13 January 2011 Cooking Day
My taxi ride to Jyoti (joe-tee), the cooking teacher, took longer than intended. I had a rookie driver who kept stopping for directions. It's been great to have a cell phone here. My brother's friend Rakesh lent me his Indian cell and we used it for the entire trip. I put R1500 or about $36 on the sim card when I first got to Delhi. I called home several times and made many local calls. It was also convenient for calling places we were going to give directions to the taxi or tuk tuk drivers. In this case it didn't help at all. I ended up getting out of the car and walking around to find Jyoti's apartment!
Jyoti had invited 3 Americans and a German to join me--that made it more fun. We had a 3 hour demo and then ate lunch. It turns out that one couple was on our flight home the next day and sat in front of me on the plane! They were just great--he is a researcher (fuel from green algae) and she's a med student.
Jyoti drove me to a fascinating and high end government run outdoor market with street food stalls--with food and goods from around India called Dilli Haat. What a cool place. I didn't have much cash with me so I couldn't buy much...there was an ATM nearby but my card was blocked! I think it was because I'd taken so much out the day before.
We ate sev puri--deep-fried rounds with mashed spiced potatoes on top, raw onion, tomato, cilantro and lots of tamarind sauce then covered with the thin deep fried chickpea noodles called sev. Tasty but heartburn city. Lots of crafts and handmade shawls etc. very colorful and enticing. Prices were almost what you'd pay here, though. India is fast becoming an more expensive place to travel and shop...living wages and all...
Jyoti took me to another Haldiran's--this time it was full of desserts. I got the most expensive: a gooey green pistachio square covered with silver foil (varak), and a cashew roll with varak. Most Indian desserts don't appeal to me--Jyoti said that her favorites are the milk-based desserts like rasgullah--milk balls simmered in rose scented sugar syrup. The choices were enormous, varied and quite beautiful. They put me in mind of Japanese wagashi--artful but without the deep flavor of Western sweets--mainly sugary. We went for dinner later, but it was unremarkable. I was disappointed in the fish curry and vegetables.
Next day I had success at the ATM finally. Misty and I took a tuk tuk over to pick up the tops we had made by a local woman tailor. We had bought fabric at a khadi fabric store in Goa. Misty had her pale green cotton khadi made into a long caftan while I had my deeper green and a pale grey-pink made into two knee-length tops with V-necks, side slits and 3/4 sleeves. Each of my pieces cost about $2.50 to be made. I sure wish it was that easy and cheap in the US.
We took the tuk tuk to the Cottage Industries store where I bought a rose colored ikat fabric for my sister in law to make cushions for her dining room chairs. My second suitcase (which I bought in Chennai) came to exactly the AAirlines limit of 23 kilos. Sigh. I wished I had bought more...the fabrics were amazing.
I walked in our neighborhood one last time--it was so warm and sunny--like an early spring at home. I had lunch in a small, delightful café that served Western desserts (apple crisp and chocolate cake were the top-sellers the proprietor said) and Western and Indian style Middle Eastern food--a chickpea salad and "hummus" with pita triangles. The real hit of the meal was the fresh squeezed pomegranate juice. I could have drank 3 of them! I bought a book (the café had a good selection of books for sale) called "Being Indian", which I will soon read. I also visit Anokh, a woman's clothing shop with beautiful and not expensive Indian clothes. I think they have a store in L.A.
Right now I'm reading Shantaram, which Rachel in Chennai recommended. It is a GREAT book, full of adventure, intrigue and insights into India. Written by an Australian man who had escaped from an Australian prison for armed robbery and went to Mumbai, it is a loosely novelized form of his real life story.
I ate a last dinner prepared by the Nepali women who work at Eleven--the ubiquitous fried spiced potatoes, rice, dal and spiced cabbage. There was a spinach-paneer, but I don't eat dairy. We left Eleven around 8.30PM and finally flew out at 1AM. We had to go through security twice for this trip. The first time through my cast-iron tempering tool from Kerala was discovered in my carry-on--I'd forgotten to remove it. Damn. They decided it was a hazard. The guard looked at it cross-eyed and amused, he didn't know what it was. I told him and begged him to take it home to his wife, but it's a Southern tool that isn't much used in the North, though they do temper--infuse spices into ghee or oil to pour onto dishes. Sigh, another loss. My other loss was converting rupees into dollars at the airport. Big mistake. I should have spent it. I lost about 20%.
Our 14 hour flight was uneventful with good airline food and great flight attendants. We whizzed through customs at 5AM in Chicago then settled in for our 7 hour wait to fly home. When I finally got to bed at 7.30PM on Saturday it had been 48 hours that I'd been awake. I was a zombie. Still am taking hard afternoon naps where I awaken discombobulated.
Ive been dreaming of India, my stomach was in knots and I kept dreaming of things I'd left undone there. When I left India it was with the thought I'd never go back--too far too expensive too too too much. But I realize it was simply the trick that allowed me to leave. I loved India in all its beauty and dirt, color and poverty, good and bad, spiritual and crass. Indians are pragmatists--they respect money and power--and work hard to achieve it--something that resonates with my Eastern European immigrant background (my parents). Many we met also have generous hearts and a pundit's wisdom.
I'm so glad to hear from Misty that 30 years has brought about large changes--an exploding middle class and less people on the street. They've a ways to go but I have no doubt that India will be very different in even another decade. Many people predict that India, the world's largest democracy and the richest ethnic group in the US, with more degree-holders than the population of France, is poised to be a major player in the 21st century. The 21st century will see India contributing 1/6th of the world population. Visit now!
I hope that I can return there.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Homestretch
Waylaid
Monday 10 January 2010
We took a taxi to the Laxmi Narayan temple and got waylaid into a tea shop where Misty bought a beautiful painting. They fed us wonderful teas from around India while we sat, looked and waited for her purchase to be packed. At the temple I didn’t want to get my favorite socks dirty (shoes off in temple) so I went to buy a pair of socks on the street. Misty came out; they wouldn’t let her photograph inside, which was why she’d wanted to come to the temple in the first place.
Conveniently, a Sikh tuk tuk driver offered us very cheap fare to Chowndi Chawk, Old Delhi, if we would stop at “just one shop and look”. Of course they get a kickback. So, waylaid again, we did. Afterwards, he didn’t want to take us to Old Delhi because of traffic—kept saying that the subway (more expensive) would be better, cleaner and faster. But we wouldn’t let him off the hook. He grumbled about it the entire way.
He dumped us into a crush of people, the likes of which I’ve only seen in New York Chinatown on a Saturday in spring. Shoving, pushing, looking and hawking from every shop—pashmina, saree, on and on. I was looking specifically for Paranthey Wali Gali—not easy to find, down an alley warren and more, back dark and smelley places where I thought, no way, then we came out into a main street and it was a tiny open shop on the corner.
