Early Train to Jaisalmer

Today has turned out to be not half bad.

Woke incredibly early -- in bed at midnight, up at 5 -- hoisted luggage onto my shoulder and would our way down pitch-black streets towards the market to find a rickshaw. Found one before too long, even gave us a dirt-cheap price to the train station without having to haggle.

Edu pointed out once that the markets here are superstitious. Everyone wants a sucessful sale to start the day, very auspicious. You hear it all the time -- "Welcome, you are my first customer of the day. I give you very good price!" -- and there is truth to it.

We had an auspicious start, arrived early and found our track, put down our luggage. The train, however, didn't come. I asked around, turns out it was delayed from Dehli but should arrive soon. So we waited, waited. Got a snack. Still no train. I left Laura to guard the luggage and checked back in the station. The train was very delayed, still another hour before it would arrive. I went back and took a nap with our luggage.

A train from Ahmenabad arrived, freight was unloaded. We jumped up and scrambled to move our bags. Someone left a burning pot, a smoking micro-stove near us along side the freight car.

Laura and I exchanged glances.

"Ummm ... what is that?"

A uniformed guard walked by and I motioned him over.

"Should we be worried about that?" I asked, pointing. The contraption was fuming smoke and coals.

"No, no," the guard shook his head. "It's sealant. Wax."

"Huh."

Low and behold as the train pulled out of the station the freight car was closed, a note tied to the closed door and the lock painted with hot wax.

"Huh."

I thought back to something else Edu said awhile back. "India is like Europe in the Middle Ages," he had said after two months of travel. For the past few nights in Jodhpur and again now that we're in Jaisalmer we've been sleeping in the shadow of a mountaintop fortress. The presence of the fortress, the feeling of protection it imparts on the city, is very real. Idols, forts, city walls, markets, calls to prayer in the morning and evening. I think Europe may have been like India when Rome was nipping at its heels.

When our train arrived I crawled into an upper berth and fell asleep.

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We seem to have parted ways with Edu and Mire. We played cards on the rooftop at Pushp Guest House, then went to a nearby internet cafe. After awhile they rose to leave.

"This might be goodbye," Mire said. We were headed to Jaisalmer in the early morning and they were indecisive about their future plans.

We rose, hugged and said our goodbyes. It's sad that they're gone, though it had to happen sometime. Friendship is comforting.

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I woke to a jostling train. My hips ached from the uncomfortable seat. I lay still for awhile, dozing until we reached a station and most of the train exited. Not sure where. I climbed down from my berth and joined Laura on her now-empty seat. We were in the desert. When the train moved again we saw clearly the vast savanna, scrub and low, flat trees. We might have been in Africa. This is the Great Thar Desert. Jaisalmer was a powerful trading hub in the region, now sustained by a nearby military base (we're near the Pakistan border) and tourists looking for camel rides into the desert.

Which is why we've come.

After a stop at the military base a man approached us about a hotel in town, which happened to be the same hotel recommended by Pushp. We liked our place in Jodhpur so were happy to follow their recommendation. The man promised a free taxi to check out their new hotel, Hotel Mehrangarh.

"You don't like it, no problem, I take you somewhere else."

He checked on us twice more before we arrived. When we did he grabbed one of our bags and took off into the crowd.

It turned out to be a good deal. Outside the station was a mob of hotel salesmen shouting behind their placards. "Stay with us. Best service. Best location. Inside Fort."

Our driver pushed us past them to a waiting taxi. We drove through the relatively clean, smog-free town to a relatively new building. Saw a few rooms, Laura negotiated a good rate on one, and we filled out paperwork in the office while sipping complementary chai.

Very good salesmen.

We could have cared less. We were just happy to have a place to relax.

Over lunch we discussed plans. Staying here a few days since its cheap and off the beaten path. A multi-day camel trek into the desert. Resting another day before getting on the road again. Giving ourselves time to catch up with ourselves, with writing, with blogging. With honeymooning.

"This is what our honeymoon is all about," Laura said.

I couldn't agree more.

p.s. -- Fam, sorry for not calling on Thanksgiving. Our cell had run out of minutes. We've been stopping everywhere in Rajasthan for a refill but no one has been able to. Finally found someone tonight, so maybe we can catch up soon.

Confessions

I'm tired. I think Laura is too. Traveling is stressful and I'm working extra hard to de-stress both of us. It's 10:00 PM and we're catching a 7-hr train at 6:00 AM tomorrow, after which we'll be in a new city where we don't know anybody and we'll have to haggle (again) for a room that we'll stay in for a few nights at the most. Then repeat.

I'm missing the steadiness of Udaipur already, even if it was a fairy-tale city.

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Internet has been unreliable: servers have gone down (for an entire city), power has gone out. Hard to maintain a steady blog. I keep an active journal that includes email addresses of people we meet, activities done, assorted daydreams, words and phrases in Hindi and local dialects ("wasp," "buffalo," "child," "how do you say ...?").

I have found 3 incredibly useful phrases:

"Namaste" = hello & goodbye. A general greeting, it's good for putting people at ease.

"Pacha" = child. Namaste pacha is an entire conversation and is often all you ever need to say to get kids on your side or assure their parents that you are a good, trustworthy person.

"Kya keheteh ho" (phonetic spelling) = "how do you say ...?" I learned that on the bus last night from a very talkative calligraphy teacher in Jodhpur.

For the rest pointing, practice and patience are all that are required. A good sense of humor. At times you are a walking comedy troupe. It took me ten minutes to ask for chai the other day from a street vendor. It was worth the effort though.

Smiling goes a long way. So does walking away (see earlier post about haggling).

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It is high wedding season in Rajasthan. Everybody and their cousin's next-door brother (and sister) are getting married and everyone else is invited, including interesting foreigners. Fireworks erupt across the city every 5 or 10 minutes. After Mumbai we think of other things, and are relieved when constellations of red or gold blossom and fade into the night sky.

You get used to it, truthfully. The cows, the trash, the beggars, the impossibly thick air, the narrow streets wide enough for only one person that somehow also fit open drains, street vendors, cow dung and speeding rickshaws.

