girl drifter reports

"[A] stint in India will beat the restlessness ou...

"[A] stint in India will beat the restlessness out of any living creature..." --Yann Martel, Life of Pi Hello, hello. A meander about the web made me realize that some of you may have been laboring under the misconception that I have been, all this while, in Delhi, Canada. Or, closer to home: Delhi, Iowa; Delhi, Louisiana; or Delhi, New York. All such places exist. Or, practically at home,

Delhi is the capital of the losing streak. It is ...

Delhi is the capital of the losing streak. It is the metropolis of the crossed wire, the missed appointment, the puncture, the wrong number. --Jan Morris

March in review. Good thing this blog update is late--it would have STRESSED YOU OUT, like it was STRESSING ME OUT. Like I was STRESSING the DRIFTER OUT. Delhi was winning. Anything anything I tried to do, Delhi foiled, coolly and casually. Patience tested, failed. Now patience has returned, held in a loose grip. But, don't worry, read on--it gets better.

Our old neighborhood, Paharganj main bazaar.

Opted out of Delhi for a few days, leaving the Drifter behind--geographically, not romantically--and decamped to Rishikesh. Rishikesh, where the Ganges leaves the mountains, where the Beatles met the Maharishi, where the hippies salute the sun, where--as one Indian friend here put it, laughing laughing laughing at me--Indians go when they have finally given up.

Cross the Ganges on the Laxman Jhula Bridge...

...where Shiva awaits you. He caught the goddess Ganga in his hair when she was booted out of heaven, and there she resides.

A yoga class, a fire-lit riverside aarti (devotional ceremony), a foot-dangle in the purifying waters of the Ganges (oops, a minor infection on a cut toe). A few days here almost unkinked the kinks. Slowly, slowly, Delhi and I reached an agreement. It will provide a job, a house, a neighborhood, a class; in return, I will do everything its way.

Om sweet om. After three weeks of fruitless searching, Drifter's work coughs up an apartment within 24 hours of the asking. It's who you know, you know. You can't know something--you must know Someone. So Someone procured us a 40's-era ramshackle studio with a fridge for a kitchen on a street that India would not consider busy. The Drifter can walk to the office, and it's also close to Deer Park, a huge green space with ruins (of course), a lake (I think), and a rose garden. I don't know what else it's near, except this cybercafe, as we just moved in.The best part so far is that I need never return to Connaught Place.

Connaught Place, a rant. The giant circular outdoor mall known as CP is perhaps the perfect symbol of urban India. It is smack in the middle of Delhi and the place any rickshaw driver will automatically take any Westerner unless you're quick enough to divert them to your intended destination. The outside of the circle is corroded and decaying, the inside totally excavated for the new Delhi Metro--both complicate the simplest of errands. There is no escaping the crash-bang of construction in India--things are perpetually going up or falling down around you. At CP everything is overpriced, including the traditional handicrafts sold by squatting women outside the fancy stores, but you can have a rock thrown at you by a monkey while you shop for cellphones. Perhaps this is just a particularly tough moment in Connaught Place's life, but it's the one I got.

The Drifter is working for a few weeks at a human-rights NGO here (security is high, no names are named, work permits are shirked--officially he's in the office to "hang out with Steve"). More on that, maybe, at www.homelanddrifter.com/highways.html.

Back to the sights: Delhi is the site of seven previous cities of Delhi, each built up around and on top of the others' remains. Sacked and founded, founded and sacked. The British Raj version, much modified by more than 50 years of Indian independence, is the one we're dealing with today. So, ruin upon ruin etc.

Delhi...was full of riches and horrors: it was a labyrinth, a city of palaces, an open gutter, filtered light through a filigree lattice, a landscape of domes, an anarchy, a press of people, a choke of fumes, a whiff of spices.
--William Dalrymple, City of Djinns

Humayan's Tomb: The one emperor who managed to avoid being poisoned, imprisoned, dethroned, decapitated, or blinded with a hot needle and instead bit it when he turned too quickly toward Mecca and fell down the stairs.

The Jama Masjid, or Friday Mosque: The largest mosque in India, with painted lines to keep up to 25,000 worshipers orderly in prayer.

The Lal Quila, or Red Fort: Built by Shah Jehan (of Taj Mahal fame) in 1638 and originally encrusted with gold and precious gems, the city enclosed in its walls was known as Shahjehanabad, literally "Ruler-of-the-Universe-ville."

