The Durian Apocalypse

Arrived via bus to Udaipur, the Lake City, in late afternoon, immediately hoofed it to the Railway Station to secure a passage to Mumbai, and then made the hour-long walk to my guest house. By the time I’d finished checking in and made my way up to the rooftop, it was late enough now in the day that this was my very first view of Udaipur’s famed waters.

It’s great to read about a place, but not look at any pictures, ‘cause then when you do at last get a glimpse, it can still be surprising enough to draw a gasp. There’re a half-dozen man-made lakes around and about — constructed from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries — with massive, gorgeous palaces (many now converted to hotels) ringing the shores and, as you see, occupying small islands as well. It also looks mighty fine during the daytime. (Moreover, we’re already in the Element Of Summer here despite it’s only mid- January: Nary a cloud in the sky, daytime highs in the 80s; though still quite chilly at night.)

Octopussy was shot here (and parts of Gandhi as well), and it’s certainly easy to see why such a location should have been chosen. It was one of my fave Bond films back in the day, but when it was released to DVD in the early-oughts, my estimation was that it had not held up well at all. Now, having visited Udaipur, I shall have to give it another look-see.

Here’s the incredible City Palace:

The tour of the same is a great wondrous time, including another heaping helping dose of those stunning Indian Miniature paintings to go along with the marvelous architecture and the most beautiful décor I’ve yet seen in any such tour. Lucky you, however, I didn’t purchased a camera permit, so I have no pictures of the interiors to pass along.

There is this, though. Leaving the Palace grounds, some dudes barraged my self with the usual litany of questions – What is your name?, What is your country?, Are you traveling alone?, How long have you been in India?, and cetera – and then asked me to sit for a photo with not only themselves, but also their students. The latter were massed just outside the gate – you couldn’t possibly believe the enormous numbers of field-tripping schoolchildren rushing through the museums in India and Nepal. It’s kind of annoying, truth be told, considering it’s like waiting for the world’s longest train to pass, and yet they don’t even both to look at the exhibits.

Anyway, don’t generally bother to do so on these occasions, but as many cameras were already being passed around for the event, I added mine to the mix. I don’t even think the smiling ladies next to me were a part of the group – they showed up and joined in after some photos had already been taken. Don’t know why having one’s photo taken with a frickin’ barefoot gora apparently carries with it such cache, but it’s a great favourite pastime of the Indian citizenry. The kids seemed more confused than excited; but when I made to shake their hands after, they were happy to get into the spirit pretty good.

One can hike (or get a gondola) up to the top of one of the hills to view the sunset, and pray the temple, and so forth. And from the one angle…

…one might well be forgiven for wondering, “That’s not such a big city – from whence all the smog?” But, turn around and look down the other side of the hill, and Udaipur is reminiscent of Kathmandu: Ringed by mountains, with urban sprawl jamming its way into every square inch of the valley floor below said mountains. (To be fair, there’s a lot more green space set aside here than in Kathmandu – but the smog is nevertheless just as noticeable in the former location as in the latter.)

Also to be seen from the mountain-top, this incongruity set amidst one of the local neighbourhoods. One wonders, might it be a landing disc for a Martian craft? It would help explain how the sons of bitches living here some six hundred years before present pulled off the magnificent engineering marvels that are the lakes and palaces.

In addition to the smog, the city’s other bugaboo is the obligatory motorcycle and tuk-tuk gauntlet. But, Udaipur being a hilly city, the damnable machines are, unlike in other cities in India and Nepal, truly terrifying here, careering down the steep inclines through the very narrow streets at even faster rates of speed than elsewhere they could. So I’m more than a little thrilled to (knock wood) be getting out of here with my bones still intact.

Nastinesses aside, there’s much to love here, beginning with the public art. There are any number of art schools in town, and the students use the walls for their final projects (or what). The subject matter is pretty samey, but it’s great fun to be walking ‘round a city whose buildings’ walls are filled up with such-like images…

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And there are shit-tonnes of temples here, some of them very impressive (not to mention freaky/strange) indeed…

But even the smallest little one-cow hole-in-the-wall has got its own evening Puja. This one here, even despite its rather shaky attendance figures, kinda thrown me for a loop with that hypnotic drumbeat. Okay, it’s not as moving as Varanasi’s Ganga Aarti ceremony, but it’s got its own power and pull nevertheless.

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Speaking of cows, didja ever see one with such wacked-out horns as this’n? Too fugging cool! Also cool: Shade-wearing mannequin guy. You almost expect him to hop onto yon motorcycle and roar off into the distance.