The noise. The competition for sonic space. The loudspeakers from the mosque compete (intentionally) with the (intentional) clanging of the Hindu temple bells and the (overbearing) shouts from the markets.

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I am tired, and want to rest. We have promised ourselves solace in Darjeeling. But that is still several weeks away. First we have camel rides in the desert, the Taj Mahal (not the one in the news recently), Bodghaya (epicenter of Buddhism past and present). Keeping an ear to the ground and laying low for a bit. Many things to see and do, people to meet. A parting of the ways between us and our Spanish friends at some point.

Traveling companions help relieve much stress.

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Laura and I were walking through the chocking exhaust of an Udaipur side street the other day.

"Do you know something I love about India?" I asked.

"What's that?"

"You can fart on the street and no one's going to know the difference."

She burst out laughing.

"I was just thinking the same thing," she said.

Bombs in Mumbai

We met Edu and Mire for early breakfast on Nov 26th, and they told us their parents had been in touch about bombings that day in Mumbai. No one had specific information -- it was 8:30 AM and we were in tranquil Udaipur preparing for a long day trip into the countryside. A mountain top fort in Kumbulgargh and the major Jain temple (an offshoot of Hinduism ... circa 500 BC) in Ranakpur.

After breakfast we loaded into our hired taxi and took off. I fumbled with the cell phone we bought in Mumbai, trying to figure out how to call home. It was Wed night in NYC still. I reached Ken at approx. 11:30 PM his time to let him know we were safe, just to check in. That's when we found out the full extent of what was going on: machine guns and grenades at a major train depot, terrorists taking over the Taj Mahal Hotel (3 blocks from where we had been staying at Bentley's Hotel) and a few other sites. They were Muslim separaists targeting British and American tourists.

Our phone was running out of minutes so we asked him to spread the word that we were safe and headed into the hills in the very tranquil province of Rajasthan. Edu and Mirie joked with us about how bombs had been following them through their whole trip. 2 bombs went off in Dehli shortly after they flew in (they arrived in Dehli), then more in the province of Bihar when they visited Varanasi by the Naxilites -- a (non-Muslim) rebel separatist group operating in Bihar and Jarkhand. Now it was the bombings in Mumbai a few days after they left. They were bad luck.

All the news, all the chatter now is about Mumbai so it's difficult to write this in retrospect. It's not just the tourists: the Indians are talking non-stop to us about it. They're more scared then we are. It's not just their lives at risk, it's also their livelihood. Tourism is 50% of the economy here in Rajasthan. After 9/11 it took the economy 2 years to recover. Imagine the effect now, after a 9/11-level event in Mumbai.

But it's also taken in stride. A typical conversation ends with a shrug. "But what can we do? We all go sometime. We must make the best of today."

Back to Nov 26th:
It was a long drive through the countryside and we chatted, watched monkeys hopping around, drove through towns and farms. Thought about family. Passed caravans of camels, swerved around hairpin turns along cliffs as large trucks barrelled towards us. Chatted with each other and the driver.

The fort was amazing -- the second largest in Asia after the Great Wall of China (so the locals assured us, and it's easy to believe). Built to withstand the Mongol (Mughal) invasions of the 16th century, it was only captured once and even then it was only held for two days. It was a good place to feel safe.

Laura and I followed the long flight of stairs -- not stairs, actually, but a long incline -- stopping now and then for sightseeing and water. Absolutely breathtaking, I have never seen anything like it. I was reminded of eastern Oregon, only with tens of thousands of years of castles and villages and networks of shrines. Imagine if we hadn't driven the Native Americans into reservations but instead had built large forts and incorporated them into our daily lives. A conquest of incorporation (much like the Chinese occupation of Tibet) instead of displacement.

Half-way up we ran into a shrine and were invited in. It was a small side-building in the shade with a camel-idol sitting facing the door. We removed our shoes and walked inside into blackness.

"Namaste."

"Namaste," an old woman replied.

A single flame was burning and she mumbled to us in broken English, pointing out the various idols.

"Kali. Krishna. Shiva."

Kali, goddess of destruction. The eyes flickered in the lamplight. I paid my repescts -- literally, I dropped a handful of rupees on a devotional tray -- and received a blessing -- literally, a smudge of paint between the eyes. Laura and I stepped out into the sunlight. I felt slightly dizzy.

As we continued our climb we passed more shrines to Kali. A silver mountain with two eyes, surrounded with red and orange paints. I bowed at each one, Mumbai on my mind. Kali, Kali, Kali; Kali following us. Kali following our friends. Watching us.

We reached the top, enjoyed the views, and descended. We stepped into a shrine to Shiva, the protector (and phallus, among other things). I paid respects there and felt better upon receiving his blessing.

Another long drive to the Jain temple and Ranakpur and when we were there I was tired, thinking too much of Kali. The Jain temple didn't help. A beautiful work of sculpture, built of sandstone and buried deep in a desert jungle (it's like a jungle ... only without constant rains). We removed our shoes and wandered through the intricately-carved stonework, columns upon columns supporting roofs upon roofs. Built in the 10th or 11th century to guard the idols against the invading Muslims who had the habit of destroying all idols in foreign lands. "Thou shalt make no graven image ..."

Among the many images built into the columns and ceilings, the many gods and goddesses, Kali dominated the scene. Kali as the dragon (I may have that reference wrong, but it resonated at the time) repeated endlessly on every column. A Jain guide approached me.

"Where from?" he asked.

"America," I said.

"Kali," he nodded.

I shivered in the heat.

He gave a brief tour and asked for a donation. I gave the few coins remaining in my pocket. (Ironically the Jain temple doesn't allow any leather inside, so my wallet was in the car.)

Idols upon idols, eyes upon eyes.

Listen up Christians, Muslims, Jews: peoples of the book(s) whose god has no image. These idols are very real, psychologically entrancing and intoxicating. Their worship is equally profound, and we will not understand our many-in-one God until we understand this long history of eyes upon eyes watching us through the veil of the past. Until we understand Kali laughing, dancing, flickering in the light of a single flame.

