There are no turkeys in India, and there is no pumpkin pie. It also goes without saying that no one celebrates Thanksgiving in India – because while there are Indians, there certainly were no pilgrims here. This honestly made me a little sad. After almost three months of being here, I miss the familiar things of home. I miss cooking. I miss Thai green curry, roast chicken, macaroni and cheese, and burgers. I miss the farmer’s market. And I miss all the fuss over holidays.
Everyone on Facebook is posting their tales of cooking and eating to their statuses. It's actually a little hard to avoid being jealous. I want to be sharing in the sweet potato-tofurkey-family drama festivities. I want to sit down to a plate of gravy, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and mashed potatoes.
Honestly, it’s been exhausting to be here this long. Not knowing the language(s), feeling isolated and out of place, occasionally being treated like an object, having to interact with people constantly, not having my own private, quiet space – I’ve basically had to be “on” all the time, and it’s worn me down. Maybe it would have been different if we’d had our own apartment, instead of staying in one-room hotels where it’s easier to feel crowded and where we have to go out to do anything besides sleep. Missing a food-related holiday was just another in a growing list of things to be grumpy about in India.
Danny knew I was sad about missing Thanksgiving, and he tried to find a restaurant that might be serving Thanksgiving dinner. No luck. There really aren’t that many Americans in Delhi, I suppose. Instead, we went to one of our favorite restaurants in Paharganj, Green Chili Bar & Restaurant, which is just around the corner from our hotel. Even though it wasn’t turkey and pie, we still managed to have quite a feast: veg wonton soup, tempura prawns, fish in black bean sauce, steamed rice, and beer. (The soup was especially good. Besides the really tasty vegetarian dumplings, there were lots of fresh veggies in the broth.)
And you know what? It was a pretty nice Thanksgiving after all. I was with Danny, I’m no longer working a job that makes me crazy and miserable, and I’m doing something different and adventurous with my life by living in India – even if I don’t always enjoy being here, it’s been a good experience.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
11.27.2009
11.23.2009
Camels, camels everywhere
Bikaner is a town that depends on camels for much of its labor, and in recent years, it has started to become a place where tourists can go on camel safari in the surrounding desert. We saw camels everywhere in town, either pulling huge loads on carts behind them or “parked” on the side of the road.
We visited the National Research Center on Camels, just outside town, where they breed, raise, and milk camels. I’d never seen so many camels in one place: camels at the feeding trough, camels in stables, camels sitting down or standing up or eating or getting milked, adult camels and baby camels.
We were told one of the babies we were looking at was only a few hours old. He was already pretty big for a newborn! It’s not quite full breeding season yet, so we were lucky to see some of the really little guys.
Before we left, we stopped at the “camel milk parlour” for a snack. I had a camel milk kulfi and Danny got a coffee with camel milk. My frozen pop was just okay – I honestly was hoping it would taste more camel-y. I should have tried just plain camel milk, to get the true taste of camel!
The following day, we went on a camel trek with another couple from our hotel. We were headed back to Delhi that night, so we could only do a partial-day safari, while Gaby and Alex were going to do an overnight trip. We headed out together, though, in the bright-hot desert sun.
Getting up on a camel was a new and interesting experience. Unlike a horse, the camel sits down so that you can climb up onto his back, which makes it easier. But then the camel has to get to his feet. He raises his back legs first before his front, so at one point, you get titled quite dramatically and you have to hold onto the strap for dear life. The saddle is well-padded on both sides, to make it more comfortable for camel and rider. Unfortunately, camels don’t like to be touched, so we couldn’t pet our fuzzy vehicles. We each rode on our own camel, with a fifth camel pulling a cart with all the equipment that would be needed on the trip: cooking supplies for our lunch, then overnight gear for Gaby and Alex.
We rode through a sandy desert that was surprisingly green. Danny did some bird-watching from atop his camel, and we also saw a couple of blackbuck antelope sprinting through the sand at a distance. After about an hour, we stopped at a village, where the camels got to rest and the humans had water and chai. The local children were very excited about the tourists coming through their village, and they all waved and shouted “ta-ta!” in the hopes that we would wave back.
After more walking through the desert, we came to a stop by a little grove of trees, which provided some much needed shade for a rest and lunch. The camels were especially happy to have their saddles removed, and they all rolled around in the sand.
Lunch was cooked over a propane stove, so it was a little bit like camping (though, this time, I wasn't doing the cooking!). There was dal, okra, eggplant, rice, chappatis, and a salad of cucumber and tomato. We ate, chatted, and gathered our strength for the next part of our respective journeys. I really liked Alex and Gaby and was glad to have their company on the trek. They were from Mexico and seemed to be of similar minds to me and Danny. They had been traveling since March through various parts of Asia and had plenty to say about their experiences. It was really nice to have people to compare notes with, especially around things like how foreign tourists get treated in India.
Once lunch was over, it was time to go our separate ways. Danny and I rode our camels back to the village, where we were picked up and driven the rest of the way back to our hotel. It was a really fun time, and I wish we’d been able to do a longer safari. Although maybe that wouldn’t have been so good for Danny’s saddle sores!
We visited the National Research Center on Camels, just outside town, where they breed, raise, and milk camels. I’d never seen so many camels in one place: camels at the feeding trough, camels in stables, camels sitting down or standing up or eating or getting milked, adult camels and baby camels.
We were told one of the babies we were looking at was only a few hours old. He was already pretty big for a newborn! It’s not quite full breeding season yet, so we were lucky to see some of the really little guys.
Before we left, we stopped at the “camel milk parlour” for a snack. I had a camel milk kulfi and Danny got a coffee with camel milk. My frozen pop was just okay – I honestly was hoping it would taste more camel-y. I should have tried just plain camel milk, to get the true taste of camel!
The following day, we went on a camel trek with another couple from our hotel. We were headed back to Delhi that night, so we could only do a partial-day safari, while Gaby and Alex were going to do an overnight trip. We headed out together, though, in the bright-hot desert sun.
