Videos!

I finally figured out how to add videos to this thing.  Turns out it's ridiculously easy, and for the first time ever I had to have a student show me how to do something online.  That officially makes me old; it's all downhill from here.

Anyway, here they are in chronological order and with a short description below.  Enjoy!

New Delhi:

The view from the bus I took across the southern section of the city.  This is what I was referring to when I said the city was in a constant, unidentifiable state of either being rebuilt or falling apart.  Notice the bus doesn't so much stop as slow down to a non-lethal speed to jump at.

Four girls and my giant packed crammed into a touk-touk to go into town from our hostel.  How that thing moved with all of us plus the driver and his friend is beyond me, but it was a bumpin' ride.

And this is how Delhi said goodbye.  I was walking down the road from my hostel to the train station and almost couldn't get through the cows, the people, the band...it was hilarious.

Amritsar:

A quick tour of the Golden Temple, the holiest site for all Sikhs.

All of these videos show different parts of the border closing ceremony between India and Pakistan. I sat on the Indian side (obviously), so you have to look closely to see the Pakistani guards dressed in black. It must be just about the only thing to do for entertainment in this area because there was a huge crowd and they were all natives! A lot of fun, even if I had no idea what the cheers said.

This is back in the Golden Temple.  Every evening they take the copy of the scriptures, a massive book about 3' by 2' that they believe is the several-hundred year-old original version, from its place in the main temple to a secure chamber in another building.  But not to worry, there are priests reading other copies 24 hours a day, so you can get your canonical fix, even at 3am.

Rishikesh:

Swimming in the Ganges, in the winter, close to its glacial source.  Really not disgustingly dirty here (that would come later in Varanasi), just cold!

Bhavesh, my Indian brother, totally wimps out on his chance to swim

Varanasi:

The view from our boat on the Ganges (absolutely disgustingly filthy in this location, bodies and all) of the evening Pooja.  The priests honored their 'Mother' river.

Udaipur:

Another poorly shot video from the handlebars of my motorbike and again not the crazy/dangerous part of the ride, but I don't need anything else distracting me on the roads when it's that busy.

Jodhpur:

A little music to get us in the mood for touring Jodhpur Fort.

Jaisalmer:

An odd scene on the streets of Jaisalmer.  I really don't know exactly what was going on here.

Agra:

Whatever this was rehersal for, it kicked off at about 11pm.  I almost got locked out of my hostel because I stayed out to watch it.

Saying goodbye at 'the teardrop on the cheek of humanity'

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I didn't sleep at all last night.  Actually, I think I might have dozed off for half an hour or so, but I just couldn't bear the idea of losing any time in the last 24 hours I would be spending in this country for who knows how long. So I watched a couple of Bollywood movies that were surprisingly interesting.  The first, 'Jab We Met', was a cute romantic comedy; I'm not sure what the title of the movie after it was, but it was one of those epic song and dance numbers that took the main characters around the world and through endless romantic turmoil and joy.  Classic.  Perfect for trying to stay awake at 4 in the morning.

Six is when I force myself to get up and get ready for my trip to the spot that I intentionally saved for last: the Taj Mahal.  Originally, this was going to be one of the first stops on my trip, but in a small stroke of genius I reversed my entire itinerary and made it my last day.  I definitely appreciate that now, and am glad to be spending my final day in India at its most beautiful landmark.  I'm out the door by 6:15, heading out into the dark and cold, along with several other yawning foreigners all intent on seeing the Taj at sunrise.  I fall into step with a pair of German girls and start up a conversation with them as we walk.  We wait in the fairly short line together and watch an increasingly humorous exchange between a man selling mini, plastic Taj Mahal keychains to a pair of women who have obviously lived in this country most of their lives:

Tout: "Here, you see?  Proper work and good quality.  I give you the best deal: 5 for 50 rupees."
Women: "No, no.  We do not wish to buy."
"Wait, no please, wait.  Six!  Six for 50 rupees.  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6."
"No.  We do not want them."
"Please, good ladies, please see how good these are.  Now, I will do extra nice deal: seven for 50 rupees!  Seven, madams, seven!  See?  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7."
"No.  Please go.  We do not wish to buy."
"Now, now, please.  I give you most definite best deal, nice ladies.  EIGHT!  Eight nice pieces, very like real Taj.  Eight for you, good ladies, eight!  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8."
"No!  Go sell to another!"