Two guys sitting up front on a small platform with an old blackened wok full of hot oil (don’t even ask) and a huge blob of chapatti dough next to the guy sitting cross-legged with a rolling pin and round rolling thingie/board: one rolled and one fried the yummy stuffed breads. We crammed into a table in the back and happily half the menu was in English. I deciphered that "quali flower" was cauliflower--that comes from having a mother who was a non-native English speaker. Thanks MOM!
A stainless tray with mint chutney, vegetables and a couple lightly sweet fruity mixtures were thrust down and then a cashew filled and a cauliflower filled “parantha” (paratha) walked over and joined them. So much fun to find and sit and eat there. It was all very tasty--I can see why the chef at the pricey Metropolitan Hotel in Delhi recommended it fondly. Two paranthaand trimmings: R75, less than $2.
We lurched slowly on through the darkening streets and increasing crush to stop at a very popular chain called Haldiran’s, a cafeteria sort of place. I ordered bhel puri, a salady mixture of puffed rice, cooked diced potato, peanuts, cilantro, onion, tomato, puffed dal, pomegranate seeds and sev (thin chickpea noodles). It is usually dressed with sweet-sour tamarind chutney. Yum. Misty had lassi again. But downstairs she ordered takeway samosa (very good—spicy with potatoes, fried onions and masala spices and raisins) and a heart shaped paneer breaded and fried thingie while I ordered 4 tiny khandwi—a sort of steamed, tender chickpea flour noodle rolled with coconut, cilantro and spices (mustard seed). Also a plain dhokla—a baking powder risen turmeric-yellow, savory cake with black mustard seed, topped with cilantro and fried long green chilies. I’m about to go and eat a bit of them now. They cost about 60 cents in all.
The taxi ride home was in an old jeep like truck that could have held half of Delhi—okay, maybe 1/8th—anyway the driver dropped us back at the ranch for just R450 after a little happy haggling—about $11. Glad the food was so cheap. Thirty something, good-natured driver had to help us two middle plus aged ladies down from the back. He gave Misty his hand to squiggle down. When it came my turn I took his hand and he put his arm tightly around my waist, and literally carried me down! Copping a feel. The blonde hair does it everytime….
12 January 2010 Wednesday AM
Took a day off yesterday, laid around, slept, read, worked a little and walked the neighborhood--tried to get money from two ATMs and both were not working. Sigh.
Today is our last day and hopefully I’ll get some money from an ATM. I’m down to R120, about $3. We've had our breakfast (provided) of toast, muesli and milk plus tangerine/orange and banana and tea for Misty and two boiled eggs, toast, banana and tea for me. It's served at Eleven's little room in the back. We're dealing with email and such.
We will do our last bit of shopping in Delhi. Tomorrow I have a full day cooking class with Jyoti, a well-known and highly praised Delhi cook. I’m looking forward to it because I’ll have a class, then do a market, eat street food and go to a restaurant together!
More later.
We return on 15 January!!!! Overspent and overtired....
Monday 10 January 2010
We took a taxi to the Laxmi Narayan temple and got waylaid into a tea shop where Misty bought a beautiful painting. They fed us wonderful teas from around India while we sat, looked and waited for her purchase to be packed. At the temple I didn’t want to get my favorite socks dirty (shoes off in temple) so I went to buy a pair of socks on the street. Misty came out; they wouldn’t let her photograph inside, which was why she’d wanted to come to the temple in the first place.
Conveniently, a Sikh tuk tuk driver offered us very cheap fare to Chowndi Chawk, Old Delhi, if we would stop at “just one shop and look”. Of course they get a kickback. So, waylaid again, we did. Afterwards, he didn’t want to take us to Old Delhi because of traffic—kept saying that the subway (more expensive) would be better, cleaner and faster. But we wouldn’t let him off the hook. He grumbled about it the entire way.
He dumped us into a crush of people, the likes of which I’ve only seen in New York Chinatown on a Saturday in spring. Shoving, pushing, looking and hawking from every shop—pashmina, saree, on and on. I was looking specifically for Paranthey Wali Gali—not easy to find, down an alley warren and more, back dark and smelley places where I thought, no way, then we came out into a main street and it was a tiny open shop on the corner.
Two guys sitting up front on a small platform with an old blackened wok full of hot oil (don’t even ask) and a huge blob of chapatti dough next to the guy sitting cross-legged with a rolling pin and round rolling thingie/board: one rolled and one fried the yummy stuffed breads. We crammed into a table in the back and happily half the menu was in English. I deciphered that "quali flower" was cauliflower--that comes from having a mother who was a non-native English speaker. Thanks MOM!
A stainless tray with mint chutney, vegetables and a couple lightly sweet fruity mixtures were thrust down and then a cashew filled and a cauliflower filled “parantha” (paratha) walked over and joined them. So much fun to find and sit and eat there. It was all very tasty--I can see why the chef at the pricey Metropolitan Hotel in Delhi recommended it fondly. Two paranthaand trimmings: R75, less than $2.
We lurched slowly on through the darkening streets and increasing crush to stop at a very popular chain called Haldiran’s, a cafeteria sort of place. I ordered bhel puri, a salady mixture of puffed rice, cooked diced potato, peanuts, cilantro, onion, tomato, puffed dal, pomegranate seeds and sev (thin chickpea noodles). It is usually dressed with sweet-sour tamarind chutney. Yum. Misty had lassi again. But downstairs she ordered takeway samosa (very good—spicy with potatoes, fried onions and masala spices and raisins) and a heart shaped paneer breaded and fried thingie while I ordered 4 tiny khandwi—a sort of steamed, tender chickpea flour noodle rolled with coconut, cilantro and spices (mustard seed). Also a plain dhokla—a baking powder risen turmeric-yellow, savory cake with black mustard seed, topped with cilantro and fried long green chilies. I’m about to go and eat a bit of them now. They cost about 60 cents in all.
The taxi ride home was in an old jeep like truck that could have held half of Delhi—okay, maybe 1/8th—anyway the driver dropped us back at the ranch for just R450 after a little happy haggling—about $11. Glad the food was so cheap. Thirty something, good-natured driver had to help us two middle plus aged ladies down from the back. He gave Misty his hand to squiggle down. When it came my turn I took his hand and he put his arm tightly around my waist, and literally carried me down! Copping a feel. The blonde hair does it everytime….
12 January 2010 Wednesday AM
Took a day off yesterday, laid around, slept, read, worked a little and walked the neighborhood--tried to get money from two ATMs and both were not working. Sigh.
Today is our last day and hopefully I’ll get some money from an ATM. I’m down to R120, about $3. We've had our breakfast (provided) of toast, muesli and milk plus tangerine/orange and banana and tea for Misty and two boiled eggs, toast, banana and tea for me. It's served at Eleven's little room in the back. We're dealing with email and such.
