INDIA TRAVELERS TIPS
I am not an expert. I am not an officially mandated Lonely Planet vagabond, and I do not profess that this is actually good advice. This is, however, what worked for me.
1. Become very good at ignoring people.
India is full of people who want your money. This is natural and to be expected, but you should have a coping technique. Beggers and touts almost always leave me alone, and this is because I completely ignore them.n I look right through them and pretend they do not exist. They will usually follow me for a half hearted couple of steps, realize I am not going to react in any way shape or form, and then they leave and go for an easier mark. This makes my life as a traveler much, much easier.
Is this rude? I have given this advice to a few other friends, and they acknowledge that it works, but also note, "I just couldn't do it. I'd feel so rude." By normal standards, completely ignoring the existence of another human being is rude. However, I find that touts and beggers are being rude by following me, getting up in my face, and aggressively attempting to sell me crap I don't need - and I might as well reciprocate.
Unfortunately, polite refusals do not work. Polite refusals simply indicate to the tout or begger that you 1. speak English and 2. are probably a soft touch, which means they will step up their entreaties even more. If you engage in conversation, you will probably have found yourself an unwanted new friend for the next thirty minutes, attempting to sell you a drum or a taxi ride or an elephant or a hooker (whatever.) Just know what you're in for if you wish to maintain politeness.
Note for women: Ignoring amorous men also works very well. It is especially important never to engage in conversation with men who are hitting on you or attempting to solicit you - this will encourage them and you will probably pick up some very unwelcome and rude followers.
2. Don't give to beggers.
Beggers are a tremendous presence in India. They are everywhere, they are persistent, and they are incredibly desperate looking. Westerners often give to them, and furthermore, they give a lot - and its hard not to. However, you shouldn't give your money to beggars. According to all the Indians I've spoken to, beggers in most areas are organized, which means the rupees you give to the starving mother and cherubic child may not actually benefit them in any way. (Furthermore, the beggers often are not in as dire straits as they may initailly appear.)
If you want to help the poor in India - and who doesn't? - find a big and legitimate charitable organization in the area you are in and make a hefty donation. This will find its way to the right people and projects and do a lot more good then random dollops of money given to random people.
3. Bargain for everything, but not TOO much.
“I have learned that the cost of everything from a royal suite to a bottle of soda water can be halved by the simple expedient of saying it must be halved.”
- Robert Byron
This is sort of complex. In many places, especially tourist areas, rickshaw drivers, shop-keepers and random Purveyors of FIne Crap will overcharge you immensely with a big smile on their face, under the presumption you are incredibly stupid. Do not fall for this. Bargain, do not accept the first price, and do not be cowed or fooled by claims that you are looking at an incredibly nice antique or that you will be taken on the best rickshaw ride of your goddamn life to date. Halve the price and keep moving down from there. Walking away and saying you'll think about is usually an excellent tactic.
In regards to transportation: ask around and figure out what baseline prices for rickshaws and taxis are BEFORE you take one. You will never, ever get local price, but you can at least shoot for decent Stupid Foreigner price. I had a guy at the Delhi airport attempt to charge me 2000 rupees for the 10 minute ride between the domestic and international terminals. I looked at him, he looked at me, and we both burst into raucous laughter because he was full of shit and he knew it.. Do not pay these prices.
HOWEVER. The bargaining thing can be taken entirely too far. The poor woman selling handicrafts in the small village is not trying to screw you and could probably use the money a hell of a lot more then you. Many sellers in Colaba might appear skeezy, but I genuinely felt bad when I read an article in the newspaper where the salesmen lamented foreigners who bargained them down to prices that didn't even cover their expenses - they're trying to make a living like anyone else. If there's a sign on the wall saying BARGAINING NOT ALLOWED, then be a nice polite human being and heed it. You may not want to admit it, but you are indeed a Wealthy and Decadent Westerner and can probably afford to pay a smidgen over the local price. Take a look at the average local salary and perhaps you will appreciate the logic of this.
4. Dress nicely, you damn hippie.
Indians place a big premium on dressing nicely and looking put together. For some reason, many Western tourists decide to completely ignore this, going everywhere in ratty body-odor smelling clothes, while flashing hairy unshorn armpits (women) and bristly five o' clock shadows. (men.) This is not the way to win friends and influence people in India. Many Indians I've spoken with have demonstrated extreme disdain for the omnipresent dirty hippie found wandering in most tourist areas. They also wonder why people who can afford a not-inexpensive plane ticket to a place like India are somehow unable to afford showers.
You are not making a polite gesture of solidarity to the common man by dressing like you are poor yourself - the common man, odds are good, just thinks you are a utter fool for refusing to use your decadent Western wealth on a t-shirt that doesn't have holes in it. People will be polite to you, help you out, and treat you with respect if you show them the respect of looking nice, smelling good, and being put together.
5. Tip, but not too much.
Leave restaurant tips. This is a good thing and makes everyone happy, especially if the food was good, the service was polite, and you enjoyed your meal. I leave big tips at my usual restaurants and the staff are always happy to see me - which makes enjoying dinner a lot more fun. And yet again, you can afford it, you damn Westerner.
HOWEVER, do not tip too much. This can be a problem with rickshaw drivers (who demand tips at times for, uh, existing). It's also common at airports, where porters will do everything in their power to snatch your bag from you then demand money. Just refuse to give them anything if they attempt to charge you 100 rupees for touching your bag for 1 millisecond.
Good rule of thumb: if they ASK for a tip, they probably don't deserve one.
6. Shut up and stop worrying so much about the food .
Yes, India is not exactly known for its hygiene. Yes, odds are good you will get sick while you are in India - intestine-cramping crying for your mommy kill me now sick. HOWEVER, this happens less then you might think. Don't let the potential risk stop you: I may have an unusually steel-plated system but I've eaten just about everything here and have only been ill once. Use common sense - don't eat it if there's flies buzzing around it and no customers in sight - but a busy and fairly clean street stall full of happy customers will probably serve you fine. Try the chaat and the juice and have fun.
One thing that annoys both me and Indians is Westerners who will enter an expensive, classy restaurant and begin obsessing over the hygiene and the water and the forks and.... This is very offensive and you should really knock it off. A five star restaurant in India's major population centers is no more likely to give you food poisoning then a five star restaurant back home. Relax.
7. You will need balls of steel to cross the street.
Westerners are always jarred by the utter chaos that are Asian street crossings. We grow up accustomed to friendly crossing guards, blinking crossing lights, and drivers that stop when they are supposed to for the appointed amount of time. We are also accustomed to the notion of "pedestrian right of way."
None of this exists in India. Crossing the street means you are going to be playing a game of Frogger with your body and there are no extra lives. Watch traffic extremely carefully, be ready to run when there's anything approaching a break in activity, and take especial notice of rickshaws and motorbikes: they can be easy to miss.
Never, ever expect anyone to slow down or wait for you to cross: motorists assume they have the right of way and it is contingent upon you as the lowly pedestrian to get the hell out of the road if they are coming through.
Watch for groups of local people waiting to cross and cross when they do. Alternately, find the toughest looking old lady in the district waiting to cross, and cross with her. Old ladies have survived for a very long time under adverse conditions and generally have street smarts.
Westerners often like to remark in a patrician sort of way that, "You know, traffic looks dismal here, but it must be safe -I never see any accidents or fatalities!" This is a pleasant illusion. The accident and fatality rate is horrific. You just haven't been here very long.
8. You are probably safer here then back home.
For some reason, many people back home seem to believe you are propelling yourself into the jaws of Certain Death by making a visit to India. India has a popular perception of being some sort of squalid, terrifying shithole full of the screaming starving, emaciated villagers in dodhis fighting over a single scrap of cow patty, and vicious throat-slitting urban bandits and terrorists. This is totally untrue. India's recent economic leap forward has turned most of the country, especially the urban centers, into a highly civilized place indeed - and it is is deeply offensive to most Indians when travelers assume all of India is a poverty-ridden nightmare. Most Indians are rather proud of their countries progress and hopeful for the future: you could at least indulge them a bit and go along with it.
Poverty is of course still rife and obvious, especially when you get out of the posh areas and into the backcountry. These are problems that need to be corrected and must be corrected, and it is equally unwise to equate the Lacoste-wearing masses sipping Americanos at Cafe Coffee Day with all of India. Donate your money, your time, or your expertise, and maybe things will improve.
Use common sense: Delhi is indeed not a particularly safe place, but I would still wager you're better off there then in the nasty bits of most modern cities. Places like Bangalore and Mumbai have a well-deserved reputation for safety: travel intelligently, avoid seedy people, and you should be perfectly fine. I have found myself walking back home alone many times here in Bangalore and have felt perfectly at ease - and with good reason. I wouldn't take my chances doing such a thing back home.
9. Indian food is cheaper and tastes better. Eat it.
Many Westerners come to India and are immediately repulsed and disturbed by the food. This usually manifests itself into an almost-crazed reliance on KFC and McDonalds. Do not become one of these people. Indian food is delicious, varied, and inexpensive. (It is rarely healthy and do not let anyone convince you a korma swimming with ghee and butter and cashew is. But good.)
Western food might be available, but it is generally either fast food chain junk or extremely badly interpreted at the lower end of the price range. Of course, this is not true in the major population centers: there are absolutely amazing Western restaurants in Bangalore, Delhi and Mumbai which are definitely worth a visit for the nostalgic, though you will pay for the privilege.
Try as many different cuisines as you can: Indian food features an incredible variety of specialties that range far beyond the standard Punjabi/Mughali food that seems to dominate most Indian menus outside of the country. Try spicy Andra food from Kerela - served on a banana leaf with lots of coconut leaf and rasam (spiced tamarind broth) - or perhaps some Kalkutta chaat - or maybe Hyderbadi biryani or....
10. Go out to clubs. This is a lot of fun and you will meet people.
Many people are suprised by the Indian club scene - in that there even IS one. I may be biased, but I have had a tremendous amount of fun at nighclubs in Bangalore, Mumbai, and Delhi and you certainly will as well. Many tourists I've spoken to made the false assumption that there was no party scene in India and thus failed to pack their schmany clothes.....trust me ladies, bring along your glam stuff, you will certainly need it (and miss it if you don't.)
One more thing: Do not stand in the corner with your other Western buddies. Nightclubs and bars are excellent places to meet young and fun Indian people, who will probably be friendly, intelligent, and willing to hang out with you and have a good time. Meeting locals is half the fun of travel, and you are denying yourself an extremely good time if you stay in the company of your fellow Americans at all time - whether it be out of fear, politeness or (hate to say it) prejudice. Disconnect from your group, head up to the bar, and make some new friends: you may find yourself with invitations to parties or family events that will be infinitely more interesting then the average tourist experience. I have made many amazing Indian friends here who I hope to keep in contact with for a long time to come....it's a good idea.
11. You can always pee in luxury hotels.
One unfair but welcome perk of being a Westerner is that you are always able to pee in luxury hotels. This is an absolute godsend when you are walking through a sweltering Indian street with a full bladder and your other option is a cesspool watched over by a grinning overseer who is almost certain to peek at you. And charge you five rupees for the privilege.
Don't subject yourself to this. Walk into the nearest Taj or Oberoi, give a polite and confident nod to the attendant, and pee in air conditioned and marble-outfitted luxury - the attendant will hand you a jasmine scented towel and a breath mint on your way out. This only works if you are clean and dressed somewhat nicely. We discussed this.
More will come as I think of them. I guess.
Monday, May 26, 2008
mumbai mumbai
Aneesa had some family matters to attend to, so I spent the day faffing around in Colaba. Colaba is one of those places that is rather pleasant to simply spend the day doing not much of anything in. There's always something to see: confused hippies, drunken Arabic louts, beautiful Bollywood types in skintight jeans, drunken louts of all shapes and sizes and colors. Also many, many ravens.
For some reason, the dining area at the Sea Palace insists on playing Bruce Springsteen singing about the SUMMER OF SIXTY-NIIINEEEE while I am trying to eat my cornflakes. This really is most offputting at times.
I have a curious Indian problem: I love bhindi masala. I really, really love it. For the unknowing, bhindi is ladyfinger or okra, that uniquely slimy vegetable loathed by most reasonable human groups other then: Indians, some African groups, and American Southerners. All groups have developed their own ways of preparing it so it becomes delicious and rich instead of slimy and wiry, but this is admittedly a delicate art that should not be trusted to *just* anyone. So I proceeded to spend my time in Mumbai trying bhindi masala pretty much anywhere that offered it. This was fun.
I decided to try a place that was encouragingly called The Food Inn on the main drag of Colaba for lunch. (Determining where I eat lunch takes up a majority of my leisure time on vacation. This pleases me.) I settled in and ordered the usual bhindi masala and a half tandoori chicken: I am always up for some meaty goodness.
The bhindi masala was only okay: they'd left the ladyfinger stalks whole which made them rather difficult to eat - no one ever, ever gives you a knife in an Indian restaurant. The chicken, however, was delicious - juicy and rich in the middle with a nice honey and masala infused exterior. Yum.
I ate that, wandered around a bit, bargained in a half-hearted way with the book stall guy over A Suitable Boy (high way robbery!) then decided to be a reasonable human being and sleep the rest of the day away. And so I did.
Aneesa and her sister were able to meet me briefly for dinner at a place called Rajdhani, which is sort of an upscale Rajhastani fast food joint. I love seeing the incarnations that fast food goes through in different places and cultures. The menu specializes in the kind of light and interesting vegetarian snacks that are rife in that bit of India: lots of curd, dry masalas, street foods and the like, along with plenty of mango specialities since the Alphonoso mangos are finally, finally in.
In any case, we ordered a thali, some puri chaat, and a pav bhaji. (While we waited, the music in the place for some reason turned to extremely creepy vampire horror show type stuff, which was a bit...offputting, epecially in a cheery and brightly lit orange colored sort of place.)
The thali was immense and delicious - I was thrilled with both the bhindi and the palak paneer, but there wasn't a loser on the plate. It even came with a tasty whipped mango dessert and a mini and adorable potato samosa. The pav bhaji was also nice: pav bhaji is a Mumbai speciality composed of buttery vegetable curry served with a rich dinner roll. You dip the roll in the curry and eat at will: hard to beat. The chaat was also nice, full of crisp fried wafers, small strings of potato-based sev and slightly sweet buffalo milk curd, tossed with spices and plenty of tomato and oion. Refreshing and the perfect thing on one of those very very humid Mumbai evenings.
That evening I decided to defy Saleem's solemn command to never ever ever go anywhere without a phalanx of angry looking male bodyguards, and adjourned to the ever-famous Leopold Cafe, usually home to a healthy number of frightened looking pink people eating crisps and drinking beer. I parked myself at a likely looking table, ordered a nice after-dinner fruit salad, and did a few drawings: my hobby of drawing comics has for some reason come back in full force since I've been in India.
They tolerated my occupancy of a single table for a while, but eventually tried to kick me out. I shrugged and decided to head on home and turn in, but as I was leaving, a guy came from downstairs to see me off: apparantly he'd been waiting to buy me a drink and was put out that I was leaving. I'm always open to a conversation when I'm on my lonensome in a foreign country (though I could feel Saleem's head exploding all the way across town in Bandra), so I joined him upstairs at the part of the bar that apparantly fancied itself hip because it was playing that Thumpy Techno Music. Also the interior was all brushed metal.
We chatted: turned out Rich was from Alabama, which meant we immediately got into a discussion about the various merits of barbeque sauces and barbeque preperations. One curious cultural reality about my people (Southerners) is that we will immediately upon meeting one another begin talking about how to cook a pig. There will usually be polite disagreement about correct pig cooking protocol and what should be served witht the pig and what sort of sauce the pig should be doused with: but the consensus is that there is pig and that smoked pig is delicious. It is always so comforting to know what to talk about.
Still, we did talk about more then just pig. I enjoyed hearing about Rich's many experiences in Japan: he did a foreign exchange when he was my age and fell in love, returning for the JET program and many times after for both work and pleasure. He was in fact about to lead a trip to Japan as an adjunct professor for Alabama State University (of snot nosed kids my age!), which sounds pretty cool to me. I warned him that people my age can be exceedingly obnoxious. He seemed unmoved. (But we so are.)
We also shared a nice bitch-fest about the hordes of unwashed hippies who moon around Colaba smoking weed and having dodgy encounters with various drug dealers and ladies of ill repute who hang out in Mumbai. Of course, it seems like everyone is gleefully of ill repute to some extent in Mumbai (which may be one of the things I like about it, though unfortunately I am not nearly as of ill repute as I'd like to be.)
We chatted in this fashion til' one AM, where we were unceremoniously kicked out per Indian regulations. (This translates into someone coming around and saying LEAVE NOW.) I certainly enjoyed meeting him and talking smack about the world around us....I love meeting Americans who travel and help in some small way to rectify the USA's current not-so-hot reputation in the world. And also prove that Southerners are NOT all unwashed banjo-playing hicks thank you very much. Only some of us.
For some reason, the dining area at the Sea Palace insists on playing Bruce Springsteen singing about the SUMMER OF SIXTY-NIIINEEEE while I am trying to eat my cornflakes. This really is most offputting at times.
I have a curious Indian problem: I love bhindi masala. I really, really love it. For the unknowing, bhindi is ladyfinger or okra, that uniquely slimy vegetable loathed by most reasonable human groups other then: Indians, some African groups, and American Southerners. All groups have developed their own ways of preparing it so it becomes delicious and rich instead of slimy and wiry, but this is admittedly a delicate art that should not be trusted to *just* anyone. So I proceeded to spend my time in Mumbai trying bhindi masala pretty much anywhere that offered it. This was fun.
I decided to try a place that was encouragingly called The Food Inn on the main drag of Colaba for lunch. (Determining where I eat lunch takes up a majority of my leisure time on vacation. This pleases me.) I settled in and ordered the usual bhindi masala and a half tandoori chicken: I am always up for some meaty goodness.
The bhindi masala was only okay: they'd left the ladyfinger stalks whole which made them rather difficult to eat - no one ever, ever gives you a knife in an Indian restaurant. The chicken, however, was delicious - juicy and rich in the middle with a nice honey and masala infused exterior. Yum.
I ate that, wandered around a bit, bargained in a half-hearted way with the book stall guy over A Suitable Boy (high way robbery!) then decided to be a reasonable human being and sleep the rest of the day away. And so I did.
Aneesa and her sister were able to meet me briefly for dinner at a place called Rajdhani, which is sort of an upscale Rajhastani fast food joint. I love seeing the incarnations that fast food goes through in different places and cultures. The menu specializes in the kind of light and interesting vegetarian snacks that are rife in that bit of India: lots of curd, dry masalas, street foods and the like, along with plenty of mango specialities since the Alphonoso mangos are finally, finally in.
In any case, we ordered a thali, some puri chaat, and a pav bhaji. (While we waited, the music in the place for some reason turned to extremely creepy vampire horror show type stuff, which was a bit...offputting, epecially in a cheery and brightly lit orange colored sort of place.)
