To Nainital

Boarding the train out of Old Delhi was all around hectic and chaotic and stressful.  I kept looking for my bunk marked 16, but couldn’t find it.  It seemed to skip two numbers between one set of berths and the next, and my number 16 is one of the two missing numbers.  I ask a man about my age where 16 is, and he says it has to be the next berths as this one shows 18-23.  I say, I know, but I can’t find it.  He gets up to look for himself, and realizes it’s a side berth.  The side berth is a berth I didn’t mention in the train background blog post because I didn’t book any.  Well, here’s why.  Their made for people who can fit in a suitcase.  They have smaller dimensions than the already small regular berths.  Good news is that I found my berth.  Bad news is that with my big pack sharing my pediatric bunk, even with knees drawn a bit up and over the pack, my head is up against the divider and won’t rest on the berth mattress.  By some contortion I bring my knees up farther with my feet flat on the bed, and with my tailbone touching my pack and my head touching the divider, I fit, and my torso is flat on the mattress.  There’s zero chance of me putting my Dreamie on this, and besides, no one else that I see has a covering for their bunk and I’m trying to blend as much as possible.  I pull the Dreamie (still in its carry bag) out of my backpack and use it for a pillow.

I ask the guy who showed me the berth, how longs it takes before the ticket examiner comes through to check the tickets, as I had an e-ticket on my phone, and I didn’t have much battery.  The phone takes about a minute to boot up, but I also didn’t want to make the examiner wait, as I had a screenshot of the e-ticket instead of the SMS one (even though the screenshot has all the information on it).  He tells me the TTE (Traveling Ticket Examiner) will be around shortly after we start moving.  So I have the top of my body twisted so I can keep looking up and down the aisle way to see from whence he will come.  After about 6 or 7 minutes, he appears on my side of the coach.  Someone asks him a question which buys me enough time to get it booted and get my e-ticket on the screen.  I pull out my passport for him, and he checks me off.  Good deal; one more hurdle down.  My next challenge is that I don’t know what I’m doing when I hit Kathgodam and I don’t have enough charge on the phone for research - what’s left of the battery is for me if I get into a jam before I get it recharged.  Kathgodam is the last station on the track and Nainital is a few miles yet up twisty mountain roads to gain elevation (that’s why the train doesn’t go direct).  I remember wanting to take a bus as it was the cheapest route, and they came regularly, but I can’t remember how far and in what direction the bus station is from the train station (but I remember thinking it wasn’t very far, and that I would do it on foot).

I look down from my berth to see a young guy with a surge protector plugged into an outlet at the end of the car.  He is surrounded by a small group of friends (newly made because he has a multiple outlet strip?) and they seem friendly and jovial, so I go up as I see there’s another outlet next to the one he’s using.  I ask if I can use the other outlet and he says it’s broken.  I look down and all his slots are filled.  I thank him for the info and crawl back into my training pose for the circus.

I fall asleep for some time and wake up to find the group gone and the power plug vacant.  I climb down and plug my phone and adapter in.  I’m standing there in the lighted area at the end of each car, and can’t see down into the car very well because no lights are on down in the belly.  A couple minutes pass and two railroad officers come down the aisle toward me and see the bunk.  They are examining it, as my pack is lying there.  To them they probably see it as the police would see an unattended package here.  They look down at me and ask me if it’s mine in broken English.  I say yes, and they said I should get it down “for safety.”  I say bring it down here?  They both do the Indian Head Wobble and move to the next car.

As soon as I get this beast down into the area where I am, some people start coming through, and it’s a narrow area already, let alone with a fat backpack in the way.  I maneuver it differently for each person who passes depending on where they are trying to go.  I want this phone to charge faster.  I look up and push the button on the side of the phone to see how far it’s gotten and realize that the plug has worked it’s way out and hasn’t been charging for a while.  I plug it back in and the battery bars are dishearteningly low.  It must have come out soon after I put it in.  20 or 30 more minutes pass and we have stopped twice at small stations.  Each time, me maneuvering my pack so people can get through.  And every time, people look up at my bunk and at the Dreamie and bottle of water still in my berth and start to get up in there.  I call out “nahin, nahin” which means “no, no” and point to my chest.  They get the picture usually.  I’m wondering why this is happening, as all the seats in Sleeper are reserved.  But what I think is going on, is that they either don’t have a ticket and just got on, or that they are in the unreserved class, and as people from a reserved class leave (get off at their destination), if a berth is unoccupied, they take it and get out of unreserved class.

One more stop and a man, a woman, and a child get on.  I’m waiting to tell people “nahin” until they start messing with my stuff or try to climb up into it, so as not to overreact.  This woman is half-way into my bed (like Goldilocks) before I can get a “nahin” out.  She says something to me which I don’t understand and a fellow who is standing near me preparing to get off at the next stop translates.  He says, “She’s asking if you’re going back to sleep.”  To which I replied “Yes, after this is done,” indicating the phone charging.  He gives her my response.  Within a few seconds the nice man that I asked to help me find #16 is out of his berth, having just donated it to the woman and her child.  Though I didn’t intend for it to happen that way, it makes me feel like a jerk.  The man that accompanied the woman and child sits on the  exposed corner of a bunk with an unrelated woman who is sleeping on her side and facing the opposite direction.  After a minute or two, he decides there’s probably enough space for him to lay down on there too, and does so.

I decide for a number of reasons to get back in bed, and pull the phone from the charger at about 40%.  That should do me until I get where there’s a plug.

I doze lightly and briefly, and awaken as we pull into a station I think might be Kathgodam, but not everyone is getting off, and Kathgodam is the end of the line.  After a few tries with a passenger, he communicates to me that this is Haldwani, and it sparks in me what I think is the remembrance that Haldwani is the place I want to take the bus from, even though it’s a bit farther from my destination, as Haldwani is bigger and the buses run more frequently.  I power the phone on and I have a signal, a quick Google search reveals the same.  I jump down off the bunk, grab my stuff, and find the doors shut.  Someone was walking through and I asked which side was the platform, no response, I pointed “this door” or “that door”, he pointed to the one on the left, I unhinged the shackle and saw the platform.  Out I hoped and not too soon.  Within a few seconds the train started to leave the station.

Heading for the exit, and praying that I didn’t just forget something in my abrupt and premature departure, I ask an older gentleman which way to the bus station.  He was starting to tell me and then his daughter started scolding me and told me to go ask the station manager and not bother them (or something to that effect).  A quick sorry and a thank you, and I found the station manager and asked him about the bus.  I felt like he was dodging my question or putting me off on purpose.  At this point, I’m just asking him to point in the direction of the bus station, and he is still ignoring me.  A couple of young men start to berate him for his behavior, and I can understand a little bit of what they are saying by their gesticulation.  They tell me that they will help me find out and we walk out together.  They ask me where I’m going and I say Nainital.  They told me I could take the bus, an auto (remember that’s the autorickshaw) or a car (which actually is a car).  I end up choosing a car as it seemed to be the safest bet and they agreed.  By this time, realizing there’s a predicament with transportation going on, a swarm of drivers of autos and cars appear.  It’s like 4:30am.  Now the men are haggling for me.  One driver offers to take me for 200rs.  I take it without a second thought.  I thank the guys several times sincerely, and they respond with a Muslim parting phrase and Shalom.

I get in the car with the man, and he opens the drivers door for me.  I’m thinking, this should be interesting, and when I get it, I realize that it was my sleepy mind; the driver’s side is on the right over here.  So, he gives me the front passenger seat and a man and woman get in behind.  We start on our way and after awhile of driving it starts getting light out, and I see my first monkey sitting on the side of the road grooming his/her mate (I never saw a monkey while I was in Delhi, but I did see a cow, plenty of dogs, a donkey, and some kind of mink that was rummaging through the trash left on the tracks at the train station).  As we start climbing in elevation, we start getting into the switch backs and hairpin turns necessary to get up into the mountains (or hills as the natives call them; these would not be hills to anyone I know).  Maybe 30 minutes into the trip, he pulls over to the side of the road in front of a small and rudimentary open air restaurant/bar (though I seriously doubt they serve alcohol there) that maybe seats 25 people total.  I see a real life Buddhist monk walking across the street in his robes to get something.  There’s a red concrete monkey’s head with water coming out of it’s mouth under pressure, splashing water on to a makeshift brick catch basin, and then flowing down into a crevasse next to it.  The driver gets out and says “chai” which is tea/milk/sugar concoction and is what people in India drink like American’s drink coffee.  I’ve heard that bus drivers will pull the bus over whenever they feel like they could go for a chai, and here it was happening with my driver too.  I decline any chai and he says “pure water” and points to the monkey’s head which represents the Hindu deity of Hanuman (a helper to mankind).  I take it from that that there is a natural spring that feeds this water, but I decline it anyway.  It appears to be a pretty popular spot, as lots of cars are stopping here.  The couple in back don’t get out either, and we’re sitting in the car for a good 15 minutes or so when I hear some strange noise and then people rushing to the sides of the car in the back seat.  I’m thinking, what’s in here, did a snake appear on the floorboard or a poisonous spider or something?  I’m getting ready to bail out and help get their doors open, when I look back and see a young boy about 18 months has just vomited all over his sister’s long hair and his fathers shirt and pants.  And the seat.  The kids were so quiet I had no idea there were four people back there as we loaded in the dark; this car is smaller than an American subcompact.  Mom and Dad get the doors open and in so doing create enough pressure disturbance that the odor floats up into my airspace.  My stomach does a little flip-flop.  I move my head a bit and out of the smell and I’m fine.  Off to Hanuman they go for assistance.  The Dad helps with the little girl’s hair, it seems to be in there pretty good.  The boy gets thoroughly rinsed and is shivering in the slight breeze now that most of his clothes are off.  Dad is saved for last and I think he took the brunt of the chunks.  The driver wipes the seat down with some water, and as the family starts reassembling, the driver finishes up his chai, and we are off again.  I think we stayed there for about 25 minutes or a little more.

