I don't remember when I became so interested in this country but anyone who knows me well, knows my theories about being Indian in my past life. Now, whether this is why I became a vegetarian at the age of 11, dressed in sarees for years (sorry Jon) or insist on eating Indian food 2-3 times a week remains to be seen. I don't know, but what I do know is that there has been an awful lot of build up. I haven't slept in days. I am so nervous and excited to finally go there. I feel like I'm about to meet someone I’ve been having a 20-year long distance love affair with. Will I like it? Will it like me? What if it's ugly? What will I wear? Angelo is a reluctant participant on this leg of the trip. Maybe he feels like 3 is a crowd (or 1.2 billion and three to be exact) but he is being a good sport.
Everyone who has ever fallen in love with India tells me you have to spend at least a month here to really love it. And from what I can tell- this is the truth. Landing in Delhi is like being hit in the face with red-hot 2x4. I think its somewhat similar to capsizing your raft in mountain water so cold that you come up for a minute and even though you’ re above water, you cannot find your breath, your instincts or even your thoughts. It takes a minute, (or a month) to register that you are okay, that rafting is fun and that the people around you are laughing and you should be too.
Nothing can prepare you for this place. Not South America, not Africa, not being the most seasoned traveler in the world. This is the hardest travel we have ever done. The adventure starts in Delhi. Like I said- first there is the heat. The stillness of it is a shocker and though it's October and the cool season here, it feels like the whole city is in a tandoori oven. Then there is the pollution that settles like a thick grey mantle over the city at large. Under this mantle are millions and millions (13 to be exact) of people, vehicles including the charming white cabs from 1953 that have curtains and make me feel like a British chap in his jodhpurs will be emerging any second. There are motorcycles and rickshaws and tuk-tuks and whats more- there are the cows.
HOLY COW
I haven't asked anyone yet but I have been wondering if they breed their cows with camels because they are the biggest things I have ever seen. Bony and white, these mammoth mammals stand with their bodies at Angelo's head height- like a huge horse! They line the streets and sometimes lay down right in the middle of them. They poop and they vomit and attract flies and well, smell up the city in general. Let me tell you, as a foreigner, the novelty of the holy meandering cows wears off REAL QUICKLY. All around you in Delhi, the elements assault you. The open sewage, the landmines of cow dung, the pollution, the traffic, piles and piles of garbage, the beggars, the hawkers, the crowds of people, the ramshackle buildings, the dirt, the graffiti and the smell of delicious samosas frying all mix together with a crushing intensity and it’s all so shocking and uncomfortable you can’t breathe. At least not for a minute. Or a month.
DO YOU SEE BEAUTY WHEN BEAUTY ISN’T PRETTY?
Of course, when you do get your breath back and you look again, somehow your vision has improved and instead of just seeing the seething mess around you, you notice the one element that is absolutely luminous. The people. The people are what really set this place apart. Not all of them of course, there are the aggressive touts, the persistent rickshaw drivers, and the sad-faced mangled beggars but what strikes me most is not these people. It's the everybody else.The women are the most startling. Dark, dark, dark- they are strong and wily, they have eyes that burn through you and no matter what they are doing- selling fish, sweeping streets or picking up cow dung- they are wrapped in the brightest, most ornate and diaphanous sarees you can imagine. Their colors run riot defying the bleak and crumbling cityscape that threatens to strangle. Bangled and beaded, they are adorned with glittering bindis, shining gold nose rings and wild red vermillion that parts their monsoon black tresses with power and tradition. They float through the squalor as if apparitions, the color and graceful ease with which they move is their magic. Their protection.
The men are also a sight to behold. Next to my husband of course, they are some of the most handsome men I have ever seen. Strong jaws, black wavy hair and gleaming white teeth remind me that this is the home country to the glamour and glitz of Bollywood. Then there are the towering, angular Sikh men who stand regal in their colorful turbans. These once proud warriors have dangerous dancing black eyes and look like they channel all the masculine power in the universe. I look around and I think someone forgot to tell the people of this country that the days of the great empires and the maharajas are gone. The people and the era do not belong to each other- it seems as though they got out of bed this morning 200 years too late.
In the dry and dusty plains of India, color is everything. The color and texture of your turban or saree can indicate what caste you are, what region you are from, what stage of your life you are in and even if you have given birth to a son or not. (We were told mothers with sons are allowed to wear red and orange together.) Here, even the elephants, cows, camels and horses in the streets get in on the color game. Bright swirls and patterns are carefully painted on their bodies, horns and silver headpieces and sequined blankets drape over them regally. Now, if only their poop was so lovely.
This country truly does your head in, the extremes are just unreal. This is a strange and beautiful, exasperatingly dirty, holy and shocking city. India is a country complex and disparate, ancient and modern and as schizophrenic as any that I have seen. There is so much talk today about the world getting flatter and India becoming a major economic player in the I.T. industry and the world economy, but in tandem with this economic boom is the reality that over 400,000,000 people are living below the poverty line. As the Bollywood actors croon and dance, as entrepreneurs set up businesses at exponential rates and as a staggering number of men and women get their PhD’s, India faces a ballooning population, crippling poverty, failing agriculture and growing militancy within it’s borders.
