Day Nineteen: Amristar’s Disaster (II)

Day Nineteen:  January 6, 2012

The rice pudding in the free meal given at the Golden Temple was absolutely delicious. During the second time we went there for free lunch, there was apparently a better cook and the rice pudding tasted even better. It had a rich and creamy coconut flavor and was toppled with raisins. After a day of rest in the hotel, keeping myself from the incredibly intrusive India, I found myself more capable of coping with the people and cities again.

Plus, my stomach was feeling better.

Sitting on the floor with hundreds of Sikhs for free meals was quite a phenomenon. It reminded me much of the time I spent in Taize, a small ecumenical community in Burgundy, France. There we lined up for meals which were cooked in huge portions. The Golden Temple operated perhaps a few hundred times bigger than that of Taize even.

Volunteers preparing food for free meals to pilgrims and visitors.

From this kitchen, thousands of chapattis are kneaded, rolled and roasted daily.

Apart from the yummy rice pudding, we were also offered a potato masala dish, lentil curry and chapattis.  We fed ourselves till our stomachs were full. By the time we walked out of the dining hall, the sky had turned black and thunder was heard from a distance.

Streams of pilgrims and visitors come to the Golden Temple daily, non-stop, to eat for free.

We both love the rice pudding a lot, and this man gave J a huge scoop.

Mind you, at the time of the year, Amritsar was literally freezing. It was so cold that I was wearing six layers, in which the top was my down jacket. I was quite warm for the most part, but the sad news was that I did not bring my rain coat.

Down jackets can be incredibly warm. But once soaked, fluffy down feathers would lose their ability to trap air which preserves heat. Meaning – a wet down jacket was like wearing a layer of ice.

Our potential train (remember, my tickets were only on waiting list and God knew if it’d be confirmed) was to depart at around 5-ish and therefore we had only one final chance to see the Golden Temple before we left Amritsar. So we stormed through the rain, walked around the temple  sitting in the middle of a man-made lake. Lucky enough the corridor on all four sides are sheltered. But cold wind prevailed. I think it was about close to zero degree Celcius.

Torrential rain at the Golden Temple

Hailstorm at the Golden Temple

Rain was bad. Soaking wet in cold rain was worse. Walking bare-foot in smuggy freezing floor was the worst. However, when hailstones, the size of a cherry, started to fall, we then realized being soaking wet while walking on hailstone-covered floor with bare-foot was the worstest. If you don’t know how it feels. Try taking a few dozen ice cubes and put your feet on top of them for couple minutes.

It was madness. Despite cold, rain, hailstones, we toured the whole Golden Temple. To be honest, I was not in any mood to see it, although J was enchanted by its awe and grandeur.

At 3pm, I had to hurry him to go. Our tickets were not confirmed. We had to go to the station to figure things out. The rain was pouring. I was drenched.

By the time we got out of the Golden Temple, it was raining cats and dogs. We negotiated the price with a rickshaw driver, and sped our ways to the hotel first to pick up our bags, and planned to storm to the train station, which was only a hundred meter from the hotel.

When we reached the hotel, water was already a foot high. “Okay, let’s work together. You run into the hotel to get the backpacks. I will stay in the auto-rickshaw to guide our day bags. Then I will run to the train station to see if our tickets were confirmed,” I suggested.

J came back to the rickshaw, his jeans totally soaked. Luckily he still got a Gortex jacket to keep his body dry. We asked the driver to go to the train station, and his reply was, “20 rupees more.”

“But we agreed with the price already.”

“No, 20 extra.”

It was not the first time rickshaw drivers failed to deliver the service they agreed to give. Time was ticking and we had no energy and time to deal with the ridiculous driver. We paid and I said to J, “Now, you take the rucksacks, I will run to the reservation office. Meet you there.”

I jumped off the rickshaw and stepped into a puddle. It’s more like a pool. Rain water came all the way up my knees (thanks to the habit of littering among Indians. It took no time to clog the drainage and create flood in torrential rain). My whole body was now wet, inside out. Mind you, it’s around freezing point.

I ran to the reservation office, like a water buffalo ploughing through water-filled rice paddies, ignoring any comfort and dignity. All I wanted was to know was whether we could have a seat from Amritsar to Agra.

At the reservation office, there were, as usual, long lines. My drenched look gave me an express way to the front of the line. Enough Indians — who seem to be about to coup with any weirdos and outrageous actions, found me quite a scene to watch. They were kind enough to let me jump the queue. No one dared to tell me off this time. I was too insane, overwhelmed, drenched and desparate. Everyone moved to let me go to the front.

“Can you please check the tickets for me to see if they are confirmed?” I pushed my soaked tickets through the counter.

The officer slowly keyed in, and then wrote a few numbers on my ticket. “Confirmed.”

I wanted to scream halleluia. From the trauma and drama of the day before when I tried to reserve the tickets to current misery, I felt a sense of triumph knowing my tickets were confirmed. After many battles, I declined victory. By then, J arrived. I said, “YES. YES. We got seats!” He gave me a big kiss.

The battle, however, was not over. I had the seat numbers, but had no clue where the train was. There were like 8 platforms in total. I asked the officer who wrote numbers on my tickets. He said, “Maybe 5.”

Maybe is an often used word in India. For Indians, “I don’t know” is almost an insult to them. So they would come up with a possible answer, however wrong the answer is. In case they are not sure, they still will give you and answer, but on top of it they will add “maybe.”

Having been in India for more than two weeks, I have learned to not trust one’s suggestion or comment or words.

So I moved to the inquiry booth. The answer was “May be 3 or 4.”

We looked at each other, and decided to go to platform 3, 4, 5 to look. Nothing was indicating anything. No trains there had the same number as the one we were to take.

J has very sensitive hearing. I asked him to stay near the platform to hear announcement, in accented English, and incomprehensible Hindi, “Listen to the train number and see what platform. I will go to the booking office to ask.”

I went to the booking office to ask. You know the result. Yes. You are right. They asked me to go to the reservation office to ask. I was about to explode for the second time in Amritsar. But I was too freaking cold to explode. Just like a bomb soaked in water, not able to explode. I swallowed my frustration, stormed the rain (I was wet anyway) to the reservation office, begging someone to tell me where the train was. I went to one of the booths again, asking a ticket officer, “Sir, I got this ticket confirmed, but no one can tell me on what platform does the train depart.”

You know the answer? Yes. You’re right. He asked me to ask someone from the booking office.

India is truly a place to train one’s endurance and patience. I could not stay cool anymore but shouted, “I JUST CAME FROM THE BOOKING OFFICE. THEY ASKED ME TO ASK YOU IN THE RESERVATION OFFICE.”

The man shook his man, and started to shoo me away. An Indian young lady, who spoke English well, said, “Go to the booking office.”

“Don’t you hear? I just came from there. They asked me to ask people from the reservation office.”

“Not possible.”

I wanted to snap this woman into two pieces. Trust me. But I could not spend time to deal with her. I needed to find out where the train was. I could not let the train go, after all the traumatized experiences in reserving and confirming the tickets.

Finally, I left the reservation office and stormed into a little building next to it. Inside we six Indians, 4 men, 2 women, doing nothing. They were nicely dressed and apparently held higher position in the train station.

“Excuse me. I got these tickets confirmed just now. I want to know what platform the train is but no one can help me. No one from the booking office. No one from the reservation office. Can you please help me?”

The six officers, who had nothing to do except for picking their noses, looked at me. One of the women asked me to show her the tickets. She examined it for a little moment, picked up the phone. “It’s on platform 4.”

“You sure it’s on platform 4.”

She gave me a confident nod, something rare to find in India. From there, I knew I had the answer.

I went back to J, who was there to listen to the announcement. “Platform 4, right?” he said.

We hurried to platform four. Because we had bought 2 AC tickets (meaning it’s sleeper train, with AC, and two beds on one side), we had to walk to the front of the train. There was no shelter to the front of the train.  I was drenched already, and after the walk I was saturated by rain water completely.

You know no idea what triumph I felt when I found our two beds in our compartment. “I am glad we’re here. After all these, I would be mad if I could not get a seat in this train.”

