3.30.2008
India Journal: Part 4
I think I can honestly say that Pushkar is the most bizarre place I have ever been. For us, the weirdness started in nearby Ajmer, where we got off the bus from Bundi and spent a long time wandering with our backpacks on trying to figure out where the onward buses to Pushkar (11 kilometers away) left from. Finally aboard the bus, we were stopped by some kind of officials about 20 minutes into the journey. 20 minutes after that, everyone got off the bus and we were back to wandering around, trying to get over the mountain to Pushkar. A motor rickshaw driver laughed heartily when we told him we would pay him anything if he would just take us. Not allowed.
The entire time we were being repeatedly called by the proprieter of the hotel we had reserved. He called us at least six times in the two hours it took us to move five miles. When we met him, we were sweaty and grouchy, but he was a handsome, smiling man dressed all in white linen with a stripe of color on his forehead. He was like a cool breeze from the shade of the hotel, and David and I drank mango tea and fresh juice on the roof, reading our books and trying to recover from the afternoon’s journey.
The town of Pushkar itself centers around a small and sacred pond (I just can't call it a lake), which has white marble stairs leading down to it and temples and places for pilgrims to bathe in the holy water. Surrounding this is a gaudy bazaar geared mainly towards foreign tourists. In this bazaar, I can’t make this up, there are bookshops selling bootleg novels, juice stalls selling lassis made with marijuana, sword stands, and holy men trying to get you to take a proffered flower or to touch the lumpy growth on a sacred cow festooned with shiny fabric and bells. Traversing the bazaar are non-Indian tourists who are mostly dreadlocked and dressed in billowing genie pants, non-Indian residents dressed all in linen and exuding their peace with the world, Indian pilgrims with their towels and packets of petals, motorcycles, bicycles, camels, cows, and dogs.
I feel like the Hindus have made a mistake in holding both free-roaming cows and bare feet sacred. As dusk fell, we slipped off our shoes in respect and headed down to the edge of the pond. “Good tourists,” an elderly man dressed in a white tunic congratulated us. We picked our way gingerly around cow patties and sat on the white stairs, warm from the sun. We watched flickers of flame light up around the edge of the water. Groups of worshippers clanged bells and beat drums, but they eventually quieted as the darkness claimed the sky.
The entire time we were being repeatedly called by the proprieter of the hotel we had reserved. He called us at least six times in the two hours it took us to move five miles. When we met him, we were sweaty and grouchy, but he was a handsome, smiling man dressed all in white linen with a stripe of color on his forehead. He was like a cool breeze from the shade of the hotel, and David and I drank mango tea and fresh juice on the roof, reading our books and trying to recover from the afternoon’s journey.
The town of Pushkar itself centers around a small and sacred pond (I just can't call it a lake), which has white marble stairs leading down to it and temples and places for pilgrims to bathe in the holy water. Surrounding this is a gaudy bazaar geared mainly towards foreign tourists. In this bazaar, I can’t make this up, there are bookshops selling bootleg novels, juice stalls selling lassis made with marijuana, sword stands, and holy men trying to get you to take a proffered flower or to touch the lumpy growth on a sacred cow festooned with shiny fabric and bells. Traversing the bazaar are non-Indian tourists who are mostly dreadlocked and dressed in billowing genie pants, non-Indian residents dressed all in linen and exuding their peace with the world, Indian pilgrims with their towels and packets of petals, motorcycles, bicycles, camels, cows, and dogs.
I feel like the Hindus have made a mistake in holding both free-roaming cows and bare feet sacred. As dusk fell, we slipped off our shoes in respect and headed down to the edge of the pond. “Good tourists,” an elderly man dressed in a white tunic congratulated us. We picked our way gingerly around cow patties and sat on the white stairs, warm from the sun. We watched flickers of flame light up around the edge of the water. Groups of worshippers clanged bells and beat drums, but they eventually quieted as the darkness claimed the sky.
