Monday, January 26, 2009

Just a stowaway on a northbound Indian train

NAMASTE
Travel in India is a fly by the seat of your pants logistical guessing game. Let me begin by telling you about the past 48 hours...

After leaving the ruins of Ajunta after a brief visit, a temporary British traveling companion and I took rickshaw to bus to rickshaw in order to arrive at the Jalgaon train station. We had a meal together and said goodbye. I stood in the station ticket line sweating for 20 minutes. Personal space means nothing here. A silver haired security guard kept the lines in perfect order, barking and stomping his nightstick at any would be line jumpers. My ticket price for the 1400 km journey was 200 rupee (4 dollars)! As the sun set, I bought my ticket and walked the train platforms seeking out a cup of chai and a place to sit. I was soon surrounded by a group of young boys. One boy asked all the questions and translated for the rest. I bid them farewell after a few minutes and wandered farther down the platform just to be surrounded by another group of boys. These were older and apparently in college. At first a group of 5, then 10, 15, finally at least 20 young men stood around me. 5 asked the questions and translated for the rest. My train was scheduled to arrive...then the lights went out. The station fell into complete darkness.

Already worried I would not know the train when it came (trains are unlabeled and announced in Hindi on a scratchy intercom), I shouldered my backpack and pushed through the crowds asking in English (at no one in particular) if the next train went to Varanasi. As a train was arriving a young man told me I was on the wrong platform. "Follow me, sir!" and he sprinted away. I followed him up the stairs, taking 2 at a time, dodging figures in the dark. He pointed at another platform announcing, "Varanasi!" A train was arriving, I stood in line asking people if this was the right train. Mostly blank stares, then a group of men said no and pointed at the track I had just come from. Another train was pulling up. Their claim was backed up by the nearby chai-wala (tea salesman). Up the stairs again (3 at a time now). By this time the lights had come back on and wide eyed Indians got out of my way as I barreled down the stairs and jumped on the train as it was pulling away. I slumped into a seat.

Across from me I met a young man named Raj who asked around for me in Hindi about the trains destination. He was headed for the central Indian city of Bhopal. Two of the men nearby agreed the trains destination was not Varanasi (blood pressure up) but Raj assured me I could get off with him and he would see me to the correct train (blood pressure down). Ok, here's the twist...I had purchased a 2nd class ticket (the only thing available last minute) but had boarded the sleeper car. Raj tried to speak to the ticket checker as he passed (the only time we would see him) but the man could not be bothered and said there were no empty spots. So essentially...I was a stowaway on the wrong train in the wrong car. I figured I'd take a seat until its rightful occupant boarded and then I'd bounce around the sleeper car looking for spares (rather than suffer the free-for-all of the 2nd class cars). Raj assured me I could bribe the ticketman with 200 rupee. "For me, 100 would work, but you are a foreigner." The way I looked at it, at least we were headed north, and I would end up somewhere...

Two hours later a chai-wala assured me that we WERE going to Varanasi and would be there in 20 hours. (At this point, these guys are my mot trustworthy train info source) Only half believing him, but feeling better about the situation, I bought Raj and I cups of chai to celebrate. We discussed family life, the difference in romantic relationships between our respective countries, politics (both American and Indian), the economies of India, China, and the US, movies (both Holly and Bollywood), religion, language, and career goals. I was sad to see Raj go, but we traded emails and I hope to hear how things go for him. His parents were in the process of arranging his marriage (he had not yet met the young woman). Interestingly, he commented on fate...that he wondered why some of us were born in a place like India, and some in a place like the US. We both pondered this in silence for a bit before he smiled and said, "Yet, I am very proud to be an Indian."

After Raj left I stretched out on one of the empty sleeper bunks, dreading at each stop that its occupant would board or the ticketman would come. Neither happened all night and I slept until I was awoken by one of the most chaotic scenes I have ever witnessed.

Through the night, I grew to ignore when people were boarding the train,talking and searching for their seat, this was different... A mass of squabbling, shoving Indians poured into the car. More and more until they formed a single mass of sweaty, bearded, Saree-clad, chattering energy. Among them were mostly elderly, with a few young couples and their understandably upset children.

