33 Hours Later

One word: Funky.

Thirty what...

And now, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat. No really... I am headed out in an hour on a 30 hour train ride. Yes I did say 30 hours. three Zero. 30. I can only imagine the smells coming off my body at the end of this little ride. Someone should invent scratch and sniff Internet. Maybe I can save a peace of clothing and bring it home for those that might be curious. It could be like my own personal form of torture for the ones I love. I would like to hear anyones thoughts on this idea.

The American Cake In India

The original purpose for this little jont to India was two-fold. One, it was a graduation present to my self, in the form of the "light at the end of the tunnel" while I was pushing through the last few months of school (strangely I consider this third world stuff a nice afternoon out). Two, it was my friend Matt's thirtieth birthday. Matt is a hard core traveler and wanted to have his dirty thirty in a different country. This leads me to the adventures of the American cake in India.

After we arrived in Agra to see the Taj we figured out a rough draft for our schedule for the next few days. Soon Larry (a.k.a. Lisa) and I realize that because of our days, we are going to be traveling the day of Matt or I mean Curly's birthday. Over the first night in Agra we meet this nice family who have a cute roof top restaurant here (one of a gazillion) just across from our hotel. We have a few drinks and get some henna done by the owners daughter. The next morning Larry and I plot to have them prepare (in advanced) a cake desert of some sort so we could celebrate close to midnight on the the 14th. The man at the shop takes our information and we give him a brief description, telling him we only want the cake about 4 inches in radios, thinking that some pastry thing that came close to this would be sufficient. Over the course of the afternoon as we came in and out of our hotel traveling to the Agra Fort (which, as a side note was pretty cool) the man pulled me aside asking more questions, i.e name and age and such. I am impressed that the restaurant owner thought of these details but still I am expecting not much. 

Latter that night we end up in the restaurant for dinner which mat was trying to avoid. Larry and I had to almost drag him in. Nonetheless we eat a nice dinner and one drink turns to four or more. A bit later the Owner and his daughters bring the cake out. Larry, Curly and I are absolutely blown away. They managed to make a real American birthday cake about six inches wide with a more frosting colors and flowers than a bakery could compile on one cake. The owner even managed to find the big number candles, which he had already placed perfectly on the cake and lit on the way to the table. Larry and I start the birthday song and the children of the family stand around to watch and congratulate Curly (there are seven in the family and four were regularly fixed to our table).

Mean while Curly is shocked and thus speechless. He blows out the candles and we cut the cake which we have now heard the oldest daughter spent the afternoon making. One bite later and we are all but spiting the cake out. While they can make it look real, they simply don't have the ingredients to make it taste real. The flavor and texture was more like corn meal with half an inch of colored butter frosting.

Nonetheless, we finish at least the bite and then gladly cut up the rest and send it out to all the children and every friend they have until it is all gone. Curly in the interim is still shock that we secretly pulled this task off while in India (we are as well) and has subsequently carefully taken the candles off of the cake, cleaned them, wrapped them in napkins and  placed them in his bag for safe keeping.  And so ends another surprising night in India. And yes pictures will come of this as well.

Note to Self

1- Learn how to spell one day.

2- Indian birthday cakes that look like real American birthday cakes, despite there convincing looks, don't actually taste like them, even when drunk (drunk being me and not the cake).

3- Some sales men in India consider the conversation which takes place over bartering a form of courting.

Monkeys, Cattel, and Sand Lots are Rough On The Intestines.

Sitting in a dark hole in front of a computer in the middle of India I take a minute to reflect on the last few days here. This is the first of many stories.

The train to the Taj Mahal did not work out as one may have hoped. The train dropped us in Mathura, a town over and hour outside of Agra which is where the Taj Mahal is. In the very small city there is a temple that is said to be where Krishna (a Hindi god) was said to be born. My book mentioned the temple but had almost no other information on the city other than this fact. We knew we had to get a taxi into Agra so we thought it would be easy to get a taxi to take us to the temple and then if the price was right and we wanted to continue, we would have them drive us to Agra. I get off the train and there is no other tourists but my friends and I however there is more than thirty taxi drivers happpy to help us. Thus, we get mobbed. I had a guide book with names of the temple and such information so my two friends move back out of the way and photograph this *Shit Show.

After a lot bad communication (in rural areas the English is shotty with low literacy rates and my American accent is not common) we get our taxi driver and head into the temple. We are seeing some wild rural happenings and the taxi driving has not gotten better in the rural area. Rather, they insert cows, tractors, large buses, oxen carriages and bicycles into the erratic driving and all of them are swerving around the cows in the middle of the road at mach three attempting to not hit the cows.

