A funny thing happened while I was finishing up my weaving class today on the outskirts of Luang Prabang. A woman came up to me in the open wooden building and asked if it would be okay if they filmed me for a Singapore TV documentary. I shrugged and agreed, forgetting for a moment my intense loathing of being captured on film, let alone on video. Then the television crew trooped in.
It all came back to me when they had me sitting on a box holding up my newly-finished scarf, one man dangling a huge microphone over my head and the other pointing the even bigger camera at my face. The woman held a large round reflector as she prompted me with questions such as "What have you learned about Lao culture from this class?" and "What do you like about Luang Prabang?" It didn't help that we had rehearsed the answers just moments before to make sure I would say something suitable. That goldfish brain of mine went even blanker than usual and by the third repetition (hold the scarf a little higher, say that bit about Luang Prabang again) my palms were sweaty and the fight or flight mechanism was kicking in.
It's all good though, or "bo penyang" (no problem in Lao), because they'll probably just edit me out anyway. My fellow student, another American gal, was much more eloquent as she sat behind her loom. We were both blown away by the class itself - throughout the course there was a Lao teacher holding each of our hands, watching the bewildering array of threads and strings and shuttles to make sure we didn't botch anything too badly. Those young women are truly amazing. At the ages of 19 and 21 they've been weaving since they were twelve, and it was incredible to watch the shuttle fly back and forth in their hands, feet working the bamboo pedals in perfect rhythm, and a beautifully patterned textile emerge centimeter by painstaking centimeter. I have a whole new appreciation for the people who do this as a living.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
The Slow Boat, Indeed
This one time in Madagascar an older Aussie told me that the one thing I had to do in my travels was journey down the Mekong River, from the Thai border to the old Lao capital of Luang Prabang. It's recommended in the guide book, advertised by travel agencies, and talked about by freshly arrived tourists. Once upon a time the river was the main artery for commerce and transport in Laos, and a lot of the villages we saw are still only accessible by water. However, with the advent of paved roads going from point A to point B, the slow boat has gone the way of the toy train of Darjeeling and become a tourist cattle barge.
Somehow, no matter where or when we bought our tickets, all the tourists looking to make the journey ended up on the same long, low wooden boat waiting on the Lao side of the river. Granted, there were a couple locals who made abbreviated journeys, jumping off onto the thickly forested river bank, or jumping on at similar spots, but by and large we were a bunch of white kids watching the scenery go by. Which was beautiful, by the way: green jungled hills sliding by the brown water under a gray sky. There was the occasional cluster of thatched huts up on stilts, or boarding parties of children bearing plastic laundry baskets of Pringles and Oreos and Beer Lao, charging outrageously inflated prices, or water buffalo wallowing by the river.
My ipod and Love in the Time of Cholera were my best friends for the duration of this trip. The boat stops at the village of Pak Beng for the night, a single street along the river made up of guest houses, restaurants advertising English menus and blaring Backstreet Boys, and little shops selling identical stale snack foods. The tourists hop off the boat, double the town's population, hop back on in the morning and life goes on as usual. It brings to mind some of the cruise ship stops up in Alaska, only with palm trees. All in all, despite the wooden benches and long hours, it was totally worth it.
Somehow, no matter where or when we bought our tickets, all the tourists looking to make the journey ended up on the same long, low wooden boat waiting on the Lao side of the river. Granted, there were a couple locals who made abbreviated journeys, jumping off onto the thickly forested river bank, or jumping on at similar spots, but by and large we were a bunch of white kids watching the scenery go by. Which was beautiful, by the way: green jungled hills sliding by the brown water under a gray sky. There was the occasional cluster of thatched huts up on stilts, or boarding parties of children bearing plastic laundry baskets of Pringles and Oreos and Beer Lao, charging outrageously inflated prices, or water buffalo wallowing by the river.
My ipod and Love in the Time of Cholera were my best friends for the duration of this trip. The boat stops at the village of Pak Beng for the night, a single street along the river made up of guest houses, restaurants advertising English menus and blaring Backstreet Boys, and little shops selling identical stale snack foods. The tourists hop off the boat, double the town's population, hop back on in the morning and life goes on as usual. It brings to mind some of the cruise ship stops up in Alaska, only with palm trees. All in all, despite the wooden benches and long hours, it was totally worth it.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Photographic Evidence
The giant reclining buddha peeking out between some columns in Bangkok.
Standing guard outside the Golden Buddha with my new best friend.
