Geographic Alliance of Iowa Geographic Alliance of Iowa
Introducing Our Group
Back row: Dinesh Baloni (India Tour Guide, Indebo Travel Agency, Delhi, India), Dan Walsh, Steven Oaks, George Kuhter, Rex Honey, and Devendra singh (Professor at Patna Univeristy in India)Middle Row: Lavonne Christianson, Kathy Sundstedt, Natasha Cooper, Luke Juran, Kim Daughetee, Anne Hoeper, and Kelly Block Davidson
Front Row: Kay Weller, Ramesh Dhussa, Tami Huegel, Chris Joslin
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Traveling is often an adventure and overseas travel can be even more so. Full of excitement and anticipation of the unknown, our group left for India at 10:30 am on Tuesday, July 15. We finally arrived in India at 6:40 a.m. on Thursday, July 17. What should have been a lengthy international journey became a travel marathon.
The second leg of our journey was an uneventful eight-hour flight from Minneapolis to Amsterdam. In Amsterdam, Chris, Kathy, and I took advantage of a five-hour layover to train to Leyden for a morning walking tour of Leyden, where the Pilgrims gathered before coming to America.
Upon returning to the airport, we learned our flight had been overbooked. Enticed by the promise of $300 in Euros or a $450 Euro travel voucher, the group decided to delay our departure to Delhi by two hours. Unfortunately, KLM did not honor their cash offer. Our delayed departure was delayed another two hours when the plane’s air conditioning malfunctioned. The new flight was not a direct connection: we would stop in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, en route to Delhi. We can all say we’ve been there, but we have no passport stamps to prove it. Dubai’s beautiful new airport was underground. It was cooler than the 100 F (40 degrees Celsius) outside. We had our first encounter with the clearly labeled “Lady Frisking Room” In Dubai. Despite our delay out of Amsterdam, Air India kindly waited for us.
After a three and a half hour flight, we arrived in Delhi, India, at 6:40 Thursday morning. Our bags took our original flight, and were put in Delhi’s “lost luggage” area. The bags waited another four hours, despite the fact that we could see them in a back room. We all have been frustrated by the inefficiency of our government’s bureaucracy, but it is nothing compared to foreign bureaucracy. First we signed and handed in our luggage claims and received a ticket. Airport staff checked our tickets against those in their books. Next, we filled out misplaced luggage forms, but only after airport staff went off to copy new forms. They had run out! Finally, we headed towards check out only to be rerouted. Our bags needed to be X-rayed again. Staff then had to sign our papers and directed us to another line so we could be told everything was “okay”. After endless hours of travel, we had finally arrived; we were exhausted and frustrated, but we were in India.
At last, we were greeted with garlands of marigolds by Professor Singh and by our tour guide from Indebo, Inc., Denish Baloni. We loaded our luggage into the bus and headed to the hotel for lunch. As we walked into the hotel, the Christmas tunes of Kenny G wafted through the lobby. The elevators, lobby, and halls were decked with “Joy to the World” and “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”. Christmas music in India in July wasn’t the only thing that made the “Kenny G” hotel memorable. Our bathroom floors regularly flooded after a shower, and this hotel, like many others we stayed at, was under construction.
After all our travel, we began this first day in India by taking a pedal rickshaw to the historic Red Fort, Shah Jahan’s elegant citadel of red sandstone built in the 17th century. Next we visited the Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India. Before entering we took off our shoes, and our men wearing shorts wrapped a long cloth around their legs. It seemed to some of us, that the women of our group were the subject of sexual comments made by other men at the mosque.
As we left the mosque, several women with their babies were begging and grabbing us. The begging in India was worse and more aggressive than anywhere else I have visited. Also disturbing was the evident poverty, streets littered with garbage, and choking air pollution.
Near sundown, we went to a boarding school inspired by Gandhi’s philosophy of social equality. The school provides the children of Harijan, or Outcastes, an opportunity for a formal education. We took off our shoes before entering the open-air school temple where students led a prayer chant for us. Asking the students what we should tell our students in America about India, they told us to share the nonviolent message of Gandhi. After a “day” that was actually three days long, we returned to the “Kenny G” for supper and sleep!
Friday,
July 18, 2003 Delhi
Natasha Cooper
We woke up at 7:30 a.m. I was still very tired. After breakfast, we were off to the National Institute of Urban Affairs where Professor Vinode Tewari talked about the issues facing India today. The lecture was followed by a traditional Indian buffet. Dessert looked like a small, thin fried pretzel but tasted like a funnel cake. There were also donut holes, but they were ten times sweeter than our donuts.
After lunch Kathy and I had a bit of a scare. We had gone to the restroom only to find when we came out that everyone had left. Unfortunately, we couldn’t remember where we had come in. We finally exited the building and walked down a street looking for our bus. Vehicles were everywhere, but we could not find our bus. I felt confident the group wouldn’t leave without us, but relieved when Kay found us. Our bus was parked four blocks away!
We took a city tour of Delhi by bus so photo opportunities were limited. We went by the president’s home, the largest presidential palace in the world. Next we went to the Tomb of Humayun, the precursor to the Taj Mahal, which is made of red sandstone and white marble. We climbed steep stairs. At the top we could look down to the gate and gardens. The Tomb of Humayun was very beautiful, and I began to realize all of India’s rich history.
We went to a government store to buy clothing. Government stores offer quality goods but at prices significantly higher than on the street. Clerks serve tea and soft drinks, and restrooms are clean. Guides receive a percentage of sales from tourists they bring into the stores. I bought a beautiful orange and green silk sari for about $85 and two pillowcases for $44. The exchange was about 1 to 45. The lady helping me with the sari told me that since I was “chubby” silk would look and drape better than cotton. Everyone in the group told me it looked nice on me so I bought it even though the color and cost made me unsure. In the end, I was so glad I bought it because of the quality. After we left, many men sold us postcards through the bus windows. The joke about “Wal-Mart coming to us through the bus window” proved as true as here as in Nigeria four years ago.
Next, we went to the Qutab Minar, “The Tower of Victory” built in the 12th century by Qutabuddin Aibak. On the tower one sees both Hindu and Muslim designs. The Hindu markings were there first. When Islam spread to India, Hindu monuments were altered because Islam forbids carvings of living images. This ancient alteration actually continues to offend many Hindus.
We returned to the “Kenny G Hotel” (The Qutab), ate supper, and listened to three professors talk about religion and the regions of India. Many of us were very tired and had trouble staying awake. Later, Ramesh told us that he questioned some of the things the professors had told us.
India’s diversity can be seen in its historical buildings and monuments, the people, and religions. It is a place of vast differences between the rich and the poor.
Saturday,
July 19, 2003 Delhi
to Agra, Uttar Pradesh
George Kuhter
After two very interesting days, we left Delhi for probably the most anticipated sight in India, the Taj Mahal. The trip went smoothly until the bus caught on fire and we had to get off. That is when we became the oddity in town. Many came to see the “white folk’ standing by the side of the road. The snake charmers made things more interesting until they were told to go away. I thought Tami and Kay would have killed them if they came any closer. (Holy International Incident, Batman!) Once the fire was put out, we were back on the bus. The trip was uneventful until we reached the hotel.
After a chance to clean up and a great meal at the hotel, we left for Agra Fort, a red sandstone fortress protecting palaces and mosques. It was built by three great Mughal emperors starting with Akbar the Great in 1565. The marble of the Musamman Burj (the Octagonal Tower) is adorned with inlaid colored stones. Originally they were semi-precious gems. At a government store, we learned that marble inlay work is still a lively art form. Here, Shah Jahan was imprisoned by his son Aurang Zeb, for lavishing too much money on the Taj, his wife’s burial chamber. For seven years, Shah Jahan lived and finally died with a clear view of the Taj Mahal. From Agra Fort, it is impossible to miss the Taj. The view is absolutely incredible.
We traveled next to the Taj. The building itself is breathtaking. Its majesty is so incredible that the experience is difficult to explain. We saw the tombs of the queen and Shah Jahan, and at sunset were left to explore the Taj by ourselves. The feel of the warm marble, to see the design of the building and grounds make me know why it’s a Wonder of the World and a UNESCO World Heritage site. To finally see this building after spending so many years staring at it in pictures, brought to mind Steve’s frequent exclamation: “Damn, we’re in India!”
After the tour and some convincing, a few of us went swimming! It felt great and afterwards, what else? Pizza from Pizza Hut! This was probably the best day so far! Kay and Tami are still afraid of snakes, even wooden cobras.
We left Agra for the city of Fatehpur Sikri. There we visited Akbar the Great’s palace, built in 1569. After seeing the living quarters of the emperor and his three wives, where the emperor housed his high priest and prayed, we visited the shrine and mosque in the compound. It is believed that Akbar’s prayers to Allah helped his wife conceive a son. Inside the shrine, we were encouraged to tie a knot on a metal window screen and to make a wish. I wonder how many of our wishes will come true.
After another long bus ride through increasingly arid land, we left the main highway and switched to camel carts. We were welcomed to the hilltop Bhadrawati Palace by dancing and singing musicians. It was really cool to be staying in a palace. As princes have lost power and privilege in the newly democratic India, many have looked for a way to keep their palaces. Converting them to host tourists is one way for owners to earn income and maintain their many palaces.
After lunch and dancing during incredible heat, the monsoon started and the fun began. When the rains finally arrive each year, it is quite a celebration. Some of us went into the courtyard in bathing suits to experience the cleansing effects of the rain. Some watched, and others wondered what was going on outside the palace gates.
