India

Shimla
After thirty-six agonizing hours of numbing transit, which started in Jacksonville, my mom and I arrived in Shimla, a town built into the mountains in Northern India. At our hotel we met up with my dad, who was one week into teaching a two-week course in International Environmental Law in a summer abroad program for law students from the U.S. and India. Over the next few days, we explored much of what the town had to offer. What seemed to me to be an unassuming place at first, Shimla is a diamond-in-the-rough, overshadowed by conspicuous destinations in Delhi and Mumbai, yet just as interesting. For comparison’s sake, I saw Shimla as a mix between the pollution and locale of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and the idyllic nature of Paraty, Brazil. On the first day, a nice tour of the town was to be had inadvertently during our hike to Viceregal lodge. We passed the Mall, Shimla’s main drag lined with high-end retailers, mom-and-pop shops, and many restaurants serving mostly local dishes. Once the Mall ended, it was just a matter of time until we were at the lodge. Although it was just “some historic building” to me, the Viceregal lodge would make any history buff revel in its glory, as the lodge and its grounds were home to the British government during the months of March to October, when Shimla served its role as India’s summer capital.



Day two saw us head up to Jachoo Temple, simply known as the monkey temple. Poking out of a mountaintop, the monkey temple marks Shimla’s highest point at 8,020 feet. Needless to say, the temple is a tribute to the monkey god, and many of the monkeys which populate the place, as well as the path leading up to it, are there to show for it. So, about that path: to get up to the temple, one must traverse by foot a one-mile path, which is at a dauntingly steep incline. To make matters more interesting, those making the pilgrimage to the temple are advised to rent sticks to fend off the monkeys which inhabit the path. I fared well going up, as did dad who was suffering from a herniated disk in his lower back. Mom, however, struggled as she was fighting what we would later understand to be a bad case of “Delhi Belly” (food poisoning). Yet, once we were at the top, the temples and monuments were very impressive rewarding.

Other highlights of our stay in Shimla were the Buddhist monastery, and girls’ ashram. The former was a secluded monastery about thirty minutes outside of town. Like most of the temples which populate India, the art work and craftsmanship in each was extraordinary. It was also fun to watch the monks dutifully working and devoutly spinning their handheld prayer wheels. We saw the opposite end of the gender spectrum a couple days later when we attended the latter, the girls’ ashram. Generally, ashrams act as residential quarters and safe havens for its residents aged eight to eighteen when they are not at school. A treacherous one-hour drive brought us to a small girls’ ashram, as we awaited the arrival of the girls from school. (Correction: it was ALL girls with the exception of one poor [or lucky, depending on how you look at it] boy, the teacher’s son, who was destined for childhood therapy at one point or another.) Once the fifty-some girls arrived, we were treated to some English and Hindu sing-alongs and dances. Later, we presented every one of the girls (and the boy) with goodie bags, watched the ensuing Christmas-morning-like joy, and then waved goodbye. The trip to the girls’ ashram was a great ending to our stay in Shimla.


Dharamsala
The following day we embarked on another long, treacherous, 8-hour drive to Dharamsala, a town northwest of Shimla. On the drive, I found out why the state in which Dharamsala (and Shimla) resides in is called Himachal: for the last two hours of the drive, we were treated to stunning views of the Himalayan mountain range. As we got closer and closer to Dharamsala, the terrain got hillier, to the point where a steep 20 minute drive punctuated our arrival in McLeod Ganj, the downtown district of Dharamsala. To quote from Frommer’s India guidebook, McLeod Ganj is, literally, a “backpacker’s ghetto.” I was able to affirm this moniker, whether it was through the smell of fresh cannabis on a morning run or the sight of many Sanuk-clad, flannel-loving hipsters. Regardless, McLeod Ganj differed greatly in personality from Shimla. Whereas Shimla was a retreat for South Indian tourists, McLeod Ganj was a melting pot of all races, with peaceful interaction between Tibetans, Indians, and tourists. You see, McLeod Ganj is home to the Tibetan government-in-exile, which has resided here since 1959. Also, the fourteenth Dalai Lama’s residence is here, making McLeod Ganj a spiritual town. We got a glimpse of this on our first day, as we visited (another) Buddhist monastery. The most memorable experience I got out of this monastery was watching the philosophical debates between monks, who would accentuate their points with an emphatic downward clap in the opponent’s face. For the rest of our first day, we explored the town’s narrow streets (complete with throngs of people dodging motorcycles and cars). It seemed that McLeod Ganj’s laid-back atmosphere got the best of us, as the rest of our three-day stay was relaxing and anything but ambitious.



