India- The whole of humanity in one cheese wedge shaped country
Saturday, September 27th, 2008
The roller coaster ride that is India.
PART ONE: You start at the bottom, lump-in-the-throat nervous, looking around, quietly excited, wondering…
It’s hard to start writing about traveling in India. It’s not a positive or negative experience. It’s a life changing experience that you have to take with a grain (no, make that a cup) of salt and make it into your own experience. We came to India 4 years ago, and there were some fears we wouldn’t enjoy it as much as last time. For the Froggies, it would be a disaster. No wine, dry tasteless goat’s cheese, and more shit on the streets than a Paris suburb. How would they survive?
Arriving at our hotel and the main bazaar in Delhi, the senses were invaded by familiar sounds and smells. The rickshaw driver yelling “(Indian accent) Mister…mister wherda yu goingh?” The shops; “Where dyu frodm? Just looking…looking is for free”.
And the smells; a weird combination of cow and dog shit (I wanted to use a nice word like droppings or doodoo, but this just doesn’t convey the real experience), cow, dog and human urine, cloudy pools of stagnant water, and wafting smells of deep fried samosa. I’ll check with the Frogs, but I don’t think this smell goes perfectly with food.
Some people love Delhi. We didn’t, and at the very first chance we could, we left by train to go to Agra and the Taj Mahal, the jewel of India.
Climbing up the first incline… nervous anticipation…
Anyone who has been to India will know a huge part of traveling here is the trains. The only good thing the British did while they were here, apparently. So we were standing, sweating from the muggy monsoon air, waiting, about 50 other Indians watching our every single move, staring down on the tracks stained with the red spit from the tobacco they chew, and the usual bodily excretions that just ‘fall’ from the train. One thing the British unfortunately didn’t leave was the art of queuing, as even though we had reserved seating, everyone pushed as if Sachan Tendulker was in the next carriage. We carved our way through the crowds taking out a few of the smaller ones with our gargantuan back packs, and finally sat down. Despite only being in Delhi for a day, it left its mark on Benji with a little ‘Delhi Belly’. As soon as the train was rolling he snuck out of the carriage to leave the tracks a little present of his own. Searching around frantically for the toilet paper, Benji found to his delight that the Indian railways only offered a leaky tap on the opposite wall. This was the first use of the ‘left hand’. Thank god we had hospital grade disinfectant. Needless to say, Benji has been eating with his right hand ever since…
The loop the loop, but so early…
Stepping into the packed Agra train station, we walked through the beautiful waves of brightly covered saris and shirts, and entered into a swarm of yelling rickshaw drivers, dodged the cows and their ‘waste’, side-stepped the pile of rotting rubbish and the spots of red spit dotting the ground, and found a taxi. Luckily he was a nice fellow, and we got him down to about half the original price. We were off to see our first wonder of the world on this trip, but not the last- The Taj Mahal. Dropping us off well short of the Taj, we pushed through the crowds to the ticket booth. You often feel like you’re being taken for a ride in India, but current pricing for the Taj is 20 rupees for Indians, 750 rupees for Foreigners. Armed with our paper shoe covers, we watched quietly in a stupor as the confused Frogs tried to work out what they were for.
Photos will never do justice to the Taj, and neither will our words. It is just stunning, sitting atop its marble base so that only sky is visible behind. It’s huge scale, opulence and pure white marble render you speechless… for a couple of moments… before you return to normal and start lining up photos of you posing like rock stars in front of the giant meringue.
The Taj Mahal in it’s many lights…
Oh god, the ride’s hardly begun and we’re already about to chunder…
Delhi, now Agra, hadn’t really inspired us (except for the Taj). And little did we know that it would be another week before we were really enjoying ourselves again. We took a train that night to Varanasi 780km’s south east of Delhi and the stomach churning began.
Varanasi. THE holy city in India. We arrived in the afternoon with a heat that was making even the Indians sweat. Packed into a rickshaw with our heavy packs on our knees, the driver stopped and announced we’d have to go the rest of the way on foot- 15minutes- through the narrow alley ways. Maybe it was because we were past that ‘first time in India buzz’, but this was depressing. The labyrinth of alleys were only wide enough for two people to pass each other, cows roamed freely letting their waste pour everywhere. Dogs, people, bicycles and rats fought for space in the tights lanes. Both sides were full of shops and people, selling everything for anyone. We even passed a stable, with a young boy tending to donkeys and sleeping on a dirty sack in his dark hole. The smells were an overwhelming roller coaster; cow shit, human urine, deep fried sweets from a stall, a body odour stench, curry samosas from another stall. To be honest we didn’t really feel like eating. Of course the hotel we were going to was full, and somehow so were all of the surrounding ones, so we had to slog back through the streets, sweating profusely for another 20mins. Our driver eventually convinced us to go to a hotel we could just drive up to. Genius…!
Oh god, here comes the big loop and my tikka masala is on its way back up…
It’s hard to paint a picture of what a hellish time you can have in this riverside toxic waste dump. It IS the holiest city in India. You DO feel fleeting moments of deep spirituality and calm. But our experience was overwhelmed by the other unruly sensual invasions. It was one of those ‘Only in India, Incredible India’ moments where you want to kick those marketers in the goolies. We all promptly proceeded to get sick, not being able to move for 3 days, our entire bodies aching, any food running out of us within 15 minutes, chronic headaches, and topped off with a suffocating mugginess. The power is cut in the middle of the day for 4 hours in Varanasi to power the water treatment plants, so we lay there on our beds in the heat of the day, sweating, tossing and turning wondering how much better hell might be. At one point Benji had to leap from his death bed to chase out a little vicious monkey that was holding our bag of used video cassettes. Due to Benji’s hairiness, the others didn’t know who to back- the hairy hissing animal with wild eyes, or the monkey. He dropped them this time (the monkey), but was back later so we could show him our teeth and really make him angry. Leapfrog 1- Monkeys 0.