We will do our last bit of shopping in Delhi. Tomorrow I have a full day cooking class with Jyoti, a well-known and highly praised Delhi cook. I’m looking forward to it because I’ll have a class, then do a market, eat street food and go to a restaurant together!
More later.
We return on 15 January!!!! Overspent and overtired....
Monday, January 10, 2011
Om-ing for Home-ing
Back to Delhi
4 January 2011
Rachel’s apartment in Chennai afforded us a sweet respite despite all my cat and mold allergy troubles. On the last night Misty and I walked single file down a nearby dark and narrow main street (with no room for the many pedestrians) centimeters away from whizzing tuks tuks and cars. We had dinner at Rachel’s favorite local thali joint.
This is a place I’d love to open in TC. Stainless steel trays on each table with indents for the various and changing dishes of the day/night: rice, pappadum, ghee slathered phulka/chapatti, vegetable “curries” like okra (ladyfingers) or squash, coconut chutney, sambhar and dal and yogurt, all scooped out of a stainless steel buckets. The phulka (full-kah) are puffed, hot chapatti made fresh with wholewheat atta flour. I ate four of them, they were that good. Misty drank a sweet lassi, her favorite.
We decided to buy some fruit and cat food so walked on down the street to a tiny vegetable/fruit market wedged in between a tiny pharmacy counter and tobacco shop. Across the street we saw a large, brightly lit, 4 storied store, and, mesmerized, walked in. Wow. An assortment of foods from granola to cashews and beyond on the first floor with appliances, clothes and so on the upper floors. Cat food was on the 4th floor. I trudged up and found a bag of dry cat food for R300, about $7. Misty and I each bought one plus some wet food as a treat for them. Those playful little buggers got under our skin. Misty was able to lap-sit and pet them. They were sucking at her clothes, poor orphans.
Don’t get me started on the suffering here. I can’t bear it. I have to close my eyes, but all I see when I do are the tattered homeless people huddled around smoky fires, and bony dogs without loving humans. It’s still rare that people have common dogs or cats as pets. I’d like to get a bunch of feminists together to donate money to have the female dogs of India spayed so they don’t have to have the endless dependency and strain of constant pregnancies. A true female liberation from suffering. We girls have to stick together. I’ve found PETA-India and plan on donating money for that purpose.
On our last night in Chennai, Misty went up to Rachel’s apartment, but I wanted a night-time look at the Bay of Bengal, a short walk from her apartment. (Google “Valmiki Nagar” for a view of her beach. It’s lovely.) The broad, inky-dark water had a dangerous feel to it, ancient and deeply alien. Rachel says that the undertow is incredibly strong and she, a strong swimmer, is afraid of it.
On my walk to the Bay I passed by the ironing-walla stand, closed for the night. It’s a high-end neighborhood so there are few people on the street. I passed a family—two parents with a small boy. They were cleaning up after dinner. The woman was brushing her hair while sitting on a small stool. The little boy was stretched out on a bamboo mat studying by a lantern. The dad was putting things away. I think they may have a stand of some sort there and live there at night as well.
Left Chennai, hot and dusty, to a 37 degree F Delhi to eagerly await Bill’s sister, Barb, and her son and daughter-in-law coming from Africa. Both Misty and I had to buy warmer clothes. We were not prepared for this kind of cold. We ended up, somehow, at a glitzy mega-mega mall; I felt uncomfortable. I don’t even shop at those places at home. But when we saw Calvin Klein we walked in and found what we needed $100 each later….Delhi is a large city; it costs every time we go out for a taxi or tuk tuk. So we bit the bullet and bought. I have spent so much more than anticipated on this trip that it hurts.
The day before my sister in law was to arrive I got an email from her: she didn’t know she needed a visa (and I neglected to mention it…) so that when she arrived at the Indianapolis airport she found that she couldn’t go. Same with my nephew in Africa.
So Misty and I decided we wanted to come home early. I called American Airlines: upshot was $250 change fee and over $2,000 for the change in ticket price. So we went on with our trip to Varanasi and Sarnath. Both of us were disconsolate. And tired.
Psycho-Walla
Arriving in Varanasi was cheerful. The sun was out and it was warmer so that lifted our spirits. We went to the hotel that Barb had booked (Pallavi International) because the Hotel Buddha we’d booked for $25 a night hadn’t been paid for. Pallavi had beautiful grounds; it looked like an aging grand old lady—very Moghul-ish. Clean, but the room was small, dark and without heat. And the hotel was eerily empty.
We went out to change money and a cycle-walla (bicycle wheels with big cart for two humans behind) came up to offer a ride. We haggled a little with price. Got in and told him where we wanted to go. Unfortunately Misty mentioned changing money and he totally ignored what we wanted and kept trying to take us to a private house to change money (he would get a kickback of course). Misty said that had never happened to her before and it felt very dangerous. He told us Western Union was closed (it was not) and so on—it was distressing so we got out, but he kept following us. We found Western Union and when we came out psycho-walla was waiting. Ugh. We got into a tuk tuk and eluded him.
Hotel Hoppers
We went to see Hotel Buddha and decided it was better—with heat—and better located. I had a good dinner of local vegetables (English peas, carrots and cauliflower were everywhere in season) in a tomatoey-spiced sauce, dal, cumin rice and phulka. The vegetable curry hit the spot! We walked on the darkening streets after dinner. It was fascinating: small shops selling paan packets (a kind narcotic popular around India), tea served in little cups that looked like small terracotta plant pots, several restaurants cooking large batches of chopped greens (probably methi or fenugreek greens), eggplant, and potatoes. Looked so good. Passed by a larger stand and took photos of the milk guy: three large woks (kadhai), one filled with spiced hot milk and ghee that he poured from pitcher to pitcher in high arcs before serving, another filled with paneer (firm fresh cheese) and a third filled with a thick sour-creamy pinkish sweet, artfully layer-topped with lacy rice pancakes.
The next morning we scheduled a morning trip to the gnats and the Ganges. It was too foggy to take the hoped for boat ride so we visited some Hindu temples. Very beautiful. Too cold to remove shoes and walk on marble floors. Misty did, but I declined. Our guide did, but wasn’t keen on it, smile. The Hanuman temple, which had been bombed by Muslim terrorists had guards with guns and a metal detector. The monkeys (Hanuman is a monkey god) were everywhere. Another set of mouths to feed. They were jumping and acrobatting it up on buildings across from the temple. Quite a show. One small monkey with its preternaturally agile hands and eyes was picking through street garbage looking for a morsel someone else that missed.
