Next Stop: World

Traveling independently takes work. Booking hotels, researching future destinations, and even deciding where to eat three times a day can wear you down. Knowing that India presents extra challenges, we have taken the plunge and signed up for a guided tour. Sure, we have done short excursions, like diving the Great Barrier Reef in Australia and touring the caves of Gulung Mulu in Borneo. This time around, we’re putting ourselves in someone else’s hands for a full 15 days, and we want all of our needs taken care of. No more Internet searches for where to stay. Ta-ta to tuk-tuk drivers and all their hassles. We are ready to be told what time to meet and where to eat.

We signed up for Intrepid Tours’ Delhi to Kathmandu trip. Moving quicker than we normally would, it covers many north Indian highlights, a border crossing, and wild animals in Nepal. Our itinerary takes us from New Delhi to Agra, Orchha, the Ganges River, Varanasi, Lumbini, Chitwan and Kathmandu. India seems like the perfect country to let someone else handle all the logistics.

With Ken struggling to get a taxi in Mumbai and Karen befuddled by booking a train ticket online, it’s time to don the tourist lanyard and follow the guide holding an umbrella in the air. Okay, we don’t think Intrepid is quite like that. However, we are so looking forward to shutting off our brains and going with the flow.

On day one, we met our fellow travelers at the hotel in Delhi. Our group of 12 hails from the UK, Germany, New Zealand, and India, with us being the only Americans. Our guide, Navin (an Indian with Nepali roots), explained the logistics, and then we were off… via a scruffy local bus.

Navin said we had to ride one at least once, and we agree. As long as he pays the fare and tells us where to get off.

We visited the largest mosque in India, Jama Masjid, where the women had to cover up in ridiculously patterned robes.

Then we visited a Sikh temple and learned more about this religion. They believe in a communal approach to helping their worshipers and the community at large. Through a massive volunteer system at their complex, anyone can sleep and eat for free. We enjoyed afternoon tea.

Navin gives us a Sikh briefing. Everyone (men and women) must cover their heads before entering the temple.

Navin led us on a walking tour through the crowded, noisy, dusty streets of Delhi (you didn’t think our Delhi dreamland would last forever, did you?).

Navin negotiating our transport from place to place. THAT's why we signed up for a tour!

Sidewalk stalls sold everything from fireworks to spices. The spices were particularly… sensory.

For a moment, we found ourselves walking behind some of Delhi’s younger workers, the “scruffy bottle collectors” Ken mentioned in his Mumbai slum post.

At the end of the day, Navin mercifully whisked us home on the Delhi metro. What will we do tomorrow? Whatever we’re told. Ahhh…

We interrupt our India coverage with this China News Update. Today, we left the comforts of Hong Kong behind and hopped to the mainland… a magical place where Facebook and YouTube are blocked. The Facebook workaround that our friend Sherilyn sent doesn’t work either.

Does not compute...

If you know of an alternate way to access FB from China, lay it on us. Otherwise, Karen will just play word games for the next two weeks (Words With Friends still works). Actually, it will be interesting to live in an Facebook-free world for a while.

Stay in touch… by commenting on the blog (we won’t see comments left on FB). Xie xie!

Ever wonder why we keep griping about Indian rickshaw drivers?

Keep in mind that Ken started recording after this guy had been following us a while. Sheesh.

The next day a rickshaw driver was hassling us, and I told him, “No, we don’t need a ride. Have a nice day.” And he drove off.

An Indian voice behind us said, “It’s good to hear someone say ‘Have a nice day.’” Here we go, I thought, another tout trying to make a sale.

Hardly. The speaker turned out to be a jolly Indian man who now lives in Florida… and can’t wait to get back. He visits his family in India every year, and rickshaw drivers always try to rip him off too (is no one safe?). Even more than pizza and American beer, he looks forward to one food item: “The number one thing that I miss badly is the milk from USA. The moment I go home, I open the fridge and have a cold glass of milk.”

As we parted ways, he said, “God bless America.”

When we were visiting the Gandhis and the Nehrus, we noticed some impressive-looking government buildings in the distance. Heat and hunger prevented us from visiting them.

Instead, I ventured out at night, making the Secretariat buildings surrounding the Rashtrapati Bhavan (President’s House) even more impressive-looking. From there, it was a short walk to India Gate, aka Party Central.

Compared to Mumbai and Jaipur, Delhi was like a dreamland, with a lollipop sun shining down on streets paved with gold. Sure, the moment we stepped off the train an army of rickshaw drivers descended upon us and yes, we paid too much for the ride and no, the rickshaw driver didn’t know where our hotel was. But let’s not dwell upon that, shall we?

