Pricing

This was my second to last day in India. Tomorrow late I would fly out of Mumbai International, back, back in time toward Atlanta, Georgia for a 6 hour layover on my way to California and everything good I left behind 3 weeks ago.

I spent the day on what is known as the Colaba Causeway. Going there causes you to spend money. Lots of money. Block after block after block there are set up longs rows of booths, carts, blankets, tables, re appropriated planters etc, etc, etc, filled with goods for the sale. Everything imaginable. Windows Vista for $4 anyone? I didn't see anything Autodesk but I am sure all I would have had to do was ask. How about a hand woven silk shawl with a brown/gold pattern of elephants, camels, birds and trees? They 'give you good price'! Shirts? No problem - popular Bollywood franchises are well represented in poster, sticker and t-shirt. Hand made jewelry, but you want to avoid the plastic stuff. Need drugs? Wander the streets long enough and pretty soon a whispering shadow just behind your left shoulder hisses in your ear, "Hashhhhhhhh?".

I had some fun with the 'hashers'. I took their quiet tones and brought them out into the real world by conversing with them - normally as one should converse in public - about just exactly what it was that clued them into my dire need for hash. Should I buy it even though I am not a smoker now, and if so, did they believe it would be in my best interest to start here and now. Good for my health? Of course not knowing most of anything that I was saying they would walk along with me since at least I was responding - negatively was probably better than the blow off they usually were accustomed to - smiling and nodding until I just walked away from them, always to the cry of "Sir! Sir!" fading into the sunset

Books. OMG anything you ever wanted AND in any condition! Grisham's newest book is in paperback here 'For Sale on the Indian Subcontinent Only' was emblazoned on the back. Not wanting to disappoint anyone I bought it. I also got a book of short stories by Indian writers. Something I would probably would have had a great deal of trouble finding in the US. Incense, DVD's, cigars, shades. Gaudy bling, handmade bags and totes, leather wallets and purses, shoes of every sort (except apparently size 12, US). It's just a darned good thing there was an ATM ready, willing and able to spit Rupees out at me when I needed them. Because I needed them.

Everything here was negotiable. They tell you one price, you act shocked. You tell them half that price, they act shocked. It's all part of the game. I learnt to play it while I was here but could use more practise. Instead of going back and forth, back and forth to eventually land up on the price I wanted, I would hit my price early and begin to walk off to the protests of the merchant - but was usually called back to give it to me at almost the price I named. "Okay, wrap it up," were the instructions given to the grunt nearby in feigned defeat. Shocked, I would walk away in disgust. Finally, once again, I would be called back over to be awarded the price I had offered. I didn't want to make the exercise unprofitable for the merchant while at the same time I was negotiating for all those times I had been ripped earlier by others. Karma.

It was a good way to spend the day I even had a Washington Apple (for 2 rupees!!?? I was shocked!!). Later that night a friend was treating me to dinner so I had to get back and shower I will tell you more when I am back in the states!

Sunday in Mumbai. What a contrast to the rest of the week. I had forgotten how empty the streets became when no one had to rush off to work. It was like I was in a dream. The fuzzy edged kind where the brights are extra shiny, as if people were angels walking together on a cool breezy sunny afternoon. Weird, huh?

Anyone who has ever been to a summertime Farmer's Market will get what I am talking about. It's as if a slice of Americana was dropped right here in the middle of the Indian subcontinent. And I was eating it up like it was chocolate ice cream.

The sun was up. The weather was mild. The breeze was helpful in policing the humidity. I was back in my jeans after ten days of travel. And a Hawaiian shirt. Sandals (with socks). Tourist written all over my forehead. I didn't care. I was hypnotized by the family atmosphere that seemed to have replaced the usual urban confusion with a peaceful strolling calm. Families. They were out in force. Dads and moms, kids in tow. Groups of friends, men and women. Walking up and down the sidewalk chatting, laughing, eating, shopping.

I think I have mentioned how the trees here so perfectly cover some of the roads. Ageless behemoths spreading their cool foliage over the crowds below. Thick trunks entwined with themselves, roots surfacing and diving down the sidewalks and streets; mossy vines reaching down to touch the earth, cut short just above head-level (for me). It made me think of lemonade. Actually I had a drink in Ahmedabad made from lime juice and cilantro. Wow. I wanted that again.

I got lost of course. Eventually made my way back around to Barista. You will remember this epiphany of mine from an earlier blog. Filter coffee. Muffins, etc. Today I had arrived about noon so I chose to eat one of their Chicken Tikka sandwiches. When else would I have the opportunity so why not now. It came toasted and was yummmm. The coffee was yummm too. All adding top one of the most perfect days of my trip so far.

Then, because I was on my way to meet up with another friend here, I got two baked items from the shoppe as a gift and hailed a cab to whisk me away. Even the streets from the perspective of inside a fire-breathing-bat-out-of-hell taxi was one of extreme calm. No one was on the streets. The cabby and I had even had a conversation about it. As best we could. The little stretch of freeway was like a long skinny runway without any planes. The view of the city through the buildings passing by was that of streets crowded with people. For nearly as long as it took me to get from one side of this huge city to the other, it was all the same. People out. Together. Doing things. It was Sunday after all.

The shops were all open, the street vendors were out in all of their merchandising glory. Jewelry, shoes, clothing, the freshest of vegetables, chaat carts, travel bags, nearly anything you ever wanted could be found today. In more than one place.

