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.

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.

Sleeper Bus

Udaipur to Jodhpur was a very bumpy ride in a “sleeper” bus. Amazingly, I did sleep, but was wakened frequently by the very loud warble of the melodic horns that all the buses and trucks seem to have in India. That Indian propensity for embellishment! Six hours was a long time to shake and rattle, but at least we were curtained in this time and no one could stare!

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.

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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.

Taxi Driver, the Moon, Urdu

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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.

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…
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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.

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.

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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!