Falling for Pune

We have only been in India a long week now, and I am already drastically behind on our adventures. So, I have decided to abandon the chronology for now and record the more recent events while they are savory and fresh. With any luck, we will persevere and fill in the gaps later. I think traveling is much this way, patchwork memories clumsy sewn together.

Our first day in Pune I spend laboriously washing our dirty clothes, cleaning up our hotel room which Matt and I had utterly trashed in minutes upon arrival in a half delirious attempt to find something or other. The rest of the day was sleeping and watching 70s themed Baliwood movies in Hindi on the TV until Matt came home. It was not really until day 2, Pune that I really branched out and started to explore. After Delhi we had gleaned some insight and I wanted to start at the shallows and wade in.  It was not long, however, before I realized that Delhi is the Gary, IN to Pune's, Chicago... ostensibly, worlds apart. Pune is clean (relatively speaking) and charming. The streets have the same brashy driving, but there is a grace to it here. Pared with sidewalks, more westerners, and large, bushy trees everywhere, Pune is without question a rival for the most pleasant place I have ever been.

As advised, I started my adventures in Koregan Park, which is the most affluent, westernized and exciting part of Pune. In the early 60s Osho Ashram, located on the edge of Koregan park was founded by ____. With courses like "taste of your inner chocolate" it quickly became a pilgrimage for hippie westerners and European exoticness. Over the course of twenty years, the economy around Koregan Park grew and diversified as a result of the Ashram, but in the late 70s roomers of oddities surrounding the Ashram pushed it's founder to travel to the US where he founded a second Ashram. This new location blossomed as well until it was shut down for tax evasion, racqueteering and suspicion of prostitution, and the leader quickly fled to Switzerland where he died in exile in the late 80s. Anymore the scandal has very little to do with Koregan Park, but as I walk about the dusty streets I like to think of the overarching impact one crazy little man can have on a community. That thought is of-course dwarfed by the dominant presence of American memorabilia colorfully advertised in the boutiques and shopping plazas. Especially here in Pune, Indians drink up anything American like a dehydrated sponge; except for me, they largely leave me alone. Pune Indians want to be Americans not know Americans. They don't want to not know you either. I am simply offered goods, nodded to as I pass by and occasionally touched on the head followed always by either the phrase, "gold," or "sun gold."  In the four days I have been in Pune, my affection for this city spreads wider and wider. I think, unlike anywhere else I have been, this place suites me most of all.

It is busy, bustling and hectic. I relish in the communal intimacy that you get only in large metropolitans like New York and London. Here, I am one little lost bee. I sit at my cafe, walk along my streets, an undisturbed part of the buzzing, building hive. Unlike other cities, Pune has the softness of a Caribbean cabana shack left to age out in the sun. The city is breezy and old, the once brightly colored buildings antiqued with a think layer of dust. Women in vibrant colored silks and men in 1970s style tight shirts and thin cut pants decorate the streets and window sills. For how dense the population, there seems to be a one to one scooter/person ratio, and you are at liberty to park them wherever this is a blank space. Here all the cars, streets, and shops, are either well worked, well loved, or pulled together with what was at hand as best it could be. The effect is like living inside a vintage photo album.

Nature is also allowed to run wild here. Pune does not have the gaping-mouthed-hollowed-out corners of Delhi or Agra. Here the jungle presence is just that: present. In Agra there were monkeys galore, with plump little bellies from community feeding as a tribute to the monkey god, Honuman, god of power. Here in Pune it is mostly hawlks and cows which roam, roost and feed as they please. One of the few things I did know about India before we traveled here was the presence of the holy cow. The difference between knowing and experiencing should never be underestimated. I am still enjoying the presence of cows. They show up unexpectedly like pop up adds on a browser. One minute your going about your daily business and the next, "pop!"--- cow. I sat in a coffee shop yesterday and watched a bustling intersection at the corner of North Main St. and Mahatma Gandhi St. flail about in ciaos as three big sows chewed on a ruck sac they had absconded from a neighboring shop. Not more than an hour later I was exiting the loft of a carpet dealers shop while searching for gifts and turned to face the rear end of a cow who had wondered into the covered bazaar of the market. A group of men were trying to lour the confused beast out with food while sari clad women shooed it from behind with reed brooms. 

  

A huge tree outside of Osho Ashram. These huge trees are called batas by the locals and each have a numbered plate on them. Technically, they are protected but are unfortunately are often sick due to drunken locals urinating on them.

Cow in the road at M.G. St. 