It was the first time we successfully got the 2AC, which we did not have to freeze to death at night. I took off the many layers of wet clothes, put on a shirt and skirt, removed the wet sneakers and socks and wore flip-flops.

That train ride was the best ride we ever had in India.

You know what, after the experiences with the train ticket purchase / confirmation in Amritsar, I have developed a strong resilience. When I put all my clothes around the beds in train to dry, I said to J, “Nothing could be so terrible. From now on, the path would be smoother.”

Indeed, after Amritsar, things started to look brighter. My clothes, at least, could remain dry for the most part.

Drying drenched clothes in the train. Thanks God the ceiling fan saved our lives!

Day Eighteen: Amritsar’s Disaster (I)

Day Eighteen:  January 5, 2012

Our previous unsuccessful attempt to get train tickets to Amritsar which led to a number of traumatized bus rides, I was determined to get AC sleeper train tickets for our next destination: Agra. I vowed to myself: no more buses and no more freezing trains. I pulled my body out of bed at 8am to go to the nearby train station to fulfill my mission.

Mission (im)possible. As Indians always say, “Everything is possible”, so long as you have a will strong enough to move mountains.

J had a few clients to work online with in the morning, so the big mission fell on my shoulders.

After a 10-hour-long sleep, my body felt somewhat intact. But it did not take too long to tumble it again.

I got back from the train station to the hotel at 9:30am, after an hour and half ordeal of reserving tickets. J immediately asked, “How did it go? Do you get tickets?”

I looked at him and marginally managed to utter, “Give me some time to recover first. I have been gone for an hour or so, but I felt like I had been away for a day.”

J gave me a hug. “I can understand that.”

For two hours while he was working, but I seriously had to stay mute to just let my body recover from the trauma in the train station earlier in the day.

After he finished his work, I was somewhat able to detail him what had happened.

“I arrived at the train station of Amritsar at 8am, the time when the reservation office opened. Long lines were forming behind all different ticket booths. I went to the one reserved for ladies and senior citizens. To reserve tickets, I had to fill in a form first, detailing what train, what date, what time as well as the passenger’s permanent address (God knows why they need it), or else the ticket officer won’t even talk to me about reserving a ticket.”

I spoke as if shooting bullets.

“Having had previous experience, I have taken a stack of forms. If one train is full and I want to inquire about the availability of another train, I have to fill in another form with new information (No wonder there are litters everywhere in India). So I have filled a couple of forms with different possible combinations of trains – lining up with other Indians,” I continued.

Lining up in India requires inches thick skin. You have to understand being pushed, shoved, and having people jumping queues in front of you are just normality.

“When I got all forms ready, I dutifully I lined up until it was my turn. I handed the officer the first form, a night train from Amritsar to Agra. The officer clicked a few buttons on his keyboard and said, “Full. Full.” I uttered “Shit” within, and learned that it’s on waiting list. Then I handed in the second form, an express train from Amritsar to Delhi, thinking from Delhi we could get another train to Agra. “Full. Full,” he hollered again.”

Both trains showed a long waiting list. Shit. Shit. Shit.

J was patient enough to endure my moaning and groaning.

Then I remembered there’s a ticket called Takal, or emergency ticket, available 24 hours and less before the train departs. With extra rupees, you could ask for Takal quotas. Our priority train, Amritsar to Agra, is not leaving more than 24 hours, so I thought Takal wouldn’t be applicable. So I asked for Takal ticket for the express train to Delhi. “Full. Full.” My heart dropped half a meter.

Seeing no possibility and with people pressing me towards the counter forcefully, I asked, “Takal for Amritsar to Agra.”

The officer bobbed his head, slowly danced his fingers on the keyboard, and said, “Takal?”

“Yes.”

On the screen, showed, it’s AVAILABLE. 11 seats left – AVAILABLE! I was overjoyed and said yes. “Book. Book. Takal.”

“Passport please.”

“Passport?”

“Yes.”

Normally booking tickets requires no passport. But perhaps Takal is different. Luckily I had my passport with me so I handed him my passport. He flipped here and there and then said, “Photo-copy.”

“Photocopy?”

“Yes. Photocopy. Passport photocopy.”

“Where can I get a photocopy?” I was agitated. You really have no ideas what rules are playing in India. We tried to book tickets before, and never had we been asked to show photocopy of passport.

“Where can I have a photocopy?”

The officer shrugged his shoulders, waved his hands, asking me to leave the line.

I was desperate. There’s a chance to get emergency ticket, but they were asking for the ridiculous xerox copy of my passport. To make sure I could reserve that precious seats (man, I could not handle shitty bus rides anymore and it’s my mission to get train tickets), I ran like a MAD WOMAN out of the reservation office, crossed the f—king long bridge, with my passport in hand, asking any sensible-looking Indians, “Where. Photocopy. Where????????”

People started to point, indicating me to get out of the train station. I followed the direction, worrying that I might not get the copy early enough and the Takal tickets would slip away.

“Photocopy?????” I asked a man at a fruit store. He waved me to the end of the row of stores. I had no idea where the shop was, but tried to run as fast as I could. The nice fruit store owner sent his child running after me, trying to lead me to the photocopy shop.

Finally I got to the photocopy shop. Quickly got my copy. In no time, I darted back to the train station, ran over the foot bridge to the reservation office. The lines were forever long, of course. I was panicking. So I tried the Indian approach – pushing, shoving and jumping queues. Luckily, the people saw the despair in my foreign face – letting me to go to the counter first.

I pushed my photocopy and reservation form to the officer, the same guy I talked to couple minutes ago, and said, “Amritsar to Agra. Takal. Takal.”

The officer nonchalantly keyed in the information.

On the screen, it came the words: waiting list.

My heart dropped a million miles. All the Takal tickets have been taken and now we were back to waiting list. Square One. Ground Zero. I wanted to cry.

With few alternatives left and  a deep horror in buses of India, I had to make a quick decision. “Waiting list. Okay. Book takal tickets.”

The officer printed the tickets and asked for two thousand five hundred rupees. That’s a lot but I had no energy and sanity to ask the break down and details of the fare. I shoved my rupees across the counter. Got the tickets.

“What’s my number on the waiting list?” I asked. The smaller the number, the more likely the tickets will be confirmed.

The officer, once sold me the tickets, decided he didn’t want to have anything to deal with me. He just gave me the tickets and pointed to his left: which meant “Go to ask someone else.”

Hopelessly, I went to the inquiry booth. An Indian woman sat there. I presented her the Takal ticket I just bought and asked, “How likely would this tickets be confirmed? When should I come tomorrow to find out if it’d be confirmed?”

She looked slightly uncomfortable. Looked at my tickets. Looked at her screen. Didn’t know what to do. She went around asking others. Apparently she didn’t really understand me that well.

At long last, she answered, “Waiting list 2 and 3.”

She did not really answer my questions. I tried to ask again, “How likely would this tickets be confirmed? When should I come tomorrow to find out if it’d be confirmed?”

She was mortified. Instead of dealing with me, she said, “Go to booking office.”

My head was about to explode. The booking office is on the other side of the train station. For my exhausted body, it was like miles away. I had no choice but to go.

When I got to the booking office, I held my ticket and repeated my previous questions.

The woman at the inquiry booth of the booking office took a glance at my tickets and said, “Go to reservation office.”

I wanted to scream but I didn’t. I tried to stay calm, “But I just came from the reservation office and they asked me to ask in the booking office.”

“No no. No no. Go to reservation.”

I was exploding. Nobody would tell me how to confirm the tickets and more I would like to know what happened if the tickets didn’t get confirmed and if it’s possible to get a refund. 2500 rupees is quite a bit of money. I dragged my body back to the bridge, walk to the reservation office again.

You are right. Of course, you are right. THEY SENT ME TO THE BOOKING OFFICE.

I could no long deal with these people. I went to the booking office–hopelessly. The day before, we went to a private office and there was a helpful Indian man would was happy to answer questions.

So finally, I decided to go to a private office and hopefully the person was there.