I was up quite late last night. Had the best time talking and drinking tea. I drink tea now? With buffalo milk and sugar. Chai. Hee hee. You really have to here. It just works. Had a chocolate muffin and then some coffee. Another friend dropped by. We all talked and laughed. We made dinner. Butter chicken. With naan and roti (just in case). Chole something - don't ask because I won't know - which is made with chickpeas. All in what was simply one of the most satisfying Sunday meals I can remember. Finally got back into a cab after 1 AM for the long drive back to my hotel.

The streets were still empty. Now there weren't of all the people on the sidewalks either. Little darkened boxy cabs were parked nearly everywhere all along the route we took. Some had their inside light on. A sign they were for hire. But really I doubted anyone would be by. Not anytime soon. It was a wonderful Sunday in Mumbai. People had to rest up for tomorrow.

Privilege

Good morning! Today is Sunday, February 17th. It's about 11:00 AM. I just got into Mumbai last night via train. First Class train I might add. I have never experienced First Class anything except the mail. Flying has always been Coach. Too expensive any other way for my budget. But the Ashram Express from Ahmedabad to Mumbai was First Class all the way! A real bargain for only $33.

This was only an express in the most general sense of the term. We stopped at several stations along the route. We expressed in between them. The First Class car has airplane style seats but with more leg room than a theatre with stadium seats. Thick, red and cushy these chairs were definitely worth the cost of admission.

As we were expressing, I thought back to my very first overland journey here on the Indian subcontinent. It was the night bus to Agra. The big bus that thought it was a little taxi. The bus that was the camel blasting through the eye of too many needles to recount. The bus where, in the dark, I had vivid thoughts of pirate and thugs lying in wait to relive me of my precious JanSport EuroSak and everything it contained (two pairs of pants, 4 t-shirts, 5 prs socks, 7 boxers and some soap). Big booty. The bus would become suddenly loud and unruly, making me hunch closer to my prized possessions, just in case it was a diversion. After a exhausting five-something hour ordeal I arrived worn and weary.

First Class on the train was a different animal altogether. Air conditioned. Small TV screens ever other row pointing back to we could all see them. Hindi TV is big here. Go figure. When they began to show old Tom and Jerry type cartoons is when I perked up. I immediately got acquainted with my surroundings when I sat down. My seat reclined. Nice. I am not big on reclining in a train but it was certainly something I had no intention of ever doing on that bus. The train had a wisely placed foot rest that would flip into one of two positions. The closest was the one I found to be the most satisfying on this long journey.

To my great surprise there was also free food service. I was offered first a tall bottle of mineral water, chilled, with a paper cup should I be a pinky drinker. Then I was offered a glass of very cold, thick, juicy nectar of some sort. Which I promptly gulped down. As everyone was getting this I was relatively certain this was not a continuing scheme of the band of bus pirates.

A man carrying a stack of books came down the aisle, stopping to ask if I would like to choose one. I already had my own book and let him know. He carried on. People bought his books. There was poetry, fiction, business, travel - those were the ones in English that I saw.

Soon a man came by offering a snack tray which I graciously accepted. There was a Nestle Munch bar (wafers covered in chocolate), a small bag of salted cashews, a small but adequate bag of chaat made from fried lentils, a small rectangular shaped piece of candy (I think) yellow, sweet and gellish with nuts in it. I ate it. People were watching. Of the choice of coffee or tea, this time I chose coffee. So I was given the ubiquitous demitasse cup in a saucer, a small pitcher of hot water and three packets from which I could concoct the milky sweet coffee that I have had in the south quite often: Nescafe, powdered creamer (another Nestle product) and a HUGE packet of sugar. Too much sugar actually. I used only a fraction.

Later on they brought tomato soup. In a bowl with the kind of spoon you get with your soupy noodles in a Chinese restaurant. There were breadsticks with this and a roll with butter.

Then they brought dinner. I will describe it but I cannot name it.

There were two larger foil tins: one with a yellowish spicy clearish sauce with kidney beans in it and unnamed cooked down veges. Spicy and yummy I spooned this over my rice and ate it with a spoon. A real metal one this time. I was given naan but the train proved to be severe enough challenge to civilized eating without having to use hands - scooping sauce and rice up with the naan, then effectively finding my mouth without dropping most of it on my lap, chair and the floor. I felt like I was using chopsticks in a hilariously wrong manner (which I do) while having a Chinese meal in a Chinese restaurant. In China. Surrounded by bemused Chinese.

There was also a smaller tin of spicy boiled potatoes and another of spicy sauce (spicy sauce it huge here) with either tofu or some kind of cheese, I wasn't certain which. Of course we always get little packets of spicy this or pickled that which I never touch for fear of making a bigger fool out of myself than I already have. I might squeeze the pickled whatever onto the thing-a-ma-jiggy, and it doesn't go there. It might be like opening little packets of sugar and pouring them all over your pepperoni pizza for all I know. So I stick to the safety of 'no condiments'.

There was also a little tub of 'milk curd' which I though might either be yogurt or something I would mix with something else I had already eaten. Cooking with yogurt is also big here. However deeper inspection of the carton only gave me information I already knew - it was milk curd in a small carton. I left it alone too. As if all this gastronomy was not enough, they then came down the aisle handing out bananas. Real ones that had ripened on some nearby nearby. Exquisite.

