India Trip Map

I’ve made a custom Google Map of my trip with key locations noted.

 

Impossible India: 6 Days Of Surrender – PART II

14 February 2009
Writing from Canberra now

Day 4 – On the Road to Jaipur

I took a taxi to downtown to go to the “Emporiums” to buy some salwar suits (pants, tunic, scarf/shawl):

Salwar suits examples

so that I could travel in local clothes, even if I was in a taxi. But of course, they were closed on Sunday and I forgot to check. So I went to the Connaught Hotel to wait in the lobby for my driver (per my arrangement with the travel agent)… I need money, so I get directions to the nearest ATM (tour books say they are everywhere and no problem to get money that way in Delhi). But when I try to withdraw money it says the balance in my savings account is zero. Zero? Zero? I battle against the urge to panic and I check the balance in the checking account. Also zero. Right. What now? What to think? Is this not really the kind of legitimate bank I thought it was (Bank of India) and really it is one of those scam ATMs where they steal your card and PIN information and clean out your account???? (thus the zero balances??) I’m really trying hard not to think that. Really, really, really, really hard.

I punch at a few more buttons and see that I can check the balance of the credit card associated with the account. Also zero. Okay, with this warped logic I am pervertedly relieved. If there’s nothing in my credit card, that means either this is just a broken machine (relief) or they’ve paid off my credit card at the same time they stole my money (also relief). So I head off confidently to try another ATM. Same thing happens. I’m baffled and beginning to lose the battle around being irritated with India and concerned about my finances. ATM #3: same thing. I debate: scream, cry, sigh, hit something, surrender? So many options…what to do? Yes, you guessed it. I choose surrender once again and step out of another tiny ATM room to hike back up the street to the Connaught Hotel. But not before I am inspired to actually take a photo of the string of ATMs on the street which has refused to give me any money at all (in spite of this being their alleged purpose in life). And then, with an electrifying feeling very much unlike joy, I realise that I must have left my camera at the hotel. Not even “my” camera – my friend’s camera (I discovered mine was broken when I was packing a few days before I left).  This is the reason why you will get no pictures til the end of this post…

So now, not only is it very late in terms of trying to get to Jaipur before sunset, but I’m going to have to get the driver to help me find an ATM from an Australian bank (or maybe European or North American will work), AND drive all the way back to my original hotel on the outskirts of Delhi to get the camera before we head to Jaipur. I’m not looking forward to this.

When I return to the hotel, I ask the concierge about the ATM thing and he says he had the same problem the other day. I wonder if that’s true or whether he’s just saying that to make nice with me because he’s going to try to sell me something in a minute. I haul out my armour and start disengaging from him, unsure whether or not I’m sacrificing someone who could really be helpful or protecting myself from a half an hour of hassle until my driver shows up.

An hour later I call the travel agent to ask where the driver is, only to be told he’s been waiting outside, in exact opposition to where the agent told me to wait (in the lobby). I surrender once again and am at least grateful that I actually have a car (which I’d begun to doubt).

Finally the car pulls up. Well, this is definitely not the “nice” car. I am amazed they managed to fit four doors on it, and it looks like that was about 10-15 years ago. No matter, as long as it drives (my car back in Canberra is similar-but only two doors- and still gets me everywhere I want to go). Out steps a young man for whom it would probably take a fortnight to manifest a five o’clock shadow. But he’s kind of cute, reminding me of Benjamin Bratt, and seems very gentle and harmless. I note he’s wearing a plastic, engraved nametag that says “Kirpal Singh” – makes it feel somehow more official, safe, and reliable. Why is that? I could get a nametag like that at a county fair. But I’m feeling okay… until he says hello – or rather, until he meekly nods hello and says nothing. I’m not quite sure how to take that. Is this a customary way to great your client?

But I don’t have long to think about it because I’m already on to the next awkward moment – where do I sit? My first hour in Australia I committed a major faux pas by sitting in the rear of the taxi. I had no idea that in this egalitarian country the passenger sits up front with the driver. Only the snobs sit in the back. But what do they do in India? I sereptitiously sneak a peek at the passenger seat and see it piled with Kirpal’s sweater, mobile phone and a few other items. I decide to sit in the back. I get in. Kirpal gets in. We turn to face each other diagonally across the seat backs. “So.” I say. “Agra?” he says. I sigh.

