‘When disaster strikes, around the next corner is magic’

Words of wisdom from two veteran Indian travellers now in their 70s. (Spoiler alert—go to the Spice market entry to get the full story.)

While it took 36 pretty painful hours and another night in Delhi (will I ever escape that city?) to get here, we are now in Udaipur!!! Who says we can’t go to Rajasthan!!!I write this as I sit on my private balcony in a renovated—I use the term loosely—haveli, the former palaces of the wealthy class in this part of the world. The Mewar kingdom, of which Udaipur was the last capital, was the last of the Rajas to survive as a separate kingdom and lasted until the Independence of India when it was adjoined as another state of the newly formed country.

There is a feeling of absolute glorious decay that permeates the entire city, which surrounds a lake on which perches two floating island palaces. I can see all of this from either my balcony or the rooftop restaurant of the hotel, where I have passed most of this amazing and restful morning.

The Indian Fairy Tale Kingdom

We saw it! We saw it! Part of our escape plan from Agra included a car rental, since absolutely all trains back to Delhi were booked because no one can go to Rajasthan. Remember the princess and the witchcraft person story? Yup, it turns out that place is real. I present to you Fatehpur Sikri—in its newly restored form. For me, every building was built for a princess and I was princess for the day!!!

Not so fast!

Did I mention the serious challenges one faces trying to organize travels in India? Thanks to my trusty epidemiologist student, Raman, I was finally able to successfully navigate the Indian train website (it being impossible to purchase tickets at any train station). However, I started too late and most of the trains were booked!! Eventually and through great persistence I created a dream holiday in mythical Rajasthan (with only two 5am trains to deal with)!! We arrived at the train station at 430 because the train station is a monster and to try to figure out where to go since most of the signs are in beautiful Hindi. Over five hours later we were on our way—cold, tired and hungry, since we didn´t dare leave the station because the train was almost here. The 150 kilometer (110 mile) trip took about five hours and we finally arrived at our destination described by the guidebook as a town where even the most seasoned travelers have a hard time with the touts and level of harassment of the local merchants and guides.

It turns out that part of the delay was because of a small uprising in Jaipur, Rajasthan. It seems they’re fighting the government for a higher quota of government jobs. And, as any rational group of people would do, they blocked all of the main roads through Rajasthan and started ripping up the train tracks leading to town. At first we thought it was a clever strategy on the part of our sleazy hotel managers to get us to stay in town a bit longer. The next morning (again at 430—apparently my witching hour) we learned from some Italian tourist that we were indeed stranded. All of my planning completely laid to waste as we shivered in the cold trying to figure out what to do next, since even the most enterprising of businesses did not open for a few hours. Two cafes and numerous cups of tea later, an escape plan was hatched!

Oh yeah. I saw the Taj Mahal. Check.

The spice market

You would think you would smell it coming. Oh no! Not in India with its many competing smells with which I will not regale you at the moment. The day is Christmas Day and it is not like any other Christmas I have spent. After o lovely breakfast high atop the main square of Pahar Ganj at the Mt Everest restaurant, we wander through the parade of frenzied followers of the Baba Somebody. First there is the ever present uniformed brass band followed by glaze eyed dancers who seem to have identified a drum beat different than the band they follow. The disciples follow carrying the portable shrine, which is covered with marigolds and showers of rose petals collected along the way. The women dressed colourfully as always bring up the rear with impatient but respectful rickshaws close on their tail. Then we go to the crazy neighbourhoods of old Delhi.

It turns out this is a big day for a lot of Baba Somebodies. On the Chandni Chowk Road there are the sounds of chant and prayer screamed into a sound system worthy of Madison Square Garden. When finally we come across the high holy Baba, there is a tiny crowd of skinny young men in filthy clothes staring uninterestedly at the three screamers taking turns yelling their part of the chant in a round robin and the seated Baba himself looking like my Uncle Harry, bored and not nearly as enlightened looking as the fancy poster below him in which his head is freshly shaved and sparkling with oil and he looks like he is about to be beatified.

Just as the shouting is becoming a more distant thrum in the background we are confronted with a three way fork in the road and absolutely no indication which way to go to find the spice market. It turns out that my traveling companion Rossi, does NOT have an app for that. We take a chance and at the third dogdy looking corridor—no more than two feet wide and darkening to blackness, we decide to dive in since telltale street stalls with nuts and some spices have started to appear. Good move!!! The claustrophobia of the spice dust laden atmosphere is more than a reward and gives a feeling that only the most brazen of tourists have the nerve to enter here.

