Kindness of Strangers

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

That mesmerizing song from South Pacific has been running through my head the past three days:

“Bali Ha’i will whisper
In the wind of the sea:
‘Here am I, your special island,
Come to me, come to me.’”

I keep looking around and thinking to myself, “I can’t believe I’m in Bali!” We’ve done nothing but rest and relax the last 72 hours, and our colds have high-tailed it out of our weakened immune systems. We stumbled into our hotel on Friday night after 26 hours of travel and, despite our extreme exhaustion, were immediately enchanted. Our thatched-roof bungalow is tucked away in a lush garden of tropical plants. Unreal palm trees sway in the breeze, as lilac and snowy orchids drip from earthen pots perched in the trees. An inviting pool takes centerstage, surrounded by a stone fountain of stacked frogs spouting water. Delicate cloth parasols, looking vaguely like something out of New Orleans, are pitched every which way throughout the property. Small altars, lined with banana-leaf cups offering incense and grains, are everywhere. (Much like Bhutan, religion plays a huge part in the life of the Balinese; in this case their own brand of Hinduism. When Balinese aren’t at work they are usually participating in some sort of ceremony.) The soundtrack to this whole affair are tiny, tuneful birds, the likes of which I’ve never laid eyes on in my entire life.

We are sleeping 10 hours a night under our gauzy mosquito netting, napping during the days by the glassy pool, and are finally beginning to feel human again. Each morning we are treated to breakfast under an open thatched-roof building. Airy ocean breezes float through as we dine on typical Indonesian far: mie goreng, fried noodles with minced chicken and vegetables. Plates of artistically carved tropical fruits. Fresh-squeezed juices in every flavor imaginable, including watermelon, papaya, pineapple, banana. (I even enjoyed honeydew melon juice at dinner one night!)

The price to stay at this fabulous resort? Sixty-five US dollars a night which, while a splurge on our backpackers’ budget, would score me a night in the Hotel 6 back home.

To top it off, I was able to meet up with my old-time pal from high school, Amanda, who will be traveling with us through Bali for the next week. We reconnected a few years ago through MySpace (still the best replacement for actually attending your high school reunion), and she currently makes her home in Singapore, so it was a snap for her to meet up with us. We have been able to catch up on Auburn High School gossip, reminisce about our years in Drama Club, and bemoan Mrs. Billings’ chemistry class. Amanda also lived in India for a year and is able to commiserate with us about our recent experiences there. She reminded us of the country’s slogan for their new ad campaign, “Incredible India.” (”It’s ‘incredible’ alright,” we laughed.) And, it’s always nice to have a third party to break up the constant string of “Maikael and Me” time.

For the first leg of our time in Bali we are staying in Seminyak, the supposedly flashy part of the island, but even then there is still an island charm. True, the beach is packed with bronzed bodies, umbrellas for rent, and women and men hocking everything imaginable, from bracelets to foot massages. I watched one woman balance a giant tub of fruits on her head, slicing fresh pineapple on her haunches for willing customers. But there are no high-rise mega resorts, and men still skit around on scooters as they munch on satay from smoky roadside stands. The Balinese are famous for their genuinely friendly and laid-back attitude, and even in this highly touristed area, which usually brings out the worst in people, we are constantly greeted by smiling faces and a barrage of “hellos” as we amble down the poky avenue.

I can safely say this is the closest I’ve ever been to paradise.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

I am happy to report that, after 24+ hours of travel, we have made it to Bali!  We are both nursing nasty colds, but hope to recover soon.  We awoke this morning to birds twittering, puffy white clouds lounging in clear blue skies, and perfect temperatures.  And did I mention it was completely quiet?  I have never been so happy to arrive in a place in my entire life. The last two India posts are up, and the last of the India photos are uploading to the India album.  Happy reading and viewing!

Friday, September 26, 2008

This will sound odd to many readers, but the highlight of our trip to India was staying at the Jaipur Inn. Someone told us early on in our trip that our greatest memories would be tied with the people we met, not the sites we saw. Sure, the Taj Mahal was beautiful, but we really connected with the hotel and its owners in a way that was truly memorable.

