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

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.