Brendan Moran's Exciting Travel Adventures

Monkey Business

Sitting on the rooftop cafe of our guesthouse the other day enjoying our lunch and admiring the view, we witnessed something very unsettling. A monkey jumped on top of our water tank, flipped open the lid, and began drinking from it. It sat there for a few minutes thinking and then took off. We share water with a monkey. We brush our teeth with this monkey water. We are trying our best to forget the incident. 

 

There are monkeys everywhere here. Jumping all over the rooftops screeching and fighting. They're too big to be cute. They're actually a bit scary. Especially in numbers. Apparently someone next door to our guesthouse feels the same way. He or she keeps firing a shotgun at them. I can't see who's doing it, but the noise is deafening. Sarah jumps a mile every time. 

      

Varanasi is so Bollywood

I went out walking down by the ghats in Varanasi on Saturday.  These are the buildings which people use to bathe in the Ganges, the Hindu holy river running through north east India.  Hundreds of people moving from ghat to ghat just soaping up and rinsing off.  I guess they would be clean if the river itself weren't so dirty.  Apparently it's the chemicals which get dumped in the river upstream you need to worry about, at least more so than the trash and dead bodies (we saw a few). 

I rounded a corner and came upon a Bollywood movie set right there on the river.  I saw guys practicing fight stunts, dummies (possibly for explosion scenes), a lot of people standing around trying to figure out their motivation and cow patties as far as the eye could see. 

Between takes, the production assistants (the ones with the walkie-talkies blocking foot traffic and acting much more important than they really are) let me pass to the other side of the set.  I noticed a group of extras playing old men with long grey beards and flowing orange robes sitting on some stairs and quick flashed a picture.  You can actually see one guy in the top right hand corner waving me off, telling me (in so many Hindi words) that picture taking is not allowed.  As if he's directing this picture.  Hey man, why don't you worry about being the best "third old guy from the right" you can be and leave the security to someone else. 

Movie people.  Sheesh.

What struck me about the whole scene is I couldn't tell where art was imitating life and vice versa.  Varanasi, especially near the ghats, is so other worldly that a film crew adds little to the already surreal atmosphere.  It's like shooting a war movie in a real war.  Take the extras.  These guys are really strange looking in mundane actions like walking down the street.  But as extras in a movie?  I want to know if they're locals, and really do dress like that in real life, or they're union actors who specialize in films about religious asceticism?  It's like a movie with a dozen different Santa Clauses in one scene.  Makes you wonder. 

--

Usually, when kids follow me trying to sell me something, they have ready made pitches. 

I say, "I'm from America."

They say, 'Capitol is Washington!"  (This one is very popular in south east Asia.)

One kid started following me with some postcards.

"Where you from?"

"America."

"Goldie Hawn is my friend."

This was not the answer I was expecting.  Apparently he's met Goldie Hawn on a number of occasions during her frequent stops in Varanasi. 

Ms. Hawn, if you're reading this, can you confirm please?  He was about nine years old with a nice smile.  He was wearing a blue sweater vest. 

It's only that I wouldn't want him going around using your name just to sell a few postcards.  Thanks. 

Sarah's Method of Stubborn Bargaining

Sarah and I went shopping for jewelry, clothes and assorted nicknacks the other day. Since our daily budget for food and cabs is fourteen dollars, Sarah was a little hesitant when salesmen kept quoting her more than ten dollars for one necklace. See, she's just not used to spending that much money at one time. So after I explained to her that we could in fact afford a ten dollar necklace, (two of them if she behaved) she headed back to the counter to bargain. 

The sales guy wanted six hundred eighty rupies. 

She countered with six hundred.

The guy studied her. "Six thirty."

"Six hundred," repeated Sarah. This is her usual technique. Instead of starting low and gradually working her way up, she picks a number and sticks to her guns. It's kind of an artless way to bargain but it gets results.

"Okay, six fifteen," says the guy. I'm standing off to the side watching this exchange. If I were Sarah, I'd agree to this price. I don't say anything though. She hates it when I butt in.

"Six hundred."

"Six ten?" says the guy. You can tell he just wants to get rid of her, but he's got his pride to worry about now. The other sales guys and myself are watching. 

"Six hundred." 

"Come on, you can give me ten rupees. I make no commission here. Ten rupees is all my profit," says the guy. This is bullshit of course.

"I don't want to pay more than six hundred," says Sarah. She makes to leave. This is another effective ploy. Walking out always brings down the price. 

I want to scream. I can't believe I have to go along with the "walk out" over ten rupees. Ten rupees, dear reader, is about twenty cents. Twenty cents is within our budget. Why is she doing this to me? 

"Okay, okay, six hundred," sighs the defeated salesman.

"Honey? Can I have the money now?"

"Sure babe. Nice job with the bargaining."

Puke

We took a day bus from Shimla to north to Manali.  This is where the Himalayas begin.  The road was so windy and bumpy the bus conductor himself puked.  You'd think he'd have a stronger stomach since, you know, it's his job.  But no, he just flung the door open (while traveling about 40 mph) and let fly.  This set off a small chain reaction of puking throughout the bus as people quickly opened their windows, flinging their breakfast upon the roadside.  The Himalays sure are pretty though.