The other India Journal
You can get David's take on all this, plus read about his onward adventures at
http://churchmanistan.blogspot.com
http://churchmanistan.blogspot.com
India Journal: Part 3
Exhausted from cities and palaces and trying not to be swindled, we nipped off to the small town of Bundi. The bus ride to Bundi was another small adventure, me almost getting left at a bus station as I struggled to repress a bout of nausea. When I finally lost that battle loudly into a plastic bag, the driver, who I was sitting directly behind, and the other passengers took little notice and the bus continued racing forward, swerving sickeningly around slower vehicles.
The town itself was a lovely jumble of light blue houses in a small valley overlooked by an old, delightfully ruined fort, and we were warily led to a lovely guest house, the walls painted with dancing women and warring gods. Once I had recovered, we explored the town’s delights including huge step wells, dozens of decorative temples, the fort, the old palace with faded but intricate paintings, a small but serene lake, and a concoction called a Saathi Lassi. Creamy yet spicy with cardamom and studded with cashews, raisins, and flecks of cinnamon; heaven in a cup.
At the unfortunately named Elephant House Hotel, we met some fellow travelers; French, Argentinian, Spanish, and Swedish who had been on the road for 5, 6, and 8 months, mostly in India. To be honest, I can’t imagine it. It was week 1.5, and we were already catching our breath. But maybe it gets easier with time, maybe you can relax more when the months of traveling stretch out before you. For us, each day was a precious gem, and perhaps that made them harder.
The town itself was a lovely jumble of light blue houses in a small valley overlooked by an old, delightfully ruined fort, and we were warily led to a lovely guest house, the walls painted with dancing women and warring gods. Once I had recovered, we explored the town’s delights including huge step wells, dozens of decorative temples, the fort, the old palace with faded but intricate paintings, a small but serene lake, and a concoction called a Saathi Lassi. Creamy yet spicy with cardamom and studded with cashews, raisins, and flecks of cinnamon; heaven in a cup.
At the unfortunately named Elephant House Hotel, we met some fellow travelers; French, Argentinian, Spanish, and Swedish who had been on the road for 5, 6, and 8 months, mostly in India. To be honest, I can’t imagine it. It was week 1.5, and we were already catching our breath. But maybe it gets easier with time, maybe you can relax more when the months of traveling stretch out before you. For us, each day was a precious gem, and perhaps that made them harder.
3.22.2008
India Journal: Part 2
Delhi was a bit much, even as we took refuge from the madness in the city's public parks, tombs, and movie theaters (Bollywood! Decadent costumes and dance numbers for three hours, anyone? No english subtitles, sorry.). So we jumped, with every other tourist, onto the Taj Express and soon were poking around the architectural wonders of the trash-city of Agra. We worked our way up to it, marveling at the lesser marvels such as the 400-year old fort modified by successive Mughal emperors then busted up and used as an armory by the British, and magnificent river-side tombs with bits of blue enamel still in place. And the Taj itself, once you get past the confusing security regime (why isn't my guidebook allowed in?) is marvelous and perfect perfect perfect. We spent a long time people watching and waiting for a beam of late-afternoon sunlight to break through the clouds and catch the dome which, for 15 seconds, it did. Heaven on earth.
We scampered to a nearby village for a day trip and a ramble around the beautiful old palaces, mosques, and tombs. One grave, surrounded by a shelter of intricate marble carving is said to bring luck to women hoping to conceive--in prayer these women tie multicolored threads to the marble lattice. We enjoyed it until the would-be guides overwhelmed us and we fled.
3.16.2008
India Journal: Part I
My brother David and I are traveling in India! The trip did not get off to an auspicious start. While David was in India being scammed by the first two taxi drivers he met, I was in Tanzania first rebooking my plane ticket, cancelled by the airline, and then hunched over a toilet in homage to some questionable meat I had for my last dinner in Arusha. But I made it to the airport, and on and off the appropriate planes, and soon David and I were reunited at our hotel in Delhi.