The thali was immense and delicious - I was thrilled with both the bhindi and the palak paneer, but there wasn't a loser on the plate. It even came with a tasty whipped mango dessert and a mini and adorable potato samosa. The pav bhaji was also nice: pav bhaji is a Mumbai speciality composed of buttery vegetable curry served with a rich dinner roll. You dip the roll in the curry and eat at will: hard to beat. The chaat was also nice, full of crisp fried wafers, small strings of potato-based sev and slightly sweet buffalo milk curd, tossed with spices and plenty of tomato and oion. Refreshing and the perfect thing on one of those very very humid Mumbai evenings.
That evening I decided to defy Saleem's solemn command to never ever ever go anywhere without a phalanx of angry looking male bodyguards, and adjourned to the ever-famous Leopold Cafe, usually home to a healthy number of frightened looking pink people eating crisps and drinking beer. I parked myself at a likely looking table, ordered a nice after-dinner fruit salad, and did a few drawings: my hobby of drawing comics has for some reason come back in full force since I've been in India.
They tolerated my occupancy of a single table for a while, but eventually tried to kick me out. I shrugged and decided to head on home and turn in, but as I was leaving, a guy came from downstairs to see me off: apparantly he'd been waiting to buy me a drink and was put out that I was leaving. I'm always open to a conversation when I'm on my lonensome in a foreign country (though I could feel Saleem's head exploding all the way across town in Bandra), so I joined him upstairs at the part of the bar that apparantly fancied itself hip because it was playing that Thumpy Techno Music. Also the interior was all brushed metal.
We chatted: turned out Rich was from Alabama, which meant we immediately got into a discussion about the various merits of barbeque sauces and barbeque preperations. One curious cultural reality about my people (Southerners) is that we will immediately upon meeting one another begin talking about how to cook a pig. There will usually be polite disagreement about correct pig cooking protocol and what should be served witht the pig and what sort of sauce the pig should be doused with: but the consensus is that there is pig and that smoked pig is delicious. It is always so comforting to know what to talk about.
Still, we did talk about more then just pig. I enjoyed hearing about Rich's many experiences in Japan: he did a foreign exchange when he was my age and fell in love, returning for the JET program and many times after for both work and pleasure. He was in fact about to lead a trip to Japan as an adjunct professor for Alabama State University (of snot nosed kids my age!), which sounds pretty cool to me. I warned him that people my age can be exceedingly obnoxious. He seemed unmoved. (But we so are.)
We also shared a nice bitch-fest about the hordes of unwashed hippies who moon around Colaba smoking weed and having dodgy encounters with various drug dealers and ladies of ill repute who hang out in Mumbai. Of course, it seems like everyone is gleefully of ill repute to some extent in Mumbai (which may be one of the things I like about it, though unfortunately I am not nearly as of ill repute as I'd like to be.)
We chatted in this fashion til' one AM, where we were unceremoniously kicked out per Indian regulations. (This translates into someone coming around and saying LEAVE NOW.) I certainly enjoyed meeting him and talking smack about the world around us....I love meeting Americans who travel and help in some small way to rectify the USA's current not-so-hot reputation in the world. And also prove that Southerners are NOT all unwashed banjo-playing hicks thank you very much. Only some of us.
Mumbai More
Aneesa met up with me in the morning and we decided to see if we could make it out to Elephanta Island, an island off the coast of Mumbai proper which features lovely Buddhist caves. The heat was already beginning to rise most unpleasantly off the pavement, but we managed to make it over to the Gateway of India, which was swarming with various brightly dressed tourists and touts (who are convinced I need a giant balloon and aqua bead things and drums and flutes and GO AWAY.)
Unfortunately, it was by then too late to go to Elephanta, so we punted and decided to go for a little boat ride instead. This was very nice: I love boats. Perhaps it's due to y early childhood in Florida and my subsequent time in San Francisco, but a good boatride makes me happy: it offers a different perspective on a place, viewed from a good ways offshore. We paid a little bit extra and sat up top, and I enjoyed watching the mismatched Mumbai skyline drifting off and away, as we weaved between yachts and intimidating looking industrial cruisers.
Aneesa and I are very food oriented, so we imediately headed to find a place to eat. We settled on the Delhi Darbar, an apparantly famous joint in Colaba (it was certainly popular. And air conditioned.) We settled on an interesting looking spicy Parsi dish with mutton, vegetable kohlapuri, and the usual roti and etcetera. (For you must have roti. It is required.)
Parsi's are one of the more interesting ethnic groups to settle in the very diverse city that is Mumbai. Insofar as I am aware, they are Zorostrians of Persian descent, who came to the city a very long time indeed, establishing their own culture and traditions. Aneesa says they generally dress in Western clothes and speak with a certain kind of accent; Sheila simply considers them a hell of a lot of fun. They are renowned for their distinct cooking skill (and business acumen), but their numbers are dwindling rather quickly as one cannot exactly up and decide to become a Parsi. They are also known for their distinct matter of disposing of their dead: as Zoroastrians worship the elements (fire, water, et all), the only acceptable method of taking care of a body is to allow it to be eaten by vultures or decompose in the open air. Along these lines, the Parsi's have set up the Tower of Silence on Malabar Hill, which happens to be smack dab in the middle of a bunch of luxury housing complexes. Apparantly the two institutions seem to interact in relative peace, although there are stories of people stepping out for a bit of fresh air in the morning on their porch and finding a vulture-deposited toe. But they could just be stories.
In any case, Mumbai is experiencing an unfortunate vulture shortage, meaning the Parsi's are being forced to rely on chemical methods to dispose of bodies, since, well, things are just beginning to take a bit too long (and smell a bit.) I read in the paper that some Parsi's are beginning to make signifigant donations to vulture rescue and rehabilation facilities. This seems only prudent.
But enough about Towers of Silence.
The lunch was quite tasty: the spicy pieces of mutton were cooked in a red gravy to a melt-in-the-mouth consistency, although it was rather rich. The vegetables kolhapuri were fairly tasty but too greasy for my taste: unfortunately Indian restauranters sometimes presume that using enough ghee to kill a horse = good.
We headed out and shopped for a bit in Colaba, evading the usual touts and looking at purses and handbags and designer clothes and all the other misceallenous junk that one can obtain in that part of town. We finally got bored and decided to head out to Chowpatty Beach, the famous (or infamous) stretch of sand near Churchgate, where Aneesa's family stays.
We cabbed it out there, going past the rather adorably art-deco section that is Marine Drive (there's even a revolving restaurant!), tracing by the waterfront as the sun went down - which was by now hopping with people in all manner of ethnic attire. (There are many flavors of person in Mumbai.)
We got to the beach and wandered over to the water - swimming in it would probably be a horrendous idea but it certainly is nice to look at. Chowpatty is famed for its snack vendors, who operate their stalls in a sanctioned bit of sand set off a bit from the main drag. Aneesa told me that about ten years ago they were definitely Not Authorized and were forced to run away dragging their blenders and bhel-puri making apparatus behind them down the sand whenever the fuzz rolled up - an amusing mental image, but stationary bhel puri is probably (in the end) superior to the illicit variety.
Chowpatty Beach is suprisingly clean: what i'd read had given me the idea that it was some sort of nuclear waste ground, but it's actually rather clean and pleasant. An old begger woman had befriended and maintained a pack of friendly dogs, who chased each other and fell asleep under the shade of the big pots that local Hindu adherents performed puja in. Unfortunately your standard edition Creepy Indian Guy zeroed in on us, asking Aneesa many very personal questions and (oddly enough) caressing my foot. So we left.
We were going to meet Aneesa's cousins Saleem and (oh shit) at the very posh bar at the International Hotel. We went over there and ascended to the roof in a glittering and very white elevator. The bar was a work of art: a crystal white lounge with a killer view of Mumbai's glittering skyline. Prices were obscene, but that didn't faze the attractive and/or rich clientele, nibbling on tandoori-fusion bar snacks and watching the horizon. I was completely priced out and contented myself with some interesting masala flavored doritos, but Aneesa went so far as to order a Bacardi Breezer. We chatted for a bit util Saleem and appeared.
Saleem fancies himself a slick bastard in the standard Indian 19 year old boy way, down to the flashy cell phone and the half unbuttoned dress shirt. (Saleem, I love you and I kid.) He instantly proved to be a ton of fun, and we made plans to get out of Expensive Land and to somewhere more priced to small humble people like ourselves.
We decided to adjourn to Koyla, a shisha (hookah) bar and restaurant located conviently near the Sea Palace. The place is at the top of an incredibly sketchy apartment building that appears to be run by some sort of Saudi Syndicate: lots of evasive looking people mounting the stairs wearing sunglasses and carrying lumpy packages. (The place really was shut down by the cops for undisclosed reasons a while back but rebuilt: this kind of thing doesn't seem to faze Mumbaites all that much.) We took the creaky old fashioned elevator up to the top as Saleem steadfastly refused the indignity of walking.
It's a pretty swish place: lots of white sand and little benchy things, with another lovely view of the Mumbai skyline. Big elaborate shishas are constantly being carried out to hip groups of Mumbai beautiful people, who nibble on meaty tandoori delicacies and horse-laugh. (The only flaw is no liquor license, but I guess I wouldn't expect that.)
We had some meaty things and some sarson ka saag, which Saleem deemed repulsive (which meant I had to chase him with it.) We then shared a very nice mixed fruit shisha- something about smoking shisha is so deliciously cooling on those muggy kill-yourself tropical climate nights.
Still, Saleem is configured like me and he immediately deemed we needed a drink and we needed one now, and really, I am powerless to resist Old Monk. However, Aneesa and Saleemn's family are somewhat traditional and like to know where they are, and there were exams or something, which meant lots of feverish calls back and forth and Saleem scheming like a little weasel to figure out how he might be permitted to stay out. (I sat back and watched. One of the perks of being an American is permissive parenting once a certain age is attained. Well, least' in my case.)
Saleem hashed out some lie about staying over at a friend's house to watch educational documentaries, and we went over to Woodsides, a likely looking bar I'd spotted earlier. The place turned out to be lovely: woodpaneled, clean, full of interesting photographs, Led Zeppelin playing salubriously over the sound system. We ordered Old Monk all around the table: cheers. Saleem and his cousin were nearly ecstatic about the prospect of being able to get tanked.
We had a few, got pleasantly lit, then decided to head to the Sports Bar nearby. India was currently in the throes of the IPL or International Premier League, some sort of big cricket event that I can't be arsed to find out more about. In any case, that meant the bar was packed with screaming men (and some women) zeroed in like laser beams on the TV, where someone was pitching or bowling or whatever the fuck they do when they play cricket. Saleem and Aneesa got into pitched battle in the little basketball court by the side while they waited for the match to end, and i hung out for a bit and watched them sip beer. I managed to guilt Saleem into buying me an Old Monk one way or another, and sipped it demurely while making eyes at the craggy specimen chilling out over by the dart board. Mumbai is a nice place.
We were beginning to fade by this point, but due to the elaborate lie, Aneesa and her cousins couldn't go home. This meant they needed to find a hotel, which proved to be more difficult then anticipated as Aneesa didn't have her passport (you need your passport to check into most hotels here due to various government regulations.) This meant Saleem got into a protracted argument about something or another with the front desk guy until we managed to drag him away. (Funny.) I was exhausted and crashed in my room......thankfully they managed to find somewhere to stay.
Unfortunately, it was by then too late to go to Elephanta, so we punted and decided to go for a little boat ride instead. This was very nice: I love boats. Perhaps it's due to y early childhood in Florida and my subsequent time in San Francisco, but a good boatride makes me happy: it offers a different perspective on a place, viewed from a good ways offshore. We paid a little bit extra and sat up top, and I enjoyed watching the mismatched Mumbai skyline drifting off and away, as we weaved between yachts and intimidating looking industrial cruisers.
Aneesa and I are very food oriented, so we imediately headed to find a place to eat. We settled on the Delhi Darbar, an apparantly famous joint in Colaba (it was certainly popular. And air conditioned.) We settled on an interesting looking spicy Parsi dish with mutton, vegetable kohlapuri, and the usual roti and etcetera. (For you must have roti. It is required.)
Parsi's are one of the more interesting ethnic groups to settle in the very diverse city that is Mumbai. Insofar as I am aware, they are Zorostrians of Persian descent, who came to the city a very long time indeed, establishing their own culture and traditions. Aneesa says they generally dress in Western clothes and speak with a certain kind of accent; Sheila simply considers them a hell of a lot of fun. They are renowned for their distinct cooking skill (and business acumen), but their numbers are dwindling rather quickly as one cannot exactly up and decide to become a Parsi. They are also known for their distinct matter of disposing of their dead: as Zoroastrians worship the elements (fire, water, et all), the only acceptable method of taking care of a body is to allow it to be eaten by vultures or decompose in the open air. Along these lines, the Parsi's have set up the Tower of Silence on Malabar Hill, which happens to be smack dab in the middle of a bunch of luxury housing complexes. Apparantly the two institutions seem to interact in relative peace, although there are stories of people stepping out for a bit of fresh air in the morning on their porch and finding a vulture-deposited toe. But they could just be stories.
In any case, Mumbai is experiencing an unfortunate vulture shortage, meaning the Parsi's are being forced to rely on chemical methods to dispose of bodies, since, well, things are just beginning to take a bit too long (and smell a bit.) I read in the paper that some Parsi's are beginning to make signifigant donations to vulture rescue and rehabilation facilities. This seems only prudent.
But enough about Towers of Silence.
The lunch was quite tasty: the spicy pieces of mutton were cooked in a red gravy to a melt-in-the-mouth consistency, although it was rather rich. The vegetables kolhapuri were fairly tasty but too greasy for my taste: unfortunately Indian restauranters sometimes presume that using enough ghee to kill a horse = good.
We headed out and shopped for a bit in Colaba, evading the usual touts and looking at purses and handbags and designer clothes and all the other misceallenous junk that one can obtain in that part of town. We finally got bored and decided to head out to Chowpatty Beach, the famous (or infamous) stretch of sand near Churchgate, where Aneesa's family stays.
We cabbed it out there, going past the rather adorably art-deco section that is Marine Drive (there's even a revolving restaurant!), tracing by the waterfront as the sun went down - which was by now hopping with people in all manner of ethnic attire. (There are many flavors of person in Mumbai.)
We got to the beach and wandered over to the water - swimming in it would probably be a horrendous idea but it certainly is nice to look at. Chowpatty is famed for its snack vendors, who operate their stalls in a sanctioned bit of sand set off a bit from the main drag. Aneesa told me that about ten years ago they were definitely Not Authorized and were forced to run away dragging their blenders and bhel-puri making apparatus behind them down the sand whenever the fuzz rolled up - an amusing mental image, but stationary bhel puri is probably (in the end) superior to the illicit variety.
Chowpatty Beach is suprisingly clean: what i'd read had given me the idea that it was some sort of nuclear waste ground, but it's actually rather clean and pleasant. An old begger woman had befriended and maintained a pack of friendly dogs, who chased each other and fell asleep under the shade of the big pots that local Hindu adherents performed puja in. Unfortunately your standard edition Creepy Indian Guy zeroed in on us, asking Aneesa many very personal questions and (oddly enough) caressing my foot. So we left.
We were going to meet Aneesa's cousins Saleem and (oh shit) at the very posh bar at the International Hotel. We went over there and ascended to the roof in a glittering and very white elevator. The bar was a work of art: a crystal white lounge with a killer view of Mumbai's glittering skyline. Prices were obscene, but that didn't faze the attractive and/or rich clientele, nibbling on tandoori-fusion bar snacks and watching the horizon. I was completely priced out and contented myself with some interesting masala flavored doritos, but Aneesa went so far as to order a Bacardi Breezer. We chatted for a bit util Saleem and appeared.
Saleem fancies himself a slick bastard in the standard Indian 19 year old boy way, down to the flashy cell phone and the half unbuttoned dress shirt. (Saleem, I love you and I kid.) He instantly proved to be a ton of fun, and we made plans to get out of Expensive Land and to somewhere more priced to small humble people like ourselves.
We decided to adjourn to Koyla, a shisha (hookah) bar and restaurant located conviently near the Sea Palace. The place is at the top of an incredibly sketchy apartment building that appears to be run by some sort of Saudi Syndicate: lots of evasive looking people mounting the stairs wearing sunglasses and carrying lumpy packages. (The place really was shut down by the cops for undisclosed reasons a while back but rebuilt: this kind of thing doesn't seem to faze Mumbaites all that much.) We took the creaky old fashioned elevator up to the top as Saleem steadfastly refused the indignity of walking.
It's a pretty swish place: lots of white sand and little benchy things, with another lovely view of the Mumbai skyline. Big elaborate shishas are constantly being carried out to hip groups of Mumbai beautiful people, who nibble on meaty tandoori delicacies and horse-laugh. (The only flaw is no liquor license, but I guess I wouldn't expect that.)
We had some meaty things and some sarson ka saag, which Saleem deemed repulsive (which meant I had to chase him with it.) We then shared a very nice mixed fruit shisha- something about smoking shisha is so deliciously cooling on those muggy kill-yourself tropical climate nights.
Still, Saleem is configured like me and he immediately deemed we needed a drink and we needed one now, and really, I am powerless to resist Old Monk. However, Aneesa and Saleemn's family are somewhat traditional and like to know where they are, and there were exams or something, which meant lots of feverish calls back and forth and Saleem scheming like a little weasel to figure out how he might be permitted to stay out. (I sat back and watched. One of the perks of being an American is permissive parenting once a certain age is attained. Well, least' in my case.)
Saleem hashed out some lie about staying over at a friend's house to watch educational documentaries, and we went over to Woodsides, a likely looking bar I'd spotted earlier. The place turned out to be lovely: woodpaneled, clean, full of interesting photographs, Led Zeppelin playing salubriously over the sound system. We ordered Old Monk all around the table: cheers. Saleem and his cousin were nearly ecstatic about the prospect of being able to get tanked.
We had a few, got pleasantly lit, then decided to head to the Sports Bar nearby. India was currently in the throes of the IPL or International Premier League, some sort of big cricket event that I can't be arsed to find out more about. In any case, that meant the bar was packed with screaming men (and some women) zeroed in like laser beams on the TV, where someone was pitching or bowling or whatever the fuck they do when they play cricket. Saleem and Aneesa got into pitched battle in the little basketball court by the side while they waited for the match to end, and i hung out for a bit and watched them sip beer. I managed to guilt Saleem into buying me an Old Monk one way or another, and sipped it demurely while making eyes at the craggy specimen chilling out over by the dart board. Mumbai is a nice place.
We were beginning to fade by this point, but due to the elaborate lie, Aneesa and her cousins couldn't go home. This meant they needed to find a hotel, which proved to be more difficult then anticipated as Aneesa didn't have her passport (you need your passport to check into most hotels here due to various government regulations.) This meant Saleem got into a protracted argument about something or another with the front desk guy until we managed to drag him away. (Funny.) I was exhausted and crashed in my room......thankfully they managed to find somewhere to stay.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Aneesa came to collect me in the morning. We were going to meet her sisters from the UK at the Lakme Beauty Salon, fairly close to her grandparents place in Churchgate. I love the taxis in Mumbai: they're at least plentiful, fairly reliable, and don't involve vicious bargaining or the potential to fall out like those Bangalore rickshaws.