A few minutes later we arrive at what appears to be the kingdom of monkeys. It is a whole in the ground that has been made with some sort of a red cement and built like an inverted pyramid with each foot a new step heading down to water at the bottom. It is larger than a football field with monkey climbing all around it and no one can tell me what this incredible structure is. Nonetheless, I leave my friends in the car with the bags and head down a crazy road to see the temple, at one point on the walk two monkeys jumped toward me and landed close enough to almost scare the literal shit out of me, but also enough to alert the taxi driver who is used to this monkey kingdom.

After all of this I end up not getting into the temple due to a few communication errors (which I have since worked through, and takes some knowing while traveling in this country, and will come in a later note) I head back to the taxi and we start our negotiations to drive us to Agra. The driver is incredibly unreasonable and we end up taking our bags out of the car and walking the mile back through the cows and traffic back to the train station. This "walking" incident was so wild it could hardly be explained less you where here to see the speeds and animals thus we photographed this as well, no worries pictures will be posted later.

We manage to find our way back to the train station where we negotiate a price and take off on our journey. However we only get about five miles when the driver and his friend turn off the road and barrel through a cricket game in a field and park at the back, at which time my friends and I are having another bowel moving moment. The guy jumps out and Curly, my male traveling companion has his hand on his pocket where he caries a rather scary knife. The guys get out and start talking with two other men and tell us to get our bags so we can move to the other car parked there. One man speaks some English and after we calm down we understand that the car we were first put in can not travel the distance and so they are moving us to a new car and negotiating a finders fee. We move cars and an hour and a half later safely arrive in Agra where we find a hotel and have dinner on a roof top cafe. We eat, drink chai tea and watch the sun set on the Taj Mahal. The wild day ends well with Intestines intact and no need for a rabies shot.

*capitlized because it is a borrowed term and also because it was a proper debacle that requiers a proper name.

Note To Self

Third world states do not have particularly frequent, effective, or continuous Internet service.

Tat tas: More than just a funny word

This is my two part whore-er story...

 

Yesterday the Three Stooges and I were trying to get ready to leave Mumbai. We had decided that we should have cocktail before the train ride and during a bit of shopping. There is almost no bars in Mumbai, or rather no traditional bars that we could find. We did see one on a busy street, it was called Lucky One. During the chaos on the street rather than really looking at the store front I pushed my friends into the bar. We walk in and notice immediately a sign that states, patrons are not allowed to dance. We are escorted to a table and I notice immediately that there are only men sitting and a few girls standing around. The girls are young and dressed up quite elaborately. I start thinking maybe this is a strip club, but no one is dancing. after a few minutes and a misplaced shot of vodka and a beer in the way, I finllay figure out I have pushed the three of us into what I can conclude is a whore house. The three of us are laughing under our breath and laughing  our asses off. Meanwhile there is a man standing over our table pushing us to order more drinks and a handful of girls not staring but glaring at the three of us. Lisa, or Larry from here on out and my self start prodding Mat or Curly, as I will refer to him in the future, to talk to the girls. He in the process is blushing and laughing. We decide to finish our beer and get out as soon as possible. In the interim the man next to Larry has asked her to dance for him. She reminds him that the sign on the wall said that the patrons are not allowed to dance, I reminder her if she does she would no longer be a patron. The entire incredibly uncomfortable ten minutes ended with us leaving money and splitting, meanwhile the man in the tuxedo is chasing Curly out wanting to know where his tip is. We stumbled off down the street to get fitted for out Suris laughing and calling Curly a john.

 

Part II

 

For those who know me well know that I was, we'll say "endowed" with certain physical traits. While in the us this is, I don't think any way, entirely out of the normal. However, in India this gift of DNA is not so common. This is something I had not really noticed until to day. Larry and I were ordering Suris, the traditional Indian outfits. This is basically a tight fitting top and a large piece of cloth that wraps your body. The tops have to be tailored to you exactly. Larry and I enter the shop and talk to the owners whom, are five men. We pick a cloth and they send for the female seamstress. About fifteen minutes later she shows up and starts to measure me for the fitting. the top doesn't cover much more than you breasts so as she is measuring me she actually stops to make a few cracks to the men about the amount of material this is going to take. They all laugh, she measures another angle on my breasts stops makes another crack they all laugh and then continues again. I was slightly embarrassed, but this barley scratches the surface. A bit latter I go to purchase a few shirts (I packed surprisingly light and needed some cloths that were OK for the mosque). I go to India's version of a Target, grab two shirts hold them up to me and decide they fit. I buy them, take them back to my hotel throw one on and it does not fit.I try the other and again the same. The shirts fit everywhere but the breast area. So as we are headed to the train station I go in to return them, I have to explain why they don't fit, again the woman at the counter starts to make jokes to the guy standing next to her. I ignore them and go to find different shirts. Larry is with me in the interest of time, we start digging and the only size shirts they have that fit me up top is XL with does not fit any where else, I am now digging through piles of shirts holding them up to myself to see if they fit in the process a group of six people are watching what is going on and are laughing hysterically. I move to the men's shirts hoping that I should have luck with men's broader shoulders. No luck and the group is now laughing harder and longer. At this point I am so frustrated and embarrassed I grab the first two ugly things I can find and we leave. As we are trying to check out, the manager is hitting on Larry, while asking me if I am sure if this new selection will fit, by the end of the day I was almost ready to go back to Lucky Bar where I might be less the joke and we could go back to laughing at Curly and his lady friends.   