The person was not there, but seeing my despair, an Indian officer was willing to listen to me.

“Good chance. Good chance,” he said.

“If not confirmed. I can refund?”

“Yes. Yes.”

From that point, I felt a little sense of relief.

But God knew if the tickets would be confirmed. God knew if we would indeed get a train ride.

After I detailed the whole drama, J gave me a hug. “You need rest.”

Sure enough. We stayed in the hotel the whole freaking day.

“It’s great to stay inside, to feel I don’t have to deal with the madness outside for a day.”

Finally at 8-ish, we got out and dined at a place called Crystal. When we got back to the hotel, we started to dream about Thailand. Originally we planned to spend 4 days in Phuket at the end of our trip. But the more we had battled in the hustles, the colder we felt in India, the more stress we had accumulated, the more Indian curry we had eaten, the thought of sunbathing, beach, pad thai and resort of Thailand seemed so much more desirable.

We looked at each other, and saw the same gleam in the eyes and read each other’s mind. “Let’s cut Kolkatta and go to Thailand for a week instead.”

Once we started to plan on that, we felt so much better. The thought of a longer Thailand vacation made the whole remaining Indian trip so much easier to handle.

Mind you, we are both rather frugal. We often stick to our plan and won’t want to waste any tickets. So it’s highly unlikely that we would forgo our flight tickets and book new ones. But we both decided, “F—k it, let’s do it. We deserve it.”

You know, once Thailand started to drift in, we were like cherubs flipping our wings. India suddenly dropped a ton or two of weight from our battled and tattered souls.

After the battle at the train station, I came back to the hotel, refused to leave for the whole day and all I managed to do was to eat one cup noodles. I needed it to get away from India, for a bit at least. I needed it to heal.

Day Seventeen: The Land of Sikhs

Day Seventeen: January 4, 2012

Turban, turban, turban were everything. The moment I saw them, I knew I was in the province of Punjab, where Sikhism is observed by the majority.

Turban everywhere!

One thing that male Sikhs do is to keep their hair. Some, I believe, don’t cut an inch for their whole life. That’s why they always wear a turban, a piece of cloth that can be five meters long or less used to wrap around their heads. In Hong Kong, many Indians we see working as body guards in Heng Sang Bank are indeed Sikhs.

The bus station in Lubiani was so loud, so dusty, so chaotic, so much in commotion that we thought a riot was going on. We have visited a number of bus stations in India, but nothing was like the one in Lubiani. Punjab carries a total different vibe from Rajasthan. It’s more chaotic, less colorful, and far more commercial.

“Chai first or bus first,” J asked.

“Bus, then chai,” I replied.

We had no idea what Lubiani was, nor did we have a hint on its bus schedule. It’s a town not mentioned in Lonely Planet. We went there just because we were making our way up to Amritsar and other bus and train options were out. Only Lubiani was the closest gateway to Amritsar available to us.

After a 10-hour insane bus ride, we had to find yet another bus to take to Amritsar.

Finally we located the bus, and learned that it’s leaving in 3 minutes. Great. Even though we were pooped, it’s great to know that the connecting bus would be leaving right away. We bought two cups of chai, dashed to the bus, and continued another 3 hours of bus ride.

Amritsar to me is depressive-looking. No matter how touristic and bustle Rajasthan is, it has a sense of calmness that Amritsar lacks. We failed to find reasonably priced accommodation with wifi near the Golden Temple and went back to train station and got a place nearby.

After a sleepless night, full of back ache in a bus, hopping here and there searching for a room, not having any food in stomach for many hours, I had a terrible headache. I think it was resulted from being stressed out and dehydrated. Since you never know when they would stop the bus for you to pee (or even stop at all), I often stop drinking water hours before a long haul bus ride. The result is like a hangover.

After a short rest, J suggested to watch the legendary border-closing/crossing ceremony.

After the partition between India and Pakistan, as a result of the end of the colonial rule of Britain and India’s independence, India and Pakistan have often shown and demonstrated hostility, even though both nations formerly shared a land mass together.

Every day, at around 4 pm, the border between India and Pakistan near a little town an hour of car ride from Amritsar holds a border closing ceremony. It’s highly recommended by guide books for tourists to see and many Indians also make their way there to partake in the ceremony.

I drank two big bottles of liquid to rehydrate myself, hoping my headache would depart soon. Alas, it got worse and worse, but I sat through the ceremony for it was truly quite a phenomenon.

On both sides of the border were audience stands. We sat in the Indian side. There were over hundreds of Indians and foreigners. We tourists were seated in a good location, VIP seats, to observe the ceremony. The boarding crossing/closing is a national pride demonstrating event and therefore the Indian government does treat the tourists well. On the way, we saw people holding flags, big and small, marching to the border just like what people do for an important sports event like the World Cup or Olympic Games. On the other side of the border sat many Pakistanis. Primarily a Muslim nation, Pakistan camp seemed more reserved. All women and men were sitting separately and their clothes were more modest, with most women covered. India side was more colorful and relaxed, relatively speaking.

Patriotism in display

Audience in the Hindustan camp

Before the actual event took place, music was played on both sides. As we were sitting in the Indian side, we felt more affected by the music of Indian camp. The most amazing one is they used the popular theme songs of Bollywood movies, e.g. Slum Dog Millionaire to boil up the sentiments of the crowds. Bollywood dancing kept going among some Indian women. Flags were flying. India, also called Hindustan, seemed to be ahead of the game.

Team Hindustan dancing to Bollywood music

Pakistan was playing music as well, much mellower Islamic music and the people were far less active than the Indian crowd.

Team Pakistan is way quieter

When the actual event took place, it was truly amazing and fun to see.

Both sides picked their tallest soldiers possible, with highest head-wear and high-heeled shoes so the guards looked as if they were at least 7 feet tall. Before the marching, both side would send a representation doing a “ahhhhhh” voice on the microphone, trying to see which team could say “ahhhh” for the longest time in one single breath.

Team Pakistan apparently had people with bigger lungs and always led this part.

Meanwhile, there were also cheer leaders on both side to motivate the crowds to cheer. “Hindustan” once said, the crowded started to shout slogans in Hindi. “Pakistan” once echoed, the other side also screamed at the top of their lungs.

Then both sides started to send their soldiers marching. Not only did they march professionally, kicking their foot sometimes as high as their forehead, they marched with much force and sometimes fierce. Both teams, when approaching the border gate, were like two roosters ready for a serious fight. The anger was much in control, but it’s apparent that both nations use this border crossing to show their strengths. For Hindustan, it’s as if saying “Brothers, one day you will be back to us, watch out.” For Pakistan, the vibe was saying, “Wait a minute, shut up, we don’t need your inference.”

Soldiers marching, head held high

So soldiers marched on, flags hoisted and lowered, slogans chanted, people made waves. Watching the ceremony was even better than watching Olympic or World Cup. The sentiments were as strong as, if not more. Patriotism isn’t something light in this part of the world.

After partaking in such blood-boiling, while semi-ridiculous, event, I felt my energy running low. On the way back to town, my head was pounding. We arrived the Golden temple again, where the cab driver dropped us off and I went to a bin to puke.

Both hungry, we managed to get a free meal from the Golden Temple. It’s another phenomenon to describe. But I was to sick to enjoy.

Free meal at the Golden Temple

I vomited the whole meal afterwards.

Seeing that, J took me back to the guesthouse. I sank in bed, and went comatose in sleep for 12 hours.

Day Sixteen: Bikaner / Rat Temple

Day Sixteen:  January 3, 2012

Who could have expected an overnight train in India would be deadly freezing? Literally deadly freezing.

J is from Buffalo, the snow capital of the United States, born and raised to have thicker blood which can conquer cold weather better. As he was slumbering in the “freezer” train, I was pouting. My tropical thin blood did not serve me well.

I sat from 10pm to 4am, eyes wide open, body shivering, teeth chattering.

