Weekend Trip to Jaipur

Jaipur was beautiful, and still very, very Indian. By that I mean just as dirty, sad and impoverished as other cities, but also full of culture and color.

The shore of the Floating Palace. Lots of Garbage.

We stayed at a hotel that cost us each 12 dollars a night. It was my mistake to think that it was fine but hey, it’s all part of the Indian experience, but it was the dirtiest place I’ve ever paid to be in. There were several men hanging outside who were loitering and staring at us, this large group of white women who happened to stumble into their hotel at a very inappropriate hour. It was about 1AM before our car pulled into the dirt driveway of the hotel called "Hotel."

The building was dirty with chipping white paint, which is the way most buildings here look, but the inside was slightly nicer. When we walked inside, there was a fan and a fresh coat of fresh paint on the walls. We all checked in and walked into our room. We all selfishly chose a bed that had the least amount of stains, but still made a hotel attendant come up to change them. I suggested to my friends that a prostitute must have died at least once in each room. Not a kind suggestion.

When I walked into my room there was a man’s room door wide open while he was lying in bed watching TV, looking very casual and comfortable. We decided to lock our door and put our luggage and chairs in front of our door. Redundant since there was a lock on the outside of our door as well. At least we had the comfort that if someone decided to lock us in, we'd have our friends to let us out..

I decided to sleep in full clothing, covering as much of my body as possible. I curled up and fell asleep with one eye open, afraid that a prostitute ghost might come to life seeking vengeance.

This picture does no justice in demonstrating how dirty this room was. Me looking very frightened.

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The next day, I hesitantly rode an elephant. A friend of mine opted to ride an elephant but couldn’t find someone to ride with her. It costs 900 rupees (which is a little less than 20 US dollars), for 1-2 people. It would cost 900 either way, so she said I might as well come along. It was a frightening experience, but it was beautiful. I sat on it high and prideful, exclaiming that I'm exploiting the elephant by making it trudge up a hill carrying giddy tourists like us. "It's cruel!" I'd say.

Fortunately, elephants only ride up the hill to Amber Fort a maximum of 5-6 times, so I embraced it..  a little. At least that's what the elephant conductors told us..

The very beautiful elephant who so kindly let me ride him.

My ultimate favorite part of Jaipur was ironically, the hectic, busy, overcrowded bazaar where I was able to hone my bargaining skills. My pride and glory was when I was able to get a 2800 rupee sari down to 200 rupees, which I didn’t even end up buying. Any person who would buy that cheap, factory made sari for that much money would have to be a little dense. I had fun with the situation, making people go lower down to my price. I started imagining myself in a megaplex-type grocery store back home, “Cornflakes? 5 dollars? I’ll give you 3, no more, no less."

Getting some henna (mendhi) done.

When we finished up our evening and headed to our scummy hotel, we took advantage of the bar entitled “Bar” attached to "Hotel." Imagine about 7-8 white women walking into a filthy, hole-in-the wall-dive, populated only with chain-smoking, old Indian men. Not only did “Bar” only have about two beer options, but one was entitled “Beer”, which I assumed was bottled right there. I opted for the Kingfisher. We proceeded to become obnoxious, loud and very, very foreign. I was alright for us since we clearly outnumbered the Indian men. We felt very secure and happy. We became our own little bubble of life, shutting out the weird looks and stares in “Bar."

Why?

I woke peacefully to the sound of our fan, gently blowing cool air in our faces. I slept well, and my face is not sticky, unlike most hours of the day. Our mornings are low key, and most of the girls are in class on the bottom floor of the three story orphanage. In the wee hours of the morning, you can hear them singing and rehearsing their ABC’s in English. They wear uniforms, and sit on the floor looking up at the teacher who gives them their daily lessons. As we walk past, they stare, wondering why on earth these white women here. I smile and wave practicing my broken Hindi.

In the afternoons, we play. What amazes me is how easily entertained the girls are. Be it coloring, rolling around in the grass, doing cartwheels, taking pictures, looking at pictures, playing snake on my cheap nokia, no matter what, they’re smiling, giggling and genuinely enjoying themselves.

