Delhi can best be described by contrast to Calcutta.  Although there is an old Delhi, and it continues to get older, it is surrounded by New Delhi, which is in large part younger than World War I, or II for that matter. The streets are too wide, the traffic is accommodated, there are 100 trees for every person, it is clean, quiet and what a reasonably young, reasonably developed international capital should look like. It is green, with huge parks and green belts, even perhaps tropical, but not jungly-slightly less steamy. The slums are there, but mostly off the streets and sidewalks, and they “fit” rather than overflow.

It seems that India’s number one product is education. There must be money in it – because from pre-schools to engineering and management schools, their advertising dominates the billboards, power polls, building walls and newspapers. They also spring out of the slums and rice paddies or desert filed like mushrooms.

It may all work (education) but I must say the problem – solving critical thinkers are not in the tourist industry–Paige says that frequently she felt that the lights were on but no one was home. My favorite exchange became this: “Hello sir, may I help you? Yes, I’d like to…. . Oh I’m sorry sir, that is impossible but would you like to do it my way?”

We tried to get a train out of Delhi, at great effort and discouragement, to ultimately find the first opening 12 days hence – even on the roof top.

A driver we had to Jaipur told us that the military and police are utterly corrupt—-he said it has gone beyond the blood to the bones. His claim was  that one must pay a bribe of 250,000 rupees to get in the military and 300,000 to become a cop. The additional 50,000 rupees for the police is because they not only enjoy cushy pay, benefits and retirement, but can exact bribes too.

I think Indian english is the most difficult language to understand. This is because Indian english has become a real, new foreign language. Whereas most people speaking pidgin english or ESL say english words with a somewhat similar sound, to us the Indian English was just a true foreign language – like Russian or Basque – and spoken rapidly and long-winded too – because they think we understand.  Not!

Other than the out-sized, graceful government buildings – the only building of note is the Red Fort – built by a Mughal ruler in the 1600’s.

We saw the Taj Mahal in Agra. Don’t be afraid to miss it. There are too many wonderful experiences in India to waste a day doing it.  Google it – the photos are better than the reality.

On to Rajasthan – which shouldn’t be missed. From here to the western border, and north to the foothills, it gets dry like the Anerican west–one can imagine highway 99  to Fresno, or Boise, or Baja. But water turns it green. The area has a muslim/arabic feel – camels, elephants, horses, burros and Brahmas are all beasts of burden – common sights along side tractors and trucks.

Jaipur is an old town, and the old town is fascinating – dusty and hot – where the Moghul Muslims ruled as autocratically as any other kind religious despots. The observatory in town, and the Amber Fort out of town, in Amber–took as many slaves, years and as much of the subject’s money and yield as did 10 Notre Dames, St. Petersburgs or Versailles. And they are just as magnificent to behold.

Finally to the Punjab up in the northest, home to the Sikh people, the Sikh religion and it’s home the Golden Temple. The Golden Temple is visited by 80,000 to 200,000 people a day, from 3 a.m to 11 p.m., and more than 10,000 are fed daily, free. It is spectacular and hair-rasing in it’s impact.

An Indian differentiated the religions to us thusly – Buddhists are pacifists, Sikhs never start but always retaliate and win, Muslims initiate murder as part of their theology and Christians are schitzophrenic – turn the other cheek and an eye for an eye. Whatever – it served to make his point. Sikhs preach liberty or death–and apparently everyone is armed – the women carry 6 in. knives exposed on their waistbands.

Amritsar is a city not to be missed – it encompasses much of the mystery and history of India. It also adjoins the Grand Trunk Road, which is the longest and oldest road in India, running through Calcutta to Bangladesh (which used to be India) to Lahore, Pakistan (which used to be India). It was this road which we took to witness the absurdly theatrical dual flag lowering ceremony with India and Pakistan.

I took something from the ceremony – my belief that there are exceptions to the claim that one must bribe one’s way into the Indian Army. I think that if one is over 6′ 5″ and fit – he gets in for free – and is assigned to the Pakistani border guard contingent. These 20 guys looked more like an NBA team than the Heat. But of course so did the 20 guys on the Pakistan side – which is probably why neither country can get basketball going as a sport—the only tall guys are guarding the border!

Internet service is bad – so photos will follow later…

Bill composed a list of the countries he wanted to visit on our trip – 1/3 of the way down it said Pakistan. Knowing Bill it had one of two meanings: we were going there come hell or high water or he knew darn well we couldn’t and he was trying to get a reaction out of me.

My response – no and hell no!

I was a bit worried when the we flew to the town of Amritsar, India only 28 kilometers from Pakistan. I keep reiterating my mantra…

Bill told me Amritsar was home to the highest population of Sikhs and since we have learned about the Buddhist and Hindus it would be a place to learn another spiritual sect.

So… off we headed last night – the sign read Lahore, Pakistan.

Of course, we couldn’t get into Pakistan without a visa but we did go to the changing of guards at the border.

A showdown between Pakistan and India to see who’s military can out perform and out stage the other and who’s country has the best cheering section!!!

