Thursday, September 28 Ew Class, Time is Not Money, Lucky Book Find, Packing

Yet another day of class at Delhi University. The first class was canceled, so we were all going to get some coffee at Barista. However, it opens at 11 am. Obviously India doesn’t have a coffee culture. Who needs coffee after 11 am? That’s pointless. The second class was also boring. However, I spent the whole class reading my travel book and making a detailed itinerary for my upcoming trip over the two-week break. I’m pretty anal-retentive when it comes to taking trips in short amounts of time, and I usually make detailed itineraries. You should see the one for New York. It was so Japanese; planned to the quarter-hour. We had to show our proposals, so we waited for the teacher to stand huddled in a corner texting (what is she a drug dealer?), eat and drink tea, go to a meeting, and probably bathe because all the OBCs in the political science department are polluting her Varma status, before she could see us. And the only thing that came from it was her saying “Let’s meet on October 16”. Thanks for wasting two hours of my time. But I’m extremely scared of her, so I just smile and say, “Ok”. The thing you have to remember is that labor costs nothing here; time is not money like in the United States. That’s why when shopowners say something is handmade, this has no bearing on the actual price. The only thing you’re paying for is the material and shipping costs. It’s like transportation, too. Bicycle rickshaws take twice as long, and they cost half the price as auto rickshaws, because you’re paying for gas and the motor. Drivers will even wait for you while you run errands and shop, so that they can get your business. There is a disproportionate amount of labor for the industrial capital in India. As a result, people are far less productive with less resources. Students don’t have computers, so it takes longer for them to research and turn in assignments. At restaurants like Fiesta, ten people are employed, one waitor to take orders, another to bring the food, one to refill water, five to cook the food, one cashier, and one to open the door. . That’s what a labor surplus will do. And another thing that a labor surplus causes; it lessens the imperative to modernize industry. For example, why invest in motorized construction equipment when there are tons of people willing to do the work for half the cost? This is one result of their labor supply; underdevelopment. Also, the quality does not need to be as high, when there are tons of people do a certain aspect of the job. This is why Indian products are made cheaply (the drying machines only dry clothes halfway), cars constantly break down, and my headphones stopped working within a week of purchase. I went to Connaught Place to find books for my Delhi University papers. One is on the Kashmir Conflict, and the other is on Economic Liberalization of India in 1991 and the Effects on Foreign Policy. The latter has to be really good because it’s for Shanta Verma’s class. I was looking around, and the Jain Book Mart had a bunch of books on foreign policy. One stood out, that was written by a Korean who is an honorary Delhi University alumni. I was looking through it, and on the second page it read: “To my teacher Prof. Shanta Nedungadi Verma”. Yes, as in the same teacher whose class I’m writing a paper for. So of course I bought it, and I’m basically going to paraphrase exactly what he says, because I know it’s exactly what my teacher thinks. It’s amazing. What’s not amazing (but makes it easy as a student) is the fact that in this country, teachers are always right, so in order to get a good grade, all you do is just regurgitate their lectures in your papers and tests. I did some packing for the two-week break to Gujarat, Maharashtra, Mumbai, and Goa. I’m stoked for this trip, and my parents are coming to Mumbai and Goa (conveniently the two most expensive cities in India muahahaha), so I can’t wait to see them. But while it’s going to be a culture shock for them, I’m already so accustomed at this point to the beggars, touts, dirty streets, pollution, oppression, and crowds, that nothing really seems to shock me anymore. I’m kind of sad, because I enjoy being awed at new things. I still have felt no real sense of culture shock since being here, which I think is kind of strange.

Wednesday, September 27 Hindi, Reasons to Hate China, Indian Girls

I spent today online publishing my blogs, etc. Then, I had my Hindi final. The teacher left the room to go test each of us orally. So, inevitably, cheating was rampant. It was pretty easy, even though Geeta told me, “Tyler, you need to work on your vocab”. For the oral part, she talked to me about my trip in the upcoming break, and I had to lie because I didn’t know how to say my real plans in Hindi. In terms of Hindi, I’m by no means good. However, I’m starting to think in Hindi rather than English. For example, I was emailing my mom, and instead of typing “luggage”, I typed “samaan”. I’m starting to like Hindi. The spelling makes sense, the script is easy to read and write, sentence structure is constant, and it is simliar to English in many ways. I was walking home from the test, and they had installed a new police booth in the neighborhood. It has certain hours of operation. That’s like having a part-time security guard for your house. Or a part-time hospital. Or a part-time Freebirds. You kind of need around-the-clock service for these things. I don’t see how that makes any sense. Today was the last night that the whole house spent together. The girls are moving out tomorrow, and everyone is leaving for the two-week break soon. It was kind of sad. Everyone went out to Berco’s for Ro’s birthday, and then came back for cake. Being the pyro that I am, I had the great idea to burn hand sanitizer. Everyone got a kick out of the blue flames, and we were so intrigued we filmed it and made designs on the marble floor. It got everywhere. Afterwards, we discussed politics. We were saying how the world is supposed to come to an end on December 21, 2012, according to the Mayans. That might be nuclear war, it’s not impossible. So we were talking about safe places to be. The best we could think of was Canada. Nikhil said India is safe. I’m sorry but India’s in a Cold War with Pakistan, and did you not hear about the Mumbai Terrorist bombings? I’ve decided there are tons of reasons to hate China: 1. China holds half of the US dollars in circulation, 2. China is a growing economic power that will soon rival the United States for hegemony, 3. China hates India, exemplified by the dispute over Kashmir, its disapproval of harboring Tibetan refugees, and China’s massive aid to Pakistan. 4. China is Communist and a Repressive Society, with massive government controls on transportation, communications, and economy. 5. China has a 1.3 billion people. 6. China graduates hundreds of thousands of science and technology students each year. 7. China’s culture is no longer what it was, as a result of Communism. 8. China hates Japan, because of the latter’s wartime aggression during the 1930s. 9. Chinese food is bad. 10. China is nuclear. 11. China is closely allied with North Korea. On a completely different tangent, as far as Indian girls go, I’ll explain the situation. Well, let me say that things are different than in America. In America you can go out with a girl, no problem. I feel really invasive and uncomfortable simply looking at a girl here. Here, that’s not really allowed, because it will bring shame on the girl’s family. Even communication between members of the opposite sex is shunned. This is because in India, sex is an inevitable outcome when men and women interact. And premarital sex brings shame on the woman’s family. It is also seen as an attack on the woman, and her brothers, uncles, cousins, and father are allowed to beat up the assailant. Non-arranged marriages account for only 5% of marriages in India. But that’s not to say that women are protected. Many cases of sexual abuse occur all the time, and their husbands are chosen almost exclusively by their families to benefit the family. And they have to move to the husband’s village. As with most places in the world, in India, the domestic realm belongs to women, and the public sphere is dominated by men. In India this is blatantly apparent. Men pee on the streets and no one cares, they can defecate on the side of the road any time, they can look at women but women can’t look at them, porn is sold and displayed openly, men bathe in village wells on the side of the road, spitting is not considered rude, they can be as dirty as they want, they fight, they yell, burping and farting are done without thinking twice, and women are not supposed to travel (and never alone), and women are expected to cover up their faces so other men won’t see them. It’s almost as if men invented the whole social system of cultural norms to their convenience, with no consideration for women. The only comparison I can think of with Western culture is when a bunch of guys are hanging out. They don’t care about being clean or good-looking to impress women. Except in India this is in public, all the time here. In India there is definitely an enormous double-standard where women are supposed to be modest, while men are allowed to do anything they please. It’s extremely unfair and sad to see. This inevitably leads to other problems, too. Parents want boys, not girls, because boy children are seen as a blessing, and girls as a burden. This leads to female abortion and infanticide. This is why the sex ratio is unhealthily unbalanced. Plus, men carry on the family name, continue to live with and contribute to the family, and they conduct their parents’ funeral rites. Because of this divide between the sexes, men are much closer to men, and women are much closer to women. How on earth were one billion people in India conceived? I don’t know. With groups of school kids, the boys will all be talking with each other in one circle, and the girls with each other only. And this is why Bollywood films never have kissing (also because the actresses don’t want their reputations ruined for kissing). Also, this is why I see men holding hands every day, and women doing the same, but never both sexes. This is not homosexual at all, it’s just a way of showing friendship and brotherhood. Ok, so back to scoping the girls’ scene. I’ll compare in terms of ages. I think white children are ugly, and Indian girl children are much cuter and happier, complaining a lot less. Indian children are really loved, and have freedom to do whatever they want with relatively no discipline. Indians love kids. I feel like a pedophile, but I’m just saying. When it comes to young women (aged 13-35), Indian women are mediocre compared to girls in America. First of all, many times they don’t shave their legs here. Second, they don’t do their hair. Thirdly, they don’t use makeup. Fourth, they wear unflattering acid-wash jeans and t-shirts. These are the ones that I see on a day-to-day basis at Delhi University and at Civil Lines going to nearby IP College. The ones on TV are beautiful, and they look more white or Persian than Indian. Basically, I like Indian girls, but the ones in America as compared to in India. There are some hotties, but they don’t pretty themselves up like American girls. I’ll take the typical made-up, trendy, pretentious blonde Santa Barbara girl over most Indian (or Seattle) girls any day. Indian women (above age 35), on the other hand, are a lot better-looking than in America. While old American women wear nylon track suits, mumus, and tapered jeans, older slim Indian women wear beautiful saris, scarves, stunning jewelry, and high-heels. They look good. Ok I sound like a creep. I’m just going to stop now.

