I know we’re back, and I know that what once made us special (tall white people) has been replaced by house sitting duty, shoveling snow, and “puppy patrol”. There is no longer a reason to even read this stuff because we can be reached by phone now, and you could just ask us. I know all this, but I still feel a need to complete the story of this magical year we had living in Hong Kong – and prolong its existence in my mind. I think every expat reaches a point where you either become permanent, or you return home, and for us that point was probably another year away. Being back has had its challenges especially given our decision to move to Boston from Washington DC, but I think we both feel lucky to have even had a year overseas, and are looking forward to new adventures closer to home. So with that I would like to provide a brief exposure to the as yet undocumented trips to India, Cambodia, and New Zealand.
Carpooling
Local passersbyIndia for Idiots
In approaching a task as great as planning a trip to India the real challenge is trying to decide how rough you want to make it. Nothing will be smooth, it’s a just a matter of your tolerance for chaos. We tend to like being masters of our own destiny which means we walk that line between heated toilet seats, and heat. We steer clear of the “Palace on Wheels” train excursions, or the tried and true Abercrombie and Kent trips, but on the other hand we try to leave frame packs, and rolls of toilet paper at home. With India this middle road approach meant that we would try a few cities less traveled to by tourists, maybe stay in a locally owned Havelli (Indian B&B), hit the street vending scene, but also treat ourselves to some well deserved Chicken Makhanwala by the pool.
The worst part about India is that EVERYONE is working an angle on you. From the time you step off the plane, and stand waiting beneath diseased fluorescent tube lighting watching bags being thrown onto a carousel that probably was salvaged from a now updated airport halfway around the world, you feel their stares. Just people everywhere standing around staring at you. Everywhere! All on the same team. You feel them sizing you up, the entire team: baggage handlers, taxi drivers, armed guards, customs officials. All working together, passing you from one player to the next trying to get in your pocket. It took us 25 minutes to get a taxi. Not because there was a long cab line, or we got lost, or just had to walk a great distance. No. It was because it took 25 minutes to find out HOW to get a taxi. No one would give us a straight answer. The first cabbie we got walked too far into the parking lot for our liking. The airport guard pointed us to another cab stand, but none of those cabbies would use a meter. The third cabbie wouldn’t take us because we had already said “no” to one of his teammates. And around, and around it goes. Welcome to India.
When Heather first said she wanted to ride camels I thought it might be a bad idea. My riding experience consisted of riding a broken pack horse in the Grand Canyon, and Heather riding her Great Pyrenees around the living room. We’re not “natural riders.” But she won me over with the old “when else in our lives will we have the chance to ride a camel?” argument. She had me there. And so it was that we found ourselves being driven through the desert outside the city of Jaisselmer at 7:30 AM in the back of a windowless Tata truck at breakneck speed. Our guidebook described Jaisselmer as, “almost entirely a sandy waste, forming a part of the great Indian Thar desert”. These less than flattering words do wonders in terms of keeping away tourists, but leave out its charms – namely the small city feel, carved sandstone buildings, and camel safari’s which was what had drawn us to so remote a locale. The city sits 60 miles from the border with Pakistan, and houses a large air force base on its outskirts for this very reason. The Indians hate the Pakistani’s – currently because of the disputed ownership of Kashmir, but historically for a number of reasons. As we raced through the desert I could see fighter jets darting overhead on their morning show of patriotic bravado. Or were they chasing us? Our driver was yelling something over his shoulder about breakfast; but maybe he was cursing the infidels, and we were really on a one way track for the holy land a couple of dunes beyond the horizon. Damn the camels.
The truth was breakfast was on my mind. We had been staying at a beautiful Havelli in the Jaisselmer Fort which dominates the center of the city. This is truly a unique opportunity that I could not see happening anywhere else in the world but a place as disorganized as India. The Jaisselmer Fort (called a fort, but really a castle amongst a working village with a 30 foot defensive wall) is still occupied, and functions as it has for hundreds of years. If this were in Europe it would be a museum; here you can be part of the exhibit. Our Havelli was a sandstone house perched above the wall in one corner of the fort that provided a breathtaking view overlooking the city and the desert beyond. Each night we would have cocktails on the roof deck at sunset as the haunting call to prayer echoed out of the cities mosques. Each morning we would enjoy breakfast in the same spot before the day time sun had risen. I savored those early moments when the city had yet to rise, and we would sip coffee figuring out how we could open a business in this strange and magical place. It was September, and being the desert, it was cool at night, but day time temps were well into the 90’s. The afternoon we left for the safari we had to skip lunch, and breakfast had been the last meal I had eaten. Damn the camels.
