We almost missed our train from Agra to Jaipur because we had wondered into the upper class waiting area and starting talking with these two young West Bengali kids travelling to the main Golden Triangle and Rajasthani stops. It quickly turned into a magic show with the brighter of the two kids stealthily moving rupee coins above and below a hankerchief to make them seem to disappear and reappear. I did a quick card trick which involved naming and then picking three cards correctly. We also got some other annoying tricks involved such as, for the Australians who might read this, the "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Woop, Johnny, Woop...." club. It drove them crazy. For those of you unaware of it, I will import it back when I come. It will bug the hell out of you.
We ran out to the platform and starting walking in the direction of what we thought was my carriage. We were wrong and had to turn back. All of sudden the train started moving. The doors still swinging open, we quickly jumped on the wrong end and proceeded to make our way up through all the carriages...and classes...through the kitchen to my carriage. Casi, who has bought a general ticket, was sent to the sleeper carriage.
We arrived in Jaipur sometime between midnight and 1:00. Having made a booking at a hostel, we found a rickshaw driver to deliver and dump us off. After waking up the neighbourhood with the autorickshaw's horn, we were let in, checked in and hit the hay for a full night's sleep to make up for the previous night's 3rd class chaotic bazaar on the train.
We woke up, checked out and left our luggage at the hotel. We then hit the sites. Jaipur's old city isn't anything of note, standard busy city with the odd older building worth a digital photo (but maybe not a film photo). We ended up working our way through the backstreets to make it to the city palace and an out of place astrology park next to it: a bunch of concrete staircases in a small park, made to look like sundials - essentially useless, but at least calm. The poverty of children running around dangerous rubble filled streets contrasted heavily with the neatness of the park.
The rest of the city was unimpressive and busy. Really nothing worth seeing.
Eleven kilometres outside the city however is the Amber Fort which is worth seeing. We jumped on a local bus for only 7 rupees. We wondered around the city for several hours and before heading back, wondered down to some Hindu temples in the town of Amber down below.
The first temple was huge, especially given how intricately everything had been carved all the way around and all the way up the outside of the temple. A Hindu priest inside saw us coming, so he turned on the light to brighten up the shrine to Shiva at the back and prepared the red ink. When we approached, he dipped a cotton ear swab in the ink and held it up. Fearful of being rude, we stretched out our necks and presented our foreheads for the ritualistic red dot between the eyes. Of course, there are no free lunches, we were ask to make a donation. As I said, he saw us coming.
The next Hindu temple was far more modest and in use. A loud bell sounds the entrance of any worshipper, singing ensues, flicking of water over the crowd and touching of fire before hovering the hands over the face. I imagine it has to do with cleansing, but I will read up on it more before I leave hopefully.
We made it back to Jaipur to find out that I had forgotten to give the room key back to the owner of the hotel when we checked out. He was clearly moving towards trying to charge us for the room. I asked if any travellers had come and the room had been needed. It wasn't, so after an initial stink being kicked up, we were allowed to go.
Another autoricksaw and we were off to the train station for a night train to Jodhpur. Casi couldn't upgrade and so slept, literally, with the goats. The journey cost him all of a pound, when I was charged slightly closer to five, to share a cabin area with a nice French couple. The girl freaked out when I told her a mouse was running around under her bed. Though it was true, I had seen a mouse run under her bed, her boyfriend and I still had a little fun messing with her. The latter carriages however, where Casi was, can be described as the inside of a vacuum cleaner bag, when the vacuum cleaner is on. Dust swirls everywhere, goats running around, people jumping on and jumping off while the train is moving - it certainly isn't for the faint hearted. Having done 3rd Class sleeper, I'm happy to avoid the general carriage.
We arrived in Jodhpur at the unholy hour of 5:30.
dimanche 31 octobre 2010
jeudi 28 octobre 2010
Oh my Ghode!
Inside the station we decided on a game plan with which to approach the touts. I twisted Casey's arm into doing a full day at Agra, so that we could spend the afternoon visiting Fethapur Sikri, a failed capital city of the Mughal Empire 40km outside of Agra. It was something I wouldn't have been able to do by myself as it requires a taxi, but had wanted to as Anjli had highly recommended it.
We decided on RS1000 for a day taxi to the Taj Mahal, Agra Fort and Fethapur Sikri. After extended negotiations with several touts, we got RS950 from an initial price of RS1850 that they write on a small finger stained card fraying at the sides that says "Government approved prices". Yeh right.
An old rundown Tata made copy of a small Peugeot pulled up and our driver told us to jump in. Some other Indian then jumped in the passenger. Who's this chump? We were told he was our guide for the day; we didn't ask for a guide, so we're not paying for a guide.
First stop, breakfast. We stopped at a small place where we were told food is fresh i.e. we wouldn't get ill. A staple breakfast food in India in poori bhaji. Bhaji is a potato curry and Poori is a small fried bread that inflates when it hits the pan. Generally delicious. Since then, we've had it every day for breakfast/brunch.
Second stop, Taj Mahal. One of the Seven Wonders of the World and rightly so, it doesn't fail to impress. I got the usual photos - except one of me sitting on the Diana Princess of Wales bench looking miserable. Built by Mughal Emperor Shah Jehan in the mid-17th century as a mausoleum for one of his late wives, he was later imprisoned by his own son Aurengzeb in Agra Fort which Shah Jehan had tried to make into a palace. From his prison cell he could see the Taj that, from 1666, would also house his body.
We left there to be told that we were going to make a brief stop somewhere. It was a marble shop, where they inlay different types of stone to form floral and other patterns. All very expensive - two students were not their target market. They explained how they made it, but inevitably we had to let them down, so we could get on with our tour.
Third stop, Fetahpur Sikri. Or so we thought. After working our way through a labyrinth of trucks locked in traffic, the car suffered from a punctured tyre. Our young driver jumped into action. He got out the spare tyre, the lift and other tools and changed the tyre as quickly as possible as he knew we had a train to catch at 19:00 and we still had two major sites to see, not to mention lunch.
While he got on with the job, the supposed guide, Kumar, having told us nothing of any use so far, proceeded to flirt with both me and Casey. He would come up incredibly close and touch us on our forearms while he spoke. Or if handing something to us, he would make sure to make skin contact. His hands were always flicked out very slightly, and his pinkie even more so.
He told us he had a wife and two kids. I felt sorry for them; the arranged marriage system doesn't always provide the most efficient allocation of husband to wife or vice versa. The driver had joked earlier that Kumar is would like to go to San Francisco. Aware that homosexuality is somewhat of a taboo subject in India, as officially it's illegal, though unofficially the law is not enforced, it remained an inside joke between myself, Casey and the driver.
After a short stall, we made it to Fethapur Sikri. Meaning City of Victory, it was meant to be the capital of the Mughal Empire, but due to a drought in the area, failed to ever take off as a centre of population. It was pleasant to walk around because it was quiet and devoid of people and traffic. The odd unofficial guide would try to pester us - they think if they provide us with information, we will want to pay them for their services - we don't.
After another splendid, colossal size mosque called Jama Masjid - they're all called that here - we jumped back in the car to head back to Agra.
Seconds after getting in the car, another driver yells at us and points to one of our wheels. Another flat tyre. The driver pulled over at a restaurant so that we could eat while he changed the second flat of the day. We walked into the restaurant to find that it was almost full of Indians - always a good sign. We grabbed a seat, only to be ushered by a waiter into a side room, where awkwardly a Japanese woman sat with her guide. We were told it was for the AC, but there may have been a price discrimination issue, we weren't sure. Regardless we thought we would enjoy a light Masala Dosa, the South Indian food I have already mentioned.
Finally the tyre was ready and we were off. Kumar began to slowly peer his head out of the closet; it no longer was a joke between the rest of us, he was definitely involved and leading the parade. "Oh my Ghode! I will s-hing you s-hong! Nahh ahh oooh ahhh
We were asked to sing our respective national anthems. Not really knowing either the French or British one, as they're not worth knowing, I gave a poor attempt at mumble humming a medley of the two, until we burst out into the classic "America! **** Yeh!" from Team America: World Police.
Eventually Kumar popped the question, do either of us having girlfriend or boyfriend. I had my answer well prepared, but Casey wasn't so lucky.
"Love is love.
Girlfriend - Yeh
Boyfriend - Yeh
Friend - I can see where he's going with this
Brother - Woah. No I don't.
Sister - Hold up, that ain't cool
Mother - Dude!
Father - DUDE!
Dog. - Oh my ghode.
Love is Love"
Casey tried pointing out some alternative white guys on a bus. "Oh my ghode. Noo! These boys are hainky phainky. I like you, pointing at Casey suggestively, You are phowerfhul yah!". Remember, it's all a joke. Is it?
Agra Fort couldn't be any closer. We decided we wouldn't bother going. It's apparently very similar to the Red Fort at Delhi which we had both seen, so we skipped it.
The driver then said he had a few stops to make. His boss makes commission on sales made at shops the driver takes us to. We were taken to an Indian carpet emporium, where similar to the marble shop, we were shown the labourers intricately making a rug in the entrance hall - very impressive - before being taken into a large clean air conditioned room full of carpets. Again, we were not the target market for this sort of purchase. It takes a while for them to realise we're not worth pestering.
He took us to a jewellery shop where we shown all the different precious stones that they, supposedly, get from around the Agra area. Lots of very blinging Indian style rings, earrings and pendants they tried to flog by saying our girlfriends or mothers would love us. I don't think so buddy.
However, in the back they had a silk shop. I was impressed with first two Kashmir and Silk Pashminas he showed me, so I bought them. I really liked them and thought they might make some good Christmas, birthday, any time gifts for a few people. I was told I got them for a good price, but the driver would say that :Oh my Ghode! You are ghood negotiator. I whould not lhie to you!!". Yeh yeh whatever.
Downstairs was a Sitar shop, the classical Indian stringed instrument. It makes an impressively rich sound, even though the player only need play one string. I was shown how to play it and we had a little concert for our salesmen, they were certainly not impressed.
Then, he took us to, guess what? Another bloody emporium...silk...jewellery...art...etc...
Finally we were dropped off at the train station. Our long tiresome, but incredibly fun adventure was over. Now time for another sleeper train that arrived at Jaipur at midnight.
Unfortunately the air con was broken in my 2nd Class AC Sleeper compartment...it was on full blast. I curled into the foetal position and covered myself in a blanket. I wasn't going to get any sleep until Jaipur.
We decided on RS1000 for a day taxi to the Taj Mahal, Agra Fort and Fethapur Sikri. After extended negotiations with several touts, we got RS950 from an initial price of RS1850 that they write on a small finger stained card fraying at the sides that says "Government approved prices". Yeh right.
An old rundown Tata made copy of a small Peugeot pulled up and our driver told us to jump in. Some other Indian then jumped in the passenger. Who's this chump? We were told he was our guide for the day; we didn't ask for a guide, so we're not paying for a guide.
First stop, breakfast. We stopped at a small place where we were told food is fresh i.e. we wouldn't get ill. A staple breakfast food in India in poori bhaji. Bhaji is a potato curry and Poori is a small fried bread that inflates when it hits the pan. Generally delicious. Since then, we've had it every day for breakfast/brunch.
Second stop, Taj Mahal. One of the Seven Wonders of the World and rightly so, it doesn't fail to impress. I got the usual photos - except one of me sitting on the Diana Princess of Wales bench looking miserable. Built by Mughal Emperor Shah Jehan in the mid-17th century as a mausoleum for one of his late wives, he was later imprisoned by his own son Aurengzeb in Agra Fort which Shah Jehan had tried to make into a palace. From his prison cell he could see the Taj that, from 1666, would also house his body.
We left there to be told that we were going to make a brief stop somewhere. It was a marble shop, where they inlay different types of stone to form floral and other patterns. All very expensive - two students were not their target market. They explained how they made it, but inevitably we had to let them down, so we could get on with our tour.
Third stop, Fetahpur Sikri. Or so we thought. After working our way through a labyrinth of trucks locked in traffic, the car suffered from a punctured tyre. Our young driver jumped into action. He got out the spare tyre, the lift and other tools and changed the tyre as quickly as possible as he knew we had a train to catch at 19:00 and we still had two major sites to see, not to mention lunch.
While he got on with the job, the supposed guide, Kumar, having told us nothing of any use so far, proceeded to flirt with both me and Casey. He would come up incredibly close and touch us on our forearms while he spoke. Or if handing something to us, he would make sure to make skin contact. His hands were always flicked out very slightly, and his pinkie even more so.
He told us he had a wife and two kids. I felt sorry for them; the arranged marriage system doesn't always provide the most efficient allocation of husband to wife or vice versa. The driver had joked earlier that Kumar is would like to go to San Francisco. Aware that homosexuality is somewhat of a taboo subject in India, as officially it's illegal, though unofficially the law is not enforced, it remained an inside joke between myself, Casey and the driver.
