Kindness of Strangers

The first batch of India photos are uploading as we speak.  We are off on the 2 am train from Jaipur to Agra to see the Taj Mahal at sunrise, so there are more photos to come.  Our time is India is coming to a close, and we will be off to Bali on Friday!

Monday, September 22, 2008

I admit it: I love Bollywood movies. The over-the-top acting, flamboyant costumes, exuberant dance numbers, and saccharine sweet storylines make American musical theatre look like a Chekhov drama. I’ve seen a few Bollywood films in the US, but I knew that nothing would compare to seeing the real deal in India.

Fortunately for us, India’s largest and most famous Bollywood theatre, Raj Mandir, is located in Jaipur. We were warned to purchase tickets well in advance – opening weekend shows can sell out for days. Raj Mandir only screens one movie on one screen; in this case Singh is Kinng (I honestly don’t know why “kinng” is spelled with two “n”s). At the ticket window we were provided with a choice of seating times and ticketing levels, ranging from Diamond to Emerald to Ruby, an appropriate analogy given Jaipur’s long history in the gem trading industry. We chose the best seats in the house for a whopping $2 per ticket, which is bound to be the least amount of money I ever spend on a movie ticket.

Walking into the theatre feels a bit like entering a nightclub: bouncers man the imposing front doors, and we are wanded and warned not to take photographs, even in the lobby. Once inside, the foyer looks more like a grand Broadway theatre than a cineplex. Plush seats line the perimeter of the room, as gigantic lavender ornamentation stretches towards the soaring ceiling. Starving, we make our way towards the snack counter, where we pay about 50 cents for a soft drink and even less for popcorn which are, for once, a human size. (A host of pakora, fried snacks, and pretty white pastries are also available.)

Most people don’t realize that India – not California – sustains the world’s largest film industry, but to see the occupancy of the theatre would have you believing otherwise. We stumble over sardine-packed rows of moviegoers in the darkened theatre, the previews having already started. Instead of advertisements for future movies, we are treated to what amounts to a public service announcement singing the praises of Rajastan, the state in which Jaipur is located. At the 3:30 Sunday seating of a 1,100 seat theatre there is not a single seat available.

The movie starts, and the opening lines are in English. “Happy birthday, king.” Then, the next three hours progress in Hindi, with intermittent words and phrases in English. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to piece together what seems like a very complicated storyline. It’s obviously a love story and a comedy – most Bollywood films follow the same formula – but beyond that we are hopelessly lost. My favorite parts are the decadent dance numbers, as intense hues sashay across the screen. It’s also fun to listen to the audience – sight gags and pratfalls are a huge hit, and certain jokes have the audience in stitches, clapping loudly. There are no separate rooms for babies, who sit happily on their mothers’ laps but cry loudly from time to time. No one glares or rolls their eyes at the disruption; it’s just part of the Indian moviegoing experience.

At intermission the elegant velvet curtain dips down and the lights go up, giving us a chance to admire the opulent theatre. Large white scallop shapes frame the screen; I understand why the Lonely Planet referred to the theatre as “a giant meringue.” Everyone floods the snack counter – we at the Diamond level have our own – while Maikael and I try to figure out the plot of the movie. Neither of us are able to reach any sort of a consensus.

The movie continues, and we fall further and further behind in our comprehension. There is a woman who sells roses. There are a lot of men in turbans. There is a man who is catatonic. Suddenly they are in some facsimile of Australia. But how these pieces of the puzzle fit together is a complete mystery.

Perhaps the strangest moment of the movie is realizing that the show’s signature dance number, “Singh is Kingg,” is sung by none other than rapper Snoop Dogg. The tune is infectious, and as the movie adjourns, depositing throngs of people into the late afternoon heat, everyone is humming the song.

We make our way into an air conditioned restaurant, where the most bizarre Muzak I’ve ever heard is piped in through the sound system, including an instrumental version of Celine Dion’s “Power of Love.” Over tandoori chicken, vegetable rice, and the world’s fluffiest nan, we discuss the finer points of the movie. Who was that guy? What was the deal with that lady? Why did they go to that place? I finished the meal by taking a chance on a dessert I had never heard of, rasmalai, a Rajastani specialty of delicate balls of light cheese, doused in saffron-scented milk and sprinkled with pistachios.  It is delicious, but we reach no grand conclusions about the film.

The next day a 10 year-old girl, who had also seen the movie, tried to explain the plot to me. Even in English it didn’t make a great deal of sense. But the costumes were still gorgeous.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

We have only one week to experience India, which is a very short time for a very large country, so we decided to concentrate on The Golden Triangle, referring to the shape that is created between the cities of Delhi, Agra (home to the Taj Mahal), and Jaipur. Most people spend a few days in each place, but we quickly determined that Delhi wasn’t for us, and Agra can easily be experienced in a day, so rather than racing around for a week we are spending five nights in Jaipur.

