text:
Forecast: Smoke
A few days before I left on this trip, I checked weather forecasts. I plugged in Weather Mumbai India into Google, and the first thing that came up on weather.com or some such site was Today's Weather: Smoke. Hmmmm. I'm trying hard to imagine what that means. Probably not forest fires. Some other kind of fires? Pollution? Really, really bad pollution? I really didn't know, until I awoke at 6 am at the Bawa Hotel and looked out the window. Still dark, but as dawn spreads, so does a film of haze so brown and ominous it really does look like smoke, and for a moment I panic and check the room for a fire extinguisher (none). The building is constructed like a prison, and the windows don't open, so I can't check to see what the air actually smells and feels like, but it certainly looks unhealthy, if not dangerous. Then I notice the streets are slowly filling up with people and tuk-tuks and taxis, and no one seems alarmed in the slightest, so I figure I'm not in any immediate danger. I have been waiting for the moment when I can have a masala dosa with lime pickle for breakfast, along with a coconut lassi and some chai, and here it is. Oh yum!
I shower in a trickle of cold water, slurp a malaria pill, brush my teeth with Bisleri water, throw on a cotton skirt and loose linen blouse, slip on my purple Puma flats, run a comb through my hair, grab my valuables and toss them in a small leather backback, and run down to breakfast. Where I am the only female in a sea of Indian businessmen. No matter, apart from a few outright stares, they are engaged in their own talks and prandials. I am so excited to be here I really don't take much care with the massive breakfast buffet, and when I finally sit down realize I have a most peculiar assortment of food on my plate: my masala dosa, some fresh pineapple and papaya, a tiny donut, some nan, a dollop of murg makhani, a stuffed parantha, some yogurt and honey, and a piece of wheat toast. And a glass of guava juice, a lassi, and a cup of coffee. I have to hold back from giggling, remembering when I worked in a dinner theater a few lifetimes ago and was just stunned by the stuff people loaded onto their plates because it was "as much as you can eat." But I'm tickled to have this bizarre smorgasbord in front of me, and I make my way through it, except for the donut, which is bitter and strange. While I'm finishing, my SO, who's spent a good deal of time in India, calls and says "So, are you in Loonyland yet?" I think so, I say!
My arranged guide shows up promptly and 9 am, and we get into an air-conditioned van for a full day's worth of sightseeing. She's Marik, and the first thing she says is "I hope you don't mind, but I love to talk, in fact I love to shout, so if I am talking too much, or shouting too much, you must tell me. If you don't say anything I will keep going." Well……..ok, I guess I can handle that. Then she explains the derivation of Namaste and presses her hands together and says "So welcome from the god within me to the god within you." Then she launches into an explanation of some of the microenterprises we will see evidence of as we traverse Mumbai on our way to the southern shore this morning, and notes that we have about 40 kms to go and it will take us a good hour and a half at the least, depending on traffic. She tells me about Indians who will approach you with offers to clean your ears for a small fee. And the vast system of healthy men who carry tins of hot lunches to working folks on bicycles every day – hundreds of thousands of hot lunches delivered by illiterate men to workers all over the city who pay between 50 and 350 rupees a month for this service. The error rate, meaning a delivery gets mixed up, is one in 800,000. Astonishing. Meanwhile we are maneuvering through the biggest thicket of traffic I have ever seen, ever imagined. We are almost always literally within an inch of another vehicle. People, individuals, groups, and sometimes mothers with a gaggle of babies, suddenly step off a curb and we miss them by a hair's breadth, slamming on the brakes. Marik keeps up a steady stream of chatter as we inch along, talking about green efforts and recycling plastic into a kind of powder that can be used as cement and how lateral building has to be replaced with vertical building as she points out new buildings being erected but notes that they're still using incredibly risky wooden scaffolding (it looks insanely fragile)…I can't even begin to keep up with her…
France captures my imagination. Italy warms my heart. North Africa fascinates me. Kenya stole my soul. India, I think, is going to kick me hard in the gut. India is a rich, heavily scented, multidimensional, hyperstimulatory, contradictory, massive, and sometimes paralyzing data stream assault on all the senses. It is everything and nothing, it is great and it is horrible, it is sweet and it is sorrowful, it is expression and oppression, it is maddening and soothing. It is disgusting and filthy and loving. It is all the raw guts of us humans displayed for the world to see on every street corner - amazing, graceful beauty and unbearable pestilence wrapped in a mysterious packet handed out for you to wonder over in various guises by everyone you make contact with. It is stark and blank and devoid of everything you think of as the barest human essentials and then in an instant it turns on you and is effusive and warm and wanting to cuddle you into its very soul with its overt and colorful and embracing nature. It's shy but in your face. It's delicate, concealed, but has whole monuments, whole cultures, devoted to eroticism.
From my first day I most remember a pile of young, almost naked children, perhaps a half-dozen of them, dark buttery brown and dressed in rags, literally bits of clothing that just hung around their bodies the way a torn-up handkerchief would cover you. They traveled in a small pack, like puppies, always touching each other and rolling along the streets in a kind of communal ball. Happy, laughing, enjoying the touch of each other. With incredibly silky, gleaming brown curly hair, and big white teeth.When I got back into my car after visiting a site, they grouped themselves into one solid glazed brown mass and banged at the door methodically moving their hands in the direction of their mouths to indicate they were hungry. It was a feat. It was drama. It was heartrending, it was gorgeous, and it was the saddest thing I've ever seen.
I remember the young, dark, turbaned, muscular men at that same site, workers in a communal laundry, which takes care of the laundry needs of most of Mumbai's hotels and hospitals, carrying enormous piles of dirty linens on their heads down to a huge space by the RR tracks where there are large cement tubs full of murky water. There, they pour in soap and beat the fabric over and over, then move to another cement tub of slightly less murky water and beat it again and again and wring it and wring it and curl it tight into coils and balls, and then string it all up to dry in the sunlight. Hundreds of young men, thousands of sheets and towels, acres of murky-watered cement tubs. Drying in the wind, the white linens looks incredibly white and clean, the pastels a kaleidoscope against the stark Mumbai city background…but having seen the water I find it hard to believe those hospital sheets are clean.
And I remember Muhatma Ghandi's house, in a rather plush neighborhood, a tall blue structure with ornate balconies and swathed in leafy flowering trees. His room on the second floor on display…his pallet, his sandals, his tiny wooden desk, his quill pen, and his loom, for he made his own clothes, the khadi, the essence of India's self-preservation for him at a time when his culture was being subsumed. He made his own clothes. He wanted everyone in India to do the same. That was the beginning of his calling…making your own khadi, the most basic of needs. No outsourcing. The irony is almost staggering, since I spent the early morning making a call to my bank in the USA, only to be rerouted to a call center in India to get a human to talk to me. There's a series of models depicting various events in his life as well, and a library with 20,000 volumes, and beautiful photos of him, including the picture of him smiling at his assassin and forgiving him.
Our car overheats here, and we have to wait, but only a few minutes, for a replacement. Then on through the rich, hilly suburbs of Mumbai past mansions hemmed in by iron gates and massive overhanging trees. Then, suddenly, to a place I think called the Garden of Silence, which is where the Parsis put, leave, discard….what is the right verb?...their dead. Their tradition holds that when a Parsi dies, he will be left out for nature to do what it will with him. They don't believe in interment, because the body will go to the earth in that case, and they don't like that. They don't believe in cremation, because the body then goes to the air/heavens, and they don't like that. So they build these cylindrical brick structures like wells that go upward, and when a Parsi person dies, they throw the body into it and let nature take its course….which means the vultures converge and pick the body clean within a couple of hours. And all this in a beautiful, peaceful garden nearby the richest suburb of Mumbai and the little park with its Old Woman in a Shoe statue and the walkway to the Highest Point in Mumbai where tourists and locals throng daily. It's a wonder. There weren't many birds today, so no one had died recently, but according to Marik, it was very easy to tell when a Parsi had been tossed in the "well." Apparently the Indian government afforded them this sanctuary as a way to contain the practice, although they don't condone it. I really have to sift through all this at some later date…just driving by it's too much, as is so much in India, to absorb right now.
I remember the oldest Hindu temple in Mumbai, which we visited. Actually, there's a conglomeration of old Hindu temples, centered around a rectangular pond that is supposedly fed by a spring that brings luck. It's in a warren of residential alleyways, and it's not even attractive, just a large rectangle of dark water, a few swans floating listlessly at the shore, a burble of a spring emptying clean water in to it on one side, where young men are bathing fully and partially clothed, an obelisk sticking out of the middle of the pond. Apparently a lot of the old temples have just been submerged and overbuilt by raggedy houses of corrugated iron and whatever the locals could scavenge to build a small dwelling. But there are a couple of obvious temples remaining, and we drift through a stream of local inhabitants to the first, with a giant brown cow outside, surrounded by a mother and several daughters bedecked in blindingly bright orange and blue and yellow saris. Of course, the cow is sacred, and the cow is tethered outside the temple, and the cow needs to eat, and if you feed the cow, you will receive blessings also, and if you pay the mother who owns the cow a few rupees to get some hay to feed the cow, you'll blessed, and so you do, and so you begin to understand on one very primitive level how one minuscule segment of this society operates. And you feed the cow, and everyone bows and blesses you, and then you must remove your shoes to go inside the temple.
