How often have you been overseas and just didn't have the time or the energy to try to find the nearest post office? I've gone on several trips where I've collected dozens of postcards only to frantically send them away in the final days of my excursion.
It's always fun sending out a postcard from the neat places you visit, and your friends and family back at home appreciate getting something in the mail-as opposed to waiting for your Facebook updates. Here's a nifty little tool: HazelMail. This website lets you upload photos and a message, and for a small fee sends out an actual hold-in-your-hand postcard, right from your Blackberry or iPhone. How nifty is that?
Custom-made halter dress I designed and had created for me in Guinea
* Pronounced (n- JAH-ra-ma)- Hello, or Greeting in Fulani
Some names have been changed (*) to protect the not-so-innocent ☺
I took this trip unexpectedly. It wasn’t planned as a vacation; I had gone to do some research and discovery on Guinean dance as part of an education initiative for my new non-profit organization. So, while I did see a lot, it was mostly about learning, recording, and documenting dance. I stayed part of the time with my teacher Bangaly* as part of a dance workshop intensive. The trip was a study in sensory enrichment; I spent much time watching, listening, and commenting, and less doing.
29Dec08 Well, this trip got off to an interesting start. First off Air France cancelled my connecting flight to Conakry so my 6 hour Paris layover turned into a 24 hour one. The Guinea president had died, and this, coupled with potential political unrest, was putting all flights to that region on hold. No worries- Paris is an excellent layover, although I am pissed that they didn’t bother to give me a hotel voucher or any kind of accommodation. I had tried calling Bangaly*, but his phone was off, so I emailed him to cover all bases, and just prayed that he would get the memo from the airline regarding the change in my arrival. I made the best of my Paris stay by visiting my favorite market (Marché Aux Puces) and stopping at the Mosque for a relaxing steam. I ended up buying a wool African tunic, a skirt, and a hooded sweater for 3 euros. I didn’t have a towel for the hammam, and, not wanting to blow 4 euros borrowing one of theirs, I picked up a cheap 1 euro one at a Tati store on the way. But anyway, my big issue was getting in contact with Bangaly because of my flight change. I didn’t want to end up in Guinea with no escort. When I was in Senegal I got lucky and a cab driver let me use his phone, and my friends came right away. I again called Banagaly, and then his manager in New York, and tried to get the numbers of my teachers M’Bemba and Youssouf, just in case anything went wrong. But in the end, I just put it in God’s hands. If I didn’t end up with Bangaly, I had plenty of other friends to take care of me in Guinea.
30Dec08 The excitement starts as we disembark. Apparently the new Prime Minister was on our plane. I look out the window, and some dude is on the tarmac wrestling with a bunch of military men. Turns out he is some overzealous journalist. The passengers of the plane are greeted by a media frenzy as photographers and television crew struggle to get a look of Kabinet Koyate, the new leader from Paris.
I am in Guinea and it is chaos. 50 times worse than Dakar. There is energy everywhere-people fighting over baggage, employees offering to help, men, women offering to help, everybody offering to help—for a fee. An airport security boy sees me, and offers to help me locate my baggage off of the carousel, but he is more hindrance than help; I spot my luggage before he does. When the other bag doesn’t come—the one with my actual clothing—I am pissed. Because it is 90 degrees, and I am standing in a hot ass Guinea airport with a thick wool hoodie, leather jacket, jeans, sneakers, two pairs of socks, and a suitcase full of children’s toys which are useless to me. I am tired and thirsty, and I need to pee. And Bangaly is not there, of course. Did I panic?
Honestly, no.
The baggage claim was a disaster. It reminded me of the craziness of the New Delhi station with everyone crowding into a room fighting for the attention of the single baggage clerk. She worked slowly and deliberately, and her makeshift fan barely managed to circulate the musty overbearing air within the tiny room. I filled out my form, she typed up a few things, and handed a form back to me.
“Samedi”.
It was Tuesday and I could not believe that this chick was telling me that I would need to wait until SATURDAY to get my clothes. Were they serious?! This is Air France! Well, screw Air France! I got hold of a cell phone from a European tourist and called up my boys from around the way. They came shortly after and we all headed to the Hot and Fresh (ahh, the Hot and Fresh—I have stories!), and then to a hotel in Lambanyi, a town 15 minutes from the airport. Little did I know that Bangaly was staying literally ONE block away from us!
God is good. This is why I didn’t worry one bit.
An orange moon in Guinea. Stunning.
