July 5, 2012. Jaipur
Wow, so right at 8pm the power went out. This is not unusual as the power goes out several times per day, but this is the first time I think it's caught me at night. And it got really dark. I guess I've noticed that it does get darker earlier here, and I've heard that about the lower latitudes, but it seemed darker tonight than usual. With the power out noises become louder. They're not drowned out by the ac and the tv, if that's on. Tonight though the noises weren't just kids playing, motorcycle engines, and car horns, but strong wind. The past couple of nights there's been some wind storms, getting people excited that rain might come, but no rain had. Until tonight.
In the dark I moved over to the nightstand for my flashlight. Thankfully I'd listened to the curses I'd put upon myself for not always putting things back in the same place. Digression: When traveling, habitual behavior can be good. Even if you find a better place for your nail clippers than where you've been keeping them, don't move them to that better place. Where your hand knows to go unconsciously is the best place to find a thing. You'll always know where to find what you're looking for and you'll always be able to do a quick check, if you're like me and worry that someone's gotten into your money or passport.
So I got my small hand crank flashlight (thanks, Uncle Louis) and unbolted the French doors of the hotel room. The past two places I've stayed at have had heavy sliding bolts with hasps and padlocks rather than deadbolts. The wind assisted in opening the doors it was so strong. The hall that my room is on is open to the air facing east. As I stepped to the open side of the hall, I could feel rain drops on my arms. Lightning was strobing behind the clouds. I closed and locked the doors behind me and carefully made my way down the hall. As beautiful as marble is, I'd learned in Macedonia, that when wet is is as slippery as ice. I always thought marble was elegant and a symbol of wealth and power, isn't that why we use it in our banks and government buildings in the US? But what I maybe associate with the old
So I was going to write all eloquently about how the monsoon arrived turning off the power, the slap and splash of the long awaited rain, the candle that a hotel boy brought me in the dark, etc., but holy crap is it raining here. I can't imagine what is happening to the streets. I imagine there are flash floods rushing down the hillsides of Jaipur. I hope to god this does something for the smell of urine.
July 6, 2012. Jaipur
I talked to a merchant don't the street from my hotel. I asked him about the rain. He said it came down the street in a wave and rose up the the third step of his store. I had wondered where all the water would go. Duh. To the Water Palace. That is a Rajput palace built on a lake to the north of the city of Jaipur. It seems there was never a lack of labor and stone to pursue the untouchable palace for the lord of the manor. Once up on a mountain. When that wasn't good enough, a walled fort on the peak of a mountain. And that wasn't enough, a palace in the middle of the lake. Guess the British took care of that though.
At any rate, the rain was welcomed by the citizens of Jaipur. I just couldn't believe the humidity that followed...and the sludge that must've washed down hill and covered the streets. Wow.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Tuesday, July 3, 2012. Jaipur
(Please excuse any crazy iPad autocorrections that I missed manually correcting...)
It may be a while before I can fall asleep. There are, well, explosions going off in the street outside my hotel. I am assuming it is in connection with the wedding preparations I saw earlier tonight. Up the street there is some kind of walled area with a ceremonial arch over the entry way. Men had been affixing plastic flowers to the frame of the arch, and when I went out to grab dinner I looked in and saw tables laid out elaborately with platters of possibly sweets. I hear no sirens so I assume the detonations are all celebratory. There were plenty of police-looking men in the street when I returned from dinner. I say "police-looking" because they looked like they were in uniform, olive drag shirts and pants, but not a lot of insignia that I could see, and I noticed one was wearing Puma tennis shoes. It's all right if the festivities go on for a while. I'm not that sleepy despite my body being exhausted. I didn't count the liters of water I drank today, probably five or six. Maybe seven. I walked in a huge ridiculous circle from my hotel to the places I wanted to see. I guess I thought I was going in a zig zag pattern to weave north and west, but maybe I forgot to count one turn and that could have resulted in the circle. So, here are today's events in reverse order. Dinner was at the place I ate yesterday. From Mahar Haveli go up the street and turn right. Head toward the Jawalawar Gate. I may have that name wrong. Pass the men who live on the sidewalk. They have an amazing set up Nader a tarp which includes an small brick oven of some sort built onto the sidewalk surface. Go past the boys hammering metal at his own sidewalk forge. I never have seen the fire but I have observed some kind of free standing bicycle wheel with a belt running to some smaller wheel, and the boy hammering red hot iron. Just for scale, this work he does is on the ground and he squats in place. Nothing is farther than arm's reach. Then there are the two men who have wooden chairs raised on bricks for their under-the-tree barber shop. I've seen men getting shaves with straight razors. I may have to try this. Of course there is also a fruit vendor on the corner as well as a man frying dough wrapped lentils, dough wrapped mashed potatoes and chillies, and battered slices of potato and whole chillies. What I really like about every operation on the street is that every utensil, tool, and bucket is metal. Not a piece of plastic to be seen. This is still India, where they are known for their metalwork. Going down a commercial street, I have not seen on plastic shop like I'd seen in Eastern Europe--buckets, mops, brooms, measuring cups, storage containers, etc, etc. So, continue through the orange city gate. Jaipur is known as the Pink City (the back story on that a little later) but as the auto rickshaw driver confirmed what I though I saw, the predominant color is actually orange. When you get to the corner where the tall short city bus almost runs you over, stop. There is a woman crouched on the sidewalk with a giant metal pan full of marigold garlands for sale. These are, I think, taken to temples and strung across home entry ways as a sign of devotion to...Krishna? Well, from what I saw in Monsoon Wedding, the marigold is the national flower and a sign of celebration. And I'm glad about that. I don't think marigolds get enough respect back in the US. Now, there is a zebra stripe crosswalk at this corner, but it really means nothing. Do your best to dart to the traffic divider when you think you see a break in the traffic--and be sure you are looking to your right since they drive on the left. Traffic seems to pick up at night, but this intersection also appears to be where the cows gather at dusk. They make good unintentional crossing guards. Across the next lane of traffic, all the businesses are elevated a few steps. My restaurant has, like most others, its kitchen outside. I ordered vegetable kofta in sauce and two flat garlic naan breads. It's hard to find a place that is non-vegetarian. I'm physically feeling more okay without the protein, but I could still use some. The sauce for the kofta was a little bland. The garlic naan on the other hand must've had come chili in it. I got through most of the meal but then felt like I hit a wall. The naans were heavy. Nothing was wrong with the food but my head was spinning. I had to pay up and leave half a naan there. I picked up some bananas for the morning and made it back to the hotel for a shower. One site I visited today was an astronomical observatory. I don't know how long I was there, but it was a dream