Sutter Street is the "backpackers" ghetto of Calcutta. Along with all of the requisite guesthouses and restaurants offering "western fare," the Sutter street area is also home to many of Calcutta's destitute who must find tourists and volunteers an attractive source of income. The Lonely Planet's guide to Calcutta had warned me about the scams involving mothers who say they don't want money, but ask instead for milk for their babies – a request hard to refuse, which they then sell back for money; but simply being aware of the scam did not make it much easier to resist these woman when they were standing next to me, babe in arms. My travels had been dotted with experiences with people begging on the streets since I left Thailand and it hadn't gotten any easier to experience even armed with the knowledge of begging "scams" and the fact that many of these woman and children are thought to be employed by gangs of criminals who exploit them to glean money from tourists.
After my second day at Shanti Daan, I was eating lunch on my own at one of the nearby restaurants that served actual Indian food and I decided to take my leftovers with me to give away on my way back to the room. As I was making my way back to the hotel, I remembered the numerous families who had made their homes under tarps on the sidewalk at the far end of the street and thought that I would likely find someone who would be interested in a free meal who hadn’t just received handouts from groups of benevolent tourists.
As I walked by the first make-shift home, a woman sitting under the tarp caught my eye and motioned for me to come over. As I walked up, I was greeting by a charming little man of about three, who flashed me a camera-worthy smile and took the bag from my hands before running off and settling himself on the floor in the back corner of the eight by six space of sidewalk that was his home. As the boy began to eat, a young girl walked up to me and introduced herself as Shundore (Shun-do-ree), explaining that the woman under the tarp was her mother, the man, seated with his back to the wall, smiling amicably, was her father and the young boy, happily eating my food offering, was her little brother. She told me that her parents spoke little English, but that they wanted to welcome me to their home.
Shundore’s mother, who had been preparing a meal by washing vegetables in one pot, cutting them into smaller pieces on a wooden board, and transferring them to another pot to cook, motioned for me to come in and join them. Surprised by this show of hospitality, I accepted her offer and bent down under the tarp, seating myself behind Shundore's mother, against the wall. After I was seated, I offered to help her with the vegetables and began cutting greens into strips as Shundore began chatting about her friends on the street and her brother, having finished his meal, danced about from one person to the other, coming back to me to give me a big hugs around the next with his tiny little arms.
Not long after I had settled in, I was confronted with the request for money that I had presumed was coming. After answering my questions about where they were from and what she liked to do, Shundore asked me if I could give her mother money for a new sari. I had been expecting a request for money, knowing that while Indian people may be the hospitable sort, that I was most likely seen more as a potential benefactor than merely a welcome houseguest. Remembering how much Sari's had cost in Bangladesh, I asked her how much a sari would cost her mother. She replied that she could purchase one for 100 rupees (about $2.50 US). I told her that I would be happy to provide her mother with 100 rupees, but that I did not have the money with me and would have to bring it back to them after I had been back to my room to get more money. Satisfied, she settled back into her friendly chatter and asked suddenly if I would like her to draw a henna design on my hands. I said that I would, gave Shundore 10 rupees for the henna and chatted with her mother in rudimentary English until she returned from the nearby market.
For the next 45 minutes, I watched as she squeezed the thick brown paste out of a tube and worked it into designs on my palms, much like one would draw with icing on a cake. As she worked, she intermittently looked up at me questioningly and I would give her an encouraging smile or tell her that it was looking really good. She seemed to be enjoying herself and when she finished with my palms she asked if I wanted her to keep going and then went on to draw designs up and down my fingers and around to the front of my hands, topping off by covering each nail with a think brown covering off henna paste. When she was finished, she told me that once the henna was dry, I should come back so that she could cover my hands in cooking oil to set the stain. I agreed that I would come back and that I would bring the 100 rupees for her mother, which she reminded me that I'd promised to do. At this point, the her little brother, who did not appear to share his sisters mastery of the English language, but at least understood the word "money" or had seen enough tourists come in and out of his home and asked for money to know what was going on, grabbed my hand and started shouting, "Auntie! Auntie! No Money! No Money!" He then began walking around and around continuing his chant, coming back to give me an affectionate squeeze, while his mother tried to shush him and Shundore flashed me an embarrassed grin. I scooped the boy up and tickled him until his shouts dissolved into giggles and gave his mother a reassuring smile. Because they had welcomed me into their home and been so kind, even if it was something that they did for everyone, they had given me a window into a part of life in Calcutta that I would otherwise not have seen and I was more than willing to give them what they asked, knowing I could easily give even more. I asked Shundore to thank her mother and father for allow me to visit with them and headed back to my hotel room, accompanied by Shundore, who followed me, I presumed, to be sure that I returned.
As we walked down the street, Shundore began warning me not to talk to the other women and children who asked me for money because they “would say anything to get money” from me and that that weren't "good people." By this small comment, Shundore revealed to me what must be a fierce competitiveness between the people living on the street in their area fighting for handouts from tourists and volunteers. While I had grown quite fond of Shundore and her family, I didn't believe that any of the other families on the street were any more or less deceptive than they felt they needed to be to obtain money necessary for their survival. I wondered what children were told about begging and if there really were conversations between parents and children on how to be most successful at their task.
At that point, a woman come up to us and began with the line on the street of telling me she needed milk for her baby. Shundore grabbed my hand and told the woman to leave us alone, but the woman would not be deterred. The woman held a stout, healthy looking baby in her arms and held the hand of another boy of about four. As I fell into my now familiar response of head shaking and apologetic refusal of her pleas, I realized that I had already marked myself as an easy target by giving anything at all. To cease her begging, I began to talk to the woman asking her about her children. She immediately appeared to lighten and smiled as she told me about her children and introduced herself and her two little boys. At this point, we were at my hotel and I found myself in the awkward position of having promised money to Shundore while having refused anything to the other woman, who I was now sure would be waiting for me upon my return. Feeling guilty, I told her that I would give her a little money for the boys, but that I didn't have much and left them standing on the street, while I climbed the three flights of stairs to our room on the roof of the building.
When I returned, I discretely handed the woman 50 rupees and began to walk back with Shundore to give her mother the money I'd promised and to receive the final treatment on my now drying henna. Shundore alternatively picked the dried henna off my hands and flashed disapproving looks at the woman who continued to accompany us as we made our way back to her home.
When we reached our destination, so as not to make it obvious to the other woman that I was handing out money to others as well, I quickly slipped the 100 rupee note to Shundore's mother, who flashed me a grateful smile. As the other woman admired my hands, Shundore poured cooking oil into my palms and rubbed it in until my hands were shiny with oil. When she was finished, I excused myself and thanked them all again for their hospitality, promising, in response to Shundore's repeated pleas, to stop by again to visit before I left town.
The following afternoon, after leaving Shanti Daan, Mark and I were walking towards our now regular spot for lunch. As we walked, we were approached by a young girl of about 11, with her younger brother in tow. She immediately began asking us for money for food. Now used to these entreaties every time we left our room, we both shook our heads and continued walking. As we walked, she continued to implore us to no avail.
As we neared the corner, I felt a small hand fit into mine and I looked down into Shundore's smiling face. She said hello and I introduced her to Mark. She then began talking to the other children in Bangla in what appeared to be a challenge for them to leave. My conscience, which had not made peace with my selective acts of charity, refused to let me let this go on and so, relenting, I invited them all to lunch with us.
The children were thrilled and happily followed us into the restaurant. As we went to sit down, the waiter started to chase the kids out, but hesitated when I told him that it was okay, the kids were with us. Shaking his head, he went back for more menus. When he returned for our orders, the kids asked if they could have fish curry and, after determining that it was no the most expensive thing on the menu, I agreed. When the waiter returned and asked for our drink order, Shundore asked for a coke and looked questioningly at me. When I nodded, the other two children ordered cokes as well.
While we waited for our food, with Shundore acting as our translator, we asked the other two children a little about themselves. The younger boy seemed to speak no English and his sister spoke only what was necessary to acquire handouts, but Shundore translated our questions and answers until I ran out of questions that I thought were polite to ask. So many that I would have liked to ask were left unspoken because of my fear of seeming intrusive or of coming across as thoughtless to these children who were growing up living on the streets while I spent my nights in the comparative luxury of my hotel room.
When the food arrived, I noticed how mothering the young girl acted towards her brother, making sure his fish was cut and that he had enough of everything, while Shundore continued to impress us with her impeccable table manners, even using a knife and fork while the other children ate traditionally, with their fingers, and her seemingly total mastery of the English language.
While we were eating, a woman holding a baby came up to stand outside the door and began to beg for food and money. I noticed that she exchanged looks with the older of the girls, imploring her to give her some food, while the girl turned back to her food with a look of intense guilt. I had ordered naan for all of us and it was already apparent that we had too much food, so I made a mental note to box something up for this woman, while slowing shaking my head in her direction. When we were finished our meal, I made sure that each of the children had leftovers to take home and I boxed up my portion for the woman outside. As we made our way outside, the kids thanked me for the meal and I thanked them for their company before parting parting ways at the door. The woman who had remained standing outside began immediately to ask us for money. In response, I tried to hand her the bag of food, but she simply looked at it disdainfully and continued to ask for money. Feeling bad that I was expecting someone to be grateful for my leftovers, but annoyed at the same time, I told her that I was not going to give her any money, but that this food had not been touched and she was welcome to it. Reluctantly, she took the bag, but continued to ask for money. I continued to tell her that I was sorry, but I was not going to give her any money, again feeling pangs of guilt at my selective acts of charity, until she finally walked away.
The next day was our last day in Calcutta. I wanted to say goodbye to Shundore and her family because I'd promised I would stop by before I left, so we packed up our room and made our way down Sutter Street. Unfortunately, she was not there when we arrived, but I told her mother that we were leaving and asked her to please tell Shundore that we stopped by. Her mother told us that Shundore would be sad if she missed us and encouraged us to wait until she came back. Not wanting to leave, but knowing how hard it had been to leave the previous time even with repeated promises to return, I told her that I wished we could wait, but that we had to leave in order to catch our train. I gave her brother a last hug, saddened by the frown on his handsome little face, and made my way out to the street, but not before her mother could ask me for more money. Their tarp, she said, was old and beginning to leak and could I just give her enough money for a new tarp? I returned her helpless look, realizing at that moment that nothing I gave would ever be enough, but confident that once I left there would be countless others to be implored for money.
Once we turned off Sudder Street, we ran into the children that we had had lunch with the previous day. They immediately smiled when they saw us and again began asking for money. They followed us almost all the way to the train station, the young girl pleading with me to buy shoes for her brother, when Mark, knowing that I would never do it, told them gruffly that we were not going to give them any money and to please leave us alone.
