Travel writers like to cover almost everything in a foreign land; tourist sights, hotels, restaurants, infrastructure in public transportation. They can be quite thorough, but seem to overlook, in my experience, one imperative element to a society.
That is why I decided to be rushed to the hospital in India.
'Decided' is a stretch. I wasn't really in a state to make decisions at this point.
On December 3rd my Indian friend Arjun and I went off to explore Bombay. I was originally going to fly out this evening, but pushed back my flight 24 hours to have a little more time in this overwhelming city. If India is a land of extremes, Bombay perfect case study. It is the most crowded city in the world - it's population desnity is approximately 15,000 people per square kilometer. In the city center, that number is 1 million people per square mile. The most crowded city in western Europe is Berlin, at 2,900 per sq. km. Bombay is also the financial capital of the country - the New York of India - and it accounts for 38% of all national taxes paid to the government. This all has absolutely nothing to do with my day.
Arjun and I wandered Colaba, the tourist neighborhood for a brief spell before catching a taxi to Bandra. Bandra is a wealthy suburb of sorts - though its feel is still distinctly overcrowded city, only with nicer apartments - and a lot of the Bollywood stars live in this neighborhood. Arjun's Uncle and his family live in an apartment here, where we are staying for the night. It's a simple, clean 2 bedroom apartment.
On the neighboring block of their apartment building, with a clear line of sight from their living rom window is the start of a massive, sprawling Muslim slum. During the 1993 riots, Arjun's family stood at this 6th floor window, watching the gangs congregate on the block downstairs with fire and weapons, shooting sporadically into the slums and trying to torch the homes. This went on for about 3 weeks. Shops would open for maybe a couple hours a day, but for the most part everyone stayed indoors, especially the Muslims who were being targeted and killed by the thousands.
Arjun's cousin Sunil lives in Long Island, but is back for a little under a year to take a couple classes and make a career change. He's a very kind, friendly man with a drawling American accent in his 30's. He takes us to some streets to do a little shopping, and shows us his favorite restaurants, including dinner at a Cricket Club in which his family is a member. If I thought any of you were going to come to India in the near future, I would repeat in detail my notes on the truly unbelievable meals we had. Instead, I'm just going to tell you generically how good the food was - it was unbelievable.
The next evening was my flight. It was around lunchtime when my stomach began to rumble and a very dispiriting way. For my first time in Asia, hoping that carbonation would help, I walked into a McDonalds and bought a soda. Now I'm not going to blame McDonalds for the illness that ensues, seeing as its virtually impossible given that I already felt terrible. But it's a nice thought.
We went home, and I got worse. I took a nap, and woke to sharp, gripping stomach pains. I called my Dad and asked for medical advice. We decided I should take a walk, pick up some Gatorade and snacks for the flight and see how I feel. I returned to the apartment and promptly threw up. A lot. I packed my bags, but couldn't carry them. Or speak above a whisper, stand up straight, or turn a doorknob. After much pursuasion, my friends brought me to a doctor. To be fair, they could've brought me to a transvestite bath house and I wouldn't have been able to object.
Like everywhere else in this city, waiting room was packed, and I found the only chair available. Children ran and jumped up and down in front of me, bumping my legs and successfully increasing my nausea. Sunil had called ahead and said I wouldn't have to wait. After about 10 minutes, I couldn't take sitting up anymore. I tried to make my way to the car to lie down, but the nurses offered me a back room with a bed. After about 45 seconds, mostly spent struggling to remove my shoes, they retrieved me and brought me back to my chair. Another 10 minutes passed, I was still sitting, squirming in pain, only a little more pissed. For their next trick, the nurses stapled my arms and legs spread eagle to two dead bodies, and threw babies directly at my stomach. Then they berated my side burns and spit in my mouth.
The doctor was a well spoken man, and wanted to admit me to a hospital. I put him on the phone with my Dad, the fever starting to take over basic thought functions. They chose the nicest hospital in town (this is why you buy travel insurance kids) and Arjun and Sunil drove me there.
The next hour was spent being directed down various corridors, walking at an infants pace, often retracing our steps to the ignorant directions given in the massive building. I then laid in the waiting room while Arjun signed me in with my credit card and password, and arduous process at best. I could draw out in unnecessary description just how long this took, and how much longer it felt, but instead I'll just write this sentence.
They put me in a wheelchair and brought me to the elevator. Security held the elevator, and had to search my backpack, stealing 2 of my gatorades and not allowing my video camera to travel. Arjun argued only slightly with them while I sat in the chair telling them to get the fuck out of the way. The elevator stopped at every floor on the way up to the 11th. The staff took their time choosing a room, and left me lying there for another hour or so before anyone came to see me.
The nurses stabbed me with a bunch of needles, and inserted an IV needle into my left arm. They began pumping me with rehydrating fluids, as I hadn't been able to eat or drink most of the day. One or two nurses had reasonable English, the rest just smiled and nodded. "Am I dying?" I asked. At least she said yes with a smile.
But I wasn't dying. And eventually, after a truly Indian admittance, I was settled, in a delirious state of pain and fever. For some reason, they chose to wait until everything else was done to administer any time of pain killers.
Arjun slept on the guest bed/couch in the room with me. We had a plasma screen tv, dvd player, air con, and our own immaculate bathroom. At least he wasn't slumming it.
To my Dad and any doctor he consulted, it was an easy diagnosis. I simply had a bad virus from something I ate. For the doctors, they were curing cancer. I'd see my original Doctor, Dr. Shimpi, twice a day for mostly small talk and resassuring jabs on the shoulder. The nurses couldn't communicate any real information to me. And then there was the resident. She called herself a "doctor under Shimpi," but from what I could gather she hasn't yet graduated high school, or at the very least didn't earn the diploma.
On the 2nd day I was feeling a bit better, though still sleeping on and off all day. She came in and told me I had Pancreatitis. It's a pancreatic virus, very easily diagnosible. She gave me no such evidence, but told me that was her prediction. I hadn't heard anything from Dr. Shimpi, and I was being treated with the most generic antibiotics possible. My Dad was as confused as I was, and told me the proper questions to ask, which were never answered. Apparently the whole thing was dropped.
