This edition: India! Bombay, Mount Abu, Udaipur, Jaisalmer, Bikaner, Jaipur, Neemrana, Delhi and Agra

No, you’re not missing a Dispatch! It’s been such a long time since I’ve been able to sit at a working computer that two whole weeks—my escape from South Africa as well as my stay in Mauritius—have yet to be put online.  I could have started those today, but I know that everyone wants the Real Deal: India.

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My travel in India has been a string of triumphant entries.  My first was made under the cloak of a hazy midnight.  Out on the runway at the international airport in Bombay (technically known as Mumbai since January 1996), the jets were just silhouettes in the smog, backlit by the yellowy tungsten lamps that seems to illuminate everything civic in this country.

The woman next to me is very dark skinned, wearing a beautiful blue sari, and can’t read or write. I know because she hands me her ID card so I can fill her immigrations card out for her.  Her signature is a thumbprint.  I also notice her age: Although she looks 18 and ready for life, she’s really 42. The victim and a beneficiary of a lifetime spent indoors, away from the men.. I try placing the smell of her… it’s spicy, something musty but kind of appetizing. She smiles at me.  Her teeth are snaggly and brown, from years of chewing paan.

Then I finally place her odor.  She smells just like a chili burger from the Varsity, a fast food place I grew up with in Atlanta.

From there, India began.  I looked out the window and saw a month of it—unadulterated India, unescapable India, until early March.

The heat hasn’t come.  It’s February, so things are nice and cool.  But the smell hit me right away.  Even on the jetway, you get a big momma whiff of Mother India.  If a hundred thousand cigar-smoking chili chefs in the world were to fling open a hundred thousand mildewy closets at the same time, you might approximate it.  Or perhaps Bombay has been unintentionally constructed atop an enormous rotting whale.  Human excrement, burning bodies, roasting meet, crackling wood, incense, stagnant water, spicy food—all of it drifts into your nose like it’s hungry for a new space.

The taxi ride into the city alone—the first Triumphant Entry—was remarkable.  I shared it with a family of Mauritians who’d I’d met at the exchange counter.  We all crammed into a flimsy black and yellow taxi with floor plates that shifted under my feet whenever we turned.  The streets of Bombay were also black and yellow—those tungsten lamps—and surprisingly empty.  Just mile after mile of burlap mounds piled before ramshackle buildings.  Every now and then a confused dog staggering in the street. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was passing thousands of Bombay’s lower castes as they slept in their boudoir.

At 3 am, I staggered to the front door of my preordained hotel, which abuts the back of the grand Taj hotel, where the Rich Folk stay.  My own hotel was locked.  I rang and rang, and then a burlap mound came alive and a crazy-haired youth let me in the gate.  Upstairs, more and more Bombayites were waking from unlikely sleeping quarters, and each one had a hand in sizing me up, checking me in, and ripping me off with the price.

I wish I had six hours to write this one.  There’s so much to say about India!  The smog is intense; they say living in Delhi is like smoking 20 cigarettes a day.  The amount of filth is staggering; I have yet to see a wastebasket on any street anywhere; I think the formula they use is 1 receptacle per 40 million souls.  The dirt just stacks up in front of, on top of, and behind everything.

There are one billion people in India. One billion yelling, eating, shitting, excreting people. Soon it will overtake China as the world’s most populous country.  One million babies are born here every month!  One million are added to the polluting crew. Is it any wonder things are a little fubar?  (Personally, I suspect the Indians are so untidy to annoy the British. I say this because there are also no tea cozies.)

In Bombay, I wandered adaze.  I checked out a few remnants of the Raj (the 200-year British rule that ended with Independence in 1947), like the grandly gothic Victoria Terminus train station. Me and some friends hired some cabs one night and had some beers at Chowpatty Beach, and another day we took a ferry to the temples on Elephanta Island, where a guide warned us to beware their “very knowledgable monkeys.”

As much as I loved that phrase (I picture a monkey with a mortar saying “Q.E.D.”), there are countless other ways that the typical Indian mangles English, rendering it a strangely more poetic and diverse method of communication.  For example, a nearby restaurant entreats you to “Hang on for delightful delicious yum yum preparations of the place,” temples warn against entry by “women in monthly course, otherwise may suffer!” and my beloved Kingfisher lager is “most thrilling chilled.”  I’m keeping a list of fun menu items. (Fried children, Cheese and Tom.)

On my third morning here, on my way to breakfast, a man with a washcloth draped over his right hand ran up to me and said, “Good morning, leprosy!”  He yanked the cloth off, revealing his stumpy hand.