Muslim Town
The driver took us to Muslim Town (known for silk weaving in Varanasi) and a silk weaving family. It was unbelievable. The room looked like your worst nightmare of an Asian prison—dug down into a relatively small space and crammed with looms. No light. It was too cold so no one was working. But the man who ran it (had been to the States many times) talked about how the weaving was done. Then took us back to his futon padded “showroom” to sell us some goods. He threw meters and meters of silk over us as we sat on the floor: jewel colored brocades, bedding, scarves, bolts of fabric and more. I bought Emily Mitchell a silk scarf (she’s asked for some fabric and that has given some form to my buying). It was enticing and hard to resist buying more silk fabric but I’ve hit my $$ limit I’m afraid. We went back to the hotel and tried to get warm. Under numerous covers (heat was off) after two hours we still hadn’t kicked the chill.
We Caved in for Heat and Hot Water
Misty suggested we go to an American hotel. So we went online and booked the Ramada Inn for the night. We took a car to Sarnath—a stupka set on the site of the Buddha’s first talk. It was restful, peaceful with large grounds and many Indian Tibetans and monks on pilgrimage walking around the stupka. I loved that place. I bought my niece a sandalwood Buddha there and Misty bought some Buddhas too. Driver took us through the small town crowded with pilgrims and tent-shops serving puffy breads and selling holy goods. I went into the grounds of a Japanese Buddhist temple. It was by far my favorite site. The proportions of the grounds and temple were pleasing. A service was going on so I stood outside and listened to the drums and enormous singing brass bowl. Very peaceful. We drove the congested dirt roads back to the hotel in the twilight.
After much ado and booking the new tickets for our return with the concierge (this involved a walk to a local “travel agent”, a bunch of really nice men—I walked down a dark, quiet street to dinner at a nearby hotel. I didn’t want to eat a huge buffet for R650. The Suriya is an old castle that is being renovated—it even had a hooka smoking “bar” which I stumbled into. In the restaurant, I ordered spicy ground chicken tandoori kabob, kitchdi (rice and dal) and one tandoori roti. It took forever, but I listened to French, Russian and German all around me for entertainment. When the food finally came it was delicious. The waiter said they made it special for me without yogurt or ghee!! Big tip.
When I returned I took a luxurious hot bath, sigh. I won’t for even a minute ever forget the luxury of electricity, warmth and clean, hot water!! The concierge told me that our train to Jabalpur, where Misty was to film an ancient Hindu site, was unheated. We looked at each other and decided to bag that trip! Concierge told us it was colder in Jabalpur, even though it was south. So we spent an extra $500 on hotel and plane fare to return to Delhi, but it was a good choice.
The Ganges Gnats
The morning of our last day in Varanasi I hired a taxi to take me to the Ganges and the gnats. (Misty has been.) It was warmer and I walked a kilometer from our parking lot to get there along pilgrim-clogged streets lined with every manner of goods from fresh milk to shoes and holy items. A cycle-walla clipped my back shin with his wheel and bruised me well plus covered me with shit from the wheels. Sigh, It hurt so badly for a while that I stopped and cried. A group of Indian women stopped to make sure I was okay. If I hadn’t been, I think that cycle-walla would have been in trouble. But on those busy streets centimeters are all that the space between people and vehicles. It must be hard to judge—mostly they do miraculously well.
I walked a good ways along the stone stairs up and down, along the Ganges. Hindus from all over India were stripping and dipping in that cold, greasy water. Smoke from the cremation pyres was choking at times. Tourists with cameras and holy Hindus mingled with dogs, cats, cows and goats capering up and down the rocky steps strewn with yellow, fuschia and white flowers, shit and litter.
Ancient wooden boats ferried people down and across the Ganges. Paint cracked away to grey bare boards and full of holes, I’m not quite sure how they float. There was a sandbar where cows and people seemed to be standing. Did the cows swim over? I walked to a funeral pyre and saw a wizened old man atop it. Stopped my heart for a time. A young Hindu came by asking for money for the hospice that is set up there. They take poor or indigent people who are dying off the street or who walk in, and care for them—feed and massage them, then pay for their burning. I’ve read that they also harvest their organs and sell them. This is India, where nothing goes to waste. Always someone looking for food and all else.
A Last Meal
The last meal at the Ramada hotel I had the local yellow dal with a local mustard oil tadka (tempered oil heated with spices) and phulka. It unsettled my stomach for two days. Probably some tap water stirred in and not boiled? Always the big hotels—Misty was sickened from the Marriott, me at the Ramada.
Ravi Shankar
On the way to the airport I saw the yellow flowered mustard seed and tall, spindly dal plants plus acres of beautifully tended fields and rich earth. Our driver Rakesh, (same one from earlier, I really liked him), told us that Ravi Shankar’s ancestral home was on the outskirts, but still part of Varanasi. His family had sold the home more than a decade ago—Ravi lives in San Diego. Rakesh lives with his family behind the property. He was highly educated—economics—and around late twenties to early thirties—gently handsome with a kind manner. His English was very good. He wasn’t married because he is from a poor family and cannot get work in his field. So he drives a taxi for the Ramada, a good job he says, and dreams of opening a school for orphans. We tipped him well.
8/9 January 2010 Back to Delhi
We came yesterday (Sunday) to Eleven, the wonderful B and B run by Ajay—our home away from home with heat, big hot shower, clean comfortable beds, big breakfast and wifi. Ajay has been beyond helpful and kind. He had rice with turmeric sent to me for my unsettled belly. I spent the day reading and resting. So great. My throat has been congested for more than a week now—the smog, smoke and dirt. I wear a mask when I go out but when I blow my nose it’s full of black.
Today, Monday, we’ll go out to a temple that Misty wants to visit and then some shopping and lunch. Home on Saturday if no storms plague Chicago! Pray for us.
4 January 2011
Rachel’s apartment in Chennai afforded us a sweet respite despite all my cat and mold allergy troubles. On the last night Misty and I walked single file down a nearby dark and narrow main street (with no room for the many pedestrians) centimeters away from whizzing tuks tuks and cars. We had dinner at Rachel’s favorite local thali joint.
This is a place I’d love to open in TC. Stainless steel trays on each table with indents for the various and changing dishes of the day/night: rice, pappadum, ghee slathered phulka/chapatti, vegetable “curries” like okra (ladyfingers) or squash, coconut chutney, sambhar and dal and yogurt, all scooped out of a stainless steel buckets. The phulka (full-kah) are puffed, hot chapatti made fresh with wholewheat atta flour. I ate four of them, they were that good. Misty drank a sweet lassi, her favorite.
We decided to buy some fruit and cat food so walked on down the street to a tiny vegetable/fruit market wedged in between a tiny pharmacy counter and tobacco shop. Across the street we saw a large, brightly lit, 4 storied store, and, mesmerized, walked in. Wow. An assortment of foods from granola to cashews and beyond on the first floor with appliances, clothes and so on the upper floors. Cat food was on the 4th floor. I trudged up and found a bag of dry cat food for R300, about $7. Misty and I each bought one plus some wet food as a treat for them. Those playful little buggers got under our skin. Misty was able to lap-sit and pet them. They were sucking at her clothes, poor orphans.
