Delhi Quick Stop

"Good evenings ladies and gentleman, zis is your captain speaking..." The Bollywood action/dancing (they always have dancing) flick on the plane's little television sets abrubtly ended, bringing a frown to the face of my eight year old Indian seat neighbor. He had been excitedly explaining his favorite parts of the movie to me on and off for the past two hours, but now we focused only on the German accented intercom, "Current temperature is zirty four, sank you fohr flying with ze Luftunsa airlines." After nearly forty hours of travel, I found myself unable to compute a fahrenheit calculation mentally and instead searched my bag for a calculator. Thrity four degrees celcius is ninety three degrees fahrenheit. Um, that couldn't be correct. Has it been that long since I was a chem major?

After filing out some paperwork, there was a very long line for passing a half assed swine flu examination. Following this and some more paperwork, there was a very (very) slow line for passing a visa examination. I could have had the swine flu in my lungs and ten or more species of harmful foreign plants in my backpack and the line officials would have been useless but for wasting my time.



I changed US$100 bill into 4500 Indian Rupees (one Benjamin into nine big Ghandis) and met up with my pick-up contact, a youthful looking Indian fellow with a broken wrist covered in a ratty cast (socialized medicine at its best?) He briefed me on the next few days' plan and said we were waiting for another guy and a girl. We were the last of forty volunteers he had been greeting off the planes since early that morning. Fifteen minutes later, the guy showed up. Mathias was his name, a twenty three year old recent graduate in theoretical physics from Sweden. We waited over an hour for the girl, making polite small talk (which only became awkward after I had confused Sweden for Switzerland -- for the record, those ARE two different countries) until it was learned that she had given up on trying to find us and simply gone to the hotel herself.

The three of us wheeled our luggage out of the arrival lounge and into a crowded and very hot room. There were many people simply standing around and some even sleeping on the floor. I looked up at the ceiling. There wasn't one. We had walked a full twenty feet before my mind was able to accept that we were indeed outside. It was thirty four degrees celcius. That's ninety three fahrenheit. It was 3am.



Being outside at such an hour in ninety three degree heat is something that does not immediately compute in your mind and I think I fell into a minute or two of maniacal laughing. Other things that jammed my mind (i.e. culture shock) included the many people sleeping on the ground (not, as I had instinctively thought, because they were waiting for a flight or something, but because that is where they slept) and the size (or lack thereof) of the Delhi cars.

Or taxi was one of these tiny cars. It was a puzzle fitting two tourists with luggage, a guide, and a driver into the cab. After some finaggling, Mathias and I settled in the backseat, looked down for our seat belts, and simultaneously looked up and at each other in surprise. "No seat belts, I guess," he said with his distinctively Swede or Swiss accent.



Who needs seat belts anywho? And for that matter, rearview mirrors!! Hell, our driver, along with every single motor vehicle operator in India doesn't even need street markings or turn signals or speed limits or any driving conventions what so ever! All you need to drive in India is a good loud horn and some steel nerves.

Although it was somewhat dark, I couldn't believe my eyes. It was a forty minute cramped journey from airport to hotel and my eyes were glued to the roadside scenery the entire time. Two things ran through my head: scenes from Slumdog Millionaire (accompanied with music by M.I.A.) and the econ101 vocab words 'Newly Developing Nation'.



Last Picture:
Some random large corporate buildings (most likely full of phone technicians on the phone with frustrated American electronics customers) shadow a row of typical looking Delhi tin shacks. Click the picture for a larger version.

Frankfurt am Main

The plan was simple enough: arrive at Frankfurt international at approximately 7am German time, take the train directly from the airport to downtown, step outside, find the Frankfurt Cathedral, reboard the the train and be back to terminal one with plenty of time to spare before my 1:45pm flight to Delhi.



After taking nearly thirty minutes just to find my way out of the terminal, I felt a wave of doubt. I had never roamed an international airport let alone a foreign city, and there were not as many English-translated signs as I had imagined. With constant self assurance that six hours was time enough to at least venture outside, I managed to convince myself that the nearly two hours it took to find and properly board the train system was only a minor hiccup and that I would surely not miss my flight.