landscape of sun dials, giant marble bowls of stellar maps, and, oh, what's that thing a ship's captain uses to measure distance by the stars? Starts with an "a," I think. Each device measured movements within seconds. It's said that even the strength of the monsoon could be predicted. I suppose that could be if the monsoon if affected by tides. I learned that in New Mexico a tribe had tracked the moon over an 18 year cycle, where its path is relatively higher, then lower over two nine year periods. This observatory in Jaipur was built in the 1700s by a man obsessed--each zodiac sign has its own fixed measuring device positioned to tell exactly when it is at its zenith. Amazing that all the numbers are the same as we have now: 12, 24, 365... Okay, before that I tried street food. This is where I tried the fired items I mentioned before. I was pleasantly surprised by all of them. And I didn't get sick as I have heard others have. Apparently, knock on wood, my system is perfectly suited for starches fried within starches. Before grabbing that small lunch I hit the most famous monument in Jaipur, if not all of Rajasthan, the Hawa Mahal, also known as the Palace of the Wind. The facade is kind of a honeycomb of lattice windows where all the women who were, ahem, at the disposal of the raj, could look down at the street where parades or elephant jousting might take place without being seen. The face of the structure is a rosey color. Apparently the founder of Jaipur wanted his place to match the red sandstone of Agra and Delhi, but the local stone was more of an amber color so he had everything washed in this rosey pink. As for the hiding of the women, that seems to be an adoption of the Mughal/Muslim invader influence. After the Mughals pushed into India (at the time there would have not been a united India, but hundreds and maybe thousands of kingdoms) a lot of the Muslim mores seeped into the culture. Of course when the British came then it got even more uptight with Victorian culture. Anyway, to cut a long story short, the Hawa Mahal is a beautiful court of lattice and columns and steep, narrow stairways and winding ramps, all designed for maximum comfort. A constant cool breeze filters through the building and court yard no matter how hot the rest of the town is. Visiting this building is worth the journey across the globe. Now here is the reason I am writing this entry in reverse. The first and best thing I did today was an accident. As my auto-rickshaw, or tuk-tuk driver told me on the way from the train station, I am staying in the older, not at all touristy area of the pink city. He said even two kilometers away from all of the things people come to Jaipur to enjoy--food, shopping, attractions, etc. So I had a good walk to find the Palace of the Wind. As I wound my way through the strange smelling streets, (I still can't identify the odor. It's like a mixture of urine, feces, roasting peanuts, and burnt coffee. Perhaps it's cow dung patties being used for fuel in homes. I have seen a good deal of these being laid out to dry and being stacked in hut sized circular mounds) I came through a market place where the crowds were growing thick. To my left was a large tree where people gathered for shade. Even at 7:30 in the morning, shade was already at a premium. To my right there was an arch way that led through a high wall and masses of people were streaming in. As they entered many were gesturing in ways that indicated blessing, as Christians would cross themselves entering a church. Here, if I recall correctly the hands were pressed together and tapped to the forehead, the nose or the lips, and then the chest. I stood under the tree for a moment to watch and perhaps decipher what the crowd was doing. I couldn't tell. Along any street there may be a niche with an effigy of Ganesh splashed in saffron or a six by six temple with a marble statue of Vishnu by which the religious will quickly pause for a blessing. The people could simply have been passing a shrine on the way to a souk area. Like an idiot, I stood in one place for too long. People started approaching with hands outstretched. I kind of felt like I was In Macedonia and the gypsies were spanging for change, but I'd read that alms giving is not unusually in India and that everyday Indians easily give alms. The first person who approached me was a man on a wheeled rectangle of wood, his bony legs wrapped and crossed around each other unnaturally. I quickly grabbed the smallest bills in my pocket and handed them to him. In my amateur estimation he needed it the most. The operative word there being amateur. I should have set up a little table for people to queue up at for money. And without that little table and a hoard of bills, I was cursed and sneered at. Voices raised and babies in their mothers' arms were displayed to shame me. Irrationally scared that my pockets would be unbuttoned and emptied of passport, keys, and wallet, I scurried toward the arch way where everyone was entering. Maybe Vishnu, Ganesh, or Laxmi would save me from my own Shiva. As I entered I saw that I was to pass through a metal detector. I wasn't airport ready, but I was in line and the line was not going to stop. The machine beeped and I stepped aside. I quickly opened my bag to show the unarmed policeman my camera. "Okay, okay, very good," he said with a smile and a pat on my arm. My guess is that the machine was set to a pretty low sensitivity. So many people carrying so many things would have been a problem otherwise. Would it be worth mentioning that I was the only Anglo? If there was a threat in this place, it probably would have been local, Muslim versus Hindu versus Sikh or something. Past the checkpoint was a small market place with stalls of marigold garlands, incense in stick, rock, and little twisted cotton ball forms, and multiple icon and statuary for sale. Past this was another archway with armed police. I smiled and made eye contact with several of them. I don't know if this is culturally acceptable, but it's what I've been doing with as many people as possible everywhere I go. They smiled back at me widely. I figure it is best to play the smiling visitor willing to talk to anyone who may need to stop me rather than the defensive foreigner who appears to resent the population he is visiting. I'd been asked by a few young men on the street why westerners tell them "go away," and "fuck off." There may be a fine line between being open and understanding and being a rube. I try to be the former. I rarely refuse a quick conversation. I haven't even refused a single one of the endless stream of requests for pictures with a white guy. Yes, at every single attraction I've been at Indian tourists ask if they can have their picture taken with me, the white tourist. I'd heard of this from a friend who'd been here. Sometimes I've joked "okay, twenty Rupees each!" and sometimes in sweaty exhaustion I've simply waved okay and nodded acceptance. Whatever it is, people smile and don't seem to mind that I am a less than attractive, pudgy, sweaty mess wearing a big dumb green hat. Seriously, every day I return to the room my shirt has a bib of salt midway down the front and back, deposited by the gallons of perspiration the 114 degree heat pulls out of me. At any rate, smiles seem to work. And for those of you who know me, I am not smirking or faking the smile sarcastically. It's a genuine smile. For those of you who know me as a cynic who cringes when a slobbery handed toddler tries to hug my leg (ie: Kelly, Denise, Jodie, Patrice), I tell you I am full of genuine smiles here. There is something I love about being outside my comfort zone, being a foreigner and stranger that makes me happy. Perhaps with the lack of creature comforts of home, in the anonymity of another country, I feel like opening up. The warmth of a stranger's smile replaces the comforts of home. When I was leaving Agra in the middle of the night, I was placing my bag in the back of the auto-rickshaw when I felt something pressing against my ankles. I didn't jump in surprise until I looked down and saw a black and