Day 3 I was walking around, feel much better, feeling a bit weak but healthy. The resident woman came in again that afternoon to tell me I have malaria. What? "Well you're at a very high risk, and you have a lot of bug bites." I tell her I'm taking anti-malaria medication. "Well you're at a very high risk, so I'm going to start treating you for malaria."
In case she's unaware, inform her my father is a Doctore. I also kindly let her know there is no fucking way she's treating for malaria without consulting with him first. "Oh, we don't need to get him involved." Yes, we do. "Well, let me consult with Dr. Shimpi and I'll get back to you." And with that, she left.
In expensive hospitals, with insured patients, they often practice a type of defensive medicine: keep them there just in case, until we know what is going on. This is less defensive, and more of a script. They're playing their parts in a play to milk the white dude, by providing no answers and no information. The Dr. wakes me early in the AM to remind me he's keeping me a alive, high stepping out the door before I can connect my sentence fragments. By day 4, I'm bench pressing most of the nurses, and throwing punches when they try to stab me with any more needles. We've been waiting for the results of something called a blood culture, a 48 hour period of watching my blood. If nothing grows in it, i'm fine. it's been almost 60 hours and they have no results. I'm this close to ripping the IV out of my wrist myself.
I'm pissed. I can't book my flight to Australia until I know when I'm being discharged, and I'm getting generic responses at best from the Dr. I've had to book and cancel at this point the only cheap one way. I've missed my time in Thailand - I spent it watching HBO and DVDs with Arjun, and I'm fine with that. I feel better, healthy for the most part, and ready to move on. But I'm also waiting for the resident woman to come tell me that I've had a heart attack due to my onset diabetes.
By the end of the 4th day, I'm refusing all antibiotics. I'm fine, I've been diagnosed with nothing, and I can barely move my left arm due to the throbbing pain in my veins from all the fluids pumping through. The nurses are confused, some downright scared. They don't know how to respond to this. Arjun has left to return to Pune today, where he's from, because I'm fine and we know it. I'm by myself, watching war movies and very frankly telling them I will attack them with a blood filled squirt gun if they don't discharge me.
At 8pm a nurse tells me its my last dose, that I'm being let out tomorrow. I allow it, and wake the following morning to another nurse trying to pump more shit into me. I can't find my squirt gun, so I just tell her to get out. And I continue this 16 hour tirade; every nurse that enters, I inform them I'm checking out. Finally, the Dr. comes in, says "congratulations!" and discharges me. Now that I've paid, they're adament about me leaving. I spent about 45 minutes showering, at least an hour packing. I am taking my sweet ass time and they know it.
I managed to book a flight 36 hours after discharge, and I enjoyed my last day in Bombay a great deal. It was an interesting experience to say the least. The room itself in the hospital cost me $200 a night, probably 1/5 of the cost in the US to an uninsured sucker like myself. There were many other costs involved, but even in this luxury hospital it was all reasonable, when you really think about it. Why am I so calm about the costs you ask, while backpacking on a budget through Asia? One reason my friends - a lesson to share with all of you: Always. Have travel insurance.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Goa - Part 1
Let me once again begin a blog with the phrase 'let me begin.'
Let be begin by making a disclaimer - although the title clearly states 'Part 1,' at the rate I've been writing in Goa - let along waking up while the sun is in sight or forming coherent sentences without a whiskey in my hand - the second two parts may never come.
I've broken down the three main elements of Goa as I see them to the following - partying, beaches, and renting motor bikes. The beaches are stunning. The partying is so good it has likely damaged my motor skills for life - for example, this morning I spilled every beverage all over my shirt that even leisurely approached my mouth. Today, I'm going to talk about the least interesting topic of the three - motorbikes.
It is a veritable a right of passage for Caucasians to rent a bike while in this chilled out state of India. The longer term residents or biker bad asses choose the powerful Enfields. The reasonable, unexperienced, or terrified choose 150cc scooters. On a day like any other, with a slightly more reasonable hangover, I decided to join the ranks of the terrified.
I've heard and seen many accident stories about foreigners on motor bikes. An American friend was in Nepal, driving on a highway when and 8 year old playing with a tire darted in front of him. He plowed through the child, confident he killed him. The kid was okay with minor injuries and luckily Eric wasn't lynched (I'm tempted to make a "that kid should have done like any other smart 8 year old and played with guns" joke, but I will refrain). An Australian girl in Goa was driving her bike when she was harassed by a bike of Indian guys, who proceeded to ram into her, knocking her and her sister down and positioning her arm perfectly in a cast for the next week. One of my favorite accident stories comes from the southern islands of Thailand. I shared a taxi with a man one morning missing a fair proportion of the skin on the left side of his body and face. When I inquired, he was pretty sure he crashed his bike late the night before. But after the 2nd bottle of vodka, he really couldn't be sure.
For those of you who recall my earlier blog about traffic in India (see - "I'll Never Work Again"), Goa is similar in the form of organized chaos, only with much easier, calmer, less crowded roads. I chose a renter who heckled me for a sale as I passed, knowing that if I approached anyone on my own behalf I would have to tell them that the last time I even looked at a bicycle I fell down. My lack of experience irrelevant and my 200 rupee's speaking on its behalf ($5 for the day), I got a quick run down of the vehicle.
I positioned the bike in the direction I wanted to go, and made sure no other cars were anywhere near Goa. I revved the engine and lifted my feet from the ground, shooting off of the dirt path onto pavement. I desperately tried to break with my flip flops, wobbling back and forth across the road until I realized that this particular bike - like many others this day and age - came with functional brakes of its own. I utilized them, regained my composure, and gave it another try.
For the first five minutes, I genuinely feared for my life - at 10 miles an hour. Simple tasks like going over speed bumps was petrifying. G0d help me should another vehicle pass on the other side of the road. As I often followed my normal inclination to drive on the right side of the road - generally frowned upon here due to their left-leaning English ways - I constantly found myself playing chicken with anyone who dared to be on Anjuna road. If I had been wearing a diaper, I would have taken full advantage.
