Monday, November 30, 2009

Today my shoes were stolen, but I also danced on the Pakistani border. So it's a draw.

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So last night was maybe not as nice as the romantic vision of train travel that I had in my head.  Cold and fairly uncomfortable, I also woke up every half hour to make sure my bags were still there (they were fine, by the way, the train was completely safe).  Starting at about 5am the chai-wallahs came by 2-3 times an hour calling “Chai, chai, masala chai, chai, garam chai, chai, chai.”  After the bathroom pics I posted earlier, though, I think I’ll give my digestive system more time to get used to the food here before I brave the train chai.

Leaning out the train door into the freezing cold wind, I can’t see much at 6:30.  I return an hour later when there’s a hazy smudge of a sunrise and see scrubland and more buildings in desperate need of repairs.  There are people huddled over fires outside the tents they live in along the tracks and their glow is the only light for miles.  I imagine this part of the country gets little to no electricity outside of what’s supplied by generators.

I know about what time we should arrive and that Amritsar is the last station, but I have no idea how I’m supposed to know when we’ve actually made it.  There have been no announcements for the other stops and now I’m getting worried for my next train ride.  How do you know when to get off?  I pack my bags around 8:15 and luckily it turns out the next station is mine.  Phew.  At the station I store my bag for the day in the cloakroom and hop on the free bus to the Old City.  A nice woman holds my backpack since I’m standing in the aisle and I smile and wave at her small children who convulse into giggles and hug their teenage sister.  The kids are adorable here with their big eyes and chocolate skin (at least until they get old enough to learn English and start trying to sell you things).  We arrive outside the temple and I decide to walk around a bit to get oriented.  There’s a lovely, wide brick sidewalk that circles the temple complex and it takes me past some of the nicest homes I’ve seen yet.  It’s tranquil here—I’m enjoying the Amritsari calm, already.




Now for the Gold Temple, my main reason for coming to Amritsar, other than my love of the movie “Bride and Prejudice”.  I set my shoes with some others at the side of the entry gate, cover my head and enter near the kitchen.  I’m starving, and one whiff of what they’re cooking gets me to head in for breakfast.  I’m given a tin plate, bowl and spoon (which I hastily clean with an antibacterial wipe) then told to sit on the floor in a long line of people.  Men with large tin buckets ladle out heaps of food, of which you can have as much as you want: vegetable curries, dahl (lentils), vegetables (raw, so be careful) and warm chipati (flat bread).  It’s delicious, spicy and free.  They run the kitchen, housing and temple 24/7/365 purely on donations and anyone can come and make use of it.  They’ve done this here for hundreds of years; it’s awe-inspiring.




The temple itself is surrounded by a moat of clear, sparkling holy water that many (men) come to bathe in.  The young boys with their starter-braids in tiny turbans and cartoon undies are adorable as they dip their toes in and shiver.  The first thing you notice is the craftsmanship.  The inlay in the white marble is exquisite and colorful and everywhere, even the floor of the kitchen.  The gold plate of the temple doesn’t have any smooth areas; it’s all engraved with script and pictures of people, birds, flowers and big cats chasing deer.



I meet a retired Air Force air-evac nurse and we stroll into the temple with a large crowd.  On the main level there’s an area to give offerings in the middle.  Two men sing into microphones and are broadcast throughout the complex.  Others sit nearby waving their white hair batons (whips?), folding and unfolding fabrics of many colors.  People sit where they can and sing along from a devotional book; I join the line of those going upstairs.  The middle is open to see to the level below, but along one wall is where the excitement is: the head priest is reading a book about 3’ by 2’, weighing probably 50 pounds.  It’s THE BOOK: the original Sikh gospel that is 400+ years old.  At night they literally put it to bed in a gold case in a neighboring building.  I get about 5 seconds to appreciate it before I’m pushed out.  No, I’m not kidding.  It may be a temple, but they will bowl you over if you aren’t fast enough.  It’s like they have road rage all the time. 


Let’s pause and consider Singaporeans and Indians: who is more difficult to be around?  Singaporeans zig and zag in front of you like they’re drunk and frequently stop in front of you for no reason.  But they know how to queue and darned if they don’t respect the line.  Indians don’t give a hoot.  One, two, twenty people ahead of you?  Guess that’s their fault for not pushing to the front themselves.  Trying to get off the bus from the back seat?  Just push; if nothing else everyone else will at least fall out and you’ll be set.  Like that American girl’s camera?  She won’t mind if you pull on it and play with the buttons, that’s probably why she brought it.  VERY FRUSTRATING.