31Dec08 New Year’s Eve and still no word from Bangaly! I had really wanted to spend the new year with my best friend Jamila*, which was the whole point of getting to Guinea before the new year. But a girl’s gotta eat, so off to Hot and Fresh. Ok, let me tell you about Hot and Fresh. It’s a gas station restaurant. It is really nothing special. It just has a bigger array of Westernized food, like pizza and croissants, and the power is always on. I didn’t know why that little detail was such a big deal, but I would soon find out. The Hot and Fresh was packed with businessmen and their wives/girlfriends eating breakfast and watching the latest news on the new Prime Minister. This is actually how I found out that he had been on my plane! It seemed like the Hot and Fresh was the place to see and be seen—whatever that meant.
I managed to catch up with Bangaly’s brother at the Hot & Fresh, and we made it back just in time to ring in the New Year with the rest of the family. In the early hours of the New Year, Barbara and Rebecah, two women from upstate New York, came to the house.
3Jan09 Today was special because it was Barbara’s birthday. We had our classes as usual and then Rebecah planned a surprise birthday celebration. She managed to get a cake from Centre Ville—I believe at the ice cream shop right next to Mouna, the enormous multi-level cyber café in the city. Bangaly arranged for a dance troupe to stop by and perform. They were spectacular! A fula flute player, acrobatic male dancers, and explosive drumming summoned the local community to Bangaly’s courtyard where we all shared in song, dance, and cake. Too bad NONE of our cameras were charged. I came to learn that the power doesn’t come on until about 5 or 6, and by then all of our batteries were nearly depleted. Working with our electronics would be a task; at 6 pm everyone scrambled for an outlet to recharge. I managed to catch a small amount of video on my camera, and caught some extra footage with Jamila’s camera, but most of the memories are in my mind. Later, after multiple days of trying to charge my battery, I opened up the manual and realized that I didn't have the right kind of charge for my camera! Luckily I was able to use a friend's instead.
Outside the house in Kindia.
A hut on the way...
...to Kindia Falls
10Jan09 Jamila had been telling me all year long about how she wanted to go to Kindia, a city in the inner region of Guinea. Supposedly it was this beautiful, lush place, with a fairy-tale like waterfall. I did go to Kindia with my friend’s brother, Bobby. I will never forget the experience. We passed through Coyah, an lush and mountainous region from which the bottled Guinean water originates. The little cab that we hired for the day miraculously drove through mini ravines, rocky hills and deep ditches., I honestly didn’t think the car would make it. I think pictures say a thousand words, so I will just impress you with the visions through my camera.
KINDIA
Floral Visions
The Wildlife Preservation
The freshest Shea butter I've ever seen. Or felt.
The tailor's magic
15Jan09 I had taken the fabrics that I bought a Medina market and gotten some dresses made at the local tailor. The tailor is always an experience. And getting the details just right is an art, especially when you can’t speak in enough detail in a foreign language to explain exactly what you want. Luckily, my other friend was with me, so we got things straight. I had my clothes in about 3 days.
The beauty of the craft.
Yum... delicious Chebujen... in Guinea?? Yes!
Medina Market
18Jan09 It had been 3 weeks and I still had not made it to a real club. The crew from the house had gone to a few local bars, and I had been to some lounges, but an actually dance club? No, I hadn’t had the experience. I put on my favorite freekum dress and went with my friend down to a Sierra Leone club that sat on a street akin to Club Row in Chelsea, NYC on a Friday night. We get into the club and all eyes were on us. I guess I was obviously American, which gave my escort extra clout. Anyway, I ordered a Baileys and it was the worst Baileys I had EVER tasted. Being a diva, I sent it back-it was obviously watered down but the bartender would hear none of it and still ordered us to pay. I settled on a vodka and juice, which tasted just right. I got a feel of the room. Surprisingly there were a number of teenagers in the club, dancing , drinking, and smoking alongside the adults with no one stopping them. The young girls, obviously below 17, were wearing some of the trashiest, skimpiest outfits I have seen this side of Brooklyn! They worked the crowds getting drinks and money from older gentlemen, most likely in exchange for sexual favors. The club was packed wall to wall with a giant flat screen TV silently playing the latest hip hop and R&B videos, while the DJ played the hottest hits. I remembered looking up at the screen and Jaszmine Sullivan was bashing some guy’s house up. Then L’il Wayne came on and the club went nuts. As the riding bass of Lollipop pumped through the speakers, the drinks flowed, hips swayed, and hands pumped in the air. The air conditioners, on full blast, barely held back the sweat dripping down everyone’s back. And then the lights went out.
A collective sigh went through the crowd because it seemed the party was over because of a faulty generator. Soon enough, the problem was fixed, and we partied until dawn.
~~
There are endless stories that I could tell about this trip. But many are far too personal to discuss here. To my friends, you have most likely heard the stories, or will likely hear the most intimate details when we meet face to face. But overall, I truly enjoyed myself, and had a moment to really begin to understand Guinean life.