The rains bring great relief. Outside the gates, people celebrated as we did, not minding that the rain was causing some flooding. The palace manager told us that the local reservoir, seen from atop the palace roof, was also owned by the prince (raj). Building this reservoir gave him power in times past. Still today, the villagers welcomed the rain, because it meant water for crops in this semi-desert land.
After dinner, the Rajasthani dancers again entertained us with music, dance, and a puppet show. After four days in the country and much fun we have had, the fact that we are in India is beginning to sink in. “Damn, we’re in India!”
I woke up this morning at the Bhadrawati Palace to the loud call of peacocks, India’s national bird. Unfortunately, I also awoke with a killer headache and an incredible thirst. Yesterday, it seemed particularly hot and I sweated a lot. I probably danced too much last night and did not consume enough water.
Our guides took us to the J. Kherli Dhussa public school this morning. Many students attend private schools if they can afford to. Even though public school classes are larger and supplies are fewer, rural students faced intense competition to attend this particular public school. Students whose families can afford attend private schools.
As we walked up the path to the school, we encountered several cows. The principal greeted us at the door and led us to his office. He waited for the air conditioner to kick in before he started. Because of electrical rationing in India, air conditioning does not come on until a certain time. I’m sure this was done for our benefit, but after nearly a week in India, most of us are adjusting to the heat. Once the air kicked in, I had a hard time understanding him. It was not his accent, but the loudness of the air conditioner and nearby conversations. Next we went to a large meeting to talk to some teachers. Since most of the students were taking tests, only two teachers could meet us. Once again, it was difficult to hear them. I felt sorry for them as I believe our visit was rather last minute.
Next, several of us were escorted to a sixth grade classroom. The school term had just started and only a few students had uniforms. The boys sat on the left side of the room and the girls on the right. Ramesh served as our interpreter. We had hoped to complete individual interviews, but time and language constraints lead us to class discussions. One young man spoke very good English and seemed like the guy in class with all of the answers. We’ve all had kids like him in class.
We asked about their goals. Several students answered with their career choices -- scientist, Indian Police Service, and doctor. One student wanted to be and railway worker so he could travel a lot. In their spare time, students said they liked to read, draw, and play cricket. They hoped we would share with our students that India is a friendly and religious country. One thing I found sad was that one young boy stated he would like to send missiles to the United States to help protect us from our many enemies. Sad, but true.
We got back on the bus and headed for Jaipur, the Pink City and capital of Rajasthan. Many of the buildings are made of red sandstone. The area appears a shade of pink, a color associated with luck (auspiciousness) and hospitality. It is rather rainy here and my headache and thirst are really getting to me. Our first visit was to the City Palace, a place I had looked forward to seeing. I guess my mood and the rain may have ruined a bit of it for me. Our guide seemed to go so fast, and I was unable to get the photos I wanted. While fascinating, the inside of the museum was hot and we were not allowed to take pictures.
Next we went to another government shop. They are allegedly a better place to shop because there is a guarantee of quality. However, I found the clerks to be pushy and somewhat rude. Our guide at the shop was all of that and more. He made me think of those machismo men in movies who marry American woman and then kidnap their children back to the Middle East. But he did show us some interesting block printing methods and some gorgeous rugs made from camel hair. We were able to see craftspeople making the products.
Led into the shopping area, my head was still pounding and after the long demonstration, my patience was running thin. I made up my mind I wouldn’t let the aggressive salespeople get to me; I would look at my leisure and not allow them to hassle me. So much for planning. Several salesmen immediately accosted me. After repeated demands to be left alone, one rudely retorted, “Then why are you here?” That hit the wrong chord with me and I replied, “I guess because the bus stopped here!”
I left the shop angry and upset. Not only was I offended that I had been spoken to rudely, but I was also struggling with this portion of Indian culture and my non-acceptance of it. Ramesh told me a story of a friend of his who had come to the United States and found shopping in the U.S. frustrating. He wondered how U.S. stores ever made money since they simply left customers alone to roam the stores. Until today, I would have insisted that Americans do not like to be hassled or disrupted while shopping. I guess I would have been very wrong. The people that I am with do not seem to be bothered by it at all. In fact, many of them seem to enjoy it.
I wish had been better prepared for this part. As a person who has not traveled internationally, shopping has been a culture shock. My only hope now is to avoid it like the plague or get over it now. I’m not sure what I will do. Overall, I have felt harassed – beggars and street vendors – how much of this can I really take?
To top off this “wonderful day,” people from the government shop came to our hotel. Several of our group had tailors make them outfits. The clothes were beautiful. Natasha inquired about having a blouse made to match her sari. The man kept changing his mind about the price and skirted around everything she asked him. Once again, I find myself incredibly upset. Where is this friendly India? Why do I feel cheated and lied to all the time?
Tuesday,
July 22 Jaipur,
Rajasthan
Kelly Block Davidson
Today we left for the Amber Fort. I was so excited to ride the elephant up to the fort. Unfortunately, I saw this as yet another case of animal cruelty. We rode the elephants in groups of four. I rode with Tami, Steve, and Lavonne. Our elephant driver, who sat at the elephant’s neck, used two tools to jab the elephant behind the ears. He actually tried to sell the tools as wall hangings and denied poking the elephant with them. Regardless of his claims, I witnessed his actions and the punctured, scabby skin behind the elephant’s ears.
Once at the top of the hill, Devendra, our in-country professor, fed his boxed breakfast to the elephants. I had to chuckle, as he appeared rather afraid of the elephants. If only he knew; it’s the elephant drivers you need to fear. He allowed me to feed them some fruit and bread. After the cruelty I witnessed, I felt a bit better giving the elephants something to eat.
As we left the fort, all of us were nearly attacked by hawkers selling photographs of us on the elephants. I really did want a picture, so I stopped to purchase one. Immediately, approximately six young hawkers surrounded me. Again I lost it. As I spouted off to these boys, they apologized, yet continued to hassle me to purchase their goods. Thankfully Natasha and Rex came to my rescue. The whole situation made me cry. Again, I want to see the friendly India. Where is it?
Later we traveled to a government-run jewelry store. I chose not to enter since yesterday had been such a bad experience for me. It gave me some time to talk with our bus boy. He is training under the bus driver and his tasks include washing the bus, helping the driver maneuver traffic and sharp turns, and helping guests on and off the bus. I don’t think any of we women are complaining when he holds our hand when we get on and off the bus as he is very handsome. He is getting married in December. His long absences from Delhi have caused “many fights”, yet he is excited to begin his life with his fiancée.
Dinesh asked me if he could please call the owner of the shop we visited yesterday. I guess he could tell that I had really had it or lost it – depends on how you want to look at it. At first I was hesitant. I did not want to re-enter that shop. Eventually, I gave in. The owner did have the right to know what had happened and perhaps it would make me feel a little bit better. The shop owner came onto our bus to talk with me. He was very sincere, and I would be lying if I did not admit my shock. He was the man who had taken me back to the hotel from the shop yesterday. I had thought he was simply a fancy cab driver. It made me wonder what, if anything, I had said in the car. Anyway, he apologized and admitted that his workers were uneducated and did not read body language well. He kept saying that he would take them for a ride. I have no idea what that means.
Later we went to an Indian restaurant. The food was good and a musician played traditional music for us. It was a nice way to relax after another stressful day. I was surprised when the shop owner came into the restaurant. He came to me to apologize again. He then gave me a gift, Indian pajamas. I could not even open the package. Here is the friendly India. Here I have found the people who care. I was in awe but also slightly embarrassed.
Outside the restaurant was a tandoori oven, and several of us were allowed to make the flat tandoori bread. A cook showed me how to work the dough and then how to stick it to the inside of the tandoori oven. Ouch – it is hot in there! I was so stuffed from my afternoon meal that I could not eat my bread. Devendra suggested feeding it to a cow on the street, which I did. I guess that guy is always thinking about the animals. Perhaps that is why we seem to get along so well.
Back at our hotel, with a beautiful waterfall in the lobby, I took time to relax. The pool, workout room, and spa have separate hours for men and women. I opted for the full body, face and head massage, which was only $8. The masseuse gave me a thin scarf to cover up with. The room was darkened, but had no relaxing music like my massage therapist plays back in Iowa. The oil she used smelled like something used in cooking. I was never able to place it. The rub down felt great. It was just what I needed to melt away all the negative feelings.
In the evening, we left for a local movie theater. The building was gorgeous and I was happy to find that they sold pop and popcorn. A whole variety of foods were sold; it looked as if you could have an entire dinner there. Tickets were sold with assigned seats. I attempted to take a photograph of the lobby and was yelled at by a guard. Devendra was there to save me. I’m pretty sure the guard wanted to take my camera, but Devendra led me into the theater and all was okay.
The movie was Main Prem Ki Diwanee Hun, which translates as “I Have a Crush on Prem.” Prem actually has two meanings: it can be the name of a person, or the word ‘love’. It is the story of two men named Prem who fall in love with the same woman. One Prem is an imposter and until the very end, we did not find out which one she truly loved. Overall, it was a little corny, but fun and interesting-- a unique Indian experience. India is appearing friendlier all the time.
Wednesday,
July 23
Jaipur to Mumbai, Maharashtra
Kelly Block Davidson
Well, this was my very first train ride. We were met near the bus by turbaned India Railway porters who took our bags. They carried baggage on their heads and went up and down several flights of concrete steps. I cannot imagine all that weight on your head and neck. It makes me wonder about neck and back problems in India. Do they have chiropractors?