The Lonely Planet guide, in reviewing the Jaipur Inn, noted that free meals could be exchanged for “creative services.” We didn’t know what this meant, nor did we really believe it, But over the course of the week, Maikael helped Ramen, who started the hotel 32 years ago after retiring from the Indian Air Force, with his persistent computer problems, and I developed a few marketing materials for the Inn. In return, Ramen opened up his home to us, and we shared countless cups of tea on his veranda each day. Maikael went jogging in the mornings with Pushpendra, the hotel’s current manager and Ramen’s son, in a local park, where women in saris and sneakers kept pace. We played table tennis with Pushpendra’s son, on a table that was once Ramen’s father’s. One afternoon I made chocolate chip cookies with Zoya, Pushpendra’s daughter, which required some bizarre substitutions (vanilla extract, granulated sugar, and chocolate chips are next to impossible to find in India) and baking on tiny trays in a jumbo sized toaster oven. There were full days where we never left the hotel, choosing to spend our time simply hanging out with this super cool family.

But the apex of the week was our final day at the hotel, when we desperately needed to find an ATM machine (a recurring theme, I know). The thought of braving the touts and the autorickshaw drivers was enough to make our skin crawl, and Ramen graciously offered to drive us himself to the nearest ATM. “But I warn you, sir,” said Ramen, “my car is very old.” We made our way to the carport, where an ancient blue Fiat stood proudly. “My car is thirty five years old,” conceded Ramen. He explained that, when he bought the car, it was one of only two models available in India at that time: the other was the Ambassador, which are now used all over India as ancient white taxis.

We took a seat in the car, where a simple dashboard greeted us. There were no gadgets or radios or LCD displays, just simple gauges measuring mileage, fuel level. and speed. Ramen started the car, which coughed to life as he pulled out the choke, something I have never actually seen in operation. He placed the car into gear, the gear shift not in its typical placement but located adjacent to the steering wheel. Shifting from one gear to another, then, required a series of complicated arm movement, providing a real upper body workout, along with the manual steering.

We gently glided down the driveway and very slowly maneuvered into the onslaught of oncoming traffic. Indians are famous car horn honkers – I have never heard so much honking in my life – and Ramen was no exception. Although we were traveling five miles an hour, Ramen laid on the horn, sounding like something out of a 1950s movie. “Sir, I am asserting my presence.” Given our snail’s place, cars began blasting their horn, but Ramen kept on course. I don’t think we ever came to an actual stop the entire car ride; we just sort of slowed down and weaved through multiple lanes of traffic. I can’t remember a more memorable car ride in my entire life, and you can see by the photo that I haven’t looked happier on this entire trip.

In the end, we received a week’s worth of wireless Internet access gratis, and they let us stay in our room until 1 am when we had to catch our very early train without charge – talk about a late check-out time! But this was just icing on the cake. The goal of our trip was to have a local experience to the greatest extent possible. We never imagined that could be accomplished by staying in a hotel, but we felt completely welcomed by this lovely family in the same way we would hope if we were staying in someone’s home. In fact, I think we were.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

I was standing bleary-eyes on Platform 4 of the Jaipur train station, waiting for our train to Agra at 1:30 in the morning. Suddenly, I felt something whoosh past my shoulder. Assuming it was a gigantic cockroach, I gasped and began brushing my shoulder manically. I noticed a sinewy trail of white creep down my arm, and looked skywards toward the overhang. “What happened?” asked Maikael. “I think a bird just shit on me,” I said.

For the record, this has never happened to me in my life. But I remember hearing once that a bird pooping on you is a sign of good luck. We’d need it for the day we had planned.

We squeezed into our sleeper car, packing more humans per square inch than I would have ever thought possible. A gentleman was already snoring in one of the four beds in our berth when we boarded the train, the starched white sheet pulled taut over his head. We tiptoed to our beds, securing our luggage to the mesh rope beneath our beds; petty theft is notorious on Indian trains. The train swayed along, but I had a hard time sleeping: there are no calls when you reach stations, so you better know where you’re at and when to get off or you’re liable to find yourself in the middle of nowhere.

We crawled into the Agra Fort train station at 6:15 am, 30 minutes ahead of schedule, and scrambled to gather our belongings before the train departed once again. Next, we negotiated an autorickshaw ride into town so that we could store our backpacks for the day. This left my heart in a lurch: we never leave our backpacks in an unsecure place, and the thought of losing all of my worldly possessions made me nervous. As we puttered down the early morning streets, the Taj loomed in the distance, alongside a twinkling river, a perfect silhouette looking like something out of a fairy tale. When we reached town, the cafe we had selected to store our things was closed but, miraculously, our driver was friends with the owner and rousted him out of bed.