We found the place and ambled in: Aneesa was going to get a pedicure. Unfortunately they couldn't get me in on such short notice, which was probably a pity since my toe nails are beginning to take on a slightly horror show appearance. I was perfectly content to sit and read trashy magazines, watching Mumbaities have skin treatments.
I met Aneesa's sister, who was quite lovely: we discused India and various nerdy biological topics. She's just attained a PHD in biological science, and she specializes in human gum diseases, which I think is pretty cool. I asked her a few burning questions I've had for a long time about the difference in dirtiness between dog and human drool - apparantly dog drool does have less nasty stuff in it but still smells worse.
Aneesa's other sister emerged, who is ALSO a PHD (talented family, this) and specializes in communicative disease. I was impressed to find she used to work in Atlanta at the Disease Control Center, a fascinating receptacle of ebola and smallpox and polio and other nasty things. She said she "only" works with chickenpox, but I think chickenpox is much more relavant to our daily existence then Ebola anyway. I believe I came to admire her shamelessly when she told me about her visit to the Ebola Room at the headquarters. (They told her not to touch anything. She replies: "Why the hell would I WANT to?")
We were beginning to starve and Aneesa's pedicure was taking a bit, so she implored us to go on and get something and she'd catch up. Aneesa and I are both seafood addicts and we had been dying to try a place called Trishna, which is famous in Mumbai for seafood - especially crabs. Eating crab is one of the primary reasons I live upon this planet, so I was definitely game. I departed Aneesa with her sisters and we went over to the restaurant, which was down a rather slim alley in the Fort area. Still, we found it, and the bell-hop attired door guy ushered us in.
Trishna is a compact but reasonably classy place, full of wealthy looking people lunching on extremely messy seafood dishes on curiously white tableclothes. The service staff is a bit snooty but in the pleasant way that reminds you you are Getting What You Paid For. We settled on a chili garlic crab, squid masala, and some vegetables: bam, done.
Service is eerily fast, and the food lived up to all expectations. The chili garlic crab was sublime: it reminded me of my dad's near perfect rendition and definitely felt like home cooking. (Not as good as dad's though.) The chili sauce was perfectly spiced and had the right amount of kick, and we merrily chewed our way through the poor creature with brutal efficiency.
The squid masala was fine but I'm generally a bit underwhelmed by standard edition masala dishes: some sort of seafood in a coconut milk esque gravy. The vegetable jalfreizi was absolutely delicious and I devoured as much of it as I possibly could.
The bill wasn't cheap by India standards but still a total steal by US standards: 500 rupees or about 13 bucks for a big old crab. Would definitely run you more back home.
Aneesa unfortunately was unable to make it - apparantly her toes were taking quite a long time to dry out - so we met her at the hair saloon, where she and her sisters were having some sort of esoteric and eleaborate thing done to their roots. I accompanied them and sat for a while in the fading morning heat, watching the boats come out of Mumbai's remaining fishing colonies.
They decided to head on back to freshen up, but we determined we'd go out or something that night. Unfortunately, Indian families can get a little bit titchy about UnAttached Girls going out on their own in the evening, so I was on my own. This worked out fine: I found an Iranian restaurant that did chicken and edible hummus, then hung out at Cafe Leopold for a bit until I got sick of dreadlocked, ill looking Germans making eyes at me. Then I headed back to my hotel.
We found the place and ambled in: Aneesa was going to get a pedicure. Unfortunately they couldn't get me in on such short notice, which was probably a pity since my toe nails are beginning to take on a slightly horror show appearance. I was perfectly content to sit and read trashy magazines, watching Mumbaities have skin treatments.
I met Aneesa's sister, who was quite lovely: we discused India and various nerdy biological topics. She's just attained a PHD in biological science, and she specializes in human gum diseases, which I think is pretty cool. I asked her a few burning questions I've had for a long time about the difference in dirtiness between dog and human drool - apparantly dog drool does have less nasty stuff in it but still smells worse.
Aneesa's other sister emerged, who is ALSO a PHD (talented family, this) and specializes in communicative disease. I was impressed to find she used to work in Atlanta at the Disease Control Center, a fascinating receptacle of ebola and smallpox and polio and other nasty things. She said she "only" works with chickenpox, but I think chickenpox is much more relavant to our daily existence then Ebola anyway. I believe I came to admire her shamelessly when she told me about her visit to the Ebola Room at the headquarters. (They told her not to touch anything. She replies: "Why the hell would I WANT to?")
We were beginning to starve and Aneesa's pedicure was taking a bit, so she implored us to go on and get something and she'd catch up. Aneesa and I are both seafood addicts and we had been dying to try a place called Trishna, which is famous in Mumbai for seafood - especially crabs. Eating crab is one of the primary reasons I live upon this planet, so I was definitely game. I departed Aneesa with her sisters and we went over to the restaurant, which was down a rather slim alley in the Fort area. Still, we found it, and the bell-hop attired door guy ushered us in.
Trishna is a compact but reasonably classy place, full of wealthy looking people lunching on extremely messy seafood dishes on curiously white tableclothes. The service staff is a bit snooty but in the pleasant way that reminds you you are Getting What You Paid For. We settled on a chili garlic crab, squid masala, and some vegetables: bam, done.
Service is eerily fast, and the food lived up to all expectations. The chili garlic crab was sublime: it reminded me of my dad's near perfect rendition and definitely felt like home cooking. (Not as good as dad's though.) The chili sauce was perfectly spiced and had the right amount of kick, and we merrily chewed our way through the poor creature with brutal efficiency.
The squid masala was fine but I'm generally a bit underwhelmed by standard edition masala dishes: some sort of seafood in a coconut milk esque gravy. The vegetable jalfreizi was absolutely delicious and I devoured as much of it as I possibly could.
The bill wasn't cheap by India standards but still a total steal by US standards: 500 rupees or about 13 bucks for a big old crab. Would definitely run you more back home.
Aneesa unfortunately was unable to make it - apparantly her toes were taking quite a long time to dry out - so we met her at the hair saloon, where she and her sisters were having some sort of esoteric and eleaborate thing done to their roots. I accompanied them and sat for a while in the fading morning heat, watching the boats come out of Mumbai's remaining fishing colonies.
They decided to head on back to freshen up, but we determined we'd go out or something that night. Unfortunately, Indian families can get a little bit titchy about UnAttached Girls going out on their own in the evening, so I was on my own. This worked out fine: I found an Iranian restaurant that did chicken and edible hummus, then hung out at Cafe Leopold for a bit until I got sick of dreadlocked, ill looking Germans making eyes at me. Then I headed back to my hotel.
Aneesa had family obligations and couldn't meet me this day, so I decided to perform my usual new city ritual: walk in a new direction until I can't walk anymore.
Tuesday was the hottest and stickiest day of the year so far in Mumbai, and I couldn't bear to think of eating actual food. I was thrilled to discover a gelato place right up the street from my hotel - done. I ate strawberry sorbet and raspberry yogurt gelato in blissful silence in the air conditioned confines of the shop - nothing tastes as good as really quality ice cream when the weather is seething with moisture and prickly heat, all around you. Now I was ready to walk.
I headed down the street into Colaba, one of the older districts of Mumbai, full of pictureqesly rotting English archiecture and aggressive touts. Colaba is known primarily for the Gateway to India (built to celebrate King Charles visiting Mumbai or some such colonial foolishness) and the Taj Mahal hotel, which regally faces it. The Gateway itself is certainly an impressive old granite heap, although it was being restored upon my visit - abroad is, after all, always under construction. What the tourist books and photographs don't tell you is that the Gateway is usually swarming with hyper energetic young touts attempting to sell you everything from jiggly gel beads to extremely large balloons to drums (and they chase you.) Brief cruises and ferries to Elephanta Island (of the Buddhist caves) also leave right in front of the Gateway, ensuring hordes of picnickers milling around and licking interestingly colored ice creams at pretty much all times. There are also incredible quantities of pigeons, which compete with the omnipresent and rather charming ravens for trash and touristic leavings.
The Taj is definitely impressive, all colonial splendor and glistening marble floors and Escada outlets and doormen in silly hats. I like it very much, especially because it is quite large and provides an air conditioned and peaceful corridor through which to get halfway through Colaba and to my hotel. It also has the added value of having impeccably clean bathrooms with a smiling attendant who will hand you a towel, a mint, and some moisturizer after you have availed yourself of the facilities. This is a lifesaver. I enjoyed walking through the place upwards of six times a day and looking wistfully at the oasis-like pool area. I tend to wear fairly nice clothes and the attendants seemed to believe I was staying there, which meant everyone opened doors for me and smiled real nice.
When you walk out of my hotel and to the left, you find yourself going up a delightfully sketchy street that seems to be owned primarily by Gulf expats - the street is lined with Islamic kebab parlors, money changers, and many, many hookah/shisha outlets. One of the stores featured a hookah that had little mechanical fish swimming in the base, which I lusted after but didn't want to pay the shipping fee on. In any case, it's a useful street, although I was forced to walk a daily gauntlet of grinning sales-guys asking me in concerned voices, "Are you okay, ma'am? Are you okay....pashmina shawl...taxi.....cocaine...what you want?" Once you nod and side-step those guys and avoid the cows generally tied out at the corner, you walk down the street into Colaba proper.
The street is lined with crap emporiums, cheap and tasty restaurants, guys selling god knows what out of various stalls and carts and holes in the wall, and bars. I especially enjoyed Woodsides, which is a fairly classy place featuring cheap Old Monk and classic rock and extreme cleanliness. There are of course other, sketchier options. There are also many, many Western hippies in various states of disarray and drug-addlement. Paul Theroux wrote in the Great Railway Bazaar about the curious tribes of Western hippies that seem to roam India in their own, constant, exotic fantasy, and he is entirely correct. I'm not sure what they're looking for - spiritual enlightenment, connection with a mysterious and byootiful culture, excellent drugs - but I seem to sense they're generally disappointed at not finding it. The hippies tend to have this image of India as some sort of backwards land full of sadhus and holy men dispensing the secrets of the universe from the back of a holy cow (far as I can tell) and they are generally horrified to discover that India is not particularly interested in staying that way - like it was ever that way in the first place.
I believe the hippies dress so badly and maintain themselves so badly in some sort of effort to be "like" the locals. I imagine they are surprised to discover your typical Indian dresses as nicely as they can possibly afford and certainly takes showers. And shaves. And brushes their teeth. They can take their false image of some sort of mystic, non-existent India, stagnant in time, but I like modern India just fine, dance clubs and fancy restaurants and all. India does not need to cater to the narcissistic needs of Westerners out to Find Themselves and I am glad it is not particularly interested in doing so.
Colaba seems to attract both the wealthiest Westerners - who tend to huddle in safety inside the majesty and AC of the Taj - and the gungiest, who tend to stay at the cheap guesthouses (like the lovely Sea Shore) and wander around in a constant cheap ganga-and-cocaine induced haze. They also like to hang out at the Leopold Cafe - a famous joint where a writer apparantly used to write once - and talk about their various and exciting international drug experiences. This can be interesting to overhear, though I kept on expecting the FBI to bust in and lock everyone up, including me. (They could probably find some dirt if they really wanted to.)
You walk to the end of the street and once you hit the big white dome of the William and Mary museum, you're pretty much at the end of the tourist district of Colaba. Once you cross the extremely dangerous roadway - this requires skill and bravery - you're pretty much out of dreadlocks and sunburns land and back into the realm of the natives. You also will hit the very large naval base, which encompasses most of the spur of reclaimed land seen to the left of the Taj hotel. So there's my (or your) orientation.
I spent the day wandering up the street and orienting myself. My shoes as previously mentioned had died a horrible death in the fort in Old Delhi, so priority number one was finding a nice pair of Practical (blech) Shoes. Thankfully, I found a shoe vendor and managed to get a rather lovely and comfortable pair of silver walking shoes. So thank goodness for that.
I walked and walked and walked, cutting through the miserable mid-day heat and humidity (but with my usual dogged, perverse need to orient myself.) I found myself skirting the edge of the fort and decided to just keep on walking until I came to, well, the end of it.
This proved to be a bad idea as the fort is very very large. Still, I plugged away and finally found the end, only to discover that instead of a salubrious beach or park I could lounge in, there was just an angry looking man with a machine gun. So I headed back the other way, beneath a luscious stand of banyan trees (with various construction workers lounging beneath them and hurling affable slurs at me in Hindi.) I also found a perfectly severed and peaceful looking pigeon head on the pavement. I don't think I want to know.
By now I was a walking ball of sweat and human misery, and was thrilled to find a garden near the rather majestic Mumbai Library. Unfortunately, everyone else in Mumbai had the exact same idea on this hottest day of the year, which meant everyone in the area was vying viciously for a tiny patch of green space. I managed to nudge some people and found myself a spot on a bench, where I drew for a while and listened to my Ipod, some young day laborers staring at me in drop-jawed astonishment. (Trust me, my fellow palefaces: when you come to India, you will grow accustomed to this. Either that or you will go insane. It's sort of your call.)
I befriended a cat who was hunkered down in the bushes (he was smarter then us.) A curious note on stray animals in India: Bangalore is full of packs of mildly disquieting dogs and cows, Delhi has lots and lots of ravens and hawks, but Mumbai belongs to cats. Yes, there are dogs, but cats are everywhere, shimmying up trees and weaving under your feet and appearing in dark allies - usually affable laid back creatures. Sometimes they travel in families, and it's rather pleasant to be sitting on a Mumbai porch as the sun goes down to see a family of squabbling cats and kittens emerge in single file from a rhodendron bush and slip away again. But I digress.
I managed to stumble back to the Sea Palace and decided to get a snack. I was thrilled to find a place offering my beloved tandoori gobi, so I ordered that and hung out in the air conditioned comfort of the restaurant for a bit. A few young guys at the table by my side took photos of me sneakily (or so they thought) with their cell phone, but I ignored them until one of them slipped into the booth next to me. I said EXCUSE ME and he ran off with his tail between his legs. It was very satisfying.
Then I went back to the Sea Palace and slept. In these kinds of hot and humid climates, all sane and clever animals and humans spend the miserable piss-stain hours of the day indoors, preferably inert and underneath a fan. So I crashed til' the sun came down.
I wandered out for a small dinner of kebab and what not at one of the various Islamic restaurants on the strip, then had some not-half-bad red wine at Cafe Mondegar, one of the tourist infested Colaba bars. Then I slept.
Tuesday was the hottest and stickiest day of the year so far in Mumbai, and I couldn't bear to think of eating actual food. I was thrilled to discover a gelato place right up the street from my hotel - done. I ate strawberry sorbet and raspberry yogurt gelato in blissful silence in the air conditioned confines of the shop - nothing tastes as good as really quality ice cream when the weather is seething with moisture and prickly heat, all around you. Now I was ready to walk.
I headed down the street into Colaba, one of the older districts of Mumbai, full of pictureqesly rotting English archiecture and aggressive touts. Colaba is known primarily for the Gateway to India (built to celebrate King Charles visiting Mumbai or some such colonial foolishness) and the Taj Mahal hotel, which regally faces it. The Gateway itself is certainly an impressive old granite heap, although it was being restored upon my visit - abroad is, after all, always under construction. What the tourist books and photographs don't tell you is that the Gateway is usually swarming with hyper energetic young touts attempting to sell you everything from jiggly gel beads to extremely large balloons to drums (and they chase you.) Brief cruises and ferries to Elephanta Island (of the Buddhist caves) also leave right in front of the Gateway, ensuring hordes of picnickers milling around and licking interestingly colored ice creams at pretty much all times. There are also incredible quantities of pigeons, which compete with the omnipresent and rather charming ravens for trash and touristic leavings.
The Taj is definitely impressive, all colonial splendor and glistening marble floors and Escada outlets and doormen in silly hats. I like it very much, especially because it is quite large and provides an air conditioned and peaceful corridor through which to get halfway through Colaba and to my hotel. It also has the added value of having impeccably clean bathrooms with a smiling attendant who will hand you a towel, a mint, and some moisturizer after you have availed yourself of the facilities. This is a lifesaver. I enjoyed walking through the place upwards of six times a day and looking wistfully at the oasis-like pool area. I tend to wear fairly nice clothes and the attendants seemed to believe I was staying there, which meant everyone opened doors for me and smiled real nice.
When you walk out of my hotel and to the left, you find yourself going up a delightfully sketchy street that seems to be owned primarily by Gulf expats - the street is lined with Islamic kebab parlors, money changers, and many, many hookah/shisha outlets. One of the stores featured a hookah that had little mechanical fish swimming in the base, which I lusted after but didn't want to pay the shipping fee on. In any case, it's a useful street, although I was forced to walk a daily gauntlet of grinning sales-guys asking me in concerned voices, "Are you okay, ma'am? Are you okay....pashmina shawl...taxi.....cocaine...what you want?" Once you nod and side-step those guys and avoid the cows generally tied out at the corner, you walk down the street into Colaba proper.
The street is lined with crap emporiums, cheap and tasty restaurants, guys selling god knows what out of various stalls and carts and holes in the wall, and bars. I especially enjoyed Woodsides, which is a fairly classy place featuring cheap Old Monk and classic rock and extreme cleanliness. There are of course other, sketchier options. There are also many, many Western hippies in various states of disarray and drug-addlement. Paul Theroux wrote in the Great Railway Bazaar about the curious tribes of Western hippies that seem to roam India in their own, constant, exotic fantasy, and he is entirely correct. I'm not sure what they're looking for - spiritual enlightenment, connection with a mysterious and byootiful culture, excellent drugs - but I seem to sense they're generally disappointed at not finding it. The hippies tend to have this image of India as some sort of backwards land full of sadhus and holy men dispensing the secrets of the universe from the back of a holy cow (far as I can tell) and they are generally horrified to discover that India is not particularly interested in staying that way - like it was ever that way in the first place.
I believe the hippies dress so badly and maintain themselves so badly in some sort of effort to be "like" the locals. I imagine they are surprised to discover your typical Indian dresses as nicely as they can possibly afford and certainly takes showers. And shaves. And brushes their teeth. They can take their false image of some sort of mystic, non-existent India, stagnant in time, but I like modern India just fine, dance clubs and fancy restaurants and all. India does not need to cater to the narcissistic needs of Westerners out to Find Themselves and I am glad it is not particularly interested in doing so.
Colaba seems to attract both the wealthiest Westerners - who tend to huddle in safety inside the majesty and AC of the Taj - and the gungiest, who tend to stay at the cheap guesthouses (like the lovely Sea Shore) and wander around in a constant cheap ganga-and-cocaine induced haze. They also like to hang out at the Leopold Cafe - a famous joint where a writer apparantly used to write once - and talk about their various and exciting international drug experiences. This can be interesting to overhear, though I kept on expecting the FBI to bust in and lock everyone up, including me. (They could probably find some dirt if they really wanted to.)
