Two Weeks in India 1997

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" rowspan="2" width=210 BGCOLOR="#C0C0C0" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>Solo adventure in India and a harbinger of what was to come three months later...</B></div> </td> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=82 BGCOLOR="#C0C0C0" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Copperplate Gothic Bold" ><B>Hanson Hosein's Self-Center</B></FONT><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#336699" FACE="Copperplate Gothic Bold" ><B> </B></FONT><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#336699" FACE="Times New Roman" ><B>  </B></FONT><B>  </B><B>|</B><B>    </B><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#000000" FACE="News Gothic MT" ><B> </B><A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Hanson Hoseins SelfCenter"><U><B>home</B></U></A></FONT></div> <div> <B>Two Weeks in India 1997</B>   |   <A HREF="id38.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Balkans Journal"><U>Balkans Journal</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id98.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="NYC"><U>NYC</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id70.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="A Month of Sundays"><U>A Month of Sundays</U></A>   |   <A HREF="summer_in_montreal.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Montreal"><U>Montreal</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id36.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Middle East Journal"><U>Middle East Journal</U></A>   |   <A HREF="oregon_tourism.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Oregon"><U>Oregon</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id100.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Montana"><U>Montana</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id108.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Road Trip"><U>Road Trip</U></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" height=398 colspan=2 BGCOLOR="#C0C0C0" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>Two Weeks in India 1997</B></div> <div> FRANKFURT, THURSDAY, MAY 8, 1997</div> <bR> <div> Nothing like jumping into a cold lake. That was more or</div> <div> less what I was thinking as I left my office yesterday at 5 p.m.</div> <div> for JFK airport and my flight to Bombay, India.</div> <bR> <div> New York City was sunny and cool, traffic was light. Why</div> <div> wouldn't anyone want to be here in New York now, when the</div> <div> conditions were almost perfect? Why indeed? Why give up the</div> <div> only two bearable weeks of life in Gotham for the heat, traffic,</div> <div> frustration, and pollution of a country full to the brim with 950</div> <div> million people?</div> <bR> <div> The problem was yesterday was that the answer to those</div> <div> questions was quite simple: nothing was really stopping me. </div> <div> Hence the cold lake. The only thing between you and that coldly</div> <div> beckoning body of water is your willpower (or your hesitation)</div> <div> and gravity (or inertia). The ride to JFK was painfully easy, as</div> <div> was checking in at the Delta Airlines ticket counter. I must</div> <div> admit: the ability to fly business class at will is motivation</div> <div> enough for anyone to want to become wealthy. No queue at the</div> <div> counter, no suspicious glances at my passport -- the attendant</div> <div> even left his post to run and find a cart for me and my duffel</div> <div> bag!</div> <bR> <div> The business class lounge was even more heavenly. Sparsely</div> <div> occupied, with an open bar, somewhat flavorless hors d'oeuvres,</div> <div> telephones, and a television set -- just in time to watch my</div> <div> dreadful story air on Nightly News re: Medicare's new computer</div> <div> system. Ah hah! Chalk up one good reason to leave New York: I</div> <div> don't have to suffer the repercussions for that story -- well at</div> <div> least I can ignore the repercussions for another two weeks.</div> <bR> <div> Now having spent 100,000 of my hard-earned frequent flyer</div> <div> points on this trip, I was initially disappointed with Delta's</div> <div> business class service. The attendants were cordial in an</div> <div> impersonal kind of way. And what is it with forty-something,</div> <div> square-jawed, immaculately-groomed male flight attendants who look</div> <div> like they just turned down a gig at "GQ" because they'd rather</div> <div> fly? Hmmmmm?</div> <bR> <div> This of course, may all sound like an elitist tantrum. Well</div> <div> it is, and I'm thoroughly enjoying it.</div> <div> ***</div> <div> The flight across the pond was uneventful. My seatmate was</div> <div> a 50-something woman. Her name was Harriett, and she had</div> <div> a Mississippi drawl and a penchant for free, high class hooch</div> <div> (let's see, I counted one glass of champagne, three glasses of</div> <div> Giesen 1995 white wine, and two glasses of Courvoisier VSOP). </div> <div> She also happened to be married to the pilot of our 767-ER> </div> <div> Captain Merrill was on one of his last flights before he was to</div> <div> enter into early retirement at the age of 57. And for the first</div> <div> time, his octogenarian parents would be flying on the same</div> <div> airliner as their son, which is why Harriett was there, I</div> <div> suppose, to take care of her in-laws.</div> <bR> <div> As you might deduce from the above details, we did get to</div> <div> talking: about family, our roots, her dogs, her house in New</div> <div> Hampshire, travel, and retirement. she asked me if I had studied</div> <div> how to produce in college.</div> <bR> <div> "No," I said. "Actually, I used to be an attorney."</div> <bR> <div> "Not another one!" she replied. Not quite the reaction I</div> <div> had expected. It turns out that Harriett used to practice</div> <div> criminal and tax law (another form of criminal law as she put it)</div> <div> in Louisiana. So we got to talking a bit about the Louisiana</div> <div> Civil Code, which I had studied a bit when I was at McGill.</div> <bR> <div> I really liked Harriett and I think she liked talking to me. </div> <div> She especially understood where I was coming from when we started</div> <div> discussing family backgrounds. I said something about being</div> <div> rootless. She said, that that's sad in a way. I told her that I</div> <div> agreed. Although it's nice to feel as if you belong to the</div> <div> world, it doesn't make it easy when you find yourself in the</div> <div> middle of a new and different experience (i.e. new city, new job,</div> <div> new people) and you don't have the familiarity of a support</div> <div> network, or a sense of who you are (beyond your own personality),</div> <div> to back you up in this novel and difficult situation.</div> <bR> <div> I imagine it's much easier to be Jewish or Greek, or Indian,</div> <div> because it's an external component of your personality that gives</div> <div> you a bit of backbone in those circumstances. You can socialize</div> <div> with the community, take comfort in your group's characteristics</div> <div> and customs, or just feel proud. Sometimes, I feel like I have</div> <div> to rely too much on what has been developed as MY personality,</div> <div> and MY experience -- which can often be difficult.</div> <bR> <div> Maybe that's partially what this trip to India is all about:</div> <div> roots. Or it could just be another addition to MY experience. </div> <div> We'll see.</div> <div> ***</div> <div> Landing in Frankfurt was a neat sensation. I spotted the</div> <div> Rhine, the green sprawl of trees and then the city under low</div> <div> cloud cover. For an international city, Frankfurt seems so</div> <div> organized, so livable -- at least from the air. Not the chaotic</div> <div> gray-faced diorama that is Manhattan. Have to give credit to</div> <div> those Germans I suppose. A good reminder that we don't have to</div> <div> live with urban blight if we choose not to. Of course that might</div> <div> be more difficult to achieve in the Land of the Free. Or in</div> <div> India for that matter.</div> <bR> <div> It's always a wonderful, comforting feeling to be back in</div> <div> Europe. Even if it's only a two-hour stopover, you know it's not</div> <div> America, and you know...I know...that I have not completely</div> <div> succumbed to the American "dream."</div> <div> ***</div> <div> So here I am now, about an hour after taking off from</div> <div> Frankfurt. My seat is the same (10A, bulkhead), the wine list is</div> <div> the same (I had the Edgewood Estate 1993 cabernet, maybe I'll try</div> <div> that New Zealand white next), and the plane is the same.</div> <div> But the crew is now mostly Indian, my apple juice has a</div> <div> faintly different taste to it (slightly more perfumed, slightly</div> <div> more Indian?), and guess what? I'm heading off to a different</div> <div> continent and a different country. That's exciting. I'm excited.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> BOMBAY/MUMBAI THURSDAY, MAY 9, 1997 12:45 p.m.</div> <bR> <div> A mixture of emotions today so far, from "this is crazy, why</div> <div> am I doing this?" to "oh yeah, this is why I'm doing this."</div> <div> But once again, that jumping into a cold lake served me well</div> <div> (both the metaphor and the philosophy). One slight variation</div> <div> thought: Bombay in May is a steamy, pungent dish, served up hot</div> <div> with the Arabian Sea on the side. No cold lake here.</div> <div> ***</div> <div> Rewind back to last night. Or better yet, about last night,</div> <div> the one that never ended.</div> <bR> <div> The flight in was great, no surprises. I did manage to get</div> <div> some sleep. When I awoke, I had noticed from the trajectory</div> <div> being projected on the in-flight screen, that we were flying over</div> <div> Saudi Arabia. I felt a little "frisson," thrilled by the fact</div> <div> that I had finally breached the Eastern Hemisphere.</div> <div> Before landing in Bombay (recently renamed "Mumbai" by the</div> <div> Hindu nationalist city government, but no one except the</div> <div> government and the nationalists call it that), I prepared myself</div> <div> in accordance with everything I had read and researched about</div> <div> what would be my first step into the subcontinent.</div> <bR> <div> I stuffed my money belt, put away a jacket I knew I would</div> <div> not need, and got my passport and paperwork in order.</div> <div> Once landed, the real advantage to business class became</div> <div> clear. First off the plane, and first in line at customs.</div> <div> The un-airconditioned, small, dank, airport didn't surprise</div> <div> me much. I had been through enough of those kind of places in</div> <div> the Caribbean. The customs agent did give my passport a second</div> <div> look (am I suspicious-looking, even in the developing world?),</div> <div> and then waved me through.</div> <bR> <div> Another mental pat on my back: congratulations on packing</div> <div> light. I didn't need help with my one knapsack and one duffel</div> <div> bag, and I had been able to carry them both on board the plane. </div> <div> Which meant I didn't have to wait at baggage claim once inside</div> <div> the airport.</div> <bR> <div> That said, here's a mental kick in my butt...[I interrupt</div> <div> this regularly scheduled pontification for a breaking cultural</div> <div> interlude: channel 18 on my hotel room television set is showing</div> <div> the Indian version of "Wheel of Fortune"...in Hindi]...when</div> <div> travelling to a developing country, don't overdo it on the luxury</div> <div> items. I brought two cameras, and an extra wristwatch, for</div> <div> insurance.</div> <bR> <div> But some little man who felt just a little bigger in his</div> <div> white uniform made me run my knapsack through the x-ray machine</div> <div> twice before I could leave the airport.</div> <bR> <div> "You have cell phone?" he asked suspiciously.</div> <bR> <div> "No," I replied, wondering what kind of American cellphone</div> <div> would work in India. "You might have detected my camera," I</div> <div> said, trying to be helpful -- which I would soon regret.</div> <bR> <div> "What kind of camera you have?"</div> <bR> <div> I was afraid of where this was leading. He probably</div> <div> suspected that I was trying to smuggle my cameras into India and</div> <div> then resell them.</div> <bR> <div> "A Nikon and a Yashica," I told him.</div> <bR> <div> "Bill, you have bill," he asked, needling me.</div> <bR> <div> "No, I don't have the bill."</div> <bR> <div> "Bill for Nikon," he repeated.</div> <bR> <div> "I don't have the bill," I said, frustrated. "Why should I</div> <div> carry the bill, I bought the camera three years ago!"</div> <bR> <div> He gave me a little shrug, obviously satisfied with is</div> <div> little game, and let me pass through without another word.