7.12.2009
Long update from a far land
It's been a long time since my last big email update, and welcome to those of you for whom it's my first. I think just because my adventure in Tanzania turned into a pretty normal life--too much work and too little time for travels, the grocery store, TV at home, this person's going away party, that person's birthday drinks. Then last week, one of my staff members died suddenly and everything became terribly abnormal. A young healthy guy, he had been complaining of headache for a few weeks--the doctors treated him for cerebral malaria, but it may have been a bleed in his brain. He never had access to a CT scan.
Sammy was tall and chubby, and the nicest, most earnest person you could meet. Every day when he was done with his work for the day he would ask if there was anything else I needed help with. His shoulders shook when he laughed. With both of his parents deceased, he was the head of his siblings. He had just taken a loan to pay for his sister’s send-off party and her wedding. He was reminding all the staff not to miss the party. But instead of laughing with the MC at his sister’s sendoff, he was in the morgue, and his relatives were talking about buying his coffin and carrying his body home. His sister heard the news when she was in the salon, getting ready for the party. Now she sat with the other women, and cried.
I’m tired of seeing people die for no reason, especially when they’re trying so hard and struggling to make a life for themselves and their families. Like Sammy, and like the HIV-positive people we serve who get to the hospital only to get bad care, and like women who die in childbirth because the hospital is too far or too poorly equipped (a heartbreaking article in the Times). It's overwhelming to think about what Tanzania needs to do to catch up to the West in health care. But the situation is desperate, something my normal easy life here sometimes obscures.
And there are terrible contradictions I live with every day, knowing the sad and desperate situation of Sammy's widow, and still going out at night, splurging on Western food in town--croissants and cheese. I composed most of this email in Zanzibar, on a trip with my friend Kate that we had already planned, and I've had a great series of visitors from the US, including my mom last summer and my dad this year. At the office, we've hired a new driver, and we are busy with summer interns and volunteers. Sadness creeps up, then gets swept away. I am honored and happy to be here, seeing the progress our organization is making. Getting out of bed in the morning is easy because I see the impacts we are having in the villages we serve. But the contradictions get to be a lot to contain in one life.
Sammy was tall and chubby, and the nicest, most earnest person you could meet. Every day when he was done with his work for the day he would ask if there was anything else I needed help with. His shoulders shook when he laughed. With both of his parents deceased, he was the head of his siblings. He had just taken a loan to pay for his sister’s send-off party and her wedding. He was reminding all the staff not to miss the party. But instead of laughing with the MC at his sister’s sendoff, he was in the morgue, and his relatives were talking about buying his coffin and carrying his body home. His sister heard the news when she was in the salon, getting ready for the party. Now she sat with the other women, and cried.
I’m tired of seeing people die for no reason, especially when they’re trying so hard and struggling to make a life for themselves and their families. Like Sammy, and like the HIV-positive people we serve who get to the hospital only to get bad care, and like women who die in childbirth because the hospital is too far or too poorly equipped (a heartbreaking article in the Times). It's overwhelming to think about what Tanzania needs to do to catch up to the West in health care. But the situation is desperate, something my normal easy life here sometimes obscures.
And there are terrible contradictions I live with every day, knowing the sad and desperate situation of Sammy's widow, and still going out at night, splurging on Western food in town--croissants and cheese. I composed most of this email in Zanzibar, on a trip with my friend Kate that we had already planned, and I've had a great series of visitors from the US, including my mom last summer and my dad this year. At the office, we've hired a new driver, and we are busy with summer interns and volunteers. Sadness creeps up, then gets swept away. I am honored and happy to be here, seeing the progress our organization is making. Getting out of bed in the morning is easy because I see the impacts we are having in the villages we serve. But the contradictions get to be a lot to contain in one life.
5.11.2008
Hard Work
Oh wow, it's May?!? My, it has been a while. Time flies when you're working in a frenzy most of the time. Work is good. It's amazing, in fact. The problems I had with my staff are gone and meetings for the moment are more like a gathering of friends. In the villages, we are continually well received and recently several organizations we've been courting agreed to partner with us. Our numbers are great--number of people getting tested, number of HIV-positive people enrolling for services--and we have a thriving new branch in Babati, an even more underserved area. We recently organized a field trip for the entire Arusha staff to Babati. We descended on the small town and trained 80 people and tested 300 in two days. In the evening, we took part in the HIV-positive club's exercise night, running over red-dirt roads as neighbors said hello, dogs barked, and children ran alongside. It was a great way to exercise. I came back from the trip with dysentery, but never mind. Never eat fish in an inland village, that's another lesson learned.
