Going it alone

This journey really began when I left Osman at Haridwar Junction on the evening of the 24th of January. He, making his way north on the express to Amritsar then heading for the Wagar (Pakistan-India) border and me catching a later (almost midnight) train, overnight to Delhi.

I traveled first class, mainly because it was the only class left when I booked. First class has it’s ups and downs. I shared a lockable, clean and nicely outfitted cabin with a 37 year old Indian man and a 61 year old Californian (turned Indian) woman. The conversation was intelligent and pleasant, I got a great nights sleep, much good advice and perhaps most importantly, they both knew exactly when I should exit the train. This is a small matter that means so much here, as the stations are poorly sign-posted, the trains are never running to schedule and the porter, when speaking in English, is barely understandable with his thick accent.

So what’s the down side to First Class? I now know what I am missing in second and other lower classes and it’s hard to go back!!!

Once in Delhi I made tracks to the railway station cloakroom. The plan was to stash my large pack there for the day and come back for it before my next train early this evening. At the cloakroom I had the good fortune to meet Rhys. An Englishman with the same plans. His next train leaving 2 hours after mine and going in the same direction, his day as roughly laid out as mine.

Rhys and I spent the day walking around Parahganj, winding through the maze of markets, fighting off rickshaw drivers and resting in the only park that seemed to be open on a Monday. Yes, even the parks, with simple grass for sitting on, are closed one day a week.

At approximately 4:30pm I decided I should head to the station for my 5:40pm train. It had taken us about 10 minutes by rickshaw this morning to get here, so I’d allow double that to get back and still should have time to collect my things from the cloakroom and find my platform… right? Wrong! So wrong!

No rickshaw wanted any part of us. A surreal feeling after spending the day (indeed last 2 weeks) fending them off with a stick. Apparently the traffic was bad and it would take 45 mins to get there. Uh-oh. I ran for the Metro, my last hope. The line to be scanned (as India seemed to be on Amber alert too) was about 150 people long!!!! Another entrance revealed 2 lines. Men and women. The women’s line with just a handful of people in it. The only way to get to the station on time was to leave Rhys and run through. Luckily he had the time to deal with this crisis and we agreed to meet in Jaisalmer in 2 days.

Also luckily, I found a ticket agent who explained the system to me and directed me to the appropriate train, platform and my destination station. Ten rupees and ten minutes later, feeling more like a canned tuna, I was exiting toward the railway station. Phew!

Next stop… cloakroom. It was packed with people! If the Metro had taught me anything, it was pushing and shoving is acceptable behavior. So I did. And pretty soon I was not 30th in line, but I was 2nd! Guilt be gone, I had a train to catch and what if it was actually on time today?!

When the Delhi-Jaisalmer Express did arrive, only 1 hour late, I was ready. Myself and my new English friend Tanya, separated into our respective carriages for the 20+ hour journey. It was getting dark already and I was pretty tired. If only I could find the conductor and confirm my seat number…

One look at his chart confirmed I was actually in the wrong carriage. Second class, air conditioned yes, but apparently this train split in two just down the track and the carriage I was in would be heading to who-knows-where, while the back part of the train, including the other second class carriage, would go to Jaisalmer. Oooops! But how the heck is anyone supposed to know these things? His advice (to me and the other 2 people who had made the same mistake) was to jump out at the next stop and walk 6 carriages down and get in again. Easier said than done.

The train stopped and we jumped out onto the platform. People everywhere, running in all different directions, pitch black and within 30 seconds the “all aboard” whistle was being blown. WTF! I still had at least 4 carriages to run! The race was on… we did our best then dived into the nearest carriage just as the train began to move again. How do these people live like this? After walking through several more carriages I found another conductor, received directions to my berth and collapsed with relief and exhaustion. I had to ask myself if I was really meant to be going to Jaisalmer?… It did seem the universe was conspiring against me.

Lucky again with the company I was to keep, I had landed next to a 24 year old Indian man who lived in Jaisalmer, was a camel safari guide for 14 years and now ran a small guest house. His English was fantastic. (I took his word for it that he also spoke a good deal of French and Korean.) Amin was born in the Thar Desert to a poorer family, he had never attended school and is basically illiterate - but due to his constant tourist contact, has a worldly way about him. We became friends…then I fell asleep.