After a short stall, we made it to Fethapur Sikri. Meaning City of Victory, it was meant to be the capital of the Mughal Empire, but due to a drought in the area, failed to ever take off as a centre of population. It was pleasant to walk around because it was quiet and devoid of people and traffic. The odd unofficial guide would try to pester us - they think if they provide us with information, we will want to pay them for their services - we don't.
After another splendid, colossal size mosque called Jama Masjid - they're all called that here - we jumped back in the car to head back to Agra.
Seconds after getting in the car, another driver yells at us and points to one of our wheels. Another flat tyre. The driver pulled over at a restaurant so that we could eat while he changed the second flat of the day. We walked into the restaurant to find that it was almost full of Indians - always a good sign. We grabbed a seat, only to be ushered by a waiter into a side room, where awkwardly a Japanese woman sat with her guide. We were told it was for the AC, but there may have been a price discrimination issue, we weren't sure. Regardless we thought we would enjoy a light Masala Dosa, the South Indian food I have already mentioned.
Finally the tyre was ready and we were off. Kumar began to slowly peer his head out of the closet; it no longer was a joke between the rest of us, he was definitely involved and leading the parade. "Oh my Ghode! I will s-hing you s-hong! Nahh ahh oooh ahhh
We were asked to sing our respective national anthems. Not really knowing either the French or British one, as they're not worth knowing, I gave a poor attempt at mumble humming a medley of the two, until we burst out into the classic "America! **** Yeh!" from Team America: World Police.
Eventually Kumar popped the question, do either of us having girlfriend or boyfriend. I had my answer well prepared, but Casey wasn't so lucky.
"Love is love.
Girlfriend - Yeh
Boyfriend - Yeh
Friend - I can see where he's going with this
Brother - Woah. No I don't.
Sister - Hold up, that ain't cool
Mother - Dude!
Father - DUDE!
Dog. - Oh my ghode.
Love is Love"
Casey tried pointing out some alternative white guys on a bus. "Oh my ghode. Noo! These boys are hainky phainky. I like you, pointing at Casey suggestively, You are phowerfhul yah!". Remember, it's all a joke. Is it?
Agra Fort couldn't be any closer. We decided we wouldn't bother going. It's apparently very similar to the Red Fort at Delhi which we had both seen, so we skipped it.
The driver then said he had a few stops to make. His boss makes commission on sales made at shops the driver takes us to. We were taken to an Indian carpet emporium, where similar to the marble shop, we were shown the labourers intricately making a rug in the entrance hall - very impressive - before being taken into a large clean air conditioned room full of carpets. Again, we were not the target market for this sort of purchase. It takes a while for them to realise we're not worth pestering.
He took us to a jewellery shop where we shown all the different precious stones that they, supposedly, get from around the Agra area. Lots of very blinging Indian style rings, earrings and pendants they tried to flog by saying our girlfriends or mothers would love us. I don't think so buddy.
However, in the back they had a silk shop. I was impressed with first two Kashmir and Silk Pashminas he showed me, so I bought them. I really liked them and thought they might make some good Christmas, birthday, any time gifts for a few people. I was told I got them for a good price, but the driver would say that :Oh my Ghode! You are ghood negotiator. I whould not lhie to you!!". Yeh yeh whatever.
Downstairs was a Sitar shop, the classical Indian stringed instrument. It makes an impressively rich sound, even though the player only need play one string. I was shown how to play it and we had a little concert for our salesmen, they were certainly not impressed.
Then, he took us to, guess what? Another bloody emporium...silk...jewellery...art...etc...
Finally we were dropped off at the train station. Our long tiresome, but incredibly fun adventure was over. Now time for another sleeper train that arrived at Jaipur at midnight.
Unfortunately the air con was broken in my 2nd Class AC Sleeper compartment...it was on full blast. I curled into the foetal position and covered myself in a blanket. I wasn't going to get any sleep until Jaipur.
Notes on India
Before I continue with the adventure we had in Agra, allow me to put down some contextual sub-notes on India itself.
There is no sense of private space.
You can be standing in a crowd looking at some monument and if there's half an inch of space between you and the person in front, you can be sure someone will try to step in.
Another example was at a metro station where I bought a ticket. Anyone can buy a ticket, they're cheap and plentiful, as are the trains regular and often. Nonetheless, at the counter, I get one guy stand behind me, stretch out both arms, put his left hand on the counter to my left and his right on the counter to my right; his crotch meanwhile is neatly pressed up against my backside. As soon as I was handed my ticket, is hip had slid in to fork me away.
Another example was when I got the train to Varanasi, one was required to have a reservation to get on that carriage. But that didn't stop one guy elbowing passed me, though I was the next in line, and another trying to squeeze in next to me through the one-person doorway whilst his bag found a comfortable spot under one of my left ribs.
There is no respect for public place.
On two of the last sleeper trains, I have had obnoxious and downright annoying ringtones wake me up. And in the latter case, wake up the mobile phone owner's entire family. While not use the silent option while trying to sleep? Casey says that in Brazil, where pay as you go has done quite well, the relative cost of a phone call to their income means that when a phone call comes in, it must be important. If that is the case, then why did the guy on the train to Agra, hit "do not accept call" the first two times it rang, only to give in the third time and start a conversation at stupid o'clock.
Another example is the car, motorbike and bus horns. Since there are no enforced traffic rules in India, cars, bikes, autorickshaws, buses and trucks drive how they please, often on the wrong side of the road if it seems convenient; I tell you, it's never convenient, it's ****ing scary is what it is. Indicators are rarely used, if the vehicle has any at all. So instead the horn is used to provide signal that a vehicle is approaching on either side of another. Given that the roads are busy to say the least...everywhere...it means that horns are going off constantly...everywhere. In other words, noice pollution is an incredibly costly negative externality.
Some motorbikes and buses have horns that reach into your skull and pierce the eardrum, often rattling your teeth in their sockets.
\
Everything in India is a hassle.
Crossing the street is a hassle as cars don't stop. Even if crossing a tiny back lane, a car or motorbike will pull out and stop right in front of you to answer a call or do something equally as unnecessary. Finding a decent restaurant that seems safe, but not too expensive is a hassle. Getting a train is a hassle because, even if all the electronic signs say the train is arriving on platform X at time Y, it won't. It will arrive late, potentially on a different platform. You agree a price with a rickshaw driver, and he kicks up a stink regardless when you pay him the agreed amount. Sorry dude, that's not how contract law works.
India is draining. I am starting to believe that it has an amazing history and culture, but the country is made tourist unfriendly by severe overpopulation and all the negative externalities that go with it.
There is no sense of private space.
You can be standing in a crowd looking at some monument and if there's half an inch of space between you and the person in front, you can be sure someone will try to step in.
Another example was at a metro station where I bought a ticket. Anyone can buy a ticket, they're cheap and plentiful, as are the trains regular and often. Nonetheless, at the counter, I get one guy stand behind me, stretch out both arms, put his left hand on the counter to my left and his right on the counter to my right; his crotch meanwhile is neatly pressed up against my backside. As soon as I was handed my ticket, is hip had slid in to fork me away.
Another example was when I got the train to Varanasi, one was required to have a reservation to get on that carriage. But that didn't stop one guy elbowing passed me, though I was the next in line, and another trying to squeeze in next to me through the one-person doorway whilst his bag found a comfortable spot under one of my left ribs.
There is no respect for public place.
On two of the last sleeper trains, I have had obnoxious and downright annoying ringtones wake me up. And in the latter case, wake up the mobile phone owner's entire family. While not use the silent option while trying to sleep? Casey says that in Brazil, where pay as you go has done quite well, the relative cost of a phone call to their income means that when a phone call comes in, it must be important. If that is the case, then why did the guy on the train to Agra, hit "do not accept call" the first two times it rang, only to give in the third time and start a conversation at stupid o'clock.
Another example is the car, motorbike and bus horns. Since there are no enforced traffic rules in India, cars, bikes, autorickshaws, buses and trucks drive how they please, often on the wrong side of the road if it seems convenient; I tell you, it's never convenient, it's ****ing scary is what it is. Indicators are rarely used, if the vehicle has any at all. So instead the horn is used to provide signal that a vehicle is approaching on either side of another. Given that the roads are busy to say the least...everywhere...it means that horns are going off constantly...everywhere. In other words, noice pollution is an incredibly costly negative externality.
Some motorbikes and buses have horns that reach into your skull and pierce the eardrum, often rattling your teeth in their sockets.
\
Everything in India is a hassle.
Crossing the street is a hassle as cars don't stop. Even if crossing a tiny back lane, a car or motorbike will pull out and stop right in front of you to answer a call or do something equally as unnecessary. Finding a decent restaurant that seems safe, but not too expensive is a hassle. Getting a train is a hassle because, even if all the electronic signs say the train is arriving on platform X at time Y, it won't. It will arrive late, potentially on a different platform. You agree a price with a rickshaw driver, and he kicks up a stink regardless when you pay him the agreed amount. Sorry dude, that's not how contract law works.
India is draining. I am starting to believe that it has an amazing history and culture, but the country is made tourist unfriendly by severe overpopulation and all the negative externalities that go with it.
The Long Night (Continued)
Having just met in a rush to the train, Casey and I got the novelty conversation out the way while we waited for the train manager to arrive. He had worked in London at Deutsche Bank for a short while before enrolling in a Masters in International Business in Bangkok. After almost an hour, the train manager arrived to send us to S3 - the standard sleeper class. Incidentally, this was class I was meant to have been in, so this story wouldn't have differed much had I made the train I was supposed to.
Anjli had once told me the standard sleeper class is the sort of class where I would have a bed...I might just have to get someone out of it. And sure enough, bed number 58 had a big moustached Indian man in it. I tried to grab the bed underneath, but another guy kicked up stink as it was clearly his. I bit the bullet and patted the dude on the leg "Yo, my bed!". Not the most diplomatic of introductions, but chances were, he couldn't understand anyway. He opened his eyes and I handed him my ticket. He pulled it in close to his face and squinted, then handed it back and closed his eyes. This was going to be a long night.
His friend, lying on an adjacent bed, finally got up to sort our problem. A compromise was reached where we were all happy enough. I was now in the middle bunk and Casey was on the top. This whole negotiation was conducted with two wrinkly old women, fully clothed in the traditional Indian one colour dress with a sparkly trim, complete with bangles and headscarf, both fast asleep on the bottom two bunks.
The night was spent waking up every ten minutes to look over our shoulders in case our bags were being taken. We didn't trust anyone.
Every time we did manage to get more than ten minutes sleep, a mobile phone would start ringing with some obnoxiously loud and invasive ringtone. The main perpetrator was the guy who had taken my bed; I had now pencilled him onto my black list for a quick and easy extermination.
A French guy occupied the top bunk on the other side of the passageway. Coincidentally, he had worked in the Toulouse region and had lived in Colomiers of all places. For those of you unaware, Colomiers is next to my hometown of Pibrac and where I went to school for twelve years. I've met French people everywhere.
The train finally pulled into Agra two hours late, after a much required stop for a Muslim prayer only a few stops from Agra. Casey and I were hoping to get a shared taxi with the French guy, but he disappeared half way through the night (sometime around Lucknow), as he was in the wrong carriage apparently.
The touts in Agra were waiting in anticipation for our arrival. Like zombies mindlessly pressed up against the train station gate, moaning and shouting, they wanted our wallets rather than our brains.
Anjli had once told me the standard sleeper class is the sort of class where I would have a bed...I might just have to get someone out of it. And sure enough, bed number 58 had a big moustached Indian man in it. I tried to grab the bed underneath, but another guy kicked up stink as it was clearly his. I bit the bullet and patted the dude on the leg "Yo, my bed!". Not the most diplomatic of introductions, but chances were, he couldn't understand anyway. He opened his eyes and I handed him my ticket. He pulled it in close to his face and squinted, then handed it back and closed his eyes. This was going to be a long night.
His friend, lying on an adjacent bed, finally got up to sort our problem. A compromise was reached where we were all happy enough. I was now in the middle bunk and Casey was on the top. This whole negotiation was conducted with two wrinkly old women, fully clothed in the traditional Indian one colour dress with a sparkly trim, complete with bangles and headscarf, both fast asleep on the bottom two bunks.
The night was spent waking up every ten minutes to look over our shoulders in case our bags were being taken. We didn't trust anyone.
Every time we did manage to get more than ten minutes sleep, a mobile phone would start ringing with some obnoxiously loud and invasive ringtone. The main perpetrator was the guy who had taken my bed; I had now pencilled him onto my black list for a quick and easy extermination.
A French guy occupied the top bunk on the other side of the passageway. Coincidentally, he had worked in the Toulouse region and had lived in Colomiers of all places. For those of you unaware, Colomiers is next to my hometown of Pibrac and where I went to school for twelve years. I've met French people everywhere.
