I leave for New Delhi tomorrow for a year. I’ve never been to India before.

I’m a preparer. I always think there is little I cannot handle as long as I’m adequately prepared. At the same time, paradoxically, I know that I cannot really prepare for anything.

Except the possibility of chapped lips or being without my favorite deodorant

So I settle for the happy medium of being less likely to be sideswiped by something stupid. Although I’m beginning to realize that I enjoy myself more when I don’t prepare as much, I can’t help myself. So I read and watch and absorb the wealth of information available to me.

I’m almost through Delirious Delhi, a humorous blog-style book about a man and his wife living in New Delhi who seem almost as paranoid as me when it comes to food and water-bourne illnesses. Lots of great tidbits and advice about how to bargain for rickshaws and which markets to go to. I also read Living Abroad in Delhi, which had lots of good living-in-Delhi info and about the infamous FRRO card I’m required to get, that involves navigating a maze of Indian bureaucracy in the one place where they ironically don’t speak much English: the foreign registration office.

I’m also reading Speaking of India, a so far excellent book about office politics in India. I started Delhi: Adventures in a Megacity, which is good, but I think I’ll like it better after I’ve lived there for some time. It has less advice, more funny encounters. I also have a book on Hindi and have pored through a few websites on the written language so I arrive somewhat literate.

The best book I read was on the flight(s) over called Enjoying India: The Essential Handbook. Like Living Abroad, it was written by a single American woman living alone in India, which provides a particularly useful perspective for me. This had the best combination of tips and went into great detail about things most guidebooks just touch on, if they mention it at all. I love that she had a whole section about the plumbing! Seriously, the number of guidebooks that don’t tell you when you are in a country where you maybe shouldn’t put toilet paper down the toilet…

Themes I’ve come across:
One book said that India is the most extreme cultural experience a Westerner can have. You see beauty and horror side by side. It’s incredibly diverse. India cannot be described in one word. I’ve watched several Bollywood movies and TV shows (like An Idiot Abroad) and, on top of photos online, have seen many images of India. I watched The Most Exotic Marigold Hotel and Slumdog Millionaire. Phrases I’ve come across: “A crush of humanity”, “disgusting”, “dirty”, “assault on the senses”, “smelly”, “heart-wrenching poverty”, and one traveler who went four times describes it using the acronym “I’ll Never Do It Again” though admitted he is planning another trip.

Many years ago, I went to Little India in Singapore and found it slightly uncomfortable. There were a lot of people. Men in moustaches staring at me from the street corner. And I didn’t feel safe. But wow, the temple in the middle of it all was the MOST AMAZING temple I’d ever seen and prompted the urge to visit India, even though it simultaneously prompted the intimidation.

I think, no matter what, it will be intense. Every single westerner I talked to that has visited India agrees on that word. But until I’m there, I won’t really get it. Until I see the dirt, feel the stares, hear the horns honking, smell the fumes, witness the poverty and luxury next to each other, I won’t really GET it. Alternatively, until I am surrounded by colorfully dressed populace, witness the organized chaos of the roads, taste the deliciously spiced chai, stand before the most incredible temples and mosques I can imagine, appreciate the patience and resilience of the population, and am treated to the most decadent meals imaginable by a very warm-hearted community, I won’t really GET it.

I flew British Airways. On the flight from Denver to London, we ate curry. On the flight from London to Delhi, we had a fajita. Random. (Though, the main dish on the Delhi flight did increase substantially in spiciness.) That flight also involved the attendant walking through the aisles and spraying insecticide up into the air (!) with some explanation about agriculture. Many of the lights of the city below were flickering. The experience arriving in the middle of the night in the Delhi airport was pleasant; the customs and money changing line was short and the entire interior of the airport is closed to the public. Although this makes it inconvenient to pick someone up, I imagine (and is also confusing as they let just enough people through with signs making it ambiguous as to where one’s party is) it does make it less stressful as you are not hounded by taxi drivers the second you leave the international exit. Incidentally, as I ventured out the final exit and looked for my own driver, I was not really hounded by anyone, though I got some stares.

A hailstorm pounded down as we drove (four of us: me, the driver, a ‘bouncer’, and a co-worker to give directions) the hour to Noida. This was so unusual, I saw it mentioned on the news later. I arrived in my room shortly before 3am, made sure I had internet, checked my email, faffed around on facebook, then finally went to sleep.

My room, I suspect, is luxurious by Indian standards. Internet, a shower with hot water, an air conditioner, cable (dozens of channels), high ceilings. I even saw a wedding party arriving here, so it must be pretty nice. By American wedding-hotel standards, it is serviceable, though maybe a little worn and run down. It should work fine for me. We’ll see how it goes when the weather gets hot or if/when there are issues with the availability of municipal services.

… or if anyone “distrubs” me

My sole view of New Delhi so far has been out the windows of moving vehicles. It looks like I expected based on what I read. Lots of people, check. Rows of hole-in-the-wall shops, check. Chaotic roads shared by all sizes of vehicles and where magically no one gets into an accident, check. Cows, check.

Three car rides (one that had no place to plug in a seat belt) has given me a theory as to why so many drivers honk their horns. It is to kindly spare the drivers in front of them the trouble of looking in their rear-view mirror to see if you are passing. In fact, on several trucks I actually saw “Please Honk” written on the back of them.

My new workplace has a nice energy about it. Busy. Upbeat. Full of friendly people dressed surprisingly casually. But no privacy. There is a food court for the several companies that share the three towers. (I wandered into the wrong two towers first… the problem with people staring is that I don’t know if I’m in the wrong tower or if they are just reeling from the glare on my whiter-than-white face.) At the food court, my new co-workers took me to lunch and I had an Indian pizza which was actually quite tasty.

This evening, I tried the gym, which I get to use free while staying here. I had to walk through the lobby of the building next door where the wedding reception was being set up in order to use the gym, but luckily, I finished before the percussion and band announced the sparkly couple. The drums were awesome. (And finished before my bedtime – even better, as they were essentially right outside my window.) The gym was very nice. High-quality equipment, full of big TVs, blaring techno music, lots of dudes lifting weights, and a long list of rules that included, I’m not making this up:

‘Frequently use “Sports Deodorant” during workout.’

Glad I packed all that deodorant!

I live in a complex of apartment towers. My tower has twenty-four-hour reception and a doorman who opens the door every time I walk in or out. I’m on the second floor, but here they call it the first floor. (The lobby is on level “0” and the elevator has a “-1” button for the basement.)

Apartment from the Outside

View from Inside
(with local kids playing cricket!)

It is a lot like a hotel in that I get a room cleaning – bed made, towels replaced, even dishes washed! Luxurious, but sort of overkill. I’m determined to do the majority of my own dishes. I even have hot water in all my faucets, which wasn’t even true in Japan. The only things I don’t have are a water filter (I’m provided with a fresh bottle of water every day… but that is a lot of bottles. I might look for an alternative.) and a washing machine. There is a laundry service, but it is expensive. Not sure if I will end up using it or do a lot of washing by hand.

Bed and Wardrobe

Living Room
(with cable, not too slow of a LAN connection, and hotel art!)

I also get free breakfast with this deal! I’m actually not sure what it costs yet, but it will be interesting to find out since it essentially staying at a hotel for a year, though with assumedly a long-term rate. It is located in Indirapuram which is a sort of sought-after neighborhood for its proximity to both Noida and New Delhi, though it does not appear to be in either…

Kitchen

Bathroom (and bidet)

I’ve never tried to regularly use a bidet (or health faucet) before… but maybe I will, since one is only supposed to put a minimum of toilet paper down the toilet. This I read in at least one of my books. (I was never given any instruction on this by the hotel. I think it doesn’t occur to the service industries in many countries just how much TP an American will put down the toilet if given the chance.) In any case, it makes sense. Give yourself a wash, then you can dry off with just one bit of toilet paper and put that in the wastebasket. Using the bidet at work seems like another step. Bidet sharing.

As for the lights, I have seen some flickering, but have not actually lost power for any significant amount of time yet. I can’t tell if that is because the hotel has a generator or I just haven’t seen it happen yet. The restaurant I went to lunch at with my co-worker did lose partial power while we were there, and it delayed our check.

I took my first steps outside the gates of my apartment complex this morning. A chilly morning with a bit of fog, kind of spooky. Closed shops, stray dogs, and a lack of sidewalk made me think I was going to run into a dead end. Also, when I stepped out to the seemingly empty street to walk along the side, I had to quickly step back as I was honked at by oncoming autorickshaws. Ack, they drive on the left in India, so I was looking the wrong way for cars without even thinking.

My co-worker (Best Co-worker Ever) picked me up and took me out to lunch. The waiter only looked at him to take both of our orders. Whether that was because I was foreign or a woman (which I’ve read happens), I do not know. Then he took me to a supermarket a block from my place, which was greatly relieving as it had nearly every item on my food and stuff-for-apartment list including pots and frying pans (but not a rice cooker; I guess Indians cook their rice in a pressure cooker, which I don’t know how to use.) They even had Nutella! I thought for sure Nutella would be on my care package wish list, but there was a big display. They had all sorts of honey as well. And even Tropicana orange juice, yay! Co-worker picked out some mosquito-repelling plug-ins and sprays for me, which I was excited about. The aisles were narrow, the items tightly stacked, and it was crowded with shoppers (who were too concerned with their shopping to notice the blond woman) and nearly one employee per aisle. But we only had a couple cart-jams.

I tried to ingredient check so I could attempt to keep to all-natural items, but there was a new class of listed items like “Acidity Regulator” in place for the usually unpronounceable chemicals. This is good in that I know why they added it, but bad in that what was actually added is a mystery. Either way, I probably want to avoid these if possible and if I hadn’t wanted salsa so much, I might not have picked up this jar, their only salsa selection. In any case, I suspect salsa will remain on my care package wish list.

Mmmm… Class II Preservatives

While my co-worker drove me around the streets of Noida, the traffic was the chaotic-but-cooperative I had expected. I watched, fascinated, as we managed to not run into anyone nor have anyone run into us during the whole trip. A motorbike went by with a man driving, a woman in a sari riding side-saddle behind him, and their son – maybe six years old – sleeping smooshed between them. An autorickshaw (a motorbike taxi with barely enough room for two seated in the back) went by without about six people crammed in and on it.

The most aggressive drivers I’ve seen so far are motorbikes with the acronym “PHD” on them. They swerve by, horns honking repeatedly, clearly in a hurry. I found out later what “PHD” means. “Pizza Hut Delivery”. They apparently still do the 30-minutes-or-it’s-free deal.

My co-worker, who visited Colorado, told me that horns honking here doesn’t mean what it does there. He said it is more like a conversation here. Perhaps that is why the four-way intersection with no traffic signal (and the occasional cow off to the side) on my way to work can be at all navigated. Horn-language.

So far, I’ve seen (and killed) one mosquito in my room per day I’ve been here. I have not been bitten that I can tell and they have been easy to kill. I asked my co-worker when mosquito season is in Delhi and he said that usually, it is in summer, but that “in this neighborhood, it’s anytime.” Hmmm. Hopefully, the plug-in repellant will do the job for now. I brought a whole mosquito net if needed, though I’d have to figure out how to mount it without upsetting the hotel staff.

Co-worker discovered I did not have my gas hooked up and that I needed to have my company ask. Within about ten minutes of me emailing work (on a weekend no less), someone came to the door with a gas canister and hooked it up. Then, a couple hours later, another dude showed up with complimentary pots and pans! D’oh. Now I have quite the collection.

I had my usual free breakfast, even daring some cut-up melon in my porridge (I’ve been scared of fresh fruit and veggies because I don’t know the quality of the water they’ve been washed in, but in this case, it has been theoretically peeled and chopped.) One of the many workers in the dining area asked me what country I was from. When I told him, he proceeded to inform me that the president there is Barack Obama. I realized I don’t know who the Indian Prime Minister is, forehead slap, then again Obama has a photo on the front page of today’s paper (the Hindustan Times), which I got at my door this morning.

I spent the day finally unpacking all my clothes and toiletries (wow, I brought a lot of toiletries) and moving in.

In the afternoon, I wandered outside the gates in the direction of the supermarket that Co-worker took me to yesterday. There was sort-of-a-sidewalk-sometimes off to the side, but more often it was broken up or separated by dirt and garbage (and the occasional tree) so it was easier to just walk on the side of the street like other pedestrians were doing, listening for honks. It was amazing, though, how much my level of comfort increased as soon as I came upon a sidewalk! A real, large sidewalk, next to a suddenly fancy shopping center (the complete opposite of the hole-in-the-wall shops across the street) with the supermarket within. Lots of people were out relaxing and shopping this sunny, cool Sunday afternoon and it was quite pleasant.

I had some “Authentic South Indian” fast food for lunch. Like every other restaurant experience I’ve had so far, the menu is only in English, but the transactions are all in Hindi. Except for me. When there is English spoken, our accents are almost mutually unintelligible to each other. The only thing I can understand are the pleasantries, which are nice, but are not necessarily helpful. I ordered the “Perfect Meal Combo” off the signboard. He asked me something. No idea what. He then confirmed that I ordered the “Royal Meal Combo.” I didn’t argue, I was hungry. A little while later, sitting at my table and reading about the Vaango experience on the placemat, I received a tray full of two small bowls with soup, a bowl of something potatoey, two tiny bowls with sauces, a chicken donut (?), and something that looked like a rolled-up tortilla the size of my forearm. There were some spoons at the table. I took a spoon but had absolutely no idea how to eat this food.

Totally stole this pic from the Vaango website

I hope the staff were more amused than disgusted as I attempted to eat this. At first I ripped off a bit of the tortilla thing and started to eat it like a burrito. That’s when a staff member suddenly appeared with a fork. Then I remembered two things: one, that a lot of Indian food is meant to be eaten with your fingers and two, only with your RIGHT hand, since the left is associated with bathroom duties. I immediately dropped my left hand to my lap and used an awkward rotating combination of fork, spoon, and tearing off chunks of tortilla (disclaimer: not a tortilla) with my right hand and got most of the food eventually in my stomach (only using my left hand when no one was looking, which was probably never as who isn’t looking at the dopey foreigner.) Even if I looked like an idiot eating it, it was rather tasty. Incidentally, here is some of what I read off the placemat:

“Every feature of Vaango is based on extensive consumer research, which holds that the new age consumer is particular about authentic taste, quality, hygiene, and convenience.”

You may be able to guess my favorite word there. Hygiene! Yay for new age consumers. They also mentioned the “soothing music” they played, which I had not even noticed until they mentioned it. (Then it was all I could hear.) Incidentally, I have yet to feel any stomach oddities during my almost three days here. Knock on some wood, there.

I thought people in India were supposed to be on ‘relaxed’ time and everything was supposed to be inexpensive.

Almost every time I’ve agreed to meet someone at a certain time, the person has been early. Not just on time. Early. The one time someone was actually late, they apologized profusely (and as they were arriving through evening rush hour, they cannot be to blame.)

So far, I’ve hesitated on at least three accounts due to price. Hotel laundry apparently costs over $1 per shirt. I’m debating just doing it myself. And last night’s excursion: My co-worker’s wife was kind enough to take me clothes shopping after work for a wedding I am invited to go to next week. (And, incidentally, if you find yourself coming to work in India, I recommend procuring The Best Co-workers Ever. I don’t know what I’d do without them!) We went to a nice mall that was well up to, if not exceeding, American standards for malls. Perhaps that is why the prices there were also up to, if not exceeding, American prices. For a dress that one would wear to an Indian wedding, the price seemed to be in the range of $150-$200. I wasn’t looking at the bling-tastic saris even, just an Indian-style dress or salwar kamis (a kind of long-shirt-and-pants combo) suitable for a fancy party.

Shipra Mall

I ended up going with what I’ll call the ol’ J.C. Penny’s route. Find something ‘good enough’ on sale. Luckily, my companion indicated what ‘good enough’ meant as I would not have had a clue! (And her mother, who met us there with her adorable toddler, seemed to agree.) In the end, I spent closer to half that price on two outfits, for two different ceremonies, and hope that is sufficient not to embarrass myself. It’s certainly better than anything I currently have in my closet! My lesson from my shopping experience: the heavier the fabric, the brighter the colors (no white or black), and the blingier, the better. It’s all about the bling. (She even used the word “bling”.) To increase my bling factor, I decided to take the woman’s advice and get some inexpensive jewelry to go with it. Inexpensive jewelry (a necklace and matching earrings with so much bling, even the woman I was with took pause) cost almost $40. Wow. I have now spent almost all the money I changed at the airport. (And I’m still second guessing myself, wondering if I should try that shop across the street, just in case I can find more bling for my buck.)

Pink Pants! Pink Bling!

It may look like those two pairs of pants are for two very different people, Michael Jordan and MC Hammer perhaps, but nope, they are the very common styles of pants one wears under a dress / long shirt. One bunches at the bottom. The other (Punjabi style) just ripples all around. Both ready-to-wear outfits (because I’m too lazy/intimidated/in a hurry to use a tailor) happened to have pink bottoms. I think they’re cute!

So far, the only thing that seems cheap here is food. Lunches at work are just a buck and we had dinner at a mall restaurant for under $4 each. My long-term hotel, however, has no problem charging $11 for a dinner buffet.

(And how awesome is it that I got invited to a wedding!? I had been hoping to go to one sometime during my time here, I didn’t expect to in my first few weeks!)

First World Problems

• The edges of my toast got all burnt this morning
• This YouTube video is taking so long to load
• My co-workers’ loud cell phone ringtones are driving me nuts
• Brushing my teeth with bottled water is so awkward
• Only one of my microwave buttons works
• The Tropicana juice I’m drinking is from concentrate
• I have no washing machine and dryer in my room

I have yet to actually visit Delhi (I’ve just been bumming around my neighborhood across the river in Ghaziabad so far, giving myself a gentle, step-by-step introduction to India big city life) so I suspect these problems will seem increasingly “first world” the longer I’m here.

(Totally stole this pic)

I have the History Channel. The show “American Pickers” is on TV right now (about the two dudes who buy junk from people’s yards around the country and resell it at a profit). It is dubbed into Hindi, then subtitled back into English. Random. But an excellent way to practice Hindi! (And Hindi numbers since they are always talking prices.)

On next week’s agenda: get water delivered regularly. The hotel is giving me a bottle of water every day. Gah the waste. And gah, the lack of a backup I’ll have if there is suddenly a water shortage.

Speaking of water shortages… in a place where shortages could be a problem, it is interesting that they use a bidet (water-squirty-thing-to-clean-your-bottom) at the toilet. Hmmm. In any case, I’ve decided to start using it and I’m sort of getting the hang of it! It’s kind of refreshing and less messy than I would have imagined. It must be really weird if you grew up using these and then had to switch to only toilet paper.

Today is a holiday in India. Republic Day. There was a parade that I watched on TV, complete with a motorcade with the Prime Minister, saluting, awkward arm-swinging and face-to-the-side marching by various military branches, camels, and fun floats, even one dedicated to the differently-abled, complete with dancing wheelchairs. Because of all this, roads near the center of New Delhi as well as the metro (or at least the main stops) was closed all morning.

An excellent day, as it turns out, to go to Akshardham.

It was also my first foray outside my neighborhood!

