Shout Out #16

Trip Start Jun 05, 2006

Trip End Ongoing

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Flag of India Delhi, India
Sunday, March 25, 2007

Three Days In Delhi
All the doors lock when the key is turned left, lights are on when the switch is down, traffic is meant to travel on the left, but this is Delhi, people and traffic go everywhere. To say that everything is backwards would be a crude mis-judgement; it's more a matter of there being different principles of operation than anything I'm familiar with. (How can this driver know were he is?) The only reassurance I have about being taken to the correct place is that this is a government pre-paid taxi. (Is that guy peeing on the sidewalk? Was that even a sidewalk?) My faith is a little shaken though-he started asking if Paharganj was my only interest. (Damn, I gave him that sheet I was supposed to keep until I was dropped off too. He won't give it back.)
He dropped me off in an area with many hotels and showed me one of the nicest, a place with hefty commissions for government taxi employees

. Whether this hotel is actually in Paharganj is a mystery, but I really only said Paharganj because I knew nothing about the city, or India, at all. "No thanks on that fancy spot, I'll look for myself." An audience was waiting for me outside. Actually, it was more a cabinet of advisers. "You need hotel sir? I know just the place. How much would you like to pay? Come with me sir....cheapest, and, BEST! Don't go there sir. That place is no good." (They don't pay commissions) "Come with me sir, those guys are touts." (And what exactly is your job title?) I went on a limb and chose a place against the advice of my esteemed cabinet members. It had everything I was seeking in that particular instance; namely, solace from the backpack hounds. It also had a bed, a little place where I could set my backpack down, and a bathroom I would only use in emergencies.
Food is typically priority #2 upon arriving after a day of travel. I believed that yes, the cabbie did most likely drop me off in the correct area. With that assumption, I went in search of the Main Bazaar; walking some alleys thinking I may stumble across it somewhere. I say walking, but that's not really possible in Delhi. More accurately, it was a process of steadily shifting my weight, rarely in a forward direction, dodging rickshaws, motorcycles, and cars, weaving through people, trying not to step on things I didn't recognize- and some things I did- keeping my eye on the dogs, and staring dumbly at an enormous cow

. For some reason, the cow caught my attention. I don't know whether it was his eyes or the self assured stance he took, but I realized, he was the one in charge. The dogs ran around like angry teens craving attention. The people were in too much of a hurry to be in charge, especially those in cars. It had to be the cow. He just sat there, taking it all in. I don't know how I knew, I just knew. I shifted my weight past the cow, staring back over my shoulder as I went, dodged many more obstacles, and, ultimately arrived at some destination- not where I began and not the Main Bazaar.
There were plenty of food options though. Delhi, of all places, is the first place where I took no concern over what I ate, at least, no concern over the ingredients; what was intended to be in the food. (Every time I sat down, I wondered whether this one would be it- the one to ruin my life for a week and completely destroy my love of Indian food) I could just point- who cares where my finger aims- it would all be perfectly satisfactory for me. I ate a lot. Samosas on the street, unlimited thali plates (35 rupees- about 75 cents- endless food), curries, multiple desserts at the numerous Sweets shops...it was a three day feast. Food may have been the highlight of those three days- at least while I was there. Looking back, there were some far grander moments I wasn't yet ready to appreciate.
With food, the thalis were my favorite

.  The waiter gave me a cafeteria plate with rice in the center surrounded by three different sauce dishes and chapati on the side- mix it up with your hands, grab a small portion, and toss it into your mouth...until you can no longer eat. I saw only men in the restaurants.
     I like to walk; sometimes very long distances in a day. A city reveals so much more on foot than in a taxi or rickshaw. Delhi is no different. There's so much to see going down one street- men in turbans having chai at the little stove assembled on the street, men in turbans with chin-straps, men with beards tied below their chins, men with mustaches cruising by on a motorcycle, women in beautiful saris with dangling jewelry, the fact that there are so fewer women than men walking around, the slogan on the police car- "We will be with you at your door"- (I cringe every time I see a police officer now), the cars and the horns, the kids in school uniforms, a woman in a colorful sari dancing in the center of a group of men beating tablas, and the homeless people. The poverty is extreme, but again, it has a different nature than anywhere else I've been. They are some of the poorest of the poor but their spirit is strong, unbroken.
     I like walking and I'd like walking in Delhi much more if it wasn't so damn hard. Short distances feel like arduous treks. "You mean I have to go a full block to get to the train station? That's like 20 rickshaw drivers (all calling at me), 15 shop owners (calling out at me ), 10 dogs, 7 cars, 13 motorcycles, about 3,000 miscellaneous pedestrians (some calling out), and the cow (I can't keep my eyes off the cow) that I will have to get past. Can I get train tickets anywhere else; somewhere closer?"
     Retracing my steps down a Delhi road would take the efforts of a highly skilled team of detectives- straight lines just don't exist