For one, I was disappointed and surprised at the disdain for traditional African clothing by the younger generation. Yes, there were plenty youth wearing African-printed wraps and head scarves, but the trend was towards hip hop ghetto-fabulous wear. I do remember seeing this in Senegal, but here, I felt the strain more prominently. Even in the shops, I sore piles upon piles of imported clothing—likely donated goods that were being resold. Even when I visited a wildlife reserve in Kindia, instead of being guided through the wonderful flora that grew abundantly in the region, I was shown the great hall of a hotel on the premises, which held a cinema-sized TV screen. I was not impressed. And not because the brand or the style of the TV was not good enough for me; I was non-plussed because I never came to Guinea to see the developing country’s version of American western life, and I was tired of the Guineas constantly pushing this upon me.
I was also shocked at the sexual expression here, in a Muslim country. Though general Muslin rules were followed ( no pork, some prayer), the daily practice was lax, and I saw many women sharing men, and openly engaging in sexual acts. One friend revealed to me that it was not uncommon for a girl to sleep with her best friend’s man if there were kickbacks involved. And the men were keen to this scheme. It’s not that I haven’t seen this in the States—I just didn’t expect that behavior here.
All in all, the trip was quite good, and despite the urge to please me with Westernized advancements, I was always reminded of the roots, the movement, the sounds of the drum. Those foundations will never leave the Guinean soul and will be forever ingrained in mine.
A dance class at Youssouf's house
At the nail salon...
I love this art work that adorns all the shops. You don't have to speak Susu to know what kind of store it is.
Note: I will be adding to this post as I complete writing. Stay tuned. Tatiana
Mon 19May Heat. That is the first thing I felt as I disembarked the plane and headed to customs. We picked up our luggage, filled out some forms and we were in. Then we changed some money for a few thousand rupees. This was the easy part. As we walked out into the madness of the arrivals hall, I searched for our cab driver who would take us to our hotel in New Delhi. I had no idea what this hotel would be like, but Lonely Planet recommended it, and it was past 11 at night, so I said a prayer, hopped in the car, and drove through the dusty, car-filled highways to our first destination.
We arrived at our hotel sometime around 12am, in the Parah Ganj area of New Delhi- some dusty, construction-filled hole-in-the-wall motel with dim lighting and questionable-looking staff. The manager took our information, and our passports-something we were not used to (why did they need our PASSPORT information??), we paid for 1 night’s stay, and walked to our rooms, exhausted, needing a shower and a toilet. We open the door to this box of a room, with oil-spotted sheets, ragged towels, and tattered red carpet, turned brown form years of neglect. Eli and I glanced at each other, and headed to the bathroom, which was, let’s say, useable. The shower was much like the ones we were used to in Africa-no tub, just a showerhead, a drain and a bucket. We asked the hotel employee to bring us a fresh pair of sheets, and some toilet paper. 10 minutes later he brings us a pair of equally dingy, oily sheets, and offers a roll of expensive toilet paper for sale. We resolved to sleep on top of our clothes from the day, spray the bed with bug repellant, and say a prayer for the night. But we were still hungry, and we needed toilet paper. We headed out of our hotel onto Main Bazaar road in search of a toilet paper bargain, asking several street vendors for their best price. Eli is a bargainer, so this was sport for him. I was more interested in grabbing a cup of chai, or maybe some ice cream, getting the toilet paper, and heading back to the hotel. We found a vendor that was making fresh chai, and in hindsight, I realize I got ripped off by paying 75% more than I should have for that cup. My first ripoff!
Eli and I noticed quite a few other hotels open, and decided to peer into a few. We definitely would be checking out of ours the next day. We bumped into this hippie Israeli woman-about 50 or so-and she gave us a rundown of the area. Then the unthinkable happened. We turned around and noticed a small rumbling of voices. A white guy, around 30 or so, was being surrounded by about 5 Indian men. As they yelled and made jokes at him, their taunts became progressively angrier, and the group grabbed the man, slapping him in the face. The mob stopped a few feet from us, and the Israeli woman, seeing the commotion, bravely stepped in to stop the abuse on the man. One of the Indian men flashed an ID, saying that he was the police, and that this man was selling drugs, but he really wasn’t that believable. Eli and I watched in horror as the Indian men beat and slapped the man, stealing his belongings from his pockets. I remember distinctly the fear in that man’s eyes, his dirt blond hair covering part of his face. He was obviously extremely high, as he could not fully decipher the situation, and was at a loss for words. The men continued to harass the hapless man, and then dragged him into a back alley. We quickly walked away when we had the chance, grabbed our toilet paper, and booked it back to the hotel. Welcome to India.
