Travel Journal - Entry 11

Ahmedabad 2/16/2008
My friends came to see me off this afternoon in what was strangely a bittersweet farewell. I so enjoyed spending time there. It would have been nice had I been able to stay on longer but my weeks were quickly running out with wild abandon, forcing me to move on. Pulling out of Ahmedabad station the first class seats are being pulled backward because of the direction the train is moving. An interesting sensation for me but I didn't care really. This section cost me three times what I would have paid had I booked to a lower class again (Rs 1300, about $33 for first class) but having gone budget for the past ten days has put me in the mood for a little more comfort.

This d_____ed phone service (Airtel) blanks out on me a lot. At the most inopportune times. And for hours. POS. I refilled it this morning. A boy from the hotel took 100 of my hard earned rupees and my phone number to the local Airtel dealer and now I should be able to text and call until I leave on Wednesday. Now however it grows less and less reliable. And with three days to go still.

I originally bought the phone about two days after arriving here. It was used from a nearby the hole-in-the-wall near the place I got Windows Vista for $4. Along with DVDs of most of the most popular and Oscar nominated movies (6 for 500 rupees, about $2 each). The phone was that old model of Nokia that turns on and off by stabbing your finger deep and long enough into the rubber bar running along the top. Yeah, one of those. My plan was to get the phone cheap (spent $27 but could have gotten it cheaper had I known then what i know now), add a prepaid SIM card and refill it as needed. My USA Verizon phone worked here once I had landed (and much to my surprise). I wasn't about to phone home, but texts were flying off left and right. Luckily I left my charger at home and the battery eventually died. There is no telling what a bunch of roaming texts from India was going to cost my bosses. Oh yeah, and lucky too that the charger I got for it here also fried itself after ten minutes. So in the end it was Nokia or nothing.

The phone cards here are great. They will cover the entire country for about 1 rupee a minute with a few extra charges thrown in here and there, just like home. All in all mine worked well most of the time and it was money well spent for me. However the government requires some documentation of who is buying the phone. Picture ID, the whole nine yards. The first card I bought was made by BPL, who is the other big player here besides Airtel. I emailed everyone telling them of my wonderful Indian phone number and commenced to getting comfortable with it, texting, calling, playing games on the toilet, we were like old friends. After four days of heavy use and watching my balance barely move, the phone just stopped working. The nice text message I got told me that the documentation had been rejected and to resubmit. Huh?

Understand that this was the first time I had heard of any documentation needed to operate my phone. I took the card back to the Cyber Cafe next door to my Mumbai hotel where I had purchased it along with activation for only Rs 200 ($5). I had at the same time added another Rs 200 in talk time which should have lasted most of my trip. The strange Cyber Cafe people took it while I blogged and that's all I heard about it. I had to ask what was happening about an hour later. After some discussion amongst themselves they told me it was all taken care and my phone should be as good as new in a couple of hours. Four hours later it was still blocked. Off to the Cyber Cafe I went again. Honestly these Cyber Zombies, while harmless, were exceedingly bizarre in their dealings with me. Probably because they were doing underhanded things to skirt past government requirements. It is now my belief that they were submitting someone else's face for my phone's necessary documentation. In one of their computers I found a folder containing scanned images of passports, etc. This is probably what they were turning in to the government. Unfortunately they appeared to have used my character one too many times.

So now I was back only this time asking for a full refund, which I got and thanked them kindly. This all happened the day before I was to leave Mumbai for Agra and I wasn't going without a working phone. Inquiring about another SIM card at the front desk of my hotel they linked me up with one of their bellmen who walked me back to the Cyber Cafe. Augh. I wouldn't even go back in. Eventually we went further down the street to an Airtel cubby, one of the hundreds I saw everywhere, tucked into the side of a building. Some words were exchanged in local dialect and eventually it was determined that they could not help me. This documentation thing was becoming a real hassle. One man who was among the small crowd loitering in front of the shop told me he knew just the spot and asked me to wait as he ran to get his car. Unusual he would have his own car. It was broad daylight so I wasn't too concerned. He was big for an Indian guy. About my age. His name was Raj (like most of the other touts on my trip whose names I learned). I could take him.

Once inside his shiny silver automobile with the driver side incorrectly stationed on the right, he reached over and handed me his thin flimsy paper card. It told me that he was a crack tour guide working closely with the Ministry of Tourism. Thanks, I thought, I'll put this in my 'Raj' pile back at the hotel. The stack of cards from all of the other crack tour guides. Named Raj. All working for the Ministry of Tourism. Closely. He told me to call him when i was ready to go to the airport in the morning. No problem, I said. Do I look that stupid, I thought.