Now, I am no traveling prude, and I've been in grime and grit and bug-infested places and I've fainted from intestinal diseases and seen many a Turkish toilet, and I've bathed in brown water, and risked ridiculous, well, risks, eating and drinking things I shouldn't have…but I'm middle-aged now, and though I wouldn't ever dream of bringing Purell or a prescription for antibiotics to Europe, I'm armed and ready for India. AND, I'm actually thinking, pretty constantly, about what the stuff I touch and come into contact can do to me. I didn't even think much about this when I went to work in Nairobi last year, but for some reason I'm kind of cautious, for me, about India. So when we arrive at the Hindu temple entrance and I'm told to take off my shoes, and I see a wet, dank, muddy floor in front of me, in the midst of this dirty neighborhood, I, well, I have my antennae up. But I take off my shoes (thinking, I must admit, how long will it take for my purple Pumas to be relieved of me while I am learning about Shiva?), and wade into the bilge that surrounds the marble bull at the entrance, where Mirak tells me I can kiss the horns if I have a particular wish. No thanks, my particular wish is not to get a cold sore on top of anything else I might contract.
It's a tiny temple, with flower petals strewn everywhere, and a couple of ancient Indian women walking round and round citing mantras and periodically stopping to fill a cup full of water and douse the Shiva sculpture in the center (and OMG, that's what that big cup with the handle was in the shower today – you're supposed to fill it and pour it over yourself – I couldn't figure out why there was a "measuring cup" in the shower!). Incense is burning. A man in a sarong and turban with a branch broom circles the temple sweeping away the water and grime and stray flower petals. There are flies everywhere, and big, big beetles that skitter out from the temple itself and onto the marble floor where my bare feet are. I am hopping a few times so they don't scoot over my toes. Marik is devotional – she says Monday is the lucky day for Hindus and so an important temple day. Wonderful. I am loving this experience. It is like nothing I've ever seen before and I am full of respect for these gorgeous old women who are circling me chanting, and the incense is divine, but can we leave now so I don't get beetles on my feet or something more dire? We do leave soon after, and I admit when I got back to the hotel that night I scrubbed my feet within an inch of walking-ness and doused them with Neosporin. Wussy, I know.
Marik wants to know what I'd like for lunch, and I say I want authentic Indian food. It's Mumbai and so I want seafood. I like it hot, really hot. I want a place where YOU would go. She says Trishna, but it's a place I would go if I had some money to spare. I happen to know of this place, having read of it in guidebooks and in the Austrian Air mag that I read a bit of on the way here. Strikes me from the reviews that it might be classified as a touristy place, but also a kind of local institution with a good rep. Marik warns me it won't be cheap, and I say that's ok, it's my only real meal in Mumbai, so drop me there. And she does. I order a medium crab with hot chili coconut sauce and some raita and nan. A glass of Indian white wine. Mineral water. The crab comes, chunks of meaty claw and body doused in a dark brown chunky sauce heavily spiced with cumin, lime leaves, saffron, chili, coconut milk. I get a plate full of utensils to rip the crab apart with, but it's already doused in this thick sauce and slippery, and the utensils are HUGE, way bigger than my tiny hands can get around, so I have to ask for help to mash the crab into bite-size morsels. No problem. My waiter cracks all the crab pieces, puts my bib around my neck for me, and basically does everything but put the food in my mouth. And oh, is my mouth happy when that food hits it! Oh boy! Indian food in the US is good. Indian food in India is good squared, maybe God squared. OMG the tastes, the textures, the subtleties, the intermarriage of complex spices. I am here, with a bib, eating like a baby. I slurp, I suck, I gulp. It's just sooooooooo good! My tongue is tingling, my brain is engaged, my jetlagged body feels energized again.
I meet Marik outside an hour later and I feel as though I've been re-engaged, been to a spa or something for a day or two. How is this possible? I was a tired, jet-lagged mess, and now I'm sporting an entirely new fresh self. It's India. It's magic.
We visit the Gateway to India, which is encased in scaffolding. It's interesting to see how many Indian families come here, though, to take a soothing cruise in the harbor and muse upon the expulsion of the British. Marik explains that India has its own source of oil, but really only one drill, and they are totally dependent on Saudi oil. There are hawkers galore, selling pineapple and coconut and cucumber and papaya slices. There are myriad vendors with cheap bracelets and flower necklaces. We move on to the downtown financial district, so British in its foundations – the stock exchange, the university, the Polo Club, the Cricket Club, the Army Navy Club, all the right addresses. I ask Marik what did the locals think when they were colonized, and what do they think now? She said, Imagine someone just moves in with you and your family, someone strange with strange habits, and of course you hate it and resent it, but you realize soon that your standard of living has been raised and that a lot of the problems with warfare among the tribes around you have been solved or softened, and you decide you can deal with it because overall you life is better, but you wish you could hold onto your traditions and the invaders do let you do that to some extent, but it's never the same, never the same. You do it. Why wouldn't you?
We drop Marik off at the main train station and drive by way of the largest slum in SE Asia home. I don't know why, but I think our driver has discerned that I don't just want to see the pretty and the respectable parts of Mumbai. The slum is endless and horrific. I open my window to take pictures of it, as it straddles the main road back into Mumbai, but the stench is more than I can bear. I fear I will vomit out the car window. And what does that say? Four million people living in such squalor that the average person driving by a few hundred meters away will retch upon opening a window? While you can see women and children and men busy within these slums, going about their daily business, and what's amazing is that they DO have daily business. The slums are BUSY! They are alive, they are moving, they are filled up with folks attempting to do whatever the hell they can to eke out a living. They aren't dead and stagnant, they are alive, alive in a desperate but accepting manner, testament to the phenomenal fortitude and resilience and resourcefulness of every human who needs those attributes. And there are so many of them.
I go back to the hotel just after dark, when the traffic scene becomes positively hair-raising. I'm inside my safe little compound by the time it's truly dark. I have no appetite for food, just for more of this mysterious India. The country is so massively sensorily overwhelming that I am literally exhausted after a day in Mumbai. I am wrung out, my mind is burnt to a crisp, my vocabulary is rendered pathetic, I just want to crawl into a ball and sleep. And I do, at just before 9 pm. But oh what dreams I'll have. . . .
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My First Passage to India
Forecast: Smoke
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Absolutely wonderful, StCirq! Your insightful narrative is really helping me. I, too, have been ambivalent about India. I have a wonderful Son who lives part of each year in Goa, and travels to other parts of India buying things to import for the Christmas markets he runs in Germany. He is Vegan, teaches Yoga, totally loves the country, and has been urging me to visit for years.
What you have written so far has both heightened my interest and, at the same time, increased my misgivings. I'm looking forward to the rest of your report, and the conclusions you reach.
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Amazing story. Amazing writing. You tell it like it is. I want to go to India. Now, before it changes. Thank you.
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Looking forward to more.
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Ah StCirq, I do love the way you write and I am enjoying this aleady. Looking forward to more.
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Lovely report. I'm curious about the smoke forecast.
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Very enjoyable trip report. Can't wait to read the next installment. Thank you!
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What a delightful report. I can almost imagine myself being there. I can't wait to read the next installment.
Best wishes,
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A lovely report - thank you. Looking forward to the rest
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Great start! You've given us a wonderfully evocative first impression of a crazily complex place. Hope you meet up with your daughter successfully.
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Fascinating . . . Thank you for sharing.
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I happened to stumble on your report and thoroughly enjoyed it. It is my dream to one day visit India. Thank you for posting.
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india is a trully unique place...can't wait to read more of your observations...
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I am always happy to see another India post.
I had read somewhere that there were very few vultures left and that the Parsi now have to use some chemicals to help 'dissolve' bodies in the Garden of Silence
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This is a great report StCirq-- I like your writing style.
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Wayne - I had heard the same thing about the vultures dying off, but dogster's latest report (from Kolkata: www.fodors.com/forums/threadselect.jsp?fid=27&tid=35160204) says that the cause has been traced to a drug called diclofenac used by vets, and since it's been banned the vultures are making a comeback.
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I've been looking forward to this!
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Wow StCirq, fabulous report. It draws me in and repulses me at the same time, like the slums.
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Can't wait to hear more!
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This is fascinating, St. Cirq, thank you so much.
Like Nukesafe I have a daughter who's been living in India for some years and urging me to visit -- and like NS I'm ambivalent. This is wonderful to read!
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Excellent evacative report as yours are always.
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Darn, I hate when St Cirq starts her trip reports and never finishes them.
I am still waiting for her to finish her France report!
You tease us, now stop it. Get on with your writing please.
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She hasn't finished her Caribbean report either. We should punish her by not allowing her to travel until she satisfies our vicarious envy.
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I was in India years ago and this brings back many fond memories. For anyone considering a trip, I suggest reading A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry. Unless you've been there, you cannot possibly imagine a country like this, but his writing and StCirq's are quite evocative.
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Onward, StCirq, onward.
Your enchanting reports - from whatever location - are an onscreen feast.
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StCirq, your style of writing has allowed my senses to pick up the sights, smells and sounds of India without even having been there.
I look forward to reading more about this fascinating country.
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Hey, if you only knew what a challenge it has been to get these installments up here! I've written loads, but have also blown the electricity in 5 hotels and burned up a couple of adapters - just for Fodors!
Here goes...
Today is a largely wasted day. I check out of the Bawa Hotel at 8 am after another miserable excuse for a shower and a breakfast of just pineapple and mango and yogurt and coffee. I'm at the airport at 8:20 and proceed immediately to the wrong security check-in. I'm on Jet Lite, but in my fog I head for the nearest sign saying Jet, which is Jet Airways, and have to double back and send my bag through the first security checkpoint again. Then I check in to find that my 9:35 flight is delayed, no one knows how long. I go through the next and final security checkpoint, this one being divided into two lines, one for men and one for women, only there's no security guard for the women, so I have to stand there for a good 15 minutes. I try to surrender my bottle of water to the guard who eventually ambles over, but he (why isn't it a she, after all this?) waves it on through, and I put it in the box along with my laptop. On the other side a stern lady grabs the water bottle, shakes it in my face and says "It is forbidden!." Well….nevermind…..
