Shimla

The British oasis in the foothills of the Himalayas turns out to be a pretty cool place, and the weather is as well. Although India has been running about 10 degrees cooler than normal, it nevertheless provided the opportunity for tee shirts and light pants. Coming to Shimla I knew I’d need to buy a jacket/sweatshirt of some flavor and I was right. We had timed our trip to go to the south before it boiled and then head to the hills at the end of the trip when it had a chance to warm up. But, it’s still chilly. It snowed yesterday in Manali, our next destination. Our room was more than chilly and with the hot water running lukewarm, we asked for and got a heater for the room and an extra blanket while we went out on a search for something warm for Jim to wear before he froze his skinny buns off. No problem, easy find here. What was surprising was that although this is a tourist town as such, it doesn’t have the usual tourist traps, not 50 stores selling the same cheap baubles, bangles and beads. Rather it provides for the locals. Nary a “Shimla, heart of the Himalayas,” type tee or sweatshirt. Just stuff that the locals wear. The vertical nature of the town, if you can call a place with a population of 142,000 a town, provides streets which gradually climb, then an intersecting street which switchbacks the other direction to reach the upper reaches of the town. It just doesn’t feel like a “city.” There are stairs which go straight up or down depending on your direction for a more direct route and they intersect with smaller alleys with more shops for locals. The place is urban sprawl in spades as the twon winds for miles outside the core area.

The streets are alive with people, but at a leisurely pace. No frantic tuk-tuks, taxis blowing horns, or people in a hurry to get somewhere….this is the first place that goes against what I said in the last letter…this could not be Indore or Mumbai or any other city we’ve been in. This is Shimla.

There is a gleaming church tower on an upper level of town and so this afternoon we went out to find what looked very much like an Anglican Church, and upon weaving our way there, in fact it was. Except that it is a very flat plateau that the Brits either found like this and built their enclave there or blasted the top of the mountain flat to put their church, fancy hotels, town halls, dramatic theatres (founded in 1836) and other necessities of British life. They always took their life with them, it’s just that the locals looked different from Cornwall. On top of this plateau thousands of Shimlites (?) gather to put their children on ponies and walk around the large plaza the size of a football field, school boys and girls all in their spiffy uniforms of blazers, white shirts, ties, and pants ( girls have the option of pants or skirts), all looking very proper English public school types.. People laze on the many benches made available for the Ladies of the Raj who would stroll the area to meet those of the same class and status. It’s a historical town with Kipling living here for years and using Shimla as a model in his stories. Once they connected a rail line it became a hot spot for wealthy Brits. Elizabethan style buildings and a Jolly old England type of architecture dot the hills. The town just took off and hasn’t stopped. The locals are an interesting mix, descendants of the community that grew to service the needs of the Brits from lowlands and a Tibetan population that has settled across Northern India as they fled the Chinese takeover of Tibet with the Dalai Lama in 1959 and those who followed. The Tibetans are easily distinguished from the Indians. They have that ruddy wind-swept feature to their faces that living in that harsh environment has developed. Anoop took us to an area 15 miles from Shimla for a closer look at the Himalayas. It was an hour drive over a road that was, at best one lane each direction around hairpin turns where buses, trucks, cars and the ever present Honda Hero motorcycle plied their way across the mountain. There is a tremendous amount of building going on along the way and with the going ever so slow as it is, Carol remarked “What a nightmare it’s going to be when all this brings more people onto this road.” It isn’t a pleasant thought. A truck broke down along the way which meant that the traffic was single file and that means that whoever gets first to that spot, all others following will continue in a long line with nobody saying: “Okay, it’s your turn.” In fact that would be disaster, because then the opposite line would flow unceasingly. After about 20-30 minutes of not moving, they got the truck moving and traffic now flowed, albeit at its regular snail pace. Along the way out Carol had the cliff side and thought it best not to look down because that might be a cause for some real angst. Steel barriers on the side of the road, a rarity, and only occasionally does one find an old oil drum filled with rock to provide a semblance of safety, although from the crushed hulks of cars pulled up from below, they obviously wouldn’t stop a car from going airborne over the edge with only the trees to pinball off of from one to another on the way to the bottom which was about 500 feet in a near vertical drop. In fact this morning a car went over the edge and five people died. (We didn’t see it. We just read it in the paper.) On the other side of the road, the hillside, ladies with paint brushes whitewashed the protruding rocks which jutted out closer to the road so that the driver at night time could at least see what he/she was about to hit and day workers dig ditches for new lines of water or electricity, all by hand of course.

Down below there were little enclaves with about 10 houses all neatly arranged in a little cluster with neat lawns and pristine houses. I like to use the word pristine here because nowhere else in India could I use that word with the trash piles, huge garbage pits and litter strewn everywhere and anywhere. So, pristine, it is. There were also some huge developments which will make the already horrendous traffic a problem of apocalyptic proportions… So Shimla is our introduction to the “hill stations.” Tomorrow we we’re off to Manali, (not to be confused with Manila), it’s 150 miles away and is a 10 hour journey…sounds like more stalled trucks in the road ahead.   Upon reaching our destination we took a horseback ride over the top of the hill to see the grand mountains to our north. This is what we came to see and it was as much a delight from this side as it was from the other side on our trip to Nepal and Tibet. What glorious sights they are. A long ribbon of white jutting into the sky with peaks that from this distance one can only imagine their height. Let it be said that they are high regardless. After an hour’s ride it was time for some chi (sweetened tea with milk) the Indian standard and we headed back on the slow, tortuous road back to Shimla. Although there are the usual piles of trash in any washed out area or stream bed which is always very discouraging because it could be “Pristine,” but isn’t, one thing they have done in the entire state of Himachal is to ban plastic bags. When purchasing something, you receive a paper bag or a cloth one which is durable and can be reused. People take their bags with them to save on the litter. Headline of the day: “Foul stench from broken Mumbai sewer line to last four more days.”. Oh joy, that’ll be fun.

Heading for the hills

After a week of the big cities in Rajasthan and Delhi, it’s time to head to the area of the big mountains. We were in Jaipur, the pink city, Jodhpur, the blue city and New Delhi., the polluted city. All were interesting in their own way and each seemed to be similar to the others in so many other ways. They are examples of the Moghul empire and they where a pretty shrewed lot. They swept into India from places that we have already visited, a combination of Amir Timur from Uzbekistan and Ghengis Khan’s son from Mongolia. It’s very cool to see the combinations of cultures and how they mixed. Unlike the Monguls who used a scorched earth policy and reputedly flung animals infected with bubonic plague into cities who resisted. The Moghuls systemized and organized already existing societies for a more efficient rule. They pacified and used local power structures to maintain control. They built forts, huge rectangular, mini cities actually in whichthe ancient shahs of the Moghul era built magnificent palaces all within walls which stretch about a half mile on each side. The one in Delhi was very interesting in that it had a 50 foot moat surrounding it filled with marijuana in the empty bed. A stoner’s paradise to be sure. The most impressive was the one in Jodhpur, the Mehrangarh, sitting high on a bluff overlooking the blue walled city below, it is amazingly intact and is a wonderful structure to wander through.

Jodhpur gets its name from the aforementioned blue walls of the city which give it a distinctive aura. Blue was the color of the Brahmin caste and the color of royalty, but later kind of got filtered down to the people in general and the city maintains its distinctive nature. Jaipur has always been considered the queen of the Rajasthan cities and gets its name from the pink sandstone from which the old city was built. It’s now a maze of alleys and little shops. Some small alleys have shops on both sides and the walkway is not even wide enough for two people to pass comfortably. Shops one after another each selling the exact same goods as the one across the alley and to either side ply their goods. I can never figure out how they make a living when there are so many duplicates. I was very surprised that I liked Delhi as much as I did. It has a great variety of historical spots from the British Raj period as well as antiquities from the old empires, a very interesting mix of history. We had a car and driver for the day, compliments of the travel agency where we booked our hill station trip--- Compliments, of course, as an indication that we paid way more than we would have to do it on our own. But the point being that it took us all day to see the various sights and would have taken several days if we had tried to do it on our own. Most impressive to me was the Baha’i Lotus Temple. Looking like a knock-off of the Sydney opera house, it is a lotus flower ready to open up and is all in white marble reaching heavenwards. It’s hugely popular with Indians and is a refuge of silence in a very noisy world outside.