Beggars, yes.  Disease, yes.  You give a samoosa to a young mother and watch as her baby crams it ravenously into its mouth.  It’s not a show most of the time.  Then again, it’s why I came here.  How can I live in the country I do—doing the kind of wastral work I do—when this is the reality for so much of the world?  One out of every seven people on the planet lives here.  Think about that.

Anyway, my escape from Bombay involved several long lines, a few surly Indian men with an inherited-from-the-British adoration for needles bureaucracy, a 20-hour train packed with families of every size and denomination, and a harrowing bus ride up a sinewy mountain road.  I arrived in Mount Abu, where I inspected the unbelievably delicate marble carvings in the Delwara Temples, some Jain houses of worship dating back 800 years.  In places, the carving was so intricate that the stone became translucent.  On and on, more and more finely crafted work.  It was like being wrapped in petrified lace.

After Mount Abu, I took a bus for my Triumphant Entry into Udaipur.  That’s the stunning Rajasthani city on the lake, with the famous five-star Lake Palace Hotel seemingly floating in the middle.  Can’t picture it?  How about this: “Octopussy” was filmed there.  James bets the Faberge egg against Louis Jourdan’s stacked dice at the craps table there.  And across the lake is where Octopussy herself (the vanishing Maud Adams), who obviously got tight with the Man with the Golden Scalpel prior to the Man with the Golden Gun, played by the flabby Roger Moore.

Never mind.  I’m just thinking, though, that I could feasibly map out my journey of the planet and footnote it with James Bond references for the less educated.  (“Then I went to Karnak in Luxor.” “Duh, where?”  “Well, in “The Spy Who Loved Me,” James Bond and that hot Russian babe get chased by the guy with the braces in the truck.” “Oh, yeah, cool!”)

Food’s good.  Haven’t had meat since Mauritius.  Rice and veggies and lassis (curd yogurt-like drinks) and chapati (breads).  Lots of thali (a all-you-can-eat platter of rice, bread, and a few basic dishes like dal, made of lentils).  There is not much curry—that’s an imposition of the British again.  The rail system and curry and all things that jam up.

Masala means “mix.”  Lots of dishes come that way, and they invariably contain potatoes.  Bombay’s film output, which exceeds Hollywood’s, is also largely comprised of “masala” films, which bear a remarkable resemblance to the style and popularity of America’s own Golden Age musicals from the ‘30s to the ‘50s.  Unbelievable plots masking (not too well) some traditional morals, with some musical numbers, some improbably heavy heavies, a few comic subcouples with scheme-hatching and matchmaking on their minds, and a happy ending with a wedding.  I smell a thesis paper in the making!

You should have seen the one I saw, called “Jeans.”  It involved twins (many do, especially separated and/or evil ones) and also a grandma who performs a hip boogie on the Strip in Las Vegas the night before her brain surgery goes horribly wrong.  (They fix it right away after apologizing, enabling the entire cast to decamp to Chennai/Madras for some bungling having to do with mistaken identity, forbidden engagments, and the aforementioned twins.)  These masala films—like everything in India, they sound like something you’d never wanna see, but are so very glad you do.

I’ve lost lots of weight again!  And all without disease this time!

Every restaurant in Udaipur shows “Octopussy” every night at 7.  Which is too bad, because it’s really a horrible film.  But they think we like it.  And Indian tourism parasites will stop at nothing to make a little extra money, even if it involves insulting the average Westerner’s intelligence.  You literally cannot stop for 5 seconds on the street without someone running up to you. “Hello, yes, you want rickshaw?”  “Hello, sir, you buy?”  And when they ask how we like India, we smile and say, “It’s great!”

Also great are the rickshaw rides.  They emit the stuff left over from Bhopal, but they get you there in a hurry.  They’re three-wheeled carts, really, and the first time I got in one, I thought of (idiot footnote alert!) Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.  They hurtle through deadly traffic as if you were a ghost, which is a growing likelihood the longer you remain in one.  Everyone in the world should ride an auto-rickshaw at least once; it may be all they get.  (Cycle-rickshaws are fun, too, if mostly for the perverse thrill you get making a Dalit—untouchable—manpower you around town for the American equivalent of 25 cents.  The downside is you’re exposed, and the inhaled toxins can make you feel lightheaded, and you may tip him.)

Udaipur was graceful and medieval-feeling.  By then, I’d teamed up with a Canadian ER doctor named Roger, and together we explored.  We took a boat on the lake.  We splashed out with a fancy lunch at the swank Fateh Prakash Palace Hotel.  We even took a rickshaw up to Monsoon Palace, the abandoned monsoon home of the prince.  It’s being used by the police now, but that was nothing a little baksheesh couldn’t solve.  Within moments, we were welcomed through the creaky disused gates and standing on top for a glorious Indian sunset.  (Which, because of rampant pollution, are handsomely red and allow you to stare directly at the nearest star to earth.)

