Thursday, July 31, 2008
Official Damage Count
Alicia here. Incidentally, I didn't acquire any bloodborne-diseases from the mosquito attack. But a thorough inspection did reveal my previous estimates to be woefully low - in fact, I suffered a precise 72 bites on the left leg and 60 on the right, for a total much higher than I could have originally imagined. But, by now the bites are fading and I don't feel so bad rolling my pantlegs up to dip my toes in the ocean in front of the Frenchies. "Look at ze styupid Amerhikan," I imagined them saying. "She sinks zat she eez immune to sufferhing? Zat she eez above zee bug sprhay?"
Je Ne Se Pa?
Alicia here. We're in Mamallaparam (on the bay of Bengal) and enjoying the beach and the sunshine. Yesterday we chased a Chameleon around the room and caught it in a pillowcase where it turned white. Last night we ate a fresh tuna fish and took a walk on the beach where I spotted a perfectly intact spiny seashell and a few dead sea anemones, and half of a large red crab. Due to a limitation of options, I'm acquiring a taste for light lager. We met some kiwis who are racing from Chennai to Mumbai in an autorickshaw to raise money for charity. Sounds like fun to me - but I'm sure enjoying being lazy on the beach. We've got lots of fresh seafood around here and very few mosquitos. I set the alarm this morning to try to wake up for sunrise, but couldn't pry my eyes open once it rang. I'll try again tomorrow.
Everybody here is French, and a barman told me it's French holiday time right now. None of the French people make eye contact or speak - I've been plainly blown off after a friendly "Hello!" at least 10 times. But I did manage to engage in exchange with an inquisitive little french girl with a shaved head who spoke a few meager words of English. Due to our repoir, her father gave me the time of day, although he seemed to roll his eyes after learning I was American. "Bonjour!" I called to them in departing, offering a two-fingered salute. "Au revoir!" The father corrected me. "Au revoir!" I called back. "Au revoir!" They waved. If only I could find the words in French to tell them that I hate freedom fries and love crepes.
Everybody here is French, and a barman told me it's French holiday time right now. None of the French people make eye contact or speak - I've been plainly blown off after a friendly "Hello!" at least 10 times. But I did manage to engage in exchange with an inquisitive little french girl with a shaved head who spoke a few meager words of English. Due to our repoir, her father gave me the time of day, although he seemed to roll his eyes after learning I was American. "Bonjour!" I called to them in departing, offering a two-fingered salute. "Au revoir!" The father corrected me. "Au revoir!" I called back. "Au revoir!" They waved. If only I could find the words in French to tell them that I hate freedom fries and love crepes.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Le Pondicherry
Alicia here. We're in Pondicherry now, which is a lot like the South of France, a place I've never visited but have heard is something like Pondicherry. Last night at dinner on the rooftop of a pseudo-French cafe with great prawns stroganoff, I swatted away a few large clumsy mosquitos before they could bite and made fun of them this morning when I woke up. "What a dumb bunch of mosquitos!" I laughed, examining the corpses of several more of the same specie laying flatly against my mosquito net. "They're too fat to land on me without my noticing. They fly right in front of my face. They're not very stealthy." Har har har. Dumb mosquitos! How does their species even survive? Then I rolled over and was aghast to see what looked like a horrible tropical disease, or scientific experiment gone wrong, or biochemical rash, on the left side of each of my legs. I've got at least 75 big fat mosquito welts melting into each other all between the ankle and knee of each poor, stricken extremity. It's sooooo ugly! From the right side, knee-down, I look like a normal human being. From the left, Bride of Frankenweenie. That's what I get for wearing shorts. I can only imagine they must have been dive-bombing in from the left, or North side of the patio during dinner - under the table, undetected. So slick, so stealthy were they, that I was actually making FUN of them, so sure I was that they were too stupid to get at me. I'm sure the few I swatted away were just kamikaze distractors, part of an elaborate, intricate, well-planned and expertly executed strategic attack intended to lull me into a false sense of security. The whole episode just makes me glad that Dan-O insisted on a mosquito net late last night.
Aside from the mosquitos, there's an active dragonfly colony hovering in the street outside our totally awesome hotel, and a gang of bats swooping around the buildings after dark. It's almost like being on a Safari, and serves to distinguish our location from the South of France. Pondicherry is a pretty sweet beach town, and we're staying in a pretty sweet place with lots of warm colors, funky printed sheets and pillows and fascinating wall decor (the poster in our room is an advertisement which reads: "All black rice removed by Japanese Technology! Number One Super Rice!"). I'm not SO sad about becoming food for mosquitos, as long as it doesn't translate into any bloodborne disease.