white puppy. I did then jump and release an expletive. It was 4am and I was caught off guard. I love dogs, especially black and white puppies, but I know the warnings against petting stray dogs. But I believe the dog and I are not very different. Dogs are pack animals. They need physical assurance that they belong. Whether it's playing with other dogs, lying intertwined with each other for sleep, or getting pets from a human, they need physical contact. Even a puppy knows to initiate that. So sometimes I smile, sometimes I wipe my brow and shake my head at the heat, sometimes I twist my mouth and shrug in confusion when trying to cross a busy Indian street. Whatever it takes to get a response in kind, I do in my own naive Midwestern way. Oh my God am I chatty. Let me get on with the story. (I now have been writing this story for three days. I'm taking a day off from sight seeing to stay cool in the hotel room since the past two days I've really beat myself up in the heat. Do me a favor and someone look up what it says about the hike from Amber or Amer palace/fort to Jaigarh Fort. I'd love to now the distance and incline...and what the temperature was at 1:30 pm on July 4th.) So, as I reached where the police were, I asked on of the officers if I could sit on the bench with him. He smiled and nodded. To the right was a pile of sandals. People were filing in the one archway and streaming out another. I needed to watch and learn. There were barriers set up to allow people in, but to keep vehicles out. I didn't want to barge into a religiously restricted area. After a few minutes I noticed that not everyone was removing their shoes as they proceeded to the grand white plaza. At the end of the plaza there was a pavilion with scalloped archways like I'd seen in the palaces, the audience areas for petitioners to meet with the local lord. A chant rose from the roofed in area. It was so loud I wondered if it was amplified recording. It was many so many voices together that I half assumed it couldn't be live. I asked the policeman if it was okay for me to enter the plaza area. He nodded and gave me a look that indicated "of course." I moved towards the place where everyone was gathered. The chant I'd heard was no recording. It was a passionate song without instruments but full of music. There was a mass of several hundred people under the pavilion. Many were standing at the edges of the recessed floor. Some were sitting chatting with friends. In the center there was a raised alter area where men in saffron colored clothing accepted items from outstretched hands. They men looked like they had only about four feet of space on this stage area to work before they ran into a big velvety curtain. Certainly a statue of marble lay behind. The holiest of holies. Between the alter area and those people who stood or sat there was a line of people perhaps fifteen abreast marching in a clockwise circle. These were the chanters. They moved in front of the alter, up a set of three or four stairs to the left of the platform, and then reemerged to the right of the alter and descended the other three or four stairs. The circle went around and around. I moved to the far side of the outside of the pavilion to where I could see the people ascending the steps. As they walked up they bent down and touched the front of one of the steps. People were dressed in all fashions. Some were in very traditional saris and kameezas and pantaloons. Others were in jeans and t-shirts. At some point I asked another police man if it was okay to take photos. Again, a nod and a look in the eye of "of course, why not?" I started snapping away as the crowd revolved around the alter. People began holding up garlands of marigolds, and then scarves of red. Some one moved through the crowd with a flat metal bowl or rimmed plate with coals and incense burning. I the dark shade of the covered meeting place the fire stood out brightly. I've noticed that a common architectural theme in India between the oldest and the newest structures is shade. Every little parapet on a palace has an ornate little roof. The sun here is brutal. Every cenotaph and memorial has a stone crown supported by carved stone columns. On either side of the entry point to the worship area--which I never once considered asking if it was okay for me to enter--were long metal stands for the placement of incense. Mostly women, a few men and children, set sticks and small lumps of incense in the terra cotta bowls with already burning coals. I swear I saw one woman pick up a coal in her bare hands to move it to a fresh bowl to start her own incense. Hands would reach over the incense to gather smoke. The hands then went to the faces as if washing with water. I watched one man do this from start to finish and he looked refreshed after he ran his hands through his hair. I'm no spiritualist or wanna be hippie guru ashram going hipster, so I hope it means something sincere when I say it was beautiful. I'd read that India is one of the most visibly religious places on earth. It is also both secular and observant at the same time, perhaps explaining why no one had a problem with a foreigner smiling and taking pictures the whole time. Despite the acceptance, I have to note here for my own conscience that I resist taking pictures of individuals unless it is completely impossible not to, like someone in the perfect pose as they try to maintain their patience while waiting for someone, and even then I feel guilty of taking something from them. Most often if I take an individual's photo, it may only be of their hands or of something they are working on. And always then with permission. Instead of going out the way I had come in I followed a group of people to a side area. There was a small alter cordoned off. Two men in the long shirt kameezas worked the area. After people collected their shoes and sandals from where they left them before entering the major worship area, many came to this second place. I had a hard time believing what I was seeing. People of all different stripes were having the men administer eye drops. My western sense of hygiene really kicked in. Everyone was getting drops from the same dropper and I assume the water was straight from the Ganges. The larger of the two men spotted me from across the crowd. He gave me a huge toothy grin and waved for me to come over. I waved both hands in a no gesture. I'm sure the look on my face was priceless. I could feel my mouth was in a big open smile of amazement. He laughed and encouraged me some more. I am still exhilarated days later that he didn't see my Anglo-ness or obvious lack of religious belonging as a reason not to include me or for me to participate. It's like, and pardon the really stupid comparison, at the end of a marathon (I've only run one 5k in my life, so I'm not speaking definitively here) everyone is given whatever they need, a banana, a bottle of water, a granola bar, whatever. It doesn't matter if you were first or last. Heck, probably no one even cares if you ran or were a spectator. There's plenty for all and all are welcome. I got some decent pictures of the men doing their work. And then I also noticed one last thing on the way out. On the stone corner of their marked off area there was a orange smudgy pool for people to dip their fingers in. My self consciousness really abandoned me and a freely took pictures of fingers going into the paint. One young man, possibly around 20 years old caught my eye and offered to dab a bindu or bindi or dipti (please pardon my ignorance as I have no Internet at the time of writing, I can't find the right term for sure in either of my two guide books, and I really don't want to leave the air conditioned room to go downstairs and ask reception for the right word--plus that would require putting on pants) onto my forehead. Of course I gladly accepted this. No problem. We laughed as the paste immediately started mingling with my sweat and running down my nose. I think I must have looked like a great white elephant when their drivers paint their faces with colors and decorations. From here my day had begun.