“No, no, we are going to Jaipur first and then Agra.” “Jaipur? Agra?” Oh shit. He really can’t speak any English. I sit back in the seat to collect my thoughts. Well, before we go anywhere I need money and I have to get my camera back. So let me just start there. I drag out my Delhi map and point to where the Lonely Planet says there is a Citibank ATM. “Money.” I say. “Citibank.” I say, pointing to the map. “Citibank? OK.” He acts like he knows where it is. I sit back, relieved that I can turn my fate over to someone else for at least a few minutes and hopefully I will be able to get the money I need.

I turn to watching the city as we drive through it, just absorbing the environment and appreciating all the sights and sounds. Until, that is, I become aware that we are driving past the street where the Citibank is supposed to be. What is he doing? “Citibank?” I point to the street we just passed. “Citibank. Citibank” he says and just keeps driving. I’m at a loss. He stops and pulls out his mobile phone and calls someone. He starts up again pointing ahead and saying, “Citibank.” Okay, fine. If he knows where the Citibank is now, then fine. But there’s no Citibank that direction on my map. We drive a few more minutes, including taking a wrong turn, his having to call his friend again, and retrace our steps half a dozen blocks. Eventually we pull up next to a large office building surrounded by a high wall with security guards at the gate. I look at Kirpal. He points to the building and says “Citibank”. I’m incredulous. I don’t see the Citibank logo anywhere and no signs for an ATM of any kind. Or any signage for that matter. What am I to do? I’m supposed to go into a secure area to use an ATM? I’ve just known this guy for about 15 minutes and I’m uncomfortable leaving my bags in the car, but I figure I can at least step out to check with the guard (carrying my bag with computer, passport, etc.), and if Kirpal drives off with my other bag, all he gets is clothes and some hair gel.

I step up to the gate and the security guards turn to me. “Citibank?” I say, pointing inside. The guard looks puzzled. Shit. “ATM? Money?” Ah yes, he nods in that funny little side-to-side head bobble that means “yes” in India. And he points across a large plaza to a huge staircase up to the obviously closed office building. I can’t see any ATM or any signs. Where is he sending me? Is this all part of some massive scam to kidnap me – it’s all been so unpredictable I find myself getting a little paranoid. But I let him search my bag and head off across the plaza. On the far side I find a small handwritten sign saying “ATM” with an arrow pointing up the stairs. I go up, around to the right, back past another courtyard, until I finally see a very small sign for Canala Bank. Damn! This was one of the banks I tried earlier. I feel like collapsing into the planter. But I’m beginning to get the hang of this press on – encounter obstacle – press on – encounter obstacle – press on model. So I open the rusty metal door to the broom closet that holds the ATM machine and give it a go. I’m astonished to discover that it instantly gives me money! Woo-hoo! I do a little dance in the broom closet.

I make my way back out of the labyrinth and start to wonder whether Kirpal will still be there. Delightfully he is and all is well. Until I get in the car. “Money?” he says. “Yes, money!” I smile the beaming smile of one who has succeeded against all odds. I give him the triumphant thumbs up! “Money?” he says again. What? He points to himself and says “Pay money. Ten thousand five hundred.” Ah, he wants the payment for the trip up front. Somehow I manage to get him to understand that I will pay him five thousand now and the rest when we get back to Delhi. “OK” he says. But this means that now I have to go back and take out more money. Back to the security guard I go, and back to the fertile ATM machine. Another ten minutes and I’m back in the car, counting out five thousand rupees to Kirpal. Okay, 45 minutes down and all I’ve managed to do is get some money. Hopefully getting the camera is not so hard.

Well, it was. I thought I’d explained to him that I needed to get my camera from the hotel, but he thought I wanted to buy a camera and kept driving me to shops. Finally I think I get it sorted and he drives off. Then he drives past the exit we need to take to get to the hotel. I scream. He stops. He backs up about 500 metres on the motorway to get back to the exit we need to take and away we go. Somehow we manage to get to the hotel. I get my camera, scramble back into the car and turn triumphantly to Kirpal.. “Jaipur!”. “Jaipur. OK.” He says. Now hopefully Kirpal knows how to get there.

This turns out not to be exactly a well founded hope, but I think I’ll have to handle that in another post. Suffice it to say, that the remainder of the two and half days of my journey with Kirpal were very similar to this first hour or so. But by the end, even though our success at reaching destinations, achieving goals and communicating with each other did not improve, we developed a friendly intimacy as a result of our shared trials and I was sad to say good-bye to him.