So I walked out the gate of my apartment building, all getting ready to hail my first autorickshaw (I had double checked about the feasibility from my co-workers), when the friendly gate guard did it for me. Then, after three autorickshaws turned me down, I found out it was because they cannot cross state lines. (Akshardham is in Delhi, while I am technically not.) What to do now? That’s when an Indian family walking out of the same building complex I’m staying in also started looking for an autorickshaw to Akshardham. Very awesome coincidence! So the four of us piled into an autorickshaw that just took us up the street where we could share a taxi the rest of the way.

The autorickshaw was not as tight, uncomfortable, or scary as I thought it would be. And it was kind of fun!

Photo of a Photo: Akshardham

There were plenty of people, but not the crushing crowds I was led to believe there’d be on this sunny and cool peak-season day. The family I was with explained that they had actually turned back the previous day because of the crowds, but having a limited metro (Akshardham has its own metro stop) decreased the number of people drastically.

All electronic devices, like mobile phones and cameras, are prohibited at Akshardham. (As well as “smoking, alcohol, tobacco, and addictive substances” – guess it is a good thing they did not notice the chapstick in my pocket during my pat down.) If it were not for the camera restriction, then this page would have taken a LOT longer to load as I displayed the two hundred photos I would have taken. I paid 130 rupees (under $3) for an official one, then took a pic of that.

The complex, which has free admission, was amazingly detailed (the interior as well) and beautiful. You could pay 170 rupees to enter the exhibition area where you heard the story of Narayan, the Swami / Yogi / Guru / Spiritual Guide for which the temple is dedicated to. There is a series of mini-theatres with animatronics (the ‘English’ version was less crowded) that told his life story, then in the next building you can watch a quite well-done IMAX-sized movie about his same journey. After that, you can take a boat ride a-la It’s a Small World, and enjoy a snack in the food court. One of the workers there chatted with me for a bit (as he intermittently chased people off the fountain steps) and told me that SwamiNarayan had a center in Denver! I can’t find evidence of that (I might have misunderstood), but there is quite a large temple in Chicago that I saw a photo of.

Akshardham from the Metro
(took this on a later, rainy, day)

Although I tagged along with the nice family from Mumbai (their son is moving to Delhi to work, so they were doing some sightseeing before seeing him off) for quite some time, I was on my own by the end and had to figure out how to get home. I wandered out the exit, debating between a taxi and trying out the metro, when an autorickshaw guy waved me down. After I told him my neighborhood, he agreed that he couldn’t take me past state lines, but that I could switch to another auto there. Unsure of what this meant I decided, after a moment of thought, to try it out. Indeed, at the state line, there was a little pull off. Another autorickshaw pulled up right next to him (seemingly pre-arranged) and I paid the first, then stepped right into the second. And off we went!

After I made it back, I ran into the nice family again at the hotel and said hello (and thanked them again as they refused to let me pay for my portion of the taxi ride). I also ran into a coworker and her family who live in the area. Cool to have familiar faces to see. I managed to purchase something to hang wet laundry on from two very helpful employees at the uber-crowded supermarket/housewares/clothing store. And I managed, with two other helpful employees at a very crowded electronic store, to get a rice cooker. There are so many people in India (that will work cheap) it means that every building is overstaffed. I appreciated that tonight!

Visiting the Foreign Regional Registration Office is something anyone other than a tourist needs to do within two weeks of arrival. Two weeks goes really, really fast, incidentally. I only would have had a few days left to get it sorted out at this point.

(Edit from eight months later: Don’t make my $500 mistake! Although you almost never actually need the two stapled pieces of paper that make up your FRRO – they had been sitting in my drawer for months – you DO need them if you intend to travel outside of India! They would not give me a boarding pass without these two sheets, even though I had my PAN card and passport.)

Every book I have read on living in India has stories about the FRRO Bureaucracy Hell: of the getting up absurdly early to wait in line after line for hours in a non-air-conditioned concrete building only to likely be told that your paperwork is incomplete or your passport photos (at least 5 are needed) are the wrong size.

I avoided this scenario entirely by paying a relocation organization called New Horizon (that my company arranged for me) about USD$150 to organize the paperwork and meet me at the FRRO office. (Spending the dough to hire a professional was described as “definitely worth it” by the last ex-pat who worked for my company. I think his email might have nudged everyone into action since, as I found out later, he actually ran the place for a couple years. I got his name from another employee who is childhood friends with the wife of someone I work with at the Colorado office. Connection!) I also avoided the worst of the FRRO, I believe, because my residence is technically in Ghaziabad and not New Delhi.

In fact, just the ride to the rural FRRO office was worth the trip!

Ghaziabad Traffic

Going to Ghaziabad proper (instead of the high-rise / shopping-center section I live in) was like traveling back in time. Narrow, dusty roads. Marketplaces selling chips and apples and rice by the bowlful and motorscooters and spare parts. Lots of people out and about in traditional wear, sometimes pulling wheelbarrows. I even saw two women carrying loads on their heads like a National Geographic special. I felt for the first time like I was seeing “the real India”. Except for the vehicles crowding the roads, I could have been stepping into a city fifty years ago.

I got to experience my worst traffic jam yet. Gridlock for almost half an hour. It was fascinating (and surprising for the middle of the day.) Though I felt guilty because I had already been late meeting the taxi so we ended up being half an hour late to meet the FRRO guy. I wish I got a photo of the jam, but the above photo was just the standard traffic on the way back.

I also saw quite a few sights along the way. Something that looked like a slum – canvas tents on poles, but with sections for cows. Then hollowed-out crumbling brick buildings that served as one step up from that. Then a pretty cute town with not a name brand, except maybe Coca-Cola, in sight. The driver stopped every three blocks to ask directions.

The sign for the FRRO office was *inside* the FRRO office. (Not just the inside. The back corner. And it was faded. I never would have found it.) It was in a vaguely adobe-looking one-storey yellow building in a complex of similar-looking yellow buildings. Some of the buildings had lines of people out front, but not mine. No line. The one-room FRRO office had two people behind a desk, two chairs in front of the desk, and no one in front of me. I had to fill out one more form, but that was it. A woman came in while I was there trying to get a visa extended for her American-born son, but that was the only other customer I saw. I think I was there less than half an hour. That has to be some kind of record. Or, more likely, simply worth the hundred and fifty bucks.

On our way out of the city, there were two ragged kids – a boy and a girl – wiping the dust off of car windshields with a rag as the vehicles were stopped in traffic. My driver was on his cell phone and, as far as I could tell, ignored the boy. The car in front appeared to give the girl a coin. When the girl passed the taxi I was in, she must have noticed me. I could see her in my peripherals, waving and then tapping the back window across from me to get my attention. I was not sure what to do. I think I would have been heartbroken if I looked the poor girl in the face. She probably was looking for a tip from the wealthy foreigner (I keep trying to remember that the word ‘wealthy’ is associated with me here) but she may have just wanted to wave hello to the mysterious blond woman, too. I just looked forward. Hrm.

So it turns out I was not too underdressed after all, whew. Most of the men were in western wear, everything from jeans to suits. The woman were in various styles of sparkly Indian dresswear. We arrived 45 minutes after the time on the invitation. We were almost the first guests there. Ha! So IST, according to Buddy (nickname I’m giving the co-worker who is always doing stuff for me), actually means Indian Stretchable Time. The bride didn’t even arrive until about two hours later.

First Indian Outfit
(Yes, there are Pink Pants under that.)

I hung out primarily with the spouse of LeadingMan (nickname for tall, dashing co-worker) while Buddy and him went off somewhere. Everyone I talked to about Indian weddings told me that a wedding is a 3-5 day process with ritual after ritual (many including a big party and most including both extended families who are also joining together) and that the bride and groom have almost no time to sleep, except for brief naps when they can grab them. (“It prepares them for the sleepless nights ahead,” someone quipped.) The bride and groom did admittedly look a little exhausted, poor things, and the groom’s brother was running around crazily on errands like any groom’s brother. Speaking of brothers, I learned something funny. In many Indian communities, a younger sister can get married before an older sister but it is virtually unheard of for a younger brother to get married before an older brother.

There were appetizers (including something very yummy that was described as a “chili mushroom”.) I also tried a couple “golgabe”, which are these fried things dipped in a sweet or sour liquid, then eaten in one bite since it holds a lot of the liquid. Sounds better than it turned out to be, but glad I got to try one. Every hour or so, there was some sort of ritual happening up at the front with a throng of people (though only a percentage of the guests) gathered around. One was for the groom and not the bride. It involved <begin ignorant foreigner translation> dudes with their shoes off sitting around a bunch of fruit with dishtowels on their heads and a red splotch on their forehead with grains of rice on it listening to someone chant. <end> The chanting is in Sanskrit, I found out. I asked her what it all meant, she shrugged. “I don’t know. I barely paid attention during mine.”

Groom and Bride
Photos courtesy of woman I was with, since I was way too shy to get up close
(No large version since I totally don’t know most these people.)

Most of the time, people were just socializing and dancing. Once the DJ blasted the music – which he did off and on throughout the evening – it was pretty much impossible to have a conversation. But the dancing…

I have never seen guys dance like that… sober, at least. I should have expected that in a country where every time I turn on the TV there are men dancing in unison in some Bollywood music video (wooing a woman usually), that they’d have no trouble doing the same at a wedding. Combine the love of song and dance with the much smaller sphere of personal space Indians have, and wow! Guys in a tight bunch, singing along to the music and dancing gregariously together. It was awesome! (Apparently, a number of local religions forbid alcohol so it is rare to go to a wedding with alcoholic drinks served. Pretty sure no one needs it here!)

“No, they’re not drunk.”

Everyone knew the lyrics of every song. I did not recognize most of the music. There was one song I did know: Gangnam Style!

I got pulled up to dance by our group of co-workers and I even got some dance time with the groom as we all boogied in a circle. Though at one point, the actual ring ceremony started. From what I could see between the many people gathered at the front (while the techno still blared deafeningly and people continued dancing up a storm), there was a fancy sofa where the couple sat. They exchanged rings and posed in many cute positions for the photographers and filmographers. I saw one girl, looking bored behind them, mouthing along to the words of the song.

The drinks that were being served on trays were mostly multi-colored sodas, but there was one funny one with little balls of batter floating in it. “It’s good,” the woman assured me. I took a sip. It was sort of like I was drinking hot lemony oily soup. It was not thirst quenching. I tried to drink it, but could barely get down a few sips. She had earlier asked a waiter for some coffee and they happened to bring two, so I broke my no-caffeine-after-6pm rule and had a delicious cup of sweet, milky coffee at 10pm and surreptitiously let a waiter pick up my other glass.

The buffet finally opened shortly after that (invitation says: “Dinner: 8:00pm”) and the woman I was with was on a fast where she could only eat (other than fruit and not counting coffee) once she saw the moon. Her husband did a couple moon checks and finally, we went outside, gazed at the moon, she said a prayer I think, then we went back and had some food. It was pretty decent. Conclusion is that the redder the sauce is, the more I like it. The brown ones are decent. I don’t like the white ones as much. We left early (just before midnight). I saw one of the guests at work the next day who said he’d stayed another hour and the party was still going strong.

And the actual wedding is not until tomorrow!

So I’ve been in India just over two weeks now.

I’ve been more focused on settling in than sightseeing, but I’m sure that will change. Comments about my life in New Delhi so far…

The Traffic My newbie wide eyes are finding the traffic absolutely fascinating. Buses, box trucks (all of them with a different version of “keep distance, use horn please” painted on the back), cars, autorickshaws, motorcycles, bicycle rickshaws, bicycles, and pedestrians all share the road. Sometimes, they careen down the opposite side just for fun (well, more because it is hard to find a place for a U-turn). Chaotic cooperation. I haven’t noticed a choking pollution, but that may change as the weather does.

The jams are just amazing. Once, we had a bus on one side, a car on the other, a car at a right angle in front of us blocked by an autorickshaw, motorcycles at either door asking the driver for a little room to squeeze in front of our car to go past perpendicularly, people threading through, and lots of honking. It seems entirely possible sitting there unmoving for minutes at a time that the traffic is so knotted, it will never untangle and we’ll all have to abandon our cars and walk home. But then, with the help of some people directing traffic (who do not appear to be in uniform, but are, according to my co-worker), things move, spurt by spurt. It took us 25 minutes to cross an intersection. (Probably, later in my stay, this will just seem like an annoyance. But at the moment, I am a gaping traffic jam tourist.)

The Weather The temperature has been pleasant, in the high 60s during the day and chilly, but well above freezing, at night. We had a couple mornings of intensely thick fog which made the commute interesting, shadowy figures materializing out of nowhere and cars using emergency blinkers as fog lights. At the moment, I’m dressing extra conservatively as most books advised, long pants and no low necklines. But I’m sure my resolve will be tested as the temperature goes up (and up and up) over the next few months. The average, yes *average*, high in May is over 103 degrees.

Filtered water dispenser! No more depending on bottles!
(though I’m rapidly running out of counter space…)

Medical Issues I have been extraordinarily lucky. The worst I’ve had so far has been insufficiently frequent bowel movements and a run-of-the-mill cold. I either managed to avoid the worst of the bacteria (I’ve been fairly careful with the water, but have eaten at a couple buffets and a food court) or my immune system is working overtime. I’ve been taking vitamins and a probiotic called Florastor somewhat regularly.

Electrical Issues There are regularly power blips – the power going off and then coming right back on. At work, our computers seem shielded (only the lights go out), but I kinda wonder what will happen if it lasts for longer than a few seconds. Might find out during air conditioner season. Incidentally, the converter plugs I bought at Amazon appear to be working perfectly. I’m charging all my devices fine.

Laundry I’m washing my clothes in a bucket. (I had no trouble finding all sorts of buckets of all sizes.) I’ve also decided to try to conserve water a bit and so, instead of just leaving the shower running while I soap up, I’m using a bucket there, too. Yay for buckets! As for the problem of drying without a dryer, line, or balcony… two very helpful guys at the supermarket dug this metal contraption of the back room. Works perfect!

Drying Laundry

Security This is something I did not expect. To get into the mall, to get into the supermarket, to get onto the Metro, I have to pass through a metal detector and possibly be wanded! By a woman at least. And I suppose this is guaranteeing jobs for low-income women so I can’t complain too much. (Especially since jobs I expected an unskilled woman to have, like my room cleaners and the helpers at a women’s clothing store, are held by men.) Sometimes I have to put my bag through a detector – I don’t like taking my hands off my purse at all – and once I had to get a special piece of paper that indicated that, yes, I brought this 10-year-old camera into the store with me. It’s like everywhere is the airport. Some of it is clearly to prevent theft (like the fact that the number of bags I’m bringing out is written on my receipt) but the reasoning is not particularly clear for the rest.

Incidentally, because there are so many people and so many low-paying jobs, there are also many, many guards. Two at the local ATM, even, which is already indoors.

Safety Nothing of mine has been stolen so far (and you would cringe at what I leave lying around my hotel room.) And the only time a guy did something inappropriate was last night. I made a mistake. Despite being forewarned by a book I read, I answered honestly to the question, “Do you have a husband?” In retrospect, the answer to that question is obviously always, “yes, a big, strong one” if asked by a twenty-something riding shotgun in an autorickshaw. He hit on me the rest of the ride, despite how extremely clear I made it that it was unwelcome (and he knew it, because he apologized and I pretended loudly that I had a husband the rest of the ride). He managed to pat me on the bottom as I got out. I gave him a good yelling before they took off and the guard at the gate was protective. Second moral of the story: no more shotgun riders. Besides that incident, which makes me want to go and buy a fake wedding ring, I’ve felt perfectly safe on the streets, especially if crowded. Safety in numbers. And there are pretty much always numbers.

Prices Guess how much that laundry setup above cost me. You’d think it would not be too expensive, right? Although it is perfect for my needs, it is also not very complicated. But no. The price was approximately $30. Thirty US dollars (or around 1500 rupees). Possibly, someone pulled a price tag switcheroo in the back? But the towel – right on display – cost $8. My store-brand rice cooker cost $30 as well and the cheapest DVD players are still more than at Target. However…

This cost about fifty cents total.

My $4 Nutella is worth it, shut up. Anyway, the rupee bills all have Gandhi’s face on them. The 10-rupee notes are kinda gross but I’m told it is good to keep as many as possible for autorickshaws and the metro because no one wants to give you small change. So I have been keeping them and washing my hands after touching them.

Food The best food I’ve had so far was, unsurprisingly, at my co-worker’s house with his mom. All vegetarian and all delicious. Potatoes, paneer (cheese), peas, lentils, some kind of chickpea salad, all super yum. The food elsewhere has been decent. It usually involves bread (an alternative to a fork) which you tear up and scoop the nearby yummy sauce into. Vegetarians would love it as most menus have equally long “Veg” and “Non-Veg” selections, some restaurants keeping purely “Veg” because there are many traditions that require it. You can apparently get a beef burger at the Hard Rock Cafe (or the American Embassy) but not at the local McDs which, to respect the major religions in the area, does not serve pork or beef.

I expect at some point, I will have a craving for a nice juicy Colorado steak, but I’m still in Eat All The Indian Food mode.

So my co-worker (now forever nicknamed Groom) had his wedding ceremony two nights after his Ring Ceremony. The invitation said that there would be a departure of the Barat, which apparently means the wedding party, from the residence to the celebration hall at about 7:30. So we knew not to even attempt to arrive before 9pm. Really, why do they even put times on the invitation?

Another co-worker (nicknamed Deadpan because he is pretty much always joking with a straight face and I can only tell about half the time) picked me up. I waited outside the gate. And if you think I get stared at in regular clothes… Yeah. Not having a mobile phone yet gives me all sorts of opportunities to stand on display. Anyway, we drove back to his place to wait for his wife who was getting ready. Having a wedding on a work night (but at least a Friday) means that everyone has to get all prettied up after work. For me, that doesn’t mean much, but for the average woman who grooms themselves far better than I, it’s a good thing weddings never start on time.

As we waited in the car, a beggar girl tapped on my window insistently. I just kept looking ahead. Deadpan eventually walked out intending to chase her off when he realized she was tapping because my scarf was caught in the car door (and was dragging a bit in the street.) I opened the door to pull my scarf back in, gave her a wave and he gave her 10 rupees to go buy chocolate (which she actually did). She came back to say bye.

We discovered somewhere on the crowded streets of Delhi that we were right behind Buddy’s car (what are the chances) and so when we got completely lost, it was all together at least. Deadpan said we did it on purpose, so I could see more of the sites of Delhi, you know, like the ITO (Income Tax Office) building.

After some U-turning, we eventually arrived in what looked to be a wedding neighborhood. There were lots of lights and a dude on a white horse, but it wasn’t our dude, so we kept walking. Then we found it. The wedding was in a much bigger, fancier hall than the ring ceremony. A lot more people were present and they were dressed more formally. I think I was a bit underdressed here, but not too much so. Hopefully, people were impressed that the blond girl was in Indian-style clothes at all that they didn’t notice the insufficient bling.

Poofy Pink Pants!
(No, really, this is a style. Google ‘punjabi salwar kameez’ if you want to see.)

So despite that it was pushing 10pm, there was still no sign of the bride or groom. Vinny (my co-worker who gives-a it to me straight and makes-a the calls and does-a the deals) got there a bit later. He said he had trouble finding the right wedding. “I looked at four grooms on four horses, but none of them were right,” he explained. “Just not my night.”

(Aside: Grooms on white horses, arriving at their wedding? I’m as astonished as you are. India is a medieval European fairy tale. Who knew.)