Getting up on a camel was a new and interesting experience. Unlike a horse, the camel sits down so that you can climb up onto his back, which makes it easier. But then the camel has to get to his feet. He raises his back legs first before his front, so at one point, you get titled quite dramatically and you have to hold onto the strap for dear life. The saddle is well-padded on both sides, to make it more comfortable for camel and rider. Unfortunately, camels don’t like to be touched, so we couldn’t pet our fuzzy vehicles. We each rode on our own camel, with a fifth camel pulling a cart with all the equipment that would be needed on the trip: cooking supplies for our lunch, then overnight gear for Gaby and Alex.
We rode through a sandy desert that was surprisingly green. Danny did some bird-watching from atop his camel, and we also saw a couple of blackbuck antelope sprinting through the sand at a distance. After about an hour, we stopped at a village, where the camels got to rest and the humans had water and chai. The local children were very excited about the tourists coming through their village, and they all waved and shouted “ta-ta!” in the hopes that we would wave back.
After more walking through the desert, we came to a stop by a little grove of trees, which provided some much needed shade for a rest and lunch. The camels were especially happy to have their saddles removed, and they all rolled around in the sand.
Lunch was cooked over a propane stove, so it was a little bit like camping (though, this time, I wasn't doing the cooking!). There was dal, okra, eggplant, rice, chappatis, and a salad of cucumber and tomato. We ate, chatted, and gathered our strength for the next part of our respective journeys. I really liked Alex and Gaby and was glad to have their company on the trek. They were from Mexico and seemed to be of similar minds to me and Danny. They had been traveling since March through various parts of Asia and had plenty to say about their experiences. It was really nice to have people to compare notes with, especially around things like how foreign tourists get treated in India.
Once lunch was over, it was time to go our separate ways. Danny and I rode our camels back to the village, where we were picked up and driven the rest of the way back to our hotel. It was a really fun time, and I wish we’d been able to do a longer safari. Although maybe that wouldn’t have been so good for Danny’s saddle sores!
11.22.2009
A temple for a different kind of animal
Our next and final stop on our eleven-day trip was Bikaner, in the northwest of Rajasthan. The must-see in this hot, arid desert town is the Karni Mata temple, located in the village of Deshnok, 30km to the south. The temple is overrun with rats, which are believed to be the reincarnations of dead storytellers. While I’m a fan of rodents in cages, I’m a little more squeamish about the kind that runs along the kitchen floor, chews holes in packages of ramen, and leaves poop on the cupboard shelves. To help me deal with an entire temple full of these little guys, I made sure to wear especially sturdy socks (being that it’s a temple, you have to take your shoes off before entering) and reminded myself that rats could actually be quite cute – I hoped that would help me not freak out if and when one of them ran over my foot.
The rats really and truly were everywhere. They sat in the curlicues of iron railings, huddled in corners, hurried over stairways, and climbed up pillars. There was plenty of prasad left out for them, and the rats were gorging on seeds, nuts, even coconut.
In two different areas of the temple, there were dishes of milk set out for the rats. The little guys would perch on the edge to have a drink, trying to avoid getting their feet wet.
Danny had bought some prasad outside the temple and tried to hand-feed the little pieces of numkeen to the rats, who usually didn’t want them. They were probably full from all the food they’d been eating all day!
I had to walk carefully, so as not to step on one of them as they scurried from place to place. The floor was sticky from a combination of rat and pigeon waste. In the end, I’m glad I had brought an extra pair of socks, as the ones I was wearing were a mess of prasad and poop.
It’s auspicious if a rat runs over your foot, which is hard to avoid. But instead of running over my feet, the rats were more interested in sniffing my socks. While I was snapping photos, a rat or two would come up to me, inspect my socks, and move on. Sometimes they would sniff one sock and then the other. If I stood still long enough, a rat would be encouraged to start climbing. The first time this happened, the rat put his feet on my pant leg and stood up on his hind legs before moving on. But later, two different rats at two different times got up onto my trousers and started to climb! I guess it must be especially auspicious if the rats take that much interest in you.
It’s also said that it’s good luck to see a white rat. We happened to see one crawling around near a trash bin. Overall, I think we came away from the temple with plenty of blessings from Karni Mata’s rat friends.
The rats really and truly were everywhere. They sat in the curlicues of iron railings, huddled in corners, hurried over stairways, and climbed up pillars. There was plenty of prasad left out for them, and the rats were gorging on seeds, nuts, even coconut.
In two different areas of the temple, there were dishes of milk set out for the rats. The little guys would perch on the edge to have a drink, trying to avoid getting their feet wet.
Danny had bought some prasad outside the temple and tried to hand-feed the little pieces of numkeen to the rats, who usually didn’t want them. They were probably full from all the food they’d been eating all day!
I had to walk carefully, so as not to step on one of them as they scurried from place to place. The floor was sticky from a combination of rat and pigeon waste. In the end, I’m glad I had brought an extra pair of socks, as the ones I was wearing were a mess of prasad and poop.
It’s auspicious if a rat runs over your foot, which is hard to avoid. But instead of running over my feet, the rats were more interested in sniffing my socks. While I was snapping photos, a rat or two would come up to me, inspect my socks, and move on. Sometimes they would sniff one sock and then the other. If I stood still long enough, a rat would be encouraged to start climbing. The first time this happened, the rat put his feet on my pant leg and stood up on his hind legs before moving on. But later, two different rats at two different times got up onto my trousers and started to climb! I guess it must be especially auspicious if the rats take that much interest in you.
It’s also said that it’s good luck to see a white rat. We happened to see one crawling around near a trash bin. Overall, I think we came away from the temple with plenty of blessings from Karni Mata’s rat friends.
11.20.2009
Yet another monkey temple
The highlight of our three days in Jaipur, in the desert state of Rajasthan, was Galta temple, known in the guidebooks as the “monkey temple.” And no wonder: there are monkeys everywhere, sitting on parked motorcycles, climbing the rocky mountain walls that surround the temple, and drinking from the various pools of water. Even before walking up to the temple complex, there are macaques, hanging out in the same space as pigs, dogs, and goats. All seem to be used to begging visitors for food. One particularly pushy goat got in the way when I was trying to photograph a monkey drinking from the water pump.