Known as “The Pink City,” Jaipur was painted a dreamy shade of pink in 1876 to welcome the Prince of Whales. The historical center of town is awash in a deep, dusty rose color, providing whimsy to this chaotic, but rather small, city. We chose Jaipur as a place to settle in for a bit because, aside from its tourist attractions, it offered opportunities to engage in a number of quintessential Indian experiences that we were eager to try: visiting an astrologer, seeing a Bollywood movie, and indulging in Ayurvedic treatments.

The moment we stepped onto the train station’s platform, we were bombarded with an onslaught of touts, offering us everything from rickshaw rides to tours to hotel rooms. We desperately searched for the prepaid autorickshaw stand – a system in place at most major transportation hubs to help travelers avoid getting completely scammed. We have learned that the worst thing one can do in northern India is to arrive at a city without plans – having a slip of paper with the name and address of your hotel written that you can hand to the dispatcher at the prepaid autorickshaw stand is critical. We exited the station, where a dense wave of touts washed over us; a security guard poked a long, wooden stick into the mass to help create a path.

We gave the scammers the slip and traversed the jangling streets of Jaipur by autorickshaw, a three-wheeled mini-cab that rattles nosily, belching exhaust as it weaves manically through traffic. After our long journey we were delivered to the Jaipur Inn, an oasis of calm. We were immediately met by the affable manager, Pushpendra, whose father, Ramin, opened the Inn 32 years ago. The property has long been a budget traveler’s favorite, and it’s clear why: truly friendly service; lovely, affordable rooms that scream India; and great food all combine to make for a memorable experience. We felt immediately at home.

Before we knew it, Pashpenbar had invited us to make a New Mexican dinner one evening during our stay, and Ramin was excited to enlist Maikael’s help with a computer problem. We spent a lovely afternoon enjoying tea on Ramin’s airy patio adjoining the Inn, which is something straight out of Monsoon Wedding, with its lush tropical gardens, wrought iron patio furniture, swirling fans, and canvas awnings to keep the rain out. His patio is lined with black and white photos from his time in the Indian Air Force where, as a young man, he is pictured alongside a host of Indian dignitaries, including the then-president! Ramin is one of the most genteel people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.  He is Indian Vincent Price, in looks, stature, and voice.  He graciously invited us to “a completely Indian dinner” on his patio. We ate like kings, dining on steamed rice, tender dal, steaming chipati bread, chunks of potato with stewed tomatoes, and a medley of sauteed vegetables.

Jaipur had already won me over, but there was more to come.

The next morning we awoke to clear blue skies and decided to make our way to the City Palace at the heart of Jaipur. A fascinating collection of buildings from different eras of maharaja rule in Rajastan, including the current maharaja, City Palace is the perfect introduction to the city. We ambled through the Textiles Museum, which houses a fascinating collection of royal garments and a dizzying array of turbans, explaining the significance of different sizes, shapes, and colors. My favorite part of the collection was a royal polo uniform, a sport, I learned, that originated in India, not England. I’m not really into weaponry, but the Armory houses a collection of signs with the letters created by various weapons: the “Welcome” sign is spelled out in daggers. But the centerpiece of City Palace is Sarvatobhadra, an open courtyard lined with pink buildings. The gallery in the center houses massive silver vessels, the largest sterling-silver objects in the world, which were made for the Maharaja Madho Singh II to transport holy water from the Ganges River on his trip to England in 1902.

We made our way around the block to keep our appointment with a renowned astrologer to have our horoscope read. Greeting us at the entry of the dim office was a faded, wooden, hand-lettered sign that simply read “Dr. Vinod Shastri, Astrologer and Palmist.” Soon the man himself greeted us, a soft-spoken, smiling person clad in a gauzy white shift. His bowl cut of jet black hair and Coke-bottle glasses intimated not at a guru but at a regular Joe with impish charm. After taking down our exact time and location of birth, his assistant plugged the information into a computer – I was expecting parchment paper and complex star charts, not printer paper.

He called us in one by one into his cluttered office. By simply glancing at a diamond-shaped chart filled with a series of numbers, he was able to interpret the complex results of a 30 page report! Dr. Shastri proceeded to poke at my palms with great intensity, finally concluding, “Your palm and astrology are very similar.” He revealed pretty specific information from my past (after graduating college I was faced with two career paths – one of which involved pursuing a helping profession) and also gave me some insights into the next five years (I can look forward to a career change in October 2009, and maybe a child in 2010 or 2011).

True or not, it was a quintessentially Indian experience. Astrology is a huge part of Indian culture; marriages are sometimes waged by horoscopic compatibility. By the time our readings were over the office was brimming with others like us who wanted a peak into our futures.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

If you had any doubts that American Idol has reached total world domination, I am here to prove you wrong. The franchise has extended its tentacles to India, where the (apparently) wildly popular Indian Idol debuted last night. We’ve seen advertisements posted everywhere, from train stations to airports, and Maikael and I were lucky enough to catch some of the program. While the formula is basically the same, there is a definite Indian flare to the whole affair.

