In which Alison tried to make up for her excessivly short posts the past couple days

Ok, sorry about that little tiny post yesterday. Know that is represents about 15 minutes of effort (I really think that the last keyboard was mis-wired…either that or my typing skills have deteriorated further than I thought).

So, anyway, what have I been up to? Let’s start with a fuller account of my first time in Delhi. I actually don’t mind Delhi. When you leave the train station, you walk out into the Main Bazaar, which is full of tourist restaurants, hotels, and shops selling all the things that you might buy in India and then never wear again (hammer pants come to mind). I got up (as I said) and had breakfast and met the rickshaw driver who had taken me to my hotel the day before. He asked how the place was (fine) and then asked if I wanted to see the shops. Now, when I was planning to get to Delhi I went though the guidebook and circled all kinds of places that I wanted to see and go to, but the truth is that I was pretty burned out at that point. I really didn’t need to see more monuments, or buildings, or anything and was kinda just killing time, so I said ok. He got in an auto rickshaw and took me through Connacaught Place, the nice area of town, stopping at lots of stores where I had to oo and aww and then get back in the rickshaw. At each shop, once they heard me sniffling (I’ve developed a cold, I think) I was given tea and cookies, so I was pretty happy. It’s funny, but people here are so interested in selling you something, they don’t actually seem to listen to you at all. You can say “No, I don’t like Pashmina’s” 50 times, but they will still pull them all out for you and ask “What happened?” when you move away. You have to stop taking things personally. Like all the people yelling “excuse me!” in aggrieved tones, the men saying “I just want to talk!”, the reminders that “you promised to see my shop!”, and the fact that, even if you are in the middle of talking to someone, if a man comes in all communication will be broken off and you will be expected to wait until he leaves.

Anyway, at about noon I decided I was tired of “shopping” and had the driver leave me at the Indira Gandhi museum. I had wanted to see it, mostly because it is in her old house, the place where she was shot, and because Prof. Brodkin had all those great stories about living there with her. It was a nice, modern, white house, full of geometric patterns (it kind of reminded me of Nora or Becky’s house, actually), most of the rooms were emptied to make way for exhibits, but her study and dining room were left as they were. They looked very comfortable, full of nooks and crannies to read in. Some of the artifacts were interesting, especially gifts for other foreign dignitaries (I remember that being my favorite part of the Kennedy exhibit as well. It would be awesome to get presents like that!). As we wended our way along, moving though her life, we eventually ended up in the garden where she was shot. Now, I don’t know much about the actually circumstances surrounding that, except that she ordered an attack on the Golden Temple and was then killed by her own Sikh body guards. It seem s to me that if you are being personally guarded by religious men, and then attack their holy place, it would be time to change body guards, but what do I know.

After the museum, I walked back toward the main shopping area, slowly, enjoying the sidewalks and the trees. I was defiantly in the ritzy area of Delhi. There were huge houses, with guards, and plaques saying things like “Minister of Health”, “Justice So-And-So”. The sidewalks were kind of funny, because the planters were placed exactly in the middle of the walkway so that there were, in effect, huge holes in the sidewalk ever 50 feet. It seemed like they were trying to discourage anyone from doing anything crazy like, say, WALKING on it. The streets were wide, and full of modern cars driven by spiffy dressed men and girls in Gucci sunglasses. Clearly, I had hit a real city.

As I said earlier, I wandered through the main shopping district, where you can find anything from McDs to Lees to Gucci to Godiva. It was nice, like walking down Michigan Avenue, except I realized that if I were at home, everything would be decorated for Christmas, while here all the Dwalii decorations have come down, and it’s pretty empty. It was getting dark when I made it back to the hotel, and I settled in because I had an early train to catch the next morning. My train left Delhi at 6:15, and arrived in Amritsar right on time at 2pm. I could tell that it was the right train, because it seemed everyone butme was Sikh. I was so exhausted; I just got in a rickshaw and told him to take me to the temple. As I walked out of the rickshaw, I was faced with a huge white building. It looked, honestly, a bit like a colonial mall (an image not helped by the fact that there were tons of shops on the outside). I checked into a room, dropped my things, left my shoes, and started to walk inside. I knew that I needed to cover my head, and there was a large bucket outside full of triangles of fabric for people to take from. I started to tie one, babushka style on my head, when a guard with a huge spear cameover, took it from me, and re-tied it doo-rag style. While thinking that this looked particularly ridiculous given the pink flowered cloth that I had chosen, I stepped though the pool of water by the entrance (to wash your feet, and it was warm!) and went in.

It was absolutely lovely inside. The Golden Temple in the middle is set off by the white buildings all around, and the singing coming from inside was sent out on all of the loud speakers around the complex. Most people were just walking around, circumnaviaging, whole familes from tiny turbaned kids to grandmothers. Some, the really tough, were bathing in the pool around the temple (it was really cold). I wondered around myself for a bit, just getting my bearings and enjoying the peace. I think that if would have been worth the trip just for that moment. Everyone was kind and smiling at me, and the kids were adorable (though many did have that “Mommy! What’s that!?!” look in their eyes when they saw me). After a while, I got hungry (I hadn’t eaten since some bread on the train) so I went to the communal dining hall that is set up to feed anyone who comes, anytime of the dayor night. I sat on a mat on the floor with a bowel, plate and spoon and, as I waited, volunteers came around with hands full of chapatti and really tasty dahl, and water. It was simple, but wonderfully spiced and neverending. When I was done, you simply hand your plate over to another volunteer for washing. I really enjoyed it, the whole idea as well as the actual food.

