Don't make me tell Lonely Planet on you...

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What a crappy, crappy start to the day. Worst morning yet. First of all, the sun doesn’t really rise here. Instead, the haze changes colors from grey to purple to pink to bluish. You don’t actually see the sun until it’s about quarter of the way through the sky already. Less than majestic. Then I woke up ten minutes late and missed the free morning boat ride that I have been wanting to go on. I would get into how badly breakfast went, but I’ll save myself the time and just post a copy of my letter to Lonely Planet later. But then again, without missing the boat and getting that crappy breakfast I wouldn’t have met Marc, this cute Australian guy who might meet up with me in Udaipur. Hmm…

I decide to take one last walk around through the alleys of Godawlia to see some of the sights I didn’t have time for yesterday. Jnana Vapi mosque appears to be closest on my map, but it’s pretty difficult to find and I learn it’s closed to non-Muslims when I finally do arrive. All right, I guess I’ll try to go to the Golden Temple next. Finding that is really easy, but there are no bags or cameras allowed inside. Next. The Kama Sutra temple that Emma and Sally said they liked is either a lot less impressive to me or I’ve gone to the wrong place. Well, I guess I can say I tried.

It’s time to go back to the hotel, anyway, because I need to print my train ticket and check out. The internet is working (a small miracle), but when I look at my ticket my stomach drops into my feet: I booked it for yesterday. What an idiot. I thought still in Rishikesh I had changed all of my tickets up until Khajuraho; clearly not. Well, I’m packed and checked out already, so I guess I’ll just go to the train station and see what can be done about it.

I hop into the first cycle rickshaw that comes along and immediately regret it. This guy is old and slow. Traffic is a mess, but he seems content to simply wait in line behind everyone else rather than weave his way in and out of the cars like other drivers I’ve had tend to do. I had hoped to try to transfer my ticket to the train leaving at the same time today, but I get to the station ten minutes after it’s left. Although, apparently I can buy a ticket to the “open seating” car (basically first come first serve) on the train leaving in half an hour. Can’t wait.

Oh my days, this is chaos. I am congratulating myself for keeping calm while surrounded by 18 men (4 of whom are sitting on the luggage rack above me) in a 5’ by 10’ space. I’m guessing they speak a couple hundred words of English and are missing about 20 teeth between them. Also, our train has just reversed directions and I’m not sure if we’re headed back where we came from or are going a new route. It’s about 85 degrees in here and smells. A man just finished playing a snake charmer’s flute and is now yelling for donations. Everyone is coughing and hacking, making it seem like we’re a train full of TB patients headed for treatment. None of my cabinmates seems to have brought anything to do on our six-hour train ride and I think they’re staring at me to pass the time.

So I congratulate myself for staying calm. I think I’d be more nervous if I weren’t meeting up with Laura. It’s nice to know I’ve got someone I can call to help me figure out how to get to Khajuraho. She got there earlier today and found a guest house run by nice people who are even willing to pick me up from the bus stand (my train doesn’t go all the way to Kho so I’m taking a 3 hour bus ride to get closer).

A couple hours later, though, I realize I’ve completely misjudged the people around me. When I ask one of them how much further to Satna, he asks me some questions of his own as best as he can with his limited English (including, of course, whether I’m traveling alone and why such a pretty lady doesn’t have a man to protect her. ‘Because this pretty lady can protect herself’, I think). The other guys must have questions, too, because periodically they say things to him in Hindi and he turns to me to ask another question. Right before I get off the train he says he is very happy because he has a new sister and that I can say I have an Indian brother. Everyone makes sure I get off at the right station, have my bag and am not jostled by the other passengers. My new ‘brothers’ were pretty good to me and I’m sorry to have been so hasty to judge them.

After being told by the tourist office at the station and a few rickshaw drivers that there are no more buses going to Khajuraho tonight so I should go to this fabulous Rs2000 hotel, I decide to go to the station anyway, just to have a little look around. Fifteen minutes later I’m bouncing down the road to Kho and trying to ignore how closely the bus driver gets to the cars coming from the opposite direction. I end up with a creepy guy who likes to lean into me for a neighbor, and when pretending to sleep doesn’t deter him a fake one-hour call to my fake boyfriend does the trick. Fortunately, Rahim from Laura’s hotel is there to pick me up as soon as I step off the bus and twenty minutes later I’m in Kho.