Finally I can take some photos on the way out of Delhi and on the road to Jaipur:

Delhi - Vasant Kunj area

Maripalpur Mehrauli Road Delhi

Maripalpur Mehrauli Road Delhi 2

Maripalpur Mehrauli Road Delhi 3

Maripalpur Mehrauli Road Delhi 4

Motorbike family - Often see family of 4 or 5 on one bike (there's another child or two in front of father that you can't see)

Next post: Impossible India: 6 days of Surrender: Part III

 

Public Service Announcement

Hi there,

I’ve been having trouble finding time to write up my India trip so it might take a few weeks to get it all up. However…

You can see ALL the pictures on our Flickr account.

If you don’t track blogs by RSS feeds (or even know what they are), and would like to get an email every time I put up another post, you can try using RSSFWD – copy the URL of the blog (http://wherewombatsare.wordpress.com/) into the place on the homepage, then click SignUp and enter your email address and a password. It’s as simple as that. You should start receiving email updates by the next day.

For a superior photo viewing experience, I recommend that you download  Cooliris and install it on your web browser (Firefox – don’t know if it works with Explorer). Then go to the Flickr site and click on the Cooliris icon on your Firefox toolbar (blue-green boxes) to view our Flickr photos that way. Much cooler.

Hope this is helpful…

 

Impossible India: 6 Days Of Surrender – PART I

11 February 2009
TG 324 – Thai Airways
Delhi, India to Bangkok, Thailand

20 years. Probably more. That’s how long I’ve dreamed of going to India. Unexpectedly I am given an opportunity to attend a project meeting in place of my boss in Delhi for three days. I’m ecstatic, then angst-ridden. I have an enormous program of work in the next two months and I cannot take more than 3 personal days for myself on top of that. How on earth can I see India in 3 days? It’s impossible! But three is better than none. I will see Delhi and visit some colleagues there and go to Agra on a day trip to see the Taj Mahal – it is one of the 7 Man-made Wonders of the World after all, how could I miss that. So… plan in place. HA!

India respects the plan of no man.

India, Day -2: Travel

I leave Canberra at 8pm on Tuesday for Melbourne and catch a Thai Airways flight to Bangkok and then on to Delhi. Man, these are purple planes! – the carpet is purple, the pillows are purple, the blankets are purple, the seats are purple and pink, as are the stewardess outfits. It feels like being in a bubble gum factory (though somehow more soothing). I surrender to the long day and the purple world.

(Can’t find a good example of the purpleness, but these give a hint:)

Thai Airways cabin2

Thai airways cabin

India, Day -1: Travel, Recovery and First Business Meal

After 20 hours of travel time I arrive in Delhi at 10.30am on Wednesday. My first experience is feeling inappropriately dressed. I have on a longish skirt that comes to mid-calf. Everything I’d read said that as long as you are reasonably conservative (no sleeveless/spaghetti strap tops, no shorts, no midriffs) you should be fine. But honestly, I can’t see a single ankle anywhere and in my ¾ length skirt I feel like I’ve walked into the Ritz hotel in a bikini. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could have just gotten into a taxi and driven to the hotel. I am supposed to be met at the airport because there are lots of taxi scams. I emerge from customs and do not see a WCCA placard anywhere. First hiccup in my well-crafted plans. But I’ve been in the developing world before and I do not panic – yet. But I have to hang out here, in the arrivals terminal, with mostly male taxi drivers, with my ankles hanging out. I’m sure it was fine, but I somehow still felt like Erin Brokovich.

Julia Roberts as Erin Brockovich

After about 15 minutes I see a guy come rushing in with a WCCA placard. Ah, relief. But it was short-lived. Through very poor English and pointing to his roster (on which I clearly see my own name) he indicates that he has to wait for another man whose plane is arriving at 11am. I’m disappointed, but I am also flexible and so I sit down, with my naked ankles, to wait. Now here’s another embarrassing thing. In the past I have prided myself on being sure to know phrases in the local language order to show respect. In the case of India I was assured that most people spoke some English and with the rapid turnaround on the trip I didn’t bother getting a book on Hindi. Well it seems that many people do know some English, but it depends on your definition of the word “some” – certainly two dozen words does count as “some”, but without any grammar to form sentences it’s pretty difficult to communicate. I was irritated with myself for not being better prepared.