Don’t get me started on the suffering here. I can’t bear it. I have to close my eyes, but all I see when I do are the tattered homeless people huddled around smoky fires, and bony dogs without loving humans. It’s still rare that people have common dogs or cats as pets. I’d like to get a bunch of feminists together to donate money to have the female dogs of India spayed so they don’t have to have the endless dependency and strain of constant pregnancies. A true female liberation from suffering. We girls have to stick together. I’ve found PETA-India and plan on donating money for that purpose.
On our last night in Chennai, Misty went up to Rachel’s apartment, but I wanted a night-time look at the Bay of Bengal, a short walk from her apartment. (Google “Valmiki Nagar” for a view of her beach. It’s lovely.) The broad, inky-dark water had a dangerous feel to it, ancient and deeply alien. Rachel says that the undertow is incredibly strong and she, a strong swimmer, is afraid of it.
On my walk to the Bay I passed by the ironing-walla stand, closed for the night. It’s a high-end neighborhood so there are few people on the street. I passed a family—two parents with a small boy. They were cleaning up after dinner. The woman was brushing her hair while sitting on a small stool. The little boy was stretched out on a bamboo mat studying by a lantern. The dad was putting things away. I think they may have a stand of some sort there and live there at night as well.
Left Chennai, hot and dusty, to a 37 degree F Delhi to eagerly await Bill’s sister, Barb, and her son and daughter-in-law coming from Africa. Both Misty and I had to buy warmer clothes. We were not prepared for this kind of cold. We ended up, somehow, at a glitzy mega-mega mall; I felt uncomfortable. I don’t even shop at those places at home. But when we saw Calvin Klein we walked in and found what we needed $100 each later….Delhi is a large city; it costs every time we go out for a taxi or tuk tuk. So we bit the bullet and bought. I have spent so much more than anticipated on this trip that it hurts.
The day before my sister in law was to arrive I got an email from her: she didn’t know she needed a visa (and I neglected to mention it…) so that when she arrived at the Indianapolis airport she found that she couldn’t go. Same with my nephew in Africa.
So Misty and I decided we wanted to come home early. I called American Airlines: upshot was $250 change fee and over $2,000 for the change in ticket price. So we went on with our trip to Varanasi and Sarnath. Both of us were disconsolate. And tired.
Psycho-Walla
Arriving in Varanasi was cheerful. The sun was out and it was warmer so that lifted our spirits. We went to the hotel that Barb had booked (Pallavi International) because the Hotel Buddha we’d booked for $25 a night hadn’t been paid for. Pallavi had beautiful grounds; it looked like an aging grand old lady—very Moghul-ish. Clean, but the room was small, dark and without heat. And the hotel was eerily empty.
We went out to change money and a cycle-walla (bicycle wheels with big cart for two humans behind) came up to offer a ride. We haggled a little with price. Got in and told him where we wanted to go. Unfortunately Misty mentioned changing money and he totally ignored what we wanted and kept trying to take us to a private house to change money (he would get a kickback of course). Misty said that had never happened to her before and it felt very dangerous. He told us Western Union was closed (it was not) and so on—it was distressing so we got out, but he kept following us. We found Western Union and when we came out psycho-walla was waiting. Ugh. We got into a tuk tuk and eluded him.
Hotel Hoppers
We went to see Hotel Buddha and decided it was better—with heat—and better located. I had a good dinner of local vegetables (English peas, carrots and cauliflower were everywhere in season) in a tomatoey-spiced sauce, dal, cumin rice and phulka. The vegetable curry hit the spot! We walked on the darkening streets after dinner. It was fascinating: small shops selling paan packets (a kind narcotic popular around India), tea served in little cups that looked like small terracotta plant pots, several restaurants cooking large batches of chopped greens (probably methi or fenugreek greens), eggplant, and potatoes. Looked so good. Passed by a larger stand and took photos of the milk guy: three large woks (kadhai), one filled with spiced hot milk and ghee that he poured from pitcher to pitcher in high arcs before serving, another filled with paneer (firm fresh cheese) and a third filled with a thick sour-creamy pinkish sweet, artfully layer-topped with lacy rice pancakes.
The next morning we scheduled a morning trip to the gnats and the Ganges. It was too foggy to take the hoped for boat ride so we visited some Hindu temples. Very beautiful. Too cold to remove shoes and walk on marble floors. Misty did, but I declined. Our guide did, but wasn’t keen on it, smile. The Hanuman temple, which had been bombed by Muslim terrorists had guards with guns and a metal detector. The monkeys (Hanuman is a monkey god) were everywhere. Another set of mouths to feed. They were jumping and acrobatting it up on buildings across from the temple. Quite a show. One small monkey with its preternaturally agile hands and eyes was picking through street garbage looking for a morsel someone else that missed.
Muslim Town
The driver took us to Muslim Town (known for silk weaving in Varanasi) and a silk weaving family. It was unbelievable. The room looked like your worst nightmare of an Asian prison—dug down into a relatively small space and crammed with looms. No light. It was too cold so no one was working. But the man who ran it (had been to the States many times) talked about how the weaving was done. Then took us back to his futon padded “showroom” to sell us some goods. He threw meters and meters of silk over us as we sat on the floor: jewel colored brocades, bedding, scarves, bolts of fabric and more. I bought Emily Mitchell a silk scarf (she’s asked for some fabric and that has given some form to my buying). It was enticing and hard to resist buying more silk fabric but I’ve hit my $$ limit I’m afraid. We went back to the hotel and tried to get warm. Under numerous covers (heat was off) after two hours we still hadn’t kicked the chill.
We Caved in for Heat and Hot Water
Misty suggested we go to an American hotel. So we went online and booked the Ramada Inn for the night. We took a car to Sarnath—a stupka set on the site of the Buddha’s first talk. It was restful, peaceful with large grounds and many Indian Tibetans and monks on pilgrimage walking around the stupka. I loved that place. I bought my niece a sandalwood Buddha there and Misty bought some Buddhas too. Driver took us through the small town crowded with pilgrims and tent-shops serving puffy breads and selling holy goods. I went into the grounds of a Japanese Buddhist temple. It was by far my favorite site. The proportions of the grounds and temple were pleasing. A service was going on so I stood outside and listened to the drums and enormous singing brass bowl. Very peaceful. We drove the congested dirt roads back to the hotel in the twilight.
After much ado and booking the new tickets for our return with the concierge (this involved a walk to a local “travel agent”, a bunch of really nice men—I walked down a dark, quiet street to dinner at a nearby hotel. I didn’t want to eat a huge buffet for R650. The Suriya is an old castle that is being renovated—it even had a hooka smoking “bar” which I stumbled into. In the restaurant, I ordered spicy ground chicken tandoori kabob, kitchdi (rice and dal) and one tandoori roti. It took forever, but I listened to French, Russian and German all around me for entertainment. When the food finally came it was delicious. The waiter said they made it special for me without yogurt or ghee!! Big tip.
