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My Journey Through India, Greece, and Turkey
A Short Hike ThroughIndia, Greece, and Turkey
October 7, 1993toNovember 1993
October
7, 1993ThursdayLos
Angeles/New York/Athens
At 8:20 a.m. I am
airborne heading east.Next stop, New York.I awoke at 4:30 a.m., and immediately looked at the
time.After dressing casually, I
gathered all travel gear together to inspect it for the last time.I eliminated items that were not essential to
my journey except for some instant coffee and a couple of small magic props
that I bring to entertain kids. Since I don’t speak any of the languages of any
of these countries I must do something that transcends language.If kids laugh then their parents are happy
too.I reviewed my basic itinerary, but
can't really lay it out since my purpose is to be able to change plans
spontaneously.I will change my plans
for the smallest reason, maybe weather, hearing stories from fellow travelers,
or just because I felt like it.Anything
could be adequate motivation to entirely restructure my destination and
timetables.I am only limited by money
(I've brought $1,500), and time (I can't stay here forever), and weather (if
turns really bad).
At six in the morning, I drive to a twenty-four-hour
drive-thru restaurant to eat acheeseburger with bacon and a cup of
coffee.I may not have this again until
I return to the U.S.I drove to the airport, where I logged on
for a seat at TWA, then returned home.Three dollars was paid for parking at the airport for fifteen minutes.Everything was gathered into my backpack, and
then with no time to spare we left for the airport.Truly no time to spare -- fortunately, I
drove at breakneck speeds, dodging cars, speeding up through two yellow lights.Stop!We're here at the terminal.Bang -- shut the trunk after getting my bags
out.Ran to Gate 34
and right onto the plane and back to the rear in a light sweat.Ahh!I made it in time.
October
8, 1993FridayAthens, Greece
As the airplane was
approaching the Athens airport I
saw heavy cloud covers, but the air was clear and warm.I arrived at the InternationalAirport, Athens, Greece.I was more than tired, but excited with the
invigoration that the discovery and exploration of new
lands bring.Immediately, without difficulty,
thanks to an inquiring Tourist Policeman, I caught the double-decked bus
to the Acropolis area.For ninety
drachmas I rode through busy streets of Athens.The city was preparing for elections.I wandered into a small travel agency with
lots of English signs on it.For me,
this was a welcomed sight.I spoke with
a young man who spoke English very fluently.
He warned me of areas of the city, which I must avoid.He provided me with a map and directions
leading straight through one of the areas he had just told me I was to
avoid.As a friend had mentioned before
I left, the Greek women are attractive and resemble, to my eye, the women of
Italy, certainly due to geographic factors and probably historical too.
After a dizzying hike through the maze of streets, I found
my hotel.I want to use most of my
money for the cost of transportation, so hotels were out.I found, with the travel agent's assistance,
my inexpensive hostel.I had a bed with
no sheet, and the mattress had obviously seen better days -- thin, worn, and
stained, nonetheless very clean.The
room is shared with five other young men.I showered, shaved, and then slept for two more hours.I paid the 1,500 drachmas, which is about
seven U.S. dollars, for the first night.I left the very plain quarters to explore this neighborhood by
foot.Tomorrow I will spend the first
day on a city tour.I walked by the base
of the Acropolis, which juts out of the city like the once-proud monument it
is.
What a wonderful moment this is to be in Athens, the
birthplace of democracy, and witness the excitement of the people on election
night.I only wish Americans reacted
similarly, flag waving rallies everywhere.Hardly no one, except the obvious tourist,
walked this night without a flag and yelling words of support to those, of
their political party, carrying similar messages.Young men on scooters with girlfriends in tow
holding banners in both hands, working the city to frenzy till about eight p.m.Posters littered the streets everywhere.Cars sped through the main thoroughfares heaving twenty flyers at a
time, at every fifteen-second intervals.I felt the excitement build.The
loudspeakers and noisemakers added to the moment.
It has been dark since seven; now it is 8:30, and the city is lit with neon as
I sit in a coffeehouse on the street and write this.
October
9, 1993FridayAthens, Greece
Back at the hostel, even though it's only a few minutes
after nine in the early evening, I'm tired and intend to sleep so that I'll be
alert for my 8:40 a.m.
tour.While I searched for postcards in
this borough of Athens, I see no
place to buy any cards except back in the downtown region.The food is exceptionally flavorful and
cheap.There are affordable eateries on
every street with few exceptions.
Because of a variation from English style in letter and
number appearance, I am having some difficulty using public
transportation.As I sit here in the
hostel, I hear Beavis & Butthead in the background on TV.I am conserving money as I have spent little
on room or food yet.I bought all film
before leaving, so I've been spared the extremely expensive prices that are
being charged locally.
I hope this tour will generate more enthusiasm in methan I am feeling
now.I see that this is almost
"just another Western European city.”As far as what I see, monuments here are not grander than all other
cities of Europe as I had hoped.While their historical significance is
indisputable, the appearance of these ancient artifacts didn’t thrill me.I must admit that the antiquities of Egypt were
cared for and displayed with more dignity and aplomb than what I am witnessing
here.Here, it is almost like they don’t
care that they are custodians of great and significant records of our
civilization.
Expenditures
Greece - Rate of
Exchange:230 Drachmas= $1.00
TOTAL
Tour of Athens(Paid U.S.)$25.00
Food800.00
dr.$5.00
Room1,500.00
dr.7.00
Misc.: Water, tip400.00
dr.2.00
Taxi ride to fish market4,500.00
dr.9.00$40.00
Postcards (4ea)150.00
dr.1.00
Breakfast: Coffee, roll500.00
dr.2.00
Bus Ticket Home100.00
dr..50
Ice Cream300.00
dr.1.50
Water & 2 Gyros800.00
dr.3.00
10 Postcards250.00 dr.1.00
Room Rent1,500.00
dr.7.00
Paper800.00
dr.3.00Day 39
Several people are going to sleep in our communal dorm-style
room.I'm not tired, so I came out of
the room and sat at the so-called "meeting place" here, which is
little more than a wide hallway with two small tables and six, even smaller,
chairs.Late into the night the flavors
of political rallies abound, sirens and horns blasting away with no end in
sight.Now at 10:40 p.m., my eyes are tired, but my body is
not; I'll close for the night.It's
about 65 F. and high humidity.
Expenses
Paper (280), Pen (400), Cigarette (300)980.00
Pistachios580.00
Gyros (3)600.00
Train tickets (2)125.00
Boat600.00
Motorcycle8,000.00+
Lunch (lamb cutlet)1,500.00
Room 2 x 1,500 (October 13, 1993 - Monday)12,350.00 dr.
October
9, 1993FridayAthens, Greece
Today is Election Day, but I have witnessed very little
campaigning.It is now about seven p.m., and I awoke from a short
two-hour nap, moments ago.
Because there is no mechanism to adjust my biological clock,
I am waking up at the right time IF I was back in L.A.I awoke at 3:30 a.m. this morning and quickly dressed.I left
the modest but clean bedroom and decided to enjoy the vision of Athens waking
up.Even at this early hour I had little
problem I found a taxi supplied with a taxi driver, who claims to have been
given medical discharge from the Greek Army after attaining the status of
General with three stars.While he
claimed to have a very good pension, he said he enjoyed his job and did it to
meet people, not just for the money.Initially I had no reason to question this statement, which ultimately,
I learned was said solely as male bravado.
I had asked to see the fish market.My driver made several false starts and
misdirected leads, but he had no car radio to get further advice.Occasionally we became further confounded by
well-meant instructions given by a few proprietors who were already at work and
visible as we dizzily traversed the maze of Athenian streets at five a.m.Finally we blindly wandered into the adjacent parking lot along the
water’s edge. The darkness still held tight until the first moment of daybreak
three hours later.
The huge two block long warehouse had several gigantic open
doors.Fish guts spattered the outer
asphalt and sleepy seagulls swooped in to examine each specimen.I walked carefully to avoid the slimy cast
off organs.The cavernous innards of
this building reeked of dead fish.The
busy marketplace was filled with buyers and sellers alike, many using bullhorns
to broadcast their message, whether buying or selling, and what kind of
creature they were dealing with.As I
climbed a private stairway to get a clearer view of this area, I was prevented
from ascending further by a swarthy man whose rough complexion was further
enhanced by the effects of an apparent stroke of sorts.His mouth was loose as he spoke to my balding
taxi driver - guide - interpreter.My
guide stood nearby, almost as if he was shielding me from the harsh tones of
our antagonist.My guide carefully
gesticulated as he spoke.It was easy to
see that he said I was American and only here to take touristy-type
pictures.And that's exactly what I
did.The fish market was uniformly
filled with a singular gender, but the ages spanned four generations; the hands
of some were evidence that they never actually touched fish save with knife and
fork.Other men had their face sculpted
by many years of the sea, salt air, and hard work.
We left through the ice-strewn wooden slate walkways between
the open crates of carefully sorted ex-sea creatures.None will ever see the sea again.The fish's pitiful open-eyed gaze struck me
as a plaintive call -- as if to say "What are you doing to me?"Darkness had not begun to lift its heavy
cloak as we serenely walked to the yellow taxi.
Once surrounded by the protective armor of his cab, we once
again began to speak. He asked, in his
halting style, if I was married, how many children, what do I do for a living .
. . moment by moment his questions were beginning to dig deeper into my
persona.
For some mystic reason I felt as though I was being
interrogated for more than casual conversation.I became defensive and attacked politely with equally personal questions
about his life.At first he was
flattered by the brutal inquisition, but when I asked him about how much he
made as a driver, he abruptly skirted the issue by saying "Very
little" as he raised his index finger close to his thumb to show me just
how little.
As we drove back to my hotel, the warm air flowed through
the slightly open windows of the air-conditioned car and the smog-stained
pollution of Athens was yet
to be felt.
We arrived amidst an exchange of words about our respective childrens' deeds.The conversation halted abruptly as our mutual thoughts now involved
money changing hands.All the time,
except while parked at the marketplace, the meter ran.Frankly, while the 4,500 dr. exceeded the
2,000 dr. price he estimated the excursion would cost.I felt the cost was reasonable except that
he had me pay for his lack of knowledge about how to find our destination.He was recalcitrant in accepting a 500 dr.
tip (about two dollars).At first I
quietly rejoiced until chagrined by his furtive urban glance as if to say,
"What?That's all?"And me, I thought, "What?More?"AHey, am I in New York or
what?”Still, we left as friends of a
very businesslike fashion.
Upon walking to the doorway, a quick glance back confirmed
the absence of his watchful eye.The cab
had disappeared.Though not as dark as
before, the morning sun had not yet become visible; only its outermost rays
could be seen by the Athenians..My back to the door, at seven a.m., stillness reigned in this
borough of Athens.I opened . . . no,try again, this time I will use a
firmer grip, I opened the . . . nope. I WAS LOCKED OUT!No chance of getting in yet I could see
through a windowthat
my personal things were where I had put them.
Realizing the futility of using my shoulder against the
behemoth door, I meekly turned and walked down the steps to evaluate my
alternatives.I quickly decided that
since I must make the two-mile journey to the downtown region to meet The
Athens Tour #1 Bus, I might as well leave now.And this I did, slowly at first and gradually picking up a zesty pace as
I strolled down the sloped streets littered with frail wooden crates filled
with the evening gathering of paper trash and rotting vegetable matter.Surprisingly, it was very little trouble to
follow a direct route I saw on a city map.I made one minor attractive detour leading me through a different
section of the NationalGardens and by
the Presidential Palace.The Palace was
guarded by four Greek honor guards dressed with short tunics and heavily
tasseled shoes reminiscent of earlier Greek days.Frankly, the way they were dressed looked
silly
Moments later I saw a very small sidewalk café, where for
450 dr. I slowly sipped a demitasse of coffee and ate a honeyed chocolate donut
bar.
By now I could feel a sharp pain in my right small toe.The precursor to a blister probably, yet, I
had visions of a bulbous cancer erupting slowly through the well-pounded skin
of my foot concealed from sight by the shoe.Each step brought a shaper and sharper pain, yet I walked on.Continuing my journey with
deliberate steps that belied my painful condition.Soon the pain disappeared (I wanted to believe).The pain seems to dissipate somewhat through
a conscious effort to concentrate on the fact that I was now lost.
With the aid of my compass and the map again, I thought I
had placed my coordinate succinctly on the map grid.I guided myself by street signs at each
corner.Ignored by the mapmakers were
some of the smaller ancient twisted streets.I accurately placed myself on the map after finding several
geographically significant monuments.Well within the time I had budgeted for it, found my destination in the
center of town.This is where the
tourist buses originate and terminate their tours.
Since the city tour was to be in English, it was no surprise
to me to find the area saturated with other American tourists.I quickly made the acquaintance of several
Americans from a variety of cities and regions.The seatmate I was to get was a physician from the Houston area, but
conversation flowed freely in the enclosed environment of the huge bus.Eventually there were six of us discussing Athen's merits and demerits.Unfortunately, for all of us, it seemed I had
been in Athens the
longest.As the Senior Visitor, with one
full day under my belt,I was asked questions which I blithely
dismissed by issuing a sincere shrug to say AI don’t know.”
Immediately, all private conversation ceased when our tour
guide began issuing facts and information over the public address system within
the bus.Since the PA was set at decibel
levels scores above our conversation, it was next to impossible to clearly
understand words uttered by our neighbor in the midst of statements emanating
from the woofers, tweeters, and mid-range speakers scientifically placed
throughout the bus.
Quietly, obediently, we disembarked or embarked as ordered.
"There on your left is the NationalMuseum -- There
on your right is The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier -- Again, on your right is the
National Bank."And so on . .
.At each announced destination we were
impatiently anticipated by a small band of hawkers doing what they do best.At each stop they had the same merchandise
consisting ofpostcards, coins, stamps, tour books, picture books.All only in the language that appropriated
that of the specific group as they disembarked, and marking watches to note
when the fifteen-minute visit will expire.
The tour concluded three hours later at the Parthenon,
probably the best understood monument of Athens.I walked to Plaka,
a very trendy, touristy spot spread out over a square mile, cluttered with
small stores, each of which, barely had ten feet of
frontage.Prices seemed reasonable for
what appeared to be well-made (by machine) goods.Actually, having not been here long, I really
cannot say with certainty whether high or low prices until I have been able to
compare them with prices elsewhere.
