are cruel. They beat on Pakistanis and Indians and they say bad things to us.”
As I mentioned in a previous note, racism is encouraged in this country, because it keeps the “wheels of progress” turning. The Burj Dubai, the tallest building in the world, has gone up at a rate of a floor a day during its fastest growth spurts. How do they do it? By hiring from destitute countries on false pretenses; making contractual promises to people who can’t read; and then, upon arrival, essentially holding them prisoner. Their passports are taken and they are forced to pay back the visa fee, an amount that equals thousands of dollars. In their countries, they are promised double the wages that they actually receive, and then discover the painful truth on arrival. They work for less than a dollar an hour, 12 hours a day, six days a week. They can’t escape, because they can’t pay back the visa fee. These are the men who are building this country.
“Why are they building all this?” He gestured to the grand high-rises along Sheikh Zayed Road. “Who is it for? They bring the Europeans and Americans here, but when this is finished, they will tell them to go. And why are they building this?” He gestured to the metro. “Who is it for? The rich people will not ride it, and the poor people can not afford it.”
I agreed that it seemed rather silly, particularly if it’s meant to help with the traffic problem, seeing as it doesn’t even go to Sharjah.
“Yes! It doesn’t go to Sharjah. This is just for a show. Everything… just for a show.”
We emphatically agreed with that. He went on to confirm what has been said about human rights violations; everything we’ve heard, he himself confirmed. About the worker’s conditions; about the false promises; about the visa.
“Why do I stay here? I will never be citizen. I have been here for 22 years. I am 66 years old. But I cannot go back to Pakistan. And I have not seen my wife in many years.”
He told us that he was only with her for two years before coming to Dubai, and they have been apart since.
“In 24 years married, only 2 years together. This is not a life.” He was silent for a minute. We were driving over the Maktoum Bridge, the city lights sparkling in the water. Matt pointed out the moon over the water, that it looked full. The taxi driver smiled into the rearview mirror.
“This moon is how I see my wife. I look at the moon, she looks at the moon, so it comes back to me and she looks at me. And I see her too." Pause. "I will sing you a song.”
Then he quietly sang in a beautiful lilting voice, the words of some unknown language curling out like tendrils of smoke. I asked what language it was.
“Urdu. My original language. I will tell you what it means. ‘Your eyes are beautiful like the sun. When they open, it is like the sun rising. When they close, it is like the sun setting.’ You see, there is no life without wife.”
I was trying to choke back tears. I asked him when he would see her again.
“Next year, I hope my son will come and help me with work. Then we hope to bring my wife and the rest of the family. Then I will love Dubai.”
We were pulling up to our destination, curving down a palm-lined road. I was feeling guilty for going somewhere so fancy, somewhere he could never go himself. I told him that I hoped his family would be able to come next year, and that his life would be better here.
“Insha’allah,” he said. “And God bless you, too.”
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Sehnsucht
i haven't read c.s.lewis in years, but i found this whilst looking for an adequate definition of "sehnsucht"...
In speaking of this desire for our own faroff country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.
In speaking of this desire for our own faroff country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Back to Jaipur and the End
I was told that a lot of people read this blog who don't read the Facebook notes, so I'm finally trying to update the blog! Here are the finishing entries of the India trip.
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.
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.
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.
__________________________
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.
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.
__________________________
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.
Jodhpur: the Most Luxurious Mustaches in the World
Jodhpur is a city alive with color. It’s known as the “Blue City,” but people get crazy with all sorts of colors. The havelis look like they’re edged and swirled with wedding cake icing. Crumbling archways open into fantastical magentas and greens, and you get a glimpse of women hanging up their filmy saris in a rainbow line.
The Mehrangarh fort is spectacular and rambles over a mountain overlooking the city. There are grand rooms arrayed in stained glass and mosaics, where fat maharajas would pile themselves onto silken cushions and watch their concubines dance.
We met an old man with a glorious mustache, who told us that the maharaja had 344 concubines. I said, “Wow, that’s almost one concubine for every day of the year!” He chuckled heartily, and then proceeded to expound on the virtues of opium. “It is good for the sex!” said he. I took his picture. He was very jolly.
Our room at the Singhvi Haveli was like a little corner of the palace plucked from the hilltop and placed in the blue heart of the city. We felt like faded royalty, domed with glass mosaics and peacocks and hemmed in by carved wood. At all times of the day or night, stepping out on the rooftop terrace was magical. Perched high above the rooftops, you feel like you’re sailing, and the flashing blue corners of the city glow purple at sunset.
The Mehrangarh fort is spectacular and rambles over a mountain overlooking the city. There are grand rooms arrayed in stained glass and mosaics, where fat maharajas would pile themselves onto silken cushions and watch their concubines dance.
We met an old man with a glorious mustache, who told us that the maharaja had 344 concubines. I said, “Wow, that’s almost one concubine for every day of the year!” He chuckled heartily, and then proceeded to expound on the virtues of opium. “It is good for the sex!” said he. I took his picture. He was very jolly.