Tuesday, September 26 Uttar Pradesh Bus Rides, Delhi, House Drama

I spent all day on the bus in Uttar Pradesh. It was pretty bad. I meant to see the rice harvest, which is occurring now as summer comes to a close. Next they will plant wheat for the winter. They use the same land for two different crops throughout the year. That’s productive, and it must be with a billion mouths to feed. Although India lies in the northern hemisphere, it seems more like Southern hemisphere climate, with a rainy summer and dry winter. I have noticed that a lot of flowers and plants are in bloom right now, and it’s the mating season for animals. Also, my allergies have been making my eyes itch. But it doesn’t help that dust here is unrelenting; I always get dust in my eyes and they get irritated. Even wearing glasses (which somewhat act as an eye cover), not wearing contacts (It’s so dusty that I can’t), and being Asian (meaning Asian eyes), I still always get dust in my eyes. Meanwhile, Indians seem not to mind. I don’t see many wearing glasses, and I’m sure contacts are too expensive for the masses. Either everyone has naturally good eyesight, or I’m really scared to ride in vehicles now. I thought there would be good views of farms in the heart of Uttar Pradesh. So I had to take a city bus from the nearby bus station to Anand Vihar, across the Yamuna River. I sat there for a while, while hawkers tried to sell watches, water, and fruit. One even made an "As Seen on TV" presentation while the bus was moving. It’s hard to explain to the conductors that you don’t have a specific destination, so I had to settle for one going to Moradabad, on the main road to Rampur, Bareilly, and Lucknow. It was a very well-paved road. Getting out of Delhi took forever. Delhi sprawls for miles and miles. Delhi is so polluted that there’s not a cloud in the sky, but it looks overcast. There is so much smog you can look at the sun without it hurting your eyes. All that is carbon monoxide from automobile emissions, burning trash, burning coal for power, and cows. Delhi is neither coastal nor windy. It’s dropped from “most polluted” to “second most polluted” to Mexico City. This is because the city recently required that all public buses and rickshaws use compressed natural gas, a nice change from the leaded fuel they were using before. Delhi is the capital city of the largest democracy in the world. Situated on the Yamuna River at the center of the east-west axis of Northern India, it has ancient roots but is definitely modern. This is because it is a conglomeration of neighborhoods, like Los Angeles. Delhi has world-class hotels, hospitals, universities, companies, and communications and transport systems. Juxtaposed, there are still millions living in Delhi’s slums and streets, working in the informal sector, and working as laborers, peddlers, beggars, and priests. Seven different rulers from the Aryans to the Mughals to the British to the post-colonial Indians founded cities in the site of present Delhi, but every one except for the current one has lost the city to invaders. It is said Delhi is cursed to any who try and set up a city here. Today, it is mostly a city of immigrants. Peoples of tribal and other backward castes come here to fill reservation quotas in government, colleges, and corporations. Oppressed low-caste peasants flood the city to escape persecution, for the anonymity of urban life. Poor migrants pour into the city at a rate of thousands per day, hoping to elevate their standard of living (incomes in Delhi are twice as high as the Indian average). International businessmen, politicians, diplomats, tourists, and University of California students come to conduct business in a rapidly-growing economy, to manage international affairs, to study, and as a starting point to the wealth of tourist destinations found in India. After partition, many non-Muslim West Punjabis were forced out of their homes in Pakistan, and most settled in Delhi. Today, Delhi is mostly run by Punjabis, as are the hotel, gas station, and IT businesses in America. The 12 million people living in cosmopolitan Delhi represents the tolerance of multicultural India. Delhi is fast-paced, modern, and concerned with money and status, compared to the rest of the country where caste and family is most important. I’ve come to really love it for all it has to offer. But, getting out of Delhi was nice, and the road to Uttar Pradesh was flanked by roadside restaurants, farms, eucalyptus trees, gas stations, rest stops. If you live in Uttar Pradesh, congratulations, you’re one of 200 million people in the state known as the cow belt of India. It is also known as the Hindu heartland or cow belt of India, although I saw a lot of Muslims with veils, skullcaps, and Mohammed-style beards. Maybe I just think there are a lot of Muslims and Sikhs in Northern India because they’re more noticeable than the 85% majority Hindus. I saw some harvesting and a lot of fields. However, it was a main road, so the views were not spectacular. It’s definitely rural, but has many modern buildings and industry. And even though it’s rural, there are people everywhere. It is very densely-populated, as with anywhere in this country. In India, there is no escaping people, no privacy anywhere. We stopped at a dhaba to eat, and I was going to but for some reason opted out. I’m glad I did, because I saw a rat run across the counter of the kitchen. I got to Moradabad, a small dirty smelly town, as with everywhere in Uttar Pradesh. The extent of my travels here was: I walked a half a block, avoiding bicycle rickshaws, and I bought a bottle of water and drank it. Then I hopped on an Uttar Pradesh Transportation bus to Delhi so new it had plastic still on the seats. Or it could just be because we’re in Asia, and Asians love covering seats in plastic. Along the way, there were fairs set up in the dark night for Navratri festivals, with food, Ferris wheels, dancing, music, and blinking lights everywhere. To get home, I had to catch a city bus. It's almost a requirement to run and jump onto the moving bus. The conductor told me to come, and ran towards the bus, and I had to pull an Indiana Jones move. I got home late, and didn’t study for my Hindi final that’s tomorrow. Apparently I missed another in-house drama episode. Mariel, Kim, and Alix told the Jains they are moving out. Since we don’t have an official lease signed, they can kick us out at any time, and now I’m scared they could poison our water or do anything they really want. What sucks even more is this whole situation is none of our faults. And I wasn’t even here for any of it. So people are looking into alternative living situations, as the Jains probably don’t want us here anymore.