Okay, say something nice about Delhi. The Mughal gardens at the President's house (open only in March--now!) are quite beautiful. Lodhi Gardens, a vast and shady park full of young Indian couples sneakily holding hands in the shadows, is a bountiful and peaceful retreat. The India Habitat Center hosts free film festivals plus arty things like the queer puppet show we stumbled upon one evening. Also, I've stumbled upon the city's (only?) progressive bookstore, People Tree, which is also an artist-run shop featuring T-shirts with social-action slogans in Hindi. I am considering having them make me one that says--in Hindi--"Stop staring at my tits" on the front and "Stop reading my e-mail" on the back to address two infuriating aspects of Indian disregard (okay..."different" regard) for personal space. Wait, is this gradually failing to be nice?

U.S. out of North America!

Modern-day Delhi. March 20, we joined about 1,500 Delhi-ites (a guess), mostly Communists (judging from their banners), in the worldwide demonstration against the occupation of Iraq. As two of maybe eight Westerners there, we were both interviewed by an Islamic news wire service.

One for Ma, who hates the war, likes pictures of me, and is just glad we didn't get arrested.

And a week later, in the midst of it all, Drifter managed to engineer a delightful and secret birthday adventure for me that remained unrevealed until halfway through the train ride there (trust him, the man can keep a secret). First, a chance to meet and spend time with DrifterBrother, who is in town on business. Second, a fantastic en-route picnic of treats DrifterBrother smuggled in from Geneva--hard cheese, hard salami, crusty bread, good chocolate! All the craved foods that fight back--India's cuisine is brilliant, but you don't even need teeth to eat any of it. Then, arrival in Agra, which as all cruciverbalists know is the 4-letter home of the Taj Mahal. But first, check in to a fancy hotel with room service and a pool. But next, a tour of Fatehpur Sikri, the ancient city of Emperor Akbar.

Built in 1570 and abandoned just 16 years later (not enough water for the 125,000 residents--including 3,000 concubines), Fatehpur Sikri stands in near-perfect preservation.

Then, birthday morning, dawn at the Taj Mahal. Just lovely. We had been warned and were braced for the onslaught of touts, tourists, trinketers, and the like. But...nothing. A handful of tourists quietly lining up to take "The Picture", a peaceful sunrise, a taxi home, a swim, a nap, a hot-fudge sundae, a return train ride, a new apartment. What more could you ask? We were so not-hassled at the Taj that we were somehow unable to purchase Taj Mahal postcards there, and will have to pick some up in Delhi. (Anything--anything Indian--that you saw at any point along your travels is for sale, for less, on one street in Delhi. If your strength up, you can spend one long day on Janpath and skip the rest of the country--shopping-wise, that is.)

The Taj at dawn...

...and two hours later.

One for Randal, who asked, "What's behind the Taj?"
A lone boatman mucking through the low waters of the river Yamuna.

Four weeks left in the India part of the India trip (oh, and is it ever getting hotter by the minute). I'lll spend two of them in Delhi and two back up in Rishikesh at a crash-course in Thai massage with some yoga, crystal-gazing, palm-reading, and Ganges-rafting thrown in (okay, no crystals). Then one week in New York, one week in Los Angeles, home.

Local color: The main market in our new neighborhood, Haus Khas.

Now, I'm a little cranky to have just been April-Fooled by aforementioned Drifter this morning, but other than that all's well. Who knows it's April on the road? Who knows it's April Fool's in India. I do now, I guess. That's the news from March, stay tuned for April. New Yorkers, clear your couches and/or schedules April 25-30.

Everyone, take care and write back.

Okay, where were we? Losing track...sometime in Fe...

Okay, where were we? Losing track...sometime in February...Kerala backwaters. In a grown-up-feeling moment, we hire a houseboat with a crew to take us through palm-lined backwaters for a day and night. The food is delicious and bountiful (turned out of the tiniest, barely-equipped kitchen...er, galley), the riverbanks scenic, the heat oppressive when we stall but lovely when we breeze along.

"Wel Come" to the World Social Forum: a design on...

