Horn to Please

Somebody once told me that the minute India is no longer funny, it's time to leave. India is hilarious. Phew. Today I took a local bus from Delhi to Jaipur (the mughal pink city).

On the journey, I observed that my new travel partner (a gentle, quiet 50 year old Swiss man) has two arms full of bad tattos, a "freedom rock" sense of style and turrets syndrome that thrice caused the bus driver to stop honking while swerving through the traffic. Just after a bombastic "Donald Duck bellar-quacks/sneezes in frustration" filled the entire bus, Raymundo remained nonplussed as the red scarf tied around his long gray ponytail blew in the ice-cold air conditioning.

Across the aisle, I observe him from the warmth of my down sleeping bag. Outside, it is 42 degrees celscius. The camel carts are just a little faster than the hundreds of chubby Indian middle age executive men in yellow t-shirts having a relay race on the freeway in the midst of all the traffic. Grungy oil tankers whiz by us with a gale force honk and painted messages: "Highly Inflammable," "Edible Oil" and "Horn to Please."

Unlike the night bazaar in Delhi that was teeming with hundreds of aggressive male touts and touchers in the absence of not more than 10 women, the females are out in force walking and working among the lounging men - not walking and not working, rather peacefully watching the cars and animals and people flurry by. And you can't help but notice these gloriously decked ladies as we drive toward Jaipur in Rajastan. The women are wearing screaming bright sarongs of yellow, pink, green, blue...every color imaginable. They make absolutely stunning figures as they float along like garish butterflies carrying giant bundles on their brightly veiled heads (and faces) . I wonder at the ostentatious array of colors flowing from a face veiled with the same bright color - walking purdah day glow sticks who don't want to be seen. What a contrast. "There must be more to this than meets the eye," I think to myself.

And just when the contrasts can't get any more wacko, I see the courtyard of a Hindu temple and hundreds of women are dressed in white and pink alongside hundreds of men clad in white and . They are lined up beneath the trees with their hands in namaste mudra at their hearts. Their heads are bowed in unison and it is one of the most suddenly peaceful flashes on a freeway I've ever seen. Just then, Raymundo quacked again. The driver shuddered and looked back at him like he was possessed. One second later, the looked forward, renestled his bottom on the seat and as if to confirm that he was "back" on the wheel, he layed on the horn. Horn to please, indeed.

I'm not really surprised by any of this - either because everything is wacko in India (kindof) or because it's just plain obvious. India is a land of contrasts. There is always fluidity in the chaos and hundreds of years of history to explain the way things are. All you have to do is open your eyes and refrain from judgement. It's all good.

Raymundo can't help that he has turrets and is stuck in the 1960s when he takes a bus journey through India. Who am I to judge? My clothes look like a pauper's compared to the lovely saris worn by the Indians. And up until this trip, I thought the Indian ladies chose to dress like unevolved fashionistas. In FACT, they are classy and elegant and completely modern. My judgment was turned inside out.

I did, however, decide to find out a bit more about Raymundo after he quacked up a few times. But first, a little history as to how he became my travel pal. In June, I saw him in Pokhara on the street and thought he was one of those mild-eyed, skinny westerners who has been in India for a long, long time. So, when I saw him again on the rooftop of my hotel during dinner in Delhi, I introduced myself and the next day we reconvened and shared a taxi all over town. I had a list of sights and he was wide open. He was also courteous, sweet, unintrusive and quiet. He also planned on leaving to Rajastan for two weeks. "The perfect travel partner!" I thought. And he is. For somebody.

Raymundo doesn't work. His latest business venture involved buying decorated, i.e. jeweled skulls from Kathmandu for $500 USD and selling them in Zurich for $3,000.00. Apparently, Hells Angels like to buy the skulls for their choppers. Who knew? His arms have tattos with knives and "Bugs" (his former nickname) stamped in scuzzy black ink. I found myself making so many judgments with this and the freedom rock and the quacking...it just all spiraled into "be careful who you travel with" and then "you can't judge a book by its cover." Or can you? This will be a lesson in judgment. Raymundo is perfectly nice and harmless. We'll do another tour tomorrow of Jaipur and perhaps then we'll part ways.

