It Finally Happened

After two and half months in India, thinking that my great intestinal karma would perhaps never fail me, touch wood, I finally got a case of the runs. Poland being forever within me, my silver lining was that it was a relatively benign case.
Indeed, the Schedule Sisters had had tummy troubles all week. Mine could perhaps be traced to a lunch in the singularly uninspiring Bhandari Swiss Cottage, or more likely from our almost daily visits to the Freedom Cafe.

It could aslo be partly attributable from anxiety regarding a telephone job interview I had just had. Yes, I know, I promised that there would be no gainful employment for a year. But I am such a sucker for a good come on (they headhunted me off LinkedIn. Although the prospect of my very own BMW convertible, now within tantalizing reach under the California sun, does seem like worthwhile recompense, it did not help my nerves, as I was currently reading Bill Bryson's Notes from a Big Country, in which he relates to his British audience the often funny, but in the same measure disconcerting vagaries of life in America. Americans' near total ignorance of the world, seeming inability to fathom irony, and the nothing short of police-state invasion of privacy by government, employers and marketeers, are a definite downside.

That said, ever the documentation manager with hopes of securing that extra worker or new piece of whizzy software, the Project Plan that was my trip to India featured gross overestimates of the time required to do everything on my India Dream Checklist. I've had a whale of a time in Rishikesh. I'd like to keep improving my Hindi, as it has been coming along quite nicely. A Vipassana course in Dharamsala is next, followed by some urban adventures in Delhi. After that, whatever follows will be spontaneous.

But back to my ailment. It started in the morning when I woke up with a general feeling of unease. I declined the Schedule Sisters' entreaties to accompany them on a Daily Mission trip to Haridwar for lunch, thereby interrupting the cosmic flow of their universe. While the entire stretch of the Laxman Jhula disctrict was subjected to a ghastly morning special session of devotional chanting, I lay in bed, not quite in pain, resting, as gas began to gurgle its way downward in my intestines. After a fashion, I began passing wind in roughly twelve-minute intervals. Big, long, loud, industrial strength doozies, smelling much like a decomposing skunk emanating from my innards. After a few hours of this, it was clear that the time had come to make my way to the loo, where I comfortably let it all rip, to my great relief. The odor had the added benefit of killing all the flies in my room. The following morning it was much better, but I took Imodium to stop it completely.

Mental note: next meal, white rice. And no more fretting about possible outcomes, which remain mere speculation at this point.

The Schedule Sisters

Natali hooked up with South African Michelle while traveling in Tibet. Daphna, who hooked up with me in Rishikesh, is Natali's friend from back home in Kfar Saba. Together, we all joined hands on the banks of the Ganges.

Soon enough, and rather spontaneously, we started adhering to a schedule. Daphna and I would have breakfast before her Hindi class at 10. I would continue writing or reading until 11:30, when we would all meet up at the ashram to go for what was for Daphna and me lunch, and breakfast for Natali and Michelle. Afterwards, we set out on our Daily Mission. That could be a trip to the market, a walk to the waterfalls, a visit to the post office, or to take in a movie.

I always made a point of taking my Magic Anti-rain Stick in the Bag of Culture. It was disguised as an umbrella, and ensured that no rain would fall while we were outdoors. I know it works, since failure to bring it along inevitably results in a downpour on our heads.

At 6 I had to be back for my Hindi calss. At 8 we would meet up for dinner, which would last until they basically kicked us out of the Freedom Cafe (aka Fly Sanctuary) towards midnight. We were the (Polish) Schedule Sisters.

Of course we developed our token phrases: "Eat yur froot!" in a thick Afrikaaner accent would inexplicably bring on gales of laughter even in the most unlikely contexts. I was nicknamed Khandre-jini, which was coined from Andre, Alejandro (?!) and Didi-ji. A travelers' bond.

Michelle eventually had to go back to the UK for a family do, and I must admit that I actually considered hiding her air ticket to try and prevent it. Nevertheless, Daphna, Natali and I bought a joint onward train ticket to Pathankot, the station nearest to Dharamsala. This will undoubtedly cause some reconfiguration of the schedule. But I'm sure we can handle it.

The Downside of Rishikesh

Naturally, in our mental Poland, we had to find a cloud for our silver lining. My Karnataka mobile phone, roaming in Uttaranchal on Idea Telecom, provided spotty service. There was always a signal, to be sure, but calls and SMS transmissions had periods, sometimes quite lengthy, of zero responsiveness.