Monday, September 25 No Hotels, Party Stories, Garba

I managed to, inadvertantly, avoid staying in hotels the entire past weekend. Two nights were sleeper trains, one was in a bus station, and one on an overnight bus. No one else besides me would actually do this. I was just dirtier than a used condom. What do you expect with five days in India living from a suitcase with no change of clothes, shower, facewash or teethbrushing. I wasn’t really angry about it, or tired. Actually, I was stoked because I saved money. Ok, it’s official: Tyler Rapp needs help. I am the dirtiest and cheapest person I know. I have now sunk to the point where I’m too cheap to pay even $2 a night for a hotel room. When I awoke on the train and rode a rickshaw to the Metro station, I was actually cold. In Delhi. I didn’t know that was possible. But, that was because it was seven in the morning; eventually it got to 90 today. But Delhi is now cooling off each day, which is amazing. I came back and noticed my bedsheets were gone. Oh no, someone either puked or had sex in my bed at Ro and Puran’s birthday party. Apparently the party on Saturday was (an understatement) was out of control. Apparently they made a glorious jungle juice mixture (which I would pay for the recipe). So glorious it was that red vomit covered the entire second floor. Since only one bathroom was functioning (and it was covered in puke) the whole second floor acted as the streets of India; a receptacle for every bodily fluid. Since no one is really friends on EAP, everyone felt the need to get tanked, and did. And, because no one is getting any action, it inevitably turned into a massive orgy. Alix awoke to Kim puking on her feet and a used condom on her computer. No one went home; they just passed out all over the puke-covered floor, instead. Rahul had a great time, which is awesome because it’s keeping the whole situation under wraps with the Jains. Yes, the same Jains that told us not a week ago not to put our hands on the walls because they oil would come off our hands. One incident has prompted Mariel, Kim, and Alix to look for new apartments across the street. Basically, I’m never going to see them again. It seems everyone had their own crazy story. Although it would have been disgusting and everyone said it was hell, it sounded like a blast. I would have loved to be at this intense EAP version of a frat party with a bunch of first-time drinkers. I spent today fasting, trying to get over my sickness quickly. I went to Hindi class, and Vijay heard about the party incident. Then, he massaged his forehead and shook his head, muttering, “It doesn’t happen often, but when I get upset, I get very angry”. Apparently, Ro was walking down the street, and saw a person crash on a motorcyle, cracking his head open on the sidewalk. As brains oozed out of his head, everyone around ran off in every direction. Ro and another bystander helped him and called the police. Mama Jain told him he should have just run away next time something like that happens, instead of dealing with authorities. Great community we live in. Apparently, some girl in Hyderabad got kicked out of the EAP program, her Visa revoked. Considering the hippy program directors Bob and Sally encouraged me to visit Ladakh, in the state of Jammu & Kashmir, it has got to be pretty tough to get kicked out. Today is Puran’s birthday, so we all went to TGIF in Connaught Place. It was expensive, but good. I had chicken fajitas, the first Mexican food in three months. After that, we went to a nearby Gujarati school, which was filled with Hindus. In the big auditorium, they had set up an altar to Durga, with stuffed animal lions, candles, statues of the goddess, and a tiger-print sheet. People were beating drums, and tons of people old and young, male and female, were dancing around in a circle. They made circular patterns and then all went around the altar. Although it was uncoordinated and people were out of sync with each other, it was a nice-looking, upbeat dance. Next came the Garba dances. People brought their wooden sticks (you can also rent them), and hit them together and twirled them. You are supposed to get in a group, and rotate partners, hitting sticks together, and then your own, to the beat of the drum. It’s a basic framework, and then the rest is up to you. Every dancer is allowed to dance in their own unique way. Like salsa dancing, taiko drumming, and walking down a fashion runway, the fundamental dance is a piece of cake, but doing it in style is what makes it come alive. It went long into the night, and we were all beating sticks with the locals, doing twirls and grooving to the beats, as they got faster and faster. When the dancing was done, everyone gathered around the Durga altar and sang Hindu holy songs, while the priest circled candles over the statues.