Our room at the Singhvi Haveli was like a little corner of the palace plucked from the hilltop and placed in the blue heart of the city. We felt like faded royalty, domed with glass mosaics and peacocks and hemmed in by carved wood. At all times of the day or night, stepping out on the rooftop terrace was magical. Perched high above the rooftops, you feel like you’re sailing, and the flashing blue corners of the city glow purple at sunset.
Udaipur
Please excuse the following journal entry. I wrote it half-asleep. So if you find it cloying, sorry! It's the only thing I wrote about Udaipur, a place we both loved, so I had to include it.
************************************************************************************
I think Udaipur will always be romance for us. Across the lake, two palaces. One in stone, one in water. Move 45°. Two more palaces. Solid form white marble, wavering cloud water under. Our room had an alcove, curtained in. Inside, like a cushioned sailboat. Light-resting sunset. Light-pushing sunrise.
The ghats. An old woman unfurls her grey braid, unfurls red cloth and flings it out into the water. Slaps on stone. Scrubs. Slaps on stone. Flings out. Hanging wrinkled brown bare-breasted submerges into green water. Hair gnarled, grey, dripping wet rag.
Chaos of streets. Touts. Holy men half-naked crouched spindled legs on temple stairs perched like crows. Licorice turban, strange music. Dance in a haveli. The older women know something. Their balance. Their grace, precision. Tiny cymbals hang on their bodies, and they clang out the rhythm. Lights hang on their kohl-rimmed eyes. They know something.
A hand-mirror palace, ghat, palace, bather. Lights hang in two places. Smell of feces, cardamom.
Call to prayer, clink of bells. Ring of voices.
************************************************************************************
I think Udaipur will always be romance for us. Across the lake, two palaces. One in stone, one in water. Move 45°. Two more palaces. Solid form white marble, wavering cloud water under. Our room had an alcove, curtained in. Inside, like a cushioned sailboat. Light-resting sunset. Light-pushing sunrise.
The ghats. An old woman unfurls her grey braid, unfurls red cloth and flings it out into the water. Slaps on stone. Scrubs. Slaps on stone. Flings out. Hanging wrinkled brown bare-breasted submerges into green water. Hair gnarled, grey, dripping wet rag.
Chaos of streets. Touts. Holy men half-naked crouched spindled legs on temple stairs perched like crows. Licorice turban, strange music. Dance in a haveli. The older women know something. Their balance. Their grace, precision. Tiny cymbals hang on their bodies, and they clang out the rhythm. Lights hang on their kohl-rimmed eyes. They know something.
A hand-mirror palace, ghat, palace, bather. Lights hang in two places. Smell of feces, cardamom.
Call to prayer, clink of bells. Ring of voices.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Train Station Blues
We were lucky enough to get a 2AC to Chittorgarh with a friendly newly-wed English couple… they’re on their first week of a year-long round-the-world trip! Frankly, I think six months would be my max. I know that travel would start to feel like a job…
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We had to wait at the Chittorgarh train station for a couple of hours. It was very hot, dusty, minutes passing slowly. Sitting there on the platform, we began to notice the tired parade of poverty… and we were suddenly a part of it. What is it about these Indian train stations. For the traveler, it’s a place of flux. You arrive from somewhere else. It brings you to the next place. There’s an atmosphere of mutability. For the homeless, this is the end of the road. Too many natty-haired, mucus-faced children… moon-eyed. To them, a white face means prosperity. They come to us, open-palmed and filthy, imploring with those eyes.
And the adults, too. We gave one woman ten rupees, and a smile instantly spread across her whole face. She walked away pronouncing some sort of thanks, and we watched her show the little note to her family. Ten rupees… that’s like 20 cents. A woman thrilled to get 20 cents…
Another woman came by, clutching a 2-year-old with no pants on. The baby was covered in her own snot, with that hard stare that you never see on the face of a western child. We gave her a zip-lock bag full of half-eaten cookies. She glowed with gratitude. Really, her face was beaming. She let the baby hold the packet and then brought it to her family huddled on the platform, where they started sharing the cookies and passing them around. I broke. I couldn’t stop crying under my sunglasses. Something shattered inside me.
I’ll never forget their faces. They will haunt me. The desperate, grasping look of the beggar; the broadening smile of gratitude. For ten rupees. For a bag of half-eaten cookies. For nothing nothing nothing.
***************************************************************************************
We had to wait at the Chittorgarh train station for a couple of hours. It was very hot, dusty, minutes passing slowly. Sitting there on the platform, we began to notice the tired parade of poverty… and we were suddenly a part of it. What is it about these Indian train stations. For the traveler, it’s a place of flux. You arrive from somewhere else. It brings you to the next place. There’s an atmosphere of mutability. For the homeless, this is the end of the road. Too many natty-haired, mucus-faced children… moon-eyed. To them, a white face means prosperity. They come to us, open-palmed and filthy, imploring with those eyes.