From my second day, I enthusiastically signed up for the morning yoga class at the ashram. The young instructor was so limber, guiding us through the various assanas. However, as I soon discovered, he demonstrated rather than taught, and I ended up wth head, neck, shoulder and back pain. This led to a suspension of the lessons, daily massages, and finally, that reliable old remedy, Ben Gay, to provide satisfactory relief.

The biggest annoyance came daily around 5 o'clock in the evening, from no less than our very own Sant Sewa Ashram, in the form of a concert of devotional music, broadcast to the town by megaphone. Now, there's devotional music, and there's devotional music. It can be excellently soothing, enlightening and uplifting. Or, as in our case, it can be worse than Chinese water torture.

Percussion was an arrhythmic thump-thump on an old bongo. Melody was played by one, and sometimes two fingers on a hockey rink organ. And chanting was a severely off-key primal scream of a lead, accompanied by two screeching children on backing vocals. This went on for three inescapable hours.

All the while I had been conducting an internal debate as whether or not to immerse myself in the river. The upside would be the pilgrimage value of hundreds of generations of people having imbued the waters with their purest intentions. The downside was the possible ill effects that the questionalbe cleanliness of such waters would have on my health.

Daphna and I had taken what amounted to a 90 second motorboat ride in which the skipper intentionally side-crashed into the boat's own wake, soaking us with holy water. We were no worse for the wear. But on the evenings that we sat on our balconies, devotional chanting grating loud and proud in our eardrums, it occured to me to have myself thrown into the river after having donned concrete shoes.

On a more fortunate note, there were no mosquistoes. Less happily, there were hoardes of crickets, who very much liked to nestle in our curtains. They made noises that you actually got used to. And they didn't bite.

My teacher, Mr Omprakash Saach Deva, most impressed by my linguistic aptitude, helped my Hindi progress by leaps and bounds. Once getting verbs and word order more or less straight, daily lessons consisted of my narrating my favorite Bollywood movies, of course in simplified Hindi.

Downside notwithstanding, Rishikesh is an engaging and amazing place.

The Upside of Rishikesh

At the corner of the Himalayas, nestled in a verdant valley, along the banks of the Ganges river, lies the holy Vishnu city of Rishikesh. Not quiet, but not loud either, the city attracts scores of devout Hindu pilgrims seeking divine favors, absolution of sins, peace, and mindfulness, as do pilgrims the world over.

As befits a center that attracts visitors from around India, and indeed everywhere else, Rishikesh is blessed with riverview restaurants, serving some of the best food I've had in this country. As a holy Hindu city, all meat and alcohol are banned, but no matter. It would be more fortunate if hash were more readily available, which to my mild surprise and consternation it was not, but again, no matter. The vegetarian fare is superb, with each establishmet competing on creativity and presentation.

My favorite such restaurant was the Paradise Rooftop Cafe, perched on the second floor balcony of a building not far from Laxman Juhla, a 450 foot suspension bridge straddling the river. The continental breakfast that graced my mornings consisted of a tall glass of fragrant masala chai, two eggs over medium, fresh baked whole wheat bread with butter and jam, and oatmeal covering cut pineapple, mango, banana and papaya, with a few pomegranate seeds adorning the surface. They made a mean veg biryani as well, with saffron rice under and within which there were julienned cucumbers, peppers, carrots and tomatoes, garnished with grated coconut and cashews. Perhaps the piece de resistance was the eggplant stewed in mushroom and walnut sauce, served in a middle cabbage cup, accompanied by grilled vegetables (always a hit) and steamed rice, also in cabbage cups on either side, on top of a sizzling caste-iron tray. My mistake in that meal was to have also ordered a vegetable salad, and as such, the high proportion of simple carbohydrates to the relatively small portion of rice had me blowing happy farts well into the next day.

Rishikesh brought my days of Southern solitude to an abrupt end. I lodged in the Shri Sant Sewa Ashram, with a balcony overlooking the river, featuring a perfect view of Laxman Jhula. My first beighbors were some lovely and unconvential Indians. Sunil and Nikunj, Marwaris from Gujarat, and Gayatri, Sunil's Tamil companion. Both Nikanj and Gayatri were artists. Indeed, Gayatri had done her art degree in the Netherlands, and had recently returned from an exhibition of her photography in the UK. They were traveling around the North, seeking out Holy Men, hoping for some scraps of wisdom to fall their way. Intensely interesting, we spent two days as neighbors in engaging conversation and contemplation overlooking the Ganges.