Once you get the hang of the bike - a process a normal person can usually manage within 30 or so seconds - its actually quite fun. There is something to be said for a style of driving where instead of following mundane laws like using turn signals and not tailgating, you honk like hell and just go for it. If someone is driving too slow, you pass them - oncoming traffic or not- as long as you can make it work. If they have to slow down, fine. It's almost as if whoever honks first has the right of way. If you're trying to turn right and an oncoming car wants to go straight and honks, you wait. If you honk and make the turn, they have to slow down. You take responsibility for yourself and making others aware of your presence.
I'd love to continue to completely deface myself, but it's getting late, and it's going to take me a couple hours to push my bike home. Ladies - call me. I'll take you for a ride - as long as you don't mind going 10 miles an hour.
Let be begin by making a disclaimer - although the title clearly states 'Part 1,' at the rate I've been writing in Goa - let along waking up while the sun is in sight or forming coherent sentences without a whiskey in my hand - the second two parts may never come.
I've broken down the three main elements of Goa as I see them to the following - partying, beaches, and renting motor bikes. The beaches are stunning. The partying is so good it has likely damaged my motor skills for life - for example, this morning I spilled every beverage all over my shirt that even leisurely approached my mouth. Today, I'm going to talk about the least interesting topic of the three - motorbikes.
It is a veritable a right of passage for Caucasians to rent a bike while in this chilled out state of India. The longer term residents or biker bad asses choose the powerful Enfields. The reasonable, unexperienced, or terrified choose 150cc scooters. On a day like any other, with a slightly more reasonable hangover, I decided to join the ranks of the terrified.
I've heard and seen many accident stories about foreigners on motor bikes. An American friend was in Nepal, driving on a highway when and 8 year old playing with a tire darted in front of him. He plowed through the child, confident he killed him. The kid was okay with minor injuries and luckily Eric wasn't lynched (I'm tempted to make a "that kid should have done like any other smart 8 year old and played with guns" joke, but I will refrain). An Australian girl in Goa was driving her bike when she was harassed by a bike of Indian guys, who proceeded to ram into her, knocking her and her sister down and positioning her arm perfectly in a cast for the next week. One of my favorite accident stories comes from the southern islands of Thailand. I shared a taxi with a man one morning missing a fair proportion of the skin on the left side of his body and face. When I inquired, he was pretty sure he crashed his bike late the night before. But after the 2nd bottle of vodka, he really couldn't be sure.
For those of you who recall my earlier blog about traffic in India (see - "I'll Never Work Again"), Goa is similar in the form of organized chaos, only with much easier, calmer, less crowded roads. I chose a renter who heckled me for a sale as I passed, knowing that if I approached anyone on my own behalf I would have to tell them that the last time I even looked at a bicycle I fell down. My lack of experience irrelevant and my 200 rupee's speaking on its behalf ($5 for the day), I got a quick run down of the vehicle.
I positioned the bike in the direction I wanted to go, and made sure no other cars were anywhere near Goa. I revved the engine and lifted my feet from the ground, shooting off of the dirt path onto pavement. I desperately tried to break with my flip flops, wobbling back and forth across the road until I realized that this particular bike - like many others this day and age - came with functional brakes of its own. I utilized them, regained my composure, and gave it another try.
For the first five minutes, I genuinely feared for my life - at 10 miles an hour. Simple tasks like going over speed bumps was petrifying. G0d help me should another vehicle pass on the other side of the road. As I often followed my normal inclination to drive on the right side of the road - generally frowned upon here due to their left-leaning English ways - I constantly found myself playing chicken with anyone who dared to be on Anjuna road. If I had been wearing a diaper, I would have taken full advantage.
Once you get the hang of the bike - a process a normal person can usually manage within 30 or so seconds - its actually quite fun. There is something to be said for a style of driving where instead of following mundane laws like using turn signals and not tailgating, you honk like hell and just go for it. If someone is driving too slow, you pass them - oncoming traffic or not- as long as you can make it work. If they have to slow down, fine. It's almost as if whoever honks first has the right of way. If you're trying to turn right and an oncoming car wants to go straight and honks, you wait. If you honk and make the turn, they have to slow down. You take responsibility for yourself and making others aware of your presence.
I'd love to continue to completely deface myself, but it's getting late, and it's going to take me a couple hours to push my bike home. Ladies - call me. I'll take you for a ride - as long as you don't mind going 10 miles an hour.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Nothing Happens
Good morning readers, and thanks for stopping by. I say reader(s), but if you think about it, there is really no way to tell how many people are actually reading my blog. Based on my own scientific calculations, it's close to about a million.
With one million people reading my blog, that puts quite a bit of pressure on me. And I'm not going to lie to you - I'm starting to feel it. In an effort to keep my writing style fresh, new age - POST MODERN, if you will - I'm going to experiment with a new style that I am inventing right now. I'm going to call it:
Nothing Says It All.
And to prove my commitment to a fresh, unique voice that will constantly keep said 10 million readers intrigued (it went up while I was typing - it's science) my first order of business is to change the name of this new style to:
Nothing Happens.
So without further interruption:
Nothing Happens.
November 13, 2007. Alwar - Rajasthan - India - Asia - Earth. Today we saw a marble store. Our parents went into the marble store. Possibly to look for something made of marble. I sat in the car with Sharon. People stared at us. We stared at the marble. There were no marbles, only marble. Why do they call marbles marbles? They're not made of marble - although I'm pretty sure you could make marbles out of marble. But usually, they're made of glass. Why don't we call them glasses? Who named the Earth?
They have marble floors in the marble store, with blocks of marble. My feet slide on marble floors, especially when wet. But not the marble floors of the marble store. I was still in the car.
I think about having them make me a bag of custom made marbles out of marble, although I would still call them glasses - so I can play marbles. Night turns to day. Cows chew their cud. Humans make love. The marble makers make marble. One day, we'll all be dead.
Fin.
With one million people reading my blog, that puts quite a bit of pressure on me. And I'm not going to lie to you - I'm starting to feel it. In an effort to keep my writing style fresh, new age - POST MODERN, if you will - I'm going to experiment with a new style that I am inventing right now. I'm going to call it:
Nothing Says It All.
And to prove my commitment to a fresh, unique voice that will constantly keep said 10 million readers intrigued (it went up while I was typing - it's science) my first order of business is to change the name of this new style to:
Nothing Happens.