Tue20May I wasted no time getting up the next day, because I generally don’t sleep for longer than 4 hours. But I think my body was just whacked out. It was 8:30 am. Not wanting to spend any more time in our tragic motel, I headed out to find an internet café and book a hotel for the next leg of our trip. Stepping out of the hotel was stepping into another world. It had rained that morning, so the streets were filled with soggy, reddish mud cluttered with trash, animal feces, food and other effects. Lone dogs walked alongside pedestrians, scrawny buffalo eased their way through narrow pathways, and sidewalk chefs whipped up fried concoctions. Rancid body odors mingled with the sweet smell of freshly cooked Indian candies, and the streets teemed with people just starting their day. Simple shop owners hawked their wares, and sparkling saris hung from makeshift shop stalls. Overwhelmed by the sensory overload, I failed to realize that I was walking on the wrong side of the street, and nearly got flattened by a rickshaw. Every step I took, there was a honk, as cars, auto-rickshaws, and cow-hearders, pronounced their frustration at the foreigner. I quickly found an internet café, and popped in side, away from the madness.
After lingering on the ‘net I ventured back outside into the frenzy, determined to get back to the hotel in one piece. But I was struck by a sari shop, and without thinking stepped inside. I was surrounded by explosive colors of fuchsia, olive, purple, blue, and orange tunics. Delicately embroidered tops and pants caught my eye, The shop owner, seeing my eyes glazed in amazement, threw down a large pillow and implored me to sit. I explained that I was in a rush, but the owner ignored my pleas, piling my arms with endless heaps of colorful salwar kameez* and richly-colored saris. He then lead me upstairs to an even finer collection of womens-wear, and after much deliberation, I ended up buying about 5 outfits for my friends and family.
I returned to the hotel, exhausted from my tiny excursion, only to find Eli still asleep. It was only 10:30, but I felt like I had been out for hours! We only had an hour and a half to find a new hotel, pack our things, and head out. And knowing that Eli easily spends a good hour in the shower ‘cleansing’ I knew this task could be a problem. But we made it out at 11:30, and despite the 12:00 check-out time, the manager extended our stay for an additional hour.
People, shops, and stuff. Everywhere.
The cows just don't care.
A typical street full of rickshaws. It doesn't look busy here, but...
I mentioned how Eli is a born haggler. We must have looked at about 10 hotels, just for the sake of looking. We walked down the Main Bazaar road in the direction of what we thought would lead to the New Delhi train station. Instead we had walked to the opposite end, arriving at a nondescript albeit bustling street, all the while looking at hotel prospects. At one point I had adamantly decided on a clean, well-sized hotel near this same street, and while I thought we both agreed that the price and accommodation were a great deal, Eli still searched for other possibilities. Hot, sweaty, and annoyed, I wandered off to a vendor selling fresh mango lassis and settled down, away from the crazy streets. The shade of the vendor offered hardly any comfort as the 110º heat mixed the funk of the streets with the sugary smell of over-ripened mangoes. I watched at he sliced the fleshy mangoes and put them in a hand blender filled with ice. He then opened a large vat of chilled yogurt, poured a bit into a metal cup and mixed in the blended fruit. Handing it to me, I told him that I wanted it to go, and he simply put the mixture in a plastic bag and sent me on my way. I bit off the edge of the bag, sat on a dirty bench, and savored the icy sweetness of the treat. For one moment I was relaxed, happy, and careless. The pristine white dress I wore was now covered with street grime and the unidentified splashes from wild animals and pedi-rickshaws. I was ready to shower, and settle down. It was 12pm.
The madness of Main Bazaar Rd.
We finally decided on Hotel New, my original selection, at a bargain price. We made our way back to our original hotel, collected our belongings, and headed to our new hotel. Eli, ever the haggler, insisted on finding yet another hotel, because someone offered. I had already made my decision, and kept walking to our selected hotel. Walking around with a traveler’s backpack, up and down steps, viewing trashy, overpriced hotels in hot, humid weather was not how I wanted to spend the little time I had in India. Once we settled down and showered, we headed back out to get our train tickets to Agra. We spent nearly the entire day walking down one street popping into several shops. Eli was comparison-shopping. I was trying to get to the train station; I could always shop later. Business first. We got to the New Delhi train station, and were horrified to see the main floor of the station covered with sleeping Indian families, suitcases, chickens, and aggressive men pushing forward on a line with no apparent lines. We glanced up to try and decipher the train queues and departures but were dismayed to find them all in Hindi! What to do! I finally pushed my way to the front of an information line and yelled “Shatabdi express!” The woman at the window directed me to a tourist room above the main lobby that could assist me in buying a ticket. Eli and I quickly made our way upstairs to the serenity of the Tourist Information Center, where there was no line, friendly staff and air conditioning. We were well on our way to ordering all of our tickets until the ticket agent asked us to produce our passports. I had made it a point to carry all of my most important documents close to my body at all times in a discreet body pouch near my chest. No way would I be leaving my documents in some shady hotel. Eli left everything he had at the hotel except for his cash, which would not do. So we basically had to go back to our hotel at the opposite end of the Bazaar, get his documents, and come back to Station before 7:30. Given that we started off late and spent half the day looking at hotels even though we already had one, my mood wasn’t exactly friendly.
