Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Presidential Palace and India Gate, Delhi, India
Here are photos of the Presidential Palace and its surrounding administrative and governmental buildings. I was particularly taken with the iron gate that sits at the palace's entry. This complex was completed around 1929. It was designed by a British architect during the time of British occupation of India (the design for this area was begun around 1912 when the seat of government moved from Calcutta to Delhi).
India Gate is a massive war memorial commemorating Indian soldiers who served in WWI and the Afghan Wars. It sits on axis with the Presidential Palace.
Both the Presidential complex and India Gate are constructed from red sandstone native to India.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Januk Puri, New Delhi
Our first few days in India, we stayed with my bua-ji (my dad's younger sister) in Delhi. She lives in an area of Delhi called Janak Puri.
We took these photos from her front balcony that looks across to other flats and down on a sometimes-bustling street and from her back balcony that overlooks a square park surrounded by other flats. We also shot some photos from inside the flat - my aunt cooking breakfast, gazing down at her park.
(If you click in the bottom right hand corner (the 4 arrows), you can view the slideshow in full screen.)
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Thought on India. One.
When you return from a trip, people ask: “How was your trip?” You answer: “Great,” or (but hopefully not), “Terrible,” or whatever other simple statement you can make to summarize your vacation. I have been asked this very question over and over since returning home. While my response is always, "Great,” I haven’t figured out how to tell the truth, or even what the truth is.
I have fantasized about going to India for – ever, but also, I have dreaded it on some level. Maybe I wouldn’t be Indian enough. Maybe I wouldn’t like my own family. Maybe they would not like me. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I did not hate India. I did not love India. I felt awed by India, by its good and bad, and I just tried to take it in to the best of my ability. A friend asked if I had an awakening moment when I felt like I had somehow returned to my roots. I told her this: The closest to an awakening of this sort occurred when I met relatives, when I saw cities my parents had lived in, when I experienced day-to-day life in India. During some of these instances, much to my own surprise, I could hear the voice in my head remarking, "Oh. My parents make so much sense to me now." Prior to these tiny and unexpected moments, I did not know that they had not made sense to me.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Tootie Fruity
Sometimes we feel like we are in the India version of the movie Lost in Translation. We're speaking English. Someone else is speaking English. And none of us is saying the same thing. I think this is the way we're told we're supposed to do dialog in short stories.
Menu: Fruit Plate. Fresh juice.
Chris: What fresh juice to you have today?
Waiter: No fresh juice today.
Chris: What fruit do you have?
Waiter: Banana and Mangos.
Me: (After walking past another table and noticing the cut watermelon) You have watermelon too?
Waiter: Yes. You want?
Me: Yes. Can you put it on the fruit plate?
And with our breakfast, out comes a full plate of watermelon.
Chris: No bananas and papaya?
Waiter: You wanted watermelon?
There are better examples, but this is the most recent that is easy to convey. We did have fresh watermelon juice in Mcleod Ganj, and it was amazing.
Speaking of movies, we were going to go to a movie in Jaipur tonight, but we changed our minds at the last minute. Something to take in next time we are in India...
*Tootie Fruity is a mystery desert that is on all of the restaurant menus.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Hello USA
We are so happy to be in a place where the internet is at our fingertips and operates on our personal time!!! Michael and Ashley, you'll be happy to know that we are staying at Madhuban in Jaipur right now.
Some thoughts jotted down while in Udaipur.
I want to write much more about this trip, but it is so overwhelming to experience this place that it is difficult to come up with the words. Likewise, computers that don't stall every 5 minutes are hard to come by - or cyber shops that open before 10 a.m. or after 6 p.m. We're operating on some hard core IST.
***
After leaving Mcleod Ganj we took a car to Patankot and from there we took a bus to Amritsar (w/ AC!!!). Amritsar is the city that both of my parents are from. I had hoped to see their former homes, but it was not entirely possible. My mother's home was demolished a few years ago.
Before we left Austin, my Austin-ite cousin told me this: When we were small we used to go to your mom's house. At the time, we didn't know whose house we were going to, but we called it the Marble House because we used to play on the veranda, and set into the walls of the house there were rows of shining marbles.
I did see the ghost of my dad's childhood home. My cousin and his family live there, and they have renovated significantly. He told us that my grandparents originally owned the the house is on and the lot next door. So my grandparents and their 8 kids lived spread over this wide space. My grandparents sold one side of the house before they died. My cousin told me, if I understood his his son's broken-English translation, that the living room we were sitting in was once part of an open courtyard.
Chris and I stayed in a hotel that is about a 2-minute walk from the Golden Temple. I have always claimed that my first memory is from when I was 2-years old and in India with my mom. This is the memory: I am walking barefoot on the marble plaza that surrounds the temple and the water. I am holding her hand and watching the water when a fish leaps out and into the air. I get excited and tug at my mom's clothes.
I can remember what I saw, but also what I felt like in that moment. Yet, as an adult, I have often wondered if I invented the memory.
When we went to the Golden Temple (which deserves its own entry) on the night we arrived in Amritsar, I was astounded to see it sit upon the water like a brilliant jewel. We walked to the water and sat beside it, and immediately, about 15 koi fish swam where we sat. The next morning, we arrived again at 4:30 a.m., and a fish lept out of the water before my eyes. I felt certain then that I have not invented my earliest childhood memory.