At least the buffet was already open and appetizers abounded. Again, no meat and no alcohol. Though Deadpan’s wife pointed out that, when all the men in our company seem to disappear at once, you can bet there is a side party going on somewhere. (As we chatted while the men were away somewhere, I also discovered that theirs was a love marriage across cultures – S. India and N. India. Romantic!)

The many servers here were decidedly grumpy. If they weren’t staring daggers at you as they served you an appetizer, then they just went through the motions slowly, looking like they wished they were somewhere else. On one hand, this doesn’t particularly surprise me, but on the other hand, the servers at the ring ceremony (doing the same sort of things and up almost as late at night) were friendly enough. Incidentally, the dishes here… could have been cleaned better. But everything tasted well enough.

The Wedding Hall

There was a dance floor, but the only dancing I saw was happening outside when the Barat arrived. Groom was not actually on a horse, but he was in a carriage pulled by two white horses surrounded by a whole herd of people dancing and whooping and having a grand old time. Apparently, they had danced all the way from their place. Among them was LeadingMan and his wife, close friends of Groom. I peeked over the heads outside for a bit, then went back in. It took almost an hour for the groom and his party (literally) to finally make it indoors.

Finally, the bride came down the stairs with so much sparkle on her outfit, I could barely see her through the gleam. She walked very slowly. The groom arrives on a horse. The bride arrives “slowly.” When she reached her groom-to-be at the bottom of the stairs, some people held a flowery roof thing over their head and they walked together up the hall where two large chairs on a platform were awaiting them. Before they sat, they did cute things like put garlands on each other, and at one point, his party even lifted him up in the air, but it was hard to see much more through the crowd of relatives and photographers.

King and Queen
…er, I mean Groom and Bride

I had been wondering when to give my envelope gift as there was no gift table. Deadpan’s wife seemed surprised by the concept that guests would just leave expensive gifts lying about and said instead that I could hand it directly to the groom. We got in line to greet him and have our photo taken. Only a little awkwardly, I handed him my envelope there and that actually worked (especially since he could pass the pile off to his mother in between photo takes.)

They were setting up for the “actual” wedding (the final ceremony, anyway) in the back, which involves the bride and groom walking around a fire seven times. As it was well after 1am and the only promise of when this ceremony would happen was “before dawn” and that usually the only people left by that time were close family, we decided to go ahead and leave.

That didn’t keep people from asking me the next Monday if I stayed for the walking-around-the-fire thing. Of course, it would have been cool to see that, but… dude, that’s late and I’m not my own ride.

We got lost on the way back, too. During the late hours, the Delhi police set up all these barricades on the roads, knocking a four-lane road down to one, for the odd reason of “not letting criminals get away.” Are crime-committing folk often trying to escape Delhi quickly? It makes for post-midnight mini traffic jams. I think the Delhi government just wants to discourage people from ever knowing what it is like to drive down an empty road, ever. ‘Cause then they might move.

There’s a guy on a white horse outside my window right now! (With a drum serenade and lots of people dancing around him!)

It’s fun to live in a serviced apartment / wedding venue! The rumors that it is wedding season in India appear to be true.

Too bad it is dark out or I would totally sneak a photo.

Long entry. Great day!

It was a beautiful Saturday in the 70s. Chris just arrived from the States. A perfect day to check out Delhi… and we even got an unexpected tour out of it!

We took an autorickshaw (everyone calls them “autos” here, so I’m going to call them that the rest of the entry) to Vaishali station. The guard at our hotel gate said the price was 50 rupees ($1) like there was no room to argue so we just went with it. Station was packed. We stood in the long line at the ticket window until we saw the sign that we could buy SmartCards at the Customer Care window behind security. I got in the men’s security line, but was corrected quickly enough by a random dude. We stood at the Customer Care line and I got a 1,000 rupee SmartCard. Considering every ride costs between 30 to 40 cents, I’m thinking $20 should last me some time. Then we put our bags through the machine (yikes, seems like it could be easily snatched, but there is a guard), grabbed them out from the other side and off we went!

The Delhi Metro
(not Do Not Enter)

Photos Taken from the Metro

Connaught Place Delhi has a big circle in the middle of it! The city center is “Connaught Place”, a circular square with concentric roads rippling out from it. The metro station under it, “Rajiv Chowk”, is twelve stops down from Vaishali on the Blue Line. In the station, we stopped at a Cafe Coffee Day (the Starbucks of India as far as I can tell) and it was almost like I was back home. I expected Connaught Place to be crowded and claustrophobic, full of tightly-packed shops and people, but when we surfaced, it was surprisingly spread out with a huge, relaxing park in the middle (that we had to pass through a metal detector to enter).

Chillin’ at C.P.

We wandered out from the park and lots of people stopped to talk to Chris (instead of me; selfish bonus to traveling with a guy) engaging in conversations starting with “Where are you from?” and usually ending with directions to a government emporium shop (where I guess they sell goods at low, no-haggle prices. Like John Elway.) or a tourist information center. One guy was like “don’t go that way, there are only banks that way.” We went that way anyway. There were indeed only banks. But who says I wouldn’t need a bank? One man said he loved America. I love America, too, but that phrase always makes me extra suspicious. One thing I noticed about the center of Delhi – there actually are crosswalks with green ‘walk’ lights. And traffic (mostly) respects it! None of that in my neighborhood.

An autorickshaw circling Connaught Place.
(They all look like this. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.)
Small market we found several blocks from the park.

After we walked a few spokes, we consulted my map. Map meaning 300-page book accurately titled Map of Delhi. And we decided to hail an auto – so easy to do – to India Gate.

From inside the auto, on the way to India Gate

India Gate This was as cool as it looked on TV. Like an Indian Arc de Triomphe. I saw more white people after five minutes wandering around the 100-year-old monument than in my previous three weeks combined. Lots of people there. One group wanted us to be in their photo. I’ve been in stranger’s travel photos, no big deal, but then things got just slightly weird. First both Chris and I were in the photo, then just me. And he wanted me to stand closer to one fellow. Then that fellow reached out his hand as if to shake mine, but didn’t quite let go. Then the man with the camera seemed to be focusing at an odd angle, like perhaps down to the guy’s ring-filled hand. No idea what the harm actually was (maybe he was going to show everyone photos of his new American girlfriend?), but it was adequately unusual that I said it was too weird and we walked off.

At first we were wondering why there were not more beggars, touts, and people selling trinkets… then one found us.

India Gate. Me. Random Guard.

The 2-Rupee Girl So, we were a bit of ways from the Gate when a girl – maybe 7 or 8 – approached us. She had a shoebox filled with little beads with letters on them and embroidery thread. She did not speak much English, but we got the idea that she would make a bracelet with our names for 2 rupees. Four cents. We’ve been generally trying to do as we heard, and not respond to people like this (we earlier ignored the girl at Vaishali station with her hands cupped in front of her, saying “money, money, money” in the cutest voice.) But, dude, 2 rupees.

So she started making the bracelet – a bit of a process as she actually created it right there, knotting the beads in, checking the spelling of our names – and Chris was thinking we should tip her and give her 10 rupees for all this hard work. Only when she finished and Chris handed her 10 rupees she said “No, no, no…”

“It’s 2 rupees a letter!” she started counting out the letters. Then she wrote “100” as the cost of the bracelet on top of that. Hilariously sneaky. I was shaking my head. She was very persistent. Chris gave her another 10 at first, then said never mind and tried to take the money back, but she held those two 10-rupee notes in her hand with a death grip (holding the bracelets in the other hand.) After a lot of back and forth, we finally got the one bracelet for 20 rupees (forty cents). I’m sure she made a profit. Very devious. I’m sure I’d do the same in her shoes, though.

Another girl approached us later with an identical box of beads and identical opening line: “Two rupees, two rupees.” We were like, “Yeah, we’ve heard that before.”

Our Tour Guide! (But we didn’t know it yet.)

Delhi Tour Walking away from the Gate, we saw a cool-looking building in the distance with domes. (You can sort of see it in the above photo.) We decided to head in that direction and see what it was, so we grabbed the first rickshaw on the corner going the same way. The man took us a little ways, then pulled off, turned, and asked where all we were going that day. His English was very good, especially for an auto driver. Auto drivers seem to have very little English beyond greetings and prices. We had no plans other than “exploring Delhi”, so we shrugged. “Not sure yet,” we said. So he pulled out a map and then offered to take us wherever we wanted to go that day, suggesting some places. He looked at Chris, then looked at me, and asked who was in charge. (I loved that!) Chris said I was in charge. I pointed to a couple places I heard were interesting. He nodded and mentioned a couple other places. He said he would take us wherever we wanted and tell us the full price – including everything, like parking – up front, suggesting a four-hour tour.

Although I was still a little disillusioned by the 2-rupee girl, I got a very good vibe off this guy. We picked some places and he told us the price (approximately $25) and he did not ask for anything up front though made sure to remind us that we could give him a good tip if we liked the tour. We agreed and proceeded to have an awesome personal tour of Delhi!

President’s House The cool building turned out to be the president’s house. (India has both a president and a prime minister. But the prime minister has most of the power apparently.) It was not super exciting, except for one thing. One thing not mentioned at all in that Wiki article I linked to.

The monkeys!

President’s House. Ho Hum.

President’s Monkeys! Woo Hoo!

The monkeys were just hanging out on the lawn, occasionally climbing a tree or escaping to a nearby lawn, though generally staying in this one square area. There was no explanation.

Gandhi Smriti On our tour guide’s suggestion, we went to this museum dedicated to Gandhi in the place where he spent his last days before being murdered. It was free (though souvenirs were being sold somewhat persistently in front of the door.) It was a very lovely, peaceful place. We could have read Gandhi’s whole story (in English or Hindi). And followed his final footsteps. And knelt in his prayer spot. Instead, we glanced at the story boards. Followed his footsteps backwards by accident. And took panoramic photos in his prayer spot.

The sign on the right says, “For the last time Gandhiji went to the prayer meeting through this path.”
We found the sign following the footsteps back from the pillar at the Place of Mahatma Gandhi’s Martyrdom.

Mahatma Gandhi’s Prayer Spot
(An excuse to use the panorama setting)

Humayun’s Tomb Tourist time! Gandhi’s spot had a few tourists, but not many. That’s because all the tour buses came to this World Heritage Site instead apparently. A co-worker told me I should check it out, though, so we added it to the itinerary. Our tour guide described it as “Delhi’s Taj.” This is the only place we went with an entrance fee.

Is it more curious that foreigners pay twenty-five times what locals pay?
Or that the original price was clearly scratched out.

On the whole, it was worth the five bucks. The grounds were extensive (we spent quite a while there and did not see it all) and the buildings pretty impressive. This tomb’s style was a pre-cursor to the Taj Mahal.

Not called the Delhi Taj for nothing

Tombs and Shadows
(Not pictured: the 16 people trying to get the same cool shadow shot on the left)

Lunch Break Our tour guide and his autorickshaw were patiently waiting for us when we left the tomb grounds. I told him I was getting hungry. And, not sure whether I should trust an auto driver to choose a place to eat for me, I let him lead on. We ended up at a perfect little spot, a mini shopping center with restaurants. So convenient (and full of touts and beggars) that I wonder if it is the official “tourist stop-for-lunch spot”. There was a snake charmer there (!) and as Chris spent quality time with a cobra or two, a man tried to sell me a fan made of a peacock feather and a book about the Delhi-Agra-Jaipur Golden Triangle.

Our guide recommended “Chicken”, saying it was “clean.” Kind of suspect that this was part of his schpiel. But the only other option I immediately noticed was “Ichiban”, a Japanese/Chinese restaurant that also looked pretty decent. But we’re in India, so we went with the Indian food. And, hey, it is a restaurant called “Chicken”, how can you go wrong? The waiter was polite, friendly, and spoke good English. Yep, definitely a tourist place. The waiter all but insisted I order two dishes which turned out to be too much food, but it did seem like if I was going to a restaurant called “Chicken” then I should at least order some. The food was tasty enough, but I suspect this is the most expensive lunch I will eat here, coming in at $20 for the two of us (and Chris just ordered garlic naan.) Chris discovered that there is no beer served here, or in this area.

Outside the restaurant, a woman with an infant poked me. I had heard about the mother-with-baby beggar type in one of my books (i.e. it is not her baby, just her baby for the day to beg) and tried not to look at her. She eventually gave up. As we got back into the auto, a different woman pushed her arm inside the auto, holding a note in her hand to read. I tried not to look at this either. All I read in a glance was printed text that said, “I cannot speak. I have no tongue…” She seemed to have this grunt. At least until the driver said something to her in Hindi. And she said something back, also in Hindi. Hmmm… She eventually left us alone and we headed to our next destination.

Sikh Temple Our next stop was the driver’s idea. Gurudwara Bangla Sahib is the most prominent Sikh house of worship in Delhi. It’s so big that it has its own underground parking garage. (And his little auto in a parking spot was too cute.) He then led us inside. and I’m glad he did because I would have not had the slightest clue what to do.

Barefoot and Bandana-ed at Bangla Sahib

The tour guide led us inside the complex, down some stairs and into what appeared to be a large, glass waiting room. Here, we took off our shoes (and socks) and our tour guide tied an orange bandana around both of our heads. I realized we were in the relatively empty “foreigner area” for leaving shoes. Then we walked back out to the entrance. (I felt better when I spotted someone else in an orange bandana.)

There were so many people, I did not even see the outdoor sink at first where the guide said to wash our hands. Well-used bars of soap were provided even. As we walked up the stairs, there was a little dip in one with a pipe spewing out what appeared to be fresh water to step in and cleanse our feet. I stepped in after Chris. Trying not to think about how I was now walking on a surface where thousands of people in wet feet had walked before me, we followed the guide up and into the temple.

Chanting played through speakers and everyone was focused on the gold part in the center where a guy was waving a big feather around and people were making coin donations. I only took a photo when I saw someone else doing the same with their iPhone. We then walked around clockwise (people sitting in various places, facing the center) following the crowd, until we reached the other side and back outdoors. Then we went down to a reflecting pool that was filled – filled – with koi.

On the whole, I found it a pleasant cultural experience. I might start carrying a headscarf for future need. I do appreciate that both men and woman cover their heads (unlike Russian Orthodox churches). It’s uncomfortable when only one gender has to do something obscure.

The next stop was not such a pleasant cultural experience. It appeared to be the obligatory “tourist shop” stop. The tour guide was not too pushy about it. Neither of us were interested. But we walked in anyway. It was all really, really high-end stuff like oriental-style rugs, marble figurines, textiles, and jewelry. We walked out pretty quickly. Hope the dude got his commission anyway.

Hindu Temple Our final stop (about time, you’re thinking) was Laxminarayan Temple. I picked it because it had a pretty mini-drawing on the map. We had to take our shoes off (but not our socks if we didn’t want) and leave our cameras and belongings at the door. (Like at the Sikh temple, we did this in a special room for foreigners only. I suspect they do this to make us feel more comfortable.) It wasn’t super crowded, but we did spot a Chinese tour group and quite a few non-Indians sitting cross-legged in the temple. We could not take any photos inside the temple, like of the cool room in the corner with mirrored walls and a blue statue but luckily, the extensive gardens beyond the temple were not restricted, so we took all sorts of photos on the outside as the sun set and our guide patiently waited.

We saw statues of elephants and cobras primarily. Also spotted a bunny and a monkey statue eating a banana. The fountains were turned off, but the place on the whole was nicely laid out and kid-friendly. Well, kid-friendly meaning fun-for-kids, not necessarily safe for kids. We had a running joke this day: Safety Last. So many places with no railings or signs.

Laxminarayan Temple

I wonder if Capris count?

Got some hiking in!

As we left, on our way back to our auto, there was a guy with a carpet laid out on the sidewalk full of trinkets. One of them – a little plastic autorickshaw – was tempting. A man walked alongside me and tried to interest me in a book on the Delhi-Agra-Jaipur Golden Triangle. The exact same book from the lunch tout!

Last Auto Ride So we asked our tour guide to drop us off at the nearest Blue Line station. He attempted one last “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the tourist information office?” but then dropped us off. We gave him the agreed amount and a nice tip, shook his hand, and he seemed perfectly pleased. The metro was jam packed Tokyo-style, my face almost against the door, surrounded by bodies. But only for one stop. Everyone got off at Rajiv Chowk (I guess to start their weekend partying as we were finishing.) We did a little bargaining at Vaishali as the first guy offered 70. We at least got down to 50. This ride was the most harrowing – and kind of most fun – auto ride I’ve taken so far. He swerved left and right on narrow streets through cars, people, and bicycles. When he spotted a traffic jam ahead, he just drove on the wrong side of the road for a while, no problem (at least following another auto doing the same). Then we pushed our way back in the jam.

We ended up tipping this driver too since he showed Chris where to find beer, cheap and close by. The important stuff. The driver was startled by the tip.

And that was our extremely enjoyable Day In Delhi!

(By request, I’ve taken some more photos of autorickshaws:)

Autorickshaws Galore

Today is a holiday called Basant Panchami, apparently dedicated to the goddess of knowledge and education. Not a lot of people took the day off (at my company, it is one of ten days we can choose to take off out of fourteen religious and national holidays), but people seemed to leave early. We decided to leave early as well (read: on time), making the trip home from work for the first time in an autorickshaw (for $2) and in daylight. Saw the usual cows in the usual spot (amongst the sometimes-burning garbage on the side of an intersection) and am surprised how healthy they look. Will try to get a photo of the cows.

The donkeys, cows, dogs, etc, picking at the corner trash (on my way to work.)

I think some animals have herders that lead them around town. On more than one occasion, I’ve seen a few dozen sheep on the same corner. And sometimes I see the cows all headed down the adjacent road, as if going to the next spot.

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, which they do celebrate here. I got an email in the afternoon saying I had a “courier” waiting for me at the front desk at work. To my utter surprise, it turned out to be a package of chocolates from my dad! Every year it seems, no matter what country I’m living in, and whether or not I have a significant other, I still get chocolates from my dad on February 14th (though I really thought I wouldn’t be getting any this year.) We take chocolate very seriously in our family.

Proof My Dad Rocks

Anyway, the head bobble. I first heard about the Indian head bobble a few months ago from my co-traveler in Russia. She wasn’t kidding! It is like a nod, but it looks more like a “no” than a “yes”, but not even quite that. It looks more like, I hate to say it, a bobble head. The extent of the bobble varies from person to person. Sometimes, it is a slight head side-to-side as if on a Jack-in-the-Box spring. Sometimes it looks like they are shaking their head no. Or maybe doing neck-loosening exercises. I thought the lead role in the cute Indian movie “Well Done, Abba” had some kind of tic, then I realized he was just bobbling his head. At work, the director of development is a bobble-o-rama, but some people hardly do it at all. It is not restricted by gender, both men and women do it equally. If you see something that looks like a vague no, then it is probably just a bobble since Indians rarely shake their head no, or even say no. A bobble means “I see” or “I’m following you” and is just a gesture to show they are listening and taking in what you are saying. Sort of like when we do an occasional slight nod.

Sometimes, I find myself practicing the bobble in private, but when I’m with a real Indian, I end up just more firmly shaking my head as if to make up for the loose-necked bobble.

Many people warned me about “the staring” before I got here. So much so that I expected every head to turn as I walked down the street. It was not as bad as all that. (My preparing for the absolute worst made a lot of things seem “not so bad” when I actually got here.) However, the people that do stare do so unapologetically, exhibiting entire dramatic 180-degree head turns to see the foreign woman go by. Though I suspect that it is like in Japan where everyone notices me and, if they can do so discreetly, take a peek (as I did every time I noticed a non-Japanese person there.) This theory was pretty much proven on a recent morning when I walked into the restaurant where I have my breakfast buffet most mornings. I actually looked up and around at all the tables of the restaurant to see if Chris (who had arrived the previous day) was in the room. Every single person at every table was looking back up at me. Ha! Caught you!