Once on the train, we were pushed into little rooms as our baggage was loaded. It all seemed rather haphazard and took what seemed like forever. The train, except for the bathrooms, was a little cleaner than I had expected. Western and eastern toilets were provided, each with a direct hole to the tracks. The smell and dampness in them was certainly less than desirable, but hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go.
I had the opportunity to conduct an interview with Devendra. I plan on writing it up later. His life has been really fascinating. I was surprised to find out that he had an arranged marriage at the age of twelve. Initially, he had made me feel a little uncomfortable. Now, as I learn more about him, I find myself accepting him for who he is and enjoying his vast knowledge and interesting company.
He showed me where I could smoke, between the train cars. He even stood there with Natasha and me to make sure that we were safe. Before dinner, we went to smoke one more time without him. A uniformed man started talking to us, but we did not speak each other’s language. He seemed a bit drunk, but harmless. Devendra joined us and talked to the man. He later scolded me for talking to the unknown man. “If you do not know him, why entertain him with conversation?” he asked. I explained that if I never spoke to anyone I didn’t know I’d never meet new people. I felt like a child being warned about ‘stranger danger.’ He explained that the man was a Military Police Officer (MP) and that they could not always be trusted. He suspected that the man did not have good intentions.
We had peanut butter sandwiches, potato chips, cake, and bananas for dinner. George provided the peanut butter and our tour guide purchased the other stuff for us. I didn’t realize how much I had missed peanut butter – yum! Eventually, we all settled in for bed after the railway workers brought sheets and blankets. It was a rather restless night and although I did get some sleep, I was up and down all night.
Morning brought loud calls of, “Chai, chai,” up and down the aisles as tea was sold to passengers. “Hurry up and wait” seems to be the theme in India. They wanted to remove our bedding right away, so we had to shuffle around to give them plenty of room. The body odor of the boy in charge of the bedding was nearly unbearable. It is a very hot country and without access to water, showers, or bucket baths, I fear we would all have that smell. I had to feel sorry for the workers of India Railways, reputed to be the largest employer in the world. They slept on the floor in a noisy and bumpy area between two train cars near the bathrooms. Also, when I threw away some leftover potato chips, I saw a worker sneak the chips into his laundry bag. I cannot imagine being so hungry that you’d take food from the trash. Being here has made me feel so fortunate about my life. Here we see much poverty and filth. I need to be more appreciative of what I have.
Once off the train, we checked into our hotel. A shower never felt so good. I felt so grimy after the long train ride. The hotel seemed to have the warmest water, the best water pressure, and softest towels I have encountered so far. Out toilet flushes, and we even have a hair dryer in the bathroom. It looks like a mini-vacuum cleaner, but I will definitely try it out.
A billboard near our hotel says:
Blind Leads Blind
Bush Leads Blair
Those six simple words say so much and I feel as if I am among friends. I know that not everyone on our trip, let alone every American, would agree with me, but it felt good to see something that made me think of home and my own personal political ideas.
We ate dinner at Aditya Patel’s home. He is a young friend of Ramesh’s who attends Drake University. He comes home to Mumbai two times a year. His father runs the family air conditioning business and gives flight lessons using his private plane. His mother is a psychology professor and runs a private counseling practice. They own the entire18th floor of a building that has breathtaking views of Mumbai from both sides.
Each bedroom had a bathroom and regardless of their westernization, Natasha claimed they did not have toilet paper. We were served Kingfisher beer before dinner, and I was relieved when a buffet dinner was served around 10 pm as I was hungry and beginning to feel a little buzz. Dinner was topped off with a very interesting breath mint called “pan.” It tastes like black licorice, one of my favorites. It freshens the breath and serves as a digestive aid.
Thursday,
July 24 Mumbai, Maharashtra
Kathy Sundstedt
We arrived in Mumbai by train at 8 am, and after a short bus ride arrived at the hotel. I felt energized and well rested--I felt like Mother India had rocked me to a blissful sleep. Others appeared tired and less than thrilled by the overnight train. Coming into town, we followed “The Queen’s Necklace”. At night, the lights of fashionable hotels, shops, and apartments that rim the bay sparkle like jewels. We could see and smell the Indian Ocean. There were walkers, dog walkers, and even a few runners along the ocean. It reminded me of Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive.
Rex agreed to meet in the lobby for an oceanside walk, but there was a luggage delay. When I got to the lobby, I didn’t see Rex. Since I didn’t think it was appropriate to stand there in a sports bra & shorts (India is a very modest country), I hit the pavement. The doorman pointed the way to the ocean only one block away. I mentally marked my corner and took off like Pegasus. It was a great run--the smell of salt air, a breeze, and the thrill of movement after being confined in a train. Only later did I realize that I’d violated Rule #1: Never go alone. Rex had been in the lobby. He’d discovered the free Internet facilities, and we had missed each other.
After breakfast, I settled in for some reading while others went shopping. When Anne, George, Lavonne and others returned from shopping, I admit my clothing envy. Having already two salwar kameez, I decided not to buy a sari. But seeing Lavonne in her absolutely stunning teal and purple sari--well, it turned my head and cranked my soul, and it took a day or two to own my envy and deal with it.
There are reportedly 26 different ways to drape a sari, and we have been challenged to find two women in India dressed in the same sari. Clothing is more than warmth and modesty. In India, as it is anywhere in the world, clothing (and jewelry!) are statements of culture, social class, and self-expression.
Take for example what we three American women--Tami, Lavonne and I, wore one day: Tami - a pale blue T-shirt and tan pants, Lavonne – a red T-shirt and khaki pants, and me – a white T-shirt and blue pants. How blank and unadorned we must look to Indians! How do Indian women see us? Do they assume we are as ‘empty,’ as our clothing, compared to their moving rainbow-- their explosion of color, texture, and fabric?
Fifteen million people live in Mumbai, making it the largest city in India, followed closely by Kolkatta. There are over a billion people living in India today, but there were only 400 million in 1947 at independence. What changes have occurred in these 50 plus years! The film industry “Bollywood” is based here and gems, gold, and fine cars abound. The place reminds me of the Bombay described by Salmon Rushdie in “The Ground Beneath Her Feet.”
We met Freni, our young, full-bodied, Parsi tour guide. She tells stories and spouts poetry as naturally as she breathes and wears a sari. Here’s an example of how Parsis, a religious minority, came to India: When the Parsis, due to persecution in Iran, fled to India some 1,300 years ago, they asked the leader for asylum. The Indian leader replied that the city was already too full. When tea was served and the Indian leader’s cup was filled, the Parsi added spoonfuls of sugar, explaining that Parsis would be like that sugar-- that there would be room for them in the “teacup”, and that Parsis would sweeten the brew.
We visited a Jain temple and drove past the Towers of Silence where Parsis are vertically interred. Like some traditional Native American burials, a corpse is picked clean by birds. Then bones are compactly stored between layers of sand in the tower. We visited two parks before arriving at Mani Bhavan, once the home of a friend of Gandhi’s. Located in the pleasant tree-lined Malabar Hill area, Mani Bhavan is now the Gandhi museum.
Gandhi spent 17 years in this tree-shaded home, and all his earthly goods, (pictured on the back cover of Louis Fisher’s biography of Gandhi) are enshrined behind Plexiglas. Dioramas tell the story of Gandhi’s life, and his words adorn the posts in the home. Scholars are at work here.
We quickly “changed channels” and spent an hour at the Prince of Wales Museum. Like spending 60 minutes at the Field Museum or Smithsonian, I found its best to select one thing. I chose the Miniatures, small, intricate paintings arranged chronologically. Each day in India is like that teacup story: More information about India will “fit.”
We returned to the hotel, showered and dressed for dinner at Aditya Patel’s parents’ home. We took tiny, kamikaze-driven taxis, and from the back of our taxi, Kay, Tami, and I laughed at the scrunched shoulders of Rex, Steve, and George in the backseat of theirs!
Aditya is a student at Drake University and a personal acquaintance of Ramesh’s. We took flowers but were showered with such generous hospitality that taking a whole flower shop would have been inadequate. It was a sumptuous dinner, resplendent with gifts of chocolate and Indian desserts.
Heady with the evening and day’s events, I needed a bit of fresh air and suggested a walk along the ocean. George obliged. The oceanfront and area around our hotel was not the same place at night as it was by day: Though brightly lit, “The Queen’s Necklace” was not glamorous. My nose told me that the city sewers had been opened to the ocean. Tent structures had popped up and sleeping street people covered even this fashionable stretch of real estate.
Saturday,
July 25
Mumbai (Elephanta)
Anne Hoeper
We bounced through choppy Arabian Sea in a small boat for about an hour until we reached the island of Elephanta. The island is 9kms from Mumbai. The air had a touch of chill and the ride proved to be refreshing. It was good to be outside and not sweltering in the heat of India.
Elephanta is the home of the cave temples that date back to the 7th century. There were sculptures of Shiva depicting various manifestations – all carved using a chisel and hammer. We had a long climb up a hill to reach the caves. The walkway and stairs were lined with vendors. As we neared the top the rains broke loose. Thank goodness this is a forested area and the canopy protected us. We waited about 15 minutes for the worse of the storm to pass before proceeding to the caves.
The area is full of wild monkeys – one even took Luke’s Mountain Dew and drank it.