Laura came and found me as I sat lost among the columns.

"You need to relax," she smiled.

"I'm trying," I said.

We talked about the image of Shiva to the north, about the statues of a goddess giving birth on the back of an elephant to the east, west and south. She guided me around the temple, giving me a frame of reference, diverting my mind away from Kali. We returned to the car, waited for Edu and Mire, and drove home chatting and learning snippets of Hindi from the driver. Laura needed to use the bathroom so the driver pulled over on the side of the road.

"Um ... where exactly?" Laura said.

The driver pointed to the edge of the road. Someone's field.

"And that's ok?"

"Yes, yes, is no problem."

When we returned to Udaipur that night Mumbai was in flames. We went nearby for dinner and they played CNN-India in the lobby. It appeared to be all over (as of this writing, 36 hrs later, it still isn't). Tourists and Indians alike paused to watch, talk, react. Kali, Kali, Kali. Laura was tired and left me for the rooftop restaurant. I joined her a few minutes later.

"What are you think about?" I asked.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," she said, upset.

"This?"

"The terrorists."

"Me too, let's talk about something else. What are you thinking about?"

"The terrorists," Laura repeated with a frown.

Settling into Udaipur

Many more adventures. We've become fairly close with Edu and Mireia, our Spanish friends from the train who are also staying in Udaipur for a bit. Edu especially is a well-heeled traveller and I'm learning a lot from wandering around town together, learning how to talk with people and relax. I'm definitely noticing the difference between the Euro-traveller and the shy American-kid. They're comfortable in dirty shirts and dreads whereas Laura and I like to stay clean and well-dressed, dressing like the locals as best we can. Laura and I did a big walk around the city yesterday evening, then Edu led us to an Indian wedding (!) where Laura and her camera were a big hit while I chatted with the men-folk, especially a nice artist I'm planning on visiting this afternoon.

I was thinking of the story of Prince Siddhartha before the wedding last night. The artist I met introduced me to his son who's name is -- you guessed it -- Siddhartha. Varanasi, the birthplace of Siddhartha and still the epicenter of world-wide Buddhism (like Jerusalem or Mecca; an alleged cutting from the original bodhi tree underneath which the prince attained enlightenment still grows there), is still far off on our itinerary. We won't go there until after Agra & the Taj Mahal, probably another two weeks or so from now. But I feel that it is already journeying to meet me, even as I journey towards it.

I'm having to block off large chuncks of time to write in my journal. Not that difficult as I wake up early (pre-dawn, even) and rise with the city. This morning we awoke with the call to prayer from a nearby mosque (I think, I need to verify that). Whatever it was it was gorgeous. I lay in our dark bedroom and listened as a single male voice sing an intricate melody line, soon joined by a harmony that danced around the first line. As the sun rose the Hindu temples began to ring with the clatter of bells -- like morning churchbells only smaller (1 - 2 feet tall) and high-pitched, rung by hand and accompanied by chants that you can only hear within the temple; farther away and the clanging of bells drowns them out.

Leaving Laura to sleep I stepped out onto the street as the sun rose and waited for a local chai merchant to open his doors. We have a busy day planned out already, and have been invited back to more of the wedding festivities tonight.

I really, really like it here.

Journey from Mumbai to Ahmedabad

Chaiiiiiiii, shouts a man with a large metal carafe perched on his shoulder walking towards our end of the train car. Chai, chai, masala chai, chaiiiiii, chai. We stop him for a cup each and sip the rich steaming brew as passengers slowly start to fill up the train seats. Two Muslim men in long white tunics and head caps sit across from me and tilt their heads in greeting, smiling warmly.

We are headed north to Udaipur City in Southern Rajasthan, a state bordering Pakistan, but at 1:30 pm we are just starting the first 9.5 hour daytime leg of our journey from Mumbai to Ahmedabad (pronounced Ahm-de-bahd). Our tickets are for a second class non-AC car, but I'm hoping an army of fans fixed to the ceiling and the open barred windows will keep us cool once the train starts moving. With the AC cars sold out, these seats were our next best option.

Several other Muslims take seats, as well as the usual crowd of Hindus with women in bright saris and men in western clothes. Hawkers walk up and down the train cars and on the platform selling chai, bottled water, snacks, sandwiches, and Indian lunches. A couple, young Euro-looking backpacker tourists, have seats across from me and I notice how much they stick out. They have deeply tanned skin and dark features, and I think they are maybe Israeli. The man has very short, graying hair with a handful of long dreads in the back... a sort of Rastafarian mullet? They could do yoga in their outfits, and based on my reading I'm sure the Indians around them wonder why they dress so sloppily. The woman is wearing expensive Ray-Ban glasses.

The train platform and car stinks of human waste and garbage, and when the train finally gets going a warm breeze from outside helps matters a bit, though we are still seated near the latrines (these turn out to be squat-style loos over what is basically a hole, and I'm pretty sure they dump directly onto the tracks). This train makes NJ Transit look like a luxury service, though the passengers are all solidly middle class.

At every stop between Mumbai and Ahmedabad more passengers pile on until every seat is filled and the aisles become overcrowded, NY-subway style. By the time we reach Vadodara there are still hours remaining and, since I have the pleasure of an aisle seat, men's crotches and butts are constantly being shoved into my face as hawkers and passengers push through the aisles and sqeeze the available space. Even when every possible square inch seems filled, somehow the chai men still sell cups of chai. They plunk down their carafes on the train floor, lean to tilt the spout and pour the drink, collect money and give change, and hoist the carafe back onto their shoulder all with a minimum of interruption or hassle. Beggar children come through with high lilting songs and homemade clackers as percussion, and transvestites (men dressed in gaudy women's clothing - think Lucky Chang's in NYC) also come to demand spare change.

Nine hours goes quickly when in good company. Seated tightly in groups of 12 (3 passeners per bench, 2 benches facing each other on both sides of the aisle), it's natural to chat with the other passengers and all the Indians are extremely friendly and eager to talk. Eventually Nick even gets the offish Euros chatting, when he picks up on their Spanish (turns out they are from Spain, not Israel), and they also warm to conversation.