</div> <bR> <div> I changed my money at the government exchange office inside</div> <div> the terminal. Thirty-five rupees to the dollar. Then I bought a</div> <div> pre-paid taxi coupon for 300 rupees (to avoid being ripped off by</div> <div> the cab drivers), and went outside into the humid night to find</div> <div> my cab.</div> <bR> <div> Everything had gone so far according to plan. I got into my</div> <div> taxi, which was a tiny boxy vehicle that sounded, and felt, like</div> <div> it was powered by a lawnmower engine. Without a word, my driver</div> <div> set out on what was to be a 30 minute journey to my hotel.</div> <bR> <div> ....to be continued.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> ELEPHANTA, SATURDAY, MAY 10, 1997</div> <bR> <div> I'll stop being linear for a second and attempt a live, after-the-fact </div> <div> commentary.</div> <bR> <div> I just finished touring the caves at Elephanta. Elephanta is an island about 7 </div> <div> kilometers off the coast of Bombay in the Arabian Sea.</div> <bR> <div> For 120 rupees (less than $4), a catamaran will take you across to the island. </div> <div> Our guide was a well-educated woman. She was very thorough with her </div> <div> explanations -- unlike yesterday's tour guide, which I'll get back to once I </div> <div> return to my linear narrative.</div> <bR> <div> Here's the live commentary: the monkey sitting next to me just stole my half </div> <div> full 2 liter bottle of water. It's quite heavy, so I'm impressed.</div> <bR> <div> I exclaimed "Hey!" when he took it, but he snarled back, so I decided to donate </div> <div> my bottle to the cause. But now he's back, and he doesn't seem to have been </div> <div> able to open the bottle. He's put the bottle on its side, and now he's trying </div> <div> to bite through the plastic. First he has to take the label off...which he </div> <div> just did. Wonder if I should help him? But I can do without catching rabies.</div> <bR> <div> The caves at Elephanta were very interesting. I was given my first lesson in </div> <div> the Hindu faith. [news flash, monkey has made a hole, bottle is leaking, and </div> <div> he's drinking, drop by drop]</div> <bR> <div> There might be thousands of gods whom Hindus celebrate and revere, but </div> <div> essentially, they believe in a singular unifying force, a higher power. That </div> <div> power is traditionally broken down into three "personalities": Brahma </div> <div> (Creator), Vishnu (Preserver), and Shiva (Destroyer). Elephanta's caves were </div> <div> carved by Hindus in 4 or 5 A.D. as a tribute to Shiva. He is portrayed in </div> <div> various poses of destroying, playing, and marrying. When he is angry and doing </div> <div> some pretty nasty destroying, he has more than two arms. The angrier he gets, </div> <div> the more arms he sprouts. Thus the multi-armed deities.</div> <div> ***</div> <div> Time for some commentary about the general conditions here. Every day is </div> <div> similar weather-wise. It gets up to about 36 degrees Celsius by midday in the </div> <div> Bombay area, and is very humid. Still, dressed in cool cotton, and in the </div> <div> refuge of the shade, it's not unbearable.</div> <bR> <div> Bombay has a particular odor. At times it smells like a flowery camembert </div> <div> cheese, other times, incense, or sweet diesel fuel. But at all times, it's </div> <div> ripe and pungent. I'm not quite sure what to attribute the smell to, but I </div> <div> suspect that it's a combination of things: Bombay's swampy past (it was seven </div> <div> islands before the British unified things), pollution, vegetation, the sea, and </div> <div> human waste. It's not totally unpleasant, but it is different.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> BOMBAY...same day.</div> <bR> <div> Now back to my narrative...</div> <bR> <div> When I last left you, I was in a little taxi, more or less hurtling to my </div> <div> hotel. The driver stopped along the way twice -- once to fill up with gas, and </div> <div> once, I think, to get something to drink. In both cases, he said nothing to me </div> <div> beforehand, nor, I suppose, was he expected to.</div> <bR> <div> As I kept my eyes wide open trying to establish my first impressions of India, </div> <div> two things struck me. Make that three. (1) The roads are extremely smooth and </div> <div> well built in Bombay.; (2) drivers use their horns for everything, which makes </div> <div> for a very angry din; (3) though not completely Americanized like other parts </div> <div> of the world, Bombay is certainly a very "commercial" city. There's </div> <div> advertising everywhere, even on the iron fences in the median that divides the </div> <div> roadway. A lot of them are bank ads (ATM's, Citibank, MasterCard) and </div> <div> technology-related as well (computers, consumer electronics). I was most </div> <div> shocked and pleased/dismayed to come across five or six signs in a row for NBC </div> <div> and CNBC. The peacock is everywhere (including on the TV in my hotel room). </div> <div> There is no escape.</div> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> I suppose it was inevitable. Around 4 p.m. today, I began to feel, let's say, </div> <div> queasy.</div> <bR> <div> I was still able to meet, and have a beer with, Mr. Madan, a former colleague </div> <div> of Om Arora, and Indian who now lives in Toronto and is friends with my family. </div> <div> Mr. Madan is a lean, 50-something, neatly dressed man. I had decided to call </div> <div> him up because I thought it would be worthwhile to meet a Bombayite.</div> <bR> <div> He's a former railway engineer. So I hit him up for information about my still </div> <div> befuddling rail ticket for tomorrow to New Delhi. Bottom line: looks like I'll </div> <div> still have to take my chances.</div> <bR> <div> We had a good meeting. It probably took him about an hour to come and meet me </div> <div> from his home in the suburbs, which was extremely gracious of him. From my </div> <div> limited exposure to Indians, I would say he might be a "prototype Indian." </div> <div> He's quite proud of his country, and feels it sometimes gets a bad rap. He is </div> <div> quite worldly, having traveled extensively in Europe and Asia. Most </div> <div> importantly, he appears to be a very patient man, who seems to take pleasure in </div> <div> wherever he may be at that moment, and is never in a rush.</div> <bR> <div> "North Americans are always in a hurry," Mr. Madan told me. "In India, we </div> <div> cannot do that. Mainly because of magnitude: the size of the country and the </div> <div> population."</div> <bR> <div> I figured with his being a railway man, that he must know what he was talking </div> <div> about.</div> <bR> <div> "What is most important to us," he continued, "is moving things in bulk. So we </div> <div> move slowly, but we manage. Quantity less than quality."</div> <bR> <div> Makes perfect sense to me. India does strike me to be a bit like New York </div> <div> City. There's a fine line between order and chaos, but somehow, despite the </div> <div> crush of people and its geography, it manages, with the odd disaster and </div> <div> breakdown here and there.</div> <bR> <div> And speaking of managing a disaster! After meeting with Mr. Madan, fatigue </div> <div> and fever set in. I closed my eyes for while, fearing the worst. Checking my </div> <div> NBC Medical Center symptom sheet, things were not looking up: a stomach ailment </div> <div> was on the horizon. But instead of taking the hard stuff that I had been </div> <div> prescribed, I took a Tylenol and ordered room service, since I had skipped </div> <div> lunch. And...so good so far. I'll save the hard stuff (cyclofloxin) for </div> <div> another day.</div> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Back to my first night...again.</div> <bR> <div> My taxi driver finally found my hotel (after my driver got lost today, I've </div> <div> decided that Bombay cab drivers are like New York cab drivers...they don't </div> <div> speak English and they don't know their city). I gave him a 10 rupee tip </div> <div> (about 30 cents), which apparently I am not supposed to do ("it will spoil our </div> <div> drivers" my friend Sameera told me the next day). And of course, seeing that I </div> <div> was a foreigner, my driver decided to push his luck and demand more. I walked </div> <div> away while he was still protesting.</div> <bR> <div> The "West End Hotel" is great. It's centrally-located near Churchgate train </div> <div> station. The hotel is classified as a four-star. At 2,486 rupees a night </div> <div> ($75), it's not quite a Western hotel (two single beds with cot-like thin </div> <div> mattresses, spartan decoration, and no carpet), but it's exceptionally clean, </div> <div> and the quality of service would put some luxury American hotels to shame.</div> <bR> <div> Elevator attendants take care of your every need, from your luggage to room </div> <div> service. The front desk makes sure you get your telephone messages, and they </div> <div> still haven't taken down my credit card number yet.</div> <bR> <div> The hotel is walking distance to many of Bombay's sites -- which is exactly </div> <div> what I took advantage of during my first morning here.</div> <bR> <div> With the time change, I couldn't sleep at all, so I got out early. I had </div> <div> breakfast, and knowing full well that I couldn't just hide from India by </div> <div> staying in my room (which was tempting I must admit), I set out by foot.</div> <bR> <div> Like New York, you can't ignore Bombay's poverty. On the same street as my </div> <div> hotel, you will walk by Bombay Hospital, an immaculately clean mosque (there's </div> <div> always someone scrubbing the sidewalk out front with soap and water), the </div> <div> United States Information Service building,, and then all the street vendors </div> <div> and half-clothed children sharing the street. It's quite a sight to see very </div> <div> poor people picking through garbage and salvaging almost everything, putting </div> <div> aside the scraps of paper into well organized piles.</div> <bR> <div> I was intimidated by my first foray into Bombay. Cars honked angrily. People </div> <div> rushing to work, forsook the sidewalks for the easier (and cleaner?) to manage </div> <div> roads. And the heat! My shirt was drenched with sweat almost as soon as I set </div> <div> foot outside.</div> <bR> <div> So it was at that point, as I made my way down to the Gateway of India, that I </div> <div> began asking myself why I was doing this. Wasn't Paris really nice at this </div> <div> time of year?</div> <bR> <div> Bombay's most famous site is an archway facing out towards the Arabian Sea. </div> <div> Erected by the British in 1911, the Gateway of India isn't quite the Arc de </div> <div> Triomphe. I decided that the Taj Hotel, directly behind the Gateway was far </div> <div> more impressive in style and standing. One of the "Leading Hotels of the </div> <div> World" (that's what the plaque reads inside the lobby), a night at the Taj goes </div> <div> for around 7,000 rupees a night.</div> <bR> <div> Feeling a premature need for some Western comfort, I took refuge in the air </div> <div> conditioned climes of its lobby as I sat for a good thirty minutes, trying to </div> <div> assess my situation.</div> <bR> <div> First, I decided to check out the shopping on the nearby Colaba Causeway, but </div> <div> after I bought a supposedly sealed bottle of water for 12 rupees (on closer </div> <div> inspection I noticed a crack in its bottlecap, despite the tape wrapped around </div> <div> the top) and had to throw it out (someone was trying to rip me off and make me </div> <div> sick), I elected to head back to my hotel and take stock. It was not yet noon.</div> <bR> <div> But on the way home, I popped into the Government of India's tourist office and </div> <div> bought a ticket for a half-day tour of Bombay for later that afternoon. I </div> <div> thought that it would give me a decent overview of the city, and the chance to </div> <div> interact with some people.</div> <bR> <div> The woman from the Maharastra Tourist Authority (Bombay is in the state of </div> <div> Maharastra), was very nice, but I noticed two traits that I am sure to </div> <div> encounter for the duration of my trip in India.</div> <bR> <div> First: when you ask a public servant a question, she will nod and shake her </div> <div> head -- simultaneously. That could mean "yes," it could mean "no," but most </div> <div> likely it means "maybe," or "I don't know," or "you'll find out soon enough you </div> <div> poor sucker."</div> <bR> <div> Second: asking a question leads to an answer containing the least amount of </div> <div> detail possible. It's almost as if they don't want you to know. Without a </div> <div> doubt, the Indians have been trained in the finest traditions of British </div> <div> bureaucracy.</div> <bR> <div> I encountered a similar problem next door to the Tourist Office, at the Western </div> <div> Railways Reservations office. What a zoo! At least a hundred people lined up </div> <div> in front of a dozen windows (including one labeled "For Women Only"). Once in </div> <div> a while, the constant din in that room would rise to more fearsome shouts as </div> <div> the collective conscience of the queue would rise to punish an usurper trying </div> <div> to break into line. I didn't understand exactly what they were saying, but I </div> <div> did hear "Line! Line! Line!" and saw a lot of pushing and shoving.