While I had become sadly accustomed to refusing pleas for money, I hadn't been able to bring myself to tell anyone to leave me along or to shout at them to go away, as I had seen others do and am glad that I hadn't. As common as begging might be on these streets of India, I never wanted, intentionally, to treat another human being like an unwanted pest, although I suppose now that my mannerisms and refusals may have been seen as doing just that. I thought that I would feel better by giving the little that I had given, but ultimately I felt worse knowing all that I had and how little I had offered to give, but also not sure whether what I might have given would have ultimately helped or simply served to encourage the culture of begging. Ultimately, I left Shundore and her family, the young siblings, and thousands of other families living on the streets of Calcutta, while I caught a train to the next destination on my trip and ultimately, a plane, while would take me back to a comfortable lifestyle of which many, if not most of them, would never know.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Shanti Dan
Shanti Daan
On Monday morning, we commandeered one of the many rickshaw wallas outside of our hotel to take us to the Mother House for breakfast and to meet up with our fellow volunteers. While I was not too comfortable with the idea of this thin, barefoot Indian man having to pull us through the streets of Calcutta, I also did not want to walk around lost all morning being constantly asked if I wanted a ride by the innumerable rickshaw wallas on the way. It seemed the easiest way to avoid them all, was to take one up on his offer. So we did.
The Mother House was only a few blocks over on the next main thoroughfare, but instead of walking all the way around as we had the previous week, our 'driver,' obviously well used to the route from Sutter Street to the Mother House, took a route that twisted and turned through nameless narrow streets teeming with early morning life. As he pulled us through the streets, I tried to suppress the cognitive dissonance that arose from being pulled along in a cart by another human being, by thinking about how I would ever be able to describe the scenes around us in mere words. Since taking pictures would be even more appalling behavior than the riding alone, I began taking mental notes of things as we past them by - the rutted streets littered with the thin orange pieces of pottery left from discarded tea cups, big, yellow 50's era taxi's jostling for a position on the road between rickshaws, bicycles and pedestrians; chai Walla's setting out their cups for the morning rush; mothers in brightly colored sari’s leading small uniformed children by the hand; men in traditional Indian cloth wraps performing their morning toilet around public fountains in full view of all passersby; goats tethered to posts stretching their necks to make a morning meal of whatever had been left out on windowsills overnight. Everywhere you looked there was something to see, as if the walls had come down, allowing you a view of family life from the streets.
We arrived shortly at the Mother House where we found about 40 to 50 other volunteers in a courtyard sitting in small groups or lined up for their morning tea and bananas. After our brief breakfast, I found the group going to Shanti Dan and headed off with them to catch a bus across the street The other volunteers were a girl in her early 20’s from England and two women in their early thirties from Spain. We joined a throng of people waiting at the bus stop and I watched the sea of traffic around us until one of the girls announced the arrival of our bus.
Because Indian woman do not go out alone or, presumably, often take public transportation, the percentage of men on the bus far outweighed the female. It appeared that there were seats set aside for women and we joined the few women on the bus on a bench facing the other side of the bus. As the bus made its way to Shanti Dann, I watched as the streets of Calcutta whizzed by in a blur, punctuated by stops as the old bus slowed to allow passengers to jump and off on before taking off again. My stomach began to balk at the jerky motion of the bus, I found that if I stared at the sunlight coming up through the cracks in the wooden planks that made up the floor of the bus, I could ease my queasy stomach.
That morning, my intense gaze at the floor was interrupted by the emergence of a man who began motioning to one of the other volunteers in a way that struck me as somewhat peculiar. She turned and introduced me to the man, who, it turned out, was a mute and was quite well known by all the local volunteers. I wound up having a brief ‘conversation’ with the man and running into him various times throughout our week in Calcutta. His presence and cheerful wordless expression of joy at our meetings added an interesting feeling of familiarity to the city.
When we got off the bus, we walked about a mile down the road to Shanti Dan, which is housed in a multi-building compound behind a high concrete wall. The main building was a two-story building with an open-air sidewalk surrounding an inner courtyard about an eighth of an acre. We walked in the door and were immediately greeted by woman of upper middle age shouting, “Auntie, Auntie.” The more outgoing of the bunch came up and grabbed our hands and smiled up at us repeating, “Auntie, Auntie;” Others carefully ventured an English greeting and wished us a “Good Morning;” while still others sat where they were and made no indication that they were even aware that we had arrived.
During the first morning, I tried to make myself useful and wound up, instead, wandering around feeling quite helpless. Only one of the 30 or so women spoke English, the majority of them being native Bengali speakers, the language of Bangladesh and some of southeastern India, so it was difficult for me to gauge their mental capacities. When they spoke to me, I didn’t know if they were actually asking me a legitimate question or if they were simply speaking to speak not knowing I couldn’t understand. I soon found myself a job helping to change the sheets on the beds and kept busy for a little while.
After changing the sheets, I took a walk around the courtyard looking for another task. Many of the women were simply lying on the cement ground curled up in the fetal position or splayed out in the sun. Others were seated along the benches staring out into space or simply looking around without much to do. It did not seem like a very enjoyable existence, but it may have been much better than had they been out on the streets. Finally, feeling completely useless, I went up to one of the other volunteers and asked her if there was anything she could suggest for me to do. She told me that a lot of the woman enjoyed having their nails painted and showed me where I could find an old bottle of lavender nail polish.
As soon, as I walked out with the nail polish in my hands, I had a line of customers wanting their nails done. After the first few women, it was obvious that nail painting was a common occurrence at Shanti Daan. Each woman would sit down next to me and hold out a work-worn hand with nails covered with multiple layers of chipped polish. Not having any polish remover, I simply painted over the old polish. After I was finished with their hands, a few of the women asked me to paint their toenails. I bent down at their feet, and taking their often twisted and bent feet in my hands, did my best to give them colorful nails. I am not a religious person, but in those moments, I thought about what I had learned about Jesus washing people’s feet and realized just how important that must have been to show that he was no better than anyone else and that he valued each person equally. Of course I may be remembering this wrong, but it was still a powerful experience for me.
The following day, I returned, having bought bright red nail polish and nail polish remover. My lines were even longer and I often found myself removing the lavender polish I had applied the day before to paint newly cleaned nails with bright red polish. Although I didn’t feel that I was being of any real help, I did enjoy spending time with the ladies and they seemed to enjoy the attention as well.
The following day, my last at Shanti Daan, we arrived to find the women all dressed up in identical dresses and laden with jewelry. We inquired of the nuns of the house and learned that it was the anniversary of Mother’s Theresa’s establishment of her charities in Calcutta and that all the women had gone to mass. That day, one of the other volunteers gave me a tube of henna, and having just had my hands done the previous day, I set about drawing henna designs on any willing hand. Again, I had a long line of customers.
Although I only spent three days at Shanti Daan and don’t feel that I was of much help one way or another, I am grateful for the experience.
On Monday morning, we commandeered one of the many rickshaw wallas outside of our hotel to take us to the Mother House for breakfast and to meet up with our fellow volunteers. While I was not too comfortable with the idea of this thin, barefoot Indian man having to pull us through the streets of Calcutta, I also did not want to walk around lost all morning being constantly asked if I wanted a ride by the innumerable rickshaw wallas on the way. It seemed the easiest way to avoid them all, was to take one up on his offer. So we did.
The Mother House was only a few blocks over on the next main thoroughfare, but instead of walking all the way around as we had the previous week, our 'driver,' obviously well used to the route from Sutter Street to the Mother House, took a route that twisted and turned through nameless narrow streets teeming with early morning life. As he pulled us through the streets, I tried to suppress the cognitive dissonance that arose from being pulled along in a cart by another human being, by thinking about how I would ever be able to describe the scenes around us in mere words. Since taking pictures would be even more appalling behavior than the riding alone, I began taking mental notes of things as we past them by - the rutted streets littered with the thin orange pieces of pottery left from discarded tea cups, big, yellow 50's era taxi's jostling for a position on the road between rickshaws, bicycles and pedestrians; chai Walla's setting out their cups for the morning rush; mothers in brightly colored sari’s leading small uniformed children by the hand; men in traditional Indian cloth wraps performing their morning toilet around public fountains in full view of all passersby; goats tethered to posts stretching their necks to make a morning meal of whatever had been left out on windowsills overnight. Everywhere you looked there was something to see, as if the walls had come down, allowing you a view of family life from the streets.
We arrived shortly at the Mother House where we found about 40 to 50 other volunteers in a courtyard sitting in small groups or lined up for their morning tea and bananas. After our brief breakfast, I found the group going to Shanti Dan and headed off with them to catch a bus across the street The other volunteers were a girl in her early 20’s from England and two women in their early thirties from Spain. We joined a throng of people waiting at the bus stop and I watched the sea of traffic around us until one of the girls announced the arrival of our bus.
Because Indian woman do not go out alone or, presumably, often take public transportation, the percentage of men on the bus far outweighed the female. It appeared that there were seats set aside for women and we joined the few women on the bus on a bench facing the other side of the bus. As the bus made its way to Shanti Dann, I watched as the streets of Calcutta whizzed by in a blur, punctuated by stops as the old bus slowed to allow passengers to jump and off on before taking off again. My stomach began to balk at the jerky motion of the bus, I found that if I stared at the sunlight coming up through the cracks in the wooden planks that made up the floor of the bus, I could ease my queasy stomach.
That morning, my intense gaze at the floor was interrupted by the emergence of a man who began motioning to one of the other volunteers in a way that struck me as somewhat peculiar. She turned and introduced me to the man, who, it turned out, was a mute and was quite well known by all the local volunteers. I wound up having a brief ‘conversation’ with the man and running into him various times throughout our week in Calcutta. His presence and cheerful wordless expression of joy at our meetings added an interesting feeling of familiarity to the city.
When we got off the bus, we walked about a mile down the road to Shanti Dan, which is housed in a multi-building compound behind a high concrete wall. The main building was a two-story building with an open-air sidewalk surrounding an inner courtyard about an eighth of an acre. We walked in the door and were immediately greeted by woman of upper middle age shouting, “Auntie, Auntie.” The more outgoing of the bunch came up and grabbed our hands and smiled up at us repeating, “Auntie, Auntie;” Others carefully ventured an English greeting and wished us a “Good Morning;” while still others sat where they were and made no indication that they were even aware that we had arrived.
During the first morning, I tried to make myself useful and wound up, instead, wandering around feeling quite helpless. Only one of the 30 or so women spoke English, the majority of them being native Bengali speakers, the language of Bangladesh and some of southeastern India, so it was difficult for me to gauge their mental capacities. When they spoke to me, I didn’t know if they were actually asking me a legitimate question or if they were simply speaking to speak not knowing I couldn’t understand. I soon found myself a job helping to change the sheets on the beds and kept busy for a little while.