It was the first time, after two weeks of travel, I had a chance to pray and ponder upon this trip, if not life. For the past weeks, we have been sucked by the mayhem of India, of getting this train ticket or that bus ticket, of negotiating with relentless rickshaw drivers, and of moving from one guest house to another and of gazillion minor things that a trip as such entails. There is little time for me to slow down to think. All my brain cells and energy are pretty much drained before dusk, and at night all I could manage was to hit my sack.

Most of my previous trips have been rather reflective. I travel slow. I travel to places to contemplate. I travel to think about life. But this trip has been different–India leaves little room to thinkers, unless you shut yourself in an ashram. So in the frosty train, I took adventure of my sleeplessness–recalling things to give thanks to in 2011; pondering upon things I wish for 2012. I spent some time to pray a bit, plan a bit, wondering what this trip was about, for I myself, and for us.

We met in Spain more than four years ago, and have taken a handful of extensive trips ever since, visited each other’s hometown, developed a strong friendship and affection for each other. This Indian trip is initiated by me, after a 2-year “separation”—a trip we both agree to take in order to find a more sustainable way to relate and to make some life choices.

To nourish a relationship, perhaps it’s better to go somewhere less insane and more humane. India seems to be not the best choice. Yet, I believe there’s a time for everything. Whatever decisions we are to make – any environment will help to make that at the right time. Perhaps the somewhat difficult India will bring out the best and worst of us and will show us eventually the very truth we are seeking.

One can survive well in a green house; but to test one’s endurance, the little potted plant may eventually need to get out of protective shell.

After some deep moments of thoughts, alone in coldness, I saw J wake up.

He’s also freezing.

“India is a great place to test one’s endurance,” he said. “It’s better to be two than one. At least, physically it feels warmer. Emotionally there’s some support to help face whatever difficulties there are,” I said. We wrapped around each other to stay warm until the freezer inched its way to Bikaner.

We chose to come to Bikaner not for any sight-seeing. Bikaner is a junction for us to reach Amritsar, where the famous Golden Temple of the Sikhs is located.

We checked into a place fairly close to the train station. Slept to reclaim some humanity. When we woke up at around noon, the pending issue was to get tickets to Amritsar. Our priority was a train from Bikaner to Jalandhar City, half an hour from Amritsar.

Battling in train station is nothing less than a great expedition. Indian Railway has a very sophisticated yet user-unfriendly and sometimes unnecessarily bureaucratic system. (To be also fair, if you reserve things online, it should save you a lot of hassles, something we have not managed while on the road).

To get tickets, one has to go to the reservation office to line up. Once you line up, you will realize the ticket officer at the counter won’t serve you unless you fill in a form. To fill in a form, you then go to the inquiry booth and start to pen down all the information, e.g. train number, your home address (why on earth do they need that?). Sometimes the inquiry booth is empty, which means you can’t find out the train number or related information to fill in the form. But without filling in the form, you can’t go to reserve tickets. Therefore you go around asking everyone possible to get enough information to fill in the form. By the time you have the form filled, you have to line up again. Present your form. If you’re lucky, you will be talking with someone who speaks heavily accented yet understandable English. Most of the time the replies are: “full”, “full”, “full.” When you want to inquire about the next train, or any other possible trains, you will be asked to “Go to inquiry to fill in forms.” Then you go through the brutal rituals again to fill in a stack of forms for any possible trains (of any possible combination, timing, forms of trains). Line up again, ask again. “Full” is often a pending verdict for you. Yet the fact that the train is “full” may not necessarily mean there are no seats available or possible though. Indian trains are often astronomically overbooked. There’s a waiting list up to a hundred people. You can buy a ticket on waiting list, and cancellation happens very often and you may well end up having a seat. However, no one can tell you for sure how the waiting list works really.

J and I painfully did all the ordeals and got two tickets on waiting list.

“How likely would the tickets be confirmed?” I asked.

The man behind the counter bobbed his head, shrugged his shoulders, a mixture of gesture that means “how can I know.”

“What time can I come and find out?”

He bobbed his head again, shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe four, maybe three.”

Then I started to ask around and find out more information. Ten people I had asked gave me ten very different answers.

By four, I was back to the insane train station, trying to see if our tickets could be confirmed.

The answer was a brutal “no.”

We looked at each other, and said, “Bus which means?”

After a few sickening and nauseous bus rides, we had very grim hopes and zero desire on taking buses no matter how “deluxe” Indian agents claim those buses were. However, we didn’t want to get stuck in Bikaner either. Bus was the only option left.

By five, we figured out the bus to Jalandhar City was full as well.

We flipped open LP, our traveling bible, and found another town to reach, Lubiana, about 3 hours from Amritsar.

Finally, we got two tickets to Lubiana. “Guess, it can be worse.” J, by nature, has a very positive and happy personality. In India, he often uses this phrase to make everything nicer and lighter.

With the whole day squandered on battling in train station and bus bureau, we decided to do something fun — visiting one place in Bikaner, dubbed the Holy Rat Temple.

Hinduism is a religion that embraces many ideologies, deities and animals. It’s fairly common to see cows roaming around in towns and cities as they are revered by Hindus. The so-called Rat Temple is situated in a small village about 45 minutes of bus ride from Bikaner, a temple in/famous for hosting and worshipping rats. Rats are free to roam around and fed with fresh milk and goodies daily.

We asked the man who sold us the bus ticket to Lubiana, “We have 3 hours before we catch the bus to Lubiana. Is it enough to see Rat Temple?”

“Yes, yes, why not,” he bobbed his head, the “why not” was loaded with Indian sentiments, thick like the yak milky smell in a Hindu temple.

Some other Indians came along, suggesting bus arrangement.

“What time is the last bus back to Bikaner?” J asked. We didn’t want to get stuck in a village and miss the bus to Lubiana.

“Many buses, every five minutes. 7 o’clock, 8 o’clock, 9 o’clock, 10 o’clock. No problem.”

Having collected the information, we went to Gogo Gate Bus Station and got onto the bus to the Rat Temple. It cost 20 Rupees. “Now, we should be at Rat Temple at 6:15pm. Let’s be quick and do it in half and hour. Get back to bus by 6:45pm. Run back to Bikaner for the bus at 8:30pm,” I proposed.

The night started to sink and there was no sign of the temple. Other passengers assured us that it’s coming. “Dooorraaa,” J, personificing the voice of Holy Rat. I laughed my head off. “Doooorraaaaaaa.” As if the “Holy Rat” was calling upon my pilgrimage to his holy temple.

When we arrived the village where the temple was, it’s 6:15pm. I asked about bus to make sure we could manage the time well. The man who was washing his bus said, “Bus. Bikaner. Last bus.”

“Last bus? No bus after?”

“No. Last bus to Bikaner.”

“When is it leaving?”

“Five minutes.”

“Five minutes?”

Our chins dropped, but shortly after we put our chins back. It’s part of the skill of touring India: people give you information about anything even they have no ideas what they are talking about. You need to prepare to narrow the huge gap between what people say and what reality is.

At time like this, quick decision was needed to be made. “Run into the temple, don’t dawdle. Take pictures. I will keep the bus for you,” I told J, reminding him to take his “rat socks.”

Hindu temples require visitors and worshippers to remove their shoes before entering the temples, so we had brought thicker socks, planning to visit the Holy Rat Temple lest our toes would be nibbled by rats.

J disappeared right away, rat socks in hand. I sat in the bus, looking at the driver, sipping his chai. 5 minutes of Indian standard can mean anything from practically 5 minutes to forever 5 minutes. In my heart I just hoped that the driver would linger in his chai forever (which might not be impossible). I also know J well. He can get so carried away by things and likes risk everything to the last possible second. Long before a glimpse of J’s shadow, the bus started to pull away. I shouted to the driver, “5 minutes. Friend is coming. 5 minutes.”

Other passengers bobbed their heads, reassuring me that I could relax and they would wait for my friend. Finally J appeared, right before the bus really had to move on. Panting madly, he jumped on the bus, and said, “I figure 5 minutes Indian time means 15 minutes.”

Holy Rat Temple

All holy rats enjoying their milky dinner. Photo taken by J.