Sunday, September 24 Udaipur Again

I reached the Udaipur bus stand at the same time in the morning as when I first came, two days ago, having slept in transit. Moreover, I went on the same government bus tour for the second time, because the first time I got lost and missed the majority of it. I felt like it was Groundhog Day. It was surreal. I walked to the Old City, and watched the sunrise over the City Palace and Lake Pichola while eating a parantha on a rooftop hotel (there are so many in Udaipur). It was comfortable, peaceful, and beautiful. I then walked to the Hindu Temple, the best place to view the lake. I struck up a conversation with a Udaipur professor whose head was shaved because his father died a week ago, and he’s performing the 8-hour ceremony today. On the city tour, the tour guide laughed because this is the third tour I’m taking with him, and the second of the exact same one. I sat out for the first sight, and he got the camera fee for the City Palace waived, so I got to take amazing pictures of the sun glinting off Lake Pichola, gaudy mirrors, curving Rajput knives, and glass inlay on the building. This time it was better because a slow and talkative Croatian woman insisted he speak English. The tour guide, a wealthy Rajput who lives on the lake, invited me to his house to make Rajasthani mutton and sip some beers. He’s Hindu, but obviously a kshatriya. The lady overheard, and he told her, “No, just him, because us two are friends. You’re not my friend, and the invitation is not for you”. This simple statement, my stomach hurting as is, the fact that he was charging me 250 Rs for the mutton, and the fact that he would buy the meat while I walk alone to his house was enough to decline. Even though I would love to have mutton with a Rajput warrior, he was simply put, a sketchy asshole. I instead went to Natraj Hotel for a vegetarian thali-only lunch dining hall, filled to capacity with locals. It had delicious rice, chapati, dal, dahi, papad, aloo, two sabzi, and salad. Although I have a painful upset stomach, I’m salivating writing this, it was so good. The best part? Unlimited servings of everything you want. These lunch thali dining halls are genius, and my favorite restaurants in India by far. I went walking back to City Palace, and it started raining so I took shelter under an awning and fell asleep for half an hour. Then I walked through the touristy bazaars and past the hotel in the City Palace, one night costing $300-1500, as well as the Oberoi and Lake Palace, on islands in the lake. I ended up sharing company and chai with an artist named Lala. He was a painter of “Rajput Miniatures”, the style of painting for which Udaipur is world-famous. However, he was different because he also paints in Mughal and modern style. His collection included farm scenes, Mughal emperors, camels, elephants, horses, peacocks, Rajput kings, kama sutra, and erotic scenes. The erotic genre is mostly for his Israeli clientele, who mostly come to India for the drugs and free nature In this country they can live like kings, before mandatory military service and a life within the religion. Lala’s other customers are mostly young rich tourists from Bombay, Madrid, New York, and Rome. I also spent some time talking to a master sitar player and teacher. I was once told by a music teacher that there are and always have been birds on the front of a sitar, and no one knows why. It’s kind of like those curly q’s on a violin. It turns out, he didn’t know, either. He said they were just for decoration, and if I didn’t want them, he could take them off for me. I said I couldn’t afford the sitar in his shop ($200), but that is a steal compared to US prices. After that I spent the evening watching the sunset over the lake and Palace. I took my overnight express train to Delhi. It was not a comfortable ride for three reasons. One, my stomach hurt and I was writhing in pain. Second, four police officers were sitting next to me. They had an inmate chained by one hand to one of the officers, and the others were all carrying Uzi’s. Third, it was cold.

Saturday, September 23 Mount Abu, Tour, Gujaratis, Bus Ride

I guess I’m a pro at sleeping in transportation centers while traveling. Along with San Francisco and JFK International Airport, I can also check off my list “Bus Stand in Udaipur, India”. I hopped on the 5 am bus to Mount Abu, Rajasthan’s only hill station. Who made up that name? That’s equivalent to JK Rowling naming her Asian character “Cho Chang”. The ride was more desert and some rivers. We stopped once at a small town called Mt. Abu Road. Along one small portion of road while we stopped, I saw an old man sleeping, a woman breastfeeding, a toddler pooping, a woman puking, a boy bathing, a man urinating, and men selling fruit and clothes. The street really is where all aspects of life take place in India. I had to wash out my eyes (because it was so dusty, though). As the bus snaked up the hills to Mt. Abu, it seemed we had left the dusty parched plains of Rajasthan behind. It was beautiful; everything became green and moist. Palm trees and deciduous trees lined ponds, which fell into the sloping hills of the plateau that formed the town. I got in about 11, and had a Rajasthani thali for lunch, after which I thought my face was going to turn into liquid oil because they used so much butter. Mt. Abu is a resort-type town, catering mostly towards Indian families. It’s filled with rich Gujaratis, as opposed to Mussoorie, which is overwhelmingly patronized by rich Punjabis. It seems that these two groups have the money and like to travel. Or, it could be the fact that Gujarat and Punjab are the two most boring states in India. Hence the reason these are the two most numerous groups found among the Indian diaspora. The costumes of the people make for good entertainment. I saw a Gujarati tourist with a Vietnam Veteran’s hat. Rajasthani men usually wear white draped cloths and large red turbans. Everyone wears jewelry here. All the Rajasthani women are very well (if not extremely gaudily) dressed. A woman will be wrapped in a bright and colorful silk sari with gold trim, tied together by a silver sparkly belt. She will have white ivory bangles from her shoulders to elbows, and sparkly colorful bangles and wristbands covering her forearms. She will have silver rings on toes and fingers, and around her ankles will have silver jingling anklets. She will wear golden dangling earrings, and of course the quintessential gold nose ring and rhinestone bindi on her forehead. These ladies are like walking jewelry stores. They are every Paris Hilton’s mentor, and they make Queen Elizabeth look like the bearded lady. I reserved a space on the government bus tour of the major sights of Mount Abu. Turns out I got on the bus and the window was open; no, not open. It was shattered, with shards of broken glass all over my seat. Having gotten glass lodged in my feet before, I was naturally pissed when we started moving and pieces of broken glass would fly into my lap and onto my head. A lot of other people were, too, and they took pictures and everything, for proof when they went to file a complaint. In India, I’m sorry but no one is going to sit down and read a complaint; no one cares. The tour guide didn’t even care enough to change the buses, he just went on lecturing in Hindi as normal. The first stop was a marble Shiva Temple, where everyone but me was Hindu and conducted puja. Then, we drove through the forested hills to a weird spiritual healing garden. People actually spent money buying worthless CDs and books about the word ‘Om’ and how atman merges with Brahman so you can attain moksha. It had an enormous ‘Om’ sign, though, which was cool. Then we went to another Hindu temple built into huge rocks atop Mt. Abu.The views were spectacular. Every site was commercialized, with food and drink stalls, camel rides, and souvenir shops. The last stop was the Dilwara Jain Temple, a private temple with thousands of strict rules. The Jains are the ones whose holy men go naked and wear mouth guards so they don’t kill any bugs and fast so they won't kill any living thing. The rules were as follows: No leather items, no mobile phones or cameras, no holding hands, no inappropriate gestures or touching, no food, no photos, no going in the room with statues of deities, and no women on their period. Or else there will be consequences. Guess which one was the only one that was visibly broken? The one about holding hands, and of course two young men were the culprits. Besides this, the Jain Temple was absolutely breathtaking. It’s the finest, most intricate carvings of any temple I have seen so far. Erotic sculptures, deities, big breasted women, warriors, and kings were all carved into the marble walls, pillars, and ceilings. They were all extremely 3-D, and if you had an entire day your eyes could not possibly cover every statue. There was a team of about 20 workers polishing and restoring the world-famous temple. The Jains are and were, obviously, loaded. After the tour, I waited for the bus. I had to use the bathroom, and people sitting there tried to charge me, so I just walked to the side and peed on the adjacent pile of trash. I know people are not trying to make money on bathrooms. Except for temples, India itself is an enormous toilet bowl. I got on the bus at 7 pm, for the return trip back to Udaipur. The ride was an insane adventure compared to the five-hour trip I made this morning. It was dark the whole way. I fell asleep, and when I awoke the bus driver and all the passengers were different. We even had to get out and change buses. For the Gujarati festival Navratri, all the temples were lit up and playing loud music. We had to make stops at each one, and we gave money, and priests came up and gave us prasad in return. It was like a drive-thru worship, and all I could think of is…Taco Bell. I felt like I was in Las Vegas, or on acid living Alice In Wonderland. We stopped for a midnight snack at a dhaba, and I got attacked by a hummingbird-sized dragonfly. Unlike the bus ride over, instead of five hours like I expected, turns out it is a local bus that made stops and took the long way. It was ultimately an 11-hour journey. Sweet.