And the adults, too. We gave one woman ten rupees, and a smile instantly spread across her whole face. She walked away pronouncing some sort of thanks, and we watched her show the little note to her family. Ten rupees… that’s like 20 cents. A woman thrilled to get 20 cents…
Another woman came by, clutching a 2-year-old with no pants on. The baby was covered in her own snot, with that hard stare that you never see on the face of a western child. We gave her a zip-lock bag full of half-eaten cookies. She glowed with gratitude. Really, her face was beaming. She let the baby hold the packet and then brought it to her family huddled on the platform, where they started sharing the cookies and passing them around. I broke. I couldn’t stop crying under my sunglasses. Something shattered inside me.
I’ll never forget their faces. They will haunt me. The desperate, grasping look of the beggar; the broadening smile of gratitude. For ten rupees. For a bag of half-eaten cookies. For nothing nothing nothing.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Monkey Stick
I was going to give up on this blog, because I've posted everything on Facebook. People have been reading and responding to the Facebook blog, but this one has gotten lost in the shuffle. However, I suppose a few of you are still out there who are not on Facebook. So I'll publish here, too!
The next day we trawled the bazaars (they were making bangles on the street!), and eventually wound our way up to the crumbly old palace at sunset to gaze out over the amazing view. We scrambled up to the abandoned fort ---- a haunted place ---- and explored its dark nooks and crannies. There were creepy paintings of battles and goddesses peeling on the walls, vines crawling over gaping holes in the ground, stairways disappearing into the darkness.
Just as the sun began to set, the monkeys started appearing. It was clear that this was their time, their territory. They followed us out. A large male came charging at us down the steep rocky path while I was taking a picture of a baby… we scrambled down the hill quickly, brandishing our monkey stick. By the time we got down to the palace, it was crawling with monkeys. They were springing madly around the courtyard, climbing up to the incense-swirling shrines and eating the altar offerings, looming ominously on the high palace walls, eyeing us darkly. It was eery. They didn’t want us there…
***********************************************************************************
The next morning, we had a sunrise breakfast on the roof and caught our last glimpses of this fairy-tale village. An ochre light was burning up the sky, doming over the misty-pale streets, resting on the rooftops. Blues of the buildings were changing minutely, spreading out and bolding. It’s like one of those rajasthani miniatures: tiny details and curls of color tinged in gold. But for us, Bundi will always be the beautiful people who treated us with kindness and incredible generosity. It will always be the people.
The next day we trawled the bazaars (they were making bangles on the street!), and eventually wound our way up to the crumbly old palace at sunset to gaze out over the amazing view. We scrambled up to the abandoned fort ---- a haunted place ---- and explored its dark nooks and crannies. There were creepy paintings of battles and goddesses peeling on the walls, vines crawling over gaping holes in the ground, stairways disappearing into the darkness.
Just as the sun began to set, the monkeys started appearing. It was clear that this was their time, their territory. They followed us out. A large male came charging at us down the steep rocky path while I was taking a picture of a baby… we scrambled down the hill quickly, brandishing our monkey stick. By the time we got down to the palace, it was crawling with monkeys. They were springing madly around the courtyard, climbing up to the incense-swirling shrines and eating the altar offerings, looming ominously on the high palace walls, eyeing us darkly. It was eery. They didn’t want us there…
**************************
The next morning, we had a sunrise breakfast on the roof and caught our last glimpses of this fairy-tale village. An ochre light was burning up the sky, doming over the misty-pale streets, resting on the rooftops. Blues of the buildings were changing minutely, spreading out and bolding. It’s like one of those rajasthani miniatures: tiny details and curls of color tinged in gold. But for us, Bundi will always be the beautiful people who treated us with kindness and incredible generosity. It will always be the people.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Strangers with Curry: A Dinner Invitation on the Street
It’s a relief to be in Bundi after the harrowing 13-hour train ride. After the freezing cold, nauseating smells, and being in a horizontal position for 12 hours, this little village feels like an oasis.
It’s quiet. It’s tiny. Our room is bright and colorful with stained glass and rajput paintings on the ceilings and walls. This is the first real breath of calm we’ve had thus far. And now we’re at our leisure to rest or wander as we please.
******************************************************************************************
I’ve never experienced so much humanity as I have in India. I’ve felt such generosity and desperation in equal measure. In Bundi, the people were lovely and warm. Children kept asking us to take their photo, and amidst the mild chaos of picture-taking and handing out spiderman pencils, one of the boys asked us up to his house for tea. So we went in their rickety house up a series of very steep and narrow stairs, where we met the mother. We were ushered into a little bedroom where they served us chai masala. An older brother appeared, who could speak English. He was a very gentle boy, but insistent that we come back at 8:00 for dinner. We gave a non-committal “we’ll try,” and he said “No try, it is necessary for you to come!”
With much trepidation (and visions of gastro-intestinal explosions dancing in our heads), we arrived at their house at 8:00. We returned to the little bedroom, where we met a sassy aunt who was openly burping and showing off her English skills. The father, who was wearing nothing but a towel and a shirt, greeted us warmly (and later stood up on the bed and put his trousers on in front of us!). When we sat down to dinner (on the floor), the whole family sat around and watched us eat. They presented us each with a big round silver platter covered with little piles of food and a basket of chapati. It was a bit awkward, especially as we had to eat on the floor… with our hands. They chuckled at our clumsy fingers fumbling around the little piles of food, but tried to make us feel comfortable. The food was very interesting: there were delicious spicy chick pea curries; some sort of odd, crunchy, dry mixture; a strange gelatinous dessert made from ghee and cinnamon.