An impatient line of business Germans formed behind me as I struggled to buy my tickets from the only partially-in-English ticket machine. I do not know Deutsch. I do not even know what sort of German words are location/city words. I then stood at the airport (Flughafen?) platform, trying to decode the massive Frankfurt train system map. It was a task I would only master by day's end and at 8:30am I was in no position to wait for a eureka; I hopped on the first train that came and prayed it was going into the city.




It was not going into the city. Realizing my train was heading into lands that more and more began to resemble the Sound of Music, I quickly departed and waited for a train back to the airport. The good thing about trains is that if you know the rail direction that is the wrong way, finding the right becomes very easy.



In the train and throughout my eventual three hour hike through the city, I asked about a dozen or so random people for directions; all but one spoke easily understood english. The city and surrounding areas (I went to a small town four train stops from the airport, tried to order lunch in German, and ended up paying 4 euros for a box of french fries covered in spicy ketchup and mayonaise) is very diverse in terms of both demographics and commerce. I saw many stereotypical looking Europeans (ex: Franz-Ferdinand-reject looking fellow listening to loud techno chipmunk music on big headphones) and a considerably large number of middle eastern immigrants (including the guys that sold me the French fries). Downtown Frankfurt is a dense mixture of fine clothing and jewelry stores, Mercedes offices, finance buildings (ex: the German central bank), strip clubs and street access peep show booths, McDonalds, Vodophone, and all kinds of bizarre retail and dining outlets (ex: an Australien shop- complete with stuffed koalas and wooden boomerangs for sale).




After aimlessly walking through the downtown for about two hours, I had decided to give up and return to the subway station- happy enough that I’d made it to am Maim alive, let alone learned to navigate train system in, around, and out of the city with ease. As I walked back, a single spire caught my eye. At least a half mile away, it was too tall to be just another spired apartment/retail building (there are many in Frankfurt) and I knew I had to give it a chance.

Saint Bartholomeus' Cathedral, Frankfurt, is beautiful.








Last Picture:
One of the many street side neons advertising for Frankfurt's finest occupies the foreground, while the German Central Bank (one of the first such institutions in the modern world, an economic and financial wunder monument) can be seen behind.

Chicago

As I stepped on the Greyhound at 1:45am of the late Saturday night I felt a bit of anxiousness knowing I wouldn't be seeing anything familiar to me for the next fifty nine or so days. The fact that two elderly people were having a cross-aisle shouting skirmish over seat position or who's bum outfit was more bomb or god knows what did not soothe this anxiety.

Stepping onto a crowded Greyhound, especially one at night and especially one Chicago bound, is not like stepping onto an STLF bus. People do not smile back to greet you and the microphone is not used for bus idol but to inform you that you WILL be left behind if not back from the station in time. I decided against asking if anyone wanted to start up a round of bus surfing as it was very late and most people were busy focusing on subtly not letting me sit by them.

Like STLF, Greyhound riders must pay to ride (though considerably less so you'd think the latter would be the cheerier crowd.) Also like STLF, there will probably be someone sitting alone that will kindly allow you to neighbor them. I've learned that who you sit next to is crucial to setting the tone for any trip involving buses and I almost always luck out with a good seat partner ("My name is Jill Chan"). Tonight would be no different. I never found out my window buddy's name but he did tell me of the six vehicles he managed to buy despite dropping out of college, his Palestinian heritage, immigrant journey to the states, and a bit about his city (KC) and his destination (Kalamazoo). Interesting guy. I fell asleep promptly by the quad cities.

After getting to Chicago at 6am, I walked outside and recognized the neighborhood I was lugging my stuff through as the one I'd stayed at early in high school for NYLF camp four years before. That was the last big multi-week adventure I went on and began with only the second of four times ever my mom cried when I left for something so you know it was big.

I asked a homeless man sitting by a stop light for directions to the subway. In my 40 hours of travel time from Chicago to Germany to India (three continents), only two of the fifteen people I asked for directions spoke incomprehensible English. One of them was in downtown Chicago. To his credit, he did come running and shouting at me to "ghaweljasfn" the other way when he saw me misfollowing his walking instructions.



