Guest Post: Sharyn in India

Red Fort, Delhi - Joanne Orion Miller 2013

Traveling solo is more common than one would suspect. My dear friend Sharyn Trevillyan has been doing it for years, and is something of an expert on getting around. After university she dreamed of seeing places that were very different from her native England; she wanted to experience cultures that remained unaltered for centuries, but would likely undergo radical change due to the increasing pace of the world.

Sharyn saved up money for travel for seven years; her first solo trip circumnavigated the globe in 1990; her first flight was to Delhi, with a return ticket from Sydney. Here are excerpts from her diary, including a glimpse of India of 25 years ago:

“Until today I’d only seen pictures of India and knew little of this country of a billion people. I knew no one. As I exited the plane in New Delhi at five in the morning, I was met with a sea of faces; the taxi drivers engulfed me like a wave. They jostled for position but none wanted to take me to the hotel I booked. Some claimed it had closed, and offered me their cousin's hotel instead. This was the first of many games I would need to play as a lone female traveler. I picked the frailest man and told him he would get my fare if he took me to my chosen hotel. As he led me through the throng, he wore a look of pride. Victory for both of us! An hour later, after stowing my bags in the hotel, I walked through Connaught Square; an elephant with a painted face passed me, his handler atop his back. This is why I travel.

That night I slept as only one can after fifteen hours on a plane, leapfrogging over several time zones. The cacophony of sounds outside the window stirred me from my jetlagged slumber. It was the middle of the day and the people of New Delhi were ardently going about their business. In a nation where a majority of people are considered by western classifications to be underemployed, they seemed awfully busy.

Delhi street scene - Joanne Orion Miller 2013

Two weeks later, I spent time at the River Ganges, a sacred place for Hindus. It is their tradition to burn their dead and scatter the ashes in these holy waters. As most people are too poor to buy enough wood to burn an entire body, many are dropped into the water with little more than scorch marks. I was appalled, but then I heard the story of how widows were once expected to throw themselves on the pyre with their deceased husbands. Given the widow would have no means of support, this was a practical maneuver rather than a display of undying love. I was grateful that this tradition is changing and I’m spared the smell of live flesh.

I thought of how different my life is and the opportunities I have in comparison to those in India.  Most are not in charge of their future and are compelled by society’s rule to marry whom their parent deems appropriate governed by the strict cast system.

A week later I sat with my glass of chai tea in a Darjeeling cafe. The street outside appears unchanged since the last century; women in beautiful saris clutch baskets with their tiny boneless hands, dogs roam mindlessly. I had associated India with the peace and tranquility of yoga and meditation, yet when I arrived I was overwhelmed by the noise, bustle and sheer volume of people.

At first I thought the country needed a good sweep but India has cured me of my superior attitude. Now I can embrace it for what it is, not what I want it to be.

I stare at the tall glass--a beautiful tumbler with silver wrapped around it to form a handle. Something so delicate may seem at odds with the dusty surroundings and the lack of what I consider to be the basic necessities of life, but now I know better. The Indians take time for their ceremonies, for family, for tradition; tea drinking is one of the most important pastimes: It brings people together--the entire family can participate--and encourages conversation. It was right that something so beautiful, yet so fragile, would be here.

I took a sip of the milky liquid and felt the spices on my tongue, soothing yet with a hint of fire. That summed up my time in India.

Delhi market - Joanne Orion Miller 2013

Day Seven: Dancing for Krishna

On the way to the Temple

Before the ceremony began, Chine urged me to go into the middle of the circle of Hindu women and gave me a set of tiny bells to ring along with the drum. They tried to teach me the chants, which were constantly changing. Then the fire ceremony began and everyone got up. As we began to move, two of the elder women held my face gently in their hands; I don’t know what they said to me but the love in their eyes was so profound I felt blessed. The priest performed fire ceremony to worship Krishna by passing the lighted censor around the central statue seven times, then the statue on the left side of the altar. 