Rakshana guesthouse is pretty homely, but my room is big and I have my own bathroom (which I never end up using because it kind of scares me). Right before I go to bed I find out this is where the owner typically sleeps and that he’s giving it to me because the other rooms are taken. At midnight, beggars can’t be choosers, so I kill about a dozen mosquitoes, slather on bug spray, cover up any free skin I can find and pass out. My last thought: at least I made it here; that’s all that matters.

Dear Lonely Planet,

I want to share my recent experience at Shanti Guest House in Varanasi, India, which I stayed at based on your recommendation. I walked in and asked for a single room for two nights and paid Rs200 up front. The man at the reception desk couldn’t be less enthused by my arrival and they seemed to tolerate my business at best. I didn’t hear a single ‘welcome’ or ‘thank you’ during my entire 3 day stay. The room was fine, but without sheets or a blanket. Also, this was the noisiest place I’ve stayed in all of India; my very first night I couldn’t fall asleep until 1 because of people talking, doors slamming and music playing.

All of that is bearable, though; my biggest problems are with the rooftop restaurant. Oh, where to begin. The extremely mediocre food? Lack of cleanliness? Utterly horrible service? Let’s start with the fact that it’s not actually open ’24 hours’, like it claims. I went up for breakfast at 6:15 one day. A man was watching TV, but when he saw me, apparently his first customer of the day, he switched it off, walked towards me, ignored my hello, flipped a light switch and went into the kitchen. Thirty minutes later two other hapless customers wandered in and the three of us proceeded to knock on the kitchen door. The man I saw said the restaurant would be open in five minutes. Ten minutes later he came and took the other customers’ orders. Ten minutes after that I walked up and asked to order food; he gave me a pad of paper and told me to write it down myself (which I had to do twice after apparently writing in the wrong, but identical, box).

My two friends had joined me by this point and we all ordered toast, theirs with fried eggs, and chai. Fifteen minutes later, our chai arrived (by this point the other customers had their food already). Another ten minutes later, one friend got her toast and eggs. I got my plain toast five minutes after that and a whopping thirty minutes after ordering (and 2 inquisitive trips to the kitchen) my other friend got her food. The eggs were so undercooked she couldn’t bear to eat them so she went without breakfast. Ninety minutes after arriving, I finished my meal and left.

This scenario was pretty typical, unfortunately, and through my personal experience and overhearing other customers I can tell you they didn’t even bring out 7 orders in just the 3 meals I ate there. The customers either left or ordered again, only to wait another thirty minutes to get their food. The workers’ only responses were rolled eyes, sighs and nasty comments; one even snatched my friend’s utensils out of her hand because she “took the wrong one” from the tray she’d been forced to fetch them from herself.

On to cleanliness. As we ate the breakfast described above, they moved us to another table so they could finally clean up the mess from the night before. A man hosed down the floors, pushing water and garbage around with a whisk broom, then did the same to the tables. To our horror, though, he didn’t use a different broom to clean the tables, just the same one he’d been cleaning the sticky, disgusting floors with. He then proceeded to chuck the garbage over the edge of the building (although, this is probably a normal practice).

Overall, the people at Shanti really couldn’t have cared less if we were there, let alone happy. Recommend the accommodations if you must, but I hope you’ll stop featuring their restaurant. I haven’t been this disappointed in anything in your book as with their café and I hope you’ll be able to note this in the future.

Sincerely,

Lauren Montgomery

The IRCTC can kiss my ass

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I have just finished the train ride from hell.  We arrive in Varanasi 2.5 hours after we were supposed to, bringing the total journey to just over 22 hours.  That is a very long time to sit/lie on a 1” thick foam mattress while the temperature in the cabin slowly increases up to an uncomfortable level.  The food is greasy, although I did eat one of the best hashbrowns I’ve ever had in my life—the secret is to add a bajillion types of spices.  When you use the bathroom you can see the tracks rushing directly underneath the toilet (a little bit of an air-dry, I guess).  Ninety percent of the passengers got off at 9am, leaving the train eerily quiet.  The rocking and shaking is so bad this trip that I can barely write what I see going past my window.  The whole experience blows.