And it was all so...India. The streets all crammed with people, cows, horses, bicycles, rickshaws, and stands and stores selling every kind of food and fruit and drink and shiny brightly colored thing. At the monuments we visited in the city, Indian people gaped at us and the old buildings in turn. We gaped back, taking in groups of young men in Eurotrash jeans with slicked hair, women in vivid saris with red bindis, men in turbans, babies with their eyes lined with kohl. We found a place to eat, managed not to get hit by any cars, browsed in the market.
We were pleased with ourselves for navigating the city successfully as we jumped on a bicycle rickshaw to go from a historic mosque to a Bollywood movie theater. The driver seemed confused, however, about where we were going and kept stopping to ask for directions, taking an ever more circuitous and deserted path. But when we said the name of the movie theater and the circle it was on, he smiled and nodded, and repeated what we said. Then, on one of his shortcuts, we came around a corner and saw a group of children holding water balloons on the roof of a building. No, no, no, we shook our fingers at them; 1, 2, 3, the balloons hit their marks.
Emily and David, welcome to India.
And it was all so...India. The streets all crammed with people, cows, horses, bicycles, rickshaws, and stands and stores selling every kind of food and fruit and drink and shiny brightly colored thing. At the monuments we visited in the city, Indian people gaped at us and the old buildings in turn. We gaped back, taking in groups of young men in Eurotrash jeans with slicked hair, women in vivid saris with red bindis, men in turbans, babies with their eyes lined with kohl. We found a place to eat, managed not to get hit by any cars, browsed in the market.
We were pleased with ourselves for navigating the city successfully as we jumped on a bicycle rickshaw to go from a historic mosque to a Bollywood movie theater. The driver seemed confused, however, about where we were going and kept stopping to ask for directions, taking an ever more circuitous and deserted path. But when we said the name of the movie theater and the circle it was on, he smiled and nodded, and repeated what we said. Then, on one of his shortcuts, we came around a corner and saw a group of children holding water balloons on the roof of a building. No, no, no, we shook our fingers at them; 1, 2, 3, the balloons hit their marks.
Emily and David, welcome to India.
3.08.2008
Top Five
Sometimes I complain about my job here, but I don't have to look far to find people with worse jobs. After careful thought, and based on the intimate knowledge I've gained from watching people work out of my car's window, here are my top five contenders for worst job in Arusha:
-Wheelbarrow puller. These are not Radio Flyers, but car-size wooden wheelbarrows piled with concrete blocks or entire couch sets. They are backbreaking to pull uphills and perilous to ride down. Oh, and you have to put up with the maniac drivers on the same road.
-Subsistence farmer. I can barely lift a hoe. Much less use one to clear an entire field with a baby on my back, housework to do at home, and the water tap miles away.
-Housegirl. Usually brought from the village, I've seen them as young as nine, and they are pretty much 24 hour slaves to the biggest mama in the house. They get criticized for everything they (or anyone else) does wrong, and get no thanks. They are expected to work from early in the morning till the last dish is done at night. A recent wage reform requires them to be paid the equivalent of $55 dollars a month, which was widely laughed at, since everyone knows the going monthly rate is about $25. Oh, did you want an off day?
-Construction worker. This mostly involves carrying buckets of rocks and sand from place to place on your head. Boots and hardhats for foremen only.
-Lumberjack. Backbreaking defined; on easy days you are on one end of a two-man saw. Hard days involve rolling entire trees on and off of trucks using machines such as ramps and levers.
-Wheelbarrow puller. These are not Radio Flyers, but car-size wooden wheelbarrows piled with concrete blocks or entire couch sets. They are backbreaking to pull uphills and perilous to ride down. Oh, and you have to put up with the maniac drivers on the same road.
-Subsistence farmer. I can barely lift a hoe. Much less use one to clear an entire field with a baby on my back, housework to do at home, and the water tap miles away.
-Housegirl. Usually brought from the village, I've seen them as young as nine, and they are pretty much 24 hour slaves to the biggest mama in the house. They get criticized for everything they (or anyone else) does wrong, and get no thanks. They are expected to work from early in the morning till the last dish is done at night. A recent wage reform requires them to be paid the equivalent of $55 dollars a month, which was widely laughed at, since everyone knows the going monthly rate is about $25. Oh, did you want an off day?