Not more than 10 minutes in to the switchbacks and I hear a familiar sound.  I look back to see the daughter starting to heave.  The Dad is now communicating  rather quickly with the driver and at some volume, the gist of which is pull this @#$%^ over.  The daughter valiantly holds the line until we are on a wide berm.  As soon as the car hits park, the boy barfs again, this time into his mother’s cupped and waiting hands.  The girl gets out and clear of the car before her show starts.  I felt so bad for these people.  I will say that it seemed that the driver was speeding up right at the switch back, probably to get enough speed to get up the steep incline, but that wasn’t helping the motion sickness going on in the backseat.  Out comes the water from the monkey mouth, the cleanup concludes, and again we are under way.  Before we reach Nainital, the mother does her part too, rolling down the window and holding the boy at the same time.  She doesn’t miss a beat with her stream, and keeps it off her sari and scarf.  Dad laughs a little bit at the spectacle, but pays the piper about 2 minutes later when he upchucks out his window.  In fact, at one point, they were both vomiting out of their respective windows simultaneously.  If we were making better speed, we’d surely have been qualified for the “vomit comet” title.  The driver and I were the only ones spared.

We rolled into Nainital and the driver dropped me at the bus station.  I give him his 200 and a 50 tip as the story alone was worth much more.  He is appreciative.  I go around to the back of the car for my pack and notice Neem Karoli Baba’s name and ashram is on a huge bumper sticker placed on the back window which reaches to both sides of the car.  Neem Karoli Baba (aka Maharajji) is a guru to me, and the reason I’ve come to Nainital in the first place, as opposed to another hill station.  He “left the body” in 1974, but his ashram remains active under a devotee called Sri Ma.  I don’t plan on visiting the ashram my first day though.

I walk up the street and find the hotel I’m looking for, which has ties to Maharajji, as it is run by a family that was very close to him.  I ask if rooms are available, and get the pricing which is more than I’d like to pay.  We talk a bit and he has man show me two cheaper rooms, one for 1000rs and one for 1200, but they don’t face the lake.  That’s not an issue for me at all.  There are terraces all over the hotel that face the lake.  We agree for 5 nights, maybe 6 if I don’t work anything out for an elephant ride safari around Jim Corbett Tiger Reserve which is close by on the last day/night.  I choose which one I like best, and it happens to be the 1000rs choice.  I sign the register and another form, and the man makes a copy of my passport like usual.  He says I can pay at the end, which I think is pretty rare.  He gets an old man to porter my stuff up the equivalent of 6 or 7 flights of stairs, but they’re not straight up a staircase as the hotel is built into the side of the mountain.  On the way in and up, I see two Westerners having some breakfast on one of the terraces.  I tip the porter, feeling a bit bad that he’s probably 70 something and I’m half his age, but this is how he makes money.  I give him a bit more than I would normally and he is grateful.  Another man draws hot water into one of two buckets for me, putting a little in the first one.  I’m not sure what this represents.  He brings me two towels, two tiny colorful rolls of TP, and tiny bar of soap.  Later I ask for another blanket as it’s chilly here, and up he comes with a top sheet, two blankets and a quilt.  He got a tip too, both times in fact.  And so did the room service guy.  They have a menu here and it says no outside food allowed.  The prices are on the high side for the Indian food I’ve had so far, but I’m not complaining.  I’m still eating for cheap, and it’s all homemade stuff.  I feel like I’m at Grandma’s for Thanksgiving every time I eat, well, if she were Indian and made me dal and chapattis.  I ordered the room service for dinner last evening and he said it will be ready after an hour.  Well, I guess that’s how this works.  If you want homemade, somebody’s gotta make it for you :).

After I initially dropped my bags, I decided to go down and introduce myself to the Westerners, which is not something that I would do in the States.  They said are you here for Maharajji and I said yes, and they were too.  They were not together, he was from the UK and she was from California.  She was here with a few other people from their local satsang (think church congregation) and were planning on staying at the ashram tonight.  I don’t have plans to stay at the ashram here, though I will be staying at Ramana Maharshi’s ashram near the end of the trip (Ramana Maharshi “left the body” in 1950).  We talk for a bit and some of her friends show up, very nice and very sincere, all of them.  The guy from the UK says I should look into Rishikesh after I had explained how glad I was to be out of Delhi.  He said it’s similar to Nainital in that it’s in the mountains (though much higher), and there are many ashrams and places for yoga there.  I’m not interested in random ashrams, just the people I’ve read and think are the real deal, but I may make a detour up there anyway.  It was on my list once or twice before, as the Ganges flows through Rishikesh before it gets junked up.  I already know that I’m ditching Mumbai, so maybe I’ll shave a day here or there and give it a spin, but I’m not sure.

Being here at Evelyn Hotel and in Nainital in general is a huge transformation from Delhi.  The air is cool, the honking and barking, much less intense and no longer constant.  It’s beautiful which I can’t say for Delhi, and it’s laid back and calm which provides a much needed respite from the madness of the big city.  So, after Nainital, it’s on to Varanasi, where the chaos apparently reaches a fever pitch.  As it stands now, I’ll be hitting the Taj Mahal in Agra for one day (no nights) on my way to the colorful area of Rajasthan.  I may make a detour and backtrack to Rishikesh after Varanasi, for the mood change and decompression, and then slide down to Agra and onwards to Rajasthan (Jodhpur and Jaisalmer if anybody is watching a map like my family).  I’m not ready to make the change yet, but I am considering it, though it will increase some travel time also.  Yesterday I got a nap in, and got cleaned up and unpacked.  I had a nice long HOT shower, and even brushed my teeth.  After I had dinner last night, I was going to make a blog post and hit the sack.  But due to disrupted sleep cycles already, and getting firmly into the writing groove, I’m been at the keyboard for about 10 hours and it’s coming up to dawn right now.

There’s been a storm the last couple hours when it was still dark, and shortly after 4:30a, I heard a ringing of bells like a church tower, followed by some slow hallowed type of singing ringing out across the lake, echoing through this little valley.  The lights went out from the storm shortly there after and the singing continued.  It was a bit surreal and very cool.  I don’t know if it’s one person or a enclave, but it was not the type of thing that is recorded and then broadcast.  Devotional singing in that manner is an expression of love and devotion and it is just like fervent prayer, but in song.  Taping it and playing it would the same as taping and then playing a fervent prayer.  My guess is that it was Buddhist even though this is a Hindu area, but I could be wrong.  There are Muslims here too.  And Methodists and Catholics for that matter, but the Methodists I know for sure don’t do devotional singing and chants like that, and I’m doubting the Catholics do either.

Being up this early here, is cool is other ways as well, hearing the monkeys and birds calling back and forth with their unique calls.  That stuff you just don’t hear in North America, and I’m soaking it in.

I don’t expect to do another post for a couple of days, because I anticipate relaxing, but you never know.  The vibe here is laid back and I intend to enjoy the slower pace. 

Well, I’m about ready for some sleep; the storm is coming and going in fits and spurts, and it’s chilly outside.  I don’t care who you are, that’s some prime sleeping weather right there.

  

Delhi, Part II

I get inside Old Delhi railway station after my human Frogger game, and find an absolute mess of a place.  Dirty, filthy-dirty.  It is almost as crowded as it could be.  There are people everywhere, in every space, in every position, in every area.  People are streaming through the metal detector, it is a constant screeching beep.  There is not even anyone there to check people.  Fully half of the people don’t even walk through the metal detector, they just walk on either side.  People are putting their stuff on an x-ray machine.  The crowds’ forward momentum makes me think I’ll be pushed downstream faster than my pack can run through it’s x-ray.  Somehow I grab it just in time, and with a few looks from the guard at the x-ray equipment, head into the station proper and try to find some signs in English.

I find the sign on the wall that says Cloak Room.  There are probably 25 people in an area the size of two cars, with all their luggage.  They are checking bags in, and checking bags out.  They are arguing with the 3 men sitting at what looks like a folding table looking disinterested, and they are arguing with the 2 small old men that are handling courier-ing of the paperwork between the folding table and the counters.

