Travel Journal - Entry 5

Varanasi 2/11/2008
The 3:45 train to Delhi arrived early. Unusual in my opinion. I am cynical actually. After the delay at JFK (flight to Mumbai), the delay at Mumbai (flight to Delhi) and the delay in the train to Varanasi I became so. When the train showed up I just figured it for the one before mine.

Met a Scottish MD on the platform. His 5th trip, traveling light with a very small pack and an umbrella. We talked about how India changes you. Maybe not here, now, right away, noticeably. But it becomes apparent once you return to civilization. "Simplify" was the word he used. I rather felt that the case even before getting started on this trip.


Thoughts of Varanasi on riding out:
The land of Learn and Burn. Hindu spiritual learning hub as well as ghat burning ceremonies. Lots of non-Indians exploring life here. There is music and art, a world perspective reinforced by a non local populace. Very dirty and unsafe Ganga. Trash literally covers what could be a beautiful shoreline. I saw it at its lowest. There was mud and sand. When the water is higher the ghats rim the water; their steps descending down, down into the murk.




I wish some organization could systematically clean up the crap. I saw numerous cows nibbling through mounds of garbage. Do people leave it out for them? Cows like plastic, apparently. At least from what the dining choices I saw them making.

Where is the mind of those controlling infrastructure?

Dos and Don'ts:
Do drive as though lanes do not exist.
Don't hug the opposite sex in public.
May I please suggest a switch in present singular 1st person auxiliary verbs?

The Times of India is one of the most interesting newspapers I have ever read. Always dozens of things odd and interesting. Reminds me of where I am and that life goes on before my very eyes.

Travel Journal - Entry 4

Varanasi 2/10/08
Driving is an art. A team sport in which there can be any number of winners but all must keep their eye on the ball - and not hit anyone or anything. Two lanes are four, four are six. The horn is primarily an instrument of concern and polite warning when approaching from behind. The back of most vehicles have 'Honk O.K. Please' stretching from left to right across the bumper in colorful paint. A cacophony of these blaring horns pushing and elbowing their way into your psyche is the sound of a safe and happy roadway.

I have seen/heard a few horns sounded in anger, however. There have been a few birds too. Flipping. The taxi I took to the airport in Mumbai when I was flying to Delhi got backed into by a rather large and severe looking truck. With a thick black pipe for a bumper. My driver ended up getting me to my destination late. This incident contributed to that. Then he went to the wrong destination despite my clear English instructions. Ha ha. Then he tried to charge me double what the fare should have been. Lucky for me I checked his card, paid him and quit feeling sorry for him that he had been backed into by a pipe-bumpered truck. Inside the terminal I found my flight was late as well. Coffee time!

Out of all of the taxis i have been in, not one has a working speedometer. Not one.

16 pieces of laundry clean and folded, pocket repaired - Rp 150 (About $3).

I want to buy a carrot from the cart of the fresh vegetable seller below.

Sometimes I think I am too negative. I don't mean to be. It's easy to level out there however. Two sides to every story and I am not always right.

Deep talk with strangers. Over chai. I met a pleasant woman yesterday while enjoying some chai at the ghats. From the UK, married 8 years, she is spending 6 months in India. Starting with a stint in the south doing humanitarian work - an exchange program of some sort having to do with health care I believe. Our somewhat brief conversation moved to her relationship; her suspicions of her husband. Another woman. Maybe. Probably. Not the jealous rage kind of reaction but the talk about it kind. More interested in honest open communication that would enhance their relationship than in false hopes or not knowing.

He had joined her in India for a time at the beginning of her work here.

We had 'met' once before at the Varanasi train station. She was assisting some French tourist backpackers who had been drugged, robbed and lost a couple of days to unconsciousness. They had gotten a little too friendly with the natives. She speaks French, caught wind of their plight and was helping them book passage home.

We ran into one another one other time on the ghats and spoke briefly in passing. I hope their marriage works out. He would be the biggest loser if it does not.

Travel Journal - Entry 3

Varanasi 2/10/2008
Kites are everywhere in the sky. The "Kite Runner" kind. Rising, falling, circling to best the others. Cut them. Starting young these kids are soon experts making the sky an acrobatic feast for the eyes. I wish I could get a good snap.

Almost any building is in the use regardless of repair. Shelter is shelter, after all. They make good use of the entire structure. Roofs are outdoor patios for meals, chai, naps, laundry. Kite flying. For bathing and grooming. Prayer.

Monkeys run free in the city. I have seen them here as in Agra, run across the rims of buildings, leap onto wires, inspire concern in otherwise docile canines. And howl from the spires of forts.

