The Bahá'í Lotus Temple

October 17th 2009 afternoon continued

After the Qutb complex, we dodged the street sellers and filed back into the bus that took us through the weave of Delhi highways to the Bahá'í Lotus Temple. We walked the long brick path to the temple sharing what little we collectively knew about the Bahai faith. I will consult a higher authority on that now: Wikipedia.

In the Bahá'í Faith, religious history is seen to have unfolded through a series of divine messengers, each of whom established a religion that was suited to the needs of the time and the capacity of the people. These messengers have included Abraham, Buddha, Jesus, Muhammad and others.

Bahá'í notions of progressive religious revelation result in their accepting the validity of most of the world's religions, whose founders and central figures are seen as Manifestations of God. Religious history is interpreted as a series of dispensations, where each manifestation brings a somewhat broader and more advanced revelation, suited for the time and place in which it was expressed.

Humanity is understood to be in a process of collective evolution, and the need of the present time is for the gradual establishment of peace, justice and unity on a global scale.

I like the idea that the world is collectively evolving and that each religion is a reflection of what populations and civilizations needed in their times. I like that Bahais are accepting of different religions. But what I find very interesting about the Bahai faith is that almost all of its followers are highly educated and are also usually well-off. This has nothing to do with the story, but I thought a little background might be interesting.

Once we reach the steps of the temple in our bare feet, we are instructed in multiple languages to not speak once inside. No cameras, no talking, just peace, prayer and meditation. Everyone is welcome to visit the temple, and sit, pray, meditate, or just absorb the tranquility after the maddening streets of the city.

The temple is built in the shape of a lotus, a reminder that one can rise from humble beginnings. The lotus flower grows out of mud, the stalk rising above the muck to end in a perfect bloom. This is an especially poignant image in India.

As we are driven around Delhi, women, babies and children tap on the bus windows and ask for money. Many make the graceful motions of putting imaginary food to their lips, almost like a dance of hunger. We see people living their lives on streets and under overpasses, but the homeless people here are very different from the ones I’ve seen in the U.S.

The U.S. homeless are almost always insane, mentally handicapped, emotionally disturbed and/or have drug addictions. They are mentally incapable of working. But the women here are young and beautiful. They are just uneducated. Their society, religion and background, everyone they’ve ever met, have told them that this is their lot in life and that’s it. Beth says the caste system, now officially banned but still evident, is largely to blame for that paradigm.

The first thought a westerner might have is “why doesn’t someone just go out and tell them they can do better, find a job, educate themselves, stop having so many children?” Because surely, if these women were told this, they would try to improve their lives. But imagine that someone with all the conviction of a zealot told you that your paradigm was wrong, and that you had no hope of ever changing your life situation. Being an American, or westerner, you would look at that person as if he were crazy, or an idiot. Reaching for success is so ingrained in our culture, particularly the American culture, that this mentality of passive helplessness is inconceivable to us. But, that’s India. Or at least, that is one part of India.

The Qutb Complex

October 17th, 2009 afternoon

Everytime we drive around Delhi, it feels like the roadways were planned along the lines of a celtic knot. I think we went in circles nearly every time we left the hotel until the driver eventually found the gap in the loop. The drive from India Gate to the Qutb Complex was like that.

I only just learned the name of these ruins, and I was able to find them (as opposed to the bajillion other ruins around Delhi) because I remembered the pillar.

The pillar has an amazing story, which I will butcher without the help of Wikipedia. So before I start quoting more knowledgeable sources (Wiki), I’ll just say that it might be extraterrestrial. Seriously.

The scholars of Wiki write that the pillar may have been created as early as 912 BCE and stood at the center of a Jain temple complex of 27 temples. Stones from those temples were defaced – literally, faces were scratched out by the Muslim conquerors – and used to build the Qutb complex where the pillar still stands, unmoved. The 7 meter tall, 6 ton pillar is 98% wrought iron and has withstood corrosion for over 1,600 years without shelter. Archaeologists and metallurgists can’t explain it.

