I left Marty at the Pink Sun Hotel in the backpacking ghetto of Jaipur. As usual, he insisted on paying for the hotel, the breakfast, the tea. His generosity never ceases to astound me. I jumped in a ricksha with a Belgian girl called Eva, bound for the Central Bus station. After walking her to her 'super double deluxe' cruiser bound for Delhi, i set about the new task of discovering a passage to Pushkar. I felt suprisingly calm, and very quickly located the bus leaving for Ajmer; immediately. Once again, i was the only whitey on the trip and young children and sarree wrapped women demonstrated little desire to restrain their staring.
As we left Jaipur behind, i was reminded that i was in a desert state. This is easily forgotten when amid the incessant drones of the capital. Elephants and camels seem more out of place than Westerners shopping for exotic silks. But as the sprawling crowds gave way to the open plains, a vast emptiness was revealed. As i located Thurston Moore on my ipod, it seemed that by blurring my vision i could transpose the shimmering arid flatness of rural Victoria over the Rajasthani desert. A little fuzz and home was not far away. But 'desert' is a stretch. Occasional squares of loud emerald scream out as rice patties slide pixelate the yellow dust. The sand seas and cascading dunes lie further westward. Moore's symphonic guitar arrangements were a fitting soundtrack to the ride.
Ajmer? I can't really comment. I only really saw the bus station while finding a connection to Pushkar. It is only 11kms away, so maybe i'll hire a bike and come back for a day trip. That said, it was in Ajmer that i started to realise that "i was on my own." As the idea ricocheted off one stoney corridor of my consciousness, my hypothalamus began to pulse with the excited realisation that the nausea in my gut possibly had more to do with nerves than the mutton i ate for dinner the previous night. (note: I will stick to vegetarianism for the rest of my time in India. I trust you don't require illustration) The bus to Pushkar was one of the local buses i had seen shuffle past, crammed full of men women children, but never actually been on. Once inside, one has the feeling that they have boarded a 1950s prison bus. They produce a lot of noise and not a lot of speed. But i got to my destination no problemo and after telling the usual ricksha wallas to bugger off, found myself a very friendly family run hotel on the outskirts of town.
Now, being on one's own for the first time... today was a little terrifying. My heart was temporarily put at ease when i noted the depth of the library at the hotel. E.M Forster, Rohinton Mistry, Franz Kafka and Aldous Huxley, to name a few. Before setting off to explore the town i shoved Virginia Woolf's "Mrs. Dalloway" into my bag, excited at the possibility of revisiting an old, albeit misunderstood the first time around, friend. All the usual scams are in place in the bazaar here, and a few new ones. I managed to find my way across town unscathed, but kept clear of the lake for fear of "priests" who might offer me flowers in return for large wads of cash. I've discovered that if i want to avoid hassles then i've got to shove my hands in my pockets, keep my eyes locked on an imagined horizon and just go. This rather closed physicality also seems to deflect potential gestures of friendship, but i'm sure i'll open up as i settle in. Without really meaning too, i stumbled across the Sarasuati Music School, where i signed up to take voice lessons starting the day after tomorrow. The guy there seemed a little disappointed that i wasn't planning to stay more than a couple of weeks, but he offered to let me stay in one of the rooms anyway, so i can practise and use the instruments.
Hungry and a little overwhelmed, i walked into the first (really) touristy garden cafe i came across and sat down to reacquaint myself with Mrs Dalloway over a (kinda boring) pasta. I need a break from Indian food. The constant sauces and graveys are turning my guts to mush. With appetite quelled i felt ready to set off again.
Pushkar is an uneasy fusion of funky tie-dyed hippyisms and sacred hindu faith. Sitting astride a small lake, Pushkar is the home of one of the only temples dedicated to Brahma, the god who imagined the universe into existence. It is believed the lake appeared when he dropped a lotus flower in the desert. There are plenty of temples here, white washed, strewn with thick veils of delicate flowers and some tackily cast in flouro shades (only apparent once the sun went away). While the bazaar is reminiscient of the markets in Goa and the main shopping districts of Delhi, there is something else here. The old arcithitecture and endless winding alleys buzz with a mysticism i've not encountered anywhere else in India. As i write this i feel regret that Marty and i terminated our journey together in Jaipur. He would have liked it here. If not for the excitement of weaving through the bazaar, the temple checkered hillscapes provide a strange and stunning backdrop for this quirky little place.
I made it back to the hotel, where i considered calling it a day. After doing some exercise (my first in weeks!) and reading a few more pages, the electricity cut out (a common event in India). A tiny panic did a lap of my diaphrgm, making me seriously consider jumping into bed. But a determination to not be a wimp escorted me out the darkened corridor and onto the nervously quiet street. Within minutes i had relaxed and was walking bac through the bazaar. A cup of tea at a street cafe, i exchanged smiles with a few friendly looking travellers, and now i am here at the internet cafe. And so you have it. I am on my own. While i often longed for solitude in the past month, the apparent reality of it makes one anxious for company. But thoughts of isolation mingle with feelings of dread and excitement. I guess i should shoulder a day or two of loneliness. It surely wont last long. Not here. Not long.
I'll post some more photos with the next entry. Thanks for reading. Ben
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Pink city blues
Jaipur. The capital of Rajasthan. But i am getting ahead of myself. How can i speak of where i am, if i cannot revisit in words the places i have been? I will try to paint the journey here for you.
After Rishikesh we attempted to reach the jungle of Rajaji, only to get stranded in Haridwar. It proves more and more difficult to organise transport in this country. Only one major train per day. Not one helpful attendant at the train station. No seats available for 5 days. Frustrated, hungy and tired, i revealed my emotional climate in a flurry of detailed gesture, then stormed across the road to a small travel agency. The clerk, who looked like a curry version of Lou from Neighbours, was very helpful, and insisted he could get us on a train or bus the following day, if we agreed to drink a chai with him. A small price, we conceded. The train proved too expensive, so we decided to deny common sense and take the bus. Always an inefficient, unreliable option. By this time the daylight was thin, and the jungle seemed a stretch. It was not difficult to find a place to stay in Haridwar. But we looked at four places to make sure we got a good deal, hot water, etc.
Haridwar is a beautiful little town on the Ganga, and a great number of Hindus flock there every year to cleanse themselves in the holy river. We enjoyed a Thali at a street cafe, surrounded by locals who looked very suprised to see us, then walked along the river enjoying the slow ebbing away of daylight. The hard pink walls held a stiking architecture between the rippling waters and the haze of red sky.
The following morning we were up late and hanging around a make shift bamboo bus station built under a holy Banyan tree. Say what you will, they are pretty cool trees. Already i find myself contradicting myself. The filth of Haridwar, of Delhi, of Jaipur. None of them has bothered me as much as the filth of Rishikesh. Perhaps because Rishikesh claims to be something else. Perhaps it was something else. Something deeper that dresses as disgust with mess. So tis. The bus trip was interesting.