The exchange with the taxi driver was a tiny foreshadowing of the quintessential Western tourist I was to become on this trip – a significant identity crisis for me both in its undesirability and its unavoidability. With the business nature of the first half of the trip, it was inevitable that I would be removed from local life. We were ferried from hotel to business meetings in the company of only ourselves. We ate at the hotel and at the conference facility due to convenience and time. Only before dinner on the last day was I able to take a brief walk in the streets/alleys behind the hotel – an eye opener and painfully brief.

But back to Day -1. Finally, at 12 noon, with no sign of the other delegate, I managed to convince my driver to take me on alone. Out of the terminal and into a construction zone – piles of rubble, concrete, trash, rebar, tires and a bunches of men wandering around in the dirt. They are building huge numbers of new terminals at the airport and so this construction site environment didn’t seem unusual. But ultimately I was surprised to find that this sight – rubble, trash, tires and men wandering around in the dirt – was to be ubiquitous through out much of Delhi and the rest of my journey. To be fair, there are parts of Delhi that are cleaner and more pristine, I suppose, but I never saw them.

After a few minutes getting away from the hotel, we finally hit the first bit of really city – what a fantastic site. I was enthralled. We drove down a fairly narrow street, brimming with activity everywhere I looked – and most of it objects or activities I’d never seen before. Amazing. Unfortunately I was too mesmerised by the sight to remember to take photos.

I arrived at the hotel and stepped out into the dirt on the side of the road, before entering a gate guarded by a few men. The gate opened onto a tiled courtyard (though a little bumpy and chipped), through which I proceeded to the “lobby”. Then we proceeded even further into an inner courtyard where the rooms were:

Sara Hotel inner courtyard 1

Sara Hotel inner courtyard 2

Sara Hotel inner courtyard 3 (the lobby is at the end of the colonnade on the left)

I tried to confirm that we had internet in the room only to be informed that no, it was only in the office (their office to be precise). I surrender and proceed to my room, which was pleasant but far less than I would have expected for AUD 225 per night. I dump my bags and head back to the office for a quick check of email (kicking hotel staff off the machines temporarily) then back to the room to nap til supper time. Around 7p, I went to the outdoor garden restaurant of the hotel to meet my colleagues (for the first time) and have dinner. There was a stage at one end of the restaurant and there were traditional dance performances and then a couple of guys playing instruments and singing traditional Indian folk songs. Somewhat interesting, but much too loud. And there was a very strange guy dressed up like Charlie Chaplin wandering around. I learn that Anita, the main coordinator of this event and the “go to” person for a number of my questions, has been trapped in London since Monday because of the cold and snow and isn’t expected until late Thursday night. I surrender.

Day 1 – Work

Eight of us pile into a coach meant for 40 and begin our ~30-90 minutes journey to the National Agricultural Science Complex across town (this time it takes about 40 minutes). I take photos from the coach. Not great, but you are getting my experience here …

Delhi from coach

Delhi from coach 2

According to John, the project leader, the organizers of the 4th World Congress on Conservation Agriculture, with whom our project has been associated, have not yet found us a place to meet. When we arrive there is much standing about and then much walking about the enormous complex and then much unpacking and packing up again as we are erroneous led to three different locations only to be moved again within 30 minutes after our hosts again discover the space has been otherwise committed. At first I’m a bit frustrated, but I quickly learn that this is just the way things happen here and surrender to whatever happens next. What happens next is that we end up in the meeting room of one of the nonprofits that are located in the centre and are given the password to access their wireless internet service. Hooray. Except that the connection is so painfully slow as to be virtually unusable. I surrender.

We have lunch with the hundreds of other delegates to the conference on a large outdoor lawn with glamorous gold and red draperies and a stage at one end, which is for the evening entertainment. None of us stay for the evening dinner, but at the end of the day pile into our large coach again for the ~30-90 minute ride back to the hotel. We are stuck in what seems like a colossal traffic jam (but was minor compared to later ones I was engaged with) and arrive at the hotel 90 minutes after leaving the conference site. As we all freshen up before dinner, John tells me that the wireless internet has allegedly been installed. But when I try it in my room, I get nothing. I go back to the office but after 30 minutes I still can’t get a page to load. I surrender and go make merry with my colleagues at dinner.