Our camel guides were a local farmer and his son who could not have been more than 9, but rode a camel like Willie Shoemaker. We met them at the end of a dirt road in a desert village where we mounted our beasts, and set off into the inferno. In this area the desert consisted of low lying thicket, and sand. The idea of this safari was to ride a few miles out to where the landscape became pure sand dunes, make camp, spend the night, and ride back. It sounded manageable, but not five minutes into sitting in that postage stamp size saddle atop that horned hump, and my crotch was numb. Where were those fighter jets when you needed them? I wonder if with enhanced laser guided technology a pilot could shoot a missile at the camel killing it, and spare me? We’d have to research that one further when we got back. Though I have to admit, aside from my fear of self inflicted sterilization, I was having a lot of fun.
It was a scene that should have been a Salvador Dali poster; just two cots sitting in the sand in the middle of nowhere. Sleep tight. The view of the stars overhead made the uneasiness associated with sleeping completely out in the open worth it. We woke at sunrise the next day as the desert winds began to pick up, and drop its sandy passengers in our mouths, ears, and hair. The dung beetles were busy eating their breakfast. Neither of us was too excited to put our stiff backs on top of those humps again, but there was only one way out, and that’s the way we came in. Damn the camels.
Our next stop was in Jodphur, and after an entertaining a nine hour drive with our semi-trustworthy driver Raj, we arrived at the Umaid Bahwan Palace. Again, in my opinion, this is an opportunity one could only experience in India. The current Raj of Jodphur (that’s a Prince to you and me) converted his palace to one half hotel, while the other half continues to serve as his majesty’s primary residence when he’s not off visiting Oxford, his alma matter. The hotel arrangement – compliments of the Taj Hotel Group - is a nice way to offload the financial burdens of owning so massive a home while retaining some measure of dignity. Any other country, and no doubt the government would continue to subsidize the Prince’s lifestyle, or it would be turned into a museum. But in India it is a place where anyone who pays the price to stay here (a bargain by western standards) can sip cocktails on his majesty’s steps while taking in the sunset. Heather wanted me to mention that this hotel is where Elizabeth Hurley married her Indian husband. Clearly we were in the right place. The money spent on the detail, and the craftsmanship that went into creating this mecca, could never be justified for a newly built hotel. The structure was awesome, ornate, and rich, but done in a way that did not seem pretentious. An atrium over the entryway soared to 120 feet, an indoor pool, interior courtyards, elegant dining rooms, and an oak paneled smoking lounge with the heads of large game mounted on the walls was what we passed on our way to our bedroom each evening. Think the White House done in the style of the India High Plains. The hardest part about staying at this place is that you do not want to leave.
In approaching a task as great as planning a trip to India the real challenge is trying to decide how rough you want to make it. Nothing will be smooth, it’s a just a matter of your tolerance for chaos. We tend to like being masters of our own destiny which means we walk that line between heated toilet seats, and heat. We steer clear of the “Palace on Wheels” train excursions, or the tried and true Abercrombie and Kent trips, but on the other hand we try to leave frame packs, and rolls of toilet paper at home. With India this middle road approach meant that we would try a few cities less traveled to by tourists, maybe stay in a locally owned Havelli (Indian B&B), hit the street vending scene, but also treat ourselves to some well deserved Chicken Makhanwala by the pool.
The worst part about India is that EVERYONE is working an angle on you. From the time you step off the plane, and stand waiting beneath diseased fluorescent tube lighting watching bags being thrown onto a carousel that probably was salvaged from a now updated airport halfway around the world, you feel their stares. Just people everywhere standing around staring at you. Everywhere! All on the same team. You feel them sizing you up, the entire team: baggage handlers, taxi drivers, armed guards, customs officials. All working together, passing you from one player to the next trying to get in your pocket. It took us 25 minutes to get a taxi. Not because there was a long cab line, or we got lost, or just had to walk a great distance. No. It was because it took 25 minutes to find out HOW to get a taxi. No one would give us a straight answer. The first cabbie we got walked too far into the parking lot for our liking. The airport guard pointed us to another cab stand, but none of those cabbies would use a meter. The third cabbie wouldn’t take us because we had already said “no” to one of his teammates. And around, and around it goes. Welcome to India.