We left a little late, no suprise. It was our first time on a bus during the day, so we enjoyed the view for an hour or so. When Marty started to drift off, i pulled out my ipod. This would be only my second time listening to music in a private context, since leaving melbourne. Something strange happens when you add music to experience. Memory is part of it, yes. But something else. Perhaps it is because music summons or expresses emotion in a way that words alone cannot, i don't know. As we stumbled along at 25 km per hour, i saw village after village. Piles of rubbish, people burning wood by the road to keep warm, children playing. I have been seeing such images for a month now, and although they are unfamiliar, they appear and disappear without much impression. Without much feeling. But when i looked out at unfamiliar, unremarkable India, while listening to Band of Horses (that second track on the new album), it seemed somehow different. I could gas on about the bulls eating tires, or the many people working in the cane fields, or the broken old temples and wrecked cars. But it was one image in particular that made me shake with tears. One particular moment that made me believe that my eyes and the music and the world as it was through the window were all one, just for one second, dancing and beautiful and good. As we negotiated past a tiny shop, freestanding, surrounded by crap, a small child stood on a pile of rubbish, flying a kite. And he was flying that delicate little object with such intent, completely committed to the thin fabric dropping and soaring with each breath of wind. The flimsy toy seemed desperate to drop, to rest on the floor and be free of the breeze. But the youngster kept forcing it higher and higher. I know that this is romantic projection on my behalf, but in that moment that child seemed profound, flying his kite, balancing on a filthy heap of scum and debris. And the soaring optimism of the music, unheard by all others, appeared to seep from the sky, fill up the fields, the kite and the child, at least in my mind. And then it was gone. And the road shuffled past, and the music slowly faded. I kept listening to the Band of Horses until the album was over. Still unwell, the motion of the bus was playing havoc with my system, so i opted for something a little smoother for a while. Rolling waves of ambient noise meshed with the falling darkness, until i fell asleep. We stopped a couple of times at dodgy overpriced food stands before waking with a start in Jaipur at 4am. This town runs on commission, so the first hotel we found charged us through the nose. We moved into a cheaper place the following day, visited the nearby Amber fort (another stinking fortress), and went shopping with our guide, Raju, today. We bargained hard, and i think Marty's commercial pursuits worked out ok for a western enterprise. We knew it was time to head home when Raju took us to a gem dealer who wanted us to carry some precious stones to Australia for him so he could dodge import taxes. Don't trust anyone who pulls the grand morale story about denying taxes to governments who misuse public funds while people die in the streets. I head for Pushka in 2 days. Alone. No hurry no worry no chicken no curry. Full power.
After Rishikesh we attempted to reach the jungle of Rajaji, only to get stranded in Haridwar. It proves more and more difficult to organise transport in this country. Only one major train per day. Not one helpful attendant at the train station. No seats available for 5 days. Frustrated, hungy and tired, i revealed my emotional climate in a flurry of detailed gesture, then stormed across the road to a small travel agency. The clerk, who looked like a curry version of Lou from Neighbours, was very helpful, and insisted he could get us on a train or bus the following day, if we agreed to drink a chai with him. A small price, we conceded. The train proved too expensive, so we decided to deny common sense and take the bus. Always an inefficient, unreliable option. By this time the daylight was thin, and the jungle seemed a stretch. It was not difficult to find a place to stay in Haridwar. But we looked at four places to make sure we got a good deal, hot water, etc.
Haridwar is a beautiful little town on the Ganga, and a great number of Hindus flock there every year to cleanse themselves in the holy river. We enjoyed a Thali at a street cafe, surrounded by locals who looked very suprised to see us, then walked along the river enjoying the slow ebbing away of daylight. The hard pink walls held a stiking architecture between the rippling waters and the haze of red sky.
The following morning we were up late and hanging around a make shift bamboo bus station built under a holy Banyan tree. Say what you will, they are pretty cool trees. Already i find myself contradicting myself. The filth of Haridwar, of Delhi, of Jaipur. None of them has bothered me as much as the filth of Rishikesh. Perhaps because Rishikesh claims to be something else. Perhaps it was something else. Something deeper that dresses as disgust with mess. So tis. The bus trip was interesting.
We left a little late, no suprise. It was our first time on a bus during the day, so we enjoyed the view for an hour or so. When Marty started to drift off, i pulled out my ipod. This would be only my second time listening to music in a private context, since leaving melbourne. Something strange happens when you add music to experience. Memory is part of it, yes. But something else. Perhaps it is because music summons or expresses emotion in a way that words alone cannot, i don't know. As we stumbled along at 25 km per hour, i saw village after village. Piles of rubbish, people burning wood by the road to keep warm, children playing. I have been seeing such images for a month now, and although they are unfamiliar, they appear and disappear without much impression. Without much feeling. But when i looked out at unfamiliar, unremarkable India, while listening to Band of Horses (that second track on the new album), it seemed somehow different. I could gas on about the bulls eating tires, or the many people working in the cane fields, or the broken old temples and wrecked cars. But it was one image in particular that made me shake with tears. One particular moment that made me believe that my eyes and the music and the world as it was through the window were all one, just for one second, dancing and beautiful and good. As we negotiated past a tiny shop, freestanding, surrounded by crap, a small child stood on a pile of rubbish, flying a kite. And he was flying that delicate little object with such intent, completely committed to the thin fabric dropping and soaring with each breath of wind. The flimsy toy seemed desperate to drop, to rest on the floor and be free of the breeze. But the youngster kept forcing it higher and higher. I know that this is romantic projection on my behalf, but in that moment that child seemed profound, flying his kite, balancing on a filthy heap of scum and debris. And the soaring optimism of the music, unheard by all others, appeared to seep from the sky, fill up the fields, the kite and the child, at least in my mind. And then it was gone. And the road shuffled past, and the music slowly faded. I kept listening to the Band of Horses until the album was over. Still unwell, the motion of the bus was playing havoc with my system, so i opted for something a little smoother for a while. Rolling waves of ambient noise meshed with the falling darkness, until i fell asleep. We stopped a couple of times at dodgy overpriced food stands before waking with a start in Jaipur at 4am. This town runs on commission, so the first hotel we found charged us through the nose. We moved into a cheaper place the following day, visited the nearby Amber fort (another stinking fortress), and went shopping with our guide, Raju, today. We bargained hard, and i think Marty's commercial pursuits worked out ok for a western enterprise. We knew it was time to head home when Raju took us to a gem dealer who wanted us to carry some precious stones to Australia for him so he could dodge import taxes. Don't trust anyone who pulls the grand morale story about denying taxes to governments who misuse public funds while people die in the streets. I head for Pushka in 2 days. Alone. No hurry no worry no chicken no curry. Full power.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
A few words, a few pictures
Namaste from Rishikesh. To be more accurate, Laxman Jhula. Slightly further up the Ganges. Slightly smaller Ashrams. Just as many yoga massage reiki kundalini sacred holy cow inverted magnetic kharma banana rama workshops. Slightly more Western middle aged lost cause shanti wankers. Just as many monkeys. This is the place where yoga took off and never came back down again. Where the Beatles wrote the White album. Where the Ganges trickles out of the Himalayas and rapidly assumes the luminous green thickness of relentless slithering python. This is where the spiritually awakened come to rub shoulders with gurus, babas and various enlightened beings, a thinly concealed hope that they too might achieve worldly peace.
(The above photo has nothing to do with Rishikesh, Ganesh, or any other "esh". Being my first attempt to add pictures i thought i'd chuck in a couple from my whole trip so far. This is go at the sun setting over the beach at Arambol, Goa. Pretty huh.)
At first i thought this place was pretty. I liked the idea of doing some yoga. Some meditation. Kicking back and reading a book, listening to some nice records, feeling the weighty pulse of the world's holiest river slithering by. I also liked the idea of becoming a champion basketball player when i was a kid. I've always liked ideas. But its not until you set foot on the court that you start to recognise the distance between the idea and the experience.
(Hampi! By far the best place we've been so far. I love Hampi. This is some old busted ancient bridge.)
It IS a very beautiful location. Tucked snuggly within the sudden and determined looking hills that gradually cascade into the jagged peaks of the Himalaya. The problem is not the hills or the river or even the holy pilgrims. Its the bloody rubbish. There are no bins in India. And no one gives a rats arse about chucking wrappers and bottles and paper and cigarette butts and whatever they happen to have just used for whatever selfish purpose onto the ground wherever they happen to be standing. Even when you make the effort to find a bin (in a cafe or hotel) they eventually just chuck it out the back. Case in point, most filth ends up straight in the Ganges, which is supposed to be sacred. I know that i shouldn't judge, that my point of view is embedded in a whole tonne of Western idealism crap, that it probably has something to do with the caste system which i don't understand and never will. But it looks awful. There' gotta be someplace they can send it stick it bust it down bury it or recycle it. Okay. So that one thing that seems to be amiss here.
(Hampi again! This is one of the few images in the old ruins that struck a chord with me. If you can't make him out, the poor stooge is getting gored by an elephant. I'll let you play the analyst.)