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One of the great joys of travel is that every place one visits seems to have its own little idiosyncratic customs that won’t be found in any other locale. Here in Udaipur, one such is these small teams of miniature donkeys being driven throughout the city by scowl-faced stick-wielding ladies (and never fear, they’re not shy when it comes to keeping the animals in line).

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Another such, presented without comment:

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Also unique to Udaipur (at least in my experience) are these huge basin-shaped blocks of brown sugar which are on offer in a surprising percentage of the bazaars’ stalls.

It’s not all sweetness and light with the city’s vendors, however. A few evenings back, I was out doing a little bit of dinner-time shoppings. Having purchased some Bananas from one stall, I proceeded down the hill and around the bend toward the Clock Tower area, hoping to locate some more (they don’t hang the Bananas here, so it can be difficult to find ripe ones which aren’t bruised). I checked the stock of this one big, huge, fat lady, but didn’t see anything I liked, so made to walk on down the road a piece.

Before I knew what was happening, though, the lady had reverted to Beast Mode and set upon me with a great and furious outpouring of Hindi invective – thinking, apparently, that I’d pilfered the Bananas from her place of business. She was really steaming, too, shoving me into a motorcycle, and giving me a fucking (ironic/appropriate) Indian Burn no less. I mean, when was the last time somebody gave you a fucking Indian Burn – fourth grade, or some shit?

It was right at the busiest time of day, so a big throng of onlookers gathered to watch and, eventually, pull us apart. I just kept asking for anybody who spoke English to let me explain myself, but nobody really did. So I repeatedly motioned for the fat lady to come with me back up the road, so I could prove to her the provenance of my fruit. Finally, I was able to relate to one of the bystanders that I’d already purchased said fruit, and he told me to proceed with my day – the berserk shopkeep screaming bloody murder at me all the while.

When I arrived back up to the very friendly sellers from whom I’d purchased the now infamous bunch, there was a guy on a motorcycle, checking out my story with them. They proved a worthy alibi, opining to me many times over that she was/is a “crazy lady”. I could kind of see her side of the story, to be honest: Being that it’s utterly inconceivable for any human person of Asian origin that a motherfucker would purchase any-sized portion of any thing without swaddling it in twenty hundred plastic bags, it must have seemed to her beyond the realms of possibility that I had in fact already paid down my cash-money for the fruit.

I’m proud of myself, too: Whereas those monkeys back Lumbini were able to abscond with my Bananas after only about thirty seconds’ worth of keep-away, the crazy lady only managed, throughout the entire dust-up, to get two of them away from me – which two she was subsequently convinced to return. Suffice to say, however, I’ve not gone near the Clock Tower again! (But I’m still never going to start using plastic bags, no matter how insane the people think me. In fact, being in Asia has made me despise plastic/disposable packaging even so much the more than I already had done.)

Now then, speaking of monkeys, here we go for poops and giggles, some more business from the same. This was coming down the side of the mountain the other day (I’ve gone up there every day I’ve been here — more for the exercise than for the view).

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I sat down to watch for what I expected would be just a few minutes, and ended up spending almost an hour’s time, just enjoying the goofiness of the youth and the serenity of the elders. So fascinating to me!

And, before I knowed even where my bearings might be, that’s it for me in Rajasthan – a truly magical state in a truly magical land.

One reads so much about the beauty of the colours displayed in Indian women’s clothing, and in streetside garment and fabric shoppes. Having admired traditional Pakistani clothing during my years at the restaurant, I was inclined to believe that it would prove to be true.

But during my first month here,  I was much more impressed with the fashionability of the brethren (hot-pink turbans forever!) than of the sistren. Well, truthfully, one doesn’t always see so many women out and about – except in Delhi, where they’re almost all wearing Western-style clothing.

Arrive in Jodhpur, however, and the famed explosion of colours is in full swing. Not only this, but the delicate and gorgeous material, and the out-of-this-World patterns make for a most appealing melange. Plus how do they keep their clothing so clean and bright amidst all the dust and cowshit and garbage lining every street? It’s just so, so, so impossible to do the experience of the Jodhpur bazaar – where the eye-popping outfits are flying by in the scores and dozens per minute — any kind of justice that I don’t know why I even bother trying. But, okay, here’re a few shots.

Oh, and let’s at least get in one of the fellas; this guy rocking the finest turban/moustache combo I’ve seen. (The competition in this category couldn’t be more keen.)

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Now to the young (and young-at-heart): Those Jodhpurians, mentioned in previous post, soliciting for their photo to be taken. We could begin with this touching scene, which I happened upon one afternoon out for a stroll in the Old City.