</div> <bR> <div> Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out my one-day train pass that I had bought </div> <div> beforehand in New York, in an attempt to reserve a sleeper for the heavily </div> <div> booked "Radjhani Express" between Bombay and New Delhi. I did know that I </div> <div> still had to somehow confirm my booking -- which I attempted to do. I was </div> <div> shuffled between the Indrail window and the Foreign Tourist desk as my ticket </div> <div> was cancelled, and then re-issued so I could be assured of a "tourist quota" </div> <div> ticket. Calling it a ticket is giving the process too much credit however. </div> <div> They scribble four incomprehensible lines on my pass, and then ignored me; the </div> <div> transaction was over. When he was taking care of me, the man at the Foreign </div> <div> Tourist desk (so named because it only accepts dollars and British pounds), </div> <div> opened a ledger and along the left margin wrote a set of numbers from the top </div> <div> of the page to the bottom. At first I thought it was a joke, and that he was </div> <div> trying to look like he knew what he was doing. But his actions were too </div> <div> methodical, and his writing too decisive, so I put it all down to an arcane </div> <div> bureaucratic code, and left it at that.</div> <bR> <div> Curiously, my transactions with these people put me in a better frame of mind. </div> <div> Actually living an experience, rather than merely sightseeing is a good way to </div> <div> insert yourself into another world methinks.</div> <bR> <div> Allow me to wrap up my first day in short order. I took my tour ("you have 20 </div> <div> minutes to tour the Prince of Wales museum"..."you have 15 minutes to tour the </div> <div> aquarium"...interesting but not exceptional, Bombay is not a touristy city), </div> <div> met some interesting people (a French executive from Rhone-Poulenc and his </div> <div> personal guide) and got a chance to see Indians by the busload socializing with </div> <div> their families (this is a very family-oriented society). That evening, I had </div> <div> dinner with a former journalism school colleague, Sameera Khan. she is know an </div> <div> editor at the Times of India (a good newspaper). The Chinese food wasn't bad, </div> <div> and during our discussion, she was able to share a couple of interesting </div> <div> perspectives on India and Bombay.</div> <bR> <div> ...to be continued...</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> BOMBAY, SUNDAY, MAY 11, 1997 </div> <bR> <div> Talk about a Sunday. Lethargy has ruled so far as I take my time</div> <div> to start the day. I negotiated a 2:30 checkout time from the</div> <div> hotel so I could laze around a bit more, and have lunch (which I</div> <div> am doing now). It's somewhat reassuring, however, that I have</div> <div> not assumed my usual intense pace of travelling during this trip. </div> <div> There is no shame in sitting in my room and reading, or napping</div> <div> for a couple of hours. It is hot outside, and when I do step</div> <div> out, my senses are assaulted to the extent that I do not believe</div> <div> I am missing out on anything by taking shelter. Besides, I am</div> <div> about to subject myself to a 17-hour train ride, sharing the car</div> <div> with god-knows-who-else! Privacy is a luxury here, so it must be</div> <div> savored when it is available.</div> <bR> <div> I did manage to pop back into the Western Railways office this</div> <div> morning just to make sure that I did have a berth. Now THERE'S a</div> <div> place where privacy has no place. The man beside me gave me</div> <div> about an inch of personal space when he wasn't jabbing his elbow</div> <div> into my side. There was a lot of gentle pushing and shoving, but</div> <div> somehow things happened and the line moved. I felt sorry for the</div> <div> clerks on the other side of the glass, with their having to deal</div> <div> with the infinite queue. But their faces were impassive, as if</div> <div> they had developed some sort of immunity to the throng.</div> <bR> <div> Mr. Madan was right. In a country of nearly a billion people,</div> <div> they are able to manage. The attendant checked my reservation on</div> <div> the computer, and to my pleasant surprise, it came up</div> <div> instantaneously. I've encountered many different forms of</div> <div> bureaucracy in my travels, and India's in no better or worse than</div> <div> other countries'. But I suppose if any bureaucracy needed an</div> <div> excuse NOT to work, India's would have one.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> RADJHANI EXPRESS, 5:40 p.m., Sunday May 11, 1997</div> <bR> <div> Facing your fears and prejudices is a powerful tonic. Presently,</div> <div> I am sitting aboard the 17-hour "express" from Bombay to New</div> <div> Delhi. Yes, my train reservation worked. But alas, although I</div> <div> was still given an air conditioned sleeper berth (which is what I</div> <div> had reserved, 2nd class, $39 for a 1,300 km trip), I was assigned</div> <div> an "AC 3-Tier" compartment, rather than "AC 2-Tier."</div> <bR> <div> The Express has many classes: AC-First (Air Conditioned First</div> <div> Class), AC 2-tier (2nd class, 4 people per compartment, thus 2</div> <div> "tiers" of sleepers per side of compartment), AC 3-tier (2nd</div> <div> class, 6 people per compartment), and AC Chair (not a sleeper). </div> <div> AC 3-Tier isn't the ideal arrangement: less space and more people</div> <div> occupying that space, and using the two bathrooms that are</div> <div> supposed to accommodate the 64 people in the car.</div> <bR> <div> So as soon as I got to the station (Bombay Central, 26 rupees --</div> <div> less than $1 -- by taxi), I figured out that I was indeed</div> <div> assigned a 3-Tier space. That didn't make me very happy, and I</div> <div> immediately considered whether I could "upgrade" to First Class. </div> <div> Yes, I know I was thinking like a spoiled foreigner, but I was</div> <div> facing a 17-hour train ride and figured that I could afford the</div> <div> moment of weakness in exchange for a good night's sleep.</div> <bR> <div> But I didn't, mostly because I couldn't. Bombay Central is full</div> <div> of hundreds of people, waiting for their trains and loved ones to</div> <div> come in. Dozens of porters dressed in bright red shirts and</div> <div> white Nehru-style hats scurry around with their bag-laden carts,</div> <div> making "choop-choop" noises with their mouths. Not as loud as it</div> <div> would be had they yelled "excuse me!" but probably just as</div> <div> effective, and half as annoying. There were also shorter, less</div> <div> well-dressed men who carried passengers' bags on their heads. </div> <div> One of them dropped a plastic Pepsi bottle filled with water. It</div> <div> exploded on the ground, splashing a few people. But no one</div> <div> appeared to mind, and one man picked up the bottle and gave it</div> <div> back to the porter who was balancing three bags on his head. </div> <div> Indians have an amazing capacity for patience. A New Yorker</div> <div> would have either have immediately brandished a knife or a</div> <div> subpoena in a similar situation.</div> <bR> <div> So on Platform 3, where they post the passenger lists for the</div> <div> Radjhani Express, I noticed that every car was full, and there</div> <div> were waiting lists of twenty or more people for each class of</div> <div> service. Then I go to the same-day reservations window, which is</div> <div> attracting quite a crowd. The notice board there says everything</div> <div> is sold out. So half counting my blessings, grateful for my</div> <div> berth, and half wishing I had flown to New Delhi instead, I</div> <div> accepted my lot.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> I'm now aboard the train and the sun is about to set. My berth-</div> <div> mates are very decent people. In front of me is a family of</div> <div> three, mom, dad, and teenage daughter. Beside me, two Muslims</div> <div> dressed in white garb chat. They all stop to chat once in a</div> <div> while to point out things to this ignorant foreigner as the</div> <div> scenery rushes by outside.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Less than an hour out of Bombay, workers cultivate salt from what</div> <div> the Arabian Sea's high tide left behind. The land acts as a</div> <div> filter. When the tide retreats, it leaves behind large piles of</div> <div> salt. All of my berth-mates take the time to explain this to me.</div> <bR> <div> Just as I am beginning to admire the sun setting over the plan, I</div> <div> hear a huge "THWACK!" and a vicious-looking spider-web crack</div> <div> quickly grows on the other pane of my window. Someone out there</div> <div> obviously didn't like our train passing through their area. My</div> <div> trip has been a lot like that so far. Just as I'm beginning to</div> <div> really enjoy myself and think positively about this place,</div> <div> something happens to remind me that this is not an idyllic world. </div> <div> As I read somewhere, it a country of extremes, both good and bad.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> The train is remarkably efficient. We left at 5:40 p.m. on the</div> <div> dot. Pretty soon after setting out, a man came through the car</div> <div> with a box of 2-litre bottles of water, each labeled with the</div> <div> red and white insignia of the Indian Railway. We each received a</div> <div> bottle. And soon after , he returned with metal trays with some</div> <div> sort of pastry, like a Danish, but with a spicy vegetable</div> <div> filling, a toffee, and a tea bag. He was immediately followed by</div> <div> a short man in a light blue outfit with a large metal pitcher</div> <div> filled with steaming water, and dozens of plastic cups in his</div> <div> pocket.</div> <bR> <div> "Chai, chai" he declared, as he quickly poured the hot water into</div> <div> a plastic cup for me. I dunked my tea bag into the cup, and soon</div> <div> enough, it became an excellent spot of tea.</div> <bR> <div> They just handed out blankets, sheets and towels. All this for</div> <div> $39?</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> My Muslim friends just went out to do their evening prayers, now</div> <div> that the sun has set. I have been trying to be inconspicuous</div> <div> with the paperback that I have in front of me: Salman Rushdie's</div> <div> "Midnight's Children." But they probably don't care, like</div> <div> Rushdie, they're Indian and Muslim aren't they? The political</div> <div> powerplays of Iranian clerics are a thousand miles away.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> RADJHANI EXPRESS, 7 a.m., Monday, May 12, 1997</div> <bR> <div> And I thought that I would lose weight in India. Definitely less</div> <div> meat, but everything else is served in copious quantities. I</div> <div> thought that yesterday evening's pastry and caramel was the</div> <div> dinner. That would have been enough for me, and certainly would</div> <div> have been understandable given the number of people on the train.</div> <bR> <div> But no. A couple of hours later, the short man in the light blue</div> <div> outfit came by again, this time balancing six trays in his hand. </div> <div> "Veg or non-Veg?" he asked.</div> <bR> <div> "Non-veg" I said, wondering what that meant, and what lay beneath</div> <div> the foil wrapped dishes.</div> <bR> <div> It was a feast. Curried chicken and peas, rice, stewed lentils</div> <div> and red beans, three rolled-up rotis, followed by butterscotch</div> <div> ice cream. There must be some kind of subsidy for the railways,</div> <div> because I don't understand how $39 could cover all of this.</div> <bR> <div> After dinner, I chatted a bit with my Muslim mates. They're both</div> <div> expatriate hospital workers in Medina, Saudi Arabia, back in</div> <div> India for their vacation. They said that they had also purchased</div> <div> their tickets yesterday using the tourist quota, thus paying in</div> <div> foreign currency. Otherwise, the train is sold out at least a</div> <div> month in advance usually, and thus it is impossible to get a</div> <div> ticket at short notice.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> I'm beginning to think that Delta could take some lessons from</div> <div> Indian Railways in the art of hospitality. This morning we have</div> <div> been served tea, and biscuits, followed by toast and a fried egg. </div> <div> And Indian Railways' provides more room for sleeping, as benches</div> <div> and luggage racks in the compartment are magically transformed</div> <div> into full length beds for sleeping.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> The scenery is marvelous right now, we're travelling through the</div> <div> plains of the state of Rajahstan at about 150 km/h. This has</div> <div> been a good travel experience.