On our way back, the bus conductor wanted to charge us 100 rupees per person, seeing that we were foreigners. It should only be 20. Everyone was paying 20. On our way here, we only paid 20.

“100 rupees,” he insisted.

“But it should only be 20.” We went to ask individual passengers kindly informed us the rate was 20. We insisted on paying only 20, and the conductor left us alone.

That’s typical India. You need a lot of patience and tolerance when people bluntly and openly try to rid you off. Whether it’s a local bus conductor, a street hawker, a travel agent, a hotelier, a random stranger.

We got back to Bikaner and dashed to the station on time to catch a 10-hour bus ride to Lubiana.

We didn’t get sleeper seats as they were all sold out. I looked at my hopelessly-unwilling-to-recline-and-dust-and-dirt-covered seat and plunged into a despair. “I think things suck a little bit because I didn’t visit the Holy Rat,” I said to J, “I cannot do another bus ride like this after this one.”

“Tolerance training,” he said, while comfortably reclining on his seat.

We were both pooped. After two weeks of India, we have learned to give up comfort, sanitation, and personal space. Once we learn to give them all up, things are not so bad.
In exhaustion and excruciating back pain, we arrived Lubiani, semi-sane, totally insanitary. We have not had a shower for days and were covered by dirt and dust, generously and perpetually offered by Indian buses, roads, and towns.

Bus from Lubiana to Amritsar. J dutifully studying the traveler's bible, LP.

Day Fifteen: Camel Safari,City Palace, Havalis, bus to Bikaner

Day Fifteen: January 2, 2012

My biological clock works dutifully according to sunlight. When the first beam of sun started to climb up from the sand tunes, I opened my eyes. Waking up in the desert. The whole place was still deadly silent and cold. I looked around. J was slumbering away and so were the whole camel porters. The three camels, Papaya (my camel), Prince (J’s camel) and Johnny (the porter’s camel) were munching away.

The camel porters told us that the camels only needed 5 minutes of sleep everyday. Most of the time they are resting, not sleeping. Like cows, camels would eat and then ruminate the food they have eaten. So that’s why they seem to be chewing on food non-stop.

I stayed under the warm blankets and stared at the horizon, waiting for sun rise.

Right after sun rise, the two Belsy and Souji were up. They started making chai and coffee in a campfire. I really enjoy outdoor activities, in particular camping, a fondness nurtured and nourished since I was a girl scout at young age.

Breakfast consisted of two hard-boiled eggs, toasts, porridge, fruit and coffee. J and I are flexible people and can eat almost everything. Such breakfast arrangement in the desert was satisfying to us. We were content with Adventure Tour indeed. From culinary arrangement to the camel riding, from porters to transportation, they offer a good and reliable service. After a sumptuous breakfast, we had another 2 hours or so camel ride in the desert.

“Dore, can you imagine doing it for a week or so?” J asked.

“Totally. It’s always my dream to do camel safari in the Sahara with the tribal people. I think it will be f—king amazing to do it for a week or two. Learning their culture. Learning about life in the desert. Seeing sand dunes into the horizons.”

We looked at each other, knowing one day we’d do that.

The morning ride was breezy and leisurely. Once getting used to the rhythms of the up and down on the camel back, I found camel riding very enjoyable indeed.

Camels taking a water break in a pond.

When Omji dropped us off at the town of Jaisalmer, it’s 12:30pm. We had a quick bite and started touring the City Palace right way. The stone carving of the City Palace is meticulous and marvelous. Comparing to the City Palace in Jaipur or Udaipur, the relatively lesser-known fort palace in Jaisalmer is truly a gem.

J loves beauty. It’s his passion to let beauty shine. In people, in nature, in building, in life. When he looks at something beautiful, he could be totally enchanted and be in a trance. He’s very much impressed by the havalis in Jaisalmer. The labyrinth of the many beautiful havalis in the fort town reminded him of much of Morocco. Jaisalmer, at the facade, seems so tame and simple. But if you have the heart and time to meander around, you will be constantly taken by surprise how awe-striking the place really are.

An Indian lady talking on her cell at the City Palace fort, overlooking the city of Jaisalmer.

Some stunning havalis in the old town within the fort.

After touring, I wanted to do some shopping. I just wanted to get a nice blanket, as souvenir or for use as we take night trains or buses. Unlike other cities in which sellers are more pushy and harassing, Indians in Jaisalmer are softer. If you don’t like something, they tend to politely let you go.

At night, we had dinner at Jaisal Italy. Both the pasta and pizza were pretty good. At around 9pm, we decided to go back to Adventure Tour to pick up our backpacks in order to go to the train station to catch a night train to Bikaner.

“Shit, the shop is closed,” J said, “they said they closed at 10pm.” We stood at the closed gate of the shop—shocked and at a loss.

We had a night train to catch but couldn’t leave without our backpacks. I called the shop owner. Kindly he asked his staff to come open the shop for us, although time was ticking and I was anxious. Omji arrived in ten minutes. We thanked him, picked our bags, and flew to the train station and managed to get the tickets for the train.

After frenetically trying to get to the train station, we got our tickets (to our relief). As we walked to our train platform, a cow also joined us, roaming leisurely in the dark.

It’s a local train with no reservation. For 5 hours, I didn’t sleep a minute. That train was just too insanely cold. So cold that I felt I was trapped in a freezer.

5am, we arrived at Bikaner.

Day Fourteen: Camel Safari

Day Fourteen: January 1, 2012

On the first day of 2012, we were in Jaisalmer, India.

Jaisalmer is a mellower town. People are in general friendlier and more hospitable. Few Indians litter sales pitches on your way to monuments or guesthouses. Shop owners are more or less okay with you when you walk out of their shops without buying anything, instead of cursing you or begging you. Oftentimes, they put their palms together to send you off.

“I feel the “stan” culture,” I said. I had told J many a times I wanted to visit places like Pakistan, Kurdistan… J replied, “Dora, you are indeed in the “stan”. Rajasthan is a stan. India is called Hindustan.”

We both woke up feeling pampered. “This mattress is just heavenly.” It’s also great to be able to take a decent shower, a shower that had constant supply of hot water. It’s great to wash away layers of dirt and dust cemented on our bodies. I have lost count on how many days we had not taken a shower.

By the time we dressed reasonably clean, had some bites and checked out, it was one in the afternoon. We decided to do camel safari. It was more or less my desire. J had done camel safari in Morocco and Syria before; whereas I have never mounted a camel. The thought of riding a camel on sand dunes, sleeping under star-colonized dark sky was compelling and appealing to me. Glad that J was glad to compromise and satisfy my desire.

Having compared and consulted a few places, we booked the tour with Adventure Tour. The package, costing Rs1600 per person, includes a jeep ride to the desert nearby, riding camels till sunset, sleeping in open air under starry night, dinner and breakfast, another 3 hours of camel ride the next day and a jeep ride back home.

The whole ordeal was quite briskly arranged. One great thing about India is that almost everything is possible, given you are willing to pay. We hopped back to the hotel to pick up our bags and bring warm clothes along. It’s freezing in the desert at night. Although the company provided a relatively warm bedding and blankets, it’s advisable to wrap yourself with warm clothes.

Omji, our jeep driver, dutifully drove us to the desert area and introduced us to our camel guys/cooks/leaders/porters: Belsy and Souji. They are cousins. The former one is in his 30s whereas the latter one is only 21. They did their jobs professionally, both grown up in the desert and have been running camel safari for many years. We had about a 2-hour-long ride on the first day until sunset. My camel is called Papaya; J’s Prince; and the porters’ Johnny. The sand tunes are not of huge size, but none the less pleasing enough for us to roam in the wilderness.

Me on the back of a camel.

We also visited some small villages on our way. At first, the experience was quite enjoyable, seeing lots of kids chasing after us. J sang couple of billion songs he knew to keep the kids in good spirit. Things turned a little tour when some kids started to rip open our bags, trying to grab things from us.