-Construction worker. This mostly involves carrying buckets of rocks and sand from place to place on your head. Boots and hardhats for foremen only.
-Lumberjack. Backbreaking defined; on easy days you are on one end of a two-man saw. Hard days involve rolling entire trees on and off of trucks using machines such as ramps and levers.
The Kilimanjaro Marathon
On a recent weekend, my friend C from graduate school came up from the coast to spend a weekend up north. The occasion? The Kilimanjaro marathon and half marathon, starting in the town of Moshi. Moshi is a more provincial version of Arusha, with a tiny town center surrounded by tree-lined roads converging on tidy traffic circles (Roundabouts or "Keep-Lefties" to the locals). It is an hour's drive from Arusha. The day we arrived was a Saturday, the typical day for weddings, so the circles were choked with jubilant wedding processions, and on the streets women in party dresses mingled with runners in wind pants and white people who had come from all over East Africa.
After dropping C off at the start line, I took my place as enthusiast/water girl midway up a long hill right before a great view of Kilimanjaro, and waited. The stretch of road was flanked by coffee farms, and from the rows of bushes some children emerged to see what I was doing. We watched the first elite marathoners go by, then eagerly watched for, in order, the first African woman, the first white man, and the first white woman. The race was a distorted version of the marathons I've watched in America: a large pack of elite runners at the front, followed by a small group of gradually more and more casual runners all the way to the people at the end who look determined, but undertrained and in pain. While all of the elite runners looked East African, most of the slower runners were white.
Eventually I got my young fellow-spectators to clap for the runners as they went by. C showed up on pace, eager for the gatorade and sports gels brought from America for the event. I saw her going up the hill, and coming back down, then drove through unfamiliar backroads to meet her after she finished. The villages I passed through were beautiful--red soil and green banana trees--and the people smiled indulgently as I leaned out the window and asked politely how to get to town. I bought a bunch of bananas for my runner and nearly broke my arms helping the woman selling them lift her tray off her head. She probably had 60 pounds of bananas on her head, and was still miles from her market, an everyday feat of endurance.
In the dusty stadium where the race ended, vendors sold popsicles, pineapple wedges on skewers, roasted chicken, and Kilimanjaro brand beer. There were unending announcements over the loud speaker and tents handing out free stuff to the runners (Vodacom t-shirts, Tanga Cement headbands). We hung out for a while but the early morning cool had given way to mid-morning heat, and it was time to head back to Arusha.
After dropping C off at the start line, I took my place as enthusiast/water girl midway up a long hill right before a great view of Kilimanjaro, and waited. The stretch of road was flanked by coffee farms, and from the rows of bushes some children emerged to see what I was doing. We watched the first elite marathoners go by, then eagerly watched for, in order, the first African woman, the first white man, and the first white woman. The race was a distorted version of the marathons I've watched in America: a large pack of elite runners at the front, followed by a small group of gradually more and more casual runners all the way to the people at the end who look determined, but undertrained and in pain. While all of the elite runners looked East African, most of the slower runners were white.
Eventually I got my young fellow-spectators to clap for the runners as they went by. C showed up on pace, eager for the gatorade and sports gels brought from America for the event. I saw her going up the hill, and coming back down, then drove through unfamiliar backroads to meet her after she finished. The villages I passed through were beautiful--red soil and green banana trees--and the people smiled indulgently as I leaned out the window and asked politely how to get to town. I bought a bunch of bananas for my runner and nearly broke my arms helping the woman selling them lift her tray off her head. She probably had 60 pounds of bananas on her head, and was still miles from her market, an everyday feat of endurance.
In the dusty stadium where the race ended, vendors sold popsicles, pineapple wedges on skewers, roasted chicken, and Kilimanjaro brand beer. There were unending announcements over the loud speaker and tents handing out free stuff to the runners (Vodacom t-shirts, Tanga Cement headbands). We hung out for a while but the early morning cool had given way to mid-morning heat, and it was time to head back to Arusha.
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