When we finished, they insisted on showing us their other house in the country. The next thing we knew, Matt and I were both on the back of a little motorcycle behind the teenage boy, driving fast and furious down the tiny streets of Bundi! As we sped over the cobblestones, dodging cows and oncoming traffic, my life was flashing before my eyes. I kept thinking, “I’m so glad we bought travel insurance!”
Finally we arrived (in one piece), and they proudly showed us around their house and their little garden. We were shown everything, from the bathroom to the storage room. They were absolutely beaming with pride. The mother even managed to get out a few words in English: “Our personal house. Personal.”
We capped the night with a cup of chai and watched the beginning of Obama’s inauguration on their (plastic-wrapped) T.V. I thought it was interesting what Shabhom (the teenage boy) said about him: “Obama is very lucky.” We never see our presidents in this way, as the recipients of good fortune. We see them as extremely hard-working and deserving of what they receive, good or bad.
While we sat with them for the last few minutes, they invited us to stay with them at their house. We were surprised, but of course declined, explaining that we were already staying in a hotel. They said it would be easy to go get our things and come back to their house together, but we had paid for our hotel in advance. They were visibly disappointed, but accepted this explanation and offered another invitation for the next time we come. “Next time you come to Bundi, you must stay for seven days, and you must stay with us!” The father declared that they felt a deep friendship with us. I’m still bewildered by their hospitality.
We climbed back on the motorcycle behind Shabhom, and the rest of the family (all four of them!), piled onto the second motorcycle. When we were safely ahead of the family, Shabhom tentatively queried, “Can I ask you a question?” I said, “Of course.”
“Did you know each other before you were married?”
“Yes, we met at University.” (That seemed to please him.)
“Because… I have a girlfriend.” (said he shyly) “I met her at a marriage ceremony.”
(wedding)
“Do your parents know about her?”
“No, no! It is top secret!”
“Do her parents know about you?”
“Top secret! Sometimes… when I’m alone… I call her.” (pause) “She is soooo pretty.” And thus another Indian tale of star-crossed lovers, albeit a perfectly innocent one.
We finally arrived, wind-blown, back to their house. The youngest son presented us with a gift (a daily planner?!) and they would not say goodbye, because they invited us to dinner the following night. We never went back.**
We will never ever forget those people. I still don't understand why the opened their hearts and their homes to us so dramatically, or what kind of world is so free of suspicion. I definitely learned something from that.
**However, we have already been in touch through email. The modern world!
It’s quiet. It’s tiny. Our room is bright and colorful with stained glass and rajput paintings on the ceilings and walls. This is the first real breath of calm we’ve had thus far. And now we’re at our leisure to rest or wander as we please.
I’ve never experienced so much humanity as I have in India. I’ve felt such generosity and desperation in equal measure. In Bundi, the people were lovely and warm. Children kept asking us to take their photo, and amidst the mild chaos of picture-taking and handing out spiderman pencils, one of the boys asked us up to his house for tea. So we went in their rickety house up a series of very steep and narrow stairs, where we met the mother. We were ushered into a little bedroom where they served us chai masala. An older brother appeared, who could speak English. He was a very gentle boy, but insistent that we come back at 8:00 for dinner. We gave a non-committal “we’ll try,” and he said “No try, it is necessary for you to come!”
With much trepidation (and visions of gastro-intestinal explosions dancing in our heads), we arrived at their house at 8:00. We returned to the little bedroom, where we met a sassy aunt who was openly burping and showing off her English skills. The father, who was wearing nothing but a towel and a shirt, greeted us warmly (and later stood up on the bed and put his trousers on in front of us!). When we sat down to dinner (on the floor), the whole family sat around and watched us eat. They presented us each with a big round silver platter covered with little piles of food and a basket of chapati. It was a bit awkward, especially as we had to eat on the floor… with our hands. They chuckled at our clumsy fingers fumbling around the little piles of food, but tried to make us feel comfortable. The food was very interesting: there were delicious spicy chick pea curries; some sort of odd, crunchy, dry mixture; a strange gelatinous dessert made from ghee and cinnamon.
When we finished, they insisted on showing us their other house in the country. The next thing we knew, Matt and I were both on the back of a little motorcycle behind the teenage boy, driving fast and furious down the tiny streets of Bundi! As we sped over the cobblestones, dodging cows and oncoming traffic, my life was flashing before my eyes. I kept thinking, “I’m so glad we bought travel insurance!”
Finally we arrived (in one piece), and they proudly showed us around their house and their little garden. We were shown everything, from the bathroom to the storage room. They were absolutely beaming with pride. The mother even managed to get out a few words in English: “Our personal house. Personal.”