After changing the sheets, I took a walk around the courtyard looking for another task. Many of the women were simply lying on the cement ground curled up in the fetal position or splayed out in the sun. Others were seated along the benches staring out into space or simply looking around without much to do. It did not seem like a very enjoyable existence, but it may have been much better than had they been out on the streets. Finally, feeling completely useless, I went up to one of the other volunteers and asked her if there was anything she could suggest for me to do. She told me that a lot of the woman enjoyed having their nails painted and showed me where I could find an old bottle of lavender nail polish.
As soon, as I walked out with the nail polish in my hands, I had a line of customers wanting their nails done. After the first few women, it was obvious that nail painting was a common occurrence at Shanti Daan. Each woman would sit down next to me and hold out a work-worn hand with nails covered with multiple layers of chipped polish. Not having any polish remover, I simply painted over the old polish. After I was finished with their hands, a few of the women asked me to paint their toenails. I bent down at their feet, and taking their often twisted and bent feet in my hands, did my best to give them colorful nails. I am not a religious person, but in those moments, I thought about what I had learned about Jesus washing people’s feet and realized just how important that must have been to show that he was no better than anyone else and that he valued each person equally. Of course I may be remembering this wrong, but it was still a powerful experience for me.
The following day, I returned, having bought bright red nail polish and nail polish remover. My lines were even longer and I often found myself removing the lavender polish I had applied the day before to paint newly cleaned nails with bright red polish. Although I didn’t feel that I was being of any real help, I did enjoy spending time with the ladies and they seemed to enjoy the attention as well.
The following day, my last at Shanti Daan, we arrived to find the women all dressed up in identical dresses and laden with jewelry. We inquired of the nuns of the house and learned that it was the anniversary of Mother’s Theresa’s establishment of her charities in Calcutta and that all the women had gone to mass. That day, one of the other volunteers gave me a tube of henna, and having just had my hands done the previous day, I set about drawing henna designs on any willing hand. Again, I had a long line of customers.
Although I only spent three days at Shanti Daan and don’t feel that I was of much help one way or another, I am grateful for the experience.
Calcutta
I had heard that Calcutta was the ugliest, dirtiest, poorest, most crowded city on earth, and was asked repeatedly, "Why do you want to go to Calcutta?" but I had wanted to see it for myself. The bus dropped us off on Sudder Street which is something of a backpacker's "ghetto" with guesthouses, restaurants offering very mediocre international fare and stores selling western snacks and other convenicnes at inflated prices. Unlike many of the other cities I've visited which have similar streets, the Sudder Street area was definitely India, complete with goats, cows, rickshaws and people begging on the streets.
After looking at a few guesthouses, we decided on one at slightly less than the asking rate (thanks to our good use of the "walk away before you commit" stratagy) and headed over to the Mother House to enquire about volunteering with one of Mother Theresa's Missions.
We found the room filled with prospective volunteers and found ourselves seats on the back bench where a group was seated for an orientation. The volunteer coordinator talked a little about Mother Theresa's charities and then passed around boards with the name of each charity, the focus of their work and the type of volunteers they accepted (some sites only accepted female voulnteers due to the sensitivity of their population). I chose Shanti Dan which was a home for woman who had been rescued from the sex trade, many of whom were mentally ill. Mark chose to volunteer at a center for disabled men.
After committing to volunteer the following week, we decided to explore the city. Back in the days of British rule, Calcutta was the place to be for the European elite and evidence of this is found in the numerous European style buildings and monuments throughout the city. While we did find streets that were diry and full of trash, we also found lush green areas, upscale shopping areas and everything in between. I found Calcutta to be a very enjoyable city.
After looking at a few guesthouses, we decided on one at slightly less than the asking rate (thanks to our good use of the "walk away before you commit" stratagy) and headed over to the Mother House to enquire about volunteering with one of Mother Theresa's Missions.
We found the room filled with prospective volunteers and found ourselves seats on the back bench where a group was seated for an orientation. The volunteer coordinator talked a little about Mother Theresa's charities and then passed around boards with the name of each charity, the focus of their work and the type of volunteers they accepted (some sites only accepted female voulnteers due to the sensitivity of their population). I chose Shanti Dan which was a home for woman who had been rescued from the sex trade, many of whom were mentally ill. Mark chose to volunteer at a center for disabled men.
After committing to volunteer the following week, we decided to explore the city. Back in the days of British rule, Calcutta was the place to be for the European elite and evidence of this is found in the numerous European style buildings and monuments throughout the city. While we did find streets that were diry and full of trash, we also found lush green areas, upscale shopping areas and everything in between. I found Calcutta to be a very enjoyable city.
The Journey Begins
After two weeks of "recovering" from the road and enjoying the company of friends, I was looking forward to my trip to India. Mark (Erica - my college roommate's husband) had decided to join me before beginning work in Bangladesh while he still had the luxury of unemployment. Erica, tied to her job from Sunday to Thursday every week, made plans to meet up with us for five days in New Delhi and a day trip to the Taj Mahal.
Mark and I left the safety and security of he and Erica's plush Dhaka apartment for our 10:00 p.m. bus to Calcutta on Thursday evening. Unable to flag down a cab, we hopped into a CNG for the hour long ride through the crazy Dhaka traffic to the bus depot. Arriving with plenty of time to spare, we climbed aboard for our 12 hour over-night trip to Calcutta.
The bus was nice with comfortable seats that reclined back enough to make sleep a real possibility (much to my delight) and a boxed breakfast consisting of a banana, two slices of white bread, and two sweet breads. The only thing I could see standing between myself and a good nights sleep was the blaring Bangladeshi movie on the television at the front, which I was forced to drown out with even louder music from my discman. Unfortunately, my headphones haven't fared well over the past five months and now in order to get the sound to come out of both ear pieces, it is necessary to pull the wire taunt against the body of the discman, giving me the option of either staying awake enough to hold the wire, allowing me peace from the ridiculously loud movie, or attempting to sleep with music in one ear and Bangladeshi dialogue blaring in the other. I chose to rest and listen to the music, figuring that the movie couldn't go on forever.
A few hours later, having nodded off a few times, but not enough to feel any refreshing effects, I woke to find that the movie had just been shut off and the bus was dark, signaling, to me, that it was time to sleep. Smiling to myself, I put my headphones away, reclined my chair back as far as it could go (shouting a muted apology to the man behind me as I unintentionally squashed his knees) and settled in for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Just as I closed my eyes, the smooth pavement we had been gliding along suddenly disappeared and was replaced by a rutted dirt road. The ride went from smooth and lulling to harsh and jarring in a matter of seconds. Soon thereafter the lights were turned on, along with the radio at an almost earsplitting volume, as a man came around with papers for the passengers to fill out to allow them to leave Bangladesh. Because we were not citizens of Bangladesh, we were not required to fill out any forms. The sound sleep I had foreseen just minutes earlier, lost in the melee.
We arrived at Bangalore at the Bangladesh/Indian border at 6:00 a.m. and we were asked to hand over our passports to the bus driver for processing and to then take our hand luggage and disembark. Mark went ahead while I packed up my things and by the time I made my way off of the bus, Mark was waiting with a young boy piloting a rickshaw van (a bicycle with a wooden platform behind the seat for transporting goods, or in this case, passengers). The bus driver had told Mark that we were to ride the rickshaw to the "office" and that the fare would be paid by the bus company. Not knowing where we were going, but figuring that we should probably head in the same direction as our passports, we set off.
The boy pulling us was talking to Mark in Bangali and when I asked what he was saying, Mark told me that the boy was saying that Mark had broken his mat when he stepped on it and now owed him 100 taka (63 taka - $1). My scam meter was suddenly aroused from where it had been slumbering for the past few weeks and starting going off incessantly. Mark seemed willing to pay the boy something just to shut him up, but not wanting to start off our trip in this manner, I asked him to simply tell the boy that he hadn't done anything and wasn't going to pay him and walk away. Knowing that Mark had done nothing, I figured there wasn't anything the boy could really do. When we got to the "office," the boy continued to demand payment. Unable to sit idly by while my travelmate was hassled incessantly, I stepped in front of the boy and in my most impassioned prevailed traveler impression shouted "No" until he finally went away.
The "office" was a big cement building consisting of two front rooms separated by a hallway leading to the bathrooms. The room on the left offered international phone services along with snacks and other conveniences, while the room on the right was filled with chairs and was serving as a waiting room for our busload of weary travelers. Mark and I took turns watching our bags and using the overcrowded unisex bathroom and then sat down to wait for our exit stamps out of Bangladesh.
An hour later, I was roused from my intermittent slumber as the bus driver began calling out names and handing out passports. When we received ours, a young man grabbed Mark's bag and motioned for him to follow. Hoisting my own pack - having brought a much smaller pack with me to India than I had in Cambodia - I followed as they led us out of Bangladesh and into India.
The first stop in India was the Indian customs office. We were motioned over to a counter behind which stood two imposing looking Indian men in military-esqe uniforms. The men said something to us in heavily accented English. After a few minutes, Mark decided that they were asking for a US dollar. Immediately reminded of Vietnam and now back into my openly suspicious traveling mode, my thoughts went to my hidden money pouch and thought gratefully of the small amount of money I had in any accessible place. Mark, not having any US dollars in his wallet, went for his money pouch. He pulled out a crisp US one dollar bill and laid it on the counter. His attention now turned to the contents of Mark's pouch, one of the officers put began pointing, gesturing to Mark that he wanted more and eventually, pawing at Mark helping himself to the contents of his pouch.
As they laid Marks money on the counter eyeing it greedily, one of the officers began looking over Mark's passport and then helpfully explained to us that Mark's passport did not allow for him to bring over such a large amount of US currency. Smelling a scam, I asked the man if we were allowed to bring in the same amount in rupees, to which he replied affirmatively. I then asked if there was somewhere where we could exchange all of our money into rupees and be on our way. The man began to confer in Hindi and then came back with a new tactic. Counting Mark's Bangladesh taka, they informed us that we were only allowed to bring in 300 taka and that they would have to confiscate the rest. My patience, already worn thin by the blaring music, the bumpy ride, the opportunistic kid, the hour long wait and the overall lack of sleep, gave way and I warmed up to my counter attack.
"Can you tell me why we aren't able to bring this money into your country? We are going to spend it in India. It doesn't make any sense that you would not want people spending money in your country. Do you have any documentation to back up any of these policies that you are throwing out at us?" And finally, "WE ARE NOT LEAVING YOU WITH ONE CENT OF OUR MONEY UNLESS YOU CAN SHOW PROOF OF THESE POLICIES, IN WRITING, IN ENGLISH!" Seemingly at a loss for further scam tactics, the men handed Mark back all of his money and we walked through customs to get our stamps into India.