Moving back towards the main gate, I'm asked to be in another photo (I'm an Indian celeb) then when I ask to take a photo of a nearby family (who just looked so beautiful and colorful) they make me sit in the middle of them! I look like such a shlub next to them, but they're great and ask me tons of questions. I move out to see about accommodations in the temple's dorms when I notice it: my shoes kinda aren't where I left them. My decrepit, ages-old, handed-down-from-my-mom Merrell hiking boots are gone. They even took my dirty socks! It's kinda my own fault for being too lazy to walk around to the shoe-check area to get a token for them, but it's still disappointing. When I ask the shoe-minder (ha, I like to call him the shoe-wallah) what to do, it seems like he only understands about every other word because he gives me somebody else's ragged, left-behind sneakers. Awesome.

So I scrap my plans for the afternoon and decide to just get settled. Since I'm not going to Pakistan anymore, I've got plenty of time to just sit back for a while, anyway. I go to the bazaar around the corner in my too-big and too-old Pumas and buy some cute, new Indian-style sandals for Rs165 (yeah, that's like $4.50). I hop on the free bus again (sitting on the dashboard because, well, there was space there and that's how they do things here) and get my bag from the train station. I head straight back to the temple complex to see about getting a bed in their dorm for foreign backpackers (for which you pay by giving a donation).

And this is when I get my next round of good news: the only way they can fit me in is if I share with someone, and guess who's willing? Three cute guys from South Africa. *sigh* I know, it was a sacrifice, but I'll deal with it, somehow. I have to drop my things off quickly, though, because the shared Jeep to the Indian/Pakistani border leaves at 2:30.  The ceremony doesn't start until 4:00, but it's a good hour drive and there will be plenty of traffic, as well (I promise to talk more about this later, but Indian roads are so traumatizing I shake whenever I even think about it). We cram 9 people into a 7 passenger van (the driver shifts between my legs, which isn't awkward AT ALL) and make tracks for Pakistan. I end up sitting next to David, a funny American who is headed home after this. Turns out he's interested in conservation as well, and is interested in finding a non-profit that connects this to education. Needless to say, we have tons to talk about and the next time I'm in Seattle it would be great to meet up with him again.

And then we come to what has to be one of coolest things I will ever experience: the border closing ceremony between Pakistan and India. It's basically a global-scale pep assembly, with each country's citizens in bleachers on their respective side of the border cheering like mad for their own security force. The guards are dressed to the nines, Indians wearing brown uniforms with white dress shoes and majestic red headpieces, Pakistanis wearing black uniforms with red highlights. There's a lot of high-stepping, posturing and attempts at one-upmanship. It's like an African-American step competition but with more guns (or not, guess it depends on the neighborhood).

Before it starts, though, they start playing pop music and a mob of teenagers runs down to the street to dance. They look like they're having an absolute blast and I half-jokingly, half-seriously tell David that we should go down there. He laughs it off, but about two minutes later I hand him my camera and head down to join the kids. And that's how I end up dancing with a dozen teenagers in front of hundreds of Indians on the Pakistani border (no shots were fired, so I couldn't have been that bad at it). The crowd loved it! They started clapping to the music and laughing and cheering....needless to say it's going to be hard to top that as far as cool experiences go.





Now for the actual ceremony.  Here's the gist of it: one leader on each side of the border calls out a note for as long as they can and the one who goes longest is the "winner". You do this a couple times then you send a guard out to high-step down the street as fast as he can to the gate to do a couple high-kicks and posture to the guards on the other side. They respond in kind. Then you send the occasional guard or two down and do it all again a few times (interspersed with mad cheers from the crowd, of course). Then they open the gate to take down each country's flag at the same time so that every night it's a big tie. Hundreds come out for this every night, and it's one of the coolest shows of international camaraderie I've ever seen.





After we go back to the temple complex, the South African guys and I walk around to see it at night. A huge crush of men carry out The Book on a golden "bed" decorated with garlands of flowers. They push and heave and rotate so that they all get a chance to help carry it down the aisle to its night-time home in another building. It's one last little dose of craziness before I bed down and get my best night's sleep, yet. Yes, Amritsar has been worth losing a pair of shoes over.