They don’t seem to speak a word of English.  After waiting about 15 minutes, and some people have left, I get the idea that there is no line, and there is no order.  You push your way to the front and handle your business.  I don’t push, but when someone leaves, I occupy that spot, and strategically, I end up at the counter in about 10 more minutes.  I ask a question in English, and he responds in Hindi.  I ask again, simpler, but no English.  He’s still sitting at the folding table and he’s looks to be of some authority.  He motions for me to come around.  I make my way back out of the throng and through a hallway and back into the office.  The transaction has waiting periods of 5 minutes or more between when I ask a question and when I get an answer I understand.  Eventually, someone asks in Hindi for me and tells me in English, and some progress is made.  I have my paperwork, they’ve seen my passport, I’ve given them the bag, but they won’t take the money, after about 5 more minutes, I’m advised that you pay when you pick it up and another kind person tells me they do shift changes for 30 minutes at specific times and I won’t be able to come back for it until after they’re done.  The same sign that said Cloak Room also said Retiring Rooms which can be used for travellers under certain conditions, but you have to pay.  This was not a problem for me, but the several people working there all said they don’t have Retiring Room.  So maybe it’s an old sign or maybe I didn’t fit or something, but that wasn’t an option for me.

I grabbed my camera case, and I thought, optimistically, that I would catch an tuk-tuk out of the kill-zone so-to-speak, and look at something else.  The problem is that all those places are going to be equally as crowded, and I’m quickly reaching my limit, though I have 10 hours to go before my train (due to my early start on the day).  I decided to stay put for the duration.  I checked my bag, so I don’t have anything to do to pass the time, except my phone, but its battery is too low and I need it to get on the train (e-ticket), so I have it turned off.

The time I spent at DLI (Old Delhi railway station) was the worst experience so far, and has made me change my itinerary to exclude the stopover in Mumbai.  For ten hours, I was stared at, pointed to, and had my picture taken without my consent like I was a circus animal.  I felt like a circus animal.  There was no place to sit that wasn’t occupied.  There wasn’t even much floor to choose from.  I walked the platforms, I asked the people in charge which platform I would need to be at, etc.  Every bit of information I got there was hard-won, and I mean hard.  It was an unpleasant experience by any scale, the conditions were terrible, the high heat was made worse by close proximity of people who have no problem in the first place of invading your personal territory, and I had already had my fill of people and chaos.  I wanted to find a hole and lay in it.  Although if there was a hole somewhere, somebody would have already deposited a turd and some urine in it, followed by about another thousand or so. 

There was one restroom I found after about 6 hours.  Shortly before I found it, I had found a sign that said toilet at the very end of one of the platforms.  I walked up the stairs and saw a small dark room, which I thought you had to enter.  I took one step and realized that apparently you peed into the room.  The pooling urine was well on it’s way out of the room, but had only gotten about a half inch up my shoe as I stood in it and it didn’t go into the holes in my crocs or soak my socks.  The floor sloped away from this “entrance”, and I think the room’s floor was actually on the ground, essentially creating an 8 foot tall, room-sized vat of putrefying liquid waste with the odor to match.  I heard laughing from behind me and I look over to see an over-full train with people with their arms hanging through bars, faces pressed up against them, watching and pointing and laughing.  I unzip and take care of my business anyway and try to ignore the spectacle that I am, or at least give them something worth watching.

Probably related to the jet lag, I was in a dreadful fight to stay awake.  I lost on many occasions.  I was falling asleep standing up.  I was falling asleep leaning on a railing.  Shortly after I was startled awake one time while leaning on a railing, I turned to find a group of people laughing as they had just taken my picture while their friend was standing next to me or rather, next to my posterior.  I was on display when I went into the food booth there.  I was on display when I ordered, I was on display when I found a seat, and I was on display as I ate.  Everywhere I went, nearly everyone I passed, nearly everyone who passed me, whether sitting, standing, or lying down, was looking at me continuously from the time I entered their field of vision until the time I left it.  I say nearly because I saw some blind people mixed in the with sighted.

I think had I been in a better mood, I would’ve handled it better.  I would’ve laughed when they laughed.  I would have smiled more.  I would have interpreted things differently and not so personally.  But I didn’t at the time, and it was a truly miserable experience by which I will probably judge all future layovers.

I found a bench in an actual waiting area, and repeated virtually the same conversation 7 times in a row with different men who wanted to talk with me and practice their English.  While not great fun, they were all friendly and kind (one guy actually wanted me to come to Jodhpur with him for 2 days and he would show me his city on a personal tour; he worked in the army and not a travel agent), and the conversations helped pass the last 4 hours.  When I was out of circulation, the staring decreased massively.  I think part of the problem was that by me moving around, I was always in contact with a new group of people who were surprised to see a foreigner.  In retrospect, after I found the platform and made a mental plan of how I would get back here, I should’ve stayed put somewhere.

As the departure time approached, I picked up my bag from the Cloak Room, headed to the proper platform and wiggled my way in (with my huge pack) in to the throng of people trying to read the paper charting of which berth is assigned to which person.  I found out I was berth 16 and waited, standing next to the seated crowd, for the train to come.  As we’re waiting a train pulls in on the other side of the same platform.  The police move in as there’s some kind of disturbance and much shouting.  The main police guy is a large man in every direction and he slaps people on the back, heavy like thunder.  He gets into an argument with an old man on the train who appears to be of some authority.  All the Indians are watching with eyebrows raised, like it’s television.  The big police man doesn’t hit the old man, but he does try to pull him down but is unsuccessful.  Things cool out, the old man stays and the large policeman walks away, and the Indians are alight with animated and loud conversations about what just happened.  The policeman hits a guy with his thunder hand for what appeared to be saying something inappropriate and their was no response by the guy doing the talking.  Within a minute, the train starts to depart again, moving very slowly.  There are probably 3 or 4 people, per doorway, that do not fit.  They are literally hanging out of the train with one foot in the door, and their hands on other people closer to being inside the train, or on the handles outside the door.  They have their backpacks and bags and purses, and it’s all hanging out the door of this moving train.  I don’t know if the people continue to pack in closer inside and make room, or if these people are now on the outside of the train for the duration.  Hopefully it’s a short journey is all I can think.  The train is still pulling out pretty slowly, and here comes a man shouting and out of breath, and dragging this girl who I take to be his daughter by some kind of arm lock.  She is completely developmentally and physically disabled.  Her arms are contorted and stiff, her head is twisted to the side, and her legs are bowed and tight in unnatural arcs.  He is hoisting her up by her arms with his arms, takes a large step, pulls her sideways like a fish dangling on a line, and drags her up again.  He is clearly and purely devoted to this child.  I know the kind of effort he had to make just to get to this place in the station with the stairs and crowds.  She’s maybe thirteen, and he is trying against all odds to get her on this train which is slowly picking up steam.  I choke up and have to turn away so I don’t lose it.  When I turn around again, I don’t seem them anymore.  I don’t know if they made the train or not.

Delhi, Part I

**video added on 5/11, post complete**

I didn’t fully get back to sleep after the 1:15a interruption, and finally gave up at about 4:30a.  By then it was already getting light out (dawn and dusk both seem early here).  I re-organized again now that I had my real backpack.  I checked out of the hotel about 7a with the night manager, and signed the same log book entry I had when I checked in, but this time with info about where I was going next.  I headed to the metro station, bought my tourist one-day pass for 150rs ($3), and asked how to get to Connaught, which station?  He told me Khan Market which I had remembered seeing on the wall map the day before.  I said, “Connaught?”, he said “Yes, Khan Market.”  He tells me the red line to the yellow line to the violet line (“violet” is just plain funny to hear in an Indian accent), and rings off the names of the connecting stations.  I’m thinking, dude.  I won’t remember the first half of the first half of that.  I get him to repeat it again to which I only really pay attention to the first leg, thinking I can figure it out from there.  I’m not even sure as I’m writing this that I started on the red line, but it is not important.

While I walking to metro station, a young guy had walked up close to me and started a conversation.  We talked for a bit, his questions were answered, though in America I would have never given such information.  In India, many questions are asked directly and without reservation that would make for an agonizingly awkward exchange in the States.  For instance: What country are you from? Why did you come here?  Do you have a wife and children?  What do you do?  How much do you make?  The irony (from what I’ve read) is that they often won’t ask your name as they feel that’s a bit too private.  So, I’m talking with this guy, and he’s suggesting for me to go to Srinagar (I’ve heard of it before and know it’s supposed to be beautiful and in the mountains, but I’m not interested).  He says why are you going on the metro, you should go over to this travel agent, and that Connaught is just 10 minutes walk from here.  I tell him that I have other places to go on the metro also, he asks where, I tell him, and he says the metro is not good for those places (which by the way proved by experience, is accurate).  I stand by my decision to take the metro, thank him for his suggestions and help, and head up the stairs.