Two dudes seen me photoing the dog, and wanted to know why – why would I do such a thing? “Because it’s a beautiful moment!” I pleaded. After pondering my argument for a little while, they agreed that it was such, and requested to be a part of it. Me, am always happy to oblige such requests.

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The story behind this photo…

…is that I was halted in my tracks by the astounding beauty of the music coming from out of this house, so thought to record a clip, with which to hopefully later put an ID. Soon the owner of the house came out, and then the kids all came a-running, begging to be captured alive in photographic ones and zeros.

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It took a few shots before they were finally satisfied with the outcome. But that were nothing compared to these next kids’ insistence. I’d spied this Muslim festival going on one fine Sunday, and noticed that the vehicles in the parade were all proceeding in reverse. “That’s odd,” I thought, “I’d better go take some footage.” But as soon as I tried to do so, the kids swarmed all over me begging to become immortalised for their selves — never mind my own particular designs.

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And every time I’d complete a shot, they’d beg and beg for just one more – ignoring their colleagues’ pleas for even a first shot. It was great fun, at first. But, finally, it was just too much of a madhouse: I couldn’t even make to leave until some guys in their twenties stepped in to help free my self of their demanding clutches. Well, they wanted to be famous; and, now, if you see their likenesses, I guess they in some sense are. (Never realised until now how many shots the boy with the burnt-orange turban managed to finagle his way into…)

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And a few hours later – same festival, different part of town – you can see many of these participants are happy to be featured as well.

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And here are a few more whom (more politely, I dare say) solicited the lens’ soul-searching gaze. The broadly smiling gents in the last shot are just the best. I’d wanted to snap their pics while I was walking by; but some days I’m more shy about asking than others, so instead I, on this occasion, just smiled and said hello. I was well past when they called me back and asked to sit for this photo. I guess they just knew what great subjects they’d make!

The ride from Amritsar to Delhi took longer than I’d guessed it might. We departed before sunup, and arrived after sundown. That’s a local bus for you – but it was also quite inexpensive. And, being the only gringo on the trip, I drew plenty of attention from my fellow riders. In particular, during one of the layovers, two nurses asked me to stand with them for a photo; and my seatmate recommended to me many locations to visit, always careful to impress with photos from the web.

But people were friendly in general. Which I’ve found to be true throughout India so far. I had bridled myself for the opposite, based upon other travelers’ reports – but then, many travelers also report that they’ve found Thais to be unfriendly, while such a suchness couldn’t possibly be further from my experience.

As we approached Delhi, I was distressed to see the smogginess increase proportionately to our proximity. But we arrived under cover of nightfall, and, well, there’s just something magical, ain’t it, being in a pulsating, throbbing, thriving metropolis at night. The sights, the sounds, the smells, the electric thrill of the communal experience always seem heightened after the sun goes down.

They call the Taj Mahal one of the Wonders of the World – but I think it should be Delhi’s Metro system. So massive (six lines, not including the Airport Express – Bangkok, by comparison, has three lines), so quiet, so sleek, so fast. Trains running so frequently. Stations so clean, well-signed and informative, well-lit, well-maintained. And so inexpensive it may as well be free: A thirteen-station journey, for example, checks in at thirty-three cents! Are you fucking kidding me?

The very qualities that make it so lovable, however, also make it extremely popular: The crush of bodies piling into the carriages is so dense that one could, if one so chose, simply lift one’s feet from the ground and surf with the tide right onto the train. The major problem, of course, is that it’s almost impossible to move one’s arms about, so woe betide those who develop mid-trip an itch what needs scratching.

I got the Metro to the train station, and went straight away to the International Tourist Bureau to secure an onward passage. I was worried that it might be about to close — and with both Christmas Eve and Christmas day being official holidays here, that it might not open again ‘til Boxing Day. Turns out it’s open 24/7, including Sundays. But I took a number, which was sixty numbers greater than that currently being served.

So, made the twenty-minute hoof to the hostel, checked in, went back, and the queue had only advanced by twenty people. So I went out and found some Bananas, ate them up, went back, and only ten more places had elapsed. So I went back to the hostel, grabbed some reading material, and returned yet again. Now, the numbers were cycling through more quickly, it being pretty late at night, and many number-holders having abandoned their places in line. So, didn’t have to wait long after that, and was able to book the very train I wanted, no fuss/no muss.

So I was already kind of in love with Delhi. But then, come morning, and seeing how truly awful Delhi’s air quality is, my heart sank low. It’s apparently only the third-worst in India, and doesn’t even crack the World top-ten. But it’s plenty horrible enough. Too bad, too, ‘cause it otherwise looks to be a city in which one could spend several weeks just seeing the sights and experiencing the vibes.