The other monuments were not tourist places as such. They were filled with Indian nationals who visit from all parts of India. I keep trying to convince the ticket taker that I am a “domestic” traveler and not a “foreigner,” since entries are $5 for foreigners and .30 cents for domestics…”I’m domestic, I’m from Kerala,” I keep saying…it draws a big laugh each time and then they charge me the $5. The Arc d’ Triomphe-like India gate was built in 1931 and is inscribed with the names of the 31,000 Indians who were willing to fight and die for King and conquerer. However, with all the distinctive forts and monuments, there is a similarity to each of the Indian cities we have visited….big bazaars, shanty towns, wandering animals, plush houses beside hovels, snarled traffic franticly trying to transport people where they want to go all with horns blasting through the air.. I suppose one could make the same comparison between cities of the Central Valley in CA. Does Stockton look any different from Modesto or Merced? Probably not, but I think that New Orleans has a very distinctive and different flavor from Chicago, for example. But here, we have felt that if they blindfolded us and placed us in one or the other cities we’ve been in, it would be very difficult to distinguish where we were, outside of the individual monuments. Hence it was time to get out of Dodge and head north to the mountains for some quiet time communing with nature and the fresh air of the mountain side We have a driver and car for the eight day trip, Anoop. He’s got a good sense of humor and laughs easily, always a good sign. His English is passable, but we don’t discuss anything of consequence. I have so many questions that simply go unanswered. However, he passes the most critical test, he’s a safe driver. Safe is a relative word for someone behind the wheel of an Indian vehicle, but he doesn’t pass on every blind corner, greatly increasing the odds of our survival and he doesn’t careen back and forth around corners reducing the whiplash factor. As we left the Delhi area and entered the state of Haryana, we had to stop and pay the road taxes for that state, which we did again when we entered the state of Himachal Pradesh. It seems that each state has its own road tax and non-resident registered autos must pay for the use of the states’ highways, which were remarkably good as we tooled up Highway #1 heading north. Once we turned off the main road and headed up in altitude, that changed quickly and our 8 lane freeway quickly turned into a two lane road, which in places is a generous description of the width of the road. The eight hour drive north bought the hills, cleaner air and a sense that things were going to be different from what we’ve seen so far. It’s still quite chilly here in our first station, Shimla. It’s about 40 degrees at the moment as we lie in bed, fully clothed trying to stay warm in our unheated room. We’re at 7300 feet in elevation and it really feels different. No tuk-tuks, no bleeping horns, and clean air. Billboards advertised the selling of apartments noting that you only had to put 10% down to get the home with the balance due in 15 months…No wonder everybody lives with mom and dad even after marriage. We passed the Himachal College of aviation maintenance, which made me shake my head. The whole environment is so hilly, you’d have to search for a decent place to land a helicopter, much less a plane. There are not any airports in the area and so it seemed an odd place for that. A few miles up the road was the Jay Pee University of Information Technology. It’s a huge university and a beautiful one as well. But again, seemed an odd place for it. Himachal state is sparsely populated in comparison to the rest of India. It’s not the hotbed for IT such as Bangalore and Hyderabad, but there it is, gleming pink in its many storied towers and buildings. Very impressive it was. So here we are in Shimla, the first stop of two nights. It’s a town/village/city, I’m not quite sure which it is, built up and down the side of the mountain. We had to take three separate elevators to get to our hotel which is located up the hill as opposed to those who take elevators down to their hotels. The downside buildings are deceptive because they all look one story buildings. However, when you get off to the side, you can see the multi-levels of them. This is a town from the mid 1800’s when the Brits needed to defend the northwest territories. They built several garrisons in the area and eventually, the families of the regiments, merchants, and others who were milking the Indian society for the benefit of the British crown and empire found that this area was the place to be in the summer. A place where they could beat the intrusive heat of the lower elevations and a place where they could build their Anglican churches and other accoutrements to maintain their style of life away from the homes for the remainder of the year. But whatever the reason, it’s a lovely spot. I can’t see the high mountains from here, but that should be coming in the next few days…this makes for a delightful, albeit cold, place to begin our road trip. Headline of the day: “400 ghost teachers in North’s private medical colleges.” ….maybe it’s a required class?

The Yin and Yang of India

India is such a land of contrasts. I guess you could say that about lots of places, but here those contrasts are totally in your face. They are not subtle nuances of life. We are here in Jodhpur staying in the ancestral home of Shri Bachraj Ji Singhvi, who was the commander-in-chief of the local Maharajah’s army in the area and the home has been turned into a hotel. The home was built in 1889 and five generations have lived here and grown up in this house. Ironically, the great great grandfather who had the house built never actually lived here, but he used it as a summer home and he lived with his troops at the post he commanded. It’s a lovely “home,” as they call it. It’s actually a mansion and when it was built it was outside the city in a rural area. But, as we all know India grew in population and the home was engulfed in the poster child for urban sprawl, India style. Through the generations, the number of people living here diminished as the girls got married and went off with their husbands and the men found their professions and moved around the world.

The present owner and 5th generation family member to live here turned it into a “heritage house,” as they are called here in India. It still retains all the flavor of old Indian insiders. It is painted white, even though we are in the “blue city,” and has a three-tiered roof area for dining and relaxing in the evenings. Bougainvilla, Peruvian lily and hibiscus adorn the outside garden area which with its high walls keeps the outside world at bay. A good thing too since there is, as is typical, a very trashy area just outside the walls.

The inside areas are adorned with relics from family history, photographs from the generations, and artifacts that make the place look like you really are in an existing plush Indian home.. There are now 17 guest rooms and they are booked at a 2 to 1 ratio by foreigners to Indian nationals. There is an excellent restaurant to further consolidate the effect. The whole place has the feel of class and sophistication, and all this at $50 a night.

That’s the Yin and as soon as you go outside the walls and across the little entry way, you are immediately immersed in the Yang. The noise starts immediately. Constant honking of horns, the various sounds of the powered transportations from the little hum of motor scooters to the roar of the big trucks, with tuk-tuks providing a tuk, tuk, sputter, pop, tuk tuk sounds and they ply the streets trolling for fares. The voices of dozens of men attending little shops and stands along the road selling goods and services peal across the streets as they hawk their wares. The simple fact is that India is noisy, very noisy. There are not quiet moments on the street…not ever. We’ve been out in them from 5:30 in the morning until almost midnight and it’s the same. Constant noise. So here in India you can find places of serenity and peace, but they are far more scarce than the noise of the street. India is simply alive, alive with a vibrancy that is unlike anywhere I have ever been and it is infectious. I won’t say that I like the constant noise, but it feels really strange when I enter the asylum of the hotel…the hotel feels unreal, otherworldly, whereas India’s streets where a billion people plus are, and they are indeed out on the streets…there is always a gaggle of people walking, either in town or in the rural areas. The women walk with colorful saris trailing behind them with the whoosh of cars flying by at speeds that should read: “do not do this within city limits.” It difficult for me not to feel connected to all this. I don’t really feel like a foreigner here. It all feels very natural and that the universe is in order. I am often asked what changes I notice in the 53 years since I was last here and honestly, I don’t see that many…some cosmetic changes, more people, more cars, more young people are choosing their mates, the IT industry here is huge, but India seems to be true to its core. This ancient land of different tongues and the princely states is still the same India as it was in the Raj, the British period. I don’t see or sense fundamental changes in Indian society. I’ve never been anywhere I didn’t like, and I don’t favor one place over another, but India is certainly a place that stands for itself, it doesn’t blend like many European countries do, or even South American. I think it would be very difficult to come to India and not be engulfed by your surroundings. I’ve talked with many people who can’t get past the smell, the poverty, the trash, the noise, the constant crowds…they are unable to see India for what it is. A vibrant, energetic place where I feel “all in.” I just feel alive here. Headline of the day: “Smelly poo forces Dubai bound flight to return to UK.”…..oops, somebody forgot to flush.