You walk to the end of the street and once you hit the big white dome of the William and Mary museum, you're pretty much at the end of the tourist district of Colaba. Once you cross the extremely dangerous roadway - this requires skill and bravery - you're pretty much out of dreadlocks and sunburns land and back into the realm of the natives. You also will hit the very large naval base, which encompasses most of the spur of reclaimed land seen to the left of the Taj hotel. So there's my (or your) orientation.
I spent the day wandering up the street and orienting myself. My shoes as previously mentioned had died a horrible death in the fort in Old Delhi, so priority number one was finding a nice pair of Practical (blech) Shoes. Thankfully, I found a shoe vendor and managed to get a rather lovely and comfortable pair of silver walking shoes. So thank goodness for that.
I walked and walked and walked, cutting through the miserable mid-day heat and humidity (but with my usual dogged, perverse need to orient myself.) I found myself skirting the edge of the fort and decided to just keep on walking until I came to, well, the end of it.
This proved to be a bad idea as the fort is very very large. Still, I plugged away and finally found the end, only to discover that instead of a salubrious beach or park I could lounge in, there was just an angry looking man with a machine gun. So I headed back the other way, beneath a luscious stand of banyan trees (with various construction workers lounging beneath them and hurling affable slurs at me in Hindi.) I also found a perfectly severed and peaceful looking pigeon head on the pavement. I don't think I want to know.
By now I was a walking ball of sweat and human misery, and was thrilled to find a garden near the rather majestic Mumbai Library. Unfortunately, everyone else in Mumbai had the exact same idea on this hottest day of the year, which meant everyone in the area was vying viciously for a tiny patch of green space. I managed to nudge some people and found myself a spot on a bench, where I drew for a while and listened to my Ipod, some young day laborers staring at me in drop-jawed astonishment. (Trust me, my fellow palefaces: when you come to India, you will grow accustomed to this. Either that or you will go insane. It's sort of your call.)
I befriended a cat who was hunkered down in the bushes (he was smarter then us.) A curious note on stray animals in India: Bangalore is full of packs of mildly disquieting dogs and cows, Delhi has lots and lots of ravens and hawks, but Mumbai belongs to cats. Yes, there are dogs, but cats are everywhere, shimmying up trees and weaving under your feet and appearing in dark allies - usually affable laid back creatures. Sometimes they travel in families, and it's rather pleasant to be sitting on a Mumbai porch as the sun goes down to see a family of squabbling cats and kittens emerge in single file from a rhodendron bush and slip away again. But I digress.
I managed to stumble back to the Sea Palace and decided to get a snack. I was thrilled to find a place offering my beloved tandoori gobi, so I ordered that and hung out in the air conditioned comfort of the restaurant for a bit. A few young guys at the table by my side took photos of me sneakily (or so they thought) with their cell phone, but I ignored them until one of them slipped into the booth next to me. I said EXCUSE ME and he ran off with his tail between his legs. It was very satisfying.
Then I went back to the Sea Palace and slept. In these kinds of hot and humid climates, all sane and clever animals and humans spend the miserable piss-stain hours of the day indoors, preferably inert and underneath a fan. So I crashed til' the sun came down.
I wandered out for a small dinner of kebab and what not at one of the various Islamic restaurants on the strip, then had some not-half-bad red wine at Cafe Mondegar, one of the tourist infested Colaba bars. Then I slept.
Woke up and intended to visit Lodhi Gardens, but unfortunately was still fending off the effects of tummy lurgy. So I mostly hung out and availed myself of the centre's free wireless internet. India unfortunately does not quite comprehend the whole free wifi-thing yet, and most locations attempt to charge you ridiculous prices for something that most red blooded Americans regard as something that SHOULD be free. So, free, free is good.
I packed up my ever-persistent Load Of Crap and checked out of the hotel, then met Sheila for lunch at the club's curiously cheap and delicious restaurant. We had a bit of whiskey and Diet Coke at the nice and empty bar, then adjourned to the actual dining room - mixed vegetable curry, roti, chicken reshmi kebab, and an interesting sort of tandoori veg item made out of corn and methi (fenugreek.) I managed to eat a decent amount, but had to leave in a bit of a hurry since I was rushing to make my flight.
Curiously, although my timing was tight on the flight due to lunch, I actually was not flipping out, whereas a few months ago back at Simon's Rock, I would probably have been working myself into some sort of almighty freakout over the mere possibility of not having adequate time to make my flight. Has India mellowed me? (Hopefully...that's partially why I came here after all, to escape the academic Crazy...)
Sheila's driver dropped me off in good time at the domestic terminal after a little defensive driving, and I grabbed my stuff and assumed the linebacker position to avoid the various touts who seemed to think I needed a taxi RIGHT NOW. I was now really pressed for time, and I sprinted inside the airport, after flashing my boarding pass and trying not to look like a criminal to the inevitable mustachioed security guard. Check-in proved fraught with danger when I realized I had to get my bags scanned and tagged first BEFORE they'd throw them in the hold. I navigated around a variety of speed bumps (old men staring off into space, horny young guys, et all), got the bags in, then ran to security.
Unfortunately IndiGo had neglected to stamp my bag tag for my backpack, which meant I got up to the gate and was informed I needed a stamp. I sprinted back to the security clearance area and begged for a stamp - the woman manning the post apparantly took this to mean I wanted my Swiss Army knife back, and I COULD NOT HAVE IT NO WAY. Since I do not own a Swiss Army Knife and in fact just wanted a damn stamp, this involved a bunch of shouting across security guard posts until someone finally figured it out.
I got my stamp.
I hopped onto the bus that took us to the plane and got on - horror - middle seat! I was however exhausted and still a little sick, so I managed to get some sleep anyway, contorting myself into various unnatural positions. I have an excellent ability for a traveler: the ability to sleep anywhere at any time. I have fallen asleep on parking islands, in trees, in car trunks and on a couch in the Louvre. Perhaps someday I will fall asleep on top of an Indian bus and complete the circuit.
I arrived at the Mumbai airport - glistening and disarmingly new - and collected my bags. Time for the usual running the gauntlet any arrival in India entails. I found a taxi driver who agreed to use the meter and headed downtown to Colaba.
Unfortunately the hotel I wanted to stay at was booked up, so running through my options, I decided to try the Sea Breeze Hotel which Lonely Planet said only had occasional bouts of bedbugs. This was up about 12 flights of narrow, twisty stairs, and as everyone knows Elevators Are A Luxury Item. I looked up them and tried to figure out how to get my two large bags up them at the same time. Thankfully a nice gentleman off the street offered to help me. We made it up to the desk, huffing and puffing, and I was shown a small cubicle of a room. It did however have a fan. I looked over the guestbook and the clientele was entirely composed of Irish hippies with a couple of Swedes thrown in for good measure. Do Europeans have a perverse affection for staying in crap accommodations in the name of economy?
I decided to call Aneesa and figure out where she was. This involved trying everyone's cell phone in the hotel (the number doesn't like to work), but I finally got through. She and her cousin were at the other place that was full, so they decided to meet me there.
I hung out on the veranda and tried not to be disturbed by the various men in increasingly exotic modes of dress (and increasing levels of sketchiness) who thumped by me on their way to god knows what.
Aneesa's cousin showed up and I initally ignored him, since, to be honest, ignoring strange men is generally good news. He finally said my name and I abashedly figured it out. "You've got to stay somewhere else!" he said - "They had a prostitution scare here a few years ago...stay with us...somewhere..anywhere else!" Obviously I wasn't going to protest, so we got in the cab and decided to have dinner and figure out if I could stay anywhere that didn't indirectly involve prostitution. This is a good accomodation goal.
We went to a lovely streetside kebab place and enjoyed mutton boti - a kind of melt in your mouth mutton kebab marinated in spices - and various varieties of grilled chicken, along with some mutton seekh kebab (ground meat) and endless chapatis. Aneesa made some calls and we figured out the Sea Palace hotel - a much more salubrious place right around the corner from the Sea Breeze - had vacancies. Done. I rang them up and booked it.
We went back to the Sea Breeze, extracted my bags from the confused looking desk-guy, and popped around the corner to the Sea Palace. They showed me a nice clean double, and I moved in. The Sea Palace features a nice leafy veranada and bar, so we adjourned there for some Old Monk (to calm my nerves) and a chat. Aneesa's grandparents are rather traditional and expected her home by 11:30 or such (for fear of murder kidnapping abduction), so I headed up for a deeply appreciated sleep.
I packed up my ever-persistent Load Of Crap and checked out of the hotel, then met Sheila for lunch at the club's curiously cheap and delicious restaurant. We had a bit of whiskey and Diet Coke at the nice and empty bar, then adjourned to the actual dining room - mixed vegetable curry, roti, chicken reshmi kebab, and an interesting sort of tandoori veg item made out of corn and methi (fenugreek.) I managed to eat a decent amount, but had to leave in a bit of a hurry since I was rushing to make my flight.
Curiously, although my timing was tight on the flight due to lunch, I actually was not flipping out, whereas a few months ago back at Simon's Rock, I would probably have been working myself into some sort of almighty freakout over the mere possibility of not having adequate time to make my flight. Has India mellowed me? (Hopefully...that's partially why I came here after all, to escape the academic Crazy...)
Sheila's driver dropped me off in good time at the domestic terminal after a little defensive driving, and I grabbed my stuff and assumed the linebacker position to avoid the various touts who seemed to think I needed a taxi RIGHT NOW. I was now really pressed for time, and I sprinted inside the airport, after flashing my boarding pass and trying not to look like a criminal to the inevitable mustachioed security guard. Check-in proved fraught with danger when I realized I had to get my bags scanned and tagged first BEFORE they'd throw them in the hold. I navigated around a variety of speed bumps (old men staring off into space, horny young guys, et all), got the bags in, then ran to security.
Unfortunately IndiGo had neglected to stamp my bag tag for my backpack, which meant I got up to the gate and was informed I needed a stamp. I sprinted back to the security clearance area and begged for a stamp - the woman manning the post apparantly took this to mean I wanted my Swiss Army knife back, and I COULD NOT HAVE IT NO WAY. Since I do not own a Swiss Army Knife and in fact just wanted a damn stamp, this involved a bunch of shouting across security guard posts until someone finally figured it out.
I got my stamp.
I hopped onto the bus that took us to the plane and got on - horror - middle seat! I was however exhausted and still a little sick, so I managed to get some sleep anyway, contorting myself into various unnatural positions. I have an excellent ability for a traveler: the ability to sleep anywhere at any time. I have fallen asleep on parking islands, in trees, in car trunks and on a couch in the Louvre. Perhaps someday I will fall asleep on top of an Indian bus and complete the circuit.
I arrived at the Mumbai airport - glistening and disarmingly new - and collected my bags. Time for the usual running the gauntlet any arrival in India entails. I found a taxi driver who agreed to use the meter and headed downtown to Colaba.
Unfortunately the hotel I wanted to stay at was booked up, so running through my options, I decided to try the Sea Breeze Hotel which Lonely Planet said only had occasional bouts of bedbugs. This was up about 12 flights of narrow, twisty stairs, and as everyone knows Elevators Are A Luxury Item. I looked up them and tried to figure out how to get my two large bags up them at the same time. Thankfully a nice gentleman off the street offered to help me. We made it up to the desk, huffing and puffing, and I was shown a small cubicle of a room. It did however have a fan. I looked over the guestbook and the clientele was entirely composed of Irish hippies with a couple of Swedes thrown in for good measure. Do Europeans have a perverse affection for staying in crap accommodations in the name of economy?
I decided to call Aneesa and figure out where she was. This involved trying everyone's cell phone in the hotel (the number doesn't like to work), but I finally got through. She and her cousin were at the other place that was full, so they decided to meet me there.
I hung out on the veranda and tried not to be disturbed by the various men in increasingly exotic modes of dress (and increasing levels of sketchiness) who thumped by me on their way to god knows what.
Aneesa's cousin showed up and I initally ignored him, since, to be honest, ignoring strange men is generally good news. He finally said my name and I abashedly figured it out. "You've got to stay somewhere else!" he said - "They had a prostitution scare here a few years ago...stay with us...somewhere..anywhere else!" Obviously I wasn't going to protest, so we got in the cab and decided to have dinner and figure out if I could stay anywhere that didn't indirectly involve prostitution. This is a good accomodation goal.
We went to a lovely streetside kebab place and enjoyed mutton boti - a kind of melt in your mouth mutton kebab marinated in spices - and various varieties of grilled chicken, along with some mutton seekh kebab (ground meat) and endless chapatis. Aneesa made some calls and we figured out the Sea Palace hotel - a much more salubrious place right around the corner from the Sea Breeze - had vacancies. Done. I rang them up and booked it.
We went back to the Sea Breeze, extracted my bags from the confused looking desk-guy, and popped around the corner to the Sea Palace. They showed me a nice clean double, and I moved in. The Sea Palace features a nice leafy veranada and bar, so we adjourned there for some Old Monk (to calm my nerves) and a chat. Aneesa's grandparents are rather traditional and expected her home by 11:30 or such (for fear of murder kidnapping abduction), so I headed up for a deeply appreciated sleep.
I woke up fairly late, still besought with tummy lurgy but pretty much alive. I managed to get down some tea and spent the rest of the morning messing around on the internet and enjoying the profound luxury of free wifi. Adam was going to meet me around noonish to get lunch and engage in some mandatory sightseeing, so I walked out to the Centre's lovely reflecting pool and drew for a bit before he showed up, flicking flies away from my face under the shade of the banyan tree.
(An older woman in a saree was doing six-foot long laps tirelessly and with grim determination on her face around the cement walkway the entire time, which I found kind of amusing.)
Adam called and told me that he was at the gate of the International Centre annex. I lit out industriously to meet him and discovered there are many different gates of the Centre Annex, many of which open up into the Islamic Centre and the French Centre and the ButtFuckistan Cultural Awareness Centre for all I know. We played a bit of phone tag and finally met up with each other, though I did manage to sneak up on him since he wasn't expecting me from the direction I arrived. I am tremendously unsubtle and am always very happy when I manage to sneak up on someone. We both were starving, so we decided to head for Khan Market, the Nicest Retail Space in Delhi, to get something to eat and then re-evaluate our strategem as it were.
We took an incredibly short rickshaw ride (but hey, it was hot outside) and wandered around looking for somewhere to eat. We finally found a fairly expensive Western place, but it was hot and we were hungry and we decided to go for it - and anyway, it was an interesting cultural vortex to suddenly step inside the air conditioned and atmospheric environs of a Western place, where no one gives you finger bowls or seeds or yells your order across the restaurant. Also no Hindi music playing. Just Total Eclipse of The Heart, which is about twelve times worse.
We were both thrilled to discover hummus on the menu and were forced to order it - it was delicious and even came with pita bread and these nice little crackery things. After two months of Indian food, it was a pleasure to be able to order vegetable fajitas with honest to god guacamole to go with. Even a very very small portion. I am probably going to spend a solid day upon my return making endless batches of guacamole.
We decided to visit the Lodhi Gardens, which are conveniently located next to the International Centre, extremely pleasant, and don't charge admission. It was wonderful to walk in the nice cool green of the gardens after the brutal heat of the Delhi afternoon, and I showed Adam around the tombs, which were almost deserted in the four o' clock lull.
There's one tomb I love in particular because it is so unexpected. You come to it after crossing a dingy little foot bridge - it looks like a rather simple falling apart stone wall - but you mount a flight of stairs and go through a small portal and you're in a lovely little courtyard, a path leading up to the dome and the simple stone cenotaph within it. The actual body in these Mughal tombs is apparantly buried about 10 feet below the marker, and an incense burner is usually positioned above it, hanging from the ceiling - although the burner has long gone from this one. I noted upon this visit that some of the original paintings on the dome are still preserved, rotting away but hanging on with faded brilliance throughout the years. I enjoy seeing paintings of that nature that have not been revised and revamped and reworked into oblivion but retain their originality - true, they should properly be preserved for latter generations, but it's pleasant to think some sort of essence of the artist itself lives on on the walls, not some modern-day restorer taking educated, educated guesses. But that's just me.
Adam enlisted the security guard to give us a brief run-down on the history of the tombs, and I half-listened and half watched the motions of the brilliant green parakeets, occupying the trees that grew in shabby profusion around the red brick courtyard walls. It was that nice part of the day where the light makes everything golden and attractive, and it was easy enough to imagine some sort of Mughal potentate making the rounds of the gardens round bout' evening -except there would be more roaming blackbuck and less joggers. It's really one of the most wonderful parks I've ever had the pleasure of walking in, full of carefully maintained plants and acres of pastel green grass, with lots of historical nooks and crannies to walk in and contemplate. I envy Sheila for living close enough to walk in it every evening - to be able to walk in such a place on a regular basis is good for the human spirit. It certainly is an improvement on doing afternoon laps at the Y.
We wandered over to the other tomb, which contained an adoining mosque. Apparently Muslim groups keep up the place to the immaculate standard it exists in; the government only does so much. The mosque certainly was lovely, elaborate red-marble work on display over the doorways and entrances. Little blue turquoise tiles still ran over the walls and the sides of the domed structure. Just as I love original paintings, I love detecting leftover bits of color and detail from a building's original heyday. They feel left over or forgotten somehow, like time and modernization have given them a brief reprieve, and it makes it so much easier to imagine what things might have been like.
I was feeling not so hot again and sat down for a while to watch the birds swoop by and the other park-goers breeze by (women especially in little bursts of color). A guy who'd been wandering in the park came over to talk to us about the working world in Delhi, which happened to be quite nice for him, and gave us a bit more background into the history of what, exactly, we were looking at. He apparantly was a big internet afficinado, so we gave him our contact information. He was also kind enough to get us an impressively cheap 60 rupee fare to the Red Fort - being native counts for entirely too much when it comes to getting rates that aren't highway robbery.
I was incredibly dehydrated due to being sick and actually got to the point where I couldn't talk because all moisture had apparantly been sucked out of my body. This was kind of amusing from a clinical stance. I do feel a new solidarity with those Foreign Legion types commonly portayed in cartoons, crawling in the Sahara desert, desperate for water. India even has plenty of vultures!
The Red Fort is indeed immense - the red sandstone walls and ramparts seem to go on forever, an imposing testament to just how powerful the Moghuls were during their hey-day. It's definitely more impressive in the late afternoon, as the sun gives the red stone a certain emotive warmth. We disembarked and I immediately ran over to a beverage stand and purchased a Sprite and an x-large economy bottle of water, which I downed in quick succession. (I think Adam was impressed. Or grossed out.)