. "He could have only made this move when the motorcycle, rickshaw, and tout converged here at once, leaving him only enough room to plant the right foot on this little crack in the building wall, leaping over the wet spot, spinning nearly 115 degrees, then landing on his left foot- the foot being rotated to face the opposite direction of travel."
"Agreed Doctor. This stance forced him into a full Michael Jackson, followed by a partial James Brown, transitioning into an MC Hammer slide- his ultimate escape."
"Very astute Doctor. The horns and the hollering must have caught him off guard- obviously new in town."
"We can only hope he learns in time."
     Retracing my thoughts along that same voyage would be something akin to a seismograph peaking and plunging during The Big One; going from total enjoyment- walking with a big goofy grin for apparently no other reason than the fact that I'm walking down a street in Delhi with no idea what's going on- the Buddhist symbol of compassion on my forehead- to the extreme opposite, total frustration for no other reason than the fact that I'm walking down a street in Delhi with no idea what's going on- the opposite of the Buddhist symbol of compassion stamped on my head: the swastika.
      I awoke on the first morning in town to the sound of a cat fighting The Chipmunks over the beat of Indian drums. The three Indian men staying in the room across the hall thought, "Hey it's 6 AM...let's party!!" When my heart started again, I promptly packed my bags and checked into another place. When I asked the man at the desk if they had any rooms available, he gave me a very Indian reply. With the standard side to side head bob (something I've learned can mean anything from hello, goodbye, thanks, you're welcome, we're talking and I can see that you're hearing what I'm saying, we're talking and I'm hearing what you're saying, I come in peace, and much more.) (I've wondered how long it will take before something clicks and my head starts bobbing as I speak) and the also standard spin of the hand (palm outward, spun inward as if screwing in a light bulb) he said, "Yes why not." (For you sir, we always have a room.)
     Once showered and thali stuffed, I thought, "I am in Delhi, I guess I should go see some stuff

. Maybe I'll walk to Lal Quila (The Red Fort)." (I was feeling ambitious- an ambition propelled mostly by the desire to not have to deal with a rickshaw driver) "I think I'm in Paharganj, if I can get to that big road over there, maybe I can see a street name and figure out the direction to go." The big road was a long walk in Delhi standards. I was trying to get there with a measure of sanity and came across that cow again; this time standing and staring at all he controls. I couldn't help it, I had to ask him how it was done. "How can anybody walk in these streets?"
He answered. "A pebble in the stream is shaped by the forces of the stream. Its smooth contours are the contours of the water itself. Just as Michaelangelo is David and David is Michaelangelo, the pebble is the stream."
"Great help Cow! Thanks a lot! You want to say that one again in English?"
"Alright. You want to cross the street? Watch, just like this...one foot in front of the next." And he swaggers slowly across the street and all the cars stop without honking and all the people get out of his way and I'm amazed- not because I talked to a cow- BUT, because the cow was right!
By the time I got to the big road, I cared less about walking to someplace near the somewhere I was. I decided to give a rickshaw driver a chance. My opinion of rickshaw drivers was roughly equivalent to that of Southeast Asian tuk-tuk drivers, on a slightly more desperation level of persistence. My opinion also fluctuates quite a bit based on my mood. The cow had just told me the truth so I was feeling pretty good; I recognized how tough their circumstances are. They work morning to night so they can eat and the cycle rickshaw drivers are often homeless