It may be a while before I can fall asleep. There are, well, explosions going off in the street outside my hotel. I am assuming it is in connection with the wedding preparations I saw earlier tonight. Up the street there is some kind of walled area with a ceremonial arch over the entry way. Men had been affixing plastic flowers to the frame of the arch, and when I went out to grab dinner I looked in and saw tables laid out elaborately with platters of possibly sweets. I hear no sirens so I assume the detonations are all celebratory. There were plenty of police-looking men in the street when I returned from dinner. I say "police-looking" because they looked like they were in uniform, olive drag shirts and pants, but not a lot of insignia that I could see, and I noticed one was wearing Puma tennis shoes. It's all right if the festivities go on for a while. I'm not that sleepy despite my body being exhausted. I didn't count the liters of water I drank today, probably five or six. Maybe seven. I walked in a huge ridiculous circle from my hotel to the places I wanted to see. I guess I thought I was going in a zig zag pattern to weave north and west, but maybe I forgot to count one turn and that could have resulted in the circle. So, here are today's events in reverse order. Dinner was at the place I ate yesterday. From Mahar Haveli go up the street and turn right. Head toward the Jawalawar Gate. I may have that name wrong. Pass the men who live on the sidewalk. They have an amazing set up Nader a tarp which includes an small brick oven of some sort built onto the sidewalk surface. Go past the boys hammering metal at his own sidewalk forge. I never have seen the fire but I have observed some kind of free standing bicycle wheel with a belt running to some smaller wheel, and the boy hammering red hot iron. Just for scale, this work he does is on the ground and he squats in place. Nothing is farther than arm's reach. Then there are the two men who have wooden chairs raised on bricks for their under-the-tree barber shop. I've seen men getting shaves with straight razors. I may have to try this. Of course there is also a fruit vendor on the corner as well as a man frying dough wrapped lentils, dough wrapped mashed potatoes and chillies, and battered slices of potato and whole chillies. What I really like about every operation on the street is that every utensil, tool, and bucket is metal. Not a piece of plastic to be seen. This is still India, where they are known for their metalwork. Going down a commercial street, I have not seen on plastic shop like I'd seen in Eastern Europe--buckets, mops, brooms, measuring cups, storage containers, etc, etc. So, continue through the orange city gate. Jaipur is known as the Pink City (the back story on that a little later) but as the auto rickshaw driver confirmed what I though I saw, the predominant color is actually orange. When you get to the corner where the tall short city bus almost runs you over, stop. There is a woman crouched on the sidewalk with a giant metal pan full of marigold garlands for sale. These are, I think, taken to temples and strung across home entry ways as a sign of devotion to...Krishna? Well, from what I saw in Monsoon Wedding, the marigold is the national flower and a sign of celebration. And I'm glad about that. I don't think marigolds get enough respect back in the US. Now, there is a zebra stripe crosswalk at this corner, but it really means nothing. Do your best to dart to the traffic divider when you think you see a break in the traffic--and be sure you are looking to your right since they drive on the left. Traffic seems to pick up at night, but this intersection also appears to be where the cows gather at dusk. They make good unintentional crossing guards. Across the next lane of traffic, all the businesses are elevated a few steps. My restaurant has, like most others, its kitchen outside. I ordered vegetable kofta in sauce and two flat garlic naan breads. It's hard to find a place that is non-vegetarian. I'm physically feeling more okay without the protein, but I could still use some. The sauce for the kofta was a little bland. The garlic naan on the other hand must've had come chili in it. I got through most of the meal but then felt like I hit a wall. The naans were heavy. Nothing was wrong with the food but my head was spinning. I had to pay up and leave half a naan there. I picked up some bananas for the morning and made it back to the hotel for a shower. One site I visited today was an astronomical observatory. I don't know how long I was there, but it was a dream landscape of sun dials, giant marble bowls of stellar maps, and, oh, what's that thing a ship's captain uses to measure distance by the stars? Starts with an "a," I think. Each device measured movements within seconds. It's said that even the strength of the monsoon could be predicted. I suppose that could be if the monsoon if affected by tides. I learned that in New Mexico a tribe had tracked the moon over an 18 year cycle, where its path is relatively higher, then lower over two nine year periods. This observatory in Jaipur was built in the 1700s by a man obsessed--each zodiac sign has its own fixed measuring device positioned to tell exactly when it is at its zenith. Amazing that all the numbers are the same as we have now: 12, 24, 365... Okay, before that I tried street food. This is where I tried the fired items I mentioned before. I was pleasantly surprised by all of them. And I didn't get sick as I have heard others have. Apparently, knock on wood, my system is perfectly suited for starches fried within starches. Before grabbing that small lunch I hit the most famous monument in Jaipur, if not all of Rajasthan, the Hawa Mahal, also known as the Palace of the Wind. The facade is kind of a honeycomb of lattice windows where all the women who were, ahem, at the disposal of the raj, could look down at the street where parades or elephant jousting might take place without being seen. The face of the structure is a rosey color. Apparently the founder of Jaipur wanted his place to match the red sandstone of Agra and Delhi, but the local stone was more of an amber color so he had everything washed in this rosey pink. As for the hiding of the women, that seems to be an adoption of the Mughal/Muslim invader influence. After the Mughals pushed into India (at the time there would have not been a united India, but hundreds and maybe thousands of kingdoms) a lot of the Muslim mores seeped into the culture. Of course when the British came then it got even more uptight with Victorian culture. Anyway, to cut a long story short, the Hawa Mahal is a beautiful court of lattice and columns and steep, narrow stairways and winding ramps, all designed for maximum comfort. A constant cool breeze filters through the building and court yard no matter how hot the rest of the town is. Visiting this building is worth the journey across the globe. Now here is the reason I am writing this entry in reverse. The first and best thing I did today was an accident. As my auto-rickshaw, or tuk-tuk driver told me on the way from the train station, I am staying in the older, not at all touristy area of the pink city. He said even two kilometers away from all of the things people come to Jaipur to enjoy--food, shopping, attractions, etc. So I had a good walk to find the Palace of the Wind. As I wound my way through the strange smelling streets, (I still can't identify the odor. It's like a mixture of urine, feces, roasting peanuts, and burnt coffee. Perhaps it's cow dung patties being used for fuel in homes. I have seen a good deal of these being laid out to dry and being stacked in hut sized circular mounds) I came through a market place where the crowds were growing thick. To my left was a large tree where people gathered for shade. Even at 7:30 in the morning, shade was already at a premium. To my right there was an arch way that led through a high wall and masses of people were streaming in. As they entered many were gesturing in ways that indicated blessing, as Christians would cross themselves entering a church. Here, if I recall correctly the hands were pressed together and tapped to the forehead, the nose or the lips, and then the chest. I stood under the tree for a moment to watch and perhaps decipher what the crowd was doing. I couldn't tell. Along any street there may be a niche with an effigy of Ganesh splashed in saffron or a six by six temple with a marble statue of Vishnu by which the religious will quickly pause for a blessing. The people could simply have been passing a shrine on the way to a souk area. Like an idiot, I stood in one place for too long. People started approaching with hands outstretched. I