After, the drum and chanting of the women began again. The rhythm was irresistible, and I danced a little in place—Chime pushed me toward the circle, and they cleared a path for me; I was stuck—refusal was not an option. I danced in the Hindu temple in the middle of a group of 100 women dressed in the most beautiful saris. It was extraordinary, and, completely ignorant of what to do (and with the fervent hope I wouldn’t embarrass myself or anyone in my group), I started to dance. The drums and tiny bells were hypnotic. That mysterious power that comes over one in perfect flow had a hold of me, and I turned in circles, dancing and moving to the sound of the chants and drums. After a few minutes, I “namasted” everyone and escaped back to the group. Pamela called in “an integrating moment” when two widely separated cultures met and were entranced with one another.

After we left the Temple, I walked in a state of spaced-out bliss; oblivious, I ran into a motorcycle while stopping to photograph a sparkly bangle shop. The driver and I apologized to each other. What a mess that would have been for our karma, especially since he had the white stripe tika on his forehead, indicating a priest caste. Sparkly bangle shops are my nemesis: continuing along the dark, rough and muddy shit-filled street, I fell while being distracted by another sparkly bangle shop--everyone local laughed their asses off, by the way. I would have expected to be humiliated, but in fact, the moment passed quickly—so much for ignoring embarrassing moments. Skinned knees, but what a memory! 

Napping quarters at Karauali Palace

Day Seven: Miles of Mustard

A very blissed-out Hanuman in our room at Karauli Palace

Bumping along the highway and its assorted dirt-road turnoffs, I couldn’t help but notice the trees, which were bereft of leaves and most branches. At first I thought, “Well, it’s winter.” Then I realized the tree branches had been cut as high up as a man (or woman, most likely) could reach—for fuel. We passed numerous bright green and yellow mustard fields, huts made of rushes, and cleverly stacked piles of “poop chapattis”:  bullock dung patted into neat pancakes of burnable fuel. The air smelled like wood smoke rather than what one would assume.

We arrived at the village, and our stay for the night, Karauli Palace, the estate of the former landowners (who still live on the property). It was, hands-down, absolutely fantastic. The grounds were immaculate, and included stables, cowsheds, orchards and a lovely and productive garden. Our room was decorated in red and white with beautiful red-mirrored spreads plus a long satin pillow in bright red, and a heavy carved-wood door that locked with a funny old padlock. Outside the heavy door: a wide lounging bed with a futon-like mattress and more satin pillows to nap on. The room was lovely except for the odd position of the toilet and the bucket shower not five feet from each other; when you took a bucket bath (shower would have been worse) the marble floor became as slick as a Bollywood hero. Since broken legs would have cramped all our styles, wet towels on the floor were the perfect antidotes. After lunch in the sunny courtyard, we repaired to our rooms or to the outside lounging beds for a rest; I went to the little shop on site and had my hand hennaed. Interesting process, and very relaxing…

Later that day, the group walked into the village of Karauli to the Hindu temple to witness the fire ceremony—the ritual worship of Lord Krishna. Night was falling, and we were the main attraction all the way through the village. I literally shook hands with dozens of little kids who would shyly come up and say, “Hello”. Everyone stared, but in India, this was commonplace.

There was a puppy in the street when a tractor came along. It ran over his tail (not harming him apparently) and the rest of us stood in horror as the double wheels of the tractor were about to crush him; a quick-thinking boy bravely reached under the oncoming machine and threw him aside. The puppy squealed in protest, and the boy walked away as though nothing had happened.

We reached the temple just before the fire ceremony.

Me and "the hand"-- I'm looking pretty blissed-out myself.
photo by Joe Trinidad

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Day Six: The Stars, A Snake, A Palace

In the morning, we went to Pantar Mantar; the astronomical observatory built by a genius, Jai Singh II in the early 1700s. Designed for the observation of astronomical positions with the naked eye, the site—which looks like a modern sculpture garden--embodies several architectural and instrumental innovations. I can’t express how amazing these structures are, carefully built to observe the time, seasons, movement of planets and stars—all still accurate today. Pantar Mantar was used not only for scientific observation, but also for prediction of astrological events. Many contemporary Indian marriages and other major life transitions are planned according to astrological birth signs, and millions closely follow astrology every day in India.Outside on the sidewalk, there was an actual snake charmer with a basket full of cobras. For 10Rp, you could take his picture—I realize it was totally touristy, but I had to do it.