. I typically don't like using any type of rickshaw because the drivers constantly try to take foreign passengers to stores where they receive a commission just for getting them in the door, and the ride becomes a relentless sales pitch where it becomes necessary to say "Shut up and get me to where I want to go, not where you want me to go." I often feel a sort of compassionate indifference- I still remember that they just want to eat, though I'm not about to hire them. When they keep coming after me- "Helloo. Helloo, mister. Rickshaw? Yes? You are going? Hello, very cheap. Mister. Hello." -and I walk past and they keep calling and five more join in and five more after that until I get to the end of the street, I go from a compassionate indifference to an intense desire to tell them all to piss off. In this particular moment, largely due to me being relatively clueless about my locale, I decide to give a guy a chance.
"How much to Red Fort?"
"80 rupees."
"80? I was told it should cost 40."
"Go by the meter, you'll see, it'll be 70 and you can give me 10 for tip."
"You've got a meter? Okay, sounds good."
As we started down the street, the lights on the meter never lit up

. "Hey, the meter's not on."
"It's on sir. Don't worry."
It is huh? I had to laugh about that one- a trick I hadn't seen yet.  I don't mind too much about paying too much, if they don't bother me and they take me to where I want to go. I was excited to see what he was going to do when he dropped me off too. I didn't make him stop or turn it on. If I got scammed, it was 40 rupees (less than $1) and I was willing to pay for the educational experience of seeing a new trick. During the ride, my mind was so caught up in everything I saw (we went through some poor areas, busy roads, and ended on a historic street in Old Delhi) that I just paid the 80 and completely forgot to ask about the meter. I still regret not calling him on his meter trick, just because I missed out on Phase II of the scam. He got me on Phase I.
     Prior to visiting the Red Fort, I stepped into a Hindu temple for a moment of quiet. Before being allowed in, I was searched for any leather products- Cow's rules.
     Life in India involves an unbelievable amount of bureaucracy. Hotels want passport numbers, visa numbers, last destination, onward destination, home address, a signature, and sometimes my father's name. Some internet cafes want the same information, minus the travel routes

.  Visiting tourist sights can involve buying a ticket (often more than one slip of paper) checking bags at a counter, going through security and being frisked (for gum or other such contraband), and sometimes, electronics have to be checked at the gate. At the Red Fort, I only had to buy a ticket and get frisked. Getting a ticket involves waiting in line, waiting in lines involve cutting, pushing, and generally mobbing the ticket agent. I made the mistake of leaving an American-sized gap of personal space between myself and the surrounding members of the horde, three people snuck in. When I stood closer, protecting my existence, the guy behind me climbed on my back.
     After Laos and Cambodia, and the 7 months before that, I was worn out. Although I had some relaxation in Thailand, I arrived in India still feeling tired. Delhi was not rejuvenating. Although the Red Fort was impressive- built by the same Mughal emporer responsible for the Taj Mahal- I enjoyed it more for the escape from the chaos.
     When in doubt in India, turn to Ghandi. About a kilometer away, an easy walk down a large road in a business district with few rickshaws, is the Ghandi Memorial and the Ghandi Memorial Museum. In the business district there were several bookstores selling mostly books about running businesses, accounting, and dealing with Americans. India is growing.
     On a corner at the intersection of two roads, there was a large statue of Ghandi's head and shoulders. Thinking it was the memorial, I crossed the street. It was actually a sign for the Ghandi Learning Center. On a patch of concrete in the shadow of the statue- an icon of India's potential- several homeless families were living in makeshift tents.
"Hellooooo

