down the hill

guppy in my lappy

I am officially on “travel time” now, and have been for several weeks. I have no clue what day it is, no clue what time it is, but I do know that it is mid-December. And 2010 is almost done-zo. It still gives me a good chuckle anytime a fellow backpack-totin' traveler asks me what day of the week it is, like the Australian at the tout-infested Delhi railway reservation office. He was only trying to fill out the train ticket paperwork but you would have thought he was stuck on question #472 of his final rocket scientist PhD exam. He just needed to know if it was Monday, maybe Thursday, possibly Wednesday? We asked around and came to the conclusion that it was Saturday. We think.

November was bliss in the mountains. Quiet, peaceful, blue skies, a sun that seemed to quickly leap from the ridge of one Himalayan peak, across the narrow valley, to another. Which led to chilly afternoons and a short day. Obviously, the mountain regions of India aren't in their high tourist season in the winter, so most of the shops are closed, which just adds to the solitude, although, it is still India and there is always construction going on somewhere, even in Manali. Incessant pounding of hammers and a steady stream of tractors polluting their way up the potholed roads. A lazy few weeks with hill climbing, some beer drinking, picture taking, puppy saving, space expeditions, tea drinking, dragon slaying, blanket huddling. So many puppies in the mountains now, like I mentioned in my last post. The most special one is Guppy. Rhymes with puppy. He's not a brown fluff ball like the others, blondes gotta look out for each other as we are a dying breed. This little guy was a feeble mess with too many ribs showing when I met him. He just needed a little love and a lap and some baths and some medicine and food and milk and now he is king of the mountain. Was sad to leave him, but he is in very good hands now. In fact, a little old Japanese lady is knitting him a sweater right now.

pahar ganj, delhi

From the mountains back to the belly o' Delhi. So many touts in this city, what with it being so close to Agra (Taj Mahal) and Rajasthan (desert and camels), top tourist destinations. It is hard to walk anywhere without being offered something...madame you need scarf? You need lunch? You need rickshaw? You need hash? You need bag? Come look my shop. Looking for free. Mostly the touts just try to get tourists to buy train/bus/taxi tickets from the overpriced private shops instead of the legitimate agencies. They will say anything to convince gullible travelers to go someplace in particular so that they reap the rewards of commission. Like that the Tourist Reservation office at the train station burned down yesterday, so I MUST go to such-and-such office. But there are honest people still. Like the Indian who did point out that the train ticket office was located upstairs and to the left of the toilets. And lo and behold, I was not surprised to see that the office was fully intact and functional, not a gutted pile of ashy rubble. 

Most budget guesthouses are located in Pahar Ganj, the Delhi backpacker ghetto just across the road from the train station, full of narrow alleys and photo opportunities galore. I was nursing my 4^th chai of the day in a tea stall and chatting with a young boy who had just returned from school and was eager to practice his English with me. His vocabulary and questions were well thought-out and carefully chosen and after talking about where I was from and the size of my country, he decided that “America is like jacket, and India like button.”And he is the first child I have come across in a long time who did not ask me for chocolate or a pen or money. No, none of these things are ok to hand out as it encourages begging. Whatever hippies starting giving kids chocolate and pens back in the day should see what they have done to this country. I could be in the middle-of-nowhere village and the kids will just pour into the street and yell at me for chocolate and school pens. And even when I have chocolate, seriously, I don't just give that out. I NEED it. Almost daily.silly kids.

delhi

Three hour train to Agra. Delayed, took five. The city is pretty rough around the edges, dirty, run down, skeleton dogs running from trash heap to trash heap. But, I have to say, the Taj Mahal is as stunning and luminous in real life as it is in glossy photos and coffee-table books. I queued up before sunrise and was able to explore the mausoleum before the hordes (or herds) of package tourists showed up mid-morning. For those not in the know, the Taj is a memorial built by Emperor Shah Jahan for his wife Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their 14^th child in 1631. I probably took a couple gigabytes worth of photos, but also put the camera away and just sat on a bench off to the side and observed for awhile. The grounds are walled with brick red mosques to each side of the Taj and landscaped gardens flank the long reflection pool that bisects the whole enclosure. There isn't much to the inside of the monument, it is just a small, round room with two marble cenotaphs in the center. Shah Jahan and his wife are actually buried in the basement directly below, but this isn't for viewing. I got my turn on the “princess Diana posing bench” for a couple pictures. Actually I probably got more time on that bench than anyone else that whole day once the Indian men started asking to pose with me. When I allow one picture, the flood gates open and then everyone asks. It's still weird to me. Nothing flattering, just bizarre. Sometimes I say “no” and sometimes when I am walking I will just hear the little click of some dude's camera phone. At least some of them try to be inconspicuous. Anyway, I spent several hours on the grounds, but also spent several hours just walking a huge ½ mile radius around the Taj Mahal for different vantage points. I still can't believe how short of a distance I have to venture anywhere near a tourist spot to completely lose anyone with white skin and a fanny pack. Adventures are made when the crowd is lost. Plus, I was really trying to avoid the guesthouse area at all costs. Frenchmen are persistent. And no, the romantic accent didn't eclipse their friendly, but stalkerish perseverance. Come to think of it, the Indians and their cameras are much more manageable.

Four hour train to Jhansi. Delayed, took six. Or something like that. I must have had a 24 hour bug of sorts because I slept on that train like nobody's business. Mouth was probably gaping open, drool, head bouncing off the window. Slept nearly three hours upright, destination reached, found a guesthouse in Jhansi, took a long nap, no appetite, in bed by 9pm. The next day was much the same, couldn't get enough sleep. Just fatigue, thankfully not the flu. The train from Jhansi to Khajuraho (4 hours) must not be the typical mode of transportation between the two towns, as I was the only tourist. Which means lots of staring for me. I shared the open berth with a family of six- the newspaper reading dad, bossy older sister, cute brother, two toothless grannies, and the disciplinarian mother. It took a couple hours, but finally the ten-year-old girl mustered up enough confidence to talk to me and act as the translator for everyone in a three bench-seat radius. Her English was pretty limited and at first she just asked the questions that everyone else wanted to know. “What is your husband's name?” No husband. That always gets me some quizzical looks and interpretive nods. This is India, where a woman's identity seems only to exist through her closest male counterparts, usually the husband, or in the case of a mate-less girl, her father. So, after I told everyone that I had no husband, they needed to know my father's name. And because of the limited English on board this train, they kept on asking my dad's name. Again and then again a couple minutes later. Then they would giggle and repeat my answer. For awhile it was just a chorus of Hindi-accented “Bills” echoing through the train car. I should have said "William", that could have sounded even more entertaining. There were some more questions like how many siblings, where am I going, where am I from. Sharing of some snacks and then everyone let me know where to get off the train, which would have been impossible without help because I had to exit the train, walk down to a different section, re-board and then we headed back the same way. I am assuming the cars separated at the stop and my “new” train, while it seemed to be going the direction from which we just came, actually went off on different tracks toward Khajuraho. Land of erotic temples. I'll save it for the next post, maybe just pictures will suffice for this place.