I only really mind the staring because it makes me paranoid, thinking that I’m in a place I shouldn’t be – like a construction zone – or alternately, that I know the person looking and should be saying hello. The only other time I mind is when I’m wearing sweats or having a Bad Hair Day or otherwise want to be invisible.

To make up for all that wholesome culture last weekend, I decided to hit the mall.

The Great India Place

This is not the biggest mall in the National Capital Region according to my co-workers, but it is close. It is one large freaking mall. I walked for at least an hour and I don’t think I saw it all. (The National Capital Region basically includes Delhi and its suburbs.) There were more clothing stores than anything, almost as many for men as for women, which was one surprise, gift shops, restaurants, ice cream stands that no one ever seems to be patronizing, a Hallmark store (with Valentine’s Day Cards still on special), mobile phone stores, coffee shops, shoe stores, and even a place to buy a washing machine. I mention the ice cream stands because several books I have read advise against eating ice cream here (due to the likelihood that it has melted and refrozen with all the power outages) but I see it for sale everywhere. The funny thing is, I have yet to see a single Indian person actually eating any of it. The Baskin Robbins’ stands are empty. I see plenty of Indians eating soft serve, though.

As I strolled, I pondered how people on reputed meager Indian salaries afford to shop at this shiny and clean four-story (!) mecca of consumerism. The prices appeared mostly comparable with back home. I bought a book for $10. My chai latte was about $2.50. I did get some clothes on discount – three pairs of pants and a dress thing (a kurta) for about $20 at a place that reminded me of the clothes section of Target except with more patterns and more intimidation (self-imposed. I don’t even like clothes shopping back home… now I have to worry I bought a pattern that only grandmothers wear.) I’m not going to tell you how much I spent at the Nokia store.

A Little Bit of Boulder in The GIP
(Boulder Prices, too.)

The GIP, besides being a handy acronym to tell autorickshaw drivers, is in Sector 18. Noida is divided into Sectors and Blocks which seems vaguely dystopian, but is one way to organize a city. I work in Sector 62 on the northern border with Ghaziabad. For Google-Earth-philes such as myself, it is very interesting to compare the spread-out-business-park style of Sector 62 to the extremely twisty, crowded “Colony” inhabiting Sector 62A right next door. (The rest of the Sectors fall somewhere in between. Lots of multi-storey apartment complexes.) Anyway, Sector 18 is south of that, along the river on the metro line and is the primary commercial enclave of Noida.

Crossing to Sector 18
Noida

After I’d had enough of the mall, I headed toward the footbridge over the street toward Sector 18 proper. I was approached by two young people holding flowers (either to sell or as decoration on their collecting tins, I couldn’t tell.) I have so far made a point of not giving any street people money, for one because it likely it won’t even go to them, but to their beggar gang leader or whatever. The various books I read touch on this one way or another. One recommended only giving to elderly women since they were probably kicked out of their home when their husband died. Children and cripples are more often being used by more organized forces. I know none of this for sure. But the author of Delirious Delhi made an interesting suggestion to compromise. He said to carry candy, dried fruit, chocolates, or the like with you and give them that when they ask. That way, if you really are being accosted by a starving child, then your conscience is sated somewhat. (And if they aren’t interested in your snack and just want money, then you’ll know for sure that something is afoot.) I decided to take this advice and brought along a small supply. I gave the kids each a pre-wrapped piece of candy. They wanted either more or money instead, but did not press me too much after I side-stepped them for the second time.

Golden Arches in Sector 18

I went to lunch at a place called “Punjabi By Nature” which got pretty good reviews on Google. It’s about two doors down from McDonalds in that picture; you can see the word Punjabi on the sign. Incidentally, I walked into the McDonalds later out of curiosity. No joke, the first thing on the menu is a “McVeggie” and the equivalent of the Big Mac has chicken patties. Anyway, as I was passing the McDonalds, a little girl came up to me with her hand out. I had one last piece of candy (I had, to my own surprise, used the entire supply I brought), so I gave it to her. Then I had lunch.

You know when I said that meal I had at “Chicken” last week would probably be my most expensive lunch here. Nope, broke that record! I had garlic naan, lentil curry, and a lassi. Hit twenty bucks no problem by myself. The service was excellent, though. (I had been worried that, being a single woman, I might be somewhat ignored, but this was not the case here… though it was not very crowded either.) The food was decent enough – I liked the other place a little better – but the serving size was too big. Those were some giant triangles of naan! They wrapped it up for me, I remembered to tip 10%, and was on my way.

More of Sector 18

Passing McDonalds again, suddenly I hear “candy, candy.” (Not “money, money.”) I felt kind of bad because I had no more pieces left. I said “I’m out of candy, but I have some naan” and gave my tinfoil-wrapped leftover naan to the closest girl, no idea if she wanted it or not. It kind of looked like a family was around me at this point, just standing there though, not being particularly intimidating or touching me at all. A mother and baby were part of the various-aged group of four or five anyway. An older boy pointed to my bag with my leftover curry. I was all too happy to part with my leftovers if someone actually was hungry enough to ask for it. There can’t possibly be a leftover food gangster ring, right? They didn’t ask for anything more, didn’t ask about my other bag (which was carrying the book and clothes I bought at the mall), and didn’t follow as I went on my way. It’s kind of a nice feeling to know I might have actually helped a family in need get a hot meal.

On my way back, I tried the Ladies Car for the first time. The first car of every metro is for women only. Aside from the safety factor (not that I’ve felt unsafe in the other cars yet), it is generally less crowded, which is worth it in itself. I saw Tokyo-style crowds again this afternoon, though it seems to vary by train.

The Metro

Not sure if all the auto drivers from Vaishali are creeps or what, though there was an article in the paper that they increased the female police officers at Vaishali station for that reason. The one that drove me this time offered me the highest first price yet (100 rupees) for what I’ve been paying 40-50 rupees for. His peeps (not sure why the auto drivers have peeps… but it seems like there are always three to five people negotiating one fare) included one older man who agreed pretty quickly to go down to fifty. My driver looked about eighteen and tried to get my attention after I stepped out (I stepped out early because I needed to go food shopping and he didn’t know where he was going anyway, but I paid him the requisite 50.) Not sure if he was looking for a tip or trying to hit on me or what (dude, I’m practically old enough to be the guy’s mother) but he gave up pretty quickly. Glad I have the “I’m white, I don’t understand Hindi” excuse.

Ah ha! There are two types of Tropicana! The junk, which has a fun variety of flavors like the above but is basically sugar water (better than HFCS water?) with a smidgeon of juice, and the 100% juice stuff with less fun flavors, but is actual juice. And, look it is not expired after all! I forgot I need to read the dates day-month-year. Supermarket woes you probably didn’t care about, but look, lychee-flavored juice.

Well, I have now been here one month. My original tube of Burt’s Bees chapstick, my original stick of deodorant, and my original package of floss have all lasted me the entire month without running out, despite that I use all three quite liberally. Perhaps my supply of stuff I’m picky about will last me after all. And I have still not gotten sick yet which must be some stroke of luck.

I was here when the guy who changes out my 20L drinking water replaced my supply… he apparently can’t turn the container over without getting his hands all completely wet with the same water going into my water dispenser. EWWW. (I think he thought my involuntary gasps of horror were just from him getting water on the floor and counter. Um, no. ) Chris had the same experience (and a similar reaction, so I feel less like I’m being a whiny germophobe.) On one hand, I kind of wish I did not know how much of my clean, filtered drinking water has touched some guy who doesn’t look like he washes his hands regularly. Then I would never know. On the other hand, now I am having trouble drinking it. I might just write a note and ask him to leave the sealed bottle and I’ll do it myself. I mean, I wouldn’t want to drink water that had touched my own hands in India. I mean, seriously. I have actually completely cold turkey stopped biting my nails since the day I arrived (…and this, ladies and gentlemen is how you get your bad habits and minor OCD tendencies to work for you. My nails haven’t looked this good in years.)

Incidentally, he took my two unopened bottles of water, as if in return, even though he doesn’t work for the hotel who provided them. WTF? Is he so broke he can’t afford drinking water? Except that he can apparently afford a cell phone (he took a call before he changed the water.) Random.

Statue of Maharani Laxmi Bai
Heroine of the Indian Rebellion

I took a walk on Sunday to find this park that I saw on Google Earth. Just blocks away from my apartment, on the other side of construction, there it was. Satellites don’t lie. I had to walk all the way around the wall surrounding “Swarna Jayanti Park” to find the entrance and pay the 5-rupee fee, but it was worth the search. A beautifully laid-out park, not crowded at all, with lots of statues. And the statues: every last one of them including the horse-rearing one are of women. My journey (that took me down to Shipra Mall; have added photo of it to my Crazy Pink Pants entry) is also evidence that I am adjusting to walking down a sidewalk-less Indian street, sharing with honking cars, auto rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws, and motorcycles. As Chris points out, the real secret is No Sudden Lateral Movements.

Google Earth Finds:
Swarna Jayanti Park

I finally had to pay my bill. My rent at my serviced apartment (which does include utilities, slow internet, fuzzy cable, free breakfast, use of the nice fitness center with stationary bikes and ellipticals, drinking water, a mediocre but English newspaper, and a daily cleaning with towel and sheet replacements) is about $1300/month. Which works out to $40/day. Not the best deal ever. But it could be worse. I’m not sure if it is worth it to try to find a cheaper place as this place is extraordinarily convenient.

So I now have my shiny PAN card, my crinkly FRRO sheet, and an ATM card for an Axis bank account that won’t have my name on it until next week (I could log into the account, but could not change anything.) I also have a phone and SIM card finally but that won’t be activated until next week either. Processes are long here…

Chillin’ Cows in My Neighborhood

Starting tomorrow, my taxi will pick me and Chris up one hour earlier from work… so, a normal amount of working hours now. I am not sure quite why I originally scheduled it for a just-under-10-hour work day instead of 9. Paranoia about getting work done, I suppose. But this will be better because I can beat the rush to the fitness center (since most Indians work on a much later schedule than I.) But, hey, Die Hard 5 is coming out this weekend. Finally, a movie in English in one of the two movie theatres within walking distance.

And what do you know, I did find something cheap here. Movies only cost around $3!

My excursion today was to Lotus Temple (a Baha’i temple in south Delhi.) I did something with autorickshaws today that I’ve never done before: I just hopped in after confirming my destination then paid at the end what I thought was fair/generous. (Chris suggested this, actually.) I did it twice today. Neither time did I hear any complaints… this will save time if it continues to work. Either that or it is a sign I’m paying too much.

Can’t Possibly Miss That… Right?

You can see Lotus Temple from the metro. It is a unique and large structure, hard to miss. For an interesting cultural experience, I recommend going the wrong way after exiting the station. Kalkaji Mandir (the closest metro station to Lotus, according to the internet) only has one exit and only three directions you can go from the exit. But it has no signs to point you the way and you cannot actually see Lotus from the exit. One path that encouragingly reads “Pedestrian Entrance” leads to a nondescript Hindu temple (more accurately, the place you take off your shoes); another involves going through a back gate that says “Pass Entry Only” but isn’t and dumps you on a street which leads to a road to two other small Hindu temples. (We are clearly in a very spiritual neighborhood.) These temples, though, appear to be only used by locals; they are not large nor impressive nor anything you’d find on the tourist circuit. Which is probably why 1: I was not hassled by a single tout, beggar, or auto driver, and 2: there were not any other tourists there. I felt very out of place, but people did not seem to care that I was there; they were busy doing their own religious thing. Very interestingly, I did see three transient people who all looked in really bad shape as I walked. And I saw all three of them being given food from people around them, whether some kind of dough ball or little white seeds. None of the transients were aggressive (though one took up half the stairs) and none asked me for anything.

Traffic Near Kalkaji Metro Station
(Found this cool street-crossing overlook between temples while wandering around lost)

I finally turned back to the station and just asked someone in uniform. They politely pointed me back out the exit, but then up the street in the opposite direction. Sure enough, it was obvious after I crossed the parking lot and started walking up the bus-lined street. Once I could see the temple, the trick was finding the entrance. I walked along the sidewalk next to the temple grounds, a wall and waist-high barbed wire (maybe meant to keep out dogs?) on my left and soon, hordes of school children streaming the opposite direction on my right. They were pretty cute and overcame my grumpy mood. I tried to keep from running into them while also avoiding the barbed wire as well as the people selling stuff on the sidewalk. Many of the kids said, “hello” or “hi” or “goodbye”. I greeted them in return, though did not shake hands with the proffered hands, partially because they were walking too fast, but partially because I’m an OCD germophobe. All were in a school uniform; some were barefoot, but that might have just been because they were doing a temple trip. One teacher (I think) stopped in front of me suddenly and took her photo with me. At first, I backed off, thinking she was trying to take a photo of something else, but then I realized that she wanted a photo with the foreigner. Seemed pretty harmless, so I smiled and waved.

I finally reached the entrance. Right next to it was the “HoHo” bus, the tourist bus of Delhi where you can “Hop on Hop off”. I was mostly thinking, “You guys missed all the culture,” though I had earlier considered taking the bus and may have if it had not been going to places I’d seen already. The entrance had another metal detector that I’m pretty sure doesn’t do anything. And the contents of my purse were looked at. Then I was allowed onto the grounds; no entrance fee. Later, there was the Shoe Place. You put your shoes in a bag then give your bag to one of the men in a room under the bridge (very blended into the landscape, the shoe dudes were) and get a little wooden chip with a number, then off you go to explore Lotus.

Lotus Temple
(The Baha’i go barefoot as well here)

I want to state categorically that I hate taking off my shoes. There is no logical reason I hate it so much, it is just pure OCD fastidiousness. I like to have clean feet that never touch anything at all. If I’m not in shoes, I’m always in socks or slippers. But, for these places, I prefer to take off my socks. I figure if I get my socks dirty, they will make my shoes dirty which will then make all future pairs of socks dirty. And I can always bite the bullet and just wash my feet later. See the troubles I face? However, it was not too bad at Lotus because the barefoot vs. shod places were separated and the barefoot places appeared to be clean (though I know other people’s feet are not as clean as mine…)

The grounds were lovely, but I finally got in line with everyone else to go inside the temple. Indian lines are much closer and tighter than anything back home. People are pretty much touching. The personal space sphere is much smaller out here. If I stand my normal comfortable distance away, then people cut in front of me half the time. They’re not doing this to be rude because I’m sure if I saw someone that, from my version of personal space, was standing too far back, I might cut in front of them, too. The woman behind me was particularly pushy; she kept bumping against me. (A woman had her shopping cart right up against my back the other day at the supermarket.) Interestingly, it is the women who I notice being invasive of my American-style personal space more than guys.

Side By Side
Lotus Temple and Sydney Opera House

Inside the temple was the antithesis of outside. Quiet (no mobile phone usage, photo taking, nor talking was allowed) and space. There was a lot of seating and they only let in a few at a time, so I could have almost a whole row to myself if I wanted. And they let you have as much time as you wanted inside to just sit or meditate. I had very nice quiet time, decompressing from pushy woman. Though, like at the Akshardam (another free and beautiful temple), I got the vague feeling I was being sold this religion, even though Baha’i is sort of an inclusive-of-all style thing that might be something I’m interested in. But I didn’t pick up the pamphlets nor listen to the schpiels outside, though noticed that the people giving the schpiels were not Indian.

So I exited the Lotus complex, intending to check out a nearby temple I read about on the internet called ISKCON, a Hare Krishna temple, and, knowing how lost I got trying to find the entrance of Lotus, I decided to take an autorickshaw driver up on his offer. He said, “60” and I’m like, “look, I can see the temple right there, it’s not far,” so he said, “50” ($1) and I’m like, “40” and he said “okay, 40.” I should have known something was off right there. When I got into the auto, he started saying something that I didn’t quite grasp until I heard the words “tourist shop.” Um. No. My purpose in taking the autorickshaw is to save time and hassle. Bringing me to a tourist shop defeats both those purposes. (At least he had the courtesy to tell me before he took off.) I stepped out immediately, muttering, “never mind, I’ll find it myself.” And I did, despite the calls of “madam, wait” and “what happened?”. It wasn’t too hard to find after all; there was only one other entrance through the wall. (Incidentally, on my way back up the sidewalk, someone tried to interest me in that SAME book about the Delhi-Agra-Jaipur Golden Triangle.)

On Hare Krishna Hill
(The sign on the top makes it look like it is the corporate headquarters)

Turns out that, although the building complex was open, the interior of the ISKCON temple itself with its very cool architecture, was closed. I really wish the shoe guy had told me that, because this was like my shoe nightmare. Shod and unshod places mixed together, the ground was all dusty and dirty… and occasionally wet. And the shoe guy didn’t give me a number or anything. I guess he had my shoes memorized? Not confidence inspiring. But I got them back later no big deal. But a waste of dirty feet!

I wandered down a pleasant park with people enjoying their Saturday and found my way back to the Nehru Place business area vaguely looking for lunch. All I saw were American-style fast food places and just-above-street-food joints. I wanted something in between I guess. I walked into an interesting crowded market that I knew must be upscale because it was tiled and spacious in the center, though in other respects did not look very upscale at all, with the tight store quarters and simple signboards. A man behind me said, “madam, laptop repair, madam, laptop repair.” I said, “I don’t have a laptop, do I,” finding his words odd… until I realized that the great majority of shops in this market said Laptop Repair. I guess this is where you go to fix your laptop. Honestly, if my laptop did break… I don’t know if I’d bring it here. I wouldn’t know where to choose for starters.

I took the metro back up to the center of town (mostly using the ladies car and enjoying the less-crowded aspect… and seeing more foreigners in this area of Delhi than in other areas; I think this section of town – more specifically Kailash – is popular with expats) and wandered around, eventually eating at a place called YWCA Global Cuisine. It was fine. Nothing special, except that it met my standards and appeared just when I was getting really hungry. Though expensive. Over $10. I am beginning to think that not much is actually cheap in India if you are comparing apples to apples. Sure you can GET food cheaper, but you have to risk your health to do so. You want a restaurant that appears clean and has a menu and attentive waiters, you are paying the big bucks.

I intended on checking out the Qutab Minar, but with my slow start this morning, the long distance to Lotus that included two subway line transfers, and all my extraneous wandering, it was already 5:30pm, almost sunset, and the site was at least half an hour away. Next time. In any case, when it is daylight, you get a nice view from the metro (once it gets out of the underground central part). At one point, I was looking over a sea of dusty pastel-colored 3-5 story buildings with cell phone towers sticking up at intervals going back to the horizon.

Warnings and Ads on the Delhi Metro

Getting an auto back from Vaishali station is starting to become my least favorite part of weekend excursions to Delhi. To make it creepier? The second I walked out of Vaishali today, drivers started saying “Cabana, Cabana,” instead of “auto, auto” so I guess I must be the only foreigner in this part of town if they all know where I live. Not that it does them a lot of good, but it’s definitely not making me feel more comfortable. I said “I’m not having very good luck with auto drivers here” and kept walking. I actually intended to find a bicycle rickshaw (just because I haven’t tried one yet, and a person pedaling has got to be too busy for any funny stuff) but I settled for the dude that looked over 30 and got my attention seconds before the bicycle rickshaw driver did (and didn’t even know what Cabana was). And, indeed, this ride was the least weird. I’m going to start saying “Aditya” (the nearby shopping center) I think as a destination and stay with that over-30 rule perhaps. Or just make a point of not taking any of the aggressive drivers who meet me outside the station.