Afterward the porter came by yet again. This time with small tubs of ice cream. I knew this one. Proudly. They were small, round and had that icy crust on the outsides. Plus we were given the tell-tale wooden spoons. YAY. It read Butter Scotch on the lid. I hate butterscotch anything. So I pulled open the lid and eagerly dug in. It was rock hard. I tried again. Still rock hard. I looked at the guy to my left. He was going from his mouth down for a second dig. What the..? The guy on my right, same thing. I was the only white guy in the car and apparently the only person not eating ice cream. The only person with a wooden spoon that was threatening to break into a thousand splinters if I forced it any harder than I already was doing. Perhaps the bus pirates had put the train people up to this by way of revenge for my rigid watchfulness that caused them to come up empty handed on that fateful night not so long ago. Still I tried digging for gold.

Then, unexpectedly, the carton began to crush a little under the strain of my careful yet determined digs. As this happened, the edge of the ice cream hockey puck pushed up and out a little bit. In a dim stroke of genius that only a desperate yet comfortable tourist could hope to achieve I used the spoon to further stand the puck on end. Then, holding the bottom half with the crushed carton, I took a bite. Like I would have a cookie. I felt a little embarrassed that I finished before anyone else. Like a tough quiz when the smart kids were still struggling.

The bus was hell. Hot, cramped, uncomfortable, tired but not daring to sleep. On previous sleeper-trains I had to lock my bags beneath the seats. In the First Class car of the Ashram Express, no one wanted my pathetic boxes. And I took two naps before the first stop.

Poo Poo

A reader who has been to third world countries has been keeping up on my blog. In correspondence she has mentioned that there are things I have left out of the descriptions of my travels. One of these things is the peculiar odor one encounters when walking the streets of just about any city. To me it is no longer a ghastly surprise whenever I see a man turned, back toward the street, urinating. In public. I mean when you gotta go you gotta go. And so they do. While this is the easiest to accept for me it does not stop there. Yesterday I saw a baby squatting in the street. Diapers must be used little if at all in some places here and besides the bovine excrement one must also strive to avoid the human piles as well.

Yesterday, as if mocking the poo poo gods, I purchased my first pair of Indian sandals. My white leather tennies have been through enough and I have ample room in my luggage now that I can effectively tote them safely home. I have toyed with the idea of giving them away to someone in more need of them than I. But if the poor unfortunate to whom they are bequeathed ever enters a temple (or cybercafe) where one is required to remove their shoes he had best be prepared to spend a good amount of time to do so. Frankly I passed up a visit to the Monkey Temple in Agra simply because I was so tired of having to take my shoes off everywhere I went. Half my vacation has been spent untying, removing, replacing and then retying my bloody American shoes. Damn the poo poo gods, I'm wearing sandals from now on!

The people here seem to be much more kind and open in general. I took a short walk around the block yesterday to buy a few items (sandals, batteries, popcorn) and encountered only friendly curious faces for the most part. Many smiles and some hellos. Tolerance seems more available here. Yesterday I had coffee at a curious spot called Lucky's. This was an open ended cafe with a tree growing up and out of the middle of it, snaking its way through the roof and toward the sky; its twisted trunk being assisted by man-made supports. That wasn't the odd part however. The odd part was the little bright green rectangular tombs ordered about in rows and cemented into the floor. Each tomb was fenced by white metal bars so the diners did not inadvertently walk on any one's remains. This was a Muslim graveyard. It was a Hindu cafe. Tolerance. Go figure.

I met a friend for some chai on the courtyard of the National Institute of Design here in Ahmedabad. The foliage covering and surrounding the campus makes it an oasis in the heart of the new city. The school is a buzz with talent and training students in nearly any creative field you can think of. My friend had studied animation there and is a talented artist and writer. She is a published children's illustrator and is currently working on another book project. I dropped off a Fresno Starbucks mug so maybe we'll see it in a kids book someday.

I am staying next to a cybercafe that seems to be having issues. Each time I went to see if it was working, it wasn't. For two days (so far). So I am currently typing in another one down the road and around the corner. The keyboard is functional but many of the letters are missing from the keys so my hunt-n-peck sensibilities are being severely taxed. Apologies for uncorrected typos. Today is Saturday February 16, about noon. I have passage to Mumbai booked for today's afternoon train so I shall sign out for now. See you in Mumbai!!

After a 17 1/2 hour train journey I decided that I will travel First Class if by train I must arrive in Mumbai. Sheesh. I met a San Fran software developer on the platform. She was looking for her berth,. Mine was posted clearly on my ticket. Hers, however, was not. Turns out she is in the car attached to mine only First Class. The difference is that of a short naugahyde sofa to a thick plush sectional. I took two Tylenol PM and went to bed. On the naugahyde.

Okay so well I am in Ahmedabad. Arrived at 8 this morning and am securely placed in the Hotel Serena for about $13/nt. Had a wonderfully spicy masala omelet with milk coffee upon arrival ($1.13) and took a hot shower. Had to get TP however from the 'chemist' (pharmacy) down the street. Also got some cold tabs that I needed yesterday. I had TP stuck up my nostril on the train so I didn't post nasal drip all over everything. Sigh.