The train finally pulled into Agra two hours late, after a much required stop for a Muslim prayer only a few stops from Agra. Casey and I were hoping to get a shared taxi with the French guy, but he disappeared half way through the night (sometime around Lucknow), as he was in the wrong carriage apparently.
The touts in Agra were waiting in anticipation for our arrival. Like zombies mindlessly pressed up against the train station gate, moaning and shouting, they wanted our wallets rather than our brains.
mercredi 27 octobre 2010
Lasi Varanasi (The Three Therapies)
Woke up late feeling hot around my jaw and tense in my shoulders due to the heavy night of grinding - this was going to be an angry day. As Jo had rightly pointed out, I needed to take this trip easy if I was going to survive without getting seriously ill or fatigued. Some form of therapy was rightly due; all but psychological therapy was available, so a concoction of retail, spiritual and physical would have to do.
Retail Therapy
I returned to a salesman to who I, having been pestered into his shop from the street, had promised to return the next day. Regardless of my glorious return, he didn't seem overjoyed. Nonetheless, possessed with some sort of travelling demon, I purchased the cliché backpacker's outfit: Ali Baba trousers (made of light navy blue cotton, they're baggy from the ass to the ankles with elastic at both ends and a crouch so low, a small child could hide in there) and a shirt (blue, similar in style).
Spiritual Therapy
Next, I walked along the ghats again as, having not taken my camera the first day, I thought best to return to take some photos of these filthy places of spiritual worship. Though I didn't quite bathe in the Ganges, as hygiene (and common sense) trump spiritual enlightenment, I felt taking a few photos was spiritual enough...
Physical Therapy
On my way back, I dived down a side street to avoid the gauntlet of touts, rickshaw drivers and cow pats that lined the main road. The back streets were much more relaxed, almost with a Mediterranean feel.
A child, sitting on his doorstep playfully wrestling with his dad, cheerfully said "Namaste" (hello) to me, curiously hoping I would talk back. I wondered over and talked to the kid through his dad, acting both as translator and crutch for the boy's sudden wave of crippling shyness.
I saw a few signs next to the door that said "Indian head massage" and "Full body massage". Eventually I inquired as to the price...RS 150 for a head massage...slightly too expensive I thought, especially having been offered a head, neck and shoulder massage from a beggar for RS10...so I walked away.
Then I thought screw it. You only live once. I went back, renegotiated the price for head, neck and shoulders. He seemed genuine after all.
I followed him up the steps of his front door through a first set of beads into a darkened house. He lead me to the back through several thatch door covers dangling from the ceiling. Several waves of anxiety washed over me in a few seconds leading to a heightened sense of my surroundings "What am I doing? Is this guy legit? Just do it. It'll be a good story. What if he steals my stuff, or his son does while the dude holds me down?!".
I removed my shoes and entered another darkened room with a large yoga mat on the floor. Though fearful of what could happen to my belongings while I let this guy put his hands on me, I thought it best to display confidence and trust. As such, I openly put my things down in a corner...after all, my most important items were in my money belt. Sucker!
He told me to remove my shirt and watch...and watch? I thought we agreed head, neck and shoulders, when o my arms, let alone wrists get involved? I did it nonetheless, but hid my watch in my pocket. An awkward miscommunication occurred when I couldn't understand how he wanted me to be positioned, eventually we figured out that I was meant to sit up, back facing him.
He asked if I wanted music or mantra. Yeh. Sure. Whatever. Mantra will do. What the hell is Mantra?
Then it was to begin. He stood behind me and begin to hum "ommmmmmmm", he repeated several times. At first I was skeptical, but oddly enough, I felt the vibrations of his humming from my head down to my spine.
He then cupped his hands as if holding an invisible ball or stretching out the fingers and bending the second and third knuckle of each finger...and proceeded to give me, what the Americans call, a noogie. His hands quickly moving back and forth, scratching my hand and messing up my hair. Interesting, I hope this is just the warm up. He moved down to my ears, just rubbing them in and out.
After a good 5 to 10 minutes of noogie, he moved round to massage the jaw muscles below the ear. Finally some release of the jaw breaking tension I had been feeling all day. Then down to the shoulders, where our Western masseuses would slowly push the muscles to release knots of tension, he just went full force crab pincer style, squeezing at a fast pace.
We finally discovered why the watch was removed. He proceeded to move down each arm, one after the other, giving each muscle in the arm a Chinese burn and eventually, upon reaching the hands, popping each finger almost out of its socket.
It wasn't excruciating, but it certainly wasn't pleasurable either. Regardless of the experience itself, I definitely felt more relaxed once I left. And it turned out, I was going to need it.
Stress Therapy
When I made it to the train station in plenty of time for my 18:10 train, I discovered that, due to some miscommunication somewhere along the line, my ticket was for the day before. Shit. I needed to make it to Agra that night as my train for Jaipur, left the next evening, All my tickets would be useless if I didn't get on a train that night.
Finally, the train arrived, so I ran up and down the platform completely uncertain as to what to do. My ticket didn't say a seat, carriage, time, anything? I saw a group of people surrounding a small bearded man with a printed list. This was the guy I needed to talk to. Screaming and shouting at him. Sleeper! Need a sleeper to Agra! He told me and this American dude to jump on S3.
We ran like the wind trying to beat the train. If it left, I, at least, was screwed. We jumped on. And laughed off the nervousness. Casey Kroth from Chicago was to be my co-traveler for the next few days.
More later, I unfortunately have to run to catch a train.
Retail Therapy
I returned to a salesman to who I, having been pestered into his shop from the street, had promised to return the next day. Regardless of my glorious return, he didn't seem overjoyed. Nonetheless, possessed with some sort of travelling demon, I purchased the cliché backpacker's outfit: Ali Baba trousers (made of light navy blue cotton, they're baggy from the ass to the ankles with elastic at both ends and a crouch so low, a small child could hide in there) and a shirt (blue, similar in style).
Spiritual Therapy
Next, I walked along the ghats again as, having not taken my camera the first day, I thought best to return to take some photos of these filthy places of spiritual worship. Though I didn't quite bathe in the Ganges, as hygiene (and common sense) trump spiritual enlightenment, I felt taking a few photos was spiritual enough...
Physical Therapy
On my way back, I dived down a side street to avoid the gauntlet of touts, rickshaw drivers and cow pats that lined the main road. The back streets were much more relaxed, almost with a Mediterranean feel.
A child, sitting on his doorstep playfully wrestling with his dad, cheerfully said "Namaste" (hello) to me, curiously hoping I would talk back. I wondered over and talked to the kid through his dad, acting both as translator and crutch for the boy's sudden wave of crippling shyness.
I saw a few signs next to the door that said "Indian head massage" and "Full body massage". Eventually I inquired as to the price...RS 150 for a head massage...slightly too expensive I thought, especially having been offered a head, neck and shoulder massage from a beggar for RS10...so I walked away.
Then I thought screw it. You only live once. I went back, renegotiated the price for head, neck and shoulders. He seemed genuine after all.
I followed him up the steps of his front door through a first set of beads into a darkened house. He lead me to the back through several thatch door covers dangling from the ceiling. Several waves of anxiety washed over me in a few seconds leading to a heightened sense of my surroundings "What am I doing? Is this guy legit? Just do it. It'll be a good story. What if he steals my stuff, or his son does while the dude holds me down?!".
I removed my shoes and entered another darkened room with a large yoga mat on the floor. Though fearful of what could happen to my belongings while I let this guy put his hands on me, I thought it best to display confidence and trust. As such, I openly put my things down in a corner...after all, my most important items were in my money belt. Sucker!
He told me to remove my shirt and watch...and watch? I thought we agreed head, neck and shoulders, when o my arms, let alone wrists get involved? I did it nonetheless, but hid my watch in my pocket. An awkward miscommunication occurred when I couldn't understand how he wanted me to be positioned, eventually we figured out that I was meant to sit up, back facing him.
He asked if I wanted music or mantra. Yeh. Sure. Whatever. Mantra will do. What the hell is Mantra?
Then it was to begin. He stood behind me and begin to hum "ommmmmmmm", he repeated several times. At first I was skeptical, but oddly enough, I felt the vibrations of his humming from my head down to my spine.
He then cupped his hands as if holding an invisible ball or stretching out the fingers and bending the second and third knuckle of each finger...and proceeded to give me, what the Americans call, a noogie. His hands quickly moving back and forth, scratching my hand and messing up my hair. Interesting, I hope this is just the warm up. He moved down to my ears, just rubbing them in and out.
After a good 5 to 10 minutes of noogie, he moved round to massage the jaw muscles below the ear. Finally some release of the jaw breaking tension I had been feeling all day. Then down to the shoulders, where our Western masseuses would slowly push the muscles to release knots of tension, he just went full force crab pincer style, squeezing at a fast pace.
We finally discovered why the watch was removed. He proceeded to move down each arm, one after the other, giving each muscle in the arm a Chinese burn and eventually, upon reaching the hands, popping each finger almost out of its socket.
It wasn't excruciating, but it certainly wasn't pleasurable either. Regardless of the experience itself, I definitely felt more relaxed once I left. And it turned out, I was going to need it.
Stress Therapy
When I made it to the train station in plenty of time for my 18:10 train, I discovered that, due to some miscommunication somewhere along the line, my ticket was for the day before. Shit. I needed to make it to Agra that night as my train for Jaipur, left the next evening, All my tickets would be useless if I didn't get on a train that night.
Finally, the train arrived, so I ran up and down the platform completely uncertain as to what to do. My ticket didn't say a seat, carriage, time, anything? I saw a group of people surrounding a small bearded man with a printed list. This was the guy I needed to talk to. Screaming and shouting at him. Sleeper! Need a sleeper to Agra! He told me and this American dude to jump on S3.
We ran like the wind trying to beat the train. If it left, I, at least, was screwed. We jumped on. And laughed off the nervousness. Casey Kroth from Chicago was to be my co-traveler for the next few days.
More later, I unfortunately have to run to catch a train.
dimanche 24 octobre 2010
Crasi Varanasi
I stood on the platform at New Delhi train station with, what felt like, a thousand people, most of whom were staring at the white boy with long hair. They were all lined up right against the edge of the platform, looking for the train. I thought it would be insane if I had reserved my carriage with this pushy lot, but resigned myself to the fact that that might be the case.
In fact, it wasn't at all. They were all lining up for the unreserved carriage, trying to get seats in what, must look like, a train packed so heavily, it can only be going to a refugee camp. I had to push through this line to get on my carriage. I was surprised that the others getting on my carriage were pushing and shoving so much, elbows and knees in my face, someone's bag under my rib, surely everyone getting on this carriage has a reservation? There is no personal space in India.
The train was surprisingly comfortable. A platform hanging from the ceiling was to be my bed, in a room of four bunks, curtained off from the carriage hallway. I padlocked my bag to a chain underneath the bottom bunk and hoisted myself up. A friendly japanese guy slept in the bunk under me and an older Indian couple in the adjacent bunks. As tired as I was, I couldn't have slept better: 9 hours with only one toilet break (I tried to descend stealthily in the night, avoiding faces and limbs).
The train was two hours late. Thinking it was meant to arrive at 8:40, I watched out the window attentively, waiting for a station stop. The train would slow down close to a platform and I would think "Is this it? Are we here?" every 5 minutes for two hours.
I eventually arrived in Varanasi, got an autorickshaw to the centre of the Old City and found a hostel. In the afternoon, I wanted to see my first ghat - the steps leading down into the Ganges where people wash themselves, clothes, swim, drink, enjoy a free bowel movement and cremate their dead. And wash their cows too.
This place is filthy. Cows are wondering around everywhere, shitting wherever they please. The smell of urine oscillates between fresh and stale around every corner. On my way back to the hostel last night, while trying to wind my way through the narrow streets of the old city, figuring out where I was going, trying not to get disorientated, I stepped in a big cow pat. Straight in the middle of it. I'm pretty sure I heard it fart as I sank so deep, it release air trapped deep in its pooey cavities. Luckily I could clean it up back at the hostel, thanks to a well positioned tap.
I first went to Dasaswamedh Ghat (which means Ghat where ten horses were sacrificed) to be accosted by every tout in the white man racketeering business. A friendly looking old man held out his hand, I duly shook it, but then he gripped down and wouldn't let go. I started to yell "YOOO DUDEEE! NOOT COOOLL!" and slipped my hand out of his boney grip. Everyone wanted to sell me something or take me on a boat trip...
I found a quiet corner to read my Lonely Planet book, unfortunately, it wasn't that quiet. A few kids came up trying to sell flowers and candles. Eventually a couple of guys came over, reasonably, I was quite suspicious. However, they just wanted to talk. They had never met a white person before and so were really excited to just talk to one...in fact, they told me that they can now go home to tell their friends that they met a white person! We took photos and talked for a while. They had just finished some important engineering exams and had come to Varanasi for good luck.