But i also have an aversive reaction to these tree eating cow hugging om shanti western twits. The locals don't dress like that, all orange in a full body scarf and shit. People singing right next to me in the cafe where i can't get a descent coffee. Oh, but personal stereos are not allowed and none of the restaurants play music. Its all straight out of the Gopal's Hare Krishna vegetarian playlist round here. I had to go and find a bit of empty beach, upstream, away from the nobs having their photo took with a cow looking bored. Nice spot, no stooges. I sat down. And then they appeared. A whole dinghy full of German tourists wearing pink helmets rowing lazily, having absolutely no influence on the determined current of the Ganga, which carried them dumbly along. Then i became aware of the major hotel development happening on the opposite shore, the sound of a circular saw, hammering, horns beeping and engines revving. Once again, India is at her most interesting when you go a couple of streets back from the main drag and get lost in the tiny alleys. Kids playing cricket on roof tops. Old men sitting in the sun, nuzzling their pet cow. These strange cement blocks that people live in.
This morning we jumped in a cab at 5am and hoofed up to the top of a very bloody big hill with a tiny (kinda boring) temple on top to watch the sunrise. I been feeling unwell with a bad head cold so i was a bit paranoid about being in the severe cold (it is so bloody cold up here!), but it was a mighty fine view and i decided to jog on the spot and tough it out. Just like Rocky would. Alright Rocko! For the first 30 minutes it was just me and marty, the sun taking its sweet time. Then some Japanese tourists rocked up and we had to share the view with them until Ra exploded from the horizon and exposed the stunning snow capped peaks, barely visible in the distance. A bit more sun and we could really see them. It was fantastic. With numb hands, feet and face, we crawled into the cab and returned to Rishikesh. See if you can guess which photos are from this morning. The best bit of the whole day was that 30 mins or so while Mart and i were desperately fighting the cold, determined to get our bloody sunrise over the Himalayas.
Since then we've had a few ideas about what to do next. I thought i might be able to get into this place, but i'm not so sure any more. It is quiet. It has potential. But Marty hates the place and that clinched it. Tomorrow we head to a national park sporting tigers and elephants. I hate safari wankers nearly as much as i hate hippy wankers, but it'll be a change and a bus trip. Then we'll probably head to Jaipur, the pink capital of Rajasthan.
(This is one of my favourite pictures. Its at the beautiful mosque at the Golconda Fort in Hyderabad. I don;t know the guy. But i like what he does to my photo. Nice way to finish hey. You like that shit?)
Okay i kinda just rambled off a whole heap of stuff today. I hope you like the pictures. They're some of my favourite from the very limited few i've taken. I don't much like cameras. Until wherever i happen to be next time. Seeya
(The above photo has nothing to do with Rishikesh, Ganesh, or any other "esh". Being my first attempt to add pictures i thought i'd chuck in a couple from my whole trip so far. This is go at the sun setting over the beach at Arambol, Goa. Pretty huh.)At first i thought this place was pretty. I liked the idea of doing some yoga. Some meditation. Kicking back and reading a book, listening to some nice records, feeling the weighty pulse of the world's holiest river slithering by. I also liked the idea of becoming a champion basketball player when i was a kid. I've always liked ideas. But its not until you set foot on the court that you start to recognise the distance between the idea and the experience.
(Hampi! By far the best place we've been so far. I love Hampi. This is some old busted ancient bridge.)It IS a very beautiful location. Tucked snuggly within the sudden and determined looking hills that gradually cascade into the jagged peaks of the Himalaya. The problem is not the hills or the river or even the holy pilgrims. Its the bloody rubbish. There are no bins in India. And no one gives a rats arse about chucking wrappers and bottles and paper and cigarette butts and whatever they happen to have just used for whatever selfish purpose onto the ground wherever they happen to be standing. Even when you make the effort to find a bin (in a cafe or hotel) they eventually just chuck it out the back. Case in point, most filth ends up straight in the Ganges, which is supposed to be sacred. I know that i shouldn't judge, that my point of view is embedded in a whole tonne of Western idealism crap, that it probably has something to do with the caste system which i don't understand and never will. But it looks awful. There' gotta be someplace they can send it stick it bust it down bury it or recycle it. Okay. So that one thing that seems to be amiss here.
(Hampi again! This is one of the few images in the old ruins that struck a chord with me. If you can't make him out, the poor stooge is getting gored by an elephant. I'll let you play the analyst.)But i also have an aversive reaction to these tree eating cow hugging om shanti western twits. The locals don't dress like that, all orange in a full body scarf and shit. People singing right next to me in the cafe where i can't get a descent coffee. Oh, but personal stereos are not allowed and none of the restaurants play music. Its all straight out of the Gopal's Hare Krishna vegetarian playlist round here. I had to go and find a bit of empty beach, upstream, away from the nobs having their photo took with a cow looking bored. Nice spot, no stooges. I sat down. And then they appeared. A whole dinghy full of German tourists wearing pink helmets rowing lazily, having absolutely no influence on the determined current of the Ganga, which carried them dumbly along. Then i became aware of the major hotel development happening on the opposite shore, the sound of a circular saw, hammering, horns beeping and engines revving. Once again, India is at her most interesting when you go a couple of streets back from the main drag and get lost in the tiny alleys. Kids playing cricket on roof tops. Old men sitting in the sun, nuzzling their pet cow. These strange cement blocks that people live in.
This morning we jumped in a cab at 5am and hoofed up to the top of a very bloody big hill with a tiny (kinda boring) temple on top to watch the sunrise. I been feeling unwell with a bad head cold so i was a bit paranoid about being in the severe cold (it is so bloody cold up here!), but it was a mighty fine view and i decided to jog on the spot and tough it out. Just like Rocky would. Alright Rocko! For the first 30 minutes it was just me and marty, the sun taking its sweet time. Then some Japanese tourists rocked up and we had to share the view with them until Ra exploded from the horizon and exposed the stunning snow capped peaks, barely visible in the distance. A bit more sun and we could really see them. It was fantastic. With numb hands, feet and face, we crawled into the cab and returned to Rishikesh. See if you can guess which photos are from this morning. The best bit of the whole day was that 30 mins or so while Mart and i were desperately fighting the cold, determined to get our bloody sunrise over the Himalayas.
Since then we've had a few ideas about what to do next. I thought i might be able to get into this place, but i'm not so sure any more. It is quiet. It has potential. But Marty hates the place and that clinched it. Tomorrow we head to a national park sporting tigers and elephants. I hate safari wankers nearly as much as i hate hippy wankers, but it'll be a change and a bus trip. Then we'll probably head to Jaipur, the pink capital of Rajasthan.
(This is one of my favourite pictures. Its at the beautiful mosque at the Golconda Fort in Hyderabad. I don;t know the guy. But i like what he does to my photo. Nice way to finish hey. You like that shit?)Okay i kinda just rambled off a whole heap of stuff today. I hope you like the pictures. They're some of my favourite from the very limited few i've taken. I don't much like cameras. Until wherever i happen to be next time. Seeya
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Delhi reconsidered: touts, trains and tummy trouble
I am all alone today. I just emerged from my room to purchase more water and a plain piece of toast. It is after 3pm. Australia lost the third test. I have severe diahorrea. Marty and Dan (yes Jas, funny Dan, who sadly is going home in a week) went to Agra today. I had a ticket, but am unable to travel in my current state. Plans have changed in the past 24 hours, so i guess it is not such a bad time to get sick. I guess its a good thing we're not going to Varanasi tonight or tomorrow. Let me tell you about my last day or so...
After spending a little more time wandering about the bazaars of old Delhi, taking in the extreme and unrelenting noise of this screaming city, i started to doubt my initial impressions. My brother sent me an email about his latest near solo trip around NZ, with the easily forgetable lesson of self learning that happens when travelling: We discover who we are by encountering what we like, and perhaps more acutely, what we dislike. Through a gradual course of excitement, struggle and reflection i started to believe that i am not a "BIG" filthy city kinda guy. I prefered the quieter, magic of Hyderabad, the LA vibe of Mumbai, the lazy beauty of Goa and Hampi. Delhi is an all out assault on the senses. It takes you in, lets you have a look around, then grips you in her bustling, vomit inducing horrors. The poverty and desperation here is so much more in your face, the street wallahs so much more aggressive. While the inhabitants of smaller cities find you exotic and interesting, Delhi's rapid fire smile sheaths a commercial enterprise that seeks to lubricate the lips of your wallet. I feel choked in this madness, crushed by its unbreathable pollution, poverty and pace. Or do i?