New Delhi is the capital of India, and my sightseeing agenda was appropriately political, with two Gandhis and a Nehru on the agenda. Although it was Karen’s turn to experience tummy trouble, even she couldn’t resist the siren call of a city with a clean, efficient metro system and (some) clean streets.

Our first stop was Gandhi Smriti, Mahatma Gandhi’s last residence and also where he was assassinated in 1948. It is now a memorial.

Gandhi's room

Gandhi's museum

The museum is a curious hybrid: the older section is painfully text-heavy, while the new section is a mishmash of multimedia experiences of varying quality.

The area where Gandhi was shot is tastefully preserved, with stone footprints tracing his last steps. There’s a colorful mural nearby (let’s play Spot The Historical Incident- hey, there he is defying the salt tax!), and a walkway with lots… more… text. Some of it English text, mind you, and I’m not complaining. I learned a lot.

But with so much to see, where was everyone? Gandhi Smriti was practically deserted.

Karen and I walked a few streets over toward the Indira Gandhi Memorial Museum, her last residence and also where she was assassinated in 1984 (are you seeing a pattern here?). Rounding the corner, we were surprised to see a long line of people, almost all Indians, snaking from the entrance around the block. Tour buses jockeyed for parking across the street.

We gamely got in line and shuffled into Indira’s house. The story of her rise to become India’s first female Prime Minister is told through photos and newspaper reprints, an interesting approach. Oddly, in the middle of the narrative, you see the sari she died in, and then it’s back to the narrative. After reading about her death, you see photos of her as a baby and read about her upbringing. At the risk of being hopelessly traditional, I humbly suggest that a chronological approach would be more useful to the uninformed.

And uninformed we were. Indira is not Gandhi’s daughter, she is Jawaharlal Nehru’s daughter, so why, we wondered, is she a Gandhi? We couldn’t glean the answer from the exhibits. Later research revealed that her husband, Feroze Gandhi, was unrelated to Mohandas.

The area of Indira’s assassination is tastefully presented. Here, the last path she walked shimmers like crystal. Crowds of Indians took advantage of the photo op.

No offense to I. Gandhi, but why was everyone here, while nary a tour bus graced M. Gandhi’s house? Someone later told us that the tour groups head there next. Memo to enterprising tour operators: go to M. Gandhi’s house first to spare your customers the long lines and yourself the parking hassle.

Last stop on our political tour: the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library. The museum dedicated to India’s first Prime Minister was the least polished of the day. Photos were literally falling off of dusty exhibit boards, and once again key details eluded the uninitiated.

In one room hung a sign: “HE DIED IN THIS ROOM.” When? Of what? How did the nation mourn? What were the political consequences? Google it.

We were hot and sweaty, Karen’s stomach still wasn’t right, it was time to head home on the metro. The shiny, efficient metro! Our Delhi dreamland!

That image of people hanging off of Indian trains? Yup, it’s for real.

Hanging out of trains may seem like a quirky practice, but its serious side was driven home recently when 3 commuters were killed due to train overcrowding.

Seeing a movie with the locals is always fun, and given the fact that Jaipur is home to an iconic Indian cinema, the Raj Mandir, a viewing was essential. Our opportunity happened to come on the opening night of Agent Vinod, Bollywood’s answer to James Bond. Even though my stomach was feeling a bit upside down, we bought tickets and hoped we could follow this all-Hindi spy story.

The Raj Mandir’s lobby is delightful- a sort of cheesy overdecoration that manages to maintain a bit of class. The snack bar serves everything from popcorn (for Karen) to samosas (for me). Queueing is futile in India, so after being skipped by 3 or 4 people at the counter, I got aggressive and got a samosa- my apologies to the 10-year-old kid I reached over to grab it.

Inside the theater, the seats were a bit cramped. Seating is assigned, so I couldn’t snag an aisle and stretch out. The screen and sound system, however, were impressively modern. After some commercials, the main feature transported us to Afghanistan, where a highly-choreographed gun battle broke out almost immediately. When Saif Ali Khan as Agent Vinod threw off his disguise and started shooting, a cheer erupted from the crowd. This audience enthusiasm burst forth again and again, when foes were vanquished or scantily-clad women appeared. Mostly the latter, actually- am I seeing this movie with a bunch of 14-year-old boys?!