So without further interruption:
Nothing Happens.
November 13, 2007. Alwar - Rajasthan - India - Asia - Earth. Today we saw a marble store. Our parents went into the marble store. Possibly to look for something made of marble. I sat in the car with Sharon. People stared at us. We stared at the marble. There were no marbles, only marble. Why do they call marbles marbles? They're not made of marble - although I'm pretty sure you could make marbles out of marble. But usually, they're made of glass. Why don't we call them glasses? Who named the Earth?
They have marble floors in the marble store, with blocks of marble. My feet slide on marble floors, especially when wet. But not the marble floors of the marble store. I was still in the car.
I think about having them make me a bag of custom made marbles out of marble, although I would still call them glasses - so I can play marbles. Night turns to day. Cows chew their cud. Humans make love. The marble makers make marble. One day, we'll all be dead.
Fin.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Queer Eye for the Indian Guy
Because of the male dominated-ness of India's society, women get the shit end of numerous sticks. For example, in the increasingly western, liberal India, many young men in this country pursue sex before marriage. A large percentage of these same men would refuse an arranged marriage with a women who is also not a virgin. Women are also branded harshly for living a comparatively cosmopolitan lifestyle, and even going out drinking can warrant extreme labels. For this reason, you very, very rarely see Indian women out at bars short of major cities, thus turning most Indian establishments into non-beef sausage parties. It takes a while to get used to being around so many men and so few women in social settings - in fact sometimes when confronted with such a situation, I'm still taken aback.
It is for this reason that I was fairly confident - though couldn't be sure - that my first night in Goa I was taken on a date to a gay bar.
I met this alleged Indian homosexual on my flight to Goa. Although he'll never see this blog without extensive googling abilities (which, as an IT guy, he probably has), I would still like to protect his identity, as much of this country is far from being homosexually friendly. So let's instead call him Jesus Mohammad....no that doesn't sound right...let's call him Kevin Malloy.
Sitting in the window seat of an exit row with Kevin Malloy in the middle seat, I was getting the standard information about my potential hero status in case an emergency should occur. I couldn't even manage a "don't worry, I'm American," or flex to invoke the flight attendants confidence, because Kevin Malloy kept interrupting her to participate in the conversation, whie contributing nothing.
The first thing he said to me - unprovoked - was his name and that he was a Brahmin - the highest rank in the caste system. Within 5 minutes, he was informing me how much more money he makes than I do (around 12,000 to 15,000 dollars a month marketing IT software).
He turned out to be a very nice guy despite the rocky start, and insisted on getting a drink with me in Goa. I was exhausted and disinterested, but his persistence and my lack of a better plan for the evening won out. We got different rooms in the same guest house, he rented a motorbike and went to his favorite bar in a popular town called Calagunte.
My first hint that he might be gay was the flamboyant way he said 'hello' every time he answered the phone - subtle and possibly unfair, I didn't put too much weight in this argument. But I could tell his interest in my company was above par when he put me on the phone with his father when he called after the flight - a jolly and immensely important public figure in Delhi, it turns out. Additional hints came in certain proclamations such as, "I enjoy your company more than that of my closest friends!" But this subtle message came much later in the evening.
Two girls passed - quickly at best - through the bar in the 3 hours we were there. The men there were of a particular flamboyance in dress, possibly more so than the typical metrosexual style of pop culture India - but still I didn't want to jump to conclusions. It seemed perfectly natrual that this financially stable 25 year old Indian man wanted to take me to an all male establishment and buy me dinner and drinks.
We talked extensively about women. In fact, my extraordinary interest in the opposite sex was about the only topic conversation I was willing to initiate.** He had been in a 7 year relationship with a girl up until this year, and try as I might, couldn't get him to reveal to me the reason for their break up.
I've got a pretty sick sense when it comes to gadar - and it especially didn't help that he had such an incredibly, ragingly flamboyant name such as Kevin Malloy. But true confirmations come in bold statements, like when he tried to put his hand on my leg during our motorbike ride home.
He left Goa the following day for business, so when we parted that evening - to our separate rooms (I can't sell this part of the story enough), it was the last I saw of him. However -probably to give me a relatively solid conclusion to this blog - Kevin Malloy asked for a kiss on the cheek. He did buy me dinner, after all.
**I'd like to take this moment to say hello to all the ladies in the literary audience this evening.
It is for this reason that I was fairly confident - though couldn't be sure - that my first night in Goa I was taken on a date to a gay bar.
I met this alleged Indian homosexual on my flight to Goa. Although he'll never see this blog without extensive googling abilities (which, as an IT guy, he probably has), I would still like to protect his identity, as much of this country is far from being homosexually friendly. So let's instead call him Jesus Mohammad....no that doesn't sound right...let's call him Kevin Malloy.
Sitting in the window seat of an exit row with Kevin Malloy in the middle seat, I was getting the standard information about my potential hero status in case an emergency should occur. I couldn't even manage a "don't worry, I'm American," or flex to invoke the flight attendants confidence, because Kevin Malloy kept interrupting her to participate in the conversation, whie contributing nothing.
The first thing he said to me - unprovoked - was his name and that he was a Brahmin - the highest rank in the caste system. Within 5 minutes, he was informing me how much more money he makes than I do (around 12,000 to 15,000 dollars a month marketing IT software).
He turned out to be a very nice guy despite the rocky start, and insisted on getting a drink with me in Goa. I was exhausted and disinterested, but his persistence and my lack of a better plan for the evening won out. We got different rooms in the same guest house, he rented a motorbike and went to his favorite bar in a popular town called Calagunte.
My first hint that he might be gay was the flamboyant way he said 'hello' every time he answered the phone - subtle and possibly unfair, I didn't put too much weight in this argument. But I could tell his interest in my company was above par when he put me on the phone with his father when he called after the flight - a jolly and immensely important public figure in Delhi, it turns out. Additional hints came in certain proclamations such as, "I enjoy your company more than that of my closest friends!" But this subtle message came much later in the evening.
Two girls passed - quickly at best - through the bar in the 3 hours we were there. The men there were of a particular flamboyance in dress, possibly more so than the typical metrosexual style of pop culture India - but still I didn't want to jump to conclusions. It seemed perfectly natrual that this financially stable 25 year old Indian man wanted to take me to an all male establishment and buy me dinner and drinks.