MG street view

On The Road to Agra: 2

After a few hours at the Taj, even the most romantic place on earth, when jammed pack with thousand, plus tourists can start to be pretty ripe. At this point Matt and I were scrapping the bellies of our stamina gas tanks and were eager to deposit ourselves back into Lucky's care. He and our guide, who also seemed to have tired of methodically chain smoking in the car, were eager to hit the road, so once again we piled in and pedal to the floor began white knuckle racing though Agra to the highway. By now, Matt and I were fairly certain our driver was not actually going to kill anyone, including ourselves, so with windows shut, Lucky's snoring and the bleating of horns, we abandoned our defenses and fell deep asleep.

In what seemed like seconds, but was likely hours, I was woken with a crack outside the car window. It was the kind of awakening that feels like you are being pulled quickly up an elevator shaft, or what happens the moment you drink water, laugh too hard and know what will happen one instant before it comes out your nose. We've all had it, but never get accustomed to it. What had happened, was the sun had set and the car had stopped. Lucky had mentioned a few time in passing he wanted to take us to an Indian temple between Agra and Delhi, but in the 24 hours we had known Lucky he had mentioned a lot, a lot, a lot of things and we were beginning to ignore his "insights to the city" as basic money laundering via the bank of Meg and Matt inc. I had forgotten the temple entirely until we were being ushered from the car on the side of the highway. My contact had gotten sticky in my eye, so I was more than regular fumbly and did not see the mess of cow poo I managed to step in as we were instructed to take off our shoes and check them through a small slot in a grated wrought iron fence. I know it was cow poo because the transaction went like this...

Step one: fumble with contact. Step two: Lucky waggles at my feet, "shoes off, shoes off now, now, now, now!" Step three: step in poo. What kind of poo? Step four: turn head right, see cow 10'' away, remember thinking: "Oh, good, it's only a cow it's not going to eat me." Then thinking,  "I'm a little out of it, I could use a bed." I took a few seconds, wiped my foot off as best I could and bought three rope garlands of tied rose buds. Lucky took off toward the temple, and as well, Lucky-ish as he had been, he was the only one we knew, so it was a simple choice--- follow Lucky. We stepped inside the temple and suddenly it was----- illuminated.

The temple was one big room with a sunken middle floor and simple verandas around the sides. There was a low gated altar at the front and painted statuines of gods and goddesses adorned in garlands and images of  what I took to be as gurus framed at there feet. This temple was lively, and in a way jubilant. I have been to many religious ceremonies in the past. I appreciate ritual, I respect reverence, I am intrigued by culture. I do not share in spiritual comrodiary though, I don't feel it in ceremonies and in life, I rarely have. This temple was had the celebratory atmosphere of a wedding reception, without the drunken karaoke. There was no real sense of structure, or formula in the place. Some persons were praying and bowing, others sitting and chatting and hugging on the floor. Most were gathered toward the front of the altar clapping in time to the members who were dancing and singing light, fun mantras. Lucky worked his way to the front with us in toe and handed our garlands to a young man who dipped them in holy water, placed one half on the altar and handed one half back to us. He gave us each a small singular flower that looks like a marigold, but wasn't. Lucky touched his to his forehead and prayed. Matt and I followed the way children mimic adults, in naive, eager to please gestures that miss the significance but attempt to participate.

Lucky, who to now had been, "very nice this," and "you go to here, you'll like my store, my hotel, my...." was radiant. Big toothy smiles, clapping and kind. He was proud to bring us here and we stood in the crowd and no one starred, they just let us be. Two circles of young boys were dancing, one inside the other.  One of the young priests(?) grabbed Matt's hand and pulled him into the circle. Matt, being a pillar to the concept of "a good sport" did a great job of keeping up with the dancing, and even made a keen effort to attempt the "hands held two people spinning around as fast as you can" part. We were both having a blast, but tired down to our marrow when we waddled out about 20 minutes later, checked our shoes, and skipped back into the car. At this point Lucky was much more invigorated and told us all about his wife, his little daughter, "Nikki," his "princess of perfection." He talked about India with pride for having a developing middle class, that his daughter will be educated, that he has worked his whole life to succeed, he believes in dreams, in work, in survival. He boasts that in the last ten years India is gaining everything America has. He has been to many night clubs. He knows how to pick a nice leather couch. He was going to give his garlands to his wife, who loves roses and likes to scrap book dried petals. He likes us for wanting to see the "real India," and for being so polite to everyone no matter what the class. He has traveled the pilgrims path of 600k walk, fasting and carrying sacred water from the Ganges six times in his life. He wants to be facebook friends and told us about his family in Rajistan.