. From what country do you come sir?" People frequently came up only to ask the same question. "Aah, America good country. What is your good name sir? How long in India? Do you like India? Welcome to India sir. Nice meeting you." Many people just simply wanted to shake my hand, find out where I'm from, and go on there way. Everywhere I moved, I was being watched. At the Ghandi Memorial, the place where he and his daughter were cremated after both being assassinated 40 years apart- several people asked the questions as I walked around the upper square path. People in the lower level walked up to the black marble platform to pay their respects. I didn't want to deal with security so I stayed above. The memorial is in a serene park in Old Delhi. Again, I enjoyed the quiet and the views out of the park- industrial buildings in one direction, concrete homes stacked along the road in another- more than the feature attraction.
Across the street, the Ghandi Memorial Museum does a great job of capturing the essence of Ghandi's life and the power of that essence. There were many of his noteworthy statements on the walls, Ghandi-focused art, his possessions (clothes, books, glasses, and a few other things), photos, and accounts of the events in his life- imprisonment, learning to spin cloth, his salt march, and the nature of peaceful resistence.
He was passionate about preserving the tradition of spinning

. Throughout India the art had almost died due to outside economic influences. Without the need for hand-spun fabrics, many villages had little economic opportunities. Ghandi sought the help of an elderly woman to teach him the art. He began advocating spinning and encouraged Indians to buy hand-spun clothing and materials. He also worked to advance the design of cheap and effective spinning wheels to aid in promoting the ideals. Spinning provided work in several other markets as well. Farming, carpentry, weaving, and dying all contributed to the production of hand-spun clothes. More importantly, the work renewed people's spirits. He spoke of industrialization as being okay when there is much work and few hands, but in India, where there are many hands and little work, industrialization is deadly.
I left feeling mentally rejuvenated and physically tired. It was the perfect opportunity to provide work for a hungry cycle-rickshaw driver. "To Connaught Place my good friend. There will be no more sightseeing in Delhi."
Connaught Place is a large circular mall with arcaded walks. It forms two rings around a central patch of grass. Wealthy locals and tourists mill about the arcade whilst shopping, sitting in restaurants, and being seen. I needed new sandals (I've been trying to find a suitable, western sized replacement for the Reef sandals I blew out in Railey Beach 5 months ago) and a cafe hide out

. I was seen; a homeless girl with her baby sister approached me for food money. I agreed to buy them food, but they wanted McDonalds- a burger nonetheless. "Come on now, Indian food is incredible. McDonalds doesn't even serve food." I thought of pointing out that the burgers are beef and remembered that McDonalds burgers aren't. "Alright, I'm not the one who has to eat it." Walking into an Indian McDonalds ("Family Restaurant") is an experience. It's full of wealthy Indians scrambling to get trays full of McVeggieBurgers. Chicken is the only non-vegetarian item on the menu. The most frightening aspect was that, though it was packed, I was able to walk right up and order. McDonalds may be the only place in India where that is possible. Some McDonalds Family Restaurants even deliver. The girl walked with me and ate the veggie burger Indian style, pulling off pieces and tossing them in her mouth, just like she would with a curry plate.
On 'Day 2 In Delhi', I slept in. The day's agenda was simple: food, tea, writing in cafes, and a little bit of walking. I took a left from the bustling alley onto a larger road, and wandered. The road ran parallel to the train tracks, through a poorer part of town, past a patch of land with kids going around on a mini ferris wheel, into one of the densest crowds I've ever witnessed. It was a bazaar on Sunday. Traffic was a virtual standstill, horns blared, people shuffled, vendors sold (produce, tea, dried nuts, roots and twigs, clothes, and household goods), and I wanted to photograph everything

. My only restraint was the desire to not attract any more attention than I already had. I noticed fewer hustlers and more smiles as I passed. Everyone looked or stared, many said "Hellooo", and some shook my hand and asked where I'm from. "America. Good country." (I've adopted the habit of telling touts I'm from Guatemala (using an accent of course) - an attempt to sidestep the series of bait questions. I am then either asked where Guatermelon is, or they try to repeat what I've said and dive right into the sales. America=money, money=persistant tout pursuit.)
Just as I made it through the bizzare bazaar, I started wondering exactly where I was, and if where I was, was where I wanted to go. I didn't want to, but had to do it. The consequences were more favorable than roaming blindly...I looked at my map. Looking at a map is roughly the equivalent of telling a rickshaw driver I'm from America. Almost instantly several rickshaws appeared out of thin air. "Whoa, wasn't that a produce stand a second ago?" I focused on the map. "Hellooo. Hellooo. Yes, Mister. Rickshaw? You are going?" The map said it all. I found out the name of the road I was on, where I had walked, and that, yes, the airport taxi driver had taken me to Paharganj. That shifty bugger even took me to a better place than the big backpacker's bazaar, which I would have discovered had I gone right onto the road rather than left. "Alright, back through the madness." I dodged the rickshaw drivers; happy to walk. (I had no idea how they could even get through that crowd. I didn't know how I even made it through on foot. I did know that it was possible and that I had indeed already done it once.)
As I passed the spot with the kids on the ferris wheel I walked over to take a peek. It was an empty patch of dirt between the train fences and a wall along the road