And so after an intense week here, my husband is on the verge of a complete melt down and or possible incarceration. (Travel weary, tired of being ripped off and getting meaner and meaner to the street hawkers, he threatens to punch a crooked travel agent in the face and tells a cab driver off). India can do that to an otherwise rational person. Fortunately his infinitely wise wife has predicted this very situation and booked a weeklong luxury train through Rajasthan.
ALL ABOARD THE PALACE ON WHEELS
The train itself was gorgeous. Mahogany cabins with private bathrooms, two personal attendants named Satya and Ram who had the same wonderful answer no matter what I asked for "as you like." (Yes! I really need to hear this more often!) There was even turndown service! Wow- what a far cry from the cockroachy, mouldy guesthouses we’ve been staying at! There was a bar car with chandeliers, 2 dining rooms and although the food was not that great, it was a relief to be able to not think for this part of the trip. We were ready for a little pampering. And so it was that we entered the bizarre world of organized tours.
Like I said, the train was great but the company was definitely compelled to present the controlled and gorgeous India in the brochures and on the TV commercials. Thus, every time we disembarked- no matter how ratty the train station or filthy the platform, it was as if someone had just yelled "Action! Cue the Elephants!" and we would step off the train, be draped with marigold garlands (which I would grow to despise), have rose petals thrown at our feet, the musicians would play, the painted elephants and soldiers on horses would bow and the locals would stand there and stare as if to say "you have GOT to be kidding."
Angelo and I have NEVER been on a tour before and we were in for a rude surprise. Being shuttled on and off the big white tour bus for photo stops- we would stop and everyone would pile out. Then five minutes later the guide would be running around the crowded streets frantically waving his gold cap and yelling "Golden group! GOLDEN GROUP!!!" (On the first day when they handed out the buttons for everyone to wear he asked us to please not call it the yellow group.) Horror of horrors. What a surreal experience, floating through the streets in a hermetically sealed tour bus. Touch nothing. Smell nothing. See only what you are meant to see. Look- a painted elephant! And what a pretty marigold necklace you have on! Absolutely no interaction with people- except the ones that are being paid to be nice to us. There were two other couples our age and other than that we had a good 30-year jump on everyone. Wow. At one point Angelo bought a yummy samosa off the street and the guide almost had a heart attack and said he could not condone this type of eating. Contraband food.
But all that being said, we did see a lot and it was mostly stress free. During this week we traveled in old world glamour through the pink city of Jaiselmer, the blue city of Jodhpur, had high tea at a gorgeous floating lake palace in Udaipur, explored a tiger sanctuary, and of course went to Agra, home to the most famous monument to love in the world. The Taj Mahal was nothing short of spectacular. Soaring and white and symmetrically perfect in every way, the heartbroken maharajah Shah Jahan built this monument to his wife who died giving birth to her 14th (!) child. He was later held prisoner in a tower by one of his sons who assumed the throne. Kids those days...
All of the palaces and great fortresses, monuments and mosques we saw were incredible. The stories of the people who lived in and built these things were more amazing and tragic than anything imagination could have come with. Truly- this is the land where fairy tales were born. Grand maharajas in white brocade with peacock plumes being paraded through the cities in a line of 700 painted elephants. Harems of women on palanquins being carried by 12 men each, trumpets, silver swings over lakes of rose petals, poets, musicians and dancers, tigers in cages from the hunts, polo matches, extraordinary mosaics, oriental rugs, bohemian crystal chandeliers, fountains with colored water. Tragic stories of 14,000 women dressing in their wedding finery and throwing themselves on blazing pyres when their husbands went off to fight unwinnable battles against the Muslim armies. All of this unfolding while the heady hypnotic smells of cardamom, saffron and curry fill the air. Almost too much to take in!
After 7 days of luxury and total and complete buffet fatigue, we threw away our last marigold garland and dismounted our fancy train. No musicians were waiting.
VARANASI. THE CITY OF LEARNING AND BURNING.
On our own once again and a little lost without the Golden Group, we arrived in the holiest city in India, Varanasi. Known as the city of learning (lots of universities) and burning (funeral pyres), Hindu people come from far and wide on pilgrimages to the holy Ganges River. Now picture the intensity of Delhi and multiply it by 100 and you have Varanasi. This place is the most full on city we will be in India. The first night we were there we ventured warily out of our hotel room into the heat to find dinner. Finding anything in Varanasi is damn near impossible- internet, post office and food are elusive to the unsuspecting backpacker. We were lost and heading down a narrow little alley and we turned the corner and there was a huge herd of water buffalo coming at us. With nowhere else to go, we pressed ourselves against the wall and the massive animals brushed past us- but not before one of them released his giant watermelon sized bladder and unleashed a Niagara falls of hot urine on my legs and feet. Oh man- from Golden Group to Golden Shower- just like that. I want my marigold garland back.