In the early evenings, I help some of the girls with their English homework and teach English to girls who choose to listen. It seems that the girls are interested in me because I'm different, and that I have something unique to offer them, but it's extremely difficult to get their attention. Girls drift in and out of my room either listening, or not. There is no authority figure at this orphanage, and even though some older girls try to facilitate it through physical abuse, it simply doesn't work.

Zara, 4 years old

Every day, we run away to a small café at the market place for about half an hour. It has free wifi and air conditioning, a good enough reason to come back every day.

I walk through a park everyday to get there and today, I had an interesting encounter with someone.

In a thick Indian accent, an elderly man asks “I notice that you come through here every day. Where do you come from?”
“U.S.A.” I reply.
“And what is your purpose for being in India?” He asks.
“To volunteer at the Arya Kanya Sadan orphanage” I say.
“And what is your purpose?” He asks again. Now that was a question I could barely answer.
“Well, to help out, to get a different perspective.” I’ve never been to India before, let alone on this continent. I figured it was a good enough answer, even though I don’t think it really had too much depth. The language barrier has a lot to do with it, but it was a very vague answer and I was slightly disappointed with myself. I’d like to believe that I’m here for a greater reason than to make myself feel good about helping people less fortunate than myself.

“Thank you. That’s all”. He waves us away and nods his head. His sheer curiosity got me thinking. Why am I here? It’s hard for me to answer that question.  It sounds like a cliché when I say, “to help the children” or “to make a difference”. What difference have I made? So far, I’ve messed up about thirty names and gave an old copy I found of “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” to a precocious fifteen year old girl suggesting it would better her English vocabulary. Not a very good idea, I realized later. I felt stupid.

Tomorrow I’m going to Jaipur, which is a few hours away from where I am in Faridibad, with a group of girls from my volunteering organization. Once again, I feel guilty because I’m excited to get away from the orphanage, but also because I’m missing about 99.9% of what India has to offer. I also feel guilty because I'll miss them a little..

Another Indian Day

At the orphanage, there are about 80-95 girls. Ten feet beyond the entrance, a sign reads “All Men Prohibited beyond This Point.” My project was switched on me last minute, and I was originally meant to be volunteering at an orphanage that has only 15 children. My guess is that this one is shorthanded, but I could be wrong. Yet, I think that this one is a bit more luxurious since it is larger. I was told that some smaller orphanages and homes have an outhouse style bathroom, and need to be flushed out with a small bucket. I can’t really speak for the cleanliness, but it really is nice to have a toilet that flushes.

Our room here is large, yet it still manages to stay hot, even at the cooler times of the day. There is a large bed and one single, all shared between three people. The mattress is a thin comforter on top of a piece of plywood. Girls constantly walk in and out in the mornings while I dress to see if anything interesting going on.

Angelie, 8 years old

The girls here call me “Sanne Didi” which means “Older Sister Sanne” in Hindi. We play for hours at the park adjacent to the orphanage. I run with them and play soccer in the humid heat. By the time playtime is over, my clothes are drenched in sweat, dirt and grime. The girls "awe" and "oo" when I play Billy Idol on my old laptop, then I let them clack away at the buttons, making me a bit nervous.

I let them paint my toe nails, which I realize is a mistake when I look down at my feet which has polish everywhere but my nails.

Prianca, 10 years old

Mealtime is an experience. At first, I felt like a barbarian or an animal, eating on the dirty floor with my plate inches away from bare feet. It's not so bad anymore. The room is falling apart, with pieces of plaster and white paint that has chipped away with time. There are small posters of Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse affixed beside the door leading to the hotter than hell kitchen. Girls submerge fatigued and sweaty with their hair clinging to their faces.

For Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner, small runner rugs are placed around the room and through the center. Right before they eat, they sit upon the rugs, and pray. Small voices chant echoing throughout the entire orphanage. They then eat on the ground right where they pray. Metal plates are handed out and those who are on kitchen duty come around, crouching down to serve rice, chapatti, and daal, all flavored with masala and Indian spices like turmain and cumin.