Day 2 – Work

Fairly identical to Day 1 except coach ride TO the conference takes 50 minutes and ride back takes 70.

Delhi from coach 3

Delhi from coach 4

Great joy of joys, however, when I try the wireless internet again, it works! I’ve been extremely cautious about food and am now hungry for something that isn’t too spicy, but I accidentally eat a few things that are way to hot for me and my palate is quickly burnt out. I surrender and just eat nan bread and drink water.

Day 3 – Work

Our coach and drivers of the previous two days are no longer with us and we pile into a different, much older coach and head out for our big day – presentations to policy makers and the food security community. After about 60 minutes, some of the Indians on the bus (multi-national group from India, Nepal, Bangladesh, Japan, UK and Australia) jump up and start yelling at the driver. The Bangladeshi gentleman I’ve been talking with says that apparently the driver never had any idea where we were going and was just driving, apparently waiting for someone to tell him where to go, and everyone was involved in conversations and didn’t really notice that we weren’t actually going the right way until then. We are now nearly late for our big event (the trip totaling 90 minutes), but arrive with 30 minutes to set up everything and prepare to receive the guests (some fairly high profile). I had planned to engage in conversations with a number of people, but with our late arrival, my opportunities were limited. I surrender once again and make the best of the situation.

The return trip to the hotel at the end of the day was less eventful and we manage to get back before sunset. I’ve been told over the preceding days by a number of people that I simply must go to Jaipur and to Agra (Taj Mahal) in my remaining three days. I say it is impossible. They say “hire a driver”. I’d asked the hotel staff to tell me how much it would be. I think it is more than I can afford but Anita tells me to talk to the travel agent she’s been working with when he arrives that evening to settle their accounts. I’ve also been told that to get my phone to work in India, all I have to do is buy a SIM card for India. But I need to show ID that I live in India, so the hotel staff agree to get the card for me. I give them a few hundred rupees (about $10) and they say to come back in an hour.

I decide to go for a walk – finally a few minutes of daylight to actually walk around and interact with the city directly (though it doesn’t feel much like city where we are). I head out into the dust and rubble and climb around and over the various bits of debris and miscellaneous cars and bikes and turn left down a narrow road with shops on either side. I’ve got a shawl over my head, but there is no mistaking that even with foreigners at the hotel, few of them venture down this street/alley. I walk determinedly, as if I know where I am going and soak in the life around me. I wander the streets for an hour until it gets to be late dusk and I think it is wise to return. I wish I had more time to stop and visit. I get friendly smiles from shopkeepers, but I feel compelled to keep moving.

Back at the “hotel”, the mobile phone SIM card doesn’t work – I have to “unlock” my phone but can’t do that without talking to Virgin Mobile in Australia. The hotel bell boy goes back to try to find a Virgin Mobile SIM card, but no luck. I now have a SIM card that’s no good to me and they can’t sell back. I surrender, and give it to a colleague. I’m waiting to talk to the travel agent guy, who is now on site, but he’s been working on processing the credit card in the hotel office for about an hour. Ultimately, it take over two hours to get the thing processed and most of the hotel staff and 4 members of our project have been involved in the chaos and frustration. I surrender, and simply wait my turn.

At last he is ready to talk to me. He gives me the same price quote as the hotel did and I am disappointed. I suspect, in fact, that this is the guy the hotel called. I say I don’t think I can do it and he says that’s the price for the nice car/driver but I tell him I don’t care how nice the car is. He gives a discount and then says he can arrange the hotels in Jaipur and Agra. I didn’t really want him to, but he’s a bit pushy and I don’t really know how the “driver” thing works. I’m agonizing in front of him because it is way more money than I was prepared to spend, but everyone keeps telling me I should see these places and god knows when I’ll get back to India again. And I have to decide tonight because it is for pickup tomorrow. Aaaaggghhh! Okay. Yes. I will do it. Ugh. I feel like I’ve been pressured and feel uncomfortable about it. But there it is. It’s done. I surrender.

Dinner, good-byes and bed on an anticipatory stomach.

Next post: Impossible India: 6 Days Of Surrender – PART II

 

Incredible !ndia Indeed!

