Change. Will do you good.
The dark darting eyes bore into us immediately. So alive and alert as we leave< light on foot< entering the metro heading straight into the heart of New Delhi. The darkest largest city I've ever flown into. Military men with guns march their way giving us an unknown anticipation added with ATM unfamiliar functions. The bulky French man was our escort into the chaos. Darkness, tuk-tuks, swarms of dark-skinned bodies, trash, dirt. Never knowing when that whiff of sour pee will sting your nostrils. Watch your feet, that smell surely comes from nearby.
People catching our stride along dark sidewalks, corners of trash, men with worn satchels slung. Horns, dust and an endless stream of traffic. Suspicious people are out on the town, better keep your eyes-a-lookin around.
Three in a tuk-tuk, finally along for the ride. Where is the SMYLE INN? "Ver iz de mosque, da mosque!?"*-French accent here-* Slimy, sour, crowded, dark alleys in search for a room. "It dwill be lready ein oune hourh." *Indian accent here* Bureaucratic systems delay for a bit, but finally we have our escape. Orange, yellow walls, fancy lighted clean white ceiling, orange light through filthy windows ally side, and not to mention everything that could drip, does, from a fascinating array of corroded faucets. Nothing like a sizzling light panel with 9 switches and all-too revealing not-so-white sheets with a crusty shag fuzz blanket on top.
A winding case of marble stairs "Please madam, wadtch dyer head." *Indian accent here* leads us blindly to a corner-situated-balcony quaint place of eating. Out through the window-way and onto a romantic light draped eating area, all things colorful, all things stereotypical. Cows hold their own in traffic, dresses displayed three three stories high, horns ring, rukshaws compete with tuk-tuks and the over arching theme is a cut-neck-wanna-be-business-men aggression in this predominant male ridden land. The turbans and apples are way too much Aladdin for my own good.
Like savages we mostly swished and swallowed down delightful zaps and zings of new tastes called garlic nan, curry and bunches of names we'll never remember. Escape is the room in which we lay our heads. Night's falling is the primary culprit of our imaginative fears.
A wandering wide-eyed morning takes the out-of-place us to a breakfast of finger dipped curry and more nan from a 2-wheeled cart and plenty of baffled Indian men. An intended stop at the railway for tickets (much like our trouser search) turns into the afternoon's fill of time, leaving a bewildered, thrilled, sweaty yet successful Corey as its' product; complete with bags of nan, curry and peanut brittle.
The day's end is complete with an early evening dodge-stroll between cow-pies, saturated dirt-pee, food carts, rubbish, fruit & tea stands and shops containing interesting articles with suffocating pressure from pathetically dramatic teams of Indian so-called-businessmen. Though obstacles plenty, success was had with savory new purchases of vest, sweater and top with much delighted satisfaction. Rosy faced and happy, dinner was enjoyed in a slower fashion this time under the familiar glow of lights on our corner balcony realm.
Train departure at 22:00 yielded us a day more of Delhi doing. Explorers complete with everything we own on our backs, like steady turtles we roamed all the nooks and large looks we came upon. Food a strange rarity we arrived at a street-side shack desperate in our gestures signaling our desire for anything involving a plate with food on top. Desire fulfilled, the honored-to-have-us bashful Indian continued to fill the already enormous servings of bean/lentil curry, cauliflower something, rice pile, roti stacks and onion fresh veggie something-elses. Center of all attention we were, pictures taken, questions asked and plenty of quick-tongued babbling at us we'll never quite know whats. Leaving with our bags light and bellies heavy, the un-optional promise of return and some new memories, we headed on towards plenty of interesting architectural dome-structures and unknown (always turning us around) streets, round-a-bouts.
*Side note* To never be forgotten throughout these artful descriptions are the spine-aggravating sound of horns and putrid whiffs of pee during any moment of movement street-ward. What's more, we travel through the turning of our eyes and not the pages of any guide book. With the obvious helpful guide of these sort of things, we know we'd only end up in places we don't want to be anyhow.