But I must admit that it's SOOOOO much nicer to travel with another person, especially a man. Last night, Delhi was crazy and I knew I was not heckled (much) because I was with him. I felt free! However, today I decided to venture out alone (Raymundo was sleeping in his room) and I had dinner on a revolving tower (that reminded me of my senior prom dinner in San Francisco). It was less than 1 km to the hotel, so I decided to walk. Whooeee! It didn't take five seconds to have men coming up and talking to me, every person staring at me, etc. until finally a 15 year old boy rides up on his bicycle and says "hi." I look at him and he has nice eyes so we chat. He escorts me all the way home and answers my question: "there are no other women on the road b/c it is not safe for them to be out at night." When I ask if I'm in danger, he says "no b/c you're a tourist - it's different for foreigners." Another contrast.

So, do I keep a quacking freedom rock security guard or brave this alone?

The Lonely Planet threatens "beware of friendly people that meet you on the streets..." because they want to sell you something. Duh. But, really what is wrong with people trying to sell you something? Some of them are pretty darn creative.

For instance, I met three juvenile boys on the street (I pretended I was spanish and whaddya know, he spoke spanish). They invited me to their puppet show at the hotel directly across the street from my hotel. Later, I went. The puppet show was hilarious and totally amateur. They constructed a puppet stage on the hotel roof garden and had an entire cast of puppet characters. "Who is this?" asked the puppeteer. "The devil," I guessed at the freaky looking creature with blueish horn-looking things before me. "No sir, it's Michael Jackson of Calcutta!" roared the puppeteer as he had him do the moon walk and remove his freakish head from his body in a popping break dance moves. BTW, everyone calls me "sir" in India. The puppets were gorgeous (except for the freaky looking Michael Jackson). I laughed and laughed. What do you know? The puppets were for sale.

The three entrepeneurs then asked if I wanted the special one hour show on mughal history. "Why not?" I said. It's not as if I had anything else I could do since I was without a man at night, after all. And the Mughal influence is interesting, especially in Moghul influenced Rajastan. So, when it started raining after 30 minutes and the one song and dance never changed except to change the name of the historical figure killing another historical figure in a fit of homosexual gyrations on the floor that was a mix between Bollywood and the Castro, I requested that they shorten the show to the reign of Akbar and Shah Jahan (with his wife Mumtaz, for whom he built the Taj Mahal, and his evil son who imprisoned him in the Red Fort overlooking the Taj Mahal and took over the kingdom). As with everything, they said "yes" and did nothing of the sort.

I finally escaped after promising to return if I found nothing better or cheaper the following day. I paid them 200 rupees for the show. They gave me a bunch of elephants hanging from a string. The main guy/singer/drummer/talker turned up the trunks and said "welcome," "welcome," "welcome," with each upturned trunk. These guys were hilarious. Was I unfairly duped into seeing this display of creative desperation to sell puppets? Not really. Did I receive a shock to my moral sensibilities? Not really. After all, I did run alongside freakier people at Bay to Breakers in San Francisco and hello, um, Burning Man??? So, what is so bad about meeting someone and seeing their show? The experience is one I'll never forget. We were perfectly safe on the hotel roof garden with people passing through. I'd have the common sense not to go to a private place for the show. So what is the Lonely Planet so freaked out about?

I believe if you use your judgment, all will be well. But sometimes, not responding to anyone b/c you're a female and he's a male and this is India is just plain rude. And a bummer. I like people. I'll continue to use my intuition. My intuition tells me to ditch "freedom rock" and actually travel free. I'm sure I won't be alone for long. Travel companions are everywhere. But, do I want one? Perhaps this woman can take India on alone. Why not? Or perhaps I'll wake up tomorrow, go on the tour with Raymundo and decide not to be so judgmental. Quack, quack, quack...