And, it was by this pillar that I found out the name of where we went minutes before I put up this post. In my travel journal, it is merely described as “red stone ruins” which do not do it justice. “Indiana Jones level of awesome” is a far better descriptor.

Our tour guide spouts numbers, they all spout numbers. Tour guides may as well be out of work accountants for all the numbers they know. I can’t remember any of them. What I remember are the pillars at the entrance to a large stone courtyard. These stone pillars were built out of stones reused from the Hindu and Jain temples that used to stand at the site before the Muslims came and were offended by depictions of people and foreign gods. They took the temples apart like kids with Lego castles and built their own places of worship and monuments to their own greatness. Maybe it gave them satisfaction to walk halls where conquered gods danced headless around them.

One can’t help but wonder what the carvings looked like when they were new.

The complex is huge with wide open spaces, crumbling walls, and stone steps to grassy lawns that have grown over what used to be there. Families from all over India come to see it. And a few adventurous Europeans. And us: a group of mostly middle-aged white American women. I quickly came to understand that ruins are a dime a dozen, but a bunch of white women – that’s what you want your picture taken next to if you’re a family from rural India.

After being hounded by beggars, taxi wallahs, and pushy salesmen, meeting people who wanted nothing more than a picture was a striking contrast. They were so nice, so entertained to see us. They thought we were great. If you ever want to know what it feels like to be a celebrity, just travel to India where you become the main attraction (no matter what World Heritage Site you’re standing in front of). I’m not saying this to be condescending in any way. It was just strange. And they were so nice about it. Our guide joked that pictures of us would be hanging in every one of their living rooms and they would invite people over to tell them about their new American friends. I still don’t know how to take that.

A funny story about the ruins: There is a giant red tower that reaches far above the highest point of the ruins. It’s called the Qutb Minar. Across a grassy courtyard from the Qutb Minar is a pile of red bricks that used to be a second tower. The story goes that a later conqueror wanted to build a tower taller than the Qutb Minar, right across from it. But when the second tower was almost completed, a massive earthquake leveled it. The Qutb Minar was completely undamaged. India is a humbling experience for everyone.

As our group was leaving, our guide for the past two days offered to take a group picture of us outside the gate to the ruin. He took all of our cameras and just when he was about to shoot the first picture, an Indian family jumped in with their small children, asking without a word of English, if they could take pictures of their kids posing with all of us white women. The mother pressed her baby girl into Susan’s arms (she’s a nurse and loves children). The baby was totally chill with this, like it happened all the time, and they snapped photos of us while our guide snapped photos of us and them. Eventually we all posed together having gained new extended family members. On the street it is easy to forget that a lot of Indian people are genuinely good, kind and not out to take advantage of foreigners. This random family thought it was so cool that we were there, and we thought it was so cool that they were there. So different and enjoying those differences so much.

 

India Gate

India, October 17th 2009 Morning

I don’t know which was worse: the traffic congestion on the streets of Delhi during the evening rush, or the rush of congestion that left me with three to four hours of sleep last night. The sheer adrenaline of travel is keeping me upright and cheerful however.

India Gate

Think of a simpler Arc de Triomphe – a giant white marble arch with INDIA GATE etched in large letters at the top. This is the first landmark I remember seeing in Delhi. It’s a war memorial commemorating 90,000 soldiers who fought for the British Empire in World War 1 and the Afghan wars. It is also the first place our large air-conditioned tour bus stopped to let us off for picture taking.

The monument was across the 4 lane street from us, in the middle of a grassy park. To get up close required a game of dodge the speeding Indian cars, running from one side to the center divider, and then running again to the sidewalk of the park. Stragglers faced death. Well, ok, not certain death, but no one dared to test the theory by walking slowly either.

Surrounding the monument were petite, dark, smiling men selling toys. Now, let me backtrack a little…

At UCLA, my Alma Mater, we had Bruin Walk: a path that lead from the dorm side of campus to the class side of campus. Lining and frequently blocking this path were people selling things, handing out coupons, advertisements, and manifestos, asking “excuse me, do you have a minute?” I hated this from the first second and vowed – yes, vowed – to never take a flyer. Ever. It requires discipline to not reach out and take something if it is thrust at you. This might seem silly, but training myself to ignore people who tried to pull my attention and sympathies was vital for India. Thank you LA, you have prepared me to fight off street vendors and beggars in third world countries.