. A man was manually pushing the wheel in circles, older kids were playing cricket, and several people looked happily surprised to see me peering in the gate. I was swarmed. A couple men came over to talk, a bunch of kids came to watch, and one kid came over to pull the arm attached to my wallet. The men told him to stop. I wanted to take pictures and I agreed to pay three of them if they would let me. We were all happy and I gave out 16 rupees (about 33 cents).  The swarm grew immediately after the photos were taken. I showed everyone the photos and decided to split before it got out of control. We shook hands goodbye and I continued onward.
     Two kids pulled up on a cycle-rickshaw further down the road; eager for their photo opportunity. They had been part of the group I just left. I paid them for a photo as well. As before, another swarm emerged as I showed the photo around. An older man came by and said, "Ah yes, a photo...cam-er-a", in a manner implying he was no stranger to such technologies.  The kids provided a rickshaw escape, and a better opportunity for me to pay without stirring riots. One spoke no English, the other was 20, the captain of his cricket team, finished school after grade 9, and had an 18 year-old girlfriend in grade 10. "She's smart", he said with a smile. They dropped me off down the street and I walked the remainder of the way to Connaught Place.
     Late in the afternoon, several hours later, I took a wrong turn on my way back. My mind wasn't in Delhi. It was in Kashmir, planning my route to a Himalayan ski resort I had just learned about. When I realized the error, I had to do it again...use the map. This time it was safe, there were few pedestrians or rickshaws and the guy who told me he liked my hair had just walked off. The error proved to be a minor deviation only. I turned the corner and went down another road with a sidewalk next to a wall

. (I have since learned to steer clear of sidewalks next to walls) Along the whole stretch of that block, piles of human shit sat in relatively frequent intervals. The wall was chock full of piss stains. Preferring to take my chances with the traffic, I swerved back into the street. At the end of the block, I came face-to-face (look up) with a man peeing on the sidewalk. Ten meters further, a little boy was squatting to crap. He just finished peeing and the piss dribbled into the street from between his feet.
The next morning I awoke, not to a catfight on wax, but to a group of Indian businessman using the hallway for a boardroom, at 6:30. In India, people talk LOUDLY. They are passionate, lively, emotional people and they talk with passion, life, and emotion. (I didn't know what they were saying because I only know English. In Delhi they speak Hindi, in Kashmir they speak Kashmiri, and 18 languages are recognized by the constitution. (I've been told there are 22 in total) Most speak three or four of the native tongues, and for many, English is virtually their first language- it is the official language of the judiciary system. I had high hopes of picking up some Hindi knowledge and still only know (and appreciate) the fact that 'namaste' means hello). I did not appreciate the lively nature of the early morning discussion taking place outside my door. I wanted to open the door and give them a business lesson on dealing with Americans- with a wholesome Protestant measure of restraint. Instead, I cursed the cow and acknowledged that I was in India. How can I expect them to not be Indian? It still didn't keep me from crawling out of bed before 9.
The big task of the day was acquiring a train pass. (If indeed the pass is the way to go. It's expensive but I will be moving around a lot. Yeah, but how many $5 train rides add up to that much? Several, but I've also got some long rides ahead of me; rides that will cost much more than $5 if I take higher class tickets and plan on remaining sane.) Internet research did little to settle the ongoing mental debate