I sit in the tiny waiting room until almost 12:30, when the flight to Delhi is finally announced. I have a sweet, cold coffee and read the newspapers, read my book, stretch my legs. No one seems the slightest bit perturbed, though almost all flights are delayed. I think about the Jain temple I visited yesterday, which I left out of my notes: The Jain religion, according to my guide, was founded by Vardhamana Mahavira in about 500 BC, does not involve god worship but rather advocates ahimsa (not harming any living being), and is so complicated that it has few followers. Among other things, they are such strict vegetarians that the most avid followers wear mouth masks so that not even the smallest insect, microbe even, gets into their system. When they eat, the drip a ring of water around the edge of the plate as a barrier to insects, and place a few grains of rice outside the ring to keep any potentially marauding insects busy eating their own meal. Then they have a precise order in which they consume their food, all of which, according to Marik, is very scientifically based to keep the digestive system pure and functioning perfectly. There are also myriad rituals.
The Jain temple we visited was humming with activity. We left our shoes at the entrance, but no one challenged us to leave behind leather goods such as watchstraps and wallets, as I had been told they might. Like all Jain temples, it featured extraordinary marble carvings, and was built on several floors, where numerous simultaneous activities were happening. On the top, brightly dressed young women held hands and waists and danced around the central shrine, chanting and periodically ringing the incredibly loud copper bells that hung from the ceiling. In small alcoves surrounding the central shrine, priests (is that what they are?) lit candles and said blessings. Down below, the men gathered to eat a simple meal, in parallel lines in a great marble hall. Older women were busy forming swastika-shaped symbols out of rice grains, with sugar cubes in the center. The swastika, which obviously predates our notion of it, stands for enlightenment. It was a glorious, uplifting, merry scene all around, and no one took the slightest offense at us meandering through it, or taking pictures. I was even encouraged to ring one of the bells, nearly knocking out my hearing for the rest of the day....and as I relive this delightful scene, my flight is finally called.
We board and take a smooth flight to Delhi. But unlike in Mumbai, where we practically landed in people's living rooms, in Delhi we seem to land in some faraway suburb. We take the longest on-ground airplane ride I've ever been on – almost 25 minutes, sometimes traveling at what seem like highway speeds. Very strange. But once at the airport I'm through the doors and into the hands of my driver within minutes. Then another half-hour to squeeze our way through the mesh of airport traffic that is trying to get through one small exit into the streets of Delhi. Then a 45-minute drive to the hotel on hair-raising roads made worse because in Delhi there are cows. Everywhere. And they must not be harmed. Coddled cows. Even though they like to congregate in the middle of highways and streets and take their own sweet time doing whatever they feel like doing. I ask my driver what would happen if he happened to hit a cow accidentally. "Terrible, terrible tragedy," he says, "and very big fine." I understand that cow worship has been around a lot, lot longer than traffic, but as I'm already hours late arriving in Delhi I can't help thinking it would have saved everyone a lot of trouble if they'd chosen to worship something small, unobtrusive, and alacritous, like say a squirrel or a chipmunk.
I arrive at the Vikram Hotel around 4 pm, where a guide who has planned to spend most of the afternoon with me is eager for me to jump back in the car as soon as I've checked in and deposited my suitcase in the room. I do. Raj is a young professorial type with a shriekingly sibilant S, which makes it both difficult and alarming to listen to him, though I get used to it after awhile, and he is very knowledgeable. We only have time for a couple of sites, as most things close at sunset, he says, so off we go, dodging cows along with tuk-tuks and taxis and trucks and dogs and donkeys and beggars and whatever else feels like clogging the streets of Delhi, to the Baha'i House of Worship, shaped like a giant lotus leaf and one of Delhi's proudest accomplishments, though the number of Bahai'is here is insignificant proportionate to its fame. It looks for all the world like the Sydney Opera House (which I've never been to, admittedly), except not, because this isn't Australia, it's India, and so it comes, at least outside the gates that enclose it and keep everyone out, a heap of Indian rubbish and grime and noise and pollution and general detritus. But it's arresting, all right.
Then we race to Qutb Minar, a World Heritage Monument in the Mehrauli Archaeological Park that was the center of the Delhi Sultanate at the end of the 12th century. From then until the middle of the 19th century it was the playground of princes and later British officials, all attracted by the great hunting terrain and bounty of game. It's still a wealthy area. There's a lot going on here, but the focal point is the minar (tower), the highest in India, which marked the spot where the first Muslim kingdom in North India was established in 1193. It's a hodgepodge of original stone and Hindu pieces salvaged from earlier buildings (though the Muslims hacked off any features of men and animals in deference to their doctrine of never displaying images of living beings), and the top portion of the five-part tower was actually added by the British. It looks for all the world as if it's leaning like the tower at Pisa, but that's just an optical illusion.
And then there's the 4th-century iron pillar standing just outside it, that shows not a single bit of rust, a testament to the metallurgy skills of ancient Indians. Apparently they knew if they mixed 3-4 percent of some other substance with the iron, they could avoid rust altogether. Detroit, you listening?
We spend an hour or so at the site, Raj filling my head with details I'll never remember, but it's clearly a place of great importance and has a weighty feel to it. Then to a textile coop to see a carpet demonstration. Now, I've not been on an organized tour of any kind in my life (though I have hired private guides on occasion in places I'm just not up for navigating myself), and I knew when I booked a private tour of India there would be some kickback activity involved, so the visit to the coop didn't come completely as a surprise. My suspicions are always instantly raised in these circumstances, though, and before I even get through the door of this place I am preparing myself mentally for dealing with the spiel I just know I am going to get and the tactics I will have to employ. I do love a good haggle, when I'm actually interested in buying something, and to be honest, the thought of buying a rug in India had crossed my mind. I love rugs. I've collected them all over the world, though nothing terribly fancy or luxurious, but I do like walking on beautiful bits of wool I've carted across big oceans. And my SO, who lived in Asia for almost two decades, has his own collection of rugs that I have come to love as well. And honestly, the thought of buying my daughter a rug to commemorate this trip of ours – something she can have forever – just, well, appeals in a nicely sentimental way. BUT, I'm not going to get involved in one of those oh so predictable scenarios with the tea and the guilt trip and the pulling down smaller and smaller and less and less expensive items from the stacks and then the mournful last-ditch well-if-not-a-rug-how-about-a-pashmina-ma'am deals. Nope, not for me.
But I must say, it was about as low-key a sales show as I've experienced in such circumstances. Empire Carpet is way worse. The Kashmiri salesmen were uniformly mild and apparently more interested in spreading the word about the history of handicrafts in their remote part of the world than in making a sale. And what gorgeous men! I've never seen such a mesmerizing collection of huge, brown, long-lashed eyes. Maybe that is part of the sales pitch. Maybe they select The Guys With Eyes to venture forth to Delhi to sell their rugs. At any rate, I was pretty much taken aback when a young man with clove-colored eyes sat me down on the usual padded bench, brought me a fragrant cup of tea, and started to explain what life in his village was like, and how the continual friction between Kashmir and Pakistan had eroded the economic base of his village. And then he explained, and showed me on a loom (predictable, yes), how they manufacture the rugs, whether it be with sheep's wool or yak's wool, or silk, or a combination, and how the number of knots per square inch, as well as the pattern – is it a repetitive pattern or one that changes as the rug is made? – makes all the difference in the quality and hence the price. I knew this from making rug purchases in Africa and Turkey and Greece on past voyages, but this young man went into such vivid detail you could see the yaks traversing the cold, rough terrain, scratching themselves on tree branches and leaving little tufts of wool that the villagers then collected and used, in addition to the wool they sheared in season.
He brought out rugs, or rather his minions did. He had them hold the rugs up before me, then lay them down and turn them around, to show how they changed color in different light and from different angles. He had me take off my shoes and walk on them. He explained how silk threads bend when you step on them, becoming more supple and polished over time instead of just getting squished and misshapen the way the fibers in a cheap rug do. He interspersed his commentary with tales of his childhood in Kashmir and his village and his family, and explained as he showed me how different families had different patterns associated with them, dating back hundreds of years. He didn't push, he didn't pressure, he just told stories, and I was drawn in. I selected a half-dozen rugs, telling him that I wanted to take photos and make a decision later, after my daughter and my SO had had a chance to look at them and come to a decision, because it wasn't going to be my rug ultimately. He had no problem with that, so I took numerous photos of the chosen rugs. We agreed on an average price for the selected rugs and I gave him my Visa debit card. This was a government-sponsored coop, so there was all kinds of paperwork to fill out, but at the same time a guarantee of free shipping and recourse if the customer has a problem. I took his phone number and email and said I'd be in touch within the next two days. I emailed the pictures of the rugs to my daughter and SO from the store and went to shake hands to take my leave. "Ma'am," said my clove-eyed friend, "Can I show you some….?" I put my hand up and said "Let's not spoil a good deal, my friend. You've got a good sale here, and I've had a long day and I'm tired," and he smiled and grasped both my hands in his and said "Understood, Ma'am. Have a lovely evening and call me when you've made up your mind."