1. There are a panel of Indian judges who are dopalgangers of the US crew: the beautiful young woman (Paula Abdul), the lovable curmudgeon who speaks alternately in Hindi and English (Simon Cowell), and the plump and eccentric one with crazy eyebrows (Randy Jackson).
2. Rather than going to Hollywood, contestants are provided The Golden Ticket while one of the judges shouts, “You’re going to Mumbaaaaaaaai!”
3. The producers still make visits to contestants’ hometowns, but the stories are way more tragic.
4. Contestants still beg, plead, and make terrible song selections. The only difference is that the song are usually from popular Bollywood movies and therefore way more entertaining and over-the-top than any Whitney Houston selection.
5. Family members still wait on tenterhooks while their son/daughter audition in the next room, but the delivery of the good news is much more dramatic. Indian-style editing effects are employed (slow motion and dramatic music are very popular), making Spanish telenovelas look like CSPAN.

We’ve decided to reduce our television watching upon returning home to the States; we have watched very little TV the past two months and don’t really miss it. But if Indian Idol aired in the US, I’m not sure that I could bear the sacrifice.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Being a tourist in Bhutan is an unusual experience. There are so few of us here that we are perpetually running into people from our flight. There are zero tour buses. A group is officially considered three people. And while there are certainly tourist sites, there are so few tourists that nothing feels that way. Last year, the country received just 20,000 visitors, most of whom were American. (To provide some context, Jordan’s Petra alone saw 400,000 tourists.) While Bhutan doesn’t officially cap the number of tourists allowed, economics and geographic difficulty keep most people away: you’ve really got to want to come. The Bhutanese tourism board is forthright in declaring that they are trying to avoid over-development. Bhutan prizes its natural environment and puts its money where its mouth is: over 50% of its land is protected forest.

We left Thimpu one morning and drove an hour outside of the city to hike to Cheri Gompa, where Bhutan’s first body of monks was established in 1620. Within 10 minutes we were deep in the countryside, twisting our way over narrow roads, as ice blue streams rushed through rolling green hills. The air smelled like spiced cider – a scent I’ve always associated with autumn, but that will forever remind me of Bhutan. I laughed when I saw the sign indicating that we had arrived at a national park: we were the only ones in sight. We picked our way through the canopy, passing local families carrying bags of mushrooms. At the top of the path sat Cheri Gompa, clinging desperately to the hillside. Goats munched grass from the abiding field as monks in maroon and gold robes studied us carefully. Ancient prayer wheels spun. Maikael went to soak in the view below, acres of trees stretching as far as the eye could see. A shroud of mist floated through the valley below. I truly felt as if I had stepped into a fairytale. I find myself constantly shocked by my surroundings: am I really here? Does this place really still exist in 2008?

The greatest crowds we encountered – between 15 and 20 people, a virtual stampede by Bhutanese standards — were on our way to Taktshang monastery, the site in which the great Guru Rinpoche flew on a tigress and proceeded to meditate for three months. It is considered Bhutan’s holiest site, attracting pilgrims from all over the Buddhist world. “The Tiger’s Nest” clings to the sheer rock face 900 meters above the valley floor, and the only way up to the top is to walk: there are no trams or animals to assist in the journey. I huffed and puffed as Dorji effortlessly maneuvered his way up the rugged trail, the top half of his gho wrapped around his waist to reveal a T-shirt emblazoned with a suitcase. The Bhutanese are a nation of accomplished walkers; I am convinced they must have all been mountain goats in previous lifetimes. The higher you climb, the thinner the air and the crowds. We walked through stands of pine trees; the ones near the top were delicately draped with Spanish moss, looking like tinsel.

The view from the top is unreal. I have seen photos that epitomize Asia – rustic structures perched on great cliffs, in which tufts of fog billow by. That is exactly that Taktshang looks like – no more and no less. I felt as if I had stepped into a painting in someone’s living room.

I feel so grateful that I could experience Bhutan before things change too much; the signs are already there. TV and DVD has arrived. (“We get CDs and cassettes,” Dorji boasted.) Even monks carry cell phones. Bigger, sleeker hotels are going up left and right, washing away the dowdy, but charming, digs that currently dominate the lodging landscape. And yet, who am I to judge progress?

Friday, September 19, 2008

We had a very Darjeeling Limited experience today and took the train from Delhi to Jaipur.  Not quite as nice as the one portrayed in the movie, but interesting nonetheless.  Buying the tickets was an unbelievable experience.  I have had a bad cold the last few days (Delhi is a terrible place to be sick and tired), so Maikael braved the most insane touts known to man and spent four hours yesterday buying train tickets, which required dodging countless scams and running all over Delhi in an autorickshaw.  He emerged victorious!  I am encouraging him to write a post all about the experience, so stay tuned.

Now that we have better Internet access, I was able to post two new Bhutan posts and add the Bhutan page to our online photo album.  Enjoy!