The crazy process of getting to the staging area is like a mad dash for free seats at a World Cup soccer match. I was more worried about getting trampled by the thousands of people than being captured and held for ransom by Pakistan.

Great fun was had by all. Bill got to see Pakistan and I felt safe.

Elote asada at the border

Ice pop

Getting ready to open the gate

Men’s line or men’s riot

Woman’s group – they look mild in this photo – some were ruthless. Bill was a bit concerned when they split us up.

First pat down had to go thru the line with our arms up. We were not allowed to bring purses or any sort of bag – only cameras.

Pakistan

India

Indian women’s section – so colorful – there was a mixed (family & friends section too)

Pakistani women’s section

More of India’s section

More of Pakistan

Indian military guard in the showdown

Pakistani and Indian military at the border

The military have a choreographed march – either one at a time or a few together

The soldiers walk briskly towards the border kicking their legs high above their head then stomping firmly on the ground with a stern face. It is comical.

More pomp and circumstance

Face to face

This man guarded us

A war of words???

Calcutta (Kolkata) – an urban city over crowded beyond belief, erupting with people, garbage, taxi cabs, buses and life so far removed from ours.

In the shadows of glorious and stunning Victoria’s Memorial, sidewalks are overflowing with people – sleeping, visiting or working at their squat business (a 3′ by 1.5′ shop set up on the sidewalk) that the only place to walk is on the overcrowded streets hoping to not get knocked over by a car’s rear view mirror. Continuous horns blast… warning danger is only millimeters away.

Buildings are covered in mold – paint a faded memory. Drying laundry is hung like graffiti from anything that keeps it off the ground. Water pumps on the street side edge of the sidewalk are surrounded by bathers, clothes launderers and dish washers – all competing for space. Backs of men are lined up at the public urinals (women you’re on your own).

I try and imagine this happening around Union Square in San Francisco…..

Women dress in colorful sarees and men wear western clothes or longyi (skirts like their neighbors in Burma).

The streets are filled with thousands of little yellow taxis (sturdy, diesel and built like a London car from the 50’s), busses lined with scratches from accidents past and puffing black smoke, an occasional personal car, tuc tucs and old fashioned rickshaws – powered by leathered, skinny men sweating from pulling a family in the thick humid air – all competing for space.

Our eyes burn from the heavy monsoonal air – exhaust and street smells are trapped by it.

We needed to clear our lungs and the fresh Himalayan air of Darjeeling sounded perfect – one would think we had enough of that in Tibet, Bhutan and Nepal.

The journey started with a 13 hour overnight train ride, the only gringos on board. Our train compartment was a series of bunk beds divided by curtains. They provided sheets, a pillow, blanket and the rankest toilets imaginable. For the first 3 hours every 30 seconds or so a vendor would walk up and down the aisle singing their wares: chai, coffee, food with names we do not know nor could repeat, toys, sarees, nail clippers, toothbrushes and more.

1/2 hour down – 12 1/2 to go…

Train to Darjeeling

We rocked and weaved our way to the town of New Jalpaiguri where we were besieged by taxi drivers and begging women dangling their infants all in mysterious need of medicine. Bill negotiated the best driver and jeep – off we were for the next 3 hours climbing 7,000 feet through lush, tropical, jungly mountainous terrain where waterfalls were plentiful and tea trees grew thicker than grapevines in Napa.

Darjeeling

Again, one lane roads with drop offs measuring thousands of feet – this time paved. I am starting to think Bill is trying to rid me of my fear of flying.

Ah… the fresh air of Darjeeling…. where the British Raj had reared its ugly head leaving the town with the beautiful architecture of yesteryear. Indians, as well as, Tibetans, Nepalis, Sikkims and monkeys live here. They practice Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity and banana worship – I feels as if they have their own state or nation.

Monkeyville

The monsoonal fog looms low and makes Darjeeling feel a bit eerie. The rain falls heavy through out the day making room for the sun only minutes at a time.

Foggy tea plants

We stayed at the historical Windamere Hotel where 5 course meals are served by gloved waiters and Cole Porter played in the back ground. Afternoon tea was had in the drawing room by the fire – a drastic contrast to the sweltering heat of Calcutta.

The Windamere was built in the late 1880’s, initially a boarding house for bachelor tea planters from the UK aiming to make it big. Later becoming a hotel only after the Raj transferred the Bengal State seat of government from Kolkata to Darjeeling to seek relief from the hot summers – ironically run by a British Canadian women for the past 24 years.

Today 87 different tea farms grow and harvest in the hills. It is also home to the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute – training camp for the brave climbers of Mt. Everest and home to the first Sherpa to scale Everest.

We were blessed by a Hindu priest and Buddhist monk at their proudly co-shared temple and hiked in the pouring rain

The old, aristocratic Nepali owner of the hotel told us that his niece is an internist in Ross, Marin County. Although quaint and with a bit of a British hue to it – this area and Ross could not be from more different worlds – weird.

So now, we must go back down the mountain, through mist, clouds, monsoon rains, washouts, turn-outs, ruts and traffic jams – 2 1/2 hours to go 50 miles.

Pure excitement the moment we stepped into the heavy humid Calcutta air….