kind of felt like I was In Macedonia and the gypsies were spanging for change, but I'd read that alms giving is not unusually in India and that everyday Indians easily give alms. The first person who approached me was a man on a wheeled rectangle of wood, his bony legs wrapped and crossed around each other unnaturally. I quickly grabbed the smallest bills in my pocket and handed them to him. In my amateur estimation he needed it the most. The operative word there being amateur. I should have set up a little table for people to queue up at for money. And without that little table and a hoard of bills, I was cursed and sneered at. Voices raised and babies in their mothers' arms were displayed to shame me. Irrationally scared that my pockets would be unbuttoned and emptied of passport, keys, and wallet, I scurried toward the arch way where everyone was entering. Maybe Vishnu, Ganesh, or Laxmi would save me from my own Shiva. As I entered I saw that I was to pass through a metal detector. I wasn't airport ready, but I was in line and the line was not going to stop. The machine beeped and I stepped aside. I quickly opened my bag to show the unarmed policeman my camera. "Okay, okay, very good," he said with a smile and a pat on my arm. My guess is that the machine was set to a pretty low sensitivity. So many people carrying so many things would have been a problem otherwise. Would it be worth mentioning that I was the only Anglo? If there was a threat in this place, it probably would have been local, Muslim versus Hindu versus Sikh or something. Past the checkpoint was a small market place with stalls of marigold garlands, incense in stick, rock, and little twisted cotton ball forms, and multiple icon and statuary for sale. Past this was another archway with armed police. I smiled and made eye contact with several of them. I don't know if this is culturally acceptable, but it's what I've been doing with as many people as possible everywhere I go. They smiled back at me widely. I figure it is best to play the smiling visitor willing to talk to anyone who may need to stop me rather than the defensive foreigner who appears to resent the population he is visiting. I'd been asked by a few young men on the street why westerners tell them "go away," and "fuck off." There may be a fine line between being open and understanding and being a rube. I try to be the former. I rarely refuse a quick conversation. I haven't even refused a single one of the endless stream of requests for pictures with a white guy. Yes, at every single attraction I've been at Indian tourists ask if they can have their picture taken with me, the white tourist. I'd heard of this from a friend who'd been here. Sometimes I've joked "okay, twenty Rupees each!" and sometimes in sweaty exhaustion I've simply waved okay and nodded acceptance. Whatever it is, people smile and don't seem to mind that I am a less than attractive, pudgy, sweaty mess wearing a big dumb green hat. Seriously, every day I return to the room my shirt has a bib of salt midway down the front and back, deposited by the gallons of perspiration the 114 degree heat pulls out of me. At any rate, smiles seem to work. And for those of you who know me, I am not smirking or faking the smile sarcastically. It's a genuine smile. For those of you who know me as a cynic who cringes when a slobbery handed toddler tries to hug my leg (ie: Kelly, Denise, Jodie, Patrice), I tell you I am full of genuine smiles here. There is something I love about being outside my comfort zone, being a foreigner and stranger that makes me happy. Perhaps with the lack of creature comforts of home, in the anonymity of another country, I feel like opening up. The warmth of a stranger's smile replaces the comforts of home. When I was leaving Agra in the middle of the night, I was placing my bag in the back of the auto-rickshaw when I felt something pressing against my ankles. I didn't jump in surprise until I looked down and saw a black and white puppy. I did then jump and release an expletive. It was 4am and I was caught off guard. I love dogs, especially black and white puppies, but I know the warnings against petting stray dogs. But I believe the dog and I are not very different. Dogs are pack animals. They need physical assurance that they belong. Whether it's playing with other dogs, lying intertwined with each other for sleep, or getting pets from a human, they need physical contact. Even a puppy knows to initiate that. So sometimes I smile, sometimes I wipe my brow and shake my head at the heat, sometimes I twist my mouth and shrug in confusion when trying to cross a busy Indian street. Whatever it takes to get a response in kind, I do in my own naive Midwestern way. Oh my God am I chatty. Let me get on with the story. (I now have been writing this story for three days. I'm taking a day off from sight seeing to stay cool in the hotel room since the past two days I've really beat myself up in the heat. Do me a favor and someone look up what it says about the hike from Amber or Amer palace/fort to Jaigarh Fort. I'd love to now the distance and incline...and what the temperature was at 1:30 pm on July 4th.) So, as I reached where the police were, I asked on of the officers if I could sit on the bench with him. He smiled and nodded. To the right was a pile of sandals. People were filing in the one archway and streaming out another. I needed to watch and learn. There were barriers set up to allow people in, but to keep vehicles out. I didn't want to barge into a religiously restricted area. After a few minutes I noticed that not everyone was removing their shoes as they proceeded to the grand white plaza. At the end of the plaza there was a pavilion with scalloped archways like I'd seen in the palaces, the audience areas for petitioners to meet with the local lord. A chant rose from the roofed in area. It was so loud I wondered if it was amplified recording. It was many so many voices together that I half assumed it couldn't be live. I asked the policeman if it was okay for me to enter the plaza area. He nodded and gave me a look that indicated "of course." I moved towards the place where everyone was gathered. The chant I'd heard was no recording. It was a passionate song without instruments but full of music. There was a mass of several hundred people under the pavilion. Many were standing at the edges of the recessed floor. Some were sitting chatting with friends. In the center there was a raised alter area where men in saffron colored clothing accepted items from outstretched hands. They men looked like they had only about four feet of space on this stage area to work before they ran into a big velvety curtain. Certainly a statue of marble lay behind. The holiest of holies. Between the alter area and those people who stood or sat there was a line of people perhaps fifteen abreast marching in a clockwise circle. These were the chanters. They moved in front of the alter, up a set of three or four stairs to the left of the platform, and then reemerged to the right of the alter and descended the other three or four stairs. The circle went around and around. I moved to the far side of the outside of the pavilion to where I could see the people ascending the steps. As they walked up they bent down and touched the front of one of the steps. People were dressed in all fashions. Some were in very traditional saris and kameezas and pantaloons. Others were in jeans and t-shirts. At some point I asked another police man if it was okay to take photos. Again, a nod and a look in the eye of "of course, why not?" I started snapping away as the crowd revolved around the alter. People began holding up garlands of marigolds, and then scarves of red. Some one moved through the crowd with a flat metal bowl or rimmed plate with coals and incense burning. I the dark shade of the covered meeting place the fire stood out brightly. I've noticed that a common architectural theme in India between the oldest and the newest structures is shade. Every little parapet on a palace has an ornate little roof. The sun here is brutal. Every cenotaph and memorial has a stone crown supported by carved stone columns. On either side of the entry point to the worship area--which I never once considered asking if it was okay for me to enter--were long metal stands for the placement of incense. Mostly women, a few men and children, set sticks and small lumps of incense in the terra cotta bowls with already burning coals. I swear I saw one woman pick up a coal in her bare hands to move it to a fresh bowl to start her own incense. Hands would reach over the incense to gather smoke. The hands then went to the faces as if washing with water. I watched one man do this from