Well today is February 14th, Valentines Day even in India. I shall have to give my friends leave to be romantic if they choose instead of meeting up with me. I shall have time to take a rickshaw and explore a bit. I already have given the hotel my laundry which will be back this evening but I do not recall the last time I shaved...probably two or three days ago. I have a battery operated razor but also a blade which I have used as much to catch up whenever I forget for a few days. Like now. I have decided to not change the publish date/time of this blog in order to let everyone see the time difference. As you can see it will be 13 1/2 hours behind what I am actually experiencing,

The Times of India has been an interesting read every time I have picked it up. Written in English it covers the news stories from all over the country. The Monday I pulled out from Varanasi I read that some guy building a bomb had blown himself up there. On Sunday. In Varanasi. Oops. I didn't hear anything. Last week a hotel here in Ahmedabad that had been listing eventually fell in on itself. It's 32 rooms were at capacity. Mine seems sturdy enough. Mumbai has some political unrest surrounding some glory seeking politicians inflammatory remarks which sparked violence. They wanted to arrest him but feared more of the same. I though I would rather they did all that while I was out, honestly. It seems they complies because the news this morning was the this guy had posted bail. Interesting times. Thankfully I seem to be missing all the trouble. The big news today is that India's equivalent of the TSA is pushing to have the ability to 'take out' hijacked planes if there is conclusive evidence that it will be used as a weapon, a la 9/11. I believe this is already law, the push is to be able to take them out without protocol.

Here are a few memories. I was walking the ghats in Varanasi when this burro was standing on one of the upper steps leading down to the water. I stopped and sat next to it, readying my camera when I noticed it was hobbled; front leg tied by rope to back leg. I figured it belonged to someone. Turns out the women by the river didn't appreciate me taking a snap of their burro. And told me so. I walked away. Would have run if I had to. Don't think saree wearing old women could beat me in a race to safety. Exceedingly glad I didn't have to test the theory.

It was a holiday in Varanasi and there were paintings and sculpture, food and drink and things to buy everywhere on the ghats. More than there usually are. This particular fellow who reminds me of Stromboli from Pinocchio caught me looking at his wares and began cooking for me, unbidden. If I was ever going to dive into street food why not now? He took two potato paste patties and flattened them down in some hot oil on his really wide wok-like grill. Adding this and that (don't ask me what) he flipped them, added more stuff, two spoons and told me to have a seat on the ghat steps behind him. It was yummy. Potato Aloo. Spicy with some sweet syrupy sauce on it too. Filled me up.

Part of the holiday ritual was having various worship places erected around where I was staying. To much noise and celebration. Loud music blaring from speakers in the streets. You get enough guys banging on little drums and it sounds like the train is passing through. These happy children were taking part in a parade. Either they were playing the part of whoever they were or they really wanted to be somewhere else. These boys following behind seemed cheerful enough.

I love the mannequins here. They all seem really annoyed at something...


Scary Kung-Fu baby mannequin. Anyone wanna babysit? Brrr.

Precise

My dad gave me a great idea this morning. He said that I should probably put the time and place of my posts because with all my moving about it's a little difficult to keep it in perspective. I should actually have been doing this all along. So beginning today I will start each post with where I happen to be writing from and the local time. This blog is set to PST so it will read that I am posting in the wee hours of the morning most of the time. Today is Wednesday, February 13th, 2008. It is about 11 am.

This afternoon at 3:00 I am off to Ahmedabad by train. I believe it arrives at 8 am tomorrow morning but I get a lower berth. Because there is only one berth above me it is higher than the 3-ply berths I have been on to date and so I should be able to sit up anytime I choose. Cool. I found out this morning however that I have to go across town to the OTHER train station (Old Delhi). Glad I checked.

I went out last night after a dinner of pizza and beer to photograph some of the goings on that stretch into the evening. Although I only have a Kodak Easy Shot or whatever the heck it is I was shown it can actually take descent pictures so long as you understand its limitations. So off I went.

I am staying in the main bazaar so there is shop after shop after shop after shop for blocks and blocks and blocks around my hotel. Each shop had someone standing inside the door inviting you in with some greeting or another. Some of these guys even fake accents to lure your attention. It's funny. I have been up and down the street enough just in this past day that I recognize many of them and they me. I told a few I am not interested in talking to them and this fact comes up again whenever I walk past. This morning I told one guy he is up early. He told me early is good and that I didn't want to talk to him. Not stopping there however, his rant continued long after I had rounded the corner.

Back to last night. Anyone who knows me well knows I cannot find my way out of a 7/11 after dark. If I have to find some place after sunset it's a sure bet that I will only get more lost. This talent sparked last night blazing into full splendor. Following the bazaar I rounded a corner and walked down another street. Taking a few snaps I decided to head back to where I had come from. Alleys here abound and a shortcut had to be around. Taking a path between two buildings I found myself in a maze of walkways going off into every direction. Some were dark. Some were dead ends. Some were filled with men around a fire. I saw a cow warming itself beside a fire a group of men had built. Of course one couldn't know where the path lead unless won walked that path to its conclusion. Once I followed a family threading through, left, right, left until they came out onto an unfamiliar street. Once a dog was not happy to have me in its vicinity and growled menacingly effectively communicating this fact to me. I backed away slowly as it barred its teeth, sniffing the air. It was walking toward me so I didn't want to make any sudden movements. When I was far enough I turned and walked hurriedly toward the far end of the particular maze I had happened into. There was something following me. I didn't check to see what it was, I just kept walking. Fast. At the street I turned and two dogs shot past, probably sentries sent by their kingpin to make sure I wasn't coming back.

About an hour later I saw a hotel I had checked out earlier in the day so I knew I was close. Walking toward the big red and white 'Lord Krisha Hotel' sign I spotted the glorious 'Hotel Shelton' and knew I was safe.

