India (part 1)

Nothingness. Darkness. Than a spangle of lights… then another. Suddenly- Delhi, sparkling. Fireworks erupt. First here, then there, everywhere. A celebration of Dewali. The space below is filled with reds, greens, golds – as if the city itself is celebrating our arrival.


One man tries to corral impatient travelers into single-file lines before tired-looking passport stampers, but we meld, merge, split, as people try to save a few minutes by edging in elsewhere. Standing too close to strangers, I try to let the instrumental music soothe me, but my foot taps impatience on faux marble at the men behind the desks, who seem indifferent to our sense of urgency. The man in the yellow shirt darts to the desk from another line – voices rise in protest. His passport slaps back on the counter and he is sent back to his line, feigning confusion.

We wait for our luggage. Bags not collected on the first go-round are dumped off to the side. I pay the woman who gives me toilet paper to dry my hands in the bathroom, buy bottled water with strange money, gaze at ads for “amazing India” on the walls, smile at the duty-free shop’s Diwali lights. Did you know you can email the Indian customs office at hotmail.com?

A sea of papers, searching for a familiar name – you look left, I’ll look right, slow our steps to give our eyes time.
Relief. Shaking hands, following out the door.
The night air is hazy, full of smoky firework smell, but cool, and I lower the car window to bask in this sensation that I haven’t felt in months.

Streets dimly lit.
Trucks, rickshaws, construction barriers.
Us.
Swerve, brake, zoom, repeat.

Fireworks fly.


We’re restless, though it’s late, and we head to the roof – the rubble-filled shell of a former restaurant assures that the balcony is deserted and we’re free to gaze at the city as the fireworks endlessly flare. There’s no “downtown” cluster of skyscrapers, just intermittent lights as far as the eye can see. And the dark spaces?
Apparently it’s been too long since I’ve seen trees.



Huge hawks wing through the sky as we set off on a brief walk the next morning. Rickshaw drivers call to us, promise us a good price, are puzzled by our desire just to wander. Three men push a cart sagging with bricks, a few lone protesters camp out in front of a newspaper office, a man shaves in his motorcycle mirror as a young man edges in to watch and assist, an old man sits on the sidewalk, back to a mailbox, peeling a long, white, carrot-like vegetable. A friendly young man strikes up a conversation, tries to get us to shop at the nearby emporium, but we must return to meet our tour guide. The city is fairly quiet, sleeping in after its celebrations, though the sparse traffic still causes me to catch my breath – cars, taxis, green-and yellow tuk-tuks, motorcycles, bicycles, pedestrians – all move together, curve into roundabouts, sound their horns. Small carts perch next to the road, selling chips, candy, soft drinks. Everywhere shiny little packets – green, purple, yellow – hang in rows. Fruit vendors with piles of bananas, mangoes, pineapples. Diwali decorations catch the eye – spangles and ribbons adorning cars, shops, stands, gas stations.

The Indian women are a sight to behold – beautiful, flowing, in every color under the sun – bright fuschia, deep purple, greens, yellows, oranges, blues of every hue, spangled with silver and gold, embroidered with flowers– they’re like flowers themselves, scattered over the city.

The British influence is obvious in New Delhi – roundabouts, large green parks where boys play cricket and people stroll. India Gate – the Arc of Delhi, a memorial to slain soldiers. Government buildings, monkeys strolling freely outside the gates. Still, poverty reveals itself. Piles of trash, the tents hung along that wall or under this bridge; those beggars over there, that pair of sweet brown eyes that accompanies the soft sound of fingers tapping window glass – a sound that echoes all too loud as in turn we smile, but turn away with a sigh. An old man with a bloody bandage on his hand, a woman with a young child, a deformed man, two children, a boy and a girl – siblings? – whose mother sits under the bridge, watching. A tuk-tuk ad reads “lose weight – don’t wait” as malnourished children motion us for money – in order to eat.


Ancient ruins – at times a mosque, a temple, a palace, a tomb. Rows of intricately carved stone columns, somehow unworn by years of wind and rain, but defaced – quite literally – during times of religious differences, and the headless gods have no choice but to remain in their places. A tomb built by the first Sultana for her father, who chose her over her brother, and a giant metal pole whose exact origin is unknown:

One theory: When people were having troubles, the holy man would bless a nail and drive it into the doorway of the house to bring blessings. When the metal pole (which perhaps resembles a nail) was in place, the city was doing just fine. When someone tried to remove it, there was a huge earthquake.
They decided to leave the pole there.


On to the Baha’i Temple – a blooming lotus flower floating above man-made pools of water, a place where all religions intersect. Shoes discarded, we join the throng. Star-shaped arcs cross each other on the soaring ceiling overhead.
Bare feet on lukewarm marble.
Silence but for the jingle of ankle bracelets, until a baby’s cry ends the solemn reverence.


Through a gate to Old Delhi – an immediate change. Traffic snarls, beeping horns increase, motorcycles test their limit as whole families maneuver through the crush. Small shops cram the street, small apartments atop, laundry flutters. Cheap knock-offs - Nike, Adidas – abound. A riot of colors and noise. All the shops are closed, however, for a Sunday tradition – a used book sale. Books in any language, on any topic, stacked on tables and blankets as people browse. Double takes at our white skin. I try to take it all in.