The Indian man next to me speaks good English though, in Western terms, is a bit dorky. He could work in IT but is in insurance, lives in Ahmedabad, laughs easily, and has a good time telling us things about his region of India. He points out two holy rivers as we pass over them. A good Hindu, he's pleased to learn I've been vegetarian my whole life, poo-poos medicine, tobacco and alcohol and recommends a simple salt water tonic for Nick's sore throat. I've heard that Indians are very welcoming people and will often treat you like we would only a good friend in the U.S. By the time the train ride is complete, he's given us many recommendations of places to go and things to see in Gujarat and Rajasthan and has invited us to his home if we come back through Ahmedabad later on. We thank him and he disappears onto the train platform.

It's 11 pm and we are on a one hour plus layover in Ahmedabad. The Spanish couple is also headed to Udaipur on the next train, but are in a different car, so we wave goodbye for now and a, "see you on the other side." The next leg of our journey is in a sleeper car, leaving after midnight and arriving in Udaipur at 7:30 in the morning.

We locate our train car, dim as the onboard lights haven't been switched on yet, and prepare for an overnight adventure.

India Rail

My last post about poverty hasn't sat well with me. We left Mumbai on an express train to Ahmenabad, sitting 2nd class. I'd heard about fun/interesting experiences on India Rail before from friends so was interested in experiencing it for myself. There are several classes of seats and unless you're very adventurous and/or don't have much luggage and/or are fairly fluent in Hindi or a local dialect, 2nd class is about as low as you want to go. It was the only option available to us, so I was happy to try it out.

For the first hour or so we had a fair amount of space. The train was not too crowded (read: there was a seat for nearly everyone, only a few people were standing near the open exit doors). Then came the first stop and the masses poured in. For the next 7 hours or so we were squeezed into our seats with the aisles jam-packed. Periodic chai salesmen and beggars filtered through the crowd. We quickly made friends with a Hindi man sitting next to Laura and slowly got to know a Spanish couple next to me. Our Hindi friend helped explain the scenery we passed: salt farms, fishing villages, industry towns, the city of Surat where 1/2 the worlds diamonds were cut after being imported from Africa (presumably the Sufi community there has a prominent role in this, as many of the Sufis we met on the train when we boared in Mumbai were headed there), the transvestite beggars who passed through the car and who were called "Sixes," like the number. He didn't know why.

But what's been on my mind most is the poverty that is so blindingly visible here.

Three incidents stick out from that train ride to Ahmenabad. The first was a comment about currency, the second involved beggar children passing through our car and the third, and for some reason the most difficult for me, was about getting a visa to visit the USA.

With two hours left to Ahmenabad we were tired and restless. We were running out of conversation topics (it didn't help that my throat was hoarse from the traveller's cold I'm getting over) and our bodies were aching. I pulled out a deck of cards to see if anyone would play Hearts, Spades or Bridge -- something to pass the time entertainingly. After insisting he didn't know any of those games I pressed our Hindi friend to teach me any game he knew. I set up a table on my lap and he taught me what turned out to be Rummy. After a couple hands we joked about gambling.
"Oh, I do not gamble," he said. "Gambling is a bad vice."
"But you play cards," Edu, one of our Spanish friends, interjected.
"But not real cards," our Hindi friend laughed. "OK, let us gamble. I will put down 10 rupees and you will put down 10 American dollars."
We all laughed.
"And they will put down 10 Euros," I nodded to the Spanish couple with a grin. "That's the money you really want. American money isn't very good any more."
I wasn't fooling anyone though. American money is still good enough. (Though I'd still take the Euros.)

Anecdote 2:
As beggars passed through the car I payed attention to how the locals reacted to them and followed their lead. A floor sweeper I tipped a few rupees. To a begging mother and children I gave a little food. But it was a group of young boys -- I'd guess about 8 yrs. old -- who stopped next to our seats and sang in classical Indian-style who threw me off my guard. They sang while we were engaged with Rummy (also a good excuse to ignore beggars -- blindingly visible, you see, the blindness is the intentional visor or second-skin you develop) then, when they were finished, performed the usual ploys for attention and money, tapping us repeatedly on our knees and elbows. They kept at us despite repeated rejections, tapping tapping tapping away and clapping their stone clapper in our faces. Finally one boy performed an act of total supplication. Head in his hands, he bowed his forehead to my leg and held it there. For anyone not versed in Buddhist practice, this was Prince Siddhartha's act of ultimate ego-denial upon becoming the Buddha. Unfortunately, I was only too aware of its significance -- combined with the stunning physicality of having a begging child with his head pressed against my leg.

I am stunned now as I write about it.

Anecdote 3:
This may seem trite after the last one, but at the time it hit me hard. As we neared Ahmenabad our Hindi friend (I'm sorry I'm not using his name, BTW, but we left his business card at the hotel and I was journaling as furiously then as I am now) was joined by another friend of his who was stuck in a seat at the far end of our car. He was introduced around, I didn't catch his name, but learned that he was in Mumbai visiting the US Embassy trying to obtain a visitor's visa to travel and visit his family in the States. He had been turned down. When I asked why I was met with shrugs all around.
"Who knows?" our friend said. "He is a computer engineer, makes good money, has many cousins and uncles in the States, but was turned down anyway."
I must have looked baffled -- I mean, I know this is common but I just had no clue how to respond -- because our friend continued his explanation. "For every 100 applicants, the United States only accepts 2 or 3 people. Many many are turned down."
I didn't know what to say. I'm no immigration expert.
"Be persistent," I offered lamely. The guy wants to visit his family. I had only been in India for 4 days at the time but I had already seen enough to know something of what family means here. Not being able to see your cousins is like, for us, not being able to see your brothers and sisters.

Or, in the (mostly) unique case of my own family, my own cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, second- and third-cousins, and ex-third-cousin-in-laws.

Poverty is less about money, clean clothes and putting food on the table, and more about ... what? Family, I think. All the money in the world is worth nothing compared with a strong, loving network of family and friends.