The path winds up the hill, then down before reaching the temple itself. After weeks of making the steep climb up Jakhu hill in Shimla, it was a pleasant stroll.
Within the complex are bathing tanks, which are said to be several stories deep and filled with water that has been diverted from the Ganges. We watched a monkey pounce on a woman’s sandal, which had been removed when she went to visit the pool. He chewed on it for a minute before tossing it back down. Later, we found the sandal badly chewed and abandoned – I guess the monkey had decided it was worth doing a thorough examination before giving up on it as food.
While Danny talked to one of the pandits at one of the Hanuman mandirs, I watched people bring bags of bananas and peanuts to feed the macaques, langurs, and cows that hung out at the entry gate on the opposite side of the temple complex. I apparently was standing too close to a juvenile monkey, who happened to be screaming about something on top of the gate, because a large male hurried over to me and grabbed my leg, barking a warning!
On our way back, we stopped every so often so Danny could offer peanuts to the resident cows and macaques. I had my second close encounter of the monkey kind when a baby monkey scurried up my pant leg and hopped onto my purse. He looked at me for a moment, probably wondering why food wasn’t being proffered or maybe what was supposed to happen when you leapt up on a human, then hopped back off.
By the time we reached the bottom, we’d been at the temple for nearly three hours, which was confounding to the auto rickshaw driver who had been waiting for us. (We quite often defy the tourist stereotype, taking much longer than the locals think we’ll take when we visit sites or museums. This is partly because Danny is sometimes doing research and needs to talk to lots of people and partly because we like to take our time and look at everything.) It was also too dark for photographs at that point, which was too bad. As we were leaving, I saw a baby monkey hop onto a pig’s back, sit there for a second, and then use the pig as a stepstool to get him onto a bike. A monkey riding a pig would have been an awesome photo to have.
The path winds up the hill, then down before reaching the temple itself. After weeks of making the steep climb up Jakhu hill in Shimla, it was a pleasant stroll.
Within the complex are bathing tanks, which are said to be several stories deep and filled with water that has been diverted from the Ganges. We watched a monkey pounce on a woman’s sandal, which had been removed when she went to visit the pool. He chewed on it for a minute before tossing it back down. Later, we found the sandal badly chewed and abandoned – I guess the monkey had decided it was worth doing a thorough examination before giving up on it as food.
While Danny talked to one of the pandits at one of the Hanuman mandirs, I watched people bring bags of bananas and peanuts to feed the macaques, langurs, and cows that hung out at the entry gate on the opposite side of the temple complex. I apparently was standing too close to a juvenile monkey, who happened to be screaming about something on top of the gate, because a large male hurried over to me and grabbed my leg, barking a warning!
On our way back, we stopped every so often so Danny could offer peanuts to the resident cows and macaques. I had my second close encounter of the monkey kind when a baby monkey scurried up my pant leg and hopped onto my purse. He looked at me for a moment, probably wondering why food wasn’t being proffered or maybe what was supposed to happen when you leapt up on a human, then hopped back off.
By the time we reached the bottom, we’d been at the temple for nearly three hours, which was confounding to the auto rickshaw driver who had been waiting for us. (We quite often defy the tourist stereotype, taking much longer than the locals think we’ll take when we visit sites or museums. This is partly because Danny is sometimes doing research and needs to talk to lots of people and partly because we like to take our time and look at everything.) It was also too dark for photographs at that point, which was too bad. As we were leaving, I saw a baby monkey hop onto a pig’s back, sit there for a second, and then use the pig as a stepstool to get him onto a bike. A monkey riding a pig would have been an awesome photo to have.
11.19.2009
Assholes at Bharatpur station
On our way from Vindavan to Jaipur, we had a stopover at the Bharatpur train station, which is in a town in Rajasthan, just on the other side of the border from Uttar Pradesh. We had a wait of about three hours, and we planned to just hang out and read. Danny needed to take a quick stop at the restroom, so we walked to where one was located, near the stairway which led to the main terminal.
There were a group of young dudes loitering in front of the restroom. “Dudes” in India can always be identified by the clothing labels plastered everywhere, particularly Ed Hardy, and the well-greased hair, as well as by the fact that they travel in packs. Danny went into the men’s toilet, after leaving me around the corner by the far wall. The dudes moved closer, though, walking down the steps toward me. They clearly wanted to take a peek at the Western girl. I turned, so that I was looking away from them and tried to ignore them. One dude – and guy in a neon green T-shirt – broke away from the group and began to come even closer. He said something to his dude friends in Hindi that I didn’t understand. He then walked in a circle around me, leaning as he came around to my front so that he could see my face.
As soon as Danny came out of the bathroom, I said to him, annoyed, “That guy in green circled me, like I was an animal in a zoo.” Danny got angry then, and he shouted at Neon Green in Hindi. Whatever he said, it made Neon Green and some of his dude compatriots take off running in the other direction. There was some giggling amongst the remaining members of the pack, but when Danny told them to shut up, they did.
Even though we were both still seething, we stopped at the magazine stand to take a look. At one point, I happened to glance up and look across the train tracks. I saw that a group of dudes (the same one? a whole new pack? I couldn’t tell) were watching me, and some of them waved. Of course, I didn’t acknowledge them. Danny and I retreated down the third platform, which was less busy, and sat on a bench to wait for our train platform to be announced.
I’m not sure why dudes think it’s okay to treat a woman that way, whether she’s foreign or not. It’s degrading and disrespectful to be looked at like I’m a piece of meat. From what I’ve read in guidebooks and on travel sites like IndiaMike.com, this sort of behavior is not uncommon, and women are frequently warned to be aware that harassment can be an issue in India. The advice is to wear sunglasses, dress conservatively, and be thick-skinned – because that’s just how men are in India.
Well, I’m certainly not going to put up with being treated like an object, and I’m not going to take “that’s just how it is” as an explanation to excuse away the dudes’ poor behavior. It may make me seem like a Western bitch, but those guys are most certainly assholes – and cowardly ones, at that.