They're trying

It’s so very easy to be discouraged by what I see all around me…huge mounds of trash everywhere, shanty towns that just cover large areas with “housing” that can only be called that to indicate that people actually live in them, watching people just routinely throw garbage and trash on the ground when a bin is nearby, little children with eyes that tell you life is not a joy, and a myriad of other “negative” aspects to Indian society. And yet……they’re trying. There were two full pages in the newspaper about programs that are working to find, designate, and elevate people of potential in the worst possible places…programs that give the marginalized a chance. Carol asked me the other day what I would do to begin making a change and difference in the garbage problem…I told her I didn’t even know where to start…it’s just that the enormity of the problem makes even little steps like those mentioned above seem like drops in the bucket and of little use. But with all the problems, the spirit of the people seems undaunted. The warmth and acceptance from all levels of economic well-being and social status is always present….from the man trudging down the street with ragged clothes to the family sitting in the fancy restaurant, there is a genuineness to their smiles and friendly looks. We’ve been continually impressed by how hard everybody tries to make it…sometimes it seems pushy and interfering, but they really hustle to get ahead. They are not a people to stand back and say: “Woe is me, life is against me.” Taxis, tuk-tuks, and pedal rickshaw drivers continually hustle for a fare. At the travel agency where we booked our Tiger Reserve trip, they wanted to know why we weren’t booking the down road activities with them. You can’t walk past the shops in the bazaars without being besieged to come inside and “Just look.” With 10,000 tuk-tuks in Agra and literally hundreds of stalls selling exactly the same shawls and souvenirs, everybody is looking for an edge. When there are a billion plus people, hustle is the word, in both its positive and negative aspects. Indian society is so complex…the old caste system has been abolished and the change seemingly accepted, marriages by young people are now increasingly by choice rather than by arrangement, and, there are lots of positive signs that give one encouragement for the future of the people. I had a great conversation with Prakash, our Servas host in Indore, who unfortunately couldn’t have us stay overnight as planned due to the death of his mother just before we arrived, but I was able to gain an insight that is missing when we just see with our eyes and not with our hearts and minds. I asked him about the fact that all the advertisements on TV, billboards, and print media all feature light-skinned people and do not reflect the vast range of skin tones we see. Tamil Nadus are as dark as West Africans and more so that most African Americans…I mentioned that 50 years ago you never saw anything except white faces on American TV or advertisements and wondered if it was the same here…he said: “Indeed, it was.” There is a general perception that light is good and dark is…well, not as good. They sell creams that will “lighten the skin,” and that advancement and placement is much easier for those of lighter skin. He asked us about the secret to our good health in our 70’s because as he said: “The 80 year old American has the same level of health as Indian at 60. That was interesting to me because I don’[t consider Americans to be a particularly healthy population. Language continues to be a problem in India where there are officially 122 different languages spoken…we have been at performances and in situations where only English is spoken for directions and explanations because it is the only one they can be assured everybody will understand. I even gave up trying to say “thank you” in the local language because it changed from town to town, and I never even knew which language the person I was speaking to spoke. A simple “Thank you, “seems appreciated. Namaste, with hands clasped in front of the neck and lower face is accepted and given by all forms of society, no matter where. I keep going back in my mind to the comment made to Carol in Sacramento by the lady who overheard her saying she was going to India: “It’s all true,” she said, “The good and the bad.” Those were such insightful words that I am learning have much more truth to them than I could have imagined. One thing about Indian society is truly a paradox considering the filth that surrounds you everywhere… Actually, the Indian people are a very clean people. You continually see women (and occasionally men) doing laundry. Children and adults all wear clean clothes. When you see some ragamuffin in dirty clothes then you know their situation is truly desperate. As we pass by small villages on the bus or train, in the early mornings we pass many women stooped over with brooms made of willow type branches about 3 feet long sweeping the front of their abode even if it is dirt and not concrete or tile. In towns, before a store opens the floor is swept as is the sidewalk out front. This cleanliness seems to fly in the face of the stark reality of the condition of the environment…It’s as if their personal space and body are under their control and they don’t worry about the rest of it. We have been continually impressed by the helpfulness and friendliness of people in all walks of life…looking at a big board with train numbers, somebody will come up and show us our train. On the platform a man will see me looking at the track numbers and direct us to the proper track. On board, another man will give us all the information we need. “The next stop is yours and the train will stop for 20 minutes so don’t worry about getting to the door immediately. You will have time.”….this happens so many times in all that we do…it is always done in a friendly, helpful way with smiles and warmth. Headline of the day: “noise pollution interfering with bird mating calls.” No surprise there. It’s a cacophony of noise in the cities.

The great tiger hunt.

As mentioned before, we came to India so Carol could see the Bengal tiger which is endangered. Since we were in Rajasthan we decided our first place to try to find them was in a national park named Ranthambhore two hours south of Jaipur with Sawai as the dusty cow town where everything is centered. More accurately, it is a camel town and this beast of burden pulls all forms of wagons hauling sand, bricks, hay, people as well as lots of things I couldn’t identify. Each camel is either shorn, tattooed, branded or painted with individual markings to identify its owner and they silently plod their way up and down the dusty streets. Sawai would seem to be a destination people would otherwise avoid if it were not for the national park which has spawned a whole industry of rooms from the plush to the pitiful…ours tends of the pitiful side of the scale. Jeep drivers, guides, restaurants, hotels, the ever present 50 shops selling the exact same items that I always wonder: “Why would anybody buy this stuff?” And true to our tourist nature, I bought a hat and some tee shirts for the grandsons. We were booked into a hotel that got changed at the last minute, much the worse for us because we are in a place that calls itself a “3 star establishment,” but should only have three stars after it warning people to stay away…but that’s another story and it has just made us appreciate the nice places in which we have stayed. We booked several “safaris” to try and find the elusive critter. We knew that it was always an iffy proposition when trying to locate a minimal amount of fauna in a maximum amount of environment. Our first excursion was on a “canter,” A 16 person vehicle which roams the main roads, but can’t get off into the real bush. This first safari netted several animals: spotted dear, crocodiles, large summer dear, the tiger’s favorite meal, the ever present monkeys and several varieties of birds….all of this but no tiger. Not really a surprise since it was an afternoon safari and any tiger worth his/her stripes knows to hide in the shade on a hot Indian afternoon.

This morning’s sojourn was in a 6 passenger jeep and we tooled around areas on paths that were called roads, but in reality were rocky tracts that only the very daring and fool hardy off-roaders might attempt. After a while we saw a cluster of other jeeps and knew that the tiger had been spotted…we hustled to the spot along with other jeeps who also saw the congregation. Like bees to the nectar patch, the drivers all jammed in trying to get to the single spot from which the tiger, a mom with cub, could be spotted…..lots of words were “Exchanged” to the general tune of: “You’ve had your chance, now move so we can see.” I counted 14 jeeps encircling the single viewing spot…with a steep downward slope in front where the tiger was, the jeep was totally jammed in on three sides 3-4 deep. The only way for the one jeep to move was for the others to back up and let him out. In traditional Indian method, as soon as one jeep moved out of the way to make a path, another jeep driver filled the voided spot… This led to further “discussions” about procedures. This impatience reminded me of Feruza Balt in Willy Wonka: “I want it and I want it NOW.” . In further Indian tradition, those individuals who were in the prime jeep, motioned for others to join them and helped steady old men and ladies from lands far flung to find a place to view and pointed out exactly where the tiger was….this yin and yang of Indian society continually amazes, confuses, frustrates and brings great joy to my heart. In the army we had a term for this whole action…as I recall, it was some kind of a cluster something or another.

The following morning netted a tiger sleeping lazily, rolling from side to side, lifting his head to see what all the commotion was about and then ignoring the whole commotion to sleep some more…we were all jammed in together again but this time we did get a view of the tiger even though we were in the back of the pack…climbing over the tops of our vehicle onto another vehicle and finally to a closer one with the steadying hand of several Indian men who motioned us to come get a closer look since nobody up front was willing to lose their prime spot…After 20 minutes or so, the people in the vehicles close to the tiger were texting, chatting on their phones or looking at the scenery rather than the tiger…no matter, they had the spot and that was that. But it was a better viewing than yesterday and so we called it a success. The afternoon drive netted no tigers but some lovely terrain and very different flora in addition to the blue antelope…a very large animal about the size of a mule. That drive was made memorable not by the hunt for the tiger, but the attempt to get back to the hotels. We got to the gate to depart and it was locked…our guide clambered over the wall to find the official with the key and they returned and wanted to see the driver’s paperwork…he didn’t have any. A “discussion” ensued with the usual raised voices which went on for about 20 minutes. Finally the matter was resolved. When we asked our guide what the problem was, he replied: “Misprint.” That was it…no real explanation or further details….since where wasn’t any paperwork, the “Misprint” could have been anything. So off we went, only to be hailed by the official who chased us down on his Honda Hero, the most common brand and model of motorcycle. A further “discussion” ensued for another 10 minutes, and the issue was finally resolved to everybody’s satisfaction, and off we went…WAIT….it’s not over…we get a mile down the road, and here he is again, riding along side our jeep with the running “discussion” animated with hands which would have been better served on handlebars and steering wheels giving emphasis to the subject instead of dodging oncoming and overtaking vehicles, various animals, individuals, both young and old. We finally were pulled over so that the discussion could be completed in calmer, well, at least, safer conditions. At last, all were satisfied and off we went for the third time. It’s finally ended and we can get back to the hotel…But you guessed it, It’s not over…this time we were confronted not only by the official on the Hero, but by six other officials on the side of the road by the police station. Our guide was forced to depart and two female officials got in the vehicle and we headed to town. We had been stopped for about an hour total. We left the hotel at 6:30 and it was approaching noon so everybody was starving. Our driver now headed to town in only what I can describe as the gold standard of hurry. I have noted in the past some hair-raising adventures with drivers, but this one was off the charts…I swear that we could have been mass murderers by the time we finally got back to the hotels…he looked like Cinderella and the clock was 11:59 p.m. by the way he raced hell-bent-for-leather through villages with people scattering left and right, vehicles whizzing past literally inches from “Massive death count from accident on Indian road. Film at 11.” But make it we did and now it’s on to Jodhpur…the blue city. Headline of the day: “Bride walks out on wedding when groom fails math test.” When asked to add 15 + 6 … he answered …17…sounds like a good reason to bolt.