We capped the night with a cup of chai and watched the beginning of Obama’s inauguration on their (plastic-wrapped) T.V. I thought it was interesting what Shabhom (the teenage boy) said about him: “Obama is very lucky.” We never see our presidents in this way, as the recipients of good fortune. We see them as extremely hard-working and deserving of what they receive, good or bad.
While we sat with them for the last few minutes, they invited us to stay with them at their house. We were surprised, but of course declined, explaining that we were already staying in a hotel. They said it would be easy to go get our things and come back to their house together, but we had paid for our hotel in advance. They were visibly disappointed, but accepted this explanation and offered another invitation for the next time we come. “Next time you come to Bundi, you must stay for seven days, and you must stay with us!” The father declared that they felt a deep friendship with us. I’m still bewildered by their hospitality.
We climbed back on the motorcycle behind Shabhom, and the rest of the family (all four of them!), piled onto the second motorcycle. When we were safely ahead of the family, Shabhom tentatively queried, “Can I ask you a question?” I said, “Of course.”
“Did you know each other before you were married?”
“Yes, we met at University.” (That seemed to please him.)
“Because… I have a girlfriend.” (said he shyly) “I met her at a marriage ceremony.”
(wedding)
“Do your parents know about her?”
“No, no! It is top secret!”
“Do her parents know about you?”
“Top secret! Sometimes… when I’m alone… I call her.” (pause) “She is soooo pretty.” And thus another Indian tale of star-crossed lovers, albeit a perfectly innocent one.
We finally arrived, wind-blown, back to their house. The youngest son presented us with a gift (a daily planner?!) and they would not say goodbye, because they invited us to dinner the following night. We never went back.**
We will never ever forget those people. I still don't understand why the opened their hearts and their homes to us so dramatically, or what kind of world is so free of suspicion. I definitely learned something from that.
**However, we have already been in touch through email. The modern world!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
13-Hour Train Ride of Despair
I don’t have too many criticisms of the Lonely Planet, but I think they missed a crucial warning. Other travelers we met along the way seemed to know. So how did we end up on a general-class sleeper train? Had I known what a horrific nightmare it was going to be, I would have re-routed the entire itinerary and traveled around Rajasthan counter-clockwise. I blame it on you, Lonely Planet!
The first thing I saw upon boarding was the open door of the train bathroom… and there was *#@! all over the floor. As the night is progressing, everything is conspiring to keep me awake and make me feel profoundly ill-at-ease. Random jumpy Indian music on transistor radios. Coarse tuberculin coughing. Children randomly screaming and whining. Man on the adjacent bunk staring at me. Bugs. Weird food smells. Overpowering whiffs of the latrine (I mean, like my nose is a lead pipe that is being pumped with raw sewage). Growling snores. Rattle of the train. Yeah, I’m freaked out. We’re the only westerners on the whole damn train. So everyone and their cousin has noticed us. If someone had thieving instincts, they’d come straight for our bunks, I’m sure.
I think that guy is still staring at me. I’m afraid to look.
You couldn’t pay me a million rupees to step foot in the bathroom, either.
The first thing I saw upon boarding was the open door of the train bathroom… and there was *#@! all over the floor. As the night is progressing, everything is conspiring to keep me awake and make me feel profoundly ill-at-ease. Random jumpy Indian music on transistor radios. Coarse tuberculin coughing. Children randomly screaming and whining. Man on the adjacent bunk staring at me. Bugs. Weird food smells. Overpowering whiffs of the latrine (I mean, like my nose is a lead pipe that is being pumped with raw sewage). Growling snores. Rattle of the train. Yeah, I’m freaked out. We’re the only westerners on the whole damn train. So everyone and their cousin has noticed us. If someone had thieving instincts, they’d come straight for our bunks, I’m sure.
I think that guy is still staring at me. I’m afraid to look.
You couldn’t pay me a million rupees to step foot in the bathroom, either.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Taj Mahal: What a Grave!
It’s a profound privilege to see one of the wonders of the world. It was Matt’s birthday today, and I’m sure it will be one that he remembers always.
It was very foggy this morning. The Taj Mahal looked like a ghost, insubstantial, almost transparent. Peculiar how dream-like the Taj is, and yet the red buildings surrounding it, beautiful as they are, seemed perfectly solid and tactile, while the Taj floated, like it was suspended in milk.
What a strange and beautiful monument to love. From far away, it has a pale, ephemeral quality. But up close, it’s built of huge slabs of solid marble, covered over with sinewy and delicately flowering designs. It’s unquestionably the most extraordinary mausoleum in the world. It’s the clean, pure heart of a filthy, chaotic city.
We went to eat a birthday dinner at a rooftop restaurant nearby… a magnificent view of the Taj. And a very different view from the postcards, too. From our vantage point, the Taj Mahal was rising like a fairy-tale cloud palace in the midst of a sea of corrugated metal, trickster monkeys, and buildings in an advanced state of decay. Open sewage runs through the streets of Agra; dogs skulk with dirty children in the alleys. But the Taj is always there, omnipresent, floating whitely above the refuse.