Aside from the mosquitos, there's an active dragonfly colony hovering in the street outside our totally awesome hotel, and a gang of bats swooping around the buildings after dark. It's almost like being on a Safari, and serves to distinguish our location from the South of France. Pondicherry is a pretty sweet beach town, and we're staying in a pretty sweet place with lots of warm colors, funky printed sheets and pillows and fascinating wall decor (the poster in our room is an advertisement which reads: "All black rice removed by Japanese Technology! Number One Super Rice!"). I'm not SO sad about becoming food for mosquitos, as long as it doesn't translate into any bloodborne disease.
Notes about life on the Salazmeyer Indian Roadshow
Stanley here. We're in Pondicherry now after a 42 hour train ride (wherein we learned that all 2AC train cars are not created equal) and it's a relaxing place to be although not as pleasantly cool as Darjeeling. The food is excellent so far and our accommodations are funky in the best possible way.
So far this has been a fantastic trip. I keep looking out the window of the cab or out over the darkened city from my hotel balcony and saying something along the lines of,"Damn. I love this." I find this funny because a couple of people in Dubai told us it would be awful. One of them told us that it's a very difficult place to travel but we'd love it if we went with the right attitude and the other told us we should pick someplace else to go. Everyone else just told us our itinerary was too aggressive and we should scale it back. As it turns out, it's not all that difficult to get around (except in Delhi) and it's far from awful. However, I must admit that when I look back over the blog I realize that we've offered a slightly sanitized version of the wonders of India. The truth is, it's a developing nation that's very densely populated and so it doesn't always smell good and it's not always clean and there's a lot of poverty. I assume our readership already knew that, but I figured I should mention it in the spirit of full disclosure. Still, it was the perfect destination for us this summer. It's huge and strange and diverse and different from anyplace I've ever been before. We keep saying things like, "This reminds me of Latin America." or "This reminds me of China" but it's only vaguely like those places and really it's not like anything besides India.
Ten things I've figured out thus far:
1) Call ahead for accommodations about 24 hours in advance.
2) If there's a mosquito net, use it.
3) Incense chases bugs away.
4) Walk in the street, not on the sidewalk. (Strange but true.)
5) Always have an idea how much things should cost.
5a) If you don't know, always say the first price is "crazy".
6) Western levels of bathroom cleanliness are a bourgeois affectation.
7) Wherever you go, people are generally helpful and generous.
7a) except in Delhi.
8) Trust your instincts. If you think you're getting hustled, you probably are.
9) The food from man who works for himself and runs onto the train at the platform is better than the food from the man who works serving food for the railroad.
10) The world is a rich freaking tapestry.
So far this has been a fantastic trip. I keep looking out the window of the cab or out over the darkened city from my hotel balcony and saying something along the lines of,"Damn. I love this." I find this funny because a couple of people in Dubai told us it would be awful. One of them told us that it's a very difficult place to travel but we'd love it if we went with the right attitude and the other told us we should pick someplace else to go. Everyone else just told us our itinerary was too aggressive and we should scale it back. As it turns out, it's not all that difficult to get around (except in Delhi) and it's far from awful. However, I must admit that when I look back over the blog I realize that we've offered a slightly sanitized version of the wonders of India. The truth is, it's a developing nation that's very densely populated and so it doesn't always smell good and it's not always clean and there's a lot of poverty. I assume our readership already knew that, but I figured I should mention it in the spirit of full disclosure. Still, it was the perfect destination for us this summer. It's huge and strange and diverse and different from anyplace I've ever been before. We keep saying things like, "This reminds me of Latin America." or "This reminds me of China" but it's only vaguely like those places and really it's not like anything besides India.
Ten things I've figured out thus far:
1) Call ahead for accommodations about 24 hours in advance.
2) If there's a mosquito net, use it.
3) Incense chases bugs away.
4) Walk in the street, not on the sidewalk. (Strange but true.)
5) Always have an idea how much things should cost.
5a) If you don't know, always say the first price is "crazy".
6) Western levels of bathroom cleanliness are a bourgeois affectation.
7) Wherever you go, people are generally helpful and generous.
7a) except in Delhi.
8) Trust your instincts. If you think you're getting hustled, you probably are.
9) The food from man who works for himself and runs onto the train at the platform is better than the food from the man who works serving food for the railroad.