Here’s what I can make-out from my notes at the end of the trip:

--50’ tall statue of Hanuman, the monkey god, is realllly creepy at night

--It’s getting brown again outside; more fields, fewer trees

--Hundreds of kilometers of subsistence farmers: ox-drawn carts and plows, small plots of crops in irregular triangles and quadrilaterals separated by small mounds of earth

--Women carry piles of hay bigger than themselves on their heads

--Grass and mud-brick huts with awnings held up by sticks

--Every twenty minutes or so we come to a “station”, a glorified strip of concrete where people jump (or if they’re lucky and the train actually stops) or step on and off the train

--Conductor stopping by to check on me every station and offering me some peanuts.  Nice, but I’m a woman, not an infant

I’m getting slightly anxious about finding a hotel, as well.  The tourist office that would have helped me make phone calls and arrange pick-ups closed an hour ago and the rickshaw drivers here are famous for trying to get you to go to a hotel they recommend (they earn up to a 75% commission from the establishment for the tourists they bring in, a fee added to your hotel bill).  A nice man on the train tries to call the hotels on my list, but neither of my top two choices pick up.  He’s convinced that I can just tell a rickshaw-wallah to take me to my hotel and they’ll treat me fairly.  It’s all I can do not to laugh out loud and teach him a lesson about his homeland.

But maybe meeting this guy is going to turn out to be even more useful than I thought.  As we exit the train, he deals with the rickshaw wallah for me and settles it in advance!  He gets a guy to agree to take me for a good price; I think I just found my new tactic for getting decent rickshaw rides.  Not that the driver goes out without trying to pull something…his “friends” start walking through the station with me, asking me all sorts of questions and guiding me through the crowd.  When we get in the rickshaw there are two drivers, neither of whom were the person my guardian from the train spoke with.  They immediately start talking about how difficult it is to get to the hotel I want and why don’t I pick another one and madam it’s dark out, you aren’t safe walking and the rickshaw can’t go in all the way to the hotel (which I already know is true and I’ll be fine) so it’s better if you choose something else…

But I stick to my guns and say Shanti Guest House or I get another ride.  Both drivers basically flee the vehicle and my original friend comes back.  He takes me as far as he can in the rickshaw then starts to lead me through the twisting, labyrinthine set of alleys that make up the old city neighborhood of Godawlia.  In the dark, this trek is mysterious and outright scary.  There were pitch-black stretches where the power was out, loose cobblestones would tilt up and try to trip you and men called out “Hello, ma-dam!  Welcome to our area of Varanasi!”  I can’t wait to explore the area in daylight.  Finally, we came to the hazy neon glow of a sign saying “Shanti” and I tip my driver well—I wouldn’t have gotten here without him.

The man at the reception desk looks less than enthused to have another customer to deal with, but his mood may also have something to do with the loud explosion and smoke that came from an electrical box of some kind when I entered.  I bend 90 degrees to climb the steep stairs so my pack doesn’t pull me over backwards and drop my gear in my room before checking out the rooftop restaurant.  It’s romantic—looking out over the river, purple walls, rows of red lights, someone strumming Radiohead’s “Karma Police” on a guitar.

Okay, I’m back to wishing I were traveling with a friend, though.  I’m trying to find a seat at a welcoming looking table (or, rather, a table with welcoming looking people at it).  It seems like everyone here is with a group and there isn’t room for one more (except for that table of hippies that probably aren’t smoking regular tobacco and I am so not looking for that tonight).  A lot of the people up here seem really tired.  I’m guessing they’ve either just arrived or have just finished another long day of simply existing in India.  Also, there’s an inordinately large number of cute guys on this roof…but I’m not looking for that tonight, either, so moving on. 

I do appreciate that the booth nearby has a sign saying “Full Fledged Money Changer”, proving my hotel’s devotion to the financial business is greater than its half-hearted “mostly fledged” competitors.

I ended up sitting at a table by myself near the door and when two girls came in looking like they were in the same conundrum I said they were welcome to use my table.  And that’s how I met Sally and Emma, two Brits on their way around Africa and India and moving on to Asia.  Hopefully we’ll meet up for the free boat trip tomorrow evening and can spend a little time together.  But I leave them to their dinner because I’m utterly exhausted, that is until I pick up the book Twilight again and read until about 12:30.  But seriously, how many times can this chick get lost in Edward’s eyes?

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.

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