And it was 4pm. Going back down Main Bazaar Rd was an exercise in self- restraint. And when it comes to shopping, I have absolutely none. So I ended up purchasing a bunch of shirts, and shoes, and… so many things, I can’t even remember! When we finally got back to the hotel, it was nearly 6pm, and we had little time before the ticket window closed. So we hopped into our first rickshaw, but not until Eli haggled with the 20 or so drivers for the best price. And we arrived at the station with 15 minutes to spare.
Our first pedi-rickshaw
After a day of shopping we were ravaged. Along the streets surrounding Connaught Place, we found a slew of “Vegetarian” and “Pure Veg” restaurants. Eli, a vegan with stringent requirements, was elated. After surveying a few places, we settled on a place that was well priced and smelled absolutely delicious. In front of the several of the shops, the chefs worked at a maddening pace over huge woks and boiling pots of curries and exotic sauces. I could smell the sumptuous mix of onions and coriander, tomatos, salt, cilantro and various other spices.
A typical street kitchen
We step inside and order; Eli orders mix vegetable masala, and I ordered a vegetable korma. We were practically salivating as our dishes came to us, until Eli noticed tiny pieces of a certain shredded something that looked an awful lot like cheese. But when we inquired the waiter about it, he spoke no English, so he couldn’t understand Eli, when he tried to explain the concept of Vegan. We quickly learned that “Pure Veg” meant occasional dashes of paneer, doodh, or makkhan, without apology. I ate Eli’s plate, and we headed for another spot where he would possibly be a little luckier.
Corner "Delhi". Pure Veg Restaurants in Delhi.
We found a place, and he indulged in freshly baked garlic nan, and mixed vegetable masala. And this time the waiter understood—no cheese, no milk, and no butter. Satisfied, we made our way back down the main bazaar strip. It was past 8pm, and Eli still had the urge to comparison-shop. I was intent on getting my hands henna tattooed, and I would leave him if need be. Which is exactly what happened. We agreed to meet at an ice cream stand that we recognized within 2 hours if we weren’t in each other’s sight. I found a group of artisans working in a huddle along the bazaar offering their henna styles. I quickly sat down to get my hands done, after haggling for a price I thought was appropriate. Before long, the artist’s friend sat own beside us, and began designing an extremely ornate design on my arm, even though I explicitly told him that I would only be paying a certain price. And I’m splayed out, and unable to move with all the wet henna on my arms. Well, apparently they tried to con me by saying that I had agreed to pay my price for ONE arm, and not both. A disagreement quickly escalated to a full-blown argument, and I ended up dragging in an officer standing nearby to settle the dispute. In the end, the thieves let off, I paid them my original price, and left, in search of Eli.
He was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, I waited by the ice cream stand before going back to the hotel. But not before snagging some mangoes from a fruit stand. The manager at the hotel hadn’t seen Eli, so I ventured back out. By now, it was pretty dark, but still lively, the streets buzzing with men and women drinking chai and watching the latest cricket game. I finally came upon Eli nestled in a bookstore reading about Sri Lanka, a place he had no idea about, but desperately wanted to go. He had made friends with Josh, a man who claimed to live on the Upper West Side. On 119th St. Eli and I laughed and gently informed him that he actually lived in Harlem—not to far from Eli’s house—and that we would visit some time.
Wed21May The day starts early. Our train to Agra leaves at 6:15, and I am worried because Eli takes forever to get up and get ready. Me being the female and the primper, I thought it would be the other way around. But somehow, I was ready, new outfit, hair, makeup, and all. We hopped in an auto-rickshaw in the pouring rain, and jetted to the New Delhi train station where we boarded the Shatabdi express with 10 minutes to spare.
Monkeying around in Agra.
We get off the train and Eli looks at me expectantly as if I’ve arranged transportation to our hotel. I hadn’t. Instead we head to the tourist center for information, and meet a rickshaw driver along the way. Sam greeted us, and promised us a great price to our hotel. Charming as he was, we didn’t fall immediately, until we realized that he had the best price, and immediately gave us a few good tips for our stay in Agra. He immediately tried to convince us to go on his tour which was about 250 rupees. We were cynical at this point, because we really didn’t want to be ‘had’ so soon on our trip. Sam dropped us at our first hotel. Shanti Lodge, was what Lonely Planet described as a great value with great views from their ‘deluxe room’, should have been dubbed “Shanty Lodge”.