Some of the other women on the trip were softer touches. It was not good. Here’s what happened:

We walked in a group to India Gate, taking pictures, being tourists. The toy salesmen (for lack of a better word – if anyone knows a better word for pesky street salesmen, please tell me because they’ll come up a lot in these posts) – anyways, the toy salesmen came at us like so many seagulls around a beach picnic. Middle aged tourists were their chapatis and ghee (read: bread and butter). Don’t make eye contact, utter quiet “no”s followed by louder, more assertive ones if necessary, they all know enough English to understand “no” and “how much,” though they only pay attention to the latter. They give up on me quickly, but as soon as one woman stops to look at their wares – and then buys a few small cheap plastic toys for the young children in her family, that’s when all the circling seagulls descend.

I’ll map the action in terms of distance from India Gate. Under the gate, the dozen men were displaying their toys, explaining how they worked, offering prices. Each man picked out a target and stuck to her. Twenty feet away from the gate, prices started fluctuating drastically. The women who bought toys under the gate suddenly found they paid three times as much as the current price. We thought the men would give up at the sidewalk of the street, but they braved the traffic to chase us all the way back to the bus, waving toys and tapping at the windows.

It’s one of those stories that you laugh at a few months after it happens, but in the moment, I was out of patience with my bewildered companions. “Ignore pretty much everyone” was ingrained in me from working in L.A. for two years—it’s the only thing you can do to protect yourself. But, treating people (even rude people) as if they don’t exist leaves me with a nasty feeling in the middle of my chest, like a piece of moldy bread is lodged under my sternum. It’s a necessary skill, but I wish it wasn’t.

Once in the bus, Beth and our guide for the day repeated their warnings not to interact with the street salesmen, this time to a group who paid rapt attention and affirmed the wisdom with nods of experience.

 I didn't get pictures of the men - they probably would have tried to charge me for them, but I did get these pictures of a family in the park and a woman employed in raking leaves.

Blogs delayed

The goal of daily posting has already gone by the wayside, and I fear it will continue in that wayward direction this month. I have a ton of writing to do - for pay - and that must take precedence over transcribing my travel journal. I will post as often as possible though, so keep checking back.

Meanwhile - I just found this quote today and I love it:

“Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated, often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind – and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be black-and-white.” – Mark Jenkins

The Story of Yule - a fairly factual account

We interrupt the regularly scheduled travel blogs to bring you my annual Christmas story:

Many centuries ago, in a faraway, densely wooded land with picturesque rivers, lakes and corpse-filled peat bogs, the happy Celts sang, danced and sacrificed animals to celebrate the return of the Sun in late December. They lit giant fires, hung decorations on trees, laid out presents for the gods and made their little part of Europe pleasant and gay so the Sun would return from its celestial holiday to warm the frozen ground.

One day, a boat appeared on the horizon. This had happened before, so the native Celts knew what to expect: rape, pillage, and attractive blonde and blue-eyed babies. But this boat was different, less decorated. There was no fierce wooden dragon leading the way on the prow. Perhaps the Vikings were going through a modern, minimalist period of boat design, they thought.

Instead of the strapping, muscular, Arian eye-candy that usually jumped off the boats into the icy surf, two men in plain brown woolen robes slogged up the shore. They carried no weapons, so the Celts generously decided not to skewer them on the spot.

As to what went through the minds of the two robed and soggy men, it went something like this: I’m freezing cold and wet for God. Doing this for God. Hope I don’t lose a toe to frostbite, it would be really hard to wear sandals then. HOLY SHIT there is an army of buck-naked men wearing gold jewelry staring us down. I am not gay, dear God I am not gay.