Just some of the many offerings in the market in Ayutthaya. I believe those pink things are dragon fruit? When I try one I'll let you know.
One of numerous ruined wats around Ayutthaya. I think this was actually their ancient frisbee fields, and the losers also lost their heads, just like most of the buddhas here.
Look, an elusive buddha head!
That's a brief photographic synopsis of Thailand to date. I'm afraid my other camera chip with the past two months of my life on it is not working, so you'll just have to use your imagination.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Please Put Your Shoes on the Lack
So said the sign outside one of the numerous wats I perused today. An Aussie guy and I had rented a couple bicycles, rusty rattletraps reminiscent of my Italian ride, and spent the day touring around the city of Ayutthaya. This place was the ancient capital of the kingdom of Siam, but was effectively destroyed by the Burmese in the late 1700s. Since then a modern city has grown up around the wats (temples), so that you'll turn a corner in town and suddenly be face to torso with a headless buddha or crumbling brick tower. Some have been renovated, patched up with concrete and decorated in gold leaf, while others are simply sprawling ruins in manicured lawns.
Midway through the morning huge black clouds rolled in and we snuck into a museum just as the heavens opened. After perusing the exhibits of golden icons and buddha heads (so that's where they all went), I had had my historical culture fix and headed to some of the markets to wake myself up. You can get pretty much anything you want from the street stalls (except peanut butter - 63 baht for a serving-size jar at a department store, ridiculous!), from hair ties to Abercrombie and Fitch shirts to jeweled nail clippers. I even found the corner where they keep buckets of live eels, toads, and turtles. I can't say I've extended my carnivorous tendencies that far, but there's still plenty of time.
It's still hot, still humid, and I've got a bus tonight north to Chiang Mai. I've heard it's cooler up there - maybe I can find another snowstorm.
Midway through the morning huge black clouds rolled in and we snuck into a museum just as the heavens opened. After perusing the exhibits of golden icons and buddha heads (so that's where they all went), I had had my historical culture fix and headed to some of the markets to wake myself up. You can get pretty much anything you want from the street stalls (except peanut butter - 63 baht for a serving-size jar at a department store, ridiculous!), from hair ties to Abercrombie and Fitch shirts to jeweled nail clippers. I even found the corner where they keep buckets of live eels, toads, and turtles. I can't say I've extended my carnivorous tendencies that far, but there's still plenty of time.
It's still hot, still humid, and I've got a bus tonight north to Chiang Mai. I've heard it's cooler up there - maybe I can find another snowstorm.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Welcome to Thailand
It still amazes me how you can hop on a climate-controlled airplane, hang out in a seat for a couple hours, and emerge someplace completely different. From the arid mountains and sand dunes of central Asia the plane flew over open ocean to the lush green fields and canals of Thailand. The tourist infrastructure here is something of a shock to the system; there are English-speaking agents at the frequent information booths handing out free maps, most signs are in English as well as graceful Thai script, and everyone has a huge smile on their face. Plus, being in a big city is still a novelty for me. Public transportation? Four-lane highways? Jeezum crow!
About 5 seconds out of baggage claim I met a gal from Quebec who was headed to her hostel, so I tagged along with her onto the air conditioned bus and through the evening city. It's a western-style hostel with dorm rooms, communal kitchen, and bulletin boards full of a mind-boggling variety of information. After claiming a bed we walked down the street to find a little cafe for dinner, where we sat and watched them whip up our food at the little curb-side cart that served as the kitchen. I've fallen in love with Thai cuisine already; after two weeks of monti (boiled dumplings filled with meat), besh barmak (noodles topped with meat), shashleek (meat kabobs), and lagman (noodle soup with meat), all chased by copious amounts of bread and cream, we'll see how my system handles this switch to noodles and rice and veggies. Go, tummy, you can do it!
My plan is to spend the rest of the day getting my feet back underneath me, and then heading out of Bangkok as soon as possible. Cities, for me, are fun for about a day and a half.
About 5 seconds out of baggage claim I met a gal from Quebec who was headed to her hostel, so I tagged along with her onto the air conditioned bus and through the evening city. It's a western-style hostel with dorm rooms, communal kitchen, and bulletin boards full of a mind-boggling variety of information. After claiming a bed we walked down the street to find a little cafe for dinner, where we sat and watched them whip up our food at the little curb-side cart that served as the kitchen. I've fallen in love with Thai cuisine already; after two weeks of monti (boiled dumplings filled with meat), besh barmak (noodles topped with meat), shashleek (meat kabobs), and lagman (noodle soup with meat), all chased by copious amounts of bread and cream, we'll see how my system handles this switch to noodles and rice and veggies. Go, tummy, you can do it!