Friday, September 24 Udaipur, City Palace, Bad Tour, Party Rickshaw, Homeless

My sleeper train entered Udaipur at 7 am. I walked over to the Government booking office to plan my stay for the weekend. I began by taking a rickshaw to the government hotel, Hotel Kajri. I caught the 8:30 tour of Udaipur, in order to get my bearings. I was one of five people, and the only non-Indian and non-forty-year-old. Udaipur is the city of lakes, and the most romantic city in all of India. Of course, I’m here alone, and when people ask I lie and say I have a girlfriend. The city is in southern Rajasthan, near the Gujarati border. The city has a series of lakes, with beautiful royal palaces on small islands, now converted into hotels. The green hills rise up above the artificial lakes, created by damming the nearby rivers. While Jaipur is the pink city, Jodhpur the blue city, and Jaisalmer the yellow city, Udaipur is the white city of Rajasthan. Founded by Maharana Udai (hence the name ‘Udaipur’) Singh II in 1559 as the capital of Mewar. “Maharana” means ‘king of the Maharaja’, ‘Maharaja’ meaning ‘Great King’. This guy was obviously a big deal. We went to see his bronze statue on top of Pratap Hill, with great views over Fateh Lake, and the whitewashed buildings squeezed between the hills and lakes. It seemed like a Japan, or a Srinagar. We rode up via bus and rickshaw to the center of Udaipur on Lake Pichola, the City Palace. The largest fort in Rajasthan, half is a museum, and the other half is still the maharaja’s residence. Majestic arched walls enclose the fort, and curving spires give it a fairy-tale feeling. They look out over the green, wild hills, and its tall walls kiss the blue lake below. The corridors are small, in order to make it difficult to invade, not because the Maharaja was small. Inside, however, you get a Las Vegas feeling. The bedrooms are covered in blue, white, yellow, and red glass mirrors. One room is completely covered in colorful golden Rajput miniature paintings. The hookah room has a nice felt seat and mirrors so you can improve your O’s; I bet a lot of guys wish we had that in our fraternity. A courtyard contains a fountain, trees, and swimming pool. Intricate paintings, glass inlay, and weapons lined the walls. Images of the black or blue-skinned Krishna (avatar of Vishnu and Nikhil’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandpa) were everywhere, because the Rajputs are a warrior caste, who paid homage to their representative avatar. You can rent out the terrace area for receptions…it only costs the GDP of a small country. After that, I wanted to see the Jagdish Temple, a large Hindu temple devoted to Krishna. The tour guide pointed out the way to the bus, and I went to see the temple. The temple had intricate carvings of saints and gods, like those found in Khajuraho. I was offered a meal outside the temple was a mess hall. It is run by the Brahmin priests, and gives free meals to beggars, and cheap meals to anyone who can afford it. The sympathy and openness of Hinduism is seen here, where all are welcome and those who cannot provide for themselves are helped. Well, you guessed it; I couldn’t find the bus according to the tour guide’s directions. For 2.5 hours I walked all over the Old City in a burning sweat, and empty stomach, hopelessly looking for the bus. I probably looked like an Asian version of someone on a Gatorade ad. I’m actually getting pretty brown; it’s either the dirt or the extreme suntan, I can’t tell. People have come up to me, speaking Hindi or saying they thought I was Indian. Maybe it’s the acid-wash jeans, collared shirts, and bowl cut that are doing the trick? I ended up just giving up finding the bus, and I suppressed my burning rage. There’s nothing I can do about it, and no one to get mad at, and besides, the tour was completely in Hindi, so I didn’t understand anyways. I inadvertantly ended up traversing miles about the dusty city, with its winding streets too narrow for cars. Many of the doors were guarded by paintings of colorful Rajasthani elephants and horses. People and animals worked, and screaming boys jumped into the lake while their mothers washed their clothes nearby. For some ungodly reason, I returned to Kajri Hotel, and went on the second tour, this time of the sites around Udaipur. It was completely in Hindi. I slept most of the drive through the dusty, dry deserts surrounding the city. The colors here are startling; red turbans, pink and purple saris sear the eyes against the stark dry landscape. Our first stop was a touristy museum at the battlefield between Maharana Singh and Akbar. No one won the battle, so Mewar remained an independent state until British rule. The museum featured a corny video and exhibits of mechanical Indian mannequins, like the ET ride at Disneyland. Afterwards, the bus forged ruddy dirty roads to a Krishna temple at Nathdwara. When the asshole Mughal ruler Aurangazeb (who also imprisoned and blinded his father and killed all his brothers) outlawed idol worship in India, priests moved the Krishna statue, and the chariot got stuck here. We got there in time for 5:00 puja, which was absolute mayhem. Every day at this time, thousands of barefoot Hindu men pour into a room, saying prayers to Krishna, ringing bells, and screaming. The place was hell; stinky sweaty male bodies crammed into every nook and cranny, pushing and shoving to get a view of the idol. This definitely represents the worst aspects of crowded, one-for-ones’ self, male India. Then we headed over to see a private temple, which was really ornate and covered in beautiful sandstone carvings of everything from erotic figures to Hindu deities. The bus dropped us off, and I took a rickshaw to a restaurant. But not just any rickshaw; this one had a hip young driver, pulsing blacklights, velvet seats, and a sound system that was blasting popular Bollywood tunes....The party rickshaw! The rickshaw was blatantly conspicuous going through the narrow streets of the Old City. I got dinner at a deserted restaurant. Outside, a painted-on sign read: “Movie Playing: Octopussy, 7:30”. They obviously only have one movie they play day in, day out, to tourists like me who want to see the movie in the very place it was filmed. I took a rickshaw to the Bus Stand because earlier I called and the government tourism agency said that the last train to Mt. Abu was at 10. However, when I got there, it turns out they flat-out lied. Apparently the last bus already left at 8, and the next one leaves tomorrow morning. That infuriated me. I have no hotel, and I don’t know if there will be available rickshaws in the morning. I had no place to go, so I laid down on a bench and tried to sleep, but was kicked out by a homeless man who claimed the bench. So I went over to the most-lit area of the bus stand, and apparently there is a whole business devoted to providing temporary beds for travelers. I could have used this service in the past in San Francisco and JFK airports. I grabbed two quilts and set up shop on the bus stand floor next to a bunch of dirt-covered beggars and lepers, with guys watching guard (meaning reading Hindi books). The proprietor of the street hotel was actually pretty accomodating because I’m a foreigner; surprisingly, not many foreigners sleep on floors of bus stands in India. He offered to turn on the fan, and gave me a spot right next to the guard shack. However, I was glued to my bag the entire night. I had to spend the night swatting mosquitoes, squashing ants that were crawling all over me, and sweating under the covers. So much for the most romantic city in India.