The power of the bird poop was already working.

We raced a few blocks down the street to catch the Taj before the sun and crowds arrived, dodging elephants, golf carts, camels, and electric-powered buses. The Taj’s brilliant white color is slowly fading to a dingy grey, caused by concerns over pollution: no gas-powered vehicles are allowed within a certain radius of the iconic monument. The Taj Mahal is part of a larger property of red sandstone buildings boasting perfectly shaped domes, and as we rounded the corner of one building the Taj suddenly appeared, white and perfect, filling an an entire crimson archway. For the first time on this trip, a chill shivered up my arms as I gazed upon this monument. The Taj Mahal is larger than I ever imagined, but despite its mammoth size it is impossibly intricate: I’ve never seen something so large look so delicate.

We spent a solid two hours admiring the building from its many angles, marveling at the glimmering white marble in the soft morning light. Most people think the Taj Mahal is a palace – I know I always did – but it is actually a mausoleum, built as a monument to one man’s love of his wife, who died while giving birth. While the Taj Mahal is a huge building, it houses only one small room, which contains the marble caskets of the man and his wife.

After visiting the Taj, the day was already growing warm and humid, so we decided to spend some time on the Taj Mahal Nature Walk. I imagined lush green lawns, manicured gardens, and perfect foliage. Instead, we ambled our way over chipped stones, pushed through scraggly bushes, gazed upon rusted and fading artwork, and took in some of the most bizarre sculptures I’ve ever seen. My favorite was the crocodile who had eroded over time, revealing a mass of tangled rebar where his snout should have been. There was a pervasive sense of charming ramshackle that characterized the place – that indeed characterizes India — a stark contrast to the perfect Taj looming in the distance.

Tired, hot, and cranky, we decided to while away the afternoon in the hotel bar of a world-class resort. It was hard to believe that a mere two blocks from the rundown nature reserve sat the world’s sixth best hotel – at least according to Travel + Leisure magazine. As we strode in the front gates the hotel staff, clad in turbans and delightful gossamer gowns, clasped his hands together and bowed slightly to us. We were whisked from person to person as we made our way through the glorious lobby. Marble splashed across every surface. A domed ceiling, painted in a brilliant blue and gold design, housed a gigantic crystal chandelier. It was such a stark contrast to the budget accommodations we have been frequenting that my senses felt completely arrested. I visited the restroom three times just to smell a clean bathroom, use real cloth towels, and admire the real rose in a vase near the basin.

Sometimes you have to do without to truly appreciate something so fine.

We settled into the opulent bar, which offered stunning, unobstructed views of the Taj. After ordered grossly expensive drinks – my Plantar’s Punch cost $10 USD, when the average beer in India costs around $1 – but to drink it in those surroundings was worth every rupee. For the first time in weeks, we had the time and energy to sit and talk for hours, something we really should be doing more of on this trip. We have felt so harassed for so many weeks that we have had little time to contemplate life and our place in the world, which was the whole point of taking this trip in the first place. To spend a quiet afternoon being blasted by air conditioning and escaping the din of the outside world was a gift. Especially before getting on another train that evening back to Delhi.

There was an error in uploading the first batch of India photos, but I got it fixed whilst using the FREE internet access at Tokyo Narita Airport.  Gotta love the Japanese!  We are exhausted after three consecutive nights of very little sleep, but flying Japan Airlines last night made up for it.  From the roomy bathrooms to the outstanding service and surprisingly good food (the entree comes on a little warming platter!), this carrier is awesome. 

We have a long layover today, then it is off to Bali for two and a half weeks of what we hope will be a relaxing time.  India was, quite simply, exhausting.  But we survived it, and without falling prey to any scams!  That is success as far as I am concerned.

As always, thanks for reading.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

There’s no doubt that northern India has been our toughest travel destination yet. At our trip’s inception, we felt Portugal was a bit tough, though manageable, for the independent traveler who speaks a bit of a Romance language. But as we’ve snaked our way through Christian, Islamic, Buddhist, and, finally, Hindu regions of the world, crescendoing in India, Portugal now looks like a cakewalk.

Upon arriving in Delhi from Bhutan, our first order of business was the procurement of train tickets to travel around the “Golden Triangle” cities of Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur. Our trusty Lonely Planet guide warns that trains fill days and sometimes weeks in advance, but that the International Tourist Office, located in the New Delhi train station, offers special seats, set aside by the Indian government, that can only be purchased by tourists. Elizabeth was in the throes of a nasty cold, so I set off on my own.