Cows and mud - my life

11 February 2009
Indira Ghandi International Airport
Delhi, Uttar Pradesh, INDIA

India is an irrepressible, full-on sensory experience. There is so much visual novelty for a Westerner – from dress to transport to shops to animals to the composition of the roadsides themselves (mostly dirt and trash with concrete curbs and sidewalks only in a very few inner city blocks). But even more than what there is to see, it’s the overwhelming volume of actors and activities (I’m quite sure I’ve seen more people in the past week than I’ve seen in the past five years put together, and that includes some trips to New York City and a few festivals) and the constant, churning motion – a fast moving river of cars, people, cows, bicycles, motorbikes, camels, buses, rickshaws, elephants, trucks, dogs, tractors, auto-rickshaws, hand-pushed carts, running children, and brightly coloured sarees.

NOTE: THE PHOTOS IN THIS POST ARE NOT MINE – STILL WAITING FOR THE RIGHT CABLE TO GET TO MY PHOTOS – THESE ARE ON THE WEB BUT MATCH MY EXPERIENCE VERY WELL.

India traffic

My view for much of the trip (click on photo to see more)

The strangest thing is that it still seems fast moving even when the streets are clogged in heavy traffic. Though lane lines have been painted on the paved roads, their sole purpose seems to be to make the British and other Westerners feel more comfortable because they are completely irrelevant as far as everyone here is concerned. The streets and intersections are always giant seething, throbbing, pulsing beehives of thoroughly non-linear scrambling, jostling, darting and zooming. With larger vehicles completely stopped or slow-moving, the people, bicycles, animals, and motorbikes (often with a family of 4 aboard) slip in, around, and through every narrow opening between bus and car and cart and truck. It’s like shallow water making its way through a rocky streambed in which even the rocks are moving.

Jaipur - one of the gates to Old City (click on photo to see more)

The sound of all this glorious chaos is a symphony of horns of every timbre, rhythm and even melody, alongside the shouts of thousands. I am tempted to say that Indian traffic must have been the inspiration for the relentless musical style of Philip Glass, but Philip Glass is too unsettled, unresolved and unharmonious in his melody – full of fear and anxiety in his discordant keys. But my experience of the chaos of Indian road traffic is infinitely harmonious. In spite of every available space being filled with people, animals, bikes, cars, buses or trucks, I did not witness a single accident – not even a bumper tap or sideswipe or twisted ankle, though vehicles were rarely more than a foot away from each other and constantly edging each other out – all accompanied by horns and shouts. It is important to note that the horns are not solely for aggravation, but appear to be a fantastic distributed guidance system. In such close quarters, rearview mirrors wouldn’t last long. The road rules for passing are dictated by honking to advise that you are coming up from behind. In fact, all the trucks and busses have “HORN PLEASE” painted on their rear bumper. There is also clearly a sort of Morse Code in the rhythms of the horns, with different syncopations having different meanings. Some were obvious – short taps indicating a friendly alert and sustained blasts signaling more critical aggravation or power plays. But there also seemed to be a much broader range of audio symbols and meanings that I was unable to decipher.

Surprisingly, as compared to other countries, I saw and heard few chickens or roosters. Perhaps when faced with their audio competition they simply gave up and went away to quietly sulk.

India challenges the definitions of so many words: street, shop, crowd, bus station, dwelling. I could write a book, but this is merely a travel journal – notes from my experience to give you a hint of what my trip was like. Actually, I might just transcribe for you the notes I scribbled as I travelled along – triggers to remind me of the related stories, which I would never be able to write out in full here.

But to return to the sensory experience, there are also the smells. Sometimes they are pleasant, like fragrant incense or even the colognes of some of the people in the more upscale restaurants and hotels. Sometimes they are putrid, like the stunningly ever-present trash and raw sewage. Not only are there ditches with runoff and sewage in them, but even in the heart of the city, men think nothing of stopping anywhere to relieve themselves, without need for privacy of any kind except to face away from the street. And sometimes the smells are new and unusual, like the strangely unique smoky aroma that I can’t quite place. There are many fires all about from people burning trash or other things, but there’s also been a strangely “tart” kind of smoke – somehow sweetly bitter and partly acidic, like a fruity musk? Perhaps a kind of wood, I don’t know. I may never know.