We bounced back to Mumbai and got off the boat at the Gateway of India. Lunch was at a local restaurant before returning to the hotel. The afternoon was FREE! I used it as a time to catch up on my journal, packing, and resting. Some people chose to go shopping. They wanted to visit the store that George, Steve, Kim, Chris and I found yesterday. They had a great sale going on and we got some great deals. Tomorrow is an early and long day so the afternoon of relaxation was much appreciated.
In the evening our tour guide, Freny, arranged for her mom (who has authored a cookbook) and a co-worker talk with some of our group.
Saturday,
July 26 Mumbai
to Aurangabad, Maharashtra
Kathy Sundstedt
We flew from Mumbai to Aurangabad. Looking over Steve’s shoulder in the plane, it was easy to see we’d never truly experienced the maze of concrete apartment complexes and tent cities that are Mumbai, too. The flight was only 60 minutes long, but India Airlines managed to serve up newspapers, juice, breakfast, tea and candy in that short time. Maybe this is their way of compensating for intensive security, which includes a full body pat down in curtained “Frisking Rooms” for each man and woman boarding the plane.
In Aurangabad, we were greeted with temps in the low 80’s! Just as temples and forts had taken their turns on our Adventure in India, now it was “Caves R Us”. We were with a guide no one much appreciated. It could have been our fatigue, or his betel-stained teeth, or his unwillingness to interact with us, or all these things. He reminded me that a good teacher is more than a person with knowledge.
At about 2,000 feet, we were on the Deccan Plateau, the world’s largest basalt plateau. Made green with the monsoon, the contrasting black volcanic hills rise sharply. The plateau is dissected by rivers cutting deep valleys cut by rivers including the Gada, “The Ganges of the South,” the Tapti, and the Godavari, which makes its way to the Bay of Bengal.
Aurangabad had been Mughal Emperor Aurang Zeb’s capital city. Built in the densely forested area between the Silk Route and Spice Route, he hoped the strategically located capital would be better. Like many planned cities, it worked for a while.
Aurang Zeb constructed 14 impressive aqueducts, two still working. As we learned in dry Rajasthan, control of water is linked to political clout. Ramparts outline the extent of the eclectic old city, which is today an industrial hub. While only 25,000 people lived here in the 1950’s, today there are nearly two million inhabitants. It is a Buddhist pilgrimage site, but boasts 110 Muslim mosques, and a mini Taj Mahal. This mini Taj, the Bibi Ka Maqbara, is a mausoleum built by Aurang Zeb’s son as a tribute to his mother. Aurangabad is home to many colleges and 2,500 industries including breweries, motorbike, and auto rickshaw factories, extending far beyond Aurang Zeb’s ramparts.
Similar to Iowa’s precipitation, the surrounding area, gets about 30” of rain a year. This rich agricultural land produces major cash crops, cotton and sugar cane, as well as wheat, millet, sorghum, peanuts, grapes, figs, bananas, melons, cucumbers, papaya, mango, guava and more. Silk is spun with cotton in this area to make the “Hin-roo” cloth for which the area is famous.
After our first afternoon touring the city, we used Aurangabad as a base for exploring the nearby “cave temples” at Ellora and Ajanta. We saw over 40 Jain, Buddhist, and Hindu temples, which are NOT inside caves, but are temples carved into the rock hillsides. The intact temples have withstood earthquakes, pollution, and human stupidity. Like at the Taj Mahal, motor vehicles are restricted to preserve the site. Only foot traffic, electric bus, or sedan chair is allowed.
Inside one Buddhist cave, our tour guide voiced “Ohm” so well and so long that the echo filled the space with reverence. Built between 200 BC and 650 AD, Buddhist temple caves sit side by side with Jain and Hindu temples. What better metaphor for religious respect?
Our hotel, like U.S. Interstate strip development, was located in a newer “luxury hotel area” isolated from the old town. It is a “Destination Hotel” for middle and upper class week-enders from larger cities, who enjoy the pool and fitness club, sauna, steam, and massage services as well as ping pong, billiards, badminton, squash courts and a yoga room.
My roommate Anne and I have noticed the Indian custom of using mothballs in hotel rooms. We speculate that they are put in and on drains as insect deterrents. I find the odor a small irritant, but accept it. There are no five-inch millipedes lolling about the bathroom floor as I have seen in other tropical hotels.
Rex gave me a quick lesson in squash. The manager loaned us two racquets, smaller than tennis racquets and a ball about the size of a hacky sack with about as much bounce. It was great to get lost in a game, to chase a ball, to think about wrist and arm and stance, and nothing else.
The next morning I played squash with a local guy in his late 20’s. His hair was fashionably long, draped at one length over an ear. He was very skilled and taught me some basics. It seems the game combines the quickness of racquetball, the whole arm movements of tennis, and the strategies of both games. It takes only 30 minutes to drip in sweat from head to toe. After the game/lesson, I extended my thanks and hand to shake, which was accepted and accompanied by a quick peck on my salty cheek. I was stunned and reminded him I was his mother’s age!
Later we discussed this behavior with Ramesh, who said the young man had been a little bold, but not as bold as the photographer at Hanuman’s Temple in Shimla. He gave Kelly a kiss on the lips! We asked, “What if one of the men in our group kissed an Indian girl?” Ramesh answered the question with the question, “Would he want to live to return home?”
July
27, Sunday Ajanta Caves
Steve Oaks
July
28, Monday Aurangabad to Nagpur
Steve Oaks
Tuesday,
July 29, 2003 Nagpur, Maharashtra,
India
Chris Joslin
Today we packed back into the jeep caravan and headed for an ashram at Wardha. An ashram is a living and working community dedicated to simple living and spirituality. Originally, ashrams were resting and teaching places for Hindu teachers making pilgrimages to the Ganges.
Once assembled, we became aware that our director, affectionately known as “Queen Kay,” was not with us. Rex told us that she was very sick and was taking the day off. Most of us have had a day or two of the gastro-intestinal unpleasantness, and I hope that’s all that is wrong with Kay.
An older woman welcomed us to the ashram and led us to the tomb of Vinoba. Vinoba was a disciple of Gandhi’s who established this ashram primarily for women. We moved to a small colonnaded portico of an adjacent temple where we sat on the floor facing the river and listened to the story of Vinoba as told by his nephew. We could view the river and the structure built on its rocky bank, marking the spot Vinoba had been cremated. After Gandhi’s death, Vinoba began a 13-year walk across India to convince large landowners to give peasant farmers title to small plots of land. Some say his bloodless land reform movement was highly successful and went a long way in helping farmers gain title to their own lands.
We needed to leave just as prayer in the temple began, and as we left, another older woman greeted me. While we were talking about the ashram, our original hostess returned and gave me a book. She told me that this was the story of the remarkable woman with whom I was talking: She had been a member of a four-woman team created by Vinoba who walked India for twelve years to educate women on their rights in the new republic—in her words “to further World unity and World peace and to spread the message of a non-violent revolution in every nook country and abroad." (A Unique Pilgrimage, Kanta-Harvilas, Sarva Seva Sangh Prakashan Publishers, Rajghat, Varanasi, India, 1975) The book was written in 1973, the eighth year of the pilgrimage. The women had already visited 115 districts in 12 states and covered more than 16,000 miles on foot and without much money.
I regretted not having more time to ask questions and not having her sign the book! She invited me to return some day, and the more I read about her and the ashram in Wardha, I think that it would be a worthwhile visit.
Our next stop, Gandhi’s ashram Sewagram, was not far away. Vowing to stay here until independence from Great Britain was a reality Gandhiji established this ashram during the 1930's. Built according to his specifications, it contains only building materials available to the common person and was built by common laborers. Sewagram is now a lovingly maintained, open-air museum. The buildings were used by Gandhiji and his wife Kasturba during the 1930-40's. We heard this story from an elderly gentleman who had actually been with Gandhi when he lived there. It was an incredible link to an incredible person.
The grounds were very plain as were the homes. At the back of the dining hall, I was shown Gandhiji's personal bathtub by the loveliest of Muslim girls. She was five or six years old and taught me a lesson that brought home the point that our group was seeing the "tourist" India and not the "real" daily lives of the country. After she wrote her name in my book, I offered her the felt tipped pen in thanks for showing me the bathtub. She shook her head “no.” Our guide, Dinesh translated, telling me that her parents had told her to never accept gifts from strangers. What a difference from all the outstretched hands and petitions for money in other places we have been.
As we headed back to the jeeps, several of us stopped to purchase khadi clothing, which is made of homespun fabric. Gandhi encouraged all Indians to make and wear their own cloth in order to break India’s dependence on textiles made in Great Britain. The shirts are cool and beautiful in their simplicity.
On our way back to Nagpur, we stopped at a Buddhist stupa. One could walk barefoot around the tall, circular stupa on beautiful white marble. My feet and I opted not to; at high noon the steps were radiating heat waves. The stupa was relatively new and had been built by Japanese Buddhists on a site particularly auspicious in Lord Buddha's life and ministry. Hindus have told us they regard The Buddha as one of the many incarnations of God. They say that Buddhism is a form of Hinduism, as Siddhartha Gautama was born in the Hindu tradition.
Lunch was at the "Construction" hotel and we walked through a debris field to get from the lobby to the restaurant. The food was good but it was a bit disconcerting to dodge bits of fallen plaster, wood, and nails to get in. Where is O.S.H.A. when you really need them?