The second day at McLeod Ganj saw us take a small excursion to the Norbulinka Institute, a handicrafts village. We got a tour from a knowledgeable guide who showed us the on-site temple, guesthouse, puppet museum, and store (unfortunately, due to our trip falling on a Sunday, we were unable to see the making of the crafts). The place was very serene and relaxing. Afterwards, we went to another temple and then a tea garden. In the afternoon, we explored some more and did some shopping. In comparison to our second day, our third day was a bit more packed, as I had a few volunteer opportunities. First, I tutored a Tibetan yoga instructor, Sonam, in various aspects of human anatomy and physiology so he could communicate to English-speaking tourists what muscles and systems each yoga exercise stressed. Afterwards, Sonam helped us with some shopping, as we ended up buying prayer wheels, a Tibetan “singing bowl,” and a tonka (a painting of a Buddhist figure with embroidery around it). Our second volunteering opportunity presented itself in the afternoon at the Lha Center, where a one-hour English conservation class was to take place. The class is powered by volunteers, so for that specific day there were four volunteers, including my mom and me. The class size presented a challenge, as there were nearly fifty Tibetan students and only four of us. We made due, however, as we split into equal sized groups and went from there. In my group, I conducted a game of Scrabble to Tibetans who had never played the game before. I explained the rules to them and, much to my surprise, they picked up how to play easily, with most groups getting an excess of twenty points on any given turn. Despite the fact that most of my last day was spent volunteering, I greatly enjoyed giving back to underprivileged Tibetans.


Amritsar
After our stay in Dharamsala concluded, we embarked on another (you guessed it) car ride. I must take a much-needed digression here to describe exactly how bad these car rides are. To begin, there is no such thing as a “lane” on Indian roads; cars, auto-rickshaws, motorcycles, and bicycles simply move as one big, unorganized conglomerate, dodging pedestrians. Thus, you can imagine how often tourist passengers’ knuckles turn white. Here, the only way you can survive is if your driver has a good horn, allowing him to slalom on the road through anything from cows to the ornately decorated Tata trucks.

So, after yet another long, 6-hour drive southwest, we arrived in Amritsar. If you think Delhi is chaotic, just wait until you experience the bedlam in Amritsar. The place was utterly unbelievable, complete with haggling street vendors, elusive con artists, and aggressive drivers. But the chaos here is justified, as Amritsar is home to the Golden Temple, the most sacred place of the Sikh religion. For those who need to brush up on their world religions, Sikhs are those with the long beards and turbans whose religion stresses unity and brotherhood. Fittingly, Amritsar and its state, Punjab, are home to largest percentage of India’s Sikhs. Knowing this, you can imagine the pandemonium that arose at the Golden Temple. Before we entered, we worked our way through the crowd to a shoe drop-off area, where we deposited our shoes and socks. Prior to entering the temple, all guests must wash their feet, which is done by trudging through a (cess)pool of “water.” Once inside, we walked in a clockwise direction around the temple, which was at the center of a large pond and could only be reached by experiencing India’s largest mosh pit, a long line packed with people that stretched from the temple to the complex. While walking around the square-shaped complex, we marveled at the doggy bowls of water that were handed out at every corner, to any person in need of a cool, refreshing drink. Escaping the hot marble, we queued up (reluctantly, if your name is Alek) to get into the Golden Temple, sardined with thousands of other sweaty, stinking, practicing-lack-of-personal-space Indians. I’ve never experienced such emotions as anticipation, boredom, and anxiousness, respectively, in such a short period of time, as I initially was eager to see the icon proclaimed to one-up the Taj Mahal, subsequently became bovine at the prospect of waiting in a hot, stuffy line, and then yearned to get into the frickin’ temple so I could escape the hot mess. If someone had told me while I waiting in line that I would enter the Temple, I wouldn’t have believed them. Yet, the moment came when two Sikhs lifted a pole guarding the monument, and everyone lurched forward to the shout of my “Push!” Call in karma, or perhaps a spiritual message from the Sikhs, but the second I stepped inside the Golden Temple I was hip-checked into the large, six-foot door hinge holding the palace door, a pain so intense that it elicited a yelp from me so piercing it would make a Sikh’s beard vibrate. I opened my eyes to briefly catch a glimpse of the perpetrator, a young woman with her baby in tow. The rest of my temple experience was uneventful and, for the sake of brevity, very gold.