</div> <bR> <div> ...to be continued...</div> <bR> <bR> <div> NEW DELHI, TUESDAY, MAY 13, 1997 3:10 p.m.</div> <bR> <div> Disclaimer: this narrative will be a little darker in tone than before, though </div> <div> I am not sure why. Perhaps my initial exuberance about taking on an entire </div> <div> subcontinent has worn thin. Perhaps it is the dark narrative itself of Salman </div> <div> Rushdie's book, "Midnight's Children," which I am reading in concurrence with </div> <div> my travels. Or could it be New Delhi -- so much greener and spacious than </div> <div> Bombay, but so much more lurking behind that fine vegetation and 40+ degrees </div> <div> Celsius heat?</div> <bR> <div> I sense that everyone wants to steal from me, beg from me, make a fast rupee. </div> <div> This new attitude of mine may have been imparted upon by my very gracious and </div> <div> hospitable hosts here in Delhi, Ousman and Zorida Ali, childhood friends of my </div> <div> parents, and now the Trinidadian High Commissioner (and wife) to India. They </div> <div> have been here two years and (understandably) have had a hard time living in </div> <div> the country. For them, it's the traffic, the diesel-choking pollution, the </div> <div> "schemers" who are out to cheat and rob you blind, the poor people who live in </div> <div> garbage bag tents by the side of the main road, the shoddy workmanship in their </div> <div> house in South Delhi. If these natives of Trinidad -- another developing </div> <div> country -- find India hard to take, one can certainly appreciate the challenge.</div> <bR> <div> I, who arrived with wide-eyed determination and low expectations of a short </div> <div> time-tourist, felt like I could handle these vicissitudes, and so far I have. </div> <div> But living and visiting are two separate matters. Nevertheless, I must confess </div> <div> that some of their attitude has seeped into me, partly because I have seen </div> <div> first hand what they are talking about.</div> <bR> <div> Also, by staying with the Alis, and in acquiring human contact and comfort </div> <div> (nice house, free food, family setting, chauffeur), perversely, I have lost my </div> <div> independence. I won't fool myself by saying that I have been a hard-edged, </div> <div> tough-as-nails traveler, because I have not. But despite my nice hotel, and </div> <div> business class flight, I felt that for me, travelling to India by myself, is, </div> <div> in itself, an accomplishment. And with that victory, one is willing to suffer </div> <div> all the ups and downs, wounds and successful parries willingly, because at </div> <div> day's end, there's a great feeling of satisfaction.</div> <bR> <div> As my "Cadogan Guide to India" says about travelling alone (p.50): "On your </div> <div> own, there is no room for doubt, indecision, or complacency...you feel </div> <div> compelled to attune to the country, its people and its customs, at top </div> <div> speed...The perfect place for a modern-day walkabout, India rewards the solo </div> <div> traveler with a rich variety of intense experiences -- some good, some bad, </div> <div> none dull -- and brings him to a deeper understanding of the country. The </div> <div> reason so much happens on your own is simple, you HAVE to MAKE it happen."</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> You see it everywhere in India, perhaps more in Delhi than in business-like, </div> <div> disciplined, Bombay. You see the developing struggle between karma and </div> <div> get-aheadism -- a struggle of the ages here, but a particularly pitched battle </div> <div> in this day and age.</div> <bR> <div> The karma that provides for the very cheapness of life in a country of 950 </div> <div> million lives, where a rupee is 1/35th of a dollar; people exist to survive </div> <div> barely. Curly-haired, sun-darkened children tug on your elbow, pull on your </div> <div> heart strings, and stick their heads through your open car window, chanting </div> <div> something incomprehensible, but ominous, and almost frightening, blaming you as </div> <div> a part of humanity for forsaking them, making you feel guilty about that </div> <div> morning's breakfast.</div> <bR> <div> Rushdie calls it "city eyes" -- the ability to ignore the poverty, even the </div> <div> necessity of doing so -- eyes that I have honed so very well in New York. And </div> <div> yet, nothing invokes as much fear and disgust, nothing makes the pit of your </div> <div> stomach burn more, as when an old woman sticks her head inside your taxi, and </div> <div> looks directly into your eyes, and says calmly, "Money, to bury body, bury </div> <div> body."</div> <bR> <div> It's not even a question of whether what they are claiming is true or not. </div> <div> It's the helplessness you feel when you wonder how it ever got this bad, and </div> <div> its the magnitude of a problem that a few rupees from your pocket will never </div> <div> help diminish.</div> <bR> <div> It helps to throw up your walls of selfishness as you try to insulate yourself </div> <div> from this onslaught. But even when I put up my window to discourage an </div> <div> oncoming beggar, all it does is heat up the inside of the taxi and compel the </div> <div> beggar to try another open window, or to tap at my closed window. It's a </div> <div> real-life "Night of the Living Dead": but this is no campy romp.</div> <bR> <div> "Karma" might be a conspiracy devised by an elite that wants the poor and </div> <div> untouchables to accept their lot in life and to be content with it. Many of </div> <div> these simple people do appear to be satisfied with getting by on a few rupees a </div> <div> day, thrown like scraps before a stray dog by "sahib" as a token for some </div> <div> menial task, or just for appearing so downtrodden.</div> <bR> <div> But if it is indeed a conspiracy, then there are those who wish to break the </div> <div> bonds of that conspiracy: "the get-aheadists." They're the emigrants, the </div> <div> entrepreneurs, the schemers. Those who no longer subscribe to Mother India, </div> <div> leave the country to be computer programmers, doctors, taxi drivers, or as my </div> <div> ancestors did, indentured workers on sugar plantations in the Caribbean.</div> <bR> <div> Yet, there are those who see another India over the horizon, one of fortune and </div> <div> fame, for those who are willing to think and act quickly enough to get it.</div> <bR> <div> Since India opened her economy in 1991, life here has changed immensely. </div> <div> Traffic has increased as more people have been able to afford imported cars, </div> <div> which are no longer subject to stiff tariff barriers. Capital flows free and </div> <div> easy from outside investors wanting to take advantage of such a huge market. </div> <div> Jay Leno smiles like a benign Buddha from atop a building in downtown New </div> <div> Delhi.</div> <bR> <div> So the get-aheadists see this and think, "ah hah, I don't have to find solace </div> <div> for my miserable life by praying to Ganesh at the temple, I can break these </div> <div> bonds with money!" And as demand increases, and supply can no longer keep up, </div> <div> prices skyrocket, hotel room rates treble, and fortunes are made. And so be </div> <div> it, if this helps to alleviate the bad side effects of karma and the brave old </div> <div> world of the caste society.</div> <bR> <div> But I suppose it's the schemers who get to me the most, who probably have </div> <div> existed since the beginning of time, who always manage to inject stress into an </div> <div> otherwise pleasant travel experience and rob you of your delight in discovery. </div> <div> You know they have set their sights on your flashy camera and watch, and are </div> <div> certain that a wallet flush with rupees lurks somewhere in your sweaty khaki </div> <div> pants.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> "Old Delhi is a revelation, isn't it?" Ousman Ali asked me today, as he </div> <div> returned home from his office at the Trinidadian High Commission.</div> <bR> <div> It certainly is. I don't know how many times I was tempted to take a close-up </div> <div> photograph of an autorickshaw's tailpipe gushing green-gray diesel fumes. I </div> <div> probably will eventually.</div> <bR> <div> I had hired a private car and guide to take me on a tour of Delhi: 800 rupees </div> <div> for four hours (about $21). I made the reservation yesterday at the Tourist </div> <div> Desk at the Ashok Hotel, a deluxe government-run hotel in posh South Delhi.</div> <bR> <div> This morning I arrive and the attendant says he has to cancel my receipt and </div> <div> issue a new one. My spider senses tingle.</div> <bR> <div> "Why?" I ask, with New York-like suspicion.</div> <bR> <div> "Because I made a mistake with the first one," the clerk says. "I wrote the </div> <div> date instead of stamping it."</div> <bR> <div> As if to show his good will, he took out his copy of my American Express </div> <div> receipt, and combined with mine, ripped it up, then gave it to me. I put it in </div> <div> my bag, but then he asked for it back, so stupidly, I gave it to him, while he </div> <div> ran off another imprint of my card, which I pliantly signed. So thoughts of </div> <div> being double-charged by a potential Government of India shyster began to mar </div> <div> my private tour of Delhi.</div> <bR> <div> My guide was a dour-faced man, who pointed out enough things along the way to </div> <div> make the tour worthwhile, but let me go on my merry way at a few sights so he </div> <div> could steal a smoke, a drink of water, or some shade. It's funny how all my </div> <div> tour guides so far have been minimally informative, exerting as little energy </div> <div> or interest as possible. Still, it beats taking a taxi to all those sights.</div> <bR> <div> It didn't help when my guide casually hinted that he was being very </div> <div> accommodating by paying my entrance fees to the monuments, because he didn't </div> <div> want to hassle me for money at each one, "if you understand what I'm saying."</div> <bR> <div> All I understood was that he was hitting me up for more money, and I didn't say </div> <div> much beyond remarking that the man at the hotel tourist desk had said that all </div> <div> entrance fees were included in the price (as they always are on these tours). </div> <div> Of course, being the weakling that I am, I did end up tipping him 100 rupees, </div> <div> and the driver 70 rupees (about $5 total), which will forever ruin the Indian </div> <div> tourist industry, accustomed to 50 rupee gratuities.</div> <bR> <div> Then there was the guy who I gave 5 rupees to because he lit a match inside the </div> <div> glass-mirrored canopy at the Red Fort, creating a neat chandelier-like </div> <div> reflection on the ceiling. There was also the old woman at Humayoun's Tomb </div> <div> who, in mono-syllabic English, forced her services upon me, while my guide </div> <div> waited outside. She made 10 rupees, despite her request for "two 10's."</div> <bR> <div> Oh yes, I paid the equivalent of $6 to this guy outside Lakshmi Narayan Temple </div> <div> for postcards. I only wanted a few, but he was selling them by the book.</div> <bR> <div> "Two hundred rupees," he said as he waved the postcards in front of my face. I </div> <div> shook my head in disbelief at the price, so he gradually kept adding another </div> <div> book of postcards to the pile. I kept shaking my head, wishing I had never </div> <div> gotten into this situation, but ended up walking away with FIVE books of </div> <div> postcards. Another hawker, smelling easy prey, tried to sell me the stamps to </div> <div> go with the postcards. Luckily I mustered up enough courage to say no.</div> <bR> <div> So....oh yeah, I did see some very interesting sights along the way.</div> <bR> <div> LAKSHMI NARAYAN TEMPLE: built in 1929, no photography allowed, no shoes. Neat </div> <div> architecture. Expensive postcards available outside for Western suckers.</div> <bR> <div> RASHTRAPATI BHAWAN: on Raisina Hill, built by the British as the resident of </div> <div> the viceroy as a monument to the Raj's infinite empire. Now, it belongs to the </div> <div> President of India. Beautiful red sandstone, great looking gardens.</div> <bR> <div> INDIA GATE: 42 meter-high arch, a memorial to the tens of thousands of Indians </div> <div> who died in World War I. Snake charmer nearby wanted 20 rupees for a photo. I </div> <div> just shot a picture of the Gate and got back in the car.</div> <bR> <div> JAMA MASJID: the largest mosque in India, built by Shah Jahan, 17th century </div> <div> Mughal emperor of Taj Mahal fame. Don't bother to go inside, too many people.</div> <bR> <div> RED FORT: built with red sandstone by Shah Jahan, one of the best examples of </div> <div> Mughal architecture. Let that guy to the match trick for you.</div> <bR> <div> RAJ GHAT: a park containing monuments to the slain Gandhis -- Mahatma, Indira, </div> <div> Sanjay, and Rajiv. Indians revere Mahatma Gandhi, and rightfully so.