On the outskirts of this area, gypsies plied their wares,
old junk items that seemed to have been recently pilfered from a local resident
or two.One vendor balked as he saw me
prepare to photograph his lot.Each
street was bent this way and that; ultimately I found myself without any
bearings except to know at three
o'clock the sun begins its downward journey to the West.
With some assistance extended by some local Samaritans, I
found out how and where to buy a bus ticket to the hotel.The ticket was purchased for 75 dr. from a
local newspaper/magazine vendor, and I visually located the red and blue posted
bus stop sign.After an hour's wait the
bus arrived, and amid the normal amount of pushing and shoving I managed to
step up and grab a handle for the next ten minutes till I arrived nearby.With great effort I struggle to the crest of
the incline, find the hostel, find my bed, and take a cigarette while I massage
my reddened feet after slowly, almost luxuriously, peeling back the white socks
that are sticking to my feet.At first
glance my feet seem misshapened by the twelve-hour
pummeling they were treated to.
My cigarette out, I quickly fall asleep on the naked
mattress.Awakened two hours later by
the quiet din of honking horns and siren -- after all this is Election Day in Greece, and
everybody must travel to their hometowns to vote (for without the casting of a
ballot a citizen loses his driving privileges).
Within the hostel I have made several friends, one of which
is Swen, a German man of about 25-27 years old and
very well-traveled since his graduation from college.We may go to India; he seems
to think it is easy to live on $2 a day.Swen cooked a meal and invited me to join
him-- some sort of tuna cacciatore . . . very good.
October 10, 1993SaturdayAthens, Greece
I tried to wait for Swen, but he
slept deeply even when I stood near him calling his name.Since it was eight o'clock, I wasn't going to spend more
time around the hostel.I cleaned up my bedding
area, put all miscellaneous items handily in a standing locker and left on my
own.
I began by looking for a place to have breakfast.Since this was a holiday (both it was the day
after elections and Sunday) I found no restaurateur willing to risk the wrath
of his cohorts by breaking rank and opening for business.
Nothing was open at 10 a.m. --
Nothing!Museums were also closed.I headed toward the general area of Plaka.If any place
is open, this has to be it.As I turned
the corner of some unnamed alley-street, I saw it.Open -- everything; business as usual
here.I treated myself to some
pistachios for 500 drachmas from a small umbrella-topped pushcart.Burnt, uncracked,
too small for the effort, and those that didn’t fit into any of the above
categories were flavorless.
As soon as I found myself by a soulaki/gyro
stand I bought one and discarded the nuts.Gobbling one down only whetted my appetite for another, then
another.Yes -- three in all.While they were small and very inexpensive --
50 cents each -- after three, I could feel my stomach expanding to handle these
Greek lamb sandwiches.I had swallowed
each sandwich in two bites.Now I need
to find a bottle of water -- there it is in a white metal and glass
refrigerator.I slid the glass back and
took a cold liter.Now in the midst of
swaying crowds flowing up that street and this, I was unable to determine the
proprietor who owned the contents of the refrigerator.I imagine such vendors develop a special
sense when someone is prepared to pay as I was.He found me.I paid in drachmae
as was the custom, and I turned right to leave and before me stood the railway
station -- nothing grand, rather small actually.Two choices:North and South.South ends in Pireaus, the port center for most of Greece.I purchased a reasonably priced ticket for 75
dr. and after a short wait the train halted before the throngs of people who
magically appeared just moments before its arrival.I embarked, following local custom of pushing
my way in, albeit I was the last to squeeze within the steamy interior filled
with the garlicky breath of fifty people in this car, the middle unit of ten
sections.The weather had heated up to
the low nineties, but the humidity intensified the heat.
The halting motion of the train and the awkward position I
was forced to occupy caused me to inevitably scramble for a foothold or
handhold at every jerk of the train.Cautiously, I plotted how I should fall if the train makes another
completely unanticipated lurch.I
decided if necessary, I would fall on three large black plastic trash bags
placed near the door, the door opened; people pushed out while others pushed
in, causing me to pirouette like Wiley Coyote after another failed attempt on
the Roadrunner.During the entire
thirty-minute trip I never was able to sit but I was able to lay claim to one
of the black plastic straps hanging overhead to support myself at a stop.The final stop did arrive, and I merely brought
myself within the flow of people, consciously kept my balance as the river of
souls pushed forward.I just hoped we
were all really going in the right direction.And we were.
Finding myself alone (in thought) in the cavernous belly of
the Pireaus Termination point, I sought guidance from
my two guide books.As I looked up there
was a big sign in English with the words:ALLISLANDS--Book your tour
here.
That was enough for me, off I went.Yes, the rotund middle-aged man spoke a very
precise British English.He willingly
offered endless advice on different islands, but said Santori
is the most beautiful, one of the furthest, and it is a three-day trip.No thanks.I'm not certain exactly how seaworthy my sea legs are.
Give me the short trip to Aegina for 12 hours each
way.Almost immediately I was enjoying
the journey through the dark blue waters.I didn’t see the clear blue waters I anticipated from the guidebooks
yet.And since we put into port at 2:45 p.m., it was too late for seeking the
beach, since the day had already begun to cool to a pleasant 80F.
The impression of Catalina struck me as greatly
similar.I rode onshore as the people
who were a shipboard with me moved as one great gelatinous mass toward the
nearby business entirely built on the tourist trade.I sat on a nearby bench to reconfirm some
facts of the island I neglected to commit to memory on the first reading.Ruins were here.Too far to walk and a taxi was too expensive.The carriage rides offered by about twenty
individual horsemen were out of the question.While I sat and ate lunch (a very average lamb steak and risocotti), I noticed that the adjoining establishment
rented motorbikes.I talked to the
owner, who took my passport and twenty dollars and rented to me my choice of
bikes from his lot.
I rode out in a cloud of dust after I asked him for
directions to the Temple of Diana.Easy enough, since I only had to stay on the
road, one street over, all the way.The exhilaration of being free to roam the hills as I pleased.Eventually I found it, but not before I
enjoyed an incredibly beautiful self-guided tour.I drove among the green olive trees, goats,
blue ocean, white buildings, and churchesthroughout the hilly island
terrain.Just as an artistic picture is
balanced, so was everything I saw.
The Temple of Diana did not
seem to belongin
this oceanic parapet.Instead, it should
be in or around Athens.The ruins were locked behind a crisscross
wire fence.I was not the first to
entreat the attendant for a closer look.My plea was futile.She had been
through this all day, and it rather angered her that she had one more
interruption to her very unbusy day.Nonetheless, she mustered the effort to
respond in English and deny my request.I saw it from about sixty feet away.I cut over the stony weed-littered lot and could see almost
everything.Even without visitation
privileges to the temple, that could not dim the
enjoyment of unimpeded travel throughout the island.The antiquities of Greece don't
favorably compare with those of Rome or even Egypt.Travelingby motorbike was so enjoyable that not
being able to get a really close look did not bother me at all. I stopped
often, trying to see everything and miss nothing.
After returning the scooter, slightly damaged in a small
spill,I
checked my scratched knee.The throttle
stuck, you know. "No, it really wasn't my fault, mister.It was kinda like
that when I got it."I tried to
explain to the owner about the bent fender.He wasn't buying any of this, but even so, he told me it was necessary
to pay for full damages, which were under twenty dollars.I paid it quickly, and took back my passport
which was left as a deposit. The night was coming closer.The long shadows made eerie streaks of
darkness that seemed so very distant end to end, enhanced by the terraced
mountainside.
Within a score of minutes the ship which would deliver us to
the island could be seen on the horizon.As one spied upon other islands, it was as difficult to count them as to
count the stars.And passing through
them were several ships, only one of which was significant to me.
As the ship approached the docking area, I watched as it
grew by the moment.NO waiting when the
boat touched dock -- Bang!The ferry
opened its gaping jaws to disgorge pedestrians, motorcycles, cars, and trucks
in a hodgepodge disorder that clearly showed there was no one in charge, at
least no one who gave even the smallest damn about any routine to the
disembarkation.
Last night I was robbed of three hundred dollars.Somehow someone broke into my room as I slept
in this room alone.
I escaped into the darkness through a neon spotted path to
the train station.I sat across from a
black-robed Greek Orthodox priest who stared at me with confused blue eyes
partially hidden beneath a full pepper-colored beard that was in need of
trimming.
As he began to speak to me, the tobacco-stained teeth made
crooked by age, moved behind rose-colored lips that anyone could see well fit
his age-lined face."Sorry," I
said, "I don't speak Greek."Quickly he turned to the woman next to me and repeated his
exclamation.I followed the six or seven
stops on the train till we arrived at OmbusCenter.It was easy to trace the next stop on the map
posted on the wall of the train.
An accordion player tried to replicate bazuki
sounds of his personal adaption of "Zorba the Greek" while he was accompanied by a much
younger male companion who kept the rhythm with a tambourine.I could only assume they were hoping for
tips, but they never passed a hat to collect any money.
I walked in the pleasant Athenian evening, bypassing a
shortcut through the park at the suggestion of my guidebook.The walk was exhausting.While fax service is fairly priced and bus
service downright cheap, I foolishly plodded onwards, reminding myself of the
health value of a walk.Seeing the
hostel was truly a relief.Within
minutes I met Swen.We talked for a while about the day's events.He presented me with a tasteful dish of brown
lentil soup with the consistency of chili.
The evening was spent quietly talking and exchanging
ideas.Swen
and I will leave tomorrow for the tickets to India.
October
12, 1993Monday
Last night or during the night somebody violated the trust
code that generally exists in hostels.They took some of my money, then put the
wallet back in my bag in an outer pocket -- none of the traveler's checks, but
three hundred dollars are gone.Nobody
seemed too surprised; I guess I should have somehow locked my door.I'm not going to let it stop me from having a
good trip.
I woke Swen so we could go early
to get the tickets -- naturally the posted price was 54,000 dr. but since they
were no longer flying that route, they have a new price of 62,000.No direct flights or quickly connecting
flights.Go to Rome,
four-hour layover, then out to Bombay.As the travel agent was about to issue the
tickets we asked for visas.Neither of
us was in possession of one, nor did we know of the need to have one.Okay, put the ticket purchase on hold, and
off we went for about three miles to the Indian Consulate.
The travel agent had forewarned us that it may take several
days.A reconfirming statement spewed
from the English-speaking Nigerian, who greeted us very matter-of-factly.So at 10 a.m. our plans
were already deteriorating.Again,
because we had been forewarned by the travel agent, we had expected this.We were told should this happen just insist
on seeing the ambassador.The advice
was heededimmediately
and I vociferously demanded to see him.The lightly mustachioed Nigerian called him by phone intercom and
arranged the meeting as requested.
After many words had been exchanged with the
Consular.He keptrepeating that
he must continue to follow form and format, which required a wait till at least
Thursday, possibly earlier.But if we
were to take a Wednesday flight (the next one), then we must have approval
now.My traveling companion asked if we
had a letter from our respective ambassadors which
recommended us, would we then be granted the visa?"Yes, immediately," was the
reply.So with that encouraging
statement we left courteously, with thanks to the Indian Ambassador.
First, a long hike to the U.S. Embassy, located about a mile
from the Hilton.Closed?The U.S. Embassy closed?Why? No reason could be extracted from the three
Greek guards that stood nearby."Only tomorrow" -- one of the guards said it will open at eight a.m.But we've invested the day to resolve these issues, and tomorrowI'd like to
do something that would add to the trip.The futility of it seemed to rest heavy with me, but I trudged on.We immediately asked for directions to the
German Embassy.The instructions the
sole female guard advised it is not nearby, but on the outskirts of Athens, about
ten miles
Taxi time!Athenian
taxi drivers seem to be an unusual lot.They often will drive past, anticipatory patrons oblivious to them,
staring straight ahead, hoping to have no interruption as they cruise the
streets.Eventually, with some jumping
up and down, we were able to get one to stop.We had to stand in a lane of the street holding our open palm down at
the end of our outstretched arms, yelling "A" . . . "A.”Apparently this activity is what attracts
their attention because that's how almost everybody uses such body language to
get the job done.
At the German Embassy the clerk took Swen's
papers and saw to it with due haste that the appropriate paper was prepared
with typical German efficiency.I still
can't figure out why the U.S. Embassy was closed?It was no holiday and no one answered the
phone when I called from a pay phone. Within forty minutes we were out of
there, Sven had his paper-in-hand.
The taxi we hailed was, even among his peers, unusually
unfriendly and grumpy.Mumbling at infrequent
moments to himself as we drove back to town.I asked if we could halt for a moment before
the huge glass and marble U.S. Embassy.Posted hours on the heavy green gate should reconfirm hours that had
been told to me earlier.I quickly
exited the worn rear seat of the yellow cab and ran back of the sign.Nine a.m. to noon the sign said.I turned to recover my seat in the cab, only
to find that Swen was holding my bag, standing on the
sidewalk awaiting me.Swen said the driver said that he must leave, too, so Swen refused to pay the full 690 dr., instead gave 680 and
exited the cab.
We walked back to the Indian Embassy, Swen
with his paper and me with the hope of convincing the Ambassador of the
necessity of issuing the visa to me.I was granted an audience with him again.He held to his original statement, but about
five minutes into my dialogue he conceded when he said, "Let me see what I
can do; leave your passport and statement with me, and you wait
downstairs."I naturally assumed
the most optimistic view of this gesture, and thanked him for his consideration
-- undaunted by his reminder that "We will try to help!”
After a two-hour wait, watching others leave papers and hear
them being told, "Not until Friday" for their visa after they had
trekked to the Embassy as I did, but were prepared to wait, to me getting the
visa today now was a challenge to my abilities.I walked to the clerk's window and asked about my visa and Swen's visa.The
clerk said the man who must sign it has left for lunch twenty minutes ago and
should return within an hour and a half from now.Surprised by this, we left to eat something,
and began to search for food, which seemed to be available at every turn, now
escaped our view.We walked about a mile
and came by the return route to the hostel.My time was getting thin.I still
had places to go:Bombay, three
days; Island tour, three days; New
Delhi, three days.Travel time in between these points was three + three + three+ four = 13
days more.
I cannot afford to waste time.I'll probably see how it will be to go direct
to Istanbul from Rome, the
"midway point" on the flight.I must conserve my money to transportation, and since I will have little
money to do the travel I had hoped for, I will try to stay within budget.Hopefully, the weather
conditions which are supposed to change at this time of year and become rainy.It is very dry in northern India at this
time.