The afternoon was on our own and quite a few of us spent the time checking on the health and well being of our Queen Kay, who was sicker than I had imagined. She had been visited and examined by a couple of doctors, and it was decided that she and Anne would fly to Kolkatta rather than take the night train. She was dehydrated and unable to keep anything down. She had re-hydration salts to mix with water. We hope that it works! She is quite a trooper to have gone so far while being so ill.
Getting ready to leave for the train station for an overnight trip to Kolkatta, I brought my bags to the hotel lobby. I went outdoors to look for some of our group who were going to a bookstore when I spied an Internet Cafe two doors away. Having checked the schedule, I went to the upstairs Internet center. I meant to stay only 30 minutes, but since the e-connection was so slooooow to read and so sloooow to write, I was there an hour.
Imagine my surprise when I returned to the hotel lobby 30 minutes before we were supposed to leave to see that all our luggage gone and Anne and Mrs. Malani (our hostess from the evening before and personal friend of Ramesh's) waiting in the lobby. A hotel employee pointed to me, and they jumped up and started talking a mile a minute. It seems I was out of the loop when the message came that we were leaving 45 minutes earlier than planned and the group left for the train station without me.
Mrs. Malani phoned her husband who promptly drove up in his car (he had gone to search the streets for me!), and we sped off to the railway station. They had a good laugh and joked that if they ever came to Des Moines, I could repay them by driving them at top speeds to the airport! We made it by only about five minutes. The three of us had a good laugh when we saw that I had time to spare and joked about stopping for chai and biscuits so I would actually have to run and jump on the moving train- a scenario I had dreaded to think about!
The worst part was the stress I put everyone through, especially poor, sick Kay who already was sick with worry about me lying somewhere unconscious with a broken leg—or worse. I apologized to everyone personally and was quite touched by the concern. I cannot thank Anne enough as she had noticed that my bags were in the lobby but I was not.
The group was a forgiving lot and eventually the jokes subsided. I felt better when one shared that they knew I was alive and well and would make it, as I was "that kind of a person”. I took this as a compliment to my resourcefulness and travel experience and not as a reference to my ditziness.
But for another night of fun on the train! Since I was keeping a lower than usual profile, to avoid any other major stresses, the night passed quickly for me. I think we played cards again but it was an early night, at least for me.
July
30, 2003 Kolkatta, West Bengal
Chris Joslin
Rex is up early watching the countryside change from the train window: from flood watered flatness near Nagpur to increasing vegetation and many more rivers and streams as we travel east approaching Kolkatta. All train yards have their share of squalor, and early morning in the Kolkatta train yard is the same. There are no regulations to keep people and animals at a distance, and we watch people climb over rail lines as the train lumbers into the station. After a night on the train, I am not too observant and even with a cup of “chai gram,” my head is full of all the sights and sounds of the first two weeks.
Our entry into Kolkatta includes the usual parade of porters and passengers, with beggars and officials sprinkled in. The most noticeable difference is that our bus is parked a half block away in a warehouse-looking area that is littered with trash. After winding our way through the station, we step carefully through the parking lot of mud. It is not a grand entrance into the city.
We are a subdued lot today, but Kolkatta is not very enticing either. The air seems more heavily polluted. We learned later that buses and trucks do not run on the clean burning CNG (Compressed Natural Gas) as they do in Delhi. Along the way, I noticed lots of dung patties drying on overpass bridge supports, and lots of narrow streets, traffic, and people. Kolkatta does have a different feel. Our hotel is located on what used to be a busy street and is now a busy street with the middle of it torn up, to build an overhead bypass (a “flyover” as the Indians say). It was a relief to pull into the gated hotel and get out of traffic for a while.
We had breakfast/lunch at what we are calling "The Dessert Hotel" as this hotel has a deserved reputation for fine desserts. There are pastries on the buffet line, the first we have seen since Amsterdam! It could also be called "The Soccer Hotel" as there are several teams staying here to play in a tournament. Kim and I are next door to members of the team. We are hoping for a quiet evening but steeling ourselves for the possibility that it might not be.
We had the rest of the afternoon free and looking over my notes now, we must not have ventured far -- the page is blank. I think the long train trip fused parts of my dendrites together and the synapses just shut down or it could have been listening to the Filipino band playing in the bar. Several of us got the hankering for pizza and I do remember thinking at one point, "Why am I sitting in a hotel room, eating pizza, watching an old Al Pacino movie on TV when I am in Kolkatta, India and could do this at home?” Then, I remembered the train trip, the tiredness, the traffic, and the torn up street that made going anywhere a major venture.
We were rejoined by Anne and Kay in Kolkatta. Kay is still not well and has decided to return to Delhi and rejoin us in Varanasi, rather than go to Shantiniketan and Dumka, where we will have more primitive accommodations. Natasha is also not doing so well. Crying babies on the train kept her awake, and she is experiencing the fatigue born of two weeks on the road.
After breakfast, we journeyed to the final resting place of Mother Theresa. Since I work at a Catholic school, I am interested in her work and was able to obtain medals and photo cards for the staff. I found her tomb and chapel almost as interesting as observing the Sisters at work in the laundry area. There was a Sister from Ohio who talked to me, but I couldn't stay as long as I would have liked-- something about staying with the group.
We went to the Victoria Museum, which was a hoot. Part was air-conditioned and part wasn't. It was quite open with a bird or two flying about the ceiling. Paintings by "Mediocre Artists” (the actual term used by our guide) were in the section not air-conditioned. If the artist couldn't make it in Europe in the 1800’s, they often came to India to sell paintings to the rajahs and shahs. Their work included interesting scenes of India from 1800-1900’s, but I have to admit, our guide was correct in his assessment of the artist’s abilities.
The rotunda, housing Queen Victoria's statue, was blocked off for restoration. A newspaper article explained that the government had pumped a great deal of money into restoration and that the problem was still not solved. There was speculation about where the money had gone.
We had a driving tour of the old governmental buildings in the middle of town. Kolkatta, when it was still "Calcutta," was the capital of the British East India Company and for about 250 years grew in importance and wealth. As more and more of India came under British rule, it was decided that the capital should be more centrally located, and in 1912 it moved to Delhi, hence the "new" part of New/Old Delhi dates from this time.
Since 1912, Calcutta/Kolkatta has been in decline. It lives up to the scornful title of the popular 1960’s play "Oh, Calcutta!" Without the governmental offices, the city has had to redefine itself. Since independence and partition, the state of West Bengal has had to adapt to major changes in water, textiles, and labor.
Then we went to the Kali temple. Kali or Durga is a wicked-looking goddess from which Calcutta gets its name. The temple is close to the river and is in a warren of shops selling thread, flowers, handkerchiefs, and food to leave as temple gifts. They are quite pretty -- all reds and yellows in the midst of the urban grime. Ramesh and Devendra went into the temple, which is off limits to non-Hindus. Ignoring persistent beggar children, we walk around it. I opened my bag to buy some thread--BIG mistake, as the begging children stayed with me all the way back to the bus!
We had the rest of the day free and some of us went on a Kolkatta walkabout. Later that night in the hotel lobby, as I wait for newly bought clothes to arrive from the tailors, I met and chatted with two couples from Italy who are in Kolkatta to adopt infant girls. They tell me that they must stay another 10 days for paper work to be completed. I see a wistful look in their eyes.
Kolkatta is not a tourist hotspot, but I have read it is home to many literary and artistic ventures. We just don't have the time to find that Kolkatta. Part of that Kolkatta may be disappearing soon, as the government wants to ban foot-powered rickshaws and replace them with bicycles or motorized rickshaws. They LOOK quaint, but after reading “The City of Joy”, I know it is a gruesome existence for drivers.
As I write this, the lobby is now the gathering point of some of the soccer players. One young man is from Bangalore and now that his team is out of the running, he and his friends are going to a disco to dance. These young men are from all over the world including several from African countries.
Tomorrow is Natasha's birthday and what a birthday it will be for her -- she is feeling worse now and is opting to fly to Delhi with Kay and Dinesh for some R and R. Celebration is limited to a brief breakfast song and cake before we leave for Shantiniketan. Many are suffering from various forms of stomach complaints and tiredness. Differences in food and drink, the high heat and equally intense humidity, and long hours of touring are taking their toll.
The highlight of August 1 was a bus ride from Kolkatta to Shantiniketan, an educational community founded by Rabindranath Tagore, winner of a Nobel Prize in Literature. Our departure was marked by the separation of three from our group: Kay Weller and Natasha Cooper had been ill most of the time since we arrived. While the majority of us headed for Shantiniketan, Kay and Natasha flew with Dinesh Baloni, our capable tour director, to Delhi for rest and recuperation. A young man by the name of Sumna joined us to serve as a substitute for Dinesh.
Getting out of Kolkatta took an hour, even with a 7 a.m. departure. We were able to see the city come alive as people prepared for the work day. Kolkatta is very crowded. The city center consists mainly of buildings of four or five stories. Transportation ranges from a subway with stations adorned with beautiful mosaic artwork on the exterior to hand-pulled rickshaws, with all options in between.
Once we exited the metropolis the coach took us through rural West Bengal, a very densely settled agricultural region. Much of the region was partitioned into small rice paddies. Rice production was largely in the early stages with rice between transplanted from nursery beds to the fields where it would grow to maturity. A major impression was how green everything was. This is humid India, not the semi-arid, almost desert India we saw in Rajasthan.