We were walking along the walls of the Fort, attempting to find a way into the grounds, when my goddamn shoe broke. Now, that particular pair of shoes had proved fairly dependable: I had bargained hard for them in a Beijing department store, and they saw me through a drippy summer spent tromping through Tiananmen' square upwards of four times a day. Perhaps they wanted to choose a similarliy exotic place to give up the ghost. Unfortunately, a New Delhi bazaar street is one of the absolute worst places in the world to be running around barefoot, which was, at this point, my choice.
One good thing about Indian bazaar streets is that pretty much anything you want is obtainable for VERY GOOD price (ranging from live chickens to false moustaches to hash), and I predicted that we would find a shoe stall shortly. I was correct: a shoe seller appeared seemingly on cue. Admittedly, it was a men's shoe stall, but I was desperate and had no desire to contract Hepatitis C, so I began going through the gentleman's stocks. I have extremely small feet and I attempted to convey this notion to the seller, who kept on coming up with shoes that would have suited Bigfoot and no one else. By then we had attracted a crowd of nearby and idle men, sipping chai in the lingering evening heat and watching with rapt attention as I attempted to find a pair of shoes that would sort of, kind of fit.
I finally managed to find a pair of sneakers that didn't swallow up my feet and began negotiations. He wanted 350, I'd pay 200 - the inevitable bargaining dance in India. As is always present in these bargaining affairs, a Helpful Old Man stepped in and helped me get the price down to 230, which was acceptable for me. (I really really didn't want to factor communicative disease into my vacation plans. Also I saw no discount Jimmy Choo outlets within spitting distance of Old Delhi, which was really a shame.) So I laced up my very large sneakers which did not really go at all with the dress I was wearing and tromped on down the street.
Adam made witty commentary about how it was a miracle to finally see me in flats. I would definitely have hit him if I wasn't ill.
We finally found an open gate into the Red Fort grounds and walked in for a bit but were immediately shooed out by a rather aggressive guard. We finally found the other-other entrance and hung out and looked at the remains of the old fort's moat, which is now grown over with lush looking green grass. I maintain everything would be even more awesome if they filled it up with water again, though I guess there is a water shortage going on.
We both concluded we were exhausted and decided to go back - I had just about passed out on the railings over the moat, my eyes glazing over as I watched those ephemeral green parakeets hop into nooks in the walls. I hate that residual weakness that hangs over from sickness, when you just lose the will to live with depressing regularity.
We bargained for passage with one rickshaw and proceeded for a couple of blocks, until Adam figured out that they were calling him a stupid motherfucker in Hindi. He got angry and insisted we get out - "You're not going to cheat me AND insult me!" Thankfully we managed to find another with slightly less of a criminal aspect.
We passed by the original Moti Mahal restaurant on the way back to the International Centre, which apparantly is the actual origin point of butter chicken. Next time I'm in Delhi. Next time.
We managed to direct the driver to the Centre. Adam says that next time I come to Delhi I should stay somewhere easier to find. I'm thinking the actual top of the Qutub Minaret. Or I suppose I could take up residence in Humayun's tomb. Maybe I could stamp tickets.
I loathe saying goodbye to people and generally prefer to avoid doing it if at all possible. However people find this strange and they are probably correct. In any case, I gave Adam two slightly-rib crushing hugs and told him (with complete honesty) that I would miss the hell out of him. Then I walked away and didn't look back because you have to do these things this way.
I hate missing people.
I didn't miss anyone for long, however, as I was so exhausted that I fell asleep and didn't wake up again until 2 am - I even missed dinner, which is a real testament to how tired I was. (i do not miss meals for anything even nuclear attack.)
(An older woman in a saree was doing six-foot long laps tirelessly and with grim determination on her face around the cement walkway the entire time, which I found kind of amusing.)
Adam called and told me that he was at the gate of the International Centre annex. I lit out industriously to meet him and discovered there are many different gates of the Centre Annex, many of which open up into the Islamic Centre and the French Centre and the ButtFuckistan Cultural Awareness Centre for all I know. We played a bit of phone tag and finally met up with each other, though I did manage to sneak up on him since he wasn't expecting me from the direction I arrived. I am tremendously unsubtle and am always very happy when I manage to sneak up on someone. We both were starving, so we decided to head for Khan Market, the Nicest Retail Space in Delhi, to get something to eat and then re-evaluate our strategem as it were.
We took an incredibly short rickshaw ride (but hey, it was hot outside) and wandered around looking for somewhere to eat. We finally found a fairly expensive Western place, but it was hot and we were hungry and we decided to go for it - and anyway, it was an interesting cultural vortex to suddenly step inside the air conditioned and atmospheric environs of a Western place, where no one gives you finger bowls or seeds or yells your order across the restaurant. Also no Hindi music playing. Just Total Eclipse of The Heart, which is about twelve times worse.
We were both thrilled to discover hummus on the menu and were forced to order it - it was delicious and even came with pita bread and these nice little crackery things. After two months of Indian food, it was a pleasure to be able to order vegetable fajitas with honest to god guacamole to go with. Even a very very small portion. I am probably going to spend a solid day upon my return making endless batches of guacamole.
We decided to visit the Lodhi Gardens, which are conveniently located next to the International Centre, extremely pleasant, and don't charge admission. It was wonderful to walk in the nice cool green of the gardens after the brutal heat of the Delhi afternoon, and I showed Adam around the tombs, which were almost deserted in the four o' clock lull.
There's one tomb I love in particular because it is so unexpected. You come to it after crossing a dingy little foot bridge - it looks like a rather simple falling apart stone wall - but you mount a flight of stairs and go through a small portal and you're in a lovely little courtyard, a path leading up to the dome and the simple stone cenotaph within it. The actual body in these Mughal tombs is apparantly buried about 10 feet below the marker, and an incense burner is usually positioned above it, hanging from the ceiling - although the burner has long gone from this one. I noted upon this visit that some of the original paintings on the dome are still preserved, rotting away but hanging on with faded brilliance throughout the years. I enjoy seeing paintings of that nature that have not been revised and revamped and reworked into oblivion but retain their originality - true, they should properly be preserved for latter generations, but it's pleasant to think some sort of essence of the artist itself lives on on the walls, not some modern-day restorer taking educated, educated guesses. But that's just me.
Adam enlisted the security guard to give us a brief run-down on the history of the tombs, and I half-listened and half watched the motions of the brilliant green parakeets, occupying the trees that grew in shabby profusion around the red brick courtyard walls. It was that nice part of the day where the light makes everything golden and attractive, and it was easy enough to imagine some sort of Mughal potentate making the rounds of the gardens round bout' evening -except there would be more roaming blackbuck and less joggers. It's really one of the most wonderful parks I've ever had the pleasure of walking in, full of carefully maintained plants and acres of pastel green grass, with lots of historical nooks and crannies to walk in and contemplate. I envy Sheila for living close enough to walk in it every evening - to be able to walk in such a place on a regular basis is good for the human spirit. It certainly is an improvement on doing afternoon laps at the Y.
We wandered over to the other tomb, which contained an adoining mosque. Apparently Muslim groups keep up the place to the immaculate standard it exists in; the government only does so much. The mosque certainly was lovely, elaborate red-marble work on display over the doorways and entrances. Little blue turquoise tiles still ran over the walls and the sides of the domed structure. Just as I love original paintings, I love detecting leftover bits of color and detail from a building's original heyday. They feel left over or forgotten somehow, like time and modernization have given them a brief reprieve, and it makes it so much easier to imagine what things might have been like.
I was feeling not so hot again and sat down for a while to watch the birds swoop by and the other park-goers breeze by (women especially in little bursts of color). A guy who'd been wandering in the park came over to talk to us about the working world in Delhi, which happened to be quite nice for him, and gave us a bit more background into the history of what, exactly, we were looking at. He apparantly was a big internet afficinado, so we gave him our contact information. He was also kind enough to get us an impressively cheap 60 rupee fare to the Red Fort - being native counts for entirely too much when it comes to getting rates that aren't highway robbery.
I was incredibly dehydrated due to being sick and actually got to the point where I couldn't talk because all moisture had apparantly been sucked out of my body. This was kind of amusing from a clinical stance. I do feel a new solidarity with those Foreign Legion types commonly portayed in cartoons, crawling in the Sahara desert, desperate for water. India even has plenty of vultures!
The Red Fort is indeed immense - the red sandstone walls and ramparts seem to go on forever, an imposing testament to just how powerful the Moghuls were during their hey-day. It's definitely more impressive in the late afternoon, as the sun gives the red stone a certain emotive warmth. We disembarked and I immediately ran over to a beverage stand and purchased a Sprite and an x-large economy bottle of water, which I downed in quick succession. (I think Adam was impressed. Or grossed out.)
We were walking along the walls of the Fort, attempting to find a way into the grounds, when my goddamn shoe broke. Now, that particular pair of shoes had proved fairly dependable: I had bargained hard for them in a Beijing department store, and they saw me through a drippy summer spent tromping through Tiananmen' square upwards of four times a day. Perhaps they wanted to choose a similarliy exotic place to give up the ghost. Unfortunately, a New Delhi bazaar street is one of the absolute worst places in the world to be running around barefoot, which was, at this point, my choice.
One good thing about Indian bazaar streets is that pretty much anything you want is obtainable for VERY GOOD price (ranging from live chickens to false moustaches to hash), and I predicted that we would find a shoe stall shortly. I was correct: a shoe seller appeared seemingly on cue. Admittedly, it was a men's shoe stall, but I was desperate and had no desire to contract Hepatitis C, so I began going through the gentleman's stocks. I have extremely small feet and I attempted to convey this notion to the seller, who kept on coming up with shoes that would have suited Bigfoot and no one else. By then we had attracted a crowd of nearby and idle men, sipping chai in the lingering evening heat and watching with rapt attention as I attempted to find a pair of shoes that would sort of, kind of fit.
I finally managed to find a pair of sneakers that didn't swallow up my feet and began negotiations. He wanted 350, I'd pay 200 - the inevitable bargaining dance in India. As is always present in these bargaining affairs, a Helpful Old Man stepped in and helped me get the price down to 230, which was acceptable for me. (I really really didn't want to factor communicative disease into my vacation plans. Also I saw no discount Jimmy Choo outlets within spitting distance of Old Delhi, which was really a shame.) So I laced up my very large sneakers which did not really go at all with the dress I was wearing and tromped on down the street.
Adam made witty commentary about how it was a miracle to finally see me in flats. I would definitely have hit him if I wasn't ill.
We finally found an open gate into the Red Fort grounds and walked in for a bit but were immediately shooed out by a rather aggressive guard. We finally found the other-other entrance and hung out and looked at the remains of the old fort's moat, which is now grown over with lush looking green grass. I maintain everything would be even more awesome if they filled it up with water again, though I guess there is a water shortage going on.
We both concluded we were exhausted and decided to go back - I had just about passed out on the railings over the moat, my eyes glazing over as I watched those ephemeral green parakeets hop into nooks in the walls. I hate that residual weakness that hangs over from sickness, when you just lose the will to live with depressing regularity.
We bargained for passage with one rickshaw and proceeded for a couple of blocks, until Adam figured out that they were calling him a stupid motherfucker in Hindi. He got angry and insisted we get out - "You're not going to cheat me AND insult me!" Thankfully we managed to find another with slightly less of a criminal aspect.
We passed by the original Moti Mahal restaurant on the way back to the International Centre, which apparantly is the actual origin point of butter chicken. Next time I'm in Delhi. Next time.
We managed to direct the driver to the Centre. Adam says that next time I come to Delhi I should stay somewhere easier to find. I'm thinking the actual top of the Qutub Minaret. Or I suppose I could take up residence in Humayun's tomb. Maybe I could stamp tickets.
I loathe saying goodbye to people and generally prefer to avoid doing it if at all possible. However people find this strange and they are probably correct. In any case, I gave Adam two slightly-rib crushing hugs and told him (with complete honesty) that I would miss the hell out of him. Then I walked away and didn't look back because you have to do these things this way.
I hate missing people.
I didn't miss anyone for long, however, as I was so exhausted that I fell asleep and didn't wake up again until 2 am - I even missed dinner, which is a real testament to how tired I was. (i do not miss meals for anything even nuclear attack.)
I stuck to my promise and slept quite late, managing to awaken, shower, and choke down a bit of cereal around 10 in the morning. Sheila was determined to keep me from doing much of anything that day (and she was busy beside), so I bummed around and read until lunch time.
I had a nice light lunch at the country club - a half tandoori chicken with a nice, delicate ginger flavor and some nice Chinese stir-fried vegetables, along with a bit of roti - then decided to steel myself for a little stroll to Khan Market, the Very Luxurious retail space a bit down from the International Centre.
To my suprise, I was mostly able to walk without doubling over with intestinal death throes, so I made it down to the market (while dodging the usual homocidal taxi drivers) to have a look around. I pawed through book stores and was happy to encounter a nice looking gelato place for future reference. Otherwise, my presence there really had no purpose, so I found a nice place to sit beside a dozing and intermingled pack of rickshaw drivers and dogs, sipping a Coke and watching the world go by. I enjoyed watching a group of new Western inductees to India deliberating over rickshaws, confusion and irritation written all over their faces. That was me once, that was not me anymore. Perhaps they too would learn a couple of creative Hindi swear words and rude gestures to use on rickshaw drivers. It is only a natural progression.
I wandered back to the International Centre and freshened up, as Sheila was picking me up soon to take me to her nephews wedding. I wanted to go, since I though I'd enjoy seeing a Hindu wedding (and the prospect of an open bar is always an attractive one.) I selected my nice black fifties-style dress, and managed to pull myself together so I only looked slightly deathly instead of mostly deathly. Sheila and Rajev picked me up, Sheila looking very dapper in a lovely cream colored sari (accented with vintage Moghul jewerly) and off we went.
The hotel was quite close - near the Qutub Minaret - and we got there quickly, sideskirting an incredibly elaborate Indian children's party happening at the other venue. (Indians apparantly have a thing for throwing ridiculously over the top 10th birthday parties, according tot he newspapers.)
The pool area looked beautiful, decked out with tiny flickering candles and orange and white marigolds, which hold some sort of symbolic purpose in Hinduism that I cannot determine. The wedding ceremony itself had just begun but was slated to go on for about forty minutes, so everyone seated themselves and gossiped and ate cocktail snacks, keeping one polite eye on the usual puja going-ons. Sheila's nephew is from Delhi, but the bride was from Assam - one of the Indian hill provinces - and thus the ceremony mixed traditions from both regions. (Not that I would have noticed.) She certainly looked gorgeous, outfitted in a shining jewel-red sari with tremendous quantities of gold jewerly, her girlfriends attired in shining black and silver and a lovely turqouoise blue. The groom wore a cream colored kurta and a deeply impressive headdress of flowers and jewels, and he looked both elated and profoundly embarassed, which I guess is how one should look at a wedding.
The ceremony itself involved a lot of reading in Sanskrit, a lot of dabbing of ghee on things and into things, a lit fire, throwing many unindentifiable things into said-fire, tying a knot, untying a knot, and some other stuff. Unfortunately even the Hindu's present I asked were not entirely certain what was going on...mostly they wanted a drink. I will probably have to do some research.
The ceremony did go on for quite some time and I was amused to hear Sheila and her friends and relations muttering darkly under their breath about how they desperately needed a drink. By the time the ceremony reached an end and everyone eagerly tossed marigolds at the newly united couple, Sheila led an exodus to the open bar. I was only too happy to follow. We grabbed our tumblers of Teachers and soda and adjourned to a nearby table, and I happily talked to Sheila's various relations while we waited for the buffet line to open. One of her other nephews is a California lawyer who owns a vineyard in the Santa Barbara foothills....I shall have to investigate. Another friend is a writer for a lifestyle magazine in Delhi, and we enjoyed talking about journalism and travel (I had by then moved to wine.)
Sheila and Rajev were getting a bit bored and the food took quite a long time to come out, so we determined we'd leave as soon as they fed us. The food itself was quite excellent - I remember some tasty salt and pepper fried bhindi, mutton rogan josh, curried eggplants, and made to order rotis, along with the usual panoply of Indian desserts. There was also some delicious and unexpected tiramisu.
I called up Adam to see what his plans were for the evening, and was suprised to find he was headed to a club near the Qutub Minaret as well. Obviously I wanted to join him, so I asked Sheila, who was rather doubtful of disposing me at a club under her watch. (Understandable.)
Indian notions of protecting single young women differ markedly from our own. Sheila didn't want me taking cabs on my own and especially not rickshaws, and she wasn't particularly thrilled about me going out in the first place....I was rather impressed she agreed to it.
She dropped me off at the International Centre and I hopped a cab to the club, which was a bit difficult to find. The taxi driver thankfully was one of those rare Indian public-transportation saints, and we put our heads together and found the place quickly enough - IndoChine, a sort of opium den themed place. As Adam was completely unable to hear a thing I was telling him on the cell phone (I'M HERE...WHAT...REPEAT THAT....WHAATTT...FUCKK), we sort of blundered into each at the entry-way then went in.
The place was packed and certainly impressive looking, with a sort of Chinese imperial palace theme - think low lighting, terra cotta warriors, and lots and lots of red. Delhi's contingent of Beautiful People had turned out to dance like dorks and drink overpriced liquor. The crowd didn't strike me as markedly different from the types I encountered in Bangalore, though women in Delhi do seem a little more comfortable with showing more flesh then in Bangalore.
Shawna had introduced Adam to a few of her friends, who I in turn introduced myself to. I am eternally hopeless with names, but they were pretty nice, especially the one from Singapore who made me a little animal from cigarette butts and toothpicks. I appreciate things like that.
I danced a bit but was still feeling the residual tummy lurgy - and anyway, this guy on the dance floor with a freakishly huge chest was violating my personal and set in stone No Touching rule. "Oh, you are looking very beautiful, let me put my arm around you!" "...No."
I know Adam was disappointed that I wasn't performing my usual party trick of cadging free drinks but I was just not on my A game that night. Scoring free drinks does require some modicum of effort. I ended up not ordering anything...I figured I'd drank plenty at the wedding. Adam, of course, had vodka and diet coke.
The others filtered out eventually, citing tiredness, but Adam and I were coming off a rather long stint in Bangalore and were tremendously impressed that it was past 11:30 and we were still out. We held out for a while as the place emptied out, trying to determine whether we were pathetic enough to share a drink (we were not.) Adam teased me mercilessly for my mangled American pronunciations, but then again, he was under the impression that there were 53 states, so I guess we're even.
They kicked us out at 2:00 AM, and we filtered outside in the usual late night attempt to find a rickshaw. This proved more difficult then usual, so we walked up the empty street for a bit, weaving about in the manner of ever so slightly lit people. Adam rattled off various US states and I provided brief succinct descriptions: "New Mexico....deserts and Santa Fe. Also enchiladas. Florida...palm trees. retirees on the brink of death, nice beaches....Minnesota...cold, miserable, eww."
And so forth. I think I should write a very very brief travel guide to the USA for foreigners. It would make everyone's travel decisions so much easier.