While I was talking to them, another guy was lurking in the back. Eventually he came closer, when the others left. He started talking and some children he knew came over. A few of them surrounded me, but I didn't feel intimidated, they were only little. However, a third one, curious as to the commotion, ran over, slipped and went teeth first into the third step on the stairs I was sitting on. He hit it so hard that his head sprang back a foot, arching his back as he regained a sense of what was happening. Naturally, I shouted "OHHH GOODD! DUDDE!" He got up immediately to come stand with the others around me. He kept grabbing his front right tooth to see if it was moving....I think it was...a bit of blood was coming out the side...his eyes swelling and arms wrapped around his head as he tried to hold back the tears.
I couldn't take all this, so I politely excused myself and started walking away. The guy who had only just started talking to me, ran after me to shake my hand. I shook it quickly out of politeness, but he then gripped down and wouldn't let me go and started giving me a hand massage. I couldn't have been more freaked out at that point. This place was insane.
A bit further on, I found a quiet spot to sit and read. I slowly walked along to Ganges the rest of the day, much less bothered by all the touts. Monsoon season having just finished, the mud on the banks goes up several metres from the water and in some places covers most of the ghat. Young workers with hoses squated down spraying water at the mud to break it off. In most place it was hard enough to walk on, but I'd rather not imagine what it's composed of.
Eventually I reached Assi Ghat, the most southern of the ghats. It's quite an impressive view of the Ganges from there, but I did feel I had just run a gauntlet of touts. Exhausted, I stopped for a drink before heading back along the streets.
On the way back, several people started talking to me. They were mostly owners of silk emporiums that wanted me to come see how it's made and to attempt to sell me some. I politely refused the first one who seemed to have an obsession with rhyming "No work, no money. No money, no honey. No honey, no funny." and "No water, no shower. Can't have a shower without power. 24 hour." ...OK.
I did however get hoisted into one emporium. The guy who owned it had lived in London for several years, so I felt a little more trust for him than for the rhyming riddler. We peered through barred windows in a dark alley to see several loons (spelling?) being used to make silk scarfs and the like. I was then taken into a shop, where I had to take off my shoes, sit down on a cushioned floor and be told everything about silk...
Among other interesting facts, he told me (though obviously this may not be true) that the fake test for silk is passing it through a ring, while the real test for silk is burning it. The more real it is, the more it smells like burnt hair. He showed me five different types of silk scarves and decorations, all very impressive, but all a little outside my price range. After a while, I broke the news that I might come back tomorrow, but I was sorry that I am only a student.
The rest of the evening was spent resting, well deserved I believe.
So far, I have found India to be a love/hate relationship, where those two feelings are held in a very unstable equilibrium. Amritsar was amazing, but Varanasi, a little too much to handle. I'm going to have to take this trip easy, if I am to survive.
In fact, it wasn't at all. They were all lining up for the unreserved carriage, trying to get seats in what, must look like, a train packed so heavily, it can only be going to a refugee camp. I had to push through this line to get on my carriage. I was surprised that the others getting on my carriage were pushing and shoving so much, elbows and knees in my face, someone's bag under my rib, surely everyone getting on this carriage has a reservation? There is no personal space in India.
The train was surprisingly comfortable. A platform hanging from the ceiling was to be my bed, in a room of four bunks, curtained off from the carriage hallway. I padlocked my bag to a chain underneath the bottom bunk and hoisted myself up. A friendly japanese guy slept in the bunk under me and an older Indian couple in the adjacent bunks. As tired as I was, I couldn't have slept better: 9 hours with only one toilet break (I tried to descend stealthily in the night, avoiding faces and limbs).
The train was two hours late. Thinking it was meant to arrive at 8:40, I watched out the window attentively, waiting for a station stop. The train would slow down close to a platform and I would think "Is this it? Are we here?" every 5 minutes for two hours.
I eventually arrived in Varanasi, got an autorickshaw to the centre of the Old City and found a hostel. In the afternoon, I wanted to see my first ghat - the steps leading down into the Ganges where people wash themselves, clothes, swim, drink, enjoy a free bowel movement and cremate their dead. And wash their cows too.
This place is filthy. Cows are wondering around everywhere, shitting wherever they please. The smell of urine oscillates between fresh and stale around every corner. On my way back to the hostel last night, while trying to wind my way through the narrow streets of the old city, figuring out where I was going, trying not to get disorientated, I stepped in a big cow pat. Straight in the middle of it. I'm pretty sure I heard it fart as I sank so deep, it release air trapped deep in its pooey cavities. Luckily I could clean it up back at the hostel, thanks to a well positioned tap.
I first went to Dasaswamedh Ghat (which means Ghat where ten horses were sacrificed) to be accosted by every tout in the white man racketeering business. A friendly looking old man held out his hand, I duly shook it, but then he gripped down and wouldn't let go. I started to yell "YOOO DUDEEE! NOOT COOOLL!" and slipped my hand out of his boney grip. Everyone wanted to sell me something or take me on a boat trip...
I found a quiet corner to read my Lonely Planet book, unfortunately, it wasn't that quiet. A few kids came up trying to sell flowers and candles. Eventually a couple of guys came over, reasonably, I was quite suspicious. However, they just wanted to talk. They had never met a white person before and so were really excited to just talk to one...in fact, they told me that they can now go home to tell their friends that they met a white person! We took photos and talked for a while. They had just finished some important engineering exams and had come to Varanasi for good luck.
While I was talking to them, another guy was lurking in the back. Eventually he came closer, when the others left. He started talking and some children he knew came over. A few of them surrounded me, but I didn't feel intimidated, they were only little. However, a third one, curious as to the commotion, ran over, slipped and went teeth first into the third step on the stairs I was sitting on. He hit it so hard that his head sprang back a foot, arching his back as he regained a sense of what was happening. Naturally, I shouted "OHHH GOODD! DUDDE!" He got up immediately to come stand with the others around me. He kept grabbing his front right tooth to see if it was moving....I think it was...a bit of blood was coming out the side...his eyes swelling and arms wrapped around his head as he tried to hold back the tears.
I couldn't take all this, so I politely excused myself and started walking away. The guy who had only just started talking to me, ran after me to shake my hand. I shook it quickly out of politeness, but he then gripped down and wouldn't let me go and started giving me a hand massage. I couldn't have been more freaked out at that point. This place was insane.
A bit further on, I found a quiet spot to sit and read. I slowly walked along to Ganges the rest of the day, much less bothered by all the touts. Monsoon season having just finished, the mud on the banks goes up several metres from the water and in some places covers most of the ghat. Young workers with hoses squated down spraying water at the mud to break it off. In most place it was hard enough to walk on, but I'd rather not imagine what it's composed of.
Eventually I reached Assi Ghat, the most southern of the ghats. It's quite an impressive view of the Ganges from there, but I did feel I had just run a gauntlet of touts. Exhausted, I stopped for a drink before heading back along the streets.
On the way back, several people started talking to me. They were mostly owners of silk emporiums that wanted me to come see how it's made and to attempt to sell me some. I politely refused the first one who seemed to have an obsession with rhyming "No work, no money. No money, no honey. No honey, no funny." and "No water, no shower. Can't have a shower without power. 24 hour." ...OK.
I did however get hoisted into one emporium. The guy who owned it had lived in London for several years, so I felt a little more trust for him than for the rhyming riddler. We peered through barred windows in a dark alley to see several loons (spelling?) being used to make silk scarfs and the like. I was then taken into a shop, where I had to take off my shoes, sit down on a cushioned floor and be told everything about silk...
Among other interesting facts, he told me (though obviously this may not be true) that the fake test for silk is passing it through a ring, while the real test for silk is burning it. The more real it is, the more it smells like burnt hair. He showed me five different types of silk scarves and decorations, all very impressive, but all a little outside my price range. After a while, I broke the news that I might come back tomorrow, but I was sorry that I am only a student.
The rest of the evening was spent resting, well deserved I believe.
So far, I have found India to be a love/hate relationship, where those two feelings are held in a very unstable equilibrium. Amritsar was amazing, but Varanasi, a little too much to handle. I'm going to have to take this trip easy, if I am to survive.
Anjelhi in Delhi
I just wanted to write a short post to thank Anjli for her hospitality. Not only did she provide me with a comfortable couch to sleep on, meals, a hot shower, access to a bottomless well of knowledge about travelling India, toilet roll, late night discussions on religion and politics in India, two peanut butter sandwiches, she also provided a feeling that I was coming home everytime I stepped out of Delhi and into her flat (it may have to do with the fact that I got a takeaway curry and sat and watched Mean Girls on Sky one evening).
The only other thing I will mention about Anjli, and this is almost purely to annoy her, is how her accent changed when she spoke to her housemate. They were talking about the water 'bheels' in the 'bheelding'; I could barely contain my laughter. Her accent hadn't changed when we spoke though which, for my amusement, was a shame.
The only other thing I will mention about Anjli, and this is almost purely to annoy her, is how her accent changed when she spoke to her housemate. They were talking about the water 'bheels' in the 'bheelding'; I could barely contain my laughter. Her accent hadn't changed when we spoke though which, for my amusement, was a shame.
Indiana Stuart and the Temple of Gold
I awoke at 6:30 having missed my alarm (because it was set to pm not am...duh), I jumped off the couch. My train was leaving in 50 minutes from the other side of town. Shit. Anjli ran out of her room "Andrew, you have to get going" she shouted. "I know! I know! I just got up!". I got dressed, brushed my teeth and jumped in a cab 15 minutes later. Luckily I made it to the train station with 10 minutes to spare...jumped on the train, found my seat and set off for Amritsar on the border with Pakistan in the district of Punjab.
On the 6 hour journey North, I sat next to an, at first, friendly, but later, belligerant Chinaman and tried to catch up on some sleep. I worried that I wouldn't get any food on the journey, so was ready to ration the cereal bar that Anjli had given me when running out the door. I couldn't have been more wrong. Firstly, they brought out cups of tea, that we would mix ourselves from a karaffe of hot water, tea bag, sugar and powered milk. Now, in all other circumstances, I hate tea (I realise I just lost a lot of readers). Mixing hot water with milk is odd enough without putting dried leaves in to stew. Given the potential lack of food, I figured I should bite the bullet and have a cup. Much to my complete and utter surprise, it was quite bearable and at times, even, pleasant. However, it was a mix of half a cup of water and a bag of sugar...so it couldn't go much wrong.
Later, again surprised, they brought out breakfast: an omelette with a few awkward peas scattered about the eggy landscape, and two soggy chips sleeping underneath. Great sustenance. I'm reminded of the Ray Mears' type programmes where the documentary's adventurer eats insects "Ughhh oh that's horrible. But a great source of protein". It was a little more civilised than that, so I was pleased.
I arrived in Amritsar late and, starting to get hungry again, jumped on the free bus to the Golden Temple. Free anything is rare in India, so I wasn't going to pass up a chance at saving a few rupees and enjoying a pushing and shoving match with the locals for a seat on a 10 minute bus (it's free for all pilgrims on their journey to the temple).
The town was underwhelming in nature, but overwhelming in how busy it was, much like Old Delhi...cars, mopeds and donkeys jutting in and out of every direction. Dropped off right at the entrance to the temple, I walked straight in and found the cloak room where everyone stores their shoes before entering the holy site. I walked barefoot across the marble floor, with festive tassles hanging from wires, all of which go the entire length of the corridor from the entrance to the main pool. I washed my feet in a small puddle like pool, reminiscent of my days swimming at the public swimming pool with school. Soggy carpets and rubber grills in three rows showed the way to the temple.
A guard with a bright orange turban, navy blue dress and a towering spear pointed to a bin and mumbled something through his bushy Sikh beard. The bin contained headscarves that all have to wear when entering the temple area. Anjli had told me a few days earlier that Obama, who is visiting on the Indian New Year, was meant to come here, but has had to cancel due to the potential domestic political and civil public relations nightmare wearing a headscarf might cause him (especially with the midterms coming up, and reelection soon after).
I descended the marble steps where, at the bottom, Sikh pilgrims touched the steps on their way up and knelt and put their faces on the ground on the way down towards the Golden Temple. In the centre of a large rectangular pool neatly sits the temple. Two storeys up, it glistens magnificantly in the sunlight. White marble arches crown the pool and two clock towers complete the organised marble forest below.
After a few second of awe, I regained the sense that I would be late for the Wagah border ceremony if I didn't have lunch soon. I rushed to the temple's cantine where, at first, one lines up to receive a silver tray with four compartments, a bowl and a spoon. Next, the crowd is ushered to the large dining hall where, along strips of carpets, one sits sideways in a single profile line, cross legged with the tray and bowl off the carpet. There can be potentially up to a thousand people in this room and it has several floors...