They pushed into every crevice available, sat 4 to a seat, squatted on the floor in between the seats, and stood in the isles. Once inside, they were unable to move, except their heads, which swiveled in every direction, yelling in Hindi. Old men with dreadlocked hair and beards to their bellies drew in their breath to bellow at people pushing behind them. They grasped their gnarled wooden walking sticks and kept their bags balanced on their heads. Bags were shoved in at my feet until I was scrunched into a fetal position in the corner of my bench...I would remain this way for 12 hours.

Our 12 x 12 room in the car easily had 30 people in it (and all the bags). As the day went on and the heat increased, so did the smells. People would shift to rewrap their headdresses or sarees, or to change their children's "diapers", and new fragrances would waft up throughout the car. I spent the better part of the day with my nose buried in my shirt. I soon realized that using the latrine would prove quite difficult (some in the crowd pulled themselves into a seated position on peoples' shoulders before walking across their heads to the end of the car). I didn't think I was up for this considering the amount of argument (in Hindi) the "crowd surfers" had to go through to achieve this. And so, I stopped drinking water and later in the journey would resort to my poor attempt at meditation to ignore my swollen bladder. From the window, at a stop, I bought some potato biscuits, the only thing I would eat all day.

Uncomfortable as I was, my experience was none-the-less a front row ticket to the lives of people obviously making a pilgrimage to the holy river, the Ganges. The Hindi believe that doing this will wash away a lifetime of sin and prepare your soul for moving onto the next life. Dieing in this city is a way to achieve moksha (liberation from the cycle of birth and death). Chants and prayers in the car continued throughout the day. After the initial fracas getting into the train, they were quite cordial to each other, sharing food and water.

Relief, relief, relief when we finally rolled into Varanasi station. My back crackled and popped as I extracted myself from my cramped perch, and I stumbled into the chilly Varanasi night after a 30 hour train journey across India. A rickshaw ride and 3 hotel inquiries later I found a vacancy and slumped into my dreams in this, the holiest of Indian cities.

I write now from the roof top of my hotel. Prayer, song, and chants can be heard drifting up through the horns and voices of the city. Multicolored kites dance across the rooftops, I count more than 20. Temple steeples rise like sandcastles over the brick and plaster buildings. I think back on my journey so far. Only 2 weeks have passed, but a much has happened. I digress...



ON A PLANE IN FLIGHT OVER AFGHANISTAN
The plane from Newark airport was filled with all Indians and myself. Its seems the immersion started in New Jersey. Crying babies scatter the plane. I was nervous and jumpy (unlike me) until the stewardess filled me up with a couple glasses of wine. I even set off an alarm in the Brussels airport by opening the wrong door. Leaving family and friends behind to go to a strange place is never easy, and this time was no different. There was something I had felt missing during my year in Latin America, something I had felt close to achieving but didn't whether by lack of conviction or not having the wisdom to know what it was I was looking for. I'm hoping this trip takes me a step closer. This is a conversation I would usually take up with Dad.

DELHI
The rickshaw driver that had battled his way through the crowd of others to claim my fare barreled his tin beast through the foggy night. He took me to a hotel at the end of a series of dirt alleys. The air smells of burst plastic, the way I remember parts of South America smelling. This was much stronger. The driver was very talkative and thought nothing of weaving through oncoming traffic to get to our destination. In the morning he returned for me to take me back to the airport for my flight to Goa. The street scene in front of the hotel was like from a movie. Young girls in bright sarees (dresses) walked the dirt road littered with potholes and garbage. A group of young men sat in a semi-circle of folding chairs on the street side and looked silently when I walked out. An old man wrapped only in a small dirty cloth sat on the back of a horseless cart, selling fruit. As we entered the highway, I gripped the seat back as trucks, small CC motorcycles, scooters, and bicycles careened in all directions, horns blaring. Mayhem in all its glory. The smell and smog were thick, visibility was no more than 100 yards. I'm actually looking forward to returning to Delhi in 2 weeks when all this is not as shocking.