It's obvious this would have gone on if it weren't for the fact that the gate is finally opening and the line pushes forward towards the metal detectors and  security checkpoint ahead.  I've heard that they're quite odd about what they allow you in with and what is enough to have you sent back to the ticket counter to check your belongings: definitely no books, including journals and notebooks, no pens, no camera tripods, and, in the case of Emma (girl I met in Varanasi), no scarf.  That's right, she couldn't wear her scarf in despite the cold weather.  Riiiiight.  Well, here goes nothing.  They look in my bag, see my souvenir tickets, spare camera lens, hand sanitizer and mouth wash, passport, money belt, and Lonely Planet guidebook, then I'm patted down and waved on.  And that's it--I'm in without any problems, scarf and all.  This is probably the only time this whole trip that I've expected something to be ten times harder than it actually turned out to be.

You walk into a large, open courtyard with the gigantic inner gate to the Taj on your left and other gates leading back into town straight ahead and on the right.  Even the inner gate is ornately decorated, with dozens of small domes, marble inlay and decorative, cursive script (Hindi?).  I purposely slow down my pace so that I can round the corner to the inner gate with the maximum amount of drama.  The actual door in the wall is quite small, so when you approach it you see only a hint of the Taj; walk through the door and it emerges slowly and majestically.  Oh, my gosh, my stomach is filled with a thousand butterflies as I get my first look!  The four minarets marking the corners of the main structure rise like enormous rooks on a chess board, strategically positioned to protect their late-queen.  I've heard they're tilted ever-so-slightly away from the hall, so that if an earthquake comes through they will fall away from the structure.  Sounds like a good idea to me.

The sun hasn't actually risen, yet, but honestly that's totally fine by me.  There's a thick layer of mist around the whole neighborhood and the soft, greyish-blue light is romantic and practically camouflages the Taj.  I'm immediately struck by the size; yes, I knew it was large, but to see it in person blows my expectations out of the water.  What doesn't surprise me is how immaculately clean the grounds are.  There isn't a single piece of trash anywhere, and not only are the fountains full of water but they're perfectly clear.  Considering how much they make off of foreign visitors (I paid Rs750 to get in, about $20, a small fortune compared to the Rs300 the next most expensive site charged me), I'm sure they can afford to hire a groundskeeper for Rs100 per hour.

As I walk up closer, the sun just starts to break over the horizon, adding a pinkish hue to the building.  It's breathtaking and beyond description; my skin is tingling and I'm silently thanking god for the gift of wisdom and creativity that led to the construction of this structure.  It's incredible.  As you walk up to the main structure, you either have to remove your shoes or cover them with little cloth booties.  I cover mine, mainly to avoid contact with the freezing cold marble, and circumambulate (pradakshina, in Sanskrit) the Taj.  I move clockwise, always keeping it on my right, just like the temples in Khajuraho.  While this isn't technically a holy site, it feels like it to me because it's the greatest representation of man's incredible imagination and mastery of nature I've ever seen.  It's inspiring to see what beauty we are capable of creating.  Oh, god, Ayn Rand would be so proud of me right now.