After getting my pass and what I can remember of the directions, I head into the security check point.  I have to put my bag on the x-ray scanner belt (like in the airports), and get wanded.  He says, “Is there a laptop in there,” I say yes, thinking, OMG, I don’t want to have to unpack this beast right here right now in front of God and country to get to the point in the bag where the laptop is, let alone, do this every time I’m getting on a metro.  He says, “ok” and points in toward where the metro cars would be and then does the Indian head wobble.  The Indian head wobble is a quick left/right tilt of the head, while the face remains facing forward.  The wobble pivots your head on an invisible axis going from the bridge of your nose through to the back of your head.  Try it.  It’s awkward to do, apparently unless you have Indian DNA, and makes me a little dizzy.  Now, the meaning of the head wobble is Yes, No, and Maybe.  And it just depends on the circumstances and other body language or subtle behavioral cues.  All of which I am painfully unaware.  I’m leaning toward the “probably means yes” version, but as he is armed, I’d like to double-check before blowing past his checkpoint with a bulging backpack.  I point to the gate through which a person who has successfully cleared the security check enters the actual metro station.  I give him a thumbs up with raised eyebrows, thinking this may be a culturally universal way to ask if I am correct.  He responds with a  smile and another wobble.  I take my chances because the smile doesn’t look creepy, like “I’m about to get my ammo on”.  I pass through and am not shot or shouted at.  Todd - 1, Indian Head Wobble - 0.  (I will note here for the record that I received 1rs and 2rs coins.  On the 2rs coin, there is a hand holding up the traditional two fingers.  On the 1rs coin is a hand with the thumbs up I had just given the security man.  Apparently, it was not as universal as I thought!  He was probably thinking, “one what?” and “why is he smiling?”)

I find the way in the stations by following huge, color coded footprint stickers on the floor.  I manage to navigate to Khan Market without asking for further directions, as the wall maps are decently clear, and I’m remembering more of the station manager’s directions than I thought, when I see the station names on the board.  The problem ends up being that Khan Market is not the stop for Connaught, and I think he thought I was butchering Khan Market, so it came out being called Connaught.  Maybe he thought, surely this fool is not taking the metro to someplace a 10 minute walk away, he must mean Khan Market.  I don’t know, but what I do know is that I decide to switch up the itinerary and start from the furthest south point I want to look at, which is the Lotus Temple, a huge and impressive structure that looks like the petals of a lotus flower.  It’s a temple for the Baha'i faith which believes, among other things, in the unity of people everywhere.  I can get behind that.

I get off at the appropriate station, and am given a hard look over by the military people in the station.  They follow me for a bit, and then watch me.  I’m trying to move as quickly as reasonable, so I can avoid any trouble, but I also don’t want to be walking a half hour in the wrong direction.  Remember, this is India.  And it’s summertime.  And I’m carrying my FULL backpack on my for the whole day, including 2 liters of water (my daypack is squeezed inside my backpack).  I find the info I need and head in the right direction.  The road is bordered by a slum.  I am not in a nice area.  I am being stared at hard-core, and in the Indian style of staring, which does not necessarily stop when you return the stare.  Apparently not many white people with ginormous backpacks come out of the metro station and travel through here.  The smell is of rotting garbage and decaying human sewage.  I’m starting to sweat a bit, but I’m making decent time.  My lungs don’t bother me much anymore, and I’ve forgotten a couple of the Advair doses without ill effect, so I’m comfortable with the level of exertion.  The road starts winding right, and it looks like the road is taking me away from the temple which is now visible on the left.  I decide to follow it for 10 minutes or until I can’t see the temple anymore.

Meanwhile on my right is a huge line of people.  I mean thousands of people in line about 3 or 4 humans wide, and it goes on and on and on.  There are kids there, fathers/mothers, young single people, old people, broken people.  I have no idea what it is.  I mean some of these people look like they would fit if it’s a soup kitchen type thing going on, but some of these people you would never find there… too upper class looking.

I go down the road further and find a gate to the temple.  Three guards and officers are sitting on stools about 15 yards from the closed gate.  After standing there for a few minutes, one of them yells out “closed.”  I say all day or for now, and he says 9 o’clock.  I look at my phone which says 8:05a.  I’m thinking I didn’t just huff this sucker through the metro and down through the ghetto to just turn around.  I walk across the street and sit by some trash which seems also to be a park of some sort.  People walking all different ways, pushing huge carts and barrels and even one guy pushing a motorcycle with what appeared to be his grand-daughter on it.  They are all going uphill, most of these people appear to be getting in line.  I’m thinking Justin Bieber must be here or something, right?  After a while a woman sits down pretty close to me on the left, even though there is a solid 100ft of sit-able ledge on either side of me bordering the trash park.  She’s probably 2 feet from me.  A little while later two more ladies, this time with Muslim garb come and sit within two feet of me on the right.  (One specific metro train had separate women and men’s cars, and I got into the women’s one.  My wife is going to kill me for this, but I thought, I must be headed in the right direction to Khan Market because of all the women headed there to shop.  I seriously thought that.  I’m standing there for probably 5 minutes before a woman comes up to me quite abruptly and tells me in English that I am in the wrong car and I must leave and go to the men’s car.  I then notice the absolute dearth of men, sheepishly apologize, and walk through a few cars to get to the first men’s coach where I stand for the duration.)  So, I think, here on the border of trash park that I’m now sitting in a women’s zone of some sort, and what is this nonsense, and that sort of thing, when a man that belongs to the Muslim ladies walks up.  I offer him my seat, which he refuses (all of this without using words, by the way), and later on after the woman on my left had left (only to be replaced by two younger ladies who managed to give me about 10 feet berth), I scooted down and the man took his seat next to his women.  I thought, at least I’m not the only one gonna get yelled at.

Lots of Indian staring later, a few foreigners pull up in high end cars with drivers and get out.  A couple minutes later, the guards inside stir, and start yelling at the people to (apparently) wrap the line in a different direction.  They open the gates and into security I go.  Yes, it’s a backpack, and yes, there’s a laptop in it.  And a camera too.  They want to see inside the pack.  I open it up, he pokes around a bit and starts laughing with his cohorts, and says ok.  He never sees the laptop or the camera.

I go up to the temple, trade my shoes for a token, and go inside after a brief and stern instruction to remain quiet once inside.  There’s a prayer service here at 10a and I figure I’ll stay.  At this point it’s pretty hot, and I’m glad I have socks on or my naked feet would be blistering on the hot concrete and marble.  I go in and spend the next hour alternately being in contemplation and being amused by the young attendants, non-verbally taking people to task (who are much older than they are) for making any kind of sound.  They get especially excited when someone starts a conversation.  One guy at least, I think does this on purpose just to give the attendant a hard way.  The acoustics in this place are absolutely amazing.  The lotus petals are the same on the inside also, and so there are many chambers which each seem to echo on their own.  A few birds are up in some of the chasms and have a call that I’ve never heard and it’s beautiful.  They are calling to each other.  Maybe like hide-and-seek.  Anyway, their quick songs bounce around all over the place and I silently ask them to fly down to where I can see them.  Which they do.  They are dark (I think black) but with white patches on the bottom side of the wing, or at least something like that where the patch is either not visible or not as noticeable as when they fly and it has a blinking appearance.  The prayer service starts, and a Hindu sings a chant, then a Muslim, then something else, followed by a verse in English written by (but not spoken by) the Baha'i equivalent to Jesus Christ or the Buddha.  The acoustics in here are amazing for song sung slowly, as the one voice provides its own harmony, like a sustain pedal on a piano.  But for songs sung quickly or reading text aloud, the acoustics are disastrous.  I can’t understand a thing, but I’m glad I stayed to see/hear it.

I walk outside, re-exchange my token for my crocs, and I’m on my way.  I get out to the entrance, and there is a tuk-tuk driver (autorickshaw-wallah) who says he will take me up to the metro for 50 rupees, I say 20 instead of 10, because I don’t want to walk up the hill.  He agrees and I make my way to the 3-wheeled contraption.  It is a one-way street that we’re on, so we need to go around a different way, he says.  It is, in fact, a one-way street according to Google Maps which I looked at while I was waiting on the ledge earlier.  I confirm the 20rs fare and get in.  He says, he’ll take me by the “best” market on the way.  I know it’s a ruse, but I agree anyway because I intended to go the government shops at Connaught, but missed them because of the metro misunderstanding, and also finding out that the government shops are closed on Saturdays (or so I was told).  He drops me at a store, not a market, and men come out to greet me.  This is looking like a hard sell.  I nod to them and meander quickly through, appearing somewhat disinterested.  I pick up something and ask the price.  He tells me and I counter at half of what he says.  He shakes his head, and I put it down in a ruse to let him know how much I don’t care.  Meanwhile, I’ve seen something I think my wife would really like, so I’m trying to work the Indian process to my advantage.  They walk me through a couple of other areas, “Pashmina” and carpets and wood carvings and bronze Hindu deities, which I think would be cool to have, but I’m not adding anything bronze to my backpack.  I go over to what I was thinking about for my wife and ask how much.  I haggle a bit, but he says “fixed price” and points to a sign which says “fixed price”.  The price is more than reasonable as is, so I’m not really sure why I’m negotiating, but mostly because I think that’s the way it goes here.  I buy it at the full “fixed price” and he wraps it up, and I look for someplace in my backpack, to put it.  The crew try to detour me to a couple of other things, but I say “No thank you” with a little force behind it, making my voice a bit deeper than usual.  I walk out to find Mr. Tuk-Tuk driver and he is not with his ride.  I ask where it is, he says over here and points.  I follow.  Into the back of the same place.  A large short man with a friendly looking face comes up to me and tells me what’s inside.  I decline, and grab his hand in a strong-ish slow shake and thank him.  And I point to the driver with a playful wag of the finger and a head tilt. with my one eyebrow cocked.  He knows what I mean.  We head for the “auto”, and he asks me how much money I spent.  You see that’s the way it works.  He gets his cut for bringing “clients” to the business, and he wants to make sure he gets his fair share from the business owner.  I tell him a number that’s 60 times the amount I actually spent.  He looks incredulous and I realize that I don’t want him getting his hopes up, so I let him in on it quickly.  He gives a laugh and a nod and we miraculously head right up the direction from which we came.  Right up the hill going the wrong way on the one-way.