Later in the day, my cousin's son drove us by my dad's college, Khalsa College - a stunning 300-year-old building, and then on to watch the bravado of the Pakistan-India border closing ceremony. I'll say this, it was the hottest we have been, and Indians can turn anything (in any weather) into a dance party. Pakistanis, not so much.
That night, my cousin took us all to dinner and then to what he claimed is the oldest kulfee shop in Amritsar. He said it's famous for a dish of kulfee topped with sweet, cold spagetti-like noodles. It was near Gandhi Gate, and my dad new right away which place I was speaking of when I described it on the phone, so I'll take my cousin's word that it is the oldest shop and the dish is famous. We at the cardamom flavored kulfee and noodles. We relished it This is the term Indian most use for enjoyment. "Will you relish it?" they ask us.
Finally, my cousin and his son drove Chris and me to our hotel on the backs of their motorcycles. This was a first for us - a motorbike ride on the whizzing, chaotic streets of Amritsar at night. I was first terrified and then elated. An exciting end to our stay in Amritsar.
***
After leaving Mcleod Ganj we took a car to Patankot and from there we took a bus to Amritsar (w/ AC!!!). Amritsar is the city that both of my parents are from. I had hoped to see their former homes, but it was not entirely possible. My mother's home was demolished a few years ago.
Before we left Austin, my Austin-ite cousin told me this: When we were small we used to go to your mom's house. At the time, we didn't know whose house we were going to, but we called it the Marble House because we used to play on the veranda, and set into the walls of the house there were rows of shining marbles.
I did see the ghost of my dad's childhood home. My cousin and his family live there, and they have renovated significantly. He told us that my grandparents originally owned the the house is on and the lot next door. So my grandparents and their 8 kids lived spread over this wide space. My grandparents sold one side of the house before they died. My cousin told me, if I understood his his son's broken-English translation, that the living room we were sitting in was once part of an open courtyard.
Chris and I stayed in a hotel that is about a 2-minute walk from the Golden Temple. I have always claimed that my first memory is from when I was 2-years old and in India with my mom. This is the memory: I am walking barefoot on the marble plaza that surrounds the temple and the water. I am holding her hand and watching the water when a fish leaps out and into the air. I get excited and tug at my mom's clothes.
I can remember what I saw, but also what I felt like in that moment. Yet, as an adult, I have often wondered if I invented the memory.
When we went to the Golden Temple (which deserves its own entry) on the night we arrived in Amritsar, I was astounded to see it sit upon the water like a brilliant jewel. We walked to the water and sat beside it, and immediately, about 15 koi fish swam where we sat. The next morning, we arrived again at 4:30 a.m., and a fish lept out of the water before my eyes. I felt certain then that I have not invented my earliest childhood memory.
Later in the day, my cousin's son drove us by my dad's college, Khalsa College - a stunning 300-year-old building, and then on to watch the bravado of the Pakistan-India border closing ceremony. I'll say this, it was the hottest we have been, and Indians can turn anything (in any weather) into a dance party. Pakistanis, not so much.
That night, my cousin took us all to dinner and then to what he claimed is the oldest kulfee shop in Amritsar. He said it's famous for a dish of kulfee topped with sweet, cold spagetti-like noodles. It was near Gandhi Gate, and my dad new right away which place I was speaking of when I described it on the phone, so I'll take my cousin's word that it is the oldest shop and the dish is famous. We at the cardamom flavored kulfee and noodles. We relished it This is the term Indian most use for enjoyment. "Will you relish it?" they ask us.
Finally, my cousin and his son drove Chris and me to our hotel on the backs of their motorcycles. This was a first for us - a motorbike ride on the whizzing, chaotic streets of Amritsar at night. I was first terrified and then elated. An exciting end to our stay in Amritsar.
Monday, June 8, 2009
It's 10:44 a.m. here, and we are checking out of our hotel in a few minutes. Mcleod Ganj has been a strange mix of Tibet meets India. Here, we have had the best vegetable momos and chow mein we've ever eaten in our lives.
We've also been staying in a really lovely 11 room hotel that is run by the Norbulinga Institute. The first night we stayed in a room that had a Tibetan Opera theme. The walls were painted with murals representing characters from an opera that, performed in its entirety, takes a full day. Last night we stayed in a room with the theme of Central Tibet. It is filled with panoramic paintings of the mountains and historic Buddist temples.
The Norbulinga Institute itself is housed in Daramsala, about 40 minutes south of Mcleod Ganj. Yesterday we took a taxi down and toured the place. It has been one of the best sights yet. The institute houses Tibetan refugees, and the refugees in turn learn Tibetan arts, both secular and nonsecular, in order to carry on the culture. We toured the woodworking studio, Thankga painting studio, silk applique tapestry studio, metal making studio. In the studios, you can see the apprentices at work. We also went into the most amazing Buddist Temple. The grounds are also spectacular. The institute gave us an entirely new appreciation of our hotel, because every piece of furniture, every textile (bedspreads, pillow cases, cushion covers), as well as the art on the walls, has been crafted by the Tibetan refugees at the Norbulinga Institute.
The metal work is particularly amazing. We purchased a bronze Buddha meditating, and we wanted to get it blessed at the temple that is at the Dalai Lama's residence (about a 5 minute walk from our hotel), but it turns out that it takes 2 days to bless a Buddha. The little statue is made so that it opens from the bottom and when it is blessed a little prayer is written on a scroll that is placed inside the Buddha. Unfortunately, we don't have 2 days, so we are heading home with an unblessed Buddha.