Burning trash

Typical trash filled roadside (car is much too nice though)

And what of taste? Well of course there are a thousand tastes here, but I must confess to minimum experience on this one, for two reasons. First, although I am not averse to spicy foods per se, here in India I am definitely a lightweight. Not only was I unable to sample the full range of Indian fare, but sadly the subtle and exotic flavours of much of what I did consume were lost to me as they were hidden behind an overture of hot spices that my continental palate simply could not get past. The second issue involves that delightful phenomenon affectionately referred to as “Delhi Belly”. A few years back, an accidental sip from a water glass wiped out 3 days of my holidays in a Mexican seaside village – most of the third day spent crawling the 1 kilometre to “town” to the chemist for more bottled water and diarrhea medication. I was keen to not have a repeat of that and kept my culinary selections extremely conservative and abbreviated. The ice cream, I will note, was quite to my liking – a very important measure as those of you who know me well can attest. I also liked the yoghurt. It has more texture than US or Australian yoghurt and a fresher flavour – more like Greek. Aside from dishes that I already knew I liked, I especially enjoyed the Kashimiri Aloo I had last night – balls of potatoes, spinach and cheese in a delightful sauce with peas and raisins.

Last, but not least, India is a physical presence you cannot escape. Even in my highly controlled and artificial environments (hotels, meeting rooms, cars, private coach buses mostly), I felt India everywhere. Make no mistake. India is a dirty, dusty, filthy place. The dirt is everywhere – on the road, in the buildings, in the air. I experienced it most intimately on my 3-day drive around the Golden Triangle of Delhi, Jaipur and Agra. My skin, under my nails, my feet, in my nose, the creases of my eyes, my ears, my hair – everywhere. A grimy friction when rubbing my fingers together. A blackened tissue when blowing my nose or wiping my face. I hate being dirty. I can barely stand eating with my fingers. And those of you who know me well will be surprised to learn that I actually somehow got used to it over the course of the week.

Sharing the road with elephants

The following comparison isn’t really very good, but for those of you who have been to Central America, it is somewhat similar in terms of dirt and poverty and poor dental hygiene, but to get a sense of India you just need to multiply the people, animals and vehicles by 10! Sounds crazy, but hopefully someone who’s been to both places will comment. And yes, that’s a lot of really bad teeth! In Delhi this is juxtaposed with an upper middle class, in suits and fine shoes, and it was the extreme range of the human experience in one place that was the most arresting. While waiting for my photos, you should check out this string of photos of the road from Agra to Fatehpur Sikri (which I travelled) – they are all scenes I saw hundreds of times over 3 days:

Agra to Fatehpur Sikri

It is 12 noon and we have just now taken off from the Indira Ghandi International Airport. Goodbye India. You can be sure that I will hurry back to you and stay much, much longer next time. I usually laugh at country or state/provincial slogans as silly marketing campaigns. In particular, I thought that “Incredible !ndia” was a bit much. But I gladly gobble my hat, as this past week has been truly, madly, deeply incredible!

Next post: Impossible India: 6 Days of Surrender

 

India – what a place!

I’m in Delhi right now. Just arrived. Wow, what a place. Fantastically filthy, definitely disorderly and amazingly alive. If India is “developing” its a pretty slow version of it. Can’t wait to get around and explore, but now to bed – 24 hours of travel preceded by a day of work has got me down… internet only in the office, not in the rooms, so communication will be brief.

 

Down Under 2008: 2 January, Canberra

Back in Canberra we mostly faffed about, but have a few more photos from the night Jody wanted to dress up and go out… with a dress and shoes she made me buy in Denver last year.

Playing Dress Up

We also saw some Little Corellas – Jody was amused by how they played by swinging around and around on the telephone wires…

Little Corellas

Little Corella Swinging

Little Corella Still Swinging

 

Down Under 2008: 31 January, Christchurch

Jody’s notes are in this font. My notes are in this font.

The most interesting thing on the way back to Christchurch was the enormous hedges between many of the properties. Unbelievably huge!

Super Hedge

We dropped off the campervan and headed back to Christchurch and the Base hostel. We wandered about, had coffee, bought some greenstone necklaces as souvenirs, sat in the botanic gardens

Jo in Christchurch Botanical Gardens

had a rest, played with the free sheep duster we received with our necklaces,

Jo loved the free sheep duster we got

observed the stunningly anti-conical city Christmas Tree,

Christmas Tree with arms - as Jody demonstrates

had dinner, wandered through the alcohol free New Year’s Eve show,

New Year's Countdown

and went to bed in order to rise at 4:30am on New Year’s Day for our flight back to Sydney.

the end 

 

Down Under 2008: 30 December, Rangitata River

Jody’s notes are in this font. My notes are in this font.

