Moving!

I may have lost anyone that was paying attention to this blog but for anyone out there who's still reading this from time to time, I'm moving the blog to a new address: http://web.me.com/yurika47/Dustonmysoles

My intention is to keep up more often with the posts as the new site allows for easier posting.

Thanks!

Belated Beijing

This was an entry I wrote back in mid-August. I tried posting it during my trip but Blogger is blocked in China. So this has been sitting in my inbox for the last 5 months....

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Sorry for the lapse in entries. I blame it on a combination of being
too busy and about 10 scoops of procrastination (rooting through
photos and prepping them for web use takes a surprisingly long time).
Regardless, here I am. For now I'm going to skip the remaining India
stories and any anything else in between. At this point, I figure I
can always come back to them and anyway, it's my blog isn't it? (Which
also means I'm free to make excuses for myself LOL)

On to the real entry:

So here I am in Beijing, China. My mom was invited/decided to come for
a visit so I decided to tag along. Due to varying plane schedules she
won't arrive until tomorrow night but I arrived today after a long and
semi-painful trip that consisted of a personal delay at the Doha
airport; rushing to catch my plane; a seriously stinky ride to China
(not sure if it was the airline food or what but the people around
me.... phew); the longest and slowest customs process I've even
experienced (granted it included a run through the quarantine and
health check so maybe it'd be a little faster otherwise); getting to
the currency exchange to find out that they won't exchange Riyals I
brought along; finally catching a cab to the hotel, dozing off, and
getting jarred awake by a fender bender. If only I could understand
Chinese... I bet the driver let a few gems rip when he rear-ended that
other cab.

All in all it wasn't too bad of a trip though. Traveling is always a
bit discombobulating so I was expecting it to a degree... it's just
amusing that it always makes for a story.

Once in my hotel I was exhausted and pushing about 24 hours without
sleep I realized I needed to grab dinner otherwise I'd wake up in the
middle of the night starving. Turns out I woke up anyway because the
a/c turned off and my neighbors were celebrating the end of a good
night out in the hallway. But I digress... so I wandered out into the
late Beijing afternoon to find a place to eat and walked into the
first busy restaurant I saw, opened up the menu and it was all in
Chinese (no translation). The waitress loudly informed me (not sure
why it came out so loud) that she "don't speak English." So I tried to
gesture to get her to just pick a dish for me. When that didn't work,
I flapped my arms like a chicken to try to explain that I'd eat
chicken. When that didn't work, I pointed at a picture and just
succumbed to luck that I had picked a dish with chicken meat rather
than offal. When it arrived, it still looked like chicken but I have
to admit I'm really not sure if it was. It had a fishy, scallop kind
of texture but the flavor wasn't really fishy and there was a spice in
it that kept making my tongue numb. But it tasted pretty good, the
texture was somewhat familiar, and I was hungry. On my way back to the
hotel I veered the long way and was sidetracked by a man selling his
and his students' paintings. He turned out to be a pretty convincing
salesman because I wound up walking out of the gallery with two
paintings. "You don't need to check with your husband, he'd be happy
with whatever you want." "Here, I write your name in Chinese as gift,"
and he proceed to write two beautiful Chinese characters. He gave me
this whole spiel about what each character represented and then its
deeper meaning but he could've written "American Sucker" and I
wouldn't have had a clue otherwise. In fact, I wonder if he's ever
done that to an annoying tourist.

Tomorrow I visit Tianamen Square and the Forbidden City, that is, if I
can manage to fall back asleep. Ciao for now.

Off to the races

So I know I dropped the ball on the India pics and I promise that my next post will continue with India but I have to intervene for now with pics from the other weekend.

It was my first experience with camel racing... and quite a memorable one. 

These are trainers and owners setting up before the race.

Everyone waiting for the races to start. There were eight races in total so only a dozen or so camels raced at a time. 

On the way to the starting line. The little figure on the back of the camel is the robot jockey. As recently as 2004 children were actually used as jockeys but this has since been outlawed as using children as jockeys is recognized as a form of child abuse. Still, it's sad that it took so long for such a change.

More on their way towards the starting line. If you look closely you can see markings on their sides near the arm pit. It was hard to tell if these were markings by the owners (like a brand) or wear from the whips.

Close up of the robot jockeys.

Lining up at the starting gate.

This is a view from the other side of the gate. The handlers stand in front of the net, holding the camels' reins. When the race starts, the net lifts, the camels come rushing out, and the handlers have to scramble to get out of the way of legs and hooves.

... And they're off!

It was pretty common to see the handlers' sandals flying up behind them as they tried to get out of the way.

I would've been terrified.

Luckily we didn't see anyone get hurt although I was told that it wasn't uncommon for people to get trampled. Supposedly getting trampled by a camel isn't a dangerous as a horse but either way, I wouldn't want it to happen. 

Sometime around the 4th or 5th race, I was able to climb up on the camera van and ride along side the camels. 