We talked extensively about women. In fact, my extraordinary interest in the opposite sex was about the only topic conversation I was willing to initiate.** He had been in a 7 year relationship with a girl up until this year, and try as I might, couldn't get him to reveal to me the reason for their break up.
I've got a pretty sick sense when it comes to gadar - and it especially didn't help that he had such an incredibly, ragingly flamboyant name such as Kevin Malloy. But true confirmations come in bold statements, like when he tried to put his hand on my leg during our motorbike ride home.
He left Goa the following day for business, so when we parted that evening - to our separate rooms (I can't sell this part of the story enough), it was the last I saw of him. However -probably to give me a relatively solid conclusion to this blog - Kevin Malloy asked for a kiss on the cheek. He did buy me dinner, after all.
**I'd like to take this moment to say hello to all the ladies in the literary audience this evening.
The Art of Religion
Let me begin by first apologizing for the title of this blog. It's truly, truly terrible.
My family left yesterday, and for the past day and a half I have been on my own, having made my way from Delhi to the beach/party oriented state of Goa. In those 36 hours I have succeeded in developing a limp in certain pairs of shoes, seen cows brawl, and was potentially dragged to a gay bar by accident. But as to my usual, backtracking style of blogging, I'm not going to discuss any of this. Okay I'll tell you about the cow fight - it was 8am this morning on a rural dirt path and I was all alone. Two cows kept butting heads, in an escalating level of violence. Eventually the black one (vs. the white one) began backing up as they rammed each other, shit himself, and took off in a sprint when a 2nd white one also began charging. I can't believe how fast he moved. It was pretty awesome.
About a week ago the family and I were in Haridwar, one of the holiest cities in India, right on the Ganges (an incredibly holy body of water). It is so holy, no alcohol or meat is served anywhere (and the only cheese they eat is swiss!! Get it? hol...y...)
We stayed in what would've been known - were it not such a holy place - as the pimp shack of Haridwar. This beautiful hotel lent us one of their boys as a guide to bring us to a very spiritual event called "Arty." If you were reading legitimate travel memoirs, this is where I would explain in fascinating detail not only the intricate details and significance of Arty, but would also provide an even approximately accurate spelling. Instead, I'm at an outdoor restaurant on the beach, using a flashlight to reference my notes and writing a blog. Consider yourself lucky I'm even taking the time to fix some of my typos. What I can tell you is that Indians believe verystrongly in the power of the Ganges, and coming to a place like Haridwar and experiencing Arty is a pilgrimmage many wait their whole lives to take.
Our boy-guide brought us to the most signifcant portion of the Ganges in Haridwar. What we experienced next was one part thousands of years of religious history, and one part quintessential Lonely Planet warning - with a dash of really dirty holy water. We were hustled through the increasingly hectic crowd of probably thousands by sadhu's (religious men) constantly trying to get our attention and get us to follow them to the river - an act the Lonely Planet explicitly warns against, because they always ask for money, and you really don't know if it is legit. Through Elizabeth's Hindi and our boy-guide (who will from here on be referred to as the bouide) we somehow ended up with a white robbed man and his brown robbed accomplice, with our feet at the edge of the river. We were broken up into mother and father, and brother and sister - you try explaining our family dynamic to a society embarassed to meet 24 year olds who are not married. In our hands were baskets of flowers with candles - which at the end of the prayer are sent sailing off in the river. But first we had to repeat many prayers in Hindi to our sadhu, who lead the procession like an auctioneer, pausing only when asking our names (think of a Family Guy style Las Vegas wedding: "Do you take to be your yada yada yada"). We are holding our hands as instructed - with one carnation wrapped in our palms, hands touching. The sadhu tells us that we are praying for the well being of our family and friends (you're welcome). The noise, the crowds, the masses bathing in the river make the whole experience full of an intense energy. I am then told to touch my sisters feet, and both of my parents' feet as signs of respect (I still haven't lived that one down, from any of them). My Dad is very happy to be witnessing such an important event - even when the sadhu's ask us for monstrous donations. The parents oblige - its really only about 12 dollars. I on the other hand chose to barter, and paid $5 for both my sister and I. I wouldn't even be considered a good Jew - so tacking on Hindu hell ain't such a big deal in my book.
We were then led to a small temple a few feet away, where we went through a similar process, all four of us together, concluded with the infamous Indian forehead dots. They then ask for 12 dollars each. To spare this religious man of my expert bartering skills, Elizabeth pays for us.
We stepped outdoors to witness religious men waving huge flames of candles, with as many as 30, 40 people holding on to their arms, shoulders, bells being rung constantly by hand. There were so many Indians pointing video cameras in everyone's face, I quickly got over any self consciousness of photographing the event. It all lasted about an hour in total. Our bouide was never heard from again. Until we left, when we found him standing where we left him, guarding our shoes.
The next two days were an existence of pure relaxation. There is not a lot to do in Haridwar as a westerner/tourist, so we spent a lot of time at the hotel. Confined to an alcohol-free city and struggling to find any excuse to even leave the hotel, we sought entertainment in very....let's be diplomatic here...low brow ways. For example: we played a game called speed chess. None of us were really very interested in actually playing chess, so we insisted on rushing the game by shouting "speed!" at each other constantly until our opponent would move a piece. We must have spent at least 2 hours one day reading a Hindi phrase book in thick American accents, reverting to sound effects made only by humans of an IQ of 40 or lower, and then laughing hysterically.
Then came the attack. It started on November 8th, while walking down the street. An explosion so loud, the sound sat in my ears for seconds after it concluded, refusing to let any other audible waves enter. I was struck in the chest with the shrapenel. As the remains of the explosion bounced to the floor, I thought it silly to consider the paper remnants of a firecracker shrapnel. And it didn't end there. Excalating the following night, November 9th, for a holiday called Diwali, the town erupted in explosions. A blind stranger to the holiday would have been sure Pakistan was attacking. Like almost every aspect of Indian culture, there is little regulation on lighting fireworks, and apparently every person in Haridwar decided to take advantage of this. The fireworks show was spectacular, because it was so random. Standing on our hotels roof, the pattern was completely sporadic. Often the most amazing displays were when the sky was lit up in a seemingly coordinated performance, knowing that it was all dumb luck.