I got on the blue line subway, then had to transfer to a bus for forty minutes due to CTA construction, then had to transfer to the L and rode into O'Hare. After waiting four hours to check in (eating a $28 breakfast at the Hilton I somehow managed to not pay and taking my sweet time on a McDonald's double quarter pounder Value Meal).



On the plane to Germany, I sat next to a Californian native who studied physics on the coast and now works as a lumberjack manager in southern Missouri. If your hard wood floors say 'Ozark Logging Company' or something like that on the underside, he probably oversaw their production, (this was told to me with a bit of over enthusiasm and I suppose I was impressed). Interesting guy. I fell asleep before the seat belt light dimmed.

Pictures:
View of the Sears Tower from near where my old NYLF dorm was at UIC.
The pigeons on the street I think the homeless man was using as a directions reference.
One of the many airport pictures I took while being bored for six hours.


That 5oz. glass of orange juice cost $5 at the O'Hare Hilton restuarant (didn't know that at the time of ordering). As I didn't actually have a room at the Hilton, John Gibbs of room 218 was kind enough to cover my meal.

Jhalrapatan 2

Went to a gigantic temple in the middle of the city today. It was an unexpected visit (oh look, there's a six story shrine by that motorcycle shop) but I think the architecture and sheer quantity of relief sculpture is more impressive than the Frankfurt cathedral (a building I looked forward to seeing for three months). Surely it is older by at least a few hundred years.



While inside, two men began to argue with Saroji and we left a bit after. They had wanted us to leave because we were foreigners, and Sarochi had told them off until they caused a scene. It should be noted that there were probably about 15 other people in the temple not creating religious tension, but instead simply resting calmly (isn't that what temples were built for?)



We walked through the main market under the 100+ degree sunlight. One of the British girls we stayed overnight with in Jaipur said being white in India is like being a celebrity because everyone stares at you. If I keep my shades on, I blend in enough to avoid such attention (with the exception that I am the only person over 10 years old I have seen my entire time here wearing shorts), but there are constantly people watching Rick and Magnus no matter what. India, and especially Rajasthan, is not very diverse. The first volunteers sent to Jhalrapatan in 2007 were amongst the first foreigners to be seen in the area. The district is staunchly traditional and without an excess of Western influence. Ah, vacation.


In the city, people ask to take pictures of us. Throughout the trip, young twenty somethings (dressed as if ready to go out to a nice American restuarant) eagerly approach and try to make conversation about the West. Two boys followed me for half an hour talking about English and trying to get me to give them my sunglasses. These babies were a $10 half off sale at UrbanOutfitters, my god are you crazy?!

Saroji also took us to see the hospital. A crowd gathers and the nurses ask where we are from. India's hospitals (like its bus stations and utilities) are government run and provide free universal health care. In a back room of the ward, gigantic boxes of condoms are stored; free for anyone interested. I wonder how many people actually take up such an offer and know that I'll never know because talking about such things is strictly taboo. As is talking about eating beef and inquiring why cows are holy, fyi.

We went into a medium sized fabric shop (probably about the size of the front of the old side of Barley's) and sat on the padded floor with 5 or so employees as Devo chose some cloth to have tailored into a shirt and trous- erm, pants. The store owner came over from his house to talk about America and whatever else and had us served chai tea (I drink alot of it daily.) There was something very cool about three foreigners, a translator/house cook, a wealthy shop owner, and two male employees and a young son of their's surrounded by walls of expensive cloth drinking tea and chatting with the sounds of the street in the background.



At night it starts to rain a bit, and off in the distance Magnus shows me you can see huge monsoon storms rolling over the desertous land. The lightning flashes brilliantly, and highlights for a split second the dozen or so temples, radio towers, buildings of the wealthy, and ancient structures that are visible above the canopy of Jhalrapatan, a city with a population half the size of Council Bluffs but plenty more lively streets and live animals.



Pictures:
Three temple pics.
Random street pic.
Devo and Saroji order their cloth to be cut.
Saroji looks to the street for the fabric shop.