"Shanty" Lodge
Stepping out the car, we were greeted with a strong fecal smell of the open sewage that ran along the perimeters of the buildings on the small road. Inside, the rooms were dark and dusty, and the view wasn’t anything to rave about. Especially when the rooftop restaurant was dilapidated, color-less, and distracting. I definitely wasn’t in the mood to look around, but Eli insisted that we try out other hotels. I was in no mood to cart around my huge travel bag, but luckily Sam let us keep our bags in the rickshaw while one of us inspected the hotels.
Wonder where the smell came from.
We finally settled on a neighboring lodge called “Saniya Palace Inn”. I actually liked this one –it was bright, airy, and had a wonderful mid-level courtyard that was outside and inside at the same time. A perfect place for lounging with a book and some chai. We were given our rooms, and finally settled down to begin unpacking. Maybe 30 minutes later, Eli decides that he wants to explore the hotel and maybe find a better room. My nerves were absolutely frayed. I was not only about to take a shower, but I had unpacked my clothing when Eli decides that we should move across the way to a better room that has a small view of the Taj Mahal. The room was a little nicer, and had a little table, so I grudgingly agreed, packed my things, and moved to the new room.
Sam took us all over the place in Agra, although in hindsight, we probably should have went to the Taj first. Then we would have known that our entrance fee would include admission to several other places that Sam had taken us to, but had no interest in paying for. We visited Agra Fort, the Baby Taj, and a series of other architectural monuments throughout the day, but we basically looked to Sam as our personal driver. At one point we were pretty hungry, and needed a vegan spot. But all the places Sam was taking us to were Vegetarian and Meat menus, which is a strict no-no for most vegans. I saw one restaurant that listed ‘pure veg’ but Sam took us to the one right beside it! Frustrated, Eli saw the ploy, got out of the rickshaw, and walked to the restaurant I had pointed out. Sam was taking us to all his ‘spots’ to get commission. What a farce! We went to our restaurant, against Sam's suggestion, which pissed him off, since we hadn't been to many of his suggested sights all day. He was basically getting paid to be our personal driver at 200 Rupees-his price- and no perks.
The "Baby Taj"
A family makes manure cakes for farming behind the Baby Taj
The back of the Taj Mahal
At Agra Fort. Yes, I am wearing shoes.
After enjoying our meal, I was in the mood for a massage, and what do you know—Sam knows of an excellent masseuse in town. So we go, and Eli thankfully haggles down the price for 2 treatments: an hour-long massage, and medicinal heat compress. Unfortunately for Eli, the women would not massage him, as it is custom for women/women, man/man bodywork. This didn’t sit well with him at all, so he had to sit it out while I indulged. By this time Sam is fed up, because we made him lose commission on several stores, and Eli had agitated him to his outer limits. We headed back to the rickshaw, but Sam instead pointed in the direction of our hotel. "You can go this way. It's not far". He wasn’t driving us home-he was going home to watch the cricket match! So we found our way back in the night along the bustling streets of Agra.
Back at the hotel, we had hoped to view a moonlit Taj, but that would not be the case. The sky was overcast, so we instead had to settle for the deep outline of the monument against the grey sky.
--- It may have been 2 am when I woke to a drip on my face. Half sleep, I rolled over towards Eli, in dream-state. Another few drips fell on my shoulder and I slid closer to him subconsciously as the drips followed me. Then the random sound of drips could be heard on his side of the bed. Eli popped his head up suddenly. “Water! It’s…raining! In… the room!” When our minds finally deciphered what was happening we immediately jumped out of our beds before the ceiling came flooding down with rain! Outside we could hear the winds whistling as torrential rains surrounded the building. We quickly moved our belongings towards the door, and flipped the light switch. And then the lights went out in the village. We could hear the footsteps of some of the staff who brought up battery powered florescent lights to help us see. Outside of our rooms you could hear the cries of people who had likely slept outside and gotten caught in the storm. Who would have known it would rain? It was as hot and arid as it could be that day! WE eventually moved our stuff bag to the original room we were given, and I silently cursed Eli for being so damn picky. But I slept soundly, eager for the Taj at sunrise.
Thur22May
The Taj at sunrise that never was...
Despite our lack of sleep, Eli and I woke up promptly at 5am to go to the rooftop restaurant to view the Taj. We waited eagerly, but we wouldn’t see a sunrise that morning. The sky was overcast, and we could barely make out the silhouette of the Taj over the city buildings. The sun never came, and instead the Taj sat, whitewashed against a dull grey sky.
The singing from the mosques reminded me of waking up my first day in Africa. Beautiful, and haunting.
