Part 1:
Attacked in the Lair of Lord Hanuman:
In the mountain town of Shimla (Queen of Hills; Hill of Queens), we ascend a steep path towards the famous Jakhu Temple, dedicated to the Hindu monkey deity, Hanuman. As we approach, a wise woman and her daughter advise us to hide our belongings: her glasses have been snatched away by a devious monkey!
We trek on, Virginia blind (having stashed her glasses away) and Callie shrieking in terror, as hoards of monkeys surround us on all sides, scratching their bellies in nearby trees, swinging over temple gates and darting up the path towards the temple.
Summary: we survive, but not without the help of several locals and a stick which we are forced to pay to rent for the fifteen minutes we visit the temple.
Part 2:
Drenched! A Three-Fold Story of Rain and the Quest for a Waterfall:
We befriend two lovely Israeli women as we head westward from Shimla on a drizzly Saturday morning. The rain begins to fall more heavily, but after an hour of walking, we are sure that we are near the famous Chadwick Falls.
Signage disappears, and we are forced to ask locals (in Hindi) for directions. No one seems to agree.
We follow a loquacious lady down a steep, rocky path (still raining), hoping that she knows best the way to the waterfall.
Rain pours on our heads, and we seek shelter with local boys under an old concrete overhang in the middle of the hills. Finally, the water relents and we continue.
Again, downpour. We enter a small school and befriend the teachers on their lunch hour. Then, onward!
But only moments later, MORE RAIN. We hang with the only shopkeeper for miles and his teenage son. We drink tea. Finally, finally, the rain relents (sort of) and we get to see the waterfalls.
Which are pretty cool. But cumulative volume of water that had fallen on our heads was probably greater than that of the 90 foot falls. And we got a taxi back-- the true victory.
NEXT STEPS: To try to avoid rain, we are rerouting to Jaipur and Rajasthan! Southward tomorrow!
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Trials in Transit 2.0: Trains, Rains, and Traffic Jams
Part I. Bureaucracy
We last left you wondering, would Callie get her visa registered, having left the visa itself well-stashed in Hotel Star Paradise on her first attempt. No.
After a slow start, we climbed into an auto-rickshaw and slowly made our way across town to the Indian Foreigners Registration Office. One hour later, we exit the rickshaw. VA pulls out her reading material; Callie begins The Long Wait.
Another hour later, she meets a pair of African students, who seem more savvy in the ways of the IFRO, and begin to list the items needed for registration. Having been given NO information at the NY visa office, Callie assumes this is specific to their student visas. And keeps waiting.
Another hour later... the line budges slowly forward. Outside, Jonas tries to explain to the still-waiting rickshaw-walla that he really should leave; six Indian men gather round to help translate, but it quickly becomes apparent that none of them speak English. Translation fails, but the rickshaw-walla disappears shortly thereafter.
Another hour later, Callie arrives at the front of the line with her visa and employment certification in hand. The sour-looking bureaucrat quickly waves his hand, determining that she has none of the TWELVE documents required, and pulls out a ripped slip of paper listing them, then sends her on her way.
Alas, Callie will not be registered until after the 14 day grace period. But since they seem to be in no rush to process things around that horrible, horrible office, we're not too concerned.
Part II. Missed Trains and Chai
We miss our train to Chandigarh. Shit.
We enter the calmest office we see. We are ignored. We are finally acknowledged. We are escorted to another office, buried deep in the train station. We speak Hindi. We are laughed at. We laugh. We laugh a lot. We make friends with the kind Hindi-only workers of the railway bureaucracy. We are offered chai. We accept. We watch the man fold many papers. Many papers. We ask for the ticket office. We are laughed at again-- we come to understand that we are in the ticket office. We wait. We are asked if we are planning on eating dinner. We ask about our ticket. We are told that it is not the ticket office. It has been 1 hour. We leave to seek new tickets in the elusive ticket office of the New Delhi Railway Station.
Number of Indians we asked for help in the train station: 14
Number of laps walked/run from Track 1 to 16 and back: 7
Number of hours spent in the train station: 3
Percentage of our party eligible for tickets sold in the tourist office: 50%
Percentage of groundspace covered with sleeping people: 70%
Hours until next available train: 18
We wait again.
Part III: Bagged Salads in the Season of Monsoon
Enjoying an extended lunch in a back-alley restaurant with Jackie Chan's Rush Hour in the background, we realize: the time is approaching. We must leave for our train. But alas, we have ordered more food and it is yet to come. The waiter assures us that it will be right out, and so we wait anxiously, preparing our bags for the race to the station. Callie's salad arrives, and her traditional manner of eating (read: slow) will have her missing another train. Virginia suggests that she ziploc her salad and donate her tea to a neighboring table, as onlookers laugh at the spectacle-- Virginia barking out minutes as Callie cuts bites of onion until Virginia forces the plastic bag into her hand.