We finally found a rickshaw. Unfortunately, Delhi is very big and very spread out and rickshaw rides seem to take a million years, which is especially unpleasant when you are wearing a fairly light dress and it is cold. But I lived. ( I always live. I have concluded I have the constitution and personal tendencies of a cockroach: somewhat perverse and unpleasant, but curiously difficult to kill.)
I wandered back to the Centre (the guard was asleep this time like a reasonable person) and fell asleep.
I had a nice light lunch at the country club - a half tandoori chicken with a nice, delicate ginger flavor and some nice Chinese stir-fried vegetables, along with a bit of roti - then decided to steel myself for a little stroll to Khan Market, the Very Luxurious retail space a bit down from the International Centre.
To my suprise, I was mostly able to walk without doubling over with intestinal death throes, so I made it down to the market (while dodging the usual homocidal taxi drivers) to have a look around. I pawed through book stores and was happy to encounter a nice looking gelato place for future reference. Otherwise, my presence there really had no purpose, so I found a nice place to sit beside a dozing and intermingled pack of rickshaw drivers and dogs, sipping a Coke and watching the world go by. I enjoyed watching a group of new Western inductees to India deliberating over rickshaws, confusion and irritation written all over their faces. That was me once, that was not me anymore. Perhaps they too would learn a couple of creative Hindi swear words and rude gestures to use on rickshaw drivers. It is only a natural progression.
I wandered back to the International Centre and freshened up, as Sheila was picking me up soon to take me to her nephews wedding. I wanted to go, since I though I'd enjoy seeing a Hindu wedding (and the prospect of an open bar is always an attractive one.) I selected my nice black fifties-style dress, and managed to pull myself together so I only looked slightly deathly instead of mostly deathly. Sheila and Rajev picked me up, Sheila looking very dapper in a lovely cream colored sari (accented with vintage Moghul jewerly) and off we went.
The hotel was quite close - near the Qutub Minaret - and we got there quickly, sideskirting an incredibly elaborate Indian children's party happening at the other venue. (Indians apparantly have a thing for throwing ridiculously over the top 10th birthday parties, according tot he newspapers.)
The pool area looked beautiful, decked out with tiny flickering candles and orange and white marigolds, which hold some sort of symbolic purpose in Hinduism that I cannot determine. The wedding ceremony itself had just begun but was slated to go on for about forty minutes, so everyone seated themselves and gossiped and ate cocktail snacks, keeping one polite eye on the usual puja going-ons. Sheila's nephew is from Delhi, but the bride was from Assam - one of the Indian hill provinces - and thus the ceremony mixed traditions from both regions. (Not that I would have noticed.) She certainly looked gorgeous, outfitted in a shining jewel-red sari with tremendous quantities of gold jewerly, her girlfriends attired in shining black and silver and a lovely turqouoise blue. The groom wore a cream colored kurta and a deeply impressive headdress of flowers and jewels, and he looked both elated and profoundly embarassed, which I guess is how one should look at a wedding.
The ceremony itself involved a lot of reading in Sanskrit, a lot of dabbing of ghee on things and into things, a lit fire, throwing many unindentifiable things into said-fire, tying a knot, untying a knot, and some other stuff. Unfortunately even the Hindu's present I asked were not entirely certain what was going on...mostly they wanted a drink. I will probably have to do some research.
The ceremony did go on for quite some time and I was amused to hear Sheila and her friends and relations muttering darkly under their breath about how they desperately needed a drink. By the time the ceremony reached an end and everyone eagerly tossed marigolds at the newly united couple, Sheila led an exodus to the open bar. I was only too happy to follow. We grabbed our tumblers of Teachers and soda and adjourned to a nearby table, and I happily talked to Sheila's various relations while we waited for the buffet line to open. One of her other nephews is a California lawyer who owns a vineyard in the Santa Barbara foothills....I shall have to investigate. Another friend is a writer for a lifestyle magazine in Delhi, and we enjoyed talking about journalism and travel (I had by then moved to wine.)
Sheila and Rajev were getting a bit bored and the food took quite a long time to come out, so we determined we'd leave as soon as they fed us. The food itself was quite excellent - I remember some tasty salt and pepper fried bhindi, mutton rogan josh, curried eggplants, and made to order rotis, along with the usual panoply of Indian desserts. There was also some delicious and unexpected tiramisu.
I called up Adam to see what his plans were for the evening, and was suprised to find he was headed to a club near the Qutub Minaret as well. Obviously I wanted to join him, so I asked Sheila, who was rather doubtful of disposing me at a club under her watch. (Understandable.)
Indian notions of protecting single young women differ markedly from our own. Sheila didn't want me taking cabs on my own and especially not rickshaws, and she wasn't particularly thrilled about me going out in the first place....I was rather impressed she agreed to it.
She dropped me off at the International Centre and I hopped a cab to the club, which was a bit difficult to find. The taxi driver thankfully was one of those rare Indian public-transportation saints, and we put our heads together and found the place quickly enough - IndoChine, a sort of opium den themed place. As Adam was completely unable to hear a thing I was telling him on the cell phone (I'M HERE...WHAT...REPEAT THAT....WHAATTT...FUCKK), we sort of blundered into each at the entry-way then went in.
The place was packed and certainly impressive looking, with a sort of Chinese imperial palace theme - think low lighting, terra cotta warriors, and lots and lots of red. Delhi's contingent of Beautiful People had turned out to dance like dorks and drink overpriced liquor. The crowd didn't strike me as markedly different from the types I encountered in Bangalore, though women in Delhi do seem a little more comfortable with showing more flesh then in Bangalore.
Shawna had introduced Adam to a few of her friends, who I in turn introduced myself to. I am eternally hopeless with names, but they were pretty nice, especially the one from Singapore who made me a little animal from cigarette butts and toothpicks. I appreciate things like that.
I danced a bit but was still feeling the residual tummy lurgy - and anyway, this guy on the dance floor with a freakishly huge chest was violating my personal and set in stone No Touching rule. "Oh, you are looking very beautiful, let me put my arm around you!" "...No."
I know Adam was disappointed that I wasn't performing my usual party trick of cadging free drinks but I was just not on my A game that night. Scoring free drinks does require some modicum of effort. I ended up not ordering anything...I figured I'd drank plenty at the wedding. Adam, of course, had vodka and diet coke.
The others filtered out eventually, citing tiredness, but Adam and I were coming off a rather long stint in Bangalore and were tremendously impressed that it was past 11:30 and we were still out. We held out for a while as the place emptied out, trying to determine whether we were pathetic enough to share a drink (we were not.) Adam teased me mercilessly for my mangled American pronunciations, but then again, he was under the impression that there were 53 states, so I guess we're even.
They kicked us out at 2:00 AM, and we filtered outside in the usual late night attempt to find a rickshaw. This proved more difficult then usual, so we walked up the empty street for a bit, weaving about in the manner of ever so slightly lit people. Adam rattled off various US states and I provided brief succinct descriptions: "New Mexico....deserts and Santa Fe. Also enchiladas. Florida...palm trees. retirees on the brink of death, nice beaches....Minnesota...cold, miserable, eww."
And so forth. I think I should write a very very brief travel guide to the USA for foreigners. It would make everyone's travel decisions so much easier.
We finally found a rickshaw. Unfortunately, Delhi is very big and very spread out and rickshaw rides seem to take a million years, which is especially unpleasant when you are wearing a fairly light dress and it is cold. But I lived. ( I always live. I have concluded I have the constitution and personal tendencies of a cockroach: somewhat perverse and unpleasant, but curiously difficult to kill.)
I wandered back to the Centre (the guard was asleep this time like a reasonable person) and fell asleep.
Unfortunately I woke up with grade A Tummy Lurgy. I know that the universe was preparing to loose it on me and I was not particulalry suprised, but I wasn't pleased either. This meant I spent, in essence, the entire afternoon before I had to leave lying in bed and trying not to die, which was about as riveting as you might imagine.
I finally managed to rouse myself at 2:30 for the cab driver, who looked at me curiously as I curled into a ball of pain by the window. Thankfully, I was so exhausted that I was not particularly affected by the switch-back laden trek down - I even fell asleep.
I stumbled out onto the Dehradun train platform and managed to figure out which platform I left from. Too exhausted to contend for platform space with the extremely settled looking businessman who had consigned it, I squatted on the cement like everyone else and stared off into space (while everyone else stared at me.)
The train arrived promptly and I seated myself in first class - Sheila had got me first class to avoid any chance of my contending with a Bad Element. The car itself was not markedly different from the second class one - other then featuring larger seats and an absence of dogs - but the service men were wearing funny hats which I suppose attracted a premium. First class also means lots and lots of food. We were plied with an introductory course of samosas, candy bars, chocolate mints, potato chips and god knows what else with a promise of a multi-course meal to come. I of course couldn't manage much more then a couple of toffees.
I was also amused to note that a sadhu-appearing gentleman with long unwashed hair and white pilgrims clothes was comfortably settling into a plush seat and checking messages on his expensive cellphone.
The sun was going down and we sped through the rhodendron jungles and past the ever-decreasing, shadowy spires of the Himalayan foothills (rising incongorously up from the orange and parched low-lands.) I slipped further and further away into a sort of waking dream as the train rattled on to a sacred Ganges river town, full of whitewashed temples and elaborate Hindu statues, lit pink and orange by the evening light. The Ganga itself seemed to be running dry, and children and bored looking men picked through the white washed stones and mounds of trash left in the river bed. We stopped at the station and I got a momentary glimpse of hordes of white-attired pilgrims packing up their stuff and preparing to go home after their mandated yearly (i think) wash. A pack of young boys dozed on top of an imposing stack of microwave ovens.
I then fell asleep.
I awoke after the tomato soup course had been served, much to my consternation - soup sounded pretty good. I did manage to choke down some tasty and partially frozen curd, a little bit of butter chicken, and a bit or two of too-greasy paratha. I was thrilled when they served us butterscotch ice cream for dessert. Somehow few things are more elementally comforting when you're sick then butterscotch ice cream.
We arrived around 11:30 at night and Sheila's friendly cook met me again. I was feeling slightly restored and managed to keep up as we weaved our way around jubilant hordes of late night travelers. Unfortunately the Delhi train station's staircase is extremely tight and we had to contend for space for almost 15 minutes, fighting for breathing space with plump grannies and muscular young men with equal vehemence. But we made it - and I fell into bed with every intention of staying there a good long time.
I finally managed to rouse myself at 2:30 for the cab driver, who looked at me curiously as I curled into a ball of pain by the window. Thankfully, I was so exhausted that I was not particularly affected by the switch-back laden trek down - I even fell asleep.
I stumbled out onto the Dehradun train platform and managed to figure out which platform I left from. Too exhausted to contend for platform space with the extremely settled looking businessman who had consigned it, I squatted on the cement like everyone else and stared off into space (while everyone else stared at me.)
The train arrived promptly and I seated myself in first class - Sheila had got me first class to avoid any chance of my contending with a Bad Element. The car itself was not markedly different from the second class one - other then featuring larger seats and an absence of dogs - but the service men were wearing funny hats which I suppose attracted a premium. First class also means lots and lots of food. We were plied with an introductory course of samosas, candy bars, chocolate mints, potato chips and god knows what else with a promise of a multi-course meal to come. I of course couldn't manage much more then a couple of toffees.
I was also amused to note that a sadhu-appearing gentleman with long unwashed hair and white pilgrims clothes was comfortably settling into a plush seat and checking messages on his expensive cellphone.
The sun was going down and we sped through the rhodendron jungles and past the ever-decreasing, shadowy spires of the Himalayan foothills (rising incongorously up from the orange and parched low-lands.) I slipped further and further away into a sort of waking dream as the train rattled on to a sacred Ganges river town, full of whitewashed temples and elaborate Hindu statues, lit pink and orange by the evening light. The Ganga itself seemed to be running dry, and children and bored looking men picked through the white washed stones and mounds of trash left in the river bed. We stopped at the station and I got a momentary glimpse of hordes of white-attired pilgrims packing up their stuff and preparing to go home after their mandated yearly (i think) wash. A pack of young boys dozed on top of an imposing stack of microwave ovens.
I then fell asleep.
I awoke after the tomato soup course had been served, much to my consternation - soup sounded pretty good. I did manage to choke down some tasty and partially frozen curd, a little bit of butter chicken, and a bit or two of too-greasy paratha. I was thrilled when they served us butterscotch ice cream for dessert. Somehow few things are more elementally comforting when you're sick then butterscotch ice cream.
We arrived around 11:30 at night and Sheila's friendly cook met me again. I was feeling slightly restored and managed to keep up as we weaved our way around jubilant hordes of late night travelers. Unfortunately the Delhi train station's staircase is extremely tight and we had to contend for space for almost 15 minutes, fighting for breathing space with plump grannies and muscular young men with equal vehemence. But we made it - and I fell into bed with every intention of staying there a good long time.
Woke up early to look at the mist-shrouded peaks as Baldev advised me. This was beautiful and I enjoyed hearing the chattering of the langours and the morning birds around me as the sun came up - it promised to be a beautiful day. I took a rather jarring shower, then read a bit until Goodie arrived with the beautiful sight of a full tea service (complete with biscuits.) I sipped some nice Darjeeling tea, finished my book, then went out to join Baldev for a nice breakfast on the lawn.
I decided to spend the day walking. I am a dedicated walker and few things give me more pleasure in this life then pointing myself in an indeterminate direction and walking until I get tired. (This usually takes a bit.) So I found a likely looking path through the pine trees, the same one Vikram and I took the day before, and wandered down it.
It was not a particularly eventful walk, but one of the more beautiful and calm strolls I've taken, a total departure from the dusty, screeching sort of tumult that is low-lands India. When you're up in the hills at Landour, you are perched in a curious sort of cloud-level oasis from standard issue India, plunged into a relaxing small town sort of existence, where everyone knows who you are and who you are staying with, and possibly your purpose as well. Small towns are the same everywhere, after all - the occupants obsessed with each other and content enough not to bother with much of anything else. I was charmed to discover a book of Landour house-wife's recipes in Sheila's house, reminiscent of social cookbooks found anywhere in the world - except for the occasional bit of advice on how to boil water at 7000 feet or how to deal with the endless, maddening quantities of mutton a Landour cook is forced to contend with. (I think it'd take a bit for me to get sick of mutton, but I imagine it can be done.)
In any case, I found a good view and relaxed there for a bit, draping myself over a concrete railway and watching the world go by - old men on nattily decorated mules, porters smoking bhidis and toting microwave ovens on their backs, the chai-wallah tripping along with his cups and tea-warmer - and the occasional mischievous looking young couple speeding down to Mussorie-town proper on their motorbikes. (I do not know what kind of trouble you can get into in Mussorie, but I wish them the best of luck.)
I returned for another excellent lunch. Chicken curry with plenty of ginger and whole spices, yet more delicious bhindi, daal, and mutter gobi, along with the usual curd and chutney. I ate a huge amount and went out to sit on the porch and read for a bit, then perhaps take yet another welcome afternoon nap.
Baldev had arranged for me to meet Ruskin Bond, one of Mussorie's more famous figures - a travel writer and children's book author of considerable repute. (I had a book I wanted him to sign.) I'd read a couple of his books over the last few days and was very impressed with the wry, deeply human nature of his descriptions of rural India and the Himalayan countryside - and especially his love of walking for walkings sake, which is a notion I can get behind. So, Vikram and his sister Vineeta walked me down the hill to town, which was certainly steep as anything - my knees were begging for respite by the time we got to Ruskin's place, a pleasant falling-down sort of white bungalow at the ridge right above the bazaar.
We rang and Ruskin eventually answered the door, accompanied by the grinning children of what appeared to be his house-attendant. The three year old was engaged in a very serious discussion about god knows what on the phone, and we laughed about this for a bit. We exchanged pleasantries about Mussorie and he asked about Rajev, and then I got my book signed. I excused myself early - I really hate imposing on people - and decided to tool down to the bazaar.
I was very pleased with Ruskin's siudy. I believe I can determine whether someone is good or not very quickly by the state of their study. I have been in studies before that were like apocalypitc visions. once I wandered into an open house in my neighborhood out of pre-teen boredom. Wandering through the house, I found myself in what was apparently the appointed Book Room, which was full of books on basketball statistics, abdominal improvement exercises, and Tony Robbins 10 Minute Life-Long success seminars. There was also a puppet. I left very quickly. I have encountered many studies along these lines in my life and they infalllibly indicate a boring person.
Good studies, however, are like Ruskin's: cluttered, confusing, dusty and full of the various accumulations of a life well-lived. His study included an array of ancient and interesting travel books, a few trashy trade paperbacks, compilations of comic strips, photos of weird stuff, statues and figures accumulated from pretty much everywhere, and lots and lots of history books. In short it reminded me of my own study and the studies of everyone else I have known and loved, and it made me very happy. I support the cultivation of an interesting study.
I walked down to the bazaar for a bit and popped my head into the usual array of Kashmiri handicraft shops and tooth-ache inducing Indian sweetshops, although Mussorie does have an unusual quantity of used book stores. I discovered such titles on offer as Rafting Ohio's Rivers and Cultivating Your Italian Wine Collection, which I suppose might be relevant to someone somewhere in the area. Though I sort of doubt it.
We began the long climb up the hill, and I am very proud to report that I completely winded Vikram and Vineeta. Not that they aren't wonderful kids and good company, but I think I will be able to dine out on the story of winding a couple of kids from the Himalayas for a while now.
I hung out and wrote for a while then joined Baldev for a light dinner. We had a nice vegetable soup, and I had gobi mutter and saag - my favorites. We finished with some chapatis and a little bit of fruit, then watched the news for a bit. I was utterly exhausted, and after paging through the adorable Landour Cake Cookbook, excused myself for bed.
I decided to spend the day walking. I am a dedicated walker and few things give me more pleasure in this life then pointing myself in an indeterminate direction and walking until I get tired. (This usually takes a bit.) So I found a likely looking path through the pine trees, the same one Vikram and I took the day before, and wandered down it.
It was not a particularly eventful walk, but one of the more beautiful and calm strolls I've taken, a total departure from the dusty, screeching sort of tumult that is low-lands India. When you're up in the hills at Landour, you are perched in a curious sort of cloud-level oasis from standard issue India, plunged into a relaxing small town sort of existence, where everyone knows who you are and who you are staying with, and possibly your purpose as well. Small towns are the same everywhere, after all - the occupants obsessed with each other and content enough not to bother with much of anything else. I was charmed to discover a book of Landour house-wife's recipes in Sheila's house, reminiscent of social cookbooks found anywhere in the world - except for the occasional bit of advice on how to boil water at 7000 feet or how to deal with the endless, maddening quantities of mutton a Landour cook is forced to contend with. (I think it'd take a bit for me to get sick of mutton, but I imagine it can be done.)
In any case, I found a good view and relaxed there for a bit, draping myself over a concrete railway and watching the world go by - old men on nattily decorated mules, porters smoking bhidis and toting microwave ovens on their backs, the chai-wallah tripping along with his cups and tea-warmer - and the occasional mischievous looking young couple speeding down to Mussorie-town proper on their motorbikes. (I do not know what kind of trouble you can get into in Mussorie, but I wish them the best of luck.)