"Wel Come" to the World Social Forum: a design on the ground in colored rice flour. January 16-21, Mumbai. 100,000 converge on the clogged and rickety infrastructure of Mumbai for the WSF. Judging, perhaps cynically, from our previous experience, we had doubts the city could pull something like this off, and approached the first day with a cringing skepticism. But for the most part--despite

INDIA (finally!) "...the one land all men desire ...

INDIA (finally!) "...the one land all men desire to see, and having seen once, by even a glimpse, would not give that glimpse for the shows of all the rest of the globe combined." --Mark Twain, 1897 Three weeks have passed since we've been in India, and as I've said to some already, sometimes it feels like a blink, sometimes an eternity. We are slowly figuring out how to interact with India,

Well, well, well. I never thought I'd be saying th...

Well, well, well. I never thought I'd be saying this, but welcome to my, er, blog. As bloggees to my blogger, I have your best interests in mind and as such, blah-blah-blogging will be kept to a minimum (after this intro). Any personal notes directed to spinsterisland2003@yahoo.com will be answered as circumstances on the subcontinent permit. But let's not get ahead of ourselves...

First, please indulge me in some acknowledgements:

Special thanks to all San Francisco hosts that helped this fledgling drifter get off to a gentle start: The Floss Entity, Brett Bowman, Michelle Polzine and Franz (Franz, is your last name Polzine?), Lauren Kiino, The Sassy Vinyl, Scott Kildall, Kelleigh Trowbridge, and Tarin Towers. Extra thanks to Kelleigh for the party, Tarin for the plush ride to the airport, and Brett and Therese Davis for kitty-sitting.

As for our outlying hosts, thanks to Heather and Bill Gilman and the Cunninghams in LA for a lovely early Christmas, as well as Christine and Chhime'd Kunzang for a snowy Montana Thanksgiving (in that order). Finally, New Yorkers: Allen Salkin, Blaine Peterson & Randal Hunting, Jennifers DeMeritt and Dowling (seperately). Good to see all the old friends and meet all the new. Plus, excellent entertainment provided by Allen, Jenn DeMeritt and the inadvertently poetical Paul LaFarge.

That's it. As of December 11, 2003, the Drifter and I left American soil for points unknown (Turkey, India, & etc.) and if you don't know about the Drifter, it might be too late for you to catch up at this point. Just see if you can follow along...

But first...This one's for the Drifter, for making this--and so much more--possible, both literally and figuratively. (That's his link on the upper right, if you feel the need to get the other side of the story.) Okay, I think that's enough, Ethel, our plane is leaving...

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Istanbul, take 1: Flight from JFK to Frankfurt uneventful--good. Six a.m. beer, cigarette and Scrabble game during layover. Now we're travelling.

Arrival in Istanbul also uneventful. Tram into town and having my first unsolicited Turkish shoeshine in front of a nearly 1500-year-old mosque within minutes. Now we're travelling. Little to report for the next few days as jet lag knocks us flat. Luckily there are a few crossword puzzle assignments plus other hobbies to fill the wide-awake wee hours. Up for every sunrise so far--too bad the gray sky just lightens and darkens here. Highlight tour of local sights: Blue Mosque, Haghia Sophia, Topkapi Palace & Harem, Grand Bazaar...

Istanbul is full of carpets, tea, lunatic drivers and tiny cats. No surprises there except how small the cats are. The city--especially our neighborhood of Sultanahmet--exhausts with its constant barrage of sales pitches from every shop, stand and restaurant. While we're clearly tourists, no one thinks we're American (they don't expect any Americans to be here), usually guessing Dutch. Though once you start talking with them about America, it seems every Turk has a good friend in Florida or Texas, used to have a girlfriend from Baltimore, likes Clinton and hates Bush--these points covered in every conversation.

On the Road: As it's winter here, we head south for warmer weather (wearing all our clothes for India in layer after layer). Ferry across the Sea of Marmara to Yalova, bus to Bursa (last stop on the silk road from China). Actually snowing in Bursa. Bus to Selcuk, a lovely little town on the edges of the ruins of Ephesus, at which we take many pictures, enjoy a brief flash of blue sky and sunlight, and are menacingly swarmed by the sites roving band of feral kittens--yikes! Bus to Antalya, a seaside resort on the Mediterranean. Clearly December is the off season here, though apparently the patio cafes fill with mostly Russian tourists in the summertime. The Drifter finds Antalya peaceful after the bustle of the other cities & has better luck here talking with Turkish people about more than sales transactions, but it just feels bleak and deserted to me. Rain, rain, rain. I am briefly and distractingly excited by the notion of taking a quick ferry to Venice for Christmas until it is revealed that ferry crossing is summer only and takes 3 days. Redirect Christmas enthusiasm to a return to Istanbul. Night bus to Istanbul: 12 hours; 30,000,000 Turkish lire ($22)--including tea or coffee, cake and cologne.