I was equally as jumpy on the flight to Goa and attempted to get myself under control. I scribbled train-of-thought in my journal.

I am resolved to go to Mumbai and track down this solar panel system provider. I cannot trust sending him any money when all I've seen is a website and his emails sometimes go unanswered. I sincerely hope for the sake of my own moral and timeline that he is merely disorganized or disinterested...and not dishonest.

The thing about serving a cause is that it self-perpetuates in one so that each act of kindness reciprocates with such a feeling of pride and warmth that your heart seems to burst forth with further ideas and an almost sense of guilt that you are receiving so much at a time that you only wanted to give.

Goal for trip: A cure for restlessness, to be replaced by calculated motivations and swift logistical planning. A self perpetuating, morally progressive auto-pilot.

HAMPI
India is a whirlwind of senses. From smells of burning garbage to wafts of curry from street vendors. Giggling children playing or those squatting in the street to relieve themselves, faces covered in grit and eyes with a thousand yard stare that is far too old for them. Rickshaw drivers careen past each other at top speed, their horns blaring. They seem to depend on the horn as a physical presence, a long, audible arm to reach out and tap each other on the shoulder saying, "excuse me please, I'd like to pass" or, "you're going to slow", or sometimes apparently just to say hello. Of course, it also manifests itself with the universal "F you" symbol of laying on the horn. All this goes on while they're trying to convince you that their friends hotel is much better than the one you asked them to take you to. Oh, and don't worry about the cow, bicycle, child, or concrete wall they just dodged by an inch.

Goa proved to be the Euro-tweeker party local that I thought it would be. I left as soon as I could. The day I spent there I drank beer with some Brits on a lawnchair on the beach, was massaged by some Indian dude who wouldn't leave me alone, pestered by shop owners, and (relief) swimming in the Indian ocean. The jetlag had not worn off. I was up at 4, caught a cab at 6, and got on the first train to Hampi.

The train was sparse but adequate. I felt like I was in a blue prison cell watching an Indian picture show. At each stop children would run to the track and beg money . The Chai-wala came ever half hour to sell tea. Begging women in beautiful dresses...their eyes are the hardest part. Look into them and you'll empty your wallet. I hummed a country song and watched the dry land roll by.

I ended up in quite the international car. Representing the good ol' US of A I shared it with China, Iran, Sweden, England, Australia, and India. The Chinese folks and the Iranian woman were in school at a nearby University, largely to learn English. They were excited to practice with native speakers. The Iranian woman was quick to engage me in a conversation about Americans' perception of Iran. She asked if people would be scared to visit there and I answered, "yes". She explained what a beautiful place it was and implored me to visit.

My first morning in Hampi I was up at 4 again. The scenery here would represent many people's idea of a paradise, especially climbers. Palm fronded rice paddies terrace downhill to the river. Boulder strewn hillsides poke out from beneath the foliage. White cranes and smaller birds traverse the landscape, promoting an internal sigh. Humans were meant to enjoy this landscape, I have no doubt. Other animals, including monkeys, can be heard out in the green and brown.

I set off at first light to explore the ruins within walking distance. Beginning early, people were bathing in the Tungabhadra River and washing their bright clothing. Naked children chased each other around the banks. I refused the incessant services offered to me...guides, rickshaw, books, bicycles, mopeds, gifts, fruit, on and on. A guide would have been nice but none of their English seemed adequate enough to give me any proper explanations. At the largest temple in the center of the Hampi bazaar, I had almost completed a contemplative walk-through of its halls (gods and other figures resting in the sculptures and wall carvings, observing as they have for 600 years) when I followed a group of Indians into a tight, low ceilinged hall. Stooping and shuffling my feet, I was moved along within an ever tightening group of saree-clad women. Personal standards of space were set aside as I was crowded in on all sides, pushing towards a lit cavern bearing a sculpture of a god dressed in gold chains and bright red and yellow cloth. I studied the pattern of the saree of the woman in front of me, apparently the only one uncomfortable with the close quarters we were sharing. Barefoot and bearing gifts, the woman elbowed room for themselves and knelt before their god, muttering prayer and pressing their foreheads to the ground. A man at the table dispensed holy water which was pressed to the lips and stroked through the hair. A dot of color (bindi?) was then applied to the forehead by the man. I observed and moved on. At the next cavern, the man guarding the god fiercely waved me on and poured water in my outstretched hands, nodding approval as I did as I had previously observed. He then dotted my forehead. Feeling a bit silly, but thankful I was allowed to participate, I shuffled out of the dark space and into the bright Indian sun. I hope that whatever good graces the Indian women looked forward to receiving from their prayer and prostration would also find a small route to myself.