We pass the line of people and I ask if Bieber is in town.  No, I kid!  I ask him what’s it for, and he says it’s a Kali temple for the Hindus and like Christian church services on a Sunday morning, the weekends are the time for working people to pay their respects and give their offerings.  We arrive at the metro station, and I give him his 20 and no more, for diverting me. 

Back into the station and I head to India Gate, or the nearest metro station there about.  Which is actually a bit of a walk in the heat with the pack.  I feel my skin getting more than its share of Vitamin D and am thankful for my pre-trip tanning.  I don’t end up burning at all, despite being out in the sun for quite a bit that day.  I ambitiously cross a 7 lane road, burdened like the beast I am, and another young man approaches and asks my itinerary, etc.  Also asking about Srinagar.  They must make good commissions on the folks who go.

I walk up to the main attraction, a huge Arc de Triumph kind of thing, and am approached by a guy who has something cool in his hand and he demonstrates it.  He says “for your kids and your grandkids” and holds out a handful.  Clearly he doesn’t understand the English words he has memorized.  “How much for one?”  He gives me a price, and I counter at a bit more than 5% of his asking price.  He laughs.  I laugh.  I start to walk on.  He then counters and I keep low-balling him.  This thing is cool, but I’m having fun in the haggle too, and I’m giving him the impression I can and am walking away.  We settled on a price for 3, and he hands me the thing, but he can’t make change he says.  I say ok, and hand the items back so quickly he instinctively takes them.  I renegotiate for 4 and structure it so that he doesn’t have to give me any change.  He agrees.  What did I pay for each?  My original offer of 5%+ of his initial asking price.

We parted and I found a place under a tree near the India Gate so that I could get my camera out of the top of my pack.  I’m feeling pretty good about my haggling success when a nice looking older lady smiles and says “Welcome to India,” while simultaneously producing a small paper Indian flag and uses a straight pin to pin it to my shirt sleeve.  This maybe took 2 seconds total.  I say, “Thank you,” she says “Donation.”  I’m like wow that didn’t take long.  I say what for, and she says children’s fund, and I say, “no thanks.”  Now what is she supposed to do?  She gave me the flag and I refused to donate.  She starts talking about “books for education” and “chocolate” and some other things which I’m not sure where they fit in, and I decide to give her a little something as she has on a uniform like organized charity type places have, and she seems nice, like she’s got nothing to lose, so I don’t think the money is for her.  She sees me digging in my pocket to see what I have (opening my pocket without taking my cash out), and starts naming numbers like 500, 300.  I hand her a bill and say 10 and she says “nooo…   no..” so I start putting it back it my pocket as if to say “ok, see you later” and she says, “ok. ten ok.”  I hand her the money, get some shots of the India Gate, and decide I’m done.  I want to get to the railway station and see if they have a locker or room where I can put my bag.

I head out to the main street and only wait for a minute before an empty auto rolls up.  I tell him Old Delhi railway station, he says 400, I say 200 (which is 4 bucks).  He says, more for traffic congestion and something else, and another tuk-tuk pulls up.  I leave the first guy and go up to the second.  He says where, I say Old Delhi railway station.  He says 50rs, I confirm and he repeats.  I stick my pack in and off we go.  He points out some things around the area as we drive, and seems to be a nice man.  We pull up to the New Delhi railway station.  I say, no “Old Delhi railway station".  I think his look of confusion and disgust was legitimate and aimed at himself.  He tells me (truthfully) that we have to backtrack quite a bit and travel a fair bit more to go there and he needs 100 additional to do that.  I say no problem, because I think it was honest mistake and the other guy refused 200 to do the same thing, without the detour mileage and fuel.

We get into Old Delhi, which is rough on every edge, and make it to the station.  As I’m getting out, the driver points to where it is, and informs me that there’s no u-turns here (I see a sign that says the same).  I give him a 50rs tip for being honest about the mix-up, helpful for the attractions along the way, and not overcharging me.  I am on the wrong side of about 10 lanes total, but emboldened by the audacity of the pedestrians we saw getting here, I time it with some car-length gaps in the traffic and the signal lights.  On the ride to the station, there were unattended 3-4 year old beggars standing in the middle of traffic that operates the way fish swim in a coral reef, no seeming sense of direction or coordination, but not crashing into one another.  These children are bobbing and weaving and are below hood-height, so the visibility is poor.  The cars are going around them, and when we stop for the light, a little girl reaches into the rickshaw and puts her black hands on my leg to get my attention, and is saying “Sir, sir.  Sir.  Sir, sir.”  She is begging for money, and though I want to because I am a father and a human for that matter, I know how that system works.  The children must give the money to their handlers, and in exchange, they themselves only earn their inadequate sustenance for the day, it’s essentially indentured servitude, but for beggars.  I ignore her.  And her matted hair, her filthy-torn rags, her impoverished frame, and her huge beautiful black eyes.  I miss my daughter.

  

Paharganj

**video added 5/11, post complete**

Paharganj is a sub-division of Delhi that is known (and has been for years) as a place backpackers go, because its inexpensive and close to the rail station, metro station, and several areas of high activity (like Connaught Place/Circus for instance).  When I left my room to venture out that afternoon, as I was walking to the stairs (past the landing residents), I saw an open door that I hadn’t noticed when I came up to the room the previous night.  Heading through the door, I found a terrace/junkyard, and a ledge over-which I could survey my surroundings.  Though I finished up writing my last post about 9:30a, it wasn’t until late afternoon when I finally left the room.  The day had been mostly consumed with getting a much needed nap, hearing from the baggage people who said my bag didn’t come in from Germany and they will continue to look around for 5 days, some inventory/planning/re-organizing of my daypack, and general hiding.  When I looked over the ledge of that terrace, though, I felt a sense of relief.  While a bit crowded, dirty, and hectic, it seemed friendly in some way, and I didn’t have the fear and apprehension that I did just moments before when I put the lodging supplied padlock on my door and left.  I took a video later that evening after the chaos had largely melted away, and, bandwidth God’s smiling, I will upload it to this post.

I went down stairs, gave the daytime manager a smile (his look was great, something like “where did this guy appear from?”), walked out into the street and turned right, and then right again.  During afternoon planning session, I decided I wanted to find the Metro station that we had passed coming in in the early morning and also get a meal somewhere.  Those were my two goals for the outing; anything over and above that was bonus.  I had a general idea of direction, and with the several strokes of luck in choosing alleys, I walked straight to it.  Up the hundred steps or so, and found a map posted on a wall.  It showed the stops, but not where other things were in relation to the stops.  I asked a younger and modern-looking man if he knew which stop to use to get off at Connaught.  He said he just moved here to Delhi and didn’t know himself.  I looked around and found a booth with what appeared to be a metro station manager inside.  A few quick questions answered by the (indeed) station manager, and I was able to tick off one of the two boxes for the day, and I was only 10 minutes in.

I came back the way I went until I knew where I was, and then headed a different direction.  Systematically going through an alley and flipping back around again to my start-point so that I wouldn’t get disoriented.  After several alleys (and one not very pleasant alley - the meat alley which smelled like hot blood), I headed back to the where I knew again (the major intersection nearest the hotel, and which, by the way, looks sufficiently different when approaching from different sides).  I stopped at a guy with a cart of bananas and got two for the morning.  He said “tir-tee ru-pees” and I handed him the money.  First time buying from a street vendor, check; and it wasn’t even on my list!  During my terrace reconnaissance, I saw a restaurant a few doors down with a sign in English, and I headed there next.

“Cafe Festa” without the “i" had several foreigners in it already, though none of them spoke more than halting, broken English which I could determine at a distance as they interacted with the guys bringing menus and food.  I picked a table (I don’t think you wait to be seated here), ordered and ate half a thali plate, and got a two liters of water.  Total damage was less than 200rs which means less than $4 US.  That included a tip.  Boo-yah.