Vikings had come before, rival tribes had come before, but what the fuck were these two guys doing, thought the Celtic chief. They weren’t undressed for war. They had no weapons. They wouldn’t last long. But, it was almost Yule, and the chief was in a good mood brought on by mead and mildly hallucinogenic wheat mold. He was inclined to be generous.

So the Christian missionaries came and stayed.

It has been said that both guests and fish begin to stink after three days, and the missionaries stayed a lot longer than that. Every year they tried to talk the Celts out of their pagan festivities.

They looked upon the wintry festival of the Sun's rebirth and were appalled at the wild behavior of the pagan partiers. The missionaries glared at the scantily clad men and women leaping around fires and toiling on richly detailed stone and metal decorations. Every year when the party was just getting started, the leader of the Christian missionaries would approach the Celtic chief and ask "wouldn't you rather honor one God instead of a whole bunch?” And every year the answer was, “Have some mead and sit down.”

The missionaries tried changing their tactics, “It's economical! You could cut down on your sacrifices and parties and institute a proper work ethic in your people. All this frolicking is not only bad for your eternal soul, but your finances too." Now, partially since the chief was stoned on ceremonial herbs, and partially because he only understood about half of what the foreign guys were telling him, he gave the missionary the old "smile and nod.”

The missionaries weren’t fooled, this wasn’t working. Hoping to feel the humble pride that comes from saving sinners from damnation, the missionaries tirelessly explained about their forgiving merciful God who condemned non-believers to eternal fiery torture and sent his own son to die at the cruel hands of Romans to pay for Man's whoopsey-daisy in The Beginning. The Celts could respect a God who held a grudge, demanded human sacrifice, and got mad easier than a PMSing priestess, but preferred worshipping their own gods who were more amenable to partying. Besides, the Christians advocated Peace on Earth, and playing drums loud enough to make the dirt vibrate and the walls of neighboring huts pulse did not fit the Christian ideal.

One early morning while the tribe members gathered logs and twigs of sacred trees to build a sacred fire around which to throw one helluva holiday bash, the younger missionary had an idea.

To the senior missionary he said, "Hey, we have a Son who was reborn, and that sounds pretty close to the Sun being reborn. Let's just pull the old switcheroo and tell the Celts that they can celebrate Jesus - the Son - in the middle of winter, and then they'll just be zealous believers instead of sinful party animals.”

The senior missionary thought this over, did some math on his fingers and replied: "But Jesus was born a few months ago, we can't have them celebrate his birthday now in the middle of winter... or can we?" A gleam caught in his eye, and a crafty smile played on his bearded lips.

He approached the semi-sober leader of the Celts and said "You know, it just occurred to me that our Savior, a very cool cat who promoted feasting, drinking and blood sacrifices, was born on exactly the same day as your pagan festival-- we even call him The Sun!"

The young missionary stood looking confused, "Don't you mean Son?"
The old missionary removed his elbow from the young man's ribs and continued as smoothly as a used cart salesman. “How about your Sun and our Son getting together? Instead of just worshipping the light ball in the sky, you can worship our guy and get an eternity of heaven in the bargain. There are lots of great parties in heaven." He winked at the younger missionary.

The leader of the Celts thoughtfully twirled the end of his long beard, picking out bits of the previous night's dinner at regular intervals. "Yes, well, that sounds all right. Can we still drink?"

"Oh yes, Jesus LOVED drinking. Did you know he made water into wine? And his last supper was quite the fete. He had all his pals over and they ate, drank, and toyed with the idea of cannibalism."

"Can we still sacrifice?'

"Hey, Jesus was a sacrifice, so we think he'd be for it."

"Can we still have the big tall tree with all the decorations and presents and have the young people make out under the mistletoe?"

"Uh... um... we don't think so,” the young missionary said, uncertainly. He was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable with the whole idea.

"Oh, well then... I think I'll have so say noo..." Said the chief.

"But wait!“ the senior missionary exclaimed, “Jesus liked giving, didn't he? So we can keep those in, and er, he'll probably be ok with it." The cold sweat settled on the missionaries’ faces as they silently prayed that God wouldn't mind trees, decorations and presents too much.