Yesterday i woke up feeling a bit poor. I had turned on myself after a night of excessive consumption. We went to a restaurant recommended by the LP book, only to discover that the promise of budget eating had been replaced by an expensive, overly lit venue with live renditions of Whitney Houston and the Fugees. So after a meal and a few drinks (i have to remember that my numbers need to last longer than my current travel companions), a few too many drinks, i had blown my budget for three days in a single evening. (A strange gentleman has just started arguing with the manager of the web cafe). Self reproach and disdain were quick to follow. But yesterday was another day. Perhaps a healthy reminder.
Yesterday. I felt unwell, feverish, and had a couple of morning bouts of "the squirts." Still, i went out with Marty and Dan, looking for laughs and hoping to book our selves a spot on the train to Varansi with a stop in Agra to see the Taj.
But before we went to any train station, we went shopping in Connaught Place and the nearby Connaught Place. This is where you find clothes that did not fall off the back of a proverbial truck. There is real wealth here in Delhi, which amplifies one's awareness of the street life. First we wandered through a street market, full of illegitimate stalls. It was hillarious. Someone shouts "Cops!" and you've never seen a market turned into a swarm of bees so quickly. Half the place was closed down in less than a minute. Unbelievable. Made hungry by our shopping experience, we went in search of food. This is the point where i must learn to say no to my travel companions, and the street touts. Marty and Dan were compelled to enter a burger place called "Wimpys". Named after a single appearance character from the Pop eye cartoons, Wimpys is Delhi's answer to McDowell's of "Coming to America" fame. So we order three meals. I'd voiced my unease. They wanted photos. We ate our super lamb double deluxe burgers, and so today i am sick. You bastards, i will never forgive you. But the highlight of the day was yet to come.
Straight out of the guide books, on our way into the train station we were asked where we wanted to go by an innocent looking individual. When we said, he direted us to collect a reservation form from the small building that said "Dry cleaner." Yes. Of course. Dry cleaners.
A very genuine seeming man quoted figures that sounded legit, helped us fill out (what turned out to be shonky) reservation forms, then shoved us in a ricksha (for 10 rupees, by far the lowest price we have paid for the distance we covered). The numbers he said were consitent with the guide book, but the book also said "Do not believe anyone who tries to redirect you elsewhere". So we arrive in some back street in front of a tiny little shop with poorly applied decals in the initials of a Tourist Bureua. We al felt a bit dodgy about this, so we paid the ricksha to bugger off, then started walking in the direction from whence we came. Then some other dude came up and asked us what we were doing. We told him we thought we'd been stooged, so he offered to help us to the "real" tourist bureau. But his directions felt like bollocks as well. So we gave him the slip and jumped in a ricksha, saying we wanted to go to the Regal Theatre (across the road from the real tourist bureau). He dropped us off, after a few laughs. We went inside, only to discover that the tourist bureau doesn't do train bookings. "You have to go to the New Delhi train station to do that", which is exactly where this whole debarcle had started from. So back in a ricky and back to the train station, and a swift dealing of the bird for our chubby bearded dry cleaner friend and then we sat in a que for 30 minutes. And what? No trains to Varanasi for the next 4 days. So we had a think, and now Marty and i will go to Rishikesh, in the fotthills of the himalayas tonight, (it is now the 20th, most of this blog was written yesterday) and Dan will fly to Varanasi.
All in all, the rickshas cost us 50 rupees to discover we were getting stooged. And i'd do it all again for another 50. It was heaps of fun. And as for Delhi, i think we've made some peace with one another. Its big, its filthy, i got crook, and hell is it noisy. Its abusive and never returns your calls, but there is something addictive about this place. We go tonight, back to the relative quiet of village life (in the off season), and the capital of Yoga (the beatles spent a lot of time in Rishikesh, the home of their guru), and the stunning mountains. I'll miss you Delhi. You filthy bitch of a place.
After spending a little more time wandering about the bazaars of old Delhi, taking in the extreme and unrelenting noise of this screaming city, i started to doubt my initial impressions. My brother sent me an email about his latest near solo trip around NZ, with the easily forgetable lesson of self learning that happens when travelling: We discover who we are by encountering what we like, and perhaps more acutely, what we dislike. Through a gradual course of excitement, struggle and reflection i started to believe that i am not a "BIG" filthy city kinda guy. I prefered the quieter, magic of Hyderabad, the LA vibe of Mumbai, the lazy beauty of Goa and Hampi. Delhi is an all out assault on the senses. It takes you in, lets you have a look around, then grips you in her bustling, vomit inducing horrors. The poverty and desperation here is so much more in your face, the street wallahs so much more aggressive. While the inhabitants of smaller cities find you exotic and interesting, Delhi's rapid fire smile sheaths a commercial enterprise that seeks to lubricate the lips of your wallet. I feel choked in this madness, crushed by its unbreathable pollution, poverty and pace. Or do i?
Yesterday i woke up feeling a bit poor. I had turned on myself after a night of excessive consumption. We went to a restaurant recommended by the LP book, only to discover that the promise of budget eating had been replaced by an expensive, overly lit venue with live renditions of Whitney Houston and the Fugees. So after a meal and a few drinks (i have to remember that my numbers need to last longer than my current travel companions), a few too many drinks, i had blown my budget for three days in a single evening. (A strange gentleman has just started arguing with the manager of the web cafe). Self reproach and disdain were quick to follow. But yesterday was another day. Perhaps a healthy reminder.
Yesterday. I felt unwell, feverish, and had a couple of morning bouts of "the squirts." Still, i went out with Marty and Dan, looking for laughs and hoping to book our selves a spot on the train to Varansi with a stop in Agra to see the Taj.
But before we went to any train station, we went shopping in Connaught Place and the nearby Connaught Place. This is where you find clothes that did not fall off the back of a proverbial truck. There is real wealth here in Delhi, which amplifies one's awareness of the street life. First we wandered through a street market, full of illegitimate stalls. It was hillarious. Someone shouts "Cops!" and you've never seen a market turned into a swarm of bees so quickly. Half the place was closed down in less than a minute. Unbelievable. Made hungry by our shopping experience, we went in search of food. This is the point where i must learn to say no to my travel companions, and the street touts. Marty and Dan were compelled to enter a burger place called "Wimpys". Named after a single appearance character from the Pop eye cartoons, Wimpys is Delhi's answer to McDowell's of "Coming to America" fame. So we order three meals. I'd voiced my unease. They wanted photos. We ate our super lamb double deluxe burgers, and so today i am sick. You bastards, i will never forgive you. But the highlight of the day was yet to come.
Straight out of the guide books, on our way into the train station we were asked where we wanted to go by an innocent looking individual. When we said, he direted us to collect a reservation form from the small building that said "Dry cleaner." Yes. Of course. Dry cleaners.
A very genuine seeming man quoted figures that sounded legit, helped us fill out (what turned out to be shonky) reservation forms, then shoved us in a ricksha (for 10 rupees, by far the lowest price we have paid for the distance we covered). The numbers he said were consitent with the guide book, but the book also said "Do not believe anyone who tries to redirect you elsewhere". So we arrive in some back street in front of a tiny little shop with poorly applied decals in the initials of a Tourist Bureua. We al felt a bit dodgy about this, so we paid the ricksha to bugger off, then started walking in the direction from whence we came. Then some other dude came up and asked us what we were doing. We told him we thought we'd been stooged, so he offered to help us to the "real" tourist bureau. But his directions felt like bollocks as well. So we gave him the slip and jumped in a ricksha, saying we wanted to go to the Regal Theatre (across the road from the real tourist bureau). He dropped us off, after a few laughs. We went inside, only to discover that the tourist bureau doesn't do train bookings. "You have to go to the New Delhi train station to do that", which is exactly where this whole debarcle had started from. So back in a ricky and back to the train station, and a swift dealing of the bird for our chubby bearded dry cleaner friend and then we sat in a que for 30 minutes. And what? No trains to Varanasi for the next 4 days. So we had a think, and now Marty and i will go to Rishikesh, in the fotthills of the himalayas tonight, (it is now the 20th, most of this blog was written yesterday) and Dan will fly to Varanasi.