City Palace courtyard

Nearby, the City Palace gave us another opportunity to delve into India’s rich past. One small museum displayed textiles: jackets, dresses, and saris heavy with gold- and silver-thread embroidery and block-printed fabrics. Another, the weapons gallery, showed a very different side of India; for most of its history, vast tracks of land in India were worked by serfs and peasants under the rule of incredibly wealthy rajas and maharajas (sound familiar?). 

They were nearly always at war with one another. The artfully displayed weapons in the gallery, everything from carved jade-handled daggers to worked-iron chest protectors to massive scimitars weighing 20 or more pounds (it could slice a horse and man in half with one blow) are testimonials. To witness why so much wealth was worth fighting for one need only look up; the ceilings in the gallery are painted to resemble ornate Persian rugs, or inset with hundreds of tiny mirrors to reflect evening lamplight.

Day Five: The Best—and Worst--Way to Get Around

After an early wake-up call, we made our way to the New Delhi Station. It had rained, so the platforms were puddled, which didn’t deter a few waiting travelers from napping on the cold cement, covered with a blanket. A train is absolutely the best way to travel in India—Chime bought us AC Chair Car class tickets for our five-hour journey to Jaipur. A bottle of water, newspaper and dinner (Meals on Wheels!) was included. Chair class (180Rs) is the least expensive of the four100km train ride classes (1^st class was 550Rs). Train fares are by distance, with several classes for each distance. WikiTravel has a good rundown.

The Irrepressible Mohammad Ali

With what appears to be almost as many animals as people, Jaipur is a huge city of tiny shops chock-a-block against one another resembling open garage doors or storage units. Lots of camels were harnessed as beasts of burden, and pigs and dogs are everywhere, feasting on garbage that is swept into piles for them. Odd to think of it as effective recycling, but it works—how else would all the “free” animals wandering about survive? Thanks to the rain, the broken streets were pools of water, mud, animal scat, garbage, and the usual chaos. We arranged for tuktuks at the train station (as opposed to bicycle rickshaws, tuktuks are highly personalized three-wheeled motorcycles covered with colorful vinyl). The motor sounds like a lawn mower, and is started much like one too. Our tuktuk driver Mohammad Ali took Matthew, Pamela and me on Mr. Toads wild ride to the hotel, talking non-stop, with an unusual disregard for the boundaries of road, sidewalk, pedestrians, bullocks, and oncoming traffic. It was fun; after several days in India, I was getting used to gasping in terror then being flooded with relief.

Courtyard of the Heritage Hotel

After settling in at the Heritage Hotel (definitely a step up after the functional-but-basic Suncourt) and a quick lunch, we careered toward the Amber Fort, about seven miles out of town, and one of the most worthwhile architectural monuments in the golden triangle.

Day Four: Eat for Free!

Chime introduced us to the Metro—the crowding made Tokyo train cars look like empty warehouses—thank goodness for the first “ladies only” car, as we were back-to-bosom all the way. We all managed to rendezvous at the famous Chowri Bazar, a warren of shops and nameless alleys selling everything from street food to underwear. Nothing compares to this major visual overload. Chime does not like to shop: We literally ran down the street known locally as the wedding market; incredible beads, laces, and trims beyond gorgeous for those who made their own saris. I probably could have lingered there for a couple of days. Overhead, the electrical wiring was in itself a thing of wonderment. One power line was usually spliced into 20 others—in America, every power pole would have yellow hazard tape around it.

After our shopping-free sprint, we went to Jama Masjid, the most famous mosque in India, built by Shah Jahan in 1650. Four gates surround the courtyard of this huge and peaceful place, which can hold up to twenty-five thousand worshippers. Women in pants (most of us) and men in shorts were given either full body dresses or sarongs to wear, though we were allowed to refuse if we chose; women were asked to cover their heads and men were given caps.

A few blocks down the street, we paused in the waiting room of the Sikh Temple before washing our hands and feet in the fountains on the entry steps. Inside, we sat a few moments while the Sikh holy book (Guru Granth Sahib) was read (a continuous process that takes several days for each reading); the book is considered to be instruction on both the spiritual and material life of all Sikhs. Author Pearl Buck wrote these words in the introduction to a 1960 English translation of the Guru Granth Sahib: “I have studied the scriptures of the great religions, but I do not find elsewhere the same power of appeal to the heart and mind as I find here in these volumes. They are compact in spite of their length, and are a revelation of the vast reach of the human heart, varying from the most noble concept of God, to the recognition and indeed the insistence upon the practical needs of the human body. …They speak to a person of any religion or of none. They speak for the human heart and the searching mind.”