When Heather first said she wanted to ride camels I thought it might be a bad idea. My riding experience consisted of riding a broken pack horse in the Grand Canyon, and Heather riding her Great Pyrenees around the living room. We’re not “natural riders.” But she won me over with the old “when else in our lives will we have the chance to ride a camel?” argument. She had me there. And so it was that we found ourselves being driven through the desert outside the city of Jaisselmer at 7:30 AM in the back of a windowless Tata truck at breakneck speed. Our guidebook described Jaisselmer as, “almost entirely a sandy waste, forming a part of the great Indian Thar desert”. These less than flattering words do wonders in terms of keeping away tourists, but leave out its charms – namely the small city feel, carved sandstone buildings, and camel safari’s which was what had drawn us to so remote a locale. The city sits 60 miles from the border with Pakistan, and houses a large air force base on its outskirts for this very reason. The Indians hate the Pakistani’s – currently because of the disputed ownership of Kashmir, but historically for a number of reasons. As we raced through the desert I could see fighter jets darting overhead on their morning show of patriotic bravado. Or were they chasing us? Our driver was yelling something over his shoulder about breakfast; but maybe he was cursing the infidels, and we were really on a one way track for the holy land a couple of dunes beyond the horizon. Damn the camels.
The truth was breakfast was on my mind. We had been staying at a beautiful Havelli in the Jaisselmer Fort which dominates the center of the city. This is truly a unique opportunity that I could not see happening anywhere else in the world but a place as disorganized as India. The Jaisselmer Fort (called a fort, but really a castle amongst a working village with a 30 foot defensive wall) is still occupied, and functions as it has for hundreds of years. If this were in Europe it would be a museum; here you can be part of the exhibit. Our Havelli was a sandstone house perched above the wall in one corner of the fort that provided a breathtaking view overlooking the city and the desert beyond. Each night we would have cocktails on the roof deck at sunset as the haunting call to prayer echoed out of the cities mosques. Each morning we would enjoy breakfast in the same spot before the day time sun had risen. I savored those early moments when the city had yet to rise, and we would sip coffee figuring out how we could open a business in this strange and magical place. It was September, and being the desert, it was cool at night, but day time temps were well into the 90’s. The afternoon we left for the safari we had to skip lunch, and breakfast had been the last meal I had eaten. Damn the camels.
Our camel guides were a local farmer and his son who could not have been more than 9, but rode a camel like Willie Shoemaker. We met them at the end of a dirt road in a desert village where we mounted our beasts, and set off into the inferno. In this area the desert consisted of low lying thicket, and sand. The idea of this safari was to ride a few miles out to where the landscape became pure sand dunes, make camp, spend the night, and ride back. It sounded manageable, but not five minutes into sitting in that postage stamp size saddle atop that horned hump, and my crotch was numb. Where were those fighter jets when you needed them? I wonder if with enhanced laser guided technology a pilot could shoot a missile at the camel killing it, and spare me? We’d have to research that one further when we got back. Though I have to admit, aside from my fear of self inflicted sterilization, I was having a lot of fun.
It was a scene that should have been a Salvador Dali poster; just two cots sitting in the sand in the middle of nowhere. Sleep tight. The view of the stars overhead made the uneasiness associated with sleeping completely out in the open worth it. We woke at sunrise the next day as the desert winds began to pick up, and drop its sandy passengers in our mouths, ears, and hair. The dung beetles were busy eating their breakfast. Neither of us was too excited to put our stiff backs on top of those humps again, but there was only one way out, and that’s the way we came in. Damn the camels.