All in all, the rickshas cost us 50 rupees to discover we were getting stooged. And i'd do it all again for another 50. It was heaps of fun. And as for Delhi, i think we've made some peace with one another. Its big, its filthy, i got crook, and hell is it noisy. Its abusive and never returns your calls, but there is something addictive about this place. We go tonight, back to the relative quiet of village life (in the off season), and the capital of Yoga (the beatles spent a lot of time in Rishikesh, the home of their guru), and the stunning mountains. I'll miss you Delhi. You filthy bitch of a place.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
And stay away from down town, its gonna be a little smoggy.
Delhi. Big. Filfy. Covered in shit, popular with the boys on a friday night dirty Delhi. This is already my favourite city so far. Even though its cold, its crowded and congested in a way the Mumbai was not, there is an energy here. Something uncanny, undefinable - but you can feel it. See it, even. Having only been here a couple of hours, i am probably not in a particularly advantageous position to pass comment... but, the traveller oriented district we have set up in closely fits my minds idea of what a major Indian city should look like. Mumbai was great. But this place has something else going on. We flew in from Hyderabad this morning. Hyderabad was awesome. In Hampi i was given some advice that has proven sacred: "Be open and be yourself." Upon arrival in this big irreducible slippery country my guard was up a bit. Forgivable of course. Mumbai is spastic, and the idea of India, bravado aside, is terrifying to the would be wandering scholar but i only eva left home once before and i'm shitting myself just a little me from easy nice all my friends are there Melbourne. Looking back, it has taken a while for those walls to come down, and i reckon i could relax even more yet. But in Hyderabad we discovered that the Lonely Planet guide book plays a part in the economy of fear. Most backpackers manage greetings from locals with a blanket "No" or with simple cold unresponsiveness. Of course, this is sometimes perhaps justified as the hassle factor does get a bit much, and most of the time you're just a walking white skinned money pouch that requires a little persistant pressure toease the wallet open. But the more likely scenario is that they just want a chat. I'll tell you a story: Last night after we went and saw an (atrocious) local film, we came across some well pimped up rickys. We stopped to admire their slick exteriors, fat tyres and strange decorations, when their drivers started asking us where we wanted to go. When we said we didn't need a ride they still crowded around asking us the usual torrent of questions: where you from, whats your good name, what is your religion, you are married, why come India? But when we said we liked their rickshaws, they offered to let us sit in the drivers seat and even have a bit of a go driving them. Ridiculous in its novelty, but the lesson is in the exchange. For us cool kept to ourselves Aussies it can take a little while to open up to a people who seem to be all but socially reserved.
Of course, coming to a new place is always a bit stressful. Where we gonna stay, are we gonna get mugged like the book says we will, whos gonna get the squirts in this polluted dirty filth pit of a joint? But it just keeps working out no worries. Infact, getting out of the Cab in front of our hotel, the first person i see is someone i know from Melbourne! Dan, who used to work at Kelvin's on High street. In Delhi. Nothing much else to report. But i did record some of the early morning prayers in Hyderabad. That quirky place that kinda looks like some impulsive character went and cut out some life size drawings of Tokyo's neon sky line and then pasted them haphazardously over a messy albeit progressive minded indian city. No regard for the cracks and mess bursting from the cracked seams. Did i mention the kites? They were everywhere! The sky was ful of competing little darts with glass encrusted lines, strait out of The Kite Runner. God Bless India.
Of course, coming to a new place is always a bit stressful. Where we gonna stay, are we gonna get mugged like the book says we will, whos gonna get the squirts in this polluted dirty filth pit of a joint? But it just keeps working out no worries. Infact, getting out of the Cab in front of our hotel, the first person i see is someone i know from Melbourne! Dan, who used to work at Kelvin's on High street. In Delhi. Nothing much else to report. But i did record some of the early morning prayers in Hyderabad. That quirky place that kinda looks like some impulsive character went and cut out some life size drawings of Tokyo's neon sky line and then pasted them haphazardously over a messy albeit progressive minded indian city. No regard for the cracks and mess bursting from the cracked seams. Did i mention the kites? They were everywhere! The sky was ful of competing little darts with glass encrusted lines, strait out of The Kite Runner. God Bless India.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Hyderabad, cattle class on roads rarely trod
We ended up prolonging our stay in Hampi well beyond our original intentions. In part for several reasons, all of which arguably causative and symptomatic of each other- The landscape was breathtaking, the temples were weird and interesting, the village was tiny, the hassle factor squirms at a bare minimum and, above all else, the incredible people we met there. The long and emotional farewells as we said good bye to Goopi guesthouse were to say the very least, overwhelming. It was all a bit much considering i've only been in this country for 2 weeks. I would have stayed in Hampi. I could have spent the entire season reading in the sun, swimming in the lakes and riding around the eerie hills. And so i found the best reason to leave. It was just too easy. But i will miss those crazy, enthusiastic conversations about music, books and travel. I have added pages to my list of places to go, and a few prospective titles for the library. It is for this reason that last night's terror was amplified into shattering proportions.
We jumped in a conical boat to paddle across the river (our Guesthhouse was on the opposite side to Hampi - much more laid back), warned by the boatman to keep silent. We were crossing at an illegal time, i couldn't get the grin off my face as we sloshed about under a perfect crescent moon. A quick ride in a rickshaw to the Hospet train station, our destination: Hyderabad - a bustling high-tech city with a staggering 60% illiteracy rate. Of course, we knew the train was full and that there were no sleeper positions available - we knew that we were gonna have to ride in the 3rd class carriage with all the lower caste kids. But. But we could never have prepared ourselves for what lay in store. When the train arrived it was packed to the rafters. We were unable to sit, and were squeezed in ammongst sleeping families and loud chattering youths. Naturally, all eyes were on us. It is unheard of for a couple of "whiteys" to ride with the poor people on the night train. Maybe for a couple of stops during the day, but "why didn't you just book a sleeper?" Because we thought it'd be alright. After three hours the train stopped and a nearby Kerala bgorn gentleman who knew a little english informed us that we would need to jump out because we were in the wrong carriage. The front carriage goes to Hyderabad - This carriage goes to Bangalore. For a moment i considered sticking around and going further south - a few of the people we'd met were going there soon. But Agra is north, and Varanasi is north, and Pushka and Rishikesh and Manali and Nepal and Tibet and Santa Claus and Mrs Claus and all those dirty little elves are north. But how can one half of the train go to one place and the other bit go some where else? After a few hours, the train splits. Right. So we squeezed ourselves out of the carriage and hoofed our way to the Hyderabad bit, tried to slip the conductor a 100rps in the hope of acquiring a nicer seat. Failed. Got back in the 3rd class, stood for 3 hours waiting to get a seat, then slowly passed out.
When i woke up i had been turned into a child's play gym. Two little girls had climbed onto my lap and were using me as a platform so they could see out the window. Their mother was glaring at me at first, but soon relaxed when i didn't seem likely to hurt the children. As the trip continued, Marty and i gradually achieved celebrity status, as every young dude wanted to know our religion, marital status and thoughts on the cricket debarcle. This was nice for a while but soon became exhausting. I just wanted to sleep and they wouldn't go away! And the sentence could not remain in its supressed holding pattern - "I wish i'd stayed in Hampi." There i was asked to get my ipod so we could listen to Krush, Spirit Jack and Tortoise. In this carriage i was too scared to get my ipod out, for fear of losing it. But... i must say, the people in this country seem, wealthy or poor, overwhelmingly friendly, helpful, and honest. Though the cab drivers might be an exception.