Incredulous at the blatant dishonesty of the Indian customs officers, but exceedingly proud of myself for not being duped, I followed Mark onto the bus that would take us on the final leg of our journey to Calcutta.
Mark and I left the safety and security of he and Erica's plush Dhaka apartment for our 10:00 p.m. bus to Calcutta on Thursday evening. Unable to flag down a cab, we hopped into a CNG for the hour long ride through the crazy Dhaka traffic to the bus depot. Arriving with plenty of time to spare, we climbed aboard for our 12 hour over-night trip to Calcutta.
The bus was nice with comfortable seats that reclined back enough to make sleep a real possibility (much to my delight) and a boxed breakfast consisting of a banana, two slices of white bread, and two sweet breads. The only thing I could see standing between myself and a good nights sleep was the blaring Bangladeshi movie on the television at the front, which I was forced to drown out with even louder music from my discman. Unfortunately, my headphones haven't fared well over the past five months and now in order to get the sound to come out of both ear pieces, it is necessary to pull the wire taunt against the body of the discman, giving me the option of either staying awake enough to hold the wire, allowing me peace from the ridiculously loud movie, or attempting to sleep with music in one ear and Bangladeshi dialogue blaring in the other. I chose to rest and listen to the music, figuring that the movie couldn't go on forever.
A few hours later, having nodded off a few times, but not enough to feel any refreshing effects, I woke to find that the movie had just been shut off and the bus was dark, signaling, to me, that it was time to sleep. Smiling to myself, I put my headphones away, reclined my chair back as far as it could go (shouting a muted apology to the man behind me as I unintentionally squashed his knees) and settled in for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Just as I closed my eyes, the smooth pavement we had been gliding along suddenly disappeared and was replaced by a rutted dirt road. The ride went from smooth and lulling to harsh and jarring in a matter of seconds. Soon thereafter the lights were turned on, along with the radio at an almost earsplitting volume, as a man came around with papers for the passengers to fill out to allow them to leave Bangladesh. Because we were not citizens of Bangladesh, we were not required to fill out any forms. The sound sleep I had foreseen just minutes earlier, lost in the melee.
We arrived at Bangalore at the Bangladesh/Indian border at 6:00 a.m. and we were asked to hand over our passports to the bus driver for processing and to then take our hand luggage and disembark. Mark went ahead while I packed up my things and by the time I made my way off of the bus, Mark was waiting with a young boy piloting a rickshaw van (a bicycle with a wooden platform behind the seat for transporting goods, or in this case, passengers). The bus driver had told Mark that we were to ride the rickshaw to the "office" and that the fare would be paid by the bus company. Not knowing where we were going, but figuring that we should probably head in the same direction as our passports, we set off.
The boy pulling us was talking to Mark in Bangali and when I asked what he was saying, Mark told me that the boy was saying that Mark had broken his mat when he stepped on it and now owed him 100 taka (63 taka - $1). My scam meter was suddenly aroused from where it had been slumbering for the past few weeks and starting going off incessantly. Mark seemed willing to pay the boy something just to shut him up, but not wanting to start off our trip in this manner, I asked him to simply tell the boy that he hadn't done anything and wasn't going to pay him and walk away. Knowing that Mark had done nothing, I figured there wasn't anything the boy could really do. When we got to the "office," the boy continued to demand payment. Unable to sit idly by while my travelmate was hassled incessantly, I stepped in front of the boy and in my most impassioned prevailed traveler impression shouted "No" until he finally went away.
The "office" was a big cement building consisting of two front rooms separated by a hallway leading to the bathrooms. The room on the left offered international phone services along with snacks and other conveniences, while the room on the right was filled with chairs and was serving as a waiting room for our busload of weary travelers. Mark and I took turns watching our bags and using the overcrowded unisex bathroom and then sat down to wait for our exit stamps out of Bangladesh.
An hour later, I was roused from my intermittent slumber as the bus driver began calling out names and handing out passports. When we received ours, a young man grabbed Mark's bag and motioned for him to follow. Hoisting my own pack - having brought a much smaller pack with me to India than I had in Cambodia - I followed as they led us out of Bangladesh and into India.
The first stop in India was the Indian customs office. We were motioned over to a counter behind which stood two imposing looking Indian men in military-esqe uniforms. The men said something to us in heavily accented English. After a few minutes, Mark decided that they were asking for a US dollar. Immediately reminded of Vietnam and now back into my openly suspicious traveling mode, my thoughts went to my hidden money pouch and thought gratefully of the small amount of money I had in any accessible place. Mark, not having any US dollars in his wallet, went for his money pouch. He pulled out a crisp US one dollar bill and laid it on the counter. His attention now turned to the contents of Mark's pouch, one of the officers put began pointing, gesturing to Mark that he wanted more and eventually, pawing at Mark helping himself to the contents of his pouch.
As they laid Marks money on the counter eyeing it greedily, one of the officers began looking over Mark's passport and then helpfully explained to us that Mark's passport did not allow for him to bring over such a large amount of US currency. Smelling a scam, I asked the man if we were allowed to bring in the same amount in rupees, to which he replied affirmatively. I then asked if there was somewhere where we could exchange all of our money into rupees and be on our way. The man began to confer in Hindi and then came back with a new tactic. Counting Mark's Bangladesh taka, they informed us that we were only allowed to bring in 300 taka and that they would have to confiscate the rest. My patience, already worn thin by the blaring music, the bumpy ride, the opportunistic kid, the hour long wait and the overall lack of sleep, gave way and I warmed up to my counter attack.
"Can you tell me why we aren't able to bring this money into your country? We are going to spend it in India. It doesn't make any sense that you would not want people spending money in your country. Do you have any documentation to back up any of these policies that you are throwing out at us?" And finally, "WE ARE NOT LEAVING YOU WITH ONE CENT OF OUR MONEY UNLESS YOU CAN SHOW PROOF OF THESE POLICIES, IN WRITING, IN ENGLISH!" Seemingly at a loss for further scam tactics, the men handed Mark back all of his money and we walked through customs to get our stamps into India.
Incredulous at the blatant dishonesty of the Indian customs officers, but exceedingly proud of myself for not being duped, I followed Mark onto the bus that would take us on the final leg of our journey to Calcutta.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Namaskar
Hello from Kolkata. I have written twice, but lost the post each time, so I've given up temporarily. Just want to let everyone know we are safe in Kolkata and really enjoying it. It is nothing like I imagined. Very diverse - dodgy areas, upscale areas, big green spaces, huge old palaces, lots of little shops, and people everywhere. Today we volunteered with two of Mother Theresa's Charities (one of us at each) and both had really positive experiences. We have two more days and then we are off to Bodhagaya (where the Buddha was Enlightened!). I'll try to write more soon.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Bombs in Bangladesh
Just a quick post to let everyone know that all of us are fine and were not affected by the bombs in Bangladesh today. They are saying that they weren't meant to kill people, just to make a statement. We are all hoping that that this will be the end.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
A Trip to the Market
Because Friday is the Muslim holy day, Erica's weekends fall on Friday and Saturday with her weeks beginning again each Sunday. The first Friday I am in Bangladesh, we decide to take a trip to the market. I am in need of appropriate clothing for India and we are all up for the culture experience.
The market is a huge labyrinth of shop stalls selling everything from books to kitchenware to beautifully colored saris. We are once again accompanied by Keron, who after introducing us to his Uncle at a shop near the entrance, leads us to sari shop where we are warmly greeted by the shops owner. We stand at the edge of the shop, while about two feet above the ground on a raised platform, the owner and two other men pull sari after sari off of the shelves, holding them out for us to admire. Erica is interested in purchasing a sari as she will be in Bangladesh for two years and may well find herself in a situation where it would be a practical garment. I am interested simply for the novelty, but my interest soon fades when I find that the asking price is over $30. Having spent the past month in Vietnam where shirts sell for a dollar and fancy hotel rooms go for $5, I balked at spending six nights worth of accommodation on a single purchase. Erica, having come more recently from the states and still thinking in dollars, and with a nice salary coming her way every two weeks, thought $30 was a steal and set aside a sari both for her and for me for us to come back and make the final decisions on later.
As we went off in search of more practical garments for my trip to India, we soon found that we were now accompanied by a new guide. The owner of the sari shop had taken it upon himself to help us through the maze of the market and to steer us towards the areas selling the products we wished to purchase.
We went first to a hall filled with shops selling salwar kameze, traditional Indian and Bangladeshi outfits consisting of long short sleeved tops in lengths varying from a six inches below the waist to knee length with slits up to the waist on each side, a pair of lose flowing pants and a wrap, which are worn draped over your shoulders with the ends hanging down your back. Coming from places where I had purchased clothes for the equivalent of a few dollars, I was surprised to find that the shop owners wanted $20 or more for their wares. Being the suspicious shopper that I am, I immediately suspected that we were not only being charged western prices, but we were also being duped by our "guide" who assured us that these were reasonable prices. After going from shop to shop where men willingly unfolded outfit after outfit only to be faced with a shake of my head and a view of my retreating back, I began to feel bad and told the group that I would find something later and that we should move on to other areas.
We dutifully followed as our guide led us to an area where Mark could buy a loongie (a traditional Bangladeshi/Indian men's "skirt"), and another where Erica could buy a scarf. As we were heading to the jewelry area, we passed by the shops with the salwar kameze and I begged my way out of the group, saying that I didn't want to waste any more of their time and that I would be fine on my own. I went back to a shop where I had found an outfit that I particularly liked, a black and orange embroidered top with bright orange pants, and used all my Southeast Asian bargaining tactics to get the man down from 1,8000 taka to 1,000 taka (or $15 US). I was sure I was still paying too much, but I felt much better knowing that I hadn't simply given in.
I was soon rejoined by our group, which now, loaded down with bags, headed back over to Keron's uncle's shop where we had began our morning. There the men start going through our packages and arguing back and forth in Bangla. Not quite sure what is going on, the three of us stand by and watch as the argument grows more and more heated. Finally we figured out that Keron's uncle things that we have been charged too much for our purchases and is trying to get the man to come down on the prices. After much ado, the sari shop owner (who ultimately turns out to be another of Keron's uncles) gets his way and we make our way to a nearby bank to get the money for our purchases.
Exhausted, but proud of ourselves for getting out, we head home.
The market is a huge labyrinth of shop stalls selling everything from books to kitchenware to beautifully colored saris. We are once again accompanied by Keron, who after introducing us to his Uncle at a shop near the entrance, leads us to sari shop where we are warmly greeted by the shops owner. We stand at the edge of the shop, while about two feet above the ground on a raised platform, the owner and two other men pull sari after sari off of the shelves, holding them out for us to admire. Erica is interested in purchasing a sari as she will be in Bangladesh for two years and may well find herself in a situation where it would be a practical garment. I am interested simply for the novelty, but my interest soon fades when I find that the asking price is over $30. Having spent the past month in Vietnam where shirts sell for a dollar and fancy hotel rooms go for $5, I balked at spending six nights worth of accommodation on a single purchase. Erica, having come more recently from the states and still thinking in dollars, and with a nice salary coming her way every two weeks, thought $30 was a steal and set aside a sari both for her and for me for us to come back and make the final decisions on later.