We pulled up to another of the hundreds of building-crack Airtel shops and, long story shortened by my headache, I was able to get a card that would also work where I was planning to travel up north. Raj took me back to the hotel. I tipped him Rs 100 for his trouble. I finally had a Mumbai phone number, again. I was ready to face the future.

So now, on the train back to Mumbai, my phone wasn't working at all. There was no way to flag the troops that I would be back in town soon. Lucky for me I was going to the same hotel I had been at the first week. They know me there. And Local calls are free.

Travel Journal - Entry 10

Ahmedabad 2/16/2008
I hoped a taxi to the train station this morning to purchase passage to Mumbai this afternoon. The travel agent on the phone had informed me that the first class carriage was full but that there were tourist class seats still available. I just had to actually go to the station to get them. So I went. Apparently they reserve seats on trains for tourists like me who can't get it enough together to buy their tickets any more than a few hours in advance. Once there I stood in line to speak to a woman behind the cage in a blue sari who was firmly in command of her domain. Other men in line bobbed and cowered at her spiteful glances hoping to avoid her disdain in her lust for dominion over mankind. Simply spoken, she made every little thing as complicated as she could possibly make it. She drew out every little detail, left unsaid essential information for later conversations, sent people off left and right to fill out ubiquitous paperwork without the aid of writing utensils, etc.

Besides not having writing utensils where one might expect to find them, India has a glaring lack of public trash bins. I would carry around something I needed to dispose of for hours upon hours until I had formed an emotional bond with it. When I finally found a place where my western sensibilities would allow me to get rid of it, it was always with mixed feelings that I did so. Anyways, back to the Queen of Ahmedabad Station...

There was behind me in line another foreigner, a woman from New Zealand wearing traditional Indian clothing who I found out was also an instructor at NID (where I toured yesterday). She was booking passage for four, two were her parents I believe and so I assume the fourth was her husband/significant other. But the Queen was making even her jump through hoops as well. This made me think that either Her Majesty's wrath was liberally poured out not just on men but on anyone who wasn't from around there. Which in her case would be most anyone she encountered here. She was beneath the sign which indicated that "Foreign tourists, Mercenaries" etc could only buy their train tickets from her. Perhaps she just didn't like mercenaries all that much and figured we all were soldiers for hire. Because everyone loves American tourists.

She made us all do unnatural things. I felt like a bee who had found pollen and was back at the hive trying to communicate the exact flight path to the rest of the bees through weird jerky movements and halted gestures, as if I were dancing to music that was meant more for musical chairs than for a waltz. We should all have been able to breeze through the line, gather what information deemed necessary and quickly fill out the simple form with Her Majesty's kind assistance (How should I know the train number I want? EVERYTHING IS WRITTEN IN GIBBERISH HERE!!!). Instead, we all had to work our way up to the counter, gather more misdirection and then flutter back to some chair or standing table in order to regroup for another attempt at making headway through the royal bureaucracy.

On some point in the ordeal the other travelers, co-prisoners bound hand and foot in incomprehensible red-tape, sensed that I was nearly at my goal of a train ticket to Mumbai. Time was running out fast. Like a man struggling to complete the last 100 yards of a marathon, they were offering words of encouragement, handing me pens and train schedules and then shoving me back up to the front of the line while confused railway officials still thought they smelled blood and were salivating.

Finally my paper was flat on the counter in front of the Queen. I humbly waited as she demanded my passport then looked over every minute detail of my documents; name and country of origin, the name of the line I was taking, the number and the time it was to depart. Trembling, I stood watching. Finally she turned and began typing into her old computer as a cheer went up from behind me. Soon I was waving the hand sized card stock ticket printout over my head, blowing kisses, shaking hands, and thanking everyone who had made this day possible. Then I bolted out the door for the cab back to the hotel. I still had to gather my things, check out and get back here before it was too late.

Travel Journal - Entry 9

Ahmedabad 2/14/2008
While walking above the trains and people on the overhead sidewalk spanning the platforms alive with humanity, I was intercepted by what I call a runner. A runner is the person that wades into the sea of people and swims about in search of likely paying candidates for their particular service. I think a lot of the runners have been partners if not owners of the business for which they are running, cabbies, tour guides, etc. Mainly cabbies, though. I have previously been scooped up for a cab ride and escorted outside only to be handed off to one of a number of waiting vehicles ready to take me to wherever my heart desires. Most of the time. Sometimes they want me to check out an emporium where if I browse for 10 minutes they will be paid a commission. I usually resist this part of the journey insisting if they don't take me to the hotel directly I would not pay them.