After the one-and-only slurpie ;) in India and shuffling our way through human traffic in upper-class society and park area, we boarded (what could have been our last) tuk-tuk through all things white-knuckle driving and accident prone. To the darkest train station you ever did see. Feeling exposed as a foreigner in a foreign land is one thing. Feeling vulnerable and endangered is another. The aggressive rush and craze of train-station commotion rose this fear. But nothing like a dirty market place with a place to eat (corner side) to dispose our exposure. Although pee drafted into momentarily smellings, the food was warm and hearty. Looking past the gas-flame toasting methods of course.
Train boarding time. Lacking guidance, we found our names and worn blue leather bunks. Departure and the night land crossing. Feet black with filth, stares from passengers everywhere, no blanket nor pillow nor curtain to help us escape this night. Wrapping legs in dresses and shirts we were in for a rocky, chilly, dusty night of shallow sleep, not to mention being the 3rd bunk top in the chosen cabin for keeping it's fluorescent light tube on for the nights' duration. Smiles penetrating through an otherwise uncomfortable exposed gloomy night, we're reminded of our endearing love and warm home awaiting on the earth's other side. Temporary it is. Embrace we shall.
Desert land, just a few dashes to Pakistan. Our arrival in Bikaner couldn't have been complete without mouthfuls of dusty teeth and an unnerving persistent Indian wanting to "help" or should we say "take advantage." Finding our own way, as usual, we almost made it successfully to a hotel without further interference, when an even more unnerving tuk-tuk man drove puttering in our same stride, persistent on muttering annoyances and wasting gas only to fulfill some sick satisfaction of pissing people off extremely. My Spanish-command was no good, but we escaped from the wretched puttering gas-guzzling in time to our wonderful, mostly-clean, abode. An escape after much exposure.
Cleaned and breaths taken, the day commenced into yet another dusty street-side wandering and playing the "you-observe-us-while-we-observe-your-country" game. The camels are astounding though! Enough to take up 1.5 of the road lanes with their large-wide-tall loads. A desert town, we could be anywhere. Red stuccos and stone buildings. Those that dress in extravagant displays of robes and head wrappings. Stunning gorgeous women, disgraced by society, throw beautiful glances our way, as we find ourselves again and again in mazes of dusty dead-end neighborhoods.
This is a land time-trapped. Where children play with tires and sticks, women are seen beautifully but not heard, cows roam freely and the globalizing influences on the desire for civilized society evaporates as a useless term. Eating with your hands and peeing in the streets is much more relevant to the general functioning, and the rest is nor history nor upcoming. The horn isn't a tool for alert messages to other vehicles nor is the restaurant a place for eating (we have came across but a very few places to eat, yet most have been empty or closed.) Although the restaurant we did find, we were treated like royalty for a whomping $2.50. More food than belly space allows and more tastes new and exotic to our delight. The small energetic waiter was a cherry on top, even more when sugar/anis herb dish came with our pathetically cheap bill for such a delightful feast.
This is where we travel. Dusty feet and light packs through the most exotic, striking and delightfully overwhelming lands either of us have yet to set our bare feet upon. We send you two big dusty grins with a curry-stained-hand wave from afar.
Namaste,
Meg
People catching our stride along dark sidewalks, corners of trash, men with worn satchels slung. Horns, dust and an endless stream of traffic. Suspicious people are out on the town, better keep your eyes-a-lookin around.
Three in a tuk-tuk, finally along for the ride. Where is the SMYLE INN? "Ver iz de mosque, da mosque!?"*-French accent here-* Slimy, sour, crowded, dark alleys in search for a room. "It dwill be lready ein oune hourh." *Indian accent here* Bureaucratic systems delay for a bit, but finally we have our escape. Orange, yellow walls, fancy lighted clean white ceiling, orange light through filthy windows ally side, and not to mention everything that could drip, does, from a fascinating array of corroded faucets. Nothing like a sizzling light panel with 9 switches and all-too revealing not-so-white sheets with a crusty shag fuzz blanket on top.