</div> <bR> <div> HUMAYOUN'S TOMB: home of the forceful tour guides; forerunner of the Taj.</div> <bR> <div> QUTAB MINAR: 13th century remains of Old Delhi, incredibly beautiful and </div> <div> intricate stonework.</div> <bR> <div> Despite my criticisms, Delhi is far more scenic and picturesque than Bombay, </div> <div> with its monuments and wide open spaces. It is a city of conquerors and their </div> <div> remains, from the Muslim Mughal emperors to the British Raj.</div> <bR> <div> ....to be continued...</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> NEW DELHI, WEDNESDAY MAY 14, 1997 3:30 p.m.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> A happy revelation today: I am indeed on vacation. O Small Victory, but O So</div> <div> Important! I am certainly not taxing myself, trying to pack too many things </div> <div> in, as I usually do when I travel. I get up around 7:30 a.m., have a leisurely </div> <div> breakfast, and then do whatever I have to do. By 2 p.m., it's time to take </div> <div> refuge from the heat and the pollution. I've always known that I'm an early </div> <div> riser and a late-to-bedder, but I now also realize that I was born to siesta!</div> <bR> <div> I feel some sort of regeneration occurring, with some very restful sleep, light </div> <div> meals with less meat than usual, and lots of liquid. Here in India, pacing is </div> <div> everything, and I sense it is doing me a world of good.</div> <bR> <div> Of course, it helps to be under the care of a Trinidadian family with a nice </div> <div> house, a private car and driver, and Indian servants (who are exceptionally </div> <div> "subservient" -- disconcertingly so, for my North American so-called </div> <div> egalitarian sensibilities). Ousman and Zorida have been good to me, and there </div> <div> has been some compensation for my loss of independence.</div> <bR> <div> Today, Zorida took me to the state-run Emporium to do some shopping. That was </div> <div> something I probably would not have done on my own, so it was nice to have her </div> <div> show me the ropes. It was especially helpful now because there is a 3-day </div> <div> strike in effect, barring all private New Delhi stores from opening. </div> <div> Apparently shopkeepers are protesting the high retail rents in the city.</div> <bR> <div> The Emporium was great because it carries a wide variety of clothing and </div> <div> crafts...and a firm sticker price. No one was pushing or shoving, haggling, </div> <div> harassing or cheating you. Granted, being free to bargain might have reduced </div> <div> the prices somewhat, but there is something to be said for the two retail </div> <div> maxims: "what-you-see-is-what-you-get" and "one-stop shopping." And, they took </div> <div> American Express.</div> <bR> <div> I also popped into the Ashok hotel to mail my postcards and get my airline </div> <div> ticket for my return to Bombay. A diversity of experiences in those two </div> <div> transactions! The purchase of my Indian Airlines ticket was unnervingly </div> <div> simple, and a great bargain at $105. The sales agent was courteous and </div> <div> efficient -- I almost incurred a culture shock right then and there!</div> <bR> <div> The post office was...amusing. Five people sitting around a table behind the </div> <div> kiosk in a conspiratorial phalanx. None of them spoke English particularly </div> <div> well. One clerk told me it would cost 6 rupees each to send my cards to Europe </div> <div> and North America. Six cents sounded to be an outlandishly low price, but I </div> <div> paid my money and started licking. It was a little difficult because the </div> <div> ceiling fan kept blowing the stamps onto the dusty floor, but I managed.</div> <bR> <div> I was halfway through the arduous chore when another clerk approached me, and </div> <div> with even less English aptitude than the first clerk, somehow explained that it </div> <div> actually cost 11 rupees to send each postcard. I sighed as he confiscated my </div> <div> postcards and started going through them. He produced more stamps from a </div> <div> drawer and proceeded to affix them himself, skipping a few, dripping water from </div> <div> the blotter onto my carefully crafted chicken scratch, making a general mess. </div> <div> But he was certainly more efficient that I, and I was grateful for his help. I </div> <div> left that little post office in the basement of the Ashok hotel, strangely </div> <div> reassured that those postcards would reach their intended destinations.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> I found out this morning in the excellent English-language daily, "Asian Age," </div> <div> that there had been an earthquake last night at around 7:45 p.m.. I knew I had </div> <div> felt the bed shake slightly during my nightly Rushdie reading, but at the time, </div> <div> could only come up with two explanations: one, that the ceiling fan was </div> <div> actually doing its job; or two, that Shiva the Destroyer was coming for me. </div> <div> Thanks goodness for more earthly explanations like tectonic shifts.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> It's now 8:25 p.m. and the electricity is out. I'm writing this courtesy of my </div> <div> "mini-Maglite" -- my handy dandy pocket flashlight that I picked up in New York </div> <div> before coming, at the suggestion of the "What to Bring" section of my </div> <div> guidebook. Very useful.</div> <bR> <div> The Ali's have a generator for times like these, but for some reason, the </div> <div> switch isn't working. It's not so bad, except it's getting very warm without </div> <div> the air conditioning.</div> <bR> <div> The heat and the proliferation of air conditioners to combat the high </div> <div> temperatures are the precise cause of the blackouts -- which occur at an </div> <div> epidemic frequency during the summer months in New Delhi. There's not enough </div> <div> electricity to meet the demand. Tomorrow, the mercury could go as high as 40 </div> <div> degrees Celsius, making my location one of the hottest spots on the planet. </div> <div> Not that such a dubious distinction makes enduring the heat any easier.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> AGRA, THURSDAY, MAY 15, 1997 12:55 p.m.</div> <bR> <div> Today has placed me in the equivalent of a b-movie remake of an Indiana Jones </div> <div> movie, but minus the stunt double. I'll explain in a bit.</div> <bR> <div> Here I am in Uttar Pradesh, the home state of my ancestors. Abdulla, Moniran </div> <div> and Abdul left this region in 1882 for a better life in British-ruled Trinidad. </div> <div> I'm not in their native village of Gunda Nala, which I, nor the officials from </div> <div> U.P. House in New Delhi, have been able to locate on a map. Rather, I am in </div> <div> Agra, better known as the home of the Taj Mahal, that tragic and beautiful </div> <div> homage to Shah Jahan's lost love.</div> <bR> <div> I haven't made it to the Taj just yet. My very generous host and guide on this </div> <div> day trip, Rajesh Khanduja, will take me there later this afternoon. We zipped </div> <div> down here on the (relatively) lightning-fast Shatabdi Express from New Delhi. </div> <div> Rajesh organized everything, thank goodness, because reserving train tickets in </div> <div> New Delhi is virtually impossible at short notice.</div> <bR> <div> Rajesh is the nephew of my parents' friends from Toronto, Kanta and Om Arora. </div> <div> He travels to Agra about two or three times a week. He's an interior designer, </div> <div> and has an ongoing work site in Agra at a huge handicrafts shop about a mile </div> <div> from the Taj. He's renovating his client's showroom/factory, making it as </div> <div> light and airy as possible, so when the tour guides persuade their flock of </div> <div> tourists to stop in and take a look at home some of the local handicrafts are </div> <div> made, they will be magically captivated, and will only be able to break the </div> <div> spell by buying a marble table top or a porcelain figure, with a portion of the </div> <div> proceeds serving as the guide's commission of course.</div> <bR> <div> That's par for the course in India. All this damn hustling can make the </div> <div> typical Westerner (me) uncomfortable. Unfortunately it also taints the </div> <div> unwilling customer's view of shopping in local areas, which is too bad. Some </div> <div> of the items that Rajesh's client sells are absolutely beautiful. It's clearly </div> <div> the same quality of artisanship that helped build the Taj and the Red Fort </div> <div> centuries ago. And Rajesh's work itself is sumptuous: plush carpeting, </div> <div> sculpted ceilings, with rounded moldings, and marble staircases and floors. I </div> <div> hope his work helps to improve business.</div> <bR> <div> Rajesh is a tall, portly, 34-year-old, good-hearted and full of bluster. He </div> <div> has a Saddam-like countenance: thick, bushy mustache, and carefully sculpted </div> <div> stubble shaping his face, in start contrast to the smooth skin below his eyes </div> <div> and chin.</div> <bR> <div> Like the other Indians I have met on this trip: Mr. Madan, my fellow passengers </div> <div> on the train, Rajesh isn't, at the outset, the warmest person in the world. To </div> <div> that extent, people here remind me of the French. They're a challenge to get </div> <div> to know, but ultimately, it develops into an immensely rewarding relationship.</div> <bR> <div> Rajesh has been excessively generous. Dinner last night in New Delhi, a </div> <div> midnight trip to India Gate for some ice cream with the hundreds of other </div> <div> Indian families enjoying the calm evening, my train tickets, a hotel room in </div> <div> Agra so we could be comfortable in between sightseeing and his work, and... </div> <div> hiring the auto-rickshaw driver.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> The auto-rickshaw driver...which brings me back to my Indian Jones motif....</div> <bR> <div> We arrived at Agra Cantonment Station at 8:15 a.m., right on time. As usual, </div> <div> the platform was infested with passengers, red-cloaked porters, and schemers </div> <div> hoping to take you for a ride. Rajesh was able to cut through that dense crowd </div> <div> of opportunists and hook up with a driver waiting on the platform. </div> <div> Interestingly enough, it was the person whom Rajesh usually hired when he came </div> <div> to Agra, but Rajesh had not told him that we were coming.</div> <bR> <div> Driver X (I never did get his name, and 'X' gives it a more Indiana Jones/James </div> <div> Bond feel) is a spindly man in his late 50's. Unlike his other rickshaw </div> <div> brethren, he seems to be a decent fellow. He owns one of those black and </div> <div> yellow auto-rickshaws, omnipresent in Agra and New Delhi, less so in Bombay.</div> <bR> <div> An auto-rickshaw is a three-wheeled scooter with a pace-maker for a motor, a </div> <div> nut for a driver, and a desperate soul for a passenger. A canopy and a </div> <div> windshield barely protect both nut and desperate soul from the elements, the </div> <div> dust, the cows, the pigs, the oxen, the dogs, the diesel, and other inhabitants </div> <div> of the road. It's also the best way to get around Agra.</div> <bR> <div> Driver X is very adept at piloting his auto-rickshaw. After dropping Rajesh </div> <div> off at his work site, he took me to see Sikandra and Agra Fort.</div> <bR> <div> Getting to Sikandra involved a harrowing thirty-minute drive, careening through </div> <div> the backstreets of Agra. The ride was worth the trip alone -- when I wasn't </div> <div> clamping my eyes shut, trying to ignore the monster trucks bearing right down </div> <div> on us. Luckily, Driver X with a flick of his wrist on the bicycle-like </div> <div> steering device, angled us safely to the side of the road, a split second </div> <div> before vehicular meltdown. Where was my fedora and whip?</div> <bR> <div> Outside of the touristy areas, Agra is a bustling, but exceptionally </div> <div> impoverished town. Animals cavort unfettered in the middle of the road, as </div> <div> people do their business from countless rickety shacks along the side. Bicycle </div> <div> repair, auto parts, cigarettes, laundry, groceries, electrical fix-it -- </div> <div> retail everything in these tiny huts, everywhere. These people may be poor, </div> <div> but without a doubt, they are also industrious and hard-working. That must </div> <div> have been the spirit that my ancestors took with them to Trinidad a hundred </div> <div> years ago. Very inspiring.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> ...to be continued...and coming soon...the Taj Mahal.