I hired an auto-rickshaw, a three-wheeled scooter that has a golf cart-like appearance, to take me to the train station. We set off, but after a few blocks, the grandfatherly driver pulled over on the side of the road and explained that the International Tourist Office had moved locations to a different part of town and produced an official city map to prove it. Our Lonely Planet guide had made me aware of the existence of scams where auto-rickshaw drivers work with travel agents, hotels, and restaurants, and will lie, misdirect, and confuse in order to get you there, but the map looked legitimate. He graciously offered to take me to the correct location for the same price, as “I reminded him of his son.” The driver was nothing if not charming as we weaved through narrow alleys in who- knows-what direction. We soon pulled up to a narrow store front, with the words “Government of India Tourist Office” printed on the tinted glass windows.

I entered the office, and was soon seated opposite a plain-clothes government worker. After explaining my requirements, he dialed the train station and asked me to speak to the official, who regretfully informed me, in exceedingly good English, that all trains were full for at least the next four days. My heart sunk and a bead of sweat formed on my brow, as our plans for the next week hinged on getting these tickets. Elizabeth was not around to offer her opinion; I felt alone. Before I knew it, the government worker had produced an alternate itinerary for us, including a private car with driver and all accommodations, all for a price of slightly under $700 USD. I felt a pang of uneasiness in my gut, that something was not quite right. Not willing to commit, the government worker became defensive, asking how I could afford my “expensive” Delhi hotel, but not his package deal. Miffed, I shot back with the strong insinuation that his “government” office was bogus. Accompanying me outside, he said something to my rickshaw driver in Hindi, and I began to wonder what their relationship was.

I entered the rickshaw, insisting that the driver now take me to the New Delhi train station. He repeated that the office is closed, but would take me there to prove it. I was deposited in another strange location, but several signs promised the station was nearby. As I walked around, another helpful stranger directed me to the International Tourist Bureau. With much the same feel as the “Government of India Tourist Office,” I immediately felt uneasy, as I was seated across from two tall men who immediately serve up chai. With formulaic delivery, they explained that some of my desired routes were unavailable (though some of the routes from the previous office are now, magically, available). The conversation quickly devolved into the predictable upselling tactics I had encountered in the last location.

My guardian angels came in the form of two English guys who happened into the office around the same time I did. We met outside and they explained that they had spent the entire day looking for the International Tourist Office, being misdirected to strange offices all over Delhi. They were about to give up, but I suggested we form an alliance, much like on Survivor, and look a bit longer. After a half hour, we finally stumbled upon the International Tourist Office, and the sense of relief I felt was probably much akin to what a sailor feels after crossing an ocean and spying that first speck of land. The real office was brimming with nervous-looking tourists deciphering the insane Indian Railway schedule. Otherwise, the office had a laid-back, no pressure feel, a welcome respite from the outside world. In the end, I was able to purchase all of my tickets for us both for under $50 USD. I explained my tale of woe to the real Indian Railways official, who shook his head, but offered a possible explanation. “Those men were just trying to run a business. It will be a long time before the system can change.”

Unfortunately, things didn’t change much upon our arrival in Jaipur. We were led to the wrong auto-rickshaw at the train station’s prepaid stand, which is supposed to be the most scam-free way to gain transportation. Other times, prices tripled upon arrival at our location. Sometimes tour operators appeared out of nowhere when we reached our final destination. And once, when requesting that we wanted to be taken to the movie theatre, we were driven 15 minutes out of the way to “go shopping,” despite our repeated protests. What makes the cities of the Golden Triangle so exhausting is the level of sophistication and pervasiveness of these scams; one must always be on guard. There’s even a Hindi word, dabbabazi, which refers to “the business of scamming tourists.” The difficulty is that these scams are born out of desperate poverty and fierce competition, a way to scrape out a meager existence. (And please don’t get me wrong — not everyone is crooked, and we met some truly wonderful people during our travels which, unfortunately, was often overshadowed by a few rotten apples in the transportation industry, our major interface.) I thought I was prepared to deal with the scams, but I realized that it’s one thing to read about it, and another to live it.

When I returned to our hotel, exhausted and soaked with sweat, I felt triumphant, as if I had just passed a test of biblical proportions. Elizabeth burst in to tears. “I thought something terrible had happened,” she cried. I asked how long I had been gone. “Four hours.”