My plan is to spend the rest of the day getting my feet back underneath me, and then heading out of Bangkok as soon as possible. Cities, for me, are fun for about a day and a half.
From Point A to Point B
We didn't think the truck would actually stop. When Nora flagged down the semi roaring by, we figured it would just continue on and we'd wait for a more conventional vehicle to take pity on us as we sat by the side of the road at 7:30 in the morning, trying to get from Tamga back to Bishkek or Almaty, as the case may be. But not only did the truck stop, the Russian driver offered to get us to Bishkek for free. In central Asia, pretty much any car or van will serve as a taxi that you can flag down most anywhere, as people try to fill their empty seats for some extra cash en route to their destination. So the offer for a free ride was probably the most unusual part. Nora and I decided to give it a go, having never ridden in a semi before, but we took Jesse along with us for a little insurance. We hugged Lynne and Bruno goodbye, and climbed on in.
It turns out we took the scenic option. About ten minutes later a little sedan went flying past, with Lynne and Bruno waving from the backseat. They may have made it to Bishkek two hours before us, but they didn't get to chat with Yura the driver about his plans to move his family to Quebec, or eat fried fish with him, or duck into the back sleeper bench every time we passed a police checkpoint, where he'd have to hop out and give them a bribe. Yura dropped us off in the heat of Bishkek and continued on his drive to Moscow to deliver 650 boxes of apricots. Since he wouldn't accept any money from us for the ride, Nora and I stealthily slipped 200 som into his brief case, at least enough to cover the bribes for our portion of the journey.
Jesse was staying in Bishkek to finagle some more visas for his trip so Nora and I continued on to Almaty alone. We found a car going that direction and listened to the driver chat for nearly the entire 5 hour ride, not counting the hour it took to get the car through customs. The guy was a former linguistics professor at the university and had served as a translator in Africa during Soviet times. Since he was speaking mostly in Russian, I tuned out and and tried teaching myself to read Cyrillic as we sat in gridlocked Almaty traffic. At rush hour they do away with the traffic lights in favor of human officers, as it cuts down on accidents. Those lights are really more of a suggestion, anyway.
Nora and I rolled into the village of Janashar after about 14 hours of travel. Our arrival was heralded by an epic storm of howling winds and flashing lightning. The next morning we could see tin roofs ripped off and road side stands collapsed in the early dawn light. At 5:30 AM we found Nora's sister Evie waiting for us at the airport and we completed the handoff of our translator and tour guide. Thank you again, Nora, for the wonderful adventure, helping me muddle through and playing in the mountains with me. You're still as amazing as ever.
It turns out we took the scenic option. About ten minutes later a little sedan went flying past, with Lynne and Bruno waving from the backseat. They may have made it to Bishkek two hours before us, but they didn't get to chat with Yura the driver about his plans to move his family to Quebec, or eat fried fish with him, or duck into the back sleeper bench every time we passed a police checkpoint, where he'd have to hop out and give them a bribe. Yura dropped us off in the heat of Bishkek and continued on his drive to Moscow to deliver 650 boxes of apricots. Since he wouldn't accept any money from us for the ride, Nora and I stealthily slipped 200 som into his brief case, at least enough to cover the bribes for our portion of the journey.
Jesse was staying in Bishkek to finagle some more visas for his trip so Nora and I continued on to Almaty alone. We found a car going that direction and listened to the driver chat for nearly the entire 5 hour ride, not counting the hour it took to get the car through customs. The guy was a former linguistics professor at the university and had served as a translator in Africa during Soviet times. Since he was speaking mostly in Russian, I tuned out and and tried teaching myself to read Cyrillic as we sat in gridlocked Almaty traffic. At rush hour they do away with the traffic lights in favor of human officers, as it cuts down on accidents. Those lights are really more of a suggestion, anyway.
Nora and I rolled into the village of Janashar after about 14 hours of travel. Our arrival was heralded by an epic storm of howling winds and flashing lightning. The next morning we could see tin roofs ripped off and road side stands collapsed in the early dawn light. At 5:30 AM we found Nora's sister Evie waiting for us at the airport and we completed the handoff of our translator and tour guide. Thank you again, Nora, for the wonderful adventure, helping me muddle through and playing in the mountains with me. You're still as amazing as ever.