We were led to the communal kitchen where we joined other volunteers in food preparation, then ate lunch on the floor of a gymnasium-sized room, seated on 50-foot-long sisal mats. The lunch consisted of daal and chapattis served on tin plates; the temple feeds hundreds of people for free all day, every day.

Audience Hall of the vast Red Fort

Chime left us on our own after that, and we milled about like lost ducklings for a few minutes until several of us decided to go to the nearby Red Fort. 

For a World Heritage Site, the fort was ill maintained, a disappointment. Bamboo framework held up some of the structures and the gardens were untended. As Claudette, one of my troop pointed out, Europe was in the dark ages when the Red Fort was built; India lead the world in architecture, mathematics and astronomy. Now we see two men with sledgehammers busting up an ancient monument to stick an iron rod in it so they can build a bamboo scaffold to hold it up. Rumor has it that there are so many palms (and I don’t mean trees) being greased in political circles in Delhi and India that everything is sliding to ruin. The Red Fort was a sad example.

Josef and I decided to skip the group visit to yet another tomb and head for real coffee. We took the Metro to Connaught Place, the “British” part of town, found a Starbucks-like cafe, and enjoyed the first real caffeine hit of the trip. Espresso! Brownies! Yes! I fear I am one of those tourists I’ve make fun of, minus the socks and sandals. Wait…I did wear socks with sandals on the plane….

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Day Three, Night: Dazzling

There was a Hindu wedding procession—a barat--on the street that night—probably one of many taking place in the month of February, an astrologically favorable month for marriages in Delhi (I learned lots more about the significant role astrology plays in Hindu life at the Pantar Mantar Observatory in Jaipur). Most Hindu wedding ceremonies take place late at night and last from three to seven days. A tent was put up blocking both lanes of the street a few doors down from the hotel (this is typical for families of brides that do not have a courtyard or large private space). The groom—who carried a baby--was slowly pulled along in a carriage by a white horse—he, the child, the horse and the carriage were all decorated in glittery white trappings. As the procession slowly moved forward, he exchanged the baby for a blanket of rupees. A rag-tag band of musicians played (quite possibly itinerant bandwallahs that make a living moving from wedding to wedding during the season) and a dozen young men danced wildly as a small group of beautiful young women in glittery saris walked along with the carriage. A battery truck preceded the carriage, powering two or three hand-held towers of lights about the size of small Christmas trees. The lights were carried by men and were connected to a long power cord. Unfortunately, the power on the truck failed so there might have been a noisy discussion about this when it came time to pay up (the bride’s family pays for the wedding). The music went on until 1AM and started up again at dawn. The groom was on his way to meet his bride, and the ceremony would take place over the next few days accompanied by joyous, noisy celebration. I would have loved to crash THAT party…

Day Three: I Get to Pretend I Know What I’m Doing

Dome of the Lotus Temple

The next day, I met Greg who was also going on the Intrepid tour; we rented a taxi for four hours from India Travel Organizers and went to Delhi hat (spelled Dili Hat on the map), a government facility of artists and craftwork from around the state. The cabbie, after being thoroughly instructed in Hindi (a truly lyrical language) by Raja Burza, took us everywhere we wanted to go. Dili hat was a disappointment--same hard sell cloaked in charm; but hey, I bought two things (charm works, on me at least). The salesman, a slick and handsome English speaker, called himself Harry Potter; his job was to get tourists in the door. Neither of the items chosen fit, and Harry promised their tailor would fit the garments. Greg and I waited 30 minutes (while enduring a spiel from an artist who claimed his work would not be found anywhere else—it was everywhere, actually) and they handed us two bags. I foolishly didn’t try the garments on until I got back to the hotel and discovered only one had been fixed. What to do? Perhaps I could deal with the ill-fitting garment the last day of the tour when I returned to Delhi, a prospect that didn’t fill me with joy. My lesson two, the art of argumentation, was still in a nascent state.