We are taking a taxi to Patankot which is a 5hour drive. From there, we'll catch a bus to Amritsar, which is a 3 hour trip. We didn't think we could take 8 or 9 hours on a bus tumbling down the foot hills with our luggage in our laps.
We've also been staying in a really lovely 11 room hotel that is run by the Norbulinga Institute. The first night we stayed in a room that had a Tibetan Opera theme. The walls were painted with murals representing characters from an opera that, performed in its entirety, takes a full day. Last night we stayed in a room with the theme of Central Tibet. It is filled with panoramic paintings of the mountains and historic Buddist temples.
The Norbulinga Institute itself is housed in Daramsala, about 40 minutes south of Mcleod Ganj. Yesterday we took a taxi down and toured the place. It has been one of the best sights yet. The institute houses Tibetan refugees, and the refugees in turn learn Tibetan arts, both secular and nonsecular, in order to carry on the culture. We toured the woodworking studio, Thankga painting studio, silk applique tapestry studio, metal making studio. In the studios, you can see the apprentices at work. We also went into the most amazing Buddist Temple. The grounds are also spectacular. The institute gave us an entirely new appreciation of our hotel, because every piece of furniture, every textile (bedspreads, pillow cases, cushion covers), as well as the art on the walls, has been crafted by the Tibetan refugees at the Norbulinga Institute.
The metal work is particularly amazing. We purchased a bronze Buddha meditating, and we wanted to get it blessed at the temple that is at the Dalai Lama's residence (about a 5 minute walk from our hotel), but it turns out that it takes 2 days to bless a Buddha. The little statue is made so that it opens from the bottom and when it is blessed a little prayer is written on a scroll that is placed inside the Buddha. Unfortunately, we don't have 2 days, so we are heading home with an unblessed Buddha.
We are taking a taxi to Patankot which is a 5hour drive. From there, we'll catch a bus to Amritsar, which is a 3 hour trip. We didn't think we could take 8 or 9 hours on a bus tumbling down the foot hills with our luggage in our laps.
Photos.
We are taking lots and lots and lots of photos. But they are difficult to upload on these tremendously slow computers. We'll try tonight.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Wild Ride.
The bus we rode from Shimla to Manali departed around 8:30 a.m. We arrived at the bus stop a bit early, and this is where we met our first Canadian friends. As the four of us waited we noticed another bus pulling in to drop off travellers. About seven, maybe even ten, taxi walas literally jumped onto the moving bus, scaling up to the windows and yelling to the passengers: "Taxi! Taxi! Need a taxi!" Chris, me and the two Canadians marveled and discussed how overwhelming it is to be attacked by the taxi walas before we can even orient ourselves as to where we are.
When it was time to get on the bus, we realized that the Canadians were taking a different bus to Manali. Chris and I had accidentally booked a private "deluxe bus" for locals rather than the tourist "deluxe bus," not that it makes a tremendous amount of difference. The deluxe bus had promised sleeper seats and AC. Instead there were little fans that were not running and janky old seats that sometimes leaned back and sometimes did not. But this time, still sweating through our clothes, we were at least in 2x2 seats rather than stuck in a row of 3 as we had been riding from Chandigarh to Manali on a local government/public bus.
I should note that the terms "deluxe," "local," "tourist," don't seem to mean much. The differences are mere nuances - do you want to be surrounded by rowdy Indians who all turn on the radio function on their cell phones at the same time and wander about invading your space, but who can at least keep you informed as to what driver is saying or doing, or do you want to sit amongst a lot of other foreigners who can't figure out what is going on when the busses stop or run late or break down?
I am feeling rather road weary as I write, so forgive the negative tone. Let me get to the point.
During the ride from Chandigarh to Shimla, there was no luggage compartment, so Chris and I had our backpacks held on our laps and our smaller pack on the ground. There was a third seat in our row, and originally we had one of the packs on this seat. But as the bus filled, a woman walked up and wanted to sit in our row. We moved the back pack. We noticed a row ahead where there was a woman and a child and an empty 3rd seat. We asked if the woman wouldn't mind moving to that row so we wouldn't have to keep our packs on our laps for 6 hours. She refused. She said the seat was occupied. It was not. After a lunch break, Chris walked up to the row and was going to take the empty seat, leaving his pack with me on the ground while I moved my pack off of my lap to fill our 3rd seat. The woman sitting up ahead with her kid told Chris the seat was occupied. It was not.
What gives? D0 4-year olds qualify for an extra bus seat??
Then on the bus from Shimla to Manali, the crappy private deluxe bus we'd paid extra for (and to be fair, extra means that our tickets cost a grand total of $8 for a ten hour ride vs. about $3 on the government bus), Chris and I were happy to be in rows of 2. However, the 2 seats in front of us contained a woman and her 2 kids. The row behind us contained a couple and their kid. All 3 people behind us and in front of us spent the first 4 hours of the trip throwing up out the windows. How is it that we were sandwhiched between the families with motion sickness?
While I was pretty grossed out, I understand how they could have felt ill. The journey from the lower foothills in Shimla up into the foothills at Manali (which are just at the base of the mountains), is terrifying. Lanes are narrow; no one actually uses lanes; turning around a mountain, you meet a Tata bus transporting goods. We actually got stuck on the top of a mountain, nothing but valley below us as we tried to pass a Tata truck. We caused a traffic jam while passengers tried to shout advice to the driver. Getting into a bus to tour India is literally putting your life at risk. It is not for overly cautious travellers, weak stomachs or pessimistic minds. In fact, it may be for fools alone.