Istanbul, take 2: Back to our old hotel--home!--just in time for Christmas. Pretty much a non-event in a Muslim country, but our hotel took a stab at it with some festive streamers and a Charlie Brown-style tree. We're able to stay up late enough to go out this time around, and head out to Babylon for Christmas Eve's Depeche Mode night (the current hot-spot--Michael Franti & Spearhead were here last week). Sadly our Time Out Istanbul magazine is one night off, so instead we wander around and into what turns out to be an extremely friendly, if unlabled, gay bar around the corner. Spend the evening there drinking and talking with the manager and bartender about Istanbul etc. and it feels suitably festive. Taxi home to sleep it off. Return to Babylon the next night for Depeche Mode expecting to dance, and are surprised by both the devotion and reserve of the crowd. Everyone sings along and sways, but little more, as the dj slightly mixes D-Mode songs to visuals from the new Depeche Mode DVD. The greatest enthusiasm comes during the band-related trivia contest. Still, another fun & interesting night out in Istanbul (despite the fact that they never played "Personal Jesus"--and on Jesus's birthday even...).

Next stop, a traditional Turkish bath, or hamam. We try one built in 1584 and recommended personally, if unenthusiastically, by a Lonely Planet guidebook writer who's staying in our hotel. The hamam proves to be a slightly mystifying, mostly satisfying experience, during which we (seperately) sweat it out on a hot marble slab under a steamy dome and then are lathered, scrubbed, and lead around by the hand to be thoroughly rubbed and rinsed until we gleam. The Drifter endures a rather vigorous massage (most guidebooks refer to the hamam massage as a "pummeling"), which I am braced for but which never transpires. Apparently the women's massage here is often half-hearted. However, I am dragged off for a thorough waxing from the Turkish women there who have no patience whatsover with my hippie-traveller aesthetic. Rest assured, great lengths were taken to make sure everything was "nice for my boyfriend."

Next night, a lovely dinner with friends of a friend. Yigal and Rachel (he, freelance journalist; she, semiretired lawyer & expectant mom) have been living in Istanbul (from NYC) for the past year and have decided to stay for one more. They had us up to their fantastic apartment with picture-postcard views and then out for a night of fluent conversation and a much more competently ordered meal than we had as yet managed on our own. Yay, friends!

December 27: Left to my own devices for the day, I figure out how to take the funicular, a one-stop shuttle opened in 1876 (3rd oldest metro in the world after New York and London), and utterly fail to figure out how to mail a parcel home--can't even manage to get a box or the paper to wrap it in, or come close to successfully to conveying this need. Its a day of ups and downs. Up: I find a warm and comfortable cafe that serves excellent lattes--almost unheard of in Nescafe-saturated Turkey (yes, I know, Turkish coffee, blahblahblah). Down: A slight miscommunication at the beauty salon and now I have a short haircut--um, better for travel, right?

One day left in Istanbul to smoke a waterpipe, ride a boat up the Bosphorus, and see the Dervishes whirl. [Ed. note: We did none of these, instead returning to the Western-style coffee shop, getting our laundry done, and packing. It just struck me that we're going to India.]

December 29 approaches and we're off to Mumbai.... Happy New Year to everyone! See you on the other side...

**Drifter testimonial: After 3 weeks on the road, I highly recommend the Drifter as a travelling companion. After a couple of bumps we are making our way happily and harmoniously. Drifter benefits: Excellent navigation skills due to obsession with maps and guidebooks; strong bargaining skills (vestigial lawyering?); enthusiastic Turkish and conversational German ease communication; "handsomeness" of Drifter inspires people to help us and give us free things (really). Drifter drawbacks: Occasionally demoralized by inept tourist offices or inaccurate guidebooks ("It's hopeless! The map is NO GOOD!"); occasional poor loser at Scrabble.**