start to finish and he looked refreshed after he ran his hands through his hair. I'm no spiritualist or wanna be hippie guru ashram going hipster, so I hope it means something sincere when I say it was beautiful. I'd read that India is one of the most visibly religious places on earth. It is also both secular and observant at the same time, perhaps explaining why no one had a problem with a foreigner smiling and taking pictures the whole time. Despite the acceptance, I have to note here for my own conscience that I resist taking pictures of individuals unless it is completely impossible not to, like someone in the perfect pose as they try to maintain their patience while waiting for someone, and even then I feel guilty of taking something from them. Most often if I take an individual's photo, it may only be of their hands or of something they are working on. And always then with permission. Instead of going out the way I had come in I followed a group of people to a side area. There was a small alter cordoned off. Two men in the long shirt kameezas worked the area. After people collected their shoes and sandals from where they left them before entering the major worship area, many came to this second place. I had a hard time believing what I was seeing. People of all different stripes were having the men administer eye drops. My western sense of hygiene really kicked in. Everyone was getting drops from the same dropper and I assume the water was straight from the Ganges. The larger of the two men spotted me from across the crowd. He gave me a huge toothy grin and waved for me to come over. I waved both hands in a no gesture. I'm sure the look on my face was priceless. I could feel my mouth was in a big open smile of amazement. He laughed and encouraged me some more. I am still exhilarated days later that he didn't see my Anglo-ness or obvious lack of religious belonging as a reason not to include me or for me to participate. It's like, and pardon the really stupid comparison, at the end of a marathon (I've only run one 5k in my life, so I'm not speaking definitively here) everyone is given whatever they need, a banana, a bottle of water, a granola bar, whatever. It doesn't matter if you were first or last. Heck, probably no one even cares if you ran or were a spectator. There's plenty for all and all are welcome. I got some decent pictures of the men doing their work. And then I also noticed one last thing on the way out. On the stone corner of their marked off area there was a orange smudgy pool for people to dip their fingers in. My self consciousness really abandoned me and a freely took pictures of fingers going into the paint. One young man, possibly around 20 years old caught my eye and offered to dab a bindu or bindi or dipti (please pardon my ignorance as I have no Internet at the time of writing, I can't find the right term for sure in either of my two guide books, and I really don't want to leave the air conditioned room to go downstairs and ask reception for the right word--plus that would require putting on pants) onto my forehead. Of course I gladly accepted this. No problem. We laughed as the paste immediately started mingling with my sweat and running down my nose. I think I must have looked like a great white elephant when their drivers paint their faces with colors and decorations. From here my day had begun.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Day One, Delhi
All right, so here I am. I have learned from my mistakes in Croatia when I did not stick to my plan. This time my plan was to arrive and hunker down in the hotel room for the first day. I knew I would need to get acclimated and caught up on sleep. I didn't realize how holing up like a hermit would play with my mind. I felt like a prisoner. But now tha I am over the sleep deprivation I am feeling a lot better. Right now it's almost ten at night. Tomorrow morning I am going to take advantage of the hotel's trip assistance and take a tour of the sites. I'd thought being so close to the red fort I'd be able to just walk myself over there, but in Delhi, like Cairo, one mile may as well be a hundred. I wish I'd remembered Cairo's lesson about distance, direction, and allowing yourself to let others help you--but not be a fool about it, of course.
So, I know friends were expecting photos and such, but that will have to wait. Seriously, I haven't left the hotel. And from the rooftop dining area, all I can see through the bamboo screening are higher buildings and air conditioning units.
But tomorrow I will be adventurous.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
48 Hours, or Less
Hello Everyone. Well, it seems like it's about time to check into my old blog. It's around 48 hours until I'm on the road/in the air/sitting for hours in an airport waiting for something to happen.
And what is everyone's main concern at this point in a trip, the 48 hours before leaving? What to pack. I've been gathering up clothes and pills and toiletries and all those items that cause you to think you don't have enough and you have too much: adapters, converters, transfer ports between camera and computer, etc, etc...
I guess for all the stress accumulation of these items causes me in pursuit of comfort, there is one thing I am kind of excited to have gotten, a zoom lens for my new camera. I got the new camera a couple of weeks ago but only had the 18-55mm lens that came with it. I was thinking I needed to bring along my 30x zoom point and shoot in order to get distant photos. I stopped at all the used camera shops along High St. a couple of days ago and found nothing. Columbus is not a Pentax town, they told me. Then I tried "World of Used Photography" on W. Third Ave. in Grandview. For a bargain $100 they sold me a used 70-300mm zoom. It's used, it's a little rough, but it works and has a macro setting for tight close ups of tiny objects. Check in to my Flickr page soon to see how my progress with the new camera goes: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pcvdave/
When I found the zoom lens, I felt relieved. I could cut down my load to one good camera and a tiny point and shoot. This sounds like a lot of over thinking for a tiny issue. I don't know if it is or isn't over thinking. All I know is my mind does this and it is bothersome.
So how about my plan? Arrive in New Delhi, stay for three nights. There are tons and tons of things to see in Delhi, it was home to five different cities over the centuries, one shoulder to shoulder with the next, but I am going to limit myself. Rather than a grand plan to see everything in one shot, I am planning on hitting the highlights of the Red Fort and the various ghats, steps built on the banks of rivers for people to do ritual bathing and praying. I figure mostly I need to acclimate myself those first few days. I am anticipating more culture shock than I've ever experienced. I visited Cairo when it was about 15 million people. I hope that may give me some indication of what Delhi will be like.
After three nights in New Delhi I am headed to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. Two nights there and then on to Rajasthan. I've got five nights booked in Jaipur. There is the Pink City, the old town where I'm told most buildings are painted shades of rose. I'm looking forward to seeing the Hawa Mahal, the Palace of the Winds and the Amber Fort just outside the city up on a hill.
After Jaipur I am planning on going to the Blue City, Jodhpur. I haven't arranged accommodation yet for Jodhpur in case there is something outside of Jaipur I need to stop and see for a day. Other places I want to hit up are Ahmedabad and Patan in Gujarat for the step wells, silk industry, and Jain Temples. On the way back to Delhi I should stop in Jaisalmer to see the honey colored sandstone fort and possibly Bikaner if I haven't seen enough and if there's enough time. I've got to get back to New Delhi to fly out on the 25th of July. I'll probably spend a night or two in the capital just to round out the trip and pick up souvenirs. Word is that there is a national craft museum in Delhi that brings in artisans from all over the country and in a concentrated area you can find items from all over the country being made in one place.
So, does that sound good? Laying it all out there in words sure helps me feel like I have more of a plan than I thought and it soothes my racing mind a little. Whew.
And what is everyone's main concern at this point in a trip, the 48 hours before leaving? What to pack. I've been gathering up clothes and pills and toiletries and all those items that cause you to think you don't have enough and you have too much: adapters, converters, transfer ports between camera and computer, etc, etc...