Once out of the temple, we traversed the land bridge at a quick clip, only to be whisked into another line upon exiting. The occasion? To receive a complimentary ball of mush, served up lunch-lady style by a devout Sikh. We kindly passed on the opportunity, not wanting to play Russian roulette with amoebic dysentery. Out of the temple, Dad and I thought we had the worst behind us, yet Mom suggested that we go see the dining halls where 35,000 people are fed, for free, each day. Upon arrival, I was handed a tin dish, doggie bowl, and spoon as Dad, Mom, and I queued up yet again to get into the dining hall. This mosh pit rivaled the previous one, but once the doors were open everyone rushed in so they could get their fix of lentils and bread. Mom opted only to take pictures of the scene as we were pressed for time.

With the Golden Temple experience finally behind us, I was expecting anything and everything to happen. On our walk back through Amritsar to our driver, I witnessed the repercussions of the haphazard driving habits on India’s roads, which were at their worst here. An innocent, approximately seven-year-old boy donning a Playboy shirt (which is a surprisingly popular article of clothing for the male tweens in India) was walking with his family through the streets of Amritsar. The next moment, a motorcyclist riding his bike at an unreasonably brisk clip hits the boy, flipping him in a cartwheel motion and landing him back first on the pavement. The boy was shocked more than anything, but the real story is the mutiny that unfolded as the boy’s dad shoved the reckless driver, choking him as bystanders egged them on and placed bets on who would come out on top. Our guidebook confirmed that the bedlam that unfolds after a vehicular accident is endemic to India’s culture.

Believe it or not, our eventful day was not yet complete. Once back with our driver, we headed west thirty minutes to the Pakistan border. No, we weren’t being coerced to carry out al-Qaeda initiatives in India; rather, we were going to attend the Wagah border ceremony, which is best described as a flamboyant, bicep-flexing contest between the two rival nations, as loyal Indian nationalists cheer on the border guards to outdo their Pakistani counterparts, and vice versa. Just when I thought our day couldn’t get more hectic, we arrived to a giant mass of people waiting in line. It was another swelteringly hot and sweaty, thirty-minute affair to get into the stadium, as we filed into our seat at about 6:00 PM, with the daily ceremony scheduled to start at 6:30 PM. The festivities before the ceremony were amusing, to say the least; spectatators participated in a running of the India flags relay-type activity and run fifty meters with the flag down to the border gate. On a few instances, some Caucasians from the “foreigner’s gallery” in which we resided also participated, surprisingly eliciting a roar from the crowd as they carried the flag. Also, there was a dance in the street fling, where Indian women (and a few brave men) danced in the street to latest club hits, including “Jai ho” from the award-winning movie, Slumdog Millionaire. After the aforementioned concluded, the ceremony commenced, first with a long “Go!” note by one of the border guards. Over the course of the ceremony, the guards high-stepped and straight-legged their way to glory to chants of the crowd brought forth by the MC’s shouting, “HINDUSTAN!” and some other words in Hindi. I greatly enjoyed the ceremony, yet was left kind of skeptical; there seemed to be sentiment of indifference in the foreigner’s gallery, as I appeared to be the only one dutifully waving my mini India flag and rooting for the home team. The guards also seemed a little on the hostile side, as they forced us Westerners in every-which-way, with one even remarking to me that I shouldn’t be sitting on my Golden Temple bandana, to which a disgruntled female tourist scoffed at me “It’s a holy symbol, so don’t sit on it.” At least for her, I was able to attribute the source of the permanent scowl throughout the ceremony to a serious case of “angry fat girl” syndrome. Needless to say, I was treated to a very memorable experience at the Wagah Border Ceremony.