The hotel's security wouldn't let any of us leave the premises once the fireworks began that night, because the streets were too dangerous. From our balconies we could see children hurling m-80s at every passerby below. I didn't see one person in the streets who wasn't running. The explosions were so loud and so frequent (until about 3am), that you could have gone on a murderous rampage with a machine gun and no one would have noticed. Unless, of course, they saw you shooting people with a machine gun.
My family left yesterday, and for the past day and a half I have been on my own, having made my way from Delhi to the beach/party oriented state of Goa. In those 36 hours I have succeeded in developing a limp in certain pairs of shoes, seen cows brawl, and was potentially dragged to a gay bar by accident. But as to my usual, backtracking style of blogging, I'm not going to discuss any of this. Okay I'll tell you about the cow fight - it was 8am this morning on a rural dirt path and I was all alone. Two cows kept butting heads, in an escalating level of violence. Eventually the black one (vs. the white one) began backing up as they rammed each other, shit himself, and took off in a sprint when a 2nd white one also began charging. I can't believe how fast he moved. It was pretty awesome.
About a week ago the family and I were in Haridwar, one of the holiest cities in India, right on the Ganges (an incredibly holy body of water). It is so holy, no alcohol or meat is served anywhere (and the only cheese they eat is swiss!! Get it? hol...y...
We stayed in what would've been known - were it not such a holy place - as the pimp shack of Haridwar. This beautiful hotel lent us one of their boys as a guide to bring us to a very spiritual event called "Arty." If you were reading legitimate travel memoirs, this is where I would explain in fascinating detail not only the intricate details and significance of Arty, but would also provide an even approximately accurate spelling. Instead, I'm at an outdoor restaurant on the beach, using a flashlight to reference my notes and writing a blog. Consider yourself lucky I'm even taking the time to fix some of my typos. What I can tell you is that Indians believe verystrongly in the power of the Ganges, and coming to a place like Haridwar and experiencing Arty is a pilgrimmage many wait their whole lives to take.
Our boy-guide brought us to the most signifcant portion of the Ganges in Haridwar
We were then led to a small temple a few feet away, where we went through a similar process, all four of us together, concluded with the infamous Indian forehead dots. They then ask for 12 dollars each. To spare this religious man of my expert bartering skills, Elizabeth pays for us.
We stepped outdoors to witness religious men waving huge flames of candles, with as many as 30, 40 people holding on to their arms, shoulders, bells being rung constantly by hand. There were so many Indians pointing video cameras in everyone's face, I quickly got over any self consciousness of photographing the event. It all lasted about an hour in total. Our bouide was never heard from again. Until we left, when we found him standing where we left him, guarding our shoes.
The next two days were an existence of pure relaxation. There is not a lot to do in Haridwar as a westerner/tourist, so we spent a lot of time at the hotel. Confined to an alcohol-free city and struggling to find any excuse to even leave the hotel, we sought entertainment in very....let's be diplomatic here...low brow ways. For example: we played a game called speed chess. None of us were really very interested in actually playing chess, so we insisted on rushing the game by shouting "speed!" at each other constantly until our opponent would move a piece. We must have spent at least 2 hours one day reading a Hindi phrase book in thick American accents, reverting to sound effects made only by humans of an IQ of 40 or lower, and then laughing hysterically.
Then came the attack. It started on November 8th, while walking down the street. An explosion so loud, the sound sat in my ears for seconds after it concluded, refusing to let any other audible waves enter. I was struck in the chest with the shrapenel. As the remains of the explosion bounced to the floor, I thought it silly to consider the paper remnants of a firecracker shrapnel. And it didn't end there. Excalating the following night, November 9th, for a holiday called Diwali, the town erupted in explosions. A blind stranger to the holiday would have been sure Pakistan was attacking. Like almost every aspect of Indian culture, there is little regulation on lighting fireworks, and apparently every person in Haridwar decided to take advantage of this. The fireworks show was spectacular, because it was so random. Standing on our hotels roof, the pattern was completely sporadic. Often the most amazing displays were when the sky was lit up in a seemingly coordinated performance, knowing that it was all dumb luck.
The hotel's security wouldn't let any of us leave the premises once the fireworks began that night, because the streets were too dangerous. From our balconies we could see children hurling m-80s at every passerby below. I didn't see one person in the streets who wasn't running. The explosions were so loud and so frequent (until about 3am), that you could have gone on a murderous rampage with a machine gun and no one would have noticed. Unless, of course, they saw you shooting people with a machine gun.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Lonely Planet, Part 2....okay Part 1 for real.
In my family's final week, we are traveling up north at the foothills of the Himalayas - Haridwar, Rishikesh, Mussoorie. In an effort to wing it with some structure, we tried to book hotels in advance based on the Lonely Planet's good name. We failed, miserably, in every capacity. We got the dates wrong, somehow reserved a cattle farm in Poland for 3 weeks, and killed a man. We have been lucky, and found an excellent hotel in Haridwar that has continually found availability for us through its fully booked schedule. But before we knew that, we stayed there for one night, not knowing our fate, and went to check out the hotel my sis Shari blindly booked for us for the following two nights. It is called Bhaj Govindam, and it is in the mid-range price range in the LP. They offered us the rates of 800 rupee's a night per room. Here is what the Lonely Planet says about Bhaj Govindam: "Haridwar's most relaxing accommodation in a wonderful location on the bank of the Ganges, these comfortable bamboo huts are set in a pleasant garden adn are equipped with fans, air cooler or AC, and tiled private bathrooms. The accomodation is absolute riverfront with its own private ghat (space on the Ganges) - ask to be dropped at 'Bhimgoda Jhula.' " Sounds great!
While trying to book the rooms from afar, they often didn't answer the phone, and gave us mixed answers on basic questions like whether they had hot water in the rooms. This was in both English and Hindi.