We depart, to find that the great subcontinental rainclouds have opened and monsoon season is upon us. We are deep in the heart of Paharganj, a ramshackle neighborhood of failed construction: the streets are half filled with piles of brick and more potholes than road in the rest. We climb over the brick piles, trying to avoid the knee-high pools of water, finally reaching the station, absolutely soaked.
But... we make the train!
The End.
Epilogue: We now find ourselves in the calm haven of Chandigarh, a planned city of wide leafy avenues and Le Corbusier's concrete creations. Onward to the mountains for the next two weeks.
With love,
Cal and VA
We last left you wondering, would Callie get her visa registered, having left the visa itself well-stashed in Hotel Star Paradise on her first attempt. No.
After a slow start, we climbed into an auto-rickshaw and slowly made our way across town to the Indian Foreigners Registration Office. One hour later, we exit the rickshaw. VA pulls out her reading material; Callie begins The Long Wait.
Another hour later, she meets a pair of African students, who seem more savvy in the ways of the IFRO, and begin to list the items needed for registration. Having been given NO information at the NY visa office, Callie assumes this is specific to their student visas. And keeps waiting.
Another hour later... the line budges slowly forward. Outside, Jonas tries to explain to the still-waiting rickshaw-walla that he really should leave; six Indian men gather round to help translate, but it quickly becomes apparent that none of them speak English. Translation fails, but the rickshaw-walla disappears shortly thereafter.
Another hour later, Callie arrives at the front of the line with her visa and employment certification in hand. The sour-looking bureaucrat quickly waves his hand, determining that she has none of the TWELVE documents required, and pulls out a ripped slip of paper listing them, then sends her on her way.
Alas, Callie will not be registered until after the 14 day grace period. But since they seem to be in no rush to process things around that horrible, horrible office, we're not too concerned.
Part II. Missed Trains and Chai
We miss our train to Chandigarh. Shit.
We enter the calmest office we see. We are ignored. We are finally acknowledged. We are escorted to another office, buried deep in the train station. We speak Hindi. We are laughed at. We laugh. We laugh a lot. We make friends with the kind Hindi-only workers of the railway bureaucracy. We are offered chai. We accept. We watch the man fold many papers. Many papers. We ask for the ticket office. We are laughed at again-- we come to understand that we are in the ticket office. We wait. We are asked if we are planning on eating dinner. We ask about our ticket. We are told that it is not the ticket office. It has been 1 hour. We leave to seek new tickets in the elusive ticket office of the New Delhi Railway Station.
Number of Indians we asked for help in the train station: 14
Number of laps walked/run from Track 1 to 16 and back: 7
Number of hours spent in the train station: 3
Percentage of our party eligible for tickets sold in the tourist office: 50%
Percentage of groundspace covered with sleeping people: 70%
Hours until next available train: 18
We wait again.
Part III: Bagged Salads in the Season of Monsoon
Enjoying an extended lunch in a back-alley restaurant with Jackie Chan's Rush Hour in the background, we realize: the time is approaching. We must leave for our train. But alas, we have ordered more food and it is yet to come. The waiter assures us that it will be right out, and so we wait anxiously, preparing our bags for the race to the station. Callie's salad arrives, and her traditional manner of eating (read: slow) will have her missing another train. Virginia suggests that she ziploc her salad and donate her tea to a neighboring table, as onlookers laugh at the spectacle-- Virginia barking out minutes as Callie cuts bites of onion until Virginia forces the plastic bag into her hand.
We depart, to find that the great subcontinental rainclouds have opened and monsoon season is upon us. We are deep in the heart of Paharganj, a ramshackle neighborhood of failed construction: the streets are half filled with piles of brick and more potholes than road in the rest. We climb over the brick piles, trying to avoid the knee-high pools of water, finally reaching the station, absolutely soaked.
But... we make the train!
The End.
Epilogue: We now find ourselves in the calm haven of Chandigarh, a planned city of wide leafy avenues and Le Corbusier's concrete creations. Onward to the mountains for the next two weeks.
With love,
Cal and VA
Thursday, August 12, 2010
I Told Tanq I Would Be Back at the Hotel 15 Minutes Ago
Yetunde here-- Tanqueray retired to the delightfully high-pressured shower of our hotel, aptly named hotel star paradise, which is, more specifically, a paradise for the backpackers of Paharganj who are ready to RAGE, as the keys to our room come complete with a beer-bottle opener, and the proprietor of the hotel was literally rolling a joint as we signed in last night. Not kidding. Alas, we are busy busy people, and certainly without our secretary Buster to manage our affairs, we have no time to spare for such indulgences.