The next morning we wake at 5am for a sunrise rowboat ride down the Ganges. It is dark and quiet out save for a haunting prayer coming from a nearby speaker that echoes off the banks around us. The riverside is dotted with colorful temples to Shiva, Hanuman, Krishna and the other Hindu gods. Pilgrims wrapped in bathing sarongs make their way down the ghat steps and push banana leaves with candles out into the water with their prayers. Then they proceed to wade into the water, completely submerging themselves, washing their hair, their clothes, and brushing their teeth with the water that is more like an open sewage system than a river.
Along the river, Brahmin priests perform prayers in unison with bowls of fire. The music washes over them as the crowds watch. Cows wander back and forth and swim along side the people; boats with tourists float curiously and quietly along the perimeter of it all. Then there are the burning ghats. These cremation (interestingly one letter off from creation) ghats are busy places. There are the untouchables who work there, the families of the deceased and then loads of onlookers and tourists. The bodies, wrapped in white muslin are placed on the piles of wood, which are carefully weighed so that the exact price can be charged. The bodies are dipped in the river, covered in ghee (oil) and placed on the wood. Then two large logs are placed over them (apparently bodies have the unsettling habit of sitting up when they are being burned). Family members touch the torch to the temple of the deceased and the body goes up in flames.
Although it is strange to see the body crackling and burning, believe it or not it’s actually more peaceful than macabre. There is music and chaos and an overall feeling of joy- not sorrow. At the main burning ghat they keep about 10 fires burning at a time. And in case any of you are wondering- the smell is just of burning wood- not like when you light your leg hair on fire with a match. After seeing it though Angelo tells me he would prefer sky burial. Hmmm…. I wonder if they have bronco burial where you can just be left on the football field?
Our introduction to Hinduism is yet another layer making our heads spin. The huge pantheon of Gods and Goddesses and their various forms (like Buddhism) seem to be an absolute labyrinth. There is certainly a raised consciousness and spirituality in India that is tangible and inspirational. I do have to say though, as every major organized religion has its flaws so does this one. In a genius and diabolical move, slavery was actually embedded into the religion itself as the caste system. So for thousands of years, people have accepted whatever lot in life they had with no possibility of change. To perform their dharma and get to the next level of reincarnation they must not challenge their caste but must do their jobs dutifully and without question. Otherwise, they run the risk of coming back as an amoeba, and really who wants that? On paper the caste system is officially illegal in India but in fact, it is alive and well.
As we float down the river, I can’t help but think that the bizarre thing about Varanasi is that it doesn’t look like it’s changed one bit in 500 years. There is no evidence of anything modern or western for that matter which makes you feel like you are on a totally different planet. It’s so refreshing that these people do not drink coke, they do not eat fries and they have no idea who Paris Hilton is. This IS a holy place.
GOA RGEOUS
And finally we were on to the south. After the full on assault from the north we are ready for a little India Light. We arrive in this tropical paradise ready to lounge on the beach, eat watermelon and curry and do NOTHING. Goa is on the southwestern coast of India, ruled by the Portuguese for 400 years it has loads of white churches and a distinctly different feel than the north. Famous in more recent years for being a destination for hippy foreigners, we do find loads of Europeans and Israelis here, mostly of the hippy ilk.
To start with, it is quiet, suspiciously clean and clearly a whole lot richer than it’s northern brothers. We stay in Panjim the capital for a couple of days and enjoy quiet wooden verandahs with cascading bougainvillea and jasmine lined streets. Unlike the rest of India, the buildings are as colorful as the people. And miracle of miracles- there is a Dominos pizza and a movie theater showing American movies. Varanasi ain’t got nothing on this place! For the next 5 days, we chill out in a beach hut in Anjuna. We swim in the Arabian Sea, check out the markets, enjoy Turkish coffee, banana shakes, watermelon and curries. Angelo plays beach soccer in the evenings with the locals. We are taking our sunset happy hours very seriously and the Kingfisher has never tasted better.
It’s a wonderful way to end our Indian odyssey. After a month in this country neither of us are tired of the food. We are relaxed, healthy and looking forward to Chile and Bolivia- the last two stops on the mega moon. I would come back here to explore Darjeeling, Mumbai, Pondicherry, Kerala and Ladahk but it may have to be solo as Angelo has said Never Again. He has come up with two new ad slogans for India’s tourism brochures "COME TO INDIA, WHERE A DAY FEELS LIKE A YEAR." and "COME TO INDIA, YOU´LL NEVER BE SO HAPPY TO GET HOME." And I am satisfied to have finally met my mysterious long distance suitor of 20 years and can go home happy now knowing that if our destinies are to be intertwined any further, it will have to be through a steaming dish of the paneer butter masala.
Signing off from India,
Jennaka and Anjelojay Guptabianco