There were a group of young dudes loitering in front of the restroom. “Dudes” in India can always be identified by the clothing labels plastered everywhere, particularly Ed Hardy, and the well-greased hair, as well as by the fact that they travel in packs. Danny went into the men’s toilet, after leaving me around the corner by the far wall. The dudes moved closer, though, walking down the steps toward me. They clearly wanted to take a peek at the Western girl. I turned, so that I was looking away from them and tried to ignore them. One dude – and guy in a neon green T-shirt – broke away from the group and began to come even closer. He said something to his dude friends in Hindi that I didn’t understand. He then walked in a circle around me, leaning as he came around to my front so that he could see my face.
As soon as Danny came out of the bathroom, I said to him, annoyed, “That guy in green circled me, like I was an animal in a zoo.” Danny got angry then, and he shouted at Neon Green in Hindi. Whatever he said, it made Neon Green and some of his dude compatriots take off running in the other direction. There was some giggling amongst the remaining members of the pack, but when Danny told them to shut up, they did.
Even though we were both still seething, we stopped at the magazine stand to take a look. At one point, I happened to glance up and look across the train tracks. I saw that a group of dudes (the same one? a whole new pack? I couldn’t tell) were watching me, and some of them waved. Of course, I didn’t acknowledge them. Danny and I retreated down the third platform, which was less busy, and sat on a bench to wait for our train platform to be announced.
I’m not sure why dudes think it’s okay to treat a woman that way, whether she’s foreign or not. It’s degrading and disrespectful to be looked at like I’m a piece of meat. From what I’ve read in guidebooks and on travel sites like IndiaMike.com, this sort of behavior is not uncommon, and women are frequently warned to be aware that harassment can be an issue in India. The advice is to wear sunglasses, dress conservatively, and be thick-skinned – because that’s just how men are in India.
Well, I’m certainly not going to put up with being treated like an object, and I’m not going to take “that’s just how it is” as an explanation to excuse away the dudes’ poor behavior. It may make me seem like a Western bitch, but those guys are most certainly assholes – and cowardly ones, at that.
11.18.2009
A visit to Krishna's hometown
While in Vrindavan, we stayed at the MVT Ashram, which happens to be located just behind the town’s massive ISKCON temple. It was surprisingly nice, with hotel rooms on one side of the complex (the room itself was clean, comfortable, and included a kitchenette) and apartments on the other for long-term residents. Unusually for India, it also had gardens with green, manicured lawns and lush landscaping. It was sequestered off the main road, so that you couldn’t hear the street noise or even have to look at the gutters filled with free-flowing sewage just a few steps outside the door. It was a little oasis at which you could really forget that you were in India. Considering that the majority of people staying at MVT were Westerners (mostly Americans and eastern Europeans), perhaps that was the point.
Vrindavan is the town in which the god Krishna grew up in. He was a mischievous child who stole butter and played pranks on people, then grew into a young adult who danced with gopis (cow girls) and stole their clothes while they bathed. There are sites in Vrindavan that you can visit, such as Nitivan, a grove of sacred trees that, every night, are still believed to turn into gopis who dance with Lord Krishna. It is overrun with macaques, who are said to have been Krishna’s childhood friends.
ISKCON, the International Society for Krishna Consciousness, is a new age movement based in Vaishnava Hindu traditions and which views Krishna as “the Supreme Personality of Godhead.” It was founded in New York in 1966 and has since spread around the world, though it has the biggest presence in eastern Europe and India. It is considered by its followers to be a “consciousness” rather than a religion. ISKCON devotees are often referred to as Hare Krishnas, and, as I’ve seen at home, are known to preach Krishna consciousness by walking down the street, wearing orange, beating drums, and singing devotional mantras.
There were a number of interesting things I observed during our two days at the ashram. The first was the way the mostly Western devotees dressed. The men wore simple T-shirts or kurtas, and all wore dhotis, which is similar to a sarong – I never saw a single man who wore regular trousers. The women wore printed cotton saris (as opposed to the embellished polyester saris that I often saw non-ISKCON Indian women wearing), or a combination of a long skirt, choli, and shawl used to wrap around the torso, sari-style (what I called a “cheating sari”). The women also sometimes wore elaborate necklaces and earrings. The children were especially interesting to me, as they were also dressed in what I came to call the ISKCON-style. One little girl wore a Krishna T-shirt, long skirt, and a scarf pinned to her hair as a head covering.
The other thing was the food available at the ashram’s dining hall. Hare Krishnas follow a strict “pure vegetarian” diet, which, besides no meat, means no eggs, onions, or garlic. Almost all of their food, though, was Western – more specifically, American. You could order a couple of Indian dishes, like a samosa, curried vegetables (called the “daily vegetable”), or dal. But the rest were foods I’d be most likely to find at home: lasagna, spaghetti, salads, even a burrito, which was actually a very large chappati wrapped around beans, lettuce, salsa, and cheese. Surprisingly, the majority of the food was done really well (except for the burrito, actually, which was a challenge to eat and, of course, not really like a burrito at all).
The stars of the show were the pizzas, cooked to order in the wood-burning stove. In a country where pizza usually features a thick, bread-like crust and plasticky processed cheese, I was quite impressed by these thin-crust creations with the kinds of toppings I’d find at home, like olives, pineapple, and tomatoes. The chocolate cake, which was moist despite being egg-less, took second prize.
Despite their move toward dressing more “Indian,” the food seemed to allow the devotees to hold on to the familiar foods of the West. Hidden away from the outside world, they could come to India and not actually have to really deal with the “annoyances” of the country (touts, pollution, squat toilets, spicy Indian food) if they stayed at MVT.
Also, as opposed to most people here in India, the devotees were very quiet. In the corridors of our various hotels, the guests and the staff always seem to be shouting at each other about something, and there are always people in the street, shouting to sell their wares. Not so at MVT. The people there chatted quietly, meditated, or chanted the Hare Krishna mantra to themselves. It was very peaceful and very different from my experience with the rest of India.
