7/28/09 – Mumbai
The first attempt to swindle me occurred before I even left the Mumbai airport, which was good, I guess, as there was no point in wasting any time.
My bag was passed through an ex-ray machine at customs, and I was promptly pulled to the side because I had a camera. The customs officer, though he had a very dark complexion, had strikingly light blue eyes. Anytime I see someone with a dark complexion and light eyes (that seem like they should belong to someone else), I can’t help but feel like that person sees things a little more clearly than the rest of us. Their gaze gives you the impression that they are looking right through you and focusing their attention on something much more important. In this case, that something was my wallet.
In barely discernable English, the customs officer mumbled something about a “camera duty” that I must pay.
Interesting…did every passenger with a camera have to pay this? And how could it be that I was the only person on the entire plane that was carrying one? “Five hundred”, said the customs officer, with no mention of the currency. “Dollars or Rupees?”, I responded.
“Rupees”, he answered.
OK, I thought, this seems a little odd, but a $10 dollar baksheesh (tip, or bribe in this case) did not seem worth arguing over. So I nodded my approval and he pointed me to another customs officer who waived me to follow him. He opened a door, which I hoped would lead into an office where I would get some kind of official receipt for my “camera duty”, lest another customs official accuse me of not having paid it. But no, it led into a broom closet.
At least it’s air conditioned in here, I thought. If someone is going to try to extort money from me, I don’t want to have sweat through the entire ordeal.
Inside the broom closet, the second customs officer, who spoke about as much English as I speak Hindi, put out his hand, and made the universal gesture for “pay me now”. Oh no, I thought, if I am supposed to bribe you, I am going to do it outside, where all of your airport coworkers can watch. So I motioned for him to follow me out of the broom closet and back to his cohort in front of all the other passengers.
At this point, I resorted to the same tactic I have been using successfully since the first grade. “Why do I have to pay this?”, I asked the original customs officer. He bobbled his head from side to side indicating that he didn’t understand, and I immediately proceeded to bombard him with questions. We went back and forth for a couple of minutes, neither of us understanding the other, and then, in an attempt to make his extortion look official, he pulled out some sort of customs log, slipped a carbon copy into one of the pages, and acted as if we were going to fill out a form. He pointed to it and said “you pay”. I pointed to another group of customs officers by an Indian Tourism sign and said, “I want to talk to them”. He waived me away and said go.
As I was walking away, the other customs officer pulled me back into the broom closet. He put out his hand again.
The only thing that kept going through my mind was, “it’s nice and cool in here, I wonder why the broom closet has AC?”.
“How much?”, I asked.
“Fifty”, he responded, again no mention of currency.
“Dollars or Rupees?”, I asked.
“Dollars”.
What?!!….seriously?….the desired bribe just increased fivefold. I might have actually paid him 50 rupees just to get out of arguing. Now I pretended to get agitated and told him I wanted to speak with his boss. At this point, I think he was equally tired of arguing with me, and told me to go, and just like that, I walked out of customs with my wallet intact.
By the way, for all my Indian friends reading this, I realize that there is a possibility, however remote, that a “camera tax” actually exists, and that I simply got out of paying it by being obstinate. If this is the case, I would like to apologize for painting India’s customs officers in such a bad light.
———–
One thing about India that takes some getting used to is the lack of personal space and privacy. When I arrived in Mumbai, my plan was to go to Ship Hotel because it was the only one in the guidebook that offered dorm beds.
The only thing available was a double without A/C, so I took it. But I was surprised to find that it was not like western hostels where all of the dorm beds are in a separate room. There were beds in the hallways…and pretty much anywhere that there was space. I had to maneuver around a dozen beds to get to and from my room and the bathroom.
My room looks like a cubicle that has been completely sealed off. Like a cubicle, the walls do not reach the ceiling, but rather, are adorned with what could best be described as a decorative attempt at barbed wire.
——-
Mumbai is everything I had hoped for. It is dirty, crowded, smelly and chaotic, with tiny pockets of beauty hidden everywhere that are so wonderfully juxtaposed to the chaos and misery around them. I find myself wishing I was invisible so that I could spend my time sneaking around and secretly capturing them.