No hurry, no worry, no chicken curry

That’s how Agra was described to us by our cab driver taking us from the train station to the hotel upon our arrival that night, and we think that it really does feel like a different pace from other places…that’s not to say that this is a leisurely pace of life with everybody stopping to smell the flowers. This is still India and freneticism (if that’s a word) of society may be different, but we’re talking degrees here, not whether it is or isn’t. Agra has a very special place in my life experiences because when I was on my two year jaunt in 1962, I came to India on my way home from Europe. I got my Indian visa in Pakistan and because this was just 15 years after partition, I was given a transit visa only, entering in Amritsar and leaving from Calcutta, crossing India by train. I was supposed to leave in four days, but I wasn’t going to leave without seeing the Taj Mahal and so I diverted south from Delhi and came to Agra. I was late getting to Calcutta, but so what. Were they going to throw me out..I was leaving anyway, so I had no hesitation to do what I did. Even then, I set my own rules, I guess. While on the two hour trip south, a man asked me if I was going to see the Taj. I replied: “Yes, I’ll see it in the morning when it is light.” He shook his finger erasing my words and said: “NO, you must go tonight. It is full moon and it will float.” I did, and it did. That night was a beautiful moment which came about as another example where the spirits who guide my life pointed me in a direction to have a magical experience and it has stayed with me ever since. . I have always remembered the whiteness of the mausoleum as the moon glistened off it and the reflection in the water and the misty vapors that come off the water in connection with the air, truly made the Taj Mahal seemingly float off the ground. I was totally dumbstruck at the moment. So when we decided that we were coming, I wanted to organize the trip around getting here for full moon so that Carol could experience it as well. That’s now scheduled for two days after full, but that’s okay. We did go see it today and although it was a very different experience for me now from then when I saw it both at night and daytime it still was the Taj and nothing could diminish it. While walking with Carol, I remembered being so surprised at how large it was. Seeing photos gives you shape without dimension…It’s a really big structure. The four minarets, it is a mosque, sticking out across each corner of a very large veranda which covers three sides of the Taj itself give it even heftier dimensions. It’s beautiful, but it’s really impressive as a structure. White marble is everywhere and inside the Taj is Piedra Dura, which is the white marble inlayed with semi-precious stones to form designs, usually floral. Now, the mobs of tourists from everywhere flood the place and the three million plus visitors each year are double the entire population of the city. This is a tourist town. There’s no doubt about that at all.

I was happy for Carol to see it and she really loved it as well. She had no other reference and so it was a really nice thing for her as well. She was really impressed with how white it was, and read that they have used an old technique used for centuries by Indian women to beautify their skin which combined soil, cereal, milk and lime to clean it from the centuries of discoloring which has taken place, much of it from pollution. I won’t say I’m disappointed because I don’t think I’m ever really disappointed when I’m on the road…everything is fine in its own right…I always try to avoid expectations…the Taj took a little bit of work, but I got there easily enough. Seems that lots of people roll into Agra, visit the Taj, check it off the list, and blow out of town the next day. But there is more to do in the cities surrounding Agra. Today was a particularly interesting day as we visited another one of the seven holy cities of Hinduism, Vindravan and its neighboring city of Mathura, where Krishna was supposedly born. The temples are expansive, beautiful and without the surging crowd of Ujjain. It was definitely worth the visit. Of particular interest to me was the temple of the Hare Krishnas. From all over the globe, they come to worship and make their own personal Hadj. In many respects, it looked like a setting from Haight/Ashbury in San Francisco during the late 60’s…as young, blond, white-skinned females in their 20’s, chanted, danced and played instruments. We talked to a Hare Krishna man from Ireland who was on his own personal spiritual journey and, while the Hare Krishnas were the butt of a lot of jokes in the US during the hippy days, they still remain a potent f

orce around the world as they spread their message of love. The fact is that India is the birthplace of many religions, Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Sikhism, while Zoroastrianism, Christianity, and Islam play prevalent roles in various parts of India. In spite of the frenetic pace of Indian life, particularly on the streets and roads, India is a very spiritual place. Ashrams attract people from all walks of life around the globe seeking answers to life’s questions, and looking for some spiritual meaning and understanding of the mysteries which confront us all. It’s easy to forget as you dodge traffic trying to cross the street, or hope your driver doesn’t kill somebody on the way to see a place of spiritual importance. But it’s here, and we are surrounded by it in lots of little ways…At the shrines and temples, people who are on the very margins of society’s economic fringe still manage to make sense of their lives and find meaningful experiences. There is joy in the air at all these sites, even as I am just a casual observer. It is difficult not to feel moved by the devotion to the particular god/religion/way of life that is practiced here in India. I am continually confronted by my own insignificance as a being while surrounded by mystical aspects of life. One gets besieged everywhere in India by taxi drivers and tuk-tuk drivers..you can’t walk down the street without being asked literally dozens of times on each trek. There are over 10,000 tuk-tuks in Agra alone, and I think about 80% of them, at one time or another, stopped us and tried to get take us somewhere. There is a bit of a scam involved getting cabs from the airport or train/bus stations since the cab drivers all want to take you to the “best” hotel, namely one that they have affiliations with and receive a kickback when referring guests..they will tell you all the bad things about the one you have chosen and I had to get quite insistent on one occasion after 4 times telling him No, I want MY hotel, not yours. In the end, they are all just trying to make a living and stay one step ahead of the poverty line. One contrast was Salim, a driver of effervescent spirit and indomitable enthusiasm. He took care of most of the guests at our hotel, and was fast, safe, (they don’t always go together) and was always where he was supposed to be at the appointed time, or had someone to meet us with: “I am Salim’s brother and he said to take you and be good good to you.” We used him for the three days and in his fairly decent English made me promise I would mention him on facebook, tell others about him and on the last day when we went to Jaipur waited with us at the bus station until we actually boarded…others would have just gone off looking for another fare. Tonight is our moonlight Taj experience and we have been forewarned to limit our expectations…more about that after the fact, but for now, I am willing to accept it on whatever level it presents itself. Morning after our “moonlight” experience and another lesson in life. Appreciate the special moments that occur in my life and don’t expect them to repeat themselves. Moonrise was at 7:48 and our tickets were for 9:30-10:00. We went through 4 security checks and couldn’t bring cameras – only digital cameras allowed. We had left Carol’s digital camera in the hotel, so no photos, but that didn’t really make any difference because it started to rain. We had a total cloud cover to begin with, and although the clouds did part and the moon appeared it was two days after full and offered limited light. However, we were treated to a delightful lightning storm which zig-zagged its way across the sky in our 30 minute visitation. We were restricted to one viewing area and could not wander or roam about. I talked to a Quebecoise man who had a similar experience to mine when he was here in 1979. No restrictions, no fees, just wander around as long as you wanted and enjoy the Taj from different angles with the full moon…So, the world has changed and that’s no surprise, I guess. I could say that I was disappointed, but I just feel that I was blessed to have experienced it at its very best…a big harvest moon under clear crisp night and thank the spirits which guide my life for giving me this experience. Carol didn’t have any comparison, so she was very happy just to see it in a quiet setting. All is good. On to Jaipur. Headline of the day: “Government minister wants to ban honking of horns.” …Yeah, that’s gonna work.

They're trying

It’s so very easy to be discouraged by what I see all around me…huge mounds of trash everywhere, shanty towns that just cover large areas with “housing” that can only be called that to indicate that people actually live in them, watching people just routinely throw garbage and trash on the ground when a bin is nearby, little children with eyes that tell you life is not a joy, and a myriad of other “negative” aspects to Indian society. And yet……they’re trying. There were two full pages in the newspaper about programs that are working to find, designate, and elevate people of potential in the worst possible places…programs that give the marginalized a chance. Carol asked me the other day what I would do to begin making a change and difference in the garbage problem…I told her I didn’t even know where to start…it’s just that the enormity of the problem makes even little steps like those mentioned above seem like drops in the bucket and of little use. But with all the problems, the spirit of the people seems undaunted. The warmth and acceptance from all levels of economic well-being and social status is always present….from the man trudging down the street with ragged clothes to the family sitting in the fancy restaurant, there is a genuineness to their smiles and friendly looks. We’ve been continually impressed by how hard everybody tries to make it…sometimes it seems pushy and interfering, but they really hustle to get ahead. They are not a people to stand back and say: “Woe is me, life is against me.” Taxis, tuk-tuks, and pedal rickshaw drivers continually hustle for a fare. At the travel agency where we booked our Tiger Reserve trip, they wanted to know why we weren’t booking the down road activities with them. You can’t walk past the shops in the bazaars without being besieged to come inside and “Just look.” With 10,000 tuk-tuks in Agra and literally hundreds of stalls selling exactly the same shawls and souvenirs, everybody is looking for an edge. When there are a billion plus people, hustle is the word, in both its positive and negative aspects. Indian society is so complex…the old caste system has been abolished and the change seemingly accepted, marriages by young people are now increasingly by choice rather than by arrangement, and, there are lots of positive signs that give one encouragement for the future of the people. I had a great conversation with Prakash, our Servas host in Indore, who unfortunately couldn’t have us stay overnight as planned due to the death of his mother just before we arrived, but I was able to gain an insight that is missing when we just see with our eyes and not with our hearts and minds. I asked him about the fact that all the advertisements on TV, billboards, and print media all feature light-skinned people and do not reflect the vast range of skin tones we see. Tamil Nadus are as dark as West Africans and more so that most African Americans…I mentioned that 50 years ago you never saw anything except white faces on American TV or advertisements and wondered if it was the same here…he said: “Indeed, it was.” There is a general perception that light is good and dark is…well, not as good. They sell creams that will “lighten the skin,” and that advancement and placement is much easier for those of lighter skin. He asked us about the secret to our good health in our 70’s because as he said: “The 80 year old American has the same level of health as Indian at 60. That was interesting to me because I don’[t consider Americans to be a particularly healthy population. Language continues to be a problem in India where there are officially 122 different languages spoken…we have been at performances and in situations where only English is spoken for directions and explanations because it is the only one they can be assured everybody will understand. I even gave up trying to say “thank you” in the local language because it changed from town to town, and I never even knew which language the person I was speaking to spoke. A simple “Thank you, “seems appreciated. Namaste, with hands clasped in front of the neck and lower face is accepted and given by all forms of society, no matter where. I keep going back in my mind to the comment made to Carol in Sacramento by the lady who overheard her saying she was going to India: “It’s all true,” she said, “The good and the bad.” Those were such insightful words that I am learning have much more truth to them than I could have imagined. One thing about Indian society is truly a paradox considering the filth that surrounds you everywhere… Actually, the Indian people are a very clean people. You continually see women (and occasionally men) doing laundry. Children and adults all wear clean clothes. When you see some ragamuffin in dirty clothes then you know their situation is truly desperate. As we pass by small villages on the bus or train, in the early mornings we pass many women stooped over with brooms made of willow type branches about 3 feet long sweeping the front of their abode even if it is dirt and not concrete or tile. In towns, before a store opens the floor is swept as is the sidewalk out front. This cleanliness seems to fly in the face of the stark reality of the condition of the environment…It’s as if their personal space and body are under their control and they don’t worry about the rest of it. We have been continually impressed by the helpfulness and friendliness of people in all walks of life…looking at a big board with train numbers, somebody will come up and show us our train. On the platform a man will see me looking at the track numbers and direct us to the proper track. On board, another man will give us all the information we need. “The next stop is yours and the train will stop for 20 minutes so don’t worry about getting to the door immediately. You will have time.”….this happens so many times in all that we do…it is always done in a friendly, helpful way with smiles and warmth. Headline of the day: “noise pollution interfering with bird mating calls.” No surprise there. It’s a cacophony of noise in the cities.

