Our guide picks us up at our hotel and begins the slow, measured, deliberate walk that we've become accustomed to. We fall in single fall and ignore the beeping, combustion-engined banshees blowing by, incredibly close. (Ed. Note: Sorry for the incredible number of times I'm using the word "incredible"). We stroll down to a museum which the guide informs us is closed because of a visit by the President of the United States and because it's Republic Day in India, both well-established facts that should not have caught anyone by surprise. We see a temple and then learn that everything is closed because of these events. We are steered toward a shop then a visit to another shop that is owned by a member of the guide's family. We wonder why the tour wasn't adjusted slightly to account for this stuff.
We are boondoggled. Kind of the main goal at this point is not to get killed, injured, sick, or lost. India is kicking my ass. Everything seems to be fraying and coming apart at the seams.
It's a lovely day and I'm sitting in the usual quiet interior courtyard of the hotel, in the sun. I am not dead, hurt, infected, or vanished. Yesterday we had greedily consumed the bottled water in our room's minibar so when we got back to the hotel I asked the front desk to replenish the supply, for which they charged me extra to deliver to the room. I have long since quit trying to explain the irrationality of such actions, a pile driving daily occurrence.
It is a good day.
When I was in college I was a prolific letter writer. I wrote most people under the table. My nickname was The Howitzer because I just kept blasting away. Eventually, I meant a friend of Massachusetts Dave who bested me in volume - I couldn't keep up because he really wasn't that interesting to communicate with. I called him my Vietnam. I got bogged down in a intractable conflict - I couldn't envision a way out so I simply gave up.
I would say that India is my Vietnam except that I want to go to Vietnam, too.
I took a couple of trips with Little Westside Jonny - one to pre-war Syria and one way, way back in the Amazon jungle in Ecuador - that pushed me past my comfort level. I have to put India in that category. A great, frustrating, intense, amazing wonder of a trip. I'll not be the same but getting the dross burned off has caused me some pain.
It is a good day.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Expiration Date
Expired: That is no longer valid; that has been breathed out; dead.
Virtually all the food that we eat here is prepared fresh. Packaged foods invariably have outlived their advertised shelf life and I mean 2014 and beyond. We're not talking a lot outdated - we're talking outdated. The fucking Coca Colas are outdated. I am under the impression that when a Coke is bottled it has like a 20 year shelf life. When do they buy this stuff and more importantly, where do they get it? Are there big consolidators who buy outdated stuff and resell it? Blows my mind.
At breakfast I had to beat off the staff who wanted to refill my coffee cup until I actually wanted a refill at which point the two young men I flagged down nodded agreeably, big smile, and then disappeared forever. I didn't really need any more coffee anyway which kind of sucks. This is a tea country so Nescafe is the norm even in a fine restaurant. They take a hot pot, pour in a big dollop of brown powder, and add hot water, right in front of you. They're not pretending it's coffee.
I had deep fried vegetable balls, oatmeal with olives, brown toast with marmalade, grilled tomatoes with cheese, and a variety of Indian breads for breakfast. Good shit.
Virtually all the food that we eat here is prepared fresh. Packaged foods invariably have outlived their advertised shelf life and I mean 2014 and beyond. We're not talking a lot outdated - we're talking outdated. The fucking Coca Colas are outdated. I am under the impression that when a Coke is bottled it has like a 20 year shelf life. When do they buy this stuff and more importantly, where do they get it? Are there big consolidators who buy outdated stuff and resell it? Blows my mind.
At breakfast I had to beat off the staff who wanted to refill my coffee cup until I actually wanted a refill at which point the two young men I flagged down nodded agreeably, big smile, and then disappeared forever. I didn't really need any more coffee anyway which kind of sucks. This is a tea country so Nescafe is the norm even in a fine restaurant. They take a hot pot, pour in a big dollop of brown powder, and add hot water, right in front of you. They're not pretending it's coffee.
I had deep fried vegetable balls, oatmeal with olives, brown toast with marmalade, grilled tomatoes with cheese, and a variety of Indian breads for breakfast. Good shit.
Exceeding All Description
Indescribable: Exceeding all description; impossible or very difficult to describe.
Driving in India.
This is an indescribable thing. I have driven or ridden in all kinds of weather, countries, and cultures in all kinds of vehicles and conveyances piloted by operators of all variety of driver and I have NEVER, EVER, EVER experienced anything like this. These people are a combination of insane, homicidal, violent, and suicidal all wrapped up in a high-speed, two tons of steel and glass video game designed by the Insane Clown Posse. It reminds me of the movie Blade Runner where flying ships are moving horizontally, vertically, and at weird and unpredictable angles, in a smoky, dim, dark post-apocalyptic nightmare.
The average day of driving, in dry weather, with good sunlight and excellent visibility, is terrifying. The exceptions, which have included nighttime driving - where the above scene is done in the dark, illuminated headlights or headlights that have a candle power exceeding a weak children's nighlight are the norm - or one one and a half lane mountain roads where the driver uses the technique of beeping his horn repeatedly while he blasts into blind curves at a normal stupefying rate of speed.