I became extremely fascinated by the followers of ISKCON during my short stay at MVT. In the future, I hope to learn more about ISKCON and its devotees, through talking to them and also through reading histories and critiques of the movement. I’m even thinking about putting together a research project about Hare Krishnas, as I’m particularly interested in the identity development of children who grow up in this group. I wonder, too, if I’ll be able to find delicious Hare Krishna food at any of ISKCON temples in the Bay Area – or, at least, be able to buy tasty ayurvedic Gokul tea.
Vrindavan is the town in which the god Krishna grew up in. He was a mischievous child who stole butter and played pranks on people, then grew into a young adult who danced with gopis (cow girls) and stole their clothes while they bathed. There are sites in Vrindavan that you can visit, such as Nitivan, a grove of sacred trees that, every night, are still believed to turn into gopis who dance with Lord Krishna. It is overrun with macaques, who are said to have been Krishna’s childhood friends.
ISKCON, the International Society for Krishna Consciousness, is a new age movement based in Vaishnava Hindu traditions and which views Krishna as “the Supreme Personality of Godhead.” It was founded in New York in 1966 and has since spread around the world, though it has the biggest presence in eastern Europe and India. It is considered by its followers to be a “consciousness” rather than a religion. ISKCON devotees are often referred to as Hare Krishnas, and, as I’ve seen at home, are known to preach Krishna consciousness by walking down the street, wearing orange, beating drums, and singing devotional mantras.
There were a number of interesting things I observed during our two days at the ashram. The first was the way the mostly Western devotees dressed. The men wore simple T-shirts or kurtas, and all wore dhotis, which is similar to a sarong – I never saw a single man who wore regular trousers. The women wore printed cotton saris (as opposed to the embellished polyester saris that I often saw non-ISKCON Indian women wearing), or a combination of a long skirt, choli, and shawl used to wrap around the torso, sari-style (what I called a “cheating sari”). The women also sometimes wore elaborate necklaces and earrings. The children were especially interesting to me, as they were also dressed in what I came to call the ISKCON-style. One little girl wore a Krishna T-shirt, long skirt, and a scarf pinned to her hair as a head covering.
The other thing was the food available at the ashram’s dining hall. Hare Krishnas follow a strict “pure vegetarian” diet, which, besides no meat, means no eggs, onions, or garlic. Almost all of their food, though, was Western – more specifically, American. You could order a couple of Indian dishes, like a samosa, curried vegetables (called the “daily vegetable”), or dal. But the rest were foods I’d be most likely to find at home: lasagna, spaghetti, salads, even a burrito, which was actually a very large chappati wrapped around beans, lettuce, salsa, and cheese. Surprisingly, the majority of the food was done really well (except for the burrito, actually, which was a challenge to eat and, of course, not really like a burrito at all).
The stars of the show were the pizzas, cooked to order in the wood-burning stove. In a country where pizza usually features a thick, bread-like crust and plasticky processed cheese, I was quite impressed by these thin-crust creations with the kinds of toppings I’d find at home, like olives, pineapple, and tomatoes. The chocolate cake, which was moist despite being egg-less, took second prize.
Also, as opposed to most people here in India, the devotees were very quiet. In the corridors of our various hotels, the guests and the staff always seem to be shouting at each other about something, and there are always people in the street, shouting to sell their wares. Not so at MVT. The people there chatted quietly, meditated, or chanted the Hare Krishna mantra to themselves. It was very peaceful and very different from my experience with the rest of India.
I became extremely fascinated by the followers of ISKCON during my short stay at MVT. In the future, I hope to learn more about ISKCON and its devotees, through talking to them and also through reading histories and critiques of the movement. I’m even thinking about putting together a research project about Hare Krishnas, as I’m particularly interested in the identity development of children who grow up in this group. I wonder, too, if I’ll be able to find delicious Hare Krishna food at any of ISKCON temples in the Bay Area – or, at least, be able to buy tasty ayurvedic Gokul tea.
11.17.2009
My brush with celebrity
The main reason we traveled to Vrindavan in Uttar Pradesh was the monkeys. The macaques there are known for their snatching and exchange behavior, similar to that of the macaques at Jakhu temple in Shimla. There was also a “monkey lady,” who apparently fed the monkeys, that Danny was interested in talking to.
When he first called her up, I could catch snatches of her end of the conversation, and I was surprised to hear that she had an American accent. We were instructed to look for the blonde woman when we went to meet her. (As I later realized, there are plenty of Westerners living in Vrindavan, being that it is one of the main sites in India for the followers of ISKCON.)
We were expecting just some random person who was interested in monkeys and liked feeding them. We were yet again surprised to meet a fabulously rich woman who lived in a humongous old haveli that she was renovating, complete with carved wooden furniture that she was having made on-site. She invited us in for tea and cookies, and we sat around an intricately decorated metal table, while her adopted street dogs, Krishna and Radha, hung out by our feet. It turned out that not only did she feed the resident troop of macaques that live just outside her door (600 chappatis daily, hot off the stove!), but she also ran a clinic for the poor and the street dogs, right out of her own home and funded out of her own pocket. On top of that, she also had a staff that went out to the villages to provide similar care, and she owned farmland nearby on which she was trying to learn how much food one acre could produce for a family.
Apart from telling us about her work and proudly showing off the restorations being done around her home, she didn’t really tell us much about who she was. To us, she was this mysterious woman with a ton of money and a government job which provided her with armed guards, and who also loved animals, wanted to help the poor of India, and had ties to the Hare Krishna community (though she claimed not to be a Hare Krishna herself). We didn’t even know her full name, just the Indian-sounding first name she went by. Suffice to say, she was actually really interesting to talk to.
We went to her house twice to watch her feed monkeys and so Danny could interview her for his research. On our second visit, we got a tour of the clinic, where people came for medicines and to receive care for injuries. We also learned that she had taken in a cow and was going to house an elephant on her farm while it healed from a wound on her foot. It was nice to see someone put all their wealth toward a good purpose.