I headed “home” and was feeling satisfied that some of my confidence was been restored having successfully checked off the 3rd item on my 2 item to-do list, my calm acceptance of the probability that I would never see my actual backpack again, and realizing that in relation to Paharganj, “the bark is worse than the bite” was true again.  I took a cold shower (the head did work after all.  I didn’t want to wait for the hot water) and went to bed.  I only woke up three times that night.  Once when a “bug” quite a bit heavier than any I had visualized in my room during the daylight, ran smack into my corner of my mouth.  It was closed at the time (thank God), and he beat feet out of there, only slowed a bit by being tangled in my moustache.  Second interruption was at 11:30p when the baggage people called and said they had my bag.  I gave her the hotel info and their phone number for directions, because I was not the one to be giving that kind of information.  I went downstairs to talk with the manager (the night manager, who recognized me with a big smile and “hah-low”) and let them know that a driver was going to be bringing my bag and I would come down and get it in the morning.  And the third time at 1:15a when the driver showed up at my door anyhow.  I asked where it had been, and he said he didn’t know, he was just the driver.  The only evidence on the bag was a tag that said “RUSH” which didn’t appear to have worked.  I figured my bag had gotten a few transatlantic flights out of the deal, and fell asleep again, this time thinking about how I could cash in for those frequent flier miles.

The Deep End

I intended to jump in at the deep end of the swimming pool.

Instead, I free-fell from a height into the middle of the Pacific and I am treading water.

This morning, that was the primary feeling I awoke to, and was feeling rather pessimistic.  Maybe this feeling has to with being up for 36 hours straight yesterday.  Maybe it has to do with the fact that despite being delayed by the airline by a day, my backpack is thought to be in Germany, but they really have no record of it.  Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve lost a day already, and feel behind the 8-ball.  Maybe it’s fact that my reserved hotel wasn’t reserved and now I’m on the top floor of the dodgiest place I’ve ever see (this is saying a lot) and had to walk past a person who was actually living on the landing of the stairs.  Maybe it’s the fact that the data connection on the phone doesn’t work worth anything and no internet at the “new” guesthouse with which to research exactly what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.  Maybe it’s the fact that Skype isn’t working, that Google Voice isn’t working, that even texting doesn’t seem to work, and 30+ attempts at calling home direct were not connected.  Maybe it’s the fact that I have to call down to the manager on the phone that sits on the floor, for him to turn on my hot water, so that I can put it in the bucket after 15 minutes (he says, I haven’t tried).  Maybe it’s the fact that there is no simple conversation, as carefully as I try to choose simple words; that it takes 5 or more tries for the simplest of communication:  the boy who showed me my room was showing me the switch on the circuit breaker to use for the limping air conditioning.  He was saying “off” when it was on, and “on” when it was off.   Maybe it’s the fact that there is honking going on constantly and feral dogs barking outside.  Maybe it’s the fact that my daypack’s straps are ripping away from the bag, I’m less than 24hrs in country, and it’s my only bag at this point.  Etcetera.

In a city, there is a din of conversation and background noise made by humans all the time.  We don’t notice it.  Until it’s not in English.  And then it tends to accentuate the feeling of isolation.

Things I so far regret:  not bringing the GPS ; Paharganj is like an absolute rat maze, everything is off of an unmarked alley which is off of another unmarked alley, there are no distinct sidewalks, the buildings, shops, people, growing right into the street like a cancer.  I regret not having my knife or any other implement for a tool or defense.  I have forgotten a headset (so I can see my phone for information and talk on it at the same time), my mouse (trackpad adds to my frustration), a small pad and any type of writing implement whatsoever (for notes on how to get back to wherever I am, in lieu of the GPS).  I neglected to put some probiotics/vitamins or Advil in my carryon (or my spare underwear at least), and also neglected to actually buy the Hindi phrasebook I intended to.  We’ll see how much of an issue these actually end up being.  Maybe they are practical, and maybe they are placeholders for the bigger frustrations, and maybe they are just things that make me feel safer or more in control, the latter of which I am hopelessly out of.

I laid in bed for a half an hour this morning (it’s 8:30a here as I write this, and about 11p in Cols), listening to the cacophony, and essentially feeling sorry for myself until I realized, that AS ALWAYS, it is an inside job, and I can change my perception.

Look.  I asked for an adventure, and I sure as hell got one.  My daughter intuitively asked me if I could have all easy times in India or easy and hard, what would I choose, and I told her that if this were merely a vacation, I would want only easy, but as this is a Journey, I would kind of feel ripped off if I didn’t have my share of tribulations.  The easy goes by quick and without notice.  The hard gets scrutinized and replayed and analyzed so that I can suck the marrow out of it and learn more about myself or this wonderful, crazy, scary world.

When I slow down and think about it, without stoking the fear, I feel like (in a strange way) by treading water in the Pacific, I am actually resisting the natural course in this.  I should take a deep breath and put my head under; there’s a whole another world under there, and it doesn’t operate on the principles of being above the water line because that’s not IT’s normal way.  And in this world, honking lives here.  And so do the roaming feral dogs who lay down in the middle of the lane of traffic, and the same with the drivers who somehow dodge them and each other.  Dirty sheets and bugs crawling on the furniture and floor and mattress live here.  And so do travelers like me, wild-eyed, without a 3rd backup plan, overpaying, introverted, and getting lost.

This will all work itself out, and I’m sure the less effort I can apply here the better off I will be.  I need to empty my daypack, determine what I need for today, and repack it more lightly.  I need to eat and drink something.  I need to set my sights conservatively on something that I want to do today.  And I need to take some slow deep breaths and put my head under.

As the boy that was showing my room last night was leaving, I thanked him in Hindi.  He told me he liked my beard.  I couldn’t help but smile widely.  It’s not that he thought he was saying “you’re welcome.”  It’s that he seemed to be appreciating me for thanking him, and so he was going to appreciate me back.  (Incidentally, my taxi co-pilot thought my beard was “great!” too.  What can I say :)).

So, as would feel natural in this new world, I’ll shortly be off to appreciate the “backpacker ghetto” that is Paharganj, hoping the first part of my acclimatization (or really should be acculturalization) is well underway.

Travel Part I, II, III, etc…

So, I started out having booked a flight some 10 months ago or so, from Columbus to Newark, NJ, and then from Newark to Delhi.  I got to the airport on the 24th about 3p in time for my 5:53p trip to Newark, but found out rather soon that the plane that was coming to take me there was having mechanical issues, and was going to be delayed so long that I would miss my connecting flight.  So, the agent checked around and found a flight leaving from Columbus going to Washington, D.C. (Dulles), and from Dulles to Frankfurt, Germany, and from Frankfurt to Delhi.  It would put me into Delhi a bit past midnight, rather than than the 8:15p that I would have on the originally booked flight.  This concerned me a bit because I planned to get an Indian cell phone sim card and change money at the airport, and then find transport to my lodging.  I figured all this would be more easy to accomplish at 8p rather than after midnight, but I agreed to the flight change none-the-less as it would at least get me to India and I was anxious to start the trip.

I got rebooked, but then found that THAT flight was also delayed due to mechanical.  It would be really close getting to my connecting flight.  I figured to go for it, as it seemed I would have more options out of Dulles than Columbus.  I took the flight to DC, but long story short, they closed the gate door about a minute before I got there to my connecting flight.  The plane was still right there, but no re-opening the door.  Off to customer service desk about a half mile walk away to see what they could do for me, which was rebook through Newark the next day (for the Newark to Delhi flight), and comp a hotel room and some food vouchers (which was fine by me as even though it was the airline’s “fault” for two mechanical issues, it was my decision to give it a shot on a close connector).

After about an hour and half, I ended up getting to the Holiday Inn Dulles where the clerk gave me the wrong room key, and I opened somebody else’s door (with them inside).  I got rebooked into another room, and about 20 minutes after I fell asleep, the heater started making this tremendous racket.  I got up and kicked it a couple times with no luck.  I turned it off and back on.  Still had heat, but now no more noise.  Good deal.  Until about 20 minutes later (again fast asleep).  Screw it.  I was too tired to get yet another room.  I turned the heater off, which worked fine until morning when I woke up shivering.  I kicked the heater back on, only to have it start up the noise again.  This time I put in some earplugs and tried to go back to sleep; it was too cold to turn it off.

Meanwhile, I had been having some trouble breathing after hard-core sprinting/running for about 15 minutes with my heavy daypack, to get to my connector.  I felt like I couldn’t get a full breath of air.  I’m no athlete, but I usually take the stairs to the office and the parking garage (both on the 5th floor), and am generally in decent condition.  I wasn’t worried; from my experience as a paramedic, I had determined the most likely scenarios depending on my signs/symptoms.  I concluded that either I had partially dropped a lung for some reason (which was likely to re-inflate over time on it’s own if it wasn’t too bad), or had done some temporary damage from extreme overexertion (swelling/maybe some fluid/general irritation and constriction of the airways), first-time asthma attack seemed unlikely at my age.  I went to bed that night thinking/hoping it was temporary, and it would be best to see how it was in the morning as I was out of the distress stage.

Morning came, and it was the same.  At rest it seemed like I had lost about 25-30% of my tidal volume, and on exertion what felt closer to 50%.  If the worst case was true, and I had a partial pneumothorax (dropped part of a lung), flying and the resultant changes in available oxygen and pressure would not be a good thing, especially on a 15 hour trans-Atlantic flight, so I opted to check out which Urgent Cares around there had x-ray capability (you need it to check for pneumo).  I found one, got a $40 round trip cab, a few hundred dollars worth of evaluation and x-rays.  Very friendly and accommodating Indian lady physician (my cab driver was Pakastani).  No pneumo, so I was good to carry on my journey and flights, albeit at a slower pace.  The doc said it would take a few days for my lungs to recover and reduce the swelling, gave me an Advair puffer (which helped immensely), and told me to follow-up with an Indian doc if things didn’t improve markedly inside 5 days.