But there's a cloud over all the good work that is going on, and that is money. Apart from the field trip (and recovering from my GI problems), I've mostly been in the office, feverishly writing proposals to get us through our fast-approaching crisis. It's frustrating because we're so good at what we do in the villages, so good at delivering and monitoring and following up our services, and so bad at raising money up to now. I mean, we are getting people living with HIV in dirt shacks out of bed and back to their daily affairs and we are getting grouchy old Masai men with four wives to get tested for HIV, and that's the easy part. Things are looking good in the long term fortunately; some of these proposals are sure to pan out (as sure as these things ever are), and we will always have the volunteer program to keep us going. But right now, we are facing down some serious cuts, and we need help. If you can, please click here.
And the other night, I threw a party, to celebrate a few of my friend's babies, to say goodbye to one of our staff members, and to celebrate one whole year in Tanzania. It was a great mix of everyone I know in Arusha, the international set, the Tanzanians of all ages and genders, gathered around and making speeches, then eating heaping plates of good old Swahili food--spiced rice and fried chicken and bitter greens and salad and meat sauce and bananas. There was a cake, so we sang the cake song ("Cake-y Cake-y") and told jokes and ate too much and kept the baby's fingers off of the snack tray. Moments like that are so much sweeter when I think about what I've been through already and the other life I am missing back home. Swiftly, beautifully, time passes.
But there's a cloud over all the good work that is going on, and that is money. Apart from the field trip (and recovering from my GI problems), I've mostly been in the office, feverishly writing proposals to get us through our fast-approaching crisis. It's frustrating because we're so good at what we do in the villages, so good at delivering and monitoring and following up our services, and so bad at raising money up to now. I mean, we are getting people living with HIV in dirt shacks out of bed and back to their daily affairs and we are getting grouchy old Masai men with four wives to get tested for HIV, and that's the easy part. Things are looking good in the long term fortunately; some of these proposals are sure to pan out (as sure as these things ever are), and we will always have the volunteer program to keep us going. But right now, we are facing down some serious cuts, and we need help. If you can, please click here.
And the other night, I threw a party, to celebrate a few of my friend's babies, to say goodbye to one of our staff members, and to celebrate one whole year in Tanzania. It was a great mix of everyone I know in Arusha, the international set, the Tanzanians of all ages and genders, gathered around and making speeches, then eating heaping plates of good old Swahili food--spiced rice and fried chicken and bitter greens and salad and meat sauce and bananas. There was a cake, so we sang the cake song ("Cake-y Cake-y") and told jokes and ate too much and kept the baby's fingers off of the snack tray. Moments like that are so much sweeter when I think about what I've been through already and the other life I am missing back home. Swiftly, beautifully, time passes.
4.28.2008
Washed Away
It was supposed to stop raining weeks ago and it hasn't stopped. After our adventure in the mire, the next thing to go was the bridge on the shortcut to the office. One morning, pre-caffeine, I went to turn left and ran into the African traffic cone--some cut branches in the road. No more shortcut--the bridge had been washed away.
When I finally made it to the office, a visitor was waiting, from a small community organization from one of our villages. The school's toilets had been swept away in the recent floods, and the children had nowhere to relieve themselves. Could we contribute? One of my staff members came back from yet another village, where he couldn't do any work because the whole village was at a funeral for three people who drowned in a pond. The people in the village who know how to swim were out in their fields when the first person jumped in and the other two drowned trying to save her.
When I got back from India, all the talk was of how great the rains had been and how well the corn was growing. Nowadays the talk is of just how ruined it is. Last week, I drove up one of the best village roads left, which still had sheets of water flowing across it. The tallest corn still looked good--leafy and tasseled--but the shorter stalks were yellowing from the bottom up. One of our community volunteers shook her head and said that now the plants would just make leaves and no corn. Although it is fun to see children playing in swollen creeks, grown adults tromping around in rubber boots, and the sleek coats of animals fat from the green grass, there is a grim time coming when the rain finally stops and there is little to harvest.
