Kevin and I had the misfortune to start our trip in Delhi. People should not start trips to India in Delhi for the same reasons they should not start hiking trips by shooting themselves in the foot. It's one thing to leave a bad aftertaste, but Delhi is preëmptively unpleasant. Outside the front door of the airport is literally a phalanx of taxi and rickshaw drivers waiting to whisk you away to who-knows-where. They move like those symbiotic fish that attach themselves to sharks and feed on the leftovers. Ten steps out the door we had a wake of three or four of them wanting to know where we were going, what country we were from, what hotel we were staying at, etc. etc. etc. They listened in while we called a hotel. They pointed at our guide book and gave us ridiculous advice. They crowded around the pre-paid taxi counter assuring us that they were cheaper than the government-run taxis. By the time we got into a vehicle, Kevin was ready to take a swing at one, and I was already wondering what the hell I was doing in India. Our eventual hotel room was a crumbling, mildewed disaster with no bathroom and mosquitoes.
To say Delhi is polluted is like saying Tokyo is big. Tokyo is not big. It is head-spinningly massive. And on our first morning in Delhi, we couldn't even see three blocks straight down the road for all the smog. Kevin told me that just walking around is the equivalent of smoking 40 cigarettes a day, and I believe him. Plus we had the added headache of trying to make some travel arrangements for the next two weeks. This meant walking back and forth from one office to another trying to get a straight answer about what things would cost and when we could go, and battling the dreaded commission agents every step of the way.
See, India deals with its tourists the way politicians deal with lobbyists. India needs us. India thrives on those eurodollars we pour into it. India has seats on all its trains reserved only for foreigners. But India is not going to make it easy for us. Even the restaurants are not safe, as the number of people in the place will often double within five minutes of our arrival as the commission agents hone in. A commission agent is like a cross between a used car salesman and a pimp. He (there are no women in this "business") will ooze his friendly, curious nature all over you, working on your trust, your sympathy, your pity, whatever foothold he can find. All his questions and polite conversation inevitably lead to a "suggestion" that a certain tourist office has all the info you need, or a certain shop has just the thing you are looking for. Any refusal leads to you hoofing it down the street with your new "friends" shouting, "Stop! Come back! Friend! Who don't you listen to me? I am your friend! I just want to talk to you! Why are you so rude?" It took me a while to galvanize myself to this, especially while sitting down trying to have lunch. I have a hard time reaching the level of rudeness it requires to blow off someone sitting right next to me saying polite, pleasant things. By the end of the trip I had developed a kind of ambient surliness—always ready to give someone a proper brush-off. Kevin worked up a glare that could wilt flowers at 15 paces.
Our original plan was to get a 1-week Air India pass so we could save time by flying to many of the places we wanted to go. When we realized that getting those tickets was about as likely as spontaneous combustion, we headed for the train station. (The trains, by the way, are not that bad, and a first class sleeper ticket costs less than the bus to Tokyo.) Where we arrived was the train ticket reservation office about 3 blocks from the actual station. However, to get the seats reserved for foreigners you have to go to a foreign travel bureau in the train station proper. Unfortunately, the difference between the ticket reservation office with its dilapidated turnstile leading out onto the tracks and the actual station with a line of dilapidated turnstiles leading out to the tracks was not yet clear to us. And without exception, every single person we met misled us. Every last one. Their favorite lie? That you could not get a ticket one the same day you wanted to travel unless you went to such-and-such agency. Of course, all of these agencies would pay a commission to our "helper" and then charge us triple the price of a ticket, at which point they would send someone to the foreign tourist bureau to make a reservation in the normal way. That is the way of India.
We finally found the office, and it was easy to see we were in the right place by the crowd of strung-out foreigners slumped in something like a line. Among them we met two very nice Japanese who, as it turns out, had been on our plane from Tokyo. Yuki and Setsuko made our party four, and we headed East to the holy city of Varanasi.
Varanasi is right on the banks of the revered Ganges river. Every day hundreds of Hindus bathe in it, drink it, and wash their clothes in it. Oh yea, and dispose of their sewage, industrial waste, and deceased relatives and pets in it too. The water has a film on it like the skin on pudding. I got a close look when Setsuko and I tried to take pictures of her rubber ducky bobbing in the holy ooze.