Ramesh stopped the bus on a few occasions so we could see something of significance. Several of the stops had to do with jute production, the raw material of burlap. India is the world’s leading producer of jute. Before independence production was greater in what is now Bangladesh, but Indian government policy led to more production, particularly in West Bengal and other eastern states. We were able to get pictures of several stages in the process, including stands of jute, which appeared to be six to eight feet high, separation of the fibers by men standing in water, and drying of the fibers.
The bus ride was simply spectacular in what it allowed us to see of rural India: rice in various stages of production, men with oxen plowing or smoothing the fields; women transplanting rice into prepared paddies from the nursery beds, and irrigation systems. Villages were always in sight; usually with mud houses covered with plaster, sometimes with thatched roofs, sometimes brick or corrugated metal roofs.
Our destination was The Camelia Hotel in Shanitiketan, a city described as a “model” for education in India. The term misled us. In Indian–English, “model” means something unique, rather than something to be copied. The area was transformed into an educational center by India’s first Nobel laureate, the writer Rabindranath Tagore at the beginning of the 20th century. It remains a tranquil center for learning with renowned institutions of education from elementary school through university level. A major aspect of the learning is having the teacher sit with the students under a tree. This is not possible for all subjects but is certainly the norm for most subjects, as we were to see the next day.
Our travel took most of the day. By the time we arrived at the hotel, most people wanted to rest. A few were not feeling well. We arranged to have a musical and dancing exhibition by the indigenous people of the area. They performed for us before dinner.
The Camelia sits amidst agricultural land, near a village and railway station, not far from the educational facilities for which the area has become renowned. We heard a few trains during the night, but they did not prove to be troublesome. The hotel had no Internet capabilities of its own, and none were nearby. STDs (Standard Trunk Dialing) for telephone calls to the U.S. were readily available, however.
“Oh Camelia! You’re breaking my heart. You’re shaking my confidence, daily.” No, Paul Simon didn’t find his way to Shantiniketan to sing “Cecilia.” But there is a time in any journey where you want to scream, or laugh, or cry. Or, do all of these at once.
My day began with that tune in mind, waking to my ailing roomate’s 4 a.m. bathroom visit, and more than a bit of hebephrenic laughter. Then came a primal scream. The cause? Maybe it was the steamy tribal dancing and drumming the night before, which turned the dining room into a sauna when the electricity failed. Maybe it was the roar of the air conditioner starting in the middle of the night, and the knowledge that reasonable people in this climate sleep on string beds outdoors, or on rooftops, instead of heat-holding concrete boxes called hotels. Maybe it was the collection of all the unfamiliar sounds, odors, and sights of three weeks on the road. Open the windows? Think again--there is probably a good reason for the metal bars across the windows, and the guard at the gate.
After the scream, we settled down for more sleep. I began the day (again) with a vigorous walk in the countryside. I saw women trekking to the temple, farmers beginning their chores, people squatting and bathing at river’s edge, cows plowing rice fields for planting, and dung cakes drying. Without heavy industry, the place has a suburban feel, with new houses (some about 2000 sq. ft.) popping up along the narrow paved road. It could be West Des Moines, except that the homes surround rice paddies, not cornfields.
After breakfast, we headed for Tagore’s non-traditional school where Indira Gandhi was educated and thought she was capable of becoming a dancer. We met with the principal and visited the Tagore Museum. At the University’s Geography Department, college exams were in progress. The nine challenging essay questions covered a solid range of physical, human and economic geography.
“Peaceful” describes our afternoon stroll around the university art department grounds. We visited with students amid sculpture and paintings, shaded by tall trees. Ramesh showed us one tree’s tiny seedpods. As a child, he balanced and spun these like a top. We gave it a try. Though Dan was good, Ramesh was still the champion. We kidded Ramesh, who has spent over 25 years in the U.S., that he was sharing his “Roots” tour with us. Sitting beneath a tree, a simple Indian coin became the inspiration for today’s lesson in Indian history. Tagore’s methods seem to be effective. Tomorrow we will be in Ramesh’s hometown, Dumka.
Geography Professor Singha, an acquaintance of Ramesh’s, invited our group to tea, a late afternoon event. (Dinner is 9-10 p.m.) We met Professor Singha’s two young daughters and wife. An invitation to tea, we discovered, entailed no small amount of preparation-- six courses! It was an honor to be a guest.
As night fell, “the survivors” (those still healthy) opted to walk back to the hotel. It was quiet and traffic was light, mostly pedal rickshaws and pedestrians like us--enjoying an evening stroll. We poked through bookshops and bought crackers and Sprite for our ailing companions. We crossed a small bridge over the irrigation canal. The air was cool, clean, and the sky full of stars, with just a sliver of moon.
It was hard to believe that this tranquil day had begun with a scream.
Sunday
August 3, 2003 Shantiniketan, West
Bengal to Dumka, Bihar
Luke Juran
Today we traveled by bus from Shantiniketan to Dumka. On the way, the steering column fell off the bus. The driver and assistant fixed it up just good enough to get us to the next town where they could purchase and install a permanent part.
Luckily, the bus breakdown was not a hindrance to our education. With rice paddies nearby, the fields were full of men and women working and cattle pulling plows. On the other side of the road were some small homes. Obviously intrigued by our situation, five children came from their modest dwellings to observe us. There were also many giant anthills. It was a great photo opportunity.
Before arriving in Dumka, we stopped to see a large dam, the Kannada Dam, constructed in 1956 with foreign assistance from Canada. At the dam, two gentlemen with a camera and video camera joined us. Taping and photographing everything, they followed us for the remainder of the day.
The dam is very large and is used to bring water to several neighboring towns and fields via canals. Ramesh said it was also built to protect against downstream flooding and to improve fishing and provide recreation. The downside is that the dam’s reservoir displaced around 5,000 people in 200 villages. The dam helped but also hurt many.
Later, we stopped at another village to visit a Santal school. Like Native Americans, Santals are aboriginal people. Their way of life is Ramesh’s research interest. We were welcomed with a processional tribal dance that led us a mile uphill to the school. Speeches were made and traditional Indian foods served. A question and answer session followed with the students, and we offered school supplies as gifts.
When we arrived in Dumka 30 students with a beautiful green banner welcomed the teachers from Iowa. What an honor! It was truly moving to be greeted by these smiling, bright eyed, and loving children. After freshening up at our hotel, we visited a private art school in town.
The art school was wonderful. The students attend academic classes Monday through Saturday and then attend the art school on Sundays. We were led upstairs, seated, and welcomed by two 19- year-old university students who also attended the art school. Their English was superb and American sounding.
We conversed with many students at the school and signed autographs for them with short messages like “good luck with school” and “thanks for your hospitality”. I met an affectionate seven-year old boy who gave me the crayon and glitter tiger he had drawn. He still had glitter on his face and in his hair.
As our visit concluded, the two 19-year olds, Deepak and Kunal, walked with us back to the hotel. We chatted about a variety of things and before I knew it, we had arrived at the hotel. Deepak suggested that I should accompany him and Kunal to his house. I quickly answered yes, and we strolled another five blocks to Deepak’s house.
Going to Deepak’s house was an opportunity I will never forget. I was greeted by his mother, father, younger sister, and brother -none of whom speak English. His father owns a small bookstore and is the only one of the five family members who works outside the home. Their house left a lasting impression on me. I had to duck to get in. The walls and floor were concrete, and they were bare and cracked in many places. There was no electricity, no running water, and no bathroom. You simply go to the bathroom wherever you can find a place outside. There were two rooms, one for cooking and one for sleeping. The cooking room had a small natural gas stove on the floor. Deepak’s younger sister boiled tea for me while I toured their house. The sleeping room consisted of two wooden beds with thin mattresses and some blankets. One bed was for the mother, father, and young girl. The other bed was for Deepak and his younger brother. The only light in the house was from two lanterns and the sparse light given off from cooking.
It was extremely hard to breathe due to the dampness, mustiness, poor air circulation, and smoke and fumes dispersed by the lanterns and stove. Deepak, Kunal, and I talked about government, politics, sports, jobs, schooling, family life, and especially marriage and girls in India and the USA. While talking, Deepak sketched a picture of me and gave it along with another of his paintings, to me as a gift. Today has provided me with invaluable insights about community and family life in rural India.
During the next days, Deepak and Kunal served as translators, so that our group could interview the children of Dumka. Their assistance was greatly appreciated.
Monday
August 4 Dumka,
Bihar
Lavonne Christianson
On the evening of August 4 we traveled to a Santal village located near Dumka. Our bus rolled past people on foot and bicycles returning home after working in nearby fields. The backdrop was beautiful green, rocky, rolling hills. As a boy, Ramesh had traveled this area with his father, a civil engineer, who planned water projects for the Santal villages.
The mile-long lane leading to the village was too narrow for our bus, so some took a jeep while others walked. As we walked down the road, we realized we were to be treated as very honored guests, just as we had been in Dumka. This evening we were greeted by a large group of women dressed in traditional Santal clothing performing a welcoming dance. The women wear bright pink or red shirts beneath blue and green cotton saris with plaid or small checks. They proceeded and surrounded us with their song and dance all the way into the village. It felt as if we had stepped back into a much simpler time when all guests were honorably welcomed and treated as royalty.
The village was very orderly and clean. The homes appeared to be sturdy with clay covering the outside and inside walls. After walking through the village we were seated near a cement platform used for performing traditional tribal dances. The dancing women provided water for washing our hands, and then they washed and massaged our feet. We were then served refreshments in banana leaf bowls. The leaves were folded and held together with tiny sticks. We received three bowls: one with salted puffed rice, one with very spicy chickpeas, and another with jackfruit.