There isn’t a single place in the city, inside or out, where I haven’t seen somebody sleeping on the floor.
——-
I just ordered my lassi from a vegetarian restaurant in Fort. It is a drink made from yogurt and ice water. I hope it doesn’t make me sick, but if it does, it will probably be worth it.
7/30/09 – Delhi
(not quite the Darjeeling Limited)
Yesterday I took the Rajdhani Express, an overnight sleeper train, to Delhi. I rode in 3rd class AC. My intentions had originally been to ride in 2nd class unreserved (no AC), but there were no trains with this class of seats until the next morning, so I spent about 3 times as much for an air-conditioned ride (along with the seven other people in my compartment). Fortune was smiling on me that day, because in hindsight, that 18-hour train ride would have been pretty miserable without AC.
Upon arriving in Delhi, I rented a room at Major’s Den Guest house…one without air conditioning (to make up for the previous day’s excesses). In truth, the additional cost for air conditioning would have been about $2 dollars, but not having AC makes me feel like a much more adventurous traveler.
Now, I am a little embarrassed to admit this, because I generally loath fast food, but one of the things I had really wanted to try in India was McDonalds. Before you judge me, let me explain. Because cows are considered sacred by Hindus, beef is obviously not on the menu, and I had heard that Indian McDonalds served lamb burgers instead. I was somewhat intrigued when I read this, and decided it was something I had to try.
Well, I stumbled across my first McDonald’s in Delhi, and despite not wanting to propagate an obvious stereotype (it’s hard to discretely walk into a McDonald’s in India when you are white), I overcame my embarrassment and indulged my curiosity. The revelation I had upon entering was akin to something from Sidhartha. If you want to get rich in India, open a McDonalds. The McChicken Maharajah Macs (yes that’s really what they are called) were flying off of the shelves.
I was a little disappointed to see that there was no lamb on the menu – only chicken. So I ordered the aforementioned Maharajah Mac, which was basically a curry chicken Big Mac. The irony of all of this is that although I’ve been eating all the Indian food I can get my hands on, it’s probably the McDonald’s that is going to make me sick.
Before bidding farewell to Major’s Den Guest House and boarding the 13 hour bus to Dharamsala, I went to Shellka’s to get measured for a suit. In the end, I opted out of the famed 2nd generation Indian Tailor Vaish at Rivoli, who I had read much about, because he was a little expensive even for my western pockets. Perhaps after I make my fortune I’ll return to Delhi to have Vaish tailor all of my clothes. For now, Shellka tailors is very reasonable. And while I am excited about the prospect of having a suit tailored, there was one minor issue I had not anticipated. Shelka’s selection of cloth for the suit lining was limited to colors that were, well, very “Indian”. So I opted for red and black stripes, which are either going to be really awesome, or really Bollywood. Either way, very fashion forward.
Friday – 7/31/09 approximately 4:15 PM
So far, the “air conditioned’ bus to Dharamsala is a little sketchy. I bought the ticket through the guy at Major’s Den Guest House. I paid what I thought was a little too much – but again, it was the equivalent of a couple of bucks, so BFD, take a haircut. The gentleman at the hotel assured me that I would be taken directly to the bus and given my seat (by which I assumed someone would pick me up and take me to the station – that’s what the haircut was for, right?)
Not exactly. Someone did come and get me…on foot. And he led me (with my bags…which I carried), across Paharganj, through traffic, to a bus on the opposite side of town. I was told which seat was mine – sort of, but was never given a ticket (everyone else was required to have one though).
I met a bunch of Israeli kids on the bus who had just finished their mandatory conscription in the Israeli army, and were now traveling for the next year or so. One of them, quite randomly, was told his seat was up front in the compartment with the driver. He was not happy, and a very comical argument ensued, in which he gestured that he should not have to drive the bus, and asked to get on the next bus without air conditioning. What was truly remarkable was that the bus driver did not speak Hebrew and the Israeli kid did not speak Hindi, so this entire conversation was really just a heated pantomime.
