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.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
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.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
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.”
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.
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.
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