As we went off in search of more practical garments for my trip to India, we soon found that we were now accompanied by a new guide. The owner of the sari shop had taken it upon himself to help us through the maze of the market and to steer us towards the areas selling the products we wished to purchase.
We went first to a hall filled with shops selling salwar kameze, traditional Indian and Bangladeshi outfits consisting of long short sleeved tops in lengths varying from a six inches below the waist to knee length with slits up to the waist on each side, a pair of lose flowing pants and a wrap, which are worn draped over your shoulders with the ends hanging down your back. Coming from places where I had purchased clothes for the equivalent of a few dollars, I was surprised to find that the shop owners wanted $20 or more for their wares. Being the suspicious shopper that I am, I immediately suspected that we were not only being charged western prices, but we were also being duped by our "guide" who assured us that these were reasonable prices. After going from shop to shop where men willingly unfolded outfit after outfit only to be faced with a shake of my head and a view of my retreating back, I began to feel bad and told the group that I would find something later and that we should move on to other areas.
We dutifully followed as our guide led us to an area where Mark could buy a loongie (a traditional Bangladeshi/Indian men's "skirt"), and another where Erica could buy a scarf. As we were heading to the jewelry area, we passed by the shops with the salwar kameze and I begged my way out of the group, saying that I didn't want to waste any more of their time and that I would be fine on my own. I went back to a shop where I had found an outfit that I particularly liked, a black and orange embroidered top with bright orange pants, and used all my Southeast Asian bargaining tactics to get the man down from 1,8000 taka to 1,000 taka (or $15 US). I was sure I was still paying too much, but I felt much better knowing that I hadn't simply given in.
I was soon rejoined by our group, which now, loaded down with bags, headed back over to Keron's uncle's shop where we had began our morning. There the men start going through our packages and arguing back and forth in Bangla. Not quite sure what is going on, the three of us stand by and watch as the argument grows more and more heated. Finally we figured out that Keron's uncle things that we have been charged too much for our purchases and is trying to get the man to come down on the prices. After much ado, the sari shop owner (who ultimately turns out to be another of Keron's uncles) gets his way and we make our way to a nearby bank to get the money for our purchases.
Exhausted, but proud of ourselves for getting out, we head home.
Change of Route Permit
In order to leave Bangladesh by land if you arrived by air, according to my travel guides, you need a "Change of Route Permit" in addition to your bus ticket and VISA for the country of your destination. After turning in my Indian VISA application form at the Indian High Commission, Mark and I planned to stop by the Bangladesh Immigration and Passport Office one morning before heading down to do some sightseeing in Old Dhaka, to get my permit.
Mark has become friendly with a 16 year old, Keron, whose father works in one of the buildings near their apartment. Mark mentioned that we were going to Old Dhaka and invited Keron along for his company and his knowledge of the city. Leaving Mark and Erica's apartment on Thursday morning, we walked down the street and into the park, where we followed Keron back to the street through the bars in the park wall (luckily we both fit) to the cabs idling on the other side where we began our trip to the Immigration and Passport office.
The area of Dhaka that I have seen so far is very much a city. One of the main roads leading to the area of the diplomatic section of the city where Mark and Erica lives is Gulshan Avenue. Gulshan Avenue is lined with trees and the median is green with grass, but as soon as you leave this section of town the trees disappear and give way to buildings with high rectangular windows and soot blacked walls from years of pollution. The only color is afforded by the numerous billboards and shop signs in English and Bengali advertising mobile phones, skin cream and other conveniences of the Western world. The streets are filled with cars, bicycle rickshaws, and CMGs (little green vehicles that resemble tiny toy vans - although they only look like the comfortably fit the driver and one passenger - that run on compressed natural gas (CMG). The air is filled with the constant sound of honking horns and driving brings back visions of Vietnam with people walking out into traffic and cars, trucks, CMGs, and buses all vying for the same space on the road. The most disturbing part of it all are the children, people with obvious physical disabilities, and mothers with tiny naked babies who knock on your window and beg for money at almost every intersection, not easily deterred by shaking heads or feigned obliviousness.
At the Immigration and Passport Office, we paid the driver and followed Keron into the building. The guard at the front held his hand out to stop Keron, but I said, "he's with me" and walked through the doorway motioning for Keron to follow. We went up the elevator the the fourth floor, which opened into a large room with rows of plastic seats on to the right, a free standing counter-high table to the left and sets of barred windows to the far side of the room behind each, with a door in the middle, locked, keeping the bureaucrats safe from the impatient mob on the other side.
A Bangladeshi man walked up to help us and we explained that I was there for a Change of Route form. He pushed his way through the mob of men standing in front of the bars on the left and returned with a form, which he handed to me, explaining that I would need to fill out the form and submit it with a passport-sized photo and copies of my Bangladeshi VISA and entry stamp. Mentally kicking myself for leaving my passport photos at the apartment, which I had brought just for this purpose, I waited as Mark and Keron found out the location of the nearest copy/photo shop. Apparently, as in so many developing countries, such services had sprung up just outside the building, ready and waiting for people like me who arrived at the office under-prepared. Thanking the man, we made our way back outside and to the conglomeration of corrugated-tin-shacks-turned-shops where we could make our copies.
The first shop we came to had only a black and white copier and directed us to another shop a little further down where I could have my passport photo scanned in and printed out in color in lieu of a actual picture. All of this was made supremely more easy by having Keron there to translate our needs. At the second shop, we were greeted with a hearty "Hello!" by a man behind a desk at the back of the shop. The shop consisted of an 8 by 16 foot space with a concrete floor and walls of thin sheet metal. The desk held a computer and printer, while a medium-sized copy machine took up the rest of the space on the right-hand wall. Two small plastic stools sat to the other side of the copier, leaving barely any room for anything else. Besides the man behind the desk, there was another man on the far stool and a small boy whose job it was to make the copies.
The man behind the desk asked knowingly if I needed a passport picture and with my confirmation, went quickly about the business of scanning my picture into the computer, printing it out, and cutting it down to size. In less than five minutes, I had my picture. After taking my picture from him, I told the man that I also needed copies. He said something in Bangla to the boy at the copier, who finished the copies he was making and took my passport from me and began to make the copies I had requested. During all of this we had gained an audience of five boys ranging in age from 8 to 15 who stood tightly in a group and teased each other, presumably about who would approach us. Finally one of the boys grabbed another boy and brought him over to us, holding out his arm, which ended in a stub at his wrist. Obviously wanting to rile us rather than gain our sympathies, the boys then ran back to their group and stood in a giggling mass.
The boy at the copier quickly finished my copies and after paying what amounted to less than one US dollar, Mark, Keron and I headed back up to the Passport Office.
Back in the office, we again found ourselves one of the masses and joined the mob at the window to the left. After about 10 minutes of waiting, I finally found myself at the counter under Window B, where I handed my papers through the partition. The man on the other side of the counter, organized my papers, put a staple in the corner, handed them back through the window and said, "Window D." Relaying this information to Mark and Keron, we moved to the other side of the room and joined the 10-deep line waiting to be served at window D.
Forty-five minutes later, I again arrived at the counter, pushed my papers through the slot in the glass and received them back after a quick glance and a scribble of some kind on the front page. The woman behind the counter then turned her back to me. When she turned around again, she seemed surprised to see me still standing there. Not knowing where to go next, I asked her what I was to do, to which she responded, "Window B."
Back in the mob at Window B, alone now, as Mark decided to wait the ordeal out in the plastic chairs and Keron had wandered off to parts unknown, I waited again for my turn at the counter, wondering if I would get two staples this time before I was again sent off to yet another window. But surprisingly enough, when I finally arrived at the counter 15 minutes later, the man simply took my papers and said, "Come back Sunday."
Finally back out on the streets, we soon learned that it was too late to go to Old Dhaka because of the growing traffic, but Keron still wanted to show us around, so we gave in and spent the rest of the afternoon touring around the nicer parts of Dhaka followed at every turn by an inquisitive crowd of on lookers.
Mark has become friendly with a 16 year old, Keron, whose father works in one of the buildings near their apartment. Mark mentioned that we were going to Old Dhaka and invited Keron along for his company and his knowledge of the city. Leaving Mark and Erica's apartment on Thursday morning, we walked down the street and into the park, where we followed Keron back to the street through the bars in the park wall (luckily we both fit) to the cabs idling on the other side where we began our trip to the Immigration and Passport office.
The area of Dhaka that I have seen so far is very much a city. One of the main roads leading to the area of the diplomatic section of the city where Mark and Erica lives is Gulshan Avenue. Gulshan Avenue is lined with trees and the median is green with grass, but as soon as you leave this section of town the trees disappear and give way to buildings with high rectangular windows and soot blacked walls from years of pollution. The only color is afforded by the numerous billboards and shop signs in English and Bengali advertising mobile phones, skin cream and other conveniences of the Western world. The streets are filled with cars, bicycle rickshaws, and CMGs (little green vehicles that resemble tiny toy vans - although they only look like the comfortably fit the driver and one passenger - that run on compressed natural gas (CMG). The air is filled with the constant sound of honking horns and driving brings back visions of Vietnam with people walking out into traffic and cars, trucks, CMGs, and buses all vying for the same space on the road. The most disturbing part of it all are the children, people with obvious physical disabilities, and mothers with tiny naked babies who knock on your window and beg for money at almost every intersection, not easily deterred by shaking heads or feigned obliviousness.
At the Immigration and Passport Office, we paid the driver and followed Keron into the building. The guard at the front held his hand out to stop Keron, but I said, "he's with me" and walked through the doorway motioning for Keron to follow. We went up the elevator the the fourth floor, which opened into a large room with rows of plastic seats on to the right, a free standing counter-high table to the left and sets of barred windows to the far side of the room behind each, with a door in the middle, locked, keeping the bureaucrats safe from the impatient mob on the other side.
A Bangladeshi man walked up to help us and we explained that I was there for a Change of Route form. He pushed his way through the mob of men standing in front of the bars on the left and returned with a form, which he handed to me, explaining that I would need to fill out the form and submit it with a passport-sized photo and copies of my Bangladeshi VISA and entry stamp. Mentally kicking myself for leaving my passport photos at the apartment, which I had brought just for this purpose, I waited as Mark and Keron found out the location of the nearest copy/photo shop. Apparently, as in so many developing countries, such services had sprung up just outside the building, ready and waiting for people like me who arrived at the office under-prepared. Thanking the man, we made our way back outside and to the conglomeration of corrugated-tin-shacks-turned-shops where we could make our copies.