Thursday, September 21 Hellish Class

Class is so boring it’s borderline deadly. Veena Kukreja again sits in a desk in front of the class, reading word-for-word about militarism in Pakistan, while she keeps rubbing her eyes. I don’t think even she wants to be here. When we presented her paper topics, she didn’t seem to care at all what we picked or write about. She is hopelessly dumb. Next class period, Shanta Verma yells at students, “I want you to have already moved the desks by the time I get here, you’re wasting my class time”. Then, one of her quotes was: “Pirates, yes we still have pirates, and yes, they are a big problem”. I spent the entire time looking at the clock and drawing her. She wanted to arbitrarily change class (eight weeks into the term) to Friday instead. Luckily that didn’t happen. Aside from laughing at how bitchy she is, it’s excruciatingly boring. I officially hate Delhi University. I get so drained mentally and physically after enduring those four hours a week. You probably are making fun of me for complaining about going to class for four hours one day a week, but just try it yourself. I guarantee you will have wished your car crashed on the way to class instead. Since our only assignment is to write a 25-page paper (I say the world ‘only’, like I’m glad it’s 25 pages), going to class and taking notes is a complete waste of time. I say all the American political science kids need to get together to send representatives to class each week; one white guy, one white girl, one Indian guy, and I think that’ll be good enough. I came back and ate lunch at a nearby dhaba with Puran and Ro. Then I packed up my stuff for the upcoming weekend in Udaipur.

Wednesday, September 20 Downfall of Fiesta, Fayaz, Delhi, and Riots

I was awoken on the train to Delhi by 5 text messages; from Airtel, Airtel, Airtel, Hutch, and Airtel welcoming me to UP, Haryana, and Delhi. The last one said “Win Fiesta”, and for a second my heart started pounding. Free Fiesta for life? Turns out it was a Ford Fiesta, definitely not as good. I rode the Metro home and had some lunch before taking a much-needed shower. I have become so lazy and dirty in India. My shirt is completely brown, my eyes lined with black goop, black under my long nails, my hair is knotted, and a film of dirt and dust is caked onto my face. I spend the day relaxing before Hindi, where I have to explain why I was gone. Then I came back and went to dinner with Ro and Puran to Haldiram’s, a three-story fast food restaurant, mithai factory, and bakery. It was delicious. I know that Fiesta is trying to mimic them. Fiesta has the same thali; same white rectangular plate, same vegetable dish, same dal makhani, same parantha, same raita, and same rice. But Haldiram’s is much better, comes with dessert, salad, and naan, and takes 1/10 the time. And, because of the Metro, it’s only two stops away and takes a shorter time to get our food at Haldiram’s. The Metro is like teleportation; you don’t even know you’re in a different place. Sorry, Fiesta, but as the days go on, I don’t think I’ll be sticking with you much longer. Fiesta has recently added a sweets refrigerator (probably financed by our houses’ regular patronage), but that’s about all they’re going to get. As my immunity to Delhi cuisine has strengthened, I am eating at more dhabas and less sit-downs. They’re tastier, cheaper, more food, and more uniquely Indian. Also in terms of learning to work the system and not get ripped off, today I discovered how to make train reservations online. I set up an account with Indian Railways, and now I just type in what source station, destination, and date, and it brings up all my options; it’s amazing. I can either get an e-ticket I print out myself, or I can opt to have it sent next-day delivery to the Study Center for free. Freedom! Sorry, Fayaz Travel Agency on Janpath that blatantly tried to rip me off (by mistaking the train number with the train price), I don’t ever again have to patronize your crummy, expensive, slow, lazy scam of a business. Or any other of the dozens of cheating travel agencies in Delhi. Along with the demise of these two businesses is the demise of basically every business in Delhi. The municipal government has cracked down on unregistered businesses, which account for a large percentage of the businesses in the city. Jobs are scarce in this city, and people find them by making them any way possible. Many are run from residential homes, and Delhi is attempting to make the city more zonified. This means that no business can be conducted in strictly residential areas. The people who have set up businesses in their homes rely on this for their livelihood. And in most cases, they have bribed authorities who have turned their shoulder for the need for permits. But now, Delhi is cracking down, and the people are not happy. All over South Delhi, there are massive strikes, and mobs of angry working-class individuals have rioted and even stoned authorities to death. Along with this, apparently a month from now, there is to be held a massive protest by the bicycle rickshaw drivers’ union because Delhi wants to get rid of all of them, too. Delhi is in the midst of a transformation; it will be interesting to see what happens. Along with these strikes, many people on EAP were planning on going to Thailand, which is currently in the midst of a revolution. A military coup apparently is holding the government of Thailand. And in other headlines today (I’m not making this up), I read, “In China, panda bites man, man bites him back”, and “Surgeons in China who said they performed the first successful penis transplant had to remove the donated organ because of the severe psychological problems it caused to the recipient and his wife”. The world is a great place.