Sunday, November 29, 2009

Goodbye and good riddance to dirty Delhi

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Even though it was nice to have my own room (and a TV!), I slept fairly fitfully thanks to the cold.  I wake up swaddled in my blanket with my hood and scarf on, curled up into a ball, still shivering.  I go to the rooftop “lounge” for breakfast, my first real meal in India.  I’m served a mango and alphonso (??) juice box (trustworthy, I’m assuming), fried egg on toast, cuppa coffee and corn flakes with milk.  I down the egg sandwich in about 5 seconds and the juice is refreshing, but I’m a little worried about the milk.  It smells fine, but when I put it on my cereal it seems to wash some dust off of the flakes and get specks of black in it.  Well, the flakes are clean now, I guess, so I eat the dry ones on top as best I can and leave the rest.  I’m sure I’m making way too big of a deal about the food here, but I want to start slow so I can build up to full-on curries and street food without getting stomach flu.

In my room I can hear the same chaos I fell asleep to last night.  Muslim men singing on the street, children laughing and yelling, the occasional animal sound, touk-touks honking, people hacking up gobs of phlegm and spitting and the occasional loud explosion (extremely large firecrackers, I tell myself).  I’ve decided to give the young boy some bakshish because he’s very friendly (haha, he made sure to bring me extra toilet paper last night because “you nice lady, you get more”) and today this weird Russian guy was yelling at him because he didn’t understand the word pen.  And he sings while he works, a pretty and simple song that’s nice to listen to.  Yes, I like him very much.

No bones about it, out of all the places I’ve been on Earth, Delhi is the hardest place to simply be.  I don’t think I would ever return after this trip if given the chance.  The hardest things to cope with are how dirty and crowded it is as well as how hyper-aware I had to be of any chance to be ripped off, robbed, taken advantage of, and/or scammed.  It was depressing to not be able to trust anybody.  And while I’m hopeful the other cities will be cleaner and/or easier to get around in, I guess it’s going to take a lot for me to trust anybody in India.  It’s too bad.

Well, I didn’t check out until 12:30 because I was updating my blog and doing other digital chores online.  Smyle Inn really is a cool establishment; it’s a great deal and they’re nice enough to store my bag until it’s time for me to go to the train station.  I walk down to Connaught Place to see the park, only to find that they won’t let me in with a camera, even if it’s in my bag.  So I notice an underground bazaar across the street, realize I still need to buy a couple of things, go in and come out with an adapter (woo hoo!  Got him to lower the price by 1/3!). 

The bazaar solidifies an opinion I’ve been forming about the people here: they’re curious, to say the least.  Stares, photos and videos (of me) and abrupt conversations are constant!  Children want to “shake aunty’s hand”, teens want to know “What country, ma’am?”, adults fearful for me ask “You don’t travel single, good lady?” (now how I address my relationship status is a whole other post to itself) and salesman enquire “Where you going?  What you buying?”.  It’s absolutely impossible to tell if the person is genuinely curious and friendly or if they want to sell me something.  Either way, they’ll follow me and go out of their way to keep talking; every conversation I’ve had I’ve waited for the sales pitch to come.  A friend here said, “What tires you out is constantly being on your guard; not just against theft but scams and tricks.”  You start to look for other travelers that can empathize with you and make you feel normal again.

I decide to take the Metro into New Delhi and it’s lovely!  Clean, well-controlled (there are actual queues!) and fairly quiet.  The train is a miniature version of the ones I’ll ride cross-country, but is probably a smoother ride.  It lets me out at Central Secretariat, the government district, where I go on one of the most peaceful walks I’ve had yet; I’ve heard Sundays were quiet like this and I’m really grateful.  Circling Parliament, the Secretariats and the President’s Estate brings a nice change of scenery: clean, classical, quiet and calm prevail on the broad streets and lawns.  The pollution doesn’t let up, though, unfortunately.





Afterwards I decide to go to the farthest destination on my list for the day, Humayun’s Tomb, back in Nizamuddin.  I flag a touk-touk, ask him to take me via the India Gate so I can take a photo.  We set off.  Five seconds later he starts selling me a package tour deal: India Gate, Humayun’s Tomb, Safdarjang’s Tomb, something else, Sikh temple and home for Rs600 (pretty ridiculous, actually).  I’m not even remotely interested, so I say no, thank you.  He takes that as a sign to negotiate and offers 500 because “it’s my birthday and today I’m very happy”.  “No, thank you.” “Okay, for pretty lady 400 because I am happy today.” “No.  I have only have a couple hundred for the whole day.” “Okay, well for 300 we go and you go in one store.” “No.” “(sigh) Okay, for 200…” “I keep saying no no no and he keeps saying “Is very good price, we go there, yes?”  GAAHHH!  I fight the urge to tuck and roll out of the rickshaw and demand to go only to my two places.  He’s pissed and pouting like a 5 year-old and I couldn’t care less.