The Lotus Temple

Our excursion also included the Lotus Temple, a gorgeous Sikh structure south of town—the building reminiscent of Sydney Harbor’s opera house. Of course, the lot outside was filled with hawkers plucking at our sleeves. Saying “no” 20 times a minute (sometimes to the same person) is tiring at best. At worst, it’s enough to make you shriek--but no one would hear over the constant noise from the streets. Oddly, the noise and press of people didn’t faze me—I’m an ex-New Yorker after all. However, the omnipresent pollution eventually took its toll on all of us.

The gang at the Sun (Monkey) Temple,  Jaipur

That night, the Intrepid group met for the first time and I acquired a roommate: Ann, a former pipeline worker from Alaska. We also met our guide, Chime (pronounced “Chimmy”) Dolkar, a tough and tiny Nepalese woman with a brusque manner. We all went out to dinner: Greg (Australia); Claudette (Canada); Pamela (London by way of Texas); a family, Mom Sue and grown-up daughter Virginia and son Matthew (all originally from Australia, though Virginia lives in Qatar at the moment); Josef (Australia by way of the Philippines); and Axel (Frankfurt, Germany). An interesting and varied group who were to become good friends over the next few days; we women supported each other through a tough introduction to a completely different culture, and the men became our companions and protectors. It didn’t take long for us girls to figure out we were a lot less hassled if we had a male companion, especially if we walked behind him. I’m not kidding.

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Delhi, Day One: Preparation is Futile

Masala Mutts--they're everywhere

Everyone I know who has traveled to India told me some version of “It’s overwhelming/dirty/desperately poor”. Or they kept quiet and rolled their eyes. Nothing prepares one for the sensory overload. In some travel guide or other, I learned I should ignore the plentiful cab drivers that hovered just outside the new airport doors (no admittance without a boarding pass, which made getting back in a little tough). I overheard a family say they were headed to the police booth and I tagged along behind them; at the stand, I paid my 320Rp ($6.10). Immediately a taxi driver who claimed to be “my” driver grabbed my receipt and ticket. I showed him the printed address of the hotel: he looked puzzled and recruited a buddy to help figure it out. I didn’t think until later that perhaps English lettering may not have been all that easy to decipher for these fellows—especially when I learned a lot of kids are pulled out of school early.

Feeling paranoid, I grabbed my suitcase, hopped out of his cab and went back to the prepaid police line, where they pointed out the number written on the top of the receipt (duh). I went to the appropriate stall number, and caught a cab. Late at night, the pollution was alarming. The driver kept coughing and the air was so thick it looked like heavy fog.

All the cabbies were blameless: I was to find that the address Intrepid tours had given me for the hotel was a general area—the many-blocks-long and wide Channa Market in the section of New Delhi know as Karol Bagh W.E.A (West Extension Area); the street the hotel was on—like almost all the streets outside the fancy areas of Delhi—was a partially paved dirt road with no name. We drove around for a bit, asking various passersby where “Suncourt Corporate” was, and finally found it. Then I performed my first faux paux of the trip (at least the first one I knew about)—I tipped the driver 10Rp, and he looked at it incredulously. I got used to that look, when I found it didn’t matter how much or how little—but still, it was too little by a good 40Rp, as I was informed by the man who showed me to my room when I asked about tipping etiquette (Lesson one: EVERONE gets a tip, and 30Rp is considered cheap, 50Rp just OK). I had my first ice-cold bucket bath that night (“Just let the water run for five minutes”—famous words repeated at several hotels)—there was squatting seat, a big bucket, a small bucket and a shower; it was less painful to soap up and just rinse the slippery bits than stand under the icy flow. I was also introduced to what we Intrepid travelers (I had booked a tour with Intrepid Travel out of Australia) came to call “the garden hose”. A short hose with a press-type handle, the garden hose is attached to the wall in all classy bathrooms, and it’s de rigueur to give yourself a shot after using the toilet. Don’t judge me—I came to love it. This, being a tourist hotel, provided hand-rolled, carefully wrapped and taped toilet paper. I didn’t know it, but I was already being spoiled.