There is some unintentional comment here about death. What is it. Purity? Or something shadowy and hidden? Something crawling in the dirty streets and peering darkly through the gates into a magnificent garden…
I feel it all around me. But I feel life, too. Even if it comes out in smudged colors and cage-rattling coughs.
It was very foggy this morning. The Taj Mahal looked like a ghost, insubstantial, almost transparent. Peculiar how dream-like the Taj is, and yet the red buildings surrounding it, beautiful as they are, seemed perfectly solid and tactile, while the Taj floated, like it was suspended in milk.
What a strange and beautiful monument to love. From far away, it has a pale, ephemeral quality. But up close, it’s built of huge slabs of solid marble, covered over with sinewy and delicately flowering designs. It’s unquestionably the most extraordinary mausoleum in the world. It’s the clean, pure heart of a filthy, chaotic city.
We went to eat a birthday dinner at a rooftop restaurant nearby… a magnificent view of the Taj. And a very different view from the postcards, too. From our vantage point, the Taj Mahal was rising like a fairy-tale cloud palace in the midst of a sea of corrugated metal, trickster monkeys, and buildings in an advanced state of decay. Open sewage runs through the streets of Agra; dogs skulk with dirty children in the alleys. But the Taj is always there, omnipresent, floating whitely above the refuse.
There is some unintentional comment here about death. What is it. Purity? Or something shadowy and hidden? Something crawling in the dirty streets and peering darkly through the gates into a magnificent garden…
I feel it all around me. But I feel life, too. Even if it comes out in smudged colors and cage-rattling coughs.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Shock of Filth, Shock of Poverty
I kept a journal while we were in India, and I'm copying here in all its emotion and artlessness. This trip had such an impact on us... that I want to share it. Forgive, in advance, moments that may seem melodramatic or sentimental. I just don't have the skill (or the distance) to reproduce my experience in words. I assure you there was nothing melodramatic or sentimental about our trip. It was an experience of life and raw humanity.
We’ve been in India for two days, and my senses have been assaulted, violated, sprung open. As soon as we got off the plane I could smell it. Like an animal exhaling in the night air. Like warm skin sprinkled with cumin and coriander. Like burning excrement.
A man from the hotel was there to meet us at 3 AM in Jaipur, and we rattled off into the night. Some people were still out at that hour, huddled around small fires they had built in the streets.
The first shock is the shock of poverty and the shock of filth. This morning, waiting for the train, my eyes locked---- paralyzed---- on the sight of human feces and urine on the tracks and engorged rats sniffing around and the stench of it was rising up in waves, and I was gagging uncontrollably over and over again. It’s a smell so indescribably putrid that I feel like I never knew the full spectrum of smells before. I suddenly realized that the traintracks are the public bathroom, and the realization made me almost vomit. It’s sickening. It’s nauseating. It’s saddening.
People were spread out everywhere, ragged and dirty and hopeless-looking. Children with mucus-encrusted faces and nappy hair sitting still, quiet, moon-eyed, while their mothers are sleeping on the concrete.
Yesterday I saw a peacock picking its way through a pile of trash. It’s like these sad-eyed women in their butterfly-colored saris. Picking their way through the trash.
Aren’t the people beautiful. Driving by, a whole family of four packed on a scooter, the children giddily waving at us. A leathery old man with glasses propped beneath a crimson turban, squatting on the ground reading the newspaper. A little old lady in a grey sari, asking me to write out the information for her train ticket.
And scary, too. Scary/sad/disturbing. A half-naked man, stork-limbed, who painted himself red, wild-eyed, walking through traffic like he’s in a dream. The eyes staring two ways at once. A leper. A man with a dead foot. The mad. The insane. The touts. The hustlers. The beggar children.
I feel like an intruder sometimes, armed with my camera and shooting mercilessly at their poverty.
And what about those children. Those moon-eyes.
Now we’re on the train from Jaipur to Agra. The country-side is rolling past in green and yellow. Villages flashing by, impossibly decaying. The occasional fantastical sweep of bright paint on a decaying wall, or red, blue, and green flicks of color on a tiny cupola. Monkeys share space with peacocks and humans, always conniving ways to steal and spring away.
Away from the villages, people live in mud huts with thatched roofs. There are round straw huts----granaries. Everywhere are huge piles of cow dung shaped into flat round circles and lined up for drying or stacked ready to use as fuel. No running water, no modernity.
The people stare at us, shocked, as the train slows down. And then we rattle away forever.
India is seeping into me. I’m helpless.
We’ve been in India for two days, and my senses have been assaulted, violated, sprung open. As soon as we got off the plane I could smell it. Like an animal exhaling in the night air. Like warm skin sprinkled with cumin and coriander. Like burning excrement.
A man from the hotel was there to meet us at 3 AM in Jaipur, and we rattled off into the night. Some people were still out at that hour, huddled around small fires they had built in the streets.
The first shock is the shock of poverty and the shock of filth. This morning, waiting for the train, my eyes locked---- paralyzed---- on the sight of human feces and urine on the tracks and engorged rats sniffing around and the stench of it was rising up in waves, and I was gagging uncontrollably over and over again. It’s a smell so indescribably putrid that I feel like I never knew the full spectrum of smells before. I suddenly realized that the traintracks are the public bathroom, and the realization made me almost vomit. It’s sickening. It’s nauseating. It’s saddening.