We decided to get dressed and go to the building early to avoid the crowds. Luckily, it was only a 5 minute walk away from the hotel because when we arrived at the gate it started to lightly drizzle. We purchased our entrance tickets and headed back to the hotel to sleep it out in hopes of a sunnier view later on in the day. Back at the hotel, I took some time to drink a little chai, read, have breakfast, and chat with the staff. Since Eli was asleep, I finally had some time to myself without Eli’s irritating, obnoxious behavior. An older staffer, Babou made me a fresh pot of chai and told me about his simple life in Agra with his wife and 2 daughters. He was about my height, and spoke a little English, but a soft gentle tone, and easy conversation were welcome after dealing with Eli’s boisterous personality the first few days of the trip. Babou, a man in his mid-50’s, appeared to be worn out from life. His wife always suspected him of cheating, so he spent most of his nights sleeping in the street in an empty rickshaw. He had taken in an orphaned boy to come work with him in the hotel. The boy’s father had hung himself after suffering the depression of his wife leaving him. The little boy brought me my kettle of tea, and in his inexperience, handed the boiling kettle to me without a cloth to shield my fingers from the heat. It was a simple annoyance to me. All I could think of is how this boy’s life would most likely be relegated to serving people. The stories of Babou and the boy would be a theme that I would hear throughout my trip. A simple life riddled with depression, and the constant search for a way out. Any connection with a foreigner was a potential for change.
A random wedding procession...
East Gate Entrance to the Taj Mahal.
Eli finally awoke at around 2pm, and we got dressed to have breakfast and view the Taj. I though I would wear an orange butterfly-like dress with a scarf.
Was that a bad choice.
The wind blew my skirt every which way, and groups of men stared expectantly, waiting for an opportune moment to view some skin. But what started as groups of men staring, quickly became older men, women, and children. I thought that it couldn’t be the dress, but I felt awkward anyway, and stood to the side while Eli busied himself taking pictures. That was when we were first approached.
A calm wind moment in front of the Taj. Eli wasn't the only one taking my picture.
“Can we take your picture?” A group of teenage boys boldly asked. Suddenly, we were the star attraction, as everyone stopped in their tracks to see what the funny “African” couple would say. I was mortified. I came to see the Taj Mahal not be the main attraction. Throughout our visit, we would encounter groups of Indians slowly passing us by, staring in wonderment. Had they never seen Black people before? Probably not, as I was later told that many Indians don’t travel as much, and that travel is considered a “Western” phenomenon, though the younger Indian generation is more hip to the idea.
After a while the joke became tiring, and I actually started charging people 100 rupees to take my picture. I couldn’t enjoy myself with people staring at me, pointing fingers, and touching me to see if I was real. I felt like a freak. Somebody pulled one of Eli’s locks and he flipped out on the kid. Another girl came to me, looked up, and simple said “Wow.” Who knew that we would come to India’s star attraction, and become superstars ourselves!
A sun blessing. Finally!
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Thursday night, we took a train from Agra to Jaipur. This train was not nearly as nice as the Shatabdi, and there was no meal even though the ride was hours longer! We arrived in Jaipur at about 10:30 at night. Outside the station, I though of a smaller, cheesier Las Vegas, with glittering palm trees, and buildings strung with Christmas lights. Thankfully we found our rickshaw driver waiting for us, and we quickly made our way to hotel Karni Niwas. We were only due to stay there 2 nights, so I was praying that this hotel would be nice. And it was. The rooms were well lit, and extremely charming and clean. Eli, of course, wanted the AC and a bigger room, which would have been more expensive, but I didn’t feel it was necessary. I was especially tired after traveling, and really didn’t want to haggle at this time of night. So we settled in the room I had desired and called it a night.
Fri22May
Exploring Pink City
The next day I woke up early, took care of my laundry, and got a few items of clothing ironed for 10 rupees by a local tailor. The local children surrounded me in excitement, shaking my hand, and greeting me. A superstar in Jaipur! When I came back to the hotel, Eli was laying on the bed in dead-man’s pose, meditating, and listening to Indian chants on his Ipod. What a fool. “Eli,” I said, annoyed, “we’re in India. There’s an ashram down the street where you can meditate and listen to a real live person chanting.” I couldn’t believe that he could be so clueless and superficial. But that incident wasn’t the last. We quickly got dressed and headed out to explore the Old City (Pink City) and Monkey Temple.