Sikh volunteers then shoot along the rows with a bucket of slop each, serving up at lightning speed into each tray with a large soup server. Another volunteer comes along with a basket of Chipatti, passing out two at a time to you, if you cup and hold out your hands. The meal was awesome: Dahl (lentil curry), paneer and chickpea curry and, in the evening, a very liquid rice pudding for dessert. The bowl is meant for water, but suspicious of the hygene of its origin, I opted for my bottled water instead.
One then lines up to have the plate snatched away for wash up...all of which is done for you! The wash up crew can be heard going all night, clattering steel trays and splashing soapy water...even at 4am when I awoke to catch my train. It's a colossal job and takes an army of willing pilgrims. On the way out, I saw 20 or so people chopping garlic in a cordoned off area, and 40 or so people cutting onions in another filled with what must have been 100,000s of onions. I can't help think back to food prep on the truck in Africa and our incessant internal moaning; this was quite humbling.
Aware of the time, I rushed to the entrance to find a shared taxi to the Pakistan border. Crammed into the front seat of a jeep with 8 other people, I had a good hour's drive to think about how, with my kneecaps pressed up against the dashboard, any sudden stop or collision could pop them right off. I prayed to Vishnu and Shiva who peacefully sat on the dashboard, attentively waiting for my early demise and the chance to welcome me back as a reincarnated slug for my sinful life.
The Wagah border between India and Pakistan hosts a daily ceremony at sundown to mark the closing of the border. Packed with a few thousand nationalist zealots and the odd tourist, the ceremony is a mix of a the silly walks of a Monty Python sketch, performed by the guards marching back and forth to the border gate; the ambience of a football match; and the zealotry of a revolutionary rally. The main presentor gets the crowd all rawled up by pointing at sections of the audience and then violently lifting his hands. The crowd responds with something between cheering and screaming. He constantly shouted "Hindustan" and the crowd would yell something inaudibly loud back. There was a certain arrogance in his motion and way of immediately turning around that suggested he really enjoyed the rockstar like ego boost that hosting this show gave him.
The guards, wearing a standard brown uniform, a standardised Saddam Hussein moustache and a red mohawkan headware, walked back and forth as if it was a graduation ceremony at the Ministry of Silly Walks. Even the kids laughed. One guard, I'm pretty sure, managed to kick himself in the face. Impressive, but ridiculous.
There was also, literally, a shouting match between India and Pakistan. A guard would shout and maintain a note into the microphone on the Pakistan side, then would be joined by a guard on the Indian side. They lasted an impressive length of time, but the Indian guards could never last as long as the Pakistani professional shouters.
Once back at the Golden Temple, I endeavoured to find some accommdation. I figured, while I'm here, why not do as the Sikhs do, and stayed at the temple in the pilgrims' accommodation for free (I've had no bed bug bites as yet). There's an especially designated area for non-local pilgrims, in other words, everyone was white. I only had a few hours sleep as I had to get up at 4am to catch the early train back....
I made it back to Delhi, met up with Anjli for a pleasant afternoon wondering around Khan Market, getting some last minute travel stuff, and visitning the Gandhi Smriti where he was shot and killed on 30 January 1947. In the early evening, I got the sleeper train to Varanasi where I have just arrived.
More tomorrow hopefully.
On the 6 hour journey North, I sat next to an, at first, friendly, but later, belligerant Chinaman and tried to catch up on some sleep. I worried that I wouldn't get any food on the journey, so was ready to ration the cereal bar that Anjli had given me when running out the door. I couldn't have been more wrong. Firstly, they brought out cups of tea, that we would mix ourselves from a karaffe of hot water, tea bag, sugar and powered milk. Now, in all other circumstances, I hate tea (I realise I just lost a lot of readers). Mixing hot water with milk is odd enough without putting dried leaves in to stew. Given the potential lack of food, I figured I should bite the bullet and have a cup. Much to my complete and utter surprise, it was quite bearable and at times, even, pleasant. However, it was a mix of half a cup of water and a bag of sugar...so it couldn't go much wrong.
Later, again surprised, they brought out breakfast: an omelette with a few awkward peas scattered about the eggy landscape, and two soggy chips sleeping underneath. Great sustenance. I'm reminded of the Ray Mears' type programmes where the documentary's adventurer eats insects "Ughhh oh that's horrible. But a great source of protein". It was a little more civilised than that, so I was pleased.
I arrived in Amritsar late and, starting to get hungry again, jumped on the free bus to the Golden Temple. Free anything is rare in India, so I wasn't going to pass up a chance at saving a few rupees and enjoying a pushing and shoving match with the locals for a seat on a 10 minute bus (it's free for all pilgrims on their journey to the temple).
The town was underwhelming in nature, but overwhelming in how busy it was, much like Old Delhi...cars, mopeds and donkeys jutting in and out of every direction. Dropped off right at the entrance to the temple, I walked straight in and found the cloak room where everyone stores their shoes before entering the holy site. I walked barefoot across the marble floor, with festive tassles hanging from wires, all of which go the entire length of the corridor from the entrance to the main pool. I washed my feet in a small puddle like pool, reminiscent of my days swimming at the public swimming pool with school. Soggy carpets and rubber grills in three rows showed the way to the temple.
A guard with a bright orange turban, navy blue dress and a towering spear pointed to a bin and mumbled something through his bushy Sikh beard. The bin contained headscarves that all have to wear when entering the temple area. Anjli had told me a few days earlier that Obama, who is visiting on the Indian New Year, was meant to come here, but has had to cancel due to the potential domestic political and civil public relations nightmare wearing a headscarf might cause him (especially with the midterms coming up, and reelection soon after).
I descended the marble steps where, at the bottom, Sikh pilgrims touched the steps on their way up and knelt and put their faces on the ground on the way down towards the Golden Temple. In the centre of a large rectangular pool neatly sits the temple. Two storeys up, it glistens magnificantly in the sunlight. White marble arches crown the pool and two clock towers complete the organised marble forest below.
After a few second of awe, I regained the sense that I would be late for the Wagah border ceremony if I didn't have lunch soon. I rushed to the temple's cantine where, at first, one lines up to receive a silver tray with four compartments, a bowl and a spoon. Next, the crowd is ushered to the large dining hall where, along strips of carpets, one sits sideways in a single profile line, cross legged with the tray and bowl off the carpet. There can be potentially up to a thousand people in this room and it has several floors...
Sikh volunteers then shoot along the rows with a bucket of slop each, serving up at lightning speed into each tray with a large soup server. Another volunteer comes along with a basket of Chipatti, passing out two at a time to you, if you cup and hold out your hands. The meal was awesome: Dahl (lentil curry), paneer and chickpea curry and, in the evening, a very liquid rice pudding for dessert. The bowl is meant for water, but suspicious of the hygene of its origin, I opted for my bottled water instead.
One then lines up to have the plate snatched away for wash up...all of which is done for you! The wash up crew can be heard going all night, clattering steel trays and splashing soapy water...even at 4am when I awoke to catch my train. It's a colossal job and takes an army of willing pilgrims. On the way out, I saw 20 or so people chopping garlic in a cordoned off area, and 40 or so people cutting onions in another filled with what must have been 100,000s of onions. I can't help think back to food prep on the truck in Africa and our incessant internal moaning; this was quite humbling.
Aware of the time, I rushed to the entrance to find a shared taxi to the Pakistan border. Crammed into the front seat of a jeep with 8 other people, I had a good hour's drive to think about how, with my kneecaps pressed up against the dashboard, any sudden stop or collision could pop them right off. I prayed to Vishnu and Shiva who peacefully sat on the dashboard, attentively waiting for my early demise and the chance to welcome me back as a reincarnated slug for my sinful life.
The Wagah border between India and Pakistan hosts a daily ceremony at sundown to mark the closing of the border. Packed with a few thousand nationalist zealots and the odd tourist, the ceremony is a mix of a the silly walks of a Monty Python sketch, performed by the guards marching back and forth to the border gate; the ambience of a football match; and the zealotry of a revolutionary rally. The main presentor gets the crowd all rawled up by pointing at sections of the audience and then violently lifting his hands. The crowd responds with something between cheering and screaming. He constantly shouted "Hindustan" and the crowd would yell something inaudibly loud back. There was a certain arrogance in his motion and way of immediately turning around that suggested he really enjoyed the rockstar like ego boost that hosting this show gave him.
The guards, wearing a standard brown uniform, a standardised Saddam Hussein moustache and a red mohawkan headware, walked back and forth as if it was a graduation ceremony at the Ministry of Silly Walks. Even the kids laughed. One guard, I'm pretty sure, managed to kick himself in the face. Impressive, but ridiculous.
There was also, literally, a shouting match between India and Pakistan. A guard would shout and maintain a note into the microphone on the Pakistan side, then would be joined by a guard on the Indian side. They lasted an impressive length of time, but the Indian guards could never last as long as the Pakistani professional shouters.
Once back at the Golden Temple, I endeavoured to find some accommdation. I figured, while I'm here, why not do as the Sikhs do, and stayed at the temple in the pilgrims' accommodation for free (I've had no bed bug bites as yet). There's an especially designated area for non-local pilgrims, in other words, everyone was white. I only had a few hours sleep as I had to get up at 4am to catch the early train back....
I made it back to Delhi, met up with Anjli for a pleasant afternoon wondering around Khan Market, getting some last minute travel stuff, and visitning the Gandhi Smriti where he was shot and killed on 30 January 1947. In the early evening, I got the sleeper train to Varanasi where I have just arrived.
More tomorrow hopefully.
vendredi 22 octobre 2010
Kalima! Kalima!
I flew into Mumbai midday Wednesday and transferred to the domestic airport to catch my connecting flight to Delhi. I queued in the men's security line and headed into the waiting room. Oddly enough I couldn't see my flight number, time or any related information on the few screens sprinkled around the room. I asked a guard. Not speaking any English, he mumbled something inaudible and pointed to the back of the room where people were passing manned stalls signposted with destinations - none of which were mine. I finally figured out how the system works. Instead of waiting for your flight and respective gate number to appear on a screen, you wait in front of a group of gates under your airline's banner until your destination pops up. This is where the boarding time becomes increasingly useful. Another mystery solved. Long story short, I made it to Delhi (but not without another airplane curry mmh mmmh mmmmmhh).
I got a pre-paid taxi to Anjli's office which, as she has told me before, is in fact someone's house in which they rent the top floor. I caught up on my Hindustan Times and India Today while I waited for her to finish work.
After dropping off my bags at her very nice place in South New Delhi, an area called Lajpat Nagar, we headed to the Defence Colony, a nearby neighbourhood known for housing a disproportionately large amount of expats. There, we ate South Indian food, mostly Dosas, large dry oniony pancake filled with potatoes and spice. Contained in the food was more than just a tasty concoction of spices and vegetables, but also a lesson: that South Indian food, often prepared on the spot, is consequently among the safest foods to eat in India.
We unfortunately did not get to sleep until late, because I brought up something that I had read in India Today about a recent Indian High Court ruling dividing the Ayodhyah religious place in three (two sects Hindu and one part Muslim). The magazine praised the maturity of the three judges and how far India has come since Independence and the tensions with Pakistan and its Muslim inhabitants. However, that's only half the story...
It starts sometime in 2nd and 3rd century BC when Valmiki wrote one of the major texts of Hinduism, known as the Ramayana. In it, he stipulates that Lord Rama, son of the childless king of Ayodhyah, was born as his only boy...and incidentally, an incarnation of Vishnu (the recognisable Elephant headed God)...come to rid the Earth of the demon king Lanka. Eventually, Rama, with the help of his trusty sidekick Hanuman (the loyal monkey God), defeated Lanka (in Sri Lanka no less) and headed home to Ayodhyah, his path lit by candles, and eventually arrived home on Diwali (the festival of light) which has been celebrated ever since. His importance in Hinduism should not be underestimated.
Flip to the 16th century. The Mughal empire imports the Abrahamic religion of Islam and builds a mosque, Babri Masjid, in the vicinity of Lord Rama's supposed birthplace.
Flip ahead to the 6th of December 1992. Hindu zealots surround Babri Masjid and eventually destroyed it. Riots break out all over India, especially in Mumbai, both Hindus against Muslims and vice versa. I imagine that the scene in Slumdog Millionaire, when the young protagonist and his brother watch their mother die during a Hindu attack on their slum, is based off these riots, especially since Rama makes an appearance as a little kid covered in blue paint (Rama does have a very distinctive colour). In 2002, a train in Gujarat was destroyed along with its 52 Hindu activist passengers who subsequently burned to death...
Flip to the present day. After a long and drawn out High Court case, the judges made their decision to split the land...mature indeed...but not without accepting in their ratio, that Lord Rama was born on that spot. Lack of separation between Church and State is potentially at it's least comfortable here. Anyway, we stayed up late talking about religion!