Road Trip

To be accurate, road and rail trip, but I always like the sound of “road trip.” It was time to leave Indore and head for Agra and hopefully, the Taj at full moon. A three hour bus ride to Bhopal, that, of the infamous Union Carbide debacle that killed thousands of people and then to Agra. India has so many different methods of transportation it is fairly easy to get from one place to another depending on your desires for comfort, both mental and physical, and speed. Even Indian nationals hire cars to get from one place to another so that they can be picked up and dropped off with ease. Inter city buses go from the downright basic to luxury…you can tell the basic ones because of the bars on the windows, if there are windows, which are always open and also by the seeming lack of maintenance. Luxury air conditioned reclining seat buses make for a far more comfortable trip albeit a more expensive one…still the three hour bus ride cost only $12 and it certainly took the worry out of sitting in the back seat wondering how long we can go before our driver runs over somebody. So, off we set comfy in our seats and within 10 seconds, we learned the downside of such buses…a very, very loud horn that will blast you off the road from its force and one that will punish you with deafness should you choose to ignore its warnings….It’s loud, loud and persistent…anything that dares get in your way is fair game. And because we are near the top of the food chain of transportation, we can inflict our will on whoever we choose, even if it means passing a truck when there is a car coming directly at us and forcing that car totally off the road onto the shoulder…this is not to say that the oncoming driver took defensive maneuvers like slowing down….no, but he did move onto the dusty shoulder. Cars, rickshaws and cycles/scooters all back off in deference. However, the true king of the highway is the long haul semi…they are really long and take no shit from anybody…they do not stop and wait their turn, they are numero uno and they wear that label with pride. They will simply pull out and totally block the road as they make a u-turn in narrow lanes, cross the medium to head in the opposite direction or any other thing that might suit them. With those ground rules solidly understood by all, we merrily headed down the highway. Past women all squatted down cutting the ripe wheat or rice stalks and stacking them neatly for threshing. They work large fields and we didn’t see any mechanical equipment until the very end of the trip and even that wasn’t in use. It a very labor intensive, demanding work and, yet, it is the lifeblood of countless millions of people in this country who still to this day work very up close and personally with mother earth. Along the way we passed beautiful villas/estates…brightly painted and looking picture perfect, while just outside the white concrete wall sits an absolute hovel. Semi-shredded tarps held up with poles making a makeshift tent where inside pots and pans and one’s total worldly goods are sparsely scattered within Stacked piles of dung(from cattle and water buffalo) have been molded into large, round platter-sized patties and are drying in the sun to be used as fuel for cooking for the most part. Ragged children play blissfully outside. You can’t help feeling that the cycle of poverty never gets broken and is just endless. The contrast between the have lots and have nothings here in India is very evident without moving your head from side to side. Women in faded saris pass walk on the edge of the highway carrying loads of assorted goods on their heads with a small padded cushion for some level of comfort…huge bales of organic material are carried…sticks, grass, bags of potatoes and firewood, amongst others. The one that gets my prize was the lady who was toting a milk container which was topped with a smaller metal container…she was a double decker and never lost a drop. A couple of times, herds of several hundred goats and sheep were herded down the highway kept in a sort of organized form by red-turbaned shepherds with long sticks who let offending wanderers know that was not to be done. After moving down the highway, it is time to move to the other side so now all four lanes are totally blocked and nobody moves, except for the she sheep and goats and they ain’t too quick about it.

Just when you think that has topped the chart, here comes a camel caravan looking like something out of Bukhara on it’s way to Khiva on Uzbekistan’s silk road. The dress of the camel drivers doesn’t look any different from what it would have been centuries ago. A little boy rides atop one of the camels in a type of saddle that functioned as a platform with a canopy on top of that for protection from the sun. In the back of the train, another boy rode with a dog and a lamb nestled beside him for their journey to who-knows-where. I personally have no quarrel with the cultural and religious dictate that cattle are sacred beasts, but I do wish that the cattle would learn to obey traffic lights…in cities this is a severe cause for further congestion, as if Indian roads needed any further complications…the cattle are remarkably road savvy, true indications that they are indeed reincarnated and have some innate sense of how the whole system works and just saunter where they like when they like. And continually the bus either passes or is passed by families on one motorcycle…the young boy almost inevitably in front of dad where he can learn all the ins and outs of almost getting killed but making it safely to destination. Smaller children or girls are sandwiched between dad and mom with her sari blowing back off the motor cycle like some colorful flag on the move. Finally, however, we made it to Bhopal and visions of what happened here in 1984 still can haunt the mind. In February, 1984 a methyl isocyanate and other chemicals leak at the Union Carbide plant floated out over the surrounding areas, which naturally enough, were the shanty slum areas that surrounded the plant…the “Haves” certainly didn’t have houses there, but the “Have nots” were directly in the path of the deadly gases. Over 3,000 people died and over 500,000 suffered injuries, many crippling and ruining what modicum of meager existence they endured. Naturally, the blame game got bandied about…the official government paper on the disaster said that shoddy maintenance and lax control of the plant were the cause. Union Carbide has always maintained that it was the result of sabotage. Does the corporate world ever assume and accept responsibility for anything?....not to my knowledge, and it is a world wide occurrence. UC settled the lawsuit by paying $470 million dollars at the time and walked away from any further involvement. They later sold their interest to other chemical companies. When the bus let us off for what we thought was the train station to catch our train we were stranded in the middle of a large field with no clue what was going on…rickshaw and taxi drivers all told us they would take us to the station and looking as confused as we actually were, a man said that over in that other part of the field was a car that would take us to the station, our ticket allowed us to do that for free.

So off we went. Now I didn’t really expect Grand Central Station, but I’ve seen a lot of railway stations in my life and I thought since Bhopal is a city of. it would at least have some flavor of a station with amenities…they told us there would be food at the station, to which, Carol replied: “Good, I like to eat at stations.”….well, not at this one…there wasn’t anything at the station except for a large schoolyard sized playground with concrete floors and pillars scattered about to hold the roof up…Lots of people were stretched out on the floors and waiting for their trains….The Indian railway system was built by the Brits during the Raj and it is a really remarkable system that can take a traveler near to where they want to go anywhere in the huge nation and have classes of service to fit any budget, about 8 I believe.….Amtrak this is not. For another thing, Indian trains run on time. We had three hours to wait for our train and the thought of being here with nothing to do but sit on the floor, no chairs or benches, in the “waiting room.” So I checked outside leaving Carol to manage the bags to see what our options were. I noticed a sort of hotel looking building and we decided that we would get a rickshaw and find a place to eat and hide out for awhile. With a lot of miscommunication and false starts, we did, in fact, get to a place that looked like the odds of not getting sick were at least in our favor, we went in and ate, with a lot of strange looks from the patrons. We ate, surprisingly well, in fact, and hung out before heading back to the station.

