Udaipur

The bus you will take to Udaipur will be a sleeper. There will be beds above the seats – so you can sleep during the seven hour ride. There will be one slight problem, however - the bus driver will be insane – more so than other drivers. If a truck is moving too slowly, he will drive into oncoming traffic to pass it. But the topper will be the horn he uses to signal. It won’t be a regular “beep” oh, no, no, no. It will be horrible – so, so loud – ear piercing. The only way to describe it is to give a sample. Here’s the sound he will make every time he catches up to, and passes, another vehicle (which will be about once a minute – during the seven hour drive):




Udaipur’s legendary Lake Palace won’t be all it’s supposedly cracked up to be. Udaipur won’t have gotten much rain this season. The palace, which has been described as being “plucked out of a fairy tale”, will find itself unceremoniously dropped into a giant mud hole. It will be less than awe-inspiring. But, the City Palace, the Maharajah’s car collection, and the Monsoon Palace will be cool.










After seeing these things. Leave Udaipur on a plane to Delhi. From there, make the journey home. You will return with more than enough souvenirs, including one for yourself – a parasite. So, it wasn’t the food after all…

Jodpur

May I interest you in the beautiful Jodpur-blue?

Here, in Jodpur, you will stay at an awesome western style hotel with a pool, all you can eat dinners, and a magician (where did those other pigeons come from?).

There will be some amazing forts and palaces – probably the coolest you will see:











There may be another textile debacle…

One minute, you’re on your way back to your hotel, and the driver decides to take a little detour to the local craft emporium. The next minute, you’re walking out of a store carrying a sack of textiles just having heard some story about Bill Murray and Richard Gere.

And the award for the fasted acquisition of unnecessary textiles goes to… Seth.

According to local legend, it was here that Mahatma Gandhi renounced his worldly possessions – after being fleeced by a local textile merchant. There is a statue at the edge of town commemorating this event.

Pushkar

There are no buses that go directly from Jaipur to Pushkar. You will have to transfer at a bus station a half hour from Pushkar. Here you will encounter the real worst bus. Here is a picture.


What you can’t see are the flesh-eating gnats that will nibble at your ankles during the bus ride. Bug spray recommended.

When you get off the bus (is this even Pushkar?) you will have no idea where you are. You will wander through Pushkar’s labyrinth alleys asking people “Where’s Pushkar Palace?” This is what Indian people will think when you ask this: “You are rich. How can I separate you from the rupees you must be carrying?”

Pushkar is a holy city. Which means that in order to enjoy its famous “1000 temples, and 52 ghats” you will be constantly removing your shoes. Wear sandals.



At any of Pushkar’s famous ghats (holy steps leading into the lake) you will find men who will give you flowers. If you take them into your hand, he will sit you on a step near the water and make you recite some mumbo jumbo prayer – after which you will throw the flowers into the lake, and receive a “holy” maroon and yellow string bracelet on your wrist and a bindi on your forehead. The whole thing is very half-assed ceremony, and at the end of it, you will be cornered into giving money for charity (which, of course, may or may not be at all legitimate).



As clever as you may consider yourself, you will be tricked into doing this twice.
The 1st time: a guy will come up to you with the flowers and tell you it’s a holy thing. This being your first encounter with Pushkar, you indulge him. But, after being rankled for “charity” you vow not to fall for it again.

The 2nd time is a bit more involved: First, you will go to the famous Brahmin temple (one of the few in the world). When you enter the temple, a guy will give you flowers. He will tell you to leave half of them in the temple, and deposit the rest into the river. (Meanwhile, in the temple, you will be terrified of being stung by one of several thousand bees – that gather around all the flowers that are left there…) At the river, a guy will spot you with half a handful of flowers, looking out of sorts. He will approach you, and tell you (very politely) what to do with the flowers. As he gives you the instructions, you slowly realize what’s happening, as this ritual reveals itself to be exactly the same as the first one – complete with a request for money at the end (and so much more money than the first one…).


[One of only about 5 Brahmin temples in the world, where swarms of bees await you and the flowers you will be carrying.]

On the way back to the hotel that afternoon, you will get caught in a monsoon. The dirt-paved streets will quickly turn into muddy rivers. Of course, having worn sandals that day, you will get a small cut on your foot. Having already had one bad experience with the combination of cut-feet and muddy, feces infused water, you will quickly clean and spray the wound with an antibacterial agent (which just happens to be hand-sanitizer). Get made fun of for this.

It turns out that the “holy” maroon and yellow string bracelets that you will receive during these rituals are actually the “mark of the sucker” – so autorickshaw drivers will know to further over-inflate their prices – as if being white in this country wasn’t bad enough.


Pushkar: bindis washed off per day: 3

Jaipur

That night, when you arrive in town, you will be swarmed by rickshaw drivers. They will get right in your face to hassle you – all at once. Each of them knows a “good” hotel he can take you to. Some are even courteous enough to ask you where you want to go. If you go with one of these people, they will not take you there. Instead, you will go to the place paying them commission. Welcome to Jaipur, the City of Victory.