Who’s a cheeky little monkey then?
On day three we headed to the Ghats (the steps leading down to the holy Ganges river), feeling rough, the stench of shit in the street heating up in the sun didn’t make us feel better. Being the holiest river in India, many Indians send their bodies to be burnt on the banks and thrown into the river. If you’ve got lots of money you get a huge bonfire and your ashes are thrown into the river. Less money and your body is half burnt on a small fire, and the charred remains are thrown into the Ganges. Very little money and your whole body is just chucked into the Ganges. So we’ve established it’s a very holy, important river in India, if not a little dirty. However delve into the statistics and it gets a little scarier. There are a number of open sewer outlets flowing into the Ganges just in the city, as well as the usual run off from the filthy streets. Add to that 30 other sewer outlets upstream and you have water that is actually septic, with 3000 times too much fecal matter to be safe to swim in. The water is so polluted that apparently there are no dissolved oxygen particles in the water. Needless to say we canceled our swimming expedition that day. We looked on in horror as old women dunked their heads into the brown ooze and collected bottles of water while a small child hung his derrière over the river for his morning number ‘twos’. We were ready to get out of this hell hole.
Despite our experience, we may go back in the future to truly discover another side of Varanasi, but we’ll pack our bio-hazard suits.
Climbing high, feeling better, ready for some fun now…
Another 24 hours of trains, sweet tea and samosa, we were in Amritsar north of Delhi by the Pakistani border. We’d been told about a curious little military display at the border post, so headed there with an Indian cardboard sun hat and small plastic flag. The relationship between Pakistan has always been a little ‘hot’ as the Frogs would say- ever since some poor old English Officer had to draw in some borders to prevent religious wars. So now every evening there is a little show of muscle between the Indian and Pakistani guards as they lower their flags (ever so slowly so no side has a noticeable advantage) and perform a leg swinging march resembling a strange mix of a carnival and 1939 Germany.
Who is that retard?……………………..And the Indian border guards all ready to scare the Pakistan side…
Ushered through to the VIP section, sweat pouring from our faces, the cardboard sun hat becoming soggy, we caught a glimpse of an Indian viciously swinging his legs behind the barracks. From the built-up grandstands (oh yea, this little show-off is that big!) we watched a guy in civilian clothing brandishing a microphone and enticing people to come up and dance to the shrill sound of Indian dance music. Two groups formed, scrutinized closely by the official border MC. The women danced a kind of down-n-dirty club dance, while the men were held back by a rope 50m away. The first few rows just gawked at the women dancing, with the rest jumping up and down waving handkerchiefs. If this is an indication of what night clubs are like in India, how come they have an overpopulation problem?
It soon became quite serious, and dear we say a little fanatical. Our MC started shouting into the mic ‘HINNN-DU-STAAAAN’ as the whole crowd, some 2000 people, screamed back ‘JINNA-BAAAD’! The screams were deafening around us. The Frogs looked at each other a bit sacred by the enthusiasm, but I may have had a little tear of pride. Not that there is an ounce of Indian blood in me, it was just impressive to see this pride of being Indian. Finally our 6 soldiers lined up and started some deep throated jungle call, that was matched by the similarly pompous dressed Pakistani soldiers 30m on the other side of the fence. Soon both sides were entering into the ‘Look ma, I can kick myself in the head’ competition and raced each other to the gate to exchange menacing glances. A good 30 minutes later after many war cries and stomping of feet the flag was painstakingly lowered at geriatric snail speed. A staunch looking soldier from both sides was sent through the gates to grimace and shake hands begrudgingly, before the gates were firmly closed again, leaving both sides to go away and stretch their hamstrings for the next day. Some thought all of this nationalism was ‘a bit scary’; some pushed a tear at the patriotic nature of it all. But it may have just been the dust.
A week in, we were starting to enjoy ourselves and see a real Indian culture and nationalism rather than disease ridden alleys.
The top of the world. This little ride ain’t so bad after all!
Into the base of the Himalayas we ventured, up to Daremasala and the small former English post of McLeod Gange- home of the Dalai Lama. Bumping up there in the bus on the wooden seats compacted all of our spines by 3cm, Benji especially not being able to afford 3cm in height. But what kept us alive was the air and the view! It seemed like a lifetime since we smelt cool mountain air and were amongst a little nature again. Tumbling from the bus we were immediately greeted by a bakery selling rich chocolate cake with chocolate shards for 20rs (35c Euro), and an Italian pasta restaurant. We instantly knew we’d be here for a while as we were still not hot on curries since Varanasi.
The French intervened again, but this time it was the Dalai Lama they had in their sights. After a tour in France, he had been shipped back to India. Poisoned by a rotting Camembert, he went to the hospital in France only to nearly go into shock at the amount of paperwork, so chose to go back to Mumbai hospital. Although we visited his palace, we never saw His Holiness. But the Free Tibet campaign there was in full swing and it was difficult not to feel an immense amount of anger and frustration for the situation these gentle people have found themselves in. We spoke to the monks, saw the photos and talked to the refugees. Although one side of the story, it was a fairly compelling one. FREE TIBET!
Cruising into home a little rattled and buzzed. Time for another ride!
The mountains provided some much needed rest and time for us to press the ‘reset’ button for another 2 weeks in India. Bring on Rajastan and the Maharajas, our friend’s mango farm, the beach paradise of Goa and a couple of days in ex-French colony of Pondicherry. The ups and downs have only just begun!