A Taxi Ride to Bombay Central

"I like it all good muuusic!" our private taxi driver said as he turned up the raspy Indian pop blasting out from the car speakers. "If you find CD of good music, give to me because I love music all types, good."

Our driver was very gaunt, cheekbones protruding alarmingly from his jaw, and appeared in good need of a feed. But he seemed to be in a spectacular mood. This very happy man very happily showed off his laminated photos. He kept them shoved above the driver's seat flap and proudly insisted we look.

"We are famous everywhere. This one me in front of my car, old car. That my doggie," he giggled. "And this one good too," he said handing us a sheet depicting an early photo of Queen Elizabeth II and one of the kings of England. He passed us a laminated sheet of a letter on a photographer's letterhead thanking the driver for his help, as well as a newspaper article from an Indian daily showing him in his car.

"That one from documentary maker, I in documentary, drove all streets Mumbai."

"Ah, you are famous!" I said.

The driver laughed and agreed, "Yes a little famous. Where from you?"

"New York City," we said.

"Ah, ha ha yes New York, good! I take you to New York, we have New York in Mumbai. Easy." We were a bit bewildered. Would we see some replica of the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty? He careened through Mumbai's thick, chaotic traffic expertly, cutting off other taxis, autorickshaws, beggar women holding young children, city buses, and chic modern Indians sauntering into oncoming traffic, all within very slim margins. Only a city like New York could possibly have prepared us for Mumbai's traffic. Somehow it all flows in harmonic motion and a pedestrian steps out of way just in time or a car swerves within an inch of ours without us ever touching anything. Maybe the miniature Ganesh and Shiva figurines on the dashboard or the Jesus on the cross hanging on a beaded chain from the rearview mirror protected him, but whatever the trick it seemed to work.

"Look here New York!" To our right was a small restaurant called "Cafe New York." This tickled the driver pink. We laughed more at his exuberance than anything else, and arrived at the Bombay Central train station cheered by his good mood.

Lunch in Mumbai

My friend Gunjan and I have a lot in common these days. True, she had 1,200 guests at her arranged-marriage wedding while we had under 40, and her English has become more heavily accented since we worked together at the Boston advertising firm Arnold Worldwide. But we found more similarities than differences. Over traditional Gujarati lunchtime thalis (all-you-can-eat vegetarian meals) at a wonderful restaurant in Mumbai we compared our experience of newly married life.

I asked Gunjan if she had wanted an arranged marriage, as it's a topic that people from the West still have trouble comprehending. She shrugged casually and said, "It really didn't matter at all, I didn't care. My parents wouldn't have minded if I met someone. All my mother insisted on was that I get married by a certain age, so when I got to be that age, she started looking for a match. All I was looking for was a good family - it's the parents that mattered since I have to live with them."

In the context of India, I can more easily understand why an arranged marriage makes sense. It's still somewhat taboo for the sexes to mix too much before marriage, and it defnitely doesn't seem safe to wander about as a lone woman. It could be much more difficult to meet a partner here. Arranged marriages seem to work much of the time, and I have seen many more couples who appear genuinely happy together than I do in America, where I'm constantly next to an arguing couple on the subway or hear of yet another break-up or divorce among my acquaintances. There may be something to the theory that love is fleeting and finite, whereas devotion to a partner in marriage is a concept of its own.

Nick and I did not know each other well before we started dating. It all happened quickly and felt natural so we pursued it. But it is not possible to love someone very deeply until you know them intimately, and I believe this is something we have grown and worked on together and equally from the start. Marriage was but one step along the long path of growing, caring for, and guarding a love that we are forging together. Would it really have been different had our parents set us up? The realities of being an American aside, I think not. We have the willingness to commit, common interests and experiences, and good chemistry. Passion grows out of that foundation.

Gunjan is a very modern Indian woman. She wears modest Western-style clothes, sports an Apple iPhone and does not bother with the traditional marks of a married girl, such as a bindi, nose piercing, or red powder at the hair part. She hassles with a sari only for very formal events (it's just 9 meters of fabric wrapped around and around you! she exclaimed) and prefers a kurta (a long, loose tunic-style blouse) over jeans or churidar (loose drawstring pants). She is not only allowed to work by her husband and in-laws, but, like myself, is currently the breadwinner! Gunjan and I joked about our husbands being out of work, and more soberly commented on how strange it is to be making salaries far exceeding our parents. Turnover at Indian advertising agencies is even higher than in the U.S. because there are new and better opportunities burgeoning all over the country, which means educated and savvy workers can demand high salaries in the big cities. This causes some social difficulties in a society where elders are still the patriarchs and matriarchs of the family.

Gunjan had only one complaint to make about living with her in-laws: they make her pick fresh flowers every day from the garden to offer to the household Hindi shrine, a much-despised chore.

"Noooo!" Gunjan replied when I asked if she was at all religious. "My mother-in-law is though, and she has a huge shrine in the house, and I have to dust and clean all of the statues every single day! And she doesn't just have one or two, she has nine statues, each two feet high!" Gunjan believes all the religious stuff to be mumbo-jumbo and hates the chores because she doesn't really find any value in it. But, she does it and will continue to do so to harmlessly satisfy her mother-in-law.

After lunch Gunjan excitedly took us around the corner to one of her favorite clothing shops, where she helped me navigate to the kurtas, churidars, and dupatta, a scarf or shawl similar to a pashmina worn backwards around the neck to cover the chest. The clothes came in lovely fabric of every hue of reds, blues, greens and yellows possible. It was fun to pick out a few samples to purchase and I'm more comfortable blending in a bit than playing the part of the gaudy tourist (if that's at all possible given there's always an enormous camera around my neck). For about $40 USD: an entire kurta/churidar/dupatta outfit with an extra kurta, plus a kurta-type loose shirt for Nick.

Gunjan returned to work after showing us the store. We missed meeting up with her and Akshay, her husband, later that evening. Nick was feeling sick from a lingering head cold and it was getting late, and it wouldn't have been safe for us women to meet on our own. But raincheck please: I would love to see a Bollywood movie in Mumbai, the capital of Indian film, or try a trendy bar with local friends. Hopefully we'll get the chance when we return to the city in January.