From Manali to Mcleod Ganj (home of the Dalai Lama), we managed to purchase tickets for another private deluxe bus. This time we decided to travel at night so that maybe we wouldn't have to see what we were moving through. We ended up on a tourist bus, so we met some some Kiwis with whom we bonded over the hippy quotient in Manali and the way locals have adapted clothing to suit these tourists who dress like clowns, an obnoxious Isreali or Lebanese man (he determined that he would be his own I-Pod for the 10 hour drive, and he sang songs aloud - The Girl from Iponema, Runaway, etc.), and some Americans who insisted on egging on our resident chanteur.
Our bus was supposed to depart at 7:30 p.m. and arrive at 5:00 a.m. Instead we sat in the bus for 40 minutes after 7:30 wondering why we were not departing. Then we finally took off and about 10 minutes outside of town we pulled over. Was the bus broken down? We had no idea, but it was not inspiring a lot of confidence about our night travels through the Himalayan foothills (appx. elevation 5000 moving down a couple thousand). One traveler spoke Hindi and finally informed us non-natives that the men were waiting for an electrical part, but nothing serious. Okay. We believed this, I suppose. It didn't seem there was any other choice. Like I said, every trip by bus is putting your life at risk. Finally, we got on the road at about 10 p.m. An hour into the drive, we heard a thud, and the Hindi-speaking traveller informed the driver that he thought the luggage compartment may not be secured. So we had to pull over again.
Eventually, we made it back on the road. We arrived in Mcleod Ganj at 6:15 a.m. and still can't figure out how the driver made up so much time. Nor do we want to know. The few times I opened my eyes last night, I had to shut them immediately. I did see the driver avoid running over a dog and also jolt to a stop as a Tata bus was passing.
We checked into our room as soon as we arrived and went straight to bed. It's 5:30 p.m. here now, and we've been too tired to do much. We woke around noon, showered and got out and walked around the main town until we found a place to eat. Tomorrow we'll visit the Dalai Lama's home and do some other hiking about. Lots of Buddhist monks here. Generally speaking, we have a great impression of Tibetans.
In Manali, we hiked every day away from the Indians, further north toward the hippies and then away from teh hippies up through a quiet Tibetan mountain village until we came to a clearing where we could sit and look out at the Himalayas and the Manalsu Mala River at our feet. The Tibetans we encountered easily returned smiles, tried to explain what they were doing. One woman had a basket strapped to her in which she was collecting fiddle head ferns that grow wild and plentiful (alongside with marijauna) to cook for a sabsi. The children asked us to snap their photos (not in exchange for rupees). Yak and sheep herders never gave us dirty looks. If we smiled they smiled.
We are alive, still, in spite of the busses. I am hoping that our ride to Amritsar will be our last bus. We're hoping for trains throughout Rajasthan.
For the moment, we are, as the Indians like to say, taking a rest. But I'll let Chris tell you about taking a rest.
When it was time to get on the bus, we realized that the Canadians were taking a different bus to Manali. Chris and I had accidentally booked a private "deluxe bus" for locals rather than the tourist "deluxe bus," not that it makes a tremendous amount of difference. The deluxe bus had promised sleeper seats and AC. Instead there were little fans that were not running and janky old seats that sometimes leaned back and sometimes did not. But this time, still sweating through our clothes, we were at least in 2x2 seats rather than stuck in a row of 3 as we had been riding from Chandigarh to Manali on a local government/public bus.
I should note that the terms "deluxe," "local," "tourist," don't seem to mean much. The differences are mere nuances - do you want to be surrounded by rowdy Indians who all turn on the radio function on their cell phones at the same time and wander about invading your space, but who can at least keep you informed as to what driver is saying or doing, or do you want to sit amongst a lot of other foreigners who can't figure out what is going on when the busses stop or run late or break down?
I am feeling rather road weary as I write, so forgive the negative tone. Let me get to the point.
During the ride from Chandigarh to Shimla, there was no luggage compartment, so Chris and I had our backpacks held on our laps and our smaller pack on the ground. There was a third seat in our row, and originally we had one of the packs on this seat. But as the bus filled, a woman walked up and wanted to sit in our row. We moved the back pack. We noticed a row ahead where there was a woman and a child and an empty 3rd seat. We asked if the woman wouldn't mind moving to that row so we wouldn't have to keep our packs on our laps for 6 hours. She refused. She said the seat was occupied. It was not. After a lunch break, Chris walked up to the row and was going to take the empty seat, leaving his pack with me on the ground while I moved my pack off of my lap to fill our 3rd seat. The woman sitting up ahead with her kid told Chris the seat was occupied. It was not.
What gives? D0 4-year olds qualify for an extra bus seat??
Then on the bus from Shimla to Manali, the crappy private deluxe bus we'd paid extra for (and to be fair, extra means that our tickets cost a grand total of $8 for a ten hour ride vs. about $3 on the government bus), Chris and I were happy to be in rows of 2. However, the 2 seats in front of us contained a woman and her 2 kids. The row behind us contained a couple and their kid. All 3 people behind us and in front of us spent the first 4 hours of the trip throwing up out the windows. How is it that we were sandwhiched between the families with motion sickness?