Today one of the few roads in town is closed because another bridge fell. I am staying at the office late to write this post and to give the resulting traffic jam some time to subside. Outside, it is raining.
When I finally made it to the office, a visitor was waiting, from a small community organization from one of our villages. The school's toilets had been swept away in the recent floods, and the children had nowhere to relieve themselves. Could we contribute? One of my staff members came back from yet another village, where he couldn't do any work because the whole village was at a funeral for three people who drowned in a pond. The people in the village who know how to swim were out in their fields when the first person jumped in and the other two drowned trying to save her.
When I got back from India, all the talk was of how great the rains had been and how well the corn was growing. Nowadays the talk is of just how ruined it is. Last week, I drove up one of the best village roads left, which still had sheets of water flowing across it. The tallest corn still looked good--leafy and tasseled--but the shorter stalks were yellowing from the bottom up. One of our community volunteers shook her head and said that now the plants would just make leaves and no corn. Although it is fun to see children playing in swollen creeks, grown adults tromping around in rubber boots, and the sleek coats of animals fat from the green grass, there is a grim time coming when the rain finally stops and there is little to harvest.
Today one of the few roads in town is closed because another bridge fell. I am staying at the office late to write this post and to give the resulting traffic jam some time to subside. Outside, it is raining.
4.13.2008
Glory
Glory is my roommate and my best friend in Tanzania. She is about five foot two and has a sweet smile and unassuming presence. She is my age but looks about 16. She loves to make outrageous statements about her strength and her wealth and her proficiency in English. She teases me for reading too much, for being a slob, for skipping showers, for not going to church anymore, for being sleepy. We watched the first season of Heroes on a bootlegged DVD together, me translating roughly into Swahili, and she loves to squeeze her eyes shut and pretend that she can teleport like Hiro. She has no control over our misbehaved guard dogs and when they jump up on her she screams. She won’t let me get a cat because she thinks it will eat off the stove. Sometimes, when I run into her away from the house, she is wearing my clothes.
Glory is an evangelical Christian and blasts the religious radio station every night when she is cooking. She used to speak in tongues around the house, but recently stopped. She doesn’t drink or go out at night unless I take her. Although she speaks no English, she loves to meet my foreign friends. She remembers every guest we have ever had and loves to tell stories about them—Kate who was white like paper, Ben who had a pet pig, a volunteer we called Little John who spoke his own version of pidgin Swahili.
Glory was alone in our apartment when it was robbed by men carrying giant knives in 2005. We have both seen each other when we were sickest and weakest and most out of our minds. Sometimes when I go out she tells me I am half naked; the other night I wore my most plunging top and she told me I looked nice. Some nights when I come back late she will call me from her room as I get ready for bed in mine. I've come and gone from Tanzania several times since I first met Glory, and every time we've said goodbye, both of us have cried.
Glory is an evangelical Christian and blasts the religious radio station every night when she is cooking. She used to speak in tongues around the house, but recently stopped. She doesn’t drink or go out at night unless I take her. Although she speaks no English, she loves to meet my foreign friends. She remembers every guest we have ever had and loves to tell stories about them—Kate who was white like paper, Ben who had a pet pig, a volunteer we called Little John who spoke his own version of pidgin Swahili.
Glory was alone in our apartment when it was robbed by men carrying giant knives in 2005. We have both seen each other when we were sickest and weakest and most out of our minds. Sometimes when I go out she tells me I am half naked; the other night I wore my most plunging top and she told me I looked nice. Some nights when I come back late she will call me from her room as I get ready for bed in mine. I've come and gone from Tanzania several times since I first met Glory, and every time we've said goodbye, both of us have cried.
Stuck
Back from India, I found Tanzania awash in the worst of rainy season. Our cars got mired down daily out in the villages but never so bad as the Wednesday after I got back. A group of our staff members got stuck, badly, in the mud at about ten in the morning, and by four that evening were still stuck. They had spent the day searching for a tractor, but they were all out tilling the fields and none were available. The only option was for us to send another truck and a towrope and pull them out.