This morning it was a different German bakery. The usual didn't have coffee. Not certain why. At the other one I ordered what they call a large pot - a little more than a Venti probably, and a small cinnamon roll. This for about $2.40.

Okay well I wanted to add a map so anyone could pop it up and see where in the country I happened to be. I tried to edit it and put arrows on it but it did not convert correctly so you're going to have to look for the places. I started out in Mumbai (Jan 31 - Feb 6) about halfway up on the west coast. Then I took a flight to Delhi and took a bus down to Agra (Feb 6 to Feb 8). Then the train east to Varanasi (Feb 9 - Feb 11). The train yesterday back to Delhi (Feb 12-13). Today the train the Ahmedabad (Feb 14-15). Then off once again to finish up in Mumbai on Feb 16 and flying home Feb 20th.

See you all in Ahmedabad!

Power

I had sort of 'forgotten' just how uncomfortable the train can be. On a long trip. Overnight. Trying to sleep. In a crowded car of people who whisper yelling. The noise I can tolerate. I can handle the light as well. I have Alcatraz that pulls neatly over my eyes making it instantly night time 24 hours a day. I also had those pinchy foam earplugs that expand in your ear filling in any possible route for ubiquitous noise to filter through. Only important noise filters with these babies.

Surprisingly the train came on time. As it pulled into Varanasi I was certain this was the train that was to depart just before mine. As if I was in an airport and this was all as easy as moving an airplane a little to the left so the rest of us could squeeze past to ours. Thinking this way was a learned habit. The flight to Mumbai from JFK - 4 hours late. The flight from Mumbai to Delhi (first time) - 1 hour delayed. The train from Agra to Varanasi - 1 hour late. But no, this was my train. Sleeper car B1, berth 5 (yeah the top one again, on the very end, same as last time). I was already friends with the light and fan so it was like a reunion. This time the car steward passed out sheets and blankets as if to mock us all with the impossibility of ever getting comfortable enough to get a nights sleep.

I lay on my back because up here one does not sit up. I read. I thought. I ate stuff. I bought chai and Nescafe. I napped. I read. I ate stuff. I bought chai and Nescafe. I napped. For 17 hours. I do not believe I have lost any weight, in case I haven't mentioned this before. Too much time to read, think and eat.

Back in Varanasi I met a Scottish MD who had been here on business. This was his 5th trip and you could tell. He carried only one medium sized backpack and an umbrella. We spoke for a bit when he asked me if this was the train to Delhi. Luckily he caught up with me in New Delhi Station itself and offered to to coach me on the ways of getting through the gauntlet in one piece. As it turns out hotels are within easy walking distance of the train, something I was surely not going to learn from the crafty snakes and thieves driving rickshaws and cabs. There is this feeling of power you experience when you refuse to fall for the misdirections of pirates. Here no one speaks to you in a friendly manner unless they want something from you. Guilty until proven trustworthy, I now say. Finally, down a skinny thoroughfare lined by shops and hotels just stretching and yawning before opening up for the day, we parted ways. Me to a second story hotel room with running hot and cold water and HBO close to the train for $16 and he to the Intl Airport for an early flight home to Scotland.

I am close to a German bakery again. You really have to admire those Germans. No doubt they went through a lot to put all these bakeries over here in India. Like the Catholics did for missions up the coast of California. Now hungry pilgrims from all over the world can have a danish and real coffee on the cheap. After checking into my hotel I went down for a spot of breakfast, Spanish Omelet, they were calling it. Came with spicy large cut potatoes and real coffee. Less than $2.00. However about halfway through the meal all the power went out. Blip! Darkness. A gasp arose from the crowded dining room. Just then someone started up a very loud generator, the lights came back up and less than 30 seconds later we continued as if nothing had happened. Just some new noise. Whatever.

This place has a coffee grinder, I saw it with my own two eyes. I am in their Internet cafe right now dreaming of my next cup of real coffee. I will be no doubt venture on over for a cup once I am finished here. Tomorrow afternoon, 3:30 PM my time and 2 AM PST, I shall be off to Ahmedabad, this time I have friends where I am going so it should be good. See you there!

Pilgrims

Sunrise on the Ganga is a thing of beauty to behold. In the darkness of early morning I made my way back down to the ghats where I had been so assaulted yesterday by the boatmen wanting to ply their trade for my benefit. This morning I intended to let one have his way. I wanted to journey out onto the river and see the event for myself.

The air was cold, a symptom of the chill that has thrown itself like a snowy blanket over the north of the country, particularly in the west where avalanches have killed dozens of people and cut the area off from the rest of India.
I had my fleece over a t-shirt and Alcatraz pulled low to my eyebrows. Navigating in the dim light I am reminded of the times this trip I had been paying more attention to the city than the road I shared with sacred cows and bulls. Mistake. So I was watching for anything dark and roundish so as to step around it. Stepping down to the river, at its lowest point of the year, I negotiated with a boatman for an hour of his time and off we went.