When I returned I took a luxurious hot bath, sigh. I won’t for even a minute ever forget the luxury of electricity, warmth and clean, hot water!! The concierge told me that our train to Jabalpur, where Misty was to film an ancient Hindu site, was unheated. We looked at each other and decided to bag that trip! Concierge told us it was colder in Jabalpur, even though it was south. So we spent an extra $500 on hotel and plane fare to return to Delhi, but it was a good choice.
The Ganges Gnats
The morning of our last day in Varanasi I hired a taxi to take me to the Ganges and the gnats. (Misty has been.) It was warmer and I walked a kilometer from our parking lot to get there along pilgrim-clogged streets lined with every manner of goods from fresh milk to shoes and holy items. A cycle-walla clipped my back shin with his wheel and bruised me well plus covered me with shit from the wheels. Sigh, It hurt so badly for a while that I stopped and cried. A group of Indian women stopped to make sure I was okay. If I hadn’t been, I think that cycle-walla would have been in trouble. But on those busy streets centimeters are all that the space between people and vehicles. It must be hard to judge—mostly they do miraculously well.
I walked a good ways along the stone stairs up and down, along the Ganges. Hindus from all over India were stripping and dipping in that cold, greasy water. Smoke from the cremation pyres was choking at times. Tourists with cameras and holy Hindus mingled with dogs, cats, cows and goats capering up and down the rocky steps strewn with yellow, fuschia and white flowers, shit and litter.
Ancient wooden boats ferried people down and across the Ganges. Paint cracked away to grey bare boards and full of holes, I’m not quite sure how they float. There was a sandbar where cows and people seemed to be standing. Did the cows swim over? I walked to a funeral pyre and saw a wizened old man atop it. Stopped my heart for a time. A young Hindu came by asking for money for the hospice that is set up there. They take poor or indigent people who are dying off the street or who walk in, and care for them—feed and massage them, then pay for their burning. I’ve read that they also harvest their organs and sell them. This is India, where nothing goes to waste. Always someone looking for food and all else.
A Last Meal
The last meal at the Ramada hotel I had the local yellow dal with a local mustard oil tadka (tempered oil heated with spices) and phulka. It unsettled my stomach for two days. Probably some tap water stirred in and not boiled? Always the big hotels—Misty was sickened from the Marriott, me at the Ramada.
Ravi Shankar
On the way to the airport I saw the yellow flowered mustard seed and tall, spindly dal plants plus acres of beautifully tended fields and rich earth. Our driver Rakesh, (same one from earlier, I really liked him), told us that Ravi Shankar’s ancestral home was on the outskirts, but still part of Varanasi. His family had sold the home more than a decade ago—Ravi lives in San Diego. Rakesh lives with his family behind the property. He was highly educated—economics—and around late twenties to early thirties—gently handsome with a kind manner. His English was very good. He wasn’t married because he is from a poor family and cannot get work in his field. So he drives a taxi for the Ramada, a good job he says, and dreams of opening a school for orphans. We tipped him well.
8/9 January 2010 Back to Delhi
We came yesterday (Sunday) to Eleven, the wonderful B and B run by Ajay—our home away from home with heat, big hot shower, clean comfortable beds, big breakfast and wifi. Ajay has been beyond helpful and kind. He had rice with turmeric sent to me for my unsettled belly. I spent the day reading and resting. So great. My throat has been congested for more than a week now—the smog, smoke and dirt. I wear a mask when I go out but when I blow my nose it’s full of black.
Today, Monday, we’ll go out to a temple that Misty wants to visit and then some shopping and lunch. Home on Saturday if no storms plague Chicago! Pray for us.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Madurai and Chennai 3 January 2011
Madurai, in southern Tamil Nadu, dawned moist, misty, noisy and dirty. It's a pilgrimage town for Indian Hindus. We took a tuk-tuk (auto rickshaw) to the Meenakshi temple while inhaling much of India's earth. A traffic jam, and I do mean jam, landed us amidst cars, motorcycles, buses and people arm to arm, nose to nose. Yikes. It broke up like logjams do after a lot of beeping and pushing. Never heard a word of swearing or yelling though. Never saw a middle finger raised!
Misty, our resident scholar, says that Meenakshi was an old mythological princess who ruled Madurai for awhile and married Lord Shiva. She became part of the Vedic tradition and is special to Madurai--in her temple the goddess is worshipped before the god. Her temple is the epitomy of South Indian architecture.
The Meenakshi temple turned out to be closed from 12.30PM to 4PM. Who knew? So we went and I had lunch. Misty still wasn't eating much. I chose a large place chockful of pilgrims. People's eyes stick to us. My blond hair and green eyes catch attention, which usually ends up costing me. Waiter tossed down a banana leaf about 12" by 18" then the next guys came with stainless steel buckets full of dal, sambhar, pickle, rice and sometimes a vegetable. There is always a place to wash hands. Then the fun begins: right hand only--I get to mix and smear my food and eat with my hand--and suck my fingers. It was sort of icky at first but now I don't want to bother with utensils. It's polite to slurp and burp. My kind of place.
After lunch we teased the shop keepers a little by looking but not buying. With over an hour left, Misty decided to go back to the hotel and rest, then return later. I wandered. Finally sat down on a bag I bought for my shoes (have to take them off in the temple and I won't leave a size 10 pair of Mephistos to walk away--even though they are covered with Indian grime) and decided to people watch until the gates opened. Very few Westerners around and they never seem to look at you.
Two Indian families traveling together came over to me. First the darkly handsome, but dissipated father with paan (betel nut) blackened and eroded teeth shoved his 8 year old son over to say hi and get a photo together. Why they'd want a photo with an almost 60 year old lady I had no idea, but played along, feeling entertained. The dad offered me paan. I politely declined. Then the next three kids came one by one ending with the 18 year old daughter who spoke passable English. I had my bag tightly zipped, no money in pockets etc. It did cross my mind that something was up. The 18-year old wouldn't answer my questions, she had a very dark and devious, but beautiful, look about her. No one smiled at me and the women didn't speak or look at me much. Though they all laughed and joked with each other while I couldn't understand. My senses were abuzz. I knew they didn't have good intentions, but I was locked tight as a vault and they would have had to take me kicking and screaming. Not their choice while visiting a holy site I guess, smile. They got up and abruptly left. Sigh. Misty said that it's common for the women in a thieving family to surround you and pickpocket...