A group of young policemen were all going somewhere and they stared at us constantly, so I went over and made with the friendly tourist….they, as always, are thrilled at interaction…I love to do this, blacksmiths, shopkeepers, policemen….if people show interest and friendliness, I want to explore that. They told me they were policemen so I grabbed my pockets like I had to protect my money….lots of laughs. Another one had a mask on(as did many other people guarding against germs or dust) like the old shoot-em-up stagecoach bandits and so I made like he was one…more laughter….we had a great time asking questions that weren’t totally understood or explained, but it was fun…naturally group photos were required by all and they insisted Carol come over and join in the photo session. So off we went. Now I didn’t really expect Grand Central Station, but I’ve seen a lot of railway stations in my I know that I am far more engaged in life and my surroundings when I travel than I am at home. There, I am a closet recluse with only a few friends. I tend to be critical of people and lifestyles and find lots to criticize…however, when I travel I can accept without judging, be open and accepting of all I see. I feel I’m a better person when I travel than I am when I’m home…this is something I’ve recognized about myself. Haven’t necessarily liked it, but have known it’s how I operate…At home I’m an observer, when I travel, I’m a participant. I just naturally fall back to my youth traveling by myself and enjoying the interaction I found along the road. Finally, it was time to find our train. We had asked where we were to get the train and were told: “#2.”…always good to get confirmation. “#2,” was the answer…another person looked at our tickets and said “#1.”…we went back and for the with #1 and #2. The weight of evidence seemed to be #1, so we headed up the staircase, high enough so that trains could easily clear, with bags, and down the stairway on the other side only to be told…you guessed it, it was platform #2…back up the stairways and down the other side to wait for our train…several came by before our allotted time and I wandered a little and noticed that there was a track on the other side of the platform which I hadn’t seen, and that was the proper side, Track #1 on platform #2…so, like much of life, they were all correct, ya just gotta ask the right question to get the right answer. Our train finally arrived 30 minutes late after me explaining in detail to Carol how they were always on time…so much for what I know. Headline of the day: “Eat beef, get five years in prison in Maharastra.”…..I’m glad I had the veggie burger.

I'm finally in India

I Remember when we were in Africa, I wrote that when I was in Zambia I felt like I was finally in Africa…Certainly all we had done on the continent prior to that time had elements of Africa but it was mainly in tourist areas with lots of Europeans doing the same thing we were doing, but Zambia felt like the real deal…So it was in Indore…but first we had to get there. After three hectic days of road angst, we arrived at Allepy where we booked the essence of Kerala., a backwater cruise on a “houseboat.”…they are large 50-75 foot wooden boats, thatch roofed, with bedrooms if you want to do overnighters. The waters are a sleepy, slow paced life on the water place where everything slows down and becomes very leisurely. Our “cruise” was a five hour jaunt on a boat where we were the only passengers which meant that we could totally unwind and just enjoy the scenery. We slowly motored down the channel, in places several hundred yards wide and others less than 100 feet across. Life on the water here seems very out of place in hustle-bustle, noise-filled, people everywhere India….the backwater lagoons are filled with long, narrow boats which look like they were Venetian gondolas who have come here to die which people use to get across the water to go to market, to the mainland, or just to go visit neighbors on the other side… Men, and women too, fish from them or from the banks, children play in the water, women wash clothes and clean the dishes, pots and pans on the steps which lead from the water to their humble abodes There are 1200 of the houseboats which ply up and down the lagoons, but they do so in a very unobtrusive style which doesn’t at all take away from the tranquility of the cruise.. We moored along the bank where a nice lunch was served…all vegetarian, of course, with the exception of the fish that came from the lagoon waters, but very pleasant. Soon another boat pulled up about 50 yards from us that was filled with Indian nationals who waved and shouted back and forth: “Where are you from?” “America,” I replied…lots of oohs and aahs followed. There were two boys who were particularly interested in talking and I managed to pull the boat up to the shore where I could walk down and talk to them…they wanted me to come on board, the dancing was about to begin, but I declined….nobody wants to watch me dance. They had their meal and we pulled away back down the canal. That was the end of the leisurely day because then we had two hours of rush hour, hair raising traffic to get to our airport hotel for an early morning flight to Mumbai or Bombay, depending on who you talk to…it’s officially Mumbai now, but lots of people here still call it Bombay. We only had seven hours of daylight in Mumbai and so we booked a car for a fast tour of the city..it was the only way to see the sights in such a short time with the totally over-the-top, in your face, fast-paced city of 20 million. I can’t form any legitimate opinions or impressions of a place where in a blink of an eye I’m here and then gone, but it was never high on my list of places in which to spend time. In over -crowded India, Mumbai ranks at or near the top of that scale. However, there were some indelible and memorable moments….first of all was the “public washing” site. It is comprised of hundreds of square bathtub sized, concrete tubs where thousands upon thousands of laundry items are “cleaned” and hung to dry…It is laundry on and industrial scale, literally, because hotels, restaurants, and businesses with uniforms farm out their laundry and on a given clothes line there may be 30-40 shirts, dresses, and other items all lined up like they have all been cloned. It’s truly an amazing sight. The whole thing is about 5-10 acres in size and it’s just a mind blowing thing to witness.

Sunday in the park means cricket…the national passion. Huge public parks are venues where organized teams meet to test their skills while school boys in flip-flops and shorts play pick-up games with tennis balls…More formal games are held on the many cricket pitches across the city.

But the highlight for both was the Gandhi house and museum…it was a look at his life from childhood to South Africa to leading the independence movement. It is a solemn place and all visitors seem to feel his presence and be in awe of this little man who brought the entire British imperialistic Raj to an end. It was just incredible to be in his home. At the other end of the human experience was our drive through the slums of Mumbai where “Slumdog Millionaire” was set. I won’t go on about except to say that it breaks your spirit to see such human degradation and the enormity of the situation…It’s not just one area, it several and all are appalling and unsettling to the spirit.

On a practical note, Mumbai has an enormous traffic problem which they have dealt with in a seemingly class-ridden method, but also one that serves all purposes…They have banned the rickshaws from south Mumbai which makes for easier flow of traffic and less noise. There are the usual billion, give or take a million, in north Mumbai and the hum of lawn tractors on steroids and their little beep-beep horns fill the air. I thought this was really a class thing, and it probably is, but the truth is that north Mumbai is where the economically strapped people live and they need the cheap mode of transportation where as wealthier south Mumbai wouldn’t use them anyway. So, it’s one of those class driven directives that has a practical side in addition to being a telling item of Indian society. Then after our day there, it was on to “India.” An early 3:30 wake-up call got us up and off to the airport by 4:30 for our flight from Mumbai to Indore where we would base for a couple of nights to visit some Hindu shrines. Reaching Indore we taxied to the hotel past some of the trashiest parts of India I had witnessed up to this point. We passed dozens of cattle and the assortment of ever-present dogs, but the real surprise were the dozens of feral pigs rooting in the garbage for some morsels to eat. They looked more like wild boars rather than some future breakfast meat and they rooted next to small children doing much the same thing in the garbage. Block after block was the same. Piles of garbage scattered in empty fields and up against buildings with people walking oblivious to the scene because it such a natural, everyday occurrence. Generally speaking areas around the airports are always really poor areas in India…High rent district it certainly isn’t as the noise and inevitable congestion of cars and people definitely are areas to stay away from if it is avoidable. After a short nap due to our early rising, we proceeded to book our driver and car for the day. We have done this several times by now and although it seemed strange at the beginning, we have come to understand that this isn’t just a fat cat tourist thing, it’s what Indians do as well. The drivers know all the ins and outs of an area and the price for an all day driver and car runs about $40. I’ve ragged on Indian driving ad nauseum and won’t continue except to say this driver was the worst of all…Still can’t figure out how we didn’t kill some motorcyclist family because we continually pass whole families on one small motor cycle..several had 6 people on them…mom, dad, little boy in front of dad, two small girls in the sandwiched in between parents and the eldest child riding behind. It’s quite a scene. To paraphrase Yogi Berra, 70% of the Indian population ride motor cycles/scooters and the other 70 % ride rickshaws. Ujjain, was just a short one hour ride where over and over again, I said to myself: “This is it. Somebody’s gonna die.” I don’t really worry about myself, although these cars often don’t have seat belts which attach, it’s really a worry about wiping out an entire family through no fault of their own. The trip was further enlightened by several screeching halts for a calf which wandered into the road and later a full flock of a couple hundred sheep and goats being herded down the road… But no crunching of metal or wailing of agony and grief was to be heard and we safely made it to our destination, the temple to Shiva and one of the seven holy sites in Hinduism. Muslims make their hadj to Mecca, Christians may go make pilgrimage to Jerusalem and Hindus come to Ujjain. Like all holy sites it is a mixture if kitsch and sanctity. Hundreds of hawkers sell all the wares to pilgrims and in Ujjain, that means flower offerings to Shiva, milk to be poured over the shrine, red and yellow powders which were sprinkled over the shrine and then rubbed on their foreheads as well as all sorts of trinkets which may or may not have some significance. No purses or bags can be taken in and cell phones and cameras are verboten and we had to remove our shoes as well…Since we were the only Caucasians in the thousand or so pilgrims, our pasty-white, Washington - never see the sun in the winter - feet stood out as being really out of place with the darkened feet of the Indian pilgrims. The pathway was littered with pigeon poop, dropped flowers, spilt milk, other assorted things I don’t want to think about nor want to know. The pigeons obviously roost on the 400 feet of handrail and left reminders that they too make their own pilgrimage each night. All this and then we had to put on our shoes afterwards. Carol said that her feet would never forgive her for what she put them through. And of course, after we did all this, socks had to be put back on them…Naturally, tonight is a laundry night. The line was long and tortuously slow… It took over two hours of inching along then stopping for several minutes before inching yet further…back and forth through the Disneyland-type serpentine queue. It was curious to me that the class of pilgrim was definitely skewed on the lower end of the economic scale…possibly 20% of the people would be considered middle class and the rest were what Gandhi called, the “real India.” Their darkened faces were weathered from the sun and many obviously had never had dental insurance. Their bodies showed the ravages of time and the toil of a hard life. Clusters of women began softly chanting as they slowly made their way closer and closer to entering the shrine…Of course, since it is India, lots of people jumped the cue by darting from one section of the serpentine into the other and thereby making their wait time considerably shorter, and, of course, since it is India, nobody objected. I was very curious about the make up of the crowd and at lunch afterward, a man of some means was sitting at a near table and smiled generously. So, taking that as an opening, I approached him and asked if he spoke English. He replied with impeccable English and I was in. “Did he mind answering some questions about the shrine’” I could also have added “since I can’t ask my “English speaking driver,” anything that requires more than one word in English.” I told him of my observations on the pilgrims seeming to be from lower economic class and he explained that this was a work day and the people who could come to the shrine on a day like today were the poorer ones and so that didn’t surprise him. If we had come on a weekend or holiday, I would see a more complete range of society. That was interesting and good to know. These are the kind of clarifications that can only come with contact and questions. I probably intrude sometimes, but I gain so much more insight than otherwise just looking and deciding what things are like There was a family of several generations directly in front of us in line and, they fit the 20%. Mom and teenage daughter nicely dressed in colorful saris, hands and feet with henna designs, and the dad looking like a government worker, nicely dressed and with a level of education superior to the norm of the line. The pee-wee of the family was 6 years old and I started playing with him as I would Alex or Max when they were that age…It made the long line more tolerable. He sat on my lap and loved the attention. Our presence was a curious sight to the pilgrims…most smiled pleasantly and seemed pleased that we were there while others met our eye with either indifference or seeming “What the hell are they doing here,” hostility. This is obviously not on the tourist track. As we got closer and closer, the women’s chanting became louder and more joyful. It was obviously the fulfillment of a very important aspect of their spirituality. Eventually, you make your way into the little shrine room which is about the size of a child’s bedroom in a tract house in a modern development and could hold about 40 people all crowding their way to reach the shrine itself from all sides…two hours of waiting to reach this and a couple of minutes at best in the shrine. But the depth of emotion in the pilgrims was very moving. It was a very personal and also communal experience for them and I think it is difficult to be in the midst of it and not be moved and affected by it. So, it was a spiritual experience for me today as well. Although I am not Hindu, I found my own place in their deep devotion to Shiva. It was a fascinating day for me..It really was the first “Indian” day we’ve had…We’ve done touristy things and there have been lots of tourists doing many of those same things…But today this was something special that I got to enjoy seeing and being part of. It seemed unspoiled, like many of the experiences I had when I was here 53 years ago….I don’t often get to experience that same feeling in today’s modern, world traveling mobile society. 

