I'm on new ground here: I'm not following THE PLAN

Photo Album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=172328&id=770825648&l=7761bc2ff5

Marco’s alarm goes off at about 4:45 and I want to say goodbye to him one last time so I’m up, too.  As we’re talking, I say how much I’ve enjoyed spending time with them and wish out loud that he and Marc were going with me to Jaipur.  Marco counters by asking why I don’t just join them in Jaisalmer.  I take a second to come up with a good response, but instead I find myself wondering, ‘Why not?’  Would it be so horrible to miss Jaipur and instead see a city that so many people have said they really enjoyed?  It could be pretty fun to ride camels, bake bread in the sand and see the honey-colored fort and city, and let’s not forget that I’d be doing it all with two attractive men.  It takes me about five minutes to decide: screw Jaipur, I’m going to the desert. 

I start frantically throwing things into my pack and we’re checked out and out the door in twenty minutes.  Our hotel is right next to the train station, fortunately, and ten minutes later I have a ticket and we’re sitting on the train waiting for it to pull out.  I’m not sure why, but Marco suddenly gets a weird feeling that we’re on the wrong train.  He goes to double check the marquee and I talk to a few men on the train.  Even though he comes back convinced again we’re in the right spot, the locals say this train is headed the opposite way and I’m inclined to believe the experts.  In a flash, we throw our packs back on and track down the conductor.  We are definitely in the wrong place.  Running as quickly as I can with more than a third of my weight hanging off my shoulders, we scramble to the right platform, nearly running Marc over in our rush (who apparently had an interesting night…something about drinking a bit, getting followed by stray dogs and sleeping on the street after being locked out of his hotel).  Well, I guess he’s a pretty good sign that we’re finally where we’re supposed to be.

The three of us grab berths next to each other in the sleeper carriage and the boys pass out almost immediately.  Marc finished reading the book he’d been telling me about, Shantaram, and passes it on to me.  It’s the story of an Australian man who breaks out of prison and moves to the slums of Mumbai where he becomes the doctor for the thousands of residents, gets involved in the Bombay mafia and is finally recaptured and sent to Australia to serve the remainder of his sentence.  Marc thought it was excellent and he’s the fifth or sixth foreigner I’ve met who’s reading it as they travel India, so I’m pretty excited to start it myself.

A couple hours outside of Jaisalmer I start coughing like crazy, out of the blue.  This feels different from the last few days, though, and I can’t figure out what’s going on until the coughing gets so bad that I stand up to get some Kleenex out of my bag.  That’s when I notice that the air in the train has gotten very hazy and realize that the air is saturated with swirling clouds of dust.  Well, duh, Lauren, you are traveling through the desert so there’s a good chance that sand is going to start blowing in through the windows.  Soon I’m nearly choking as Marco and I struggle to lower the shutters and lock the windows closed.  They keep popping open, though, and each time they do the strong wind blows new clouds of sand into the compartment, coating every flat surface and my airway with a fine layer of silt.  It’s starting to get desperate when another passenger, coughing loudly as well, comes over and finishes the job for us.  Marc somehow sleeps through all of this.

Shortly after we regain control of our cabin, a foreign woman asks to sit on an empty berth and starts up a conversation with us.  She’s Norwegian and has just moved to Jaisalmer to be with her new husband.  Together they own a hotel called Anand Villas and she’s stopping by to tell us about it and invite us to stay there.  It seems like a good deal and she seems nice enough and to be honest it’s just nice to have a plan established, so we tell her we’ll see her at the station for a ride to her hotel.  When we arrive, though, it’s pretty clear we have lots of options of where to stay.  We walk past a long line of about 25 men, shouting and waving signs in English and Hindi advertising different hotels.  I’m really glad we don’t have to deal with these guys, though, and can go straight to Annette’s place.

At first they offer us a room with three beds, which gets a bit of a laugh from us.  It’s not exactly the arrangement we were thinking of.  Eventually, though, we work it out: Marc and I are staying in neighboring rooms on the upper floor and Marco will be downstairs. It’s about 1 when we arrive, but all we can think of is getting a hot shower and settling in; the sights will have to wait until after lunch.  But it turns out the hot shower will have to wait for another day because the heater isn’t working.  Just one more thing to look forward to in Singapore, I guess.

After lunch Marc has some errands to run so Marco and I visit the large Salim Sing-ki-haveli that turns out to be really interesting for such a small building.  A guide takes us from room to room pointing out some unexpected features: safes built into the walls that used scorpion-shaped locks; bricks interlocking like Legos; sandstone flowers and decorations that could be screwed in and out to customize the look of the haveli; trinkets like incense holders that spin open and convert to candle holders (note to self: buy one of these tomorrow!); and the mirrored dancing hall where the prime minister would sit for a night’s entertainment.  It’s no fort or palace, but it’s still going to stay with me as an example of the beauty of simplicity.

Afterwards, Marco and I take a nice walk around our neighborhood.  The architecture and design are just as enjoyable as they have been in other cities, but it’s definitely a different style from other parts of Rajasthan.  The buildings are the natural color of the desert, with geometric decorations mainly painted in white.  The children, of course, come running when they see us and a particularly pushy group of girls demands lots of photos.  They don’t seem to want any money, though, so I’m happy to oblige until they start making fun of me!  “No, Hindi?  That’s no good!  Madam needs Hindi in India!  And your eyes!  So small!  Where is your hair?  Nice ladies need nice long hair to get nice husbands.”  How the heck do they know this much English to begin with?  And why do they have to say these things in front of a guy?!  I’m dying here, but Marco is laughing and obviously enjoying my discomfort (which helps soooo much).