The ants on the wall small. And slow. Probably slow because it's cold. Red with black thoraxes. There are big black kick ass ants that I have encountered a few times. All business, these.

Curious kids and older sisters looking over rooftops at me. A man a couple of buildings over has been in front of what must be a mirror working on his hair for the past 15 minutes. He is probably 29 or 30. Grooming is important. People may not be able to effect the sanitation/look and feel of the city at large. But they can certainly be presentable.

Travel Journal - Entry 2

Varanasi 2/10/08
Clothing styles are interesting. For the most part men wear western style shirts, sweaters, jeans jackets, whatever. The styles could be modern but its a little bit confusing in this context. This all became very real for me as I tried to buy another pair of cargo pants since the ones I had brought along were so industriously comfortable.

I had gone into a shop to look around. What I found was that besides the ridiculously high prices ($30 US??), the styles were decidedly 70's or 80's with odd embroidery, scattered corduroy and weird pockets every which way but natural. Nothing I could ever agree to wear let alone pay that much for.

The buying experience must have been strictly Indian - a long U-shaped counter with boys/teens/young men behind showing potential buyers choices based on their size and preference. For me it was to be cargo pants, 38x34. The cry went out and after some time a boy brought a stack of plastic wrapped pants from somewhere in the back. 15 pairs or so, assorted colors. Another guy (my helper) pulled each pair out of its bag, unfolded them for my inspection, and then folded it partially (longways) before doing the same to the next pair.

I discovered that an Indian size 38 is smaller than an American size 38. After trying on the two least embellished pair, which didn't fit at all, the guy measuring me. Leaning over from from behind the counter with his measuring tape, I was told I was a 40. Hmmm.

Yeah so I didn't buy anything there.

For the most part kids here are great. They are children in every aspect. Innocent, curious, playful. Quick to smile. The first set I encountered in Mumbai were all this. I then began to hear about and eventually crossed paths with a few. They were poor, dirty, cuter then hell and annoyingly persistent in running beside me for a sale or a handout. "Hellooo!", is where it all starts. I have taken to pretending not to understand English in order to avoid these encounters. Yesterday after the hundredth kid asked me for something I jabbered back in some unintelligible gibberish I made up there on the spot. Which he merely parroted back to me. Smart ass. But I could appreciate that.

I met these three as they were playing outside my friends flat in Bandra. I asked if I could take their snap and they got all organized and lined up and ready for me. They called me 'Uncle'. That's a term of respect.

At least it wasn't 'Grandpa'.

Travel Journal - Entry 1

Varanasi 2/10/08
Arrived V. from Agra by sleeper train. Will try to make is more comfy this trip (huh?). Upside is no matter what it will take you where you want to go. Like the bus from Delhi to Agra, the light at the end of the tunnel was that is would all soon be over.

One thing is certain about some of these folks here - rich and poor alike - industrious as hell and trying to get as much as possible out of your wallet. From business owners, silk merchants, boatmen, cabbies, to children - how many rupees are in it for them? Tourists are targets simply because we are their business. They eat by how well we are swindled or forced into buying what we don;t want or need. From my hotel balcony I watch one hard at work, the poor white man trying to make sense of it all, looking around, shrugging. We are cattle stomping through their towns and cities and must be herded for maximum benefit, dumb animals that we are.

The chai guy at the big ghat yesterday was great. Some teenager caught me walking toward the burning, warned me not to take snaps and tried to lure me up and over to where all the foreigners were to stand (according to him). Feeling herded I approached the chai guy (old) brewing the milky, sugary tea in a large pot over a fire pit in front of his wooden box stand at the halfway point up the steps, over to the far left. Inquiring about chai he pointed me over to a row of wooden benches - homemade by the look of them like almost everything here. Sitting I was delivered chai in a proper glass, hot and steaming, thus sealing my bid for freedom from the teen aged terrorist who scowled nearby. Occasionally he would lean in to inform me of something so obvious even I had already figured it out.

"Those are the families of the dead", "He is boiling milk". Duh. Eventually I would have been asked to pay him for helping me wade through all this mind numbing confusion of burning bodies and chai making. I stared at him as if to say, "Bugger off", which he eventually did after my second chai arrived. No doubt I might enjoy myself more if I didn't feel like I had to wrestle with so many of these sort. The cabbies/boatmen I can somewhat understand. This is their living. A white boy usually means a job. Others are merely buzzing mosquitoes and need to be repelled.