All these thoughts passed through my head as I enjoyed the
Italian ice cream Greek-style (with less impact of flavor, but resembling
Italian-style closely in texture).Swen had a large meal.Most of the items he bought were, in large part, unidentifiable to me
with the one notable exception being an extremely thick, well-cooked
steak.He ate it all, and left hardly a
gravy stain on his plate.
After sitting for a while I finished my pistachio and deep
chocolate gelato.I didn't see what his
meal cost, but since neither of us are literate in Greek, he made his
selections guided only by the pale photos adhering to backlit sheets of white
plastic placed above the ordering counter.
With our return to the Embassy, there remained, unbeknownst
to us, two more hours of wait.Quietly
at first, followed by a long period of impatience, and concluded with sporadic
outbursts of nervous laughter and quiet statements of derision for their
ineptness.
It was simply needed to obtain a signature now, nothing
more, but the one man who could save us by signing the visas was
"away."The moment finally arrived
almost unexpectedly.The relief of the
moment was underwhelming.Since I, now, had the visa I think it would
be fun to go, and it may be the most difficult hurdle to overcome.
Now armed with the visa we went back to the ticket office Δssouri said he will have the tickets by tomorrow at three p.m.Disappointed though we were, we left.Swen returned to the hostel, and I went on to
the marketplace, Plaka.Souvlaka, the hot
spinach pie, and gyros were worth the very minor temptation at the cafe we were
at earlier.I could live on the gyros,
especially since they are only about $.60, 200 drachmas.
Two things I haven't been able to do yet:make a call to the U.S., and get
Steve his stamps.The post office
offered onlyone
style of stamp, and I need to go to a special post office for stamp collectors,
but I haven't found it.At Plaka many stamp dealers were there, and several spoke
English, but my mission was unaccomplished.Every stamp they sold was already canceled and there were few that had
pictures of something to do with the space program.
The phone system is especially complex -- not usable without
a special encoded card, and according to the woman at the post office, you must
go to a special place about three long blocks away to purchase the card.Then I should return to use the phone here to
make an overseas call.I couldn't find
the other office.I may be able to call
home from the airport.
I saw the shops were closed, so I headed back to the hostel,
walking the three miles, and exhausted when I arrived.
It was important to wash my clothes and shower, since a very
peculiar odor seemed to emanate from me.With no soap for clothes washing, I thought it ingenious to wear my
shirt and pants into the shower and wash everything together.It seemed to work, then
I brought the damp clothing to the fifth floor rooftop to dry overnight in the
warm Grecian air.When I awoke at four a.m., my pants were still very moist,
but since no alternative was available I put them on and wore-dried them.As I started into the heart of the city, I
could feel the damp pants drying almost immediately.
I had purchased a ticket to the ancient ruins of Delphi for this
morning for about $48.00 U.S.It's an all-day event.It’s an important historical sight to see.
While walking to waste some time, I sat and had breakfast -- cappuccino and a
chestnut roll -- while I wrote these last lines.Cost:1,300 dr.
It was a three minute walk to the correct bus, but I am on
it now; if it leaves on schedule, another five-minute wait.It's English - French.As I walked, I couldn't help but notice how
cluttered and littered the streets remained with campaign material.I think that the politicians who were running
for office thought little of pollution or the waste that so much trash
generates.
At 8:20 a.m. departure of the bus left through the crowded
streets out to the highway to Delphi.The multilingual group chattered
forever.I was seated in front of a man
who sounded British, a heavy large man whose red-veined face made me believe he
was from some cold north European city.
This being my second tour bus in Athens, it was
no surprise when a man of three quarters of a century entered the bus.I have seen him before.He was giving everyone postcards, maps, and a
guidebook (very slender editions and poorly constructed).I have witnessed this ploy before.When he came forward, it was to collect the
1,000 dr. from those who realized now it was a sales pitch.The gentleman behind me, who I later learned
is Norwegian poet, spoke up; he said, "You shouldn't go round making
people think this is free!Nah?"With
little aplomb the vendor recovered his unsold goods and turned away with
nothing more for a response except a shrug.
We stopped in a couple of picturesque hamlets in an
area.The merchants in this district
were well prepared for the overbuying of kitsch tourist trinkets that tourists
have a well-deserved reputation for buying.Next stop, Delphi.The ruins do not
appear to have been given the care that must be tendered to these remnants of
where humanity
has been, our roots of western
civilization.
It was an arduous trek to the top of the hill, where most
items of historical interest lay. The Treasury, remnants of this once-mighty
structure, fell with others nearby as the result of a succession of
earthquakes.Certain it is that Delphi's golden
days had passed.The
Oracle of Delphi.The romantics will
be able to sense the wondrous moment when a slave had his name carved to this
stone monument.It meant he was free and
could leave and go to his land.Just to
get here meant a rough climb. I'm certain it would take several months to walk
here from Athens.The Stadium at the top was straight and
long.Certain factors of its
construction would make anyone think it is for running, but the easiest way to
tell is by reading a guidebook that would confirm its use.
We walked west en masse to the Museum.Some interesting statues are there:Terra cotta, marble and alabaster (brought
from other areas).There is what our
guide referred to as "Elephantine,"
that is gold and ivory worked together.
The marble statues were clearly the most impressive.I am baffled by the Greek preoccupation with
accurate depiction of the penis.I mean
it seems as though the artist really had to get close to make it look that
accurate.I left the small Delphi museum in
the same blob of people as I had arrived with.
I boarded the bus; Sat down; got
off the bus.The bus stopped in the
nearby town of Delphi, about
one kilometer away.Rather than going to
the restaurant that the guide strongly encouraged us to visit, when I noticed
all of its signs and advertising were in English, that
warned me away.It was set up for
tourists only.Prices and quality are
probably designed for those who will never come back again.
I walked up a nearby hill where I saw many businesses.I stopped at a particularly attractive
restaurant, had souvlaki and a Greek salad (about
3,000 dr. I think; I haven't gotten the bill yet).The place overlooks the mountains and either
a lake or the ocean, its a big body of water.A delicious meal was served to me.I enjoyed it.
I went back to the travel office to get the Bombay ticket,
but they were not prepared to help even though they knew I was coming.So I left without it.I walked through the charming Plaka and went back to the hostel.Tired and completely sweaty from the warm,
humid nights, I climbed the stairs to the hostel.Once inside, I sat to ease my feet, although
the rest of me could have continued for a while longer.
I want to call home to let them know where I am, but not to
tell them of where I intend to go.When
I told Swen where international phone calls could be
made, he borrowed a motorbike and off we went.The drive through Athens at night
can, if done as we did, do more to keep one awake than twenty cups of
coffee.Zoom here -- zoom there-- wrong
way -- narrow street -- Do Not Enter -- loose bricks and bent streets added its
own calamitous benediction to the drive.Still, we did find the place to call, and with no loss of blood.I felt I was glued to the seat of the
motorbike.I couldn’t get off once we
stopped.I entered the building to make
the call.I was unfamiliar with this
area and unfamiliar with procedure, but ahead I forged.
After being charged 20 dr. to use the phone, I tried the
telephone credit card which Andy from my office had prepared for me.That did not work.I called collect, $5.00 for first minute and
$1.00 for each minute thereafter.After
speaking with my kids and my parents I took a quick trolley back to the hostel
and walked the short distance from the trolley stop to it.
October
12, 1993WednesdayAthens, Greece
Like yesterday I'm up early.I thought if I wash the tee shirt and jeans,
I would be clean for the flight.While
there was no problem to wash them while I showered, now, in the humid morning
my pants have not dried at all.I have
put them on, still damp, and hope that they dry soon.I awoke at
5:30 a.m. (still
dark), so I am writing in the "TV Room," where I can have the light
on while I write.
We must leave by eight
a.m. to arrive at the ticket office by 8:30 and pick upmy ticket.Then I hope to visit the small Jewish museum
at 26 Amaly Street.It is only open from nine a.m. to noon Monday through Friday.I have used a week in Athens, longer
than I expected.I see my travel time
getting shorter.I hope my remaining
days can work this way:
Weds./Thurs.Travel to Bombay
Sat./Sun.Travel back to Athens if I
can't change triptoIstanbul on return
Mon.Travel
to Istanbul
Thurs.Leave
Istanbul to Athens
Fri.Leave
Athens through Piraeus, the port
location for my cruise
Sat./Thurs.Cruise islands
Fri.Fly
home
This morning was busy, but I left at seven a.m. to pick up my ticket for the
flight to India.First, at the travel agency it originally
seemed as though I was overcharged, so I had to review all of the papers
again.The price was correct.He had gentle ways, showing himself to be
the consummate businessman although he had a very ruddy Corsican complexion and
an elephantine smile that revealed many gold-covered teeth.I had threatened to cancel the tickets, he adjusted prices till finally the deal was
struck.
So now I was off to Bombay!The mysterious Bombay that I
have seen many pictures of but never did I dream to be there.On our way to catch the bus to the airport,
we stopped in the Jewish Greek Museum.We had another few hours before we needed to check in for the
flight.
We went inside a narrow four-story structureof masonry blocks became par of this
building in the late 20's or early 30's.The elevator was of the earliest merchandised type:all open wrought, iron grilling which laced
the path to the third floor.As we rose to
our destination, the cramped space in the elevator made me assume that it saw
little usage.After exiting, the
one-foot long rectangular brass plate clearly said "Jewish Greek
Museum."
We entered after pressing an outer door buzzer to gain
entrance through a big mahogany double door.We were guided to seats by a woman whose accent revealed some connection
to New York.About sixty years old, she had the grace and
aplomb one expects of a docent.Naturally she guided everybody by the money jar for contributions.This was no surprise, but when I noticed the
five cats that enjoyed the shelter of the Museum, that seemed out of the
ordinary.Swen,
though German, didn't feel responsible for any of the happenings of the 30's
and 40's.And why should he?It's truly not right to punish the children
for misdeeds of parents.In any case, we
separately viewed the artifacts that were resident here.Thirty minutes was adequate time to see most
everything.I was shocked to find how
readily the Greeks gave up their Jews, Gypsies, and homosexuals when demanded
by Hitler’s Germany.The docent said, despite the extremely small
Jewish population of Athens today,
there still remains a high degree of anti-Semitism.This is the reason for the security gate we
had to pass through to come inside this small museum.
As I walked through it, most prominent was the collection of
costumes that were from the seventeen and eighteen hundreds.The exhibits were well-preserved and shown
nicely for a small museum with limited space.After understanding the situation better at the end of the tour I
realized that I should make a donation, regardless of how small.Five dollars was all I could afford to drop
into the jar as we left the museum.We
made our way to the bus stop, which was just north of us up Amalys Street.In the airport we discovered that Olympic
Airlines still is at the old airport; but now we were running short of time --
an hour and ten minutes till our departure time of 12:10 p.m.We hunted
for the taxi stand about a kilometer away.We got one, and off we were.
The ride cost one thousand drachmas despite the meter saying
575,Sven paid
with little resistance rather than argue, with time now so rare.Expeditiously we headed with Swen to the Olympic Airways Terminal.Still, some order reigned within the terminal
walls; while it was not unseen, few pushed into the loosely shaped lines to the
check-in counter.Quickly we evaluated,
with artful accuracy, which line will move fastest.With our selection made, we patiently
awaited our moment.Now time is
preciously short -- thirty minutes or less remained before the plane was
scheduled to depart.
The dour ticket agent dispatched us with seats assigned in
the smoking section.We boarded a bus,
one of seven, transporting globs of people to the plane.We drove past a myriad of propeller-driven
planes,reminiscent
of an era gone by.The lack of more
sophisticated machinery served as a good introduction to the part of the world
which is our ultimate destination.I
expected to go back in time in India.I expect to see life lived like I have seen
in other poor countries.
First stop, Rome, which is
ninety minutes away, and we're running a little late because the airplane was
delayed on takeoff.Fortunately for
Sven and me, we have all our goods in our backpacks so that should help us
speed along faster for the connecting flight to Bombay, India.
At this moment, in flight, I am enveloped by a cloud of
smoke created by me, Swen and those around us.Nonsmokers up front.The noxious gases irritate my eyes and nasal
passage.I sit here constantly on the
edge of a sneeze, but never quite ready to issue one, only close to it.
I can feel the plane preparing to descend.The sign lights up, A
“Fasten Seatbelts.”Now we have
arrived at the RomeInternationalAirport.It looks new and has plenty of fancy stores
throughout the huge building complex.We have too much time to sit around, but not enough time to get into Rome; it's
about an hour drive, and heavy city traffic when we
leave.We walked around the airport, but
little opportunity for anything else during the three-hourwait.
A small paper cup of orangeade sells for$1.90 that is just too expensive.I wonder if the city's prices are reflected here.A drastic change from five years ago when I
was here last.Wait, wait, wait, wait.The
anticipation of the twelve-hour journey to Bombay is almost
welcomed.I can't tolerate this total
waste of time, earning nothing for it.No sights of Rome to see,
not anything.Exploring the cavernous
airport was finished in twenty minutes.I pulled out some information about India and began
reading it for the fifth time.
Along the walkway I spied a discarded copy of a newspaper, The
New York Times.I picked it up and
carried under my arm.The news show from four different Italian stations were practically
impossible to understand, regardless of how intently I stared at the overhead
television sets.
While waiting in Rome, with
little else to do, I am overcome by a forebearing
thought of the mysteries which await me.Will I be overcome by the poverty and filth?Will the human condition as I now perceive it, alter my conception of charity to humankind?Certain it is that it will challenge my
innermost conception of society.This is
my greatest danger to face.Twelve hours
on a plane headed east from Rome over
unfriendly territory, has its risks, too, but these Iam willingly facing.
It is now 6:45 p.m. in Italy, one hour
behind the time of Athens, which is
nine hours ahead of LA.The guide book
indicates that India is 52
hours ahead of GMT.Until it is
announced, I don't have any idea, from all the above facts, what time it could
really be in India right
now.How this two-hour stuff got put into
it I don't have a clue.Anyway, in
boarding the plane we had to identify our luggage prior to boarding.Now, as I write this, the plane is taxiing in
the darkness, about to launch itself toward India.Now we are in the air . . . next stop is Bombay!