I guess for all the stress accumulation of these items causes me in pursuit of comfort, there is one thing I am kind of excited to have gotten, a zoom lens for my new camera. I got the new camera a couple of weeks ago but only had the 18-55mm lens that came with it. I was thinking I needed to bring along my 30x zoom point and shoot in order to get distant photos. I stopped at all the used camera shops along High St. a couple of days ago and found nothing. Columbus is not a Pentax town, they told me. Then I tried "World of Used Photography" on W. Third Ave. in Grandview. For a bargain $100 they sold me a used 70-300mm zoom. It's used, it's a little rough, but it works and has a macro setting for tight close ups of tiny objects. Check in to my Flickr page soon to see how my progress with the new camera goes: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pcvdave/
When I found the zoom lens, I felt relieved. I could cut down my load to one good camera and a tiny point and shoot. This sounds like a lot of over thinking for a tiny issue. I don't know if it is or isn't over thinking. All I know is my mind does this and it is bothersome.
So how about my plan? Arrive in New Delhi, stay for three nights. There are tons and tons of things to see in Delhi, it was home to five different cities over the centuries, one shoulder to shoulder with the next, but I am going to limit myself. Rather than a grand plan to see everything in one shot, I am planning on hitting the highlights of the Red Fort and the various ghats, steps built on the banks of rivers for people to do ritual bathing and praying. I figure mostly I need to acclimate myself those first few days. I am anticipating more culture shock than I've ever experienced. I visited Cairo when it was about 15 million people. I hope that may give me some indication of what Delhi will be like.
After three nights in New Delhi I am headed to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. Two nights there and then on to Rajasthan. I've got five nights booked in Jaipur. There is the Pink City, the old town where I'm told most buildings are painted shades of rose. I'm looking forward to seeing the Hawa Mahal, the Palace of the Winds and the Amber Fort just outside the city up on a hill.
After Jaipur I am planning on going to the Blue City, Jodhpur. I haven't arranged accommodation yet for Jodhpur in case there is something outside of Jaipur I need to stop and see for a day. Other places I want to hit up are Ahmedabad and Patan in Gujarat for the step wells, silk industry, and Jain Temples. On the way back to Delhi I should stop in Jaisalmer to see the honey colored sandstone fort and possibly Bikaner if I haven't seen enough and if there's enough time. I've got to get back to New Delhi to fly out on the 25th of July. I'll probably spend a night or two in the capital just to round out the trip and pick up souvenirs. Word is that there is a national craft museum in Delhi that brings in artisans from all over the country and in a concentrated area you can find items from all over the country being made in one place.
So, does that sound good? Laying it all out there in words sure helps me feel like I have more of a plan than I thought and it soothes my racing mind a little. Whew.
Monday, August 9, 2010
help
Hi all,
I really don't know who reads my posts. If I can access some kind of tracking, I sure don't know it. Anyway, the reason I am posting this is that I have lost access to my ohiodave@sbcglobal.net email account. I am figuring that AT&T is not withdrawing the money for my bills with them like I set up before I left two months ago. I have a gmail account, pcvdave@gmail.com. If anyone who reads this blog post could send me a message, that'd be great. I'd love to have your email address so I can contact you still. Everything else is locked up in my sbc account. I feel kind of lost and abandoned without it.
Dave
I really don't know who reads my posts. If I can access some kind of tracking, I sure don't know it. Anyway, the reason I am posting this is that I have lost access to my ohiodave@sbcglobal.net email account. I am figuring that AT&T is not withdrawing the money for my bills with them like I set up before I left two months ago. I have a gmail account, pcvdave@gmail.com. If anyone who reads this blog post could send me a message, that'd be great. I'd love to have your email address so I can contact you still. Everything else is locked up in my sbc account. I feel kind of lost and abandoned without it.
Dave
untitled
This piece is only a rough draft. I need a little more time and distance from my subject to put my thoughts together a little better. Here it is anyway.
1. There was a group of Gypsy women and children by the public drinking fountain. It was probably about 8pm and starting to get dark. They were between me and the pedestrian bridge across the river. They saw me and the women assumed the begging pose. One woman took the lead with her hand outstretched and the familiar routine began.
“Ay, good sir, give me ten denars, please for some bread for my children.”
“No thanks, sorry.” I had nothing rehearsed and that’s just what came out, “No thanks.”
The woman walked by my side.
“Please, sir, I am starving and I need food, twenty denars! Ten! Five!”
“Enough,” I said. That is what I have seen as second line etiquette in dealing with begging Gypsies, but she persisted and her tapping became pushing and yanking on the shoulder strap of my bag.
“Go away! Now!” I said, raising my voice and looking her in the face. I picked up my pace and did my best to ignore her. She finally fell away from me after a horribly long distance. I felt angry and mad. I didn’t like distrusting people and yelling at them.
2. Coming down the other side of the bridge I saw a second group. This time it was a trio of boys aged somewhere between nine and eleven. They had been playing, throwing things off of the bridge and pushing each other. Then they saw me. As I was already looking at them, it was as if I had signed a contract. One’s little hand went forth and out came the usual words, “Ay, good sir, give me ten denars, please for some bread.”
By now I have come to accept that I cannot hide. I will always be recognized as a foreigner here,and so instead of the regular protocol I spoke in English.
“Really? I can’t stand this anymore! I am so sick of this shit!”
He looked puzzled and his hand lost some of its confidence. I shook my head with exhaustion. He left me alone faster than I expected. I was glad it was over with, but I didn’t like cussing at another person.
3. Crossing the city’s main pedestrian square I saw a small band of very young Gypsy girls going from person to person. The girls were maybe five to seven years old. I watched as they tried to talk to two tall blond women walking along in big sunglasses, short miniskirts, and high heels. The girls couldn’t get their attention at all. The women acted as oblivious to the girls as if lost in a long distance cell phone conversation.
I skirted around the girls before they gave up on the women and before they selected me as their next target. I watched one of the little girls go to the entrance of a small boutique. I was ready to see a shopkeeper shoo the kid away. No one likes beggars and having one near your store or restaurant can hurt business. I watched for a minute as the woman in the store seemed to have a conversation with the child. The woman wasn’t mean or defensive. I don’t know what they talked about, but the woman seemed polite and not threatened by the intrusion. I thought maybe I should try talking and asking questions rather than blank refusals.
As I walked around I found a bench where an older man was playing an accordion. He had a shoe box at his feet for tips. I have been in the habit of giving money to as many street artists as I encounter. On one hand it seems prejudicial, favoring those privileged enough to know an instrument and well off enough to own one. But on the other hand, the Roma are also known for their musical talents. Wedding receptions and funeral processions are the exclusive domain of Gypsy bands.
As I sat I watched a young Roma boy flit from bench to bench asking people for money. His head would nod as if emphasizing the affirmative nature of his request. When he came to me he held out his hand and gave the same quick nod as he said, “Give me twenty denars.” No “Please” and no “Oh kind sir.” None of the usual act.
I asked him what he was going to do. He looked at me like he didn’t understand.
“For bread. Give me twenty denars for bread,” he replied.