6:55 PM
OK, so it’s 6:55 PM, and our 4:30 bus still hasn’t left Delhi. We have managed to drive around the city and pick up every possible person wanting to go to Dharamsala though. Also, I’m sweating like whore in church. If this is the AC bus, the other bus must be driving through the 7th circle of hell, because I don’t know how else it could get any hotter.
Funny, I just saw a giant cow walk right by my window and I thought to myself “Holy Cow!”, and then I laughed out loud and thought, how appropriate, that’s probably what Hindu’s think every time they see a cow.
7:05 PM
We haven’t left Delhi yet and already we are having some sort of engine trouble. Lovely.
There is a giant radiator in the front seat by the driver where the Israeli kid was supposed to sit. It’s huge, about the size of an oven. The man driving the bus is a Sikh who looks like Captain Nemo.
8/1/09
Dharamsala is home to the Tibetan government in exile, and the official residence of the Dalai Llama. The population, by my estimates, is approximately 1/3 Indian, 1/3 Tibetan exiles, and 1/3 grungy hippie travelers. As such, I’ve met some interesting people.
I’ve been hanging around a group of Spanish kids I met. One of their friends is an English guy named John, who essentially speaks no Spanish. John, or “Juansito”, as the Spanish kids call him, was a cook back in the UK. He has spent the last three months traveling through India, and, since recently becoming a vegetarian, is having doubts about his chosen profession.
I also met a former electrical Engineer who took a leave of absence to travel, and quickly discovered he was making more money playing online poker than he was while working, so two months into his trip decided to travel indefinitely. Truly inspiring.
But probably the most interesting character was Tashi (sp.?), a Buddhist monk who had previously been a contract negotiator for NASA (only for non-military projects, he was quick to point out). I spent most of my mornings in Dharamsala pestering Tashi with questions about enlightenment. (to which he very kindly and patiently responded)
8/2/09
So now I’m having a beer on the rooftop of a restaurant in Dharamsala, listening to a Tibetan guy do a surprisingly good cover of a Jack Johnson song, despite not speaking any English.
In other news, most of you will be glad to hear that the beard-growing contest is going well. I think I am going to win hands down. I don’t know how Adam expects to win if he keeps shaving twice a day, and I’ve already got a week’s head start on Olivia.
Shortcuts to enlightenment…with the plethora of holy cities in India, this should be an easy task, right? If there is any place to curry favor with my creator, surely it’s here.
My initial plan was to go to Dharamsala on a spiritual journey. There, under the tutelage of the Dalai Lama, I could meditate on the transitory nature of this life, and, after much introspection, attempt to achieve Instant Nirvana (a western version, to be sure, but this is a short trip). However, due to poor planning on my part…actually, who am I kidding, due to no planning on my part, I neglected to consider that the Dalai Lama would not be there during my stay in Dharamsala. Some nonsense about a schedule conflict.
So I decided to leave Dharamsala a day early, and make a pilgrimage to the Sikh holy city of Amritsar, where I would bathe in the “pool of immortal nectar” surrounding the Golden Temple, where all Sikhs try to make a pilgrimage at least once in their lifetime. And no visit to the Golden Temple would be complete without a meal at the Guru-ka-Langar, the enormous community kitchen characteristic of all Sikh Temples. Free food along the path to enlightenment…you can’t beat that with a stick.
Given my last minute change of plans, it seemed a pretty safe bet that the Golden Temple (unlike the Dalai Lama) would at least be there when I arrived. If I had time, I would also head to the nearby India/Pakistan border to watch a theatrical border skirmish that is reenacted nightly by both the Indian and Pakistani military (no joke).
After that, I am considering altering my trip to include the Hindu Holy city of Varanasi. Which brings me to a very important question for Dr. Adam Marchak.
Adam, if I swim in the Ganges, will I get sick?
If yes, what if I keep my mouth shut?