Even though the night had fallen on our day-long stint at Amritsar, there was still one more adventure to be had: surviving India’s notorious rail system. Traveling by train was the only other mode of transportation for this car-sick, too-poor-to-afford-plane tickets group of travelers, so we embarked on our ten-hour train ride to Delhi. As I boarded the train, my initial thoughts were that our sleeper car accommodations only fell a few notches below the very civilized Thai railway system that we enjoyed in 2008. Upon further inspection, I noticed a couple of cockroaches, a rat, and some stained pillows – enough to keep me wincing the night away.

Delhi
At 7:00 AM the next day, we arrived groggy and smelly at the groggy and smelly Delhi train station. Moments later we were whisked to our digs for the next three day and two nights, to the swanky, business traveler oriented Le Meridien hotel. After freshening up and having a mediocre breakfast, Mom and I did some leisurely sightseeing of Old Delhi, as we toured a mosque and the Red Fort, while Dad remained in the hotel recovering from back pain or from sightseeing overload – you be the judge. The excursion wasn’t complete without beggars, more con artists, and one helluva rickshaw ride, which is only slightly more nerve-wracking than a fast bicycle ride through L.A. traffic. In the afternoon we did some shopping and eating, the highlights being picking up a pair of legit fake Ray Bans and indulging in a McDonald’s McVeggie sandwich (only to be found in India!) For the most part, we took it easy before our day-long marathon in the following twenty-four hours.

Agra
I was stirred out of bed at 4:30 AM the next morning, but for good reason: we were to take a 6:15 AM train to (Vi)Agra, sight of the one and only Taj Mahal. Once we arrived in Agra at 8:30 AM, we met up with our guide who immediately took us to the Taj. We were given excellent commentary as we entered the grounds before the Taj, and then came the moment where one was able to spot the glistening white-marble monument. Seeing the Taj up close was an amazing once-in-a-lifetime experience, to say the least. And our guide was able to explain the history and many intricacies behind this wonder of the world. Up next, we went to the Agra fort, another great structure dating from the days of the Mughal dynasty. Only four miles away, we were able to snap excellent pictures of the Taj as its white marble seemed to blend in with the white sky. After all photo opportunities were taken, we headed to lunch at the Oberoi hotel, the fanciest establishment in town and one of the most exclusive hotels in the world.



A leisurely lunch to reenergize left us ready to embark to the lost city of Fatepuhr Sikr, about an hour away from Agra. The city was another mark left by the Mughal dynasty, as it served as a capital albeit for a very short time. It took about ten years to build but was only occupied for four years, becoming abandoned due to lack of water availability. Although most of the city is destroyed, some important parts remained, like the emperor’s quarters, the houses of the each of the three wives, and the treasury. Our trip to lost city concluded the day’s sightseeing, after which we relaxed at a coffee shop before heading back to the train station.


India’s train stations never cease to amaze me. Seemingly normal people came out on the middle of the platform, rats run rampant on the tracks, and many homeless people call this place a refuge. Armed with a large bag of candy, I treated some of the homeless inhabitants, most of which were young boys. We made friends with a few boys, one of whom had a cleft palate, and ended up giving them the leftovers from our lunch, which they devoured with delight. My heart went out to the homeless boys. Ironically, karma was at work again on the train ride back, although this time it wasn’t of the good nature. During the meal service on the train, I ate some mysterious potatoes in curry, which both Mom and Dad refused to ingest, and ended coming down with a horrible bout of food poisoning on our last day in India. Just seemed to me as another reason why India is mysterious and magical, and why I hope to return sometime in the future.