</div> <bR> <div> AGRA CONTINUED, THURSDAY, MAY 15, 1997</div> <bR> <bR> <div> Sikandra was the same old story: initial knot in my stomach as I had to </div> <div> confront the touts, and faux tour guides, before I was even able to purchase my </div> <div> entrance ticket (11 rupees). I may be getting more adept at fending them off </div> <div> however, with nothing more than my most excellent, frigid, look-right-ahead, </div> <div> wordless, New York City stare. And I do have to put in another good word </div> <div> about these Indian gadflies -- they may be a pain in the ass and they want to </div> <div> rip you off, but at least they perform their duties with a semblance of quid pro </div> <div> quo (i.e. I'll mumble something non-intelligible about the architecture, you </div> <div> give me 10 rupees). They aren't thieves. If you and your wallet somehow part </div> <div> ways, it'll be because of your stupidity and your willingness to pay, rather </div> <div> than their forcibly stealing from you.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> So while Driver X waited for me outside, I visited Sikandra.</div> <bR> <div> It's the tomb of Mughal Emperor Akbar (1556-1605), which as my guidebook </div> <div> accurately says: is "an impressive, large, but architecturally confused tomb."</div> <bR> <div> The grounds are quite beautiful however. Most interesting of all is the gaggle </div> <div> of curly-tailed monkeys who romp around the garden like they own the place. I </div> <div> held on to my camera and my bright purple guidebook for dear life. After </div> <div> losing my 2 liter water bottle to the simian thieves in Bombay, who knows what </div> <div> else catches their eyes?</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Did I mention that it's 110 degrees F/42 degrees Celsius in Agra today? </div> <div> Fortunately, as I have learned, that is below the seasonal temperature of 47 c. </div> <div> Thanks to a freak rainstorm last week, things have "cooled down." Lucky me.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Next stop with Driver X was Agra Fort: probably the most impressive sight I </div> <div> have seen so far in India (wait for the Taj though).</div> <bR> <div> I thoroughly impressed myself by brushing aside all interlopers as I entered </div> <div> the Fort. The structure itself was built by Mughal Emperors, Akbar, Jahan, and </div> <div> Aurangzeb. The design and artwork is an incredible synthesis of Hindu and </div> <div> Persian styles, and is especially evident in the intricate stonework and the </div> <div> design of the pavilions. Most striking is the marble pavilion on the top </div> <div> floor, which includes an awesome view of the Taj across the river. When Shah </div> <div> Jahan was dethroned by his ambitious son, Aurangzeb, for, among other reasons, </div> <div> bankrupting the state by building the white elephant Taj Mahal, Jahan was </div> <div> imprisoned here at the Red Fort. That afforded him a daily birds eye look at </div> <div> his folly across the way!</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Driver X was there to meet me after I ran the gauntlet of postcard hawkers and </div> <div> whip sellers (maybe they were Indiana Jones fans too). When we got back to his </div> <div> rickshaw, a thoroughly naked young man, covered in mud, and most likely feces, </div> <div> was sitting in the front seat, taking refuge from the heat and sun. He refused </div> <div> to leave. Driver X had to kick him fiercely in the side, and only then did the </div> <div> man get out, walked slowly around the rickshaw as my driver looked at him </div> <div> warily, then proceeded to walk casually down the street. I was surprised to </div> <div> see that even the Indian onlookers were staring at him. The man was probably </div> <div> deranged.</div> <bR> <div> It may sound humorous now, but at the time, it was a very disconcerting scene. </div> <div> All I knew was that I didn't want to touch, or be touched by this creature, who </div> <div> seemed as far removed from humanity as could be. It was not hard to compare </div> <div> him to the temple monkeys I had seen: temperamental, crazy, rabid, and </div> <div> potentially dangerous. I'm not sure what to think of my reaction to this </div> <div> incident. All I will say is that this is truly a land of extremes, and </div> <div> unbelievable ones at that.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Hands down, never was in question, no doubt, the Taj Mahal takes first prize. </div> <div> When I stepped through the front gate and saw that white palace, seemingly </div> <div> suspended from the sky, it's as if someone had taken a cricket bat and </div> <div> walloped me in the stomach.</div> <bR> <div> There's no point even in attempting to describe the Taj in writing -- many </div> <div> others have tried, probably with greater success than I could achieve. Suffice </div> <div> to say, if I ever had the financial means, I would make sure that everyone I </div> <div> knew could see the Taj Mahal once with their own eyes within their lifetimes.</div> <bR> <div> Beyond its visual impact, the most striking aspect of the palace is the amount </div> <div> of thought and sheer architectural brilliance that went into its design and </div> <div> conception. The perfectly symmetrical four towers -- which seem perfect from a </div> <div> distance -- actually lean inwards when you see them close up (the slant is </div> <div> necessary to create the symmetry from afar). Similarly, the Arabic verses from </div> <div> the Qu'aran inscribed on the façade (in black onyx no less) appear to be </div> <div> uniform in size, no matter how high up the lettering is, from where you might </div> <div> be standing. It's another illusion however: the writing is actually LARGER the </div> <div> higher up it is on the facade, which is necessary to prove a uniform </div> <div> perspective (i.e. the further away something is, it SHOULD appear smaller, </div> <div> unless you compensate for the distance by making that something larger).</div> <bR> <div> That's what's so marvelous about the Taj Mahal: it's an exceptional exercise </div> <div> in perspective. The Arabs were excellent architects, and so was Shah Jahan.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> JAIPUR, SATURDAY, MAY 17, 1997 3:10 p.m.</div> <bR> <div> Don't cry for me India. I am currently sitting in the shade, during the </div> <div> hottest part of the day in Jaipur -- the largest city near the fringes of the </div> <div> Rajahstani desert. It's probably around 45 degrees Celsius. Did I mention </div> <div> that I was sitting poolside in the courtyard of a five-star hotel? It is a </div> <div> vacation after all.</div> <bR> <div> My 24-hour stay in Jaipur has been a pure delight. I had hummed and hawed </div> <div> about making yet another journey so close to my impending marathon return to </div> <div> New York. But ultimately I felt that I had to continue to push myself. I was </div> <div> getting a little too comfortable with the Ali's in New Delhi, and felt that I </div> <div> needed one last blast before hitting the Western world. And I had three free </div> <div> nights at five-star hotels in Jaipur and New Delhi awaiting me, so why not?</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Allow me to wrap up my trip to Agra. I felt completely exhilarated after </div> <div> seeing the Taj Mahal. Rajesh and I actually did end up hiring a "guide" at the </div> <div> gate, but he was well worth the price. Rajesh even learned something new from </div> <div> him. We paid him 105 rupees -- about $3.</div> <bR> <div> After the Taj, I followed back to his work site as he had to wrap up his </div> <div> business there. We had to kill some time before our train back to New Delhi, </div> <div> so Rajesh, his architect, and I, sat in this little office in the driveway of </div> <div> the store he was renovating. The store owner and his partner were sitting </div> <div> behind a desk. The owner struck me like a Godfather-like figure, chatting </div> <div> about business in Hindi, and every few minutes, pressing a button under his </div> <div> desk, which would activate a very loud bell just outside the office. Every time </div> <div> he rang, a boy would scramble to his feet from the driveway and come running </div> <div> in, anticipating the boss' command. A few grunts later, the boy would run off </div> <div> to execute the order. That's another notable thing about India. There are so </div> <div> many people here, that labor is easily bought and sold. It's not difficult </div> <div> for even a middle-class family to have servants. They're not treated </div> <div> especially well, but the servants seem to be content with their station in </div> <div> life, and happy to have a job. I am sure the caste system plays some role in </div> <div> the order of things.</div> <bR> <div> My last memory of Agra was the discussion that Rajesh had with his clients: </div> <div> about security lights of all things. These are the lamps that illuminate </div> <div> during a power blackout. The man who manages the Sheraton Hotel in Agra was </div> <div> showing everyone a couple of the lamps he uses, explaining to them what he </div> <div> thought of them. They all examined the lamps, and discussed their </div> <div> functionality and esthetics. "So far received no complaint," "this is best," </div> <div> were some of the English phrases that punctuated their rapid fire Hindi </div> <div> discussion. It reminded me a little of my Quebecois friends -- who speak </div> <div> French and revert to English phrases at will -- not because they want to show </div> <div> off, or allow unilingual bystanders understand what they're saying, but because </div> <div> they have the ability to do so, and it is sometimes a more effective way to </div> <div> express oneself!</div> <bR> <div> As we drove back to the Agra train station, someone remarked how much cleaner </div> <div> that Taj appeared to be, and how Agra seemed to be working a little more </div> <div> efficiently than normal. Someone else responded that things have improved </div> <div> markedly here since the huge Yanni concert in front of the Taj a few months </div> <div> ago. I suppose there's no stopping change in India. For better or for worse, </div> <div> here it comes, fast and furious.</div> <bR> <div> ...to be continued...</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> JAIPUR, MAY 17, 1997 5:45 p.m. (aboard New Delhi-bound Shatabdi Express)</div> <bR> <div> I just completed the five minute walk from my five-star Sheraton hotel to the </div> <div> under-the-stars Jaipur railway station. The walk reminded me of opening my </div> <div> oven in my New York apartment, while it's running full blast in the middle of </div> <div> winter. Just imagine a cool and drafty apartment, with an oven that has been </div> <div> going at 425 F for 20 minutes, and suddenly you open it and WHOOSH! I have </div> <div> NEVER felt intense heat and sun like I have here in Jaipur this afternoon. But </div> <div> that's ok, I had my air conditioning, I had my swimming pool, I now have my air </div> <div> conditioned train car, and I had a great time in Jaipur.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> After Agra, I felt the need to do yet another solo expedition. So I steeled my </div> <div> resolve and took a six-hour bus ride to Jaipur, which left at 11 a.m. -- rather </div> <div> than rush and try to make the express train at 6 a.m.. I had given up on my </div> <div> quest to find my ancestral home village of Gunda Nala. Unable to locate it on </div> <div> any map, I've decided to leave it for another time when I am better prepared, </div> <div> and when I have more time, and more information.</div> <bR> <div> Surprisingly, my "deluxe A/C" bus actually was deluxe. Cozy, padded seats, air </div> <div> conditioning, and decent leg room. But as usual, nothing ever works perfectly </div> <div> as planned here (India is Organized Chaos personified and proudly nationalized).</div> <div> I had been assigned seat #8...and so had the father of a family of three. </div> <div> Since was already seated when he showed up, and had refused to budge, and had </div> <div> put up some mild resistance. But since the man did not seem to be overly </div> <div> aggressive, and he was with a family, I decided to play Samaritan and take my </div> <div> chances with the conductor, who would hopefully find me another seat when he </div> <div> showed up.</div> <bR> <div> An older gentlemen, looking like he was a refugee from an ashram with him long, </div> <div> white hair and his flowing white garb, was seated in the second row of the bus. </div> <div> The seat next to him was empty, as was a single seat directly in front of him. </div> <div> I assumed that that seat was for the conductor. So I stood at the front of the </div> <div> bus patiently.</div> <bR> <div> "What is your seat number?" the white-haired man asked me.</div> <bR> <div> I told him, and explained my problem. "I am waiting to se if there is another </div> <div> one free," I said.</div> <bR> <div> "That is India," the man said, half-apologetically, half as a matter-of-fact.</div> <bR> <div> "I know," I replied, good-naturedly. "These things happen, and up to now, </div> <div> things have worked out pretty well."</div> <bR> <div> "Sit here," he said, gesturing to the solo seat in front of him. "It is the </div> <div> best seat, you will be comfortable there, and I will explain to the conductor </div> <div> what happened. Otherwise, he will put you in the back, and it will be too </div> <div> bumpy."