The Circus Comes to the Other K-stan
Once upon a time, Nora the Donkey Rider, Emily the Tattooed Lady, Jesse the Bearded Lady, Lynne the Australian Aquawoman, and Bruno the Flying Frenchman loaded up on some horses and rode into the mountains of Kyrgyzstan. There they encountered scorching sun, torrential downpours, and tempestuous blizzards. Travelling from yurt to yurt they sampled local cuisine such as kumuz (fermented mare's milk) and galloped across alpine meadows shared by cows and sheep. In the end they all emerged alive and have gone their separate ways to continue the adventure.
The above is a somewhat abbreviated version of Nora and my's adventures in Kyrgyzstan, the small country nestled on the southern border of Kazakhstan. It was well worth the process of acquiring visas. After a day or two in Bishkek, meeting travel partners, extending visas, and enjoying snazzy coffee shops, we hopped a taxi with Jesse and our new friends Lynne and Bruno to the small town of Kochkor. It's basically a small grid of streets huddled in a flat valley between two looming ranges of mountains. That same day we arranged to go horse trekking, and the next morning we set out on our trusty steeds. I named mine "Tortuga", because he often seemed more tortoise than hare.
The mountains of Kyrgyzstan remind me of plenty of places: Alaska, Colorado, Montana; but are made entirely unique by the people living in them. We stayed in yurt camps, buried beneath heavy duvets and looking up at the wooden frames supporting the felted roofs. The families were lovely and incredibly tough for eking out a life there. Even in the summer, it snowed in the peaks and hailed in the valleys. The money they bring in from tourism buys education for their kids, supplies for their camps, and makes a hard life a little easier.
After returning tired and dusty from the trek we continued to Tamga, a little town on the southern coast of Lake Issy Kul. The mountains of Alaska mellowed to the arid rolling hills of eastern Washington, and ended in a beach straight from Hawaii, minus the palm trees. On our hike into town we got picked up by a Russian gentleman in his pimped-out tour van (lace curtains and tiger seats, can't go wrong with that) and we ended up staying at his family's dacha, a neat little house with a gorgeous walled-in garden full of fruit trees. It was easy to while away a day and a half sunning on the beach, cooking up snacks in the kitchen, and even going for a run in the dry hills behind town. Haven't done that for two months, hoo boy!
To the right I've added a list of somewhat relevant blogs: you can track the rest of Jesse's trip through central Asia before he heads to Boston to start grad school, or see where Bruno is on his overland journey from France to New Zealand, and brush up on your French. And of course, read up on Nora's two years of being a tri-lingual threat in Kazakhstan, or peruse Mego's selection of poetry. Enjoy!
The above is a somewhat abbreviated version of Nora and my's adventures in Kyrgyzstan, the small country nestled on the southern border of Kazakhstan. It was well worth the process of acquiring visas. After a day or two in Bishkek, meeting travel partners, extending visas, and enjoying snazzy coffee shops, we hopped a taxi with Jesse and our new friends Lynne and Bruno to the small town of Kochkor. It's basically a small grid of streets huddled in a flat valley between two looming ranges of mountains. That same day we arranged to go horse trekking, and the next morning we set out on our trusty steeds. I named mine "Tortuga", because he often seemed more tortoise than hare.
The mountains of Kyrgyzstan remind me of plenty of places: Alaska, Colorado, Montana; but are made entirely unique by the people living in them. We stayed in yurt camps, buried beneath heavy duvets and looking up at the wooden frames supporting the felted roofs. The families were lovely and incredibly tough for eking out a life there. Even in the summer, it snowed in the peaks and hailed in the valleys. The money they bring in from tourism buys education for their kids, supplies for their camps, and makes a hard life a little easier.
After returning tired and dusty from the trek we continued to Tamga, a little town on the southern coast of Lake Issy Kul. The mountains of Alaska mellowed to the arid rolling hills of eastern Washington, and ended in a beach straight from Hawaii, minus the palm trees. On our hike into town we got picked up by a Russian gentleman in his pimped-out tour van (lace curtains and tiger seats, can't go wrong with that) and we ended up staying at his family's dacha, a neat little house with a gorgeous walled-in garden full of fruit trees. It was easy to while away a day and a half sunning on the beach, cooking up snacks in the kitchen, and even going for a run in the dry hills behind town. Haven't done that for two months, hoo boy!
To the right I've added a list of somewhat relevant blogs: you can track the rest of Jesse's trip through central Asia before he heads to Boston to start grad school, or see where Bruno is on his overland journey from France to New Zealand, and brush up on your French. And of course, read up on Nora's two years of being a tri-lingual threat in Kazakhstan, or peruse Mego's selection of poetry. Enjoy!