 

Another Day Another Love

Yesterday left off with the attempt to train out of our shady Mumbai
neighborhood and into Agra to see the Taj Mahal. However when we
reached a new train station to get on the "right train" and after some
doing we finally were able to get tickets for the now, 15 hour train
ride into a town just outside of Agra. On the downside the only
tickets available were for the next day. This of course left us
staying another night in this chaotic town. We left the train station
tired and frustrated and walking around until we found a sign for a
vacant hotel.

I tell you this boring tale, because it was a fantastic misfortune.
Because we were forced to stay, we ended up in a different
neighborhood. Our hotel was down a quiet street next to a temple and
across from a school. We spent the entire day walking down amazing
little streets where children would play with us and men and old
ladies would stop to say hello. We ate great food on the streets and
in restaurants and fell in love with Mumbai in a matter of hours.

The architecture is baffling, on one street you have a million dollar
high rise and next to it tents and shacks with families making dinner
from fires they light with the same piece of wood each night. Men
drive a million miles an hour on motorcycles with women and children
on back, I would be inclined to say "holding on for dear life" but the
fact is they are not. These whole family rides seem to be as natural
and stress free as a walk in the park. I wonder if my fear is a
natural concern or a testament to the smothering overly concerned
society Americans have created?

In an hour we board our 15 hour train ride, by this time tomorrow I
will be sitting in front of the Taj Mahal, I am sure awed by its
beauty and moved by its love story.

Hold on to Your Taxi Seat

 

We landed safely in Mumbai, after the almost 16 hour flight, and took the craziest taxi ride I had ever experienced in my life, nearly an hour zigging in and out of other vehicle and people nearly hitting and missing each one. Luckily our driver was older and Jesus so we were sure that the driving tactics were not mearly a lack of eye sight, rather that he was very experienced. The eye opening ride ended at out hotel which is by a train station but which also turns out to be the wrong train station in relation to where we are headed. The next attempted destination is  into Agra to see the Taj Mahal, The train ride is around 15 hours but it is a sleeper train. While I don't look foreword to another long ride, I suppose it will at least prove to be an interesting experience. This is of course provided we actually get on the train which as we hear may or may not have a waiting list.

 

All this logistics nonsnse aside, this town is fascinating, we are staying in a ghetto of sorts. People have built up shanty towns next to large new buildings. In the same step you walk past a rich child and an old man sleeping in a bed roll on the ground. Tourists are segregated in some of the restaurants and two American girls walking around with an American boy are something of a spectacle. Yet again I find myself in a city where my traveling partners and myself are the only blonds in sight. And though I have experienced this before, I wonder if it is something one can ever get used to.

 

It Sunday morning here. The Internet connections is sad to say the least, I am writing journals now, (on paper though it may seem a little archaic) when I have a better connection I plan to scribe them into this new little blog experiment of mine.

 

Piece of advice... Enjoy your hot water!

Good Morning America

This morning I watched the sun rise over the eastern horizon. It
raises slowly and poeticaly like a perfect orange ball mirroring
something only my dreams could assemble. The rough landing of the
plane jolted me out of my fasinating gaze. The next three hours proved
to be an episode of the Three Stooges, fumbling around bags, in and
out of wrong buses, over bums, after coffee, long lines, short walks
and around Atlanta. Due to this, I will start sending tidbits under
versions of The Three Stooges names...
To be continued

I am almost out of the fair city

For those of you who were sent a link, this is my first attempt at keeping a blog. I will attempt to update it often including pictures. We all know I am not as computer competent as I would like to be so I wish myself luck with the technical side.

I plan on spending the morning wrapping up a few details, I work tonight and then we are off with the red eye out of salt lake into Atlanta. We leave Atlanta around six tomorrow night with a direct flight into Mumbai. With no doubts, there will be more rambling soon to come.