Indelible Images of India

It's been an amazing, interesting, colorful, odiferous, educational, inquisitive, and acquisitive trip to India. And we have one last purchase that absolutely, positively must be made. Gigi has been excited to get henna tattoos since we arrived, and I promised her we could do this on our last day in Delhi. It should be done just before heading back to Paris, ideally, in order to maximize its impact on classmates. At the local market, there is a row of henna artists who do this for 50 rupees per child's arm (just $1), or 100 rupees for the adults. Traditionally it is meant for brides, but we're not the only ones doing it just for fun. And no, it's not really indelible. But in theory, it should last for a couple weeks. Ours turn out lighter than we expect (what you're seeing below is the design before the mud dries and gets brushed off), so we'll probably only get a week or so out of them.

 

Bridal henna:

 

Tourist henna:

 

 

Now that we are at the end of our two-week vacation, I can answer the question posed in the intro to this blog. Yes, it does indeed make sense to travel with small children -- and my parents -- to India, even though they don't like spicy food. At least, it makes sense with the way we do this trip (I think trying to replicate with them the sort of backpacker adventure I had in my twenties would be completely distastrous, however...). We are able to order nearly everything "no spice," eat in clean restaurants and -- heaven be praised -- avoid Delhi Belly, buy scads of colorful and affordable souvenirs, and generally have an unforgettable trip with aunt, uncle, and grandparents. I can't even imagine having done something like this with my own grandparents and am so thrilled that my children will always have this memory.

 

 

 

Besides what is burned in our brains, the other indelible images I am referring to are these -- some of my favorite photos that didn't find a home elsewhere on the blog:

  
 

My parents, covering their heads in a temple. My father appears to be aiming for the Russian babushka look:

 

The incredibly beautiful saris of India. Many of the women look more elegant and dressed-up when shopping at the outdoor market than I did at my own wedding. No exaggeration.



The local butcher. Everything about this picture just kills me. It explains why we only eat at "fancy" places, in a nutshell:

Honest-to-goodness snake charmers. Yes, they are real snakes.

 

 

All that's left is to pack up, get to the airport....and discover that while we have been here, American Airlines has completely shut all operations in India and left my parents stranded without any valid ticket or reservations to get home. As we wonder if my parents will ever escape, the girls and I get on our plane to Paris. And with this, we say goodbye to India.

Porno Puppets & Other Obscenities

We are in Rajasthan, an Indian state known among other things for colorful crafts including hand-stamped woodblock printed fabric (we buy a ton), camel leather shoes (Aunt Coca gets one pair for each girl to go with their saris), and hand-knotted Oriental carpets (the one thing I love but don't buy, since spontaneous $4,000 purchases are not in my current souvenir budget).

 

Of the crafts, puppets would seem to be one of the more accessible and appropriate for the children. However, the particular show we see, one evening in the garden of our hotel, is not just colorful but off-color, too. One marionette turns out to be a man one direction, and then a woman when flipped upside down. The puppeteer takes full advantage of this configuration and manages to manipulate it in such a way that both puppet heads show at once, as he graphically simulates the making of the beast with two backs, the makin' of bacon, a romp in the hay, bananas and cream, a feather-bed jig, getting Jack in the orchard, having a bit of giblet pie, nugging, quimsticking, some squat jumps in the cucumber patch, trimming the buff, vitamin F, winding the clock. In case you are getting worried about my in-depth knowledge of oddball euphisms, I would like to come clean about my getting dirty and tell you that most of these are taken from the Department of Translation Studies, at the University of Tampere, Finland. In the course of researching this paragraph, I come across this most excellent list of euphamisms for every private part and act both sexual and scatalogical. Sometimes I wonder how I ever made it through college without the internet.

I am relieved to report that my girls have no idea what the puppets are doing, but all the grown-ups are practically crying. My sister's family saw this same puppet show when they were here over Christmas and I am told that my high-school and college-aged nephews nearly peed their pants they were laughing so hard.

 

  

But what is really obscene is the amount my father tips at the end of the show. I am trying to get out some money to tip, and am fishing in my bills for a 100 rupee note. My father gets there first, handing the puppeteer a 500 rupee note, which is really far too much for the local economy (at $10). To compare: we have been told to tip 500 rupees per day for our driver/guide whom we adore. Or, we could hire a rickshaw driver in New Delhi to pedal us around for seven hours for that price. My mother gets the girls their own -- fully G-rated -- puppets, bargaining the puppeteer to a fair my-husband-just-drastically-overtipped-you discount.

There are two sides to the raging over-tipping debate: my father's side, which is that $2 per person is nothing to see a show and, besides, the $10 means nothing to us but a lot to the puppeteer. Valid arguments but, on the other side, we are supposed to do our best as responsible travelers not to raise prices egregiously on the local economy, thereby ruining it for the locals. Of course we will always pay more than a local, but if the discrepancy is too great, then the local shopkeepers/rickshaw drivers/restaurant owners/puppeteers will only want to sell to/drive around/feed/perform for tourists. I mean, how guilty will we feel if we read in the papers that the children of Rajasthan are suddenly being deprived of pornographic puppetry?

Spice Market: A Smell-o-Vision Report

Today we visit the spice market on Khari Baoli road in Chandni Chowk, a section of Old Delhi. In this case, the old adage that "Getting there is half the fun" is very true. We take the metro partway, with the girls, my mother, and sister-in-law enjoying the air-conditioned spaciousness of the Women's Only car. Yes, the metal detector is just to go on the metro.

Then, the real fun begins with rickshaw rides for everybody for a few hours, weaving in and out of traffic, through the narrow and highly redolent/odiferous alleys of Old Delhi at 70 rupees ($1.40) per hour, per rickshaw.

To fully describe this site and, frankly, all of India, the girls and I have decided that we need to have Smell-o-Vision -- a camera that will record and transmit smells. First off, in the spice store itself, we smell and buy lots of cumin, cardamom, star anise, tandoori and tikka coatings, and masalas (a word which simple means "spice mixtures").

  

Nearby, my brother leads us through a narrow, dark back alley, up some extremely questionable and clearly-condemnable stairs to a rooftop for a view down into the spice market. And into the showering, sleeping, and living areas of many presumably poor families. Of course, given the state of this country, these people could be considered middle class for all I know. But if so, it really can't be more than just barely.

  

The alley itself smells so strongly of frying hot chili peppers, it makes us gag and cough and sputter. I can manage the return trip only by breathing through the fabric of my sleeve -- my elbow crushed against my face. It's as painful as actually eating the chilis but in a different way. Instead of the burn in your mouth, it's in your lungs. Not for the faint of heart. Or the heavily asthmatic. My kids continue to amaze me: They run this gauntlet with flying colors and not a whimper. Although the rail-less, rubble-filled, and sometimes poop-covered stairs do give them pause. And rightly so.

Other candidates for Smell-O-Vision we wish we could "Odorgraph" and send you:

• The waterways in Delhi, even in the "good" part of town (strong smell of sewage)
• The temples (incense burning, smoky and intensely perfumed)
• The streets (choked with exhaust fumes, and also not for the highly asthmatic)
• The streets, fields, and anywhere there are cows. Which is everywhere (ever-present odor of cow manure)
• The masala chai (is there any other tea that can compete with this? Not in my mind. Or nose, anyway)