Philosophical musings to a minimum this week. I'm so tired i can barely see the screen as i write this - i had to get it out while it was still hanging in my muscles. Finished Hemingway (Thanks Al!), and started reading a book by Jon Krakauer on the Everest tragedy of 1996. Funnily enough, i am thinking of doing the trek to the Everest base camp. Okay. Gotta go and recover. Fly to Varanasi in a couple of days. Hope everyone is well, please keep the emails coming, they make me feel good. Love,
Ben
We jumped in a conical boat to paddle across the river (our Guesthhouse was on the opposite side to Hampi - much more laid back), warned by the boatman to keep silent. We were crossing at an illegal time, i couldn't get the grin off my face as we sloshed about under a perfect crescent moon. A quick ride in a rickshaw to the Hospet train station, our destination: Hyderabad - a bustling high-tech city with a staggering 60% illiteracy rate. Of course, we knew the train was full and that there were no sleeper positions available - we knew that we were gonna have to ride in the 3rd class carriage with all the lower caste kids. But. But we could never have prepared ourselves for what lay in store. When the train arrived it was packed to the rafters. We were unable to sit, and were squeezed in ammongst sleeping families and loud chattering youths. Naturally, all eyes were on us. It is unheard of for a couple of "whiteys" to ride with the poor people on the night train. Maybe for a couple of stops during the day, but "why didn't you just book a sleeper?" Because we thought it'd be alright. After three hours the train stopped and a nearby Kerala bgorn gentleman who knew a little english informed us that we would need to jump out because we were in the wrong carriage. The front carriage goes to Hyderabad - This carriage goes to Bangalore. For a moment i considered sticking around and going further south - a few of the people we'd met were going there soon. But Agra is north, and Varanasi is north, and Pushka and Rishikesh and Manali and Nepal and Tibet and Santa Claus and Mrs Claus and all those dirty little elves are north. But how can one half of the train go to one place and the other bit go some where else? After a few hours, the train splits. Right. So we squeezed ourselves out of the carriage and hoofed our way to the Hyderabad bit, tried to slip the conductor a 100rps in the hope of acquiring a nicer seat. Failed. Got back in the 3rd class, stood for 3 hours waiting to get a seat, then slowly passed out.
When i woke up i had been turned into a child's play gym. Two little girls had climbed onto my lap and were using me as a platform so they could see out the window. Their mother was glaring at me at first, but soon relaxed when i didn't seem likely to hurt the children. As the trip continued, Marty and i gradually achieved celebrity status, as every young dude wanted to know our religion, marital status and thoughts on the cricket debarcle. This was nice for a while but soon became exhausting. I just wanted to sleep and they wouldn't go away! And the sentence could not remain in its supressed holding pattern - "I wish i'd stayed in Hampi." There i was asked to get my ipod so we could listen to Krush, Spirit Jack and Tortoise. In this carriage i was too scared to get my ipod out, for fear of losing it. But... i must say, the people in this country seem, wealthy or poor, overwhelmingly friendly, helpful, and honest. Though the cab drivers might be an exception.
Philosophical musings to a minimum this week. I'm so tired i can barely see the screen as i write this - i had to get it out while it was still hanging in my muscles. Finished Hemingway (Thanks Al!), and started reading a book by Jon Krakauer on the Everest tragedy of 1996. Funnily enough, i am thinking of doing the trek to the Everest base camp. Okay. Gotta go and recover. Fly to Varanasi in a couple of days. Hope everyone is well, please keep the emails coming, they make me feel good. Love,
Ben
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Mapi Bazzaarr!
Hampi. Karnataka. A stunning guesthouse with a large open space for eating, drinking and meeting. There is no shortage of tourist culture in this place, this "oldest living world heritage site." My immediate reaction is: "I love this place!" Bombay was intense. Goa was cheesy. But Hampi... Hampi is just right. One finds oneself obsessed with trivialities, however. The focus of my attention has recently been absorbed in the blockage of my ears, not to mention the associated pain. I attribute this to my swimming in the ocean and letting sham ear cleaners have a prod in there with their bicycle spoke. I no longer believe that phlegmy crap came out of my head, quivering like a 100 rupee bill in the wind. The gunk i flushed out this morning did not boast such a smooth matt finish, nor take to sculpture with the grace and ease of playdoh. No, i got stooged. But not anymore. Yesterday i interrupted a guided tour of the nearby village and temples (i could have road my bike around that village all day... it was awesome!) to duck into a government sponsored medical clinic where they shone torch into my skull, then handed me some alcohol based drops and said: Ina morn, ina day, ina night. Is free. Namaste." The ears are better, but still on the mend.
One feels a little weird when they realise their own bodily functions, needs and sites of tension, are able to distract, indeed, to dominate ones experience - even when you're surrounded by icredible natural beauty and the scattered ruins of the greatest ancient Hindu capital. And i will be the first to say it: Those ancient Dus knew how to put chisel to stone. The ornate attention is evident in the detail of the mosaics. Monkeys are everywhere here, and squirrels sit atop the templs chewing incessantly. And yet, i feel a strange guilt in my stomach. It presses upon my lungs as small boats nudge one another in the early dawn. I recall feeling the same when i was a young child, when other children would share a joke or refer to something funny, and i would laugh as though i shared their humour. As though i understood. As though i felt the same. It is the heaviness of pretense, of a failure to be authentic. At first one works hard to connect with the mystery of these ancient monoliths. I take time, and feast my eyes upon the individual slabs of stone, the statues, the dark corridors and pillared halls. But my eyes only seem to become tired. They are rendered hungry and desperate. Then one starts to grow impatient with the temples, the ruins, the endless rocky crags. Why do these wonderous images not dazzle me? Why do i not feel more? This inevitably turns to self reproach. One begins to hate the temples. One externalises their own sense of failure. Failure to get it. Failure to feel more! I grow impatient with life in these moments.
Goodnight my friends.
One feels a little weird when they realise their own bodily functions, needs and sites of tension, are able to distract, indeed, to dominate ones experience - even when you're surrounded by icredible natural beauty and the scattered ruins of the greatest ancient Hindu capital. And i will be the first to say it: Those ancient Dus knew how to put chisel to stone. The ornate attention is evident in the detail of the mosaics. Monkeys are everywhere here, and squirrels sit atop the templs chewing incessantly. And yet, i feel a strange guilt in my stomach. It presses upon my lungs as small boats nudge one another in the early dawn. I recall feeling the same when i was a young child, when other children would share a joke or refer to something funny, and i would laugh as though i shared their humour. As though i understood. As though i felt the same. It is the heaviness of pretense, of a failure to be authentic. At first one works hard to connect with the mystery of these ancient monoliths. I take time, and feast my eyes upon the individual slabs of stone, the statues, the dark corridors and pillared halls. But my eyes only seem to become tired. They are rendered hungry and desperate. Then one starts to grow impatient with the temples, the ruins, the endless rocky crags. Why do these wonderous images not dazzle me? Why do i not feel more? This inevitably turns to self reproach. One begins to hate the temples. One externalises their own sense of failure. Failure to get it. Failure to feel more! I grow impatient with life in these moments.
Goodnight my friends.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
The dole drums limited
The beach community of Arambol has, with a little time, revealed itself to be a much more enjoyable experience than we had perhaps first perceived. We have been here for three days now, after being quite determined to leave after two. In all honesty, i would be quite happy to stay here for another four days. Eventually, one finds a few nice places to eat, to sit and read, the gentle warmth of the Arabian Sea coaxes the sore and aching muscles, and the local vendors cease their hassling. Indeed, the markets seem to have disappeared altogether - though they are still very much open for business. After the first day of lying about, doing nothing much (a very stressful pastime for me), i started to adjust, to relax, to let go. Then the charms of this place were able to work their magic. The subjective result has culminated in a deep sense of quiet and lethargy - i am quite happy to just rest here for a bit. Sometimes i feel guilty for it, but when i consider how hard and how long i had been working the past year, the slow laziness seems justified.
Marty, however, seems quite keen to get back on the road - and apparently without any real sense of direction. "South! We're heading south." Some names have been slid across the table, but i feel like a passenger in this move. Which is absolutely fine - i have plenty of time to see this country. Marty only has three weeks left. But i have little real motivation to leave quite yet. We were meant to go this morning. A road blockage, however, seems to have thwarted our exit strategy. So i will find myself an avocado lassi, and return to the pages of Hemingway (excellent recommendation Alex!), in the sun, by the sea, by myself.