The banks are lined with stairs called Ghats, which lead right into the water. Aside from a random collection of temples and some bazaars, that is pretty much all there is to see in Varanasi, but it is worth seeing. It would be nice if you could walk more than ten steps on the Ghats without someone trying to sell you a postcard, a boat ride, a massage, or hashish (my favorite pusher was about 5 feet tall and sounded like Yoda would if he smoked two packs of cigarettes a day: "Hashish you want? Good hashish I have! Yes!"), but the endless stairs shadowed by massive stone walls are still an amazing sight. And of course there are the burning Ghats. The Hindu religion dictates that the dead be cremated, and there are several Ghats dedicated to this purpose. Basically, they are 24-hour funerals (one proprietor promised me that they never close) with as many as four or five bodies burning at once. The work there is so steady that tourists are welcome to come check it out as much as they like as long as they don't take pictures. But it's not as simple as being burned and having your ashes thrown in the river. See, you can't burn babies, pets, pregnant women, or victims of diseases like smallpox, leprosy, TB, AIDS, etc. In those cases, a body is often dumped in as is, sometimes tied to a rock, sometimes not. Also, it takes a fair amount of wood to burn a whole body, and the wood is not free. Thus the bodies of the poor are often thrown in whole in the middle of the night. But this is not just in Varanasi. The Ganges is a long one, running all they way from the Nepali border. That's a long way to float.
I'm not sure how long we spent watching the fires, but it is one of those experiences that differentiates between a vacation and a trip. The Ganges is the end of the world, in a sense, and to sit on it and smell the smoke put me a long, long way from home.
We parted company with Setsuko and Yuki, and headed for Agra, home of the Taj Mahal, and the famous Agra Fort. The Taj is like Mt. Fuji: I thought it was going to be kitchy and overblown because of how famous it is, but when I actually saw it, all I could think was, holy shit, that's amazing. It really is. I didn't even mind that the entrance cost more than the Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay put together. We showed up just as the sun was rising, and I shot an entire roll of film without blinking. It is completely built of white marble with floral pattern inlays of semi-precious stones—as amazing close up as it is from afar.
Fortunately, to prevent us from completely losing ourselves in the splendor of the moment, India was happy to insert a little of its usual hilarity. When we arrived there were maybe three guards at the gate and a few more inside. By 8:30am when we were leaving, there were lines of troops carrying 50mm machine guns and various other hand cannons running all over the place. The gate security detail had at least tripled, and we watched a few friskings for fun on the way out. Then the paper we read over breakfast informed us that that a known terrorist had promised to blow up the Taj on that very day. But like everything else in India, the army was less than punctual. Apparently so were the terrorists, because the Taj did not blow up. Agra fort is also really amazing, and so large I'm sure I didn't see it all because I kept getting lost. Most of it was built by a guy named Akbar the Fabulous, or something like that, who also built the Taj. The engineering was so advanced that it had running water and cool, circulated air, but to this day nobody knows how it worked. Unfortunately, Akbar's son (Genga the Oedipal, or something like that) laid seige to the fort and imprisoned his father there for eight years until poor Akbar died and was put with his late wife in the Taj. I suppose there are worse places to be put under house arrest.
From Agra we caught a bus to Jaipur, the pink city. They call it that because it is brown. Well, I guess it is sort of pink, if you squint, and if your eyes are extremely bloodshot (try the bhang lassis). Some ancient ruler decided pink would be a more welcoming color, and the locals just sort of kept it up . . . sort of. Jaipur is a shopping haven, and has so many Japanese tourists that the hotel we stayed in had it's name written in katakana: パール パラス. It was a nice place to rest a bit after the craziness of large, urban India, but since we didn't shop much, we got tired of walking pretty quickly, and headed off to the quaintness of Pushkar. Pushkar is on the edge of the Thar desert, and it has a small lake that is holy like the Ganges, only nobody throws in bodies because they don't float away. We never even got near the lake, however, because it is closely guarded by a battalion of flower sellers who will not let you near the water unless you pay an exorbitant amount of money for a flower that you must then throw into the lake. With the lake off limits, the most interesting things to see in Pushkar are the foreigners wearing neo-hippy batique clothes and stringy, backless shirts. Ironically, I have never seen an Indian dress anything even remotely like that. It's a uniform strictly reserved for foreign tourists trying to blend into India. We also got to experience the annual "Holi" festival. This is where women (and smart tourists) hide inside, and men roam the streets with bags and bottles of dye that they throw at each other. Some of it was kind of fun, and shopkeepers would give you a hug and smear you with bright colors. But most of it was gangs of teenagers who would mob you and try to get the dye in your eyes and mouth and pants. It was pretty obnoxious, but now I have a new pair of (mostly) purple pants.
