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.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
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