10) The world is a rich freaking tapestry.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Two more nights, please
Alicia here. Since arriving in Darjeeling, I've kicked a sickness, gotten tons of exercise walking up and down hills, and revitalised my enthusiasm for the revolution by watching the Gorkhas stage daily protests in effort to achieve the sovereign state of Gorkhaland. It's been a physical and spiritual renewal - I even hopped a fence to get into the botanical gardens on strike day and shared some peace pipe with a fellow traveller. I've got a full bowl of tibetan noodle soup in my belly and I'm not even scared of those freaky monkeys anymore. It's cold, damp, full of evergreens and large spiders and colorful beetles, we're totally socked in and can only occasionally catch a glimpse of the other side of the hill, and we're drying ourselves out every night and morning with hot coal fires and freshly brewed tea (or in Dan's case, whiskey). After two nights here we asked the man for three more nights, and on coming up on the third night, we decided we better ask for two more. Hell, I'm not sure I'll ever leave at this rate. The streets are full of monks and puppies and kittens and baby monkeys, cars can't even drive on most of the roads here, leaving the air fresh and misty-clean, and plastic bags are completely banned. Even though I can't see it now, I know that there's a spectacular Himalayan mountain panorama just through the clouds. Is this not the best place on planet earth? Let's hold Darjeeling up in contrast to what I've firmly decided is the rank left armpit of the world, Delhi. Can two places so far on either end of the spectrum really exist a mere 26-hour train ride and 2.5 hour jeep ride away from each other? It seems they can, and they do. I'm just glad we made it here. At this point, is there something else in India, or Nepal, or Bhutan, to lure me away? I couldn't think of one this morning, so by default we had it: two more nights.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
Darjeeling
"It is better to travel well than to arrive" -Buddah
That may be true, and traveling well is always a good goal, but I feel as though we've arrived. Stanley here. This town is beautiful. It loses none of its charm on the second day. Our accommodations are supurb, the food is cheep and delicious, and the clouds that wrap this mountain town seem to cast a hush over all of it's inhabitants so that you feel like whispering, even on the busy streets. In short, life is good and we'll be staying awhile.
That may be true, and traveling well is always a good goal, but I feel as though we've arrived. Stanley here. This town is beautiful. It loses none of its charm on the second day. Our accommodations are supurb, the food is cheep and delicious, and the clouds that wrap this mountain town seem to cast a hush over all of it's inhabitants so that you feel like whispering, even on the busy streets. In short, life is good and we'll be staying awhile.
India: We're on Strike, and the Chicken Burger is Not Available
Alicia here. After dodging the touts at the rail station, and finally, FINALLY procuring a rail ticket to New Jalpaiguri from Delhi, we this morning disembarked from a stunningly comfortable first class-AC, 26 hour train ride and caught a share jeep up the foothills of the Himalayas to cool, clean, refreshing Darjeeling in the Commie hills of West Bengal. What a relief.
A couple of funny things happened last night on the train. First, there was a huge awesome lightning storm happening for miles over the flatlands out the train window. It lit up the sky somethin' fierce in the middle of the night. I sat up to watch streaks of jagged electricity strobing between clouds and clouds and between clouds and ground. I asked Dan what would happen if the train was struck by lightning, and he said nothing would because the train is grounded, so that set my mind at ease. But, then he said he was just kidding and not to touch the metal frame around the window, so after that I didn't know what to think. The second interesting thing that happened was that I was woken up by a lot of shouting and banging out in the hallway. (In a first class train car, you have 5 "coupes" or "rooms" housing travellers, and a hallway running the length of them). I figured the people next door were just rowdy, as well as rude, and eventually fell back to sleep with the vague perception that the train was stopping. The next day, Dan told me that they threw somebody off the train. In the middle of the night during a bathroom run, he told me there was some guy and a kid with all their luggage next to the train car door talking to some authority figure, and none of them looked too happy. Que misterioso, no? I do wonder what offense could be committed in the middle of the night to have you thrown off the train. None of our attendants or caterers spoke a lick of English, so I couldn't glean much about anything from them.
Before getting on the train, we spent about 22 hours on a bus tour of important sites in and around Agra, including the Taj. I'm not usually impressed by important sites, and particularly large or fancy buildings, but this one really lived up to all the hype. Exceeded it, even. I was amazed to find that truthfully, there are some things that the best photography can't capture - and the sheer size and scale of the Taj Mahal, the intricacy of every tile on that massive structure, the symmetry, the hollow ghostly singsong sound of the inner mausoleum winds, its position reigning over the bend of a still and glassy river - is one of those things.