The first shop we came to had only a black and white copier and directed us to another shop a little further down where I could have my passport photo scanned in and printed out in color in lieu of a actual picture. All of this was made supremely more easy by having Keron there to translate our needs. At the second shop, we were greeted with a hearty "Hello!" by a man behind a desk at the back of the shop. The shop consisted of an 8 by 16 foot space with a concrete floor and walls of thin sheet metal. The desk held a computer and printer, while a medium-sized copy machine took up the rest of the space on the right-hand wall. Two small plastic stools sat to the other side of the copier, leaving barely any room for anything else. Besides the man behind the desk, there was another man on the far stool and a small boy whose job it was to make the copies.
The man behind the desk asked knowingly if I needed a passport picture and with my confirmation, went quickly about the business of scanning my picture into the computer, printing it out, and cutting it down to size. In less than five minutes, I had my picture. After taking my picture from him, I told the man that I also needed copies. He said something in Bangla to the boy at the copier, who finished the copies he was making and took my passport from me and began to make the copies I had requested. During all of this we had gained an audience of five boys ranging in age from 8 to 15 who stood tightly in a group and teased each other, presumably about who would approach us. Finally one of the boys grabbed another boy and brought him over to us, holding out his arm, which ended in a stub at his wrist. Obviously wanting to rile us rather than gain our sympathies, the boys then ran back to their group and stood in a giggling mass.
The boy at the copier quickly finished my copies and after paying what amounted to less than one US dollar, Mark, Keron and I headed back up to the Passport Office.
Back in the office, we again found ourselves one of the masses and joined the mob at the window to the left. After about 10 minutes of waiting, I finally found myself at the counter under Window B, where I handed my papers through the partition. The man on the other side of the counter, organized my papers, put a staple in the corner, handed them back through the window and said, "Window D." Relaying this information to Mark and Keron, we moved to the other side of the room and joined the 10-deep line waiting to be served at window D.
Forty-five minutes later, I again arrived at the counter, pushed my papers through the slot in the glass and received them back after a quick glance and a scribble of some kind on the front page. The woman behind the counter then turned her back to me. When she turned around again, she seemed surprised to see me still standing there. Not knowing where to go next, I asked her what I was to do, to which she responded, "Window B."
Back in the mob at Window B, alone now, as Mark decided to wait the ordeal out in the plastic chairs and Keron had wandered off to parts unknown, I waited again for my turn at the counter, wondering if I would get two staples this time before I was again sent off to yet another window. But surprisingly enough, when I finally arrived at the counter 15 minutes later, the man simply took my papers and said, "Come back Sunday."
Finally back out on the streets, we soon learned that it was too late to go to Old Dhaka because of the growing traffic, but Keron still wanted to show us around, so we gave in and spent the rest of the afternoon touring around the nicer parts of Dhaka followed at every turn by an inquisitive crowd of on lookers.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
The View from the Top (aka The View from the Couch)
I've been in Dhaka for going on three days now, but haven't seen much of Dhaka, save the area around where Mark and Erica live in the diplomatic section, the inside of the American club and a few delicious restaurants, bakeries and dessert shops. I feel a little guilty having become less a traveler or even a tourist and more a couch potato, but this is really what I was looking foward to by coming here - spending time with my friends and taking a break from the road, so I shouldn't feel guilty, but I do.
Mark has been chauffeuring me around to the Indian Embassy and back for the past two days: yesterday to learn the procedure for applying for an Indian Tourist VISA and today to turn in my application. On Tuesday of next week (today is Wednesday), I will need to return to the office to pay the remainder of the fee in the morning and then return again at 4:00 p.m. that day to pick up my VISA. Between now and then, I need to obtain a "change of route permit" which I will need to present at the border and a bus ticket to get me there. I have decided to take an overnight bus rather than to fly because I have heard from others that it is safe, comfortable and convenient (or as much so as one could expect in a developing country) and because that will allow for my travel plans to be flexible, not having to rush to an airport to catch a flight.
So far my rough plan is to spend some time in Calcutta http://cityofpalaces.tripod.com/ (Kolkata), possibily volunteering some time if I find that I can be of use somehwere, then heading to Varanassi http://www.varanasionline.com/, a city which came highly reccommended by a cousin who spent a good deal of time in India, and then on to Delhi, where I will be able to meet the Cross Cultural Solutions staff at the Indian branch of the organization I worked with in Thailand. I'm not sure how long all that will take, so I'm keeping my plans simple. From Delhi, I want to visit Agra http://www.up-tourism.com/destination/agra/agra.htm and the Taj Mahal and if I have time either do some day trips from there or head back to Kolkata and up to Darjeeling http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darjeeling from there. Or not. I've decided that I'd much rather do less and enjoy more, than try to do everything. If I enjoy my trip, and am able, I'll plan for a longer visit in the future.
Mark has been chauffeuring me around to the Indian Embassy and back for the past two days: yesterday to learn the procedure for applying for an Indian Tourist VISA and today to turn in my application. On Tuesday of next week (today is Wednesday), I will need to return to the office to pay the remainder of the fee in the morning and then return again at 4:00 p.m. that day to pick up my VISA. Between now and then, I need to obtain a "change of route permit" which I will need to present at the border and a bus ticket to get me there. I have decided to take an overnight bus rather than to fly because I have heard from others that it is safe, comfortable and convenient (or as much so as one could expect in a developing country) and because that will allow for my travel plans to be flexible, not having to rush to an airport to catch a flight.
So far my rough plan is to spend some time in Calcutta http://cityofpalaces.tripod.com/ (Kolkata), possibily volunteering some time if I find that I can be of use somehwere, then heading to Varanassi http://www.varanasionline.com/, a city which came highly reccommended by a cousin who spent a good deal of time in India, and then on to Delhi, where I will be able to meet the Cross Cultural Solutions staff at the Indian branch of the organization I worked with in Thailand. I'm not sure how long all that will take, so I'm keeping my plans simple. From Delhi, I want to visit Agra http://www.up-tourism.com/destination/agra/agra.htm and the Taj Mahal and if I have time either do some day trips from there or head back to Kolkata and up to Darjeeling http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darjeeling from there. Or not. I've decided that I'd much rather do less and enjoy more, than try to do everything. If I enjoy my trip, and am able, I'll plan for a longer visit in the future.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Biman Air
My flight to Dhaka was scheduled to depart at 4:45 p.m. on Sunday, August 7th. I arrived at the airport at 3:00 - fashionably late as always - where I learned that the flight was delayed, until 9:00 o'clock that evening. This information was relayed to me by a large Arab looking man in a turban who asked me incredulously, "YOU'RE going to Dhaka???" So I spent the next six hours reading my book and waiting for the plane that would take me out of the part of the world I'd come to be familiar with and feel somewhat at home in, to a part of the world I knew very little about.
At 8:00, I changed from pants and a tank top into my Bangladesh outfit of an ankle length skirt and t-shirt (the most conservative thing in my sad, road worn, wardrobe) and headed to gate number 21. As I walked through the x-ray machine and into the departure area, I realized that I was the only white, western woman (and person for that matter) at the gate. I walked over to a set of chairs and sat down. A few moments later, two men - Bangladeshi, I presumed - sat in the seats next to me and asked me where I was from. After a brief introductory conversation where they asked why I was flying to Dhaka, where I had been in Thailand, what I did for a living; and answered my questions in return, we settled into an easy flow of conversation about the state of the world (how difficult it was for them, as Muslims, to travel, which they did a lot for business, after the terrorist attacks in New York), the socio-economic and political state of Bangladesh, and the beaurocracy of flying Bitman Airlines. By the time they called our flight, we were trading jokes and businesscards (the latter from them, my lack of employment a hindrance to my possession of a business card) and talking about meeting for lunch or dinner later that week (with Erica and Mark, of course).
As I boarded the plane, it occured to me for the first time that what I was doing was pretty brave (or pretty stupid, depending on your perspective). Granted I was going to visit friends who work for the US Government and would be able to call on all the powers that be if necessary, even if just armed with the fact that I, myself, am an American Citizen; but here I was, on an airplane full of people from a country I knew nothing about, going to this country I knew nothing about, just happily strapping in in expectation of whatever was to come.
Because I was in the 10th row of a relatively large plane, in an isle seat, I had a front row seat to the row of traffic filing past me to fill in the seats in the rear of the plane. Not including me, I counted five other non-Asians - two backpacker types, a young business woman, and another woman and her small daughter. The rest of the passengers appeared to be from Bangladesh (or India, or Paistan or some other country in the area) but were quite a varied lot themselves. There were large imposing looking men with long straggley beards and bulky turbans, middle aged men in suits, young men in western dress, woman in traditional dress, brighly colored and beautiful. Next to me, sat a young girl, about twelve; in front, a well-dressed man in a flashy purple suit with a sheen that reflected the light; to my right across the aisle, an older man with a closely trimmed grey beard seated with a woman about 10 years his junior in traditional dress (loose flowing pants, a loose top and a long flowing shawl draped around her shoulders).
I settled in and began reading my book. After about 5 mintues, I noticed my young neighbor looking at me intently. I turned and smiled, a gesture that she returned, and went back to my book, but she continued to stare. Not wanting to appear unfriendly, I turned and asked her if she was from Dhaka, to which she responded affirmatively, asking me if it was my first time in Dhaka, to which I responded affirmatively. Seemingly satisfied, she turned back to her mother seated to her left and relayed the information. After a time, she turned to me again and asked, "What is your favorite color?" followed by "What is your hobby?" "What is your favorite food?" "Are you finished with your schooling?" "Have you seen the film Titanic?" I countered with questions with my own and I soon learned that Jihah (I name I thought sounded unfortunately like Jihad) was 12 years old, the third of four children, the youngest of which, at two, was currently being passed around between the rows as happy as could be) and was just returning from five days in Thailand where her father was recieving "treatment." Her father was from Calcutta, she liked Indian food, if she could be any animal she would be a bird, she liked school well enough and her hobby was sleeping.
Just then, the man in the suit in front of me, who had been reading to me from the Bangladeshi newspaper, turned around and asked if he could see my book. At first I was confused, but having no reason to refuse his request, I passed it forward and watched as it was passed around the isle. Luckily I wasn't reading anything controversial at the time. I asked Jihah if she knew the man in the seat in front of me, who had been spending a fair amount of time entertaining her tiny brother, whom her mother had willingly handed over the seats, and she told me that no, she did not know him and why, was he disturbing me?