I waited for Misty and then just went in...she arrived by a different entrance than the one we'd agreed upon, but we stumbled on each other anyway. The temple is amazing. Hewn from granite, the floors beneath our bare feet (yes they spit there too) felt almost soft. Each "hall" opened to another; it was like going through a park or museum. Westerners aren't allowed into the inner temple with Meenakshi so we wandered to a hall that led to an huge open air amphitheatre. Misty says it was a "tank", which fills with water during the rainy season and in which people bath--it was painted all white and red and had a golden lotus on the bottom. My foot went into a cramping spasm for about 20 minutes. Hurt like hell and it twisted my toes. So I got to sit in that space awhile. Walking on granite isn't so soft after all. The dark, ancient, carved granite beauty of that place is still with me. I hobbled a bit but then miraculously my toes straightened.
Next morning, 31 December, I left for Chennai, happy to move on. On the way to the airport in the cool and fresh AM I saw the village doorstoops of homes washed and a rice paste or colored powder or chalk design (kolam in the south, rangoli in the north), a women's tradition passed from grandmother, mother to daughter--102 different designs are used--same number as rudrakasha--strings of beads used in puja or ceremonies. Kolam bring good luck. Misty stayed to video the site and came to Chennai later that evening.
Sandy and Field Carden told me about Field's cousin's daughter, Rachel, who teaches at the American International School in Chennai. She's 30-ish and has been here for 1-1/2 years and signed up for another 2 years, Rachel and I emailed and she invited Misty and me to "couch surf" at her place for four nights. Rachel and I were together on New Year's Eve. For lunch, Rachel took me to the best iddli shop in India (supposedly) and wow it was so good, the steamed iddli are light and appetising; the big brown, crisp dosa filled with spiced potatoes (dosa masala) was great; I went back to that place twice more. We whirlwind shopped. Trying to keep up with a thirty something, I tripped on a very crowded and bumpy cement sidewalk and sprained my ankle. If it wasn't for a small boy on whom I fell (but didn't crush thank the gods), I'd have broken the ankle! We ate at a sensational North Indian restaurant that night--I had a tender chicken kabob marinated in spices and grilled. We had a biryani, black dal and a vegetable curry, along with several Indian breads.
After the ride home the ankle started to swell and throb. By the time I went to bed the pain was so bad I couldn't sleep or get comfortable. Misty gave me an extra strength aspirin and I fell into a fitful and hot sleep. Rachel has two cats and I am allergic so that was hard for me. Swollen eyes, hoarse throat and throbbing ankle. I wanted to go HOME. But the next day 1 January dawned and I didn't want to miss Mamallapuram!, about an hour from Chennai. The monument is about the heroes of the Mahabharata, the most famous of the Hindu epics. They are five heroes who are brothers, married to one wife Draupadi. The five rathas, monoliths carved from one piece of stone, are temples to the five heroes. It is one of the oldest Hindu monuments still existing in India, Misty thinks from about 6th century AD. It was intricate and beautiful--even the "butterball", a huge round rock. I hobbled around following forty steps behind Rachel, Misty and our guide, sweating. I finally bought a stone carved Buddha there. Like buying a Jesus. In a sacred Hindu place.
Next morning Rachel took off to Sri Lanka to hike and rest on the beach before her school term begins again. Misty and I decided to go to Pondicherry. It's a beautiful French colonial town on the sea, about 3-1/2 hours south of Chennai. We hired a taxi and drove--Rachel had reserved it for us the day before with an agreed price. It's a beautiful green tropical and ocean viewed drive down the coast. When we got to the hot, sunny town the driver informed us that the fare was not R2000, but double that if we wanted to get home. Highway robbery. We argued. Upshot was I grudgingly gave him his choice, no money and leave us to find our way home or R3000 (split the difference) and he takes us home. He wanted money for petrol. I wouldn't budge. So he decided to wait for his money and take us home for R3000--but kept arguing for more. Geez. First time that happened.
I walked around Pondicherry looking for a good south Indian restaurant for over an hour, sweating buckets. Misty had gone to eat muesli and yogurt for her ailing stomach. After meeting and talking with two friendly British women I finally found the place they'd recommended. It was among the best meals I've had in India in a restaurant. It was a traditional thali--a stainless plate with small stainless bowls filled with different dishes which get filled as much as you want. Rice, a spinach paratha, a pappadum and lots of interesting vegetables and dals made this delightful. One cabbage and coconut thoran, one slimy soupy green vegetable, maybe okra, seasoned with fennel, yum yum. After the meal the waiter brought me a small triangular banana leaf packet on a small plate. Paan. Waiter said, "very refreshing, to end your meal." I said, "oh, I don't want to blacken my teeth!" They had a hearty knowing laugh over that one.
Today I hired a tuk-tuk driver, put on my mask, and went to eat and shop in Chennai by myself. Misty stubbed her toe and didn't want to go out. It was fun to immerse myself in the crowds and noise and hubbub of rich and poor Indians doing what they do daily. Even the poorest folks wear the most amazing colors--men's shirts or a casually tossed scarf and women's saris or salwar and dupattas are cheerful and uplifting. Their colors and shapes bring grace and dignity to even old bones and scrawny limbs. After over two weeks here I see the city life of India differently--not comparing to the West, but rather seeing it on it's own terms, poverty and wretched sadness and all.
I found some amazing West Bengali silk shawls for Emily Mitchell with these intricate hand stitched silk applique designs in colors that only the Indians seem to know how to do. Tomorrow very very early we leave for Delhi and the last leg of our trip. I told Emily that I'd be willing to come home now--I'm tired, but the last leg involves Varanasi and Sarnath, holy sites that I'd love to see, a day long cooking and market shopping class plus probably a trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal.
My sister in law Barbara Grannemen and her son Joe Fish and his wife Hannah Lily Won are meeting us. So exciting.
Misty, our resident scholar, says that Meenakshi was an old mythological princess who ruled Madurai for awhile and married Lord Shiva. She became part of the Vedic tradition and is special to Madurai--in her temple the goddess is worshipped before the god. Her temple is the epitomy of South Indian architecture.
The Meenakshi temple turned out to be closed from 12.30PM to 4PM. Who knew? So we went and I had lunch. Misty still wasn't eating much. I chose a large place chockful of pilgrims. People's eyes stick to us. My blond hair and green eyes catch attention, which usually ends up costing me. Waiter tossed down a banana leaf about 12" by 18" then the next guys came with stainless steel buckets full of dal, sambhar, pickle, rice and sometimes a vegetable. There is always a place to wash hands. Then the fun begins: right hand only--I get to mix and smear my food and eat with my hand--and suck my fingers. It was sort of icky at first but now I don't want to bother with utensils. It's polite to slurp and burp. My kind of place.
After lunch we teased the shop keepers a little by looking but not buying. With over an hour left, Misty decided to go back to the hotel and rest, then return later. I wandered. Finally sat down on a bag I bought for my shoes (have to take them off in the temple and I won't leave a size 10 pair of Mephistos to walk away--even though they are covered with Indian grime) and decided to people watch until the gates opened. Very few Westerners around and they never seem to look at you.