. (Just get the pass and be done with it.) At the office in the station, the grumpy lady at the Information desk knew how to point to a sign, and when my questions weren't addressed by the sign, knew how to point to the Indrail counter for the passes- a counter with a line. (There are several million people outside who would love to have your job lady; any one of whom could learn to point at signs with as much efficiency. But unfortunately, they are all from lower castes and such jobs are not available to them.) Although the office was for tourists and the line was neatly seated on the couches, I had learned a few things about lines in India. I walked up to the guy behind the desk, cut in on the work he was doing for a Japanese tourist, and asked my questions. He may as well have pointed at signs, but I now knew exactly how the policies stood. I had to pay the money in foreign currency and nobody knew of any banks nearby. (Can I just give you the equivalent weight in gold? That would be far easier.) The bureaucracy is maddening. (Upon my return, I foresee happily making phone calls to multi-national corporations in America, waiting on hold in a circular series of computerized female voices telling me how eager they are to hear my voice, if I could, just, wait, a little bit, longer.) (How am I supposed to acquire that much money in any currency the Indian government considers more respectable than the rupee? Do I really have to walk all the way through Paharganj to visit all those banks I've seen?)
I walked

. The route led through all the maddening alleys winding from one end of the district to the other. Along the way I had to pull several, more advanced methods of evasion. All the while my mind was on the evil lady and her lazy finger and whether any of the banks would do cash advances- in dollars- on my debit card...and I step right in a big pile of cow shit. (Curse that damned cow! I want to hate the cow. I want to hate the cow but only because he told me the truth. Someday I will learn. Someday I won't be angered by rickshaw drivers and bureaucratic employees. I will be a better man and the cow's words will be so much more- they will no longer be just words. I will think pretty things, and I will talk about pretty things with all of my beautiful friends and family. I will place one foot in front of the next, without being distracted by all that is around me- swirling through my unfocused mind. I will love the cow (and his turds) and I will be thankful I met him. But for now, I am pissed off!)
Four hours later I was still angered. None of the banks did cash advances, especially not in dollars. The maximum withdrawal amount for ATM's was less than the cost of the Indrail pass, and they only give rupees. I would've had to take out the limit, wait for the next day (another day in Delhi!), take out more money, pay a shifty money-changer to convert it into dollars, euros, pounds, anything not Asian (maybe aside from yen), and then I could return and wait in line while filling out the paperwork

. I imagined the cow telling me, "Water flows downstream", and decided I'd just buy the ticket to Chandigarh for the next morning. The financial and bureaucratic costs for an Indrail pass were too much. Even the term 'Indrail' was annoying.
Once I had that ticket in hand, I was pleased. It would have been easy to pay a travel agent to handle it all for me, but the agents are mostly touts with store windows. It's not safe unless you absolutely know what you want, what it should cost, how much they're taking you for, and whether the ticket they just sold is even a ticket. I had to learn how it was done before I could decide whether I ever wanted to do it myself again. On my way back, I walked through the alleys with grace. At the door to my room, I turned the key in the right direction on the first try. I could flip on the lights without looking, swinging my hand downward across the switches. In the shower, I knew the correct series of handles to turn so that hot water came out. Things that are easy everywhere else, were getting easier in India.
I sometimes have dreams that are good only because a happy event takes place amidst mostly unpleasant scenes; the mood shifts and butterflies enter the picture, flowers bloom, and everything tastes like chocolate. I also have dreams that are bad only because one terrifying event takes place amidst entirely pleasant scenes; the mood shifts and it's all locusts, napalm, and everything tastes like that water I drank in Cambodia

. There were few smiles on my face during the "Great Train Ticket Ordeal" but that's not what I'll remember most. The events that really stick out in my mind, are the mood-shifters. There were few smiles that day, that is, until I saw a man riding a horse- in full gallop -down one of the busiest streets in the area. A second horse was running alongside him. Curiously, he was the one who looked at home. The cloth around his hair flapping in the wind and his dusty clothes just worked in India. My eyes don't tend to associate turbans with motorcycles. It's such a foreign sight for me.  The horses went by in a way that said, "This is my place, get all these crazy, horseless, motorized carriages out of my way." An Indian man from London looked at me and said, "Have you ever seen anything like that?"
"Nope, that's a first."
"Are you traveling here alone?"
"Yeah."
"Really? You must be crazy."
"Yeah, I'm starting to think so."
I was the only white guy around- watching two horses galloping down a street full of cars- and an Indian man was saying I was the one who was crazy. Maybe he was right.
     The horses brought a smile but it didn't quite shift the mood of my afternoon