After I get over the blows to my ego and finally manage to shake my critics, we stumble upon a scene that’s uncomfortable for another reason.  A group of about fifteen women are sitting on blankets in the middle of an empty street rocking slightly and wailing and moaning while five men sit off to the side watching.  It would seem that someone passed away, but we’re not sure what’s really going on because after a few minutes the women stop and simply sit in silence.  They’re dressed in their usual colorful saris, too, so maybe it’s something else?  Fear of disrespecting their customs outweighs our curiosity, though, so after I take a few pictures of nearby buildings (all right, I admit, I also shot a quick, surreptitious video to capture that heart-breaking sound) we turn around and walk towards Kenchan Shree ice cream shop to meet Marc.

Well, this ought to be an interesting experiment.  Milkshakes in the past have been inconsistent, at best, so let’s see what the highly-lauded Kenchan Shree can produce.  Between the two us, Marco and I order the specialty, a makhania lassi with ice cream, a cheeku lassi, kulfi and a special kulfi.  Marc sticks to his personal favorite, a chocolate milkshake.  I’m not sure how to describe the flavor of the lassis, unfortunately; I lack familiarity with the spices they used and all I can tell you is that they were delicious!  The makhania was thick, more like real yogurt, and it came in a shallow bowl topped with two squares of ice cream that had obviously been carved off of a homemade block.  Kulfi and special kulfi are made of sugar, milk, pistachios, butter, cinnamon and other spices (the latter also has coconut and a few other extra ingredients), the mix of which is frozen into a popsicle.  If you ever get the chance, do yourself a favor and get any or all of these dishes.

And now the time has come to make a new plan.  We’re headed back to our hotel to talk about taking a camel safari for the next couple of days and find out information about when the trains and buses leave each day.  Marc and I both need to get to Delhi in a couple of days and are trying to fit in a 2-day camel trek as well as some time driving motorcycles.  I think I’ll be able to do it all: camel riding tomorrow and the next day then head out on the motorcycle early on the third day and return just in time to catch the train.  Wow, that’s a good-looking plan. 

With that settled, I manage to convince Marco to go with me to check-out the fort.  It’s close to sunset, so I doubt we’ll get into the small museum and temples there, but the cool thing about Jaisalmer fort is that it’s actually a lively neighborhood, with narrow, twisting streets packed with shops, homes and small temples.  Going along we turn left and right whenever we feel like it and just walk towards whatever looks the most interesting.  We pass a group of boys wrestling and karate fighting, as all 8 year-olds like to do, then find our way to the wall where we’re just in time to see the daylight die as a red smudge along the horizon.  Even though it’s dark the fort is very lively and shopkeepers still try to lure us in to buy shawls, journals or other trinkets.  The sales pitch continues as we walk down from the fort and into a bazaar before returning to the hotel to pick Marc up for dinner.

“America happy?  England happy?  Australia happy?  You pay me, I very happy!”  How many times did we hear this at dinner?  How was I supposed to know that smiling at the musical entertainment would bring us so much personalized attention throughout the evening?  All I did was bob my head a little and smile at the kids playing castanets and singing while their father played the harmonium.  And it was not my choice, I might add, to sit at the table right next to them (at least, I don’t think).  AND we’re eating at Saffron, which is quite an elegant restaurant; why would management allow the musicians to bother the customers, anyway?  Marc, nice guy that he is, gave them a small fortune of slightly-ripped bills in an attempt to shut the guy up and pass on some notes he probably couldn’t spend in a store.  Oh, but the food…the food….

Starters: bruschetta for Marco’s Italian heritage (wow, lot of galic), lemon and cardamom soup
Main course: mutton briyani for Marco, chicken mughlai for me, and butter chicken for Marc
Dessert: butterscotch and chocolate ice cream (pretty crappy, though, after this afternoon)
Drinks: Kingfisher beer (courtesy of Marc; will probably only taste good if I drink just this for a year)

Yes, now America, England and Australia are very, very happy.  Back at the hotel we sit with a  group of hotel staff and visitors to watch some a movie and have a late-night snack.  My pot of chai and apple crepe most definitely hit the spot and the low-budget comedy we’re watching is funny enough to be entertaining.  And, to top it off, I have a puppy to play with!  This adorable little guy lives at the hotel and will melt your heart…at least until he nips you and pees on your rug, both of which I got to enjoy earlier today.  After playing in Marc's room for about fifteen minutes, he sent the little guy next door to my room to see me for some lovin'.  The dog walks right past me to my bathroom rug, urinates, then walks back over and starts licking my leg.  What?!  Why'd you do that?  You can't just expect me...to forgive...you...  Oh, it's okay, you're the cutest puppy in the whole world!  Yes you are!  Who's a cute puppy?  You're a cute puppy!!  Like you would have done anything differently.

After I toss the pee rug outside my room for the hotel staff to take care of, I crawl into bed and try to read more of Shantaram so I can talk to Marc about it tomorrow.  This isn't going well, though; early morning, long train ride, full belly, getting up early to ride camels...

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

Photo Album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=171688&id=770825648&l=8f01f67220

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.