It has been a blessing to have spent this time here for another set of reasons. The part of travel they don't mention in the Lonely Planet books, is getting used to not being at home. Being away, i have struggled with a new and challenging world, but struggled perhaps more profoundly with my feelings of dislocation, loss and estrangement. This is the experience of being crushed, like a swollen eyeball threatening to escape the socket - the constricting lids cutting into my sides. It has been good to stay here for a few days, to get used to being away from home, in this relatively calm, stressless refuge from greater INDIA. Going to the toilet, is nothing like home. There is no toilet paper. Forget your training... you must unlearn what you have learned.
Marty, however, seems quite keen to get back on the road - and apparently without any real sense of direction. "South! We're heading south." Some names have been slid across the table, but i feel like a passenger in this move. Which is absolutely fine - i have plenty of time to see this country. Marty only has three weeks left. But i have little real motivation to leave quite yet. We were meant to go this morning. A road blockage, however, seems to have thwarted our exit strategy. So i will find myself an avocado lassi, and return to the pages of Hemingway (excellent recommendation Alex!), in the sun, by the sea, by myself.
It has been a blessing to have spent this time here for another set of reasons. The part of travel they don't mention in the Lonely Planet books, is getting used to not being at home. Being away, i have struggled with a new and challenging world, but struggled perhaps more profoundly with my feelings of dislocation, loss and estrangement. This is the experience of being crushed, like a swollen eyeball threatening to escape the socket - the constricting lids cutting into my sides. It has been good to stay here for a few days, to get used to being away from home, in this relatively calm, stressless refuge from greater INDIA. Going to the toilet, is nothing like home. There is no toilet paper. Forget your training... you must unlearn what you have learned.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Arambol, Goa -
One very important aspect of all experience is the stuff that reminds you what you are not, what does not stock the fires of one's being. The hippy beach communes of north Goa have provided me with such a reminder. Arambol is, apparently, one of the less stooge infested examples of young, feral refusal to let go of the "groovy" ideals of the 1960s. Actually, i doubt these nobs have any real ideals at all - the beaches look more like the market area at some huge bush doof festival, and if there is one thing this place has got, it is too much of everything. Too many people selling tie-dye crap, sarongs, incense and magic pipes. Too many vendors on the beach, and if you say no to one, then cave for another, as i did yesterday, a bombardment of angry young girls will soon follow, demanding you must now buy from them. I got a bit ticked off by this, and eventually had to use some gestures uncommon in my repertoire to get rid of them. Off course, its all a game. Later on they came over again and gave me another rev for not wanting to buy their jewellery. A few compliments on their young loveliness, and they had to run away and blush somewhere. Maybe i should use that technique more often.
Too many people selling the same stuff. Clearly, the concept of supply and demand achieving an equilibrium is lost here. Though, some of the locals did say that New Year is the peak period and that just before we arrived, there were thousands of dreadlocked twats combing this joint. Anyway, its not too my liking - you can probably get this sort of experience in most countries. It just doesn't feel like India.
In what may have been interpreted as an act of protest, i went for a run yesterday afternoon, along the hills and rocky crags that mark the coast line. From one point i could see a huge old fortress and a near abandoned little beach. It is too bad i did not haul my camera with me. On the way back, i took a wrong turn and ended up running inland prematurely. Wild cows (who laze up and down the streets everywhere in this country) who were grazing beneath some trees payed me little attention. However, i did startle some monkeys in a nearby tree, which then, in turn, startled me. Remembering my rabies shots, i turned back towards the coast and found my back to the "Coca cola" umbrella lined beach. A tropical paradise for cheesey but clowns. I think one more night in this place will be quite enough. As long as one stays away from the hashish, there is little reason to stay. Though i did enjoy my run - and it is awesomely cheap. We are sharing a room with a friendly Sweedish girl called Leana, for 300 rp (about $2.50 each), and when i paid for breakfast this morning, it came to the grand total of around $5 for all of us - and we ate well.
Okay, so that what we've been doing. Not impressed with the shanti bollocks of Goan beaches, but i am impressed with the Ayurvedic medicine i bought i Mumbai. I feel bloody fantastic after i eat that stuff in the morning, and the refrigerant quality is undeniable. My guts are cool, and my ulcers are gone. As for the travel anxiety, it seems to have quelled a bit. Some times the terror gets to me, and i start to feel like my entire body is being squeezed - attempts to describe this leave me gulping at inaudible words, like a beached sea bass, mouthing at absent liquids. It is as if i were an eye, popping free from its socket, gripped and slowed by the taught ripples of desperate lids. I guess that is probably a good way to feel. As Beckett said, "we don't travel for the fun of it. Surely we're not that stupid."
Namaste, my friends.
Too many people selling the same stuff. Clearly, the concept of supply and demand achieving an equilibrium is lost here. Though, some of the locals did say that New Year is the peak period and that just before we arrived, there were thousands of dreadlocked twats combing this joint. Anyway, its not too my liking - you can probably get this sort of experience in most countries. It just doesn't feel like India.
In what may have been interpreted as an act of protest, i went for a run yesterday afternoon, along the hills and rocky crags that mark the coast line. From one point i could see a huge old fortress and a near abandoned little beach. It is too bad i did not haul my camera with me. On the way back, i took a wrong turn and ended up running inland prematurely. Wild cows (who laze up and down the streets everywhere in this country) who were grazing beneath some trees payed me little attention. However, i did startle some monkeys in a nearby tree, which then, in turn, startled me. Remembering my rabies shots, i turned back towards the coast and found my back to the "Coca cola" umbrella lined beach. A tropical paradise for cheesey but clowns. I think one more night in this place will be quite enough. As long as one stays away from the hashish, there is little reason to stay. Though i did enjoy my run - and it is awesomely cheap. We are sharing a room with a friendly Sweedish girl called Leana, for 300 rp (about $2.50 each), and when i paid for breakfast this morning, it came to the grand total of around $5 for all of us - and we ate well.
Okay, so that what we've been doing. Not impressed with the shanti bollocks of Goan beaches, but i am impressed with the Ayurvedic medicine i bought i Mumbai. I feel bloody fantastic after i eat that stuff in the morning, and the refrigerant quality is undeniable. My guts are cool, and my ulcers are gone. As for the travel anxiety, it seems to have quelled a bit. Some times the terror gets to me, and i start to feel like my entire body is being squeezed - attempts to describe this leave me gulping at inaudible words, like a beached sea bass, mouthing at absent liquids. It is as if i were an eye, popping free from its socket, gripped and slowed by the taught ripples of desperate lids. I guess that is probably a good way to feel. As Beckett said, "we don't travel for the fun of it. Surely we're not that stupid."
Namaste, my friends.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
ayurveda ear cleana rama subji kabbana
Mumbai is not cheap, and it is not beautiful and amazing. It is challenging, and it is full to the extreme - both highly desirable qualities. Correction - the views of the Arabian sea are pretty spectacular, more so as the sun slowly melts into the rippling horizon. But this is an extremely polluted city, riddled with poverty, and the local street vendors and beggars are morbidly persistent. I did some shoppin today, collecting some sunglasses for about $7AU, some pants for $3, and some Ayurvedic medication for my mouth ulcers at about $18. I was dubious about this last one, but figure its worth a shot. The hotel here is expensive by any one's standards, and the 'deluxe' tag seems to apply to the availability of useless crap like a television. The view of street holds mild novelty value, as people watching dissolves into the afternoon fog of imagination.
Yesterday we went up to the hanging gardens, which provide a great view of the Bombay harbour amidst lush green surrounds. Indeed, one cannot help but feel a little strange from up there. The sky scrapers and neon signs seem worlds away from the many families sleeping on the streets, or under bridges. The hanging gardens crown a steeply contoured suburb that thinly veils the equivalent Toorak of Bombay - there is great wealth here.
We have done a great deal of walking the past couple of day, which is really great. I do enjoy just sauntering about the bazaars, gazing down those strange darkened lanes and feeling quicks darts of anxiety in the stares of every local. We took the train again today, and the dude sitting by us was very impressed. So was i actually.