People were spread out everywhere, ragged and dirty and hopeless-looking. Children with mucus-encrusted faces and nappy hair sitting still, quiet, moon-eyed, while their mothers are sleeping on the concrete.
Yesterday I saw a peacock picking its way through a pile of trash. It’s like these sad-eyed women in their butterfly-colored saris. Picking their way through the trash.
Aren’t the people beautiful. Driving by, a whole family of four packed on a scooter, the children giddily waving at us. A leathery old man with glasses propped beneath a crimson turban, squatting on the ground reading the newspaper. A little old lady in a grey sari, asking me to write out the information for her train ticket.
And scary, too. Scary/sad/disturbing. A half-naked man, stork-limbed, who painted himself red, wild-eyed, walking through traffic like he’s in a dream. The eyes staring two ways at once. A leper. A man with a dead foot. The mad. The insane. The touts. The hustlers. The beggar children.
I feel like an intruder sometimes, armed with my camera and shooting mercilessly at their poverty.
And what about those children. Those moon-eyes.
Now we’re on the train from Jaipur to Agra. The country-side is rolling past in green and yellow. Villages flashing by, impossibly decaying. The occasional fantastical sweep of bright paint on a decaying wall, or red, blue, and green flicks of color on a tiny cupola. Monkeys share space with peacocks and humans, always conniving ways to steal and spring away.
Away from the villages, people live in mud huts with thatched roofs. There are round straw huts----granaries. Everywhere are huge piles of cow dung shaped into flat round circles and lined up for drying or stacked ready to use as fuel. No running water, no modernity.
The people stare at us, shocked, as the train slows down. And then we rattle away forever.
India is seeping into me. I’m helpless.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
First 24 Hours in India
even before we left sharjah, it was as though we had already arrived in india. there was a mad crowd-cramming chaos at check-in, and the usual total disregard for queuing. we looked around and didn't see any white people in the sharjah airport. odd. i guess whitey flies in at DBX.
everybody on the flight was indian... and male! it was a little uncomfortable. it was kind of like being the only woman on the beach in a bathing suit. (only roxana and jacki know what i mean. eek.)
we arrived safely after about three hours... at 3 AM. the first thing i noticed in India was the smell. it was a wholly new smell. it's like a living animal sprinkled with cumin. and that smell is everywhere. i'm sure it will stick to me and i'll be wafting around dubai with it when i return.
anyway, it was quite fortunate that we arranged in advance to be picked up. the airport was in the middle of a giant slum. we zipped away in a crisp little white car, dodging crater-sized pot-holes and piles of trash. i was surprised to see some people still up at that hour. they had built fires in the streets, and were huddled around to keep the chill off.
i've never seen such slums. (i'll have to talk more about that later. my thoughts are pretty disjointed at the moment.)
we finally arrived at Dicky's place (hotel madhuban) and were shown through a maze of little courtyards and sudden flights of stairs and rambling flowers to our cozy room. CRASH OUT.
there were so many weird noises in the night. dogs howling and weird little melodic beeps and finally the call to prayer. i had never associated india with the call to prayer, but of course there are a lot of muslims here. it was the first noise that my brain could latch on to and recognize, so it was kind of a relief. other than the barking dogs, that is. but that's not much of a relief.
we got up at a reasonable 11:00. took our time having breakfast in the courtyard and getting acquainted with a fat little wiener dog named Bruno. finally walked out the gate and into chaos.
the motorized rickshaws are a teeth-chatteringly wild ride in a traffic pattern that must have been based on some kind of higher math. i did not have any idea what was going on. bicycles, rickshaws, cars, cows, donkeys, kids, goats, everybody weaving in and out at top speed, vying for the first place in line. (we'll excuse the cows; they weren't really much concerned about speed)
meanwhile, everything is blazing past in a blur of colors and crazy smells. particularly that moist animal spicy smell. and then suddenly a putrid sewer smell. hey, look, they have urinals outside! (i'm not kidding). then a death smell. then that seductive indian incense smell coming from a temple.
and i mentioned the colors. jaipur is known as "the pink city." but it's a mass of colors swirling around everywhere, from the saris to the crazy exotic fruit stalls to the printed textiles for sale.
everywhere you look, there's something you've never in your life seen before. like a half-naked man who painted himself red. a dead body covered over with silk being carried through the streets. a bicycle somehow loaded with 20 giant plastic barrels. the biggest moustache you've ever seen, proudly displayed beneath a carefully wrapped turban.
anyway, india is by far the most colorful, most bewildering place i have ever seen. i look forward to the craziness.
everybody on the flight was indian... and male! it was a little uncomfortable. it was kind of like being the only woman on the beach in a bathing suit. (only roxana and jacki know what i mean. eek.)
we arrived safely after about three hours... at 3 AM. the first thing i noticed in India was the smell. it was a wholly new smell. it's like a living animal sprinkled with cumin. and that smell is everywhere. i'm sure it will stick to me and i'll be wafting around dubai with it when i return.