Most importantly, as my personal physician, do I have your permission (and medical clearance) to swim in the Ganges? Please keep my spiritual needs in mind when answering this last question.
8/3/09
So now the fun starts. To get to Amritsar, I must first take a bus to the city of Pathankot. My guide book only devotes one paragraph to this city, calling it a transportation hub. From there, I can supposedly catch a train to Amritsar (although I have no idea the timetable for said train, and really don’t want to spend the night in Pathankot).
Not that it matters now, I’m already on the bus to Pathankot, and it’s a real Indian bus, not an air conditioned, prepaid ticket, wannabe bus. This bus is the kind where you pay the driver when you get on, and you have to climb on the roof with your bag and tie it to the top. Only I didn’t bring any rope. And to make things more comical, I can’t remember the combination to the lock I brought. Charming.
Luckily, there were some old rags tied to the roof of the bus. Using MacGyver-like improvisation, I jerry-rigged a makeshift rope, much like the kind convicts use to escape from prison. Using the rags, straps from my bag, and knot-tying ability that can only be acquired in the pursuit of various Boy Scout merit badges, I managed to securely (in my opinion) fasten my bag to the top of the bus.
Throughout the duration of the ride, I stare out the back window, prepared to leap out if I see my bag on the side of the road.
(approximately 1 hour later)
We are in traffic right now, and there is another bus, moving in the opposite direction stopped next to us. The buses are about 6 inches apart. I could literally reach my hand through the open window of my bus, through the open window of the other bus, and pinch the cheek of the Indian man sitting in the bus next to me. Our faces are maybe 18 inches apart. We haven’t moved in a while and it is getting a little awkward.
It’s pretty funny, you know how buses and trucks in the U.S. beep when they back up? Well, when this bus backs up, there is a guy in the back seat who blows a whistle. To paint a mental picture of the ride from Dharamsala to Pathankot, imagine going off-roading in a bus with no shocks, with lots of other buses going off-roading in the opposite direction, and then imagine all the drivers simultaneously falling asleep on their horns.
I think I may have come up with a new ad campaign for Indian Railways. They could have an oversized picture of our bus, with a caption below that says “Take a train, it’s twice as safe and three times as comfortable.”
I really don’t know what is louder, the horn, or the guy in the back blowing the whistle. Maybe that could be a second ad campaign for Indian Railways, “No whistles allowed on our trains.”
This is pretty comical, we have come to a small town, and are in a traffic jam maneuvering around another bus, some cars, street vendors, and probably a cow or two. The other bus driver, whose bus is inches away from ours, is leaning out the window and arguing with our bus driver, who is shouting back at him in Hindi. I don’t know what is being said, but everyone on the bus is laughing.
I’ve spent the last few weeks pretending to be Anthony Bourdain, and am afraid that all of the street food has given me swine malaria. The symptoms are what you would imagine: I can now pee from my butt, and my teeth feel furry.
This experience has made me realize that the Travel Channel is sitting on a pot of gold. They have so much leftover footage from “Anthony Bourdain, No Reservations” that they could create a whole second show out of it. It could be called “Anthony Bourdain Shits His Brains Out”, and be filmed in conjunction with Discovery Health.
8/4/2009
I now know where the hottest place on earth is. It’s right in front of the booking window at the Amritsar train station. I verified this by standing in line there for 2 hours, jostling with Indian men who apparently thought I was in line for some reason other than to purchase a ticket.
The electricity in Amritsar cuts on and off sporadically, so the ceiling fans overhead were at a standstill. They would cut on periodically, but only long enough to remind you what a breeze feels like, lest you momentarily forget how hot you are.
I got caught in my first monsoon today. I was splitting a rickshaw to the train station with a Finnish girl I met. We were both perched precariously on the back of the rickshaw with our giant packs, trying to keep our balance as we weaved around cars, motorcycles, and other rickshaws, when the sky opened up.
There wasn’t much we could do at that point, so we just laughed as our rickshaw wallah pedalled for another 10 minutes and we splashed our way through the streets, waving at everyone who was laughing at us from their shops.