One morning, a brisk knock on my door preceded the introduction of my other neighbor, Daphna, from Kfar Saba, recently discharged from the army, propelling me back into the bossom of the Hebrew language. We became inseparable, and were joined two days later by Daphna's friend Natalie, and Natalie's friend, South African Michelle. We roamed as a pack and resolved to continue together at very least onto the next leg of our trip, which would be Dharamsala. But not just yet.

To this mix we can include Jacques, a handsome and bookish Frenchmen, who had more than just a passing fancy for Bollywood, sharing my horror at the dreadful costumes in Jhoom Barabar Jhoom. We spent several enchanting days together in something of a traveler's paradise.

Lonely Planet? Hardly!

Northward Bound

The time had come to bid farewell to the South. I had spent two months discovering many wonders, but encountering few if any other travelers, and to my surprise and consternation, no Israelis. As much as I hate to admit it, I actually missed them. Traveling in India makes them better people, albeit from a rather low starting point.

Knowing full well that every rupee scrimped in travel costs in this country is a tear shed, I resolved to spare no expense on my cross-country journey. I hired a private taxi from Pondicherry all the way to Chennai airport. And for Rs 1600, I didn't think to insist on air conditioning.

All of India that week was engulfed in a dreadful pre-monsoon heat wave, with average temperatures in the 40 degree Celcius range. In the event, the drive was very pleasant. There's nothing I love more than driving along country roads, taking in the lush scenery, honking for cows and goats, and listening to Tamil movie music on the stereo. We had all the windows down, and I was even treated to a phone call from my dearest friend Liora in Sydney, Australia.

Everything was nearly perfect, until we got to Chennai, easily my least favorite metro in this country. Wouldn't you know it, we got stuck in traffic. Searing heat, dieself fumes, ensuing headache, and a trip that was meant to be under two hours stretched to beyond three. Suddenly, we turned a corner, and we were in the airport complex, just like that.

Unsurprisingly, Jet Airways offered the best flight at the best time; truly my favorite airline in India. Arriving a neat two and half hours later in the sweltering Delhi heat, I made a point of spending (this time wisely) Rs 800 for an air conditioned taxi to the Main Bazaar, the tourist haunt across from the central train station.

After checking in to a most uninspiring hotel, though having my first air conditioned room since Bombay two months previously, I marched over to the train station, intent on buying the most expensive ticket I could to Haridwar, air conditioned and first class. I went to the inquiries wicket. There was a policeman wielding a lathi to make sure that everyone stood in line properly. Strangely, I found this comforting. It took about ten minutes to get to the front of the queue, only to find out that I had to go to the reservations center, some 500 meters away.

Off I went diligently. I was greeted by a sign informing me that I had to get a form, and of course fill it out in order to get the ticket of my choice. This I found strange. In every other country I've been to, and it is reasonable to say that I've done my fair share of globetrotting, my experience of purchasing train tickets has always been to simply get to the wicket, state destination, class and date, pay the fee and get my ticket. Not so in Delhi. I'd like to tell some Indian in a position of power that the stifling and illogical bureaucracy to which this country is so addicted is a huge obstacle to its development. It is both frustrating to its victims, and self defeating for its perpetrators.
There were many line ups. I didn't know which was the right one for me. I went to the far end and found a woman busy doing data entry on a system from at least 25 years back (now the form-filling made a bit more sense). "Excuse me," I began, "but could you tell me if there's a special line up for international travelers?" as the Lonely Planet had indicated. She didn't even look up. I tried again. I decided that the best approach would be to continue my entreaties in a polite but firm manner. Just the same, in the heat, after a long day, I decided to run a query in my mind's database of curses, just in case.

SQL
get * from insults to female bureaucrats where
"sow, bitchslap, hellfire, bile marinade" figure

Before the results of the query came back (my CPU was apparently overloaded), she looked up, condescendingly of course, and told me that any line would be fine. So I picked one pretty much at random, and waited, yet again, for the better part of 45 minutes. Finally it was my turn. I indicated that I needed to go to Haridwar the following morning, first class AC. The clerk knew no English, which also seemed an impediment to his processing the form. After some time, I got a ticket, paid a ridiculous Rs 825 for a 250 km journey, checked the details, and went to do my evening rounds (haircut and dinner).