One such sight, which I just happened upon by chance, is this massive Hanuman statue. India’s structures are on such a gigantic scale that this doesn’t even rate a mention in listings. But I for one am duly impressed.

As I say, one could easily spend days upon days walking around seeing such sites, as well as the big-ticket locations for which the city is famed. But, better to try it during the rainy season, perhaps, when the air isn’t actively trying to kill you dead.

I did spend an entire day at the Naitonal Museum here. It may well have been the best ten dollars I’ve ever spent (and half of that was for the camera fee – it’d be five dollars for those who didn’t feel a particular need for photography).

The sculptures and carvings housed here, while not quite in the same class as those to be found at Angkor Wat or Kathmandu, are very great.

But, c’mon, it’s India, and that means Indian Miniature Painting for all the marbles. The best thing ever, it is. Though that’s only an opinion, and though there are uncountable phenomena to which I’ve not been exposed, I do mean it literally: In my estimation, there is no more masterfully realised depiction of the human experience. And the Museums’ collection did not disappoint – just shaking my head over and over and over again at the impossibly brilliant quality of these works.

They’re all behind glass, which makes photography deuce frustrating. But I took lots, lots, lots, and still lots more. I took so many goddam pictures, I think I developed a mild case of Tennis Elbow (or what). They’re all up there on the Flickr page, if you wanna look-see. But, as usual with these types of things, there’s no substitute to seeing them in person. So get your dimpled ass over here! (Actually, I think there are some pretty big collections in the States as well, if one is so inclined.) Here’re just a very few faves.

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And these, just for the comedy value:

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There’s actually a story behind this second one which makes it at least a little bit less weird. If you prefer to remember the scene the way you’ve found it here, then skip ahead to the next paragraph. … So, what the deal was, back in the day they’d feed this certain plant to the cows to turn their shit yellow. Then, they’d harvest the shit and boil it up, and at the end of the process would have their yellow paint. Pretty neat, eh?

In addition to the Museum and whooshing around hither and yon on the Metro just for the fun of it, I did manage to hit the streets of Old Delhi as well. While pretty crazy, it’s not nearly so intense and unsane as I’d been led to believe it would be.

The quantity of goods being transported by human and animal power is pretty staggering, I must say. I think it’s mostly rice and lentils, at least in this part of town. It looks like the leading distributor of the latter is an outfit called “Hi-Tech Pulses” – which screams GMO as loud as anything could. So, welcome to India?

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This Chisel Master, meantime, is here all day every day, carving out signs, or scripture, or some damned thing. I could have watched him forever, but he seemed a bit uncomfortable to have the camera trained upon him, so didn’t take as much footage as I’d have liked. He’s especially fun to watch at night, with just the one little lamp to light up his affairs.

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Finally, from Amritsar, everything you ever needed to know about how to tie a turban.

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Part 1: Sillius Maximus

[dc]E[/dc]ver wondered what it would have looked like had Monty Python staged the Nuremberg Rally? Well it turns out that this exact scenario plays out nightly just north of Amritsar, at the only crossing between India and Pakistan.

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The crossing is not open twenty-four hours, and so the ceremony has, since the partition (except when the two countries have been at war), been conducted every night as the sun goes down and the frontier closes up shop for the evening. Afterward, it’s possible to have one’s photo taken with any of the participants. I wanted mine with this gruff-but-lovable-looking fellow from whom I’d found it impossible, during the ceremony, to remove mine eyes.

He was hanging around behind, and I had to call him over. Didn’t even realise that this other lady was horning in upon my action…

The signage is enough to draw a good old-fashioned guffaw – though I don’t dare think the guardsmen were laughing too heartily.

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Speaking of Pythonesque, here’s the scene at the Punjab’s most important tourist attraction, the Golden Temple, the Sikhs’ number-one hangout, welcoming enormous numbers of visitors and serving 100,00 free meals daily (prepared by volunteers)…

Each night, a ceremony is conducted to put the Sikh Holy Book to bed (from whence it is brought back out — equal ceremoniously — each and every morning). If this ain’t the goofiest shit ever, there isn’t any goofiest shit ever. Yet, it’s undertaken, as you see, in complete and awestruck seriousness.