Friday, July 4, 2008
Kazakhstan 101
Jesse, I don't think we're in India anymore. This is a fellow American who I met briefly in Amritsar when he unknowingly stole my bed in the dorm, and then again in the line for the Air Astana flight to Almaty. Nora found the two of us at the airport yesterday morning and kindly invited him back to crash with her host family as well. We've been walking around the streets of that village and cosmopolitan Almaty with open mouths - it's quiet, it's green, they drive on the right hand side of the road, and at the stoplights you see Toyotas, Subarus, Audis, and even a hummer. This country has an amazing amount of oil money and in the cities it definitely shows.
The three of us went through the comic process of acquiring Kyrgyz visas today:
1. The consulate is theoretically not open on Fridays
2. The guard, however, opened the door and told us to come back in an hour and a half
3. At the window in the basement of the little yellow house, the disgruntled worker told us they weren't accepting applications
4. When Jesse passed in his visa application, they asked for a 200% increased price, then gave him his passport back for $10 more in about 5 minutes
5. The same woman sent Nora and me three blocks over to make a deposit in the bank, then told us to come back at 3:00
6. At 3:00 the formerly friendly guard, surly now that Nora had rejected his declaration of love, would only let her, not me, through the gate, and then was holding our passports hostage for a bribe until the consular official intervened
Jeezum crow. Who knows how this country works, and who knows what Kyrgyzstan holds.
The three of us went through the comic process of acquiring Kyrgyz visas today:
1. The consulate is theoretically not open on Fridays
2. The guard, however, opened the door and told us to come back in an hour and a half
3. At the window in the basement of the little yellow house, the disgruntled worker told us they weren't accepting applications
4. When Jesse passed in his visa application, they asked for a 200% increased price, then gave him his passport back for $10 more in about 5 minutes
5. The same woman sent Nora and me three blocks over to make a deposit in the bank, then told us to come back at 3:00
6. At 3:00 the formerly friendly guard, surly now that Nora had rejected his declaration of love, would only let her, not me, through the gate, and then was holding our passports hostage for a bribe until the consular official intervened
Jeezum crow. Who knows how this country works, and who knows what Kyrgyzstan holds.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
To the Taj and beyond
The most amazing thing about the Taj Mahal is that it actually lives up to all the hype. Yesterday I caught a train to Agra, meeting up with a friendly Canadian guy who I had met in the ticket line the day before. Disembarking at Agra, we discovered that the touts and rickshaw drivers are even more insistent than Delhi, which we didn't think was possible. The guys just won't take 'no' for an answer - at one point we had a bike rickshaw follow us for a good 20 minutes, hovering over our shoulder to see if we'd get tired of walking.
But the Taj itself made all the hassle worth it. You enter a ticket gate with a gender-segregated security line and into a lush courtyard lined with red sandstone. The next large gate you walk through is impressive on its own, inlaid with flowing Arabic script and decorated with intricate carvings. Pass through and there's the Taj Mahal, spread out before you just like all the pictures you've seen. It's set away from the world in an even larger courtyard full of long pools and huge trees, flanked by a matching pair of ornate mosques.
Dan and I walked around the huge structure, marveling at the inlay and precision and sheer scale of the thing. It took 20,000 laborers 20 years to complete it, really incredible considering that most European cathedrals took generations. We sat just watching the Taj as the light changed, making the white marble glow, until the Indian tourists with their cameras became too insistent and we fled into the hot, hot streets.
From there we visited the Red Fort, another impressive structure from the same period. Again there was plenty of red sandstone, white marble, and intricate decorations, but there were also signs of neglect and vandalism. Dan and I parked ourselves in a cool shaded corner and watched brightly colored tourists and brilliant green parrots pass by, for about two hours. Why Indians don't observe a siesta is beyond me.
It's hard to believe that I'm leaving India today. Just when I'd gotten used to the hassles, the accents, the spicy food, I'm off for a completely new place. My wonderful friend Nora has been working for the Peace Corps in Kazakhstan for the past two years and I'm going to go test her considerable patience, beginning with a 3:30 am arrival at the Almaty airport. I'll try to keep you updated on all our crazy adventures - hope you have enjoyed this so far!
