My last full day in India

Photo Album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=176477&id=770825648&l=ed17f6f085

Again, I owe the family I’m sharing a berth with.  Somehow I managed to sleep through the 3 alarms on my watch, and even though it wasn’t his stop, Rashan was awake and woke me because he knew I needed to get off the train.  I have absolutely no idea what would have happened if that incredible family hadn’t been there to look up my PNR number, talk to the conductor for me, give me a berth and get me off the train.  Who knows where I would have ended up or what I would have had to pay. 

Remarkably, the train has finished the 12-hour trip almost exactly on time.  This really is no small feat—only one other train out of the 15 I’ve ridden has accomplished the same thing.  The good news is that my 5am arrival means I have plenty of time to buy a ticket and board the 6am train to Agra rather than have to search for a bus that might not be leaving until 8 or 9 and take almost six hours.  My ticket is an “open ticket”, which means that I’m not assigned a specific seat until I get on the train and see what’s empty.  They tell me just to get on whichever coach I want to ride on and plunk down in an empty seat.  Works for me, especially for Rs72.

Another American girl, Kara, sees me waiting to board the train and asks me for help finding carriage D1.  I’ve never heard of D1 before and tell her that I have an open ticket myself, so we decide to just board the train’s chair coach and hope for the best.  In an interesting coincidence, Kara announces she’s a sixth-grade teacher in an international school in Dubai.  She even thought at one point about teaching in Singapore.  Obviously, we have plenty to talk about over the five-hour trip to Agra.

Kara shares an awesome idea with me when we’re about an hour from Agra: in order to see as much as possible as quickly as possible, let’s hire a driver to take us around in a pre-paid taxi which, at the end of the day, will leave her at the train station and me at my hotel.  Normally, this idea wouldn’t be something I’m interested in because these services tend to be a bit of a rip-off.  However, the train is already running about an hour late and speed is becoming more important to me than having a few hundred more rupiya in my pocket.  After I book a train ticket to Delhi for tomorrow, we exit the station and see what kind of cost we’re talking here.

The first guy that approaches us shows us his official taxi license and a list of prices.  At first he says it will be Rs1250 all-inclusive for 6 hours, but he says of all the things we want to see we’ll only have time to go to Fatehpur Sikri, a mosque and palace 40km outside of town, and the Taj Mahal.  When we try to bargain with him, since seeing two things then going to the train station hardly seems worth that much, he says he could lower it to Rs1000 but we’d have to pay about Rs150 in tolls and parking fees.  Saving Rs100 doesn’t seem like much of a compromise, and unfortunately for him the late train has made me extremely frustrated and short-tempered.  I’m getting angry because I don’t want to  waste time arguing over what seems to be a ridiculous price and Kara and I eventually decide that even if we could get a price we liked, it would probably be pretty uncomfortable to ride with them in the car.

So we go to the actual taxi stand booth, rather than talk with a driver directly.  I promise Kara that I’m going to be better about keeping my temper and let her do most of the talking.  I feel like I can’t hold my tongue, though, because I’m so anxious to get on the road!  When we tell dispatcher which three places we want to go to, he says it will be Rs950 and we’ll have to pay the tolls and fees, but that they will only be about Rs100.  Well, it’s not what we were hoping for, but it’s still only about Rs500 for each of us and it’ll be the most practical way to get around.  When you’re paying for speed and efficiency, I guess you should expect to pay a premium.

But we have a car and a driver, who promises us he is “very fast, getting you to all the sights in big hurry!  You are like my guests.  I will no be happy if my guests not see all to see in Agra.”  We toss my bag in the back and start driving.  I have to say, the Taj Mahal may not be the most impressive thing in Agra.  That honor may go to the traffic; it’s infuriating, maddening and exasperating, but also striking for its sprawling size!  In all of India I haven’t seen so many cars squished into such narrow lanes and taking so damn long to get where they want to go.  It takes just over an hour to go only 40km and the roads for the most part are sprinkled with potholes that we have to slow down for or swerve to avoid.  I think we’ve also managed to hire the only timid, law-abiding, cautious driver in all of India.  Today of all days….

But finally, a little after one, we get to Fatehpur Sikri, the former capital of the Mughal empire in the 1500s.  You have to pay to enter the palaces, of which there are three; the emperor Akbar had three wives from the three main religions (Hindu, Muslim, Christian) of his territory and each got their own palace to enjoy with their servants and children.  They’re built of red sandstone and marble and a good deal of the interior paintings and exterior carvings remain intact.  There are also several beautifully landscaped gardens with a flower I’ve never seen before (it almost looks like it’s made of folded velvet).  The site is huge and it takes at least an hour just to see the three palaces and their courtyards.  Unfortunately, we didn’t make it to the areas beyond them.