The runner today was the actual cabbie himself. I told him what part of the city I wanted to stay in, he told me '10 rupees' (cheap) and off we went. Passing through the old city, over the bridge and into the new city, we checked three or four hotels within my desired price range (I had grown comfortable with 'cheap'), all of which were full - go figure. Sometimes I wonder if this wasn't just a part of another scam set up to charge me for a longer cab ride in what only seemed to be a desperate search for lodging. Although I suggested going to the south end, the driver assured me there would be no hotels there. Although my friend had assured me that there were indeed via text messages before my arrival, we scooted back across to the old city to the Hotel Serena and I secured a room. The driver then charged me 170 rupees. Sigh.

The room is okay - near but not right on the noisy street. Clear TV with Starz and HBO (anything other than Hallmark channel PLEASE!). I ordered room service for breakfast and hit the showers after a long day/night on the train. I found a nearby cyber cafe where they insisted on taking notes from my ID which I neglected to bring. I also had to take my shoes off in order to enter. I need those sandals bad. I hiked back to the hotel, got my ID, hiked back, took off my shoes and blogged. No one back home was up yet so I couldn't chat with anyone. I got caught up on the few emails I needed to answer and trekked back to my room in what was quickly becoming the afternoon sunshine.

I shaved my face, trimmed my eyebrow forest and fell asleep about 2:30 pm. I guess the train didn't let me rest all that well after all. My cell rang at 5, my friend calling to see about my well being. We planned to meet the following day for lunch. I wasn't feeling very energetic, probably a sign that I still needed to catch up on sleep and that I was a bit under the weather. So I spent the remainder of the evening watching what HBO termed their 'Top 10' romantic movies. "You've Got Mail", "Must Love Dogs", "Sleepless in Seattle", "When Harry Met Sally". "The Wedding Crashers" on Indian HBO is heavily edited which I appreciated in this particular case. I also finished watching 'Perfect Stranger' on my iPod. I had started it on the train but fell asleep during. My iPod was running out of juice and I need to get an adapter plug since the one I thought I had brought from Mumbai isn't in my luggage. I already had the adapter that would allow the iPod to charge from a wall plug.

The next afternoon my friend scooped me up and we got some coffee at Lucky's, the Muslim graveyard with a Hindu cafe built on top. Then we took lunch at an outdoor covered courtyard restaurant called Green House. This was just attached to an upscale hotel called House of MG or Agashiye. It was an amazing cocoon where you could sip cold lime and cilantro drinks in what felt like an entire world removed from the hustling city a few steps away. We them hopped a cab to the National Institute of Design where I was treated to an insiders tour (I was with a graduate). I had a really terrific time, met some friendly people and even had chai in ceramic cups beneath the shade of NID's gigantic trees. It was an all around wonderful day in Ahmedabad.

Tomorrow I am off once again to Mumbai for the very last leg of my trip.

Travel Journal - Entry 8

Overnight to Ahmedabad 2/13/2008
We have a 20 minute 'layover' in Jaipur to load food and replenish departing passengers. Having either been sitting or laying down for the past six hours I stepped out for a stroll down the platform. I bought some hot chai and walked back close to the carriage I was assigned to, sipping my tea until the train whistle yanked everyone inside like the rebound of a gigantic bungee jump.

Walking through back to my berth I noticed all of the Indian passengers eagerly but quietly supping on sumptuous local meals prepared in thin, foil-covered aluminium tins. (Regards to my Indian friends on the spelling and pronunciation of 'aluminium'). I recall the porter coming through earlier asking passengers questions and taking notes. I was not asked if I had wanted a meal however. Although the guy looked right at me as he questioned everyone else in Hindi, he passed me by. I found that odd, suspecting he was preparing for dinner but unsure since he would have indicated something to me, surely. Hmm.

Given the condition of my nose, however (don't forget my cold - nose is quite the drippy mess) I am in no condition to eat spicy food that would more rapidly expend my already dwindling supply of tissue. Since i am virtually at tissue's end I have become a conservator, ready to carry the sign and wear the t-shirt if it would mean I have enough to carry me onto my ultimate destination, Ahmedabad. Or is it Ahmadabad? Depends on who you ask. Anyways, I have taken to rolling up balls of tissue and shoving it up the offending nostril (in this case, right) in a bid to stem the avalanching tide of snot which has been more persistent than the all of the beggar children I have encountered.