And so another hour through rush-hour traffic, which is only distinguishable from regular traffic by a few fewer centimeters between vehicles; we drop Raj off at a school where he's learning Spanish so he can guide the South American tourists who come in winter and therefore have employment all year round as a guide, and around 8 pm I'm back at the hotel. My daughter's flight has also been delayed and she won't be here for another hour or two, so I get deeply involved in what will soon become a nightly ritual of fiddling with adapters, sipping Kingfishers, and elevatoring up and down between my room and the reception desk asking for internet usage cards and finding they don't work and trying to rectify the situation. I also begin to establish my near-perfect record of blowing out the electricity on the hotel floor I'm inhabiting, and have to make a few trips downstairs and up again to get that fixed, too. And just when I've got lights in the room, the cell phone charging, the laptop working, and internet service at least momentarily available, in walks M, all giddy and gorgeous and hungry, and it's time to catch up, which we do, over room service of vegetarian thali, chapatti, and Kingfishers. We're here. Together. In India! It's a pinch-me-can-it-really-be-happening moment and we are loving it!
As we are falling asleep, M mumbles to me "By the way, Mom, it's ok to eat with your left hand when it's just us, but you DO know you have to use your right hand when you're in public, right? I mean, you might as well be flipping the bird to everyone in the restaurant if you use your left hand. You got that, right?" And I fall asleep pondering a new travel etiquette question.
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Love it! I usually cram all those sights, smells and tastes in my head where they get lost and reappear as wonderful memories. Do you do photos?
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Hi, John. Yes, I do photos. Have taken about 800 so far and will eventually post them when I've culled and fixed them up. India is a photographer's dream, I imagine, though I'm not a photographer, just a chronicler who happens to have a camera.
And so...
Up at 5:30 for a 6:30 departure for Jaipur. M is an absolute master at staying in bed until the very last minute before taking off for someplace, so she's up at 6:10 and somehow showered and packed and looking supremely put together at exactly 6:30. Fortunately, the Vikram shower facilities are an improvement over those of the Bawa, and we actually feel soaped and shampooed and clean. The hotel has packed us box breakfasts and made us carry-out coffee. The coffee's fine, but the boxed breakfasts are a bit strange: two bananas each, two apples each, and two tomato-cucumber sandwiches on crust-free white bread with mayo each. Do they think we're British, or is this some remnant of Colonialism? At any rate, except for the bananas, none of this is appealing, so we throw them in the back of the van, where they stay until time immemorial.
I thought driving in the city was frightening enough, but once out on the highway, it's death-defying, literally. There are an insane number of trucks, big fat trucks painted in wild colors and patterns and festooned with banners and gilt and plastic flower garlands and god and goddess icons, all bearing painted signs on the back bumpers that say "Honk, Please," or "Use Your Horn," and "Use Dippers at Night." Some of them are piled so high with goods and wrapped so tightly in bunting and bungee cords that they look like obese, overdressed, completely unbalanced, bug-eyed babies tooling down the highway at breakneck speed. It's a wonder it took researchers so many years to make the connection between the Rom and India – all it took was for me to see my first Indian truck. Then there are the buses. Forget that they all have a big CNG stamp on their sides or backs; yes it's great they're all turning to compressed natural gas, but carrying twice their human capacity, with people hanging out the windows and doors and precariously perched on their roofs, they look downright hazardous to the human environment, green as they may be. The funniest ones are the ones with a deep cavity at the top filled with turbaned men. When they whiz by, all you can see is a crop of turbans, and it looks just like a basket of gaily colored mushroom caps tootling down the road. It is just chaos, pure chaos, out here: aside from the cars and buses and trucks there are camels lumbering along dragging wedge-shaped carts filled with cement and old tires and branches and whatnot; horse-drawn carts like the ones you see at the hackney races, with skittish horses and drivers flailing at them with crops while weaving in and out of the rest of the mess; motorcycles; motorbikes; bicycles (on the highway, yes); tourist vans like ours; tractors; flatbeds; everything that has two wheels or more is out here jostling to find its place and go as fast as it can, completely ignoring the signs that say Better Late Than Naver. And then there are the dogs that skitter across the road, and the cows in the middle of it, and the goats, and now and then a pig, and the pedestrians who are legion on the sides of the road and who just arbitrarily decide to cross the highway. Absolute insanity. No one pays any attention at all to lanes. Most of the time there are at least three vehicles straddling two lanes, sometimes four. The number of near-misses is staggering. Every single move we make could be classified as a near-miss, or, if you're Indian, I suppose, as a bit of good luck, a success.
M says "Don't you think they'd actually end up going faster and being safer if they just stayed in their lanes?" and I ponder this. I think yes, that is the whole point of lanes, isn't it? Lanes, and rules for passing…But the Indian mind seems always to want to create a parallel system, one that defies the logical, one that suggests an anarchy, a nose-thumbing system, kind of like the Italians, but in a landscape of much weirder, sparser infrastructure. The odd thing is, the system revolves around horns, and this isn't really (or is it?) a loud society. There is an entire horn language, and it permeates the country. Unless you are in a really remote place at night, and even then sometimes, you are constantly amid a cacophony of horns. Two toots when you're passing or want the guy on your left (or right…there is no passing lane, per se), a kind of loud hurdy-gurdy noise when you're ticked off at a move someone has made, and a long, sustained tooooooot when you're doing something more than usually dangerous and really hope to get everyone's attention. After awhile it permeates your consciousness to the extent that even if you're not looking out the window and watching, you can tell what your car and all the other vehicles are doing just by listening to the horn orchestra. It becomes a choreography. You could drive blind here and not much diminish your chances of an accident. People probably do. It's so weird. If you stayed in your lane and used your horn only when there was imminent danger, things would probably move much more smoothly, the entire country would be a lot quieter, and there would likely be fewer fatalities. But Noooooo! That would not be the Indian way. Better to get out there and jostle each other and make it a loud competition and see what the outcome is, because it's all out of your hands anyway, right? It's fate. And at the same time, there is no road rage. None. Everyone is calm and cool and accepting. All the time, it seems. Such a paradox.
And for me the paradox is that I am totally calm in the many different vans and cars I am in throughout this trip. I, who can practically lose my mind driving from Alexandria, VA, into DC in normal traffic. I, who have what my kids affectionately call "Mom's Imaginary Brake Foot," I who have had a lifelong fear of high speeds on roads and who sit all tensed up with heart racing and fists clenched and amazingly fearful any time I am in a car on a US highway. Here in India I'm so mellow as we slither among what I still perceive to be soon-to-be deadly wreckage, it's hilarious. I'm so calm I actually read in the car, sleep in the car, take my eyes off the road (never, ever have I done that), chat nonchalantly with M, just barely glancing up if there is a more horrific brake screech than normal. It's something about India. It's something about your fate being completely out of your hands, even if you just passed that lorry that was obviously a fatality of major proportions, rolled over on its side with its front completely caved in and its little shrines to Shiva all shattered. Even if you drive by what appears to be a dead body lying by the side of the road encased in a bright purple and gold body bag of sorts (well, he might have died of natural causes, eh?). Even though there are cars and trucks on four-lane highways Going The Wrong Way, Toward You. Fast. Yes, there are, sometimes. Why? Who knows, but they are, and you just deal with them. You slide by them and keep going. And here I sit in the back seat of this potential deathmobile with my dear daughter beside me, preposterously cool and at ease, and I don't know why. I didn't even cotton onto the fact that they drive on the left side of the road until today, to tell you the truth. India, it does something to you. Changes you.
There is no scenery on this trip, at least none you'd ever remember. The landscape is utterly devoid of anything attractive – no dwelling or building or tree or shrub or field or hillock you'd even want to glance at. There's nothing pretty at all to see. Of course it was worse in Mumbai and Delhi, where apart from a few Colonial-era gems and a Gothic structure or two and the very occasional smart-looking house in the wealthy section most everything was rubble and mud and heaps of garbage and shacks pieced together from whatever detritus was lying around. I'd thought when we escaped the city and got out in to the country I'd see nice things. Not so. The only thing that breaks up the monotony of the flat plains dotted with occasional trees, and the roadside grime, are the motorbikes that pass by with women hanging on for dear life on the back, their brilliantly colored scarves flowing in the exhaust. Women, by the way, are excluded from the law that says that motorcycle riders have to wear helmets, and they don't. Perhaps the explanation is deeper than the obvious one that society puts aesthetics for women before safety, but it irks me considerably, first that the law doesn't see fit to protect them and second that they don't see fit to protect themselves. I know, it's never that simple, but still….
So we bump and swerve and tear along the riotous highway for a couple of hours, then pull into the parking lot of what is obviously a tourist restaurant. Obviously because it has a parking lot and a big sign and a store inside that's selling local handicrafts and T-shirts and key chains. M and I aren't hungry, so we just have a cold coffee, which is absolutely delicious, more like a milkshake, creamy and with hints of cardamom in it. The owner implores us to take a look at the store, and so we do, each of us coming out with a pair of camelskin, brightly embroidered Indian shoes. "Good," says M, "now you can throw away those heinous boots of yours," referring I guess to the old but wonderfully supple and comfortable brown leather ankle boots I had brought for hoofing around Switzerland. As it turns out, the boots do get left behind in Jaipur as my suitcase starts to fill up with things I pick up along the way.