As the attendants started my way with the drink cart, I mentally chose my drink - a 7 up to settle my stomach - and thought that I would ask the attendant if she knew our estimated time of arrival. A female flight attendant was serving drinks from the back side of the cart, while a male flight attendant served drinks out of the front. Each few rows, as they do on every flight I've ever been on, they would move the cart so that each would have approximately three new rows to serve. Since the family on my left had all recieved their drinks when the cart was on the aisle on the other side of the plane, I was the only passenger left to be served in my isle. I waited expectantly as the cart was shifted by me, and then patiently as the man started serving drinks to the people five rows behind me, and then questioningly as the men in the rows behind me, first one, then two, were served, leaving me drinkless and still wondering what time we would arrive. Wondering if I had just been missed or if I had been intentionally slighted, I pressed the attendant button, illuminating the red plastic geometric form of a flight attendant above my head. Half an hour later, the button was still alight, a glowing reminder of their slight.
As I sat, still thirsty and wondering about the estimated time of arrival, the pilot, or so I assumed, came over the intercom and explained that we were flying over Myanmar at ___ knots and an altitude of ____. He apologized for the earlier turbulance and the late start. He explained that we would be arriving in Dhaka ata 10:39 local time, which was an hour earlier than Bangkok time, about an hour and a half from that moment. He then went on to say, "We should be, ah... experiencing.... ah, um, turbulance... for, well... pretty much the whole flight into Dhaka;" which luckily for my stomach (and my fellow passengers) was a false prediction.
Finally left to my own devices, I returned to my book, only interrupted by the arrival of a delicious meal of chicken curry, afterwhich I finally turned off my attendant light. When the attendants came around with arrival cards, I put my book in my bag (with the help of the man across the aisle from me, who zipped the zipper while I crammed in the book) and filled out my form, sharing each line item with Jihah watching over my forearm. The only indication that Bangladesh might be any different than anywhere else I've been, the line asking for my husband/father's name, which I gave, after a slight hesitation (which did not go unnoticed by Jihah, who asked, "You do not know your father's name?")
After our mutual achievement of fitting my book back into my overstuffed bag, the man across the isle began asking me where I was going, where I had been and what I did for a living. He had just returned from Thailand where his mother had gone for an operation. Apparently Thailand's health tourism industry is thriving. Unfortunately, from this man's story, it may not be justifiably so. He talked of extra charges, poor service and non-Englsih speaking staff, all things that were said to be included in the "package." He was not at all happy with the service, but happy that at least his mother was doing well. He was looking forward to getting her home where they would not be charged for the pen with which the doctor wrote our their bill.
As the plane coasted in for a landing, I was still having this conversation with the gentleman to my right, which became increasingly more difficult as the aisle between us begain to fill up with people anxious to get off the plane. At one point, a shoulder bag came close to knocking off my head and the men in the seats around me started yelling that the man with the bag, saying how he shouldn't even be standing up because the plane was still moving and asking how much sooner was he really going to get off the plane than anyone else. The yelling escalated until there were men holding another man back to keep them from coming to blows.
The plane finally stopped and we all filed off. My new friends, Razo and Sazo from the departure gate, walked with me and we chatted at the baggage claim, until my bag arrived and I walked through the doors of the baggage claim to reunite with Mark and Erica, happy to be among friends again and looking forward to experiencing more of the small glimpse of Bangladesh that I enjoyed on the plane.
At 8:00, I changed from pants and a tank top into my Bangladesh outfit of an ankle length skirt and t-shirt (the most conservative thing in my sad, road worn, wardrobe) and headed to gate number 21. As I walked through the x-ray machine and into the departure area, I realized that I was the only white, western woman (and person for that matter) at the gate. I walked over to a set of chairs and sat down. A few moments later, two men - Bangladeshi, I presumed - sat in the seats next to me and asked me where I was from. After a brief introductory conversation where they asked why I was flying to Dhaka, where I had been in Thailand, what I did for a living; and answered my questions in return, we settled into an easy flow of conversation about the state of the world (how difficult it was for them, as Muslims, to travel, which they did a lot for business, after the terrorist attacks in New York), the socio-economic and political state of Bangladesh, and the beaurocracy of flying Bitman Airlines. By the time they called our flight, we were trading jokes and businesscards (the latter from them, my lack of employment a hindrance to my possession of a business card) and talking about meeting for lunch or dinner later that week (with Erica and Mark, of course).
As I boarded the plane, it occured to me for the first time that what I was doing was pretty brave (or pretty stupid, depending on your perspective). Granted I was going to visit friends who work for the US Government and would be able to call on all the powers that be if necessary, even if just armed with the fact that I, myself, am an American Citizen; but here I was, on an airplane full of people from a country I knew nothing about, going to this country I knew nothing about, just happily strapping in in expectation of whatever was to come.
Because I was in the 10th row of a relatively large plane, in an isle seat, I had a front row seat to the row of traffic filing past me to fill in the seats in the rear of the plane. Not including me, I counted five other non-Asians - two backpacker types, a young business woman, and another woman and her small daughter. The rest of the passengers appeared to be from Bangladesh (or India, or Paistan or some other country in the area) but were quite a varied lot themselves. There were large imposing looking men with long straggley beards and bulky turbans, middle aged men in suits, young men in western dress, woman in traditional dress, brighly colored and beautiful. Next to me, sat a young girl, about twelve; in front, a well-dressed man in a flashy purple suit with a sheen that reflected the light; to my right across the aisle, an older man with a closely trimmed grey beard seated with a woman about 10 years his junior in traditional dress (loose flowing pants, a loose top and a long flowing shawl draped around her shoulders).
I settled in and began reading my book. After about 5 mintues, I noticed my young neighbor looking at me intently. I turned and smiled, a gesture that she returned, and went back to my book, but she continued to stare. Not wanting to appear unfriendly, I turned and asked her if she was from Dhaka, to which she responded affirmatively, asking me if it was my first time in Dhaka, to which I responded affirmatively. Seemingly satisfied, she turned back to her mother seated to her left and relayed the information. After a time, she turned to me again and asked, "What is your favorite color?" followed by "What is your hobby?" "What is your favorite food?" "Are you finished with your schooling?" "Have you seen the film Titanic?" I countered with questions with my own and I soon learned that Jihah (I name I thought sounded unfortunately like Jihad) was 12 years old, the third of four children, the youngest of which, at two, was currently being passed around between the rows as happy as could be) and was just returning from five days in Thailand where her father was recieving "treatment." Her father was from Calcutta, she liked Indian food, if she could be any animal she would be a bird, she liked school well enough and her hobby was sleeping.
Just then, the man in the suit in front of me, who had been reading to me from the Bangladeshi newspaper, turned around and asked if he could see my book. At first I was confused, but having no reason to refuse his request, I passed it forward and watched as it was passed around the isle. Luckily I wasn't reading anything controversial at the time. I asked Jihah if she knew the man in the seat in front of me, who had been spending a fair amount of time entertaining her tiny brother, whom her mother had willingly handed over the seats, and she told me that no, she did not know him and why, was he disturbing me?
As the attendants started my way with the drink cart, I mentally chose my drink - a 7 up to settle my stomach - and thought that I would ask the attendant if she knew our estimated time of arrival. A female flight attendant was serving drinks from the back side of the cart, while a male flight attendant served drinks out of the front. Each few rows, as they do on every flight I've ever been on, they would move the cart so that each would have approximately three new rows to serve. Since the family on my left had all recieved their drinks when the cart was on the aisle on the other side of the plane, I was the only passenger left to be served in my isle. I waited expectantly as the cart was shifted by me, and then patiently as the man started serving drinks to the people five rows behind me, and then questioningly as the men in the rows behind me, first one, then two, were served, leaving me drinkless and still wondering what time we would arrive. Wondering if I had just been missed or if I had been intentionally slighted, I pressed the attendant button, illuminating the red plastic geometric form of a flight attendant above my head. Half an hour later, the button was still alight, a glowing reminder of their slight.
As I sat, still thirsty and wondering about the estimated time of arrival, the pilot, or so I assumed, came over the intercom and explained that we were flying over Myanmar at ___ knots and an altitude of ____. He apologized for the earlier turbulance and the late start. He explained that we would be arriving in Dhaka ata 10:39 local time, which was an hour earlier than Bangkok time, about an hour and a half from that moment. He then went on to say, "We should be, ah... experiencing.... ah, um, turbulance... for, well... pretty much the whole flight into Dhaka;" which luckily for my stomach (and my fellow passengers) was a false prediction.
Finally left to my own devices, I returned to my book, only interrupted by the arrival of a delicious meal of chicken curry, afterwhich I finally turned off my attendant light. When the attendants came around with arrival cards, I put my book in my bag (with the help of the man across the aisle from me, who zipped the zipper while I crammed in the book) and filled out my form, sharing each line item with Jihah watching over my forearm. The only indication that Bangladesh might be any different than anywhere else I've been, the line asking for my husband/father's name, which I gave, after a slight hesitation (which did not go unnoticed by Jihah, who asked, "You do not know your father's name?")
After our mutual achievement of fitting my book back into my overstuffed bag, the man across the isle began asking me where I was going, where I had been and what I did for a living. He had just returned from Thailand where his mother had gone for an operation. Apparently Thailand's health tourism industry is thriving. Unfortunately, from this man's story, it may not be justifiably so. He talked of extra charges, poor service and non-Englsih speaking staff, all things that were said to be included in the "package." He was not at all happy with the service, but happy that at least his mother was doing well. He was looking forward to getting her home where they would not be charged for the pen with which the doctor wrote our their bill.
As the plane coasted in for a landing, I was still having this conversation with the gentleman to my right, which became increasingly more difficult as the aisle between us begain to fill up with people anxious to get off the plane. At one point, a shoulder bag came close to knocking off my head and the men in the seats around me started yelling that the man with the bag, saying how he shouldn't even be standing up because the plane was still moving and asking how much sooner was he really going to get off the plane than anyone else. The yelling escalated until there were men holding another man back to keep them from coming to blows.
The plane finally stopped and we all filed off. My new friends, Razo and Sazo from the departure gate, walked with me and we chatted at the baggage claim, until my bag arrived and I walked through the doors of the baggage claim to reunite with Mark and Erica, happy to be among friends again and looking forward to experiencing more of the small glimpse of Bangladesh that I enjoyed on the plane.
Friday, August 05, 2005
HAT
The HAT website is finally online! For those of you who are interested, this is where I spent the first 10 weeks of my stay in Thailand:
Reproductive Health for Quality of Life Development Association of Thailand (HAT)
Reproductive Health for Quality of Life Development Association of Thailand (HAT)
Mad Dash through Thailand
Kevin and I flew into Bangkok on... what day was that again... um... yeah, well, whenever... and came straight to my new home away from home - the Baan Sabaai Guesthouse in Banglampu, Bangkok. We spent a day seeing the sights and caught a bus early the next morning to Kanchanaburi to my second favorite spot, the Jolly Frog. In Kanchanaburi, we rented (really old) bicycles and toured around to the POW cemeteries and the JEATH War Museum.