Surviving Mumbai

The Mumbai portion of our expedition has been successful. Our intent was to have a safe place to hole up and adjust to the new time zone, local conditions, the experience of India, etc etc. We got plenty of rest (upwards of 14 hours a night) and still have found time for a slew of adventures: Elephanta, the Colaba Market/slum, learning to haggle, meeting up with an old co-worker of Laura's for lunch & hanging out yesterday afternoon, and Chowpati Beach last night. But now it's time to leave this tourist Mecca and head to another: Udaipur, home of one of the few remaining Maharajas. As India took all his income when the British withdrew and the country unified (or congealed, or whatever it did), the Maharaja in Udaipur has turned his various palaces and estates into a series of retreats and hotels. We'll let you know when we get there. As well as the excitement of Indian rail travel.

Everything in India is an adventure/hassle/haggle. It took us an hour to buy train tickets last night, including having to cross a 6-lane major street (a common circumstance) to get to an ATM to withdraw money AND bring back a receipt to prove that we had legally obtained said money. Or something like that. Terrorism is real and very alive here in this crazy melting-pot of Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Jains, Christians, Jews, Buddhists, various tribal regions, and (of course) tourists. Yet people smile, are patient and take life in stride.

I was trying to communicate that to Laura's friend Gunjan over lunch yesterday, but my cold had turned worse (not uncommon) and it was painful to speak. Gunjan had spent several years working in the States and was comparing children in Boston to children in Mumbai.

"They're so well behaved in the States," she exclaimed. "Here children are spoiled. They run around everywhere and climb over everything. They do whatever they want and no one does anything."

Laura and I exchanged looks. "You should get out and see more of America," we both said.

"Boston is a little different," I continued. "Very New England-stuffy. We get it from the Brits."

"Go to any McDonalds in America and you'll find the same thing as here," Laura agreed.

But Gunjan was right. There is something different in the way we treat our kids.

"Kids are incredibly disciplined in the US," I said after some thought. "They still run around like crazy and raise a ruckus, but it just makes people upset. Adults yell or slap their kids to quiet them down."

"They definately don't do that here," Gunjan said, horrified. "We would never hit our children!"

I think that's a good analogy for our cultural differences. In America we're tired and get bent out of shape. The world is on our shoulders: we are driven to succeed. In India people take things in stride. The social strictures are also liberating. How do I put this? There are similar pressures, similar tiredness attested to by a group of (untouchables?) taking a mid-afternoon siesta after a long day's work digging up and re-laying the brickwork for the sidewalk across the street from our hotel. (The town is laying new drainage pipework, I think.) The parents, men and women, were splayed on carts, in the dirt, on the newly-laid sidewalk taking their naps while their young children relaxed nearby. A brother and sister, no older than 6, huddled together. The sister drew some designs in the dirt while the brother "read" a newspaper.

Is any of this translating? The family needs the money so they all go work together. The women were earlier digging the ditches as fervently as the men. And the children? They hung around, chased each other along the sidewalks, never straying too far. The family stuck together. The people made do.

The poverty is striking here, but it is honest. I've been thinking about it a lot since arriving (and, honestly, long before I got here -- Nicaragua was eye-opening). A common theme in the West is how terrible the poverty is here. An Australian cricket star caused a ruckus recently by calling India a third-world country. The Western eye understands visible poverty this way. Maybe we were deeply scarred by The Plagues during the middle ages (this is where Foucault begins his history of operationalized separation of social space in the west, if I remember correctly).

At any rate, and to be less esoteric, I keep waiting for the drama of poverty to strike me. But it's not. While we were shopping for more conservative clothing (especially for Laura) yesterday it occurred to me that I simply don't feel comfortable judging visible poverty. I'm not the first to say this, but India has different standards for dealing with poverty than we do. We call poverty a crime and lock people in the poor house ... er, jail. Out of sight, out of mind. That's the drama that is bothering me. Calling India third-world is dishonest, and makes us in the West look like idiots. I'm not thrilled with the caste system by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm grateful for honesty.

Alright, time to check out of the hotel and head to the train station. Next stop Udaipur!

Elephanta Island

Today we made a trip to Elephanta Island by "luxury" boat (i.e. it didn't capsize) from the Gateway of India through Mumbai Harbor. Our boat shuddered with the engine and the seats were covered in layers of crumbling blue paint, but overall it pushed off smoothly. We purchased a bag of turmeric flavored popcorn for 4 rupees (8 cents), and on board snack vendors tried to sell us Lay's chips out of a basket labelled "Traditional Indian Snacks" (to their credit one of the options was some kind of Indian Masala flavor, but they also had Plain and Sour Cream & Onion).

Mumbai Harbor is a massive pool of water fed by a river and connected to the Arabian Sea, and when in the middle of it we could see no land on any side. Enormous tankers regularly float through the toxic water, laden with hundreds of shipping containers or carrying oil. We first passed the Indian Navy station, a madmade concrete island that we at first mistook for a jail. Cannons pointed into the harbor (at us, as we passed) from platforms on top. Mumbai faded away into the distance and the choking smog quickly swallowed the shapes of the city buildings. About halfway through our hour-long trip, we passed an oil ship labeled "Singapore" lashed to huge struts in the water. The ship was attached to a very long, thick pipe, perhaps a mile long, leading to a nearby island. The words "NO SMOKING" were larger than any of the other markings. As we passed, we saw other long pips radiating from the island like spokes, each hooked up to another huge oil tanker. The stench of gasoline was overwhelming.

Our boat pulled up to Elephanta Island and we leapt aboard the concrete jetty with the other tourists, about 75% Indian and the rest foreigners. Vendors lining the jetty walkway tried to sell us all manner of food and drink, from char-grilled corn on the cob to strange red berries to water and fresh chai. A local man walked halfway down the jetty with us (about a 5 minute walk total) trying to sell us on his tour guide services ("veeeery cheeap, good deal"), which we politely refused throughout. Eventually he gave up on trying to pursuade us to see all 8 caves with him, but we later saw him have more success with a pair of other foreign tourists. As we passed the edge of the shore I finally got my first cow sighting - a white cow and a brown bull were serenely hanging out on the muddy beach.