And thus was "Christmas" born and has continued throughout the centuries under very shady and dishonest circumstances.

So Happy Yule to all and to all a Good Night!

Diwali in Delhi

We went to a Diwali party tonight that was set up for us by Beth’s contact in India, Sumitra. Sumitra runs Women on Wanderlust, a travel company specializing in women only tours around India and the world. Beth says a company like this couldn’t have existed in India ten years ago and it is proof of India’s progress. There is a rising middle class now in which wives and daughters have the money, leisure, and freedom to travel.

The Diwali party was held in the large front garden of an elegant white colonial building. There were clay oil lamps on the ground and white lights strung on every vertical surface. Large white pads – like California King sized futons – were on the ground to sit on once shoes were removed. Men in white kurtas carried silver trays with toothpicks and small bites of deliciously spiced chicken, fish, cheese, potatoes, broccoli and cauliflower. Undoubtedly the best hors d’oeuvres I’ve ever had. There was an open bar, so I decided to investigate Indian red wine. The other ladies liked it, but…happy grapes come from California.

A holy man performed a very long blessing ritual with incense, fire and marigold petals he threw in by the fistful. Then he tied red string around our wrists – the way this was explained to me is that the holy man blesses the string and the wearer makes a wish on it. Only when the wish comes true can the wearer remove the string. I could, however, be completely mistaken, so if there are any experts out there…I don’t want to hear it. I wished for good health for the trip, which failed utterly. That may have been due to user error.

On Diwali, gambling in honor of Lakshimi, the goddess of good fortune, ensures good luck and prosperity for the following year. Sumitra invited some teachers to help us learn an Indian card game called “Flash,” which is like poker with only 3 cards per hand. So there we were, a dozen women sitting on giant futons playing 3-card poker with highly entertained (and patient) teachers, using matchsticks for bets. I ran out of matchsticks embarrassingly fast. Give me Texas Hold’em any day. So there you have it – I went to India to drink and gamble.

Fireworks are a huge part of Diwali, and the young men at this party were quite literally having a blast. One would sink a firecracker into the lawn, run to get a lit match, run back to the firecracker, light the fuse and LEAP backwards to avoid getting hit by the explosion. Some of the guys handed out sparklers to the ladies. Others created a mine field of firecrackers at the gate to the yard and around the driveway, setting them off in such rapid succession that it sounded like machine gun fire. It doesn’t matter where in the world you are, boys will be fire hazards.

I sat down at a table on the lawn with Melany and the Australian woman and listened to their conversation on being happily single. The Australian woman, in her 60s and absolutely stunning with 9 grandchildren, has multiple boyfriends at any given time. She goes out to dances and political balls regularly and has to beat men off with a stick. “They all want to get married!” she complains. She never wants to be married again, loves her autonomy, and says “I’m the king!” Melany has a similar opinion: men are fun as long as you can send them back home when you’re sick of them. They both agree that they no longer have the patience to compromise or to be anything other than blunt. I can just picture these pitiful 60 year old men trailing after them like puppies, whining “but why wouldn’t you want to get married?” Because it’s too much damned work, and these gals have been there and done that. Melany and the Australian laughingly apologize for sharing this wisdom with an innocent 25 year old, but I explain that as a child of divorce, I can understand how a dog and a gardener can easily take the place of a husband. Even a dog is too much work for the Australian, she likes her freedom. But Melany agrees – she has a dog. I’m certainly getting different perspectives on dating on this trip. And none of it is very complimentary to men.

Don’t worry, I still like men. But then, I’m 25 and don’t know any better.

The Eve of Diwali

October 16th

It’s the night before Diwali and I can hear fireworks popping outside the window of my room at the fancy Park hotel in Connaught Circle. My roommate, Melany, and I met the rest of the group today – all very nice women, mostly in their 50s and 60s. Most work in or own successful businesses, many are single or divorced.

When I was telling friends in Oxford about my tour with women our mothers’ age, the general reaction was a good humored “that’ll be a story in itself!” But, as an only child raised in a primarily adult environment, it feels perfectly normal to me. And being among so many independent adventurous women is kind of empowering.