Tuesday, September 19 Bhimbetka Caves, Bhojpur, Muslim Family

I took the bus back to Bhopal. From there, I transferred to a bus to Bhimbetka, packed with people. Bhimbetka is a small camp (not even a town), famous for its paleolithic rock shelters and cave paintings. I walked down a small deserted path in the blistering heat. I had to walk 2 km up a hill in the searing sunlight with no shade in the 90-degree midday heat. It was pretty unbearable, and I was cursing the entire way up. I legitimately thought I was going to pass out of heatstroke. My shirt was completely soaked with sweat, and sweat was even seeping through my nylon waterproof pants. In addition, half my water spilled out of the bottle. My bag kept getting heavier and heavier. So, was it worth it? Hell No! When I got there, all I saw were a bunch of faded-out stick figures drawn from colored dirt. Just kidding, actually it was pretty cool. It was actually really creepy because you have to walk through dark deserted prehistoric caves, so I quickly opted for a guide. At least it was more to make me feel safe than for a history lesson, because he knew as little English as I knew Hindi. And to make matters worse, his English vocabulary was the same as mine in Hindi, meaning there was virtually no exchange of ideas. The caves were naturally-made, but underground until the 1930’s when they were re-discovered. The rocks scooped living space out of the landscape, and red and white paintings depicted humans performing rituals and conducting warfare, buffalo, tiger, boars, and horses. The paintings were from 5,000 to 12,000 years old, making it one of the oldest places of human history. I walked to a beautiful Durga temple built into the rock, but all of a sudden the monsoon with heavy rains and thunder came, so I had to duck under a rock shelter, just as prehistoric man did thousands of years ago. I descended back to reality and had a bite to eat at a Punjabi Dhaba before catching a bus back to Bhopal. Actually, I got off at Bhojpur to see the famous unfinished Bhojeshwar Temple of the 11th century. A ramp for hauling stones and ancient blueprints etched into the ground still remain. Inside the temple is a 2.5 meter tall Shiva lingam, the largest in India. The lingam represents creative powers of Shiva with a phallic symbol, and at 2.5 meters it’s probably the biggest penis in India. And most Hindus worship it. Getting restless waiting for the bus in the tiny town, I began to walk down the endless road towards Bhopal, 29 km away. I stopped at a little stand, and wanted to watch the men play a dice game, but they motioned for me to sit away. So I instead stood up and kept walking. Although not weird in our culture, it seemed rude and inhospitable of them. Two old guys in a nice Tata Safari SUV picked me up (I think they felt bad for me). They were rich businessmen from Bhopal, into electricity and gas. The driver, a Muslim named ‘Papu Moustache’ invited me over for dinner at his home. The whole day I hadn’t eaten or planned on eating because in 1984 Bhopal had experienced a massive chemical leak at a careless American company plant, polluting all the groundwater. Although I was starving I didn’t really feel like growing three hands anytime soon. However, in my now delirious state I accepted the invitation. Papu Moustache is, simply put, a baller. His four-story house sits on half a city block, and five cars were parked in his driveway. Like most Bhopal residents, he’s a Sunni Muslim. I sat in the living room of his joint-family household. I talked to his daughter, who spoke fluent English. She said that we’re fine talking together in front of the family, but if her and I wanted to have a private conversation, it is strictly forbidden in Islam. She prays five times a day, but women are not allowed in the mosque, so she conducts prayers (with cupped hands). She’s not allowed to excel in school, at her parents’ command, because her only purpose in going to a good school is to get a good husband, not a good job. Their family has enough money so they don’t have to worry about it. But her husband must be in an equal or better social position than she is; not the other way around. She only has female friends, and does not go out for fun. While men play sports for fun and do whatever they want, she has to stay in the house. She tells me her life would be so much better if she were a man. But, as many Muslims have told me before, she justifies the situation by saying, it is God’s will. The food was really good; fried dal, spicy chicken, potatoes, curd, and huge chapati. Not many people in Bhopal are this welcoming, but her family is very open and accepting. After a round of pictures, I was driven to Bhopal Junction Station, where I caught my 9:30 train to Delhi.

Monday, September 18 Sanchi, Udaigiri Caves

Although the hotel tonight was the least prison-cell-like of all, the owner locked me in the compound, and I had to yell to him to open it. I walked up a hill to Sanchi at the crack of dawn, and bought a ticket for 25 times the Indian National price. I get the idea that no one visits Madhya Pradesh. The log book averaged one group (including Indians) per day. There are empty government lodges everywhere, and I was able to get my hotel room for 100 Rs per night. I got to the top of the round hill, overlooking Sanchi and the central Madhya Pradesh verdant fields. Sanchi features an array of Buddhist stupas, or circular mounds topped with a spire, containing relics. The stupas at Sanchi were built in the 3^rd century BC by the Mauryan emperor Ashoka. He chose Sanchi because it was close to his wife’s birthplace, and it was peaceful enough to meditate properly. I have to admit, although I have studied these structures, they weren’t all that impressive. The ornate gateways with carvings of warriors, elephants, lions, and women led to the large semi-circular stupas. They looked more like alien spaceships to me. As a World Heritage Site, they were being touched up by teams of laborers restoring the bricks and stones. I don’t know what “World Heritage” really means, because there were also priceless ancient rock carvings strewn about the site, and weeds have overgrown the wall in many places. There was a small shrine, which contained Buddhist statues, probably the likes of which were worshipped by Ashoka himself. At every Buddhist monument I have visited, there has been a Mahabodhi Society of Sri Lanka. All of a sudden, 100 Sri Lankans wearing white fabrics and large “Sri Lanka” identity cards on tour turned up. I sat under the one of many benches in the perfect weather, just eyeing the stonework of the stupas and their gateways. However, once I get back into the sun, I was burning up. I walked back down to the town, containing a cross-street and nothing more. I had a lunch of Pathak Restaurant and talked to the owner, a Brahmin who shares Snehal’s Hindu last name. After resting a bit, I took the bus to Vidisha, and caught a rickshaw from a young mulleted Indian, blasting Hindi tunes the entire way through the dusty town and down deserted dirt roads lined with eucalyptus trees and farmland. We passed a river, with a Hindu temple where boys were bathing themselves and their motorcycles. We also passed a massive gathering of people, bicycles, and water buffalo. It was a cow bazaar, where people brought their livestock to buy and sell. Small, strong, weak, fat, skinny, old, and young shimmering black buffalo and Brahmanic cattle were all on display and people inspected and sold them on the spot. We reached Udaigiri Caves, a national monument. It was a series of Hindu man-made caves cut into a steep sandstone hill, dating to the Gupta Period, 1700-1400 years ago. The cave carvings were weathered away, and not as impressive as the towering views of green sea of farms, palm trees, and plains of Madhya Pradesh. Small villages dotted the otherwise fertile farmlands. Atop the mountain, it was extremely hot, and there were protruding rocks, which reminded me of the Lion King. I went back via bus and rickshaw, and then saw the sunset over Sanchi again. After this, I went to go eat, and then I went to bed. This is a tourist’s paradise; a plethora of deserted sites, there are no souvenirs to spend your money on, and nobody is hassling you.