The Yamuna River flows behind the Taj, but you can barely see it thanks to the thick, wet layer of mist that will take hours to dissipate.  Then, as I round the final corner to return to the front, I'm nearly blinded by the sun reflecting off of the perfectly smooth white marble.  It's like watching the sun rise over a calm ocean, with the imperfections in the marble creating small, soft waves.  Finally, I'm ready to go inside.  We're ushered into the inner sanctum where Shah Jahan's beloved is laid to rest, but no photography is allowed (which turns out to be fine because there's a marble lattice barrier between you and the marker anyway).  This is when I begin to notice the intricate inlay of precious stones.  It's mainly a floral motif, with blossoms of pink, orange and yellow branching off of green stems.  It's not quite as interesting as the work at the Golden Temple in Amritsar, but it does lend a more solemn air which is probably more fitting for a tomb, anyway.

Up close I'm impressed by the sheer amount of geometry and the impressive tessellations that make up the decorations under the arches and eaves.  Part of the reason I enjoy studying history is because I have an incredible amount of respect for what civilizations were able to do/discover/create thousands of years ago with such relatively-primitive technology.  Unfortunately, I'm not going to have as long to simply sit and admire the Taj as I might like.  My train leaves at 10:30, so I have to be at the station before 10:15.  I can still see Agra Fort and make it, but I'm going to have to hurry.  It's a short cycle-rickshaw ride to get there (and mostly downhill, so the fare is cheap) and it's going to be even cheaper to get in because I've got the free ticket that one of the guys I met along the river gave me last night.

Works like a charm.  Suddenly, I'm Rs250 richer than I planned to be.  Score.  I feel even better after I've toured the fort, though, because to be honest it doesn't seem like it would be worth paying that much to get in here.  It is quite large and there are several places to explore, but it's nothing like the forts in Jodhpur and Jaisalmer.  Also, I'm sure it has a great view of the Taj Mahal only a few kilometers away, but with the morning fog and the everyday pollution, I can only barely make-out the outline of it.  But anyway.  The outside of the fort is extremely impressive, though, with the remains of what must have been an absolutely filthy moat and walls covered in carvings.  There are other marble flourishes and decorations that match those on the big Taj and baby Taj, and to be honest it's nice to see some cohesion among the sites here.  Shah Jahan must have been a busy man indeed (note: he didn't create the baby Taj).

I'm out of the fort in an hour and a half, partially because I'm pushing myself to go faster than normal, but also because it's on the small side compared to the other forts I've been to.  I'm pleasantly surprised I have time to have a rickshaw take me over to some nearby shops before I head home.  Thinking the shops and my hotel are fairly close together I strike a deal with a cycle rickshaw driver.  He does indeed get me to the shops quickly, but they're full of cheap crap geared more towards the native Agrans so I tell him to take me to the hotel.  During the ride I make my final phone calls from India to tell people I'm on my way home soon and talking to mom gets me just a little choked up.  It's true that I'm ready to go home, but there's part of me that could easily stay and travel around southern India for a month now that I feel like I understand this country a bit more.  I've always been lucky that even though I do miss home, it's not the crippling kind of homesickness that keeps me from enjoying long periods off on my own.

Soon, however, the first problem of the day crops up.  It is taking absolutely forever for this guy to get back to my hotel.  I ask him how long it will take.  His reply: 30 minutes.  It's 9:50 and I need to leave my hotel at 10 to get to the train station.  Obviously, this isn't going to work.  I go into panic mode and start leaning out the side of the rickshaw trying to flag down an auto touk touk.  The driver is obviously not happy about this and says that he can't stop in a busy road (which is currently nearly empty) to let me out blah blah blah.  Meanwhile, I've stopped a touk touk and am basically jumping from one to the other.  I give the cycle guy half his fare, but he leans into the touk touk and demands the rest of it.  I told him he didn't take me the whole way and he was slow.  He calls me something mean in Hindi (according to the driver) and I tell him what he can do to himself in a phrase that would make a sailor proud.  Hey, the asshole had it coming; I'm leaving out some details, but if you had been riding with me you'd agree.