</div> <bR> <div> I did as he suggested, and thanked him. A few minutes later, the beige-suited </div> <div> conductor arrived. My benefactor summoned him in a loud, authoritative, </div> <div> voice, and explained to him cursorily in Hindi what had happened. To my </div> <div> surprise, the conductor listened meekly, took my ticket, and did not say </div> <div> another word to either of us. I had found my seat, and it was a great one at </div> <div> that.</div> <bR> <div> Naturally, I got to chatting with my new friend. He knew I was a foreigner. </div> <div> But would not have guessed that he was a member of the Indian Parliament! The </div> <div> Congress Party at that -- the party of Indian independence and the Gandhi </div> <div> dynasty. Which explains the seat incident. Rajesh had told me the night </div> <div> before that typically, two or three seats are reserved on every bus for </div> <div> VIPs. The empty seats adjacent to this man were thus technically "his" -- </div> <div> and he probably hadn't asked the conductor whether I could sit there or not -- </div> <div> he told him I could.</div> <bR> <div> We had a perfunctory discussion, where I gleaned that he was a very cynical man </div> <div> who had been ground down by Indian political life. He told me how India had </div> <div> changed for the worst, and that the politics were rotten here. But he also </div> <div> questioned why I was here -- I told him to get a taste of another way of life. </div> <div> He said people try to understand too much, and that's when I knew our dialogue </div> <div> was going to take a turn for the worse. He started talking about the United </div> <div> States, where everyone is from somewhere else, and so no one has a common </div> <div> background, a shared set or values, nor a sense of history.</div> <bR> <div> "All you have is power and wealth," he said. I refrained from telling him that </div> <div> power and wealth is the name of the game everywhere. India may have its </div> <div> religions, castes and karma. But it is well known that the government and </div> <div> police are hopelessly corrupt, the elite want to retain their power, and with </div> <div> open borders and the new, strong scent of foreign money, it is clear to me that </div> <div> Indians are no different from anyone else.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> NEW DELHI, SUNDAY, MAY 18, 1997 5 p.m.</div> <bR> <div> Quick time warp to today, before returning to the deluxe A/C bus to Jaipur...</div> <bR> <div> "Museum is closed." Yeah, right. Here's the Law of Negotiation with an auto </div> <div> rickshaw driver. Whatever he tells you, the opposite is true. All they want </div> <div> to do is to milk as many rupees out of you as possible by taking you places you </div> <div> have no interest in, and trying to force you to go shopping so they can make a </div> <div> commission.</div> <bR> <div> The driver who told me that the National Museum in New Delhi was closed today, </div> <div> was one of the ten or so who accosted me during my 30-minute walk from the New </div> <div> Delhi Hilton to the museum (which was, of course, OPEN). They all wanted to </div> <div> take me sightseeing and shopping. I began to get very angry with them. Is it </div> <div> so impossible for someone to take a Sunday stroll without being disturbed by </div> <div> these morons? It became so bad, that I could not even stop to take a look at </div> <div> my map before one would pull up behind me and try to engage me in conversation. </div> <div> They don't take 'no" for an answer easily here, so I just started to ignore </div> <div> them, which is the best solution.</div> <bR> <div> With the exception of Driver X in Agra, I have had nothing but bad experiences </div> <div> with these people. I am so angry, I was even able to spit out the following </div> <div> verse in about five minutes this afternoon:</div> <bR> <bR> <div> RICKSHAW DRIVER, by Hanson Hosein</div> <bR> <div> Rickshaw driver do you care</div> <div> about how you are despised?</div> <div> Your filthy belching mouth</div> <div> weaving in and out lies</div> <div> how you are despised.</div> <bR> <div> Rickshaw driver do you know</div> <div> about how you are scorned?</div> <div> Your buzzy screeching voice</div> <div> your jerky stop-and-go horn</div> <div> how, you are scorned.</div> <bR> <div> Wallah, wallah, wallah why can't you be</div> <div> like the fellow on the bike?</div> <div> or the gent in the car?</div> <div> Are you ashamed, that instead of four wheels</div> <div> you only have three?</div> <div> Why can't you be?</div> <div> Leave me be.</div> <bR> <div> Rickshaw driver, I wouldn't mind</div> <div> ridding the earth of your ilk.</div> <div> Broadside you off a bridge</div> <div> scrape you off a yellow line</div> <div> Really, I wouldn't mind.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Back to my Jaipur trip.</div> <bR> <div> After my conversation between myself and my fellow </div> <div> passenger-cum-politician-benefactor-cynical-anti-internationalist, I settled </div> <div> into what was to become a harrowing ride through the northern Indian </div> <div> countryside.</div> <bR> <div> There was one disadvantage to being in the front of the bus: you were a captive </div> <div> witness to the thousands of potential disasters that was the oncoming traffic.</div> <bR> <div> It was too bumpy to write, and even to read. A major Indian highway seems to </div> <div> consist of a strip of asphalt, wide enough to accommodate two trucks barreling </div> <div> towards each other. But as the Indian rules of the road go, a truck can easily </div> <div> face down another truck/bus/cow coming from the opposite direction, even in the </div> <div> passing lane!</div> <bR> <div> A highway here is not like a North American one. It is not segregated from </div> <div> local traffic in the least. My bus had to share the road with trucks, cars, </div> <div> motorbikes, scooters, autorickshaws, rickshaws, bicycles, oxen-propelled carts, </div> <div> cows, hogs, and camels. All were given their due respect and short shrift </div> <div> in accordance with the rules of natural selection (small yields to big unless </div> <div> small is too stupid to realize that big is bearing down on them).</div> <bR> <div> It was an awkward and fatalistic choreography, where my bus driver would </div> <div> overtake a tractor zooming along at 10 miles an hour, just as a 10-tonne truck </div> <div> was unhesitatingly coming towards us. Allowing for a comfort zone that would </div> <div> make any westerner revisit his last meal, the driver would calmly, with a flick </div> <div> of his wrist, veer back into his proper lane, cheating Disaster once again. </div> <div> After seeing this too many times, I tried to sleep, which was not easy as the </div> <div> bus' air conditioning began to labor against the growing mid-day desert heat of </div> <div> Rajahstan.</div> <bR> <div> But I did make it to Jaipur safely. And I did check into my five-star Sheraton </div> <div> hotel room with great ease. It has to be one of the best hotel experiences I </div> <div> have ever had. The front desk attendant called me out by name even before I </div> <div> had introduced myself. Upon arriving in my room, she telephone to make sure </div> <div> everything was in order. The manager had enclosed a welcome letter. And my </div> <div> room was very nice, with its view of the courtyard and the...swimming pool.</div> <bR> <div> ...to be continued...</div> <bR> <bR> <div> NEW DELHI, SUNDAY, MAY 18, 1997 17:00 continued....</div> <bR> <bR> <div> [Jaipur continued]</div> <bR> <bR> <div> The railway station in Jaipur is a five minute walk from my hotel. I made my </div> <div> way there soon after checking in so I could avoid having to take the bus back </div> <div> to New Delhi the next day.</div> <bR> <div> The reservations office was a little chaotic than the one in Bombay, but no </div> <div> less crowded. The line at the "Foreign Tourists" window (which also served law </div> <div> enforcement officials, the military, veterans, and "freedom fighters") was </div> <div> long.</div> <bR> <div> A young white man stood in front of me. He was reading the Lonely Planet Guide </div> <div> to India. I figured it would hurt to strike up a conversation with him, and </div> <div> kill some time in the process, so I asked him where he was from.</div> <bR> <div> Jon Bourton, age 27, is a former futures trader from London. He gave it all up </div> <div> though, to take a one-year trek through Nepal, India, Thailand, Vietnam and </div> <div> the west coast of the U.S.. He's a decent, straight-ahead person. We hit it </div> <div> off immediately, and I spontaneously decided to hitch my star while in Jaipur, </div> <div> to him, to see what would come of it. I felt that I could do without another </div> <div> mediocre tour. I did not regret my decision.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Hanging out with Jon was a good experience. As he was travelling for a longer </div> <div> period of time, he was on a significantly tighter budget than me. So instead </div> <div> of my eating an expensive meal back at my hotel, we set out for a recommended </div> <div> restaurant in town, Niro's.</div> <bR> <div> "Setting out" was easier said than done, because that involved hiring a </div> <div> rickshaw. First we tried an autorickshaw driver, but he saw that we were </div> <div> tourists, and wanted 100 rupees. Jon said, no bloody way. As with any </div> <div> discussion/argument/negotiations held on the streets of Jaipur, children and </div> <div> street vendors quickly gathered around us to hear what was going on. Compared </div> <div> to the indifference on New York City, I found their sincere curiosity and lack </div> <div> of shyness quite refreshing.</div> <bR> <div> Unable to find any other drivers who could understand where we wanted to go, we </div> <div> caught the attention of a rickshaw wallah (the guys who pedal the bikes with a </div> <div> passenger seat for two in the back) who said he knew where Niro's was. We </div> <div> settled on 10 rupees and off we went.</div> <bR> <div> My western guilt quickly got the better of me as this skinny man struggled to </div> <div> pedal and carry these two big Westerners with their heavy backpacks. But he </div> <div> managed. Unfortunately, he had no idea where he was going. We figured that </div> <div> out soon enough, and stopped him before we got too lost. We offered him half </div> <div> for getting us lost, but he would not take our money, fully expecting the full </div> <div> fare or for us to get back in and continue to muddle our way through the </div> <div> streets of Jaipur. It was a stand-off. I let Jon do the talking.</div> <bR> <div> "Take it," he said. "You only took us halfway and you have no idea of where </div> <div> you're going mate!"</div> <bR> <div> The rickshaw wallah shook his head and did not take the 5 rupee note. A crowd </div> <div> inevitably began to gather around us, and someone began to translate.</div> <bR> <div> "You should pay him a minimum 8 rupees," an intervener told me, "that is </div> <div> normal."</div> <bR> <div> "I'm only paying him five," Jon said angrily. "He has no idea where he's </div> <div> going."</div> <bR> <div> This went on for a few minutes and ended when I finally decided that enough was </div> <div> enough and fished out 3 rupees from my pockets (almost 9 cents) and handed them </div> <div> over. Dispute ended and we walked away, found another wallah who spoke English </div> <div> and who knew where Niro's was. We got there quickly, but not before the wallah </div> <div> convinced us to hire him to take us around Jaipur the next day in his </div> <div> autorickshaw.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Dinner at Niro's was very good, as we indulged in Tandoori chicken and nan </div> <div> bread. Once we were done, we decided to pop by the nearby movie house -- one </div> <div> of the largest and flashiest in India. It's fairly well known that India </div> <div> produces more movies (in Bollywood -- Bombay, now known as Mollywood -- </div> <div> Mumbai) than Hollywood does.</div> <bR> <div> Surprisingly, some tickets were still available, so for the cultural </div> <div> experience, Jon and I decided to go. The theater wasn't as large as I thought </div> <div> it was going to be, nor as flashy. The Hindi movie that we saw was awful -- </div> <div> and I don't think the crowd was getting too much into it either (I found out </div> <div> later that that particularly movie, despite its big star, was a disaster -- </div> <div> sounds a lot like Hollywood huh?). You didn't have to understand the language </div> <div> to get the mediocre plot: gangsters, corrupt politicians, a surgeon driven to </div> <div> drink by the murder of his son and death of his wife, a controversial power </div> <div> project, pathetic action scenes, and musical interludes which involved a lot of </div> <div> dancing, bad lip synching, and multiple costume and location changes throughout </div> <div> each song.