They are quick to discipline each other around here, smacking and hitting when they find it appropriate. Instead of crying and falling to the ground, they giggle and clap their hands. Then they fight back. My efforts to stop the fighting are pointless, because I know little Hindi and because they simply don’t care. I’ve realized that fighting amongst small girls at this orphanage is not seen as a terrible thing. If a girl is hit too hard, their bawls last no longer than five minutes and then they resume their playing as if nothing ever happened. If only life were that simple.

Failed jump attempt

Welcome

The heat; it’s sticky, it’s constant, it’s everywhere, always, never going away.

At night, it is humid and mosquitoes come for their daily rounds. Sweat soaks through my sleeping sheet.

Walking the old streets of Delhi, there are more beggars than I can count, more people I see sleeping on the hard, concrete ground, with no more than their hand to keep their head from bruising, and more children without shoes than I’d like to believe there are. No water. No food. Nothing. Many beggars look too weak to beg, and timidly hold out their hand, hoping for a random act of kindness.

At an overcrowded bazaar, where combinations of engine exhaust and urine odor fill our nostrils, a boy walks up to me speaking Hindi. I don’t understand him, but his intentions are obvious. His hand was held out, his eyes were rolled back behind his fluttering lids. He was dehydrated, hungry and his face was hollow. He was not sweating. His ribs showed through his dirty, oversized shirt. He had a string holding his tattered shorts up. I reach into my backpack and pull out a big, cold sweating bottle of water. He takes it and walks behind a truck, where a man is waiting, standing. He holds out his hand but does not get the coins he expects.

The boy opens the bottle and takes small sips it as he watches us, drinking, looking. A small look of relief comes across his face as he sips. His eyebrows are no longer furrowed, and his eyes continue to fixate on us as we search around for the driver who said he would meet us here. We feel displaced.

At first glance, my fellow volunteering friends and I are obviously not from here. Flies crawl on our feet, sweat drips from our faces and backs, our white skin glows pink with heat rashes, we carry packs with four bottles of lukewarm water each, maps, guides, cameras and sunscreen, maybe our passports for security of mind.  I cover my bag, knowing I probably have possessions in there that are worth more than a beggar has seen in a year. I feel guilty.

I see dogs trotting and sleeping in the streets. Their faces are friendly, yet hungry. They sniff out the trash that lies on the ground, hoping there’s food. I suddenly realize that the poorest of India, probably live just as these strays, sniffing out the people, hoping for a few rupees, to pay for a small bite to eat, a small bit of chewing tobacco or a swift sip of drinking water. Or maybe they are begging for someone else, who says they will protect them. Is it true? Will they have someplace to go?

A stray cow eats trash on the side of the road. Trash can be seen for miles.

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I had arrived in India not knowing to expect. My heart races as we land in Delhi at 10:30PM, after more than twelve hours of traveling. I’m actually in Delhi, India. I was told I would be picked up by someone with my name on a card at arrivals. I didn’t know the address of where I would be staying and sleeping. An interesting fiasco upon passport control would ensue when I admitted I had no clue where I would be going that night. The agent looked at me, probably wondering if he'd read the news the next morning about a murdered white girl picked up from the airport by a stranger. The more I explained my situation, the more suspicious it all sounded.

Beads of sweat collect on my head, my armpits, my legs. I claim my baggage. I assured my family and friends everything would be fine. I didn’t want them to worry, even though I knew I was far more scared than I attempted to appear as. “..Call me when you arrive” they say, half-knowing I won’t and half-believing that I’ll be alright.

As planned, a man holds up a card with my name. I make eye contact and he gestures for me to come around and greet him. He hands me a letter and tells me something in Hindi. I don’t understand. I look at the letter and it’s signed by my volunteer country coordinator, saying that the driver will be taking me to a hostel and that I should make myself at home upon arrival. I smile at one of the drivers and that seems to be the extent of communication he expects. I see two other girls, also with the men. They ask me if I am also a volunteer, and I say yes. Our anxiety and nervousness vanishes.