On to Jaipur with a brief stop when we come across a huge group of Rhesus monkeys playing by the side of the road (we throw them our extra bananas and apples and they fall onto each other in a colossal simian pile, screeching, with fingers flying, way too human in a vexing way) and then again when our driver wants to point out a sandstone quarry he appears to be very proud of. It's just like any other quarry, a massive slice out of the side of a hill, with some machinery lying around and a group of men discernible high up carting stones in wheelbarrows. It's integral to the development of Jaipur, though, so we nod in appreciation. Then we get lost in the sprawling, fetid outskirts of Jaipur for awhile until our driver stops and asks for directions. We make a few U-turns and the driver yaks on the cell phone a few times, and then we are turning into the Jaipur Palace Hotel, which is clearly an oasis from the downtown madness. We check into room 501, which is mystifyingly on the first floor, but it's just delightful and even has a small balcony, in case you want to look out over the surrounding residential area and be reminded that you're a spoiled tourist.
The phone rings as soon as we enter the room, and it's our tour guide, who says he's downstairs. Fine, but we'd like a bite to eat first, and he says no problem. So we race to the hotel restaurant and scarf down some spicy yellow dahl and rice and a salad of cucumbers and yogurt and go back to the lobby. "Look, Mom," says M, "it's Anthony Bourdain!" And oh frabjous day, she's right! Here he comes, striding with that unmistakable gait across the lobby, peeling off his shades, a half-smile on his face and a hand outstretched to greet us, a veritable Indian Anthony Bourdain. No kidding, the man is a dead ringer for Anthony, except he's Indian. He's got it all, the exact same frame, the silvering hair, the earring, the jeans, the loose cotton short-sleeved shirt, the sardonic smile….everything. His name is Davinda, and we get two days with him. And we're not complaining, no sirreee!
So An…I mean Davinda…piles us into a van and we hurl ourselves into the jostle of Jaipur, "the pink city," for a look at the old walled town and the palace. As we drive through one of the great gates of the city, Davinda begins to explain the Mughal empire and its various rulers, chief among them Sawai Jai Singh II, who founded a new capital in Jaipur (which means City of Victory) in 1727 and laid it out in a geometric grid. It seems to me the French did the same thing a few centuries earlier when they built the bastides, but I don't mention this. We drive down the main thoroughfare in the center of the grid, and it's clean and orderly compared to anything we've seen yet. There was a bombing here a few years ago, maybe longer, and Davinda tells us that his father was on the street at the time, which gave the whole family quite a scare, but he just left the café he was sitting at, with his coffee cup and newspaper and went home, returning the coffee cup to the café the next day.
The entire old city is built of red sandstone, and painted a bright salmon color with intricate lacy white designs. I wouldn't call it pink, especially in a country where real pink is ubiquitous and decidedly a neon color, but that's what it's known as. At any rate, it's gay and pleasing to the eye, finally something enjoyable to look at. Davinda takes us first to the Jantar Mantar, Jai Siingh II's outdoor observatory of astronomical instruments. And it's just extraordinary. It is like the exhibit of Leonardo DaVinci's models in the Clos Lucé in Amboise, only on a massive scale, and more mathematically based, and ultra-modern looking. The man built every conceivable astronomical instrument, and they are huge: sundials, structures that locate the North Star, structures that tell what time it is in each hemisphere, and an entire field of astrological structures designed to look like each sign. Davinda says the hardest thing he had to do to learn to be a guide in Jaipur was understand the math behind Jai Singh's structures well enough to explain it to others. He does a good job while we're on the spot, but I certainly couldn't reiterate it.
Next we head across the street to the City Palace, which has housed the rulers of Jaipur since the first half of the 18th century and still houses the family today. As we enter we go by a private gate that's open, and Davinda points out a huge white SUV parked there and says it's the current royal family's car. M says "It really ought to be pink, don't you think?" and Davinda rolls his eyes and laughs à la Bourdain. Inside, the palace is a wonderful combination of airy open spaces meant for public audiences and festive events ringed with closed-in private quarters on higher levels. As everywhere in India, there is always a balcony with small windows with either grillwork or tiny wooden doors that open, where the women – concubines or queens (and there were sometimes many queens, with a hierarchy among them) - could watch the goings-on below but not be seen. As you mount the steps to the area where the king held public audiences there are two enormous solid silver urns (they are in fact the world's largest silver objects) that are simply arresting. Apparently, when Madho Singh was invited to spend three weeks in London in 1901, he faced a quandary: as ruler, he was constrained from being away from Indian soil for such an extended period of time, but it was an honor and very important to his career to make the journey, so he came up with a plan that pleased everyone. He had the urns constructed and then filled with water from the Ganges, which he pledged to bathe in every day during his journey. And so he did. He also fell in love with good Scotch while he was there, and filled the urns up with that for the return voyage. A proclivity for imbibing apparently lingers today, as the current head of the royal family is known as Bubbles: when his daughter wed a few years back, it seems his European guests brought and opened so much champagne that the entire courtyard where the wedding reception was held was awash with the bubbly.
The museum inside the palace has an eclectic and good collection of armaments (many of them purely decorative in an over-the-top bejeweled Indian style), costumes, carpets and other textiles, miniature paintings, manuscripts, and musical instruments, a testament to the arts and crafts that still thrive in the city today. At the exit are a row of shops selling typical Jaipur crafts, and an astrologer. We almost succumb to the idea of having our horoscope read, but decide against it. M says "I think it's silly when I'm home; it isn't any less silly here." Valid point, I guess.
Then Davinda, almost sheepishly, tells us he'd like to take us to a textile coop, where we can see workers printing fabrics with carved blocks as well as carpet makers. We're very leery, but agree because I'd like to see the block prints made. So we are driven to a modern building with marble steps and enormous windows filled with local handicrafts. First we see a rather half-hearted demonstration of block printing, which is interesting mainly because the workers have to use successive blocks, placed exactly on top of the original one, which forms the outline, in order to achieve the final patterns. They may use half a dozen blocks, over and over on the same spot, up and down a tablecloth- or sheet-sized piece of muslin. Then it gets dipped in some solution that sets the colors and then in warm water and dried. And then you have, among other things, your basic Indian-print bedspread that you huddled in in the mud at Woodstock. And many finer things, to be sure.
And then comes a young man with a pitted face and curly black hair and black eyes and pale skin and a decidedly cocky, abrasive air. He leads us over to a man working on a loom and launches into a rapid-fire explanation of the difficulties of making a fine carpet, and it's just so rote, so hurried, so off-putting. I ask him about knots per inch and he waves his arm with a major dismissive air and says "Madame, anyone can talk about knots per inch, but that's not the point. You need to listen to what I am telling you, not talk about knots per inch." M rolls her eyes and pokes me – "Let's go…" But the young man is forcibly pushing us to one pathetic exhibit after another, talking a blue streak the whole time. There's the guy washing the rug in a shallow cement tub, there's the guy cutting the rug to make it even all over the surface, there's the girl doing the final touches, pulling out every single stray strand….and our salesman reeling off his script as he pushes us from one to the next. Then into the showroom, where despite the fact we say we have already bought a rug, which brings a sneer to his face, and refuse tea or soft drink, he starts to bring rugs out helter-skelter and throw them on the floor. I refuse to sit down, and so does M. We just stand there, repeating sorry, we bought a rug yesterday and we have no intention of buying another. The young man becomes almost combative, intimating that we probably got royally ripped off because we don't understand the complexity of making a good rug, and throwing smaller and smaller rugs down, his voice becoming louder and shriller all the time. When he's finally thrown down the absolutely smallest rug he has, and just a wool one at that – no silk or yak wool or anything unusual or expensive – I ask him the price. And he gets out a calculator and punches buttons and shows me an astronomical price and then immediately says "But for you, Madame, 20 percent off." Which is still so ridiculous I just laugh. Which of course sets him off. His face contorts and he's breathing hard, but M and I just walk by him and leave him sputtering. He runs after us, but we're out the door flinging cheery "Bye bye" s at him all the way to the car. Davinda is right behind us, chuckling, and we all roar off in our getaway car having a good guffaw. I think of the clove-eyed young man who sold me a rug yesterday and think I got very lucky.
So M asks Davinda if he'll take us to the bazaar, where normal people buy things, and she wants a real Indian coffee, too. And Davinda beams and seems relieved we want to get out on the "real" streets, though I suspect he forfeited a commission by traveling with us obstreperous, uncooperative tourists who don't want to be bullied. And he takes us right to the heart of the everyday bazaar and gets out and shakes hands with the owner of a café and orders coffees for us all. He points out a textile store and a jewelry store, side by side, which will satisfy any shopping urges both M and I have at the moment. And it does. We negotiate over pillow cases and silk shirts and scarves and pantaloons and tablecloths and bedspreads and ask for a volume discount and ask for a best and final price and pout and say, well, maybe we don't need this item after all, and play as many haggling games as we know, and end up with a bag of treasures for which we've paid what to us is an excellent price. Then we sit outside on plastic chairs and drink sweet cardamom-flavored milky coffee with Davinda, and M goes into the jewelry store and negotiates all by herself for two pairs of lovely silver earrings and comes out beaming. This is SO much more what we enjoy than being herded to a predetermined shop and treated to a guilt trip. Davinda takes pictures of us sitting at this skuzzy little café surrounded by local Indian men (M is a stare magnet – we can't go anywhere without attracting a crowd), we are being peppered with questions about where we come from and why we're here, we're on the street with the regular folk, we're in our travel element.
Davinda takes us back to the hotel and says he'll pick us up at 7 am tomorrow, for we have an elephant ride ahead of us and must get there early, ahead of the crowds. M and I repair to our room and briefly discuss going out to find a restaurant before looking at each other and simultaneously saying "room service." I don't know if we'll ever get out of this pattern, but we don't know our way around Jaipur, we're in a weird neighborhood that doesn't have many restaurants and, perhaps more important, doesn't have many street lights outside the hotel itself, and frankly, we just want to put on our pajamas and chatter and eat and go to bed.