Day two was a continuation of this feeling. We visited Maheshwar, a holy site similar to Varanasi, but on a smaller scale. The ghats (steps) are filled with people bathing and washing clothes on the river Narmada instead of the Ganges. It wasn’t festival time, so it was not overly crowded, but still the sense of spirituality was evident. The Rehwa society is a local weaving cooperative where the money earned through the sales of shawls, scarves, and saris support local schools and underprivileged, but talented local students…Naturally, Carol was in heaven to be surrounded by 20 or so looms, and we dropped a few bucks there, which is no surprise. . These two days took me back to my youth and experiences. Life is good. Headline of the day: ” Elderly man found dead from heart attack in express train bathroom” No, it wasn’t me 

Wild wild west

Well, actually it is the south of India, but it certainly feels like the wild west where there are no rules, at least on the highways, but more about that in a minute. I have once again been struck by the basic concept of life which is that those with the least to give are the most generous, especially generous of spirit. The Indian people are a wonderfully kind and warm-hearted people. They are always willing to give a smile and a handshake, if they are male. No matter the class or status, I have been treated with such acceptance that it warms my heart, and I find myself engaging in conversation with any and all with whom I have the opportunity to do so. From the cop in the street to the woman in the shop they all have this ability to make you feel totally relaxed and at ease. It’s wonderful to be a part of. Here is a caveat…I make lots of continuing comments about driving and highways…but the truth being said, we spend a lot of time with a hired car getting to the out of the way places and that means we are continually subjected to imminent death or disfigurement, if not to us, then to the poor individuals who get in our way. So observations about driving and highway behavior are reflective of a large portion of our day. You can always scroll down to the more amiable parts of the letter. With that being said, Indian drivers may be the most dangerous drivers on the planet…I’ve been around the block once or twice, but today’s ride from Cochin to the tea plantations in Munnar was definitely an “E” ticket. Trying to get out of Cochin was an adventure, but an urban one…Cochin’s streets have no stop lights, no stop signs, no cross walks, no zebra crossings, no lane markings, no speed limits, no nada….it’s a free-for-all where only the intrepid dare tread. Finally, however, we did clear the city limits and that’s where the real fun began. We headed for the hills and that meant very narrow, twisting elevation-climbing roads that give the drivers the opportunity to show their bravado at the wheel, no matter the situation. We have our own driver for the next three days as we head to the tea planting and spice plantations of Kerala. So Carol and I buckled up, gritted our teeth, rolled our eyeballs and shook our heads as we passed and were passed literally hundreds of times on blind curves, hills where we couldn’t see beyond a hundred feet and often just held our breath. The drivers seem to understand the rules, and that means do what you want, where you want regardless…we were in a line of cars heading towards a blind curve where we couldn’t see what was coming and there was zero room in between us and the car in front of us. Made no difference, a car passed us and was in the opposite “lane,” if I can use that term since there are no lines, when a bus came around the corner. The driver of the passing car just forced our driver to basically stop to allow him back on our “side” of the road before all hell broke loose and blood and mayhem occurred. Our driver didn’t blink an eye, curse, honk his horn or otherwise show any sign of displeasure…maybe because he had done the same thing himself dozens of times in the journey. This was not a short hop across town, but a four-hour free-for-all. 80 miles took us 4 hours to complete since buses, truck, auto rickshaws, and other assorted vehicles lined the roads in both directions…the sides of buses wear the scars of situations which didn’t quite pan out according to plan. All I know is that if I drove like that I’d either be dead or divorced. We dodged our way past cattle, dogs, goats, monkeys, and a full-sized tom turkey just standing in the road all ruffled up like he was putting on his moves for a female car. He’s lucky he didn’t wind up on somebody’s Sunday dinner table. However, survive we did, and made it to a fascinating and wonderful hill station named Munnar which didn’t exist more than a century ago and only in the past 15 years did it become a real town when they discovered that they could milk the tourist trade. As frightening and marginal as it was, it was a lovely trip into the heartland of Kerala. The hills are covered by a green carpet of tea plants looking like some giant Christo expression of performance art. The rows are just wide enough for the ladies to reach into the branches and pick from either side. The bags are suspended from their heads by straps and since the leaves are so light, it isn’t a strain on the pickers. Huge black basalt boulders up to 100 feet in diameter dot the fields like they were strewn by the gods on high and where they fell they lay and imbedded into the earth. The fields come right up to the little villages scattered in the area with their pastel houses of violet, peach, yellow, rose, and other soft tones to give a break from the solid green and give some variation to the texture of the land. I couldn’t help thinking it would make a great Springbok jigsaw puzzle. Difficult, interesting and colorful.

We took a tour of a tea plantation where in great detail they explained the process from plant to tea bag. It’s a working plantation and the ladies had finished picking for the day and were separating the useable leaves from the chaff, as it were. It was what I have wanted to see ever since I was in India as a youth and didn’t see them at that time.

In terms of Kerala itself, it is a place of remarkable religious tranquility and tolerance. Hindus, Jews, Muslims and other fringe religions all blend and intermix easily and well, unlike other areas of India. The Christian influence is large, which really came as a surprise to me…our waiter’s name at the hotel restaurant was James Joseph, the travel agent who helped our itinerary is Arnold Nieland…both testimony to the fact that centuries ago This west coast of India was a hub of international trading, and Goa, the state to the north was a Portuguese colony well into the 20th century. Huge Christian churches which would rival the mega-churches of Texas are located in the big cities and even the smaller ones have smaller ones which obviously cater to a sizeable amount of worshipers. Here in the hotel, I can hear the call of the Muezzin. We were told that there are only five Jews left in Kerala, apparently the minimum number necessary to perform various rabbinical procedures at the synagogue. Kerala is ablaze with color…when I wasn’t hanging on for dear life, I was able to see gigantic purple bouganvillias, red poinsettias that were more trees than houseplants, peach colored shrimp plants, and the sweet red hibiscus plants all which are scattered along the way. We passed from tea country into spice territory where the smell of cardomon gave a soft pungency to the air as we passed large tracts of the bushes. We visited a spice farm where they raise a whole range of spices….clove, cardoman, peppers, nutmeg, cinnamon, cacao, among others. It gave new meaning to the term “Spice trade,” for me. As in Uzbekistan where the ladies in their national dress were a constant source of color, the same is here with the ladies in their saris. They range from the sublime to the ornate, soft colors to loud proclamations of their presence. Pick a color and they wear a sari of that color. I was talking with a lady about the saris and asked her how many she had. “more than 10?,”….she laughed. “More than 30?”…again laughter…this went on and on with the number climbing in our guessing game and it finally stopped at 165…I thought she was the Imelda Marcos of shoe fame with saris, but she informed me that there were many with lots more…Little did I know.