It was dark by that point, so I went to bed, and woke up sick. Not sick with intestinal distress, but lazy don’t feel like getting out of bed sick. So, I didn’t, mostly. About 1, I got up to eat and to see the Sikh museum in the Temple. It’s full of oil paintings describing the various horrible ways that Sikhs have died over the centuries. There are people losing their heads, people being burned at the stake, people being sliced from many angles, as well as pictures of those killed in Indira Gandhi’s attack on the temple, and on other uprisings. As I was heading out, a man walked up to me and asked if I wanted to go to the border closing ceremony that night. His price seemed fair, and I felt like a bum for not doing anything all day so I said ok. He said we were leaving at 3, so I had enough time for another nap.

At 3, I went down to find his Jeep, and found a family already waiting there. I was in the front seat, they were in the back, but I did hear them speaking a few words of English. As we got ready to leave, the driver asked me to move to the back, and I did saying that I hadn’t been feeling well that day and might need to stop. “Oh,” said the mother of the family “My husband hasn’t been either, so we’ll look after you both”. Turns out they were living in England, and were visiting the Temple and some friends in Delhi. The son was UK born, so he and I chatted the whole way up to the ceremony. There were also some newly weds in the car with us, and even though they didn’t speak much English they were all smiles. It was a really nice little group, and the 45 minute drive out of town to the border went really fast. When we arrived, Bindi (the mom) suggested that we all stay together so we could find the car later (which saved me having to bed to stay with them!). We lined up near some gates for a few minutes, and then they opened and people took off running toward the boarder, as if they were trying to jump the fence. Really, they were only trying to get good seats, but we were all laughing at the people’s high spirits and running along a little. To get to the area where the ceremony takes place, you have to walk though a series of line-control switchbacks, which are mirrored on the Pakistan side. It was really funny, running though them, and seeing the people on the other side running and waving. We all waved back at them.

When we arrived at the ceremony area, we had to go through one of my favorite Indian things, the Indian metal detector. They are everywhere (at rain stations, at the entrance to the Main Bazaar in Delhi) but seem to indicate nothing. Some aren’t even plugged in, and if they go off (as they always do) no one cares at all). It’s really funny. Still, we went though and then were divided into the men and women’s sections, so I was with Bindi and the Bride (who’s name I didn’t catch) in a much more sedate area while the other guy s were in the rowdy boys section. Some guards, with amazing hats, brought out Indian flags and some girls got up and ran with them past the stands and then to the gate with Pakistan, where they waved them at each other. Bindi looked at me, then got us up and ran us down there to grab a flag! The guard pushed other people off so that the foreigner could run with it (seems backwards logic to me, but whatever) and Bindi and I ran past the cheering crowds. When we were done, some of the girls grabbed me and started dancing to the film music that was playing, so I was quite the center of attention. Then, the cheering started. There was a definite “MC” who made sure that people were cheering the correct things. The popular cheers were all call and response. I didn’t know what they really were, but my mind filled in the sounds to be something like: “Hindustan! Jinnah-bagh!”, “Harold Pataki!” “One day, martyrdom!”. My personal cheer “You can’t even keep your country together long enough to hold a stupid conferece!” may not have been catchy, but was satisfying.

After a while, the guards made everyone sit down, and they and the Pakistani guards quick-marched and high-kicked very fersomly at each other for a while before they brought the flags down. Then the last bus rolled though(to more waving) and we all packed into the car to go home. I was glad I had went, it was really fun, and especially glad that I had met such nice people to give me some moral support when I needed it.
So, the next morning I headed back to Delhi, and vegged out. That’s kinda what I feel like doing today, honestly. I don’t know if I am tired or sick (I’m aiming toward sick) but I just don’t feel like doing anything (which, you will all agree isn’t like me). All I really want to do is lie down and rest. I feel like I should enjoy my last day here (hard to believe, LAST DAY) but it’s taking a lot of effort just to type this post.

Tomorrow I will be heading home, so I will see some of you then and more of you soon. I promise a nice, finishing post after I get back and am feeling a little more energetic, but for right now, I want to leave you with the song I feel has been the theme song for India. If Morocco’s song was “Hotel California”, then this one is “Happiness Hotel” by the Muppets (I hope that Kyla, Lisette and John especially can relate to it). Here are the lyrics:

Oh there's no fire in the fireplace
there's no carpet on the floor
Don't try to order dinner, there's no kitchen anymore
But if the road's been kind of bumpy and you need to rest a spell
Well, welcome home, to Happiness Hotel.

If you got luggage keep it handy
but you're runnin' out of luck
Cause the bellhops ain't too organized and the elevator's stuck
So if you don't mind friendly animals and can learn to stand the smell
Well, welcome home, to the Happiness Hotel.
Welcome home (welcome home),
Welcome home (welcome home),
No matter where you wander you will never do as well

Okay, the lobby's looking shabby and it's got the wrong address
And the whole dang thing has been condemned by American Express
Still the management is cheerful though the whole joint's gone to hell
Well, welcome home, to the Happiness Hotel.

Oh, there are bugs (there are bugs)
And there are lice (there are lice)
Sure, we have our little problems, but you'll never beat the price

You got every kind of critter,
you got every kind of pest,
But we treat 'em all as equals just like any other guest

Though you're cleaner than the others,
still as far as we can tell,
You'll fit right in at Happiness Hotel
We'll fit right in at Happiness Hotel!!