Let the dancing begin! We were treated to many different dances performed by both men and women. At one point we were invited to join the dancing. As thunder echoed in the distance, Ramesh shared a few words, graciously thanking the people for their hospitality and sharing their village with us. Leaving the village, we were accompanied by many very friendly villagers. Even though we were unable to speak with them, they wanted to just be near us..
The Santal village was my favorite experience in India. The people are very welcoming and friendly, and I felt their strength, independence and sense of community.
Tuesday,
August 5 Dumka to Asansol to
Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh
Rex Honey
The night of the 4th and 5th was our last night in Dumka. The group ended the 4th in great spirits. For many the night was difficult because the power kept going out. The hotel rooms were closed to prevent mosquitoes from getting into the room, so loss of electricity meant that the fans stopped and room temperatures went way up. I was perspiring so much that I woke in the middle of the night with a wet pillow. I had an extra pillow and was soon back to sleep.
The night ended early because the plan was for us to leave by 5 a.m. so we would be sure to make Asansol to catch the train at 1:30. Coffee and tea were available, but the plan was to have breakfast later. We were off by 5:05. The sun was coming up as we made our way out of Dumka.
We were able to see the countryside come to life as we drove west and south toward Asansol. The farmers clearly work hard to establish rice paddies, most of which are quite small. The fields were in different stages of production. Some served as nursery plots, densely planted for transplanting. Others were being prepared for planting. Preparation for planting requires plowing, then smoothing the paddy.
Plowing is usually done by a man driving a two-ox team. Sometimes multiple teams work the same field. Japanese hand tractors are being used on a few fields, and we saw a couple of small Indian made Mahindra tractors as well. To smooth the fields, farmers pass through again with a flat board that allows them to spread the wet soil evenly. When the paddy is prepared, rice seedlings are taken to the site in hand-sized clumps. Then groups of people, often women in brightly colored saris, transplant the rice seedlings a few inches apart in the paddy.
In addition to rice, we saw other crops including maize and legumes. On the plateau, the agricultural fields were often separated, with scrubland between fields. We also saw woods, often of sal trees. The farther we rode, the more we saw people—workers in vehicles, children headed to school, and farmers with oxen already hitched ready to plow the rice fields.
Given the short night in hot stuffy hotel rooms, most of our people slept at least some on the bus. For the first couple of hours the road was really only one lane wide. When we approached small vehicles, they went on to the shoulder. When we approached larger vehicles, each would move to the left. This kept the speed down.
We had a mid-morning stop before our route took us back into West Bengal. No toilet; just a wooded spot behind the building. Those who wanted to do so had chai (tea) or a soft drink as well as a little to eat. I took advantage of an STD (Standard Trunk Dialing) station to place a telephone call home, where it was 10:30 p.m. rather than 9 a.m. The stop was noteworthy for its smokiness. Tremendous amounts of charcoal smoke emanated from the kitchen.
As we continued toward Asansol we saw irrigated agriculture and a barrage that diverted water into a couple of large canals. The political signs in West Bengal again featured frequent communist symbols reflecting the fact that communists and socialists have formed the state government since 1977.
We learned more about the railway station in Asansol than we intended. Our first frustration was that our bus could not enter the station grounds because of a bridge too low to allow the bus to pass. Sumna, our substitute guide (given the departure of Dinesh Baloni for Delhi with Kay and Natasha because they had become ill), went to find porters. After a few minutes of vocal haggling, he and the porters had an agreement. Each porter was laden with two suitcases on his head, balanced by both hands, along with bags with straps over the shoulders. These were not big men, but they carried very heavy loads and probably did so for a quarter mile. Our platform was the second of three. Rather than walk up the stairs and across the first platform to the second, the porters walked across the tracks. I carried my computer case, pack, and camera case as I accompanied the leading porters. When we had our loads safely on the second platform, a train stopped at the first platform. Risking both of their bodies and our luggage, the porters went through the stopped train rather than to wait or go around. Soon we were reunited with our luggage, ready to catch the 1:30 train which was to arrive in Varanasi at 9 p.m. It was not yet noon.
Our train had embarked from Howrah Station, in Kolkatta but had not yet arrived for our 1:30 departure. Soon we heard the first in a series of reports that our train was delayed. We did leave until almost 5 p.m.! This gave us plenty of time to experience life in an Indian railway station. To protect our bags, we piled them together at the spot where we would eventually board the train. We were right next to a snack bar serving various forms of soft drinks and water as well as a variety of snacks including potato chips, candy, and cookies.
Before trying the snack bar, we had to fend off a series of beggars and performers, mostly young, a few handicapped, a few old. Before we left Iowa we had decided we would do something meaningful to support the downtrodden by giving money to three schools that serve disadvantaged children. We agreed that in general we would not give money to beggars. The kids were persistent but unsuccessful. As Ramesh said, we needed to be “forceful in resisting our compassion.”
The humor of the group continued at its normal high level with lots of jokes about circumstances present and past. We played word games, walked around the station, spoke with other travelers, and watched as goods and people moved along. We noted, for example, both burlap and plastic bags. This was noteworthy because we had driven through a jute production area on our way from Kolkatta to Dumka. We saw, too, how precarious, taxing and boring the life of a porter can be. Some of the porters slept between the trains, when possible on top of goods, otherwise on the concrete.
As time passed, the adjacent snack bar proprietor seemed to understand that the waiting Americans would buy cold drinks. He arranged for ice to chill his colas and orange options. He sold quite a lot. After the third word of a delay came, Sumna suggested we go in groups to the station restaurant. The food was inexpensive, but much less variety was available than indicated on the menu. Five of the men sat at one table, a similar number of women at another. Our waiter seemed to have great difficulty in getting our orders straight. Steve and George each ordered eggs and toast. Steve got eggs, George toast. I had a fish curry. Devendra and Ramesh ordered more substantial, but quite inexpensive, Indian meals.
When it was finally time to board, we had only ten minutes to load. We did so in a way that assured that all people and bags were on but with little consideration as to where they were until the train was moving. We had tickets for 12 in one coach, five in another. With our sick comrades meeting us in Varanasi from Delhi, we needed only 15 seats. Our substitute guide Sumna was able to trade three seats so all 15 of us could be in the same coach.
Entering the train in Asansol had not been our original plan. Rather, we had tickets from Jassidi, farther to the north. We shifted for two main reasons: 1) ten minutes rather than three to load, and 2) an increasing number of pilgrims heading for Varanasi as we moved north toward that destination. Given that we were to be traveling farther, we needed to pay more. Sumna consulted with me in my position as substitute leader for Kay. He said we could be charged extra as well as fined. He suggested that I allow him to negotiate a less expensive settlement. He came to me with a deal that we pay 200 rupees each, or 3000 rupees in all. I did not see much alternative.
Before night fell we were able to see the passing scenery. It was a fascinating sight: Rice fields in various stages, sugar cane, and maize. There were cows, water buffalo, goats, and vehicles of all sorts. We passed a couple of rivers tributary to the Ganges.
A few of our people fell asleep before the fall of darkness. The rest of us watched India pass by as long as we could, and then discussed what we had seen. Around 9 p.m. we began a series of Hearts games that lasted nearly until our arrival at Mughal Sarai, the railway destination near Varanasi. A few traded beds for game seats. Others played for the duration. It was a long, but informative and enjoyable day.
August
6, 2003 Varanasi, Uttar
Pradesh
Dan Walsh
After 20 hours, 34 minutes, and 23 seconds of travel our train arrived at the Varanasi station. It was 1:09 AM. At our hotel a warm supper of “Spaghetti Indiana: awaited us even though it was 1:45 a.m. After a long day of travel, food and beds were a welcome comfort.
Our scheduled 4:00 a.m. wake up call was delayed to 9:00 a.m. Before taking off for the day, we repacked for several days in Shimla, located in the foothills of the Himalayas. That would be our last destination before leaving from Delhi. Our first stop of the day was the temple known as Sarnath where we toured the grounds and witnessed Buddhists worshiping. Hawkers met us at the gate and their “feeding frenzy” commenced. Nearly everyone bought something.
After lunch and a malaria pill, four of us headed to the hotel swimming pool for a relaxing swim in the warm water. Since it is the off-season, we were quite a sight. This is the first time we have had a pool and time to use it since Agra. While we swam, others had discovered an email stop nearby and had written family and friends for 20 rupees per half hour.
After our downtime, we took off on a city tour of Varanasi. Stopping short of the downtown area, it was unclear whether car traffic was prohibited or merely not advised. We hopped on pedal rickshaws and made our way to the heart of the city and the local market. Much of the city market is located on footpaths seven to ten feet wide. This makes for close quarters. Hundreds, thousands, possibly tens of thousands of people walk these streets each day. Scooters, motorcycles, bikes, and, of course, cows share the space. On both street sides are merchandise stalls. Everything you might want to buy exists here. Items from the most meaningless to the most complex can be found somewhere along these paths. Hawkers followed us the entire time making a sale here and there.
In the middle of the market, we found ourselves viewing a contentious shrine from a shop window. As we made our way nearer the shrine, military and paramilitary personnel increased. The reason for the show of force was a Muslim mosque and Hindu shrine near one another. It really made me realize the importance of fences-- to keep things in and keep things out.