Number of chocolates given away: 4. (I would have given 5 had I realized that the little boy (or girl?) whom I’d just given one was saying they wanted one for their sibling. I just heard something like merebaika, merebaika, over and over which was just gibberish to me until I recalled from Pimsleur that mere means “my” so he/she was probably saying “for my brother” or “for my sister”. Didn’t realize that until I’d already escaped to the metro, though. I actually did give money for the first time today – just a few rupees – to an elderly lady sitting by the gate near a different metro. She did not pester me nor were there any other beggars around. A nearby well-off couple had just given the lady some of their food. She looked legit and I did not get suddenly swamped with people which, besides encouraging beggar gangs, is another main drawback to giving money.

On an unrelated note: I now have a working phone! Hopefully, this means no more waiting outside for my evening taxi. I also now have clean feet again.

I got my official Employee badge yesterday, yay! It has my photo and, for some reason, my birth date. I no longer have a visitor badge with the big letter “V” on it (like I’m an alien from the 1980s.) Also, the CTOs from the global offices have been visiting the last few days, so it has been eventful at work. We had an activity where all the various development teams did a short presentation (make-something-out-of-cardboard-style) on What They Do. In a rare fit of social behavior, I actually went and chatted with everyone, learned about the cool stuff we do here, and took photos. Very fun! And it answered people’s curiosity about who the foreign woman wandering around the office is.

Pretending I’m giving our team’s nifty presentation
(but I could never do it as well as Deadpan)

Last night, we had a development team outing with the CTOs at a fancy hotel called Park Ascent. I looked it up on the map; it is right on the border with the mysterious sector 62A. I tried to get a glimpse of the twisty, curvy streets – I did see quite a few people in the area – but too quickly, we were pulling into the entrance drive with valet parking. As we ate appetizers (meat – mutton and chicken – were on the menu and there was an open bar! I guess they know what foreigners like…), I said to my co-workers, “It is amazing that, just on the spot, they arranged a dinner for over 100 people!” Then I checked myself and said, “Wait, I’m in India. The place where every wedding consists of multiple several-hundred-person events.” My co-workers laughed and LeadingMan agreed, “Yeah for just a hundred, we don’t even bother planning.” Indeed, the gathering reminded me of the wedding-related ones. The tables with tablecloths and the chairs with… chair cloths. Servers wandering around with appetizers on toothpicks and multi-colored soda trays. The requisite all-appetizers-at-once table and the dinner buffet not opening until almost 9pm. (I think they began early because we started lining up for it.) But the waiters here were quite friendly and some spoke English even.

I sat at a table with my paneer appetizer (paneer in Hindi means, I believe, CHEESE OMG YUM CHEESE!) and a couple CTOs sat at the same table and we chatted (yay, someone to babble at). I was relating the story of the overly-friendly autorickshaw shotgun rider, while a muzak rendition of Gangsta’s Paradise played over the speakers, but was very often interrupted by the men with serving trays. I supposed it was their job, but seriously, I didn’t want any more appetizers, so stop tempting me with the paneer already. Someone – the head waiter I think – approached the table and said, “Excuse me, ma’am, what would you like?” For the sixth time, I said, “Nothing, thank you.” then I suddenly understood. During my story, I had been stabbing the table to gesture. They assumed it meant I was trying to signal the attention of a waiter! D’oh. The British man across from me said, “Oh, does that work?” then he tapped the side of his empty Kingfisher bottle. “Another beer?” And the response was immediate.

(totally stole this image)

So today, they finally installed the software image on our computers so we’ll all have the requisite software and settings to do full-on Development. This meant that my computer was away from my desk (the monitor and power cords attached to empty air) the whole afternoon. It was actually a convenient day for the Axis bank representatives to suddenly drop by and explain that they had mistakenly opened a regular savings account for me instead of a “special foreigner account” just after I’ve finally gotten a paycheck. It’ll take “several weeks” to transfer. Great. This is a couple days after the message I got from payroll in the U.S. saying, “Whoops, we’ve been paying you when we shouldn’t and we’ll need that all back.” Good thing I have savings.

Besides the two bank visits (two because I had filled in my name Last First Middle instead of First Middle Last; the application did not specify which other than to show an example Indian name, which did not clarify), the CTOs had plenty of presentations on the roster luckily that I could kill time with while waiting for my computer. During a lull, some people on my team – also with missing computers – had gathered in the Game Room.

“Carrom” where the Queen Chip is the 8-Ball

I totally forgot we had a Game Room. I saw it on the tour on my first day, then promptly forgot about it. I learned a game today called Carrom. LeadingMan couldn’t believe I’d never heard of it before. Luckily, the rules are almost exactly the same as billiards / snooker. A large white chip, the striker, is the cue ball. Bank shots are permissible as you flick chips into the corner pockets. Two colors of chips like the solid/striped balls are what you aim for. A special Queen chip that goes in second-to-last is like the 8-ball. You can indeed become skilled at this as SmartNoob demonstrated, kicking all of our butts. Us foreigners managed one pocket apiece against the experts.

Game Room
Not pictured: Five of us doing acrobatics in front of the screen playing “Kinect Adventures”.

I impressed my co-workers today with my absolutely perfectly accented “Mein Hindi nahi samachti hoon.” (“I don’t understand Hindi.”) Being able to say that well is counter-productive to my cause however. So I said it purposely less skillfully to the tiny ladies room attendant, who has spoken to me a few times – not even a single word of English thrown in for me to make an educated guess as to what she could possibly be telling me. I think she understood, but couldn’t help continuing to speak in Hindi anyway. I’ll have to see if I can grab someone to translate next time.

They changed our office coffee machine today to “Nescafe” from “Cafe Coffee Day”. Wow, the excitement. Actually, the only excitement was not having caffeine during said changeover and almost taking a nap on the beanbag chairs in the Game Room.

I work in a new and fancy building complex with three several-story towers. It is surrounded on either side by construction sites which may end up being even fancier building complexes. I need to show my badge before entering. Several big companies have offices here, ours taking up a mere two floors of one of the towers, and there are always people around, with the possible exception of at my arrival a bit after 8am which is way too early for people to start work in India. Most people arrive at about 9:30am. Some work the noon to 9pm shift.

I can tell an architect designed this place and can imagine how elegant the awkward just-too-wide-for-a-step slats next to the main walkway must have looked on a drawing. There are a lot of fountains. (There is also a fountain in front of my apartment building.) Wait, this is Delhi right?

What water shortage?

Like many European and Asian companies, I sit in a bullpen compared to back home. Not much privacy. No one keeps many personal affects at their desks because of security but the desks get cleaned every night which is nice. Despite the close proximity, everyone has their cell phone set at a high volume. The first week I was here, I had the Red Hot Chili Peppers stuck in my head every day because of one guy’s ringtone. Could be worse. I usually have the tuneless jingles echoing in my head most of the day. So does a guy nearby, who is always whistling them, likely subconsciously. Naturally, I’ve decided to just join in and turn my ringer on as well, even though I’d normally be in vibrate-only. Can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

My Desk (center) vs. Conference Room

Like Japan, this is a very greeting-oriented and team-oriented culture. Everyone says good morning to everyone on their team when they arrive. The men shake hands with all the other men. And the whole team eats lunch together, when feasible. The daily lunch gathering made me feel instantly welcomed. (And gives me a good opportunity to pump my co-workers full of questions about India.)

There is a really nice seating area off the kitchen with a TV that is usually playing Bollywood videos all day, though once in a while has a cricket game going, which seems dangerous to productivity. Free tea, coffee, and RO (reverse-osmosis) filtered water are available as well as the occasional snack. But the microwave is a bit of a demon…

When you open the microwave… it turns on!

Apparently, I’m one of the few who care enough about not wanting my arm to be microwaved that I power off the plug before opening it to put my food inside. One woman tried to help me, thinking that the poor foreigner didn’t know how to properly use a microwave. Yeah, no, I’m just a paranoid freak.

We are not allowed to eat at our desks! I think I’ve had lunch in front of my computer almost every day for… years. Maybe decades. But not anymore! I mean, this is a good thing. Except when I am craving a chocolate snack and want to munch on it while I work. (I once snuck in a tiny piece of chocolate at my desk and oh, the sneaky guilt.) There is a food court in the basement for the entire complex with three food booths. South Indian, North Indian, and Pizza. (All with separate veg and non-veg options.) There are also two small coffee shops that have things like packaged sandwiches and chocolate bars, though the coffee comes out of the same machine we use upstairs. The average price for lunch is between $1 and $2. Okay. That is cheap. I admit it. And not bad.

One dollar lunch

Granted, the above meal would have looked even better if I had gotten the yogurt and veggies to go with it. But I’m already a picky eater. The yogurt is too sour for me and I don’t tend to trust veggies that I did not wash and cut myself. Otherwise, tastes pretty good. But notice the lack of fork. (You can get a spoon. Or even borrow a tray and spoon for your own brought-from-home lunch. But forks are hard to come by.) I bring lunch from home occasionally (read: leftover dinner), but here, there probably is not much of a price savings in doing so unlike back in Colorado where I spend upwards of $10-12 on those food trucks if I forget my lunch.

Like I read in one of my books, everyone shares their food! People take food off each other’s trays with or without asking. And they offer it often as well. Delhiites truly love their food. I’ve seen entire groups tightly bunched around a table, dipping their bread in whatever mysterious goodness is in the middle. No one has taken any food from my tray without asking, but maybe they know that I need time to get used to the idea.

And everyone eats as fast as I do! I’m a shoveler. Yet I’m not always the first done. And I’m not even doing that much talking, mostly listening to the Hinglish. We only take a half an hour sharp to eat. Not positive why.

My favorite part of the complex:
Trees in stairs!

Just outside the exit of the food court is the coolest area. You can almost pretend you are in a little forest for a while. Okay, architects, you did all right.

I think I am the only foreign woman (at least, obviously foreign) in the entire complex. I’ve seen the occasional white guy (and even chatted with a dude from Holland as I waited for my taxi) but not a woman. Men outnumber women by quite a few in both the complex and my company itself. I guess they seem to be tech-leaning companies.

One thing that surprised me was the dress code. The majority of people are in jeans! Even people that work at the other companies. I expected quite the opposite. Some people wear suits or slacks (and some women wear gorgeous Indian-style clothes) but most people are in casual wear! I like this mainly because I love my sneakers. I’ll wear business casual if you want me too, but lemme wear my sneakers.

The restrooms are western-style, except with a health faucet (a bidet) and a trash for toilet paper. The sinks have soap and a hand dryer. Important stuff. There is a washroom attendant I see sometimes, replacing the trash bags and so forth. She is one of the many unskilled workers with black uniforms always around the office from before I arrive until after I leave. I’ve heard this is very common of Indian companies, almost their duty: since there is high demand for ridiculously low-paying jobs, create some. There are several people whose responsibility it is to keep the kitchen clean, mop the floor, take out the trash, and keep the water & milk in the coffee machines full. (Back home, we do it ourselves because hiring someone would not be worth it.) There are always people outside the complex wiping the glass doors and scrubbing the tile floors.

There is also one guy whose entire duty it seems is to brush the carpet. I see him in a squatting position that makes my knees hurt to watch, brushing the carpet back and forth. Back and forth. I feel bad stepping on the freshly brushed carpet. But maybe he feels lucky to have this job? In a cushy air-conditioned environment with endless free water and tea? No idea.

The few company-wide emails that go out are interesting. The most common is along these lines:

“The owner of the car number mentioned in the subject line is requested to release the hand brakes of its vehicle parked outside the office premises.”

Because there are so few places to park, people who didn’t win the garage lottery have to park outside which often means double parking. But, to make that work, anyone blocking a car needs to leave their brake off so their car can be shifted. By far, the most nerve-racking-oh-yeah-I-live-in-a-CITY email was one where there were Trade Union strikes going on, some misbehavior and stone-throwing, and they advised every employee to stay indoors. I didn’t notice anything different myself, but my taxi did call ahead of time to say when he would be out there, so I would not have to wait outside. (This was before I got my phone.) My favorite email thread was one asking if anyone had any spare wickets.

There is a street food market right outside the complex. I have only ventured out there once (when all six of my team were with me) to get an unbelievably cheap chai with everyone. A couple beggars came up to me. Couldn’t tell if it was just me, the walking ATM, or if the others were approached as well. There was also a small boy running around, naked from the waist down. I think I’ll probably keep within the confines on the complex. It’s a zoo out there. No literally:

An urban sheep herd

Everyone here likes to boast that Khan Market has the highest rent in Asia.

I looked it up. It doesn’t. It does have the highest rent in India, though. (Maybe Asia if you don’t count Japan, S. Korea, or Hong Kong?)

Khan Market entrance

My first reaction when I arrived was a kind of unimpressed, “This is it?” Granted, I entered from the back, which is even less impressive. Both Shipra Mall and GIP are way shinier. I did go shopping, though. I bought some shoes, a smaller Eicher map since the 300-page one is a bear to lug around (incidentally the book shop was selling the SAME Delhi-Agra-Jaipur Golden Triangle book!), and more Indian-style clothes in preparation for the summer heat. For lunch, I had a Pad Thai that was so spicy, my lips were burning for an hour afterward.

I was surprised by two things in Khan Market: one, how many foreigners – and foreigners in Indian dress! – there were (which apparently I should have expected) and two, how little the salespeople were selling to me. I mean they were perfectly polite, just not immediately saying “Hello ma’am, how can I help you ma’am.”

Lodi Garden is conveniently in walking distance from the Market (and the street had a sidewalk even, bonus.)

Sheesh, that’s a lotta tombs
(Gumbad means Dome, but even those are tombs as well)

I loved Lodi Garden. It was beautiful, relaxing, full of colorful flowers and curving paths; you could almost not hear the traffic anymore. Lots of couples and families were out enjoying the gorgeous sunny-and-70s weather. I laid on the grass for a while (well, on my sweater) and enjoyed the blue sky and pleasant atmosphere. Just lovely.

Tomb, tomb, tomb…

See what’s become of me…

I had wondered why the guy I asked to take my photo was taking so long lining it up… he wanted me to have a head sprout. It was a very cool tree, though, I even took a photo of it later. Once, I thought I caught a glimpse of a pure green bird among the constant pigeons. I thought I had imagined it until I came upon this sign:

One from the “Don’t Read This Sign Too Fast” Department
The other from the “Arbor Vigilantes” Department

At the other side of the Garden, I found I was near the India Habitat Centre, which a co-worker told me about. I wandered in. The building complex was quite pleasant and had the cleanest-looking food court as well as the cleanest-looking restrooms I’ve yet seen. I almost tipped the lady restroom attendant, seriously. After I sipped a sweet lassi, I checked out an art exhibit and passed this restaurant:

When in Delhi, eat nostalgic American food
(Ironically, I do end up having a nostalgic American dining experience today… but not here)

The Eicher map I purchased led me to my next destination. And my next destination gave me an idea of what kids dragged to Delhi by their parents must complain about.

“Come on, not another tomb!”

Some cities have cathedrals. Some have mosques. Some have natural wonders and wildlife refuges. Delhi has tombs.

Okay, sure, it has lots of temples, markets, and even a Fort or two, but without even trying, I saw five tombs in less than five hours.

On my way to the tomb on the map, an auto driver pulled up beside me and asked if I wanted a ride. I said, “I’m just going right there,” pointing to the tomb, about a block and a half away. He was very friendly (and spoke good English) and finally convinced me to take the short ride for “four rupees, for good luck, it’s my first ride of the day”. I’ll learn someday. So I got in and he pulled aside pretty quickly and started chatting, asking where I was from and telling me about how it was his 40th birthday today. He showed me his whiskey stash in a little front compartment of the auto, even though Sikh’s apparently are not supposed to drink alcohol. I asked him if he wore a lighter-colored turban in summer since he said his black one was getting a little hot as the weather warmed up. He said he did and showed me a picture of him in a brown turban as well as photos of his wife and son. It was a nice enough conversation but eventually he got to the part where he wanted to take me to a tourist shop. “You spend twenty minutes looking around, you don’t have to buy anything, and they’ll give me a liter of gasoline.” At least he was honest but twenty minutes, are you kidding me? I got bored of the conversation very quickly after that. Eventually, he just drove me to the end of the block, not unfriendly or anything. I gave him 10 rupees, wished him a happy birthday and finally went to the tomb and paid my $2 foreigner entrance fee.

The nice thing about tombs here is that they are all symmetrical. So, if you don’t like the light here:

You can just walk around to the other side:

And apparently, they all sort of look like the Taj. This tomb is on one of the HoHo (Hop-on Hop-off) tour bus routes. However, I only saw a very few tourists here. Apparently, this is more of a place appreciated for its secluded, romantic nature than for its history…

Safdarjang Tomb Smoochers
“I know a quiet place, honey.”

Riding the metro on my way back, I got a text from Deadpan, who invited me to dinner at, where else, Khan Market! So the four of us (including his wife and adorable son) returned in the evening (the Market still quite lively at 9pm) and ate at a place I completely overlooked during my daytime stroll even though I had been looking for a restaurant at the time. It’s called The Big Chill and it is Italian. Good Italian. Whoa. And, weirder, has a 1950’s American cinema theme. Old (and a few new) movie posters completely filled the walls. James Bond. Audrey Hepburn. Cary Grant. The music matched the era. At one point, they started playing “Surfin’ USA” and as I was bopping along, I asked Deadpan if he knew the song. He listened, then said he had not. Obviously, I should not have been surprised, but I was for some reason. Wondering if this restaurant might only be nostalgic for ME…

Lest I give the impression that Delhi is not under construction all the time… It is.
Safdarjang Tomb Renovations and Lodi Garden Gazebo Building
(I especially like how they hired women to tile the roof.)

Number of chocolates given away: all of them. Three for the trio of various-aged kids outside Khan market. Two to the mother and toddler at the intersection near India Habitat Centre. Two for an impressively acrobatic girl nearby who was doing nonstop front-walkovers down the sidewalk. Two for the adorable brother with his sister on his shoulders who peeked in my auto. And two for the Sikh driver who asked for some for his kids. (“That’s all?” he asked after I gave him my last two.) I am the Chocolate Distributor of Delhi.

Lessons learned from my first bicycle rickshaw trip:
Drivers (pedalers?) have even less English than auto drivers and even less of an idea of locations outside the immediate vicinity.
I did see more detail of local neighborhoods which was cool, but the cruising speed was, of course, very slow.

My longest entry yet!

So, I found this tour to Haridwar a while back on the Delhi Tourism site and had been planning to check it out. Realizing it went to one of the holy Ganges destinations on the final days of the Kumbh Mela festival, which only happens once every three years, I got Chris and Peter (who arrived yesterday) on board, not believing there were open slots with less than a week notice. Granted, Haridwar was not hosting the festival this year, but it was still a very auspicious time to bathe in the Ganges.

This was my first trip outside Delhi…
…and now I know what everyone was talking about.

This journey was definitely a cultural experience.