Indeed, this important business includes today's trip to Safdarjang Enclave, where my OFFICE is located!! (FYI www.pratham.org is the organization.) The auto rickshaw driver had an abysmal time trying to find the office, including all three of us getting out of the vehicle to physically turn it around (no reverse), but when we got there, it was small (~30 people?) and lovely and everyone seemed really nice.
Also included an attempt to register my employment visa at the American Embassy today (40+ added minutes of rickshaw travel). Too bad I forgot my passport (which has visa within) at the hotel. And even more too bad that I don't have to register at the American Embassy-- I have to register at the Indian Embassy. The things you learn when you make phone calls...
Curious things to note:
- No Americans. In the past week, we've met many travelers from France, Spain, and Korea (among other locations in W Europe) but only 2 Americans total.
- The backs of cars say 'Honk Please'. I will be purchasing earplugs ASAP.
- Clothing here is stunningly beautiful. Duh. Still fully enrolled in the 'Pack Light, Travel Happy' program, but return to Delhi (and life therein) will require the utmost self control to avoid purchasing a completely new wardrobe, replete with saris, salwar kameez (the tunic and loose pants with a scarf), and glorious jewelry. This will be marked in my fellowship budget as 'Cultural Assimilation Expenses.'
Tomorrow we head up to Chandigarh, a planned city designed by Le Corbusier, a major architect that VA is interested in-- should be very cool and a welcome change from Paharganj, the neighborhood we're staying in in Delhi, which is ENTIRELY under construction-- literally the entire 'main bazaar' street is exposed rebar and concrete and piles of brick fill half the street (possibly 65%). After that, up to Himachal Pradesh, the mountains of our destiny, where we will breathe deep breaths of cool, clean air and check out hundreds of tiny roadside buddhist monasteries.
Lots of love,
Cal (and Jones)
Indeed, this important business includes today's trip to Safdarjang Enclave, where my OFFICE is located!! (FYI www.pratham.org is the organization.) The auto rickshaw driver had an abysmal time trying to find the office, including all three of us getting out of the vehicle to physically turn it around (no reverse), but when we got there, it was small (~30 people?) and lovely and everyone seemed really nice.
Also included an attempt to register my employment visa at the American Embassy today (40+ added minutes of rickshaw travel). Too bad I forgot my passport (which has visa within) at the hotel. And even more too bad that I don't have to register at the American Embassy-- I have to register at the Indian Embassy. The things you learn when you make phone calls...
Curious things to note:
- No Americans. In the past week, we've met many travelers from France, Spain, and Korea (among other locations in W Europe) but only 2 Americans total.
- The backs of cars say 'Honk Please'. I will be purchasing earplugs ASAP.
- Clothing here is stunningly beautiful. Duh. Still fully enrolled in the 'Pack Light, Travel Happy' program, but return to Delhi (and life therein) will require the utmost self control to avoid purchasing a completely new wardrobe, replete with saris, salwar kameez (the tunic and loose pants with a scarf), and glorious jewelry. This will be marked in my fellowship budget as 'Cultural Assimilation Expenses.'
Tomorrow we head up to Chandigarh, a planned city designed by Le Corbusier, a major architect that VA is interested in-- should be very cool and a welcome change from Paharganj, the neighborhood we're staying in in Delhi, which is ENTIRELY under construction-- literally the entire 'main bazaar' street is exposed rebar and concrete and piles of brick fill half the street (possibly 65%). After that, up to Himachal Pradesh, the mountains of our destiny, where we will breathe deep breaths of cool, clean air and check out hundreds of tiny roadside buddhist monasteries.
Lots of love,
Cal (and Jones)
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Trials in Transit: WE ARRIVE IN INDIA!
Namaste, friends, families, and freedom fighters.
We write to you from the orange cubby holes of Agra's finest internet cafe. The following is an official record of the Jonas and Cal Bharat Traveling Commission of 2010. Specifically, the report from the transportation (time and safety) committee of this high class operation. Chair: Captain V.A. Calkins (to be clear, Jonas is the Official Chair of all committees, save the Communications Committee, which is chaired by the Honorable C.P. Lowenstein).
I. Landing
Upon landing in New Delhi, we pry ourselves out of the high-ceilinged, air-conditioned terminals of the Plane Station, in search of our names on the finely-printed placards of India's most elite and prestigious limousine companies. But alas! Buster, our faithful but scatter-brained secretary, has once again neglected to reserve us car service. We are forced to enter the hot-aired night of New Delhi to make our own way through the darkness. We converse with a seemingly-reasonable gentleman on the subject of taxi fares, only to watch as he is hauled off by the Delhi police, saving us from an unsavoury fate on our first night in the subcontinent. Three cheers for law enforcement!