Indian news headline of the day: “Film censor bans 28 swear words from future use in films..15 Hindi and 13 English.” Damn it. What the hell is that all about?...:P

Back down to reality

Flying out of Dubai and into Mumbai (Bombay) was getting our feet back on the ground again, both literally and figuratively. We descended over a series of shanty towns that made Rio’s favelas look like upscale villas. This is the touch of reality which I needed after the other-worldly fantasy of Dubai…. When Carol was in California before our trip she was talking to a friend about our upcoming trip and a lady who was browsing near them in the store listened and had a bemused look on her face. She asked Carol if she had ever been to India before and Carol replied no, but she’d been reading a lot…”seems a lot of good and bad,” Carol added. ….the lady smiled and said: “It’s all true, both the good and the bad.” Married to an Indian, she had been several times, hence the comment. We discovered that in short order. Upon our arrival in Cochin in the state of Kerala in Southern India, we got a taxi to town, a 40 minute cab ride that should have taken an hour and a half. The Indian set of road rules seem to be simple: There are no rules. The roads are dominated by buses and trucks which are big enough to throw their weight around and force others to knuckle under. Given the number of dents and scraped sides, this seems to be something that needs to be enforced often. Our taxi driver blasted down the road to town with abandon and the two lane road was that in name only as he passed others with other vehicles coming without hesitation. About one minute into the ride, I decided I needed to buckle up but there wasn’t any clip into which to put the strap. This vehicle definitely needed a flight attendant showing how to take care of basic safety rules. Motorized rickshaws, which are 3-wheeled canopied motor scooters and sound like lawn tractors on steroids, are at the bottom of the food chain and accordingly know that their survival is best preserved by going in a straight, unwavering line because cars, and the aforementioned buses whiz by so close you could literally reach out and ask for change. Should they vary their straight line they’d be road kill. Literally. Motorcycles and scooters zip in and out of traffic as only they can which adds to the Mario Cart feeling. They add to the excitement by traveling four-lane separated roads by going east in the westbound lanes…all to the accompaniment of the incessant horns blasting. The roads can be described as that but only marginally so. They are rutted, potholed affairs which cause the driver to slow slightly as he picks his way through them. Jerry Jeff Walker’s “L.A. Freeway” kept running through my head with a local twist: “If I can just get off this Cochin road without getting killed or caught.” Hundreds of trucks parked alongside the road for the night further constricted the passageway, but we made it safely, if not calmly to our hotel. This morning we ventured out onto the city streets which in Cochin are basically the same but with gridlock. Pedestrians are at the mercy of the gazillion scooters and motorcycles which bob and weave with such dexterity I watched amazed that there were no accidents or spills. On the myriad of side streets intersections are a wonder. At one, there were 6 rickshaws, scooters and motorcycles all entering at the same time, nobody slowed down, yet they all got across safely. John Prine’s “four way stop dilemma,” had nothing on these people. Women, with saris flowing back behind the motor scooters, are equal to the task and give no quarter. In this aspect of Indian life, there is equality. Families ride on one scooter, the man driving, the woman holding on to him with one hand and onto the baby with the other. The streets of Indian cities are a maze of connecting alleys and small side streets teeming with life…the major streets have sidewalk of a sort, albeit filled with holes into which makes for picking one’s way carefully. Larger holes are covered by 3 foot square blocks of concrete just placed on top of the hole and need to be stepped over. The sidewalks often have slits running across them so that you can see liquid below and from the smell it is obvious that it is a sewer line leading somewhere. Narrow alleys have no such sidewalks and so the streets are from left to right, open shops, parked rickshaws, pedestrians, vehicles passing at speeds which they shouldn’t in both directions, all with horns blowing, pedestrians, parked rickshaws and open shops…It’s a scene that occupies ones total sensory receptors.

Lest all this sound negative, let me just say that I find it exhilarating. It is so alive with real life and after the phoniness of Dubai it is a welcome change back to real life…I feel so alive here. When I’m in a store at home and the clerk says the bill is $16.36…I always reply, “Ah, yes, 1636. I remember it well. I was a potato farmer in Belgium. It was a cold winter……” or some variation thereof. In reality, I think I have always been like the people on the streets of Cochin. I’m a peasant at heart and always have been, I think. These are my kind of people…just making it through life as best they can. Contrasting this to Dubai where the ritzy-titzy females shop while their entourage following behind carrying all bags and paying for the goods as they just point to what they want brings me back to the reality of life for the vast majority of the, what is it, 8 billion of us who share this little rock. This is real, and I’m loving it, but I’m also paying attention lest I get run over. One stop shopping I entered India with a general plan of where we were going to go with a lot of leeway built in. I always like to have a trip sort of develop its own route. I’ve found that the road ahead will lay itself out to me. Here in Kerala, I wanted to see a tea plantation, a spice plantation and the lazy backwaters of the Louisiana-like bayous with palm trees instead of mangrove trees. Lonely Planet told us where a travel agency was that had good reviews from travelers and so we took off this morning on our walking quest to find it. I could have booked things through the hotel, but, hey, I’m a travel agent. Why would I do hotel bookings? Although unsuccessful at our original plan, we did come across an agency and went inside. I mentioned my general plan and they said they could arrange it all, which they did with variations which I could not have anticipated…while we were waiting for them to confirm bookings, I asked where I could change money. No problem, they knew a man just a few shops down who could do this and so that was taken care of. I had brought a phone with me that I purchased in New Zealand that I couldn’t make work here, but, hey, no problem, they knew a man down the street who could take care of that. Dead battery, I was told, buy a new one….100 rupees. $1.60. I now needed a sim card for India…no problem…100 rupees. This is the amazing thing about India…they epitomize the term “networking.” Everybody knows somebody who knows somebody who can solve your problem. So instead of having to run around town finding solutions for our needs, it was all done and with a pleasantness and warmth that the Indian people are known for.

Mr. Toad’s wild ride. We wanted to see as much of the city as possible and had walked most of the morning in the steaming South India heat and so after a rest it was time for venturing out once more. This time it was by auto rickshaw. We held on as we bumped and weaved our way through the alley-ways and narrow streets which, although different, were amazingly similar to what we had trod earlier in the day. We got up close and personal with lots of different forms of humanity, and it’s amazing that nobody is killed in, or by, these things..We did get too close to another rickshaw and bumped it which led to an animated and loud discussion as to how and why it happened and what was to be done…in the end, it was all bluster and after everybody vented, we all went on our various ways….all this for, you guessed it, 100 rupees. Sensory overload. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes and touch are in abundance in any walk in India….the colors of the women’s saris are dazzling, rivaling those of Uzbek women in national dress…they are a myriad of colors, ornately decorated with gold thread and range from luxurious fashion statements to very simply articles of daily clothing. The sounds are everywhere…horns honk constantly and there is a hierarchy of the noise, again rickshaws have the weakest voice and moving up we find motor scooters, motorcycles, cars, buses, and the big daddy of them all the air horns of trucks which can blast through any competing sound, human or mechanical. Indian people talk loudly even when there is not competing noise and walking down the street one hears instructions being shouted to workers and people trying to converse over all the competing horns and machinery. All this results in a cacophony of simply noise….It almost becomes white noise, yet something different will happen which brings it all crashing back to it’s fullness. Olfactory awareness It is impossible to walk down an Indian street and not be inundated by smells…the odors of hot oil frying the variety of street food waft constantly through the air and the vents from restaurants send the smell of curries into the street and beckon the hungry inside. The smell of stagnant water gathered in pools is everywhere embellished by the sewer lines which run underneath the cracked sidewalk. The smell works its way up into the living space of the humans. All this is offset by the occasional scent of blossoms, jasmine, being the most prevalent, which takes away all the negatives. Tactile awareness I always like to stop and talk with people in the street…men working with their hands, craftsmen fashioning a long list of wares, and just the cop on the street. They all look at me and I acknowledge and match their curiosity by shaking hands with them…some are strong-handed grips, some are weak-limbed dainty shakes, but they are all done with a smile and it is a contact that I both crave and thoroughly enjoy…don’t know why, but I really do continually reach out for that personal contact. And taste How can one come to India and not taste the variety of foods available…I am always advised not to eat on the streets when I travel, but I always ignore that advice because it is where the people eat, it is life itself…I remember being here in 1962 and how I had to eat whatever I ordered because I couldn’t waste even a dime. I learned the incredible variety of tastes that were available at that time, and I still enjoy them, although, now as then, they breathe fire into my stomach. So now, I’ve just arrived in India and my total body is into it as well as my spirit and my mind…India is a place to live the total variety of the human experience. I’m sure that people can enjoy India on several levels, and it is possible to come and just see the positives by staying in 5 star hotels and having organized tours to take you to the safe and standard tourist venues…but it’s not the India I remember, and not the one I wanted Carol to experience. I want it all. Still more than a month of wonders yet to come…bring it on.