The following day we woke up too late to catch our bus, so we rushed over to the train station and made it just in time for the morning train. Unfortunately, the train blew something part of the way there and we missed our connecting train to Ayutthaya and we wound up spending two hours at the train station waiting for the two o'clock train - time that was wisely spent planning the next two days.
In Ayutthaya, we checked into our guesthouse at 4:30 and made our way to the nearest temple ruins. After Angkor, I wasn't expecting to be impressed with the ruins, especially seeing them for the second time, but they were still really interesting and walking around them was a little mind altering, as if you were walking around on the set of some old movie. They are mostly conglomerations of crumbling brick or weathered concrete, but their sheer size is impressive (of course not compared to Angkor - an entry I still need to write...).
The last one, to me, was the most interesting, not because of its size - it was a relatively new (or redone) wat of average size - but because of the melee occurring inside. The whirring of activity outside of the wat made it immediately apparent that this was not your average Thai wat. There was a man outside, positioned to the right of the door, beyond the countless pairs of shoes left respectfully on the steps, who appeared to be doing an onsite infomercial, trying to capture people entering and exiting the building. Inside the doors, the floor resembled that of the New York stock exchange, littered with papers from the incense being used to pay homage to the Buddha. The first room was lined with alter after alter, each bearing numerous Buddha images and candles, surrounded by Thai's holding incense and lotus flowers, bowing their heads in deference to the Buddha. The third alter in was flanked by five chanting monks, a sight that wouldn't have been much unlike any other wat, save the fact that they were chanting into a microphone which transported their mantras electronically to large speakers throughout the wat. Lining the walls in the center room were more alters, sandwiched by traditional Thai instruments, one side of which lay silent, while those on the other side was put to use, their sounds blending with the amplified chanting and the voices of the pilgrims to create quite a din. The farthest room from the doors held an enormous Buddha image draped in the amber wraps of a monks robe. The floor in front of the image was packed with Thai's on their knees holding up trays which held strips of the robe which they would hold up patiently until a man in the front made his way to them, grabbed the robes, and flung them up into the Buddah's lap. As the robes landed, one of the three monks standing to the side of the Buddha image would pick them up and tie them to the end of the rapidly lengthening "robe" sash over the shoulders of the Buddha. It was a sight to see!
That night, exhausted from sight seeing, we watched a pirated copy of Batman Begins, which I still can't say I saw, because the sound quality was poor and we think that some of the scenes were missing, but it was nice to see a movie after so long, even a sad copy of one.
The following day, we rented bicycles again and managed to make our way around by getting lost, finding our way, getting lost, finding our way again and still making it back in time to catch the 4:00 train to Lopburi - a quick stop to see the monkeys before boarding the overnight train to Chiang Mai.
Soon after we disembark in Lopburi, we were treated to the sight of monkeys roaming the streets like squirrels back home: monkeys crossing the street, monkeys climbing telephone poles, monkeys sitting on electrical wires, monkeys sitting on the tops of buildings, monkeys as far as the eye can see - except, that is, in the monkey temple, where they were "supposed" to be. Finding the temple deserted and presuming that the monkeys knowingly departed when the tourists did, we crossed the street to another set of ruins that was teeming with monkeys. As we walked along the sidewalk, I heard Kevin let out a yell and when I turned around I saw that there was a monkey on his head trying to steal his hat. Kevin yelled and shook his head, hanging on to his hat to prevent it walking off with the monkey, while I laughed and grabbed the camera to capture the moment on film. Just as I handed the camera back, the tables turned as the monkey leapt from Kevin's head to mine and grabbing at my hair in pursuit of my rubber hair bands. This time I did the yelling and Kevin did the swatting, as the monkey grabbed out one of my earrings, before jumping off his perch. Luckily he dropped the earring before he got away. A little girl on the stairs was not so lucky, as we watched a monkey jump on her head, grab her hair tie and run off up the steps, leaving her bawling inconsolably. After we'd had our fill of the monkeys, we went to find a cafe for dinner and to while away some time before our train at 10:50 that night.
Unlike during my previous experiences with overnight trains in Thailand, I found I wasn't able to sleep well, while Kevin slept like a baby, so when we finally arrived in Chiang Mai, I was exhausted and just wanted to sleep. Unfortunately because we only had two days and we needed to make the most of them, sleep wasn't an option, so I reached for whatever reserves of energy I had left and we set off to catch a cab to a local temple on a mountain where Kevin wanted to hike.
The following day we woke up too late to catch our bus, so we rushed over to the train station and made it just in time for the morning train. Unfortunately, the train blew something part of the way there and we missed our connecting train to Ayutthaya and we wound up spending two hours at the train station waiting for the two o'clock train - time that was wisely spent planning the next two days.
In Ayutthaya, we checked into our guesthouse at 4:30 and made our way to the nearest temple ruins. After Angkor, I wasn't expecting to be impressed with the ruins, especially seeing them for the second time, but they were still really interesting and walking around them was a little mind altering, as if you were walking around on the set of some old movie. They are mostly conglomerations of crumbling brick or weathered concrete, but their sheer size is impressive (of course not compared to Angkor - an entry I still need to write...).
The last one, to me, was the most interesting, not because of its size - it was a relatively new (or redone) wat of average size - but because of the melee occurring inside. The whirring of activity outside of the wat made it immediately apparent that this was not your average Thai wat. There was a man outside, positioned to the right of the door, beyond the countless pairs of shoes left respectfully on the steps, who appeared to be doing an onsite infomercial, trying to capture people entering and exiting the building. Inside the doors, the floor resembled that of the New York stock exchange, littered with papers from the incense being used to pay homage to the Buddha. The first room was lined with alter after alter, each bearing numerous Buddha images and candles, surrounded by Thai's holding incense and lotus flowers, bowing their heads in deference to the Buddha. The third alter in was flanked by five chanting monks, a sight that wouldn't have been much unlike any other wat, save the fact that they were chanting into a microphone which transported their mantras electronically to large speakers throughout the wat. Lining the walls in the center room were more alters, sandwiched by traditional Thai instruments, one side of which lay silent, while those on the other side was put to use, their sounds blending with the amplified chanting and the voices of the pilgrims to create quite a din. The farthest room from the doors held an enormous Buddha image draped in the amber wraps of a monks robe. The floor in front of the image was packed with Thai's on their knees holding up trays which held strips of the robe which they would hold up patiently until a man in the front made his way to them, grabbed the robes, and flung them up into the Buddah's lap. As the robes landed, one of the three monks standing to the side of the Buddha image would pick them up and tie them to the end of the rapidly lengthening "robe" sash over the shoulders of the Buddha. It was a sight to see!
That night, exhausted from sight seeing, we watched a pirated copy of Batman Begins, which I still can't say I saw, because the sound quality was poor and we think that some of the scenes were missing, but it was nice to see a movie after so long, even a sad copy of one.
The following day, we rented bicycles again and managed to make our way around by getting lost, finding our way, getting lost, finding our way again and still making it back in time to catch the 4:00 train to Lopburi - a quick stop to see the monkeys before boarding the overnight train to Chiang Mai.
Soon after we disembark in Lopburi, we were treated to the sight of monkeys roaming the streets like squirrels back home: monkeys crossing the street, monkeys climbing telephone poles, monkeys sitting on electrical wires, monkeys sitting on the tops of buildings, monkeys as far as the eye can see - except, that is, in the monkey temple, where they were "supposed" to be. Finding the temple deserted and presuming that the monkeys knowingly departed when the tourists did, we crossed the street to another set of ruins that was teeming with monkeys. As we walked along the sidewalk, I heard Kevin let out a yell and when I turned around I saw that there was a monkey on his head trying to steal his hat. Kevin yelled and shook his head, hanging on to his hat to prevent it walking off with the monkey, while I laughed and grabbed the camera to capture the moment on film. Just as I handed the camera back, the tables turned as the monkey leapt from Kevin's head to mine and grabbing at my hair in pursuit of my rubber hair bands. This time I did the yelling and Kevin did the swatting, as the monkey grabbed out one of my earrings, before jumping off his perch. Luckily he dropped the earring before he got away. A little girl on the stairs was not so lucky, as we watched a monkey jump on her head, grab her hair tie and run off up the steps, leaving her bawling inconsolably. After we'd had our fill of the monkeys, we went to find a cafe for dinner and to while away some time before our train at 10:50 that night.
Unlike during my previous experiences with overnight trains in Thailand, I found I wasn't able to sleep well, while Kevin slept like a baby, so when we finally arrived in Chiang Mai, I was exhausted and just wanted to sleep. Unfortunately because we only had two days and we needed to make the most of them, sleep wasn't an option, so I reached for whatever reserves of energy I had left and we set off to catch a cab to a local temple on a mountain where Kevin wanted to hike.
The hike is a story in its own right, but to keep this post from getting much longer, I will abbreviate it, by simply saying, we found the trail, lost the trail, found the trail again - oh, wait, that's no the trail... where was the trail again... and charging off into the brush, racing the slowly sinking sun, chasing fears of having to spend the night in the woods. When we finally reached the road, dirty, tired and wet, all of the tourists had made there way down and the army of taxi's that had stood waiting when we arrived, were no where to be seen and we had to rely on the kindness of a woman passing by on a motorbike and a couple in a pick up - with whom the woman dropped us after realizing that the weight of the two of us was probably not the safest thing to tow down the steep mountain road - to get back into town. Amazingly enough, still going on three hours of sleep, I managed to eke out another few hours at the night bazaar, where Kevin and I did some gift shopping for friends back home.
On Tuesday, we rented a motorbike to make our way to the Elephant Conservation Camp 70 km south of Chiang Mai. Relying on the maps in my Lonely Planet guide we effectively got ourselves lost (again - I realize that this is becoming a theme) adding an extra hour to what should have only been an hour and a half trip. Luckily for me, the scenery around Chiang Mai was really pretty; unfortunately for Kevin an extra hour meant an extra hour on the back of the bike, which he was not particularly fond of.
We arrived at the camp in time for the 1:30 p.m. show, the last for the day, and watched as about ten trained elephants demonstrated how elephants are used for logging in the forests. Unlike other elephant shows around Thailand that train elephants to do circus tricks, the Elephant Conservation Camp, works to preserve the Asian Elephant and the history of their relationship with the people of Southeast Asia. They also rehabilitate sick and abused elephants both at the site and in the field. The show was really neat, leaving Kevin to wonder about the difference between train an elephant and training a dog, something he could have paid to learn to do at the camp had he had the time and the money, and I was happy to be supporting such a great organization.
We made it back to Chiang Mai without getting lost and boarded our train for our last day together in Bangkok before Kevin's long flight home (which, I am happy to report, got him home in one piece).
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