So now my nice fast touk touk gets me back to the hotel right at ten.  I ask him to wait and to take me to the train station after I get my pack and check-out and, good man that he is, he weaves and drifts and ignores basic laws of the road so that we get to the station right on time.  I go to check on my train and find....it's delayed.  By an hour and a half.  But hey, no big deal, that still gives me a few hours in Delhi to go to Jama Masjid and maybe stop at a store nearby to buy a few last souvenirs.  It's 10:20 now.  If we leave at 11:50 it'll be fine.  I probably won't have time for lunch with Marc (disappointing), but I'll still see what I want to see.  I'm approached by a few Germans also going to Delhi to ask whether I'm on their train.  They've bought the open tickets that I'm traveling with again, so I explain to them how they work and we all agree to just try to find an empty cabin in 2nd class the four of us can take over and pay the difference.  One of them, Simon, is leaving from the airport this afternoon as well, and was only here in Agra on a day trip, so we decide to share a touk touk to the train station.  Nice!  Now we just have to wait.

11:50--No train.  Okay, I can work with this, I'll just have to pay extra for touk touks instead of walking in Delhi.  No sweat.

12:30--No train.  Well, this isn't ideal.  I'm going to have to cut out the shopping for souvenirs, but I can still see Jama Masjid, the one thing I most wanted to see in Delhi.  It's fine.

1--TRAIN!!  Oops, just kidding.  No train.  Someone else on the platform says that this train is going to Delhi, but that it's slower because it's not an express.  This one will take six hours, compared to the one we're booked on, which takes 3-4.  The train we want will be coming right after this one.  I'm officially nervous. 

1:30--TRAIN!!  I have no idea if this actually the right one, but who the hell cares.  Worst case scenario we'll be arriving at exactly the time I need to be clear across town to check-in at the airport.  Oh dear god.  We all rush on and urge the train onwards with our desperation.  We do manage to find a cabin, though, and all collapse onto a seat letting our adrenaline levels drop back down to normal.

A little while into the trip one of the girl shares some oranges she's bought at the market in Agra.  Remembering how good my last one was, I say thanks and enjoy a little treat on the train.  I'm clamping down the disappointment I feel at not being able to see some of the incredible sites I read about months ago while planning this trip.  Half an hour later, though, I start to feel a little weird.  I think it's just motion sickness, but it's getting a bit stronger, so I apologize and tell the others I'm going to try to take a nap to fight it.  I wake up a few times, feeling pretty normal for about five minutes each time before getting that sick feeling again, but I just go back to sleep with my head on my pack because it seems to help.  Until the end of the train ride, that is.  As soon as I'm awake for good I'm ready to lose my lunch.  I can't open my mouth for fear that it will jump-start my upchuck reflex.  I am sick.  I am definitely not okay.  Oh god, please not now.  Noooooo!!!

I tell the others that I'm not well (which they have obviously picked up from the look on my face), but there's not a lot of time for sympathy, it's 5 and I'm supposed to be at the airport right now, checking in for my 6:45 flight.  Simon and I grab the first touk touk we can and ask them to take us just a little ways away into Paharganj to pick up Simon's bags.  It's a freaking traffic nightmare.  Of course.  We end up jumping out of the touk touk and throwing bills at the driver so we can walk to his hotel.  He carries my bag, like a gentleman, but also so we can move faster (I can barely support the weight because I feel so sick).  A few minutes later he comes out and we try to find another touk touk to take us to the airport.  Success!  We find one (it's 5:15) and he comes and picks us up.  We make it extremely clear to him that we are in a gigantic hurry.  If I'm not there in an hour they won't let me board.  'How long will it take to get to Indira Gandhi domestic terminal?' 'One hour.' Oh. Dear. God.  'GO!!!'