I returned for another excellent lunch. Chicken curry with plenty of ginger and whole spices, yet more delicious bhindi, daal, and mutter gobi, along with the usual curd and chutney. I ate a huge amount and went out to sit on the porch and read for a bit, then perhaps take yet another welcome afternoon nap.
Baldev had arranged for me to meet Ruskin Bond, one of Mussorie's more famous figures - a travel writer and children's book author of considerable repute. (I had a book I wanted him to sign.) I'd read a couple of his books over the last few days and was very impressed with the wry, deeply human nature of his descriptions of rural India and the Himalayan countryside - and especially his love of walking for walkings sake, which is a notion I can get behind. So, Vikram and his sister Vineeta walked me down the hill to town, which was certainly steep as anything - my knees were begging for respite by the time we got to Ruskin's place, a pleasant falling-down sort of white bungalow at the ridge right above the bazaar.
We rang and Ruskin eventually answered the door, accompanied by the grinning children of what appeared to be his house-attendant. The three year old was engaged in a very serious discussion about god knows what on the phone, and we laughed about this for a bit. We exchanged pleasantries about Mussorie and he asked about Rajev, and then I got my book signed. I excused myself early - I really hate imposing on people - and decided to tool down to the bazaar.
I was very pleased with Ruskin's siudy. I believe I can determine whether someone is good or not very quickly by the state of their study. I have been in studies before that were like apocalypitc visions. once I wandered into an open house in my neighborhood out of pre-teen boredom. Wandering through the house, I found myself in what was apparently the appointed Book Room, which was full of books on basketball statistics, abdominal improvement exercises, and Tony Robbins 10 Minute Life-Long success seminars. There was also a puppet. I left very quickly. I have encountered many studies along these lines in my life and they infalllibly indicate a boring person.
Good studies, however, are like Ruskin's: cluttered, confusing, dusty and full of the various accumulations of a life well-lived. His study included an array of ancient and interesting travel books, a few trashy trade paperbacks, compilations of comic strips, photos of weird stuff, statues and figures accumulated from pretty much everywhere, and lots and lots of history books. In short it reminded me of my own study and the studies of everyone else I have known and loved, and it made me very happy. I support the cultivation of an interesting study.
I walked down to the bazaar for a bit and popped my head into the usual array of Kashmiri handicraft shops and tooth-ache inducing Indian sweetshops, although Mussorie does have an unusual quantity of used book stores. I discovered such titles on offer as Rafting Ohio's Rivers and Cultivating Your Italian Wine Collection, which I suppose might be relevant to someone somewhere in the area. Though I sort of doubt it.
We began the long climb up the hill, and I am very proud to report that I completely winded Vikram and Vineeta. Not that they aren't wonderful kids and good company, but I think I will be able to dine out on the story of winding a couple of kids from the Himalayas for a while now.
I hung out and wrote for a while then joined Baldev for a light dinner. We had a nice vegetable soup, and I had gobi mutter and saag - my favorites. We finished with some chapatis and a little bit of fruit, then watched the news for a bit. I was utterly exhausted, and after paging through the adorable Landour Cake Cookbook, excused myself for bed.
dellhi
I awoke very early indeed and checked out of the International Center. I was off to spend three days in Mussorie, an old English hill station in the Himalayan foothills, near the town of Dehradun. This is about a five hour train ride from Delhi, so I needed to embark early. The bleary-eyed driver picked me up, along with Sheila's friendly young cook, and the cook helped me find my train car (this was harder then it seemed, and we spent a few early-morning minutes desperately trying to find my name on the little papers pasted on the train car walls.) I finally found my spot and immediately made my usual travelers nest - pashmina around the shoulders, laptop plugged into the handy outlet, backpack placed to create a strategic privacy-buffer zone - and I dropped off to sleep contendedly as the train chugged into action. I sleep very well on transportation.
I woke up slowly about an hour and a half into the ride - as usual I missed the drinks cart - and looked out the window. The scenery was rice paddies and yellow, waving fields, water buffalo shining with slick perspiration walking among the rushes. People in dodhis hunched over threshing grass, pausing to watch the train go by. I saw a woman in a brilliant red sari walking down a country trail as a storm rolled in, big grey clouds coming up from behind and billowing the cloth of her dress - and with that beautiful image in mind I dropped off again.
I woke up for the last time and we were almost there, the country growing more wild and rocky in my absence. Little shanties and vaguely Tibetan-looking houses lurked on top of rocky knolls, and the train rolled through thick rhodendran jungles (I even saw a couple of wild gaur or Indian cattle grazing in the clearings.) The day was a bit overcast and it lent a nice moody feel to the air outside - I could see the big dark outlines of the Himalayas off in the hazy distance, over the tops of the jungle vegetation. In one particularly dense looking bit of forest, I saw a lone, solitary rickshaw putting around a country road - they cannot be escaped.
(I have this running nightmare that there is a taxi or rickshaw parked in an alley somewhere in India, waiting for me, lurking in the shadows. It has my name written on it - I don't seem to see any driver - and it desires to crush me into nothingness, to turn me into yet another Indian traffic fatality. I have awoken in terror from such dreams on a few occasions and can only conclude that my destiny is written on the rusty bumper of an auto-rickshaw, my death dealt out by a slightly lit driver in a khaki suit toting a couple of plump and surprised aunties on a shopping tour. )
We finally arrived in Dehradun, and I disembarked from the train to find my taxi. (i find getting off trains so jarring - you have spent the past few hours in comfortable air conditioned doziness and suddenly you're up on your feet and elbowing touts and snarling at beggers and what the hell just happened.) I found him and hopped in the car, and we began winding our way through the traffic of Dehradun - a misty town totally unlike anything else I'd seen in India, full of wooden and mossy looking structures and hill people lugging huge loads on their backs. This was punctuated by expensive designer clothing emporiums and advertisements for air hostess training school.
It was election day and to the driver's consternation, we found ourselves behind a rowdy victory celebration, hordes of young men and women on motorbikes waving yellow flags and shouting and firing blanks into the air, gleefully shutting down traffic. The lady herself - the winner of the election - sped by in her yellow bedecked car, waving beatificially to her hordes of admirers. The driver muttered Hindi curses under his breath and attempted to navigate around them to make his way up the hill to Mussorie, but I rather enjoyed watching the whole thing go on.
The driver finally escaped the victory parade and we began winding our way up the most tortorous switchbacks I've ever seen in my life - after all, this is the Himalayas. We passed by rocky outcroppings and a colorful, gorgeous Buddhist school, making our way into the pine forest that Mussorie lies in- the car driving up ever more dizzying heights in a light and slightly disarming rain.
We finally reached Mussorie proper, a pleasant and slightly leaning old town perched on the very top of an incredibly steep hill. It's composed primarily of wood and is a curious combination of Himalayan hill archeitecutre and British design, a big old clock tower presiding over an antiquated bazaar full of smiling, healthy looking people shilling potato chips and used books to all comers. We weaved through the cobble-stoned street, dodging wizened looking porters and uniformed school children, to make our way to Landour - the little group of houses right up above Mussorie where Sheila and Baldev's place is located.
The car stopped and I noticed the house was actually situated down below the road, on a lovely ridge with a full view of the wild Himalayan peaks. You can't see Mussorie town from this side, just a bunch of tiny, tiny little white villages and the curiously graduated outlines of farming terraces.
I disembarked and went down to meet Baldev, Sheila's very sweet husband, who prefers to spend his time up here instead of in the boiling misery of Delhi's summers. We talked about my family and his with a bit of delving into Indian political affairs, and I was introduced to their house staff - Goody and I believe Manesh, though I am probably getting his name wrong - who were preparing lunch. We then sat down for a lovely lunch - bhindi masala (yum), curried lotus root, lamb curry, and some daal, along with those nice little wheat chapatis that puff out hot air when you pop them with a fork. This was served with home-made mint chutney - refreshing as a breath mint - and some tangy and rich curd, which is used as a condiment with pretty much anything. We finished with some fruit and a biscuit or two. India is turning me into a serious digestive biscuit aficionado. I imagine a visit to England itself would ruin me. (I would subsist primarily on McVitie's Chocolate Digestives and then turn into Jabba the Hutt.)
Anyway.
Goody's friendly 13 year old son, Vikram, was consigned to take me on a little tour of the hillside, and we set off despite a gentle (and in my opinion, most welcome) drizzle that set the rhodendron leaves quivering and settled a gentle, refreshing mist over the hillside. Himalayan rhodendrons bloom lovely red flowers that appear most suprisingly in the blanket of green that surrounds the rocky crags - singular and interesting. (I also enjoyed the tenacious little stands of yellow daisies that erupt in the spring time.) I half-heartedly chased a few little bronze skinks, the sort that always travel in pairs - but skinks are hard to catch and they probably form profound interpersonal bonds that I should not lay asunder.
Vikram and I tromped up to Prakash's tiny little curio shop and rummaged around a bit, looking at carefully preserved and oh so English pressed flower greeting cards and bronze statues of Buddhist icons intermingled with the omnipresent packs of biscuits. Adam had mentioned offside the day before that he had not actually bothered to acquire a towel for his service apartment and was using a sheet instead, and I decided as a sort of joke to buy him one from 7000 feet in a little Himalayan village. (I figure this would be a high altitude sort of towel.) I found a nice blue one and went up to pay, inadvertently offending the hell out of some high class type English people there as well, by asking if they were American. I am beginning to confuse the accents. (Nothing seems to piss off an English person more then being mistaken for an American, even if the mistake is entirely innocent.)
We set off down the mountain again, passing by the Kellog Language School (contained in a nice old granite church), coming to a wonderful viewpoint of Mussorie town proper and the Woodstock School below. I was alerted to the presence of the Woodstock school by the decidely unexpected sound of a highschool band playing American football fight songs and "Eye of the Tiger" below me - Woodstock is an American boarding school in a very, very strange location. It's got an incredibly good reputation and the location certainly can't be beat - Sheila went there himself - and I found myself wishing quietly that I'd just gone there instead of having to deal with the general misery of American high school. (But that's all water under the bridge!)
We finally found ourselves at Four Shops, a little clearing that is exactly what it sounds like: four little tea shops perched on the side of a cliff, where hillsmen and tourists park their mules and luxury jeeps side-by-side to drink chai and gossip about everyone else. We ran into Baldev and went to the Tip Top Tea Shop to order tea and read the newspaper. While there, Baldev hailed his friend Ganesh, who is apparently a photographer and writer of some note in the area, along with his charming wife and daughter. He was great fun to listen to, and I quietly attempted to figure out something, anything about Indian politics as they talked shop - the daughter is a news announcer with one of the major Indian networks, in the area to cover the elections. Victor Banarjee, one of India's more renowned actors, also blew through with his wife, although I didn't get to actually meet him: he was yelling at someone on the phone. (I understand. I often find myself needing to yell at people on the phone.)
The clouds began looking ominous again, so we walked back to the house, and I had a lovely nap in the ridiculously huge bed I'd been appointed in the outside cottage. I awoke just in time for dinner: tasty garlic spinach soup, chapati, cucumber and tomato salad with garlic, and some curried cabbage and peas. After supper, Baldev and I sipped whiskey meditatively and watched the BBC - the story of the Texas polygamy case had just broke. I found myself having to explain that this sort of polygamy business is not uncommon in the United States (with extreme embarrassment.)
I was tired and decided to retire early to my warm room - Goodie had lit the big wood burning stove in the corner. Still, coming up from the heat of Bangalore and Delhi, a little evening chill in the air and the refreshing, smoky snap of burning wood was pure luxury. I slept very well.
I woke up slowly about an hour and a half into the ride - as usual I missed the drinks cart - and looked out the window. The scenery was rice paddies and yellow, waving fields, water buffalo shining with slick perspiration walking among the rushes. People in dodhis hunched over threshing grass, pausing to watch the train go by. I saw a woman in a brilliant red sari walking down a country trail as a storm rolled in, big grey clouds coming up from behind and billowing the cloth of her dress - and with that beautiful image in mind I dropped off again.
I woke up for the last time and we were almost there, the country growing more wild and rocky in my absence. Little shanties and vaguely Tibetan-looking houses lurked on top of rocky knolls, and the train rolled through thick rhodendran jungles (I even saw a couple of wild gaur or Indian cattle grazing in the clearings.) The day was a bit overcast and it lent a nice moody feel to the air outside - I could see the big dark outlines of the Himalayas off in the hazy distance, over the tops of the jungle vegetation. In one particularly dense looking bit of forest, I saw a lone, solitary rickshaw putting around a country road - they cannot be escaped.
(I have this running nightmare that there is a taxi or rickshaw parked in an alley somewhere in India, waiting for me, lurking in the shadows. It has my name written on it - I don't seem to see any driver - and it desires to crush me into nothingness, to turn me into yet another Indian traffic fatality. I have awoken in terror from such dreams on a few occasions and can only conclude that my destiny is written on the rusty bumper of an auto-rickshaw, my death dealt out by a slightly lit driver in a khaki suit toting a couple of plump and surprised aunties on a shopping tour. )
We finally arrived in Dehradun, and I disembarked from the train to find my taxi. (i find getting off trains so jarring - you have spent the past few hours in comfortable air conditioned doziness and suddenly you're up on your feet and elbowing touts and snarling at beggers and what the hell just happened.) I found him and hopped in the car, and we began winding our way through the traffic of Dehradun - a misty town totally unlike anything else I'd seen in India, full of wooden and mossy looking structures and hill people lugging huge loads on their backs. This was punctuated by expensive designer clothing emporiums and advertisements for air hostess training school.
It was election day and to the driver's consternation, we found ourselves behind a rowdy victory celebration, hordes of young men and women on motorbikes waving yellow flags and shouting and firing blanks into the air, gleefully shutting down traffic. The lady herself - the winner of the election - sped by in her yellow bedecked car, waving beatificially to her hordes of admirers. The driver muttered Hindi curses under his breath and attempted to navigate around them to make his way up the hill to Mussorie, but I rather enjoyed watching the whole thing go on.
The driver finally escaped the victory parade and we began winding our way up the most tortorous switchbacks I've ever seen in my life - after all, this is the Himalayas. We passed by rocky outcroppings and a colorful, gorgeous Buddhist school, making our way into the pine forest that Mussorie lies in- the car driving up ever more dizzying heights in a light and slightly disarming rain.
We finally reached Mussorie proper, a pleasant and slightly leaning old town perched on the very top of an incredibly steep hill. It's composed primarily of wood and is a curious combination of Himalayan hill archeitecutre and British design, a big old clock tower presiding over an antiquated bazaar full of smiling, healthy looking people shilling potato chips and used books to all comers. We weaved through the cobble-stoned street, dodging wizened looking porters and uniformed school children, to make our way to Landour - the little group of houses right up above Mussorie where Sheila and Baldev's place is located.
The car stopped and I noticed the house was actually situated down below the road, on a lovely ridge with a full view of the wild Himalayan peaks. You can't see Mussorie town from this side, just a bunch of tiny, tiny little white villages and the curiously graduated outlines of farming terraces.
I disembarked and went down to meet Baldev, Sheila's very sweet husband, who prefers to spend his time up here instead of in the boiling misery of Delhi's summers. We talked about my family and his with a bit of delving into Indian political affairs, and I was introduced to their house staff - Goody and I believe Manesh, though I am probably getting his name wrong - who were preparing lunch. We then sat down for a lovely lunch - bhindi masala (yum), curried lotus root, lamb curry, and some daal, along with those nice little wheat chapatis that puff out hot air when you pop them with a fork. This was served with home-made mint chutney - refreshing as a breath mint - and some tangy and rich curd, which is used as a condiment with pretty much anything. We finished with some fruit and a biscuit or two. India is turning me into a serious digestive biscuit aficionado. I imagine a visit to England itself would ruin me. (I would subsist primarily on McVitie's Chocolate Digestives and then turn into Jabba the Hutt.)
Anyway.
Goody's friendly 13 year old son, Vikram, was consigned to take me on a little tour of the hillside, and we set off despite a gentle (and in my opinion, most welcome) drizzle that set the rhodendron leaves quivering and settled a gentle, refreshing mist over the hillside. Himalayan rhodendrons bloom lovely red flowers that appear most suprisingly in the blanket of green that surrounds the rocky crags - singular and interesting. (I also enjoyed the tenacious little stands of yellow daisies that erupt in the spring time.) I half-heartedly chased a few little bronze skinks, the sort that always travel in pairs - but skinks are hard to catch and they probably form profound interpersonal bonds that I should not lay asunder.
Vikram and I tromped up to Prakash's tiny little curio shop and rummaged around a bit, looking at carefully preserved and oh so English pressed flower greeting cards and bronze statues of Buddhist icons intermingled with the omnipresent packs of biscuits. Adam had mentioned offside the day before that he had not actually bothered to acquire a towel for his service apartment and was using a sheet instead, and I decided as a sort of joke to buy him one from 7000 feet in a little Himalayan village. (I figure this would be a high altitude sort of towel.) I found a nice blue one and went up to pay, inadvertently offending the hell out of some high class type English people there as well, by asking if they were American. I am beginning to confuse the accents. (Nothing seems to piss off an English person more then being mistaken for an American, even if the mistake is entirely innocent.)
We set off down the mountain again, passing by the Kellog Language School (contained in a nice old granite church), coming to a wonderful viewpoint of Mussorie town proper and the Woodstock School below. I was alerted to the presence of the Woodstock school by the decidely unexpected sound of a highschool band playing American football fight songs and "Eye of the Tiger" below me - Woodstock is an American boarding school in a very, very strange location. It's got an incredibly good reputation and the location certainly can't be beat - Sheila went there himself - and I found myself wishing quietly that I'd just gone there instead of having to deal with the general misery of American high school. (But that's all water under the bridge!)
We finally found ourselves at Four Shops, a little clearing that is exactly what it sounds like: four little tea shops perched on the side of a cliff, where hillsmen and tourists park their mules and luxury jeeps side-by-side to drink chai and gossip about everyone else. We ran into Baldev and went to the Tip Top Tea Shop to order tea and read the newspaper. While there, Baldev hailed his friend Ganesh, who is apparently a photographer and writer of some note in the area, along with his charming wife and daughter. He was great fun to listen to, and I quietly attempted to figure out something, anything about Indian politics as they talked shop - the daughter is a news announcer with one of the major Indian networks, in the area to cover the elections. Victor Banarjee, one of India's more renowned actors, also blew through with his wife, although I didn't get to actually meet him: he was yelling at someone on the phone. (I understand. I often find myself needing to yell at people on the phone.)
The clouds began looking ominous again, so we walked back to the house, and I had a lovely nap in the ridiculously huge bed I'd been appointed in the outside cottage. I awoke just in time for dinner: tasty garlic spinach soup, chapati, cucumber and tomato salad with garlic, and some curried cabbage and peas. After supper, Baldev and I sipped whiskey meditatively and watched the BBC - the story of the Texas polygamy case had just broke. I found myself having to explain that this sort of polygamy business is not uncommon in the United States (with extreme embarrassment.)