. The big event- cue rainbows, waterfalls, and leaping fawns- came on the walk back to my room, ticket in hand. A group of kids were dragging a big uprooted tree down the same alley as my hotel. They used ropes tied to branches, tugged with all their might, and moved a few feet at a time. The tree was so big, the alley so narrow, that branches scraped along rickshaws off to the side and pedestrians had to slide by along the buildings. The cars had no option. By the time I came upon the scene, the kids were in a showdown with the cars coming towards them. How they made it that far down the alley before coming across oncoming traffic was a mystery in itself. Now they stood, face-to-face, with a large cluster of horseless carriages all blasting their horns repeatedly simultaneously. An equally sizeable cluster formed behind them as well- all also blowing their horns. The alley was a cacophony of car horns- horns that did nothing to free up the traffic. I squeezed by- laughing out loud- wondering how they would possibly get out of that jam. I didn't wait to find out either. I just bought some gulab jamun from a Sweets store and for some reason, it tasted quite a bit like chocolate.
The train started moving seconds after I sat down. (Who schedules these things before 10 AM? I bet it was that lady at the Information desk. It would be so nice if I had the power to freeze time for everybody else while I stole a couple extra hours of sleep each morning

. I could start my day at the same time as everyone else and it'd be like I started at 9 or 10 in the morning- perfect! I'd probably start staying up later and later into the night though and then I'd want to sleep in several more hours. The whole thing would end up being self-defeating and I'd have the whole world waiting for me and my whims. Oh well, at least I'd have super-powers.) (Why is it that everything in the U.S. is 'super'? Supermarkets, supercenters, Super Walmart, super-dooper! I'll never forget the humor of that Brit in Amsterdam. In a semi-heated debate about football vs. American football he cries out, "The Supah Bowl! The bowl, that is supah!" Anytime you put super in front of something, it really isn't.) It would be nice to feel like I was starting the day on an even keel with everybody else. I simply can't do it. Regardless of how tired or worn out I may be, my body will not sleep before 11 PM- and oftentimes much later- and it won't wake up before 10 AM, or later. I spend several hours of the day with a sleepy body trying to keep up with a mind that thinks it's 2 or 3 hours behind. My best thoughts come at night, when my body is fully awake and my mind is no longer concerned about catching up with the pace of the world. (Imagine how it would be if they were together all day long.) The view out of the train temporarily brought everything into alignment. Along the tracks, strips of land were preserved as a buffer between the trains and the slums crowded up against the unused space. Sometimes the buffer ended at a wall, the slums perched slightly above the wall. Sometimes the buffer ended at a fence and the slums sat just behind it. Sometimes, the buffer was simply a larger patch of land with slums further off in the distance. Much of it looked like a landfill. Most of the rivers, streets, and open spaces are full of garbage. There's nowhere else for it to go. Amidst all the trash in the unused buffer land, several men were squatting for their morning constitutional

. Some sat within a couple meters of the tracks, hundreds of windows cruising by with each train. Some sat by shrubs for a hint of privacy. Some sat not far from others. In one of the larger fields, 20 to 30 men were all having a shit. I wondered where the women went. (Maybe my friends in junior high were right- they don't?)
Next to one stretch of slums, a huge cluster of cycle-rickshaws were still parked in rows, awaiting the driver and the daily hustle. I remembered wanting to tell several of the drivers to 'piss off' and how a whole neighborhood had just one-upped me. And I was annoyed about having so little personal space; how I couldn't move without having drivers relentlessly in pursuit. (How did it get to be this way? Who am I to be bothered anyhow? In this moment, everything is right. Anyhow, most people were smiling and laughing more than I had been in the last three days.) I couldn't believe the conditions these guys had to live in though. And all I could think was, "Man, that's super-shitty."