J with some village kids

Camel ride at sunset

J creating groovy silhouttes against the sunsetting sky

After sunset, Belsy and Souji made a small camp fire and cooked dinner. Belsy prepared potato masala and dal (lentils), rice, and Souji made chapatti, a form of pancake.  The food tasted good. I did not expect to have anything warm to eat in the desert so it was way a happy surprise to me. Meanwhile childhood delight in camping was re-ignited with the campfire burning its way.

Campfire and cooking and chatting

Temperature dropped drastically in the evening. By eight, J and I were tucked in the bedding–a thick layer of blanket on the ground and two blankets covering us, all wrapped with clean white sheet covers (cleaner than some of the beds we stayed in India in fact). I was tired and felt asleep in no time. It’s around mid-night that my frozen feet pushed my eyelids open. It was just too cold.

Our "beds" in the desert. Quite warm actually.

I woke up, trying to put more socks on, taking an extra pair of J’s, only to realize the amazing starry sky. The whole sky was practically covered by stars. Last time I saw such starry sky was in Bangladesh, 8 or 9 years ago.

But the stars could not keep me stare at them for too long. My eyelids were too heavy to stay open. The next moment I opened my eyes again — it was welcome by the first ray of sun the next morning.

“How lucky we are!” I said to J. To have the time to travel, to be able to battle the hustle and bustle of India, to enjoy a freezing night in the desert, to be with each other – all these really makes me feel blessed – a great beginning to kick start 2012.

Happy New Year! Wish us all a greatly blessed 2012.

We wish you a blessed year from Jaisalmer!

Day Thirteen: Insisting upon what you want (it’s hard)

Day Thirteen: Dec 31, 2011 (New Year’s Eve)

 

In the morning, I dragged aching body from bed and felt intense pain in the stomach. I was glad to be awake. Staying on the edge of bed for hours was like walking on tightrope. I was glad to see the sun light. I walked to the roof top of the guest house to inhale some humanity and new energy. Behind me was the Merugarh Fort, an immense and impressive fort made of sandstone and rocks standing on the hill-top. Somehow, the pain subsided a bit when I was distracted by beauty.

 

"It's another new day!" Behind me is the beautiful fort.

I stretched my body, reminding myself, “It’s another new day!” A Spanish lady was talking to an Italian in Spanish. I eavesdropped a bit, glad to feel that my long abandoned Spanish still served me a little and I could understand quite a bit. Traveling is a whole lot of fun and a luxurious life chance. I should be glad. Whether it’s in Spain. Or India.

 

Following Lonely Planet’s suggestion, we started our day at a street stall called Omelet Shop, run by an Indian man for over 40 years. The man does not only make good omelets, but makes an enterprising entrepreneur. So does his son. In half an hour, he and his son have bombarded us with eloquent sales pitch. (His son could talk to Korean tourists in Korean too). They have shown us newspaper articles written to praise their shop in all languages, and piled us up with an avalanche of guestbooks in which different guests have written their comments (voluntarily or semi-involuntarily). “Write write,” the son insisted. I was quite tired and didn’t feel like writing anything at all, even though their omelets were pretty good. “Write write,” he persuaded me again.

 

The Omelet Shop

So I wrote in Cantonese. Ho Gwai Say Ho Sik. (God damn yummy!) No wonder they had some over 20 guestbooks.

The omelets were yummy. Cost 30-40 rupees a piece. Not cheap for a street stall.

 

After breakfast, we hiked up to the Merugarh Fort. It’s a beautiful and well-preserved fort and the audio guide, included in the entrance fee, is nicely done. It gave the whole touring experience a great background, making me feel like connected to the history.

Inside the fort

The Fort sits upon the blue city of Jodpur

Both J and I enjoyed this fort, and felt refreshed, expect my stomach was not doing so hot. Towards the end of the tour, my intestines were growling and my energy depleting.

Jodpur is also dubbed the Blue City. Most houes are painted blue. See that little happy kid!

 

J would like to take a look at the hotel converted by a former palace which is now operated by the Taj group. “It looks awesome and if we have a chance I would love to see it.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“If possible, I would like to take an earlier bus to Jaisalmer. I don’t think I can endure another overnight bus ride, with my diarrhea and knackered body,” I replied.

 

We flew down the hill, dashed to our guest house to pick up our backpacks, darted to an autorickshaw to the bus station.

 

“Are you sure you want to take this bus?” he asked, as we were presented to an incredibly derelict local bus, packed by Indians.

 

It’s a rough bus, but the so-called “private deluxe bus” as far as I have perceived and experienced did not seem to be anything better. I went up to the bus and found two seats for us.

 

“You know. It may be better to take the train,” J said.

“But with my diarrhea, we don’t have train tickets and don’t know if we can take any trains at all. If there’s no train, we are stuck and have to take an evening bus and wait for the bus at midnight. I don’t want to get lost in this town for another couple of hours with my tired body. My body just cannot take two evening night buses in a row.”

 

“But you won’t have to get lost. I am sure you can enjoy couple hours at the hotel.”

 

I dragged my bag down the local bus. Fled. Frustrated. Fuming.

 

“Go to the train station. Do what you want!”

 

I was crying.

 

Finally we sat together in the local bus. I apologized for my running away. He apologized for the lack of sensitivity of my needs. We talked with respect how we could do it better next time.

 

“What can I do to you in situation like this?” he asked.

“I run when I feel people won’t listen. I need you to assure me. A hug or a kiss. I need you to assure me that you love me so I am not afraid of telling you what I really need and don’t shut down and run,” I said.

“Okay, I will try my best to do that and learn to be more sensitive to your needs.”

“What I can do for you in situation like this that we can do better?” I asked.

“You need to trust that I really am asking for what you want. When I present other options, I am just giving ideas, not trying to force you. Even if I may sound like a jerk, you need to give yourself what you want and insist upon it.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“Don’t run away. No matter what, I want you to stay and communicate with me. Then, trust me, and let me love you. When you care for yourself, the more you can care for me. The more Dora you have, the more Dora I get to enjoy.”

 

“Thanks for taking this local bus with me.”

 

“You’re welcome. You know, if I didn’t want to work with you, I would not have flown down the hill with you to get to this bus stop. I even thought wouldn’t it be nice to stay in the hotel for the new year. I am happy to care for you.”

 

After the confrontation, talking through how to approach similar situation better in future, we sat together for another bumpy bus ride.

The bus ride took about 6 hours. It was quite similar to the deluxe bus. We arrived Jaisalmer at around 11pm. In the dark. We had no idea where we were when the bus driver dropped us off.

 

It’s Dec 31, near to the new year. I thought in my mind – wouldn’t it be nice to have some nice mattresses to lay my body. It seemed a miracle as places we have been staying don’t normally have nice mattresses. Plus, it’s nicely mid-night. Options for nice places were limited.

 

Plus, we didn’t even know where we were. Normally there would be people and autorickshaw drivers coming to hassle us, bombarding with options. “Mina Palace, my brother’s hotel. Only 300 rupees a night. Come see. Come see.” “You want to go to the fort? Rickshaw?” “Can I help you?”

 

No one approached us.

 

We were both tired, because of the bus ride and of the confrontation we had before.

 

Out of the blue, a white car stopped in front of us. “Can I help you?”

 

A young Indian man in a decent looking car waved us in. We have had enough touts to be very cautious when someone offers help.

 

“Ah, we are looking for Gandhi gate,” J said.

 

“Come, I can drive you to Gandhi gate.”

 

J and I both looked at each other. We had little options for we didn’t know where we were, and Lonely Planet gave us little help. “Are you okay with that?” J asked me. I nodded because we had no other options.

 

The Indian man didn’t try to sell us something or persuade us to a certain hotel, unlike what we expeceted, but took us to Gandhi gate.

 

We got off the car. He asked us for “gifts.” But he pushed no further. We thanked him. But we were glad to be where all the guest houses clustered.

 

We started following LP’s suggestions, checked out a few places, but they were all full.

 

The only place that was within our budget offered a 250-rupee room. It’s a shitty bed. Outside bathrooms.

 

I looked at it and wanted to puke.

 

“Do you want to stay here?” J asked, implyiny we should.