We drive for an hour through the streets of Delhi. My heart races as I peer out the window. I see the twinkling lights of the city that I saw out of my airplane window. There are so many people. So many honking horns.  The driving conditions are.. hair-raising. I jump in my seat when I see another car inches from ours, driving faster than I do when I'm in a hurry. We arrive at 1AM. A small boy greets us and unlocks the gates and we are led to a room. He gestures for us to go inside, and then he shuts the door behind us. We look at each other. One asks, "what’s going on?”

We didn’t know where we were, we didn’t have a cinch of an idea what would happen when we would wake up. I’d be lying if I said the room was anything special, but I expected that. I’d say it’s nice, for Indian standards. I don’t mind. I remember what I’m here for, why I’m doing this. I feel okay. I put my head to the hard pillow and I fall asleep.

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I’m privileged, I’m lucky, I’m loved. The noise of the city, Hindi lessons, the non-stop sight-seeing and the conversations I have with my new friends lessen the fear. I brought way too many things, which I’ll donate at the end of my trip to make room for Indian goodies when I return. Why would I bring thick fleece in the middle of summer?

What I love most about India, though? The kindness that is given is returned. The smiles are undeniably genuine. The people are kind. A peddler holding a small baby, despite the fact that I didn’t want to buy a beaten, old fan to keep myself cool, tells me to watch my step and to keep an eye out for pickpockets.

She smiles at me and tells me the name of her baby. I buy the fan without bargaining and she tells me she will remember my face. I’m a sucker.

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Today, after watching an entertaining, colorful Bollywood movie about god-knows-what, we took an auto-rickshaw back to our hostel in Faridibad. I sit up in front with the driver and two other girls, with no room in the back, it being jammed pack full of other foreigners like myself. I look at the cars passing us on the right, and people look me in the eyes and smile. I wave and they smile larger and wave back. It’s almost as if they are saying “Welcome to our country.”

Sukriya

“Thank you”

Culture

India is everything that people say it is. Impoverished, hot, colorful.

From three to four helmet-less people to a scooter, to skinny cows grazing the trash and sickeningly skinny children begging for a coin or two.

Bare shoulders are stared at, food is scarce, and the luxuries we so often take for granted are absent. I.e. Towels and coffee. I've never in my life been so shocked. At the same time, ignorant.

Almost There

The air is cold and rainy, the chocolate is dark and the people friendly. Much like a second home, it's a place to recollect, relax and unravel.

There is a list of things to do, from visiting to Rijs Museam to the Anne Frank house to snapping photographs of the iconic iAmsterdam statue at the Museam Plaan and riding your bike down Vondel Park.

Yet, jet lagged, all I really feel like doing is flopping myself on the couch and flipping through foreign television programs. As a dutch semi-native, I find everything about Amsterdam incredibly comforting. In the morning, I visited my Oma and played a game or two of gin rummy, then made my way over to the Overtoom to visit my mother who is just back from Stockholm, Sweden. We drank tea, chatted and contemplated my impending journey to Delhi, India next week. My chore: to bring at least a dozen sarees home with me. Tomorrow though, my dad and I are taking the train to Berlin to go sightseeing and maybe drink one too many pints. I'd like to think of it as mental preparation. Spoiled? Most likely.

I can't help but think of my trip to India, though. I had a nightmare in which our plane had severe flight complications. I was on a bus that was supposed to take me to the airport, but it was taking a tediously long route that would cause me to miss my fight. I decided to get off and call a taxi, but I couldn't find one. Then I frantically started running towards the bus, naked, without my luggage, passport or anything for that matter.

I woke up at 4AM and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up. I'm starting to think that I'm a little nervous. What if I get mugged? What if I get kidnapped? What if I get scammed? What if I get drugged? What if I don't have enough money? What if the people I meet aren't the people I think they are? What if I get Malaria? Or Typhoid? Or Polio? What if they don't accept my visa and I can't enter the country? What if I get raped?

I'll just take everyone's advice..

"Everything will be fine. You'll have fun."