Let me describe the interior of the plane.The walls, papered
recently with depictions of Indian gods all in gentle pink, white, tan, and
blue soft pastels.Almost every seat is
filled except maybe eight or nine, which remain unoccupied.I have very short leg space.I would assume this allows adequate space
for the typical Indian traveler who is much shorter.The exterior of this airplane was a bit
more tarnished than one from a Western nation, but the near Eastern
"Sanskrit" written on the silver and red body would be clear proof of
its origin.Several movies have been
scheduled for this long flight.I
couldn't hear the attendant when they were announced, but it seems as though
they are about to start.
My book comforts me as I wonder about an anticipated barrage
of language problems.It says that
English is the most widely spoken language because it was a common language in
a county plagued with an infinite number of Indian languages, each with its own
set of dialects and even those with subsets.The way I have interpreted the statements, is that it is much more of a
surprise that any two of them do speak the same tongue than not.Hindustan is being
promoted as the language of India but,
according to the book, that is not true yet.
October 14,
1993ThursdayBombay, India
After a short nap, I awoke in cramped quarters on the
airplane.Cursed in the middle aisle,
four abreast, I was huddled in one of the two inner seats.Throughout the trip, I had the good fortune
to sit behind an old nasal-jeweled Indian who would tilt her seat back to its
fullest, causing my small space to be much more compressed.It caused my knees to be jammed against her
chair, and after I realized the futility of verbiage, she didn't understand me, my next offense was to rub my knees periodically into
the back of her chair, making her rock forward and back in jerky moments --
attempting to cause her some small measure of inconvenience.At one point I was incessant in my activity,
hoping to drive her crazy.
Instead, I am certain I heard her emit a long, low tone
resembling a purr.This continued
throughout the night.If I can’t sleep,
she won’t be either.To add to it all, I
tried to use the top of her chair as a pillow since she was rather diminutive
and required much less space.When the
newly added inconvenience was begun, she then adjusted, only momentarily, her
seat just long enough for my head to fall.This, too, was replayed all night.
The airline had movies.Indian movies.They dealt with marriage and moral values that I didn’t understand . . .
especially when expressed in an Indian dialect.I kept watching for the cowboys, but they
never showed up.
My first encounter with the illiteracy of India happened
this morning.I was asked by one of a
five member, all adult, family next to me to help in filling out disembarkation
papers because, as well dressed as they appeared, none knew how to write or
read.Swen
offered to help, too, an offer they readily accepted.
At this moment we have touched down in Delhi.Overgrown on the outskirts
with brown bush and scrub-like plants.The plane touched down in a usual fashion.We have before us another two-hour leg of
flight to continue till we are in Bombay.My trepidations of India are soon
to be resolved one way or the other.The
excitement builds with the anticipation.
Now it is 7:45 a.m., and the
plane is back in the air, New Delhi to Bombay.I watched as some passengers left and new
ones arrived to fill their seats.The
racial/social makeup of the new group is dramatically different.The new group is noticeably darker
complexioned.Hats are more prevalent,
but even more turbans are donned by this motley group.The sun is out and the weather is warm; I
hope it continues through to Bombay.The saris are worn by practically all the
women native to this land, including the stewardesses.We were served hard candies to ease the
change in pressure for the ears, and later a small box of heavily sweetened
mango juice in a lime green box called "Frooti."We had watched a commercial for it on the way
to Delhi.
Breakfast is served.It consisted of yogurt (which comes with every meal), a dry oblong bread
roll, an egg omelet, a meat and kasha roll in some sort of small warm pastry,
fresh fruit containing pineapple, mango, cherries, and another yet to be
identified fruit.Meanwhile, we are
entertained with a plethora of commercials and, periodically, an Indian version
of modern music videos like different renditions of "Grease -- India style."Each of the musicals seemed to have similar
thematic messages:
1)Relationships
are made in heaven so they supersede deeds a man has done.
2)A woman's
purpose is to please her man.
3)Honor and
Respect above all else
4)Dance,
dance, dance
These seem to be the representations I have garnered up to
this minute from fourteen hours on the plane.Of course, I should add that I have yet to touch my foot to Indian soil.
I recall what I have read posted on the wall in the Greek
hostel:
A Tourist travels to places well known.
A Traveler travels to places little known.
An Adventurer travels to places unknown.
Despite all previous travels I still clearly, for the
majority of it, have not graduated out of "Tourist."Nonetheless I’d rather be that than to have
never traveled.
October
14, 1993ThursdayBombay, India
At ten a.m. we
stepped off the Air India 747 to an airport isolated from the city by over
forty miles, two other smaller airports, and squalid living conditions which
abounded through the route into the city.The malodorous air, putrefied by extremely poor sewage control, was
worse than any other city I've seen.The
armies of deformed people hop, crawl, slide, or those with limp infants in tow,
walk so slowly along the roadside or just squat, with arms wrapped around their
knees, and watch the traffic pass.
The long drive, a very long one through the outskirts of
town -- about twenty miles by bus cost only fifty cents (paid in rupees).Other than the oppressive heat,the ride was very
exhilarating.The driving habits of this
city bus driver included some incredible weaving -- I can't say patterns
because that implies some sort of uniformity to the actions.There was none.As we drove, whenever I dared to look up I
would see another premonition of my death.He was supposed to drive on the left side, but he actually
drove on both sides as the case called for.Seldom did he find it necessary to drive all or part way on the sidewalk
or to cross cement islands, but if that would be expeditious, well, he only
drove on the broken and cracked walkway when he thought it was safe. He spoke
enough English so that we could communicate properly.He gave a deep, Russian-sounding "Ha Ha" whenever he heard me say "Aughh!"
or "Oh, shit!".I have never had a more
scary ride except at MagicMountainAmusement
Park . . . except this was real.The Indian natives could be really quick when
they wanted to.They got off the
sidewalk or out of the street when they saw him coming.
Twice I showered today; the heat and humid atmosphere remind
me of Florida.I have made plans to travel further south
after an evening exploring Bombay.The city has its charming side; it just is
more difficult to enjoy, pretty much like sitting to enjoy a wonderful lobster
dinner in the middle of the city dump.These surroundings may amplify the magnificent splendor of this city's
charms, but the contrast makes those things of beauty seem to be part of some
bombastic charade.
Heroine, cocaine, and marijuana are sold freely all over the
town.Looking like a typical tourist, I
was approached four times in a six-hour period.The water, while heavily chlorinated, has small white strands of unidentifiable
matter swirling in it.I don't want my
adventures to happen in a hospital; I didn't drink it even though several
Israeli travelers said they have without any effect yet.I stayed in a different hostel than Swen even though we have plans to go together about 300
miles south after touring the city.For
a few rupees more I had a very nice and clean room with a panoramic view of the
Indian Ocean from my fourth story room.There is no elevator in the building, so I
had to lug my backpack up the steep stairs by myself.
I hired a cyclocab to drive Sven
and me around town.After about one
kilometer he parked and brought us upstairs to a very good restaurant.The large front room was without air
conditioning and without any tourists.We were escorted to the back room with air conditioning and dimly lit
lights.Soon my eyes acclimated to the
low volume of light, and I could then read the English menu.We ordered about five or six items, mostly Tandoori stuff:chicken and lamb cooked and covered with the bright red spices used for
such cooking.This was the best meal I've
had in weeks, and everything, came to just under $10.00.And we had ordered enough for four or five
people.
Even though my room was fancy (it had air conditioning), the
water ran with the same unusual smell.I
changed to go out and photograph some stuff.Hounded by beggars and misfits who tagged along for
blocks.It is worth noting that Bombay is noted
for its pickpockets, so I kept special care of my stuff.I had everything of value well hidden, except
for my camera.
Some typical night scenes of the Bay and India Gate, a
masonry and concrete structure about half the size of the Arc d' Triumph in
Paris, but beautiful in its intricate designs.One particularly dislikeable chap followed me for more than fifteen
minutes to get me to buy some Kama Sutra postcards --
not exactly family fare.While the value
of these depictions rests with antiquity, the penises and vaginas wouldn't
exactly catch favorably any Western eye, save maybe the Postmaster General.
As I walked back to my hotel again surrounded by a small
army of undesirables, I finally did break down and buy the postcards to send
home.When I did, twenty other vendors
came over and wanted to sell me their postcards, feather fans, peanuts, shoe
shines, books, pictures, and babies . . . yes, babies.I thought poverty was bad elsewhere, but this
is the worst.
I have a television set in my room.While I write, it’s an enlightening
accompaniment, except all but one station is English.There just isn't anything good on right now, however I can see much of India and the
wishes of the people (who can afford a television) through what kind of
programs they watch.Even with the air
conditioning, when I open a window or walk in the hallway a wave of moist heat
envelopes me instantly.
My room, a three-star by India
standards, would cost about a hundred dollars a day in the U.S., but here
it's only fifteen dollars.The hotel is
cluttered with employees, hired to help and ready to fetch ANY whim at any
time.The evening ended amid blaring
horns and pleas from the paupers, the living refuse that littered the streets
of Bombay.
October
15, 1993FridayBombay, India
I was awake at 7:30.Already the sun is out and its
bright with the same moist heat from yesterday.
I can see the ocean from here.The city seems quiet from inside my
room.It's still too early to get up to
meet the taxi driver who, for five hundred rupees, will drive us around Bombay to show
us the sights.He will bring us into the
squalid center of Bombay.I got out of bed and took another shower.
I felt the heat beating on the windows, but not until I
strode out into the hallway to wash up in the communal shower.I met Swen and the
taxi driver at nine a.m. outside
my hotel.We began to travel through
the city.Shrines and temples stood out
as the most garish and significant landmarks peppering the city.Everywhere I turned, I saw buildings
obviously built by the British now in various states of decomposition.Most were still in use.Mansions, once probably occupied by an
important British official now provide shelter to four or five Indian
middle-class families.No longer are the
kempt gardens of these same manors lining the main boulevard.Now scrubble and
weeds are easier to see than any hardy plants that struggle to remain.The paint of these buildings is colored in
surrealistic ways.Colors the original
occupants intended, bright blues and yellows, are in huge peeling sheets
falling away from the building.The
paint is aged quickly by the tropical temperament.
Even though I was advised against it, I bought a dessert
called falooda from a neighborhood stand.This stand looked clean, but it still is a
danger because their idea of clean is very different from mine.Cups were rubbed clean, not washed.The falooda is made
with milk, cream, rose syrup, shredded pistachios and almonds with some tiny
noodles that looked like vermicelli. GreatCave of Elephanta in BombayHarbor was only
a few minutes by a small powerboat.This
ancient cave contains the Ganesh, which is a Hindu
elephant god of good luck.
Swen and I bought tickets for Goa, a Portuguese west coast trading
village.Tonight at five p.m. we will board a bus to travel
further south to Goa.At this point I'll return while he'll continue
into Tibet.I'm sorry to lose such an experienced
traveling companion.
The driver first brought us to the HangingGardens that are
part of the BombayCityPark.Some of the bushes were trimmed to resemble
familiar animals.This area, too, was originally
created by the British.India owes a
great debt to it.British clocks, still
working, were visible in two places within the garden -- one in a diminutive
clock tower about twenty feet high.The
other clock was in a wall to the south.
The city's water supply is pumped from here.The well must be inexhaustible to feed the
millions here.Certainly there are other
sources.I watched two men dig a hole
near to the main spring originally worked by the British in 1812.Bombay was
mainly swampland until it was drained and cleared by the British.
A famous place of worship was a beautiful Hindu temple out
in the bay about a quarter mile from shore.The only pedestrian access is through a narrow walkway open only during
a low tide.Otherwise, a row boat
equipped with a boatman will deliver you to one side or the other for 50
rupees.
During our ride the driver said he must interrupt the ride
because his clutch is broken.The taxis
all seemed to be of the same make and vintage, 1957 Fiatswith left-hand drive.He drove to a repair station and tried to get
it fixed right away.ANot
able to fix quickly,” the mechanic said.So our ride with him was finished midday.The driver walked us over to an expensive
Chinese restaurant that was across the busy main street.My meal was about two hundred rupees, that’s
about eight dollars.It was very fancy
(for India).The taxi driver sat to eat with us, but when Swen said the ride is over he became irritated and would
not accept the 250 rupees, insisting instead on 350, which he got after
speaking angrily and loudly in the restaurant.This was only a portion of the seven hundred rupees agreed for the day
earlier.Finally he left still unhappy
because he was unfed and paid less than he had hoped for.The manager of the restaurant had to grab him
and take him outside by force.I enjoyed
the meal, relishing more the fact that I was eating Chinese fare in India rather
than Indian food, delicious in its own right.
We finished the meal and walked out after paying 590 rupees,
approximately $18.00.A new taxi driver
brought us to the center of Bombay, which
has the largest slum in Asia. The
living units are not even called apartments, instead they are called chawls, which are usually shabby, tiny rooms hammered out
of discarded tin, cardboard, or other excelsior can be rummaged up.The area seemed to be about four miles square
(but I'm not certain of that fact).Iexited the taxi in
the heart of the squalor.The immediate
dismay of local residents of seeing European-looking men was certainly a
surprise to them followed quickly by gushing inquisitiveness.They crowded all around, and two young men
that spoke English asked questions of me.They brought me around to show me how three women were in a small second-story
room.The odor was gut
wrenching.They sat, women in their
early thirties, sorting waste plastic for what purpose I don't know -- neither
did they.They both eat and live there
along with filling ten hours a day, six days each week with the tedium of this
labor.They earned about $20 a month, I
was told.The communal shit houses were
supposed to be emptied every other day, according to what newly elected
government officials had promised them, but they say the these six stalls,
total, for about a hundred families are cleaned usually every other week.The photos I took should tell a good
story.This area was strewn with litter
and trash end to end, at least six inches deep all over.There were few spots where the unpaved street
was exposed through the discarded refuse.The heat amplified the musty stench exuding from the garbage.
While the caste system has been legally removed from Indian
life, it still exists.The people living
here in this slum belong to the so-called “untouchables.”They are only able to obtain the lowest of
jobs.For food they usually go by the
fruit and vegetable merchants at the end of the business day and buy what the
vendor intends to discard.Only the
worst, the rottenest, the most putrefied remains were offered to them at very
low prices, since they earn so little, its the only way they would get any
food.If fruit is discarded by the
lowest caste, it must be garbage.Rats,
mice, strange brown bugs crossed my path at almost every step.I couldn’t stay here longer,
and hurriedly got back into the waiting cab.Sven and I looked at each other, amazed at the miserable life here for
these poor people.I felt something
scurry up around my shin, under my pants.I looked, but I saw nothing.