Having woken up very late, I headed to India Gate, a WWI memorial in the centre of Delhi. I then walked to Purana Qila, built by Sher Shan, who briefly defeated Humayun (of the Mughal empire), but later suffered a similar fate at Humayun's hand. The Persian design fails to escape the limits of local resources in that the red sandstone and marble were mostly available at the time, but it creates an idiosyncratic mix of Persian and Indian influence showing the chronological sediments left by each influential empire to have passed through the region. I continued on to Humayun's tomb which has a very similar archelogical history and in fact, was the basis for the Taj Mahal. By that point, it was already getting quite late so I headed to Lodi garden where I met Anjli.
A short nightime walk around Lodi garden reveals plenty of couples sitting silently under a tree, on a bench or walking hand in hand. Anjli told me that, since both men and women live with their parents until married, pre-marital sexual activity is frowned upon and difficult to hide, so Lodi park becomes the Hamstead Heath of Delhi....only with a more heterosexual orientation.
We had a very filling dinner on Connaught Place, a large roundabout with some of Delhi's main shops, then stomachs full and cramping, we did the unmissable walk from India Gate to the President's Residence and Parliament along Rajpath.
Waking up late...again...I finally got my ass to the New Delhi train station to book my train tickets for the next week. I took the metro which was a welcome break from the autorickshaws (a mode of transport which I believe deserves a post of its own) and attempted to head to the first floor where, according to my Lonely Planet guide, the International Tourist Bureau should be. Unfortunately I was on the wrong side of the station and worst of all, I didn't know it. I wondered back and forth, being the only white guy there, I was sure this was wrong. A guy at the gate told me that it used to be upstairs, but it's closed...LIES I told him. Unsurprisingly, he was insulted. I had been told that I would be told rubbish by tickets touts, so my guard was up, potentially more so than it needed to be.
Eventually I found the Tourist Facilitation Office - hmm that doesn't sound right - they said to go to platform 1. I crossed the bridge across 16 platforms. If you haven't walked across 16 platforms worth of bridge, try it, it's a suspiciously long route. Nothing useful on platform 1. Confused. Lost. Annoyed. Oh wait, a sign! The tourist office! But where? There's no arrow. Angry. Walk around for another 30 minutes. Outside. Inside. Livid. Demoralised. Finally I found it. Having not had breakfast, it had 14:00 and I. was. hungry. I sorted my tickets as quickly as possible, jumped on a pre-paid autorickshaw and headed to Jama Masjid.
Opposite India's largest mosque is a labrynth of alleyways littered with shops, restaurants and what felt like the entirety of the population of India. Karim's is a famous restaurant, right at the entrance, where they have recipes from the Mughal empire that have been passed down from generation to generation and landing in this 1913 established restaurant. I ordered a Butter Chicken curry and a Plain Naan and stuffed my face. Though it's customary to eat with your hands in India, and I did (and do), I probably erred on the side of disgusting Western pig. I was too hungry to wait.
Jama Masjid was an impressively large mosque. And the Red Fort behind it was also worth seeing, again built as part of Mughal Empire by Aurangzeb, it's what it says in the name...a red fort.
I made my way through Old Delhi, which was more than an assault on the senses, a sensicide if you permit, where dichotomous smells fill your nostrils and slap your face: petrol fumes and frying oil, sweat and jasmine perfume, rotting carcasses and spiced panni puri. The air was incredibly rich, but muggy and damp. The streets were alive with more life than the bacteria filled mouth of a bottom feeder. Old Delhi is an experience not to be missed.
Anjli had recommended I go to Hazram Nizrat close to Humayun's Tomb on Thursday night as the shrine becomes lively with dance and music around sunset. I made my way through more backstreets that got thinner and more crowded as I went deeper into this urban religious crypt. Drums a blazing, singers a moaning and plenty of pilgrims a praying to a central shrine on which they would place small fuschia petals on a tomb inside, I stayed only briefly.
I finally made it back to Anjli's after a long day. She got dressed for her big night at a party starring none other than India superstar Amitabh Bachchan. I got a takeaway curry from the Haldiram's next door (essentially a McCurry) and watched Mean Girls. I am not ashamed.
I got a pre-paid taxi to Anjli's office which, as she has told me before, is in fact someone's house in which they rent the top floor. I caught up on my Hindustan Times and India Today while I waited for her to finish work.
After dropping off my bags at her very nice place in South New Delhi, an area called Lajpat Nagar, we headed to the Defence Colony, a nearby neighbourhood known for housing a disproportionately large amount of expats. There, we ate South Indian food, mostly Dosas, large dry oniony pancake filled with potatoes and spice. Contained in the food was more than just a tasty concoction of spices and vegetables, but also a lesson: that South Indian food, often prepared on the spot, is consequently among the safest foods to eat in India.
We unfortunately did not get to sleep until late, because I brought up something that I had read in India Today about a recent Indian High Court ruling dividing the Ayodhyah religious place in three (two sects Hindu and one part Muslim). The magazine praised the maturity of the three judges and how far India has come since Independence and the tensions with Pakistan and its Muslim inhabitants. However, that's only half the story...
It starts sometime in 2nd and 3rd century BC when Valmiki wrote one of the major texts of Hinduism, known as the Ramayana. In it, he stipulates that Lord Rama, son of the childless king of Ayodhyah, was born as his only boy...and incidentally, an incarnation of Vishnu (the recognisable Elephant headed God)...come to rid the Earth of the demon king Lanka. Eventually, Rama, with the help of his trusty sidekick Hanuman (the loyal monkey God), defeated Lanka (in Sri Lanka no less) and headed home to Ayodhyah, his path lit by candles, and eventually arrived home on Diwali (the festival of light) which has been celebrated ever since. His importance in Hinduism should not be underestimated.
Flip to the 16th century. The Mughal empire imports the Abrahamic religion of Islam and builds a mosque, Babri Masjid, in the vicinity of Lord Rama's supposed birthplace.
Flip ahead to the 6th of December 1992. Hindu zealots surround Babri Masjid and eventually destroyed it. Riots break out all over India, especially in Mumbai, both Hindus against Muslims and vice versa. I imagine that the scene in Slumdog Millionaire, when the young protagonist and his brother watch their mother die during a Hindu attack on their slum, is based off these riots, especially since Rama makes an appearance as a little kid covered in blue paint (Rama does have a very distinctive colour). In 2002, a train in Gujarat was destroyed along with its 52 Hindu activist passengers who subsequently burned to death...
Flip to the present day. After a long and drawn out High Court case, the judges made their decision to split the land...mature indeed...but not without accepting in their ratio, that Lord Rama was born on that spot. Lack of separation between Church and State is potentially at it's least comfortable here. Anyway, we stayed up late talking about religion!
Having woken up very late, I headed to India Gate, a WWI memorial in the centre of Delhi. I then walked to Purana Qila, built by Sher Shan, who briefly defeated Humayun (of the Mughal empire), but later suffered a similar fate at Humayun's hand. The Persian design fails to escape the limits of local resources in that the red sandstone and marble were mostly available at the time, but it creates an idiosyncratic mix of Persian and Indian influence showing the chronological sediments left by each influential empire to have passed through the region. I continued on to Humayun's tomb which has a very similar archelogical history and in fact, was the basis for the Taj Mahal. By that point, it was already getting quite late so I headed to Lodi garden where I met Anjli.
A short nightime walk around Lodi garden reveals plenty of couples sitting silently under a tree, on a bench or walking hand in hand. Anjli told me that, since both men and women live with their parents until married, pre-marital sexual activity is frowned upon and difficult to hide, so Lodi park becomes the Hamstead Heath of Delhi....only with a more heterosexual orientation.
We had a very filling dinner on Connaught Place, a large roundabout with some of Delhi's main shops, then stomachs full and cramping, we did the unmissable walk from India Gate to the President's Residence and Parliament along Rajpath.
Waking up late...again...I finally got my ass to the New Delhi train station to book my train tickets for the next week. I took the metro which was a welcome break from the autorickshaws (a mode of transport which I believe deserves a post of its own) and attempted to head to the first floor where, according to my Lonely Planet guide, the International Tourist Bureau should be. Unfortunately I was on the wrong side of the station and worst of all, I didn't know it. I wondered back and forth, being the only white guy there, I was sure this was wrong. A guy at the gate told me that it used to be upstairs, but it's closed...LIES I told him. Unsurprisingly, he was insulted. I had been told that I would be told rubbish by tickets touts, so my guard was up, potentially more so than it needed to be.
Eventually I found the Tourist Facilitation Office - hmm that doesn't sound right - they said to go to platform 1. I crossed the bridge across 16 platforms. If you haven't walked across 16 platforms worth of bridge, try it, it's a suspiciously long route. Nothing useful on platform 1. Confused. Lost. Annoyed. Oh wait, a sign! The tourist office! But where? There's no arrow. Angry. Walk around for another 30 minutes. Outside. Inside. Livid. Demoralised. Finally I found it. Having not had breakfast, it had 14:00 and I. was. hungry. I sorted my tickets as quickly as possible, jumped on a pre-paid autorickshaw and headed to Jama Masjid.
Opposite India's largest mosque is a labrynth of alleyways littered with shops, restaurants and what felt like the entirety of the population of India. Karim's is a famous restaurant, right at the entrance, where they have recipes from the Mughal empire that have been passed down from generation to generation and landing in this 1913 established restaurant. I ordered a Butter Chicken curry and a Plain Naan and stuffed my face. Though it's customary to eat with your hands in India, and I did (and do), I probably erred on the side of disgusting Western pig. I was too hungry to wait.
Jama Masjid was an impressively large mosque. And the Red Fort behind it was also worth seeing, again built as part of Mughal Empire by Aurangzeb, it's what it says in the name...a red fort.
I made my way through Old Delhi, which was more than an assault on the senses, a sensicide if you permit, where dichotomous smells fill your nostrils and slap your face: petrol fumes and frying oil, sweat and jasmine perfume, rotting carcasses and spiced panni puri. The air was incredibly rich, but muggy and damp. The streets were alive with more life than the bacteria filled mouth of a bottom feeder. Old Delhi is an experience not to be missed.
Anjli had recommended I go to Hazram Nizrat close to Humayun's Tomb on Thursday night as the shrine becomes lively with dance and music around sunset. I made my way through more backstreets that got thinner and more crowded as I went deeper into this urban religious crypt. Drums a blazing, singers a moaning and plenty of pilgrims a praying to a central shrine on which they would place small fuschia petals on a tomb inside, I stayed only briefly.
I finally made it back to Anjli's after a long day. She got dressed for her big night at a party starring none other than India superstar Amitabh Bachchan. I got a takeaway curry from the Haldiram's next door (essentially a McCurry) and watched Mean Girls. I am not ashamed.
mercredi 20 octobre 2010
Apologies for the intermission
For the few that actually follow this blog religiously and for the many that occasionally browse through this if news.bbc.co.uk or theonion.com are having a slow day, I apologise for the delay. A lot has happened in this brief intermission, not all of which is worth writing about.
Firstly, the Africa leg of this adventure. After starting to feel better from my truck-stopping stomach bug, I attended the final night party at a hostel up the road from the campsite...only to find myself projectile vomiting into the bushes what little food I thought I had made progress with.
Though I had cancelled white water for a different coloured water rafting, I still attended the walking with elephants and walking with lions activities. The lions were hypnotic; I was mentally subdued by their marble eyes, massive paws and sheer force. We walked with them, petted them, had our photos taken with them; it was surreal to say the least.
The elephants were a different matter. They're incredibly charming animals because those colossal, they have strong family bonds and a slow playful manner. I sat on young male called Malasha, who was found either in or around a coal mine (Malasha meaning coal, but the story getting lost in translation between me and my guide who rode with me). We walked around a small safari park, while our guides told us about the elephants' lifestyles and stories. Everyone had a great time, except for me. My guide was whacking Malasha over the head with this metal pole, ending in a hook, every time he went slightly off track or wanted to stop to eat a stick. Eventually I said something and, fearing he was going to lose his tip, my guide refrained from beating the 9 year old elephant.
Finally my last day arrived, I packed up my tent for the last time, crossed the border to Zambia and flew home - watching every film available on the plane...including an hour and a half documentary by Chris Rock on African-American women's hair. What are their secrets you ask? In short, sodium hydroxide which straightens hair, but if breathed in can cause irreparable damage to the lungs, and weaves made of Indian hair sown into a net. Sorry Oprah, your secret is out.
If Africa was the worst of times, then home was the best of times. It was a short story in lethargic indulgence and unnecessary extravagance. However, I was not there for a long. Within a week I was back to the UK for a short stop before jumping on a Jet Airways flight to Mumbai, India (but not before seeing The Social Network, the latest film by Aaron Sorkin, award winning writer of West Wing, David Fincher, director of Flight Club and Seven, and produced by Kevin Spacey, about the rise of Facebook co-founder Mark Zuckerburg, already tipped to do well at the next oscars i.e. it's an awesome film, worthy of two hours of your time).