Two Indian families traveling together came over to me. First the darkly handsome, but dissipated father with paan (betel nut) blackened and eroded teeth shoved his 8 year old son over to say hi and get a photo together. Why they'd want a photo with an almost 60 year old lady I had no idea, but played along, feeling entertained. The dad offered me paan. I politely declined. Then the next three kids came one by one ending with the 18 year old daughter who spoke passable English. I had my bag tightly zipped, no money in pockets etc. It did cross my mind that something was up. The 18-year old wouldn't answer my questions, she had a very dark and devious, but beautiful, look about her. No one smiled at me and the women didn't speak or look at me much. Though they all laughed and joked with each other while I couldn't understand. My senses were abuzz. I knew they didn't have good intentions, but I was locked tight as a vault and they would have had to take me kicking and screaming. Not their choice while visiting a holy site I guess, smile. They got up and abruptly left. Sigh. Misty said that it's common for the women in a thieving family to surround you and pickpocket...
I waited for Misty and then just went in...she arrived by a different entrance than the one we'd agreed upon, but we stumbled on each other anyway. The temple is amazing. Hewn from granite, the floors beneath our bare feet (yes they spit there too) felt almost soft. Each "hall" opened to another; it was like going through a park or museum. Westerners aren't allowed into the inner temple with Meenakshi so we wandered to a hall that led to an huge open air amphitheatre. Misty says it was a "tank", which fills with water during the rainy season and in which people bath--it was painted all white and red and had a golden lotus on the bottom. My foot went into a cramping spasm for about 20 minutes. Hurt like hell and it twisted my toes. So I got to sit in that space awhile. Walking on granite isn't so soft after all. The dark, ancient, carved granite beauty of that place is still with me. I hobbled a bit but then miraculously my toes straightened.
Next morning, 31 December, I left for Chennai, happy to move on. On the way to the airport in the cool and fresh AM I saw the village doorstoops of homes washed and a rice paste or colored powder or chalk design (kolam in the south, rangoli in the north), a women's tradition passed from grandmother, mother to daughter--102 different designs are used--same number as rudrakasha--strings of beads used in puja or ceremonies. Kolam bring good luck. Misty stayed to video the site and came to Chennai later that evening.
Sandy and Field Carden told me about Field's cousin's daughter, Rachel, who teaches at the American International School in Chennai. She's 30-ish and has been here for 1-1/2 years and signed up for another 2 years, Rachel and I emailed and she invited Misty and me to "couch surf" at her place for four nights. Rachel and I were together on New Year's Eve. For lunch, Rachel took me to the best iddli shop in India (supposedly) and wow it was so good, the steamed iddli are light and appetising; the big brown, crisp dosa filled with spiced potatoes (dosa masala) was great; I went back to that place twice more. We whirlwind shopped. Trying to keep up with a thirty something, I tripped on a very crowded and bumpy cement sidewalk and sprained my ankle. If it wasn't for a small boy on whom I fell (but didn't crush thank the gods), I'd have broken the ankle! We ate at a sensational North Indian restaurant that night--I had a tender chicken kabob marinated in spices and grilled. We had a biryani, black dal and a vegetable curry, along with several Indian breads.
After the ride home the ankle started to swell and throb. By the time I went to bed the pain was so bad I couldn't sleep or get comfortable. Misty gave me an extra strength aspirin and I fell into a fitful and hot sleep. Rachel has two cats and I am allergic so that was hard for me. Swollen eyes, hoarse throat and throbbing ankle. I wanted to go HOME. But the next day 1 January dawned and I didn't want to miss Mamallapuram!, about an hour from Chennai. The monument is about the heroes of the Mahabharata, the most famous of the Hindu epics. They are five heroes who are brothers, married to one wife Draupadi. The five rathas, monoliths carved from one piece of stone, are temples to the five heroes. It is one of the oldest Hindu monuments still existing in India, Misty thinks from about 6th century AD. It was intricate and beautiful--even the "butterball", a huge round rock. I hobbled around following forty steps behind Rachel, Misty and our guide, sweating. I finally bought a stone carved Buddha there. Like buying a Jesus. In a sacred Hindu place.
Next morning Rachel took off to Sri Lanka to hike and rest on the beach before her school term begins again. Misty and I decided to go to Pondicherry. It's a beautiful French colonial town on the sea, about 3-1/2 hours south of Chennai. We hired a taxi and drove--Rachel had reserved it for us the day before with an agreed price. It's a beautiful green tropical and ocean viewed drive down the coast. When we got to the hot, sunny town the driver informed us that the fare was not R2000, but double that if we wanted to get home. Highway robbery. We argued. Upshot was I grudgingly gave him his choice, no money and leave us to find our way home or R3000 (split the difference) and he takes us home. He wanted money for petrol. I wouldn't budge. So he decided to wait for his money and take us home for R3000--but kept arguing for more. Geez. First time that happened.
I walked around Pondicherry looking for a good south Indian restaurant for over an hour, sweating buckets. Misty had gone to eat muesli and yogurt for her ailing stomach. After meeting and talking with two friendly British women I finally found the place they'd recommended. It was among the best meals I've had in India in a restaurant. It was a traditional thali--a stainless plate with small stainless bowls filled with different dishes which get filled as much as you want. Rice, a spinach paratha, a pappadum and lots of interesting vegetables and dals made this delightful. One cabbage and coconut thoran, one slimy soupy green vegetable, maybe okra, seasoned with fennel, yum yum. After the meal the waiter brought me a small triangular banana leaf packet on a small plate. Paan. Waiter said, "very refreshing, to end your meal." I said, "oh, I don't want to blacken my teeth!" They had a hearty knowing laugh over that one.
Today I hired a tuk-tuk driver, put on my mask, and went to eat and shop in Chennai by myself. Misty stubbed her toe and didn't want to go out. It was fun to immerse myself in the crowds and noise and hubbub of rich and poor Indians doing what they do daily. Even the poorest folks wear the most amazing colors--men's shirts or a casually tossed scarf and women's saris or salwar and dupattas are cheerful and uplifting. Their colors and shapes bring grace and dignity to even old bones and scrawny limbs. After over two weeks here I see the city life of India differently--not comparing to the West, but rather seeing it on it's own terms, poverty and wretched sadness and all.
I found some amazing West Bengali silk shawls for Emily Mitchell with these intricate hand stitched silk applique designs in colors that only the Indians seem to know how to do. Tomorrow very very early we leave for Delhi and the last leg of our trip. I told Emily that I'd be willing to come home now--I'm tired, but the last leg involves Varanasi and Sarnath, holy sites that I'd love to see, a day long cooking and market shopping class plus probably a trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal.
My sister in law Barbara Grannemen and her son Joe Fish and his wife Hannah Lily Won are meeting us. So exciting.
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