In the touk touk I am crying and sending up aimless prayers that I make it to my flight.  I CANNOT STAY ANOTHER DAY IN THIS COUNTRY.  GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE.  All the thoughts about how I could totally stay for another month have vanished, leaving me weak and emotional and desperate.  I just want to get home so I can be sick in my own bed.  Just get me home.  Please.  Please.  Just get me home.  Just let me catch my flight.  Please.  I can't talk, I can't even look up, or I will throw up out the side of the car.  Simon says things and asks me questions but all I can do is just nod or shake my head.  He's completely out of money from paying the bill at his hotel, so this ride's on me, plus I'm going to have to give him some for the remainder of the ride to his own part of the airport (he's flying international, I'm flying domestic to Mumbai so I'm getting off earlier).  I've got to give him a lot of thanks, though, because he did indeed get me from the train station to the airport, carrying my bag half the way and basically yelling at people to 'hurry the hell up we've got planes to catch!'  Imagine meeting someone 6 hours earlier, watching them get sicker and sicker, wondering if they're going to throw up on you, then having to make sure they get to the airport on time while you're desperately trying to get to your own flight.  Thank you, Simon, wherever you are!

I rush into the airport, barely able to stand under my pack and fighting nausea.  Check-in is easy, though, and I move as quickly as I can down to security where I'm quickly passed through.  Oh, thank you thank you thank you thank you!  I'm going to make this flight!!  I am going home!!  I reach the terminal, give them my ticket, take the short bus ride out to the middle of the tarmac where the plane is, and find my seat.  But I don't sit down; I drop my bag (in the freaking middle seat, of course) and head to the bathroom in the tail of the plane.  Sixty seconds later I'm heaving and regurgitating a thick orange liquid.  It was the god damn orange.  I don't get it!  It looked fine and I peeled it myself.  Was there something on my hands that mixed with the juice?  Screw it, who cares at this point.  Wow, do I feel massively better after throwing up a couple times.  I stumble back to my seat and fall asleep before the safety video is over.  I wake up at the announcement for touch-down and realize I'm not going to make it to the airport.  I head back to the same bathroom and clear the last of the noxious orange from my system until I'm just doing dry heaves.  WOW it really helps to just give in and throw up.

I've got enough energy left in me to get off the plane and get into the terminal.  Of course I have to take a shuttle to the international part of the airport then go through customs then go through security again then take a second small shuttle to the plane on the tarmac...good lord just get me to my seat so I can go back to sleep!  Eventually, though, after several breaks to rest while walking down the hallway of the airport, I do get on the plane and in my seat.  It's on the aisle, thank goodness, but as it turns out I don't need it anymore.  I still feel a little bit nauseous, but it's obvious that if I just go to sleep I'll be fine.  And go to sleep I do.  I miss the skymap and dinner, my two favorite things about the flight out here, but don't even realize it as I lose consciousness in a deep, dreamless sleep.

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 5^th 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.

This was a VERY long, difficult day. I cried and I’m not ashamed. I promise no other post will be this long.

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Urgh.  Did not want to get up this morning.  So so tired.  But I’ve got a full day ahead and need to get crack-a-lacking.  So I set out for my first day in India, into the dust, noise, pollution, cram of people and bad smells.  First on my list is Qutb Minar, which I am told is an easy walk, and I guess 5km is an easy walk, but a bit longer than I’d like.  So I get my first auto-rickshaw ride and arrive about an hour after sunrise.  Perfect timing.  The light touches the ruins of the mosques, minarets, tombs and courtyards in a very romantic manner, and I’m immediately glad this is the first thing I got to see in India.

But along with this the craziness has begun.  Two Sikh men are taking pictures of each other with a camera phone and approach me and say, “Please, ma’am, photo?”  I immediately agree, thinking they want a picture with both of them in it, but one promptly hands the phone to the other and puts his arm around my shoulders.  Oh dear god.  The men switch places for another picture then thank me and giggle as they walk away.  Later on, I’m walking down a long path and see a gigantic gaggle of ten-year-old schoolgirls in match braids and jumpers headed my way.  They’re adorable, but I’m not totally comfortable taking a photo of them.  They however, are totally comfortable waving and saying “Hi aunty!  Good morning!”  I wave and smile and say good morning back a hundred times and can say that this alone has made the whole trip worth it.  The rest of the trip can suck for all I care, I’ll still be happy with it.