Our taxi was an excruciating half-hour late due to “a flat tire”. Good thing I allowed a bit of buffer and that there is no traffic at 6:15am on Saturday. We made it to the office near Connaught Place punctually at 6:45am. Many people were gathered and there were two giant buses parked outside. People started walking over to the buses, but the main guy told us three to wait. Turns out that those buses were actually going to Agra (Taj Mahal). Our bus was a 12-seater parked out back. And only seven tourists were going.

We departed shortly after 7:15, driving pretty much back in the direction of Ghaziabad, passing Vaishali station on the way. Then we passed the border checkpoint and after that, I got my first glimpse of rural India.

What does rural India look like? Kind of like the city, just more of the dusty marketplaces and less of the shiny malls and tall apartment buildings. A couple towns looked a lot like what I saw on my FRRO trip to Ghaziabad proper. Some were just road-side food stalls and mechanics along the highway. It often appeared as if someone took a row of storage units and turned them into shops. Others were barely shacks with corrugated metal roofs, lined with Pepsi or Coca-Cola boards and the ubiquitous hanging potato chip bags attached to each other for easy display. At one point, we passed a random shiny building that I can only call the Baskin Robbins Oasis. The variety of vehicles was about the same except with the autorickshaws being replaced by oxen-pulled carts. Many of the trucks were so overstuffed with hay (or people) I couldn’t believe they were not losing their load.

A few hours out of Delhi, we passed some towns where most of the women were wearing burqas, which was a bit disconcerting. (We are still a good distance from Pakistan.) But then, typical Indian dress resumed. We stopped at a surprisingly nice rest stop – seriously, I had been beginning to worry about the quality of our food sources – where munchies and meals could be bought (I had an omelette and Peter had a grilled cheese sandwich, both delicious). The restroom may have been missing toilet paper, but it was clean enough. After all, it had an attendant, like every restroom I’ve been to in India.

The Surprisingly Nice Rest Stop

Ganges Pilgrims? All along the road, we kept seeing people doing a relay race in the other direction with decorated cars blasting music following along. We also saw quite a few men carrying over their shoulder a festive-looking half-circle shape. At first, I thought they were preparing for, or taking down, holiday decorations. I discovered later that they were pilgrims carrying water from the Ganges back to their home shrines. The farther we went, the more we saw, and the more I appreciated their long journey!

Welcome to Woodstock. We finally arrived in Haridwar and pulled into the parking area. It was like a county fair and hippie tailgate party all in one. Decorated cars, farm animals, blaring music, and general celebration in a giant dirt lot. There was a little confusion about what we should bring and when we would be able to get back to the van (it was not departing Haridwar for another 5 hours but the location of the van and driver would not be reliable until then). Were we doing a Ganges dip? (A “dip” was their term.) I still wasn’t sure. I mean, how crowded would it be? How dirty would it be? I wanted to be prepared for any scenario (I even had wrapped my vital documents in a waterproof ziplock in my money belt just in case.) One of the other tourists spoke awesome English and was invaluable in trying to figure out what the plan was, if there was one. After a lot of back and forth, I finally decided to bring my usual Giant Purse but stuffed in a change of clothes just in case. After what seemed like a while of preparing, we all walked to the Ganges staying, as they suggested, all together.

The Ganges at Haridwar

(And again, from the side with better lighting)

It was an amazing feeling, that first glimpse of the Ganges bathing area. Incredible. Everyone was there just to let the purifying Ganges water wash over them. A very positive feeling. I decided I was definitely doing the dip now. I was on such a cloud, I didn’t even mind when we had to take off our shoes before dipping. The driver who had been leading us up until then (and stopping, looking over his shoulder in a resigned manner whenever we paused to take photos) led us to the main area where stairs led down to the river. But before we go any further, an introduction of our little group.

Our Haridwar Seven

Us three were the only white folk. The tiny older woman standing next to me spoke not a word in English, but had a sweet smile. I got to practice my three Hindi phrases on her and so learned her name was Rita. The tall man on the left was Ricardo. During the ride up, I thought he was a quiet Indian, but he was actually a very friendly dude from Panama. No Hindi, but very good English. The remaining two were best friends, Ravi and Shaji. These two were so full of information and advice (solicited or not) that there was a point where I was wondering if they were part of the tour because the driver himself (presumably the only paid member of the tour) seemed to hardly speak any English. Ravi was our translating savior.

Near our dipping spot

Once we found a spot on the stairs to deposit our stuff (someone would take turns watching it and, wow, it was scary separating from my money belt), it was Ravi who pointed to a nearby doorway and told me it was a ladies changing room. Shortly later, Rita disappeared in that direction. He also told me that I should take my dip now and do photos later. Then he advised that I should just let other people take photos and share them with me later (I put my foot down there; I trust no one else to post or send photos.) Then he told me to be careful in the sun with my fair skin. Indeed, it was sunny and warm (maybe 80) and a perfect day for this.

Should I really do this??

All the women I saw were in full clothing (unlike the men) so, glad I brought a change of clothes, I stepped in jeans and all. Ravi joked they would be shrink-to-fit after that. I was told the proper thing to do was cup some of the river water to my mouth, sip it, then pour the rest over the top of my head. I was down with every part except the actual drinking. Although Shaji had been going on about the special bacteria-killing naturally-pure properties of the water (even saying at one point the H2O water molecule had a different angle?), I was not gonna drink it, but I sure as heck was going to dip.

My Ganges Dip

So how was it? Awesome! It was cold, but not freezing. It was the temperature of the ocean when my parents tell me how “warm” it is. Either way, it was very refreshing. I felt wonderful afterward! Apparently, I am now sin-free for three generations. (So if I ever have kids, that will mean something.)

So I went into the ladies changing room. No idea what kid of weird racket was going on in here. First, some ladies near the doorway said I could use a bench and asked me for money, but in a sort of fake way. Finally I said, “are you asking me for money just because I’m foreign?” I don’t think she understood, but she just waved me in. There were several large, wooden benches and older ladies sitting on them (sometimes with small children napping behind them) but I didn’t get it. I just wanted to change clothes. Finally, someone pointed behind the stairs to a quasi-private spot that another woman just finished changing at, so I changed there. (I’m not particularly modest, so I didn’t care where I changed.) When I was done, one lady tapped her bench, like she wanted me to sit there. What was she going to do? Comb my hair? Another lady put a red dot on my forehead. Confused, I eventually dug out 100 rupees for her. They wanted something else from me. I repeated the phrase “I don’t understand” in Hindi (“Mein nahi samachti hoon.”) several times, but nothing was made clear. I heard a woman behind me say in English, “just go” so I did. No idea what was going on in there; they did not look like beggars. In any case: dot number one.

Shaji has dual parentage (his father was Catholic and mother Hindi, I think) so he did this ritual in honor of his late father with a priest at the river. I took photos for him. The ritual was pretty long, but it was interesting to watch. At the end, the priest gave each of us a yellow dot. Dot number two!

Rituals and Dots

Shaji gifted me this white scarf, mentioning multiple times that it was from Kerala and handmade. He said I should wear it to protect my face from the sun. It was not a bad idea, but I kind of don’t like wearing scarves on my head and I didn’t want something else to carry around, as nice as the gift was. I kept putting it on my head, shading my face, then just taking it off. We slowly made our way back to the van to put back things like my bag of wet clothes.

On our way back, it occurred to me just how few foreigners we had seen. I thought I spotted one white couple right after we arrived. None since. That explained the staring factor. The staring here is at a whole new level. We are now museum exhibitions, not just novelties. For example, we were walking along this raised walkway where they were selling books, old coins, and other souvenirs. Some members of our group stopped to look at the merchandise and I walked a few paces on, just hanging out, waiting. Then several Indian guys (and one gal) gathered around me, just looking. If the rest of my group of seven (including muscular guys) had not been a few steps away, it would have been more intimidating. As it was, it was weird. To turn the tables, I took out my camera and photographed them. They thought this was unusual, but the woman wanted to look at the picture afterward to see how she turned out.

Stare at me and I’ll photograph you!

Eventually, we started walking back and were about to turn off the path into the lot to find the van.

That’s when we realized we had lost Rita.

She had been with us the whole time. And now, the tiny Indian lady most blendable with the surroundings was no longer with our group. We halted and spent some time looking. I did a loop around the marketplace we were in. Chris did a loop, too. Shaji told me to wear the scarf as the sun was indeed beating down. I put it on then thought, no, I’m the easiest person in our party to spot if Rita is looking for us. She seemed an independent lady, so I was not too worried, but we couldn’t leave without her. I figured that, if I were her and had lost my group, I would head back to the van. The others agreed. So, we waited a bit longer than eventually kept walking.

Rita was not at the van. But a group of old men begging were. And, despite being told off by the Indian folk (that always works in Delhi) they did not disperse. Ravi and Shaji were in the van talking nonstop. I was trying to think and couldn’t, probably because I was getting quite hungry as it was well past lunchtime (and no mention had been made of lunch nor was there any place to have a meal really). In short, I was stressed. Even Ricardo said later that I looked like I might explode on someone, though I promised not to explode on him. At any rate, I wandered a bit away from the van, looking for Rita, but not wanting to lose sight of the van myself. To my left, I suddenly saw Peter and Chris sitting at a coffee stall, munching on nuts. It was an okay vantage point so I decided to retrieve my own stash of munchies from the van since it looked like that would be our lunch. As I walked back, I got word that someone had found Rita. Whew. I sat, shared my nuts and raisins (the driver and his buddy were happy to oblige), had some chai, and tried to de-stress.

After a lot of discussion on what the next destination was (I got the impression we were behind schedule – and Ricardo was concerned how our itinerary did not seem to be following the site – but I had never seen an actual timetable), we finally decided to take the ropeway up to the temple, which was good because that was the place I most remembered wanting to see from the website.

Not losing Rita (foreground) again!

The gradually steeper, sometimes curving, roadways through this little town were cute and reminded me very much of the road to Kiyomizu in Kyoto, also on a hill. Our driver put us on two bicycle rickshaws who mainly had to pull us up as they certainly could not pedal uphill with three full-grown adults in the back.

Pulling the rickshaw uphill

The ropeway cost under 100 rupees and the line did not take long (though did involve going through security for the first time since Delhi.) But you could buy some munchies while waiting if you were so inclined.

The Ropeway and View

Shaji had me hold this little red bag he had purchased. I noticed a lot of people, even Rita, had bought these decorative red bags. I understood why at the top once we had removed our shoes and started through the temple. The bags were filled with lots of little trinkets to do blessings with. Circular red stickers for the wall, little pieces of paper with wishes to tie on a mesh grid (just like Japan), etc. Shaji offered to let me do some of his red-bag blessings, but I shrugged and declined. Then the corridors got narrow and very crowded with moving people. Everyone seemed in a hurry to go through, yet did not skip any of the “blessing stations” either. I got pulled down to my knees for one blessing station. The guy inside the alcove gave me a red mark on my forehead (dot number three), then asked for a donation. A donation for an unsolicited blessing. I dug out a 10-rupee note and put it in. “No, no, no” he said. I realized the bill was sort of covering his little bowl of red gunk so I moved it. But that was not his objection. He was shaking a 100-rupee note that someone else had donated. Yeah… No. I stood up and kept moving. My mood was not stellar and getting worse by the second as I realized that I was being herded from one blessing/donation station to the next in a pushy manner. I did not donate anything after that. Mansa Devi temple did not seem very holy to me. It seemed more like a gauntlet.

I was relieved to be free and back in my shoes. Chris suggested walking down instead of taking the ropeway and I jumped on that idea. Needed space. So the three of us separated, agreeing to meet the rest of the group at 7:30pm at the van, and we walked outside. I wiped away sweat from my forehead and my hand came off red. That’s when I decided to wipe that red temple blessing off my forehead with tissues.

The first thing we saw were monkeys! Lots and lots of monkeys!

As much as we photographed the monkeys, though, we were being photographed as well. I once turned and saw three guys with their mobile phone cameras pointed at me. So I posed. Museum (or zoo?) attractions, I tell you.

The Monkeys at Mansa Devi
(and view back up)

The walk down was fairly intense. There were a lot of beggars and ones in heart-wrenchingly awful shape. Every several paces during the hundreds of stairs going down the mountain was another beggar sitting on the side. I saw mostly men but the occasional child as well (I gave the first kid I saw some chocolates and should have realized when another little girl violently grabbed my dupatta scarf from behind several steps later that she was looking for chocolates, too. But I was startled and just pulled my scarf out of her grip and kept walking.) I saw a guy with missing feet and another with totally deformed feet bent in an unnatural direction. We wondered how they had gotten so far up the mountain. One guy had made a little house for himself, like a little cave with a canvas top that he could just fit under, sitting.

Almost down…

My calves were burning a bit toward the bottom. On the last stair was a beggar child who I swore said “chocolate” to me. (We were long past the previous chocolate.) I laughed and gave them one. We headed back into town, looking for a light dinner but none of the restaurants were open yet, so we settled for a glass bottle of coke, water, and the last of Chris’ cashews as we recovered physically and mentally from our walk down the mountain.

We managed by some stroke of luck to find a place to sit along the river for this lantern releasing called Aarti that everyone was talking about. Well… some people did gather flowers and other offerings in a giant leaf bowl, set it aflame, and set it floating down the river. That was kind of cool. But it was not many offerings. And not all at once, like we all thought it would be. And while we waited, we were insistently solicited for donations. Some, by people in a uniform. One guy was leading prayers, having us all lift our hands up at the same time – which was kind of fun – then splashing Ganges drips at us, and saying something that sounded almost angry in what I assume was Hindi. No idea what he was saying.

Waiting for the fire…
And Hindusm had this symbol first; it means good luck.

Ricardo, Shaji and the gang found us at our spot, so our group was back together. As we sat, some woman came up to give us another red mark on our foreheads. Chris and Peter allowed the red line (and donated) but I declined. Someone announced something and suddenly, half the people sitting got up to leave. Was it over? Was that all we were going to see of flaming offerings go by on the Ganges? Or was the action elsewhere? We never knew. A woman came up and, despite my protests, managed to put a red dot on my forehead. (And… dot number four.) She wanted a donation and very persistently was asking me something, but did not take my 10 rupee note. It was not until Ravi appeared that he explained that the woman was looking for a 50 or 100. Greedy. The woman did the same thing to Ricardo, who had the exact same experience with his 10.

Then a child came up and I had to physically stop her from putting a red dot on my forehead. Seriously. Only one of my dots I asked for. I wouldn’t have minded a freely-given dot, but they wanted the big bucks for them. Finally, we headed back to the van. I was a little bummed we never got to visit the giant statue of Shiva – it was very close. But oh well.

There’s Shiva

We were off. Somewhere between alcohol-free Haridwar and Rishikesh, we made a very long pit stop that included beer purchases (and juice, which Ravi insisted on buying for my benefit since I wasn’t drinking beer.)

The hotel, contrary to what was promised, had no restaurant. And no room service. I hung around and made sure that Ricardo and Rita got food and indeed, eventually, all of us went out into Rishikesh (it was about 10pm at this point) and got a very tasty meal at a local restaurant. It was Ricardo’s first real Indian food. He’d been in Delhi with his buddies (who did not want to come on such a “religious trip” with him) but had mostly been eating KFC and Dominos for the last several weeks.

Tomorrow: Rishikesh!

Inderlok hotel. Let’s just say, you get what you pay for. The entire tour, including the night at the hotel and the driver for the almost 10-hour round trip was less than $40. I was required to pay an extra $14 to have a single room, but still. You do the math.

View from the hotel

The construction on the first floor, having no food available, the single towel that did not look very clean, the hot-water-less shower (though the faucet had hot water), the complete lack of a trash, the A/C not working (according to the others; I just used the fan), the ambiguous meaning of the bucket, and the little critter I found under my pillow reminded me a little of the Most Exotic Marigold Hotel. But the chairs were very nice, the closet had a cool wood smell, the door locked, and there was a balcony. Also, there was random fancy furniture scattered in the most unlikely of locations.

The luxury rooftop dining area?

Ravi, our trusty translator, told everyone the previous night that the bus was leaving at 7am (and that, if necessary, he would knock on people’s doors to wake them up.) Come 6:45am, he announced that several of the group were going to walk to the Ganges for a dip. I was assured the river was quite close. Come 7:15, the three of us were more than ready to go, but no one was there, not even the driver. I agreed to hold down the fort for a bit. The bit turned into over 30 minutes. (In the meantime, I drank chai – one beverage available – and chatted with the pleasant clerk who told me that there had been elephant stampedes in Rishikesh in the past.)

Brij Fancy Store
“The Smartest Way to Sparkle Yourself”
(Yep, your guess is as good as mine)

The driver returned, so I stashed our luggage in the van and walked out to look for everyone. I ran into them walking back. Everyone but Rita. Feeling like I missed out on seeing the Ganges again and wanting to make sure we had Rita, I walked out to the river (indeed, only a five minute walk down the street) with Ricardo. No Rita. But it felt like I was in a Jesus movie.

There was a curvy path that led out to the sandy bank of the Ganges, where people in colorful clothing were peacefully bathing on this holy day of Kumbh Mela. So devotional they were, that they did not even stare much. The temple was very humble. The path was lined every several paces, on both sides, with beggars sitting silently. As I walked down the beggar-lined path, it occurred to me how odd it would be to just choose one person to give money to. Why choose that one over this one? Would the rest crowd you?

As I walked back, I saw a few people going down the line of beggars, one by one, coins gathered in their skirts/robes, giving to each one. Ah. That would be the only way to do it, I suppose. I started walking quickly, worried now that everyone was waiting on me. But they weren’t. In fact, the ones who had told us the 7am leaving time were not even packed and it was nearing 8am. I told them we were late (they disagreed) and to please hurry as everyone was waiting for them. (Rita had made it back by now.) I at least scored a hard-boiled egg out of the transaction. And Shaji had given me a banana he bought at a roadside fruit stand. Between that and the roti (bread) I had saved from last night’s dinner, that was my breakfast. I appreciated that as very little was open on Sunday morning.

After quite a lot of hanging out in front of the hotel, they finally came downstairs and we departed toward the main temple (I assume) in Rishikesh and parked the van. We had an additional guide join us who led us along this very pleasant path along the river. Rishikesh is right at the foot of the Himalayas and it was nice to see some mountains again after so long.

River walk in Rishikesh

One of the first things us white folk noticed was… other white folk! Unlike Haridwar or the area of Rishikesh where we were staying, there were plenty of foreigners here, mostly women. I gave out some chocolates to the first cute kid and the inevitable second cute kid. Then we hopped on a prepaid boat across the river toward the other side. Today, the 10th, was a double holy day. Not only was it the final day of Kumbh Mela, it also was Maha Shivaratri, the celebration of Shiva’s wedding anniversary. Despite that, Rishikesh did not seem terribly crowded. Then again, I haven’t seen it on a regular day.

(You can see the bridge across the Ganges from here.)

On the other side, we were led through a very nice neighborhood with many ashrams in it. Ah, that explains all the foreign women! (Either that or they all had attended the International Yoga Festival I saw posters for everywhere.) I enjoyed walking through the ashram area. I liked that the sign in the temple said “No donations” and that everyone who wanted to could live here, free of charge, and learn the meditative ways. There were 2,500 rooms and counting, our guide told us. It reminded me of Eat, Pray, Love (a significant portion of which happens within an ashram.) It almost looked familiar as if they filmed the movie here with the water tower and everything. It was neat to see the little room doors facing out to beautiful gardens and imagine what it was like to live here.