On the morrow, I was up at 5:30 for my 6:55 train. Lugging my 20 kg backpack, but full of piss and vinegar, I eventually found the train, car and seat as was printed on my ticket. There was a child in the seat next to mine. He looked quite perplexed. An adult close by asked to see my ticket. I was in the right seat. Another man put on reading glasses and inspected it closely. After a few moments, he showed me that it was for June 30th (this was the 12th). I found the conductor, who accompanied me outside, where I had a controled explosion.

There was no way in God's country that I was not going to travel on that train in that car. Fortunately for me, Indian Railways conductors are notoriously corrupt. For Rs 2000, I could ride. While this was now becoming a shockingly expensive trip, I was heartened to find out that I could have my original ticket refunded upon arrival at Haridwar. I made a mental note to make only one attempt and just absorb the loss if the refund business proved too trying.

I sat down. The train slid out of the station more or less on time, and after a spell, the steward, who had BO wafting from him, brought out tea, served in passable bone china. Later there was mango juice in crystal glasses. This was first class. I could always tell when the steward was approaching with additional edibles, as I could smell him at something of a distance. Not a great association for food, but I was happy to be on my way.

Some five hours later (making for an average speed of 50 km/h) we arrived at Haridwar. I stood in two line ups to attempt to get my refund. At the end of the second one, I decided to insist. I was pointed to the manager's office. I went in and stated my case. He took me around back where I was sure to make a nuisance of myself, and after only about ten minutes, I had Rs 750 in my hand. I was so pleased that I decided that I wouldn't make a stink about the cancellation fee.

Having spent several times the monthly minimum wage to get this far, when offered an autorickshaw for the last leg to Rishikesh, 25 km away, at only Rs 50, it sounded too good to be true. That was because I thought I'd be traveling alone. Alas, the rikshaws in these parts are for six passengers. In the event, they crammed 13 of us, plus driver and conductor hanging out the side. I was smooshed, but in good spirits and was taken by my first glimpse of the Ganges river.

It is possible to love and hate a country simultaneously, not unlike a spouse at the end of a collapsing relationship, when the life support has finally been unplugged. I hate India whenever I have to go anywhere. But I invariably love it upon arrival. Rishikesh was engaging, and many wonders awaited me.

Comments and More Photos

Here are photos from my recent adventures. But before you click on them, I'd like to encourage you, my dear readers, to post more comments on this site.

As it turns out, you are not so few. Recently, I have had 336 visits. The top ten countries are:

1. Israel (vast majority, no suprise)
2. India
3. Canada
4. United States
5. United Kingdom
6. France (Dorothee, to be sure)
7. Sweden (Gaby, my love)
8. Singapore
9. Australia
10. Greece (hello there, whoever you are)

And yet, no comments. My mother has been the most avid commenter. Keep it up Mom! But the only other recent comment was on Josh-bhai's Nationally Confused profile, posted by an anonymous user, asking me if Josh jumped off a bridge, would I do the same. To save him, of course I would!

My point is, even that kind of inane drivel is fine. Show yourselves. At least statistically, you are a loyal fan base. Let's have some feedback. And you don't have to stroke my ego. I can manage that just fine on my own.

Here are the photos:

• STC Event Bangalore (featuring my lecture)
• Pondicherry
• Rishikesh

Shame

One of the many things I love about India is the abundance of great bookstores everywhere you care to venture. In Pondicherry, I happened into one such establishment, and headed towards the literary section. I love novels that employ the full range of the English language. Edgar Allen Poe is one of my favorite authors, totally twisted mind notwithstanding. Josh-bhai had highly recommended Salman Rushdie in this respect, and had in fact given me more than one of his books, but I had never actually gotten around to opening any of them.

So there I was perusing Salman's works. They didn't have the Satanic Verses, which earned him a fatwa by the late Ayatollah Khomeini. Earning the wrath of a man whose grave I would happily shit on if ever given the opportunity, I have made a mental note to acquire that particular book at the first opportunity. I settled on Shame, a novel that is sort of set in Pakistan, and examines the sort of relationship between Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and Muhammed Zia ul Haq.

The language employed is nothing short of stunning. The irony is at once piercing and hilarious. A few examples of cultivated cursing outdo even the best South Park has to offer. Published in 1983, it has an eerie foresight to it.

In sum, Shame comes highly recommended, and it has motivated me to explore more of Salman Rushdie's works.