I’m pleased to find that the most beautiful thing in Delhi could very well be Humayun’s Tomb.  You don’t expect the majesty of what you’re going to see until you’re basically underneath it, and I literally gasped when I walked through the gate.  A couple Indians around me smiled knowingly when they heard that.  I’ll let the pictures do the talking here, because I could never do it justice.  Simply gorgeous AND you can climb the buildings!  Love it.






Moving on to my final stop, I arrive for Rs40 through the “see one store deal” (I’m running low on cash for this portion of the trip).  We arrive at the Sikh temple at sunset, but even the romantic soft light can’t help me appreciate it that much.  It’s underwhelming compared to what the guidebook says.  I only take one photo, and that’s saying something.

After I collect my bag and walk towards the main road, Delhi decides to make one last grand statement about its unpredictability and craziness.  I’m ushered out onto the main road by a crowd of people dancing in the street while a truck blares music.  Traffic is totally congested, but by now this doesn’t even phase me.  I rudely, but in a very Indian way, manage to push my way through the traffic and snag a deal on a touk-touk.  I’m at the station with plenty of time to spare and head straight up the stairs without anyone saying a word to me.  The big problems with trains are the scammers telling you that you need a certain stamp/signature and please pay 100 rupees for it; another is to tell you that your train is canceled please buy a ticket on the next one, etc. 

I get through as easily as you please, though, and when I stop to ask a policeman where to buy a chain and lock for my bag I meet my new friend, Mr. Singh (the 5th one I’ve met here, incidentally).  He’s a cool guy: been a cop for 30 years and still likes it, has traveled India but nowhere else, has 2 daughters (“already married with children, so I am happy man”) and a son, etc.  His life is good.  I learn all of this after he goes and buys my items for me as well as a chai so we can “take tea together”.  We chat for nearly forty minutes, and whenever he can’t understand me he both shakes and nods his head at the same time (tilt your head right then slide over to tilt to the left, repeat 3-4 times).  He’s a good guy who laughs a lot and is very good to me, until we get to the inevitable question about my relationship status.

“You not single lady, are you?  India not safe for single lady to travel alone.”  Oh boy.  I reassure him the way I’ve reassured a dozen other people today by saying that I’m married and will be meeting my husband in Amritsar.  Then the inevitable second question: “And you are with child?”  He means to ask if I have kids, not if I’m pregnant, and I say what all Indians seem to like to hear: “No, but I hope soon.”  Oh dear god.  After he helps me board the train he says he owes me many thanks for being such a nice, pretty lady and making him so happy.  THEN the bombshell: “I give you my number.  You take tea with me before you fly home” I WANT TO MEET YOUR HUSBAND.”  Oh dear god.  So we’ll see how this goes in December, won't we?

I get in my upper berth (not a bad accommodation, actually), eat my lukewarm veg meal and fall asleep to the gentle rocking of the train and the gentle snoring of the man below me.  India is exhausting.


Saturday, November 28, 2009

Getting worse before it gets better

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Well, I learned my lesson yesterday.  I’m sticking around for breakfast this morning and taking my sweet time getting out the door.  The Australian boys are moving to a new place, too, so Jenny and I are taking a touk-touk with the 2 Norwegian girls who just arrived (and who will be visiting me in Singapore, funnily enough) to Connaught Place to meet them for lunch.  After that we’ll part company, as we have different agendas.  Jenny’s auto-rickshaw driver, who she calls whenever she needs a ride, is a tiny guy (maybe 5’2”?) with poor English but a big heart.  He lets all 4 of us pile in with my bags and takes us clear across Delhi, stopping to get Jenny matches at one point, too.  The poor guy has to ask for directions about 10 times trying to find my hotel, but he gets us there after “only” 1.5 hours. 





I like my new place immediately.  Smyle Inn is spartan, but clean, and the man at the desk seems nice.  He’s got a 12 year-old boy helping him who is absolutely adorable, quiet but with a nice smile.  My room is clean and has a sit-down Western-style toilet and a TV, and yes, they are “conveniently facing each other”, as Jenny put it.  By this point it was going on 1, so I decide to split up from my friends and start checking out the sights I want to see.  I flag down another auto-rickshaw and ask to go to Raj Ghat.  That was when my adventure with Idnar and Kumar began.