Sidenote: Writing this hours later I had just woofed down a tasty plate of Indian food and rice which I afterwards found out was fried, unfermented cheese and ginger in a sauce. I'm hoping previously undirected prayers could be placed on backorder for intestinal fortitude.

After leaving the first temple, I wove my way through the bazaar to the edge of town, and then down the 2 km footpath along the river through the omnipresent boulder fields. Small ruins dotted the landscape and at the end of the path stood an even more impressive temple than the first. Along the way, I was approached by several young Indian men testing their English. I am always impressed and appreciate how they offer a handshake upon introduction. More impressive are the droves of Indian elderly who brave the washed out footpath in order to pay homage to the temples. Every color of the rainbow can be seen saree to saree and the jangle of their jewelry can be heard long after the fall out of view over the hills.

HAMPI DAY 2
Slept in until 6 today. I rented a scooter intent on discovering some of the more obscure ruins and temples. I mustered every bit of aggressive Philadelphia driving skill and set off. Tentatively at first and then with growing confidence, I wove my way through rice paddy, village, boulderfield, cow paddy, and groups of children with their arms outstretched for a high five. Before long, I chose to bypass the small temples and instead spent my time zipping up every side road I could find. The scenery was dreamlike. Glistening rice fields and boulder-strewn hillsides. People worked the fields, their oxcart plows lurched in the muddy water. While birds flew overhead in groups, clusters of Indian women walked the winding roads, their sarees fluttering in the wind. The colors were striking, the way they stood out against green fields, blue sky, and brown rock. So much so that I chose to remove my sunglasses as I rode so my eyes could drink it in...and was promptly hit in the face by an enormous dragonfly! But drink it in I did. Village after village, after field and rock I drank it in until it filled me. It pushed through my veins and pulsed with each heartbeat. My fingers and feet became swollen with it, my skin taught to my flesh, my tongue was flavored with its salt and spice. My hand grew lax on the throttle and I drifted up and down valleys at a mellow pace, enjoying each smile from each brown, weathered face, every wave, and each "Namaste". Hours later, afraid of running out of petrol, I made my way back toward town. The scooter died a half mile to go. I happily pushed my steed the remaining distance, grinning ear to ear. And the day was only half over...

After having lunch with some British friends I had met on the train, I decided to join them in attempting to find a nearby waterfall. After stopping to watch some monkeys bounce around on the nearby rocks, we walked to a nearby village, and were promptly surrounded by yelling children. "10 rupee?! 10 rupee?!" Its hard to turn down a filthy, yet incredibly cute kid who's only asking for 20 cents. We soon left them after handing out some coins and continued down the road. A young woman followed us (followed by the kids) offering to show us the waterfalls. I usually turn down these sorts of offers, but her English was very good and I figured it would make for an interesting hike. She told us her story as we walked. If half of it was true it is quite remarkable how is such good spirits she was. She has malaria and can't afford her medication, her husband died two years ago, she lost her job, she was caring for her brother's kids (he also passed away) as well as her own 3, etc, etc. It's a shame to only half believe people when they tell you these things, but they are almost always followed up by pleas for money. Regardless, she had genuine personality, and kept us laughing all the way down the trail.

When the path worsened she handed me her 4-ish year old son to carry...didn't ask, just handed him over. The problem was...he didn't have pants on! After walking a few steps with the obviously perturbed child outstretched in front of me, the mother instructed me to put him on my shoulders. "Umm, he has no pants on..." She teased me and called me something in Hindi which I assumed meant "sissy" and wrapped him in her scarf before plunking him on my neck. And we were off...