Seventeen pleasant, but noisy hours later, the train pulled into Jaisalmer Station and I had arrived.

Missing...One magic red carpet

I knew I had found it when I saw my room - The “Pink Maharani” room. Aside from being clean (and most are here) it was hand painted, Indian style. Bright colors, pieces of mirror and postcards decorated the walls. Five little windows with shutters that open over window seats, curtains of chiffon and gold thread. It was magical! I might have to refer to myself in the third person, as Princess Jasmine from now on!!! (Iknow, I know… she wasn’t Indian, but Disney is yet to collide with Bollywood and Jaisalmer does have more of an Arabian feel to it.)

It is from the silk cushioned window seat that I now write. It does still feel like I am riding the rails, but Im sure that feeling will subside. For now I’m showered, relaxed and soaking up the sun. From my open windows I see the Fort, markets, children playing in the streets… and it is not too noisy here either.

I made it. My own little slice of yellow sandstone heaven lies before me. Welcome to Jaisalmer, Princess Jasmine!

Cookie Time

A quiet walk along the back streets of Rishikesh inevitably lead to the fresh cookie cart. Unbelievable to think this man mixes dough, forms cookies and bakes them in his little fire-heated oven, all right there!

I wanted ONE. But buying one apparently means buying about a dozen - as they are sold by weight. So 2 minutes later, with a mouthful of cookie, I was a one-handed photographer... the other hand grasping a newspaper bag of cookies that I had no idea what to do with!

I tried offering them to beggars and homeless alike. No luck.

Then we ran into this guy. Hanging out near the bridge, certainly looking hungry!

He was very grateful for a cookie. His black-faced monkey paw gently reaching out and taking it. Deliberately measuring each bite, savoring the taste and leaving crumbs all over his face.

More monkey pics... because I can

I never get sick of photographing these guys. And the babies seem to like the attention.

 

 

 

 

There are two types of monkey here in Rishikesh. The black-faced and the redder ones. The black-faced ones seem to be bigger, but gentler. The red ones have a nasty streak. Most the time they ignore us, but stare to long or give them the wrong impression and they turn aggressive.

We were exiting a rather nice organic cafe one day and a large female with a packet of cookies in hand, stood between us and the street. She glared at me and as I took step forward bared her teeth and took on an attack-like stance... I was scared! In the end a kindly older man had to chase her off with a stick so we could pass.

We were told that it would have been much worse if she had been a male.

Rishikesh... A world apart

Without a doubt, the people and culture of Rishikesh is different to the rest of India that we have seen.

Everywhere you look they are improving the city. Sweeping, removing cow dung, patching peeling plaster and repainting signage. They mean it when they say "post no bills"... and men with blades are actively removing the violations.

Along the river where the water has eroded at the steps, repairs are underway.

It is a pleasure to be here.

 

 

 

Why be vegetarian in India?

There are soooo many good reasons. Many of which you have to see to believe, but trust me, neither Osman or I have any inclination toward meat here!

The chickens peck aimlessly among the garbage, sewage and who knows what! It is the only life they know but even eating eggs has been a larger decision for us after seeing this.

Bear in mind that they could still be considered free range/cageless, antibiotic-free and probably in some sick way, organic too.

The ducks are semi-clean... but again they live here, so they have to work darn hard at it.

And why did someone paint them pink?!

Perhaps it's just the cute factor, but when I look at these little piggies, I can't see chops or bacon!

And my final thought... It's someone's pet! This is as close to being a member of the family as any animal will get in India. Quite an accomplishment for a goat!

(PS: Yes, I'm well aware that meat-eating in the US has it's own special yuck-factor too.)

Got to admire this little guy!

From the meditation garden I watched this little kingfisher in action. Beautiful!

Again and again he dove into the emerald green pond, returned with a mouthful, then stopped to shake off and enjoy the sunshine too.

Take a walk on the wild side

Take a walk on the wild side

What an eye-opener! It started out as a walk to the archeological museum, but then we decided to follow some monks who looked like they knew a shortcut. Technically they did. But what a shortcut it was! We found ourselves amongst kids, goats, dogs, cows and everything else we are now used to. However, the road led us through the residential neighborhoods that are well off the tourist path.