A guy moves a dozer full of gravel a block and half through an alleyway via one bowl of rocks at a time on his head (you can see the city drains I'm so obsessed with on either side of him).

Jhalrapatan

As I sit on the faux-marble porch of the considerably beautiful house that is to be my Indian home for the next two months, a thin cow gnaws at the little grass patches growing on the sides of the alley to my side. I can see its hipbones and ribs. It licks at some garbage on the road. Sitting three feet from it, I notice someone has placed two green necklaces around its neck and an old black cloth on its head in Christ thorn crown fashion.

Suhon asked me if I wanted to go to market with him to get some vegetables. We rode on his motorcycle through crowded (imagine that) alleys and streets and I asked him how old the hilltop fort right next to our house is and he said probably between five centuries and a millennium. I like to think of the fort as Jhalapatan's Dodge House; wondering if they sell stick candy in the basement. The market and streets looked to be fashioned from a scene in Indiana Jones. I talked (hand motions and simple English) with a group of about six boys and young men; asking them for pointers on my cricket technique. One of them showed me the first cricket bat(?) I've ever held and they all agreed I needed more work on my bowling release. I've yet to see any kids playing soccer, everyone is a cricket fan.



Surachi walked Rick and I into town this morning to take some passport photos the IDEX office needed. The shop was staffed by two twenty somethings and two teenaged boys. The older two wore the slender collared button ups and thin slacks/dress pants typical of all guys there age and the boys wore collared shirts. One of them had embroidered jeans, the other a very nice (nicer than my shirts) looking button up shirt that read 'Sturgis' on the back. The main employee used Photoshop to crop our pictures.

Leaving, we stepped down three steps and on a stone someone had placed for walking over the 6 inch wide drain running aside the street. All the streets in the city are flanked by one or two running water drains that constantly flow downhill. I recognize the system from history books. It's the exact same thing the Mesopotamians used in the first human cities, however many millenia ago.

The people step over these little gutters, or on one of the many stones used as mini bridges, whenever they cross the street to avoid cow/people dung or move out of the way of a sheppard and his passing herd or when carefully carrying large pots of water atop their heads. They also step over these ancient public works anytime they enter a store to buy a Pepsi, have digital photos taken/cropped with Photoshop, or buy an American magazine to keep up with the latest (erm, 90's) in fashion. Of course, only the men wear embroidered jeans, collared striped shirts, and western pants. The women all don elaborate cloth garments; often with veils, bangles, necklaces, and other diamond and golden jewelry.



I continue to sit on our stoop, within the three story house's small gated yard, and listen to the music coming out of a car one of our neighbors, sporting a wife beater like shirt, has been working on in front of his house. If not for the little kids playing on piles of rubble and cow eating weeds to my other side, or the fact that the music playing is some sort of Hindi-Arabic dance mix, the scene the same as it'd be in America. Of course, the environment is totally something you could only see in an American film. Our house has two stories of outdoor rooftop built for lounging and makes me believe I am Jason Borne.



And after two and a half days under the Indian sun, I can finally muster a description of what I see:

To picture Rajasthan, simply imagine that medieval Europe was suddenly infused with certain twentieth century technology (cars, some electricity, cell phones, radio towers) and then tried to imitate the popular culture of the modern United States and the traditional look and architecture of Arabia. There are still herds of sheep being moved through town, crowded Aladdin-esque markets in alleys between two and three story middle eastern looking buildings, all the women wear brightly colored cloth clothing (some covering their faces), the men wear slacks and jeans, people walk the streets texting, animals poop in the streets, ancient temples rest on hilltops, shops sell European goods, and hindi/arabic music can be heard from the various loudspeakers of ceremony, SUV, and prayer. Population-explosion, visual-orgasm, social-contradictions, cultural-collage, sensory-overload, India.



Pictures:
The next door neighbors (click it to see a slightly bigger version).
Crowd of people takes a break from the crowded marketplace on a temple stoop.
Random street pic.
Nice guy running a booth at a vegetable market, his younger friends are playing cricket an aisle over.
Young kid named Jai using my shades to be a stunna' like his daddy.
Two more roadside pics.