So we have a nice girly evening. M goes through my suitcase and picks out all the clothes she wants to take back to the ship with her, which is most of the clothing I've brought, but that's ok, because I'm going to need room for the things I'll buy, and have bought, in India, and M is already phenomenally tired of the clothing she brought onboard the ship two months ago. M orders dinner: sweet corn soup, mutton korma with basmati rice, mixed raita, and garlic naan. Fosters for her and an Indian cabernet for me, which is surprisingly palatable. I show her my feeble attempts to eat exclusively with my right hand and she says "No, Mom, you can get it ready with your left, but only the right can stick it in your mouth. It's really hardest when you have to roll one thing up inside another…Watch…" And she deftly tears a piece of naan and scoops some korma into it, all with her right hand, and pops it in her mouth. I try and make a predictable mess out of it. M says she practiced on the ship for a week before landing in India. I say I'm not convinced it's a big deal. M says if it were a French custom, I'd be on it in a second; I should have the same respect when in India. Hmmmmm….she knows me well…
M washes her incredibly long, thick hair and tells me someone told her today she had "Indian blonde hair," which he explained by saying most Western women had short hair, but M's was long and thick, just a different color. We experiment and put some jasmine oil in it, to see if we can get that Indian sheen, but it's hard to tell when it's wet, and she just smells up the room with jasmine fragrance. We talk about Wall Street and the elections, and she tells me all about her Semester at Sea courses, the good ones and the silly ones, and how three years at Berkeley have left her feeling as though she could handle just about anything, particularly writing. It's so heartwarmingly fulfilling to be here with her, in this crazy place so far away, and the best thing about it is that it just feels perfectly normal, even though it's so very far outside either of our normal spheres. I am so grateful I have had the chance to bring my children up as citizens of the world, so pleased to see them poring over maps, speaking in foreign tongues, navigating foreign lands without fear or prejudice, dealing with unknown and sometimes difficult situations with aplomb and resourcefulness and even humor. And lord, it's just so much FUN to be around her grown-up self!
I need to check work email before bed, so I plug in my universal adapter and immediately blow the lights out on our entire floor, which is actually, as far as I can tell, the equivalent of five floors, since all the rooms beginning with 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 seem to be located on this level. By the time I get to the front desk there are multiple hotel guests there wondering why they have no electricity. Beats me!! I stand in line and wait my turn to report the same, and by the time I get to the desk, ready to confess, a woman behind the counter announces that the problem has been fixed. So I meekly ask if they have an adapter, and they give me one that actually works without leaving guests or me in the dark. Work…it seems so incredibly distant, both in space and in mind, but I have to deal with it daily for at least a couple of hours, which takes enormous mental effort, but is the price I pay for being able to travel as I do, so I suck it up and burrow into it. M dries her hair and reads, and I catch up on work, and then we retire at 11, ready for elephants and Agra.
M has always, always, had the last word before sleep when we have shared hotel rooms in our travels, and we have shared many. I don't know what it is that compels her, but I can think of a hundred or more nights in foreign places where we have bedded down together and M just piped up at the last moment before we sank into dreamland and had something to say. I guess she likes to have the last word. Tonight, as we burrow into our duvets, I hear from across the room "He's better looking than Anthony, you know….."
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St Cirq-
I'm so enjoying your report. It's just making me want to go to India that much more.
I love your description of the Indian Anthony Bourdain. I can picture him perfectly, but I do hope you have a photo you can share.
I'm so glad you enjoy traveling with your daughter. My mother and I enjoy traveling together too, though I'm not sure she'd want to go to India.
If you don't mind, at some point can you share how or with whom you booked this trip and found your guides (esp. Davinda)?
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Ah, another wonderfully evocative post. And what a wonderful relationship with your daughter!
Thanks for the road description - so funny, and so true - and now we have somewhere to send people who wonder why we say that trains are safer than roads in India, and no, no, you don't ever drive yourself! Oh and "it's all out of your hands anyway, right? It's fate." - not fate, karma.
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I'll share all about the logistics, including tour company and train travel and all the rest, at the end of this report, I promise, as I know it might be useful to others.
And trust me, yes, the trains are safer than road travel. Road travel was the bulk of my own transportation, but I would not necessarily wish it upon anyone but my worst enemies...though in truth at the end of the day I am thrilled to have survived it and it was cool in a very sinister way, you know?
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Wonderful report! Does NOT make me want to go, but your impressions are fascinating!
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StCirq, this really is a wonderful report. Fascinating to say the least. My mom and I have a close relationship too, and I cherish that. Happy travels!
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St. Cirq - I've just finished about three hours of reading first your report about the trip to St.Cirq to your home there, and now the first part of your India trip.
What a superbly impressionistic style you have. I feel as though I've traveled to France, and then on to India, with a Semester at Sea in between.
Can't thank you enough for this Sunday afternoon voyage.
Waiting for more (of both trips.)
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Your daughter is beautiful!
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You wear me out! LOL.
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St Cirq - next time we are both in the DC area I owe you dinner. Several years ago you graciously sent e a book of discount coupons for use on a trip to France, and your latest chronicle is saving me a tidy sum as reading it provides a vicarious trip to India. Oh, I'll probably still go someday, but what the heck - do you like Mark's Duck House?
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Hi, Seamus.
I LOVE Mark's Duck House. It's a deal. I would love to have lunch with you! And after this India trip I think I'm grounded for a good long time
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For those of you whom I've left hanging with numerous trip reports, I'm sorry...I leave wonderful, off-kilter, riotous India tomorrow (five flights to get home - count them, OMG!) and probably won't be posting again for a few days, though I've actually written most of the report. I promise to finish this one and then get back to France and the Caribbean.
My last night in India, which is coming to a close, was better than I could have even dreamed up. I rode on a motorcycle!!!!! I ate dinner in an Indian family's house. I cajoled and finegled my way today out of the "itinerary" mentality with my guide and driver and spent the day with real people in a real village. I'm sure they all thought I was stark raving mad, but having dinner in a family home surrounded by beautiful Indian children and being served, finally, some "real" Indian food, made its mark on me forever.
I'll write all about it in a few days.
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Wonderful read. Tagging.
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It's always "the people" isn't it. While it is nice to see all the "things to see" nothing beats close interactions with the locals. So many of my friends travel the "tour bus route" and miss going into peoples homes, capturing a part of their lives. Learning about all the historic parts of a city, town or countryside is important if you haven't done the research but you've got it St Cirq.
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And here we go...
I am really dying to be able to stay in bed until a reasonable hour and get over jet lag, but the way this trip is planned, that's just not going to happen, so I just decide I'm not going to have jet lag and that's that. I'm up again at 6 am to shower and pack for our trip to Agra today, with a stop at Amber Fort, and M is, predictably, up at 6:40 and ready when I am. We have boiled eggs and toast and butter and jam and coffee for breakfast and meet Davinda in the lobby at 7. Then into the morning traffic of Jaipur.
There were beggars in Mumbai and Delhi, plenty of them, but…and I don't know how to say this delicately…they were "soft" and unobtrusive and almost too easy to ignore. Nothing really prepares me for the beggars of Jaipur, and we're in a car, not even out on the streets. Whenever the car comes to a red light, there is someone at the window. First it is a teenage girl, smeared with dust, mud, encased in bright red shreds of silk, her eyes luminous with hunger, her mouth a frantically moving blister on a wan and vacant face…and she has a baby, a naked infant, just tossed, flopped, over her scrawny shoulder, its buttocks and thighs oozing with sores…is it even alive? She taps frantically on the window of the car, and as we are absorbing this ("Mom, don't look, please" says M) on the other side of the car, there are stumps tapping, two amputated limbs rapping rhythmically. And then there are the really young children, the ones so small they can barely reach the car windows, so that all you see is the tips of tiny fingers pleading. Davinda and our driver seem impervious to them, and so we are too, but I cannot, will not ever, forget them. For what that's worth, which is just pathetic.
We head out of town, stopping at an ATM where I get an inches-thick pile of rupees, which almost makes me ill after our encounters with the street beggars, then through the city gates and out to the countryside on a two-lane road. Soon it gets hilly and wooded, almost jungle-like, and then we round a bend and there's an elephant on the road, with a young man straddling his neck and prodding him on with a metal crop. Now, both M and I have seen elephants in the wild in Africa, and in zoos, but there is something just a bit jarring about passing one on a road, an elephant with a purpose, not wild, not caged, just an elephant, with a rider, going off to work for the day.
Then there are more elephants, and soon we are out of the woods and rounding a bend and off to our left is an enormous, craggy, sunburnt hill crowned with Amber Fort, and with huge veiny stone walls, like miniature Great Walls of China running up and over surrounding hills, leading to outposts and lesser forts. And we're here in a parking lot, where there is some sort of altercation going on between two men, one of whom is thrown to the ground in a tussle. Police rush over and it's all over before we even get out of the car, but when we do we are descended upon by a flock of young men dangling bracelets and postcards and cheap turbans and wooden carvings of elephants in our faces. Really, it is like walking into a swarm of birds. But they soon dissipate, and we are hauling ourselves up onto an elephant for the ride up to the fort. Which is just about as touristy an activity as one could ever imagine, but it's me and my girl and we're on an elephant and we're having a ball! Our elephant driver is exceedingly dark and handsome, and the trip up to the fort is hilariously bumpy and raucous. I just plain give up on understanding India about now. From the horror of beggars to floating up a hillside on the back of an elephant is just too much to absorb.