Lesson learned.  I am no longer 20.  I should not do that again :).

Onward…  I got back to Dulles, requested an upgrade (which I got a preferred coach seat with more legroom) and hopped an earlier flight to Newark on standby (just in case of more delays).  Got to Newark (what a mess), through security, taking it slower than usual, blew my $20 voucher in Starbucks on bottled water and Kind bars, and waited for my India-bound flying chariot.  I boarded my final flight at about 7:45p and we were on our way within 45 minutes.

The flight from Newark to Delhi was largely uneventful except for one especially rude flight attendant (he wasn’t rude to me directly).  I had a nice discussion with the man near me (flying back to Delhi as his father passed away the night before).  I stayed awake to reduce jet lag, and watched 5 movies in a row.

I noticed as we taxied into the Indira Gandhi International airport that there is a little fence between the airport and the city.  The houses are right up to the fence.  Concrete houses with outside areas.  I see some people walking on their porch maybe 50 yards from my seat on the still moving airplane.  I can’t believe people live that close to roaring jet engines 24/7, not only for noise, but for safety, but this is a whole new world.  Got off in Delhi, hit immigrations and went to baggage claim.  Around and around and around they went, no orange backpack for me.  I asked a baggage agent - the bag was sent the day before me, so it should be here already.  “No worry, on here.”  But as all the bags were claimed, mine still had not appeared.  Up to the official baggage desk.  The manager supposes my bag got off at Frankfurt and stayed there.  It is not in Delhi despite leaving a day earlier than I did.  He has no record of it, and Lufthansa says it doesn’t show in their system either (United is what I flew, but the first official re-booking had me taking Lufthansa out of Frankfurt).  Filled out all the paperwork on photocopied pages that were missing the first inch of text on the left.  He says call back tomorrow between 4:30p and 7:30p.  They will find it, don’t worry, he says.  I’m not convinced.

He walks me over to a customs desk, fills out something and chats in Hindi with a group of uniformed old men.  They are disinterested, but apparently give him the go-ahead, because he grabs a customs stamp and stamps my paperwork himself, which one of the old men then signs.  The guy (baggage manager) guides me over to the foreign currency exchange and says it is the “fastest, best” because it’s government.  I don’t ever recall having thought that the government was “fastest” or “best” in anything, but it makes sense enough for currency here in India, so I go for it.  I go through the line and change about $300 US into INR (Indian Rupees).  As I’m putting it away, I’m wondering why I should carry US dollars around India, and so I get back in line and change the last $108.

Off to the airtel stand in the airport to get an Indian sim card so my phone will work in India.  After understanding about 12 total words of what the man said, I have a prepaid Indian sim card with data coverage.  He forgets to give me my change, but I remind him, he apologizes and gives me the change, but rounded down to the nearest 5 rupees.  I don’t know if this is customary or not, but I’m not going to say anything about it.  I’m out of steam, and I’m not even at my hotel.  I need to save my energy for something that matters more.

I go outside and ask the guard (police inside the airport have AK-47s here.  I declined to take a pic for you guys, lol) where the pre-paid stand was, he points me back inside the airport.  I go back in, and 300 rupees later, I have a voucher for a ride in a “black and yellow” to get to Paharganj.  The man tells me to go out and turn right and get to post 30.  He repeats it.  Post 30.  Ok.  I go outside, and the posts don’t go to 30.  About then, a guy approaches me, sees my voucher and says “you need prepaid taxi?”  Yep.  “Follow me, I take you.”  We walk out across a few streets of traffic in front of the airport, nearly run over once.  We get to a car.  I said this is not a black and yellow, there are little to no markings on the car, but neither do most of the others around.  He says “color on top” and while the car is blue-ish, it does have some yellow and black on the top of it.  They take the voucher and away we go into a car with a driver who doesn’t speak any English at all.  This guy I’ve been talking with is apparently the the co-pilot, and he is there to translate he says.  I’m feeling uncomfortable.

I’m taking some video in case I have to bail, and to show the hectic nature of the driving.  The guy says something to the effect that he doesn’t want me to record him and to delete the recording.  I tell him that I won’t do that.  He says something about government and illegal or something to that effect.  I tell him I’m not deleting anything, that I don’t trust what’s going on here, that that I don’t know if we’re going in the right direction or not, whether I’ve gotten into the right cab or not, etc.  He says when we get there, you delete.  I said ok.  While he’s distracted, I copy the video over to another location on the phone, so I can delete it the copy he sees.  I’m thinking about how much force I will bring to bear on his face if things get physical, and I start silently clenching my fists, and preparing my muscles.  I don’t know if they don’t have a permit or if he’s not supposed to be there or what’s going on, but things eventually cool out between us and the ride improves.  I start seeing signs for Paharganj so I’m confident that we’re at least heading in the right direction.  Then we stop.  People are all around, it’s like a pull-off area, and I ask him why we’re stopped.  He says the driver doesn’t know where it is, so he’s trying to explain it to him, but that he (the co-pilot) is getting out to be with his friends.  I think the driver is uncomfortable with this situation too, and I think that’s part of their conversation.  We stay put for several minutes, I’m eyeing out of the car to the chaos and wondering if I’m about to get robbed.  The driver and co-pilot don’t know where this hotel is, and I try to call the hotel, but can’t get the phone to call right.  I’m not sure what exactly I need to dial before the number…  the number doesn’t work, adding a 1 to the number doesn’t work, neither does 11 or 011 or adding a plus, or anything.  I try this same combination for the 4 telephone numbers I have for the place.  Nothing works (but it did in the airport when I called the baggage guy to give him my cell number).  Finally, the co-pilot calls the hotel from his phone and has an argument with the guy at Cottage Yes Please.  He gets off and says the guy is very rude and wouldn’t tell him what block it was.  Meanwhile, I have the full address, like 3 lines of numbers and streets, which appears to be very specific, but to the co-pilot (who is navigating) it doesn’t mean anything in reality, and later I find out why.

The co-pilot decides to stay (which I guess I’m happy about), and says he’ll prove that I can trust Indians because he will get us there.  I try to tell him it’s not personal, but that kind of meaning is totally lost in our broken English “conversation.”  We drive by the RK Metro station, which he points out, and which I know is close to the hotel.  We pull a hard right, going into a large alley seething with small cars, rickshaws, and people.  There are no signs for these places.  The driver stops, and the co-pilot yells out to a guy with some cart, selling something.  The vendor doesn’t look up, but they are shouting Hindi back and forth (because it’s so loud there) and the guy gives a sharp nod in the direction we need to go.  Up we go about another 50 yards in each increment, where the process repeats itself, with vendors, passerby's, and rickshaw-wallahs.  The co-pilot says, “see, you trust Indians.”  I asked if we were here and looked for a sign.  There’s a little sign.  Looks nothing like the place it’s supposed to look like, but it does say Cottage Yes Please.

The co-pilot and I shake hands, I thank him, and he starts to say something, which I suppose is about the video, but he stops, and I get out.  A guy comes out, in retrospect, I think it was so he could grab my bag and get a tip, but seeing as I have no bag, he just stands there too close to me, not saying anything.  I am on high-alert.  I ask if this is Cottage Yes Please, he says yes, and points inside.

I get inside to find out that my confirmed room for 3 nights was only confirmed for 1 night, and it was last night.  Despite having a few room keys hanging on hooks, they are full.  I ask if their other hotel is full too, he says yes.  I don’t know whether or not this is true and the keys I’m looking at aren’t room keys, or if this guy is taking out his frustration on me over the argument he had with my taxi’s co-pilot.  I ask if there are other hotels around, he says “he will lead you” and nods to a small man about 5’ tall.  Off we go into the dark and busy alley.  This is way seedier than I thought, now that I’m not protected by the walls of the taxi.  Even though on the outside, I seem agreeable and friendly, my body and mind are geared for defense and are at defcon 4.  We walk just a few shops down to Merry Gold which says travel agency on the sign.  I’m wondering if they are going to try to book me somewhere.  The small man who led me and the manager have a brief conversation which I can’t understand, and I asked the manager if he had rooms.  He said yes, “aircon or no”, I say what’s the price difference, he thinks for a few seconds, 800 non-air-conditioned or 1000 air-conditioned.  I think he was sizing me up, and I think I was supposed to argue at this point, but instead told him that I would take the air con for 1000 for two nights.  He says, “you want to see room?” I say ok, because I think it’s the thing to do.  As I’m huffing up the flights of narrow and step stairs, I’m wondering why I told him I’d look at it.  Really, at this point, if it has a lockable door, a bed, and someplace to urinate, I’m going to say it’s fine.  I’m running on fumes, and the only thing keeping me going is my alert level which is fading, because even if I get ripped off, I don’t feel a threat to my person anymore.