The driver drove us to the bus stop where we were scheduled
to meet the bus.In twenty minutes it
appeared and we threw our bags aboard.The bus first lurched forward, with me as a passenger, from the center
of Bombay.It was already rather full before we boarded,
but there were a number of open seats in the back of the bus.The front seats were already crowded tightly
with Indian travelers.The roof of the
bus was piled high with household goods and boxes that added another five feet
to the height of the bus.I already
could imagine the calamity we’d have, should the bus attempt to go through a
tunnel. Two walking funeral processions passed us as the bus crawled through
the busy streets.This was a good
indication of our rate of travel.Seven
stops within the city earned us even more crowded conditions as more passengers
tried to find a place on the bus.India is not a
place where a foreign man should look for a bargain in transportation, unless
he knows what he’s getting.One bit of
bus riding strategy I learned was that there is good reason to try to sit up
front.Indian buses have no shock
absorbers because, with the weight it carries, the rough roads would destroy
the shocks very quickly.With no shock
absorbers, Sven and I flew out of our seats quite frequently.There was no cushioning of the road hazards
for us.The bus continued its irregular
travel.Each lurch forward brought clouds
of blue-black exhaust fumes into the interior chamber of this bus, creeping
through every open window, and mixing with the other noxious odors. The moist
heat of the day made the odors much worse.I was among the many riders who found it necessary to put a cloth over
my mouth and nose.Still we banged on,
hitting bottom through every road, rut, or ditch.The roads themselves being
in such a state of disrepair that a smoother ride would be earned by horseback.Continue we must until 11 p.m., when we got off the bus at its
designated bus stop replete with standard Indian snacks.I first ordered crackers, but on tasting the
dry crumbling mass, I found I wasn't about to attempt digestion of saltines of
this vintage.
It's taking longer to
reach Goa than I
thought.In any case, it is the most
awful, dirty bus I have yet to ride -- cramped, stinking people awash in a
malodorous haze of Turkish cigarettes and a whiff of ganja.Hot and sweaty with the tropic's stifling
heat and the forbearance each passenger must carry.
The bus continued.The driver felt that somehow he could compensate for the bumps and dips
so prevalent in the road's topography, and that he was not able to eliminate
the faults of the road so, at least, he would make the ride as quickly as
possible.This added to the wondrously
uncomfortable ride.We continued
through the night as though we were a busload of natives traveling through Peru.I could easily imagine this scene coming out
of some Bob Hope movie like TheRoad to Somewhere, as we were
thrown on the bus around like pebbles.
After twelve hours and several short piss stops, we found
ourselves embraced within a long line of waiting vehicles, including seven
buses carrying local school children and an army bus loaded with bostrios solders.We are only two hours from Goa, but we
wait for something unknown to clear the road ahead of us.It won’t be clear for a while and people are
leaving their vehicles and wandering around without purpose.After waiting in the middle of nowhere I find
that I am developing a strange sense of complacency like the Hindus have. If I can just relax.I was told that a tree fell in the roadway, and it will just take
time.I am going to sleep.At least the bus is still for the moment.
Through incredibly green landscapes we drove and drove and
drove.The word "verdant"
isn't strong enough.The town of Goa is in the
final week of its monsoon season and it's hot and muggy.
I step off the bus in Goa, and I
will tour around this town for a day and a half if I can change my return
ticket date. Sven and I part company here.He plans to go further south through India and I do
not.I hired a cab to drive me
around.The significance of Goa is its Portuguese influence.The Portuguese came here about three hundred
years ago and, according to my 28-year-old taxi driver, they only left about 33
years ago.It was an important trading
post for Portugal.
The tiny three-wheeled black taxi was as much open air as
not.The driver started it each time
with a pull of a lever on his right side that acted as some sort of
kick-start.The young man in the cab with
me was guiding me to the restaurant he felt would give me a good sample of Goan food.
We walked three flights up past the many English signs
advising that I wouldn’t have a problem with my language.I was the only Anglo in the restaurant, but I
ordered their specialty:curry rice and
broiled local fish (who knows what kind of fish).The guide showed me how to properly eat
it.You, first, spoon some of the golden
yellow liquid over the rice, then, using only your right hand, pinch the rice
to shape it in a ball; then, with your fingers, plop it in your mouth.Occasionally spice up this dish with small
pieces of hot mango that was marinated in the black hot sauce.Next, I pinch some flesh off the boiled
five-inch fish.While there can be no
argument that eating these foods this was is messy, I enjoyed the unusually hot
flavors which I had never tasted before.This meal cost 36 cents.Food is
very cheap all over India, but even
more so in Goa.After the meal I used some paper napkins the
host had gracefully provided.
Strangely, the other patrons did not need or use
napkins.Then comes
the dish of fennel seeds.They taste
like licorice and are commonly used like we use after dinner mints, except
these actually freshen my breath.Lastly, bamboo "toothpicks," wide slivers of bamboo, are
chewed to get the food particles removed.
The town was spread wide, with the busiest part of the small
main area of commerce close to the marshland that lies a kilometer west.The beaches to the south were clean and
beautiful.Craggy rocks sprung from the
ocean floor to serve as a diving platform for the more adventurous
swimmers.The water was warm although I
did not go in.The taxi waited while I
walked along the beach for a short way.When I raised my hand the driver started his vehicle and came to get
me.
October
16, 1993SaturdayGoa, Southern
India
I left Goa early this morning.As the guidebook suggested, it hasn't been
hard-hit by tourism yet, and prices of everything there were less than Bombay.Unfortunately, living on limited funds and
having already purchased my non-refundable return bus ticket, I got on the bus
to return to Bombay
tonight.I was prepared for an awful
ride and that is exactly what was delivered to me.I had bruises all over my body from this
trip.I don’t recall working so hard to
try to stay in my seat for any ride ever before.
Once I got back to Bombay, the bus
let me off about twenty kilometers from my stop by the Gateway of India.At first glance I thought it was about half
the size of Paris' Arch d'
Triumph.That is incorrect; I see that
they are closer in size, with this being the smaller of the two. The large
paved park that surrounds the arch created an optical illusion of size.
I hired a taxi to take me to the merchants’ Bazaar and to Fortis Street.At the Bazaar, it was filled with used
clothing especially, but it had its other motley vendors with bits and pieces
of items no longer usable in its original state of design.Through an elaborate scheme of
cannibalization the Indians have managed to keep items, long ago destined for
the trash heap, still running.The taxis
are certainly well represented in this category.Everything being sold that was new, I could
find back in L..A. in Chinatown.So I bought nothing.
Fortis Street:a colorful menagerie of prostitutes and
hawkers where a quick one costs about one dollar, more or less.The price seems to be a point to briefly
haggle before the task is done.Girls
from twelve to fifty littered the chaws, periodically flashing otherwise
concealed, erogenous areas.Most unusual
was the large assortment of transvestites who propagated the west side of the
street.While there were few foreigners
walked this curious street, I saw young girls now twisted from this miserable
and filth-laden existence, who seemed to be destined for a short life.Maybe it's a way out of the slums, but
without much doubt they'll be turned out on the street with even less than
nothing when they can no longer earn a living in this modern-day Gomorrah.
I had spoken to my translator and guide to show me where the
bus is for Air India so I can
return to Greece
tonight.The taxi drove me to the bus
stop, then I departed their company, and with them
went a hundred rupees.
I saw a small restaurant that was well packed with
Indians.I went in, and was seated at
the only available seat with a thirty-year-old, Jacob Josa,
who is an electrical engineer making equivalent to $200 monthly.While engaged in conversation almost immediately,
like most educated Indians he spoke a very British English spiced with the
Indian "rrr" sound and those special
intonations making it clear he had learned the language in school.We spoke of poverty and social progress
(whatever level it may be).To compare India's
lifestyle to that in the U.S. should
remember that there is only one fact to truly use in evaluation. How happy are
the people?Do they need the material
wealth U.S. citizens
often flaunt?Jacob, a Catholic, said
that the people do want more material wealth.All but the very rich are not able to travel.$200 a month wouldn't go far.He wants to study at a U.S.
institution, but has to find a way to do it.It's a tough spot to be in.His
conversation added meaning to the moment he took to enjoy the Indian
cuisine.He was quite surprised that I
enjoyed, but absolutely dumbfounded when he saw me shun the knife and fork to
eat it in the traditional style.He said
now in metropolitan areas like Bombay the
European eating utensils are rapidly gaining favor.He gave me his business card, and I put it
away almost without looking at it.No
intent of rudeness -- it was just that I'd have little need to know his business
address.
We separated, and I walked to the Indian Gate.I rather enjoy this higher class of people
usually in families who stroll through the area.While vendors and beggars still abound, there
are no cows -- that in itself is a relief.
It is now ten minutes past three in the morning, and the
flight to Delhi should go
in an hour and a half.I checked with
several people, and they assured me that to fly to Delhi, stay
awhile, and then continue to Rome is
okay.Fortunately, I was able to fall
asleep easily at the hostel in Bombay until 10:30 p.m. from about six p.m., so I'm not too terribly tired
now.
I went to get a taxi to the airport bus stop.The first driver wanted 50 rupees; second
said 30, but since it was only a short trip, I knew that 15 was fair.In the space of one-half block I found a
Muslim driver who said "Whatever you want to pay."I told him before I got in that 15 rupees is
fair."OK," he said, "Get
in."So I did.During this short drive he said "did you
say 15 or 50?""15" I
angrily responded . . . "one, five" confirming with a show of a
finger."Oh, no!" he said,
"That isn't fair, it is much more.""Fifteen that is all."And now we arrived amid this squabble."Here it is, goodbye" as I handed him fifteen rupees.There is not an extensive policy of tipping
like that in the U.S.Just rarely and small tips are the most
customary.With him paid, I boarded the
waiting blue and white bus, which was scheduled to leave every hour allday and
night.Thirty rupees, I paid, for the
hour drive.I fell asleep on the bus and
was the last to exit.All other
passengers, Indians, were pulling taped boxes and semi-repaired luggage off the
bus in a hurried pace, but not without some order.
All things happened in a normal manner in the airport
check-in.The guard did ask me to
identify my camera on the X-ray machine the camera -- I hope my film wasn't
damaged.Thethrongs of people stood outside the
main building, but few entered, as if someone very special is due to
arrive.I went to the area of the
Waiting Room and sat.
I met a chap about
thirty-five with long blond hair, but it was clear he would, by age 40, has a
bald pate . . .“Avilly,”
he said, was his name.He just arrived
from Zimbabwe, where he
wanted to resolve (get over) a relationship he had with a girl who lives
there.Unfortunately, I think, he
couldn't get things patched up, so with his gear and his four wooden flutes, he
left to come back to India, his
favorite place.As he claims, he has
been struck by wanderlust and can't settle down.During our discourse a Delhi resident
interrupted, not in a rude fashion, but he relished the opportunity to talk
with English-speaking people.English is
widely spoken here.We
all went through another metal detector, then boarded the plane at Gate 11.While we separated for the long flight to our
assigned seats, I was served a boxed, measured portion of "Frooti,"a very popular and widely advertised
sweetened mango drink.I'll close now --
the plane is moving and it is about to taxi for take off.
The landing was a good one.I awoke during passenger unloading.Good -- another hour and a half of sleep.I feel well-rested.I took the 17 rs (rials) bus ride into town.Delhi is on
first appearance more primitive than Bombay.I'll leave that decision for later.My room is at the third hotel I stopped at
iswhen I exited the bus at the City
Center, I was confronted, as were all other light-skinned tourists, with a plea
to ride a bicycle-driven rickshaw, theirs.I picked one driver from the crowd, he loaded my singular bag and off we
went.For a three-mile tote up a hill
and down cost 7rs, about 15 cents, and that included two rupees as a tip.
We are in the ConaughCentre Hotel; it’s clean, but two steep floors up -- a
private bath, no window or air conditioning, but TV and phone. The room is
small but cheap.From here I booked a Delhi tour at 9:30 a.m.After parking my bags in the room, I went
to the bus stop.I am writing this while
waiting for the bus, which if on schedule, should be here in nine minutes.I think the symptoms of a minor cold have
left me, except for a nose that seems to incessantly run.
I have mounted the bus designated for the tour of Delhi, and I
have not determined whether I have had good fortune by being seated up front in
the driver's compartment.No air conditioning in 90 weather, but it’s not too humid,
even though there is no breeze to cool me.Now I'm starting to run out of film and
time.I feel the pressure on me.I am trying to spread myself out very thin.
I caught the bus, which was a little late, but after boarding
I found that there were four more stops for the bus to make, so there's another
hour wasted.As the tour busfinished loading
and the guide completing head count, we began to discover the mysteries of New
Delhi, which is right outside the medieval walls.The walls were erected to protect the city
now referred to as Old Delhi.If one
looked at the city map to find any pattern to street erection, I don't believe
there can be one found in Old Delhi.We
missed another gas-propelled vehicle by much less than an inch.Incredibly, I have yet to see damage to
vehicles or the carcass of one so damaged, it was left to rot.So they know the driving"system"; I don't.
Our first stop is by the main governmental structure, and
there are a lot of them in this huge complex of fancy buildings.I was sitting up front next to the driver
and witnessed through the bus window what is probably, just simply, part of
everyday life in a city where everybody seems to struggle for survival.Three little boys all under ten had acquired
several large plastic binding straps that had held bales of clothing.The owner of the clothing didn't want to give
the straps to the kids, but, as kids do, they asked and asked with the desired
result.The man, not playfully it
seemed, slapped the oldest boy on the back of his head, then told them they
could have them.
About two minutes later a swarthy, rough complexioned man
wearing a ragged green turban, turned his triped
around in the busy street and ripped the straps from the boy’s hands.While I heard no voices, the vision was clear
that the boys pleaded and explained pleadingly that the straps were given to them.Nobody came to their aid.The burly man just pushed them away, and said
he must eat with hand gestures.The boys
turned and walked away, resigned to accepting the "fait accompli."