Next I hop onto a bus (literally, they don’t really seem to totally stop) and manage to snag a window seat.  We head east, gathering more and more people until the bus is overflowing (again, literally).  Southern Delhi is more rural than I was expecting, given its proximity to the center of the city.  We drive past miles of what I would call slums, although I’m sure in India they aren’t the bottom of the barrel (later I find out that a large number of people live on a patch of sidewalk, so this is definitely not the worst it can be). 

I leap from the bus at my next destination, Tughluqabad, the ruins of an old city and fortress built in the 1400s.  I buy my ticket and go left first, towards the part of the city overgrown with scrubland.  I walk for a little ways, following a couple Indian women past several ruins of minarets and gigantic wells, until I come to a field where some teenage boys are playing cricket.  I’m watching some women chopping down trees with machetes, but I can see the boys coming towards me out of the corner of my eye.  One gets the moxie to say, “Hello, madam.  Country you from?”  I answer, they giggle, then he says “Folk”.  I’m obviously confused because he says it again.  Then I notice his friends are hiding their laughter and realize he’s saying “Fuck”.  I walk off fighting the urge to slap him and to a chorus of “Kiss please!”  “I love you!”  “Kiss, pretty lady, kiss kiss!”  Oh dear god.

I then walk to the right side of the ruins where I’m chastised for inadvertently walking onto a movie set.  That’s right, I got to see them film a scene for a Bollywood movie (no, they weren’t dancing)!  A man ushers me across the set but doesn’t go back after walking with me for a while.  Then he starts telling me about the ruins and I realize he’s trying to be a guide for me.  He tells me how there were underground shops and a lake around the king’s tomb (which is now across a street and surrounded by scrubland) and battlements and a women’s mosque and gardens and more.  He’s very nice and quite knowledgeable, and I’m happy to give him Rs20 bakshish (like gratuity or a tip) for the quick tour.

Walking down the road to the taxi stand I pass women carrying two columns of six bricks on their head, a family of rhesus monkeys (which I give an extremely wide berth), another man saying “Kiss pretty lady!”, men peeing in public (oh, if I had a nickel for every time I ended up seeing this in India), an absolute mob of school children (“Hello aunty!  Hello!”), horse- and oxen-drawn carts and several military bases.  The smell makes me want to vomit: urine, feces (from animals and people), rotting garbage, cattle, putrid standing water and other things I’m sure I can’t imagine.  I find a touk-touk and ask to go to the Bahai Lotus Temple.  The man at the ticket stand at Tugh. said it should cost about 40 rupees, but my touk-touk man is saying 150.  I say 40, he says 100, and eventually we settle on 50 or 60 (still a bit more than it should be).  I feel pretty good about myself until I realize that I’m basically saving $1.20 and that’s what this guy probably makes in a day.

Near the end of my time in Tughluqabad and definitely as I’m walking down the street is when I start to feel sick.  Not nauseas, but rather worn down and like I’m breathing smoke.  My lungs are having a hard time with the pollution and dust levels, despite the fact that I keep my scarf wrapped around my face most of the time.  I’m glad to be sitting down for a while, even if it means bouncing through potholes bigger than a basketball and nearly colliding with a hundred other cars, touk-touks, bikes, carts, animals and pedestrians.

The Lotus Temple is, in a word, beautiful.  White marble “petals” open above nine milky blue pools and stand in the center of an expanse of well-landscaped gardens.  Inside you can see all the way to the top of the lotus where they have stained glass in the shape of the Bahai sign for peace.  It’s completely silent inside and you’re welcome to meditate as long as you would like.  I sit for a while and think about my day, my expectations for India that have already both been met and blown out of the water, but I’m not feeling particularly prayerful.  I’m still not feeling 100% and these marble benches are uncomfortable so I’m ready to go after fifteen minutes.  On my way out I remember there’s an enormous Bahai temple in Chicago, which I saw on my first day living there (a nice parallel, I think) and am excited to go back to see it in March.