You go to the taxi stand to get a sanctioned driver. He agrees to take you to your destination, although he leaves the option open (if you want it) to go to a “better place” he knows of. Also (if you want), he knows a place you can go if you “like women” and another if you “like men”. You respectfully decline.

The driver finds his way to the Laharu House (though he will needs you to call the place and get directions…) which is a beautiful old mansion that is ostensibly owned by royalty.

On the first day there, you inexplicably purchase the services of a bike rickshawman – who speaks no English – despite the abundance of auto rickshawmen – who do speak English. You will have to pull a kid off the street to use as a translator. The rickshaw ride will be humiliating. You will never feel so embarrassed in your entire life. Until – it starts to downpour – and the poor old man struggling to pedal you to your destination gets completely and utterly soaked.



The palaces that are the highlights of Jaipur will be crumbling and under construction – little care is taken to maintain historic sites here.



During your day’s travels, you will be introduced to an autorickshaw driver named Shiek. He offers to take you around town – for a flat fee to be determined later. You agree to go with him because he is extremely friendly and speaks great English. He even knows some Japanese – “ittai!” – gross…

Of the sites Shiek drives you to, the Sun Temple (aka the Monkey Temple) will be the most interesting. He will drop you off at the bottom of the hill, and leave you to make your own way up to the temple. On the way up, you will meet a young local – a fifteen-year-old kid who will follow you around during your visit to the temple. He will be interested to hear about America and Japan, but he will be even keener to talk about WWE Wrestling. Of particular interest will be a giant, seven-foot Indian man called “The Great Khali”. Having not watched wrestling in twelve years, you will not have heard of this man. Bret Hart? Anyone? No? Ok, I thought so…

The curator of the temple will be cool. You will hang out with him for a while before descending the hill and returning to the rickshaw. As on the way up, the kid will follow you back down the hill. When you say goodbye to him, the kid will ask you for a tip. A tip? For what? Hanging out? Talking about wrestling? Yes. Apparently every interaction with an Indian person is assumed to end with a monetary transaction.

[Monkeys casually dismantle a motorcycle parked near the monkey temple.]


After the temple, Shiek will take you to a local fabric shop. Jaipur (like all Rajasthani cities, you will come to learn) is apparently famous for its temples and shopping. Oh boy…

In the fabric shop, you will be led upstairs, given chai, and sat down on a couch. One you are seated comfortably, one of the salesman will begin his spiel. He will grab a throw from the shelf, toss it to his assistant, and dramatically unfurl each one – so that it gently grazed your lap before floating to the floor by your feet. Feel free to examine the fabrics. Many can be made into duvet covers in “five minutes”. “Shiek is certainly the man to know, if his friends are treated in such a manner,” you will think, until, moments later, you hear the exact same spiel from another salesman when a different group of white people are escorted in.

[In the textile den, hapless white people meet with a practiced demonstration designed to create desire for duvet covers they have no need for.]


Throws will only hold your interest for so long. What use have you for these things? But, oh… It seems they tailor suits here… You will be intrigued. After a fierce negotiation, you will be fitted for a suit. “It will be done tomorrow,” you will be told. Tomorrow? Is that all the time it takes? Suspicion will begin to creep in – this is going to be a big mistake…

The next day: The suit will not fit correctly. The tailor will be incompetent. He will take it to the back room and come back a minute later. What could he have possibly done in a single minute? Nothing. That’s what. After three BS “attempts” to fix the problem, the boss of the shop will, finally, admit there is, in fact, a problem with the suit. He will tell the tailor to seriously fix it. This will only take a half-hour, you will be told. Time apparently moves more slowly in India, because an Indian half-hour turns out to roughly equal a western two hours. You will wait around scratching your asses and making awkward small talk. When the tailor finally returns, you will put on the suit, and immediately realize that there has been no change to it – nothing. Everyone will laugh – even the boss and the tailor (with a “you got me!” look on his face). You will get an additional discount, but leave pissed.

At the bus depot: the air-conditioned bus to Pushkar doesn’t leave for two hours, but having been set back by the tailor, you decide to take the non AC one, which is starting to drive away. Chase it down. On the bus, the seats are still damp from the afternoon’s rain (because of the lack of ventilation, the windows must be opened at all times – rain or shine). Good thing there’s a breeze. As you go to sit down, you will realize that your seat’s broken. Looks like you’ll be reclining the whole trip. Your friend remarks that this is the “worst bus [he’s] ever been on.” He hasn’t seen anything yet.

India

On the way back from Japan, you might as well stop by India. What the hell else do you have to do?

You arrive in Delhi where you meet Mr. Zakheim. He’ll be your guide for the trip. From there you will go to Jaipur, Pushkar, Jodpur, Udaipur, and then back to Delhi. But first, some general points about India.

India is in a constant state of disrepair. Everything is crumbling. The roads are unpaved or unfinished, the buildings are falling apart, the historic sites are perpetually being “worked on”, and the sewers are… less than unobstructed.