 

“No,” I said. I recalled the collapsing bed and sleepless night not so longer ago. I recalled the confrontation on the bus and my lesson to insist upon what I really need. I shook my head and said no again.

 

The room was indeed not much different from the one we stayed the night before. J frowned and didn’t understand my logic. Why I was okay with something even worse the night before but now this time. It’s nearly mid-night. We continued to walk. Great that he always carried a good sense of humor and chuckled, “We were like Mary and Joseph,” Dark. Late. No place to stay.

 

“Can you try this one next door?” I asked, coverting a lovely looking guesthouse.

 

“Well, it’s listed in LP. The rooms are way out of our budget. Do you want to take a look still?”

 

I nodded.

 

We went in this place called Pleasant Havalis.

 

A young boy answered, and I asked, “Any room for tonight?”

 

He looked at us, “Only one night, or two?”

 

“Tonight, maybe tomorrow too.”

 

“Okay, let me see.”

 

The boy made a phone call. A minute later, another senior guy came over. “How much is your room?” J asked. The man replied, “We have only one room left, it’s 2200 rupees a night.”

 

J looked at me. His gesture was suggesting, “Dora, it’s out of our budget, what do you want?”

 

The man asked if we’d like to see the room. I nodded.

 

The room was lovely. The best we have ever seen, because we never spent more than 800 rupees for our rooms so far in India. It’s 3 times more than the best place we paid. The bathroom was clean and they have very decent mattresses. The mattresses I dreamt of before arriving.

 

I love the room. But 2200 rupees really isn’t our budget. Plus it’s mid-night and so we only have couple hours to use this room.

 

“How much can you guys pay?” the guy asked.

 

J honestly said, “We have never paid any room more than 800 rupees. 1000 rupees is perhaps the highest we can afford.”

 

The guy looked hesitating. I said to him, “Sir, we are being honest. 1000 rupees is most what we can afford. If it’s not possible for you, we should go and don’t want to waste your time. Thank you for showing us this room.”

 

The guy looked at us a short while, and said, “Can you give me one minute?” He walked out of the room.

 

I looked at this lovely room and thought how great if we could stay here.

 

A minute later, he sent the young boy back, who spoke better English, “My boss said, it’s very late and it’s impossible for you guys to get another room in this city. He thinks sometimes money isn’t the main thing. He said you could stay here, and pay any amount you are comfortable to pay. 500, or 800 or 1000. You’re welcome to spend tonight here. We want you to feel happy.”

 

It’s a miracle. “Happy New Year.” We said to the people.

 

Before the boy left, he said, “By the way, no one pay so little in this hotel. Please don’t tell any other guests what you’re paying.”

 

We smiled, nodded and said okay.

 

We closed the room, put our bags down. It’s 3 minutes to 2012. We greeted each other Happy New Year, and were delightedly surprised by the two miracles – free ride and lovely hotel at great discount.

 

“The people here are really lovely and nice,” I said to J.“The Holy Rat is working for our favors.

 

“Happy New Year.”

 

“Happy New Year.”

Sunlight streaming through the curtain of the lovely place we stay. How blessed and lucky to have a nice room at great discount to begin Year 2012.

Day twelve: “Private” “Deluxe” Bus

Day twelve: Dec 30, 2011

A bumpy body-disintergrating bus ride.

Thank God we are traveling together. When suffering is shared, a lousy bus ride can offer some source of laughter.

“There gotta be a way to do this better.” We swore to the Holy Rat that we would find a better way to hit the road.

Private deluxe buses in India are a shit-hole. Period. Don’t be fooled by the word “private”. What “private” offered me was a nauseating meandering hill elongated road so that the “private” company could avoid paying toll fees on humane highways. Whereas, public buses run on more normal paths (guessing they don’t have to pay the toll fees?) Neither be fooled by the word “deluxe”. “Deluxe” in Indian vocabulary and mentality are equivalent to “missing window”, “dirt-loaded seats”, “filth”, “reclinable seats that don’t budge”, “people crowding and goods piling up on aisles”, “lack of suspension in the bus”, “no toilet breaks for a ten-hour ride”…

If you bring some sense of humor to this "private deluxe" bus, you may be able to have a great laugh and keep your sanity.

A resilent and enduring and very tolerant passenger before the bus ride. Look how "excited" he is.

We arrived Jodpur late. I managed to stay in one piece. Halleluia.

Being so late, almost 2-ish in the morning, and having planned to start next day early, we chose a very inexpensive place, 200 rupees. Just couple hours to sleep. No need to pay much.

One could not ask much for a room as such. We were too tired to look further. It did not take me too long to feel that it’s another mistake. My bed was collapsing. Literally! I edged my way to J’s side of the bed, trying not to push him to the ground or fall over the edge myself. My semi-intact body was close to falling apart.

Traveling in a place like India, with limited resources, one needs to keep the spirit up by living one day at a time, reminding myself it’s good to be alive, reminding myself that things will smooth out as it goes. (On a side note, if money isn’t a problem, you can avoid everything and live like royalty in India too.)

P.S. Couple days ago, on a autorickshaw ride, J was chatting with the rickshaw driver. They started by talking about Bollywood. Towards the end, the driver asked us, “How many days you stay in India?” J said, “A month.” The driver said, “You are very strong. Stay one month. Most people come for a few days. Or a week. At most, two weeks.” J, patting on the shoulder of the driver, chuckled, “You’re stronger. You live in India your whole life.”

Day eleven: Oberoi lunch and cooking class

Day Eleven: Dec 29, 2011

J and I have taken many trips together before. All low-budget. All backpacking.

Places we stay normally are guest rooms. Things we do are sight-seeing.

In this trip, though we are still backpacking, we feel the changes within us. We would like to choose to stay in nicer places; and the restaurant recommendations in Lonely Planet, a section that we never bothered to read in the past for we simply ate whatever available and cheap, becomes our highlight this time.

We want more comfort as both of us are getting old and working hard. There is no reason why we don’t treat ourselves nice.

So much so that we booked a table for lunch at the Oberoi Udaivilas, ranked as number one resort hotel in Asia by Condé Nast Traveler. We would have dined at the Lake Palace had they allowed us to take non-resident guests and their dressing code not so demanding. It sounds a little ridiculous to change a closet for just a dinner. But when back-packing, we really don’t have fancy clothes to dine with.

The Oberoi sits in the northwest side of the lake. From afar, the little onion domes, when lit up at night, are extraordinary. We dressed reasonably okay, as they requested only smart casual. We arrived at the gate, and the guards called to confirm our booking. Less than a minute later, a big gulf cart arrived and the driver politely asked us to get in to take us to the main building.

The cushions of the golf cart are all covered by white fluffy towel kind of materials. It’s all white and clean. If you have traveled in India, you would be surprised by how white and clean it is. Sometimes after a shower, I walk out to the street and within minutes I feel myself covered by a grey of dust.

The subtropical ambiance, immaculate maintainance, wonderful services make the hotel charge around USD800 a night. We won’t be paying that amount of money for one night, but J and I love to tour hotels. Having a lunch there gives us a chance to see what the hotel offers and whether it lives up to what it charges.

Once the driver dropped us off, we were greeted with many polite staff members, all speaking English with a reasonably good standard, mostly dressed in a long orange shirt, white pants, matching the ambiance of the hotel and offering post-colonial reminiscence.

Lawns, palm trees, and beautiful gardens spread across the very large hotel. The contrast between this hotel and what’s outside is huge. “This place makes me miss Hawaii,” J commented.

Lunch at the outdoor restaurant

All the staff members are very welcoming, greeting us “Good afternoon” here and there. We walked around the lobby, the bar, and some gardens before we went to the restaurant.

It felt great to have lunch there. We sat outdoors, with a kind of patio, offering some shade, while sun can still shower here and there. The table overlooks manicured lawns. There’s a great sense of luxury and leisure. Most of the other clients are, surprisingly, American. We think the Indians will probably prefer the Lake Palace, a former real palace, run by the Taj group.