Walking on the temple grounds is very peaceful and I appreciate a chance to collect my thoughts and take my time.  It’s only 1, but it’s India’s winter and the sun will set at 5 so it feels quite late in the day already.  I decide to skip Ashoka’s Rock Edict, a rock with 10 lines of ancient Sanskrit on it, and head off down the hill looking for my next bus.  PS: In India, every bus stop is required to have a minimum amount of flies, so bring a scarf to cover your head.  The 500 takes me up to the neighborhood of Nizamuddin, which the guide book describes as “like stepping back into the Middle Ages”.  This sounds terribly romantic to me, until we get closer and the smell reminds me that the Middle Ages were a pretty shitty time to be alive for most people.

I have found the real India.  This is NOT a touristy part of town.  I am actually a bit nervous of what I’m breathing in (through my scarf, of course) walking through here, of being pick-pocketed, harassed, or even yelled at for being a Western woman in what is most definitely an orthodox Muslim area.  This is where I see the REAL poverty: people missing limbs and using crutches or a rolling cart, families living on the sidewalks, mothers holding out their half-conscious babies asking me for money for milk, a mentally disabled woman running around babbling in Hindi and yelling at people, children caked in dirt and blind old men leaning on canes with their hands out.  I don’t have any small change and I’m scared to start giving anything out because others who see me might come up, as well, and these dark, narrow alleys are not where I want to be in the middle of a crowd. 

I’m here to see the dargah (tomb) of Nizamuddin and his daughter, Princess Jahanara. Her grave only has grass growing on it, according to her wishes, which sounds so serene.  I won’t be able to see it, though, because it is closed for cleaning or maintenance or something like that.  Not that I’m complaining; this is my first day and I’m not sure I’m ready to spend too long in this type of neighborhood, yet.  I ask a nearby policeman how far it is to my final destination, Lodi Gardens, and he says a rickshaw can get me there for about 20-30 rupees.  After heavy negotiations with several drivers wanting 80 rupees, I get a cycle rickshaw for 50.  I guess cops get discounts.

The end of this ride was the first time I wanted to cry.  The driver stops at a gigantic intersection with hundreds of cars and says Lodi is on the other side.  I thought he might not want to risk going through it because crossing on foot actually is easier.  So I pay him his inflated Rs50, cross the street and see NOTHING.  I find a couple of women who say it’s another kilometer down the street and that my driver probably just took advantage of me.  As I walk, I start thinking about all the scams I had been so careful to avoid and the haggling I had done and how few people you can really trust here.  I’m tired and sad and I kind of melt down a little.

The second time I want to cry is when I enter the gardens.  Like the rest of India, it’s covered in trash.  Not the mounds and piles that people here sweep from one spot to another, but just general rubbish sprinkled around what is supposed to be a national treasure.  There are signs pleading for responsible ownership of the park that might as well have been written in Dutch.  The beautiful tombs are surrounded by rolling, grassy hills and joggers and families are enjoying the sunset.  Everywhere there are groups of people and I start to feel very lonely watching the sun go down thousands of miles away from my family and friends. Maybe I’m just tired and tomorrow will be better.  Or maybe I should have gone home for Christmas, after all. I don’t even fight my emotions this time, just try to hide my tears as best I can from the Indians.  They stare at me enough as it is.

I catch another bus and spend an hour and a half getting back to my hostel (another bumpy, dusty bus and overpriced touk-touk ride with a lost driver).  I’m actually quite glad the days end so early here.  I’m so tired and I’m sure other days will be more of the same, so at least I’ll always get home with plenty of time to recuperate.  I have dinner, put up with some more come-ons from Francesco and David (which is really just unprofessional in my opinion—I told them I was engaged and they backed off) and pass out in bed before I can even get out my travel guide to think about tomorrow.