“No, not what are you going to do with the money, what are you going to do for the money?” I asked. I felt like a heel, as if I wanted him to sing for his supper, as if I were trying to make a monkey dance for a banana.
He still looked confused.
I pointed to the man with the accordion and said that the old man was working for his money. He wasn’t holding out his hand just asking. The boy agreed but said he had nothing to offer.
“I don’t believe you.
He said he didn’t. He was too poor to learn an instrument.
I repeated that I didn’t believe him. I asked if he was Roma, and weren’t all Roma masters of music?
He conceded that he did know, but he played the drums. He began flailing the air like mad. “You know, drums?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, I know drums.”
“Then give me twenty denars!” he demanded.
I countered that he hadn’t really played the drums but had only hit the air. He told me that the drums were at home and now I should give him thirty denars. When I refused he sat down beside me.
“Twenty denars,” he repeated, as if it were my last chance to get in on a good deal.
He sat for five minutes or so before he moved on to other benches and pedestrians. I saw one girl standing with a friend waiting for someone pony up a bill for the kid and he went traipsing away. I sat and enjoyed the folk songs coming from the man with the accordion.
Ten minutes later the boy reappeared. Visibly happy I had not moved, he approached in a bid to pick up where he had left off on his attempt to erode my will power.
He pointed in my face and demanded twenty denars. I laughed and shook my head before I realized he was pointing two fingers at me like his hand was a gun.
“Give me...money,” he said now in English, but I told him more seriously he wasn’t getting anything that way, that that was wrong.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What is that? You have chocolate on your face. You’ve been eating ice cream!”
He put his hand to his mouth and told me I was wrong. That wasn’t from ice cream, he said. That was from candy.
“Whatever,” I said, but told him he hadn’t used his money for bread but for candy. I wasn’t going to pay for his candy. He swore he would use my money to get bread. Twenty denars! He pleaded.
“No,” I replied. I told him I would never believe him again. It would be better if I bought the bread for him myself. He thought it was a fine idea until I questioned how much he really wanted a whole loaf of bread.
He told me that if I was going to buy him a loaf of bread, it would be better if I bought him a sandwich with tomatoes and French fries. He said it, again, in such a way that it seemed it would benefit me more than him.
I told him I didn’t believe that he’d be happy with that. That the next thing would be a drink and desert. I stopped myself, “Oh wait, you already had desert!”
He rolled his head around in frustration and asked one last time if I was or was not going to give him twenty denars. I told him if he hadn’t had all that chocolate on his face I might have. He put out his hand to offer an handshake. We shook and he formally bid me good bye. As if to prove something, he went to the next bench and approached a young man who was half way through eating a ear of roasted corn. The guy looked at the kid, then at the corn, then at the kid again. He handed the boy the corn and the kid started gnawing away as if he was an animal who had caught his prey.
I was glad I had talked to the kid rather than yelling at him to go away. I still wished there was a better way though. I wished I could really know what a beggar needed and give it to him or her.
4. The next day I was back in the town square. I had spent part of the day hiking on Mt. Vodno. I was exhausted from the steep climb and was taking a rest before I headed back to my apartment. It was around 7pm and people were starting to come out of hiding from the day’s heat. The square was filling with vendors of toys, used books, bootleg DVD’s, ice cream, corn, and little fried dough rings.
I didn’t see the Gypsies out tonight and felt relieved. No guilt for having a better life, no fear of being pickpocketed. A woman, probably twenty-five years old, was walking slowly by me when she stopped and looked at me. She was wearing a big sweatshirt with “USA” on it and baggy plastic running pants. She didn’t look Roma and I was surprised when she asked me if I had one Euro I could give her. She said she needed to get home and didn’t have money for the bus.
I couldn’t believe I was hearing the same story I often heard in parking lots in the US. I told the woman no, and that everyone I met said they needed money and I didn’t have enough for everyone. I said that this was Macedonia, there is an economic crisis, everyone needs money. But she stared at me as I sat there. She looked like she was thinking.
“Where are you from?” she asked me in English.
I told her I was from the US and she asked again if I really couldn’t give her a Euro. I said no and asked her to leave, but then she sat down next to me. She kept staring at me. I didn’t like it. She was close enough that I could see the hair growing out of the mole on her upper lip. There was something in her eyes that I couldn’t make out.
I asked her to leave me alone. She sighed and looked down at her hands, then back at me.
“Would you like a massage?” she asked.
I resisted my jaw dropping open. Without thinking I said, “You need to go, now!”
She made no move at all. I got up and left feeling dirty for having been asked such a question.
The next five minutes as I walked through the growing evening crowd, the next half hour as I walked home, then next days and week as I went about my business as a teacher on summer break, a writer taking time to work on his craft, and as a tourist buying souvenirs and eating at restaurants, I thought of this lady. I thought of the sigh and how she looked at her hands. I had been so shocked that I didn’t have time to think about how she must have been working herself up to the question. All I could think about was myself and not about what she was willing to do for money.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Since the Last Time
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| Yes, I am enjoying my time right where I am, why not? |
Other than that, I have been taking it easy and trying to just enjoy my time here. I have more or less stayed put in one city, Skopje, the capital. I fight the urge to hop on buses and explore, explore, explore. I know the more I am “on the road” outside the capital, the more I’ll be on my feet doing the tourist thing and the less I’ll be sitting getting words on paper. On one hand I feel like I am not using this visit for all it’s worth--seeing every nook and cranny of my home away form home, but on the other hand, I really don’t want to get home to Ohio and realize I spent my days not working towards my goal of writing new material and revising old. Besides, I am on my feet enough exploring Skopje as it is.
The past two days I have been out and about seeing archaeological sites and checking out the museums. I’ve put in time buying souvenirs and enjoying the food. Last weekend I climbed to the middle of Mt. Vodno. I spent two days over in Shutka, the Gypsy neighborhood. My friend, Zhaklina, arranged a half day with her archaeologist friend for me here in Skopje. I’ve had a great week seeing and doing. I even bought an original oil painting. I’ll have to remove the canvas in order to get it home, I think. So many things to do that I haven’t done, but I am trying to tell myself, as my time for departure draws near, that next time I will do all the tourist things I wanted to do this time. I think Croatia kind of used up my desire to live out of a packed bag for a while. Next time, I’m going to see Ohrid, Krushevo, Galichnik, Mavrovo, Berovo, and stay in a mountain hut, and climb Plachkovica and Korab, and find the church in Varosh dedicated to the Serbians who died expelling the Fascists, and see the Sharena Jama-Painted Mosque in Tetovo, and the neolithic observatory in Kokino, and all that.
But when I find myself getting anxious that I didn’t walk every step of Macedonia, I have to remind myself that I traveled here to have a “staycation” away from home, to get some writing done, and see some friends. And I did all that. Now all I have to do is go out and get a new suitcase to carry home all the trinkets and souvenirs I’ve gotten along the way.
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