Half an hour after that, we pulled up to a road side eatery and Lucky got us some beers and roasted chicken. Here he was back to overcharging us for food, trying to pressure us into booking hotels for the rest of our stay in India. We have sense decided that we are glad to have met Lucky. I think more than just a character, he is a portrait of developing India.

On The Road to Agra: 1

It's evening time here in Pune and I can hear the city tucking in for the night.  At the hight of noon any Pune street is indistinguishable from the ciaos of ethnic quarters in Brooklyn, or South Boston. Unlike the noisy metropolious of East Coast America, around the stroke of 10 pm, Pune begins to drift off into silky shadows, and the song of honking cabby's is replaced by the cool cooing of undefinable jungle sounds.

Right now, I'm sitting in my hotel waiting for Matt to come home. I've decided to let him describe Agra, the Taj and our trip between them for now. Delhi is already starting to feel like weeks ago. I will say this, for all the pomp and circumstance the Taj receives, after seeing it, one is not left wanting. In my limited experiences, I have found, there a few places in the world that transcend even the most notorious "tourist traps" and are, without exaggeration simply awing. It is a testament to elegance, and I say this without any hint of cynicism or  sarcasm, to romance. I believe that it would not matter if one had heard every tale of love, devotion, beauty and extravagance of a king for his queen, or conversely if one stumbled into the Taj never knowing of it's existence, the effect would be the same. If you have ever been in love, then you would recognize it like a familiar friend. The Taj is the tomb of a meloncolly lover. It is a physical embodiment of all the things you wish you knew how to say, and a reminder to how devastated you would be if you lost who you cared for most in the world. Amidst the many thousands of travelers, inside the Taj, I felt private and moved.

Feb. 2, 2011 Dehli

This is the first time I have had a decent chance to journal over the six days we have been in India. Delhi was a cyclone of activity and it has taken the course of three days in Pune to get my sea legs assured and my mind calmed.

Where to begin... after a whirlwind flight from O'Hare to Zurich, we boarded a flight to Delhi and 24 travel hours later, disoriented and tired we arrived. Customs was a breeze, but the moment we stepped down on Indian soil, I was hit by the all encompassing intensity of Delhi. The word for Delhi is density. The air, the sounds, textures, movements, all swim together like a thickly woven dream. A deep breath in is somewhere between air and water but not fog. It is the same sensation of going though an undisturbed attic; thick, dense,  morbidly still and wrapped in the odor of hundreds of years of other lives. To associate it with a bouquet--- it is pungent and hot like a clammy mouth. It smells of  stale soot, tar and there is an undefinable sick-sweetness to it, like an old wine set out on the counter, or used pipe tobacco.

In Delhi we met up with a tour guide self name "Lucky," who bustled us everywhere, took advantage of our good natures and milked our wallets. From Lucky we have learned many things about India, foremost of which is this: in Zurich, everyone thought I looked German or French, but here in India, Matt and I just look like money.

As I have mentioned the smog that hung like low descending clouds in the air was disorienting. Mixed with the fact that Delhi is as much alive and animated during the night as the day, but far more ominiousing, Matt and I were overwhelmed. Lucky "drove" us though the city with the passion of an angry violin soloist, weaving though  cars, pedestrians, cows, small fires littering the streets, at full speed, without regard lanes, signs or signals like threading a needle. Later, in thinking about Delhi,  I decided it is a city of 3/4s. Buildings are three quarters built, three walls and a roof, one roof and two walls, all walls, all windows, no roof, no stairs. Large construction projects half finished and left with re-bar extending like angry fingers into the air, twisted and aged from weather and time. Totally finished buildings with an undefinable marking where living indoors and living outdoors begin and end. During the day, this existence has a quiet patterning to it. You can bathe on the street, pee on the street and pray on the street. You can cook and clean and sell inside or out. The concept of your property, my home, now sidewalk, now street, now park doesn't exist here. In the day, it has an elegance, a sense of intimacy with those around you, good, bad and indifferent.

During the night, on our arrival, it was different. I learned later that it is common to gather up the trash around where you are standing a make a little fire. Mostly men do this while they are selling food to travelers on the side of the road, preparing for bed on the sidewalk, or waiting outside of a temple. I am not accustomed to small fires in cities, fires of any shape and size, and the tiny flames sent bouncing shadows across the open walls, the undefined curtained spaces and racing vehicles. Lucky was unable to find our hotel, either as a lie or for lack of trying, and in our exhaustion, we were unable to care. Lucky rushed us off to his personal hotel, and after meager protest, at 4am local time, we fell exhausted into our bed. I believe we were safe the whole time, just out of our depths.