Rowing slowly he spoke in broken English to fill in historical blanks he knew I had concerning certain areas of shoreline, buildings, temples and further landmarks. While not everything was understandable, I received everything with a smile and a nod. This was a gesture I learned from ordering food in the restaurants here. The waiters do it. The river was still since I was one of the first boats of the day. A few fishermen were working their nets. As dawn approached old men and women were beginning to make their way down to the waters edge. Some were starting their laundry early, others dishes but most were there to bathe in the sacred water of the Ganga and to pray as the sun rose over the horizon. It would have to be only that which would convince me a man would walk into that freezing, incredibly dirty water in the chill of early morning. Many believe they are granted remission of sins for doing so. Others believe it must be only on certain occasions. The certain occasion people stayed in bed this morning.

I was far more interested in the flat of the calm water than anything the shoreline had to offer. The mist on the far bank hid the brightness of the sun as it started to peek over the horizon, slowly sliding up and up until fully visible but still enveloped in the mist, all faithfully mirrored by the still water. Soon however the water became crowded with all sizes of boats. There were couple in smaller rowed skiffs like the one I had all the way up to African Queen style boats motoring up and down in front of the ghats and all the activity they contained.


My hour was up about now however and I was able to get a cup of filter (real) coffee, a spectacularly baked cinnamon roll (the Germans have influenced baking here) and a cheese omelet for about $3.50. Tomorrow I am off to Delhi by train in the afternoon, to arrive early the next morning. I will try to post before that but if I don't get a chance, see you there!

Pirates

It was a two hour flight from Mumbai into the seething den of piracy known as New Delhi. The cab which was to take me to the domestic airport however, as I have found with most of the drivers in India, he didn't know the city well enough to realize there was a difference between the international and domestic air terminal. Pulling up to the wrong airport, already late due to traffic and stopping too many times to ask for directions, we were redirected, this time in Hindi by the guard on the drive through street. I made mention that I was late to the annoyance of the cabby but frankly I didn't care if he was annoyed. Faster, faster. When we got to the correct terminal I was told that I owed him "500 rupees". I asked to check the card (a standard drivers carry so the innocents don't get ripped off) and found I only owed 250. Grrr. I threw him the bills and dashed off to check in.

Finding that my flight had been delayed and hour I had time to get a coffee and slice of sweet bread at the Cafe Coffee Day booth in the nice new looking terminal. The difference between the international and the domestic terminals was staggering to me. The first terminal looked and felt dirty and over used, like maintenance couldn't ever keep up with the task of changing light bulbs and sweeping floors. The second port, while obviously newer, was like a breath of fresh air. Clean, shining floors, organized lines everywhere, clear instructions for travelers, and a fine coffee bar ready to serve.

Once on the plane however (Goair) they had us sitting there for a good 20 minutes without any air circulation. The uber-statuesque female and male attendants were chattering amongst themselves seemingly unaware of the hundreds of brown arms reaching up to see if their air flow was working or not. None were. Once we were in the air it was better of course. I had a vegetable sandwich (butter on a roll with marinated carrots and green beans in it)and a bottle of mineral water. You have to pay for this (taking cues from US airlines). They also have this bidding thing they do, I guess in lieu of a movie or something. There was a fold up sheet in the pocket of the seat in front of me with items like a Swiss Army watch and a Jansport shoulder bag, etc. You would write your bid on it (how many rupees you were willing to pay for it) and then the three top bidders got to buy that item before they got off the flight. This was a weird sort of HSC meets Delta experience. I just couldn't change the channel.

Finally I touched down in the pit of vipers; the den of pirates itself, New Delhi. Actually modern day pirates are everywhere here. It seems to be the national pastime next to cricket. All of the 'help' in Delhi I should have received was really a lazy attempt to get back to chai while touts were swarming to mislead me for their own gain. I was successful in my attempts to thwart many of them but the 'government tourist booth' in the terminal and the tourist police outside the New Delhi train station were sad emblems of authority. The Tourist Police are there to make certain the touts do not misdirect you, having a knowledge of the means and methods necessary to do what you need to have done. This one handed me back over to a tout who misled me across town into a fake government tourist office who couldn't get me on any train because he 'couldn't access the website'. Riiiiight.

I made instead for the bus terminal. Well not a terminal really but a corner of town that closely resembled a bazaar with rickety buses on one side of the road. I was told to board a bus and it would take me to Agra. I did and it did, for only Rp 120, which was one quarter of the charge it had taken me to get this far already since I had landed. The bus to Agra was a 5 hour ordeal replete with pirates and paranoia. I did however make it (past midnight) to the hotel I was booked at (yay) after walking for two blocks in the dark after a rickshaw ride through the scary narrow alleys in a developing third world country. Woohoooo. All Photos in this post were taken here in Agra. So yes, I am here and I did survive the ordeal.

Pioneering

This morning I head north. My flight on GoAir into Delhi will whisk me away from the weird yet strangely comfortable surroundings that I have grown used to these past 6 days and drop me in the middle a city ripe with touts ready to take advantage of me at every turn as I attempt to make my way south to Agra before this evening.

I am not however going where no man has gone before and I have read all my Lonely Planet instructions and have a vague idea of what I am going to have to do once on the ground. Look for something prepaid that will either take me to the bus, which leaves every 30 minutes for Agra in a five and a half hour ordeal for about $5 - or something that will take me all the way into Agra from the airport, for a reasonable price of course. Whichever way it turns out, I will have made my way there by the time you all log in for the next entry. Stay tuned, it's bound to be something you're not going to want to miss! Hee hee.