Earlier today we went to Humayun’s tomb – which was beautiful and exotic, exactly as you’d expect. A little history: it was built out of red sandstone in 1532 by a Mughal emperor’s wife (Mughal = Persian conqueror), and is the first “garden tomb” in India.

Then we went to a shrine: a labyrinth of marble-floored narrow alleyways. Beggars and sleeping children lined the walls. The little boys were quite cheeky. They greeted us with a chorus of cheerful “Hello!”s. When one of the women took out her camera, the nearest boy posed, arms outstretched with a giant grin. Cuteness like that well deserved a few rupees, but knowing that many of them are under the control of slum gangs, I was hesitant to interact with, much less finance them. Indians are strikingly beautiful people. Even the beggar women with their skinny babies are beautiful with delicate bone structure and large dark eyes. In India, more so than in any other place I’ve been, the best pictures are of people. Just take pictures of the people and you’ll come out with photographs worthy of National Geographic.

Before entering the shrine we had to take off our sandals and leave them at the entrance. Walking barefoot on hard floors dotted and smeared with wet excrement and stepping in it on the way to a sacred site is almost a microcosm of India as a whole. It’s a place of extremes.



I think I’ve come to India remarkably well prepared. I came with few expectations: I expected inconvenience and discomfort; I expected pushy salesmen; I expected beggars with infants pulling at me; I expected to get ripped off, regularly. If it takes an hour for the hotel clerks to check me in – it’s India. If we get the wrong kind of room every single check-in – it’s India. If it takes another hour just to pay for a purchase and another 30 minutes to get change (if you can get any at all) – it’s India. I say all of this because a few of the women on the trip haven’t quite attained the level of Zen required for this country. Though there are a number who are utterly uncomplaining – bless them. I figure, just accept that nothing is logical, nothing makes sense, and everything takes far longer than it should. Then enjoy the good parts.

Whenever I travel somewhere really cool or beautiful, I always think “I wish my boyfriend was here to see this.” But not in India. He would hate India. First, because walking around barefoot in shit would freak him out on a phobic level, but mostly because he would have no control here, over anything. You have to go with the flow or exist in a constant state of angst and irritation. My boyfriend is very logical and very stubborn. He has fixed notions on how things should be. You can’t do that here. You can’t bring those expectations here. You can’t come in thinking that if they made you King of India for a day, that you could sort the place out in a jiffy – and yet, as an American, or as a Westerner, it is so tempting to think just that.

India

October 15th

I am learning an entirely new philosophy of driving. Lines on the road are mere suggestions and vehicles often drive right down the middle of them (though not straight down the middle, no one drives straight). Changing lanes is more like swerving to avoid hitting motorcycles. There are a lot of motorcycles, and what cracks me up is the women riding side-saddle on the back of them in their beautiful sparkling saris, completely relaxed and unconcerned that they’ve almost been rear ended five times within the last five minutes. Saris on the backs of motorbikes, fluttering in the wind. Amazing.

My taxi driver picked me up from the arrivals gate and ushered me past the taxi wallahs waiting outside so fast that I didn’t have time to find an ATM, not that I saw one. So I arrived at the Grand Godwin Hotel in Delhi with a $1 bill and a $5 bill in my pocket, U.S. currency. I gave the taxi driver the dollar (U.S. money is often accepted here) and checked in. My roommate had not arrived yet even though she was supposed to be here yesterday. At least she was able to arrange my pickup at the airport.

In a flash, one of the bell boys, or coolies, grabbed my bag and I followed him up to the room. The only money I had on me then was the $5 bill, which was way too much, and a 10 rupee note given to me for luck by a well traveled friend before I left. Thanks Dr. Jensen! It was definitely lucky I had that 10 rupees to give the bell boy; tips are serious business here.