We never made it to the falls, my companions needed to catch a train. Our guide was obviously upset by this, but we paid her handsomely, for the laughs. I happened to run into her and the boy the next day and commented on how happy I was that he found his pants. She laughed, called me her "American boyfriend", and walked her son to school.

MUMBAI
Took an overnight bus here from Hampi. I had a sleeper bunk and was quite comfy aside from the jarring ride. Heeding advice from those with not-so-great bus/train experiences in India, I tied my small bag with passport, camera, etc to my belt. Heaven help anyone I find attempting to rob me in my sleep...

When we began to enter the outskirts of Mumbai, the ugly side of India reared its head. Shanty towns surrounded by construction debris littered the side of the highway. Trash and filth were prominent, as were brown streams and puddles of god knows what. Children ran around barefoot at best, many naked. Some squatted to relieve themselves on the side of the road. Many had the red-auburn hair color that signifies malnutrition. By contrast, children farther down the road marched arm in arm, dressed smartly in their school uniforms in front of apartment buildings with laundry flapping in the windows. The seemingly drastic difference in living conditions seemed to change every 10 blocks or so. One begins to think things aren't that bad in this city, then you roll right through hell all over again. Calling the situation "desperate" would be like calling the grand canyon "big". I don't know a word that properly describes either, but I cannot get the images of that morning out of my head. It is a problem of overpopulation, scarce resources, and an upside-down pyramid distribution of wealth. My heart goes out to anyone that makes it their life's work attempting to tackle this problem, even on a small scale. I imagine Mumbai needs a Robin Hood of sorts, and alot of soap...

Mumbai was interesting, but honestly I could not wait to leave. Significant events of my time there can be described properly through concise bullets...
1. Approached by a man attempting to recruit western extras for a Bollywood movie.
2. Watched the Obama inauguration with an Irishman and a British photojournalist...they were as fired up about it as I was.
3. Inadvertently had lunch in the cafe involved in the Mumbai terrorist attack...bullet holes riddled the walls...stopping my fork in mid-shovel
4. Meeting with Jasjeet (solar panel provider) went well. After hours searching the city for his office we had a nice 1.5 hour meeting. His large presence, turban, and long beard make for an intimidating first impression, but I found him sharp, to the point, and eager to help our cause. When I asked him why he started his foundation, he said, "to help people bring dignity to their lives."

AURANGABAD
Desperate to leave Mumbai I booked an expensive bus ticket for the north. I had trouble finding the "shop" they told me to catch the bus at, missed it, caught a cab to the next stop, blah blah...these traveling woes are becoming commonplace and I shall cease writing about them...moral of the story...travel in India is a pain in the rear.

I spent two days in the Elora and Ajunta caves. Magnificent temples of immense proportions and unfathomable human effort. Machu Pichu is the only place I have seen that rivals this places sheer amount of human toil. The statues inside were impressive in their own right. 30 ft Buddha statues in the Buddhist caves and endless Shiva story panels in the Hindu. Though the size of the Buddhas was humbling, the detail and story of the Shiva statues was more interesting to me. Many of them depicted either epic battles with demons or suggestive poses with females. Taking the cake was certainly the giant Hindu temple at the center of the Elora ruins. Carved out of solid rock, the temple was relieved out of 200 vertical feet and twice that in length. Life sized elephant statues, pillars, giant rooms holding huge Shiva statues and detail amongst detail were carved out of one piece of stone, still rooted to the earth. Undoubtedly one of the most impressive feats of human kind I have ever seen. I especially enjoyed touching the monolith that represents Shiva in his true form. The stone is polished smooth by the hands of the past millennium and a half (archaeologists date the ruins at around the 8th Century). I pondered my connection to the infinite hands before me, their belief in this place, their understanding of the world, and the peace and wisdom in their heart.

TO BE CONTINUED

1 comment:

  1. Justin, thanks for sharing your experiences. You are a great writer! Keep them coming and give the tall guy a hug for me.

    ReplyDelete