But i am terrified. if i am honest. I am terrified. I guess i will just keep writing about the stuff that happens for a while, so as to be able to see it on the page. After a while, i hope to find the words with which to describe it better, to express some feeling other than shock and glee at train rides. Such inane matter. I started to feel a little more confident this morning - but today i got ripped off a little by some clown who insisted on cleaning my ears for me. It worked, mind you. He pulled gunk outta there i couldn't believe, and my residual cold symptoms were alleviated immediately - but it cost a lot more than i wanted to pay. Still not savvy with the bargaining stuff. Then again, have only been here a couple of days.
Perhaps in the name of familiarity, one sticks to whaere one has been and been comfortable. We keep going back to the same restaurants and cafes. We did check out Leopold's today, made famous by the Shantaram book. Not much chop, in my eyes. Not what i'd expected. Kind of like a cheesey hole on Lygon Street, and serving western style chow. The coffee was arse. Tonight we jump on a bus and head south to Goa. No idea where we're gonna stay, or how long for, or what next. Hope you're all well, and don't mind me sounding like a deer in headlights. Which i kinda, sorta are.
ciou
Yesterday we went up to the hanging gardens, which provide a great view of the Bombay harbour amidst lush green surrounds. Indeed, one cannot help but feel a little strange from up there. The sky scrapers and neon signs seem worlds away from the many families sleeping on the streets, or under bridges. The hanging gardens crown a steeply contoured suburb that thinly veils the equivalent Toorak of Bombay - there is great wealth here.
We have done a great deal of walking the past couple of day, which is really great. I do enjoy just sauntering about the bazaars, gazing down those strange darkened lanes and feeling quicks darts of anxiety in the stares of every local. We took the train again today, and the dude sitting by us was very impressed. So was i actually.
But i am terrified. if i am honest. I am terrified. I guess i will just keep writing about the stuff that happens for a while, so as to be able to see it on the page. After a while, i hope to find the words with which to describe it better, to express some feeling other than shock and glee at train rides. Such inane matter. I started to feel a little more confident this morning - but today i got ripped off a little by some clown who insisted on cleaning my ears for me. It worked, mind you. He pulled gunk outta there i couldn't believe, and my residual cold symptoms were alleviated immediately - but it cost a lot more than i wanted to pay. Still not savvy with the bargaining stuff. Then again, have only been here a couple of days.
Perhaps in the name of familiarity, one sticks to whaere one has been and been comfortable. We keep going back to the same restaurants and cafes. We did check out Leopold's today, made famous by the Shantaram book. Not much chop, in my eyes. Not what i'd expected. Kind of like a cheesey hole on Lygon Street, and serving western style chow. The coffee was arse. Tonight we jump on a bus and head south to Goa. No idea where we're gonna stay, or how long for, or what next. Hope you're all well, and don't mind me sounding like a deer in headlights. Which i kinda, sorta are.
ciou
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Attack!
Today's blog, my first from within the bustling mayhem of Mumbai, will have to be a short one. Not for lack of things to impart, possibly due to company requirements, definately a biproduct of an overwhelmed central nervous system. This place is nuts.
Let me start by saying i had a great flight over. I was very lucky to be sitting next to a very friendly girl called Priya, who has been working as a doctor in the intensive care ward of the King's Cross hospital, Sydney, for about 14 years. Every second year she flies to Mumbai to visit her parents. Her help negotiating the airport made my entry strategy flow a bit easier. Then you get in a cab, and the shitting factor revs right back to full power. It probably helps if you bite down on something.
Okay, gotta keep it quick - - Marty and i are well. I was still feeling pretty average until this morning. We went to a party in Mumbai's Bollywood star district to see the New year in with some friends from the Pushka days. Sylv and Jess had arranged tickets for the event (coming in at $125AU!!) but they didn't charge us at the door... so it was kinda free... so now i'm walking around with a shit tonne of money strapped to my guts and a rye expression of amused paranoia in my eye. The clubs here are like nothing in Melbourne - nobody seems to hold anything back. Every single bastard in the joint is dancing like an idiot, occasionally taking time out to go to the bar. And nobody here ever needs to go to the toilet. There were three cans in the whole of this club, paked with upper middle class Indians, and i never once had to wait to get on board. I think the young toilet attendant thought my regular visits indicated a licentious pass, as he tried to sneak me a kiss when i shook his hand "Happy New year". Sorry mate.
I find myself saying that a fair bit here - more often to beggars and touts than to the homosexual toilet guards - but not as often as i had feared. Though you do cop it a bit, most people seem pretty honest (except the cabbies, maybe). The little kids begging for money or food is hard to face, and we often find ourselves struggling to maintain our cheer after we finally shake off a persistant beggar. My felings of injustice are frought with conflict, however. I guess its gonna take a while to sort out my emotions on that one. The words are failing me. Infact, this whole written episode feels completely superficial. Suffice to say, i guess i'm only just beginning to let myself see this place - as naf as it may sound, that seems to require a letting go - which is not easy. I hope to find my voice as i find my place in this whirling, hypnotic ferriswheel of images.
I am aching to gesture within the clutche of some pretty severe culture shock.
That said, we have come along way in our short time here. Yesterday we took a train out to Bandra, and we were the only two whities on the thing. Every dude was staring at us, it was bloody intimidating. But, we got out at the right stop (if you need help, everyone wants to help, and know your name, and where you from? and you like India...) jumped in rickshaw and went to the gig. I was amped just at successfully getting across town. Which is by far the highlight so far - its not what you see, but what it takes to get there. And the food is awesome.
Alright, enough for now. I hope you're all well. Happy New Year. I love you. Ben
Let me start by saying i had a great flight over. I was very lucky to be sitting next to a very friendly girl called Priya, who has been working as a doctor in the intensive care ward of the King's Cross hospital, Sydney, for about 14 years. Every second year she flies to Mumbai to visit her parents. Her help negotiating the airport made my entry strategy flow a bit easier. Then you get in a cab, and the shitting factor revs right back to full power. It probably helps if you bite down on something.
Okay, gotta keep it quick - - Marty and i are well. I was still feeling pretty average until this morning. We went to a party in Mumbai's Bollywood star district to see the New year in with some friends from the Pushka days. Sylv and Jess had arranged tickets for the event (coming in at $125AU!!) but they didn't charge us at the door... so it was kinda free... so now i'm walking around with a shit tonne of money strapped to my guts and a rye expression of amused paranoia in my eye. The clubs here are like nothing in Melbourne - nobody seems to hold anything back. Every single bastard in the joint is dancing like an idiot, occasionally taking time out to go to the bar. And nobody here ever needs to go to the toilet. There were three cans in the whole of this club, paked with upper middle class Indians, and i never once had to wait to get on board. I think the young toilet attendant thought my regular visits indicated a licentious pass, as he tried to sneak me a kiss when i shook his hand "Happy New year". Sorry mate.
I find myself saying that a fair bit here - more often to beggars and touts than to the homosexual toilet guards - but not as often as i had feared. Though you do cop it a bit, most people seem pretty honest (except the cabbies, maybe). The little kids begging for money or food is hard to face, and we often find ourselves struggling to maintain our cheer after we finally shake off a persistant beggar. My felings of injustice are frought with conflict, however. I guess its gonna take a while to sort out my emotions on that one. The words are failing me. Infact, this whole written episode feels completely superficial. Suffice to say, i guess i'm only just beginning to let myself see this place - as naf as it may sound, that seems to require a letting go - which is not easy. I hope to find my voice as i find my place in this whirling, hypnotic ferriswheel of images.
I am aching to gesture within the clutche of some pretty severe culture shock.
That said, we have come along way in our short time here. Yesterday we took a train out to Bandra, and we were the only two whities on the thing. Every dude was staring at us, it was bloody intimidating. But, we got out at the right stop (if you need help, everyone wants to help, and know your name, and where you from? and you like India...) jumped in rickshaw and went to the gig. I was amped just at successfully getting across town. Which is by far the highlight so far - its not what you see, but what it takes to get there. And the food is awesome.
Alright, enough for now. I hope you're all well. Happy New Year. I love you. Ben
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