We took a night bus (actually, it took three for that Triumphant Entry because of graft and breakdowns, but I don’t have all day) from Udaipur to Jaisalmer, 70 km from the Pakistani border.  It’s a ruby sandstone fort that seems to rise out of the desert.  Once there, we hired a camel safari, which took us deep into the Thar Desert for a night on the Sam sand dunes under the stars.  Then they stuck us on top of those damn creatures for four hours under the hot sun.  Have you ever been on a camel?  After a half hour, you feel like you’re giving birth to the thing.  And in their necks they have stomachs, which sometimes supply them with crunchy niblets to munch during the journey, and at other times comes flopping veinously out of their mouths with bone-rattling gurgling noises and the smell of sulphuric cheese.  Horrible!

Our guide was named Mr. Desert.  (I should have asked him if he knew Mr. Sunshine.)  Mr. Desert is the poster boy for an Indian brand of cigarettes (“Dontneedum”) and he runs camel safaris off his fame.  His mom makes the food and his buddies rope the camels.  I’d like to tell you more but I must keep going if this is going to end before Tuesday.

The exertion of trying to direct my own naughty camel (whose name was Bubbaloo and clearly hated me by virtue of his ability to ignore me despite the fact I manipulated a rein tied through his pierced nostril) left me postrate at lunch, and the next day I spend recuperating in bed from a combination flu/ heat exhaustion/ bronchitis (from the repeated exposure to the fumes).  As far as recuperation goes, there are far worse places than Jaisalmer.

After that, we went to Bikaner, mostly to see the famous Karni Mata Temple in nearby Deshnoke.  Karni Mata is better known by its familiar name: the Rat Temple.  On the basis that Hindus believe rats will be reincarnated as holy men, or sadhus, this temple is devoted to our rodent friend.  There are 300,000 scampering around, drinking milk and food left out for them, and generally exuding a ratty stench that offended even me, who lived through the seals at Kaap Kruis.  If one runs over your feet, consider yourself blessed.  (And no cheating—you’re not allowed shoes.  It’s a temple!)  If you see a white rat, you’re lucky.  We were lucky.  One of the priests, who dressed like you or I, took some photos with us while holding one of his charges.

After Bikaner, we hit Jaipur (via Triumphan overnight train), staying at a former place, the Diggi Palace.  The interesting part of Jaipur is contained in the Pink City, or old part of town, which is enclosed behind a wall and, well, pink.  Lots more to describe, particularly the observatory built nearly 300 years ago that looks like a giant sculpture garden-cum-water slide park.  But you’ll just have to go yourself or ask me later.

India is empty of trees.  Lots of dust because of it.  They’ve all been burned for fuel.  Just a note.

Roger, being more in touch with his consumerism than I am, decided that for his last night in India, a stay at a ridiculously fabulous locale was in order.  So we checked into the rambling, totally divine, and slightly primitive Neemrana Fort Palace, between Jaipur and Delhi.  It’s over 500 years old, full of ramparts, enormous spiked doors, and tangled passageways through mildewy old rocks.  Bright green parrots nest in the parapets.  Cushy marble bathrooms, stunning views of the peasants in all their nakedness, buffets.  We were in heaven.  And he was paying (“I wouldn’t go alone otherwise,” he said), so I was REALLY in heaven.  All during our time there, a French opera group called the Pocket Opera Company was sponsoring some kind of festival.  I think it was the “Really Bad Tenor, So-So Soprano” Festival.  So while the pervasive whiff of Indian poop was absent, there was fragrance of high art wafting about.

A word about poop.  Toilets here don’t exist.  There are holes in the floor with two grips alongside where you position your feet, thereby positioning your posterior.  You crap into the hole as best you can (it works pretty well) and then you reach for the toilet paper, which also doesn’t exist.  So you reach instead for the jug of water.  Then you squeeze your eyes shut and, with your left hand (never your right), you do what has to be done and wash up with the jug.  They say this is more hygenic.  For whom?

You may also not drink the water.  You may not open your mouth or your eyes in the shower.  You may not eat any fruit with a skin.  You may not have meat.  You probably can’t get alcohol.  You may not have cold milk, and warm milk is a risk.  You must examine your water bottles for compromised seals, as crooks like to sell tap water.  Otherwise, you may get dystentary, or food poisoning, or worse, and end up in fetal postion for a week—or worse.

“See the world!” they said.