I was tired and decided to retire early to my warm room - Goodie had lit the big wood burning stove in the corner. Still, coming up from the heat of Bangalore and Delhi, a little evening chill in the air and the refreshing, smoky snap of burning wood was pure luxury. I slept very well.
delhi day 2
I woke up nice and late, and Sheila picked me up for coffee then a trip to Humayun's Tomb. Although foreigners are charged a rather extortionate 500 rupees (about 12 bucks) to the Indian 10, it was worth it: it's a very impressive structure, reminescent of (though preceding) the Taj Mahal. Built of red sandstone, it's absolutely huge, gigantic steps leading up to the inner sanctum within. Just like at the Taj, tiny and intricate little aqua-colored canals lead right up to the steps, and I loved watching leaves and other debris wind their way through the currents. Sheila says that they hold night concerts here of Indian classical music, which sound sublime - I'll definitely catch one next time I'm in Delhi.
Sheila had some work to attend to, so she told the driver to drop me off at her favorite seafood restaurant in the military district of Delhi. (I think.) The restaurant was a nicely appointed and fiercely air conditioned enclave among many other eating establishments: the menu focused on Mangalore style seafood, which is very famous within India. (Lots of places focusing on Mangalore food in Bangalore as well.) I was profoundly happy to see bhindi masala (okra cooked with tomatoes and spices) on the menu, so I ordered that and their special fish - prepared in tamarind paste and red chili.
As I was waiting for my food, a corpulent woman and her brother entered, and she immediately began ordering around the staff in the most amusing way possible - "The music is vile! Change it!" "No, we do not need RICE, how DARE YOU EVEN PROPOSE IT", "I find these onions too large!" et all. One thing I've noticed is that Indians are a lot less bashful about ordering around service staff then Americans are - I've often found myself blushing with embarrassment about how rude Indians seem to be to otherwise innocent 19 year old waiters making no money whatsoever. I suppose this why they call them cultural differences.
My cell phone actually got reception at the restaurant, so I got a hold of Adam and we made plans to find somewhere to get a stiff drink in Delhi. This is apparently more difficult then one might anticipate.
The driver took me next to Old Delhi - dropping me off at the mosque in front of the Red Fort. This was admittedly one of the more jarring experiences of my time in India, as I disembarked from a nice air conditioned Ford into total and complete chaos during the hottest part of the day - maimed child beggers trailing me up the steps of the mosque as grinning teenagers attempted to sell me such essential items as fake beards and water-proof watches. I took a polite look at the mosque and the fort - a good view from the top of the steps - and decided that descending into the warren-like bazaar that oozed all around me unaccompanied was probably not the best idea on the planet, delicious looking mutton-kebabs and pilaf on offer nonwithstanding. (Fruit salad vendors here always burn incense. What fruit salad and incense have to do with one another, I cannot tell you). I did, however, need an ATM and a Diet Coke, and with those noble ideals in mind, I went off down the street to my right.
This street was slightly less insane, although a few guys insisted on following me and asking in plainitive voices if I Needed Any Help. (no, no, I did not.) Also rickshaw drivers here like to solicit you by saying, "Hey, baabbyyyy, need a ride?" which makes me infinitely less likely to want to take their vehicle. I guess they do not know this.
Anyway. The street seemed to specialize primarily in microwave ovens - I know where to direct you if you are in dire need of a microwave oven whilst in New Delhi - and it was a long dry trek to a Diet Coke salesman. He turned out to be lovely, and called me "his daughter" while giving me a discounted price on my fake sugar infused refreshment. I stepped out of the shop and continued down the street, finding to my dismay that all the ATM's were on the *other* side of the street. Now, crossing the street in the USA or most other first world countries isn't really a huge deal - you find a crossing, you press the button, you wait. In places like India and China, however, there is no such thing as a crossing and really no such thing as pedestrian right of way: crossing the street means entering into an all too-real game of Frogger played with one's own body. However, I do have a strategy: find the toughest, nastiest looking dried up old lady waiting to cross and cross with her. Tough looking old ladies in these sort of countries generally have the good sense to make it through traffic unscathed. This is exactly what I did and no one managed to run me down. (Remember that.)
I found an ATM, collected my money in the 120 degree heat of the little money-collecting cubicle, and dipped into about five different book stores to make walking down the street a little more bearable. I came out again at the Red Fort and gawked at it for a while - it is absolutely immense and really does seem to go on forever. However, I didn't have the energy or the will to actually go inside the damn thing and pursue all billion rooms it is saId to contain, so I went back to find my driver. This took a bit, as finding anyone on the steps of the mosque requires will and fortitude (and the ability to ignore beggars asking for chapatis for their cancerous mother's brother.) I finally found him, and we walked seemingly a mile and a half back to the car, which was parked down a side street in the Wool District next to a goat. Parking well in India really should be considered an art in and of itself.
I returned to the International Center and flopped down in a state of profound exhaustion.
Sheila picked me up around six and took me to the Khan Market, which was right around the corner from the International Center and apparantly the nicest retail space in Delhi. I believe it: it was brimming with gleaming Escada outlets, populated by sunburned and desperate looking expats. The grocery stores carried every single kind of Western brand of potato chip and toothpaste imaginable, and I saw one American woman with a desperate look in her eye carrying a massive, brimming over armful of Salt and Vinegar Lays to the counter. (I was boring and just bought some attractively priced Indian cereal.) Sheila showed me some lovely but unfortunately expensive stuff at the Enokhi outlet, and I also found a very nice Kashmiri handicrafts store - Christmas ornaments of camels and man eating tigers anyone? (I really shoulda bought that.)
Sheila and I proceeded to the Golf Club to meet Rajev, who was having a swim at the rather salubrious pool (loomed over by a Mughal era tomb.) We alerted him to our presence then retreated to the lovely, wood paneled pub to have a tumbler of Teacher's whiskey and comport ourselves fully for dinner. The golf course itself was lovely on the warm evening, and I enjoyed watching a couple of stray dogs happily chase each other up and down the beautifully manicured greens. (you can never eliminate the dogs fully in India. they are omnipresent and eternal.)
Dinner was delicious, lemony tandoori pomfret, a vegetable tandoori platter with aloo tikka (roasted spiced potato), veg seekh kebab (minced mixed vegetables roasted), stuffed tandoori peppers, and baby corn, along with tandoori roti and the usual delicious daal makhani (black lentils with cream.) I was slightly but happily boozed, and Sheila and I had an enjoyably rowdy conversation about Men.
Sheila dropped me off at the International Center, and I figured I might as well just go to bed, since Adam seemed to be getting off work pretty late. To my suprise, he called around ten o' clock and asked me what I was doing - well, not much of anything. I proposed we go to Connaught Place and see if there was anything in a stiff drink there, and he agreed to meet me at the Center.
Adam showed up around 11 and I walked out to meet him...he was standing at the gate and looking confused. Unfortunately, the Center's gate was closed and I had no idea how to get around it. Which meant I had to jump over the India International Center's gate at 11 at night to the deeply disapproving stare of the night security guard.
We caught a taxi to Connaught Place for a not-too-bad 150 rupees and proceeded to look for somewhere, anywhere, that would give us a drink. Connaught Place is a very large circle full of expensive retail and banking offices, and we circulated the area a few times before running into a bar called Olive, which featured nice Detroit-esque surrroundings and very overpriced drinks. Still, we were desperate, and Adam bit the bullet and ordered a vodka, which meant that I of course had to order a cheap gin. I ordered it neat and the waiter gave Adam a look of worry and solidarity, which I found very amusing.
The bill was highway robbery but we paid it anyway.
We walked around a few more times, debated getting ice cream, decided against it as being almost too pathetic, and met a guy in a car with his friends who asked us, "Hey, where's Connaught Place?" Obviously this was just a pretext to talk to us, but we gestured about 2.5 feet away at that BIG ROUND HUGE THING.
I asked the mysterious guy in the car where a good bar was, and he shrugged and said, "Hey, jump in...we'll find something." As my mother always told me not to get into cars with strange men and this seemed like a textbook case, I walked away, though Adam industriously tried to grill him for a bit on something, anything in the area. No dice.
We finally found a flashy Chinese restaurant shutting down for the night populated by four or five lit Indian guys and some nervous looking servers. They begrudgingly served me a gin, though they would have vastly preferred it if I had had tequila shots, and Adam had his perennial vodka and diet Coke. I really, really want to be there the day he orders something else. Hopefully something completely unexpected like absinthe or a long island iced tea or a singapore sling or something-anything other then vodka and diet coke. Or maybe even one of those pink frothy things Chris is partial too. Though I can't really see that happening.
It was getting rather late and I had begun nodding off over the table and alternating words with other words, so we decided to head on home. Finding a taxi proved more difficult then expected but we finally managed one - Adam seems to like negotiating with taxi drivers as much as he likes negotiating with rickshaw drivers. I'm not half bad at arguing with the criminals but I derive little pleasure from it - it's kind of like squashing cockroaches - unpleasant but necessary. Adam on the other hand, far as I can tell, seems to derive real pleasure from telling taxi and rickshaw drivers that they are cheating awful criminal scum, who had better knock down the price quick or we are calling the authorities. (I have seen him use the whip out your camera to photograph their license trick on multiple occasions.) This is definitely a useful trait to have in a traveling companion. Sort of like consigning someone else to squash your cockroaches for you. (Or rickshaw drivers.)
I got home late - the security guard remained disapproving - and got a good three hours or so of sleep before I needed to awaken to catch the morning train to Mussorie.
(I'm going to look back and laugh at the inherent, youthful ridiculousness of the whole situation, laugh someday about how when I was 19 and stupid I was up way too late walking around Connaught Place in New Delhi (of all places!) over and over looking for a drink with a good friend, and how we couldn't find anything, but at least we were cussed enough to put in the effort to try, to circumnavigate the damn thing over and over in a desperate attempt to find a good time......I guess this is why I travel anyway, for these ridiculous memories)
Sheila had some work to attend to, so she told the driver to drop me off at her favorite seafood restaurant in the military district of Delhi. (I think.) The restaurant was a nicely appointed and fiercely air conditioned enclave among many other eating establishments: the menu focused on Mangalore style seafood, which is very famous within India. (Lots of places focusing on Mangalore food in Bangalore as well.) I was profoundly happy to see bhindi masala (okra cooked with tomatoes and spices) on the menu, so I ordered that and their special fish - prepared in tamarind paste and red chili.
As I was waiting for my food, a corpulent woman and her brother entered, and she immediately began ordering around the staff in the most amusing way possible - "The music is vile! Change it!" "No, we do not need RICE, how DARE YOU EVEN PROPOSE IT", "I find these onions too large!" et all. One thing I've noticed is that Indians are a lot less bashful about ordering around service staff then Americans are - I've often found myself blushing with embarrassment about how rude Indians seem to be to otherwise innocent 19 year old waiters making no money whatsoever. I suppose this why they call them cultural differences.
My cell phone actually got reception at the restaurant, so I got a hold of Adam and we made plans to find somewhere to get a stiff drink in Delhi. This is apparently more difficult then one might anticipate.
The driver took me next to Old Delhi - dropping me off at the mosque in front of the Red Fort. This was admittedly one of the more jarring experiences of my time in India, as I disembarked from a nice air conditioned Ford into total and complete chaos during the hottest part of the day - maimed child beggers trailing me up the steps of the mosque as grinning teenagers attempted to sell me such essential items as fake beards and water-proof watches. I took a polite look at the mosque and the fort - a good view from the top of the steps - and decided that descending into the warren-like bazaar that oozed all around me unaccompanied was probably not the best idea on the planet, delicious looking mutton-kebabs and pilaf on offer nonwithstanding. (Fruit salad vendors here always burn incense. What fruit salad and incense have to do with one another, I cannot tell you). I did, however, need an ATM and a Diet Coke, and with those noble ideals in mind, I went off down the street to my right.
This street was slightly less insane, although a few guys insisted on following me and asking in plainitive voices if I Needed Any Help. (no, no, I did not.) Also rickshaw drivers here like to solicit you by saying, "Hey, baabbyyyy, need a ride?" which makes me infinitely less likely to want to take their vehicle. I guess they do not know this.
Anyway. The street seemed to specialize primarily in microwave ovens - I know where to direct you if you are in dire need of a microwave oven whilst in New Delhi - and it was a long dry trek to a Diet Coke salesman. He turned out to be lovely, and called me "his daughter" while giving me a discounted price on my fake sugar infused refreshment. I stepped out of the shop and continued down the street, finding to my dismay that all the ATM's were on the *other* side of the street. Now, crossing the street in the USA or most other first world countries isn't really a huge deal - you find a crossing, you press the button, you wait. In places like India and China, however, there is no such thing as a crossing and really no such thing as pedestrian right of way: crossing the street means entering into an all too-real game of Frogger played with one's own body. However, I do have a strategy: find the toughest, nastiest looking dried up old lady waiting to cross and cross with her. Tough looking old ladies in these sort of countries generally have the good sense to make it through traffic unscathed. This is exactly what I did and no one managed to run me down. (Remember that.)
I found an ATM, collected my money in the 120 degree heat of the little money-collecting cubicle, and dipped into about five different book stores to make walking down the street a little more bearable. I came out again at the Red Fort and gawked at it for a while - it is absolutely immense and really does seem to go on forever. However, I didn't have the energy or the will to actually go inside the damn thing and pursue all billion rooms it is saId to contain, so I went back to find my driver. This took a bit, as finding anyone on the steps of the mosque requires will and fortitude (and the ability to ignore beggars asking for chapatis for their cancerous mother's brother.) I finally found him, and we walked seemingly a mile and a half back to the car, which was parked down a side street in the Wool District next to a goat. Parking well in India really should be considered an art in and of itself.
I returned to the International Center and flopped down in a state of profound exhaustion.
Sheila picked me up around six and took me to the Khan Market, which was right around the corner from the International Center and apparantly the nicest retail space in Delhi. I believe it: it was brimming with gleaming Escada outlets, populated by sunburned and desperate looking expats. The grocery stores carried every single kind of Western brand of potato chip and toothpaste imaginable, and I saw one American woman with a desperate look in her eye carrying a massive, brimming over armful of Salt and Vinegar Lays to the counter. (I was boring and just bought some attractively priced Indian cereal.) Sheila showed me some lovely but unfortunately expensive stuff at the Enokhi outlet, and I also found a very nice Kashmiri handicrafts store - Christmas ornaments of camels and man eating tigers anyone? (I really shoulda bought that.)
Sheila and I proceeded to the Golf Club to meet Rajev, who was having a swim at the rather salubrious pool (loomed over by a Mughal era tomb.) We alerted him to our presence then retreated to the lovely, wood paneled pub to have a tumbler of Teacher's whiskey and comport ourselves fully for dinner. The golf course itself was lovely on the warm evening, and I enjoyed watching a couple of stray dogs happily chase each other up and down the beautifully manicured greens. (you can never eliminate the dogs fully in India. they are omnipresent and eternal.)
Dinner was delicious, lemony tandoori pomfret, a vegetable tandoori platter with aloo tikka (roasted spiced potato), veg seekh kebab (minced mixed vegetables roasted), stuffed tandoori peppers, and baby corn, along with tandoori roti and the usual delicious daal makhani (black lentils with cream.) I was slightly but happily boozed, and Sheila and I had an enjoyably rowdy conversation about Men.
Sheila dropped me off at the International Center, and I figured I might as well just go to bed, since Adam seemed to be getting off work pretty late. To my suprise, he called around ten o' clock and asked me what I was doing - well, not much of anything. I proposed we go to Connaught Place and see if there was anything in a stiff drink there, and he agreed to meet me at the Center.
Adam showed up around 11 and I walked out to meet him...he was standing at the gate and looking confused. Unfortunately, the Center's gate was closed and I had no idea how to get around it. Which meant I had to jump over the India International Center's gate at 11 at night to the deeply disapproving stare of the night security guard.
We caught a taxi to Connaught Place for a not-too-bad 150 rupees and proceeded to look for somewhere, anywhere, that would give us a drink. Connaught Place is a very large circle full of expensive retail and banking offices, and we circulated the area a few times before running into a bar called Olive, which featured nice Detroit-esque surrroundings and very overpriced drinks. Still, we were desperate, and Adam bit the bullet and ordered a vodka, which meant that I of course had to order a cheap gin. I ordered it neat and the waiter gave Adam a look of worry and solidarity, which I found very amusing.
The bill was highway robbery but we paid it anyway.
We walked around a few more times, debated getting ice cream, decided against it as being almost too pathetic, and met a guy in a car with his friends who asked us, "Hey, where's Connaught Place?" Obviously this was just a pretext to talk to us, but we gestured about 2.5 feet away at that BIG ROUND HUGE THING.
I asked the mysterious guy in the car where a good bar was, and he shrugged and said, "Hey, jump in...we'll find something." As my mother always told me not to get into cars with strange men and this seemed like a textbook case, I walked away, though Adam industriously tried to grill him for a bit on something, anything in the area. No dice.
We finally found a flashy Chinese restaurant shutting down for the night populated by four or five lit Indian guys and some nervous looking servers. They begrudgingly served me a gin, though they would have vastly preferred it if I had had tequila shots, and Adam had his perennial vodka and diet Coke. I really, really want to be there the day he orders something else. Hopefully something completely unexpected like absinthe or a long island iced tea or a singapore sling or something-anything other then vodka and diet coke. Or maybe even one of those pink frothy things Chris is partial too. Though I can't really see that happening.
It was getting rather late and I had begun nodding off over the table and alternating words with other words, so we decided to head on home. Finding a taxi proved more difficult then expected but we finally managed one - Adam seems to like negotiating with taxi drivers as much as he likes negotiating with rickshaw drivers. I'm not half bad at arguing with the criminals but I derive little pleasure from it - it's kind of like squashing cockroaches - unpleasant but necessary. Adam on the other hand, far as I can tell, seems to derive real pleasure from telling taxi and rickshaw drivers that they are cheating awful criminal scum, who had better knock down the price quick or we are calling the authorities. (I have seen him use the whip out your camera to photograph their license trick on multiple occasions.) This is definitely a useful trait to have in a traveling companion. Sort of like consigning someone else to squash your cockroaches for you. (Or rickshaw drivers.)
I got home late - the security guard remained disapproving - and got a good three hours or so of sleep before I needed to awaken to catch the morning train to Mussorie.
(I'm going to look back and laugh at the inherent, youthful ridiculousness of the whole situation, laugh someday about how when I was 19 and stupid I was up way too late walking around Connaught Place in New Delhi (of all places!) over and over looking for a drink with a good friend, and how we couldn't find anything, but at least we were cussed enough to put in the effort to try, to circumnavigate the damn thing over and over in a desperate attempt to find a good time......I guess this is why I travel anyway, for these ridiculous memories)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)