Sunday, September 17 Mosquitoes, Dogs, Cows, Street Sweepers, Marriage, Bus

I had a dream that I was swimming at the beach, and Todd Henderson was the lifeguard, and some child drowned and we had a Hindu funeral for him. Besides this, I had a horrible time sleeping. The power and fan went off, so it was blistering hot and I had no choice but to stay under the covers, as the buzzing of a mosquito was on the other side of the blanket. Really, what is the point of mosquitoes? I hate them. But I have to say, I respect them. For people to reproduce, it’s pretty easy, thy just need a secluded setting. For mosquitoes to reproduce, they have to run through a gauntlet in order to avoid swatting hands, electrical coils, cow tails, and spider webs. God must have endowed them with a libido larger than an unneutered dog in spring. I woke up with a bunch of dogs lazing on my porch, which I had to “shoo” away. I even cockblocked two dogs mating in the street. When I walked towards them to try and take a picture, they tried to run away, but were joined and I thought at first it was a Siamese Twin dog. I was considering whether I’d rather be a dog here or in the United States. Here, they’re just so free and happy. Then, a storeowner ran up to one, and with a five-foot metal rod, smacked the helpless thing on the back, sending it running and squealing in pain, with its tail between its legs. Ok, I change my mind. As a dog I’d rather be in my air conditioned dry house, with two guaranteed meals a day, no fleas, and trips to the park and the groomer, thank you. It’s worth getting neutered and not being able to roam free the streets of a third world country competing with people for garbage pickings. Now, would I rather be a cow in India or the United States. That’s painfully easy. In India, not only are they free to roam, but they are gods that are worshipped. Most likely, this is because they represent wealth and land for their owners. This is probably why Shiva is always seen with his bull, Nandi. 40-foot buses swerve around them, and hitting one is like running over your own mother. However, they roam the streets of India and pick through trash, getting plastic bags stuck in their stomachs, leading to slow and painful deaths. And, people aren’t always nice to cows; Muslims eat them, people work the males hard and overmilk the females, cow herders throw rocks at them and hit them with bamboo sticks. Another thing I noticed as I walked out of my hotel was how refreshingly clean the streets were. Although there are no garbage cans or recycling programs, people throw trash anywhere they please like a baseball game, and the streets are disgustingly unsanitary, for now they were clean. This is because right now the street sweepers were out doing their job. They do this job every day, and today it was a father and daughter about 12 years old, bent over using wicker hand brooms to gather paper, dust, and shit into piles to be taken away for other people to sort through for salvageable items. These people, known as rag pickers, use things we wouldn’t think twice about throwing out; dung, water bottles, fabrics, and plastic containers. They can also fix anything, from my sandals to headphones to ripped pants, which I would throw away. I can’t even imagine doing this job. If you think dumpster diving in the United States is bad, you should step into their desperate shoes (doubtful if they even have any). We have dumpster divers in California, mostly unskilled immigrants that collect cans for recycling money. But I think even this is dirty. Hell, I complain about when I am assigned to shovel trash into the dumpster at the fraternity. Imagine being forced into this miserable life. This is also reinforced by Hinduism, that these people accumulated some bad karma in a past life to be put in this position. Most likely Dalits, or Untouchables, they are too impure to even fit into the hierarchical and rigid caste system, which is not supposed to still exist and if you ask any Indian, he will say that caste doesn’t matter now. Therefore, they are resigned to doing “dirty jobs”, like tanning, street sweeping, and cleaning toilets. And unlike American janitors who make three times as much as schoolteachers with master’s degrees, these janitors make close to nothing. They are, in many parts of India, not allowed to sit next to, talk to, eat with, let alone touch members of the high-caste. Speaking of cleaning, the bus I took to Dhar had just been cleaned, meaning opening all the windows and hosing down the entire thing. I got all wet. Then I talked to one young Hindu guy in broken English about marriages. He told me that he has a lot of girlfriends (who knows if that’s true), and that he enjoys that, but he’d rather have his mother arrange his marriage (as 95% of Indians do). This way, if it doesn’t work out, it’s not as much his fault and doesn’t disgrace his family. And he can’t possibly find all the right qualities in a girl, whereas a matchmaker can find a suitable match as similar social status, caste, and family. From there, the two can meet (with parental supervision, of course), and then he can choose whether or not to marry. After he got off the bus, an agricultural family got on the bus, and brought their herd of 20 goats, who they crammed in the back. There were so many goats that they were overflowing into the aisles, and one was even pushed under my feet. Then I put back in my headphones and listened to 2Pac. I offloaded and got off the bus at Dhar, only to reboard another empty bus to Indore. I slept most of the way, and got sprayed by the brown mud from the pothole-filled road. But only part of my shirt got it, so my shirt looks like a spray paint stencil. At Indore I ate at a Budget Lunch restaurant, basically for businessmen and bus passengers en route. It was lined with only single tables, and you get a standard 4-course thali meal, with unlimited vegetables, potatoes, dal, rice, chapati, salad, and curd. Young men made the chapati and served them often, very efficient. It was my kind of restaurant; cheap, fast, and unlimited good Indian food. Indore was very industrialized at parts, and gross and industrial at others. It’s a center for finance, seen by its many modern banks and office buildings. The bus from Indore to Bhopal took five hours, and the driver made it hell. While the eight-year old little girl (who looks like Missy Elliott and is probably taller than her, too) was laughing as we bounced over the pothole-filled road at full-speed, I was less amused. The driver didn’t stop once, unless you call a California stop a stop. However, I love taking the bus and just taking in the landscape. It’s the best way to get the feel for a place. While others will just fly or take the shortest route possible, I enjoy driving and being fully awake to see and enjoy the entire landscape. Entirely rural and green, Madhya Pradesh is especially stunning. We got into Bhopal, the city of lakes, but it was dark. Then I transferred to the Sanchi bus, which stopped for a flat tire, what’s new. But what was funny about this time was that sitting on top of the bus were nine spare tires. Apparently this happens a lot. The conductor got lazy and forgot to tell me to get off, so I had to go to some random town of Vidisha, comprised of a bus stand and only a bus stand. I had to wait to go the other way, and it was dark, 88 degrees of heat, and itchy with mosquitoes. I got out at Sanchi, and checked into the first hotel I saw. It was a small place, but the room was paradise compared to what I was used to. Meaning, it had no trash, a working fan and shower, window screens, and semi-clean sheets.