The mosque, Jama Masjid, is no less impressive, although it’s swarming with touts.  There are guides offering their services, women selling trinkets, men selling postcards, children asking for rupees and pens and taxi drivers trying to take us back into town.  If you can shake them, which is no easy task, you’re free to appreciate the magnitude of the mosque.  There are a couple dozen tombs in the courtyard, as well as a white marble inner sanctum and three large gates that worshipers would enter.  I cross the courtyard to get closer to one of the gates and notice about ten giant black mounds attached to the ceiling.  At first I think they’re extremely large bird nests, which I’ve seen under the awnings of other temples, but then I hear this odd noise and notice that the mounds seem to be moving.  No.  No, there’s no way.  Those can’t be….bee hives!  But yes, indeed, those are gigantic, scary, honey- and weapon-making factories.  I HATE bees and I’m out of here.  To me, honey is like a hot dog: I love to eat it but I have no desire to be around when it's being made.

Kara’s also ready to fight the traffic again and head back into town.  Back in the car, we’re pushing our driver (whose name I never actually catch) pretty hard and, to his credit, he starts driving a bit more aggressively.  But traffic is still so utterly ridiculous!  I can’t believe that there isn’t more of a demand for some kind of system of traffic management.  Lights are few and far between and when the road narrows under a bridge there are twelve cars fanned out across the road trying to weave into each other and get through.  It probably takes fifteen minutes to get the quarter mile past the bridge and I know there’s nothing I can do about it, but that just makes it worse.  Argh!!!!

But we do get through and arrive at our second stop, Itimad-ud-daulah, a.k.a. the Baby Taj, around 4:25.  Kara is slightly worried she’s not going to make it to the big Taj before they stop selling tickets at 5, so she just takes a few quick pics and gets back in the car.  I tell her to just leave me at Baby Taj so I can look at it longer and come back to pick me up in a little over an hour.  My plan is to see Big Taj at sunrise, anyway, so I’m content to stay on the opposite side of the Yamuna River for a little while.  Baby Taj is definitely miniature compared to the real thing, but the inlay work and painting is no less impressive and it turns out it’s the first Mughal structure built entirely out of marble AND it was built by a woman!  Not bad for the early 1600s.

There’s a large garden nearby with a road that leads down to the riverbank opposite the big Taj and that’s where I want to be at sunset, so just before 5 I head down that way.  Turning the corner and seeing “the tear drop on the cheek of eternity” is absolutely thrilling.  There’s no other way to describe the Taj; you look at it and immediately start breathing harder and get goosebumps.  I knew it was a large structure, but to see it with my own eyes it seems positively massive.  The setting sun gives the white marble a subtle pink glow and it’s peaceful and quiet on the riverbank.  There’s a small group of other tourists who have already arrived with the same idea as me and the crowd grows steadily, but silently.  It’s actually quite nice to sit with everyone because you can sense the wonder and respect that all of us are feeling as we simply sit and look across the Yamuna. 

Unfortunately, I have to drag myself away to meet Kara and our driver back at the Baby Taj so I can get a ride to my hotel.  As it turns out, though, the driver’s already taken her to her train and he’s just here to collect me.  He really is a nice man and he buys me a cup of chai in a tiny porcelain cup (more like a shot of espresso than anything else) from a street vendor that makes it over a coal fire in the ‘old fashion’ that he claims gives it its delicious flavor.  My driver drops me as close to my hotel as he can and arranges for a cycle rickshaw to carry me the rest of the way.  I’m headed to Shanti Lodge, a hotel with one of the best views of the Taj in Agra from the rooftop restaurant.  It’s too dark to see anything now, but tomorrow I intend to take full advantage of it.

Before I can get into the hotel, though, I'm distracted by a large group of young men and boys playing large bass drums and cymbals in the street.  It looks like some absurd marching band that lost its conductor but is trying to rehearse anyway; everyone looks around hoping someone will say when to start, and about 30 seconds after each time they begin they lose the beat and descend into chaotic booms and clangs.  They play the drums a way I've never seen before: one boy holds it while another stands behind him and hits it with two long, thin sticks.  There's obviously a competition for who will get to play next and the younger boys can't compete and so content themselves with the small hand cymbals.  I can't blame them for fighting for a turn, though, and honestly I'm incredibly tempted to ask if I can try.  The rhythm is fairly simple and it would be a lot of fun for me to step in and probably surprise them with being able to play as well as them.  I'm tired, though, and I want to get online before bed, so I pass on the opportunity.

After getting checked in I take care of a few things, such as checking my email and re-packing as much of my bag as I can so I’m ready to wake up and immediately head out to the Taj and the fort then go to the train station as soon as I’m done sight-seeing.  I have one last pot of chai delivered to my room and get sucked into a Bollywood movie that manages to be pretty hilarious, even in Hindi.  I could definitely stay in India a while longer and would be excited to travel the southern part of the country, but I’m also ready to see my friends and celebrate Christmas.  Singapore isn’t home, but I’m ready to return all the same.

Goodbye and good riddance to dirty Delhi

Photo album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=171410&id=770825648&l=29006f4d7d

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.

Getting worse before it gets better

Photo album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=171377&id=770825648&l=bea6ad4c4b

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