While I was pretty grossed out, I understand how they could have felt ill. The journey from the lower foothills in Shimla up into the foothills at Manali (which are just at the base of the mountains), is terrifying. Lanes are narrow; no one actually uses lanes; turning around a mountain, you meet a Tata bus transporting goods. We actually got stuck on the top of a mountain, nothing but valley below us as we tried to pass a Tata truck. We caused a traffic jam while passengers tried to shout advice to the driver. Getting into a bus to tour India is literally putting your life at risk. It is not for overly cautious travellers, weak stomachs or pessimistic minds. In fact, it may be for fools alone.
From Manali to Mcleod Ganj (home of the Dalai Lama), we managed to purchase tickets for another private deluxe bus. This time we decided to travel at night so that maybe we wouldn't have to see what we were moving through. We ended up on a tourist bus, so we met some some Kiwis with whom we bonded over the hippy quotient in Manali and the way locals have adapted clothing to suit these tourists who dress like clowns, an obnoxious Isreali or Lebanese man (he determined that he would be his own I-Pod for the 10 hour drive, and he sang songs aloud - The Girl from Iponema, Runaway, etc.), and some Americans who insisted on egging on our resident chanteur.
Our bus was supposed to depart at 7:30 p.m. and arrive at 5:00 a.m. Instead we sat in the bus for 40 minutes after 7:30 wondering why we were not departing. Then we finally took off and about 10 minutes outside of town we pulled over. Was the bus broken down? We had no idea, but it was not inspiring a lot of confidence about our night travels through the Himalayan foothills (appx. elevation 5000 moving down a couple thousand). One traveler spoke Hindi and finally informed us non-natives that the men were waiting for an electrical part, but nothing serious. Okay. We believed this, I suppose. It didn't seem there was any other choice. Like I said, every trip by bus is putting your life at risk. Finally, we got on the road at about 10 p.m. An hour into the drive, we heard a thud, and the Hindi-speaking traveller informed the driver that he thought the luggage compartment may not be secured. So we had to pull over again.
Eventually, we made it back on the road. We arrived in Mcleod Ganj at 6:15 a.m. and still can't figure out how the driver made up so much time. Nor do we want to know. The few times I opened my eyes last night, I had to shut them immediately. I did see the driver avoid running over a dog and also jolt to a stop as a Tata bus was passing.
We checked into our room as soon as we arrived and went straight to bed. It's 5:30 p.m. here now, and we've been too tired to do much. We woke around noon, showered and got out and walked around the main town until we found a place to eat. Tomorrow we'll visit the Dalai Lama's home and do some other hiking about. Lots of Buddhist monks here. Generally speaking, we have a great impression of Tibetans.
In Manali, we hiked every day away from the Indians, further north toward the hippies and then away from teh hippies up through a quiet Tibetan mountain village until we came to a clearing where we could sit and look out at the Himalayas and the Manalsu Mala River at our feet. The Tibetans we encountered easily returned smiles, tried to explain what they were doing. One woman had a basket strapped to her in which she was collecting fiddle head ferns that grow wild and plentiful (alongside with marijauna) to cook for a sabsi. The children asked us to snap their photos (not in exchange for rupees). Yak and sheep herders never gave us dirty looks. If we smiled they smiled.
We are alive, still, in spite of the busses. I am hoping that our ride to Amritsar will be our last bus. We're hoping for trains throughout Rajasthan.
For the moment, we are, as the Indians like to say, taking a rest. But I'll let Chris tell you about taking a rest.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Manali
Each place we go to is better than the last, and Manali is no exception. We splurged on a nice hotel here, which means about US $40. You couldn't even stay in a Motel 6 for that. The place overlooks an incredible rose garden, and we have a great balcolny. Our room has a back patio that overlooks a forest reserve, pine trees towering over our hotel. Beautiful polished wooden ceiling and floors and a fireplace with a cedar mantle. We are staying in an area where wealthy Indians stay, we've been told.
Up the road is essentially a hippy/trustafarian area. We are so happy to see Westerners! I can't lie. We've met a woman from Toronto. She's a journalist; she and her husband quit their jobs to travel for a year and a half!! They are in their 8th month here in Manali. We've met another couple from Vancouver who are travelling for 3 months. We've seen lots of Isrealis here and some Europeans. Stares are far fewer in Manali, maybe because of so many tourists.
We can see the snowcapped mountains of the Himalayas, lots of Robin Hood-like forests; we can hear the Beas river gushing nearby. It's gorgeous. We've also seen Yaks, angora rabbits, pashmina goats (being herded!). Manali is in the region where pashmina shawls and angora woolen textiles oringinate. We are also in the land of apples and plums, and we've walked past many orchards. Yesterday, after walking through a mountain village in Old Manali, we discovered a quiet and secluded area near a rushing river from which we could see the mountains and trees. Shimla was nice, but Manali kicks its ass, by far.
Incidentally, a glass of wine cost more than a lamb kebab dinner here. 2000 rupees for the wine ($40) or 300 rupees for the lamb ($6.00) - seriously! So we didn't have any. Ha.
P.S. Note to Elise. The white dreds in Manali are out of control. We passed a place today that had a huge sign offering this service: Make your hair Rasta.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Stop 'n Stare.
I think I'm being mistaken for a Bollywood actress everywhere we go. Well, not really. But people are staring at me. All the time.