I explored the bathroom, thanking God for a western style toilet. But the shower was baffling. There were a few plastic buckets under a faucet, above that was a shower head, and there was a drain in the floor. No shower stall, bathtub or even ridge to keep the water from flooding the place. There was a half-hearted attempt at a shower curtain. So even though I had been dreaming about a steamy hot shower to sooth my aching and very sick body, I couldn't bring myself to royally mess up the bathroom before my roommate got here. I could just imagine her stepping into a flood while trying to use the toilet.

My water bottle, last filled at Heathrow, had a couple mouthfuls of water left. I took a rationed gulp and crawled under the covers of the Queen sized bed. The air conditioner was on full blast and I was shivering. Throughout the week of freezing cold nights in Oxford, I dreamt of 90+ degrees India. And here I was freezing again. Sigh.

When I woke up, I drank the rest of the water and quickly realized that I would become more sick very quickly if I wasn't hydrated. After an hour of praying to the Gods that the American voices I heard in the hallway belonged to my roommate, I gave up hope of rescue. I just wanted to hole up in the safe little room – but I needed water. So I went to the lobby and spent fifteen minutes misunderstanding the concierge in every possible linguistic way. All I wanted was water. I didn't want it brought to me because then I would probably have to tip and I had no money. I explained my problem to the concierge and he told me to wait on the couch and someone would take me to the ATM since it was a busy and dangerous time of night.

A kindly young Indian man, clearly used to reassuring freaked out, lost, uncomprehending and incomprehensible tourists, took me across the street – holding his arm out more than once to prevent me from getting run over – and haggled with two rickshaw drivers. Yes, rickshaws. Bicycle rickshaws specifically. It turned out that the ATM was a long walk under good traffic conditions, but at this time of night a rickshaw was our only chance of survival.

Traveling in that rickshaw for 2 blocks was the most frightening experience I have ever had in my life. Never have I felt honestly afraid for my physical body. Never before has death seemed a real possibility. Most of the light on the street came from the 4 stories tall neon hotel signs on almost every building. Vehicles darted in and out, dodging other rickshaws, taxis, small motorized rickshaws and bicyclists. The ATM was literally a small hole in the wall. My guide from the hotel pushed our way in and guarded me while I fumbled with my card and punched in my numbers. I took out enough money to pay for my hotel room in cash, which turned out to be very wise since cash was all the hotel accepted.

My roommate called me late that night. Her plane was delayed in Chicago, and she was getting her own room in the hotel. We met for breakfast the next morning on the rooftop of the Grand Godwin and shared a cab to the next hotel, the one from which our tour would start.

Flying over Pakistan

October 15th

It’s 4am England time and I am flying over the surface of the moon – or insert strange barren planet – also known as Pakistan. I see sand, rock, and hard packed ground that may have had water there once. That last sentence makes me think about how NASA bombed the moon to see if there was any ice locked beneath the rock.

Now, layers of mountain ranges that go on forever emerge from mist. I think I can make out a town because there are little house-shaped mounds forming a square. But it might just as easily be the result of erosion. Now I see the patchwork of agriculture, except everything is still brown. There is one ridge that looks like a giant iguana lying flat out in the sun. The cracks in the earth make shapes like barren tree branches, and there are long curving ridges that stretch to the horizon. The last few are sand dunes that give way to a great flat expanse patterned like alligator hide.

Forgive me for using a thousand words instead of a picture. My camera is in my bag at my feet, which I can’t get to since the seat tray is down, and the flight attendants take an hour to clear away food. Today’s fare is airline food at its worst: a gherkin, cheese, tomato and cucumber sandwich. It tastes vaguely like tuna fish. I eat half anyway (I really will eat just about anything). The dinner, served last night from 11 to 12am, as if that makes any sense, was a delicious curry, rice and lentil dish that made my throat and now persistent cough feel much better.

The TV screen in front of me doesn’t work. But, despite my Indian friend’s predictions of doom-by-Air India, the plane ride still isn’t a bad deal for the price. Then again, I still don’t know whether or not they’ve lost my luggage.

It occurs to me, as I look out the window, that if humans can survive in this landscape, colonizing other planets really shouldn’t be a problem.