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Prepping for India

I’m not too ashamed to admit my idea of India came from the films “Auntie Mame” and “Around the World in 80 Days”, plus a healthy dose of Bollywood, to which I’m addicted (Sharukh Kahn! So hot!).  I never had an urge to see it until two years ago, when the need to go there snuck up on me like a young cat after an old bird. The immunizations were taken care of last December, and I started the typhoid pills two days before departure. First destination: Newark, via the red-eye, the jumping-off place for most of my travel—

I’ll be spending a lot of time there. It’s a cool airport, with instant Wi-Fi and plenty of places to

hang out and eat, or just sit. Good walk-ability, 

too. Another advantage: plenty of flights to and from the West Coast, a big issue as I’ll always be flying stand-by, and if there’s only one flight per day, I’m stuck. I changed $150US into rupees (the money exchange at Travelex is not the best rate, about 43Rp/$1US, and they take a 10% bite; it’s better in India, where they’re happy to change US dollars at no extra cost to you at your hotel: 52Rp/$1. By the way, using your credit card or ATM card there to charge or draw money usually results in extra charges, minimally 3%; I brought cash in a money belt, which is also handy for your passport (carry a copy in your wallet, just in case). After four hours in the airport (an outside stroll would have been nice but for the 37-degree-Farenheit temperature), I made the Delhi run, and got incredibly lucky: under the what-money-can-buy category, business class to India actually made it fun to travel 14 hours. The seat made into a bed complete with pillow and blanket; the flight attendant plied me with wine, and the three-course dinner was tasty. The little freshen-up kit with toothpaste, facial cleaner etc. was just too cool. I’m glad I got the royal treatment, because I needed it when I hit Delhi at 11PM…

Prepping for the World: How it's Done

Now I'll try to get something going about my first trip: to the Galapagos Islands, 600 miles off the coast of Ecuador. Still researching the best cruises--damned pricey (it will be at least $2500), but this IS the opportunity of a lifetime, and now is no time to stint.  My friend Geri, a former flight attendant for a major airlines, retired and is able to gift a couple of "Golden Tickets" (passes to fly anywhere in the world on stand-by) every year. I'm the lucky recipient of one ticket for 2013. There are different classes of stand-by, and as a friend, I'm in the lowest category. But being able to fly around the world for free? Booyah!
Ecuador controls entry to the Galapagos pretty carefully (it's $100 just to set foot on one of the islands). Though it's possible to visit the islands in the archipelago on your own, a pre-booked boat trip saves a lot of haggling, especially if your Espanol is as lame as mine; the alternative is to fly from Quito (the mainland capital) to one of the two airports on the islands and take day cruises from one of the two main towns (Puerto Ayora is the most accessible). I want to go further out to the western islands, and that requires more time on the water.
I have to fly to Quito first, and Quito--a World Heritage Site--has a very bad reputation, at least according to the State Department. I picked up some pepper spray, though I don't know if I can get it through security.

It's Happening!

 I'm traveling around the world!...and I'm alternating between elation (this is so great! My bucket list, realized!) and terror (holy cow! Will I be safe? Which country requires a visa? Where will I stay?). Through the auspices of my good friend Geri, I'll have access to any and all standby flights on a major airline next year (meaning I may or may not get on the flight, in which case I will perfect the art of sleeping upright in a busy airport). I've already set up an itinerary that may kill me; I'm planning on traveling 10 days a month, with 20 days in between for appreciation, relaxation and planning for my next destination. On the calendar so far: Galapagos in January, Delhi and the Golden Triangle of India in February, and Stockholm and Jukkasjarvi Sweden in March (I'm Ukrainian, I can take cold weather). Only one visa is necessary--for India--the others only require a passport for a trip less than 90 days, plus some sort of proof that you don't intend to become a panhandler in Quito or Stockholm.

I discovered to my horror that my passport expired last month. The US Passport Office makes no promises about when your new passport will make it back to your house, so I paid the extra $100 (including rush postage to and from) to guarantee peace of mind. Money definitely talks: it was here in a little over two weeks. Next, I have to figure out how to get from Quito to the Galapagos Islands, what's the best tour boat to take, and by the way, where the heck am I going to stay?