Love,
Em
But the Taj itself made all the hassle worth it. You enter a ticket gate with a gender-segregated security line and into a lush courtyard lined with red sandstone. The next large gate you walk through is impressive on its own, inlaid with flowing Arabic script and decorated with intricate carvings. Pass through and there's the Taj Mahal, spread out before you just like all the pictures you've seen. It's set away from the world in an even larger courtyard full of long pools and huge trees, flanked by a matching pair of ornate mosques.
Dan and I walked around the huge structure, marveling at the inlay and precision and sheer scale of the thing. It took 20,000 laborers 20 years to complete it, really incredible considering that most European cathedrals took generations. We sat just watching the Taj as the light changed, making the white marble glow, until the Indian tourists with their cameras became too insistent and we fled into the hot, hot streets.
From there we visited the Red Fort, another impressive structure from the same period. Again there was plenty of red sandstone, white marble, and intricate decorations, but there were also signs of neglect and vandalism. Dan and I parked ourselves in a cool shaded corner and watched brightly colored tourists and brilliant green parrots pass by, for about two hours. Why Indians don't observe a siesta is beyond me.
It's hard to believe that I'm leaving India today. Just when I'd gotten used to the hassles, the accents, the spicy food, I'm off for a completely new place. My wonderful friend Nora has been working for the Peace Corps in Kazakhstan for the past two years and I'm going to go test her considerable patience, beginning with a 3:30 am arrival at the Almaty airport. I'll try to keep you updated on all our crazy adventures - hope you have enjoyed this so far!
Love,
Em
Mission: Golden Temple
You would think that two hours would be plenty of time to navigate a line. Earlier that day I had met a French student named Henri in the dorms at the Golden Temple complex, and we had spent the day seeing the sights, navigating streets flooded by the morning rains, and sampling local sweets (it must be good to be a dentist in Amritsar). Now, after watching the sun set on the Golden Temple, we wanted to get inside the thing before I caught a bus and he a train back to Delhi. What we hadn't planned on was getting locked in line at the exact time when the major Sikh service of the day started.
I had been pushed with the crowd a little farther up, and passed my journal back to Henri to get his contact info so we could meet up in Delhi. As the only other white person in line, people got the message pretty quickly. Trying to get it back to me, he got the attention of one of the Sikh guards, explaining that he had a train to catch and so couldn't wait in line any longer. The guard told him to just hop over the barrier, bypass the line, and go check it out. Henri asked, "Can she come too?" The kind man smiled and nodded, so over I clambered, skirt and all.
The line was at a dead standstill as the service was in full swing. Loudspeakers broadcast a man singing from their holy book, and the crowd started chanting and singing along, closing their eyes in prayer. As we walked up the causeway to the temple, everyone kneeled down, then settled themselves in to listen to the prayers. Thankfully Sikhism is known as a tolerant and inclusive religion, because a couple foreigners wandering around the temple in the middle of a service has to be taboo.
The temple itself is beautiful, covered in gold leaf, decorated with mirrors, and inlaid with delicate stone patterns. A pair of marble stairs twist up the three levels, and Henri and I found ourselves on the roof, looking out between golden spires. The surrounding courtyard was full of people listening to the chanting, and it was pretty incredible to be at the center of all that energy. We quietly padded back down the stairs, past the seated worshippers, and across the causeway, thanking the kind guard profusely before venturing back into the chaos of the city.
I had been pushed with the crowd a little farther up, and passed my journal back to Henri to get his contact info so we could meet up in Delhi. As the only other white person in line, people got the message pretty quickly. Trying to get it back to me, he got the attention of one of the Sikh guards, explaining that he had a train to catch and so couldn't wait in line any longer. The guard told him to just hop over the barrier, bypass the line, and go check it out. Henri asked, "Can she come too?" The kind man smiled and nodded, so over I clambered, skirt and all.
The line was at a dead standstill as the service was in full swing. Loudspeakers broadcast a man singing from their holy book, and the crowd started chanting and singing along, closing their eyes in prayer. As we walked up the causeway to the temple, everyone kneeled down, then settled themselves in to listen to the prayers. Thankfully Sikhism is known as a tolerant and inclusive religion, because a couple foreigners wandering around the temple in the middle of a service has to be taboo.
The temple itself is beautiful, covered in gold leaf, decorated with mirrors, and inlaid with delicate stone patterns. A pair of marble stairs twist up the three levels, and Henri and I found ourselves on the roof, looking out between golden spires. The surrounding courtyard was full of people listening to the chanting, and it was pretty incredible to be at the center of all that energy. We quietly padded back down the stairs, past the seated worshippers, and across the causeway, thanking the kind guard profusely before venturing back into the chaos of the city.
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