All the other trucks were late coming back from the field, so I set out with Anton, a lovely Rastafarian staff member with a ton of experience driving in the villages. He volunteered for the task and I was glad to have him along, though I knew he had a heavily pregnant wife at home and she would worry if he was late. The village was far away, and by the time we reached the area, we had only an hour or so of daylight left. Land that is usually dusty and barren was now a lake on both sides of the road, and as we got closer we saw houses that had been knocked over by floods. The road was a joke, a streambed really; it was obvious we would get stuck soon and I fumed that my staff had chosen to try to navigate these ridiculous roads. And then we were stuck, the rear fender of the car resting in the mud, the rear two tires spinning uselessly.
We were near a school and the guards there came out to help as the light waned, but the situation only got progressively more hopeless, no matter how many rocks we threw under the tires, how much pushing they did, or digging, or leveraging with boards. Now we had two cars stuck a mile apart from each other, the batteries on everyone’s cell phones were dying, we were in the middle of nowhere, and it was dark.
But soon a tractor passed the other stuck car which did not have a towrope, and our friends sent it to us, who did. The tractor had no headlight so rumbled up out of the dark, and was almost out of diesel, so the driver yelled at us to hurry. As the men fumbled with the towrope, I jumped behind the wheel. It felt marvelous as the tractor yanked the car out of the mud onto solid dirt. Problem half-solved.
We decided to have Anton walk to the still stuck car, and escort the other staff members to the freed car. I waited at the school, watching the cooking fire of two Masai guards. They said nothing, asked me nothing, and only laughed when an enormous cockroach landed in my hair and I screamed. Finally, Anton and the others emerged from the darkness, all in good spirits and laughing heartily. We piled in the car and began driving out the loooooong way, dropping two of the villagers who had helped us as we went. We finally got to the tarmac road, and at that moment, still at least an hour from town, the sky opened up and dropped the kind of rain that is basically like water poured from a massive bucket. I drove carefully, nervously, slowly through the rain, exhausted and scared and wondering what we could have done differently to avoid this whole mess. We got back to town at one am, Anton's wife in tears and all of us spent.
The next day, we sent another car out to retrieve the one that remained. It got stuck as well, and both had to be rescued by a tractor called away from the fields. They pulled into the office at five pm, both coated with mud, at the exact moment a well-meaning researcher from Northwestern University asked me “And how are the roads in the areas where you work?”.
All the other trucks were late coming back from the field, so I set out with Anton, a lovely Rastafarian staff member with a ton of experience driving in the villages. He volunteered for the task and I was glad to have him along, though I knew he had a heavily pregnant wife at home and she would worry if he was late. The village was far away, and by the time we reached the area, we had only an hour or so of daylight left. Land that is usually dusty and barren was now a lake on both sides of the road, and as we got closer we saw houses that had been knocked over by floods. The road was a joke, a streambed really; it was obvious we would get stuck soon and I fumed that my staff had chosen to try to navigate these ridiculous roads. And then we were stuck, the rear fender of the car resting in the mud, the rear two tires spinning uselessly.
We were near a school and the guards there came out to help as the light waned, but the situation only got progressively more hopeless, no matter how many rocks we threw under the tires, how much pushing they did, or digging, or leveraging with boards. Now we had two cars stuck a mile apart from each other, the batteries on everyone’s cell phones were dying, we were in the middle of nowhere, and it was dark.
But soon a tractor passed the other stuck car which did not have a towrope, and our friends sent it to us, who did. The tractor had no headlight so rumbled up out of the dark, and was almost out of diesel, so the driver yelled at us to hurry. As the men fumbled with the towrope, I jumped behind the wheel. It felt marvelous as the tractor yanked the car out of the mud onto solid dirt. Problem half-solved.
We decided to have Anton walk to the still stuck car, and escort the other staff members to the freed car. I waited at the school, watching the cooking fire of two Masai guards. They said nothing, asked me nothing, and only laughed when an enormous cockroach landed in my hair and I screamed. Finally, Anton and the others emerged from the darkness, all in good spirits and laughing heartily. We piled in the car and began driving out the loooooong way, dropping two of the villagers who had helped us as we went. We finally got to the tarmac road, and at that moment, still at least an hour from town, the sky opened up and dropped the kind of rain that is basically like water poured from a massive bucket. I drove carefully, nervously, slowly through the rain, exhausted and scared and wondering what we could have done differently to avoid this whole mess. We got back to town at one am, Anton's wife in tears and all of us spent.