The long staircase walkway from the boat landing to the caves at the top of the hill was lined with vendors selling handicrafts (prices inflated for the tourists), but was thankfully shaded with dozens of blue tarps. We passed beaded jewelry of all colors and types, sandalwood boxes, shell wind chimes, bags and purses, miniature gods, and T-shirts with funny Western puns. Nick badly wanted the shirt depicting an Indian potter with the caption, "Hari Potter."

Once at the top of the hill, we paid our entry into the park, where schools of monkeys hung from the railings and avoided the roaming stray dogs. As we we waited in line, a large male monkey (their exposed balls are unmistakable) suddenly leapt off the railing and started harrassing an Indian man holding a mango drink, pulling on the bottom of his shirt. When the man didn't give his drink to the monkey, it jumped right on him, shouting and trying to grab the bottle. The startled man tried to shake the monkey off and gave up, tossing the drink to the ground, where the monkey promptly grabbed it, ran off to the side under the railing, and twisted the screw top off the plastic bottle with impressive dexterity. It happily drank every drop of the mango drink while an underling licked the discared top clean. Everyone in the crowd laughed at the scene but everyone was far too startled to do anything to help the man with his mango drink! Having gained confidence, another monkey ran straight up to an Indian woman in a sari and grabbed her, demanding her bottle of water. She shreiked and threw the bottle to the ground, but the monkey wasn't quite as pleased since it wasn't a sweet fruit juice.

The Elephanta Caves themselves were stunning. Standing in the enormous atrium of the main cave, completed as early as 300-400 AD (no one really knows - some say more recently), it acutally took effort to remember that every detail was carved directly out of the solid rock to the tune of a 60,000 square foot chamber. The dozens of thick pillars "supporting" the ceiling were not placed there - their form was extracted from the mountain - but their tops cleverly "bulge" under the weight of the rock above. The intricate carvings of enormous Hindu deities also were not completed in some remote location from a slab of limestone. They were created in the half-dark of the hewn cave to smooth perfection. Lonely Planet described the centerpiece, a 20-foot carving of the three faces of Shiva, as "possibly the most serene sight you will see in all of India." Despite the stench of bat guano, Shiva was indeed serene. Dim in the rear of the cave and hidden from the elements the carving has survived the centuries remarkably well, and Shiva's divinely relaxed expression, eyes closed, face relaxed, inspired a calmness I have yet to feel anywhere in New York. Other reliefs showed a pantheon of Hindu deities major and minor, some beatific, some angry, some lewd, and some female. The inner shrines were extremely simple, on a raised platform with 4 walls and open doorways. Inside, the rock was carved into a square table-like platform with a smooth, rounded rock protrusion called a lingam, and devotees had placed offerings of flowers and money around it. The lingam is where Shiva resides in his non-anthropomorphic form, representing the omnipresent primeval energy of god that is said to be present in all things. A stick of incense burned a fragrant smell and a group of three heavy Westerners stood to photograph themselves with the lingam.

The Art of Haggling

India is worth the visit purely for haggling.

I've been here for slightly more than 24 hours and one of my favorite things to do is haggling with street vendors. I sweated through my clothes at Elephanta Island today -- more on that adventure later -- so wanted to get another nice shirt and pants (I only brought 1 of each b/c we're traveling light). We intentionally walked back along Colaba Blvd to check out the street vendors. Always a good deal to be had! Looking for pants, for example, a vendor showed me a pair of jeans that had a Value Village tag on it -- as well as a $7.99 USD price tag. He was trying to sell it for 450 rupees (move the decimal one place and divide by five -- about $9). All his pants were offered at the same price, so I walked away.

"Wait, sir," he said. "How about 300 rupees?" ($6)
I accepted. Come to think of it, I should have asked for 250. But I needed pants and that over-rode my business sense.
I had settled on a nice pair of courduroys, and he stuffed those as well as another pair of jeans I had earlier been looking at (not Value Village) into a bag. Might as well unload as much inventory as you can, right? I learned that at Hamilton Marine long ago. Selling cheap is fine. You'll make up for it with quantity.
I stopped him, though. I just needed one pair of pants and we are traveling light.

Haggling is fun. It's interactive and deeply psychological. There are probably as many methods as there are people in the world, or combinations of sellers and buyers. I've already noticed several tactics that I use, though there is one that ultimately will work the best. I've used it twice and it's been extremely effective. Here's how it works.

Step 1: You cut a hole in the box ... wait, different interactive and deeply psychological tactic. (Good for dating, and can be used at Christmas for good comic effect).

Step 1: Something is only worth whatever you're going to pay for it. Figure out what that is, and put that exact amount of money in an easily accessible pocket that is not where you keep the rest of your money.

Step 2: Hunt for the item you're looking for. As with the courds, I passed several stands until I found one where I could browse a bit (it was relatively busy) and had a good selection. Where I really scored today was with a wallet. I'd been to several stands over the past day and found one today with some very light, simple wallets. I dug through the merchandise a bit and found a good one. Even better, it was slightly defective -- some of the stictching was off. Perfectly functional, but it gave me bargaining power.

Step 3: Start haggling. The businessman will be all over you anyway. You're just a dumb tourist, an easy target. Whatever they say it will be exhorbitantly overpriced. Don't worry about it. Let them be in charge. They be sure to make a profit no matter where you end up. They'll start high, you start low -- but be sure to name a price slightly higher than what you have on you.

Step 4: Keep working them down. Talk to them. Take up their time. Drag it out. Have fun! Ask the most inane questions about the item you can think of. ("Honey, what do you think of this fabric?") With my wallet the stitching defect came in really handy here. I kept pointing it out as we negotiated.

Step 5: If you can settle on a price somewhere near the bottom price you started with you should be golden. Be sure you show that you're interested in the item. "Yes, I think this will be OK at your price," or something simple like that. The salesman won. You agreed to their price. That's when you pull out your money. "Shoot, all I have is this ..." and hand it to them. With the wallet we had settled on 120 rupees and all I had was 80. The salesman accepted the money reluctantly and rifled through it.
"Do you have 10 more?"
I turned to Laura. "Do you have any rupees?" I asked. She shook her head.
"OK, 80 rupees is OK," the salesman said.