Every Indian movie has an intermission, a climactic point halfway through where the lights are switched on and more samosas are sold. Agent Vinod had gotten quite talky (in Hindi) and my stomach had gotten quite swirly, so Karen and I decided to leave (along with the other westerners who had only come to see the theater).

For once without our driver and spiritual guide Mr. Ali, we needed a rickshaw to our hotel. And we were ready. From Google Maps, we knew the ride was about 3 km. According to a Jaipur law that went into effect last year, rickshaw drivers must use their meters or risk losing their vehicles. Standard rates are set at 13 Rupees for the first kilometer, and 8 Rupees for each additional kilometer. Drivers still refuse to use their meters, but at least we knew that the ride should cost around 30 Rupees, which helps when haggling.

The half-dozen drivers gathered outside the theater descended upon us: “Where are you going?” Vimal Heritage Hotel. “150 Rupees.” Laughing, I shook my head and moved on to the next guy. “70 Rupees.” “How about 30 Rupees?” I asked, and now it was his turn to laugh, and then say, “50 Rupees.” That’s one US dollar, hardly a blip in the budget, but I wanted to see if I could do better by using a tried-and-true haggling technique: walking away. It didn’t work. He didn’t come after us, the next driver didn’t know our hotel, and the rest were gone. Standing on principle is no way to get a quick ride home.

We crossed the busy street, knowing that a rickshaw would pull up alongside us momentarily. It only took about 30 seconds. “Where are you going?” asked the young driver. Vimal Heritage Hotel. “Fine by me,” he said, turning the handle on the meter as we climbed in.

Hallelujah! We had found him: the Last Honest Rickshaw Driver in Jaipur. Just to be sure, I squinted at the meter in the darkness and saw the number 13, the standard minimum rate. Finally. This kid was just trying to make an honest living and keep his nose clean. I basked in the glow of a lawful ride home.

Until about two-thirds of the way there. That’s when Karen pointed to the meter: 65 and rising. We were being taken for a ride, literally and figuratively. I suspected I had misread the 13 earlier, and the meter had already had time on it. Karen suspected the meter was rigged to run fast. It did seem to be rising awfully fast.

As always, the driver made a few wrong turns, and we had to guide him to the hotel. Final bill: 89 Rupees. Karen snapped, “Your meter is rigged- it’s running way too fast,” and stormed off. I handed him a 50 bill and walked toward the hotel gate. For a moment it looked like he was going to protest. And then he just drove away.

Reunited after a week of mental and physical struggle, Karen and I explored Jaipur, the Pink City. Which, by the way, we find to be more of an orangeish coral city- perhaps they’ve changed paint vendors since the first coat in 1876?

The Indian Ferrari

Our tour guide and confidante Mr. Ali whisked us from place to place in the Indian Ferrari. We began with the Gaitore Cenotaphs, cremation sites of the Maharajas of Jaipur beginning in 1733.

If the cenotaphs were, well, as quiet as a tomb (except for that one drunk guy who hassled us before passing out), not so the rest of  Jaipur. Our face masks went back on as dust and exhaust swirled around us. The Amber Fort was nice, though we didn’t pay to enter the main building. Nahargarh Fort offered sweeping views of the urban sprawl (I had no idea Jaipur was so big: 3.1 million people). While the exhibits in the Albert Hall Museum look like they haven’t been touched since it opened in 1887, the historic musical instruments caught my eye. Hawa Mahal’s ornate stonework was impressive, as was its view of the Old City.

But my favorite stop by far was Jantar Mantar, a name as quirky and fun as what’s inside. A sprawling complex plopped right in the middle of the city, Jantar Mantar is a collection of astronomical instruments built in the 1700s by the Maharaja Jai Singh II. From here, you can tell time, predict eclipses, and track the earth’s orbit. I was just enthralled by the crazy architecture.

The colorful saris that Indian women wear provide such a splash of color against the Rajastani dust- Karen just had to have one for herself. Her final choice will be revealed at the Taj Mahal… of course!

It was great having Mr. Ali on our team (Karen called him our “babysitter”).

Mr. Ali, in a rare moment of relaxation

Over the course of three days, his presence insulated us from the constant “Mister, you need a rickshaw?” banter. We could go wherever we wanted, whenever we wanted. If we needed some food, he had suggestions, like the traditional Indian meal of thali.

He advised a stop at the local lassi joint, which didn’t take much convincing, since I love the yogurt-based concoction.

You drink your lassi from a piece of pottery… and then toss it. One use. I guess it’s a more recyclable material than plastic.