Geeta Bhawan and other ashrams at Rishikesh

Then the guide lost all my respect…

Even though he had been decent until then – and even bought me a chai at a little stall in the ashram neighborhood and showed us a neat, tiny temple – he also led us to a bead shop. I peeked in and some guy was giving a presentation. The guide insisted I enter and sit down to listen. I was like, no. I have little patience for that kind of stuff and assumed the others felt the same but had been goaded. So Peter, Chris, and I who had managed to escape the presentation, hung out in the alley instead, waiting. And waiting. I felt bad for them. I peeked in again and it looked like there were actual purchases going on. Really? The purchases were taking quite a while, so I went in and asked him to hurry. My new favorite word in Hindi: Challo! Let’s go!

If I had been alone, I might have just waited it out. But sheesh, the three of us had already spent almost an hour that morning waiting for them. I went back in the bead shop several times, increasingly annoyed that not only did we have to put up with the tourist shop crap, but that we now had to wait while someone else gave into it. I was pissy, no doubt about it. Eventually, I asked them if we could just meet them at the van later. They agreed – wish I had thought of that earlier! – and wanted the guide to take us back for some reason. Rita joined us. Ricardo was worried that she would slow us down, but she was actually pretty spritely for an older woman.

Linger, and you shall be in strangers’ photographs

Near the above statue, us white tourists were very popular. Chris and Peter were in several peoples’ photographs. As was I. It seemed like each guy wanted to separately pose with me and have his photo taken. This is not the first time this has happened in India and I wonder how my photo is being used in these situations. We did not get a chance to see the above silver statue up close, but I was not saying no when someone said Challo! to me.

The Ram Jhula iron bridge
(that some people on our tour were too wimpy to go on)

View from Ram Jhula

On the other side now, following the guide who regularly clapped his hands twice and gestured to get our attention, we all agreed that we were hungry. And, with the notable exception of the rest stop the first morning, we had not been offered any opportunities for food. When the guide reached the boat dock and wanted us to either wait for the other two (ha!) or head back to the van down the same river walk (where we’d still be waiting), we disagreed. We wanted to get a bite to eat and return through the market. The guide was extremely insistent. Lots of gesturing and clapping. We would have turned our backs on him…

Except Rita had disappeared again.

She could not have been far as we had seen her at the boat dock. Ricardo and I spent a little while looking and calling her name, then gave up, thinking that either the guide would find her, she would meet the other two, or she would find her way back. After all, we were not hard to find and for her to purposely separate from the guide meant that she must have headed back on her own. The persistent guide, who I was only being minimally civil to given his bead detour, desperately wanted us to continue with him. When we told him we were going to eat lunch, he said we would get lunch on our way back in Haridwar. We did not believe him. Why would he know? Then he said we needed to be back at the van at 11am and it was quarter till. I said, “fine” wondering why he knew this mysterious ‘schedule’ that we were on but never had been told about. Then we just turned away, walked back up to the market and up to Flavors restaurant.

Delicious food. Best table ever. We could overlook the boat dock (on the off chance Rita did show) while we basked in the sunshine. The four of us had a lovely lunch and we got to know Ricardo better while finally having a real meal on our own terms. Ricardo confessed that he was relieved we were on the tour. He said he was afraid he would be left behind (and even pleaded with me the previous night to not let them leave without him), but knew they wouldn’t forget us loud, white tourists. He said he thought it was meant to be, that we were all there on that tour to help each other. I agreed!

View of the Ganges from Flavors; a Shopping Cow

We were a little ways through lunch when we actually saw the other two get off the boat and walk up toward the market in our general direction. We waved to them. They looked up at us and gestured to their watches as if we were late. I seriously laughed out loud.

They took off up the market, shopping, and we enjoyed our meal. As we were finishing lunch, the guide returned and found us, as we were easy to spot. We did not hurry, but we let him lead us back to the van. He seemed so concerned that it was 11:40 now and we were supposed to be back at the van at 11:00.

Mixed loyalties?

Never mind that we had gotten over an hour late start. Never mind that the driver had never once mentioned a schedule, time, or itinerary to us. Although I had to admit (once I got over the relief that Rita was, in fact, at the van) it was refreshing being able to arrive and actually have everyone already gathered there, ready to go. No more dilly dally. Challo, challo!

After an overly long stop near Haridwar (where Ravi and Shaji walked up the street to pick up beer and food), we headed back to Delhi. The drinkers were getting drunker, the Shiva chanting CD that had been playing on repeat had been replaced by them (bickering like an old married couple) fiddling with the radio at various volumes. They found Casey Kasum’s American Top 40 and we listened for a bit, but it did not seem right. When Cat Stevens’ Wild World came in at number 33, I knew we were in the wrong decade and then some. Exactly 130km from Delhi, we suddenly pulled off the road. “Yep, I heard that pop,” Chris said.

This actually happened

We happened to pull off right next to a tire shack. Either amazingly serendipitous… or not. How did I know that we were 130km away from Delhi at that moment, you ask?

The jack collapsed the first time. The second time seemed to be working, but when the wheel was off, I seriously stepped back and kept my phone at the ready to call an ambulance in case the van tipped over on someone. There was some drunken confusion and differing approaches to the problem of a getting a full tire back on when it was too tall to fit. Digging vs. Deflating. Almost all the guys took part in it at one point or another. Though the driver mostly kept back.

The convenient (?) tire shack and the old tire

Eventually, an hour and fifteen minutes later (which included a cup of tea for everyone), we had a new tire on and headed back. Shaji had earlier suggested a tip for the driver that I agreed to, but then I found out that he had given the driver 1000 rupees ($20) to pay for the tire. I gave Shaji 500 and called it even. The driver was kind enough to drop us off in Ghaziabad to save time, though did not hear us when we told him where to turn to get us a bit closer. We squeezed into an auto (and Shaji insisted on paying the 100 rupees fare) and made it back to the most luxurious hot shower ever.

And so our tour had started and ended with a flat tire.

Tuesday: Discovered I had a new roommate:

Had this been an arachnid or rodent, you would have already known about it
because you would have heard the screams from there.

But geckos – or whatever species this is – are cute. If they eat bugs, double bonus! Will name him Guido.

Wednesday: Finally got my new Axis Bank ATM card to go with my new proper account. Went to bank to check my balance. 0.00 Rupees. Luckily, I had savings at my credit union in the U.S. I paid the taxi driver his the usually weekly amount plus tip and wonder if the owner of the service is ever going to want me to pay for Saturday’s taxi… (not the same driver.)

Thursday: Account funded! After nearly two months, I finally got paid! Celebrated by paying my bill at Cabana with my new red debit card. Also received a birthday package in the mail! Awesome surprise! Sent two weeks ago, looks like India Post might work after all (and be worth the fortune it costs to send something here.) Will see if I receive other expected items…

Friday: Our group at work went for a team-building exercise: cricket night! Promptly at 5pm, some of the guys went to a giant field not far from work to reserve a spot. Someone brought wickets, someone brought bats, and someone brought post-game munchies.

Cricket & Wickets

I don’t know the rules of cricket, other than what I’ve been able to gather from Lagaan and other Bollywood movies.

However, you don’t need to know the rules to play, you just need someone to tell you what to do! I ran when they told me. I stayed put when they told me. I bat when they told me. (I even hit a few! Granted they were pitching, I mean bowling, extra slow for me.) I even got to pitch myself! And when they said, “We got the wicket again!” I dutifully gave my teammates a high-five, even though I couldn’t have told you whether that was a good or bad thing. Someone was keeping track of runs and overs and wickets and innings and other cricket terms. We won one inning and they won one, so we declared it a tie, though there was some question of whether one of the balls was a 6 when my co-worker caught it, as the field was vaguely defined by some trees and poles in the area, sharing fields with half dozen other cricket groups.

A Major League Moment

I’ve never NOT seen people playing cricket on this field when we drive by in our daily taxi, so it was nifty to finally play on it ourselves. The field, though, was mosquito paradise around sunset with all the random holes and standing water. I brought spray and luckily, none of us actually seemed to be bitten. We’ll see how the mosquito situation goes as the weather warms.

I think when many people picture India, they picture Old Delhi.

Old Delhi – three stops north of Connaught Place – is where one sees the giant bunches of power lines that criss-cross narrow streets crowded with people. Awning-covered markets are at every turn and the the intersections have few right angles. None of the buildings look like they’ve seen renovations in decades, except perhaps the variety of temples, churches, and mosques. The only signs of modernity are cars and scooters squeezing through and, of course, the McDonald’s right on the main drag.

My co-workers told me it gets so crushingly crowded on Saturday afternoons and evenings that you have to shove your way through just to get back to the metro station. The best time to visit, apparently, is on weekday mornings. But like many folks, I’m at work. Since everything is closed on Sundays, that left Saturday morning.

Old Delhi

So I awoke Saturday morning, had a hearty breakfast, had a talk with my intestines about the otherwise delicious chicken dinner from last night, skimmed a couple websites to get an idea of what to see, then off I went, chilling in the Ladies Car toward central Delhi.

But Delhi does have a way of making me grumpy, a little bit at a time.

Whether it was the pushy beggar who wanted more than two chocolates at Vaishali station, or transferring at the metro station and getting a train shorter than the platform and so having to jog with everyone else and squeeze into crowded last car, to every single rickshaw driver outside Chandni Chowk station trying to get my attention. (My favorite was the guy who said “It’s far, it’s far,” as if he knew where I was going. I didn’t actually know precisely where I was going, I was just following the crowd, but I also knew that every place of interest to me was in walking distance.) I think the worst was the kids who decided it would be funny to throw water balloons at my back after I finally did get on a rickshaw, then who laughed when I shrieked in cold, wet surprise. Then, after I recovered from that and was enjoying my ride to the mosque, thinking that my friendly rickshaw driver was doing a surprisingly good job pointing out the sites on our short journey, and that I might even give him 50, he turns around and charges me 150.

But everything was made up for at the mosque.

Jama Masjid
(Masjid = Mosque)

The mosque did not seem particularly welcoming at first (especially toward women). It was 300 rupees ($6) just to get in. And not only did I have to take off my shoes, they made me (as a woman) wear this god-awful robe apron thing “to cover up.” I assured the dude robing me that the garment was covering me up no more than my conservative clothes were already doing. I still got the robe tied on me.

However, they did allow one nice thing. I did not have to go barefoot on the warm, dried-bird-dropping-covered stone. I could purchase slippers to wear!

Jama Mosque, where I can dress like my great-grandmother
(At least they didn’t make me wear a headscarf.)

My OCD tendencies only cost me 100 rupees

After dark, it’s a Muslim Men’s Club

I’ve been reading The Muslim Next Door, which is giving me new appreciation for just how pro-women, pro-gender-equality, and pro-religious-tolerance the religion of Islam actually is according to scripture, so it is eye-rolling to see all this even in democratic India.

However, all of that aside, this is why the mosque made my day:

THEY LET ME CLIMB UP THE MINARET!

Like, actually get inside and climb the thing! For only 100 rupees.

The inside of the minaret is just a stone, spiral staircase around a column, going all the way to the top! That’s it. It’s tight enough where it is difficult for one person to pass another. Nowhere to fall, and the occasional tiny window out, it just goes up and up and up. HOW COOL IS THAT!? It is about 12-stories tall, the tallest thing by far in the area. And I was breathing hard when I reached the top. But worth it!

…reaching the top

It is one of the best views of Delhi I’ve had so far. I could see in every direction. At first, I was sharing the top with a foreign couple and their son. Then I had the top to myself for a little while before it started getting crowded up there.

The difference camera placement makes.

However, I assure you, mom, that the barrier went completely around from top to bottom.

View of Red Fort

View toward Karim’s restaurant
(How many autos do you see in this photo? I count about twenty.)

As I left, I got a little baggie to keep my purchased slippers in. I retrieved my shoes and a guy nearby wanted donations for watching my shoes. Indeed, unlike anywhere else I’ve been so far, there did not appear to be a shoe check here; you just put your shoes on the pavement with everyone else’s and hoped no one walked off in them. But, seriously, like that dude knew they were my shoes. Right. Anyway, before I walked back down the stairs, I looked at what they were selling at the stall by the entrance.

That SAME Delhi-Agra-Jaipur Golden Triangle book!

So then, I walked back to Red Fort, the other major monument in the area. My “no, thank you”s to rickshaw drivers were getting pretty weary. Some guys were persistent. I had to look one in the face and repeat NO, thank you for the fifth time for him to finally stop asking. I walked all the way to the bottom gate of the fort, but as it turns out, there is only one entrance, so I had to walk all the way back, at least this time on an inner street without rickshaws. Glad I wore sunscreen.

Red Sign

So, Red Fort. It’s red. It’s a fort. Yep. The audio tour, which you could listen to as you walked and enjoy some background music and historical information, was worth the couple bucks, but other than the relative peace and quiet of the large garden space and the pretty nifty-looking red walls, there isn’t much else to recommend here. This is one of the major attractions in Delhi for some reason, certainly one of the first I heard about, and it gets a lot of worldwide visitors, being a World Heritage Site. Honestly, seeing the variety of people was far more interesting than the fort itself. Saw Japanese tourists, African tourists, European tourists. Even Middle Eastern tourists I think.

Inside the fort. Cool tree in the fort.

I caught one Indian dude with his camera phone pointed at me. But it was less weird because as soon as he realized I was okay with him snapping a photo, he wanted to take one me with his elementary-aged boys, then with each individually, shaking their hand. (Shaking hands with children… and repressing my OCD instinct.) I got the impression that he was from outside the city visiting the capital… and the weird-looking foreigners were just part of the experience. (I mean, they were for me! Though I didn’t snap any without their permission.) So afterward, I asked if I could take a photo of his kids, too:

One guy later actually asked so politely for my permission to take my photo, that I almost wasn’t sure what he was asking. These two guys did the same thing all the other guys have done (a photo per guy) but were just super polite about it.

With the exception with the water-balloon-throwers, I generally find the kids to be adorable. The schoolchildren love to say, “Hello, how are you?” or “What’s your name?” or just wave. Obviously, they are learning English in school and the brave ones want to practice it. Japanese schoolchildren are very much the same. I always try to respond in textbook English; probably the English teacher part of me.

So, I figured I should actually try to walk around Chandni Chowk (i.e. Old Delhi) before I returned because it was so famous. I decided to head in the direction of Chawri Bazar, the next metro station down, thinking that would give me a good overview. I had a cheap chicken biryani (rice) for lunch in a literal hole-in-the-wall establishment near Karim’s. (And, in fact, if you are looking for Karim’s – very famous restaurant – it is just south of the mosque.) I turned and started walking on the smaller streets, kind of purposely attempting to get lost for a little while. And I did.

Chandni Chowk toward Karim’s
(from the mosque)

I think I wandered out of the famous part, where each street is a market that sells something different (spice, paper, saris, tools, food), and instead into a very old neighborhood. Narrow streets with lots of people out and about. I bought a bottled orange juice from one of the many little convenience stores and started taking turns at random. No right angles. No rickshaw drivers talking to me, just ones going by making dropoffs. It all felt so old. It would have felt like a time warp except for the periodic honking and speeding by of a motorcycle. but it was an indescribable experience. I didn’t take any photos here. I felt briefly like I was in Cairo because this apparently is a Muslim neighborhood. The large majority of women I passed were in burqas or at least fully covered. My presence did not seem to particularly bother anyone; they were just going about their day. I felt amazingly safe, actually. The only people who talked to me at all were, you guessed it, schoolchildren.

The lack of right angles confused my sense of direction a little, though. I ended up exactly where I started. After that, I took the most direct route on the map to get to Chawri Bazar station. An interesting walk in, I think, the paper street.

Taken from, believe it or not, the top of the stairs down to the Metro

I wore myself out pretty good during this day (the weather is getting warmer and warmer, I can feel it) and took a nap as soon as I got home.

In closing, I saw two things today I have never seen before in India:

Coincidence?

So, tomorrow I am off to a new state: Maharashtra. I booked airline tickets and a hotel through www.makemytrip.com, which a co-worker told me about (it’s like Expedia). When I get back, I’ll tell you how my Air India flight and stay at the city of Aurangabad (to see the Ellora and Ajunta Caves) at the Meadows Resort Hotel went. The whole 4-day, 3-night trip cost $385 for the round-trip flight and hotel.

I also booked a cab to the airport online through www.easycabs.com, which another co-worker describes as “reliable, but not the cheapest”. So many bookings. So much not-speaking-to-actual-people to do so. I like it. Assuming it works.

Other random stuff to fill up space:

Got to Skype with my grandparents for the first time! Way cool. Wish my internet connection was faster, though.

My first container of floss lasted exactly two months:

Click on the photo to see the site I stole this pic from.
It also captures my feelings on the subject.

I’ve seen the occasional mosquito, though they haven’t appeared in full force. Still, good to have:

A “Mosquito-Killing Racquet”

After some hunting, Peter and Chris found this for me yesterday in a neighborhood market! Yes! Mosquitoes DIE. Best part: it’s rechargeable – ZAP!

It’s a bummer that neither Netflix nor Pandora work in India, but Pandora’s message is nice:

Dear Pandora Visitor,

We are deeply, deeply sorry to say that due to licensing constraints, we can no longer allow access to Pandora for listeners located outside of the U.S., Australia and New Zealand. We will continue to work diligently to realize the vision of a truly global Pandora, but for the time being we are required to restrict its use. We are very sad to have to do this, but there is no other alternative.

From the “I didn’t know that was a liability” department:

Actual sign in my supermarket

Also…

He’s ventured into the living room now…

So I should be back with a hundred photos – or a good story why not – following the weekend.

So I left my invisible husband in Aurangabad.

The online reservation I made through EasyCabs came through after all. Although the driver did get a bit lost and I had to hand my phone to the front desk to pass on directions, he arrived on time and the back seat had (gasp) seatbelts. The clean, modern, spacious, flashback-to-Heathrow airport that is Delhi’s Domestic Terminal 3 was a pleasant place to relax and purchase a swirly gold ring, which I put on at the store while four attentive clerks (groomsmen?) watched. (Enough of my friends and co-workers expressed concern that I was traveling alone, this was the best I could do on short notice aside from packing Guido in my backpack.)

At the airport, I also learned the yoga Sun Salutation.

Boarding was a breeze. The pilot sped around the curve and we took off. The flight attendants (dressed in saris) served us a full meal, but no soft drinks, for the less than an hour and a half flight. At Aurangabad, a man was waiting with my name on a sign. “The Meadows welcomes Ms. Melissa Fedak”. I love when people are waiting at airport exits with my name on a sign. Partly because of the justification for ignoring the calls of “taxi ma’am” around me but really because it just makes me feel special. Look, that’s my name, that’s ME.

As hoped, the staff at the hotel were able to book a tour guide and driver for me for the next two days, despite the short notice. My room was a cottage that I’ll call “India clean” that had a back door. Around sunset, I opened the back door and heard what I believe was a Muslim call to prayer. Quite beautiful. Then I got a phone call where the man on the other end very persistently tried to sell me a massage. After my hesitation, he changed it to a food massage. Which I understood after a few repetitions to be a foot massage. Not so beautiful.

My room in the cottage

Alone in the hotel restaurant – I had yet to see any other guests – I perused the menu for dinner, realizing that the helpful English descriptions are only useful when you actually know what an aubergine is.

(Just looked it up. Eggplant. Ah, that makes sense now.)

Too cold (and loud) with the air conditioner on and too hot with it off, I finally managed to keep just the fan consistently running and tried to get to sleep. Woke up with over 10 mosquito bites on my arms. (Even though I killed the one mosquito I did see.) Sigh.