Pretty soon, Roger and I left the Fort Palace and were back on the open road, which should be immediately closed.  Road travel!  I refuse to do it any more; after a two-hour trip, I’m utterly shattered.  Indians like to pass.  You’ll be hurtling along in the wrong lane, with an implacable Tata (painted “GOODS CARRIER” in festive circus colors to mask the bloodstains) bearing down on you, and your driver won’t dodge until the last possible moment.  And then he wants to do it again!  The next Tata moves just in time, but only to reveal an even larger one!  Throw in an unhealthy smattering of errant goats, stumbling men in turbans, blithe cows, waist-deep craters, and you have a game of skill, concentration, and steel balls that Nintendo never dreamed of concocting. Again there’s that exhaust hovering like Hungry Death (I’m surprised you can even see India from space), horns of every musical contrivance tootling, and your teeth getting gritty from the filth.  The Indian have also not invented shock absorbers.  They think horns are quite enough.

Yesterday, we waited for a half hour in a vehicular jumble at a railroad crossing for a train that never came.  A half hour!  Nobody got mad.  Road rage doesn’t exist.  They just waited, stood on the road spitting (another popular pasttime), and after a while, everyone raced back to their trucks as if on cue—and the gates rose.  How did they know it was time?  What sixth sense do these people have?  And why can’t they use it to know there’s never going to be any train?

Let it also be memorialized that the Cola Wars have done more to scar this country than any heavy industry ever did. It seems that India entire, from Taj to toilets, is emblazoned with the Pepsi logo.  Even crumbling walls in backwater hamlets have Pepsi or its minion products advertised, sometimes six or eight times on a single building.  You literally cannot sit anywhere without being in sight of one, and that’s no exaggeration.  The striped ball logo even appears on menus and chairs, like the emblem of a stern totalitarian political party, a worldless reminder for us all. It’s disgusting.  But I guess all over India, some poor folks got a little extra spending cash.

Money.  Forty-two rupees to the dollar.  Dinner costs $1.50.  Taxis are fifty cents.  If you’re a good bargainer, you can do even better.  Me?  I’ve gotten really laissez-faire.  If they won’t come down, I just laugh at them like they’re full of shit, and they bring it down.  I’ve really learned to unwind and not take things so seriously—because you CAN’T take things seriously here.  They have a tendency to go pear-shaped at a moment’s notice.  The bus will break down, the woman will vomit, the rickshaw driver will pull over at his friend’s marble-etching shop.

After our Triumphant Entry via a sputtering jeep piloted by a trio of guys who didn’t know the way to a city with a population of 12 million, I overnighted in Delhi, where the black hole of Calcutta obviously spends its winters.  I cannot describe the degree of jammage.  I’ll go back on Tuesday, though, so I’ll write more later.

Today, I’m in Agra.  It’s a big milestone for me: the Taj Mahal!  And it’s every bit as thrilling as I thought it’d be.  Part of it is what it means.  I lounged on the grass in front of it (the most recent addition to my Nap the World scheme) and thought, “Do you have any idea how much work it takes to get here?”  Of course, I have every idea.  The approach was almost sexual.  And now I’m here, looking at it, and it’s gleaming at me with its righteous white light.  I made it!

Make a list of the world’s coolest monuments, and this has got to be one.  The Eiffel Tower?  Too easy to get to it!  The Pyramids?  Closer! (And check.) This, to me, is the ultimate.  Aside from something like the Great Wall, I’ve done it.  Next: Sydney Opera House!

Seeing the Taj makes me proud of myself again.  India, for all its endless stimulations and dangers, was getting me down.  It’s depressing to see all these people living day to day and not caring much about anything but surviving.  It stinks seeing grown men crouched bat-like in fruit carts all day, hoping for a sale.  I hate watching four-year-olds take a shit in front of me on the street.  I hate the smell of dead camels on the side of the road, and of cow pats drying in the sun so people can eat them, and I hate looking at water run grey in the rivers.  I hate being a target for every con and scam.  I hate queueing in six lines for a simple thing, and I hate the absolute anarchy these poor people accept as their fate.  But India?  I’ll be back.

So much to say!  SO MUCH!  Every few seconds, there’s another something to record.  My journal is much more complete (and much funnier).  And I’ve said nothing of the sweet tea (chai), the mayhem of train stations, and one of my favorite topics of all: my fellow numbskull travelers.  Young people lose all reason once they get here.  Tourism becomes a costume drama.  I swear I keep thinking I see Jesus walking down the streets, and he’s carrying a Lonely Planet.  SO much to say!

But that’s it.  An hour and a half of writing (that’s what it took) and a half hour to send it off.  I’ll write more in Kathmandu, including filling in the gaps with Dispatch #19, which will include food poisoning, Swazi whores, and the phrase, “I can’t talk right now—I’m watching hippos!”

Love you lots!  I’m outta here on 8 March from Varanasi.

Who’s traveling this summer?  I’m juggling my intinerary and if there’s any chance we can meet up in SE Asia or Australia or NZ, let me know now!

Right now I’m in: Agra, India
Days: 279  Countries: 25