We spent most of our time chatting up an American kid from Duke who had been conducting malaria research in Orissa for 2.5 months and an older New Yorker who couldn't help but reveal his inner-communist after coming face to face with the millions of destitute and poverty-stricken in this country. I hope I still have things to learn when I'm that old. Lord knows I seem to know less every day. After our long discussion about economics, wealth, fairness, poverty, the human condition, etc etc, our day today consisted of checking into an absolutely fabulous hotel and splurging on the really sweet room for an extra $7 a night. What does it all mean?!
A couple of funny things happened last night on the train. First, there was a huge awesome lightning storm happening for miles over the flatlands out the train window. It lit up the sky somethin' fierce in the middle of the night. I sat up to watch streaks of jagged electricity strobing between clouds and clouds and between clouds and ground. I asked Dan what would happen if the train was struck by lightning, and he said nothing would because the train is grounded, so that set my mind at ease. But, then he said he was just kidding and not to touch the metal frame around the window, so after that I didn't know what to think. The second interesting thing that happened was that I was woken up by a lot of shouting and banging out in the hallway. (In a first class train car, you have 5 "coupes" or "rooms" housing travellers, and a hallway running the length of them). I figured the people next door were just rowdy, as well as rude, and eventually fell back to sleep with the vague perception that the train was stopping. The next day, Dan told me that they threw somebody off the train. In the middle of the night during a bathroom run, he told me there was some guy and a kid with all their luggage next to the train car door talking to some authority figure, and none of them looked too happy. Que misterioso, no? I do wonder what offense could be committed in the middle of the night to have you thrown off the train. None of our attendants or caterers spoke a lick of English, so I couldn't glean much about anything from them.
Before getting on the train, we spent about 22 hours on a bus tour of important sites in and around Agra, including the Taj. I'm not usually impressed by important sites, and particularly large or fancy buildings, but this one really lived up to all the hype. Exceeded it, even. I was amazed to find that truthfully, there are some things that the best photography can't capture - and the sheer size and scale of the Taj Mahal, the intricacy of every tile on that massive structure, the symmetry, the hollow ghostly singsong sound of the inner mausoleum winds, its position reigning over the bend of a still and glassy river - is one of those things.
We spent most of our time chatting up an American kid from Duke who had been conducting malaria research in Orissa for 2.5 months and an older New Yorker who couldn't help but reveal his inner-communist after coming face to face with the millions of destitute and poverty-stricken in this country. I hope I still have things to learn when I'm that old. Lord knows I seem to know less every day. After our long discussion about economics, wealth, fairness, poverty, the human condition, etc etc, our day today consisted of checking into an absolutely fabulous hotel and splurging on the really sweet room for an extra $7 a night. What does it all mean?!
The Taj Mahal and Other Wonders.
"Someone should do something about all the poverty. They need to somehow redistribute the wealth or something." - Al (A wealthy Republican businessman we met on the bus to the Taj. Cool enough guy all in all.)
Stanley here.
I was stunned by the above statement. I tried to explain to Al that a) this is easier said then done, and b) that this sentiment is exactly the type of thing that the Communist Party of India might have on their business cards. He seemed confused. Al is an MD, a businessman, and apparently a millionaire, i.e. I don't think he's a complete idiot. He's here on business and he just figured he'd stop at the Taj Mahal on his way out of town. I still don't know what to make of this exchange. SOMEONE SHOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT ALL THE POVERTY! Stated like the man came up with the idea, and now it just needs to be implemented. Then there was a list of social programs and the statement "These people are destitute and it's not even their fault!" It made me want to kill him or hug him. And yet, good for him right? To realize that? And what have I done for anyone lately?
The Taj Mahal was by far the most breathtaking building I've ever seen. We're in Darjeeling now and it's a wonderful place to be. Mellow, misty, and not a jacker in sight.
Stanley here.
I was stunned by the above statement. I tried to explain to Al that a) this is easier said then done, and b) that this sentiment is exactly the type of thing that the Communist Party of India might have on their business cards. He seemed confused. Al is an MD, a businessman, and apparently a millionaire, i.e. I don't think he's a complete idiot. He's here on business and he just figured he'd stop at the Taj Mahal on his way out of town. I still don't know what to make of this exchange. SOMEONE SHOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT ALL THE POVERTY! Stated like the man came up with the idea, and now it just needs to be implemented. Then there was a list of social programs and the statement "These people are destitute and it's not even their fault!" It made me want to kill him or hug him. And yet, good for him right? To realize that? And what have I done for anyone lately?