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For still more silliness, the trip to the border closing ceremony is arranged by the hostel, the itinerary also including stops at the staff’s favourite lunch and lassi spots, as well as the weirdest, wackest, goofiest, awesomest temple ever did I see. Basically what it is, it’s a fucking Playland (or what), visitors traversing  up and down ramps and stairs, and around and across and through chambers and canals and corridors and tunnels…

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…and animals’ mouths…

…to gain access to the multitudinous wild and crazy shrines and artworks. In the interest of keeping things at least a mite under control here, I’ll post up only a few of the latter. But do yourself a favour and browse on over to the Flickr page for dozens more. They’re weird and wacky, but also quite bitchin’. And this-here sleeping-Buddha is nothing short of gorgeous. Leave it to a Hindu temple to present possibly the best Buddha image evar.

Those teats have water dripping from them, the pilgrims letting some few drops fall onto their fingers, from which they drink it up like nectar pure. In fact, the funniest thing about the temple – much like the Golden Temple’s tucking in of the Holy Book  — is the seriousness with which the proceedings are conducted, as though this weren’t one of the weirdest places in all of the deep/wide World.

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Back to the Sikhs, for a moment: Having seen their selves in action, I am able to report that they’re as idiotically slavish as all the other religions’ sheep. Sure, one could argue that it’s all good to have idiots at whom to poke fun. But, when I think about how much money the fucking religious upper-crusteds are extracting from their followers, I just get blind with rage and dream up all sorts of fulminating jeremiadiacal soliloquies. Maybe I could begin to take the Sikhs’ professed populist ideals seriously were they to, e.g., sell off the 750 kilos of eponymous gold lining the Temple’s roof, melt it down, sell it off, and use the proceeds for ecological remediation projects. Well, at any rate, the sumbitch is beautiful when all lit up at night.

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Part 2: Awesomeness Incarnate

[dc]E[/dc]ven without the goofiness, Amritsar would still be all kinds of badass. The traffic scenarios are every bit as bewitching and transfixing as are Varanasi’s; and, wandering around through the alleys and byways, watching the tradespeople and labourers go about their collective daily thang is an especially delightful treat.

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And in case you’ve been missing the Beverly Hillbillies, they’re here, too – come pay them a visit, won’t you?

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There’s a daily Heritage Tour offered by the city, a nice stroll revealing all manner of beauty treasures which would otherwise have been passed by unnoticed.

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But it’s most certainly possible to stumble upon brilliant moments even when not under the auspices of an official guide-person. In fact, that’s far the most satisfying activity here: Wandering the streets of the old city, imbibing its vibes, and kicking it with the common man.

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And, yes Mabel, there will be Christmas in the Punjab…

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Part 3: Roam For The Holidays

[dc]T[/dc]he problem, though, with Amritsar is that it’s easy to get in to, but not so easy to get out of. The trains here are all booked up months in advance, so, to help smooth things over, a modest number of tickets for each route are set aside for foreign tourists. This so-called Foreign Tourist Quota works nicely – though there’s still plenty of waiting in line and filling of forms with which to deal…

… — when you’re in a bigger city. However, it’s only available for routes departing the bigger cities, so when you arrive to a smaller city, you have to take your chances swimming with the sharks. That means lots of pushing and shoving and line-cutting (it’s respectful, but can get confusing) in the queue for the other last-ditch, the Tatkal Quota. These tickets are set aside to go on sale at 10:00 in the AM on the day before the route’s departure, and are offered at a give-or-take 25% premium above the nominal fare – but they too sell out very quickly.

This very morn, I waited on line in the bitter foggy cold for two hours’ time, and when my number come up, the tatkals for tomorrow’s overnight to Jaipur were already sold out. I’ve still got a waiting-list ticket to hand, so there is hope. But if that doesn’t get confirmed, it may just be Xmas in Amritsar for little old me – or perhaps maybe a bus to Delhi, which is in the wrong direction to the sunny climes, but will have Tourist Quota available. (It’s easy to book buses, or non-heated cars on the trains, but I already posted all my cold-weather clothes back home before departing Nepal, assuming I’d find delectably radiating warmth here in India. Hostel colleagues have been purchasing blankets for their chilly overnights, but, ever the tightwad, I’ve so far resisted…)

Decided I’m not going to stress about the trains, though. There’s too much of India to be able to experience even given many lifetimes’ worth, so may as well just relax and enjoy its pleasures in whichever location one happens to have splashed down. Amritsar is lovely, and the hostel here is in my top-five favourites…but this all-day fog-in pattern is beginning to wear me down.

Well, I may not know where my dimpled ass is going to be seated come Christmas Day, but there’s absolutely no question to what it’ll be jammin’ out, n’est pas?

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That there is the fuckin’ ticket, is what that is!