Veggie Delight: Rajisthani Thali
Our first stop was a Vegetarian Restaurant that Eli was dying to try in the heart of Pink City. As we walked down the main road, we noticed that there were no tourists. And we knew why. Two weeks before, there had been a bombing in the city, that left the bustling tourist city nearly empty. Rickshaw drivers clamored to us, 5 at a time, begging us to use their services. Shopkeepers pleaded with us to buy their wares, even more so than on the crazy side streets of New Delhi. We were overwhelmed and hot in the 100º+ weather, but finally found our spot and settled down for our delicious meal. Again, we went through the ritual of explaining that Eli needed a vegan meal. Our waiter had no problem understanding us this time. In fact he clued us in to an important fact. The restaurants that we had previously chosen had told us that they would use an oil substitute instead of butter, milk, and cheese. This satisfied Eli, but the waiter at this restaurant told us that those other restaurants had probably been using ghee, and oil derived from the milk of goats and cows. “The only way you can be sure that there is absolutely no animal products is to eat only South Indian dishes like dosas.” This disquieted Eli, and changed his perspective on eating Indian food forever.
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And? What?
We spent the rest of the day, exploring the endless array maze of bazaars in the Pink City. The history goes that the king divided the city into several blocks, each specializing in a different type of craft. We ventured to the jewelry bazaars, a favorite of Eli’s. The entire day was exhausting, and we ended up going back to the hotel to shower, change, and visit the Monkey Temple.
The peculiar sundials in the Old City
Making a delicious drink of pressed sugar cane and bits of lime. So delish!
The Monkey Temple, more formally known as the Temple of the God, rests on a cliff at the top of Jaipur. We made it there just in time to watch the sunset over the hazy city. The climb to the top was a Noah’s Ark of animals co-habitating peacefully together. And then there were the monkeys. But they weren’t as aggressive as I’ve heard people say. They seemed just as hot and tired as we were. Looking out over the city, I was finally able to think. I thanked God for the blessing of being happy and healthy, and giving me everything I needed. Who knew that He would have taken me this far?
Temple of the Sun God
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We left the monkey temple when the last hint of sun could be seen across the horizon. We had one more stop: The Vegetarian Om Revolving tower. The premise was cheesy- a revolving restaurant that gives full views of the city- but the main draw was the well-reviewed Vegetarian menu that Lonely Planet raved about. We had to have it. The presentation was spectacular, but the food was so-so. Not as good as the smaller, cheaper restaurant we went to earlier in the day. The food seemed a little off, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. But my waiter did. Instructing me on how to eat my food, he poked his finger on a piece of one of my thalis. I was so annoyed, that I didn’t finish it. By the time we finished the sky had opened up to a nasty storm, and we ran back to our hotel, since sitting in traffic in an open rickshaw was pointless to us.
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We came home, showered and prepared to hit the bed. Eli passed out, completely wasted from the temple climb. My stomach was gurgling, and I ended up blessing the toilet for a good hour.
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It was the middle of the night, and I woke up to Eli vomiting violently. The vomiting subsided, and I told him about my earlier episode. We attributed it to food poisoning and blamed it on the Om Restaurant. Hopefully, we’d feel better in the morning.
Sat23May
Morning came, and instead of going out to do yoga as we had planned, Eli stayed in. he hadn’t gotten any better, and just wanted to sleep it off. Whatever poison was left in me came out that morning, and I felt fine. I was more concerned with finding a good hotel for our next hotel in Goa since the hotel I had initially booked jacked up the price, even though it wasn’t high season.
We managed to make it to the airport and onto the flight. Just as we were about to board, Eli puked, and I just though “Oh God, they are NOT going to let us fly”. But he got on, and crashed on a seat in the back of the plane. I figured that once we got to Goa, on the sunny, hot beaches, spacious land, and the warm water, we would both feel a lot better. The city life was beginning to rattle us.
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We got into Goa, and it was hotter than Delhi. I hired a car for us, and we took the hour long drive from the airport to one of the southernmost beaches in Goa-Palolem. We found a bright, clean hotel right off the main beach road, and settled in. Thankfully Eli wasn’t so picky because he was so sick. He just went in the room and crashed. I made him a concoction of salt and seltzer water to try and calm his stomach, and then ditched him to hit the beach. (I was on vacation!)
Ahhh...The beach
The Spiral Ark Project: One of my refuges away from a sick Eli, serving my new favorite drink, the Lemon Nana, a concoction of ice water, lemons, raw sugar, and crushed mint.
I cant write anymore, and honestly, I've already left out so much. There is just so much to say about this wild, crazy beautiful country called India. I just gave you a glimpse through my eyes. But I have plenty of stories to tell about the different people I met, and the things I saw and if you know me on that level, you'll probably hear (or have heard) about them. So I am stopping here, and leaving you in beautiful Goa, India. Someday, I will tell you about Bombay, but this will not be the day. Until next time. Namaste.
Fashionista, Maven, hauterfly, social magnet, activist, feminist...We all wear so many hats. And why wear one where there are so many colors, textures, and sizes? We are powerful, influential women of color who are constantly expanding our view beyond our local spheres.