Shoes shed again, a mosque with a large courtyard, towering minarets, one of which we climb, the worn stones smooth beneath my feet, for a birds-eye view – streets crowded, Muslims waiting in the courtyard to pray, a breeze that invites me to linger…

A flame burning on a black grave where some of Ghandi’s ashes rest….
Back to the hotel. Exhausted, but not done.

Night. Crammed in a shuddering tuk-tuk, back to India gate, lit now, it casts a glow to the park. Families picnic and play, ice-cream vendors hawk cool treats, bags of chips sell from metal baskets, kids play football on the grass, shoot glowing plastic in the air; a little boy plays with his father, alternating between breathless laughter and tears. Balloons for sale bob on sticks, like fishing poles waiting for a bite. The darkness provides anonymity – our pale skin blurs in the dark, we are simply part of life for a little while.


Delhi tries its best to hold us in the next day, sprawling out for miles, thick with traffic. A tuk-tuk driver tucks a bare foot beneath himself, the sandal empty on the floor, pastel Hindu gods pose in the dash. Young men perch on baseboards, grip car roofs. A car so crowded, how can the bearded man manage to drive?

Finally, the jumble releases us to modern office buildings, and then flat fields. Trucks rumble along, “Horn Please” a banner we adhere to – the rules of the road: honk and they will move. Camels pull carts loaded with long sticks and burlap-covered mounds. Cones of a harvested crop dot the fields, stalks and leaves brown and dried. Trucks piled precariously high rest at roadside cafes, men loiter and chat. Roads intersect in a cacophony of corrugated tin overhangs, faded store signs, concrete, cows, camels, carts, trucks, trash, markets, motorcycles, men, women, children. We brake, beep. Grin at two boys out the window as they catch sight of us and smile. Everywhere, those living flowers – on the backs of motorcycles, crossing a busy intersection with children in hand, in the middle of a brown field, carrying baskets and bundles on their heads.

Colors always assaulting my eyes.


Seemingly random hills rise from the fields, soon forming winding ranges that hug the road then swing away. A lavender temple, a walled fort through the haze.

Senses overloaded, the hotel a welcome respite. Warm afternoon sun, cold beer in hand, feet in soothing water – it is, after all, vacation.


And the best is yet to come….

Here's a few pics (click "view slideshow"!) - more of those to come, too....
http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=145dg9h8.22me5kf8&x=0&y=bm025t
(copy and paste the link.... )

Road trippin'

Four teachers, ready for a break from the hustle and bustle and noise of the city, take to the road armed with water, cameras and a loaded iPod. They marvel at the previously undiscovered ridiculousness of Dragon-Mart, a large and (they assume) dragon-shaped mall, and gladly leave it, and the traffic, behind. The desert emerges around them, filled with scrubby brush and trees that somehow survive the intense heat. These too disappear and the sand starts to undulate and crest in wind-blown dunes. A colossal dune rises ahead and merits a photo-op stop near the ATV/camel/horse rental operation. Shortly after, camels are spotted, ambling along the barbed-wire fence. It seems they slow enough to allow the travelers time to spill from the car, cameras at the ready, to accost them. The camels look amused, as if they are used to posing for these wide-eyed visitors, and they eye them back with wide, dark eyes of their own. They pause to pose for a few close-ups, then continue on when they’ve grown tired of the attention.

Mountains now appear in the distance, and closer to the road, gray and time-worn rocks stand in stark contrast to the red-orange hue of the sand. Signs warn of impending doom should it rain and cause the wadis to rush, though momentarily, with water. Cell phones and car speedometers bleep together as the car speeds across the Omani border and emerges again, within minutes, the cacophony announcing a man-made boundary not declared by the view out the windows . Finally, near the foot of the mountains, the destination: Hatta. Signs for Hill Park promise a view – and they do not disappoint. Emerging from the car, the four stretch and lift their faces to the hot afternoon sun. The gate watchman smiles, slightly puzzled: who would climb a hill in the full heat of the day, on a weekend during Ramadan?

The silence is complete. Hatta seems a ghost town but for the occasional squawking of birds. Four pairs of ears stretch out to feel this palpable sense of peace, the first true quiet after being in a place that buzzes constantly with the sounds of a growing city. The Heritage Village, too, is eerily quiet, the dish-dash clad man at the entrance sleeping as we approach, no doubt worn by the heat and his fasting. Exploration of the village provides interesting insights and opportunities for creative, interactive picture-taking with the many displays.

The peace continues over a late lunch at the nearby hotel, with its views of mountains and palm trees, and vows are uttered to visit when life demands another escape.

The car turns homeward as the sun starts its descent over the desert, the sand absorbing the deep gold of late afternoon and deepening its reddish hue. The city approaches all too soon, but back-lit by the magenta of the rapidly-sinking sun, even the half-finished shells of skyscrapers look stunning…

Bribery...

Yesterday, a student offered me money if I would tell her the answers on the math test she was taking.

I told her I could get fired for that....

perhaps the fact that I was laughing made that much less convincing.....