I am going to take two Tylenol PM in order to sleep more comfortably. One is supposed to allow for 8 hours and I have roughly 11 ahead of me. Plus the chai and Nescafe will surely flow in the morning, in case I am too groggy to get off when I am supposed to.
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It is 7:30 AM, approximately 30 minutes to arrival. I haven't heard if we were running late or not and I probably won't if last night's dinner is any indication. The lower berths are already packed and ready to bolt once we land. The entire floor is filled with the bags of an older couple who took both sides of the bottom all the way from Delhi. Because there were several stops earlier, many passengers who started with us are gone. Many who did not start with us are now among us, waiting for our collective arrival at our final station. For now I am unable to collect my bags below one of the lowermost berths, chained and locked onto one of the rings welded to the train. This is done in order to be able to lug as much stuff off the train as one lugged onto it.

I remember being uncomfortably warm last evening beneath the thick woolly blanket the train provides this class of passenger. They give everyone two sheets as well should anyone wish to recreate the 'just like home' sleeping experience. I had kicked the blanket off me, but to the side of the berth that towered above the rest of the sleeping passengers in my compartment. At some point it tumbled to the floor, something I recall being vaguely aware of at the time but not enough to really know concern of any kind. When I became more cognoscente that I was missing my blanky some time later, I pulled one of the sheets from beneath my thin Indian train pillow to once again regain the comfort of covering up while sleeping in public. Of course I had on everything I'd worn on the train in the first place - green cargo climbing pants, maroon Old Navy fleece, maroon Campmor tee (sans shoes and socks) - but I felt that covering was the proper thing to do regardless.

Peeing does not yet seem to be a priority so as I wait for my chance to jump down and secure my belongings, I shall one last time seek the wisdom of the Lonely Planet guide to India and see what they have to say about lodging, transportation, food and what to watch our for in Ahmedabad.

Or is it Ahmadabad?

Travel Journal - Entry 7

Delhi 2/13/2008
When I was in Varanasi there had been a 'mad cow' running roughshod down some steps toward the river with its giant horned head swinging from side to side the whole way. I gave this demon creature a wide berth when I had to venture across the same stretch of walkway it had decided to stop and wait for me on. The same thing happened this morning, only this time there were two berserk dogs in hot pursuit. The narrow walkway betwixt buildings here is just about wide enough for a cow chased by dogs to run down unscathed. No so for the weary traveler who happens to be sharing the same walkway, however. I stepped up into a doorway and let them pass.

All part of the show folks...

I awoke this morning stuffed up. Confirmation of my previous concerns that I have caught some cold. Hope this clears up soon as I just felt like staying in bed today. This is the first sign of illness this trip.

Indian shoe shops and street kiosks do not have my show size. I was looking for slip on closed-toed alternatives those heavy sneakers I brought along with me. I tire of having to removed them at every turn and will give them away if I can find suitable replacements. These are the sturdy warriors that have been with me through thick and thin. They have stepped in all manner of excrement - yesterday at least twice. Yuk, I know. I also seemed to have 'rubbed against' some when I got lost last night, a big brown blecchh clinging to the side of my shoe as I walked through the hotel lobby and up the stairs before I finally noticed the shoey-gooey along for the ride.

This next portion was blogged previously, however as it now appears in my log have decided to include it again here, a little different than before.

Last night I had the bright idea of going out into the dark streets to take photographs of the goings on in Delhi at night. Leaving the hotel with a great deal of confidence, the bazaar still had open brightly lit shops with people walking up and down the street in search of something to buy. Not knowing exactly what I was looking for I went to the end of the street, turned a corner and proceeded to become a little bit confused as to where I had started. These streets already look similar in the day. At night they look identical to me. Not to worry, my compass seemed to work in Mumbai so I figured I could take a shortcut between buildings to find my way back onto the street where my hotel is. And so I did, down a dimly lit alley offset by the staggered setting of buildings so you couldn't see exactly where you were going to end up, just that you could keep going if you thought it was a good idea. Apparently I thought it was.

For about an hour I wandered the alleys searching for my hot shower and thin foam bed. Some paths revealed men hovering over small personal fires for warmth, others had folks walking in the same direction as I was so I would follow them. I figured following someone who seemed to know their way around might help me find my way back onto a street. Some pathways had no light to speak of and many, I discovered to my dismay, were simply dead-ends. I could tell how much I wasn't liking this because it was freezing cold and I was soaked with perspiration.

One dead end offered a territorial dog that growled menacingly as we circled one another, me trying to get back on the 'get me outtahere' side of the beast while it was no doubt sizing me up to determine which part of my body might yield the most meat. I am not too sure how I got into position but once I had a clear shot I took my leave...walking calmly since I didn't want to provoke a chase, but quickly all the same. I walked faster when I heard the pitter patter of tiny toe-nailed feet behind me. When I finally reached the street two dogs shot out past me and into the darkness - sentries of my previous nemesis sent to escort me off the premises.