The Taj Mahal was by far the most breathtaking building I've ever seen. We're in Darjeeling now and it's a wonderful place to be. Mellow, misty, and not a jacker in sight.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Hustle and Flow
"The Game is out there. It's either play or get played." -Omar (The Wire)
All right, so we got played a little today. Did I say Mumbai was full of hustlers? I lied. Welcome to New Jack Delhi. Where every swinging joe in the street will offer you unsolicited advice and a taxi ride but seldom help you to your destination. I'm glad I read The Trial if for no other reason than because I am now able to describe the "Delhi Experience" as Kafkaesque.
You are met at the train station by a man. He says he has a cab. You need a cab. You follow him. He says you have to go to his booking counter to prepay. You know there are prepaid cabs so you follow him, but in the back of your mind you wait for it: Lonely Planet told you about this. He's on commission trying to steer you to book your hotel through his agency. As soon as you're through the door you see it's true and tell him to get lost. You race out the door past his objections and find an autorickshaw who takes you to three different hotels before the one you told him, insisting no matter how often you interrupt him that these are better. You take a ride to the gigantic, beautiful mosque, but everyone wants to stand next to you. Have a few words. Give a little sage advice. And of course, steer you into a minor scam, relieve you of a few rupees.
After dinner you decide to book your train ticket. This is apparently almost impossible if you don't know exactly where the booking office is. You get in a cab. "Train Station" You tell him. You haggle on price. He asks if you need the booking office. "Yes." You tell him. He takes you to a travel agency explaining that this is the only place in town approved by the government to sell you advanced tickets. But you know this scam as well. So as he shouts his objections you walk in the direction you know the train station to be. On the way there, no less than FIFTEEN different individuals, with varying degree of subtlety and cunning directs you to various other dead ends and travel agencies. Sometimes someone will approach you and someone else will come "Save You", telling you to beware of shady characters and then direct you to his favorite travel agency which he swears is the only place to book a ticket. A man follows you across the parking lot explaining where you need to go. "Why are you following me?" You ask him. And he stops. Finally you find your way back to the train station (from which you have already been lead away once) and you manage to fight your way past various tricksters who jump in your path shouting "It's not that way! It's over here!" and you've found it: The Promised Land. The Foreign Tourist Ticket Counter. After a wasted afternoon you book your ticket out of this funhouse.
We'll hit the Taj Mahal tomorrow with a tourist group along with various other sights. Looking forward to someone else directing my travels for a day.
All right, so we got played a little today. Did I say Mumbai was full of hustlers? I lied. Welcome to New Jack Delhi. Where every swinging joe in the street will offer you unsolicited advice and a taxi ride but seldom help you to your destination. I'm glad I read The Trial if for no other reason than because I am now able to describe the "Delhi Experience" as Kafkaesque.
You are met at the train station by a man. He says he has a cab. You need a cab. You follow him. He says you have to go to his booking counter to prepay. You know there are prepaid cabs so you follow him, but in the back of your mind you wait for it: Lonely Planet told you about this. He's on commission trying to steer you to book your hotel through his agency. As soon as you're through the door you see it's true and tell him to get lost. You race out the door past his objections and find an autorickshaw who takes you to three different hotels before the one you told him, insisting no matter how often you interrupt him that these are better. You take a ride to the gigantic, beautiful mosque, but everyone wants to stand next to you. Have a few words. Give a little sage advice. And of course, steer you into a minor scam, relieve you of a few rupees.
After dinner you decide to book your train ticket. This is apparently almost impossible if you don't know exactly where the booking office is. You get in a cab. "Train Station" You tell him. You haggle on price. He asks if you need the booking office. "Yes." You tell him. He takes you to a travel agency explaining that this is the only place in town approved by the government to sell you advanced tickets. But you know this scam as well. So as he shouts his objections you walk in the direction you know the train station to be. On the way there, no less than FIFTEEN different individuals, with varying degree of subtlety and cunning directs you to various other dead ends and travel agencies. Sometimes someone will approach you and someone else will come "Save You", telling you to beware of shady characters and then direct you to his favorite travel agency which he swears is the only place to book a ticket. A man follows you across the parking lot explaining where you need to go. "Why are you following me?" You ask him. And he stops. Finally you find your way back to the train station (from which you have already been lead away once) and you manage to fight your way past various tricksters who jump in your path shouting "It's not that way! It's over here!" and you've found it: The Promised Land. The Foreign Tourist Ticket Counter. After a wasted afternoon you book your ticket out of this funhouse.