The next day, we sent another car out to retrieve the one that remained. It got stuck as well, and both had to be rescued by a tractor called away from the fields. They pulled into the office at five pm, both coated with mud, at the exact moment a well-meaning researcher from Northwestern University asked me “And how are the roads in the areas where you work?”.
India Journal: Part 6
All that remained for me was to say goodbye to David and get back to Delhi. The second day of Holi involves a lot of throwing of colors (in liquid and powder form) and a lot of drinking, so I was direly warned by the hotel manager about the dangers of traveling alone as a woman on this particular day. I had no choice, so I decided to jump on an early, deluxe bus and rely on my now well-honed “Piss off” face.
But, despite the assurances of multiple people, the buses were not running that morning because of the holiday, and a group of powder-stained drunk guys was following me around the station. I jumped in a rickshaw to the train station, which the driver also assured me was closed, and could he recommend a hotel? “Just take me to the station,” I growled, and we went. He was a liar, and I told him so after I booked my ticket and threw him his fare. Soon I was waiting on the platform with my backpack on and a cryptic ticket in my hand. Aware that I should probably not be talking directly to men without my brother with me, I asked a group of Muslim women in black robes if I was in the right place for the train to Delhi. They stared at me, giggled, and turned away.
I was baffled as the train finally pulled into the station and grateful for the guy with a roller suitcase and a blackberry in his hand who showed me where to get on. He spent the next four hours beside me, telling me about the instant connection he had felt to me back in that train station and the desire he had for me to meet his mother. Sadly, he had to get off before Delhi. At which point the cute guy across the aisle struck up a much more interesting conversation. He was one of the famed Indian IT workers living in Delhi, bringing his young niece and nephew to visit their aunt, his sister, for the holiday. He was not yet married, he confided, but would be in a few months. His parents and sister had chosen a bride for him, and he liked her, though he had never actually met her. I asked him if that wasn’t weird, and he said he thought it was okay. “My parents have more experience, so I think they know what is best for me,” he said. Huh.
Outside the train, villages passed full of pink and green and purple people, covered head to toe with the Holi colors. Whenever we neared inhabited areas, the windows of the train would slam shut, as open windows invited bucketfuls of colored water and fistfuls of powder. As we neared the city, the slums backing up on the tracks were winding up the holiday, with some people crouching by the water taps, scrubbing the colors out of their hair. I liked this as my last vision of India: colorful, riotous, a mess that is slowly getting cleaned up.
But, despite the assurances of multiple people, the buses were not running that morning because of the holiday, and a group of powder-stained drunk guys was following me around the station. I jumped in a rickshaw to the train station, which the driver also assured me was closed, and could he recommend a hotel? “Just take me to the station,” I growled, and we went. He was a liar, and I told him so after I booked my ticket and threw him his fare. Soon I was waiting on the platform with my backpack on and a cryptic ticket in my hand. Aware that I should probably not be talking directly to men without my brother with me, I asked a group of Muslim women in black robes if I was in the right place for the train to Delhi. They stared at me, giggled, and turned away.
I was baffled as the train finally pulled into the station and grateful for the guy with a roller suitcase and a blackberry in his hand who showed me where to get on. He spent the next four hours beside me, telling me about the instant connection he had felt to me back in that train station and the desire he had for me to meet his mother. Sadly, he had to get off before Delhi. At which point the cute guy across the aisle struck up a much more interesting conversation. He was one of the famed Indian IT workers living in Delhi, bringing his young niece and nephew to visit their aunt, his sister, for the holiday. He was not yet married, he confided, but would be in a few months. His parents and sister had chosen a bride for him, and he liked her, though he had never actually met her. I asked him if that wasn’t weird, and he said he thought it was okay. “My parents have more experience, so I think they know what is best for me,” he said. Huh.
Outside the train, villages passed full of pink and green and purple people, covered head to toe with the Holi colors. Whenever we neared inhabited areas, the windows of the train would slam shut, as open windows invited bucketfuls of colored water and fistfuls of powder. As we neared the city, the slums backing up on the tracks were winding up the holiday, with some people crouching by the water taps, scrubbing the colors out of their hair. I liked this as my last vision of India: colorful, riotous, a mess that is slowly getting cleaned up.