II. Cycle Rickshaws and Some Troubles with the Letter 'A'
Varanasi was our first stop on the Indian adventure- a major Hindu pilgrimage site, brimming with barefoot worshippers in orange, making their way to the Ganga's (Ganges) holiest points.
a. In search of lodging, we attempt to find the Raj Ghat, one of Varanasi's many platforms on the Ganga's shore. But alas! Our first attempts were thwarted by the tricky tricksters who named another part of the river, several kilometers upstream, the Raja Ghat. A mere syllable difference led us miles astray! In hopes of saving a rupee or two, we had decided to make the journey by cycle rickshaw, which turned into a walking rickshaw when our gouty driver dismounted to push us up a long hill on foot. We entered the local train station at the Raja ghat, quickly realized we were way out of town, and dumped another 50 rupees to land exactly back where we started. Still unclear where the Raj Ghat was actually located.
III. Sparing the Spinal Cord
With a month's journey ahead of us, Captain VA Calkins put forth a mandate: Ye Who Shall Travel Light Shall Travel Happy. Thus, the Honorable CP Lowenstein was forced to relent with her large red hiking backpack and minimize belongings, eventually reducing luggage to a small green daypack and a shrinking plastic tote. We sat proudly in the Varanasi train station for four hours due to delay of train, surrounded by double-backpacked Europeans and triple-suitcased Koreans, knowing full well that our shoulder blades would thank us in the tennis championships of our golden years, distant though they may be (never too early to prepare!).
Executive Summary:
Delhi: Hot, Near-miss.
Varanasi: Cows, Orange, Barefoot, Ganga, Hot, Retrace, Avoided fatal boat capsize, Home Decor Inspiration.
Agra: Marble, Taj Mahal, Muslim, Feet, Persistent Rickshaw-wallas, Hot, Banana Lassi.
The North: Only Time Will Tell!
With love,
Callie and Virginia
We write to you from the orange cubby holes of Agra's finest internet cafe. The following is an official record of the Jonas and Cal Bharat Traveling Commission of 2010. Specifically, the report from the transportation (time and safety) committee of this high class operation. Chair: Captain V.A. Calkins (to be clear, Jonas is the Official Chair of all committees, save the Communications Committee, which is chaired by the Honorable C.P. Lowenstein).
I. Landing
Upon landing in New Delhi, we pry ourselves out of the high-ceilinged, air-conditioned terminals of the Plane Station, in search of our names on the finely-printed placards of India's most elite and prestigious limousine companies. But alas! Buster, our faithful but scatter-brained secretary, has once again neglected to reserve us car service. We are forced to enter the hot-aired night of New Delhi to make our own way through the darkness. We converse with a seemingly-reasonable gentleman on the subject of taxi fares, only to watch as he is hauled off by the Delhi police, saving us from an unsavoury fate on our first night in the subcontinent. Three cheers for law enforcement!
II. Cycle Rickshaws and Some Troubles with the Letter 'A'
Varanasi was our first stop on the Indian adventure- a major Hindu pilgrimage site, brimming with barefoot worshippers in orange, making their way to the Ganga's (Ganges) holiest points.
a. In search of lodging, we attempt to find the Raj Ghat, one of Varanasi's many platforms on the Ganga's shore. But alas! Our first attempts were thwarted by the tricky tricksters who named another part of the river, several kilometers upstream, the Raja Ghat. A mere syllable difference led us miles astray! In hopes of saving a rupee or two, we had decided to make the journey by cycle rickshaw, which turned into a walking rickshaw when our gouty driver dismounted to push us up a long hill on foot. We entered the local train station at the Raja ghat, quickly realized we were way out of town, and dumped another 50 rupees to land exactly back where we started. Still unclear where the Raj Ghat was actually located.
III. Sparing the Spinal Cord
With a month's journey ahead of us, Captain VA Calkins put forth a mandate: Ye Who Shall Travel Light Shall Travel Happy. Thus, the Honorable CP Lowenstein was forced to relent with her large red hiking backpack and minimize belongings, eventually reducing luggage to a small green daypack and a shrinking plastic tote. We sat proudly in the Varanasi train station for four hours due to delay of train, surrounded by double-backpacked Europeans and triple-suitcased Koreans, knowing full well that our shoulder blades would thank us in the tennis championships of our golden years, distant though they may be (never too early to prepare!).
Executive Summary:
Delhi: Hot, Near-miss.
Varanasi: Cows, Orange, Barefoot, Ganga, Hot, Retrace, Avoided fatal boat capsize, Home Decor Inspiration.
Agra: Marble, Taj Mahal, Muslim, Feet, Persistent Rickshaw-wallas, Hot, Banana Lassi.
The North: Only Time Will Tell!
With love,
Callie and Virginia
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)