So our Lonely Planet tells us that Indian women travelling with American or European males are often stared at. Leer is the proper term. If Chris is alone, he doesn't get stares. If I am alone I don't get stares. But when we are together, look out. The other day I had on jeans and a long sleeve T-shirt, and my hair was a mess. And yet? Men just gazed intensely. Their stares are somewhere between a look that signifies that they are spitting on me and a look that signifies they are undressing me. It was a relief to run into another couple from the west yesterday. They were from Vancouver, and the woman was of Chinese origin while the male was of European decent. She'd been having a similar experience. She said the worst of it was in Rajasthan, where we don't go until June 12. Fun.
Frankly, I don't give a damn because if I do it will ruin my trip, and there's so much that is wonderful to take in. I've come up with a tactic. I need to learn how to ask, "Do you need my autograph?"
So our Lonely Planet tells us that Indian women travelling with American or European males are often stared at. Leer is the proper term. If Chris is alone, he doesn't get stares. If I am alone I don't get stares. But when we are together, look out. The other day I had on jeans and a long sleeve T-shirt, and my hair was a mess. And yet? Men just gazed intensely. Their stares are somewhere between a look that signifies that they are spitting on me and a look that signifies they are undressing me. It was a relief to run into another couple from the west yesterday. They were from Vancouver, and the woman was of Chinese origin while the male was of European decent. She'd been having a similar experience. She said the worst of it was in Rajasthan, where we don't go until June 12. Fun.
Frankly, I don't give a damn because if I do it will ruin my trip, and there's so much that is wonderful to take in. I've come up with a tactic. I need to learn how to ask, "Do you need my autograph?"
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Food: Lychees
The day we arrive at my mom's oldest sister's (my Masi) home in Chandigarh, it makes us both cry a little, both for my mother and also for the fact that is the first time we are meeting since I was two years old.
Her grand daughter is anxious to show us something, but she doesn't say what. She leads us up a stairwell out onto the roof of their house to see the top of a lychee tree in full bloom with the fruit. The lychees, her mother tells us, only grow for about fifteen days. So we have come to Chandigarh at the perfect time. The four of us stretch over the edge of the roof, pulling the branches full of the best fruit toward us so we can pluck the lychees. At one point, my neice runs down and out to the base of the tree. We poke the canopy with a stick so that lychees fall down to her.
Inside, we wash the lychees and begin eating them. They are larger than a large grape and smaller than an apricot. Their peel is dry, spikey and thin. It peels off easily. The fruit is milky white and the texture of a grape. To me, it tastes like something between a cantelope and a very sweet pink grapefruit. It's juicy and refreshing, and when you've eaten the whole of it, you find a dark hard seed that is like a large olive pit, but it's smooth and looks itself like a brown olive.
My Masi seems in only the first half hour of my visit that I've been able to discover something new and delightful at her home.
Her grand daughter is anxious to show us something, but she doesn't say what. She leads us up a stairwell out onto the roof of their house to see the top of a lychee tree in full bloom with the fruit. The lychees, her mother tells us, only grow for about fifteen days. So we have come to Chandigarh at the perfect time. The four of us stretch over the edge of the roof, pulling the branches full of the best fruit toward us so we can pluck the lychees. At one point, my neice runs down and out to the base of the tree. We poke the canopy with a stick so that lychees fall down to her.
Inside, we wash the lychees and begin eating them. They are larger than a large grape and smaller than an apricot. Their peel is dry, spikey and thin. It peels off easily. The fruit is milky white and the texture of a grape. To me, it tastes like something between a cantelope and a very sweet pink grapefruit. It's juicy and refreshing, and when you've eaten the whole of it, you find a dark hard seed that is like a large olive pit, but it's smooth and looks itself like a brown olive.
My Masi seems in only the first half hour of my visit that I've been able to discover something new and delightful at her home.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Food: Gol Guppas
In Chandigarh, my dad's brother (Chacha) and his wife (Chachi) take us to a market for gol guppas. I have no idea what to expect. When we walk up to the vendor stall, there are crowds of people huddled around the gol guppa man. It's dark, there are lights, Punjabi music pounding into the air from somewhere. The crowd huddled around the man each hold a small steel bowl out to him while his hands move at lightning speed.
He picks up a piece of puffed up fried bread - it's about the size of a golf ball, hollow in the center, thin and crispy on the outside. He cracks a hole into the top of it, loads it with a few chickpeas, a tiny bit of cold boiled potato and a generous serving of the gol guppa pani (water) which is flavored with tamarind (imli). He passes them out into the steel bowls like he's a dealer in a casino. You are supposed to pick up the gol guppa and eat it in one bite, then you shove your bowl back toward him and wait for him to hand you another. Standing in the crowd waiting for our gol guppas was like being in a crowd at a sporting event.
He picks up a piece of puffed up fried bread - it's about the size of a golf ball, hollow in the center, thin and crispy on the outside. He cracks a hole into the top of it, loads it with a few chickpeas, a tiny bit of cold boiled potato and a generous serving of the gol guppa pani (water) which is flavored with tamarind (imli). He passes them out into the steel bowls like he's a dealer in a casino. You are supposed to pick up the gol guppa and eat it in one bite, then you shove your bowl back toward him and wait for him to hand you another. Standing in the crowd waiting for our gol guppas was like being in a crowd at a sporting event.