As noon
approached, the crowded traffic conditions -- both vehicular and pedestrian --
jumbled into some sort of roadway montage like it was built by a laboratory rat
on LSD.Nothing seemed to move, and the
fumes and just-generated dirt wafted through the air to make several bike
riders tie a kerchief over their faces.I watched streets lined with vendors of limes, lemons, coconuts, mangos,
and watermelons.Numerous other fruits
and vegetableswhich
would be strange to my palate filled a myriad of tables and small stands, which
propagated anywhere there were people and an empty space.
A highway project which we drove by struck my interest
because of the digging along the side of the road for sewage pipes.The diggers used a one-sided pickaxe -- all
were wearing saris.The women were
accompanied by their children.Each ardently struggling to move earth from one place to another in
the 90 heat compounded by the chronic pollution that plagues this city.Everywhere I looked, the billboards yelled
their messages.When English was used,
frequently the billboards had obvious misspellings.
We saw the Red Fort.The Indians were quick to point out that the invading British stole all
the gems embedded in the walls of one part of the fort reserved for
royalty.Maybe one
hundred knifings in the wall to cut out each gem.The Red Fort acquired its name because of the
red clay bricks of which it is cut.Through Bombay to Goa I saw frequent hillsides cut
deeply into the Arkansas-red earth.
My group was moving faster than me.I felt I needed a closer, longer look at this
fort.As I hurriedly left to rejoin the
city tour, I saw a long line of five to nine-year-old boys and girls -- maybe
about two hundred children in a single file -- march within the walls of this
national monument.Each child was neatly
dressed in a school brown and tan uniform.The young boys all with a tie, the girls with carefully pressed
skirts.
Forty minutes to visit this place wasn't enough time; I'll
go back later.But I made it back to the
bus with time to spare.I climbed up the
first step and opened the glass door to the driver's cab where I was
sitting.There were two men there,
chatting with the driver.Some dispute
over which Eastern music tape they should put in to play for the entertainment
of all on the bus.Finally, one tape was
chosen and put into the slot.The device
swallowed the cassette and began spouting the selected popular tunes.I have found it difficult to be able to
distinguish between a good tape and an old, stretched, worn one.The sounds of eastern music are unfamiliar to
my ear, but not unpleasant.
I thought, while on the bus, how few women are on the street
-- a disproportion of five to one.Further, at this last monument there were a large number of Sikhs.Sikhs have moved here from Punjabi because of
the fighting and insurrection that continues there.According to the hotel manager, the Sikh's
are financially subsidized by the Indian government to help quell the
discontent of the move south and relocating.The manager also said that since the Sikhs are Hindu, albeit a subbranch, they are happy to move -- I don't believe that
part.I'm sure they want to go home.
The bread sold on the street is big, flat, and round.It is slightly crisp on the outside, but very
soft and airy on the inside, not very different from pita bread.I enjoyed the one I bought for 2 rupee.Alone it was almost a meal.The vendor I purchased it from pulled it from
the top of maybe two hundred breads evenly piled in a huge straw basket that in
its present state seemed immobile -- certainly by him it was.
We drove to the sanctified park where the revered Sanjay and
IndiraGandhiwere buried.We drove to where Gandhi was cremated, then
had his ashes dropped over the rivers and mountains of India by
plane.These places are considered holy
shrines and require the removal of shoes before getting close toactual points of
reverence within the park.
I met a British man married to an Indian doctor.While her name was too long for me to master,
I did have the opportunity to discuss Indian culture with her since her English
was clear.She explained about the dot
between the eyes.Symbolic
of the spiritual center of a person's mind and soul.Through that point each person is reminded is
the primal concentration of the power of man over all else to bring himself to
higher spiritual planes.At one temple
marked frequently with the swastik, an ancient
religious symbol which is a Hindu marking of good luck The Brit, Peter, was not
typical of the dominant male in Indian society, but he was rather submissive to
the whims of his doctor-wife.He exited
this temple with the red ash markings of the Hindu on his forehead.Few men placed such markings on their faces.
The most fascinating monument was that of a Mongol's Temple.Built around the fourteenth century, the high
tower still stands and the artwork is elaborate, and the arches are good
examples of the extensive work performed and craftsmanship at that time.I took quite a few photos of this artifact,
and then I walked through the street underpass to the Temple.Following current custom, I removed both
shoes and socks before entering this elaborate building.
I was let out of the bus in about 30 minutes later, close to
the hotel.The manager was holding my
flight tickets and passport because he was going to get my flight
confirmation.I was told that the state
of bureaucracy in India surpasses
all other nations, and that you must get your flight three days in
advance.I don't think I'll be able to
leave when I want (which is two days) without his help.Other than making a futile trip to the Delhi
Air-India office in Collough area at eight a.m. this morning -- they were closed
till 9:30 a.m. -- I
never tried on my own to arrange it.
So I talked with the hotel manager.He was kind of a queer sort.He acts like your good friend, and then adds
all kinds of charges to your bill.I
gave him some American coffee, Taster's choice, rather rare for these parts
because he said he wanted to take care of my ticket confirmation as a
favor.It seemed like a fair exchange to
me, then he says he wants a "torch," meaning
a flashlight and 100 rupees to let me shower and change then rest for two hours
before I must catch my flight.I gave
him the money --- he acted as though it were our secret.Usually this kind of activity gets me the short
end of the stick, so I asked this almost pleasant fellow for a receipt."Tomorrow," he says, knowing I'm
leaving for Agra at six a.m., not to return till 11 p.m.I let the issue go; even one hundred rupees are only three U.S. dollars.
October
19, 1993TuesdayDelhi,India
I was awakened at five a.m., an hour
before I had asked to be wakened, by a phone call from the manager.I've noticed that in the evening there are
four hotel employees bedding down in the lobby -- tee shirts and shorts for all
of them.I don't get it!What goes here?So too late to go back to sleep; I tried to
close my eyes, but the excitement was building.I didn't fall asleep until after midnight.
I met the bus at close to the scheduled time of six a.m.After we made four separate pickups, the tour bus was off to Agra, where
the TajMahal is.
As we exited the Indian metropolis, I noticed an aged
building marked clearly with several Stars of David in the uppermost area of
design.Maybe this building was two
hundred years old.Nearby was some sort
of transient encampment.The small homes
that dotted the highway to Agra were made
from mud and branches usually, but there were several different materials used
including concrete.Most homes were set
back from the road by forty or fifty feet and each had a mailbox posted at the
edge of the highway.Often the homes
were heated by cow dung that had been gathered while moist and packed into a
wooden container resembling a fifteen-inch pie tin.The dung is left in these containers until
they completely dry, then they can be used as fuel.The smoke from the small fires that I had
noticed, surprisingly, had a sweet, pleasant odor.
As we drove, I could see literally hundreds of cows and
hundreds of big, horned, black water buffalo.There were women carrying tin or copper buckets of water, frequently
three high atop their heads from the water pump at the town well.They made this trip several times each day.
Our first tourist stop, about two hours into the journey,
was at an area away from everything else, and all signs welcoming tourists were
in English.Once we entered, the gates
were closed (so we couldn't get out).Then we were herded to the food counter where we would decide what we'd
like to eat for breakfast, but before getting it we had to show a paid
receipt.I resented this treatment, and
I bought nothing.At this point we
passed a sign that indicated another 180 kilometers to Agra.We already had traveled a slow eighty
kilometers.
I was thankful there was no music blaring in this bus yet (I
know it will happen, though).This is a
main artery for traffic and supports businesses of the common roadway types.
Almost all of the land east and west of the road was for
agrarian use.Somewas lying fallow.It all appeared to be arid useable land; none
was barren often next to a large plot of land that was lush.The farming system is akin to what we call
sharecropping except for some very large plots of ground owned by a large
company.Off in the distance here and
there are big manufacturing plants shooting pollutants high into the sky.It seems unchecked.The fumes rose quickly, high above the brick
towers that were used as chimneys.The
wretched odors swirled through the air like black striped pinwheels, leaving a
chalky black residue that rested on homes, streets, or human skin.One area had the living quarters in a large
wooden open crate suspended about a foot off the group by bricks and stones.
The small roadside businesses seem to crowd together closer
and closer announcing that we are about to enter the City of Agra.As I caught my first glimpse of this
magnificent red-stoned fortress, I knew that I would always remember it
regardless of what else is to follow.As
we came closer the roadside stands continued to expand in number unabated by
the omnipotent presence of the forbearing world monument.The fortress, which we would enter first,
yielded sights of a singularly spectacular nature.It's visible area
must have been five acres of hilltop.The interior exhibited grandeur beyond any castle or fortress to which I
have ever seen.Some walls were made of
onyx, some of marble or alabaster, with inset colored stones and gems put in
such intricate patterns that it was no surprise when I was told the palace was
made by fifteen thousand people over a six-year period. I attempted to capture
the beauty around me on film, but I am unsure of my ability to catch it. It
must be viewed as a whole to see how each area surpasses the next yet
complements it.
The royal chambers offer the most excellent portal to view
the TajMahal, a funerarium and monument to the Ruler's second wife. From
the formerly bejeweled Throne Room, I can look out and down at the TajMahal.I cannot write words that would do justice
to the story of love and romance that are evoked from this sight.The visitor who is lucky enough to share
the beautiful monument
As a group we exit this complex and are greeted by a mass of
misfits and beggars looking to gain sympathy through whatever level of
freakiness they have managed to achieve.The more atrocious the appearance, the more likely they are to collect
alms successfully.Strangely, other than
their teeth, few of these misfortunates look
malnourished, quite unlike the workers, day laborers, and others who live in
poverty within Delhi or Bombay.The teeth are usually in an advanced stage of
decay that is only worsened by advancement of the beggar's age.Brown and crooked, the teeth pose as a
serious threat to any who might be bitten by these jagged oral erections.
Even before we actually went to the TajMahal I again was reminded of the stark contrast
between rich and poor -- the richness of India's
monuments, and the wretchedness of its poor.
Before leaving the outer grounds of Agra, I
noticed quite a number -- maybe fifty -- boys, all in
a paramilitary uniform.I spoke with the
man similarly uniformed who spoke some English.Cub Scouts they were.We talked
briefly about the Scouts in the U.S., and he
asked if the U.S. Scouts had comparable uniforms.From the photos I took the difference is
clear, but the same brown color uniform.I tried to shake his hand with the Scout handshake using the left
hand.He was startled but compliant.Obviously this method was unfamiliar to him,
and, after I gave it a moment's thought, repugnant since the left hand is used
for toilet duties.Still I could feel
the bond between us.I had to leave
quickly since my group had long since departed and was no longer visible.
Our bus was soon filled with all of us and closed its doors
as a band of beggars outside, was trying its best to get money from us.The bus brought us out of the way to another
"Welcome Tourist" type restaurant.Again, I ate nothing there while entrapped within its walls.After lunch, back to the
bus to see the TajMahal.And off we drove,
most diners very unsatisfied with the meal.I had the good fortune to eat a couple takis
-- sort of mashed potato with spices and vegetables within, then as a thick
small patty fried in the oiled open air wok till the outside is partly dark
brown and crispy.This costs ten rupees,
and I ate while we were with the fortress.Now while the others remained within the restaurant I escaped and hired
a rickshaw to take me around town for the next thirty minutes before
re-embarking upon the bus.
Now this, the TajMahal, still surpassed the AgraPalace.The whole thing so much
more spectacular than I thought before.The bus released us at the base of a very broad incline; the top of this
area is where the Taj is built.Passed through the usual
lot to get there though very tight security.
Right now security is tight all over India because
some Pakistani Moslems blew up a temple, which was extremely sacred to the
Hindus.The Pakis said that it was built
upon a sacred Moslem spot and that India should
move it or they would destroy it.It was
held by terrorists then destroyed.So
now India has very
high security.The guard tapped lightly
on my privates to see if--.Metal
detectors, all purses and bags opened.
I traveled through this area in the fellowship of an Indian
man, his wife and three children.They
all spoke English except the mother and her youngest daughter.While never having traveled out of India because
of the tremendous expense, they were interested in world travel, especially Egypt.I spoke of some of my travels as we walked up
to the marble staircase.At this point
everyone had to remove their shoes.Quickly I doffed my tennis shoes and walked with this family.They told me of its history and facts.I listened intently still knowing that when I
return I will want to read about it more.We spent a couple of hours exploring this splendid monument to
love.I returned to the bus after
recovering my shoes.
We drove eight miles until we came to the town where Lord
Krishna was born.The excitement of
those within -- the believers reveled in their joy of making their pilgrimage
to this spot.
Security was very high and everything was again securely
checked.I to leave my shoes and socks
in the bus to make the holy walk over the once rough-hewn bricks (now smoothly
worn by the passage of time), leading me toward the entrance of this
shrine.I saw similar deities throughout
my visit to India and even
at VeniceBeach with the
Hare Krishnas.But this reached a higher, more beautiful form even though my eyes are
unaccustomed to this style of eastern art.The spiritual feeling that all the people within shared with each other
were easy for me to feel too.I watched
everything, the icons, people's faces and body movements, each tuning into the
moment.
I left the group and wandered through the surrounding
village.In the darkness, the exotic
nature of everything becomes more apparent.Here, in India,
somewhere between Agra and Delhi, the
streets turned mysterious, only lit by the vendors’ kerosene lamps.The walk brought me deeper into the magic of India.Somehow, I found my way back to the bus.The bus stopped next at another Hindu
shrine.Not understanding the history of
it, I couldn't really feel inspired by it. The other passengers were Indian so
there was little of the verbiage I could understand.Occasionally, the guide spoke English,
although more for me than anybody else. Hungry and thirsty I bought some beans
from a vendor but rather than get them as they were, he smashed them, added
peas in a sauce and then put them on a plate piled with other unidentified
vegetables.This dish was salty, spicy
and sweet all at the same time.I really
preferred it the other way.
Now at the bus as the prescribed time, our driver was taken
ill, food poisoning is suspected, am I feeling strange now or what?No, I feel fine -- I think. He ate from the
same vendor as I did. I sat quietly, introspectively on the bus.Am I starting to feel hot?A new driver came to take over.Off we went and off I went -- asleep.I was awakened at the stop I was to get
out.In a haze I wandered off the bus
and to the hotel.It was dark and locked.I knocked on the door softly at first and
kept increasing volume until I was heard.In his underpants he came to open the door and let me in.I asked about my tickets; all okay.I asked about the room for me to rest."Sorry, all full."But he allowed me to use the restroom/shower
to clean up and change.So I did and
packed my gear, went downstairs, but the door was locked again.Loudly I said, "Open the
door."One of the employees
startled from sleep jumped and said, "Moment.Moment!"He looked up my entry in the book.I owed 30 rupees, which I refused to
pay.He let me out.I started for the airport for my 5:40 flight.I had my last Indian food for a while.Chicken Tandoori, Tika, the curried rice, and almost everything wonderfully
edible at a nearby restaurant that was open.The entire meal including a generous tip was only eighty cents.I=ll remember this
food for a long time to come.It was
delicious and I was hungry.