We parked at the Rangitata Rafting lodge early in the morning and made breakfast. The bus from Christchurch showed up with the majority of people at 10:30 and we all had an early lunch before getting the speech, getting dressed and sweating our way to the put-in.

Rangitata Rafting Lodge - Caryn coming down the steps

View from Rangitata Rafting Lodge - Morning

Our put-in was in Edoras (Lord of the Rings). So cool!

Where they filmed Edoras - The Rangitata River would be just behind you if you were taking this picture

As I said earlier it seems all raft guide speeches are the same wherever you are. The company I went with, it turns out, used to employ Millsie who worked for Clear Creek for a few years.

Rangitata River - this is like where we put in

The water was creamy blue-green and cold, but not colder than Clear Creek. There were 7 of us in our boat and Yo who was our Japanese guide. Yo brought his sister Meg along. There was also and Irish couple in the front, and a guy from Christchurch and a woman from somewhere. We were not a chatty bunch. Per usual Caryn and I were labeled as trouble and perhaps a bit dotty.

The first big thing was a class V drop. It was a big hole with a huge pushy pillow at the bottom. The trainee boat went through center and popped up on the pillow that slide them far river left. The next class V was longer with a few holes and pumps. At one point we got tossed left and bounced off the left cliff. At the bottom they pulled over and we jumped in and swam around the corner where there were larger cliffs to jump.

No cameras on the trip, just the photos the rafting company took, but its so hard to tell that it was really us, that for $45 we decided to skip it.

View from Rangitata Rafting Lodge - Evening

Oh and there was a baby hedgehog that came out to play that night!

Jo and Baby Hedgehog

Tomorrow… last day of our trip… very sad… last day of 2008… not so sad…

 

Down Under 2008: 29 December, Marahau to Rangitata

Jody’s notes are in this font. My notes are in this font.

There was a long drive ahead of us but we got up leisurely… We were on vacation after all. We drove south and west [through the stunning Motueka Valley

Motueka Valley

and finally met up with the West Coast road.

West Coast - escaped apostles

The west coast drive gave us amazing views of the ocean and some of the lost Great Ocean Road Apostles.

Because we had such a long drive we only allowed ourself one or two planned stops. One of them was pancake rocks. It was a 15 minute walk. We started in a lush tropical forest that opened onto oversized grass plants and finally a cliff. We climbed down the cliff onto a beach of tiny stones. It was beautiful. [Still not sure which were the “pancake rocks” though] but We had seen so many beautiful sites and we were still a long way away from our stopping point so we turned around and went back. Oh well the walk through the forest, down the cliff and along the beach of tiny stones was enough for us.

Jungle walk

beach

Jo made me a dandelion crown

That was before I mooned her - she wasn't fast enough with the camera

Jo feeling sassy in the jungle

So sad it is out of focus - sorry Jo

We turned inland just south of Greymouth and headed for Arthur’s pass and more stupendous scenery

The drive from Marahau to Rangitata was so beautiful with such varied landscape – pastoral, farm land, sheep, and deer in the north, rocky cliffs, palm tress, and breath taking ocean views on the West Coast, and steep peaks, sweeping river plains and mountain flowers leading up to and over Arthur’s pass.

Arthur's Pass

Arthur's Pass closer

[We picked up a hitchhiker around Greymouth – at the coast where we turned East to go across. A young bloke trying to get back to Christchurch after car had broken down on way to New Year’s Eve festivities. Mildly entertaining for a couple of hours. But no pictures of him – sorry.]

Rangitata was still a good 1-2 hours away (we did not know) so we pulled over when there was still light to explore where we were going to camp. We pulled off the road and a large turn out next to a tributary to the Rakaia river, just before Rakaia Gorge. It was a nice circle spot. We climbed down to the tributary and walked out to the Rakaia/Rangitata river. It was so much open acres of rocky dry river bed. I could not grasp what it would be like when it was full to its banks. Across the confluence was a large eroded cliff face, flat and tan. Caryn made a cairn in the tributary.

Jody and bridge near Rakaia

Caryn in Rakaia Wash

Rakaia Wash

Near Rakaia

Jo Near Rakaia

Rakaia Cairn

This is where this iconic picture was taken... This is how I like to remember this trip

Next up… rafting in Edoras…