Today I actually toyed with the idea of telling the guy to slow down a bit but frankly, I'm a little afraid of him. He operates the car calmly, taking phone calls while driving, but from time to time he'll roll down the window and have a brief, running argument with another driver. I'm not sure what he might do to me if I ticked him off.
It is indescribable.
Driving in India.
This is an indescribable thing. I have driven or ridden in all kinds of weather, countries, and cultures in all kinds of vehicles and conveyances piloted by operators of all variety of driver and I have NEVER, EVER, EVER experienced anything like this. These people are a combination of insane, homicidal, violent, and suicidal all wrapped up in a high-speed, two tons of steel and glass video game designed by the Insane Clown Posse. It reminds me of the movie Blade Runner where flying ships are moving horizontally, vertically, and at weird and unpredictable angles, in a smoky, dim, dark post-apocalyptic nightmare.
The average day of driving, in dry weather, with good sunlight and excellent visibility, is terrifying. The exceptions, which have included nighttime driving - where the above scene is done in the dark, illuminated headlights or headlights that have a candle power exceeding a weak children's nighlight are the norm - or one one and a half lane mountain roads where the driver uses the technique of beeping his horn repeatedly while he blasts into blind curves at a normal stupefying rate of speed.
Today I actually toyed with the idea of telling the guy to slow down a bit but frankly, I'm a little afraid of him. He operates the car calmly, taking phone calls while driving, but from time to time he'll roll down the window and have a brief, running argument with another driver. I'm not sure what he might do to me if I ticked him off.
It is indescribable.
Ulterior Motives
Ulterior: Beyond what is obvious or evident.
We are beginning to suspect that everyone has an angle here, that we are being sold something at all times. I have begun to mistrust everyone. I don't like feeling this way but it seems like I'm being maneuvered into position constantly. It feels like a whole shitload of ulterior motives is falling on my head like acid rain.
Tour days follow this pattern: a monument or two, then a stop at a collective or a factory or a workshop to "see how things are made in the old ways by true craftsmen." Or widows or poor rural workers or war orphans. There is no pressure to buy. You can just look. You are just like a guest in their home. Absolutely no pressure to buy.
Where are you from? Oh, Vacation City, do you know Mr. So and So? He is from Vacation City and he bought 12 of these things to give as gifts or he got home and then contacted us and bought 48,000 of them because he was so astounded at the price. Here, look, in my guest book is a letter (from 2004) that Mr. So and So sent.
Once in the shop the vendor sucks in a huge breath of air and talks non-stop until there is no oxygen left in the room. The item in question - usually carpets or scarves or wall hangings or blankets - are piled three feet deep in front of you with rapid descriptions of the item in question. No prices are given and there is no pause to let you ask. It is incredibly stressful to polite Westerners, although as the trip has progressed I confess to have gotten quite good at bringing the proceedings to a close. Abrupt, you might say. Brusque.
Our driver, Sitaram, is a quiet young man who mostly drives. His English is decent but we don't think he needs to chat us up - he really is a quiet guy, although he has the driving skills of the most venomous demon in hell and the aggression of Jack Lambert. He swears us to silence. He makes us shake his hand on this vow, without telling us what secret that he is going to divulge. He looks into our eyes to make sure our word is our bond.
"The guides work with the expensive shops - they make a commission," he says. We had suspected as much. We weren't being shown any shops that sell trinkets or cheap collectibles. I think being from The States probably marks us as having the wealth of Midas, and I mean the muffler guy.
Getting very good at the brusque thing.
We are beginning to suspect that everyone has an angle here, that we are being sold something at all times. I have begun to mistrust everyone. I don't like feeling this way but it seems like I'm being maneuvered into position constantly. It feels like a whole shitload of ulterior motives is falling on my head like acid rain.
Tour days follow this pattern: a monument or two, then a stop at a collective or a factory or a workshop to "see how things are made in the old ways by true craftsmen." Or widows or poor rural workers or war orphans. There is no pressure to buy. You can just look. You are just like a guest in their home. Absolutely no pressure to buy.
Where are you from? Oh, Vacation City, do you know Mr. So and So? He is from Vacation City and he bought 12 of these things to give as gifts or he got home and then contacted us and bought 48,000 of them because he was so astounded at the price. Here, look, in my guest book is a letter (from 2004) that Mr. So and So sent.
Once in the shop the vendor sucks in a huge breath of air and talks non-stop until there is no oxygen left in the room. The item in question - usually carpets or scarves or wall hangings or blankets - are piled three feet deep in front of you with rapid descriptions of the item in question. No prices are given and there is no pause to let you ask. It is incredibly stressful to polite Westerners, although as the trip has progressed I confess to have gotten quite good at bringing the proceedings to a close. Abrupt, you might say. Brusque.