A winding case of marble stairs "Please madam, wadtch dyer head." *Indian accent here* leads us blindly to a corner-situated-balcony quaint place of eating. Out through the window-way and onto a romantic light draped eating area, all things colorful, all things stereotypical. Cows hold their own in traffic, dresses displayed three three stories high, horns ring, rukshaws compete with tuk-tuks and the over arching theme is a cut-neck-wanna-be-business-men aggression in this predominant male ridden land. The turbans and apples are way too much Aladdin for my own good.
Like savages we mostly swished and swallowed down delightful zaps and zings of new tastes called garlic nan, curry and bunches of names we'll never remember. Escape is the room in which we lay our heads. Night's falling is the primary culprit of our imaginative fears.
The day's end is complete with an early evening dodge-stroll between cow-pies, saturated dirt-pee, food carts, rubbish, fruit & tea stands and shops containing interesting articles with suffocating pressure from pathetically dramatic teams of Indian so-called-businessmen. Though obstacles plenty, success was had with savory new purchases of vest, sweater and top with much delighted satisfaction. Rosy faced and happy, dinner was enjoyed in a slower fashion this time under the familiar glow of lights on our corner balcony realm.
Train departure at 22:00 yielded us a day more of Delhi doing. Explorers complete with everything we own on our backs, like steady turtles we roamed all the nooks and large looks we came upon. Food a strange rarity we arrived at a street-side shack desperate in our gestures signaling our desire for anything involving a plate with food on top. Desire fulfilled, the honored-to-have-us bashful Indian continued to fill the already enormous servings of bean/lentil curry, cauliflower something, rice pile, roti stacks and onion fresh veggie something-elses. Center of all attention we were, pictures taken, questions asked and plenty of quick-tongued babbling at us we'll never quite know whats. Leaving with our bags light and bellies heavy, the un-optional promise of return and some new memories, we headed on towards plenty of interesting architectural dome-structures and unknown (always turning us around) streets, round-a-bouts. 
*Side note* To never be forgotten throughout these artful descriptions are the spine-aggravating sound of horns and putrid whiffs of pee during any moment of movement street-ward. What's more, we travel through the turning of our eyes and not the pages of any guide book. With the obvious helpful guide of these sort of things, we know we'd only end up in places we don't want to be anyhow.
After the one-and-only slurpie ;) in India and shuffling our way through human traffic in upper-class society and park area, we boarded (what could have been our last) tuk-tuk through all things white-knuckle driving and accident prone. To the darkest train station you ever did see. Feeling exposed as a foreigner in a foreign land is one thing. Feeling vulnerable and endangered is another. The aggressive rush and craze of train-station commotion rose this fear. But nothing like a dirty market place with a place to eat (corner side) to dispose our exposure. Although pee drafted into momentarily smellings, the food was warm and hearty. Looking past the gas-flame toasting methods of course.
This is a land time-trapped. Where children play with tires and sticks, women are seen beautifully but not heard, cows roam freely and the globalizing influences on the desire for civilized society evaporates as a useless term. Eating with your hands and peeing in the streets is much more relevant to the general functioning, and the rest is nor history nor upcoming. The horn isn't a tool for alert messages to other vehicles nor is the restaurant a place for eating (we have came across but a very few places to eat, yet most have been empty or closed.) Although the restaurant we did find, we were treated like royalty for a whomping $2.50. More food than belly space allows and more tastes new and exotic to our delight. The small energetic waiter was a cherry on top, even more when sugar/anis herb dish came with our pathetically cheap bill for such a delightful feast.
This is where we travel. Dusty feet and light packs through the most exotic, striking and delightfully overwhelming lands either of us have yet to set our bare feet upon. We send you two big dusty grins with a curry-stained-hand wave from afar.
Namaste,
Meg
Comments
Mom
United in the smell of pee and the taste of hot curries and rajastani dust.--Enjoy.. or should I say Experience.
uncle skid