Firstly, the Africa leg of this adventure. After starting to feel better from my truck-stopping stomach bug, I attended the final night party at a hostel up the road from the campsite...only to find myself projectile vomiting into the bushes what little food I thought I had made progress with.
Though I had cancelled white water for a different coloured water rafting, I still attended the walking with elephants and walking with lions activities. The lions were hypnotic; I was mentally subdued by their marble eyes, massive paws and sheer force. We walked with them, petted them, had our photos taken with them; it was surreal to say the least.
The elephants were a different matter. They're incredibly charming animals because those colossal, they have strong family bonds and a slow playful manner. I sat on young male called Malasha, who was found either in or around a coal mine (Malasha meaning coal, but the story getting lost in translation between me and my guide who rode with me). We walked around a small safari park, while our guides told us about the elephants' lifestyles and stories. Everyone had a great time, except for me. My guide was whacking Malasha over the head with this metal pole, ending in a hook, every time he went slightly off track or wanted to stop to eat a stick. Eventually I said something and, fearing he was going to lose his tip, my guide refrained from beating the 9 year old elephant.
Finally my last day arrived, I packed up my tent for the last time, crossed the border to Zambia and flew home - watching every film available on the plane...including an hour and a half documentary by Chris Rock on African-American women's hair. What are their secrets you ask? In short, sodium hydroxide which straightens hair, but if breathed in can cause irreparable damage to the lungs, and weaves made of Indian hair sown into a net. Sorry Oprah, your secret is out.
If Africa was the worst of times, then home was the best of times. It was a short story in lethargic indulgence and unnecessary extravagance. However, I was not there for a long. Within a week I was back to the UK for a short stop before jumping on a Jet Airways flight to Mumbai, India (but not before seeing The Social Network, the latest film by Aaron Sorkin, award winning writer of West Wing, David Fincher, director of Flight Club and Seven, and produced by Kevin Spacey, about the rise of Facebook co-founder Mark Zuckerburg, already tipped to do well at the next oscars i.e. it's an awesome film, worthy of two hours of your time).
samedi 2 octobre 2010
Victoria Falls
12:00 am: Toilet and immodium.
3:00 am: Toilet and immodium.
6:00 am: Toilet and immodium.
8:00 am: Toilet and immodium straight after breakfast.
It wasn't just my stomach that was waking me up. The camp site is opposite Blue Zulu, the local club in Victoria Falls. They pumped out the usual hits (including Rihanna's song about being beaten by Chris Brown, which was subsequently stuck in my head the whole day) and pumped out the usual ruffians, fighting not 30 metres from where we sleeping (or not) in their inebriated reenactment of fight club.
Everyone went off early to do white water rafting on the Zambezi river which Victoria Falls is a part of. Luke, Robin, Mark, Christina and myself having held back, spent a lovely relaxed day seeing the Zimbabwe side of the falls. One of the seven natural wonders of the world, it has an amazing 1088 cubic metres of water flowing over it every second and you can feel its power. The spray lifts up into the air like the rain that's going the wrong ( I couldn't help think of Forrest Gump when he describes all the different rains in Vietnam "and rain that comes up straight up at ya!"). We spent four hours walking and taking photos. I got a few "money shots' the falls pumping with a rainbow below.
It's amazing to think that the crevice the falls flow changes periodically, as there are layers of volcanic rock underneath the river that give way. This causes the falls to move back along the river, and the crevice formed by the old falls to become part of the lower end of the river. An aerial shot reveals that falls is on its ninth cliff, all the others zigzag in front of it allowing the river to eventually flow out (this is where people go white water rafting).
That night we had planned a leaving dinner as technically it was the last night for all those leaving at Vic falls. We had all given $5 dollars on the truck to buy food, hopefully a pig for a spit roast, unavailable we settled for goat. Though knackered from our walk, but having held lunch in, I offered to help for dinner - selfishly I hoped that my sickness would be my get out jail free card, but fearless of my stomach bug, they needed the help.
It ended up only being three of us to prepare all the potatoes, pumpkin, beans, corn and garlic bread. Catherine, the older Australian woman (whose common sense I can't say I trust after she took her malaria tablet on an empty stomach, despite numerous warnings, and is now in hospital after petting a lion this morning, despite being told not to - the lion jumped up and hugged her ripping her shirt and scratching her stomach - she's fine and laughing) was leading us. Shawna, one of the Canadian girls who since resting in Zanzibar has redeemed herself (as has the other Canadian) and I were sous-chefs. We were there for a good few hours while others happily walked by - I couldn't believe it. Did they want to eat?
The boys arrived with the meat and got it on the bbq. Somehow we pulled off the meal. I collapsed in my tent out of exhaustion and only managed to get down a bit of a meat and a potato. The others appreciated our work and so did all the washing up. In the end, it was quite a tasty meal.
I finally got a full night's sleep that night.
3:00 am: Toilet and immodium.
6:00 am: Toilet and immodium.
8:00 am: Toilet and immodium straight after breakfast.
It wasn't just my stomach that was waking me up. The camp site is opposite Blue Zulu, the local club in Victoria Falls. They pumped out the usual hits (including Rihanna's song about being beaten by Chris Brown, which was subsequently stuck in my head the whole day) and pumped out the usual ruffians, fighting not 30 metres from where we sleeping (or not) in their inebriated reenactment of fight club.
Everyone went off early to do white water rafting on the Zambezi river which Victoria Falls is a part of. Luke, Robin, Mark, Christina and myself having held back, spent a lovely relaxed day seeing the Zimbabwe side of the falls. One of the seven natural wonders of the world, it has an amazing 1088 cubic metres of water flowing over it every second and you can feel its power. The spray lifts up into the air like the rain that's going the wrong ( I couldn't help think of Forrest Gump when he describes all the different rains in Vietnam "and rain that comes up straight up at ya!"). We spent four hours walking and taking photos. I got a few "money shots' the falls pumping with a rainbow below.
It's amazing to think that the crevice the falls flow changes periodically, as there are layers of volcanic rock underneath the river that give way. This causes the falls to move back along the river, and the crevice formed by the old falls to become part of the lower end of the river. An aerial shot reveals that falls is on its ninth cliff, all the others zigzag in front of it allowing the river to eventually flow out (this is where people go white water rafting).
That night we had planned a leaving dinner as technically it was the last night for all those leaving at Vic falls. We had all given $5 dollars on the truck to buy food, hopefully a pig for a spit roast, unavailable we settled for goat. Though knackered from our walk, but having held lunch in, I offered to help for dinner - selfishly I hoped that my sickness would be my get out jail free card, but fearless of my stomach bug, they needed the help.
It ended up only being three of us to prepare all the potatoes, pumpkin, beans, corn and garlic bread. Catherine, the older Australian woman (whose common sense I can't say I trust after she took her malaria tablet on an empty stomach, despite numerous warnings, and is now in hospital after petting a lion this morning, despite being told not to - the lion jumped up and hugged her ripping her shirt and scratching her stomach - she's fine and laughing) was leading us. Shawna, one of the Canadian girls who since resting in Zanzibar has redeemed herself (as has the other Canadian) and I were sous-chefs. We were there for a good few hours while others happily walked by - I couldn't believe it. Did they want to eat?
The boys arrived with the meat and got it on the bbq. Somehow we pulled off the meal. I collapsed in my tent out of exhaustion and only managed to get down a bit of a meat and a potato. The others appreciated our work and so did all the washing up. In the end, it was quite a tasty meal.
I finally got a full night's sleep that night.
Kande Beach to Victoria Falls
Day 1.
Unsurprisingly we were up early to leave by 6:00. A few hours later we stopped in Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi, to have lunch. Normally, we stop on the side of the road and everyone pitches in with the setting up of the washing up bowls, tables and food prep for a good summetime salad style lunch. Ruth had decided that today we were going to be given money to buy our own food...especially because everyone goes crazy for the first Nando's they've seen in 4 to 6 weeks (a chicken restaurant that is much like the Ikea of fast food joints - the décor is great, but quality is often perishable). Since everyone was eating there, I thought best not to leave the group. So I loaded up on chicken and chips, much to my stomach's disdain. The lack of bowel inertia was starting to kick in, along with the subsequent frustration.
Everyone wanted to buy snacks (I find everyone buys a lot of dairy milk chocolate, though I never see them eat it and it's incredibly hot on the truck, it must melt. Mystery!). I decided I would quickly use the internet to get started, if not finish, the post on charity that I only just managed to finish above. I was only using the internet for 20 minutes given Ruth's warning "if you don't get back to the bus at 13:30, we're leaving without you" (add brummie accent for extra comedy value). The woman at reception tried to charge me for an hour saying I had been there since 12:27 - what bollocks. I insisted I would pay no more than for 30 minutes, which was 10 minutes than what I had done anyway. I made it back to Nando's, everyone was there, so I dumped my stuff to quickly attempt a toilet break before our next long journey.
When I got out, everyone was gone. Shitting myself (only figuratively unfortunately), I ran to the petrol station where we were initially dropped off. No one there. I ran back to the shopping centre knowing that Ruth had said we would meet there at 13h30. I realised there was a parking lot round the back, so ran around there to find the last few people jumping on the truck. Close call.
We crossed the border into Zambia and headed to camp at Chipata.
Day 2:
Mostly uneventful day. I finally finished my Israel-Palestine book and started my Africa book.
Unfortunately the brick like lack of inertia that gripped my intestines was stubbornly unwilling to let up, even by the end of the day. I had a light salad for dinner, starting not to feel well.
Day 3:
This day started earlier than usual. Not because of Ruth's militant training camp wake ups, but because of an alarm bell in my stomach. At 3:00 am, I was running across camp in the dark to the toilet. At 5:00 am we were all up to pack up our tents and get moving. I was feeling quite under the weather by then and couldn't eat breakfast. This was to be the longest day of my life.
We were on the truck for a few good hours before someone asked to stop for a toilet break. Teasing me, the driver slowed down to snail's pace, but didn't stop for a few kilometres. Finally he stopped. Pale as a sheet, I had to do what I had dreaded doing for the entire 21 day trip: ask for the trowel (for those who are unaware of what this means, it's for a digging a hole when on a bush based toilet break...).
I ran out into the bush as far as I could to find a mound behind which to hide. On my hands and knees, I stabbed the ground with the trowel with what little energy desperation could muster. The stone and solid dirt made it impossible to dig, I was barely removing the dust from the surface. In utter desperation, I gave up. Painfully and embarrassingly getting on with [explicit content removed] only to realise that, though I was out of the way of the truck, any other passerby could have a clear view at a Mzungu's full moon.
Given the way the activities are discounted, I had long decided to do 3 activities at Victoria Falls including white water rafting which was meant to be the next day. Though I won't go into any detail on the viscosity of it, I will say this: when you can't tell, even after thorough investigation, what's coming out of where, you know you won't be white water rafting the next day.
Everyone was really kind on the truck. Two people moved so I could have a full four seats to sleep on. A few people offered and help provide medicine. And two lovely girls did their best to cheer me up including a hug which, despite my usual coldness to touchiness, was desperately needed.
Along the way, my head was smacked thrice. Once against the bin being lifted over my head, once against the table in the front, once on the way out of the truck. I provided some comedy for everyone when a ketchup packet lodged into the side of the table exploded, when truck slammed on the breaks, all over my face and pillow rudely awakening me from my sleep. I was covered in ketchup, but had no idea what it was or where it came from. It took us a while to solve that mystery.
Eventually we made it to Livingstone, not far from Victoria Falls or the border to Zimbabwe. Stopping at Spar for more snacks and money, I went looking for salted crisps in a zombie like daze. Ridiculously enough, they had every flavour under the sun except salted. Oh well.
We decided to pay the $20 to see the Zambian side to the falls. Ruth told us that we would get soaked going over the bridge - what rubbish. The view was incredible, but having had no breakfast or lunch and relieved myself of all other meals, I found it a tough walk lacking all energy.
We crossed the border and set up camp in Zimbabwe to finally end the longest day ever. Having my traveller's cheques since Nairobi, I was finally allowed to use to pay for activities with 0% commission. I paid for as many people as I could to get rid of them, spending a good hour signing, dating and writing my address and passport number.
One slice of toast for dinner, several immodium and some rehydration salt sachets later I made it to bed.
Unsurprisingly we were up early to leave by 6:00. A few hours later we stopped in Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi, to have lunch. Normally, we stop on the side of the road and everyone pitches in with the setting up of the washing up bowls, tables and food prep for a good summetime salad style lunch. Ruth had decided that today we were going to be given money to buy our own food...especially because everyone goes crazy for the first Nando's they've seen in 4 to 6 weeks (a chicken restaurant that is much like the Ikea of fast food joints - the décor is great, but quality is often perishable). Since everyone was eating there, I thought best not to leave the group. So I loaded up on chicken and chips, much to my stomach's disdain. The lack of bowel inertia was starting to kick in, along with the subsequent frustration.