After Pushkar was Jodhpur, which has a famous spice market—famous the way Kitakata ramen is famous, if you know what I mean. Jodhpur also has a massive fort above it, complete with ramparts and old cannons and whatnot. The family who owns it still lives in it, and it offers a great view of the city which, incidentally, is painted bright, periwinkle blue. The idea was similar to the pink city of Jaipur, only the blue really looks good, though the buildings remind me of Lego blocks. Jodhpur is whispered about among the Rajasthanis as one of the few cities where you can get beer. You can, but let me share one piece of advice: if you are drinking in a country where alcohol is religiously and legally prohibited, do not let your expectations of taste get too high.
From there we took a night train to Jaisalmer, which was really uncomfortable, and a soldier headed for the border post tried to seal our luggage. He failed, thanks to Kevin's vigilance and my sleeping through it. Someone in Varanasi told us that almost every day some dazed, luggageless traveler gets dumped off at one of the major train stations around India. Jaisalmer is teeming with soldiers because it is so close to the border, but all the same it's a fantastic little place. It's way out in the desert, and there's not much to it except for really cool old buildings and another huge fort. This was a border outpost for the various rulers of Rajasthan. This place also wins an award for the biggest turbans of any place we visited.
We took a two-day camel trip through the desert, which was unforgettable—not just because I probably have scars on my butt, either. And camels are unexpectedly interesting beasts. First off, they are huge with incredibly long legs. And if there is any animal I have ever gotten the impression of actively not giving a shit about anything, these are it. My camel definitely could not have cared less about me or which direction I was trying to steer it. Our guide, on the other hand, had an amazing power over them. At one point he even grabbed one by the nose and twisted one of its nostrils inside out to show us how the piercings they use for steering go in. Our guide was a really nice guy named Gamra, who would sing songs and tell us weird stories about life in the desert. We also met his brother, who was leading another camel trip, but is a lecherous, drunken idiot. He and Gamra don't get along, but he did give us some of his fire-water, which is a slightly sweet homebrewed whisky that they make in the desert villages using grain and battery acid. We slept in the dunes under blankets that smelled like camels, and woke up surrounded by the tracks of scarab beetles. Having never been to the desert before (except a drive across death valley California—not the same) I can promise that you have to see it to believe what it is like.
From there it was a very long tip back home. 6 bone-jarring hours on a bus to Jodhpur (being stared at by a 22-year-old woman and her five children), a 12-hour train to Delhi, a 12-hour flight to Tokyo, a two-hour train into Shinjuku, a 4-hour bus ride to Koriyama, and an hour's train to Inawashiro. Most of the return is a vague haze thanks to some special government-issue cookies.
My overall impressions of India are still settling themselves. It has an unbelievable history, and has produced some pretty amazing people and places. And these are not just the ancient kind. Mahatma Gandhi's pluralist society, though now on the verge of collapse under the weight of Hindu-Muslim violence, was a true political landmark. India is also becoming an IT powerhouse, and Mumbai is one of the largest places for companies to outsource programming and application development-a kind of computer sweatshop really. On the other hand, it is an absolute disaster of political corruption and poverty. Jobless and homeless rates are very high, infrastructure has changed little from the days of British occupation, and every thing is dirty, polluted, and falling apart. Crime is high. Woman's rights are poor. The caste system, though officially abolished, still rules most people's lives. But I think the most astute observation of India's problems came from Kevin: the suffer not from lack of manpower or resources, but from lack of organization. It's a situation that, as much as I enjoyed India, cannot fail to leave a slightly bitter aftertaste.