Food: Mango Kulfee
The day Chris and I found ourselves in Old Delhi, which is called Chandni Chowk, we stumbled into a restaurant named Haldiram's. I found a vendor selling mango kulfi (Indian ice cream) on a stick, and we tried to order one, but he gestured to another counter and told us we needed to buy a ticket. We walked to the counter and ordered 2 mango kulfis. We got our tickets and went back to the vendor. He looked at our tickets and pointed to yet another counter. Then he walked us over. It turns out we had not ordered kulfi on a stick, but instead we ordered something better. We handed the man behind the counter our tickets and wondered what the hell we were about to receive. He pulled two whole, peeled mangos out of a freezer and cut them in half, then diced the mango into cubes. Inside, the mango had been pitted and stuffed with kulfi and pistachios.
Old Delhi, by the way, is an intimidating place for foreigners, at least for these two foreigners. It was our last stop in Delhi, and as we rode the bus to Chandigarh, we joked that we'd been Chandni Chowked out.
Photos to come
Old Delhi, by the way, is an intimidating place for foreigners, at least for these two foreigners. It was our last stop in Delhi, and as we rode the bus to Chandigarh, we joked that we'd been Chandni Chowked out.
Photos to come
Chandigarh was amazing, a beautiful green and very human city. We stayed with family, had wonderful food, great weather and saw most of the things that make Chandigarh great. Unfortunately the most iconic of Le Corbusier's buildings are very restricted access and no photography is allowed. This was a major disappointment for me but the photos in books are usually better than the ones I take anyway. Another big draw was the fantasy rock garden by Nad Chok. (see photo above) All in all a great four days.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Delhi Round Up.
There is a lot to report on. Shopping bazaars. Poverty. AMAZING historic sites. The bliss of eating anything (no we have not been sick, not once). This strange brew that is Delhi, a true clash of east meets west and past meets present at a scale that is not fathomable in the United States. Commercials for the morning after pill ("Nah unexpected pregnancy. Nah abortion," says the voiceover at the end of the ad, and a young woman's expression shifts from panic to relief).
We're working on posting about our various experiences and observations. We've got digital photos and a few digital recordings (of the traffic described in the post below), and hopefully we'll be able to post some of these soon.
We've been in Delhi since Saturday night (May 23) and we leave tomorrow morning (Thursday, May 28). We'll take a bus to Chandigarh, which is the capital city in the state of Punjab. We'll visit with my dad's brother, two of my mom's sisters and my cousin's husband who is in Chandigarh trying to get to her in the states. We'll also explore the many gardens and Le Corbusier's architectural legacy. From there, we head into the hill stations of the Himalayan Mountains where we'll get some relief from the heat (107 degrees F/42 degrees C today!).
Here is a fact - the joke about Indians running on IST time is no joke. Days do not get started until 11 a.m.; though people seem to wake early, they ease into the day. Nights end around 1 or 2 a.m. (I think that I could actually get used to days that run on this schedule.) IST, it seems to me, is a mentality, and it spills over into the rate at which business is conducted, how efficiently tasks are completed (like obtaining a cell phone), etc.
Well, it's 12:30 p.m., so I guess we better get our day started! Maybe we'll pause for some hot chai first. We are having a wonderful time, and I can already tell that it feels as if we'll need another month.
We're working on posting about our various experiences and observations. We've got digital photos and a few digital recordings (of the traffic described in the post below), and hopefully we'll be able to post some of these soon.
We've been in Delhi since Saturday night (May 23) and we leave tomorrow morning (Thursday, May 28). We'll take a bus to Chandigarh, which is the capital city in the state of Punjab. We'll visit with my dad's brother, two of my mom's sisters and my cousin's husband who is in Chandigarh trying to get to her in the states. We'll also explore the many gardens and Le Corbusier's architectural legacy. From there, we head into the hill stations of the Himalayan Mountains where we'll get some relief from the heat (107 degrees F/42 degrees C today!).
Here is a fact - the joke about Indians running on IST time is no joke. Days do not get started until 11 a.m.; though people seem to wake early, they ease into the day. Nights end around 1 or 2 a.m. (I think that I could actually get used to days that run on this schedule.) IST, it seems to me, is a mentality, and it spills over into the rate at which business is conducted, how efficiently tasks are completed (like obtaining a cell phone), etc.
Well, it's 12:30 p.m., so I guess we better get our day started! Maybe we'll pause for some hot chai first. We are having a wonderful time, and I can already tell that it feels as if we'll need another month.
Lotus temple
Yesterday we went to the Lotus Temple in Delhi. One of the most amazing buildings I have ever seen, excellent quality of construction and largely built by hand!
Holy Cow!
Chris and I play a game in the states called "Two Points." This is how we play. Whenever one of us sees a Sikh man in a turban, we call out, "Two points." The game has no end. There are infinite points allowed. 's sort of like playing the card game War. Pointless and never ending.
We decided on the plane that trying to play Two Points in India would be impossible. So instead we decided on a new game called "Holy Cow." Anytime we see a cow, we are to call out, "Holy Cow."
But for days we saw no cows in Delhi.
Instead we have seen the glorious madness that is Delhi traffic. Bicycle rickshaws, busses, automobiles (which, with the exception of some newer Honda SUVs, and some sedan Benzes appearing here and there, are compact to mini sized cars), tiny toy-like taxicabs, swarms of moter cycles and pedestrians of all ages share the roads - every road including the highways. There are no lanes, and where lanes are marked they are not observed.
The night of our arrival, my cousin's husband drove us through this traffic maze. It was midnight on Saturday (May 23), and cars weaved and zoomed in between each other, drivers keeping one hand on the steering wheel and one pressed down on the horn at all times. It's like being inside a game of Frogger, or any video game where you are dodging bullets.