A few days later, we were in Jaipur, at a hotel with wireless, and we did a little Googling, to find out more about this eccentric monkey lady. We found the site for her organization, which happened to list her full name. We then learned that she had come into her millions by inheritance, being that she was the adopted daughter of a billionaire heiress and philanthropist, and that she had once been portrayed in a TV movie about said billionaire’s life. There were actually a number of different accounts about her adult life, which seemed to be full of intrigue, although no one really seemed to know all the facts. She’s said to have married an infamous actor from children’s TV, though she didn’t seem to have a partner with her in her haveli and made no mention of a Mr. Monkey Lady. (A Wikipedia search of this actor also makes no mention of a wife.) She also has supposedly donated large sums of money to right-wing causes, including George W. Bush’s re-election campaign in 2004. One can only hope that with her clinic in full swing, she’ll put that sort of use of her money to rest. When she spoke with us, she made mention of politicians, actors, and other VIPS, which seemed to be corroborated by what we found on the internet.
If she were from my generation, she would have been the kind of person who popped up in People and Us magazine. Instead, she seems to have been rather successful at running off to India and getting away from her possibly scandalous previous life, where she can feed her monkeys in peace.
When he first called her up, I could catch snatches of her end of the conversation, and I was surprised to hear that she had an American accent. We were instructed to look for the blonde woman when we went to meet her. (As I later realized, there are plenty of Westerners living in Vrindavan, being that it is one of the main sites in India for the followers of ISKCON.)
We were expecting just some random person who was interested in monkeys and liked feeding them. We were yet again surprised to meet a fabulously rich woman who lived in a humongous old haveli that she was renovating, complete with carved wooden furniture that she was having made on-site. She invited us in for tea and cookies, and we sat around an intricately decorated metal table, while her adopted street dogs, Krishna and Radha, hung out by our feet. It turned out that not only did she feed the resident troop of macaques that live just outside her door (600 chappatis daily, hot off the stove!), but she also ran a clinic for the poor and the street dogs, right out of her own home and funded out of her own pocket. On top of that, she also had a staff that went out to the villages to provide similar care, and she owned farmland nearby on which she was trying to learn how much food one acre could produce for a family.
Apart from telling us about her work and proudly showing off the restorations being done around her home, she didn’t really tell us much about who she was. To us, she was this mysterious woman with a ton of money and a government job which provided her with armed guards, and who also loved animals, wanted to help the poor of India, and had ties to the Hare Krishna community (though she claimed not to be a Hare Krishna herself). We didn’t even know her full name, just the Indian-sounding first name she went by. Suffice to say, she was actually really interesting to talk to.
We went to her house twice to watch her feed monkeys and so Danny could interview her for his research. On our second visit, we got a tour of the clinic, where people came for medicines and to receive care for injuries. We also learned that she had taken in a cow and was going to house an elephant on her farm while it healed from a wound on her foot. It was nice to see someone put all their wealth toward a good purpose.
A few days later, we were in Jaipur, at a hotel with wireless, and we did a little Googling, to find out more about this eccentric monkey lady. We found the site for her organization, which happened to list her full name. We then learned that she had come into her millions by inheritance, being that she was the adopted daughter of a billionaire heiress and philanthropist, and that she had once been portrayed in a TV movie about said billionaire’s life. There were actually a number of different accounts about her adult life, which seemed to be full of intrigue, although no one really seemed to know all the facts. She’s said to have married an infamous actor from children’s TV, though she didn’t seem to have a partner with her in her haveli and made no mention of a Mr. Monkey Lady. (A Wikipedia search of this actor also makes no mention of a wife.) She also has supposedly donated large sums of money to right-wing causes, including George W. Bush’s re-election campaign in 2004. One can only hope that with her clinic in full swing, she’ll put that sort of use of her money to rest. When she spoke with us, she made mention of politicians, actors, and other VIPS, which seemed to be corroborated by what we found on the internet.
If she were from my generation, she would have been the kind of person who popped up in People and Us magazine. Instead, she seems to have been rather successful at running off to India and getting away from her possibly scandalous previous life, where she can feed her monkeys in peace.
11.16.2009
No means no
I have to admit that I’m not the biggest fan of Agra. Besides the disagreeable weather (it was hot and sticky), the touts are particularly aggressive there. In most places, you can generally ignore the men who offer rickshaw rides, invitations into their trinket shops, or suggest that they be your guide into the historical site you’re about to enter – or, at any rate, you can say, “No, thanks,” and keep walking. In Agra, these same guys are rather pushy and will follow you down the street, hawking their wares or services. No matter how often you say no, they’ll just keep at it, until you finally have to resort to being rude to get them to leave you alone – and then they’ll act insulted. The moment we walked into the street, we would be followed by guys trying to give us rides on their bike rickshaws or who wanted to sell us postcards and magnets with pictures of the Taj Mahal on them. We might as well have had big neon signs over our heads that said, “We have money” – because that’s how we were being treated, as walking receptacles of money that, if the touts could just squeeze the right way, would issue rupees.
We took an auto rickshaw forty kilometers outside of Agra to see the ancient city grounds of Fatehpur Sikri. As we neared the town, two guys who were standing in the street actually stopped our rickshaw and climbed in to offer us their guide services. Danny told him no and no again, but they persisted, insisting they were genuine licensed guides and also dropping the price lower and lower. When Danny and I started to get angry, they finally got out of the rickshaw but acted like we were doing them some kind of disservice. When we finally reached the site, we found out we actually had to walk the last kilometer to the ruins – or take a second rickshaw, which seemed like just a way for the locals to make extra money off the tourists. As we headed up the road, we found ourselves being followed by a boy offering his services as a guide. We said no, but he followed us anyway. In fact, he followed us for several minutes, trying to tell us about things that we walked by, and we simply ignored him. Finally, Danny had to say again that we didn’t want a guide. The boy then asked me directly (he’d mostly been talking to Danny this whole time – I often get ignored in conversations), and I said, “No, thank you.” He got really mad then and took off in a huff.
All of this persistent and aggressive touting really put me in a sour mood, which is too bad because the ruins of Fatehpur Sikri’s old city were really cool. My favorite thing about exploring cities, especially ones with hundreds of years of history, is the ruins of palaces, forts, and other buildings. I love trying to envision what these places once looked like when they were functioning and bustling. It’s especially interesting to find bits of ancient plumbing, fading paintings, or crumbling reliefs or statues.