Our driver, Sitaram, is a quiet young man who mostly drives. His English is decent but we don't think he needs to chat us up - he really is a quiet guy, although he has the driving skills of the most venomous demon in hell and the aggression of Jack Lambert. He swears us to silence. He makes us shake his hand on this vow, without telling us what secret that he is going to divulge. He looks into our eyes to make sure our word is our bond.
"The guides work with the expensive shops - they make a commission," he says. We had suspected as much. We weren't being shown any shops that sell trinkets or cheap collectibles. I think being from The States probably marks us as having the wealth of Midas, and I mean the muffler guy.
Getting very good at the brusque thing.
:)
India is a Mike Tyson haymaker. I can clearly envision what it would feel like to have a young Mike Tyson, in shape, wind up and deliver a roundhouse punch as I stand there, inert, dumbfounded, defenseless.
Round 10.
India is standing on a frozen lake slickened up with a sheen of water and hearing the ice start to break behind you. You start to run and fall, get up, make a series of comical slip starts, and take a devastating face-first pratfall. The cracking ice gets closer, big chunks snapping off and disappearing into the frigid water. Somehow, some way, you make it to your feet and begin making some forward progress, always slipping and sliding, on the absolute, utter, naked edge of control. The ice is snapping inexorably toward you. You must move or die.
This is my India.
:)
Round 10.
India is standing on a frozen lake slickened up with a sheen of water and hearing the ice start to break behind you. You start to run and fall, get up, make a series of comical slip starts, and take a devastating face-first pratfall. The cracking ice gets closer, big chunks snapping off and disappearing into the frigid water. Somehow, some way, you make it to your feet and begin making some forward progress, always slipping and sliding, on the absolute, utter, naked edge of control. The ice is snapping inexorably toward you. You must move or die.
This is my India.
:)
Saturday, January 24, 2015
Black Sabbath Redux
We are riding the tiger.
My favorite music is performed by Black Sabbath and my second favorite group is AD/DC. I like a lot of music of a similar ilk but these two groups are far, far above anything else that catches my fancy. I like to listen to them still, 45 years after the first time they deformed the air that produced the sound waves that registered in my ears. I play the music loud and I can listen to it for a while but I can't play it loud for very long. I get tired of the frantic pace and I get worn out from the assault on my senses that heavy metal played loud can produce.
India is like listening to Black Sabbath at Volume Eleven non-stop. I catch my breath in my nice hotel compounds and then back into the fray I go. It is, frankly, exhausting.
India is like trying to read over the sound of a jackhammer busting up concrete in the street right outside. Eventually you may be able to ignore enough of the racket to actually get some reading done but it's going to be tough. Then, when the jackhammering stops you can't believe how quiet everything is. I have been listening to a jackhammer for 15 days.
Yowser.
My favorite music is performed by Black Sabbath and my second favorite group is AD/DC. I like a lot of music of a similar ilk but these two groups are far, far above anything else that catches my fancy. I like to listen to them still, 45 years after the first time they deformed the air that produced the sound waves that registered in my ears. I play the music loud and I can listen to it for a while but I can't play it loud for very long. I get tired of the frantic pace and I get worn out from the assault on my senses that heavy metal played loud can produce.
India is like listening to Black Sabbath at Volume Eleven non-stop. I catch my breath in my nice hotel compounds and then back into the fray I go. It is, frankly, exhausting.
India is like trying to read over the sound of a jackhammer busting up concrete in the street right outside. Eventually you may be able to ignore enough of the racket to actually get some reading done but it's going to be tough. Then, when the jackhammering stops you can't believe how quiet everything is. I have been listening to a jackhammer for 15 days.
Yowser.
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Geronimo!
And to my friends who I miss and love and who have expressed some concern and sympathy . . .
I am having a very good time. I am safe and healthy and enjoying an incredible cultural experience. It is intense and frustrating and inconvenient at times but totally, totally worth it.
Another analogy. SuperK rolls her eyes: "God, not another one of your analogies."
This is like being blindfolded and loaded onto a rickety airplane. You bounce and bump for a while, the air blasting through an open doorway gets colder, and suddenly the blindfold is pulled off and you see you're thousands of feet above an empty plane. Someone gesticulates wildly and jabbers in Hindi, showing you a ring on what appears to be a parachute on your back, poorly packed. He mimics a pulling motion, puts the blindfold back in place, and shoves you roughly out the door.
Geronimo!!!
I am having a very good time. I am safe and healthy and enjoying an incredible cultural experience. It is intense and frustrating and inconvenient at times but totally, totally worth it.
Another analogy. SuperK rolls her eyes: "God, not another one of your analogies."
This is like being blindfolded and loaded onto a rickety airplane. You bounce and bump for a while, the air blasting through an open doorway gets colder, and suddenly the blindfold is pulled off and you see you're thousands of feet above an empty plane. Someone gesticulates wildly and jabbers in Hindi, showing you a ring on what appears to be a parachute on your back, poorly packed. He mimics a pulling motion, puts the blindfold back in place, and shoves you roughly out the door.
Geronimo!!!
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