The other day while I was lost on the streets of Mumbai I was drawn back into a musical instrument store that I wandered past.I knew that I was going to ask for a small travel-type guitar. After strumming a few, I settled on one in particular which had a nice sound (not all guitars are created equal). I left and thought about the whole idea of taking a guitar with me up north. The hassle of carrying it around vs the joy of having it handy whenever I wanted it.The weird part is that I have three guitars under my bed back in Fresno that I haven't touched in a year or so. But now, here in Mumbai (and after seeing that concert/playing guitar in Barista) I seemed to feel like I couldn't do without. And so, about $50 later I present to you:

As a true pioneer I have some prepared for anything. At least for my bald head. I have been sporting that hi-tech mesh ball cap which worked well on hip, chic Marine Drive. It would have been a bit out of place (and definitely uber-touristy) to wear the safari hat, and it hasn't been cold enough to wear the beanie, Delhi however has been having unseasonably cold weather as has the entire north. I am looking forward to it, honestly. The lodging sans A/C is cheaper that it already would have been. Maybe the sun will make an appearance and I can go on safari in the northern Indian desert. More than likely I think it will be Alcatraz getting some much needed publicity around the Taj Mahal tomorrow...

Performance

One of my friends here in Mumbai had planned an evening in which she could introduce me to her pending boyfriend - well her friend that's a boy and from what I have heard so far I already approve - but not an official boyfriend...yet. We were to meet up at the Blue Frog, Mumbai's live music hot spot for the young and the young at heart (good thing the second one was okay).

I had no idea who we were off to see but was told we had to arrive early or else risk not getting in at all. Arriving, we ordered a couple of Kingfisher beers, the home-grown libation here, and made our way to the floor. The inside is set up like an amphitheatre: an open floor surrounded by a curved wall of rounded out circular burrows at varying levels in which were tables to sit and order dinner (take the virtual tour available at the Frog site for exact details). A bit pricey, we opted to eat at a nice place afterwards.

Things were supposed to have started at 7:00 but the star was stuck in traffic (which I knew all about) so we waited and talked. Her man had text'd that he couldn't make the Frog but would make dinner (he does media spots for MTV India) if he could get out of work. I told her to tell him he had better hurry up, she was talking to a tall white guy holding a couple of beers.

I watched as the stage began to take shape. There were moving graphics of light above the stage all along the wall; translucent doves flying between tall green trees against a blue sky background with rolling clouds. People were busily arranging mics and such all across the platform, red lights making the atmosphere all the more 'night club'. I knew that while I was indeed on what appeared to be the dance floor, there was not a snowball's chance in Texas that I was actually going to dance. But I wondered if anyone else was going to.

The centerpiece of the whole setup was a couple of drums, obviously Indian, set on the floor upon red Maharaja-esque round pillows. Another set of various exotic drums were on stands off to my left, a veritable percussion section, while a standard drum set was placed all the way to the right. A keyboard was also in place. Electricity filled the air.

Suddenly the crowd threw up a deafening cheer as a small man dressed in white with a Gene Wilder hairdo (only darker) stepped out from the wings. Taking his place in behind the center set of drums he began to play. They were sound checking but that didn't matter, it was an amazing sound. Soon the other players came out and joined in to what became an impromptu 5 minute jam, with various participants looking past the heads of the crowd while pointing to a particular monitor and then thumbing up or down to the sound man in the back. Luckily I had my FLIP cam that annoyed so many of my co-workers last fall and it was put to good use now.

The guy in the middle? His name is Zakir Hussain, an internationally renown classical tabla virtuoso. Before tonight I didn't even know what a tabla was save for street vendors who insist I have my own set. Everyone one on stage was famous in their own right, apparently. But the best (at least for me) was yet to come.

Zakirs father, Ustad Alla Rakha, was a also very famous tabla instrumentalist in his own right. This past Sunday Zakir had observed the anniversary of his father's passing by holding a tribute concert in his honor featuring other artists at the top their respective fields from around the world. Included in this were America's own Bela Fleck and Edgar Meyer, two Americana artists that I have long admired; Bela on the banjo and Edgar on the stand-up bass. I own everything they have ever recorded together, and nearly everything they have recorded separately. OMG, when Zakir announced who 'just happened to be in the neighborhood' I nearly fainted. Here I was in Mumbai, half a world away from home, and about 10 feet away from a collection of the best musicians alive today.

Dude!!

This is the blurb from the Frog's web site:
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SPECIAL EVENT: Mon 04 Feb 7-10 PM (free entry!)

ZAKIR HUSSAIN hosts jam by legendary musicians

Bela FLECK (banjo - US),
Antonio SANCHEZ (drums - Mexico/US),
Edgar MEYER (upright bass - US)

with masters

Taufiq QURESHI (percussion - India),
Ranjit BAROT (drums - India),
Niladri KUMAR (sitar - India) &
SIVAMANI (percussion - India)!

Jam runs 7-10pm - come early, do NOT miss this one: history in the making!
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Plastic Pint Pitcher

I have learned to clean myself using a 5 gallon bucket and a plastic pint pitcher. This is the instruction-free shower to which I have become accustom these past few days. There is a shower head but no curtain to contain the spray that I would surely produce, wetting the entire bathroom. The shower owns the higher set of hot/cold handles on the shower wall.
The lower set works the spigot between them and this is how you fill your bucket with lukewarm water (depending on what time of day you decide to clean up). I honestly think I was lucky to have even gotten lukewarm. Once your bucket is full you splash hand fulls of water on your legs to get them used to the temperature and them you can soap up. After you are sufficiently clean you dip the pitcher in in bucket and begin rinsing yourself. Repeat whenever and wherever necessary.