We witnessed women washing clothes together, threshing wheat or something else I’m ignorant of and almost everything else that a “normal” day in Bihar might entail. Just for the record, you should know that Bihar, the state/province we are in (at Bodhgaya) is one of the poorest in India. The fact that the people can smile, play and work so efficiently is a mystery and constant source of admiration for me. They seem to lack every aspect of infrastructure that I thought was necessary to function. But they manage well and for the most part are modest, friendly people who freely gave permission to be photographed.

Another Day in Bodhgaya

It’s all starting to make perfect sense to me now. Meditation is the only antidote to the noise and chaos that is everyday life here. Without it, even a reasonable person might find the only other way out of this constant assault on the senses, is death… but then again if you believe you will simply be reborn back into this place…

We started today with a flood in the hall outside our room. Waking at 7am to the sound of straw brushes swishing water around haphazardly and other guests yelling to each other about it - right outside our not-so-sound-proof door. Then the water in our bathroom shut off (predictably) and it was shortly followed by the toilet backing up and over-flowing. Sadly, this was almost predictable too!!! The real question was, how long could I hold it and could we find an even half-clean public bathroom in the next few hours? Unlikely. Luckily, I have a remarkable bladder and easily managed to down a soupy breakfast and plenty of chai before first checking email, then finding a relatively clean public facility.

Next stop, travel agent. We purchased some outrageously priced “emergency” rail tickets last night after discovering all trains out of Gaya were booked for days to come and we needed to pick them up from him today. The man was a crook! We discovered this morning that although we asked for a train that left on the 20th from Gaya, he actually booked us on the train that left Calcutta on the 20th and stopped to pick us up on the 21st!!! Non-refundable. And he we go again for another night in Bodhgaya! I could have strangled him. He knew it too and I watched as his eyes pleaded with Osman to control his wife. No such luck, I let him have the full (loud) wrath of my anger and stormed off. His voice calling “madam, madam… madam!…” in the background. In truth, if I had thought he made a genuine mistake I would have gone easier on him, but last night he made a big show of taking cell phone calls and trying to sound important as we sat in front of him. He interrupted us and yelled past us to one of the young boys working there to bring him chai. What an ass! Negligent and incompetent, but still with his large ego intact.

Last chore for the day… find a new hotel. An UPGRADED one. We found one a good deal cleaner, quieter and sporting a 1980’s style TV too. Hello BBC!
There was just enough time left in the day to visit the meditation garden, watch a beautiful blue kingfisher in action and let go of all of the days annoyances. The yelling I had done had given me a sore throat anyway.

Very Enlightening!

Bodhgaya is the place where Lord Buddha achieved enlightenment (under the Bodhi Tree)… and where hopefully I can walk away with a little more patience and gratitude.

These monks travel from far and wide to walk in Buddha's footsteps, come closer to their own enlightenment and apparently to buy all the same chatchka that tourists are supposed to want.

Prayer flags adorn the temple.

For some, this is a life (and appearance) changing experience and I was very appreciative of being able to share the moment, up close and personal.

India in general, is definitely the place to come if you want to be slapped in the face with dysfunction, filth and wanting. And if you can’t recognize how easy and privileged your American lifestyle is while here, I think you never will, sadly.

To Know How Lucky You Are...

As we took time out in our hotel room today, escaping the tooting horns, construction noises, free-running animals and general mayhem, I was homesick. Missing the feeling of walking in a bathroom without flip-flops on, yearning for hot water and fruity smelling soaps and lotions. Thinking wistfully of my memory foam mattress as I struggled to find a position that didn’t aggravate my aching bones - a product of the thin mattress and wood underneath.

Yet when I thought a little harder, I recognized that most people outside the hotel don’t have a bed to sleep in or the privacy of a room at all… let alone one with connected bathroom that has “almost hot” water.

Last night Osman and I ventured down a side street that seemed to be filled with candlelight. As we drew closer we realized what we were seeing was a makeshift (or permanent?) home for some of the people that, by day, were street venders. They had pulled their carts down the alley, placed them against a wall, covered the fronts with plastic or sheets, and crawled inside. The lights we saw were little fires. The fires consumed all sorts of garbage and the people who lit them sat mere inches from the flames, their legs wrapped around them. They probably dreamed of a dirty, cramped hotel room with clean-ish running water… as I dreamed of a three bedroom house with central heating and memory foam bed.