My tour guide arrived so promptly at 9am, I missed the last course of my gradually served “American style” breakfast where the choices of how I wanted my egg cooked were “boil, boil and fry, or scrambled.” Obviously, I must have misheard so I ordered “fried.” No, I heard correctly. The eggs arrived hard boiled. Then deep fried.

I liked my Sikh tour guide immediately. He wanted to take me to a fort on the way to Ellora Caves “before it got too hot”. I shrugged and was thinking, another boring fort, ok I guess, but this was the Coolest Fort Ever! This was cool in a Helm’s Deep kind of way. With monkeys.

No railings? Another way the enemy could be defeated! If the baby monkeys didn’t snuggle them to death.

What made this fort worth it (like Fort Worth?) was how you could clearly envision its defensibility. Besides the walls within walls surrounding a moat that was actually deep (3 stories deep), there were clever double gates at a ninety-degree angle that made it hard for a battering ram or elephant to get through, with a hiding place for soldiers. Then there was path that turned into a tiny opening that soldiers would have to crawl through one at a time, making them a target for a beheading. (The tour guide even showed me the side drop-off to the moat where they could throw enemy bodies to the crocodiles below, oh yes.)

Then there was the Passage of Dark. Inside was a dark, and I mean pitch black, passage full of bats that twisted and curved up and down. Tour guide brought the required flashlight to navigate it. I love bats, even the one that startled me by briefly landing on my shoulder. I love bats because they eat mosquitoes.

If the attackers made it past the passage, then they would come upon a circular path that doubled back on itself, so they might turn on their own army, thinking it was the enemy. The two exits, if they could find them, were the correct one that in the past was kept discouragingly warm with a distant fire. The tempting path with a cool breeze led right into a hole that dropped you into the moat! This fort is full of clever.

If you were to continue after that, you’d get to the sheer 90-foot cliff they carved into the hillside. The fort itself was never penetrated. The only way an enemy won was to starve the tenants out.

In short, Daulatabad Fort = Win

It was sunny and getting hotter by the minute. Probably high 80s by now. We bought cold water at a stand across the street after the guide assured me that it was safe and the water was a good brand (and I checked, as always, that I had to break the cap). Then I applied sunscreen. And off we went, thanks to our patient driver (who kept the car shaded and air-conditioner running ahead of time for us) to Ellora Caves.

The Ellora Those-Aren’t-Caves

The Ellora Caves were built a long time ago. Between the 5th and 11th century. That’s old! Three religions: Buddhist, Hindu, and Jain are represented, co-existing peacefully. Carved figures, small and big, are everywhere.

Also, the Ellora Caves are not caves.

Cave 16. Not a Cave.

Storytelling in Stone

Rock Overhang Won’t
Collapse Now, Right?

Sneaky
Smoochers

They were excavated and built downward (or inward), all out of one piece of volcanic rock. Cave 16 is the largest monolithic structure in the world. I look at it. And my brain does not compute that this is what they say this is. It’s impossible. The time, the effort, the planning, the manpower, the skill this would have taken to do… It’s too mind-boggling to exist.

Cave 16 (there are over 30 caves, but it’s all about Cave 16) is also called Kailasha. The illusion is convincing. There are pillars and supports as if it was built from the ground up. But it was built from the top down.

Even standing inside, I can’t believe what I’m looking at. It just kind of looks like a cool, old slowly disintegrating stone/concrete temple. No one carved it out of rock. Because that would be unthinkably difficult.

In this and other caves were repeating themes and characters. The Jain figures of one sect are all nude and have a Buddha-like figure in the center flanked by a husband and wife (on an elephant and lion respectively). On one side is a devotee meditating so long and intently to reach enlightenment that he has vines growing up around him. Opposite that is the previous incarnation of the Buddha with a seven-headed cobra above him. Cave 16 is Hindu and full of dancing figures and elephants. In the Buddhist caves, there is almost always a large Buddha sitting mysteriously in the center chamber furthest back, the stone figure barely lit by the daylight. (One partially finished statue with just a head freaked me out a bit.)

Many of the Buddhist caves functioned as living quarters for monks and had a central church-like place of worship to gather. Hard to imagine living in such a place with little light and no plumbing. But fantastic echoes. (My tour guide treated me to some spontaneous chanting; indeed an impressive sound.)

Cave 10:
Stone Imitating Wood,
Cavity Imitating Structure
Still technically not a cave

After we toured the significant caves (where I steadfastly avoided buying the official “Ellora and Ajanta” book that every tout was selling), I asked to see the closeby Ghrishneshwar Temple because I had seen a cool photo of it online.

The tour guide warned me a little too late that this was more a religious destination than a tourist destination. No photography allowed anywhere on the grounds. (Really? Then where did the photo on the internet come from?) Again with the shoes off and stepping on dirty, shod places (ugh), then awkwardly walking in the middle of lots of Hindu devotees, the two of us: a blonde and a Sikh. Out of place much? Somehow, he enabled me to cut in line, which I didn’t want to do, and go and make an offering, which I didn’t have. Started to feel uncomfortable and declined and we left.

Mood took a further downturn when I got dragged to a tourist shop. Still half in my shopping mode from last weekend, I thought maybe I’d actually find something. No. I somehow got skillfully roped into this sales pitch about the famous himroo fabric (silk and cotton) which sure, is very nice and well-made and all, but the only scarf he showed me that I had any mild interest in was $120. No. Not for an unsolicited scarf. Sorry. Then I had to feel that guilt of obligation or whatever. Lovely.

At least he remembered lunch. Our shared paneer, dal, and naan was tasty. Noticed that he did not seem to pay. Wonder if he gets a free lunch for bringing his clients here.

He dropped me off at the hotel after that. It was about 2:30. I gave him (as well as the driver) a tip, because I do that. I was slightly disappointed, though, because I had been hoping for a full day See Everything kind of tour. And there was still plenty of daylight left. Happily for me, the hotel staff were up to the task. I was able to grab my same driver, ask the staff their top picks from the pamphlet, and have him take me there, guide or no guide, within minutes.

1. Panchakki I’m sure there is a mill somewhere around here and something special about it that I was supposed to see? I looked all around to make sure I wasn’t missing this 400-year-old mill of historical significance, but I think I walked the whole grounds and checked around every corner. I did see a rotating fan thing in the water spinning a stone grinder. I guess that was it?

I saw cool other stuff in the meanwhile:

Banyan Tree

Found cool overgrown stairs looking for the mill
Caught on camera unintentionally: family of four on motorcycle

There were two kids who managed to extract three chocolates each from me because they were so darn cute (though I saw noticeably less begging here than in Delhi and did not give away all I brought). Panchakki wasn’t really a waste of time, but I missed entirely why I paid 100 rupees.

2. Bibi-ka-Maqbara This is Aurangabad’s pride. The name simply means White Mausoleum I believe. I was most surprised to find that this Taj-looking building is nearly as old as the Taj itself! As I stood in the entrance way (following the security check), an old man in flip-flops offered to explain the details in the entry structure to me for 100 rupees. I hesitated, then finally just shrugged and said okay. A bit afterward, as we started walking the grounds, I began to wonder if he was going to say later, “well, the entry was 100 rupees, but the rest is another 500″ or whatever. Trying to guess what the final total would be, I followed the old guide around.

Bibi Ka Maqbara
(Not the Taj Mahal)

As we strolled, he gave a pretty decent explanation of various points of interest (like how this place is a third the size of the Taj and not all marble due to budgetary constraints) and took photos of me. A lot of people took photos of me including, a bit to my surprise, two well-dressed girls, taking a photo with me each separately (so this isn’t something just guys do). And I was in a family photo, then just with their kids. Then with a couple polite guys. I’m sure I was pretty sweaty and sunburned at this point, but still interesting enough I guess. I wonder if I’m more approachable because I’m alone or if they’ll go up to any of the non-Indian tourists.

Finally, at the end, I just asked how much I owed him, preparing to wince.

But all he said was, “as you like.”

You win! My offered 500 rupees went like lightening from my hand to his shirt pocket. My dutifully waiting driver then took me to my final stop.

View of Bibi from Aurangabad Caves

3. Aurangabad Caves Some of these were actually caves (meaning naturally caved out rock) but there were the temples and Buddhas too. And lots of stairs. My favorite part was actually the view back to the city (and the minarets of the mini-Taj in the distance.) A variety of people were checking out the caves; Indian tourists, non-Indian tourists, some groups of local guys. Every time I notice a group of guys staring at me, I’m now saying “hello”. Without exception, they always say “hello” politely back, it’s actually kind of funny. Though if I feel any creepy factor (I usually don’t) then I keep my distance.

Aurangabad Caves

The desired action here is unclear.
(Also, what the heck is a chapple?)

Aurangabad (Actual) Caves

Aurangabad Boobs

When I got back to the hotel, I asked if there was any internet. (I think every hotel in the world advertises internet. I learned in Russia how little that is a predictor of actual internet.) The woman – the same woman I see every single time I approach the front desk – confidently said yes. Then she went to check with someone. Then she invited me into the hotel’s back accounting room to let me use one of their computers. (!) It was slow. And had discouraging virus-checker notifications popping up a lot. But I got my internet fix.

I skipped dinner and just had munchies and watched TV. The cable channels scrolling through the guide were a tease. Most of them were not available. But they did have National Geographic and Discovery: Science and that kept me mostly occupied. I also watched BBC News and the Al Jazeera English network for a while just to get that refreshing view of America outside of America.

The woman at the desk called me, just double checking that I didn’t want that massage. Why don’t people get it? The more you try to sell me something, the less I want it, regardless of what it is. Case in point: pasta sauce. I found this pasta sauce in my supermarket that looked like it had all natural ingredients. I bought it. It was fine. But every time I go to any supermarket in this chain, they coincidentally push this pasta sauce on me. “All natural,” they say. I’m now supremely suspicious of the pasta sauce. As far as the massage goes, the main problem is that this is not the kind of hotel I’d expect a massage at. This is no five-star luxury.

Does this reek of in-authenticity or what? I mean, besides the three or so spelling errors.

I turned on the A/C tonight after my hot shower. My exhaustion from the long day was adequate for me to tune out the noise and get a good night’s sleep. I had significantly less new mosquito bites in the morning. I guess that is a win.

Ajanta Caves are a two-hour drive from Aurangabad (unlike the 15-minutes-away Ellora Caves.) So I took the suggestion to leave an hour earlier. The driver and guide were still punctual, yay.

As we drove, I noticed we passed many mosques. And at least as many cell phone towers. I learned that Aurangabad started out as a predominantly Muslim town, though with the industrial boom of the last two decades, the percentage of Muslims is down to just over a third, behind the Hindus. I saw a woman in the full black outfit – only her eyes showing – driving a scooter. We passed the time talking about travel in Jammu & Kashmir, which is something we both want to do in the coming months. A fun conversation! We kept passing booths offering Fresh Ice Gola. I thought, that many people can’t be misspelling Cola. I was correct.

At one point, we had to come to a full stop because a goat was stopped in the middle of the road. Honk. Bleat. Goat moved on. I’ve been reading everywhere how diverse India is both geographically and culturally. And I’m sure it is. But, from my foreigner’s eyes, all I can see is a city that looks pretty much like a hilly version of Delhi except that there are goats instead of cows and the autorickshaws are black instead of green. I’m sure people from Aurangabad would shake their heads wondering how I could think these completely different cities are similar. They even speak an entirely different language here (Marathi) even though they use the same script.

Aurangabad: Feel the Difference

As we drove (past one of the historical city “gates”) out of the city, the guide commented that the scenery was often compared to California. And I could kind of see it! Dry hills and mesas with little trees.

Aurangabad, CA?

Apparently, Aurangabad had been experiencing a drought over the last few years. That could explain the actions of these monkeys, hanging out near the market where we caught the 20-rupee shuttle bus to the caves.

Clever primates, you

The bus took us up a curvy road to the entrance of Ajanta. All us foreigners soon gathered at the ticket office (the guy did not want to break my 1000 for a 250-rupee ticket, but I made him anyway) next to a restaurant and a juice bar. Up a bit and you could see, at a glance, almost all of the horseshoe-shaped Ajanta complex. Pretty amazing. Apparently, each cave was originally separate, with a stairwell leading up to it from the valley below. It was only in more recent years that they were all connected with a concrete walkway.

Ajanta is famous for its paintings more than its sculptures and structures. What I liked most about it was its location. But the architecture and carvings were still impressive, even if they didn’t touch Ellora’s Cave 16 in pure enigmaticness.

Also, need I add. These are not caves.

Ajanta Caves of Awesome

My tour guide was knowledgeable and a fantastic storyteller. He is the one that explained how significant these paintings were. For being extremely old works of art – the newest were completed in 500 A.D. but some were from the 2nd century B.C. – they showed an astonishing understanding of perspective and foreshortening. (Foreshortening meaning – since I had to ask for a definition – the way a head looks when its turned.) Egyptian paintings, for example, don’t have these features.

The detail was also marvelous because, unlike frescoes, the paint did not seep into the stone, so the lines were very fine. When I pointed out the variety of skin color of the subjects of many paintings, he said it was mainly for contrast, nothing to do with actual race, as the figures were often couples or close together.

My tour guide called the paintings at Ajanta “The oldest modern paintings”

My tour guide really brought the paintings to life for me. I could have just stared, intrigued but baffled. But he told me how the parasol (like the halo in Christian paintings) represents someone important, usually the Buddha. (Sometimes, you even see three parasols.) He explained, for example, how the huddled people in the house in one painting were conspiring to kill the Buddha and that they set a rampaging drunk elephant loose on the town. You could see a shopkeeper hastily pulling down his shutters but a little ways over in the building, the shopkeepers were opening up again because the elephant, upon seeing the Buddha, bowed instead of attacked. How the story was told in the same painting (like comic book panels without the panels) was fascinating.

My favorite story in a painting he related was about monkeys. He pointed the flashlight across the wall mural, which took up about two-thirds of the space from floor to ceiling, and told me the story.

“Once upon a time, Buddha monkey, the strongest of them all, told the other monkeys in the tree not to let any of the fruit overhanging the river to fall in the water. But the monkeys were careless. A fruit fell in, floated downstream and was found by the King and Queen. They tasted the fruit and thought it was so delicious, they walked up the river to track the tree down.”

“When they found the tree, the declared it a royal tree and ordered that the monkeys be shot out of it with bow and arrow. So his brothers and sisters could escape, Buddha, being the largest monkey, reached across from an overhanging branch all the way to a ledge on the other side of the river.”

“The monkeys crossed and were saved. But Buddha’s jealous cousin decided to stamp on Buddha until he fell out of the tree. Buddha crashed to the ground, very injured, but held no ill will against his cousin. The king and queen were so overwhelmed by his forgiveness of the cruel monkey that they nursed him back to health.”

At the end (in the corner of the painting), Buddha monkey is seen giving a sermon.

All the elements of the story were in one large painting that looked like a single, elaborate scene, but were actually scenes within scenes. The large tree, the king and queen, the men with bows and arrows, the Buddha monkey stretching across the river. But I’m not sure I would have put it all together had I just studied it.

The jealous cousin is a standard villain in the stories, but Buddha’s self-sacrificing nature always overcomes. There is often a sermon following the happy ending.

As we reached as far as we could walk along the path (before running into the caves that were under maintenance) I chatted with a group of college students who were, to my astonishment, all finishing up engineering degrees focused on web development! So I asked if they were learning jQuery and they were like, “of course, of course.” I chatted with them for a bit and, thanks to the tour guide, finally got to have one of the many pictures I pose in taken on my own camera. This one was a particularly large group.

(I’m the one in the middle)

I had some noodles and a banana lassi (yum, and yum) at the official Maharashtra Tourism Restaurant while cricket played on the TV. My tour guide met me half an hour later to walk me back through the gift market to the car. He had warned that the touts were more aggressive here than at other places, but they did not seem so bad, even though one did start this whole conversation when I first arrived, claiming his name was “John.” Notably, the man who rediscovered Ajanta in the early 1800s, as it had been lost to the world for centuries, was a Brit named John Smith. As I exited, a dude said “Remember me, I’m John,” but I think it was a different guy. They both wanted to sell me the official “Ellora & Ajanta” book.

Leaving Ajanta
(Taken from the one place I saw beggars.)

The following morning didn’t start off great and kept on more-or-less in that fashion. Nothing horrible, just crankiness-inducing. First was the 8:30am “wake-up” call just to check one more time about that massage. I spent a good portion of my free time that morning (as the tour guide agreed that there really was not much else nearby worth checking out) writing feedback for the hotel – along with my cash tip for the maid – indicating how creepy the massage requests were and why.

At my last breakfast at the hotel, one of the waiters offered me an omelette for the first time. D’oh. So I had one. I also determined, after sitting at the pool under a tree reading for another thirty minutes or so after breakfast, that I am the only guest here. I’ve eaten the complimentary breakfast now at 7:15am, 8:15am and 9:45am. Never once have I seen another guest. In the accounting room the other night when I was online, I saw a whiteboard that indicated 18 of the 48 cottages were occupied. My only guess is that they are occupied by the myriad of workers I see everywhere – gardeners, housekeepers, waitstaff, poolboys, receptionists, etc. Because otherwise, these guests really keep to themselves.

I had a bit of sticker shock when I got the bill for all the tour guides. I only ever heard two numbers quoted to me. 2800 ($50) first for the guide. Then 800 ($15) later for my spontaneous excursion into Aurangabad. The grand total with all the guides / drivers / taxes for both days actually came to about $170. Although that is a reasonable price for the services I received – my tour guides were experienced professionals – it was still higher than I had been expecting.

(Just breaking up the monotony down here)

Trying to be safe and arrive early for my 4:20pm flight, I actually got there before the airport opened the airline check-in and security for the day! (For a city half the size of Denver, I kind of expected something bigger.) So I ended up hanging out in the lobby with the other tourists until 3:00pm, when I finally got my boarding pass but not the stamped, blank luggage tags that are apparently required for carry-ons so I got turned away at security and had to go back to the counter. Good thing it wasn’t crowded. Once the waiting room opened up, at least the snack booth guy in the corner opened as well, though he told me my cup o’ noodles would take 10 minutes. (It didn’t, but I gaped at him in disbelief at the time. It’s a cup of noodles. Just add hot water.)

Then someone turned on the TV and the same annoying commercial repeated over and over for a solid 10-15 minutes until I actually walked up to the television, intent on taking that chair from the unmanned “Public Grievance Counter” and standing on it to reach a button – any button. Maybe someone saw my expression of Doom. Because suddenly the channel changed to cricket.

The plane boarded on time, but a dude stole my window seat and I said aloud, pretty sure no one understood my accent anyway, “You’re stealing my window seat now, huh? I guess that’s how my day is going. Forget it, I’m just going to roll with it.” Then he sat there against the window, blasting his headphones the whole flight (even during take off and landing) while the kids behind me remained quite active. After a smooth landing (at least) I found the airport Delhi metro station and discovered that my Metro SmartCard doesn’t work. It is a special metro. That you pay extra for. Luckily no line. I did get to talk for a while to a British backpacker who had just come from Sri Lanka, which was kind of fun.

That evening, I felt the third finger of my left hand. I had taken off the ring at the sink to wash my hands at the hotel, though somehow failed to notice the gold sparkle during my walkthrough. Yep. I left my invisible husband in Aurangabad.