Merry Christmas--Indian style!!!

Seasons Greetings from relatively balmy Delhi!!! I wish everyone a wonderful holiday season and all the best for the new year!!!!

On the street where I live

It occurs to me that I’ve not really shown you my town: Defence Colony. Defence Colony was originally built for mid-level British officers to have relatively upscale housing and to be protected from ‘the natives.’ There is a tall wrought iron fence (easily breached as I discovered one slightly inebriated evening) that surrounds each of the four neighborhoods that compose Defence Colony, named creatively, in fine British tradition: A, B, C and D. I live in A block. A block is the seediest of all the blocks and there is great debate as to which is the poshest block, C or D. I’ve heard arguments from both sides and, as expected, claims fall along residential lines. Those living in C say it’s C and those living in D say it’s D. And I say, come on people!!! The open sewer river—that is fast moving and deep even in the dry season—runs through both blocks. Posh?!? I think not.

For your viewing pleasure, I submit photos of a street sign (I’ve only identified a few but as you see they could be interchangeable), the guard of my apartment building in customary Indian photo pose, a woman selling fresh vegetables from a cart she wheels around the neighborhood (all KINDS of interesting things are wheeled around my neighborhood, usually accompanied by a loud sing-songy recitation of items or services for sale), and the OM, delicately cast in cement, that decorates the dentist’s house.

All in a day’s work

I have yet to see a suit and tie in this town. Granted I live and work in a neighborhood where ties at work might not be expected. Not so fast, because I live in a pretty upscale, middle class neighborhood. It is mostly apartment buildings, but each one has it’s very own guard and the whole place is surrounded by gates that inconveniently close at night making finding one’s way home even more of a challenge. The point is, that on my morning walk to work, (but not on my way home since the day tends to make me oblivious by nightfall), it wouldn’t be unreasonable to expect to see a man in a suit and tie on his way to the office. I have not seen one.

In fact, one of the things that came as a bit of a surprise is how many people wear traditional dress as a matter of course. If I have to put a number on it (and I’m an epidemiologist so I feel compelled), I would say that 75-80% of the women and perhaps 40-50% of the men routinely wear some traditional article of clothing—and that’s in the largest urban center in India. Another thing I love? The women wear sensible, yet pretty shoes!!! Let me clarify. Not many women wear heels, but they do wear sandals regardless of the winter weather. They sell mitten socks (big toe and rest of toes) especially so that women can wear sandals year round. I think that’s sensible.

What do people wear to work? As an employee of an action oriented, medical nongovernmental organization, I wear jeans. Pretty much every day. Someone’s got to do it. What do Indian’s wear to work? Let’s just say that it’s got to be handsome, comfortable and functional. I present to you a sampling of workers and their wear. I must confess that the most impressive workers are the wandering brass bands that traverse the neighborhood now that wedding season is in full swing. I’ve seen them as early as 6:30 in the morning from high atop my apartment balcony. This begs the question, where do 28 men wearing white uniforms and bearing large brass instruments go during the night unnoticed? And one further question: how do they keep their whites so white in a city where that is difficult even under the best of circumstances?

Signs for thought

As I wander the streets of Delhi, all kinds of things capture my fancy. As someone who is fond of both words and pictures, there are some things I simply cannot resist capturing. Today I'll let the pictures speak for me. Tomorrow I have something entirely different planned!

I can’t stop myself!

They see me coming across the crowd and call me, teasing me with their new wares. I keep trying not to go there, but the call of Lajpat Nagar market is too strong. I don’t go often. Really. I’ve limited my visits to once a week. Ok, twice, but only if I really need a market fix…and a new scarf…or some pretty fabric, for my sister! Not for me. And I absolutely cannot resist the samosas from heaven. I live dangerously (mom, don’t read this). When the samosa man eyes me dubiously and asks ‘Do you want sauce?’ Do I want sauce?!?! How could I live without the sublimely sweet and tangy tamarind sauce slopped down on the foil lined plate holding deep fried samosa goodness? As long as I’ve committed myself to tamarind, it’s just a matter of a quick nod of the head and a new spoon dips quickly into and out of a hidden container and a bright green mixture of ground herbs and spicy peppers lands smoothly next to the dark brown spot of tamarind and the light brown of samosa all arranged on a background of fine silver. An irresistible meal savored in the company of many happy Indians squeezed in and around the motorcycles parked in the small tight spaces located between the street vendors located just next to the curb on the margins of the market.