Kumar, my new driver, is a very nice man who wants to talk to me a lot and likes to show off his knowledge of greetings in other languages (Japanese, French, Spanish).  He speaks so quickly, though, and is oddly insistent that I let him show me several areas in New Delhi before we go to Raj Ghat.  I thought I had quite clearly told him no thank you, but then we pull up to Lakshmi Narayan Temple (which, fortunately for him, was on my to-see list).  He says he’ll with the touk-touk outside and when I’m done we’ll go to Old Delhi.  At the end I’ll pay him what I think is right for his services, maybe around Rs150.

This is one thing I have to thank Kumar for: this is my favorite place in India so far.  It’s a beautiful maroon, yellow and white building with mysterious staircases leading up and down to different rooms and courtyards.  It feels so good to walk around barefoot on the cool white marble and it’s such a peaceful place that I almost forget I’m in dirty Delhi.  A man saw my hesitancy to approach the idols, so he introduced me to the neon-clothed Krishna, Rama, Humayun and others.  There are swastikas all over, which a sign said were "traditional Aryan symbols implying prayers for success, accomplishment and perfection in every walk of life under the guidance of the Almighty".  Honestly, it's nice to see a symbol associated with such violence and terror being shown in a wholly new and positive context, which is a good thing since I'm sure I'll see these all over the place.





After that I rather forcefully tell Kumar that we go to Raj Ghat in Old Delhi next, not somewhere else in New Delhi, or I find another touk-touk.  He immediately agrees, but this will be a constant battle for the rest of the ride.  Upon arriving I find a wide-open expanse of lush green lawns that are well-maintained.  Respect for Gandhi, at least, keeps this part of Delhi clean.  His tomb is a simple slab of black granite with the Hindi words for “Oh, God” (his final words) inscribed on it.  It’s simple and beautiful, although I think Gandhi would say even this is too much for him.




On the way from Raj Ghat to Jama Masjid I lost my heart to an Indian boy.  He must have been 8 or so and he was carrying his infant sibling swaddled in dirty rags (part of me chillingly thought that the baby could be dead—it never moved).  He didn’t say a word, just walked up and held out his hand.  He looked so tired.  All I could think was that he was probably never going to escape this lifestyle and that he would be walking up to cars or standing in an alley begging for money for another 50 years.  Jesus, I’m crying just remembering it.  I hadn’t given any other money to beggars, but the way this boy looked at me, like an automaton that had moved beyond all feeling and was responding simply to sheer need…it was like he didn’t have a soul.  He took the 5 rupees I gave him without a sound and moved on to the next car.  Idnar and Kumar didn’t seem to notice him.

Another blow, right after that, is the fact that I won’t be able to see the 25,000 capacity Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque.  The one thing in Delhi I most wanted to see is a crush of people due to the “Muslim Day of Happiness” festival (Kumar’s words).  He says that as a westerner and a woman it isn’t safe for me to go in, as it is unbelievably crowded and if something happens the police can’t help because they’re Muslim and celebrating, too.  I take a few smoggy photos of the outside, nearly get lost a mere 25m in from the street and make up my mind to come back and see it before I get on the plane to go home.  Kumar quickly ushers me back to the touk-touk and this time I’m not complaining.  Also disappointing, the neighboring Jain temple is closed, but again, maybe next time.






At this point, Idnar drove me to a shop he wanted me to see, the Silk Palace.  Let me explain.  They claimed that if they bring tourists to these government-run tourist stores then they receive coupons that they can use towards free school supplies and other things for their children.  Obviously there’s a hard sell going on in there and they REALLY don’t want you to walk out empty-handed (they would follow me out sometimes), but I figured since my drivers agreed to take me around for 3 hours for just Rs130 if I went in I could handle it.  I knew I wasn’t going to buy and told them so, but they said it was fine just go in for ten minutes.  It bothered me that they kept saying one more, yes, after this?  Especially when at the end of the day they didn’t want to take me to Lal Qila because it was “closing now “(despite me knowing it was open another 2 hours).  Several times during the day I flat-out yelled at them and threatened to jump out of the touk-touk if we didn’t go where I wanted to go.  It’s an interesting game, designed to overwhelm tourists, separate them from their money and get them to require the driver’s services the next day, as well, and I hope I disappointed them by not playing it. 