I've been fighting with hotel managers in North India.

Laying awake at night, I can see my breath in great big clouds.  It would be fun, except I'm in my hotel room freezing to death.  It's much much colder here that we thought it would be.  We're stupid.  The guidebook said it would be cold.  I don't know why we didn't believe it.  Anyway, now we're in north India where they haven't yet invented central heating.  They have space heaters, but those only tease me.  They just radiate orange light, but no heat. 

We're not trying to be difficult.  We just want what we pay for.  The first night in our big drafty hotel the space heater broke down.  I didn't sleep much on account of the encroaching frostbite.  I think we deserve a discount, we say to the manager.  No he says.  You're being unreasonable, we say.  He says, I'll take fifty rupies off the price (about $1).  Shove it, we say, taking our fifty rupies back.

The next morning we moved to our third hotel in as many days.  I don't mind this too much, but sometimes it's nice to settle in for a few nights and just get to know the bed a little. You know, it's lumps, it's fleas, it's funny looking stains.  We splurged on what they call a "lodge".  Twenty dollars American for a nice big room, cable TV and a big old wood burning stove in the corner. 

So the sun sets and two guys come in to light the stove for us, since we were forbidden to attempt it ourselves.  Cut to: one hour later, a room filling with wood smoke, one guy flapping the door wildly to try and displace the smoke, another guy staring at the heater scratching his head, and the hotel manager in a heated discussion with yours truly. 

I don't know the exact moment when I turned into my father, but it happened sometime during the argument with hotel manager number two.  As he brought in the space heater as a conciliatory gesture to make up for the broken wood burning one, I started into him with a tone I only knew as my father's.  An angry demanding one.  Five minutes later, he was out of our room having agreed to accept a 70% discount on our previously agreed price.  Thanks dad.  We were still pretty cold though.

Baby it's cold outside.

I've learned that a key to smart bargaining is that, while negotiating an article of clothing you want to buy, it's best not to be actually wearing it.  Especially if the article of clothing is a wool sweater or socks or anything else that might prevent hypothermia, while you stand there shivering.  I probably got ripped off, but at least I'm warm. 

In the north, we stayed inside a lot.  We did make one foray out to an office complex which houses the Tibetan government in exile.  Apparently, you need to talk to them about meeting the Dalai Lama.  He lives in McLeod Gang, not a mile from where we were staying.  We thought it might be fun to wait in line and shake his hand.  Although, truth be told, I was a bit worried about what would actually happen if we got to meet the Lama.  Would he ask me questions?  Would they be about Buddhism?  I pictured a room full of monks and a very awkward silence.  Not to worry though, I walked into the office, inquired as to any upcoming meetings with the Dalai Lama and the young man behind the counter gave me a look I'll never forget.  He smirked, paused and then very softly, said "Um, no."  Sparing me and Mr. Lama from any future embarrassment.

As it's cold out, the only place in McLeod Gang we get any passable heat is our hotel room.  It also happens that I'm pretty sick with a cold/weird food virus so I've been treating the last few days as if I get to stay home from school.  It's better than that though, because my mother, the school nurse, isn't around to call me a liar and force me to get up.  Nor is my little brother around to bring back my homework (remember how even when you were sick they made you do math?). 

I've got a nice little setup with cans of Sprite, bland crackers and daytime television.  I haven't watched this much Oprah since forever.  Thank god there are english-speaking movie channels.  The movies they play are atrocious, but it beats not understanding them.  Yesterday, I sat through one called  "Cold Blooded" staring Jason Priestly and the guy who played Otter's buddy in "Animal House" as hit men.  Terrible, awful movie.

I watched 5 hours of cricket the other day.  I'm beginning to understand it.  It's not as boring as it looks.  I think.  It's like watching golf.  You just can't help falling asleep.    

But Enough about Curry...

Sarah won't stop going on about Vince Vaughn.  "Swingers" is on the TV in our hotel room.  We splurged for a place with AC and cable TV for our first few days here in Delhi to make it easier to transition to India.  Apparently, she forgot that Mr. Vaughn used to be skinny, and it's blowing her mind.  She has called him both good-looking and handsome in the space of thirty seconds and I'm starting to get annoyed. 

We are still a bit jet-lagged, so we're talking a mid-afternoon break from the outside world.  Delhi is rather crazy.  There are many many people here, and they are all moving in the opposite direction.   Walking the streets is an art.  There are so many things to dodge here, limb-less beggars, cows, cow patties and rickshaws being just a few.  Plus, we're on the lookout for some of the scams we keep reading about.  The one that keeps me on my toes is the scam where someone dumbs shit on on your shoes and then charges you for them to remove it.  I kind of want to see this happen.  Not to me, but to some other poor sap.  I don't know how I'll react when someone dumps crap all over my feet, but I doubt I'm going to want to give them any money. 

Sarah is now making puking sounds at the swing music playing through the part where Jon Favreau picks up what's-her-name.  I don't know.  I still kind of like the movie.