We'll hit the Taj Mahal tomorrow with a tourist group along with various other sights. Looking forward to someone else directing my travels for a day.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Alicia here. Turns out the Buddhist Cave Art was more centered around Hindu mythology; the main cave being dedicated to Shiva with lots of cool wall relief panels. And even better, there were bats in the cave. (Cool, but slightly stinky.) The caves were at first home to travelling Buddhist monks, but later were applied in new and different ways. I was surprised to learn that these caves were entirely carved out of the rock - as in, there weren't any caves there before the people arrived. Wild! What a lot of work. Carving a cave without using modern tunneling equipment seems like an extremely laborious endeavor.
Our boat to the island broke down or something in the middle of the harbor, and as we stood dead in the water sloshing around like a bath toy, I wondered whether I would be able to swim to the nearest tanker. Just as we were about to drift right into the side of some kind of giant ship (perhaps an oil tanker)? They started the engine back up and it was back on course. Very exciting.
Today it's R&R in Mumbai - the train leaves for Delhi at 4:00, and this time we're riding in style - A/C car.
Our boat to the island broke down or something in the middle of the harbor, and as we stood dead in the water sloshing around like a bath toy, I wondered whether I would be able to swim to the nearest tanker. Just as we were about to drift right into the side of some kind of giant ship (perhaps an oil tanker)? They started the engine back up and it was back on course. Very exciting.
Today it's R&R in Mumbai - the train leaves for Delhi at 4:00, and this time we're riding in style - A/C car.
S.I.R.- Mumbai
Stanley here. Just a quick commentary on life in Mumbai. We've managed to find nice expensive cocktails twice and a guest house with a working bathroom once, and bars filled with expats and backpackers many times since arriving at this teeming jungle 2 nights ago. We've visited a contemporary art gallery, took a ferry across the harbor to some Buddhist/Hindu caves with beautiful ancient statues, and lounged in various bars and eateries.
One thing I've noticed: The further we go north, the more I distrust and avoid my fellow man. Perhaps this will change as we leave the tourist hubs behind. In Kerala, where backpackers and western tourists are rare, were constantly approached by people on the road. "Hello! What Country you from?! Can I take a photo with you!?" It was always out of genuine fascination and interest. People were just blown away that there were American tourists in their towns. In Goa we were less frequently approached: junk jewelry sellers on the beach and a time share salesman on the road. In Mumbai it's constant: "Hello my friend! Where are you from!? Taxi? Giant Rice Paper Balloon? Guided Tour? Hashish? Drum? Pashmina?" When someone approaches you in this town you don't smile and politely answer getting to know you type questions. You stare straight ahead and tell them to get the hell on with their business and find some other sucker. It's quite a transition. The world truly is a rich freaking tapestry isn't it?
One thing I've noticed: The further we go north, the more I distrust and avoid my fellow man. Perhaps this will change as we leave the tourist hubs behind. In Kerala, where backpackers and western tourists are rare, were constantly approached by people on the road. "Hello! What Country you from?! Can I take a photo with you!?" It was always out of genuine fascination and interest. People were just blown away that there were American tourists in their towns. In Goa we were less frequently approached: junk jewelry sellers on the beach and a time share salesman on the road. In Mumbai it's constant: "Hello my friend! Where are you from!? Taxi? Giant Rice Paper Balloon? Guided Tour? Hashish? Drum? Pashmina?" When someone approaches you in this town you don't smile and politely answer getting to know you type questions. You stare straight ahead and tell them to get the hell on with their business and find some other sucker. It's quite a transition. The world truly is a rich freaking tapestry isn't it?
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Quick update
Alicia here. Things have gotten steadily more dodgy the closer we've gotten to Mumbai. Now in Mumbai, and really fully learning just exactly how clean our bathrooms back home really are.
Stayed in a guesthouse last night with 5'9" ceilings (yes, one really was required to stoop at all times, like the 7th and a half floor) and discovered good proximity to high quality pub. After spending a full day on the train and depositing our stuff into the shoebox, felt desperately in need of some relief, so predictably visited the most expensive bar in town at the Taj Mahal hotel where we paid 900 rupees per scotch on the rocks and had a nice chat with a grandfatherly old bartender and watched the hustle and bustle of the Gateway to India (port) through the window. After a good night's sleep, burning incense and leaving the TV lights on to ward off cockroaches, we're off for a full day of sightseeing feeling refreshed and optimistic.