Lest I paint too rosy and care-free a picture of our Pink City exploits, let me hit you with a dose of Indian reality: by the second evening, I was sick with a stomach bug. I spent a night hovering over the toilet dry heaving, yet never managed to expel anything.

Where I spent the night

Was it the lassi? The thali? The street food? Who knows. With Mr. Ali’s help, we relocated to a much nicer hotel, where my Cipro-fueled convalescence could proceed apace, and I felt better… right about the time we left Jaipur.

To celebrate 8 months on the road, Karen and I finally did something we’ve been talking about for, well, 8 months: we took a photo of our stuff.

All our stuff, everything we’re carrying from city to city, country to country.

And here’s the annotated version (click on either photo to enlarge it):

This isn’t exactly what we left with on August 29, 2011. Since then, we have lost or left behind a headband, handkerchief, bandanas (2), hats (3), water bottles (2), monocular, flashlight, umbrella, airline pillow, purse, sandals (2 pair), shirts (3), shorts (4 pair), bra, socks (several), underwear (several), and sunglasses (countless lost or broken- argh!).

On the road, we’ve purchased a new camera, battery charger, camera cleaning supplies, plug adapters (2), speaker, AirPort Express, purse, coin purse, backpack, cooler bag, combination locks (2), headlamp, umbrellas (2), mobile phone & charger, hats, shirts, pants, shorts, underwear, socks, shoes, sandals, and of course, sunglasses (argh!).

DAY SEVEN of volunteering on a farm outside Jaipur.

Dear Diary,

My day off! I sleep in a little and then pack everything, in case I do not return. Everyone is off working in the fields, and I say nothing of my potential future plans. Mr. Ali, the driver and tour guide, picks me up at 8:30 am. He asks why I have all my bags with me if I am returning to the farm tomorrow. I think, damn nosy Indian, and instead say, “I am a woman, I need all my things.”

We travel to Jaipur in his auto-rickshaw, or his Indian Ferrari, as he calls it. Ken’s flight won’t arrive for a couple more hours, so we stop for some chai and a chat. Mr. Ali is very kind and professional, willing to answer all my questions. Having been in the tour business for 13 years, he knows English well and how to work with all types of tourists. He owns an auto-rickshaw and a car, using helpers as needed.

We talk about family, him being married and his wife staying home with their four children. Two of his kids go to a private, English medium school (meaning that all subjects are taught in English, except for Hindi and Sanskrit), which costs 4000 rupees/month. Like all Indians I talk to, he is surprised to learn that Ken and I have no kids. He says, “No kids, no life.” Not wanting to argue through this major cultural difference, I leave his comment alone.

We turn our conversation to Saharia Organic Farm. While he does lots of business driving people there and is friends with Binod, he is not necessarily a fan of the place. Mr. Ali says that when it first opened and Binod, the owner, was there, it was great. There was organization, teaching and lots of good food. Then Binod left and put it into the hands of management that does not like Western culture. When I tell him about Lel’s comment about western culture, Mr. Ali replies, “Then why does he work there?!” He says many people have left the farm unhappy. He completely understood when the young couple from the US were angry and wanted to get away on his rickshaw. Yet he had to save his face and side with the farm. He mentions that at one time Saharia was listed in Lonely Planet’s guidebook  as a hotel location. Now it is not.

Ken finally arrives in Jaipur and we meet him at the hotel. I haven’t seen him in 7 days, and it is nice to give him a hug. We have so much to catch up on, yet Mr. Ali is waiting to take us around the city. We manage a private lunch together and discuss me not returning to the farm. We agree that 6 days was enough. I simply tell Mr. Ali that I will not be needing him to drive me to the farm tomorrow. He smiles and nods. Then off we go on our tour: the cenotaphs, Amber Fort, Water Palace and even the textile factory to buy a sari. Exhausted, we flop down on the bed in our room that evening, delighted to be back together.

DAY EIGHT

Knowing that Lel is on “holiday”, I text him from Ken’s phone that I will not be returning to the farm, citing injury and illness. As expected, there is no reply from him. Anticipating that I wouldn’t return, I left behind my sunglasses in the kitchen for Suirez and my stained farm pants and floppy hat for someone to discover and use.

For every agony suffered on the farm, there was a delight. I will definitely look back on my Indian WWOOFing experience as one of the more interesting parts of my world tour. This work has given me a greater appreciation for how hard life can be for rural Indians, and I won’t forget the farmers and their families.

Like Ratan said, life is 50/50, so there is always some good and some bad. I just wish the chapatis could have been better.