Up to the room:  basic, and dirty by every Western standard, with small bugs like gnats and a half dozen ants, but with longer legs than typical American sugar ants.  Mostly on the furniture and floor, but a few on the bed.  I saw cockroaches downstairs, but nothing up here.  I’m not looking between the mattress and box springs for bedbugs like I did at the Holiday Inn in DC, partly because there is not box spring (it’s a 3.5” mattress on a piece of plywood resting on a spring bed frame), and partly because I don’t want to know.  There’s a flat sheet that lays over the mattress and a dirty blanket folded at the foot.  No top sheet.  Toilet hasn’t ever seen a brush, but it’s western.  I would prefer a squat to this beast and I hope I don’t have to use it.  Showerhead comes out of the wall, but the guy downstairs says “bucket”, so apparently the showerhead is not working.  Smoking rooms in the US have a very familiar odor to them, it’s easy to identify.  But the kind of cigarettes here don’t have all the stuff in them like American brands do.  They’re just basic tobacco rolled up and smoked.  The room here definitely has had some kind of smoking in it and it’s not weed.  I wonder if this is what Indian cigarette smoke smells like.  The room overall smells old, and it smells the way you would supposed “grimy” would smell, mixed with one part each of smoky and stale curry farts, and topped with the faintest hint of incense.

I go back down to the counter, pay my money, sign the register book with my passport#, home address, age, last destination, etc.  He writes 995/night on the receipt inclusive of all taxes which is more than Cottage Yes Please and definitely worse condition.  I pay him 2000 and I get no change.  I think it’s customary, but I may learn otherwise later.  The air conditioner needs to be turned on by the manager downstairs (so does the hot water) or it won’t blow cold air.  Blow is an inaccurate word here, and so is cold for that matter.  The air conditioner whispers cool air.  And it does it next to a window that is really a screen with a piece of wood on the outside that covers most of the screen.  There is a lattice iron work grate on the room side of this “window”, presumably to keep out monkeys, but the monkeys would need to get the plywood off first.  I can hear people directly outside this window and I’m not sure how they got there or what it goes out to since I’m on the top floor; I think it might be a terrace for a neighbor.

Up in my room again (feeling fairly out of breath, having lugged the heavy daypack up and down the flights of stairs twice), I use the sink’s single, on-off valve (no temp control) to get some water and rinse my face and neck, no soap here and none in my carryon.  I successfully remember to not get any in my eyes or nose or mouth, and slide into my Dreamie sleep sack that I fortuitously put in my carryon as a flight pillow.  Thank God for my Dreamie.  Best 5 bucks ever.  It’s pure white satin-y sheen provides unwelcome contrast to the sheet over the mattress.  I slide the pillow into the Dreamie’s pillow case.

Sleep at last.

About 24 Hours Remaining…

The time has nearly come.  I remember looking down at the counter that I have on my phone and seeing it say four-hundred and something days.  Today it has the tiniest little “1” on there.  Of course the digits are all the same size, but seeing “1” on there, makes it seem so small.  Thinking about how long it seemed to take to get here, and as the numbers counted down, time seemed to speed up disproportionately.

I did a test pack last night to see how everything fit.  I remember reading someone’s advice which said to arrange everything out on the floor that you feel you really need to take.  Then only take half of it.  I didn’t fare too far off that.  No Leatherman (it was half a pound!), and instead only my trusty CRKT M16.  No PN-60 GPS, only my phone and a compass if I get really lost.  Lots of stuff didn’t make the cut.

The pic below shows what I’m taking, and it’s sitting on top of my pillow.  The daypack is at the right.  The stuff in there includes my phone, laptop, kindle, and camera (and assorted lenses, chargers, cables, and other electronic paraphernalia related to these).  Taking technology costs a lot in weight.  I was hoping to do the 6 weeks with a 25lb pack, but all said and done, the contents (mostly) including electronics come in about 37lb.  But, that’s satisfactory to me, as most of the time I won’t be lugging my whole pack around; I’ll only be taking the daypack.

I’ve made sure the daypack fits inside the backpack for ease of carry, and with some newly sourced compression sacks (thanks, Kevin!) it should fit a bit more easily.

People have asked what I’m taking…  Well, in addition to the electronics above, I’m taking a pair of pants, a pair of shorts, 2 t-shirts, and 3 pair of underwear and socks.  Some toiletries, a super-absorbent towel, the mosquito net I mentioned in an earlier blog post, a sleeping sack (the Dreamie; got it on woot.com 2 for 9.95 including shipping!), and a partial roll of toilet paper for when I find myself so lucky.

Speaking of lucky…  There are some logistical obstacles when “practicing” squat-style with a western toilet which I now know from experience.  Feet need to be on top of the bowl, and even then there’s a precarious foot of vertical travel between the object’s origin and the water line.  A gap this size lends itself to particle acceleration and a bit of splashing and possibly a curse word or two.  Bracing with one hand on the window sill and the other on the vanity top proved helpful if awkward.  And then came the finale. 

The wipe.

But (forgive the pun), it isn’t really as much of a wipe as it is a grab.  Over and over into the running faucet stream for the required cleanliness for a second pass, and then a third, etc.  It is a bit laborious, but I imagine I will improve with time, and at least I have a bit of confidence on the procedure.

A bit of quality-time with some anti-bacterial soap, some nail clippers, and some industrial-strength floor stripper and I was ready to hand feed grapes to my wife again (Ok.  I’m kidding about the floor stripper.  And the grapes).

In other news, the third-guessing I wondered about in a previous post, came to fruition today for about 30 minutes, and it was done.  I think it’s over for good; it feels “done.”

Thanks to everyone for the emails/calls/conversations/letters/cards and for the people from whom I have gotten such great information: especially Kim, Bob, and Tameem & Sejal.  I could only hope that this blog will provide some of that same type of assistance to future travellers.

10 Days and Ticking…

I’ve checked the train status for my two rail legs that haven’t yet confirmed.  The one from Jodhpur to Mumbai (used to be called Bombay) is now “CNF” meaning it’s confirmed that I’ll be on the train with a proper bunk.  The other one (for which I have booked two different trains as backup), hasn’t moved in status - still a WL16 on the one, and a WL1 on the other.  I have about 40 days for that one to hit confirmed status; I think it isn’t unreasonable for it to move at least one position and get me on, even as a RAC (sitting only).  It’s about 16 and a half hour train ride from Goa to Kerala, so it’d be nice to have a bunk (considering it’s an overnight train), but I’ll take what I can get.

In other news, the period of second-guessing became a little brutal for a few days, but only lasted  4-5 days in total.  I just tried to relax knowing that there are so many things outside my control, there was absolutely no use in consuming mental horsepower trying to solve the riddle.  There is no solution.  There is only making decisions in the moment they are presented.  I am a smart and capable guy with many diverse experiences in my life that I can draw on.  I am not going in to an openly hostile war zone, and I’m not looking for trouble.  If I miss a train or can’t find a hotel for the night, it will be uncomfortable and probably a bit rattling, but I have survived much worse.  Besides, it’s in those type of situations that your mind can be an incredible asset - to think outside of the conventional, and come up with creative solutions, pushing outside the comfort zone.

Pushing outside the comfort zone is part of the answer to the “why?” question.  In fact, the “why?” question is the most frequent question I am asked (close second is about the toilet situation, and whether or not I will practice “Indian style” beforehand.  The answer is, I intend to, if my wife gives her blessing :).  Using a squat is not a graceful procedure at first, and if I lose my balance, I’d rather end up sprawled on my bathroom floor and have antibacterial soap and a scrub brush at the ready to properly clean my hands, than landing on the filthy floor of a public toilet, without anything but some questionable water and some hand sanitizer to bring my paws back into eating instrument condition [that was a world-class run-on sentence].  And no, I will not be posting the attempts on YouTube.).  So, back to the “why?”…

A question that sums it up nicely that I received a few days back from a friend (using the email address listed in the last post, hint, hint) included this as the last line: “I hope you find what you’re looking for there… btw, what are you looking for?”  The answer is that it is not just one thing.  It is an amalgam of multiple components; some of these I can identify consciously, and I know instinctively that there are other components that I can’t as they run much deeper than thought.  The ones that I can detect include the desire to push the comfort zone, the genuine fascination with Indian culture, the love of travel, the want for a genuine challenge, the desire for a break/escape from the daily grind, the fondness for meeting unique people, and the urge for some modified isolation to provide some perspective.  These things and more are all very fluid, like a constantly changing grand pie chart where one sliver grows to three times it’s normal size before shrinking back to a phantom of it’s previous self.  Everyday, I could answer that “why?” question differently, and all of them would be truthful at the moment when I answered.

The locations included in my itinerary include places of historical significance, World Heritage sites, various geographies and terrains, areas highlighting the differences between Indian subcultures, opportunities to see wildlife, and last but not least specific places important to Indian philosophers and sages that have influenced my thinking.

There is very little in me right now that is apprehensive.  We’ll see if the second-guessing comes around again (would it be third-guessing then?), or if the excitement and anticipation squeeze out the opportunity for it to manifest again.  Tomorrow, I enter single-digits until the day of departure.  The Day is nearly upon me.