The trucks in the background are actually the owners. They are using remotes to control the jockeys and some of the camels have ear pieces so they can hear their owner.

Aside from the remote controlled robot and the ear piece, there was also a lot of yelling and slapping the side of trucks.

This camel is running so hard his bottom lip is flapping in the wind.

They have such an awkward stride but they look so determined. During shorter races spectators can actually ride their own cars alongside the race. 

 

Nearing the end. You can see all the owners riding alongside their camels, trying to get them to go go go.

The winner (at least of this race)

I hope he gets a bath to clean off all that foam.

A herd of young racing camels. I think these are too young to race but they are probably being trained. Notice the matching outfits (on the camels of course)?

It wasn't that dusty, and it didn't really smell that bad, yet both camel and trainer were masked. 

He kept waving and telling me to take more pictures so I thought I'd oblige with his photo in my blog. 

All in all, it was an intense experience, one I planning on doing again. The winners do receive monetary prizes but it seems that the reward is more about the race than the prize. 

Mumbai on the Move

Our second day in Mumbai we headed to Victoria Terminus to buy train tickets to Aurangabad. At the train station we met a man who insisted that it would be faster and easier if we bought tickets from his friend’s travel agency just down the street. We followed him through an alley to a big street on the other side of the station but rather than taking us into the large corporate run travel agency on the corner, he took us next door. It was a small hallway with a desk, computer, and printer. We had to squeeze ourselves against the wall or desk whenever someone walked by. As we decided on the tickets to get, the man who brought us there introduced himself.

“Many tourists come here and I show them all the wonderful sights and then they tell me, ‘Mr. Bali we had a wonderful time’ and it makes me very happy. Because when these people are happy, it makes me happy here” he clapped his hands over his heart. “And if they show me how happy they are with money, then it makes me even more happy, because if there is no happiness here, then there is no happiness in the world,” he said, all the while, patting his hands over his heart. “So if you like, I will take you around Mumbai and you will say at the end ‘Mr. Bali, thank you for showing us all the wonderful sights of Mumbai, we had a wonderful time.”

Needless to say we took him up on his offer, with an introduction like that we couldn’t pass it up.

On our way past the front of VT we passed a "pigeon restaurant," which is exactly what it sounds like: a fenced in area where pigeons feed.

We also passed a man cleaning a woman's ears right on the sidewalk.

Victoria Terminus aka Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus

Past VT, Mr. Bali stopped to show us carts and bicycles full of lunch
pails.

He explained that the people who drove these carts and bicycles picked up the lunch pails from office workers homes and then delivered them to their owners at work. They are called "dabbawalla," he said. "They are dabbawalla because they deliver the lunches. I am a taxiwalla because I drive a taxi and you are a touristwalla."

On our way to Malabar Hill we drove past a number of these ox carts. Some carts were full of ice that was being delivered to many of the food stalls around Mumbai. According to Mr. Bali, the ice was coated with a chemical that prevented it from melting too quickly.

After passing Chowpatty Beach, we found ourselves at a Jain temple in Malabar hill. It was an extravagantly adorned marble temple with hand-painted sculptures everywhere.

This man was washing laundry at the temple with handmade soap. After swirling the cloth in the buckets of soapy water and clean water, he'd twist them up and pile them on the the railing next to him. I love how neatly they're laid, they looked like skeins of yarn.

From the temple Mr. Bali took us to the Hanging Gardens, a park at the top of Malabar Hill where "all the rich people go for their morning walks."

Before we walked into the Gardens, he asked us if we would like some tasty veg food and pointed to a food vendor. Hesitantly we agreed, worried about not being able to handle it but curious because India is known for it's tasty street food. As it turned out it was some of the best food we had in India. We tried ordering the same dish at a number of other restaurants throughout our stay but none of them tasted anywhere near as good as the masala dosa at the one street vendor. Masala dosa is a crepe made with lentil and rice flour and stuffed with spiced potatoes and onions. Simple but downright delicious!

The Gardens were a large park with various flowers, trees, and animal-shaped bushes.

"On Sunday mornings you come here and there are many people all getting together and laughing. Like this," he let out a large, hearty, "HAH HAH HAH." "My father comes here every Sunday to laugh because it is good for health."

The entire park sits on top of Bombay's main reservoir not far from the Zoroastrian Tower of Silence. The Tower is closed to non-Parsis but it is essentially a building where corpses are brought to be eaten by vultures and decomposed in the sun as a form of cleansing.

We then went to Mahatma Ghandi's home. It was a large but fairly unassuming building that has since been converted into a museum.

Our final stop on Mr. Bali's tour was to a dhobi ghat, a sprawling outdoor area where laundry from restaurants, hotels, and families from all over Mumbai is washed, dried, and ironed.