Roads – They are congested. There are auto-rickshaws (tuk-tuks) everywhere. Sometimes you see cars. Everyone else rides a motorcycle – sometimes four at once. The tuk-tuks only comfortably fit one driver and two passengers, yet you somehow see ten people piled into and hanging off of them. Despite the considerable amount of human cargo, everyone drives like dangerous mental patients. Traffic rules do not exist. Lines are a suggestion no ones heeds. The motorcycles and rickshaws all jockey for position in between the cars. Basic maneuvers usually taken for granted, like turning and stopping, turn perilous when driving in India. Pull up to a red light on a “two lane” road, and by the time the light turns green, it’ll be at least a six-man race. By some miracle, you will not be killed going from place to place. As a travel agent once described it, “everything falls into place.”

On the road, the only way people signal to each other is by honking their horns. Passing a pedestrian? Honk the horn. Coming up on another rickshaw? Honk the horn. About to turn? Honk the horn. The sound loses all meaning when it’s constantly coming at you from every direction simultaneously.

Rubble – on every block there is at least one pile of rubble. Where does it come from? There is no way to know. Sometimes it’s gravel. Other times it’s pieces of bricks (never whole bricks) or broken bits of stone. It serves no discernable purpose. It can’t be used to build (what are you gonna build out of a heap of broken bricks?). And it usually doesn’t look like it necessarily came from a nearby demolished building. Sometimes you see people sweeping small bits of rubble (like gravel) into little trays – ostensibly to move it into another pile.

Buildings – many are either half built or half falling down – it’s impossible to tell. Below is picture of a typical scene on an Indian street. You tell me, is this building being built or torn down?



Cows – they are everywhere. Yes, the rumors are true. They walk unmolested in the streets, lounge on piles of rubble, eat the trash lying around, and shit – everywhere. There are no efforts to control them. If a cow decides to hang out in the middle of the road, so be it. Traffic will be backed up for miles.

Dogs – also everywhere. In the middle of the night, you may hear bands of wild dogs howling in the street outside your window. Do not be alarmed. They will not attempt to ram the door.

Heat – India is oppressively hot. Despite this, all men wear slacks and a collared shirt – every one.

The day after you arrive in Delhi, jump on a bus to Jaipur. The bus will be cramped and in slight disrepair. You won't know it at the time, but this will be the nicest bus you will be on in India.

Saigo

So, today was my last day of classes. We played games. Everyone had fun. It was great. One of the games we played was “ask Seth a question, and if he laughs you get bonus points”. The first graders did a great job. They came up with better, funnier, more original questions than the third graders. They’re a really smart class. It’s days like this that I regret my decision to leave. But, unfortunately, the vast majority of days are much much slower – skull-crushingly boring, in fact.

I can’t believe the year went by so quickly. It almost feels like I just got here. Still, I’m bored at work and there’s nothing to do in my town, so I’d just as soon go. I can’t help but think that if I had been placed in a more vibrant area, I’d be staying longer. Of course, I could have been placed even further into the middle of nowhere…

Japan is no longer an adventure. It’s become normal. It’s time to move on. I know I’ll miss it though (especially the service – I don’t know if I’ll be able adjust back to customer service that doesn’t grovel at you – just the other day, I saw a gas station attendant block traffic to let a customer safely exit, and then he bowed deeply to the car as it drove away – that’s service).

Anyway. I have to be out of my apartment in about a week. This’ll probably be my last post (unless something interesting comes up).

Thank you (both of you) for reading.

Arigato gozaimashita!

Paying Respects

Our school's science teacher’s father-in-law just died. The funeral is today, but last night the staff all went up to the Kofu funeral home to pay our respects at the wake-like-event.

So we get there (everyone’s in black – not surprisingly), walk in, and get in a long line. The line leads around the corner to a room where I can hear Buddhist chanting. There are a ton of people there – both waiting in line, and on their way out. I mean, I barely talk to this teacher, and I’ve never met his wife. I bet a lot of the people there were as loosely affiliated as I was. When you die in Japan, all the people-you-know’s friends and co-workers will come and pay their respects.

So, I’m standing in line, trying to figure out what’s going on. There is a group of men sitting behind tables near the wall. The men are friends and neighbors. People are giving them money. The money is in a special envelope and is either $30 or $50. This is a custom. The line leads to a room with an alter. Immediately in front of the alter is a priest, who is chanting. Behind him, to the left and right, are family members sitting in two groups, facing each other. In the center of the room, there is a table with four sets of incense jars(?). This is where the line leads. The people come up, four at a time, bow to both sets of family members (on the left and right), put their hands together for a second to pray, then take a pinch of incense pebbles(?) in their fingers, hold it up to their face (eyes closed, faced bowed), and put it in the adjacent jar(?). Then they “pray” again for a second, bow again to both sets of family members, and exit to the right. It takes about 15 seconds.

As I exited right, there were more men to bow to. Among them was the teacher. He thanked me. But, standing next to him was our principal. Was he well acquainted with the deceased? No, he was not. Then why is he in a place of honor? Because he is Kirikane Sensei’s boss. In Japan, if a family member dies, your boss will have a respected position at their funeral.

Leaving the room, there is a funeral home employee that hands out moist hand towels and thanks you for your hard work. Behind her is a group of woman (friends and neighbors) who hand out gifts. The gift is a set of special money envelopes – for funerals.