Everyone wanted to buy snacks (I find everyone buys a lot of dairy milk chocolate, though I never see them eat it and it's incredibly hot on the truck, it must melt. Mystery!). I decided I would quickly use the internet to get started, if not finish, the post on charity that I only just managed to finish above. I was only using the internet for 20 minutes given Ruth's warning "if you don't get back to the bus at 13:30, we're leaving without you" (add brummie accent for extra comedy value). The woman at reception tried to charge me for an hour saying I had been there since 12:27 - what bollocks. I insisted I would pay no more than for 30 minutes, which was 10 minutes than what I had done anyway. I made it back to Nando's, everyone was there, so I dumped my stuff to quickly attempt a toilet break before our next long journey.
When I got out, everyone was gone. Shitting myself (only figuratively unfortunately), I ran to the petrol station where we were initially dropped off. No one there. I ran back to the shopping centre knowing that Ruth had said we would meet there at 13h30. I realised there was a parking lot round the back, so ran around there to find the last few people jumping on the truck. Close call.
We crossed the border into Zambia and headed to camp at Chipata.
Day 2:
Mostly uneventful day. I finally finished my Israel-Palestine book and started my Africa book.
Unfortunately the brick like lack of inertia that gripped my intestines was stubbornly unwilling to let up, even by the end of the day. I had a light salad for dinner, starting not to feel well.
Day 3:
This day started earlier than usual. Not because of Ruth's militant training camp wake ups, but because of an alarm bell in my stomach. At 3:00 am, I was running across camp in the dark to the toilet. At 5:00 am we were all up to pack up our tents and get moving. I was feeling quite under the weather by then and couldn't eat breakfast. This was to be the longest day of my life.
We were on the truck for a few good hours before someone asked to stop for a toilet break. Teasing me, the driver slowed down to snail's pace, but didn't stop for a few kilometres. Finally he stopped. Pale as a sheet, I had to do what I had dreaded doing for the entire 21 day trip: ask for the trowel (for those who are unaware of what this means, it's for a digging a hole when on a bush based toilet break...).
I ran out into the bush as far as I could to find a mound behind which to hide. On my hands and knees, I stabbed the ground with the trowel with what little energy desperation could muster. The stone and solid dirt made it impossible to dig, I was barely removing the dust from the surface. In utter desperation, I gave up. Painfully and embarrassingly getting on with [explicit content removed] only to realise that, though I was out of the way of the truck, any other passerby could have a clear view at a Mzungu's full moon.
Given the way the activities are discounted, I had long decided to do 3 activities at Victoria Falls including white water rafting which was meant to be the next day. Though I won't go into any detail on the viscosity of it, I will say this: when you can't tell, even after thorough investigation, what's coming out of where, you know you won't be white water rafting the next day.
Everyone was really kind on the truck. Two people moved so I could have a full four seats to sleep on. A few people offered and help provide medicine. And two lovely girls did their best to cheer me up including a hug which, despite my usual coldness to touchiness, was desperately needed.
Along the way, my head was smacked thrice. Once against the bin being lifted over my head, once against the table in the front, once on the way out of the truck. I provided some comedy for everyone when a ketchup packet lodged into the side of the table exploded, when truck slammed on the breaks, all over my face and pillow rudely awakening me from my sleep. I was covered in ketchup, but had no idea what it was or where it came from. It took us a while to solve that mystery.
Eventually we made it to Livingstone, not far from Victoria Falls or the border to Zimbabwe. Stopping at Spar for more snacks and money, I went looking for salted crisps in a zombie like daze. Ridiculously enough, they had every flavour under the sun except salted. Oh well.
We decided to pay the $20 to see the Zambian side to the falls. Ruth told us that we would get soaked going over the bridge - what rubbish. The view was incredible, but having had no breakfast or lunch and relieved myself of all other meals, I found it a tough walk lacking all energy.
We crossed the border and set up camp in Zimbabwe to finally end the longest day ever. Having my traveller's cheques since Nairobi, I was finally allowed to use to pay for activities with 0% commission. I paid for as many people as I could to get rid of them, spending a good hour signing, dating and writing my address and passport number.
One slice of toast for dinner, several immodium and some rehydration salt sachets later I made it to bed.
Why the French maid was disgusted
I mentioned that I would talk about the orphanage later, I wanted to combine it with another similar experience: the walk around the school and hospital at Kande beach.
Regarding the facts, Ruth organised for us to go to an orphanage that she, when on her first trip to Africa, stumbled upon and ever since has been involved with. She took us there to give books, pens, clothes, money, whatever people wish to spare as donations. The kids sang us songs and everyone played with them (except myself), we saw their dorms, chicken coops, etc...
Ruth said that "we could take photos and interact with the children". I personally found that incredible insulting to the children and patronising to us. The children aren't animals. They've lots their parents. Everyone else was happy to play with them, take photos, etc... but I wouldn't because I was quite overwhelmed with emotion. It was as if we were tourists at zoo for children without parents. It felt disgusting.
Secondly, I was overwhelmed with the sadness of fact that a child would not have parents and potentially a full, happy, innocent and carefree childhood. Unfortunately, that is inevitable.
Thirdly, I didn't have anything to give which made me feel even more disgusting as a human being. What little I could do, I hadn't. I had nothing to give. Even if I did though, I would still have felt that same guilt, because only after renouncing everything I own to go set up an orphanage in some remote underdeveloped country would I be able to say I have done my duty.
The kids are happy though. They sing songs. And tourists bring donations. It's disgusting that there's a market for donation tourism, but there is and they might as well use it. No one's intention is bad, but I personally couldn't take it.
The village walk that we did in Kande, we organised ourselves (though there was one organised by Ruth, we thought it best to spread the wealth to other villagers and also maybe avoid any commission Ruth might potentially be taking - though I don't think ill of her in this way, and it's very unlikely, it's still a possibility we are weary of). We saw our guide's house, met his kids, saw the water pump, their local produce (Chobe - a root vegetable they dry out in the sun).
He took us to the school where all the kids ran up to us, trying hold hands and play. One child grabbed my hand and stayed with me for the better part of an hour, he followed me round the school and out and half way home. ...but some children would also approach us to say things like "Hello, give me money" or pointing to our water bottles, etc...It showed an ingrained form of begging which we believe their parents have taught them.
Both at the school and hospital, we were taken into a small side room where the headmaster or main nurse respectively gave a quick talk before asking for donations. I did donate some money, but I felt disgusting for taking time away from a teacher from teaching kids or a nurse from helping someone who's ill
(the hospital was particular packed).
The stares from those waiting for the doctors and nurses cut quite deeply. They looked at us to say "Why do you come here? Take time from our doctors? Can't you see we're ill? Fatally sick? What little resources we have left, you are taking away from us. The scars you've left here will run deep. You are not welcome. You are the disease that plagues us: wealth out of reach. You should feel disgusted with yourself". Wearing sunglasses, board shorts, clean t-shirts, with functioning digital cameras, we were taking a tour of a hospital; I felt disgusted with myself and I reflexively personified that emotion through the way the patients were looking at us.
Erring on the side of hypochondria, I tried to avoid contact with sick people. So it was my worst nightmare, a developing nation's hospital. Disease, malaria all around and no antibacterial wash. But that thought itself made me feel ethically disgusted with myself for thinking it.
The dependence on charity is a disease in Africa which is a consequence of too much charity. Whether donations from tourists or from the World Bank/IMF/nation states, charity breeds lethargy. Obama said it himself, these people need to work to progress themselves, not depend on anyone else to do it for them. Cliché as it, teach a man to fish and feed him for a lifetime. It's the only way to create a sustainable and dignified way of life. As such, I'm ever more convinced my micro-finance. Though there is some corruption or profit maximising where interest rates are too high or conditions too unreasonable, loaning money at a reasonable interest rate to a group of people (mostly women, as men have a tendency to piss it away on alcohol and prostitutes, while the maternal instincts lean more towards societal stability), jointly liable (causing a stigma on those who fail to make their payments) for a multifaceted business venture allowing them to trade amongst them is the way to progress.
Having to pay back the money means there is pressure to present a good business plan and follow it through. It has to be viable to be convincing. This sorts those who are willing and able to push for development from those who are not. And a sense of ownership means dignity. It might seem unfair on those who are unable to do this, but not on those who are unwilling. But only once progress is full steam ahead can a welfare state begin to take shape to provide education, health and benefits to those who most need them (those dependency on benefits is no different, so it has to be very carefully means-tested).
Micro-finance is a form of structured charity; altruism without foreseeable externalities.
Regarding the facts, Ruth organised for us to go to an orphanage that she, when on her first trip to Africa, stumbled upon and ever since has been involved with. She took us there to give books, pens, clothes, money, whatever people wish to spare as donations. The kids sang us songs and everyone played with them (except myself), we saw their dorms, chicken coops, etc...
Ruth said that "we could take photos and interact with the children". I personally found that incredible insulting to the children and patronising to us. The children aren't animals. They've lots their parents. Everyone else was happy to play with them, take photos, etc... but I wouldn't because I was quite overwhelmed with emotion. It was as if we were tourists at zoo for children without parents. It felt disgusting.
Secondly, I was overwhelmed with the sadness of fact that a child would not have parents and potentially a full, happy, innocent and carefree childhood. Unfortunately, that is inevitable.
Thirdly, I didn't have anything to give which made me feel even more disgusting as a human being. What little I could do, I hadn't. I had nothing to give. Even if I did though, I would still have felt that same guilt, because only after renouncing everything I own to go set up an orphanage in some remote underdeveloped country would I be able to say I have done my duty.
The kids are happy though. They sing songs. And tourists bring donations. It's disgusting that there's a market for donation tourism, but there is and they might as well use it. No one's intention is bad, but I personally couldn't take it.
The village walk that we did in Kande, we organised ourselves (though there was one organised by Ruth, we thought it best to spread the wealth to other villagers and also maybe avoid any commission Ruth might potentially be taking - though I don't think ill of her in this way, and it's very unlikely, it's still a possibility we are weary of). We saw our guide's house, met his kids, saw the water pump, their local produce (Chobe - a root vegetable they dry out in the sun).
He took us to the school where all the kids ran up to us, trying hold hands and play. One child grabbed my hand and stayed with me for the better part of an hour, he followed me round the school and out and half way home. ...but some children would also approach us to say things like "Hello, give me money" or pointing to our water bottles, etc...It showed an ingrained form of begging which we believe their parents have taught them.
Both at the school and hospital, we were taken into a small side room where the headmaster or main nurse respectively gave a quick talk before asking for donations. I did donate some money, but I felt disgusting for taking time away from a teacher from teaching kids or a nurse from helping someone who's ill
(the hospital was particular packed).
The stares from those waiting for the doctors and nurses cut quite deeply. They looked at us to say "Why do you come here? Take time from our doctors? Can't you see we're ill? Fatally sick? What little resources we have left, you are taking away from us. The scars you've left here will run deep. You are not welcome. You are the disease that plagues us: wealth out of reach. You should feel disgusted with yourself". Wearing sunglasses, board shorts, clean t-shirts, with functioning digital cameras, we were taking a tour of a hospital; I felt disgusted with myself and I reflexively personified that emotion through the way the patients were looking at us.
Erring on the side of hypochondria, I tried to avoid contact with sick people. So it was my worst nightmare, a developing nation's hospital. Disease, malaria all around and no antibacterial wash. But that thought itself made me feel ethically disgusted with myself for thinking it.
The dependence on charity is a disease in Africa which is a consequence of too much charity. Whether donations from tourists or from the World Bank/IMF/nation states, charity breeds lethargy. Obama said it himself, these people need to work to progress themselves, not depend on anyone else to do it for them. Cliché as it, teach a man to fish and feed him for a lifetime. It's the only way to create a sustainable and dignified way of life. As such, I'm ever more convinced my micro-finance. Though there is some corruption or profit maximising where interest rates are too high or conditions too unreasonable, loaning money at a reasonable interest rate to a group of people (mostly women, as men have a tendency to piss it away on alcohol and prostitutes, while the maternal instincts lean more towards societal stability), jointly liable (causing a stigma on those who fail to make their payments) for a multifaceted business venture allowing them to trade amongst them is the way to progress.
Having to pay back the money means there is pressure to present a good business plan and follow it through. It has to be viable to be convincing. This sorts those who are willing and able to push for development from those who are not. And a sense of ownership means dignity. It might seem unfair on those who are unable to do this, but not on those who are unwilling. But only once progress is full steam ahead can a welfare state begin to take shape to provide education, health and benefits to those who most need them (those dependency on benefits is no different, so it has to be very carefully means-tested).
Micro-finance is a form of structured charity; altruism without foreseeable externalities.
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