This morning, Dad Sharon and I walked there. We navigated through this holy cities gauntlet of beggars to eventually find a large sign for the hotel directing its readers nowhere. Through inquiries, we were led down a dark, deserted alley (this is at 11am), whose sides were lined with dilapidated, crumbling brick buildings, whose floors were too mangled with debris for even the most desperate beggar to sleep on. 100 meters later, there is another large entrance sign for the Hotel over a courtyard. Entering, the L-shaped building inside seemingly came from the same family as those in the alley, only at its infant stage of repairs with about 20 builders in site, working in various rooms. The grass in the field looked as if it had died a terrible death.
A security guard eased our concerns by pointing us out of the coutryard, down another side alley towards a man in a orange plaid shirt welcoming us to the Bhaj Govindum. Entering the property, it was indeed along the water, and the grass's struggled greenish hue was grateful. The exterior of the thatched huts brought first to mind a Hollywood set, built by handicapped infants, on a budget of whatever they could make on black market sales of breast milk. For those of you that have no idea what that sentence means, they looked like shit, and possibly ready to collapse.
Then we saw the warning sign, like a beacon, a stop light flashing in our faces. A white guy in a red robe. Sadhus, or the religious men, come in droves from all over the world to live here, wear these stylish outfits and pray in this holiest of locations. Many are true, respectable priests, and many are convicts fleeing the law and hiding in plain site. There have been cases of these bad sadhu's robbing tourists and raping women. I am sure that many of the white folk joining the party are also religious scholars seeking enlightenment, but often they are just confused, spiritually lost ex-surfers. Westerners choosing to join this post-hippie bandwagon can often find rooms to rent for as cheap as 50 rupees a night for long term stays, and I could only imagine this was the case here. He said hello. Not taking any chances, I made a cross with my fingers and walked past.
The orange shirt man showed us a room for 4 as we requested. He didn't turn on the lights, probably out of fear or knowledge they didn't work. Inside was 4 bare mattresses. No sheets, no pillows. There may have been an attached bathroom, possibly hanging fans, I'm really not sure. The only light was coming through the doorway and tiny holes in the walls, and I'm pretty sure the bed bugs were on strike for cleaner living conditions.
I wish there was a dramatic conclusion to this story. But there isn't. My Dad said, "Nahee danyavad" - no thank you, and we left. We cancelled our reservation over the phone with no trouble beyond ignorance. We got lucky enough to find accomodation in the same hotel as last night for the next 2 nights, and may take advantage of the ayurvedic spa. And I'm already plotting out my slightly more diplomatic letter to the Lonely Planet.
While trying to book the rooms from afar, they often didn't answer the phone, and gave us mixed answers on basic questions like whether they had hot water in the rooms. This was in both English and Hindi.
This morning, Dad Sharon and I walked there. We navigated through this holy cities gauntlet of beggars to eventually find a large sign for the hotel directing its readers nowhere. Through inquiries, we were led down a dark, deserted alley (this is at 11am), whose sides were lined with dilapidated, crumbling brick buildings, whose floors were too mangled with debris for even the most desperate beggar to sleep on. 100 meters later, there is another large entrance sign for the Hotel over a courtyard. Entering, the L-shaped building inside seemingly came from the same family as those in the alley, only at its infant stage of repairs with about 20 builders in site, working in various rooms. The grass in the field looked as if it had died a terrible death.
A security guard eased our concerns by pointing us out of the coutryard, down another side alley towards a man in a orange plaid shirt welcoming us to the Bhaj Govindum. Entering the property, it was indeed along the water, and the grass's struggled greenish hue was grateful. The exterior of the thatched huts brought first to mind a Hollywood set, built by handicapped infants, on a budget of whatever they could make on black market sales of breast milk. For those of you that have no idea what that sentence means, they looked like shit, and possibly ready to collapse.
Then we saw the warning sign, like a beacon, a stop light flashing in our faces. A white guy in a red robe. Sadhus, or the religious men, come in droves from all over the world to live here, wear these stylish outfits and pray in this holiest of locations. Many are true, respectable priests, and many are convicts fleeing the law and hiding in plain site. There have been cases of these bad sadhu's robbing tourists and raping women. I am sure that many of the white folk joining the party are also religious scholars seeking enlightenment, but often they are just confused, spiritually lost ex-surfers. Westerners choosing to join this post-hippie bandwagon can often find rooms to rent for as cheap as 50 rupees a night for long term stays, and I could only imagine this was the case here. He said hello. Not taking any chances, I made a cross with my fingers and walked past.
The orange shirt man showed us a room for 4 as we requested. He didn't turn on the lights, probably out of fear or knowledge they didn't work. Inside was 4 bare mattresses. No sheets, no pillows. There may have been an attached bathroom, possibly hanging fans, I'm really not sure. The only light was coming through the doorway and tiny holes in the walls, and I'm pretty sure the bed bugs were on strike for cleaner living conditions.
I wish there was a dramatic conclusion to this story. But there isn't. My Dad said, "Nahee danyavad" - no thank you, and we left. We cancelled our reservation over the phone with no trouble beyond ignorance. We got lucky enough to find accomodation in the same hotel as last night for the next 2 nights, and may take advantage of the ayurvedic spa. And I'm already plotting out my slightly more diplomatic letter to the Lonely Planet.
Lonely Planet - you fucked that one up
Let me begin by thanking my allegiant readers of this blog for their valued allegiance. I hope you will continue to allege.
And to all you clown shoes wearing ass clowns in clown-like shoes who don't write to me; Just know I'm forming a violent religious army to squash you for your traitorous non-acts. Oh, I'm also forming a religion.
Before I reference the title of this post, I'm going to casually meander through my various Indian thoughts and experiences in no relevant order.
For example, I saw a bus driver violently dragged from his vehicle by two shouting, angry motorists in Delhi. My assumption is that he caused some minor accident, though nothing major was apparent while in my passing tuk tuk. Elizabeth asked the driver of our wall-less taxi if they were going to beat up the bus driver, and he said, in Hindi, "Definitely. Bus drivers are dirty drivers, the worst, everyone hates them and how they drive. Also, all praise Ganesh - he totally rocks." I've read about such brutal motorist responses when someone is at fault for harming another, and it was interesting to see it in effect. Clearly I'd prefer problems of the sort to be settled over tea and elaborate exercises in utilizing both parties' vocabulary, but regardless of my presence, the outcome was apparent.