Four comatose hours later, we woke and crossed the street for breakfast on the roof of the neighboring hotel which was actually Lucky's hotel, but had been full the night before. In the day, Delhi is vibrant and boisterous. We sat at a little hotel restaurant in lawn chairs and ate fried flat bread with potato and pea curry dish. I remember looking out over the city and pointing to what I thought was a huge bird sitting on a building further away. If I had to guess I would have said, size: large hawk, look: crow. As we were leaving I saw the man from the concierge desk walk out onto the balcony with the bird. I realized that the patio "across the way" was the building next door which we had just left. The density of the air screens all sense of dimension, adds a fake optical illusion to everything. Finding your bearings for distance and elevation is entirely determinate on where you are inside the cloud.

 When Lucky came to join us in the morning we haggled our pricing to go to Agra to see the Taj Majal, but as we were low on time, Lucky had the upper hand and new it. We wound up renting Lucky's car and he along with a driver whipped us off to Agra.

That is all I have time to post for the moment. I am headed off to meet some new friends I have met for lunch. Currently, I am sitting on the deck of our lovely hotel in Pune, looking over the city. It's clean and European, and spa like. I am sitting on under the awning on the left hand side, not the right side of the pool because the right side "has an eagle problem." It is the nuances like this that are making me fall in love with India.

 

 Looking down the street in Agra

A seek and military band at "The Gateway of India," Delhi. Notice the mix of Indian and British influences in the dress.

Feb. 2, 2011, Meg's P.S.

Greetings All,
In Matt's last post he made a caveat with regards to this blog serving a double purpose as online journal and community sharing. I would like to add with a smile the same caveat with an emphasis on patience as I attempt to describe all that we are seeing and experiencing here. Attempting to describe India is like dressing in the dark, you understand the concept of what you are doing, foot in pant leg, one then the next, buttons up the shirt to the top, but you lack the coordination of full sight. Your buttons are askew, your shirt tucked in crooked. Understanding India is much the same. Textures, smells, sounds are concepts I understand, but the subtle differences, the overarching atmosphere is at once all encompassing and impossible to articulate. So, thank you for your patience, and feel free to glaze though my ramblings. Also, I am a terrible speller, so... no judging. :)

P.S.

I think this blog will end up being half communication medium, half travel journal for myself. So everyone else might have to suffer through long winded posts of me recording my thoughts for posterity.

Starting from the Beginning

Our experience waiting at the gate in Chicago can be summed up by saying that Meg found out she loves the bridge building game on my phone. Two hours of civil engineering later and we're getting on our flight.

As for the flight to Zurich, that can summed up by saying that Swiss Air is totally great.

Seriously, 8 hours was easy. Snacks, meals, hot towels, comfy seats and built-in screens on the seat backs. It's what I remember flying being like from my childhood, before the airlines were charging you for everything and squishing more and more rows in. We watched TV shows, played chess. That damn chair was a chessmaster or something, although you can also play other people on the plane. Hell, at least half the time I wasn't sleeping I was just watching the plane icon on the flight status channel fly over the map and saying things like "wow! it's -54 degrees Celsius outside the plane!". Painless flight, or maybe I'm just easily amused.

Zurich airport was pretty cool, free magazines at least. We got some waters and watched the other tourists from all over the world mill about (only because my phone was dead from too much bridge building).

The flight from Zurich to Delhi was pretty much the same as the one before, except for the dude sitting behind us. He was drunk when he got on the plane, but by 4 hours in he was loudly singing in Hindi, and being amazingly annoying. I swatted his arm away from resting on the back of my seat, but there wasn't much to do about the loud outbursts. The stewardess cut him off long before we landed.

We don't have any pictures of the Indira Gandhi International airport in Delhi, but immigration was fast, and customs was non-existent. The guy, despite checking bags and taking forms for the four groups in front of us, just smiled as we walked by.

It was around 1 am local time, but the airport was still packed, and all the duty free shops and restaurants were still open. Drunk dude followed us for a bit, still being annoying, but eventually his friends dragged him away.

We quickly collected our bags, and headed outside into the "fog" (acid fog? terrible smog?) looking for a cab, and looking forward to crashing. That's about when our Delhi "adventure" began.