The old city still provides a hanging out place for the poor who live in the surrounding area. They sit around the ruined buildings or graze their goats on the overgrown shrubbery. There were several little boys who wanted to say hello and start conversations, but I was beyond being polite at that point, so I just ignored them. I felt bad about doing so, since I knew it wasn’t that big of a deal to just wave or answer a few simple questions (“where you from?”). But it was becoming rather apparent that the locals would take any opportunity to make a sale or ask for money – and it all starts with the acknowledgment of the person who is hoping to collect. Exchange simple hellos, and it’s assumed that you’re ready and willing to have further conversation, which often ends with an invitation to buy some trinkets you don’t actually want. (I did, however, smile at a small boy who was standing at the very top of a tower over our heads and was rewarded with a shuffling dance.)
As is our habit when we visit these sprawling monuments, we spent at least two hours wandering the old city and never actually made it to the main grounds of Fatehpur Sikri. It would have been nice to explore it, as it’s supposed to be one of the must-sees of India, but I didn’t mind not having to pay the Rs. 250 fee to get in. Instead, we hung out with a quartet of grazing goats, walked on the domed roofs of old buildings, and watched school children explore a tall tower studded with phallic-looking tusks jutting out from all sides.
During our 36-hour stay in Agra, we also went to check out the Agra Fort, which happened to have a resident monkey troop. Upon our arrival, I was happily surprised to see a macaque reaching into a trash can and immediately went for my camera. At the same time, a tout offered his services as a guide to Danny. When he said no and walked away, the tout muttered something about tourists who just want to take photos of dogs and monkeys. Sure, tourists want photos of dogs and monkeys – it’s not like we see this kind of thing every day at home! Furthermore, the reason we never accept guides is that they want to rush through the site, sharing information that may or may not be true (for Fatehpur Sikri, the guidebook notes that most of what is said about the ancient palace and fort is made up, since no one actually knows what many of the buildings were used for), while we just want to explore at our own pace, investigating where doors and stairways lead, and photographing monkeys for long periods of time.
Like the Taj Mahal, there are some parts of the fort which were built with white marble and inlaid with semiprecious stones. One whole section is gated off, so as to preserve it and prevent the graffiti and theft of the stones that has happened in a similar section on the opposite side.
That evening, we headed out of town on a train to Mathura. Next stop: Vrindavan.
We took an auto rickshaw forty kilometers outside of Agra to see the ancient city grounds of Fatehpur Sikri. As we neared the town, two guys who were standing in the street actually stopped our rickshaw and climbed in to offer us their guide services. Danny told him no and no again, but they persisted, insisting they were genuine licensed guides and also dropping the price lower and lower. When Danny and I started to get angry, they finally got out of the rickshaw but acted like we were doing them some kind of disservice. When we finally reached the site, we found out we actually had to walk the last kilometer to the ruins – or take a second rickshaw, which seemed like just a way for the locals to make extra money off the tourists. As we headed up the road, we found ourselves being followed by a boy offering his services as a guide. We said no, but he followed us anyway. In fact, he followed us for several minutes, trying to tell us about things that we walked by, and we simply ignored him. Finally, Danny had to say again that we didn’t want a guide. The boy then asked me directly (he’d mostly been talking to Danny this whole time – I often get ignored in conversations), and I said, “No, thank you.” He got really mad then and took off in a huff.
All of this persistent and aggressive touting really put me in a sour mood, which is too bad because the ruins of Fatehpur Sikri’s old city were really cool. My favorite thing about exploring cities, especially ones with hundreds of years of history, is the ruins of palaces, forts, and other buildings. I love trying to envision what these places once looked like when they were functioning and bustling. It’s especially interesting to find bits of ancient plumbing, fading paintings, or crumbling reliefs or statues.
The old city still provides a hanging out place for the poor who live in the surrounding area. They sit around the ruined buildings or graze their goats on the overgrown shrubbery. There were several little boys who wanted to say hello and start conversations, but I was beyond being polite at that point, so I just ignored them. I felt bad about doing so, since I knew it wasn’t that big of a deal to just wave or answer a few simple questions (“where you from?”). But it was becoming rather apparent that the locals would take any opportunity to make a sale or ask for money – and it all starts with the acknowledgment of the person who is hoping to collect. Exchange simple hellos, and it’s assumed that you’re ready and willing to have further conversation, which often ends with an invitation to buy some trinkets you don’t actually want. (I did, however, smile at a small boy who was standing at the very top of a tower over our heads and was rewarded with a shuffling dance.)
As is our habit when we visit these sprawling monuments, we spent at least two hours wandering the old city and never actually made it to the main grounds of Fatehpur Sikri. It would have been nice to explore it, as it’s supposed to be one of the must-sees of India, but I didn’t mind not having to pay the Rs. 250 fee to get in. Instead, we hung out with a quartet of grazing goats, walked on the domed roofs of old buildings, and watched school children explore a tall tower studded with phallic-looking tusks jutting out from all sides.
During our 36-hour stay in Agra, we also went to check out the Agra Fort, which happened to have a resident monkey troop. Upon our arrival, I was happily surprised to see a macaque reaching into a trash can and immediately went for my camera. At the same time, a tout offered his services as a guide to Danny. When he said no and walked away, the tout muttered something about tourists who just want to take photos of dogs and monkeys. Sure, tourists want photos of dogs and monkeys – it’s not like we see this kind of thing every day at home! Furthermore, the reason we never accept guides is that they want to rush through the site, sharing information that may or may not be true (for Fatehpur Sikri, the guidebook notes that most of what is said about the ancient palace and fort is made up, since no one actually knows what many of the buildings were used for), while we just want to explore at our own pace, investigating where doors and stairways lead, and photographing monkeys for long periods of time.
Like the Taj Mahal, there are some parts of the fort which were built with white marble and inlaid with semiprecious stones. One whole section is gated off, so as to preserve it and prevent the graffiti and theft of the stones that has happened in a similar section on the opposite side.