Our next stop was in Jodphur, and after an entertaining a nine hour drive with our semi-trustworthy driver Raj, we arrived at the Umaid Bahwan Palace. Again, in my opinion, this is an opportunity one could only experience in India. The current Raj of Jodphur (that’s a Prince to you and me) converted his palace to one half hotel, while the other half continues to serve as his majesty’s primary residence when he’s not off visiting Oxford, his alma matter. The hotel arrangement – compliments of the Taj Hotel Group - is a nice way to offload the financial burdens of owning so massive a home while retaining some measure of dignity. Any other country, and no doubt the government would continue to subsidize the Prince’s lifestyle, or it would be turned into a museum. But in India it is a place where anyone who pays the price to stay here (a bargain by western standards) can sip cocktails on his majesty’s steps while taking in the sunset. Heather wanted me to mention that this hotel is where Elizabeth Hurley married her Indian husband. Clearly we were in the right place. The money spent on the detail, and the craftsmanship that went into creating this mecca, could never be justified for a newly built hotel. The structure was awesome, ornate, and rich, but done in a way that did not seem pretentious. An atrium over the entryway soared to 120 feet, an indoor pool, interior courtyards, elegant dining rooms, and an oak paneled smoking lounge with the heads of large game mounted on the walls was what we passed on our way to our bedroom each evening. Think the White House done in the style of the India High Plains. The hardest part about staying at this place is that you do not want to leave.
Our soft spot for the night
Tip of the nip/Tip of the Taj
Crazy Train
I always find it easier to write about the extreme parts of a trip be they good or bad. It just makes better narrative. I assure you my intention is not to come off as Indiana Jones with Heather as my Bond girl (yes it is) as we navigate these remote portions of the world. If you do indeed find all experiences to date a self indulgent fantasy ride, my apologies, but please spare this next experience any negative judgment. It’s the real India.
We did finally have to leave the Umaid Bahwan palace. And with misty eyes, Heather bid our personal concierge Swaroop a VERY well received farewell hug. I stood nearby pale as a birch tree from throwing up all day (culprit yet to be determined – probably something planted by said personal concierge). Reading the look in Swaroop’s eyes as he turned to face me, I could tell he was less enthused about receiving similar hugs from me, and more enthused about a 100 rupee note. What was one more damned hand out? I was already bleeding bills all over this razed land.
It was about 6:30 in the evening when our driver dropped us off in front of the Jodphur train station. I’m not sure where to begin. I guess I’d like to start by thanking my parents for letting me attend so many music concerts when I was younger, and thus preparing me for times like this. The last time I had seen a mob so chaotic as this was fighting my way to a floor seat at an ACDC concert in Worcester Mass after the band had already lit into “Thunderstruck”. Unlike then there was no one puking on my shoes, but we did have to watch where we stepped because there were rats running around everywhere. Groups of people clustered in the shadows, waiting for trains outside the building, and inside on the concrete floor of the terminal. Many were banging drums, or playing stringed instruments, the likes of which I have never before seen. The smell of marijuana permeated the air, and the ruby red stain of betel nut spit was everywhere. I could have been in Limestone Maine at a Phish concert. A thousand long haired hippies dancing on my lawn, but no sign of George Harrison (sorry Susan). We were stunned. No one at the hotel had mentioned the absolute hell we were in for, and our driver had made a point of getting away from this thunder dome as fast as he could. In the corner of the terminal was a ticket office that had a thicker gauge chicken-wire fence enclosing two Indian men. I suppose a more accurate description is that the fence was keeping out the throngs of screaming Indians trying to get tickets, or determine when their trains were leaving. There was no line, no decorum, or sense of order. This was raw humanity.
I always find it easier to write about the extreme parts of a trip be they good or bad. It just makes better narrative. I assure you my intention is not to come off as Indiana Jones with Heather as my Bond girl (yes it is) as we navigate these remote portions of the world. If you do indeed find all experiences to date a self indulgent fantasy ride, my apologies, but please spare this next experience any negative judgment. It’s the real India.
We did finally have to leave the Umaid Bahwan palace. And with misty eyes, Heather bid our personal concierge Swaroop a VERY well received farewell hug. I stood nearby pale as a birch tree from throwing up all day (culprit yet to be determined – probably something planted by said personal concierge). Reading the look in Swaroop’s eyes as he turned to face me, I could tell he was less enthused about receiving similar hugs from me, and more enthused about a 100 rupee note. What was one more damned hand out? I was already bleeding bills all over this razed land.