I'll keep refining my various methods. But it's like anything else in life. Know what you want. Know how valuable it is for other people (how much other people are selling it for). Know which people are going to be the easiest to haggle with. The more educated you are and the quicker on your feet, the stronger your position. Most important: don't be afraid to let others be in charge but know where you're bottom line is and, ultimately, what you'll settle for.

Walk softly but carry a big stick. It's a very mercantile philosophy.

Arrival in Mumbai

After 2 red-eyes we arrived in Mumbai yesterday, Wed, Nov 19th. We hustled our way through baggage claim as the heat and humidity rose. After customs we exchanged currency. The guys behind the desk miscounted our American dollars to the tune of $99 (bank error in their favor, naturally). Laura was sharp and recounted with them. Despite that the men miscounted a second time to the tune of $1 (bank error in our favor). I wondered if it was there way of compensating us -- a little bribe so we wouldn't call for the manager -- but I let it pass. We were tired and just wanted to get to the hotel.

I kept my eye on signs but discovered the easiest way to navigate the hubub was to move with the river of people. Beyond the glass doors we stepped into the sweltering heat of noon. The river kept moving so we did too. I held tight to a pre-paid cab ticket we had paid for. As the river of people diminished into various tributaries a porter approached and asked what cab number we were looking for. I paused -- my first of many mistakes -- and he snatched the ticket from my hand and took off down the sidewalk. There was little else to do but follow -- go with the flow, right? -- and he eventually led us to a nice Sikh who was examining his engine with the hood propped open. They hoisted our above the car and tied them down while we climbed in. It was a "cool car", aka w/ AC. The Sikh rounded the car to close the hood and the porter popped his head in.

"Tip?" he asked.
Laura reached into her pouch and grabbed a ten-rupee note.
"Tip should be larger," the porter announced.
"I'm sorry, that's all we have," Laura said firmly.
The porter kept hassling us for more, and Laura kept refusing. To get him out of our hair I reached into my pocket where I thought I had stashed a 20 or 100-rupee note. I pulled out a $5 bill (USD) instead. The porter's eyes bugged when I handed it to him, he thanked us and left.
"You shouldn't have done that," Laura said quietly as the Sikh climbed into the car.

Just for reference here, folks, we paid all of $8 for the cab ride itself (a little more than 400 rupees, at approx 50 rupees to the dollar). So I tipped the guy more than 50%.

It took the cabbie 2 hours to drive from the International Airport to our hotel in Colaba district (central Mumbai). We tipped him 50 rupees -- a VERY generous 15%. The cabbie looked at the note. "Only 50 rupees?" I could see that he was thinking of the porter.
"We're on a tight budget," Laura said. I didn't say a word.
We smiled, thanked him and walked into the hotel where we checked in.

Everything is an adventure right now -- adjusting to the accents, cultural norms, haggling on the streets. We're quick learners, and fortunately we've had enough experience with poverty in Nicaragua and extreme wealth in New York City that we can take the crazy extremes here relatively in stride. The dirt poor children may be adorable and tug on the heart strings, but you make sure to keep their hands away from your pockets. The fancy clothes and Levi's Jeans stores may offer seductive clothing, but we're not really here to shop.

Instead we got around 14 hours of sleep last night. I awoke at 8 am (early for me!) relatively refreshed (though I'm still fighting a cold), and popped out onto the street to get some fresh bottled water and something for my throat. I found a nice chai stand where a man was cooking fresh chai and several men were standing around the sidewalk sipping his latest batch. I asked for a cup and waited, sucking on a menthol I picked up earlier. The morning air was city-fresh, like a beautiful morning in Managua. A crippled man (presumably Untouchable) rolled down the street on a piece of wood with four wheels attached, shoes on his hands for locomotion. A Hare Krishna emerged from the chai stall . I watched him offer a handful of something to the man making my chai. The chai maker paused, accepted the gift with a bow and popped the handful into his mouth. The Krishna smiled and painted a blessing (like a bindi, I'll need to figure out the word for it) on his forhead between his eyes. The Hare Krishna approached me next and I did the same, chewing what turned out to be a handful of sweets along with my menthol. He painted my forehead and mumbled something about donations for Krishna, so I reached into my pocket and handed him 2 rupees (I'm learning, folks).

After much patience my chai was ready -- and worth the wait. With an elaborate ritual the chai maker lifted the cook pot with tongs, poured the broth into a cloth strainer which was then raised and rocked back and forth like a dance. Cups were poured out and handed around to a crowd of waiting men. I joined them on the sidewalk, sipping our chais and breathing in the new morning.

I overpaid for the chai (8 rupees -- I have more to learn). You can watch people's mouths haggle the price up. Difficult to describe. It's like they begin to say one price but at the last moment switch to something else -- and much higher.

Last night I bought a pair of slippers for use in the shower/bathroom (we'll have to take a picture of the one at the hotel so you can see why it's important). One man tried to sell me a pair for 150 rupees.

"All I have is 50," I said.
"Sir, I am not like others. I do not charge 250, 300 rupees," he insisted.
"I'm sorry, all I have is 50," I repeated. I pulled out the note from my pocket to prove it.
"OK, how about 120 rupees?" he asked.
"No thank you. Thanks for your time," I said and walked away. Another man stopped me -- his boss.
"Wait, sir, wait. What is the trouble?"
"All I have is 50 rupees," I said.
"OK, ok. 80 rupees. We can sell to you for 80 rupees."
"I'm sorry," I continued to walk away.
"Ok, ok. We have a pair for 50." They brought it out -- not as nice, but hell, these are just bathroom slippers. I have a nice pair for walking around the city. So I bought them, thanked them again for their time and went back to the hotel.

The internet cafe is closing down for an exam of some sort. Laura and I are headed to Elephanta Island. Guess what kind of statues they have there?

Pictures to come!