Amber Fort is just astonishing. The carvings, the frescoes, the elegant spaces, the attention paid to air currents and just the graciousness of it all speak to such a refined culture. I am so mired in European history, and this is all so enlightening to me, that halfway around the world similar but at the same time completely different things were happening.
Leaving Amber Fort, still within the compound itself, we pass by vendors and snake charmers and a truly hideous display of crass commercialism: a teenage girl dancing provocatively while what appear to be her parents stand in the background, the father playing a sitar-like instrument and the mother just standing in the background. They have a bowl set out for "donations" at the entrance of the little enclave they've inhabited for this display. It's just appalling – Britney Spears in Amber Fort!! M says "that was just disgusting!!" India – it's so contradictory.
Davinda and our driver are parked in the jam-packed lot of Amber Fort, and it takes us ages and ages to get out of there. Our tour director is on the phone constantly with Davinda reminding him we need to be at the Taj Mahal by 3:30 pm this afternoon, or else, and we are apparently already behind schedule. I'm not worried. M's not worried. We're in India. Things will sort themselves out. But we get out of the parking lot eventually, take Davinda back to Jaipur where we say a reluctant goodbye to him, and get on the road to Agra.
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I've not been to India but your narrative makes me feel that I am there. Thank you for continuing.
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I'm so glad you're continuing your report, I've been looking for it.
I don't know if I could take India. It's a "modern" country, turning out engineers that are sought after from countries all over the world, and at the same time, poverty, misery, and dispair that I just can't imagine in my wildest dreams. I can't figure it out.
This is just a wonderful read, thanks for finishing. I'll be checking back.
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ttt I want to keep this active so StCirq will finish it. I'm loving reading it.
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October 15 – Taj Mahal
It's another 4-hour drive to Agra on similar roads and highways to those we've been on already, with similarly uninspiring scenery, but I'm already inured to Indian traffic and unexpectant when it comes to beautiful surroundings. What grabs my attention are the towns and villages we pass through, where we have to slow to a crawl to maneuver through traffic and we can get a glimpse of the everyday lives of people. I confess I just stick my camera out the window in many of these places and just randomly shoot whatever we are passing by. It seems like the best way to grab bits of the mayhem that is India. And when I get home and look at my photos, I'm glad I did this. A camel chained to a post, a young woman making patties out of cow dung, a boy turning a water wheel, a front porch lined with old shoes, women in a field of conical haystacks, men squatting by the road….
We stop in yet another tourist restaurant for lunch. To be fair, there really aren't choices along the main roads. Everyone stops at these places. And it's not so bad to be faced with a massive shopping opportunity, where everything you might reasonably want to buy in India is arranged neatly, and at fair prices, in one space. We order vegetable thali and chana masala, which M says is her favorite food on earth, and we make sure the waiter knows we want it "Indian standard," which we have come to know means please make it hot and spicy the way YOU would want to eat it. We notice right away that it takes the cook a lot longer to prepare our meal, so we wander around the gift shop while we're waiting and buy a few scarves and two silk shirts. In the restaurant a man is holding a prayerbook of some kind and chanting softly to himself. In the restroom there is a girl of about 10 offering bright pink napkins to dry your hands with, and holding out her own hand for a tip. Outside, villagers from somewhere nearby congregate to try to beg from the tourists who stop here. The thali is delicious, piping hot with dahl and spicy chunks of chicken and raita and some sort of dark bean with lots of ginger. The chana masala is divinely complex, and M tears into it and declares it the best she's ever had.
Back on the road, and our tour director in Delhi is calling our driver constantly for updates on our whereabouts. He apparently is very concerned that we will not have enough time at the Taj Mahal, which closes at 6:30 and will not be open the following day. Our driver responds by driving at breakneck speed for the next hour and a half, coming to a brake-screaming halt every ten minutes or so for a pothole or a random pedestrian or a cow or a detour. We make a few stops to pay what appear to be tolls of various kinds – a toll for tourist vehicles, a toll for a stretch of new highway, a toll for using a bridge. And then we pull over in the middle of nowhere at a small grouping of ramshackle huts to fill the tires up with air. A group of men strolls up to the car window to investigate while our driver gets out and negotiates with a man who has an air pump. I am about to get out and stretch when suddenly one of the group of men leans into my window and before I know it there is a monkey splatted across it, wearing a leash that is attached to the man. I am startled, but not frightened, and I motion to the man to get the monkey off my window so I can get out. He does, and I get out of the car into this group of curious men, who are all the more curious to find out I am not fazed by them or their stares. M stays in the car, buried in a book she's reading, glancing at me as though I am a total nutcase from time to time.
One man asks me for pens, for his kids, for school, and I reach into my purse and give him two pens. Another hangs an arm loaded with cheap bracelets in front of my face, then thrusts out his right hand to show me that he has two thumbs. "I make these bracelets," he says. "I do double work with this hand!" The man with the monkey circles around and stares into the car. "Your sister?" he says? "My daughter," I reply. "OH," say all the men, "Is she married?" And M sticks her head out of the car window and says no, she's not married, and the men all cluck and mumble among themselves. They pester us with questions about where we're from and what we're doing and are clearly both amazed and confused that we are traveling "alone." I take a picture of the monkey and give its owner a few rupees, apologize to the man with two thumbs for not buying bracelets for him, and we're back in the car and on the road again, with a bemused group of men waving to us as we head into the dust again.
Traffic in Agra is just stultifying. It goes on forever. I can understand why the tour director was concerned about us getting there on time, because once we reach the city outskirts we are in the most massive traffic jam I've ever seen. Our driver, normally a retiring and quiet sort, is as agitated as can be – really, the only time ever in India we experienced anything even remotely like road rage, though if ever there were a country to have that affliction, this would be it. He drives on sidewalks, over medians, whatever it takes to get around this massive logjam. When we finally reach the hotel it's about 3:30 pm, and our driver is a wreck. A local tour director affiliate is there to meet us, and he tells us we must just drop out bags in the room and come right back out. So we do.
We jump back in the car and meet our local guide. Her name is Anna. Well, her name, she tells us, is 13 syllables long and there's no way we could pronounce it, so we are to call her Anna. She's short and stout and very opinionated and we don't like her from the start. All the way to Agra she explains that her family is from the warrior caste and makes that sound very superior, and that there are only a handful of female guides in India and she is lucky to be one of them because her parents were supportive of her even though being a guide means being exposed to foreigners and foreign men in particular. And then she "preps" us for the Taj Mahal by telling us that we will be accosted by people selling things and we should ignore them completely and she will tell us where and when we should make purchases if we should wish to. M looks at me and rolls her eyes.
And then we are in the parking lot and getting into a tuk-tuk for the short ride to the entrance. Anna tells us to stand in a particular line while she gets the tickets and then gets into a loud argument with the ticket seller in Hindi, which of course we can't understand. But we get through the short line and into the courtyard within minutes, after a cursory examination of our purses. The courtyard is large and impressive, but you really wouldn't know you were about to enter through it to the Taj Mahal. The surrounding buildings are dark red and austere, and the grassy interior is just plain. Anna starts off her description of the place with "And here you see the three entrances…east, west, and north…" and when she says "east" she points to what is obviously the west entrance (heck, the sun is starting to fall low just behind it), which doesn't lend her a lot of credibility in my book.
And then you walk through the beautiful entrance gate, and there it is. The Taj Mahal. And whether you never gave it a thought or spent years researching it, it just stops your heart. I had goosebumps. The hairs on my arms stood up. My chest fluttered. I gasped. So does everybody. You can hear the little throaty exhalations all around you. It's just that amazing. And it really does "float." The immensity of it, the whiteness of it, the absolute symmetry, the reflection in the pools that lead up to it, the setting on a hill overlooking a river, they all contribute to making it look as though it had just been dropped from heaven and hadn't hit earth yet. It just dangles there, deliciously dazzling and yet amazingly simple and pure. And knowing it is a monument to love, you cannot help but think of the immensity of emotion that went into its creation, how powerful a vision and an attachment this man must have had. To think that someone would make this for the woman he loved…amazing. And somehow I am thinking back to a few days ago in Switzerland, being perturbed by a different kind of perfection. Somehow, in India, of all places, in this land of unutterable chaos and squalor and imperfection, there is this, this impossibly perfect jewel, and perfect in good part because of its total lack of pretension and the sheer goodness of heart that went into its making.
And of course I'm also thinking, because I am a naughty rogue, when I find out that the Shah's wife died during the birth of their 14th child, they might have called it quits at a dozen or so, y'know, and he wouldn't have had to have poured forth his misery and his money into all this. But it's still a great story. And there's no question that this is the most amazing thing I've ever seen.
I could go on about our tour, but we saw all the things everyone does, the interior carvings and the replica of the tomb and the mosque and the guesthouse that flank it, and the river behind. It was all fascinating, but really, what stays with you is that first moment that you behold it.
As we leave the area, we are indeed accosted by dozens of touts, and M decides she wants to buy a t-shirt for her brother, so she does some half-hearted negotiating with one of the young men and ends up buying a half-dozen t-shirts for about $20.00. Anna, on the tuk-tuk ride back to the parking lot, lectures M about this, saying if she had listened to her advice, she could have bought them for half the price. Then, when we arrive back at the hotel, Anna, unlike any guide we've had so far, jumps out of the car and stands next to it holding her hand out. I'm now confused as to what the correct protocol for tipping is with guides, but I'm not going to give Anna a tip. She mentions as we head into the hotel that she won't be our guide tomorrow because she has another job. Good.