On Tuesday, as we were again zooming terrified and excited in the traffic, I remarked, "I guess there are no cows in Delhi."
Chris answered, "They all got smart and decided to get out of this traffic."
That evening, my cousin dropped us off at my aunt's house after a full day of sightseeing and shopping. Chris and I were walking up to my aunt's door, passing the little square park that is situated in front of her building. We were exhausted and sticky with old sweat. I looked into the park.
"Have you ever noticed that sculpture?" I asked Chris, nonchalant as could be. It was a gigantic black figure and the sun was shining down on it.
"I don't see a sculpture, but I see a cow." Then quickly, while I stood processing the still beast in front of my, Chris exclaimed, "Holy cow!" and she lazily turned her head to us.
Holy Cow.
We decided on the plane that trying to play Two Points in India would be impossible. So instead we decided on a new game called "Holy Cow." Anytime we see a cow, we are to call out, "Holy Cow."
But for days we saw no cows in Delhi.
Instead we have seen the glorious madness that is Delhi traffic. Bicycle rickshaws, busses, automobiles (which, with the exception of some newer Honda SUVs, and some sedan Benzes appearing here and there, are compact to mini sized cars), tiny toy-like taxicabs, swarms of moter cycles and pedestrians of all ages share the roads - every road including the highways. There are no lanes, and where lanes are marked they are not observed.
The night of our arrival, my cousin's husband drove us through this traffic maze. It was midnight on Saturday (May 23), and cars weaved and zoomed in between each other, drivers keeping one hand on the steering wheel and one pressed down on the horn at all times. It's like being inside a game of Frogger, or any video game where you are dodging bullets.
On Tuesday, as we were again zooming terrified and excited in the traffic, I remarked, "I guess there are no cows in Delhi."
Chris answered, "They all got smart and decided to get out of this traffic."
That evening, my cousin dropped us off at my aunt's house after a full day of sightseeing and shopping. Chris and I were walking up to my aunt's door, passing the little square park that is situated in front of her building. We were exhausted and sticky with old sweat. I looked into the park.
"Have you ever noticed that sculpture?" I asked Chris, nonchalant as could be. It was a gigantic black figure and the sun was shining down on it.
"I don't see a sculpture, but I see a cow." Then quickly, while I stood processing the still beast in front of my, Chris exclaimed, "Holy cow!" and she lazily turned her head to us.
Holy Cow.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Needle in the Eye.
When we arrive at JFK on Thursday my friend Ragini picks us up and carts us off to the East Brunswick, New Jersey burbs to meet her mom and sister and to give us a good night's rest. The next day, after driving us around for a series of pre-trip big box errands, we go to her nearest "little India" for a tiny taste of what is to come.
"I need to get my brows done," I had told her earlier in the week.
"Great. There's a threading place we can go to. It's only three bucks. Or, there's another place nearby that's a little more. Maybe four bucks." Literally, only a little more.
When I tell Chris I'm getting my brows threaded, he asks how they do it.
"I think they take a needle and poke it through the top layer of your skin and the thread loops around the hairs. Then they yank the needle and pull it all out at once." This is a lie. I have no idea how threading works, but I'm pretty sure there's not really a needle involved.
Do you know how threading works? Regardless of the technical aspects, aesthetically, it works much better than waxing, and it's a good $16 cheaper. After the threading, I feel so India ready - having done as the Indians do. We all go eat some Indian food and then rush back to Ragini's house to get our luggage and go to the airport for the longest flight ever.
"I need to get my brows done," I had told her earlier in the week.
"Great. There's a threading place we can go to. It's only three bucks. Or, there's another place nearby that's a little more. Maybe four bucks." Literally, only a little more.
When I tell Chris I'm getting my brows threaded, he asks how they do it.
"I think they take a needle and poke it through the top layer of your skin and the thread loops around the hairs. Then they yank the needle and pull it all out at once." This is a lie. I have no idea how threading works, but I'm pretty sure there's not really a needle involved.
Do you know how threading works? Regardless of the technical aspects, aesthetically, it works much better than waxing, and it's a good $16 cheaper. After the threading, I feel so India ready - having done as the Indians do. We all go eat some Indian food and then rush back to Ragini's house to get our luggage and go to the airport for the longest flight ever.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Chris and Herpreet's Big Adventure Begins.
I forget my jacket in the car when I arrive at the Austin airport and have to call our friend who then turns around and returns to the airport. Chris goes on to the security check while I wait at the check-in area.
By the time I have my jacket again and am in the security check line, Chris and I are texting furiously.
WHERE R U?
in security line. where r u?
PLANE BOARDS @ 12:35. (text received at 12:20)
go 2 gate without me. i'll meet u there.
I M IN LINE.
what line? security or at gate?
SECURITY.
i don't c u in the line.
***
The crossed signals continue while I wait behind 35 teenage soccer players who have all chosen to wear laced up tennis shoes to the airport. Bright idea, boys.
As soon as I make it through the check (12:38), I begin running to the gate. I make it there and Chris and I are reunited.
I-exhale-Need-inhale-Water-exhale...
The steward looks at me. "You've got time for water. We boarded the plane early."
I look around at the empty gate area. Apparently, all of the passengers have arrived early enough to also board the plane during its early boarding call.
We would have had to arrive at the airport 3 hours late to really be on IST, but we're definitely getting into the mindset.
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