Breakfast today was an adventure in new. Sorta. I had this Chickpea-in-spicy-sauce stuff the first day I arrived. It's really great! You soak up the juice with your roll. They also had some kind of cream-of-wheat which I spooned onto my plate and finished like I knew what the h#ll I was doing. Today their specialty was a kind of white bread panini filled with a spicy potato mixture.

For those of you who think that I am taking my culinary life into my hands this is for you: Chicken Maharaja Mac. That's right. For about $3.50 you can get a large size meal. The Mac is like our only with chicken burger and a curry-spiced secret sauce. The fries are the same gut busters the world over.

Apparently Subway is trying to let people know they are around (good thing, cause I didn't know until I saw the sign on the pole). And there is Pizza Hut as well. I saw it right across the street from me when I found Barista. YES FOLKS YOU HEARD ME RIGHT, MOCHAJAVAMAN FINALLY FOUND A REAL COFFEE SHOP!!! WOOOHOOOOOOOO!!!!! I had an Americano, Grande (was their biggest) and a warm blueberry flavored muffin all for about $2.50. And even though I am not quite certain how I got there I will be back!

Precipitation

Lying awake once again at 7 AM I heard what sounded like the scattered violence of rain drops getting demolished against the outside of my hotel window. Rain? It wasn't even cloudy, not that I could tell anyway. I had been out late the night before and the weather had cooperated splendidly.

I jumped out of bed, threw on some clothes and ran downstairs and out the door to the smiling chagrin of my hotel's staff who hurry to hold wide the door as I thank them and blaze past. Taking a few steps into the street I am a little disappointed there is not the usual crush of cars and pedestrian traffic. Picture the London paintings you've seen with taxis headlights reflecting off the wet pavement and gleaming buildings in the background. Not here, not today. At least not yet.

Taking to the strangely silent streets off in some direction I don't recall going down before I found the whole atmosphere to be in stark contrast to everything I had experienced up until this point: peaceful, soothing, refreshing. It seemed for now at least that Mumbai had traded in her 'E' ticket ride for a relaxing soak in a bubbling hot tub with Beethoven dancing in the air; and the distinct smell of something good (and different) cooking for breakfast.

Parsi Pitstop

I realize that I am taking a big chance in using two words beginning with the letter 'P' so early on into this blog, but what the heck, I'm in India right?

Go for the gusto!!

Yesterday morning I had purposed in my heart to find a coffee shop which would brew and serve me the kind of coffee that doesn't come powder from a jar.
It was during that quest that i realized I had become hopelessly lost in this city of millions and decided to make the best of it. Since my hotel is right across the street from the largest train station on the Asian continent, I had only ask the nearest non-English speaking person "Victoria Station?" or "CST?" and I would be pointed in exactly the right direction day or night. So off I went.

My first stop was CST herself. Some 2.5 million people pass through her hallowed portals daily; inbound in the morning and outbound in the evening. I visited after the morning rush. Any earlier and it would have been far too intimidating for this tall bald white boy from the states. I remember my first walk around the block had been like a salmon trying to swim upstream. Today I was looking for glimpses of the station that I had not seen anywhere else before. Not the big wide frame accounts taking in the entire magnificent, gaudy, wonderful structure but views of the ornate detail that it possesses. Of course there were still people riding in and riding out...mainly riding in, hanging from open car doors, standing poised to jump off at the first safe moment. I am so going to take the train :)

While some of the kids that I have picked me out of a crowd were following me down the street, touching my arm and begging for a hand out, most of the ones in this area are happy and outgoing. These two ran up, gave me 5 and posed for this snap in from of a large truck in the CST parking lot. As I was counting to 'three' you can see they were willing to help me out with that.

Taking a turn down one of the side streets I found myself in a maze of alleys which were lined with electronics shops, paper cutters, bakeries, travel agents, etc, etc etc. Mixed in with these were the fruit and clothing wallahs selling their fare from neat, well stocked baskets and shelve in organized rows on the street itself. The store fronts are mere thin, long spaces on the ground floor of these old buildings which have been 'outfitted' to accommodate the particular merchant inhabiting it. The contrast of legitimate business (as far as I could tell) to dirty, unkept, run-down facilities and surroundings was interesting. paint has a hard time in this environment. Most of the buildings look at if they are moldy, and in need of a lot of paint. They need paint but it isn't mold, its dirt and dust blown in from the Arabian Sea. It makes keeping the place presentable enough for western sensibilities a little rough.

Rambling around in this environment was fun and a little weird while alone. I would have felt a little more purposeful with a friend, especially a local but alas they were all working (the nerve) so I had to make due. Coming across a phone outlet I inquired about a phone and an Indian SIM so I could stay in touch while here for these three weeks. Gathering information I excused myself and kept my aimless quest until I rounded a corner and beheld Ideal Corner, a restaurant with the tag line 'Parsi Cuisine & More'. The place was immaculate. No patrons however so I stuck my head in to ask if they were open. The friendly owner said yes and so I took a seat by the window. The food was superb, Hot Garlic Chicken with Chicken Fried Rice (must have been the 'more' part of the tag line). While there I noticed how uncharacteristically clean the place was. That and it was smartly decorated with bright colors, hip lights and ceiling fans. I was there about 4:40 and they closed for the day at 6 PM, so the staff was dusting tables, chairs, fans, everything. I was impressed.