October
20, 1993SaturdayNew
Delhi, India
It's now 12:50
a.m.Plenty
of time to make the twelve-mile journey.I thought I could get a bus, so a rickshaw brought me to the bus station
for the cost of 20 cents.I waited
thirty minutes.Buses came and
went.I saw people climb aboard the bus
while it was moving at a good clip.I
stood alone at that spot.Now my time to
waste was shorter.I hired a triped to drive me the distance -- it seemed forever.We got to the airport and I paid him sixty
rupees.I got in the airport and within
a normal time I boarded Air India to Rome.I'm on it right now, trying to get some
sleep.Instead, I watched the two
movies.The first was an Indian movie
with a great many moral messages about Indian womanhood.Next, an American movie
about a man who sells his wife for the night to a man for a million dollars,
"The Proposition."What
a contrast.A sugared doughnut, coffee,
some mixed fruit and a plain dinner roll was served for a late night
snack.Now I'll try to sleep for a
while.Next stop, Rome.I'll try to change
my ticket to Istanbul from
there.
Still flying -- it's a nine-hour trip to Rome, my mind is not willing to sleep though my body would relish
it.This morning's cold ride in the open
rickshaw to the airport rekindled my cold symptoms.This is the very first time I have ever
chosen to sit in the smoking section of the airplane.I admit the fumes may be irritating my nasal
passage and making my eyes watery.
As soon as we touched down to the Leonardo da Vinci Airport in Rome, the
jostling and pushing really start.First
off, while my watch says 3:30 p.m. in Rome, it's noon.I'm not going to change my watch yet until I hit Athens.Then I'm going directly to get my ticket to Istanbul.Meanwhile at the Rome airport,
everybody is pushing and shoving to get on or off.The disorganization became just too much for
me and I caught a manager's attention.She pulled me aside and checked for Istanbul.The flight for today left around eight a.m. and my ticket is not endorsable
anyway.I had to at least try.
Now, as I wrote above, I move quickly in Athens after the
two-hour flight.There was absolutely no
order in all the lines, utter chaos.But
the plane wouldn't leave without us, I couldn't understand the panic.In today's paper I read of the light
sentences handed down to the defendants in the beating of Rodney King, the
precursory event that led to the L.A.
riot.It's difficult for others in the
world to comprehend our legal system that doesn't serve to punish the
criminal.
I've been away since the seventh of October with today being
the twentieth.So it's only thirteen
days of traveling as of today, but I've covered a lot of ground so far.I have to purchase film too.I was speaking to a young couple from Sacramento as we
were boarding.It's a pleasure to hear
American spoken properly.They have been
traveling through Europe for six weeks and will be
going to Athens but may
only spend the day there.Athens requires
at least two days for the fastest and quickest moving travelers.Delphi shouldn't
be missed.Well, I know how it is when
you want to see everything and only have little time.
I chuckle (inside) when I think of my return to tell others
where I have been.Who would believe
it?Not even me.What miracles in this world and wonderful
places to travel, even on a budget, if done with the spirit of adventure really
make me feel unusually conicente'.I look at how small the world is, yet how
few people ever see the other parts of it.You cannot judge the whole by examining only part.Every time I see news of world issues and I
can connect them to the countries and cities I have visited, the story becomes
more vivid and real with true meaning.What a wonderful blessing I have, to have the health and the means and
the desire to travel.I am thankful.Still mid-flight, going to Athens, I am
urged by my consciousness to call home.I miss my family.I have not
really had the urge to be with a woman during my travels.I've noted this feeling or, more correctly,
lack of feeling.The primal urges
disappear.I must study the causes when
I get home.
The food on Italia Airlines is typical Italian.A bit of fish, a bit of meat, and Italian
roll, coffee and purple grapes for dessert.Everything and everybody are so fashion conscious--even the plastic ware
I used for my meal has the fashion designer’s name stamped in it and, of
course, the manufacturer’s.Everything
is fashion here.Over the heavy layer
of style is the light, almost humorous, staccato of the spoken language, and
gestures with everything.If prices were
more reasonable, I might have spent more time in Rome.As it is, my budget is tight.
Good fortune shined on me.I was able to use the credit card to buy the 23,500 drachmae ticket
round trip to Istanbul.Add two days for seeing the city and three
days through the islands and there's just no way.I'm unhappy about that.The trip back was exhausting.I hope I'll find good weather in Istanbul.But as we flew over it, it was cloud
covered.I'm going anyway.The bus stop was a little tricky to find but
I did it.I had to get on the other side
of the train station by climbing a circular metal staircase to ascend on one
side and descend on the other side of a broad motor way.At the high
point the bus station was visible.
I have been up, with the exception of several short naps
which never exceeded an hour's length, for over thirty hours.My teeth could use some brushing and my
constantly running nose is not of benefit to good breath.Some fennel seeds might go well now.I was instructed to wait until 6:30 p.m. before being allowed access to
the bus that runs every day.While
waiting for the bus I purchased three rolls of film, some water and a roll of
hard candies.I am greatly anticipating
this adventure that starts soon.I hope
I'll sleep well.The bus parked outside
the terminal.It looks like a very
pleasant bus to travel on.
October
21, 1993ThursdayAthens, Greece
It is now 5:45 a.m. Greek
time.I've changed my watch so many
times.I see real value in the double
watch I saw the woman wear as we traveled to Athens.
Daylight glimmered just enough to
let me see the ancient gate at Thesselanka.The main road through town passed through it
and by the ferry.The fishermen were
preparing their boats.The vegetable
market was busy with customers buying crates of fruits and vegetables, the
nature of which was unrecognizable to me in the morning twilight.
Every two or three hours the bus stops at another good
roadside cafe.Not tourist-type stops or
at least the cafes don't resemble the stereotypical ones I've seen.Greeks handle the food with more care and
attention.A beverage is made to savor
not just to slake thirst.Quite a contrast to India.Yes, the food was
very good there too, but the care and appearance in India is
handled in a much more, well, Spartan manner in all but the most expensive of
establishments.
This point marks midway of the journey.Still, in Greece, the cold
bites at me.In a thin sheet it creeps
through the loosely fitting door as we travel.No matter where I move, it seems to find me.
No longer tired, but still on the bus, the strong coffee I
enjoyed this morning has me chemically stimulated so that I can distinguish
between last night and morning.The
first of two cups of 200 dr. coffee made slightly too sweet even for my taste
helps me draw that line of demarcation which, otherwise, would have been too
blurred for me to see.
In another two hours, if we are on schedule, we'll be in Istanbul.I opened my Blue Book on Turkey.Strangely, it has nothing on Istanbul.
As we continue the drive, the towns seem to have no unique
qualities about them.They are just
places.Places with a gas station, a
cafe, a few plain homes, nothing special.Nothing dramatic.Not unlike towns one would see outside Fresno or Bakersfield.They just spring up for very practical
purposes.Nothing to be pretentious about, nor planned with any thought.But real people live and die; love and have
children here.To them, their hamlet is
a macrocosm without limits because of its isolation, not in miles, but in attitudes
of simplicity.Of the several homes in
each of these numerous burgs not one stands more prominently than the
next.None aspire to be either the
greatest or the least.All are, on
appearance to me, equal.If I had the
pleasure to reside in any one of them, I could be certain that an outsider wouldbe critically
suspect in every action or inaction and it might take little more than a short
while to feel comfortable at any one of these burgs.
We stopped in one small town at seven a.m.While waiting
to load and unload passengers, a horse wandered, confused and alone, through
the street.This hamlet being one of
slightly larger stature has a drudgery, shoe store, houseware
shop, tobacconist, a kiosk selling newspapers,
magazines and small candies.Also I
noticed the standard fare of two gas stations, a bakery and a couple or three
small cafes.
While shops don't seem to open till nine in the morning,
people walk to work or catch a local bus to another nearby village to perform
those daily tasks they have accepted as life's lot.Generous, at least in things material, it
isn't.
Now, around eight
a.m., we pass through a larger town.I can see the contrast.Here, and I don't know where "here"
is, the traffic builds at points and the driver crowds his vehicle in to be
next to go down the street.Taxis, now
empty, zoom through alleys and across main arteries to find the next
fare-paying transitory occupant.
The only streetlights are around the centrally located city
park.A complex
pattern of small white bulbs traverse the central business district in
an intricately woven pattern.I am sorry
not to see it at night, I’m certain it becomes gaily lit.An hour later and I am feeling worn from the
constant travel.But I must endure, for
I want to see all that is important.I
have a semi-clear picture of where to go and how to get to a hostel in Istanbul.
We have crossed the Bulgarian border to make a detour for
some reason unknown to me.The
physiognomies of local women are shorter, stouter, and weigh more than their
Greek or European counterparts.We drove
on past an active, morning marketplace.Soon we were traveling through a long expanse of farm land.Crop rotation appeared to be using a half
acre lot for the mainly hand tilled land.A wavy land surface reaching a mile on each side of
the road, beyond which were hills of a small size framed this
picturesque farming area.Cotton seemed
to be a very popular crop.
At 10:45 we are
stopped from entering at Greek customs into Turkey.Turkey and Greece are at
odds over Macedonia and other
issues.The driver had taken a wrong
turn and there was no guard, even though there was a guard station and we had
wandered into Bulgaria.After an hour's delay and a check of
everybody's passport, we resumed the trip.
Of the women, I should note that clothing style, or lack of
it, usually includes dark, most commonly black, dresses and coats with a head
kerchief, which is rather long, but is tied tightly below the chin.Complexions are sallow white even though the
sun is shining warmly down on this mid-October day.Hands are rough except for the youngest and
no signs of feminine frivolities such as painted lips or nails, except for
young women who have adopted some Western styles.Wearing tee shirts or simple shirts with
American words or brand names emblazoned on them often misspelled."University of Florada" was
one example I saw more than once.
Before crossing into Turkey, we
stopped at the Duty Free shop.I could
confirm as I had read that American cigarettes were really being dumped.A carton of Marlboro was $6.I only purchased a pound and half of shelled
hazelnuts for $.60.Now crossing a
bridge, we enter the Turkish side.For
an hour and a half they check all baggage coming in with the thoroughness they
believe needed.I open the combination
to my lock and pull some larger items out of it so the guard may more easily
inspect it.This is no simple task.The small carrying pack and bag are really
filled fully.Because of language
problems, I am unable to garner enough information to determine the reason for
our delay now.But in the pleasant
afternoon sun I am sitting on a bench to write this.Even though I believe we are close in
distance, the delay was partially anticipated in the brochure timetable.
A pair of squat, black-garbed old women had some sort of
fish in their handbags and the warm bus amplified the sour odors.I'll not eat fish for several days after this
even if I am lucky enough to watch from the exterior of the bus and see them
eating the rotting morsels now.Fish
odor has a way to permeate everything it touches.The air willlet the molecules of fish smell linger
until the end of this trip in five more hours.It is with heavy heart that it just struck me that my stuffy nose is
clearing up -- perfect! Now was the only time I was glad to have nasal
blockage.Police and guards in army
green and medium blue respectively number at least forty collectively.What else shall cause more delay?Still we wait -- and wait.Someone who is Turkish had no passport, so
she was not allowed to continue.Her
accompanying daughter of about twenty years was left to continue until the next
stop.Confused about how to rejoin her
mother, she halted her journey and waited at the bus stopto not havetoo much distance between her mother and
herself.Even I felt guilty leaving the
girl, but truly, the mother should have prepared better.
We drove on through huge farm fields.A dozen trucks drove past us with huge bins
in tow filled with turnips.For two
hours, we continued on.Stopping in
Mahomet now it's 3:30 p.m.It seems to be an orderly and normal life
that is lead here.They stop at red lights, go on the green, drive on the right side of the
street.They do notrace to speed through town.This is a substantial town on a seaport,
laden with small fishing vessels of wood, except the largest ships.
Since Turkey is
Islamic, I'm prepared for a style similar to the Middle Eastern cultures I
visited.As we neared Istanbul, I became
surprised at how many (in the thousands) of new homes and apartments newly
built or recently finished.I'm
thoroughly impressed with the phenomenal number.This city is much more new than old.There are many significant relics of the
past.I'll visit them tomorrow to see
them with more light; it is starting to get dark now.I shot a few evening
pictures at slow shutter speeds without a tripod or timed release.Maybe I'll get lucky and they'll come out
okay.I stayed in a modest, but clean
establishment called Hotel Petrol, recommended by some Americans from South
Carolina who was leaving as I
arrived.Almost all the real touristy
stuff is right nearby.Since most of the
monuments are within a mile of my hotel, I'll take a walking tour using my
guidebook instead of a bus tour this time.
I was too tired to sleep so I walked one way then the other
until I happened upon a restaurant -- The Pudding Shop on the main street that
the modern (very) traversed.The "siskebob" as the Turks call it is pieces of mutton
with tomato pieces and two long pale green chilies served with some sourdough
bread.A bite of this,
a bite of that.At the table,
instead of salt and pepper, they had ground fennel and ground peppers.All is served with a generous piece of a
sourdough loaf."Cay" or tea
is often drunk with this.28,000 Turkish
Lira it had cost.Still hungry, I later
had similar food, but the innards were put in a sandwich and I walked along the
beautiful old street as I ate the sandwich.10,000 T.L.My guide book did say the Lira was having problems and the exchange rate
is12,700 T.L.
to one U.S. dollar.A year ago, before
this terrible inflation Turkey is
dealing with, it was $1 = $6919 T.L.