</div> <bR> <div> We left during the intermission, relieved to get out, but still happy that we </div> <div> had tried it. I know there is a plethora of good Indian movies out there, this </div> <div> one just wasn't one of them!</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> The next morning, Jon arrived at my hotel with our auto-rickshaw, the wallah </div> <div> from the previous evening, and his friend, who actually owned and was driving </div> <div> the rickshaw. Big surprise there, the wallah was probably taking a cut in the </div> <div> fee and splitting with his friend.</div> <bR> <div> As Jon soon told me, they had already been trying to convince him to stop in at </div> <div> some shops along the way, but he had refused. They tried convincing me, but I </div> <div> refused. So eventually the wallah got out, and we made the 11 km drive up to </div> <div> Amber Fort.</div> <bR> <div> The Fort is spectacular. High up on the hills, just outside of Jaipur, it </div> <div> commands a terrific vantage point over a valley. It was built in 1600 by a </div> <div> Rajput general, and has a heavy Mughal influence. It's a bit of a labyrinth, </div> <div> with some beautifully intricate stonework, but its real attraction is the view </div> <div> and the nice breezes.</div> <bR> <div> >From Amber Fort, we told our Oliver Twist-like driver to take us to the pathway</div> <bR> <div> leading up to Tiger Fort, which was only 2 km from Jaipur. Along the way, the </div> <div> driver took us into a side street and pulled up beside a carpet factory. A car </div> <div> pulled up in front of us, fencing us in. We were furious.</div> <bR> <div> "Five minutes only, five minutes only," the driver pleaded. We refused, </div> <div> knowing full well that once inside, the pressure from the salespeople would be </div> <div> enormous.</div> <bR> <div> "We have a very tight schedule and a lot of sightseeing to do," Jon and I told </div> <div> the wallah firmly, several times. "We do not want to shop." He finally gave </div> <div> up and took us sullenly to our destination (he would have made 50 rupees from </div> <div> the factory owners had we stepped inside).</div> <bR> <div> Tiger Fort is in the older part of Jaipur. Young children approached us with </div> <div> big smiles, yelling, "Hullo, hullo, pens? pens?" Jon rebuffed them pleasantly, </div> <div> and later explained to me that "pens" was a euphemism for "money."</div> <bR> <div> We made the 20 minute hike up a steep slope to Tiger Fort. It was midday now, </div> <div> and excessively hot outside, but we were rewarded with some excellent views of </div> <div> the city.</div> <bR> <div> On the way back to my hotel, we used a rickshaw wallah, who was short and very </div> <div> thin. He agreed to charge us 15 rupees. I felt very sorry for him. He </div> <div> struggled like mad up the hills and had to get off his seat a number of times </div> <div> to push the rickshaw. But he got us back to the hotel, and did not complain </div> <div> once. I could not in good conscience, give this man only 15 rupees for doing </div> <div> what he had just done. It may be hard for a Westerner to understand how anyone </div> <div> can quibble about 50 cents for a 5 km ride, but that's the nature of the </div> <div> economy here. Rickshaw wallahs have incredibly low overheads have incredibly </div> <div> low overhead and don't expect to make much more. Even auto rickshaw wallahs </div> <div> are doing well if they make 100 rupees in a day. Tourists merely distort their </div> <div> expectations, because what a tourist would pay 40 rupees for, an Indian would </div> <div> only pay five. I ended up giving our wallah 20 rupees instead of 15, 14 cents </div> <div> more than he had bargained for. He gave us a huge smile, and thanked us by </div> <div> clasping his hands together. He would have been happy with 15 rupees, but five </div> <div> more just made his day.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Two hours of lounging in the pool and a late 4 p.m. checkout later, and I was </div> <div> off to the train station for my return to New Delhi. I had had a great, </div> <div> improvisational time in Jaipur, and had met an interesting travel companion </div> <div> along the way -- a nice reward for solo travel.</div> <bR> <div> On the train back to New Delhi, I finished reading Salman Rushdie's excellent, </div> <div> and challenging (like India!) "Midnight's Children" It seemed fitting that I </div> <div> wrapped up the book at what I considered the unofficial end of my trip through </div> <div> India. The next two days in India would be set aside to relax at the Hilton </div> <div> and steel myself for my re-entry into New York.</div> <bR> <div> ....to be continued....</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> NEW DELHI, MONDAY, MAY 19, 1997 1:50 p.m.</div> <bR> <div> I had honestly thought that I had written all that I could write</div> <div> about this trip through India, that today would be the wrap-up</div> <div> day, because as Rushdie would say, this little adventure was</div> <div> "funtoosh," as I prepared to go "back to Bom" and then off to New</div> <div> York.</div> <bR> <div> I'm sure if Salman was here with me right now, he would agree: it</div> <div> is impossible not to be prolific when experiencing India. It is</div> <div> a place that is as dynamic, rich and intense as Rushdie's writing</div> <div> itself.</div> <bR> <div> I shared this observation with Talmiz Ahmad today. He's the</div> <div> official spokesman for the Indian Ministry of External Affairs</div> <div> (the current Minister happens to also be the prime minister of</div> <div> India, Gujral).</div> <bR> <div> "Rushdie feels dried up," Ahmad told me, relaying what a</div> <div> journalist friend of his had intimated to him. What Ahmad was</div> <div> saying is, that given Rushdie's distance from his primary source</div> <div> of inspiration -- India -- he is less than able to write. I can</div> <div> appreciate that.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> My 45-minute discussion with Ahmad was a good one. Our family</div> <div> friend, Rajiv Bhatia, the Indian consul-general to Toronto, had</div> <div> referred me to him.</div> <bR> <div> Ahmad's cavernous office is located in Shastri Bhavan, a set of</div> <div> buildings housing various ministries in Central Delhi. He is a</div> <div> sharp, worldly man. He was the spokesman for India in New York</div> <div> in the mid-80's during the Bhopal crisis, and has served in</div> <div> London and Pretoria as well. We chatted a bit about our personal</div> <div> backgrounds, and the he got into, what I presumed to be, the</div> <div> raison d'être of our meeting.</div> <bR> <div> "I am very interested in making contacts with the American</div> <div> media," he told me. He explained that they had good relations</div> <div> with the British -- the former Raj. "But India is not part of</div> <div> the American consciousness," he complained.</div> <bR> <div> This well-read man proceeded to preach to the converted about how</div> <div> difficult it was to establish a dialogue with the United States,</div> <div> the only remaining "hegemony" in the world, as he described it. </div> <div> He pointed out that the U.S. had only two interests in his</div> <div> country (1) nuclear policy (should India have nukes at all); and</div> <div> (2) trade.</div> <bR> <div> Although American companies have successfully penetrated India</div> <div> since she opened her markets in 1991, they want more. Ahmad told</div> <div> me that the American government has invoked its brickbat trade</div> <div> weapon, the Super 301 against India in an effort to lower trade</div> <div> barriers further. That's where India and the U.S. part ways in</div> <div> terms of economic theory. Of India's 950-plus million people,</div> <div> 300 million are what U.S. companies would classify as desirable</div> <div> consumers -- the middle class. Ahmad told me that they don't</div> <div> care about the other 700 million, but the Indian government has</div> <div> to, in an attempt to keep the divide between rich and poor (more</div> <div> like a canyon) as narrow as possible.</div> <bR> <div> India has always had a bit of a socialist/nationalist streak,</div> <div> with its subsidies and closed markets -- but it was never an</div> <div> excessive one. While I was waiting to see Ahmad, I spotted the</div> <div> preamble to the Indian constitution on the wall. It described</div> <div> the nation as the "Sovereign, Socialist, Secular, and Democratic</div> <div> Republic of India." I brought that up with Ahmad, wondering</div> <div> whether that was one of the reasons for America's aversion to his</div> <div> country.</div> <bR> <div> "That was a mistake," he said. He explained that Indira Gandhi</div> <div> added the redundant "Secular" (already in the Constitution), and</div> <div> "Socialist" (as a sop to the Communists) during the "Emergency"</div> <div> in the mid-1970's when she imposed martial law.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Ahmad then turned his attention the U.S. media. The biggest</div> <div> problem was, he said, that though NBC, CNN, Time and a host of</div> <div> other news organizations have made forays into the East with</div> <div> their various Asian "editions," very few of those stories were</div> <div> ever presented to an American audience back home.</div> <bR> <div> "They're telling us about ourselves," he said. That meant that</div> <div> Americans remained as ignorant as ever about the rest of the</div> <div> world (and sometimes, as he perceptively noted, about the rest of</div> <div> their own country), while Asians have to be told what they</div> <div> already know with an American slant.</div> <bR> <div> He did not think that this was right, when such a powerful</div> <div> country, as "intrusive and invasive" as America is, has such a</div> <div> badly informed polity. I wholeheartedly concur with Ahmad. This</div> <div> manifests itself when something does happen in India that does</div> <div> catch the attention of the U.S.. It means that you can pander to</div> <div> your audience by ignoring the rest of the world, but you do so at</div> <div> a great risk. An uninformed democracy that is suddenly called</div> <div> upon to make informed decisions in the time of crisis, I firmly believe, is</div> <div> something akin to mob rule.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> My trip to India is over, and I think I have answered precious</div> <div> few questions. Just as rootless as ever it seems, making me</div> <div> destined to wander the world, to appreciate and to relate, but</div> <div> always preferring to remain an outsider? No doubt, I have</div> <div> Western values, and North American sensibilities. But I find it</div> <div> difficult to subscribe to one nation, a god, a heritage, or a</div> <div> culture. My slippery place in this world appears to be somewhere</div> <div> in the mid-Atlantic, with one eye on the West, one leg in the</div> <div> East, an arm in the South, and my brain and heart impaled on the</div> <div> North Pole. Sounds like an awesome game of Twister, which either</div> <div> makes me a bona fide citizen of the world, or just leaves me </div> <div> plain stranded.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> BOMBAY, TUESDAY MAY 20, 1997, 1:40 a.m.</div> <bR> <div> Time for the transition, and back to business class. Flight 107</div> <div> from Bombay/Mumbai, ready for departure.</div> <bR> <div> One last rip off (the auto rickshaw from the domestic terminal to</div> <div> the international terminal), one last squabble (to be in business</div> <div> class or not to be?), and Salaam Bombay.</div> <bR> <div> My reading during this trip has been in tune with what I have</div> <div> been experiencing. I began with "Midnight's Children" -- a great</div> <div> primer on Indian post-independence history (if you can figure out</div> <div> the metaphors), and largely set in Bombay. Next, William</div> <div> Dalrymple's "City of Djinns," about his year in Delhi. Tonight I</div> <div> began reading V.S. Naipaul's "An Area of Darkness," which is</div> <div> about his first trip to India in the early 1960's. He shares his</div> <div> (overly) critical impressions, as well as his own identity crises</div> <div> as a Trinidadian educated and living in Britain with an Indian</div> <div> heritage.</div> <bR> <div> And this is the end of whatever I had to say about my modest</div> <div> Indian fortnight, a fulfilling and frustrating experience, which</div> <div> has strengthened my character and deepened my perspective. It's</div> <div> hard not to think of it is as a personal accomplishment, and</div> <div> immensely worthwhile. This is an endlessly fascinating country,</div> <div> in the midst of great change. I hope to return soon to see even</div> <div> more of it, especially the South and Kashmir. Now, back to New</div> <div> York, and a fixed price cab ride from JFK Airport to my</div> <div> apartment. No rickshaws there...I pray.</div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>