Stayed in a guesthouse last night with 5'9" ceilings (yes, one really was required to stoop at all times, like the 7th and a half floor) and discovered good proximity to high quality pub. After spending a full day on the train and depositing our stuff into the shoebox, felt desperately in need of some relief, so predictably visited the most expensive bar in town at the Taj Mahal hotel where we paid 900 rupees per scotch on the rocks and had a nice chat with a grandfatherly old bartender and watched the hustle and bustle of the Gateway to India (port) through the window. After a good night's sleep, burning incense and leaving the TV lights on to ward off cockroaches, we're off for a full day of sightseeing feeling refreshed and optimistic.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
One Night in Panjim
... makes a hard man humble. Or, makes an Alicia reminisce about her days in Latin America. This town looks almost exactly like a town somewhere in say, Guatemala, probably because of the distinct Iberian-peninsula influence that both places share. We've been here a single night and today are shipping out to Mumbai. We went to visit the basilica of Bom Jesus in Old Goa and checked out the tomb of the incorruptible body of St. Francis Xavier. It's a miracle! His body never decayed!
Reading Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek last night really tainted that visit for me. Ordinary things around us everyday are so deeply miraculous, I can't help but feel it is absurd to look for "miracles" anywhere else - be it a piece of toast or a tapestry of roses or an embalmed evangelist. Like Annie says, think about how improbable it is that something as ridiculous and horrific as a praying mantis would ever come to exist; or that while we fall in love over sunrises and mountains, our world is simultaneously spinning at imperceivable speeds and rock is shifting beneath our feet and stars who exploded and died a hundred years ago are still appearing in the sky overhead and quadrillions of ants are quietly recycling the world's organic matter over every square inch.
This kind of contemplation makes it difficult for me not to find the incorruptible body of poor St. Francis a laughable matter. Like a joke, I peer into his tomb and feel like giggling. Of course, this is wrong. I refrain. Just not in the right state of mind, I guess. Any other day I might appreciate meditating on the things that St. Francis believed in and stood for.
The other thing I quickly noticed about the Bom Jesus basilica was an altar whose front clearly depicted Jesus with disciples John and Matthew. My first thought was, "what does it say about the type of Christianity practiced in this church that Luke and Mark are conspicuously absent?" I started coming up with theories about Christ the Spirit vs. Christ the Man and the church's stance on aggressive evangelism. Then I saw them around the edges on the sides. Ah, of course. All in all, I think my reactions to this church describe me as ... too skeptical for Catholicism. In Mumbai we'll visit some ancient Buddhist cave art, see how that goes. :)
Reading Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek last night really tainted that visit for me. Ordinary things around us everyday are so deeply miraculous, I can't help but feel it is absurd to look for "miracles" anywhere else - be it a piece of toast or a tapestry of roses or an embalmed evangelist. Like Annie says, think about how improbable it is that something as ridiculous and horrific as a praying mantis would ever come to exist; or that while we fall in love over sunrises and mountains, our world is simultaneously spinning at imperceivable speeds and rock is shifting beneath our feet and stars who exploded and died a hundred years ago are still appearing in the sky overhead and quadrillions of ants are quietly recycling the world's organic matter over every square inch.
This kind of contemplation makes it difficult for me not to find the incorruptible body of poor St. Francis a laughable matter. Like a joke, I peer into his tomb and feel like giggling. Of course, this is wrong. I refrain. Just not in the right state of mind, I guess. Any other day I might appreciate meditating on the things that St. Francis believed in and stood for.
The other thing I quickly noticed about the Bom Jesus basilica was an altar whose front clearly depicted Jesus with disciples John and Matthew. My first thought was, "what does it say about the type of Christianity practiced in this church that Luke and Mark are conspicuously absent?" I started coming up with theories about Christ the Spirit vs. Christ the Man and the church's stance on aggressive evangelism. Then I saw them around the edges on the sides. Ah, of course. All in all, I think my reactions to this church describe me as ... too skeptical for Catholicism. In Mumbai we'll visit some ancient Buddhist cave art, see how that goes. :)
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Hello Moto
Alicia here. Spent some more time putzing around dirt lanes and winding paths through some Indian jungle on the motorbike today. Yesterday while swimming in the sea, Dan experienced a sharp circular pain about the ankle which he feared might be a jellyfish. Today, about a mile North, we wandered along the beach and saw about 50,000 dead jellyfish washed up along the shore. In retrospect, I think he got off lightly. It looked just like this:
Which, so far as I can tell, is a portuguese man-o-war. But the ones we saw were all pretty small, and man-o-war's are supposed to have an average tentacle length of 3 feet. So I feel like it couldn't have been those. But... maybe they were. Either way, I think we'll stay out of the water for now.