Prolepsis

So now I am a world traveler. Sure I have only been to one place outside the US (not counting anything in Baja California) but that one place was almost on the exact other side of the planet from me. About 12 hours away on a 24 hour planet. A world traveler. Yeah that's me alright. I flew right over some of the major continents. Asia. Europe. North America. I knew it because my Delta in-flight information map told me so. And how high I was flying (ft and km) and how fast (mph and kph). And the outside temperature in fahrenheit and centigrade. Had I been paying any attention at all I would have learned a whole other language.

So I find myself going through these pangs of longing. Longing to be back eating samosa and drinking Kingfisher in Mumbai after a long tiring day of walking around. Spending money. I guess that is the sign of a good vacation. And a somewhat spent emotional state. I went to work yesterday, the morning after I got back to Fresno. I stayed most of the day but literally ran out of gas. I went home to try and organize everything; things I bought and to whom they were to go, laundry started with piles on standby, get luggage emptied and put away. Clear out the mess that's all over my bed to I can use it to sleep on. About 9 I was out like a light.

At 3 AM I was wide awake. And hungry. I waddled out to the kitchen and fired up some Red Beans and Rice, a gourmet treat from the bayous of Louisiana. Then I came on back and fired up the computer and the TV. The news was on TV. At that hour of the morning it just recycles about every 20 minutes. You see the same report done by the same people over and over again. All in the name of readjusting my internal clock to PST. I'm glad to see Hillary and Barrack getting along so well, mostly. And that McCain didn't really do anything.

I made some instant coffee. Anyone who knows me very well would know that I used to consider this an abomination of the bean. However, as much as I might have earlier hated to admit it, I have grown fond of a certain milky sweet 'brew' since this was what I had almost daily on my trip. And one of my friends in Mumbai bequeathed me with a late Christmas gift; Davidoff Gourmet Instant Coffee. Strong and tasty it helped me face the wee hours of the morning. While feeding my desire to experience something of the trip once again. Meanwhile I have been editing and uploading my snaps, a little at a time. Click the slideshow on the upper right of this blog and you will open the album containing them all. At least all the ones I was able to upload. Eventually they will all be there so stay tuned.

Tomorrow I shall make an entry based on my journal notes.

Perambulant

I'm baaaaack. About 32 hours of travel. Lots of time to read. Finished my book, started another. Lots of time to buy coffee. Starbucks was happy to see me finally. I got skinny lattes at JFK and in Atlanta. Also got mugs to commemorate. The latte in Salt Lake however went uncommemorated. They didn't have the SLC mugs there. No reason. They just didn't.

I also had lots of time to write. So I did.

I looked like a lost vagabond. What was acceptable dress in a third world country became noticeably apparent once I arrived back in the US. I had on jeans that needed to be washed. Badly. I didn't send them in to be cleaned before I left because circumstances dictated otherwise. So I wore dirty jeans, maroon fleece, sandals with socks and Alcatraz. One of the pilots on one of the flights asked me as I was deplaning if I was going back.

Dress was only a part of the weary, spent traveller image I was projecting however. I had an official business-like black shoulder satchel that carried my iPod, noise-cancelling earphones, books, money, snacks, etc. But this seemed strangely out of place with what I was wearing. It didn't fit with any of the other items I was carrying either.

I had the small guitar I had purchased in Mumbai before my 10 day northern cross country excursion via trains, planes and scary buses. Add to this a large bag that looked like something a carpet bagger would be carrying his shifty wares around in. And it was full. I had some fragile food items coming back with me in this bag, Chaat mix. The Bux mugs, my hats and sunglasses. Hawaiian shirt (took place of the fleece at JFK). Chicki toffee (Indian candy) and Muckwas mix (Indian breath freshener). I had bought this HUGE bag of cashews way back in Varanasi. It was a magic bag. It never ran out. It never even got low. I ate all the cashews my poor body could manage but the bag didn't change. It just stayed the same. HUGE. So eventually I took this bag out of the satchel where I had to wrestle it for dominance every time I wanted my iPod. I was put it in the carpet bag instead. I couldn't have cared less if it made every other thing in it's baggy kingdom subservient. So long as I didn't have to see it again. For a long time.

All of this being hauled around with me from one airport to the next. In SLC I walked from one end of the terminal to the other in search for the Bux mug that wasn't there. Before I discovered it wasn't there. There were three Bux and I had too see them all with my own two eyes. But I had 6 hours to chill so why not? I had the BEST Stromboli from SLC Airport Sbarro however, so I forgive them for lack of the SLC Bux the mug.

All the while I had this stuff with me. I got some stares. The further away I got from the international flights, the more interested (or afraid perhaps?) people became.

Frankly I was just too tired to care.