To Lal Qila, the Red Fort, at last!  It’s a World Heritage Site, although after going through it I wasn't overly impress (I’m also kicking myself for forgetting to collect my Rs50 change from the ticket counter before walking away.  Lammmme…).  Inside is a fairly respectable war museum, an exhibit of “Blood Paintings of Teenage Martyrs” (which was only a little creepy) and several mosques and courtyards built in the 1300s.  I only arrive around 4:20 and have to be out by 5 so it’s a rather rushed tour, but on my way out I have some more fun with the kids as they see my camera and scream “Photo, ma’am, photo!”  Only this time they want me to take photos of them, which I am happy to do; they demand payment for it, of course, but fortunately I’m able to shrug them off quite easily and walk briskly out to Chandni Chowk Road.






Something I’ve been thinking about: Indians only pay Rs10 (versus foreigners paying Rs250) at Lal Qila, so I was vastly out-numbered, like every other moment here and the center of a lot of attention.  I want to know why I’m so interesting to Indian people; I can’t believe that white people are a huge novelty because I’ve seen dozens, especially at the tourist sites.  I’m not sure if it was because I alone or because I was female or what, but they would take pictures of me walking around and shoot video and stare and point and laugh and call out to me and it’s just impossible for me to believe they see foreigners that rarely.  It doesn’t bother me, it’s just odd.  I’ve actually been left pretty well alone, thankfully, probably because I walk quickly and constantly look a little pissed off.  I really haven’t had any major problems, yet, and am hoping to keep it that way.

I had completely different expectations (noticing a trend, yet?) for Chandni Chowk, the major market street, from what I actually saw.  Some dim-witted part of me still expected it to be cleaner and more appealing; I mean, come on, the guide book said you had to see it!  Wait, it said that about Nizamuddin, too.  Next time I’m getting the Lonely Planet guide.  Going off the main road for a little while, it felt like I was in some drug-induced nightmarish version of the markets in Aladdin, but this was no cartoon, despite being surrounded by street rats of both the literal and juvenile variety.


I did at least manage to stumble upon a beautiful Sikh temple, complete with sardars in traditional dress with great bushy beards and swords.  Sikhs welcome people of all denominations and provide free food and lodging, services I’ll be relying on in Amritsar.  There was a service going on, so I removed my shoes, walked through the shallow pool to clean my feet, covered my head with my scarf and entered after touching my head to the threshold.  I sat and listened for a while then joined the line that appeared to be leaving.  It turned out to be people going to pay their respects to the main shrine, where a knife sat on a pillow and pictures of martyrs were hung amongst colorful tapestries.  While in line, a man sitting above the shrine swinging a long, white brush over his shoulders gave me a withered pink flower.  Other people were eating them, but I faked it and put it in my pocket.  We walked down the stairs to the shrine, touched our heads to the ground (some actually bounced or rubbed them) and went up the stairs on the other side.  Then it was out the door and down to the pool again where people stopped to drink from the fountain filling it.  Again, I pretended to copy and left.




Found a cycle rickshaw and headed home, but the fun wasn’t over quite yet.  Of course my man got lost and had to ask for directions a couple times, which wasn’t so bad.  What wasn’t okay was my first experience with “Eve teasing”.  This is sexual harassment from Indian men and is typical on crowded buses where they can “accidentally” rub or touch you.  It happened to me while I was riding in the rickshaw, holding my bag on my lap with my hands on it.  One guy walking by suddenly poked me on the arm quite sharply.  Confused, I thought maybe he wanted to be able to tell his friends he’d pissed off a white woman.  What I realized later, though, was that he probably just didn’t aim well and hit my hand instead of my chest because a few minutes later a young teenage boy walked past me and quick as a flash he reached out, grabbed my breast and ran off.  I wasn’t mad, oddly enough.  I felt pity that these men are raised in a society where this is okay and also where the acceptable response is to slap them back.  The lack of education and gender equality here is astounding, and it probably isn’t going to change anytime soon.

At the end of the day I’m impressed by how much I’ve managed to fit into just one afternoon.  Imagine if I’d had an extra 3 hours to see the sights this morning?  Went back to Smyle and had one of the best showers of my life.  Seriously.  Long, hot and just what I needed to wash away the fine layer of black grit on any skin exposed to the elements (it was also about 2 days overdue).  I really don’t think I can over-exaggerate how good this shower felt.  Turned on my TV and fell asleep to the sounds of British football and snacking on a granola bar with peanut butter.  Aaaahhhhh.

Things I was anticipating that haven’t happened yet:
-Getting sick (easy to avoid when you don’t eat the food)
-Getting harassed by touts at the airport
-Having children follow me begging for money and pulling on my clothes
-Massive clouds of mosquitos (only 2 bites so far)
-Power outages