Which, so far as I can tell, is a portuguese man-o-war. But the ones we saw were all pretty small, and man-o-war's are supposed to have an average tentacle length of 3 feet. So I feel like it couldn't have been those. But... maybe they were. Either way, I think we'll stay out of the water for now.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Salin the Martial Arts Master
Alicia here. Dan and I caught the train up here to Goa in second-class sleeper style, which means: open air train car, crowded 6-berth bunks, grotty toilets, and good cheap coffee in paper cups. I had prepared myself for a wholly uncomfortable experience, but, wouldn't you know - it was actually pretty great, compared to flying on an airplane. You can actually stretch out and lay down, which is nice, and the chapatti and curry they come around selling is pretty darn tasty. There's a constant fresh-air breeze from the window which keeps it from getting too hot, and our bunk-mates on this particular journey were not at all inclined to rob or molest me and were much more inclined to make interesting conversation. This guy Salin on the top bunk (I had middle, Dan had lower), noticed the distinct silhouette of Bruce Lee on Dan's tee-shirt and started chatting him up about martial arts. Salin, who also happened to be dashingly handsome and athletic, had apparently been studying Indian martial arts since he was 7, and was now on a mission to go to China and become a Shaolin monk. He kept saying to Dan, "of course I'm sure you know more about it than me", perhaps he mistook Dan for a martial artist as well. But he's a merchant marine and will be sailing around the world, hitting Vancouver and New York, among other places, before taking 6-7 months off for hardcore training before going to audition for the monks in China. I sure hope he makes it.
After arriving in Goa we took advantage of the beach bar and today are recovering mightily by motoring around the area on a rented scooter-bike. Will head up the beach and see what there is to see. Caught a replay of the Nadal-Federer final on the telly yesterday morning - WHAT a MATCH. I'm glad Nadal won; and I still can't understand how Federer looked so put together at the awards ceremony after 5 hours of tennis.
S.I.R.- When in Rome...
Stanley here. So it's always interesting adapting to a new culture, trying to be polite when you're not always sure what polite means. For example: Most people eat with their hands here. But only the right hand. It's a bit tricky at first. Especially curry and rice. And your left hand is always trying to sneak in and help with stuff like tearing naan. Another thing that people do here apparently is throw all their garbage out the window of the moving train. I would have thought that was rude if my co-travelers weren't throwing everything (paper, plastic, aluminum) right out into the night without even bothering to be sneaky about it. Instead of being appalled I joined right in. What else could I do? What would Jesus do?
Another thing people do here that I felt I should experience is get Ayurvedic Massage treatment. I'll let you Google its benefits if you are interested. Basically I just thought it'd be fun. Let me tell you: You truly have to leave your inhibitions at the door.
It works like this. You go in. A strong Indian man tells you to hang your clothes in the corner. You strip naked, at which point the man comes over and girds you with a g-string like contraption. You lie down and the man firmly and repeatedly rubs every square inch of your exposed flesh with special Ayurvedic oil very thoroughly for 45 minutes. You leave feeling relaxed, refreshed and oily, and maybe just a bit weirded out by the intimate time you've shared with the strong Indian man. Hey, when in Rome....
Another thing people do here that I felt I should experience is get Ayurvedic Massage treatment. I'll let you Google its benefits if you are interested. Basically I just thought it'd be fun. Let me tell you: You truly have to leave your inhibitions at the door.
It works like this. You go in. A strong Indian man tells you to hang your clothes in the corner. You strip naked, at which point the man comes over and girds you with a g-string like contraption. You lie down and the man firmly and repeatedly rubs every square inch of your exposed flesh with special Ayurvedic oil very thoroughly for 45 minutes. You leave feeling relaxed, refreshed and oily, and maybe just a bit weirded out by the intimate time you've shared with the strong Indian man. Hey, when in Rome....
Friday, July 4, 2008
S.I.R.- Munnar Chapter
Day something, hour something. After the bus strike fiasco we hired a driver to drive Priya's car the 4 hours of winding bumpy roads to our accommodations (call me a sissy but I'm not into driving here and the driver costs $6 per day). Rolled into the "hill-station" (town on a hill, I guess...) of Munnar at night in the driving rain and wind. Finally realized what they mean by "rainy season." Ordered room service and hit the hay. Woke up the next day to fabulous weather, sun and scattered clouds. Spent 3 relaxing and breathtakingly gorgeous days cruising around the stunning mountain roads overlooking miles and miles of tea plantations that blanket every slope. We hit a few parks and animal sanctuaries, saw some monkeys and elephants and rare mountain goats, took a couple of pictures, but I'm telling you, the best part was staring at those hills all day. No way to describe them and pictures do them little justice.
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