Back in the market, wood and decorative body wrap became the main market staples. We were close to the Ganges River and its funeral Ghats—riverside steps. As we made our way to the cremation platform where funeral pyres burned and mourners were in attendance, a somber feeling overcame me. This was hallowed ground and the impact of the moment was not totally understood until I later reflected. The heat of the day was multiplied by the burning pyres. Each pyre is a being that is no more. The ceremony is complicated yet well rehearsed.
Following this glimpse of Hindu rites for the deceased, we boarded a boat going upstream on the Ganges and saw other Ghats along the river. After sundown we saw Brahmans performing a celebration for the Ganges River. The Ghats were brightly lit by both artificial and candle light. The Brahmans sang songs and performed on the shore while girls about ten years old skipped from boat to boat. They sold shaped leaves filled with flowers and a candle. They are set into the water as offerings to the Ganges River. The celebration of the lights is performed every day of the year. It was a spiritual experience not to be missed.
After disembarking the boat, we walked to the Pedi cabs and rode back to the bus. As we walked hawkers, was usual, tried to sell us.
August
7, 2003 Varanasi, Uttar
Pradesh
Dan Walsh
A spectacularly clear 5:30 am sunrise met us at the Ghats for a downriver boat ride on the Ganges. Daily activities were already in full swing. Many people were washing and worshipping, sometimes alone and sometimes with others. There is a social aspect to the morning ritual. One group of men was discussing business in Hindi. We could pick out words such as “mobile phone.” English words permeate the language.
From the river we drove through the university campus on our way to the Little Star School in Varanasi. We had learned about the Little Star School from Indian students at Iowa State University. Their student organization provides funds to support the school. Enrollees are elementary students from families whose children wouldn’t otherwise have a chance at a formal education.
We were met by the school’s director. After an introduction we toured the complex. The most exciting part of the visit was seeing the smiles on the faces of the children as we greeted them with “Namaste”. Some students were shy at the beginning and would look out in the hallway after we had left the room. When we waved, they would light up. Big smiles came over their faces, and a timid hand would sometimes wave cheerfully.
After an early and already busing morning, we returned to the hotel for a late breakfast and free time. Some of us re-packed for Shimla, the last leg of our journey, while others rested, swam, or visited a silk shop owned by our tour guide in Varanasi.
In the early afternoon we loaded the bus for a trip to the airport. We passed through security and were off to Delhi to freshen up in a hotel. From there we transferred to the train station for an overnight train to Kalka, followed by a bus ride to Shimla.
Sunday,
August 10 Shimla, Himachal Pradesh
Tami Huegel
Today started by sleeping in. This was only the second time we were able to do that. I woke up about 9:00, but many of the group members had already gone with Dinesh on a hike in the foothills around Shimla. They left at 8 and returned before 11. We heard the story of how a monkey stole a banana right out of Ramesh's pocket while he was on the hike. I wish I had seen that!
While others were out, Kim and I had a leisurely breakfast of omelets and toast. We saved the taste of apple juice and even had seconds. It was a pleasant change from our usual choices of tea, coffee, or mango juice.
After breakfast, I went through my bags again, getting rid of some more clothes and combining things. Many of us wish we had more space in our luggage. Shimla has been a good shopping spot. We don't even mind the half-mile walk to town, since the weather is cool compared to the rest of the country.
After another typical Indian lunch, Steve, Kelly, and I walked to the Shimla market to email and buy flowers for Natasha to carry at my 5 pm “wedding” to the magnolia tree. Before coming to India, I learned of the custom of a woman marrying a tree. This can happen if a woman has been unlucky enough to have one or even two husbands die.
Returning from shopping, I got things ready and Anne helped me put on my sari. Dinesh readied things outside. Devendra was my “priest” while Rex and Chris were my “parents”. Queen Kay was the guest of honor, and Luke and Natasha served as ring bearer and flower girl.
It was an interesting ceremony. First, I walked nine times around the tree which was in a cage to protect it from those darn monkeys. The garden did have a low gate, so Rex carried me over it. Needless to say, he didn't do that the other eight times. George, as best man, gave answers for the tree during the vows. I lit incense and a candle, and Devendra tried to make Lavonne, my matron of honor, put red nail polish on the part in my hair, or furrow, as Devendra called it, nine times. I opted for red lipstick instead of red nail polish..
I asked the tree, "Do you accept me?" many times. George answered for the tree. Including some smart remarks from George, the tree accepted me. It was a very nice ceremony and the weather was great. We had French fries and peanuts for the reception. Yum! Our toasting for the ceremony also served as closure for our trip and our time with Dinesh. Standing in a circle, each of us recalled a favorite memory from the month-long journey. We all thanked Dinesh for a wonderful trip.
Monday,
August 11
Shimla, Himachal Pradesh
Tami Huegel
It's a good thing I slept in yesterday since this morning was a 4:20 wake up call. Mighty early, and I hadn't slept much anyway. Leaving the pine forests of the upper elevations for lowland vegetation, we rode in four vehicles to Chandigarh to catch the 9:15 train to New Delhi. Perhaps "rode" isn't the right word... raced in the Indy 500, is more like it. I now know how my grandma felt when my Aunt Rosie drove her down Burlington, Iowa’s Snake Alley at breakneck speed. Grandma’s ride was short while we “rode” constant curves and elevation changes for three hours. At one point, four switchbacks were visible. Even though I wanted to sleep, that was not possible. Luckily, I remembered to take my Dramamine!
We’re headed to New Delhi via train to catch our flight home. This train is different than others we’ve been on. The seats are more like those in an airplane, while the other trains had sleeper cars with long, bench-like seats. These seats actually recline!
Delhi was as hot as we remembered. Once again, we adjusted our liquid intake. We had been spoiled by Shimla’s cooler climate. The floors of the Japanese owned Hotel Nikko, were no longer flooded we were all on the same floor.
We wanted to get rid of our rupees before going to the airport, so a group of us headed to Delhi Haht to buy items for the culture kit to be used by teachers and in our workshops. George spent his rupees on a HUGE blue suitcase for the culture kit items. Some of the women got their hands hennaed by some teenage girls.
We got back to the hotel about 6:30 so we could shower and change into clean clothes for the flight home. Supper in the hotel was great. It was the only time I cleaned my plate at a meal during this whole trip. We ate roast chicken and mushrooms, pasta and red sauce, hash browns, and buttered veggies. Group members kept hinting that I was "with sapling" due to my suddenly ravenous appetite. My, aren't they funny.
As a special sendoff treat, the founder of the Indebo travel company and her son joined us for supper. They brought us personalized gifts, a really nice touch. Kay delighted in telling them about my tree wedding.
We left for the airport later than scheduled and became stuck in a pretty heavy traffic jam. The terminal drop off was a mess! There were rows of traffic (kind of)- about eight cars wide, and we were stopped in the middle. The drivers just started unloading our luggage in the middle of the street, so some of us hauled suitcases to the side while others guarded bags. The luggage has definitely gotten heavier since we left! I had extra room in my bag, so I'm carrying George's cricket bats, which are too long to fit in any other bag.
It took a while to get our luggage tagged and counted, but we had to go through only one frisking booth. And hey, we're actually going to the right place this time! No more side trips to Dubai.
As I am finishing the trip journal, I will speak for the group and say that we all felt India was a great place to visit. Hopefully we can all go again someday!
August
12, 2003
Shimla to Delhi to DesMoines & Cedar Rapids
Chris Joslin
Take your pick: “The Day That Did Not End” or “Planes, Trains and Automobiles--India Style.” We have been up since 4:30 yesterday, August 11th. Our flight left Delhi at midnight tonight/today and the on-time flight to Amsterdam is a snoozer. Most of us are out like lights. I snore away for hours. Kim has been moved to an empty row in the back, as she is not well. The airplane staff is quite concerned. What if Kim gets more seriously ill in the middle of nowhere? Kim assures them she just needs rest and a bathroom nearby.
We arrive at Schipol at 6 AM Amsterdam time. This is our 30th hour of being awake except for catnaps on the plane. We are not the hearty group who came through this airport one month ago. Then we had energy to take side trips into town. We take turns watching the luggage while others rest, forage, buy tulip bulbs, or visit the Rijksmuseum exhibit.
The next flight leaves for the U.S. one hour late. People were counting on that hour to clear customs and make their connecting flight to Cedar Rapids. We arrive late into Minneapolis and ask that our connecting flight be held. We wait to be processed through customs and then hurriedly return our baggage to the conveyor belt. Natasha and I are flying to Des Moines while everyone else is going to Cedar Rapids. We are all panicked about connecting flights. An attendant says to HURRY so we do-- just like in commercials. The pedestrian conveyer belts save time and energy. Natasha and I find our gate and board, but the Cedar Rapids folks find their plane has left. They face seven more hours in Minneapolis.
I had been “on the road” for 48.5 hours with only a few catnaps. The Cedar Rapids group added another ten hours. During that “day” we had traveled in jeeps and cars, by bus, train and plane, and on foot. Would I do it again? Absolutely!
Safe and sane Des Moines seems almost too quiet. The short car ride home takes me through light traffic controlled by streetlights and down well-marked streets. There are no buses bursting with passengers and no trucks laden with everything known to mankind. There are few motor scooters and even fewer bicycles on the streets of Des Moines. Where are the cows and dogs and goats? I see no beggars. I see no rainbows of sari-clad women. I pass through neighborhoods of green and manicured lawns. Oaks and maples line the boulevards. The blue skies of the Midwest are heavy with the haze of August days. The comforts of my own bed and pillow call. In two days I start a new job. But I am HOME once more.