It was about 6:30 in the evening when our driver dropped us off in front of the Jodphur train station. I’m not sure where to begin. I guess I’d like to start by thanking my parents for letting me attend so many music concerts when I was younger, and thus preparing me for times like this. The last time I had seen a mob so chaotic as this was fighting my way to a floor seat at an ACDC concert in Worcester Mass after the band had already lit into “Thunderstruck”. Unlike then there was no one puking on my shoes, but we did have to watch where we stepped because there were rats running around everywhere. Groups of people clustered in the shadows, waiting for trains outside the building, and inside on the concrete floor of the terminal. Many were banging drums, or playing stringed instruments, the likes of which I have never before seen. The smell of marijuana permeated the air, and the ruby red stain of betel nut spit was everywhere. I could have been in Limestone Maine at a Phish concert. A thousand long haired hippies dancing on my lawn, but no sign of George Harrison (sorry Susan). We were stunned. No one at the hotel had mentioned the absolute hell we were in for, and our driver had made a point of getting away from this thunder dome as fast as he could. In the corner of the terminal was a ticket office that had a thicker gauge chicken-wire fence enclosing two Indian men. I suppose a more accurate description is that the fence was keeping out the throngs of screaming Indians trying to get tickets, or determine when their trains were leaving. There was no line, no decorum, or sense of order. This was raw humanity.
I left Heather with our bags and a newly purchased 40 pound carpet about 20 yards off, and gathered my nerve to enter the fray. I suppose it would be like entering the pit of the New York Stock Exchange on a mission to buy, and no clue how to do it. Luckily size is something I can count on my side, and so I started throwing elbows, and pushed my way to the front of the line. I slammed my itinerary against the wire, and yelled above the din to the man, “this train, what track?!!!” He cast me a look and said, “that train, delayed 6 hours.” I hadn’t felt so deflated since the time I rear-ended a BMW doing 7 mph on Wisconsin Avenue in the rain. Our train was originally scheduled to leave at 7:30 PM, this meant our new departure would be 1:30 AM. I was exhausted and nauseous, Heather was scared, and we were stuck. Fighting off touts and taxi drivers like flies, we tried to make a plan. Heather identified a beer hall in our guide book that was advertised as a good holdover spot for those stranded at the train station. Gives a little insight to the reliability of the train service when nearby businesses cater to the lost tourist. Nevertheless it was just the remedy. Heather sat and read while I tried to sleep myself towards a settled stomach. Neither of us was too successful, but the six hours passed a lot more pleasurably than it would have back at the thunder dome. When we finally boarded our train at 1:45 AM, not even the large water bugs (read: small roaches) climbing around our bunk, or our Taliban looking neighbors could scare us out of a decent nights sleep.
View of Jodhpur's Fort from Umaid Bhawan Palace
The achitectural majesty of Jaislamer's sandstone structures The Magical Mahal
I did want to briefly mention our last stop in India which was at the Taj Mahal. After hearing so much about it, I was expecting a let down. We stayed at the Oberoi which sits a 10 minute walk from the front gates of the Taj, and was a beautiful hotel though not in the same league as the Umaid Bahwan. One felt like a palace, the other like a hotel built to look like a palace. The Taj Mahal complex is vast, and consists of a lot more than just the angelic white mausoleum you see on the all the postcards. When I first walked around the corner, and caught a glimpse of the structure I was truly transfixed, but not necessarily blown away. However, the image continued to draw me in, and after spending two hours walking the grounds – the only area in the city kept clear of beggars and scam artists – I didn’t want to leave. Partly because I didn’t know if I would ever have another chance to see it again, but more I think because I just didn’t feel like I was done looking at it. Each angle offered a new fascination, and appreciation of labor and skill that had gone into creating such a structure. The Taj was my favorite of the three wonders we saw this past year (Great Wall, Ankor Wat, Taj).
India is not for everyone. For those that like an adventure, and have a tolerance for improvisation, it offers a deep cultural return. You can also pay to sidestep the rougher edges, and still experience the beauty of the Taj, take in some markets, and eat some local food. But I think you miss out on the personal interaction which we found meaningful, as well as seeing first hand the crushing poverty and ugliness of what makes this country so colorful.
Swaroop's turban tying work