Services at the restaurant are up to standard. The waiters are all very attentive and professional. J has been craving for beef. In India, where Hinduism is the predominant religion, hardly could you find any beef on any menus in any restaurant. When I booked this lunch, I inquired in particular. He had a panini with tenderloin steaks. I ordered a greek salad and steamed cod.

J’s panini was great. The steaks were juicy, fries hot, and perhaps we just haven’t had meat for a while, so it’s just extra nice to have something hearty and juicy. A lover of fish, I have to say the cod was not quite overcooked. Guess we Cantonese eaters, who are famous for steaming fish for its perfect tenderness, are quite picky. But it’s a lovely lunch.

Comparing to many meals, what we pay less than 200 rupees, the lunch at the Oberoi cost us substantially more: 3600 rupees, almost 18 folds of what we normally pay. It’s about USD50, not too much for lunch from places we both come from.

The Oberoi is so damn beautiful

After lunch, we continued touring: roaming on the laws, check the lake shore, wandering to the swimming pools and even spa area. Before we left, we requested to view the room.

The lady showing us the room was very friendly. Her father is flying for Cathay Pacific and is now residing in Macau. We both love the room a lot. It’s an extremely comfortable bed, with mattress also 10-inch thick, a quite French bathtub, immaculately white with four black little legs, and the patio of the room leads to an outside pool overlooking the lake.

Fully pampered, we hopped on a golf cart and got to the entrance of the hotel and left.

Seconds later, we were back to the bustles and hustles of India. The rickshaw drivers all requested a payment of 100 rupees for a ride that should cost less than 30 rupees. We did not like to be rid off and so walked further away from the hotel where rickshaw drivers asked for a more reasonable price.

“60 rupees,” one said.

“40 rupees,” we answered.

“Okay, okay, 50 rupees,” he said.

“No, 40 rupees,” we demanded.

I looked at J and chuckled, “We just had a lunch for 3600 rupees and now we are so hardcore about an extra of 10 rupees.”

Finally, we agreed on 50 and headed back.

J dived right into his online work, while I got myself ready for a cooking class.

I have never ever taken a cooking class before, neither at home or in all my travels. As J had to work the whole evening, I thought it’d be lovely for me to take a cooking course. I am not a big fan of Indian food, but it’s always a mystery for me how Indian dishes work. I have certain knowledge to make Italian, Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Korean, and most outlandish dishes, but have little if not no knowledge of Indian cuisine. I think even for cultural experience, it’s a great way to spend the time.

Spice things up!

I signed up for a cooking class run by an Indian lady called Shashi. Her cooking class is very popular, and got waving reviews from Lonely Planet. The cost is very reasonable – 500 rupees for a 4-hour lesson and we get to eat what we cook.

There were six of us all together to learn how to cook in Shashi’s very small apartment. 4 Canadians, an American, and me. Shashi’s place is small and has very humble living. She started by telling us her story. She was born in the Brahmin caste. If you know the caste system in India, Brahmin caste is supposed to be the highest, with very strict rules. One being that widows are not allowed to remarried and work in cleaning type of work. In the past, some horrifying rituals called Sari was even performed, widows had to throw their life bodies to the funeral pyres of their deceased husbands to join them in death. Such practice was banned. Anyways, all I know is that there are very strict rules governing the lives of people, especially women.

Shashi at her kitchen

Shashi’s husband passed away 9 years ago. A widow was asked to mourn for couple years, and not allowed to be remarried. The plight of widows is unbelievable. The husband’s family is supposed to take care of the widows and her children; but it’s often not the case. In Shashi’s case, she has no money, little support and very strict rules on what she could do.

“I have depression for 3 years,” she said. Her English was choppy. But she said she’d learned it for only 3 years from foreigners mostly because of the cooking class that she runs.

“Three years ago, foreigners help me. They take my cooking class. They help write recipes. They help make website. Then Lonely Planet come. Now I am busy. Everyday, morning 5-6 students. Evening 5-6 students. Business success. But very busy.”

Shashi is such a lovely woman. She’s taught us over 10 different basic dishes. Her kitchen is very small and nothing fancy, but there she’s taught us well.

We learned how to make Masala Chai (an Indian tea with spice), a few kinds of pakoras (deep-fried potatoes, veggies, cheese), Masala sauce (curry sauce) what will help to make many different kinds of curry, vegetable palau (rice with stir-fried veggies), paneer (Indian cheese), mint sauce and money chatney (for dipping), parantha (plain, coconut sugar, potato stuffing), naan …

Making masala

The whole place was filled with the aroma of Indian spice. I felt great learning Indian cooking indeed. Shashi is very generous with her knowledge, “Foreigners help me. I like foreigners. I don’t cheat. I want to help. It’s good karma.”

We started the course at around 5:30pm, and we only sat down to eat after 10pm. I asked Shashi’s son, who’s helping her mom to run the business, if it’s okay for my friend J to come and try the food. He said yes. So J arrived around 10-ish, and we all enjoyed the food a lot.

If you are ever in Udaipur, I highly recommend Shashi’s cooking class.

Shashi, my Indian cooking class teacher, and me

For me personally, the thought of traveling around the world, taking cooking class here and there is wonderful.

“Maybe next summer, I can learn cooking from a grandma in Italy,” I said to J.

“That sounds great. I am glad that you had a good time,” J replied.

“Maybe, when we live in Paris, I can attend the Blue Ribbon, so pastries for you every day.”

Day ten: Easy breezy stroll; terribly boring City palace

Day ten: Dec 28, 2011

Isn't the sign, Savage Garden, appropriate?

We started the day at noon-ish, early in our standard. Our first goal is the City Palace.

In Rajasthan, a province which was formerly ruled and occupied by many different kingdoms, or Maharajas, it’s not difficult to find palaces and forts and fortresses. Many royalties remain rich and influential in India. Some of the ways they use to fund their exuberant lives is to open part of their resident, namely palaces, charging visitors a substantial feet to visit.

Unimpressed by the City Palace in Jaipur, we put slightly higher hopes in the City Palace in Udaipur because at least from the outside the City Palace looks grand and sublime, albeit quite poorly maintained.

City Palace looks grand from a distance

We paid 75 rupees each to get into the City Palace museum, basically the former living quarters of the maharajas and his queens.

It took me less than 10 minutes to say to J, who has picked up a bit of Cantonese from me, “Ho Gwai Sai Moon ah!” (It’s dead boring!)

The whole place, to be honest, is incredibly trashy and tacky. After seeing a few rooms in display, I said to J, “Those rooms just look like a very low-budget guest houses.” A few rooms decorated with mirrors and tiles  carry very ridiculous objects, sometimes a broken chair, another time an extremely filthy carpet. “Dora, they look like dim sum palace in China town.”

Every now and then, you find a life-size cardboard figure of the Maharaja standing in the middle of the room. I was overly bored and so was J. “If there is more of this I am going to vomit.”

Finally we made it to the exit. “Jeeez, it has taken me so much energy to see this palace.” We were both pooped by boredom. “The only wise decision we have made today,” I said, “is that we did not pay for 200 rupees for the camera fee. 75 rupees of rid-off is bad enough.”

After the overly disappointing tour inside the palace, we chose to view the palace from a distance. That’s what we often find in India: things look much more appealing from a distance. The closer you look, the less appealing it gets.

Our plan to take a boat cruise around sunset from the City Palace boats was once again interrupted. Although it’s more expensive to take their boats, we wanted to land on an island in the lake for some strolling as other private boat operators do not get the permission to land there.

“Sorry, no boat ride today,” the staff at the ticket office said as-a-matter-of-factly.

“Why?” I inquired.

“There is a wedding in the island.”

It’s very typical in India to experience changes, delays, interruptions without a slightest warning before hand.

We chose a half -hour boat ride from a private operator. It’s right after sunset and the sky was slightly lit up. As the boat cruised, all the palaces were lit up: the City Palace, the Lake Palace and the beautiful Oberoi Udaivilas from the other northwest shore of the lake. That’s the magic of Udaipur. In a rather desert-like dry landscape of Rajasthan, the presence of a lake makes everything nicer.

Oberoi Udaipur in the twilight.