Look both ways!!!

I know you’ve been waiting breathlessly for my account of the traffic situation here in Delhi. Let me start with some statistics. Simple statistics. Statistics that I can calculate using only my fingers. To date, I have never seen a stop sign. The reason I am so certain of this is that I am dying to see this particular sign written in Hindi. Yes I do have a collection of photos of stop signs from around the world and the reason I am so certain they are stop signs is that they are the red octagonal shapes with which we are readily familiar. (Less familiar perhaps is the fact that the greater number of sides on a sign, the more critical a message it contains. It’s true. I am FANTASTIC at Trivial Pursuit © US version.) Not one stop sign in this entire city of 13 million. I’m not sure if that is more or less scary than the number of traffic lights I have personally witnessed since my arrival: 6. However, even in the presence of a stop light, I remain reluctant to cross the street, though I have become quite the accomplished jay-walker. Have I mentioned that this is not a pedestrian friendly town?

For your viewing pleasure, I include photos of the ever shifting and largely ignored traffic circle (i.e., rusty barrel) located at the busiest intersection in my neighborhood, a local school bus, my favorite kind of taxi in town, and a warning to those who would park where they are not wanted…

I Dream of Jeannie

Meet Kuheli. She is the receptionist at the MSF office where I work. Today Kuheli told me that I remind her of Jeannie from I Dream of Jeannie. I like Kuheli!

Also, look at the beautiful outfit that she's wearing. It is made of a Kashmiri wool/cotton blend that she bought when the Kashmiri's knocked on her door to sell fabric to all of the people in her neighborhood. They come in December. It's December now. I JUST learned that Kuheli lives really close to me. She has been advised to call me the second that she knows that the Kashmiri's are back in town.

An Indian Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who lived in one of the wealthiest kingdoms in Rajasthan. This princess was spied one day by the witchcraft person who fell in love with her. She, however, was not interested in him. One day the princess’s maid bought some special oils for the princess. On the way home from the market, the witchcraft person put a spell on the oils and whoever used the oils would fall in love with the witchcraft person. (This is where the story gets confusing because two people were telling it.) Somehow the maid found out about the spell. No, no, no. Somehow the princess found out about the spell. Somebody found out about the spell and just before the beautiful princess was to be bathed in oil, all of the oil was thrown on to a rock. The rock then fell in love with the witchcraft person and threw itself onto him, killing him. (Really? You think this is where it ends?)

Then, with his dying breath, the witchcraft person put a curse on the entire village. A few days later a neighboring rival kingdom laid siege to the princess’s kingdom, soon after everyone died and the village has been ruined and abandoned ever since.

Take that, Hollywood!

Me and Mr. Shiv

Mr. Shiv, Mr. Shiv, Mr. Shi-iv. We got a thing going on…

I have a crush on Mr. Shiv. (I also have a crush on the god Vishnu, but he’s immortal and has LOTS of girlfriends, so he’s probably not the man for me.) I took a big chance. I knew I was going to be in India for almost three months, that the weather would go from seriously hot to almost freezing, and that I had only one suitcase to accommodate my needs for this three month period. Yet, I did it anyway. I brought with me a) my faded blue and white flowered dress (that many of you know), b) my (formerly) white eyelet blouse, and c) a shredding pair of brown trousers no longer suitable for use in public settings. I did it in the hopes of finding a tailor who could recreate these beloved items in the fabrics of India. Mr. Shiv did not disappoint.

Not only is Mr. Shiv a tailor extraordinaire, he also comes to my office to pick up and deliver my new wardrobe. Often on a Monday morning, I can be found twirling around in my new clothes, to the great amusement of my fellow office mates. Everyone waits breathlessly for the arrival of Mr. Shiv. Not to say that Mr. Shiv is without his faults. Mr. Shiv speaks almost no English, but he speaks the language of cloth and clothing. Mr. Shiv speaks an almost incomprehensible version of Hindi, according to my fellow epidemiologist, Raman, who serves as interpreter, to my undying appreciation. No one is quite sure where Mr. Shiv comes from, but everyone is sure of his talent.

I love it when risks pay off.

All of the Indian festivals are over...

So it's time for Christmas!!!

This wasn't in the shop on my way to work this morning, but boy was it there on my way home!!! And it's actually starting to get cold here! It's 70 degrees! That's about 20 degrees cooler than when I first got here. I'm beginning to be very glad I brought my cold weather clothes...

Ho ho ho!