India Journal: Part 5
I forgot to mention that underlying the journey up to now has been my ongoing saga with the Ethiopian Airlines ticket office in Delhi. Ethiopian has by far the cheapest Kilimanjaro-Delhi ticket and by far the least reliable booking system I have ever encountered. I was cancelled off my flights twice in the weeks before my departure and as a result was on a waiting list for my return flight. Every morning and afternoon I called the Ethiopian office and had the following conversation:
Me: Hello, I would like to confirm my flight from Delhi to Kilimanjaro.
Hani, the Ticket Agent: What is your reservation number?
Me: DJGIR63
H,tTA: I am not able to confirm that flight at this time please call back this afternoon/tomorrow morning.
Was it Einstein who said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? And how many American sounding women were calling that office and trying to confirm a spot on that flight? Couldn’t I even get a “oh hi, Emily”?
Anyway the upshot of all that was that my return flight was delayed by two days so that we circled back to Jaipur, The Pink City, to catch the Elephant Festival. On our previous visit there, earlier in the trip, we had been unpleasantly overwhelmed by the size and the bustle of the city and having seen the major sights, made tracks. I think we imagined the Elephant Festival as a massive parade down the streets of town, huge decorated elephants narrowly passing the cycle rickshaws and fruit stands as colorfully-dressed Jaipurians cheered and threw confetti.
In reality, it was a fairly sedate, yet delightful affair. It was held at the stadium and the majority of attendees were white and came by the busload. The parade circled the grassy stadium and the elephants were great, their faces and trunks encrusted with gems and painted with pictures of tigers and flowers, their backs draped with velvet and topped with a proud mustachioed rider. Despite all the elegance, the elephants still swept the ground with their trucks, snacking on bundles of fresh-cut grass. Between the elephants came marching bands and dancing troupes, from tribal dancers dressed like monkeys to girls with giant peacock tails. The tourists snapped a million pictures.
That night was the first night of Holi, which is celebrated with bonfires. As we left the stadium, these bonfires were being set up in public roads, right in the middle of town. Sheaves of dried grass propped up over sticks with kites and other bits of color were set alight even as regular traffic continued to pass. The fires were huge, and the feeling was part insurrection, part campfire. At some of the fires, holy men in white said blessings, at others families burned more grasses to take to their home’s temple. As dark descended, the fires were left unattended, and subsided to coals.
Me: Hello, I would like to confirm my flight from Delhi to Kilimanjaro.
Hani, the Ticket Agent: What is your reservation number?
Me: DJGIR63
H,tTA: I am not able to confirm that flight at this time please call back this afternoon/tomorrow morning.
Was it Einstein who said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? And how many American sounding women were calling that office and trying to confirm a spot on that flight? Couldn’t I even get a “oh hi, Emily”?
Anyway the upshot of all that was that my return flight was delayed by two days so that we circled back to Jaipur, The Pink City, to catch the Elephant Festival. On our previous visit there, earlier in the trip, we had been unpleasantly overwhelmed by the size and the bustle of the city and having seen the major sights, made tracks. I think we imagined the Elephant Festival as a massive parade down the streets of town, huge decorated elephants narrowly passing the cycle rickshaws and fruit stands as colorfully-dressed Jaipurians cheered and threw confetti.
In reality, it was a fairly sedate, yet delightful affair. It was held at the stadium and the majority of attendees were white and came by the busload. The parade circled the grassy stadium and the elephants were great, their faces and trunks encrusted with gems and painted with pictures of tigers and flowers, their backs draped with velvet and topped with a proud mustachioed rider. Despite all the elegance, the elephants still swept the ground with their trucks, snacking on bundles of fresh-cut grass. Between the elephants came marching bands and dancing troupes, from tribal dancers dressed like monkeys to girls with giant peacock tails. The tourists snapped a million pictures.
That night was the first night of Holi, which is celebrated with bonfires. As we left the stadium, these bonfires were being set up in public roads, right in the middle of town. Sheaves of dried grass propped up over sticks with kites and other bits of color were set alight even as regular traffic continued to pass. The fires were huge, and the feeling was part insurrection, part campfire. At some of the fires, holy men in white said blessings, at others families burned more grasses to take to their home’s temple. As dark descended, the fires were left unattended, and subsided to coals.
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.
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