Back at the hotel M and I are exhausted and opt again for room service: mutton curry, dahl, chapatti, Kingfisher beers and a glass of Indian wine each, too (not bad). We each take a bath because the water pressure here is the best we've encountered, and there's really hot water! We are intrigued with the toiletries. Over the years, we've spent so much time in hotels we really aren't interested in the toiletries; in fact, I've always thought it was kind of tacky for people well-to-do enough to stay in nice hotels to pack away tiny little toiletries when they leave. But the Indian toiletries are fascinating to us: brown Himalaya toothpaste, various talcs, spicy aftershave, jasmine oil, almond soap…yes, indeed, we'll take all of it, thank you.
The beds in India are the most comfortable I've ever encountered in traveling. Who would have known? I think it's because they are platform beds, essentially, with thick mattresses that are basically oversized pallets. Whatever it is, the moment I crawl into one I am so comfortable I fall asleep in minutes. Not before hearing M say "Mom, we actually went to the Taj Mahal today. Is that the best thing ever, or what?"
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I'll bet pictures don't begin to do it justice. India certainly has many contrasts it seems. I'm not sure I could stand it so I really enjoy seeing it through your eyes.
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I don't know, crefloors. I never had the "I don't think I could stand it" feeling about any place, but I understand what you mean. And I find it interesting that, after so many years of traveling in Europe, I am now much, much more intrigued by going to less developed places. I will always love Europe, but I find there is just so much more to learn by going to places where I really can't have any expectations, where every day is a surprise, where I have to test myself all the time. I guess the older I get, the wilder I get. Must have something to do with coming of age in the Woodstock generation. Or maybe I'm just nuts.
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wonderful adventure...it reminds me of our time there...
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A wonderful report. I too love your writing style.
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What a great report! There is nothing like the glory of seeing the Taj for the first time.
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Hi StCirq, I know it has been a while, but do you have some specifics of logistics. Guide companies and planning tips? You may have that somewhere else on the forum, and I will look for it. But just in case not, I would love to know how you planned this out. I would like to go to India this year, if I can find a travel partner, and am feeling overwhelmed.
Great report. I wish I had your writing skills.
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godmother, I am actually planning to get back to this shortly and finish this up...mostly because I want to have the record for myself, but I'm happy to share also.
I didn't really plan it out much at all. I came here to Fodors to ask basic questions, got some really good advice, and then went with a tour company that would be very unobtrusive, meaning they would let me design the itinerary and just meet me in certain places and make sure I got on trains and such and provide drivers for long hauls and guides for places when I got there. But I really wanted to be fairly independent, even though India was a bit of a stretch for me.
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Wonderful report StCirq. You are a very gifted writer. We are planning a trip to India in Jan 2010 and just wondering..how much did you pay for your carpet? Not sure if I really want one, but have no idea what the going rate would be if we do decide to have one shipped home.
Do you have your pictures posted somewhere?
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Wonderful report, great writing style, StCirq.
I agree that the Taj Mahal is truly unique, and something to behold...at least once in one's lifetime. I am lucky to have seen it many times, from different angles and locations, but the first impression is the best.
Even though India is changing, it will always be an ancient and fascinating country with many cultures within the same country. Europe is many countries each with it's different culture, but in India there are many different cultures all in the same country.
Looking forward to reading the finish.
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Wow StCirq! What a good read this has been! I can't wait to see the rest posted here soon! I am planning to go to India over Christmas and New Year and I feel like I'm already there when reading your report!
Like you, I want to be as indipendent as possible. I was actually thinking of doing it all by myself, using trains and booking hotels via internet etc. but it seems a tour company is still the way to go. That way you will have drivers to take you around and local guides. Can you (or anyone else reading this)recommend a good one? And do you think it might be a problem to use a tour company even if I travel alone? I don't want to be dependant on some group as I want to make my own itinerary and choose my own hotels.
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I love that this report got brought back to the top. I've only read the first few paragraphs, but I cannot wait to dive into it completely.
I. CAN. NOT. WAIT. to go to India, and your initial paragraphs sucked me in and now I only want to go more! Thank you
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Live4today: I paid about $3,600, shipping included, for 2 carpets. They are gorgeous!
Most of my pictures are posted in the Lounge. I can repost them here, too, when I finish the report.
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StCirq, I took your suggestion to research France through your name and I came serendipitously upon this report. I loved it thank you. When I was 20 I lived in India for a while, yes it kicks you in the gut - and I'd say in the head too. Once there, if you really open yourself to all that it offers, you are never the same, if you're lucky. While you didn't visit my 'home' city, reading your report took my imagination for a ride down memory lane.
While I can't decide on where to go in Europe, I already have a dedicated savings account for my next trip to India. In eight years, I'm going back when I turn 50 with my kids and husband. It'll be the best birthday gift ever.
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StCirq, we had an exchange the other day in a thread about crazy drives and you mentioned your report. Well, I've been coming back since then, as I can, to read it all and tonight I reached the reply box.
I wanted to say thank you for writing it. You've got quite a way with words. Now more than ever, I am drawn to and repelled by India. I love the idea of chaos. Of dirt. Of history still lived in.
But it is the description at the windows of the car, of the people, that I'm not sure I can turn away from, nor really help. That's my concern for both of us regarding India. The possibility of becoming emotionally mired in what's happening around us. I thought I was good with touts, even with beggars. I care, but could be realistic and know that it was better to provide help in an organized way and all the things you know to be the right way to do things so as to not encourage neglect and using children, and so on. But recent encounters in Bali have me questioning how well I separate from something so intense, close and intimate. India seems like that times 100.
Obviously we have very mixed feelings. Thanks again for including all of yours. A great report.
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Missed this the first time around. Many thanks to Clifton for resurrecting it.
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I also missed this first time around. Great report, St Cirq. Your writing is fantastic and so evoctive. You really captured all of the contradictions that are India.
Clifton, India is intense, heartbreaking, gut-wrenching and totally captivating and uplifting all at the same time. And the people we met were so warm and open and unforgettable. I think our trip to India (Delhi, Jaipur, Agra, Udaipur, Jodhpur & Varanisi) was the most memorable trip we have ever taken, and we are considering returning to visit Mumbai and South India. From what you have said, I think you will love it.
To help with the feeling of helplessness at seeing so much poverty and need, someone ( I think Lcuy) recommended giving to a charitable organization in India before or during your trip. We contributed to SOS Children's villages in India before our trip(and still do), and visited the children's village in Jaipur to which we contribute. Google them. They are a very worthwhile organization and provide wonderful environments for abandoned or orphaned children throughout the world.
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CFW, thanks for the thoughts. So many photographer friends love India more than anyplace else. And I love their shots, for all that you listed. But still, it's a decision we haven't been able to make yet. Probably be a few years still.
That's a good idea, regarding the charitable giving. We've actually worked with small children's homes in Battambang, Cambodia and Denpasar, Bali during trips. And a full week in one, rather unexpectedly, in Nicaragua while on holidays there. It's always been, without fail, a good experience for us.
Whether all of us end up "on board" in order to make it to India, I don't know, but if we do, we'll take that advice.
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Thanks for an evocative read. And I'm glad to know that your daughter settled on Berkeley; I remember when you were out here looking at universities.
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What an amazing read. Does anyone know how if pictures were posted somewhere else if they can still be accessed?
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StCirq--loved this narrative (I found the mother-daughter dynamic heartwarming...prompted me to call my own wonderful mother!). I'm heading to India in April and would love the name of the tour/travel company you used for your drivers/guides; like you, I generally don't do the "tour group" thing as I like to be independent and consider myself quite self-sufficient, but I think for this trip I'll want to at least have a knowledgeable/safe driver and guide. Thank you so much!
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Ebonnie - Not sure that you'll get your response. StCirq last reported in March of 2009. This is an old report that's been resurrected. But the info is timeless and greatly appreciated.
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St. Cirq,
Are you ever going to finish this report? I thought it was simply marvelous when I read it, but you said you were going to finish it way back in '09, and we have been waiting ------------
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You might look for her in the lounge.
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Thanks for resurrecting this. I loved reading it and have been hoping that StCirq would find the time to finish it.
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wow what a discovery-st cirq in India. I spent months reading her reports about France and researching the area-then never even ended up going there-ran out of time. Just been to India and barely researched this time but Loved it and Love reading her words-brilliant. Thank you St Cirq. Why not get your writings published???
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I'm topping this wonderful trip report which I recall reading when it was first posted 6 years ago at a time when I had little intention of travelling to India. I was drawn to it mainly by StCirq's evocative reports from the Dordogne.
I've now just returned from 3 weeks in India (and am still suffering more than a bit of jet lag from a 30-hour trip home) where I experienced many of the same sights, sounds, smells, tastes and experiences that StCirq so brilliantly recounts. I do think that this trip report needs to be brought to the top from time to time so that those who may be contemplating a trip to this fascinating country may enjoy a vicarious experience of visiting. This is travel writing of the first order.
Trip reports like this are one of the reasons that I continue to be a Fodorite.
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laverendrye….thanks for topping so I can enjoy all the sights and sounds in prep for my trip next year. And, St.Cirq…thanks for the amazing report! Loved it!
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Bookmarking to read again...loved it the first time through!
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This was great reading, topping again for others to enjoy. Wish I knew where the photo were posted.
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Hi StCirq: I am planning a trip to India for later this year. Is there any chance you will finish this wonderful report before then
Also, I would love to see your photos.
Best ... Ger
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subset: commoncrawl