anyway, it was quite fortunate that we arranged in advance to be picked up. the airport was in the middle of a giant slum. we zipped away in a crisp little white car, dodging crater-sized pot-holes and piles of trash. i was surprised to see some people still up at that hour. they had built fires in the streets, and were huddled around to keep the chill off.
i've never seen such slums. (i'll have to talk more about that later. my thoughts are pretty disjointed at the moment.)
we finally arrived at Dicky's place (hotel madhuban) and were shown through a maze of little courtyards and sudden flights of stairs and rambling flowers to our cozy room. CRASH OUT.
there were so many weird noises in the night. dogs howling and weird little melodic beeps and finally the call to prayer. i had never associated india with the call to prayer, but of course there are a lot of muslims here. it was the first noise that my brain could latch on to and recognize, so it was kind of a relief. other than the barking dogs, that is. but that's not much of a relief.
we got up at a reasonable 11:00. took our time having breakfast in the courtyard and getting acquainted with a fat little wiener dog named Bruno. finally walked out the gate and into chaos.
the motorized rickshaws are a teeth-chatteringly wild ride in a traffic pattern that must have been based on some kind of higher math. i did not have any idea what was going on. bicycles, rickshaws, cars, cows, donkeys, kids, goats, everybody weaving in and out at top speed, vying for the first place in line. (we'll excuse the cows; they weren't really much concerned about speed)
meanwhile, everything is blazing past in a blur of colors and crazy smells. particularly that moist animal spicy smell. and then suddenly a putrid sewer smell. hey, look, they have urinals outside! (i'm not kidding). then a death smell. then that seductive indian incense smell coming from a temple.
and i mentioned the colors. jaipur is known as "the pink city." but it's a mass of colors swirling around everywhere, from the saris to the crazy exotic fruit stalls to the printed textiles for sale.
everywhere you look, there's something you've never in your life seen before. like a half-naked man who painted himself red. a dead body covered over with silk being carried through the streets. a bicycle somehow loaded with 20 giant plastic barrels. the biggest moustache you've ever seen, proudly displayed beneath a carefully wrapped turban.
anyway, india is by far the most colorful, most bewildering place i have ever seen. i look forward to the craziness.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Walking Distance (by Matt)
As anyone who knows me will attest to, I like to have the necessities of life within a reasonable walking distance of my home. For me, the necessities of life (outside my front door) include sidewalks, supermarkets, restaurants, cafes/bars, parks, and most importantly, community. I never imaged that I would live in the desert though, especially not a ridiculously wealthy and ostentatious desert like Dubai. This puts a strange spin on what can be within walking distance from your humble or not-so-humble abode.
I’d like to take you on a short walking tour of our goofy Dubai neighborhood.
This is our living room, in which our cozy Christmas tree is currently on display.
This is a nice shot (that Laurel took) of the building across the way, as viewed through our windows. On its first floor on this building is a new little corner store that opened a few days ago. We walked to it last night to buy two zesty lemons.
As any complete and respectable neighborhood will have, here are our local indoor ski slopes. Ski Dubai is only a couple of blocks away, and even though we haven’t yet taken advantage of the powder, it’s the idea of it that enhances our quality of life (ha, ha…).
Here’s our neighborhood mall. The Mall of the Emirates is the very first mall that I have comfortably spent an entire day in without going completely psychotic. It feels quite like a really city, just climatized!
Scaffolding and cranes as far as the eye can see. Dubai is a megalopolis being built all at once, from the ground up, and our neighborhood didn’t escape the frenzy.
Lu Lu’s Hypermarket!!! We bought a TV here. I’d consider that a necessity of life, wouldn’t you?
We have a smoggy view of the famous buildings along Sheikh Zayed Road, including the new Dubai Tower, which is the tallest building in the world. I bet you can’t guess which one it is?
I’d like to take you on a short walking tour of our goofy Dubai neighborhood.
This is our living room, in which our cozy Christmas tree is currently on display.
This is a nice shot (that Laurel took) of the building across the way, as viewed through our windows. On its first floor on this building is a new little corner store that opened a few days ago. We walked to it last night to buy two zesty lemons.
As any complete and respectable neighborhood will have, here are our local indoor ski slopes. Ski Dubai is only a couple of blocks away, and even though we haven’t yet taken advantage of the powder, it’s the idea of it that enhances our quality of life (ha, ha…).
Here’s our neighborhood mall. The Mall of the Emirates is the very first mall that I have comfortably spent an entire day in without going completely psychotic. It feels quite like a really city, just climatized!
Scaffolding and cranes as far as the eye can see. Dubai is a megalopolis being built all at once, from the ground up, and our neighborhood didn’t escape the frenzy.
Lu Lu’s Hypermarket!!! We bought a TV here. I’d consider that a necessity of life, wouldn’t you?
We have a smoggy view of the famous buildings along Sheikh Zayed Road, including the new Dubai Tower, which is the tallest building in the world. I bet you can’t guess which one it is?
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