That evening, we headed out of town on a train to Mathura. Next stop: Vrindavan.
11.15.2009
Why is there graffiti on the Taj Mahal?
Our eleven-day journey began with a three-hour train trip to Uttar Pradesh, the state directly to the west of Delhi. Our first stop was Agra, home of the monument everyone has told me I had to see when in India: the Taj Mahal.
Our hotel was literally steps away from its eastern gate, and while we couldn’t actually see the domes of the Taj from our hotel, we could hear the singing that emanated from within at nearly all hours of the day (and sometimes night). We got up painfully early to try and beat the crowds, which the guidebook claims start to arrive around midday. (Everyone must read this advice, as it was rather busy at 7am.) The Taj Mahal charges a hefty Rs.750 (US $15) entry fee, which we actually had to go a whole kilometer down the road to buy, since they don’t sell them at the east gate. The ticket came with a free bottle of water and free shoe covers, though, which are two of the handful of items that are allowed to be brought into the grounds. The official word is that you’re only allowed to bring a small bag, camera, money, and mobile as long as it’s switched off, and you’re definitely not allowed to bring in pens or tripods.
This is due to the depressing habit of defacing historical monuments that people seem to have here. At every site we’ve gone to, popular or not, from the Hawa Mahal in Jaipur to the zoo in Delhi, there is graffiti written or scratched into the walls, red paan spat into corners and in corridors, and even sometimes shit and piss stains in dark corners. From what I’ve heard, the blame is often placed on the Western tourists; however, the graffiti tends to read “Ravi from Bihar,” “Mehra loves Sunita,” or is written in Hindi, and I don’t know any Westerners who chew paan. It’s both sad and frustrating to come to these places and see how little respect people have for them. I personally can’t imagine going to a beautiful and ancient building and wanting to carve my name into it, either at home or abroad.
Even on the Taj Mahal, India’s crown jewel of historical sites, which also happens to be a mausoleum, there were names written in ink on the white marble walls. All it seems that can be done to prevent further damage is to restrict what is brought in and by placing guards who search and inspect each and every tourist as they enter the gates. What these places also need are guards throughout the grounds, as well as restoration of areas that have been destroyed. It’s my understanding, though, that there just isn’t the money to implement those sorts of measures, partly due to a lack of funds and partly due to corruption within the organizations that are in charge of taking care of India’s historical sites.
I wonder, though, about the general disrespect that seems to be shown toward these places. Are people so detached from their own history that they can justify leaving marks or poorly treating their monuments?
We spent the morning exploring the Taj and its grounds. A haze of smog sat over the city that morning (except for a ten-minute period when it briefly burned off), making it not so great for taking photos. But after seeing its image practically everywhere for years, from the internet to posters, I was actually not particularly moved by it. Yes, it’s a beautiful building, and I admire the amount of work that was put into creating a memorial for a loved one. I was expecting to be blown away, though, and I wasn’t. I think perhaps that I’m less impressed by the big (literal and figurative), famous, man-made must-sees. When I was in Paris nine years ago, I saw the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, surrounded by tourists taking its photo, and I just moved on, thinking, “It’s really small.”
Maybe that’s the attitude that the people take when they graffiti on the Taj Mahal. Maybe they think, “What’s the big deal?”
Our hotel was literally steps away from its eastern gate, and while we couldn’t actually see the domes of the Taj from our hotel, we could hear the singing that emanated from within at nearly all hours of the day (and sometimes night). We got up painfully early to try and beat the crowds, which the guidebook claims start to arrive around midday. (Everyone must read this advice, as it was rather busy at 7am.) The Taj Mahal charges a hefty Rs.750 (US $15) entry fee, which we actually had to go a whole kilometer down the road to buy, since they don’t sell them at the east gate. The ticket came with a free bottle of water and free shoe covers, though, which are two of the handful of items that are allowed to be brought into the grounds. The official word is that you’re only allowed to bring a small bag, camera, money, and mobile as long as it’s switched off, and you’re definitely not allowed to bring in pens or tripods.
This is due to the depressing habit of defacing historical monuments that people seem to have here. At every site we’ve gone to, popular or not, from the Hawa Mahal in Jaipur to the zoo in Delhi, there is graffiti written or scratched into the walls, red paan spat into corners and in corridors, and even sometimes shit and piss stains in dark corners. From what I’ve heard, the blame is often placed on the Western tourists; however, the graffiti tends to read “Ravi from Bihar,” “Mehra loves Sunita,” or is written in Hindi, and I don’t know any Westerners who chew paan. It’s both sad and frustrating to come to these places and see how little respect people have for them. I personally can’t imagine going to a beautiful and ancient building and wanting to carve my name into it, either at home or abroad.
Even on the Taj Mahal, India’s crown jewel of historical sites, which also happens to be a mausoleum, there were names written in ink on the white marble walls. All it seems that can be done to prevent further damage is to restrict what is brought in and by placing guards who search and inspect each and every tourist as they enter the gates. What these places also need are guards throughout the grounds, as well as restoration of areas that have been destroyed. It’s my understanding, though, that there just isn’t the money to implement those sorts of measures, partly due to a lack of funds and partly due to corruption within the organizations that are in charge of taking care of India’s historical sites.
I wonder, though, about the general disrespect that seems to be shown toward these places. Are people so detached from their own history that they can justify leaving marks or poorly treating their monuments?
We spent the morning exploring the Taj and its grounds. A haze of smog sat over the city that morning (except for a ten-minute period when it briefly burned off), making it not so great for taking photos. But after seeing its image practically everywhere for years, from the internet to posters, I was actually not particularly moved by it. Yes, it’s a beautiful building, and I admire the amount of work that was put into creating a memorial for a loved one. I was expecting to be blown away, though, and I wasn’t. I think perhaps that I’m less impressed by the big (literal and figurative), famous, man-made must-sees. When I was in Paris nine years ago, I saw the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, surrounded by tourists taking its photo, and I just moved on, thinking, “It’s really small.”
Maybe that’s the attitude that the people take when they graffiti on the Taj Mahal. Maybe they think, “What’s the big deal?”
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