I walked the streets until I saw a Turkish bath house and I
guess I ought to try it according to the book.I should describe what occurred.First I entered and immediately noticed it was all men. They were
standing around in red banded towels tucked at the waistline, but nothing else
covered their bodies.Every seat, every
floor, and the walls were made of black streaked marble without any edges I
could see.The huge entire cavity was
over ninety degrees and, of course, very high humidity --it was like New York in the
summer.I was sent to a room with just
enough room to stand. In it I undressed and wrapped the towel around me in the
fashion I had seen.I locked the room
and turned out the lights, all while standing outside the room.I followed a thin, similarly dressed
attendant into the main chamber where billowy clouds of steam hung in the
air.Everything is marble.The men would either be sitting or lying on a
huge circular bench, which was about four inches thick and at least ten yards
across from any one side to the other.
Off to the side there were little rooms where one or two
people would go after being steam cleaned in the main chamber.There you washed your private parts.If you want a rubdown, the attendant will, as
he did me, have you lay on the main marble slab and he'll massage you.My muscles ached for a day after my massage;
in fact, while he was doing it, at first it felt good . . . then as he dug
deeper, I had to gather all my strength to keep from screaming or worse,
crying.Then he soaped me down and took
a small maroon plastic bowl and scooped bowl after bowl of water on me.Then I wrapped a new towel around me, the
other one was soaked through.Then one
was put turban-style around my head.Last, another towel was wrapped around my shoulders.I waited until I was dry then dressed and
left after paying about $20 for this adventure.I have gotten a brochure from them -- I guess when you print up
brochures that's certain proof that you are part of the tourist trade.I bought a few post cards then went back
to the hotel and fell asleep instantly.
October
22, 1993FridayIstanbul, Turkey
I awoke at six a.m. and took
care of my toilet time before I packed and left.This took me two hours, I was moving
slowly.I am in a busy bakery/coffee
house and I ordered some sort of shredded wheat and shredded coconut sweet
roll.The sweetness is compounded
because it is marinated in a syrupy congealment.While it looked very good, its flavor was
hidden under the massive sweetness.I
have yet to drink the chocolate colored Turkish coffee.It still steams in its demitasse cup.The first small sip confirms the super
charged caffeine content.This tiny
breakfast should keep me powered until I wind down midday.I'll visit Istanbul's
monuments today, but I’m already thinking thatI want to visit some of the Greek
islands when I return to Greece.
Still haunted by cold symptoms, I'll continue
undaunted.The city while short from my
anticipation of endless monuments, it certainly has its share and several museums
most notable according to my guide book being the one for Islamic art.All of these things are here in the Sultan Ahmet district.I'll
hope to catch an English group and tag along.My bus leaves at 6:30 but I
might go to Izik or Bursa if I can
find justification.Meanwhile, my
current dilemma involves the need for clean clothes.Especially a shirt.Since the white one is dirt stained and the
black one I've worn since Rome, I will
probably buy one.Every shirt is printed
in English -- none in Turkish that I have yet to see.
The pastry I am eating leaves a bit to be desired.Rather than crisp, it's
soft flesh must have been prepared days ago.Nonetheless, the "meal" at 32,000 Turkish Lira costs in
American dollars $2.50, fair for average food.I left and started touring the area.Quite easy to do because almost all the important stuff is within about
a mile area of this stop.
Turkey once
ruled the world up through the Byzantine epoch on through the Ottoman
Empire.This is how
its museum (started centuries ago) was able to amass a huge inventory of
Egyptian and Roman stuff.I attempted to
photograph much of it but because of low levels of light it was not something I
could accomplish easily.I ate the
street food with relish.The fried fish
was a real treat and often eaten by Turks as they walked along the streets of
this seaport city.Crispy
and fresh inside.The Hotel
Petrol was nearby.I checked out and
made the bus arrangements.I found Turkey to be
quite different from my expectations, certainly more into the 20th century than
the other Islamic countries.
I purchased a few trinkets from street peddlers.The sellers generally know the busiest spots
to congregate, now they are en masse outside the old
wall of Istanbul, which
was called Constantinople at an
earlier time when Rome ruled
this country.The vendors are a
difficult group to deal with.One flute
seller followed me a hundred yards carrying on a one-sided conversation with
each phrase baiting me to join in and fill in the long silent periods:
"36,000 Lira, 36, good flute, musical notes okay mister 36? Okay? 36?
Okay, 35 okay? 35, okay mister?35?""No, get out of here.I
wouldn't want it if you were giving them away!"" Okay, okay 34, 34 is good price.34.How many?"And so on, much longer than I care to write
about it.
If one keeps in mind the strength of Turkey in former
years, seeing an impressive jewel collection like at the TopkapiPalace where
huge gems were on display would be understandable.I can't recall all of the things off hand in
retrospect, but I did see quite a few older Americans taking a cruise of the
Black Sea, visiting Ukrainian ports and included was Istanbul which calls
itself "the Gateway to Asia,” almost downplaying its own unique place in
history as a world capital.Of course,
it is significant that it was a location all passed through to conquer lands of
the East in ancient times.It is the
only city on two continents.
It is 6:10 p.m.I found the bus to Athens without
too much effort.Because the train or
trolley (if you want to call it that) is so cheap and efficient it costs a dime
to travel the four miles from the station to Sultan Ahmet,
which is the older, more historical part of Istanbul. Tourists
are usually bused here from other more modern areas of this tourist Mecca.At 2 p.m. I was
able to arrange a seatfor the bus that leaves at 6:30 p.m.There weren't a lot of seats left even at
that early hour.
October
23, 1993SaturdayIstanbul, Turkey
Again at the point the bus crosses the border there are
delays obviously due to discontent between the two countries over Cypress and other
issues.We have spent over an hour and a
half and haven't even started through the Greek checkpoint.It is a half an hour past midnight and I am still in doubt whether
I'll use the Island Cruise tickets for which I have already paid about
$100.Because of time delays, I might
get home soon.I'll continue my attempts
to use the phone.I'm going back on the
bus.The temperature is in the
60's.Everywhere I went, I had terrific
weather that, I am told, is unusual for this time of the year.In India, the
monsoon season wasn't over yet, but I had great tee shirt-type' weather.Greece and Turkey have been
the same.Certainly that would be a
factor to helping me decide what to do.
The seat next to me is occupied by a Turk, about 25 years
old with black framed teeth.His
passport showed all the signs of someone who makes this crossing
regularly.Since I am on the last leg of
my journey, I look back especially to exotic India.What a strange and wonderful place.I hope I'll revisit it with more time to
spend and enjoy it more fully.
I left my other journal on the bus when we transferred at 2:30 a.m..Sleepily I forgot
it.The rest of the ride was long and
uncomfortable because of my neglect.The
bus driver made arrangements for me to pick it up in a day at the main bus
terminal.
Immediately after arriving in Athens, I
elected to make the journey to some ofthe islands.When will I be here again?I took a thirty minute hike from the bus
station to a small park called Victoria. This is
where the Metro travels through to Poros, which is
the main terminal for boats and ferries.It is only ten or fifteen miles from Athens.I found the boat without asking more than
four people and then I picked a spot that seemed comfortable enough on the
upper deck.I bought two pounds of
bananas from a street vendor.I sat
comfortably in the balmy upper deck, already reminiscing of the mystic places
sojourned.
I saw the moon float above the outlines of clouds in the
light from the half moon.The boat
cruised about twenty miles an hour.At 5:30 p.m. tomorrow I'll catch the bus for 6:30 to the board for the island of Ios.
In all the travel, shipboard was pleasant to start but
slowly, gradually, as we got further out to sea the cold was dredged up from
the deep Kingdom of Neptune.The small hours after midnight brought a heavy, sticky, salt
mist with it.The damp permeated everything
inside and out of the monolithic vessel.
A cigarette couldn't be easily lit unless the offer of
another burning ember from another cigarette was offered.
I slept for a while, shielded from the chill with two
jackets, but as time approached daybreak, the cold had permeated even that
shield and forced me to find shelter within the innermost passageways
accessible to those who paid fares.
I slept for five minutes before the garbled and muted sounds of an announcement of arrival at Ios
was made.
While this port, not being my destination, was enough to
arouse my curiosity of its character as visible from shipboard.Dimly lit and quiet, as one might expect,
with the minor exception of a couple of tazi (taxi,
that is) waiting to deliver another tourist to an overpriced hotel and have the
driver awarded whatever fee the hotelier deems appropriate.As I watched this scene occur, I wondered if
I should escape the trappings of finding early morning lodgings in Santorini.
We put in dock within ten minutes time, and we were underway
to the next stop, Santorini.And so it happened.At about 3:30 a.m. we fled
ships, all in a made rush to find lodging and bed at a time we should all be
asleep.
As destiny played itself out, I, too, was to find myself in
a bus with four other Americans, all too willingly following the thin,
scraggly-bearded old Greek to a van where luggage was quickly loaded and off to
a hotel about a mile from the beach.
While I must admit this room to be the cleanest and most
pleasant of all I have been in, the late hour was cause enough to shower,
shave, and brush my badly stained teeth, which had suffered themselves
from the greatest lack of care for the whole duration of this adventure.
I awoke in a room warmed directly by the direct warmth from
the sun.It struck the single pane of
glass, which had until recently protected my slumber from the cold morning
wind.Too warm to sleep and too excited
to stay within, I dressed and put all things away.Ready to travel again.But most importantly, I hurriedly paid the
innkeeper and left to see the azure seas and black sand beaches.
On both counts I was disappointed.The city was heavily laden with more American
tourists than any other place I have been outside the U.S.Almost one out of five visitors are from the States, and the Greeks catered to this.Almost everywhere the signs of advertisements
were clearly meant for the eyes of English speakers, and moreover, evidence of
American reminders stood.
Why have this stuff?Why would somebody go to the Greek Cyclades and buy a hat that says "Boss" or some
silly ditty printed on the back.At
least get one that says "Santorini." on it.
I missed a boat trip out to the nearby dormant volcano
because I couldn't run fast enough with all my gear, from a safe place in the
shade to the bus stop.The bus left, but
it gave me a chance to enjoy a fish souvlaki.The meal costs1,800 dr., but that included a bottle of
mineral water.
Since all water is imported to the island, it is a precious
commodity and used sparingly by all residents.All gardening and shrubbery were only that which grows as native
vegetation and through natural propagation.
October
31, 1993,SundaySantorini,
Greek Isles
I returned to Athens by
boat.The trip took all day.Ihurried back to the airport the
following morning.When I got to the
airport I was told that it is unlikely I will be able to go on this flight
because it is fully booked.A flight toNew York only goes
every other day and it is only one flight.
Good fortune was with me.I was the second to the last person to board.Thankfully they had a no show.
A short thirty minute layover in JFKAirport and I was
on a plane to L.A.I miss home
EPILOGUE OF
THE GREECE, TURKEY, AND INDIA ADVENTURE
May 13,
1994
Yesterday the final chapter of this adventure unfolded.This last event began with the loss of my
second notebook somewhere in either Greece or Turkey as the
bus was halted on some dark street at about 2 a.m., close to
the border.All passengers had to
disembark and go onto another bus going to Athens.
Because of the hour and my inattentiveness, I left my second
notebook on the knit pocket hinged behind the seat in front of me.It contained information and entries from India mainly, but
also Greece.I did not attempt to sharpen my recollection
of events by rereading any portion of the journal, so the following story is
entirely based on my memory of the episode.
In ten minutes, after reboarding
the second bus, now traveling at a good pace along dark roads, I tried to make
the driver aware of my loss.Unfortunately, his inability to understand American and my inability to
speak either Turk or Greek, created a chasm that was unbreechable.Looking worried and troubled, I tried to garner
assistance from one of the thirty other passengers, but nobody was conversant
in American, and I couldn’t explain to them my need to get my journal.
I vainly tried to express myself with body language, but I
imagine my gesticulation was merely interpreted by all witnesses as being
without meaning at all; maybe I was insane or worse was probably the
predominant thought of the wide-eyed passengers.
I resigned myself to the loss of the journal until it became
possible to find someone who could translate my words.In about an hour from this point we stopped
at a roadside cafe where the translation took place.The bus driver said that he would call to the
station to let them know of my loss and try to recover it soon.Even though this was a relief to hear, I
could sense the growing physical distance between the diary and my corporal
being.
I have reflected with diligence in the pages of my journal
most of the events that immediately followed this mishap, so I won't add
duplicate verbiage here.
I waited in Athens and made
a trip to the islands to allow for adequate time for the recovery to occur and
for the tome to be forwarded to the bus station, where I checked several times
during my extended stay in Athens.I had even left an envelope with adequate postage
on it when the album is found.
It was not recovered prior to my departure, despite all my
efforts.Sadly, I resigned myself to its
loss.Still, a spark of hope resided
within my soul.The actual loss I felt
of so valuable a document was unimpeachable proof of its real value to me.I guess it follows the old story of you don't
know what something is worth until you lose it.This was a clear example of the aforementioned idea in practice.
Several calls from Los
Angeles on varying days being spaced out
with longer and longer gaps between calls to the bus station never brought the
news, I had hoped for.I had my friend, George Malisos call for me
a couple of times since he speaks Greek.While I appreciated his efforts, nothing positive came
of it.
The faint flame of hope withered away.Even the final whiff of smoke had long
disappeared.No longer did I delude
myself with the idea that the booklet would ever resurface in my possession.
Yesterday I received a phone call from a man who works at TWA.He had been in Greece recently
and was asked if he knew where Playa del Rey is.When he responded affirmatively, he was given
the booklet wrapped and ready for mailing.Still sealed, the unidentified caller said that he would be able to drop
it by to me after he finishes work today even though I asked if I could come by
to pick it up.
I couldn't believe that the missing fifty-odd pages of my
journal might be back in my hands soon.I waited and anticipated the miracle to come.
The mysterious stranger came by and dropped off the
journal.I was overjoyed and tried to
give the man a thirty-dollar reward for his trouble.He refused, saying that HE was overjoyed that
he could make somebody so happy by a small effort on his part.This reminds me of mitzvah I have done and
how my basic philosophy of life was reflected so pristinely here; if you do
good, it will come back to you.If you
do evil, it too will come back to you.Before
you die it will all even up.
I will send a reward to:Nick
Marlantis; Railroad Station;Peloponnese Booking;Athens, Greece
A few blank pages were torn from the rear of the booklet,
but otherwise it was intact and in very good condition according to how I
remember it looking.That evening I
spent reading my entries, and it was something of great value to me.I could feel the feelings that I felt when I
read more deeper the rediscovered journal.
Now it is together, and I will bind it as I have my other
diaries.I'm happy to have recovered
this valuable reflection of my inner feelings.It is something I could never replace.