My father made an interesting, yet simple observation that I'd like to dwell on for a paragraph. As stated, he is extremely well educated on India's history and religions and takes some aspects of the faiths to heart. After being blessed by a guru in a rural temple and later discussing the history of the Hindu g0ds, he said, "It's really amazing that people actually believe this. These aren't just interesting stories - People live their lives by it." A billion people. And it's true. Hinduism is fascinating on many levels, with certain elements that are at the top of the philosophical pyramid in my eyes in terms of lessons to live by. But it is more than that here. Ganesh, the elephant g0d of good luck, who clears away all obstacles from your path - is the first invited to every wedding to do just that. Modern Indians who wear Armani, eat cheeseburgers and drink 5 times a week send him an invitation before anyone else - he is always the first invited to clear the way. Every one of the many, many g0ds has their specific relevance. Whats more are the stories, such as that of Ganesh and how he came to be the elephant g0d: that his father, Lord Shiva, decapitated his son at night, believing him to be an intruder. Swearing to bring his son back to life, Shiva took the head of the next creature he saw - an elephant - and brought his son back from the dead. Now I'm no torah scholar, but I don't remember Moses crossbreeding species.
I wore a seatbelt the other day. I was in a toyota SUV - what stunning luxury here I might add - and in the back seat , for the first time I actually got to wear a seatbelt. It hadn't happened yet, and I felt like royalty (read: King of Caucasia). Not only was I amazed that I got to wear one, but I was amazed that I was amazed. Amazing.
While venturing from rural house to house in Jodhpur, we saw a small textile operation making rugs, an impressive family business making anything and everything out of clay, and an opium addict. The old man crushed up the opium, mixed it with water, strained it, offered some to Lord Shiva by flicking it from his finger at the g0d's image while praying, and then drank it. While 9 white people sat and watched. First of all, its pretty cool for him that he got paid for us to come to his home and watch him do drugs (clay walls dividing up 4 rooms: the smaller two were a bedroom for the whole family and a storage room - being the only ones with dishevelled rooftops). He talked - translated by our guide through his distracting mustache - about how he began doing drugs when he was 14, and now through the hard work in the field he uses it as a pain reliever. Women in the family are not allowed to do drugs, and yes it is illegal. It costs about 40,000 rupee's per kilo (approx $1,000), and he spends about 4500 rupees a month ($115). He goes through, by my estimate, about 3 grams a day taking it once in the morning and night. He estimated his family's monthly income at about 6000-7000 rupees a month.
Well that is about it. There is absolutely nothing else of any relevance that I have to say. Not one more story referenced at any point in this blog worth mentioning. ...bye!
And to all you clown shoes wearing ass clowns in clown-like shoes who don't write to me; Just know I'm forming a violent religious army to squash you for your traitorous non-acts. Oh, I'm also forming a religion.
Before I reference the title of this post, I'm going to casually meander through my various Indian thoughts and experiences in no relevant order.
For example, I saw a bus driver violently dragged from his vehicle by two shouting, angry motorists in Delhi. My assumption is that he caused some minor accident, though nothing major was apparent while in my passing tuk tuk. Elizabeth asked the driver of our wall-less taxi if they were going to beat up the bus driver, and he said, in Hindi, "Definitely. Bus drivers are dirty drivers, the worst, everyone hates them and how they drive. Also, all praise Ganesh - he totally rocks." I've read about such brutal motorist responses when someone is at fault for harming another, and it was interesting to see it in effect. Clearly I'd prefer problems of the sort to be settled over tea and elaborate exercises in utilizing both parties' vocabulary, but regardless of my presence, the outcome was apparent.
My father made an interesting, yet simple observation that I'd like to dwell on for a paragraph. As stated, he is extremely well educated on India's history and religions and takes some aspects of the faiths to heart. After being blessed by a guru in a rural temple and later discussing the history of the Hindu g0ds, he said, "It's really amazing that people actually believe this. These aren't just interesting stories - People live their lives by it." A billion people. And it's true. Hinduism is fascinating on many levels, with certain elements that are at the top of the philosophical pyramid in my eyes in terms of lessons to live by. But it is more than that here. Ganesh, the elephant g0d of good luck, who clears away all obstacles from your path - is the first invited to every wedding to do just that. Modern Indians who wear Armani, eat cheeseburgers and drink 5 times a week send him an invitation before anyone else - he is always the first invited to clear the way. Every one of the many, many g0ds has their specific relevance. Whats more are the stories, such as that of Ganesh and how he came to be the elephant g0d: that his father, Lord Shiva, decapitated his son at night, believing him to be an intruder. Swearing to bring his son back to life, Shiva took the head of the next creature he saw - an elephant - and brought his son back from the dead. Now I'm no torah scholar, but I don't remember Moses crossbreeding species.
I wore a seatbelt the other day. I was in a toyota SUV - what stunning luxury here I might add - and in the back seat , for the first time I actually got to wear a seatbelt. It hadn't happened yet, and I felt like royalty (read: King of Caucasia). Not only was I amazed that I got to wear one, but I was amazed that I was amazed. Amazing.
While venturing from rural house to house in Jodhpur, we saw a small textile operation making rugs, an impressive family business making anything and everything out of clay, and an opium addict. The old man crushed up the opium, mixed it with water, strained it, offered some to Lord Shiva by flicking it from his finger at the g0d's image while praying, and then drank it. While 9 white people sat and watched. First of all, its pretty cool for him that he got paid for us to come to his home and watch him do drugs (clay walls dividing up 4 rooms: the smaller two were a bedroom for the whole family and a storage room - being the only ones with dishevelled rooftops). He talked - translated by our guide through his distracting mustache - about how he began doing drugs when he was 14, and now through the hard work in the field he uses it as a pain reliever. Women in the family are not allowed to do drugs, and yes it is illegal. It costs about 40,000 rupee's per kilo (approx $1,000), and he spends about 4500 rupees a month ($115). He goes through, by my estimate, about 3 grams a day taking it once in the morning and night. He estimated his family's monthly income at about 6000-7000 rupees a month.
Well that is about it. There is absolutely nothing else of any relevance that I have to say. Not one more story referenced at any point in this blog worth mentioning. ...bye!
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