Nearing the end of our tour and Mr. Bali's day, he took us to his father. Mr. Bali drives the taxi during the day and his father drives it at night. My understanding is that this is pretty common and most taxi's are shared. Mr. Bali's father, Mr. Bali took us back to our hotel, although the trip took several hours between stopping at an upscale shopping mall and a tailor (one of Mr. Bali Senior's friends) and getting stuck in the horrendous rush hour traffic of Mumbai. All in all it was a fantastic tour and we ended our day, exhausted and utterly happy here [pats heart].

Mumbai

We arrived at about 5am on Friday morning, exhausted even though the flight was only 4 hours. After shuffling our way through customs and baggage claim we were herded outside where at least a hundred or more people were waiting for passengers. Some were there for family or friends but most were taxi drivers looking for a fare or waiting for a prearranged pick up, like ours. We searched out the crowd and found the half-awake driver holding up our names on a placard and silently made our way to the van. It was a wonky little van. It reminded me of the old VW buses but much more narrow. It rattled and shook as we drove along, running stoplights and winding through narrow streets, honking at any car, man, or beast that lay ahead. My husband and I quietly admired the early morning sights, the foreignness of shrines along the road, cows hunkered down in sleep on the median, men shaving or taking care of other morning business in the gutter of the street. We would motion to one another as these sights went by, whispering our amazement as though breaking the silence might disturb the already precarious driver who was trying to get us to point B. “It’s so green.” “It’s so dirty.”

After a short nap at the hotel we were on our way to explore the great city of Mumbai. We walked a few blocks down from the hotel and found Leopold Café, one of the sights of the recent terrorist attack. The window where the bullets had come through was boarded up and for the most part it was hard to tell that only a week ago this cafe had been a part of one of the deadliest attacks in India. The people seemed relaxed and at ease, even though there were police officers camped out right in front. We noshed on small plates of chicken curry and a vegetarian sandwich with potatoes and spices and gulped everything down with mango lassis.

Leopold Cafe

We continued our walk down Colaba Causeway dodging street vendors until we reached Apollo Bunder and the Gateway of India. The area right in front of the Gateway and the Taj Hotel were still roped off but it didn’t seem to deter the crowd of people from enjoying the sights off the harbor, watching the ferries to Elephanta Island, or trying to hawk postcards, personalized tourist photos and other souvenirs.

At the tip of Apollo Bunder

Hundreds of crows sat along the waterfront and wandered all over the city.

Docks and ferries to Elephanta Island.

The Taj Hotel

The Gateway of India

Giant trees like this were everywhere, the vines draped over everyone and everything.

People lighting candles in front of the Taj.

Mumbai is definitely a unique city. While, I still have much traveling to do, I’ve never even come close to experiencing anything like it. Lonely Planet describes Mumbai as such:

"Measure out: one part Hollywood; six parts traffic; a bunch of rich power-moguls; stir in half a dozen colonial relics (use big ones); pour in six heaped cups of poverty; add a smattering of swish bars and restaurants (don’t skimp on quality here for best results); equal parts of mayhem and order; as many ancient bazaars as you have lying around; a handful of Hinduism; a dash of Islam; fold in your mixture with equal parts India; throw it all in a blender on high (adding generous helpings of pollution to taste) and presto: Mumbai."

And it’s true. Anything you’re looking for, anything you’d want to experience, you can find it in Mumbai.

Most shocking for my husband and I, however, was the poverty. We’d never seen poverty like the poverty in India. Those who could manage homes, lived in shantytowns made of corrugated metal, scraps of cloth or whatever else could be found for the structure. These areas were usually rampant with garbage and animals. The poorest of the poor were even worse off; they slept on the sidewalk under the awnings of closed storefronts, entire families sprawled out as though it was one giant bed they shared that you had to step over. During the day, you couldn’t escape the beggars. Tourists were singled out and nothing we did could deter them, especially the children, they were unrelenting. The adults would turn away after a few gentle no’s but the children clung to you as though you were their only hope for food.

During one cab ride a little girl, no more than six or seven approached my window and held out a cup with one hand and gestured to her mouth with the other. It was a long traffic stop and we must’ve stayed there for at least 10 minutes during which she persisted the entire time. I noticed she had tears in her eyes but realized that she seemed to be trying to force them out especially when she wiped her cheek on the car window so that I could see the tears. Those 10 minutes had felt like hours, the sadness for this little girl and other like her still sits deep in my stomach. I didn’t give the girl any money and I’m still wrestling with that fact but there was a reason to my actions. In India, as all over the world, children are exploited as beggars. They work for an adult or small group of adults who teach these children how to look sad or needy and force them to beg. The way the girl persisted and tried to display her sadness on the car window made me think that someone had taught this girl how to beg. Someone had showed her how to cry and look as pitiful and helpless as she did, someone had showed her how to manipulate the emotions of others and this angered me. My anger wasn’t directed towards the girl but to whoever had put her out there, whoever was watching her and planning on taking her earnings at the end of the day only to give her a scrap, to whoever could take advantage of a child. I didn’t give her money because I don’t want to encourage those who take advantage of children like her but the image of her standing at my window with tears in her eyes will probably haunt me forever.