Kathmandu to Delhi

December 6, 2010

We slept long and hard. At 9 AM, Joshua grunted and slapped his arm in my general direction. 'Wake up,' he said, 'we need to get moving.'

We changed and walked upstairs for breakfast. Ordering stuffed pranthas and eggs, we chowed down in the cool Delhi morning. Sun filtered weakly through the smog, and down below, we could hear horns honking like a fleet of cantankerous geese.

Back in our room, we packed a quick day bag and wandered downstairs to secure a taxi to the FRRO.

Now, before I tell you this story, I should tell you the backstory. Michelle, our friend we met crossing the border into Nepal, had gone with us to get the Permit to Re-enter India in Kathmandu. Like us, she planned on returning to India before two months had elapsed, but she was only going to be staying for three days in Delhi. After that, she was leaving for New Zealand. We also got the Permit to Re-enter, and we're also only spending three days in Delhi. On the ninth of December, we leave for England.

However, when Michelle went to the airport, the officials there told her that she was not allowed to leave the country. Although she had secured a Permit to Re-enter, she had neglected to read the fine print. There, she would have found that she needed to register within 14 days of re-entering the country. When they threatened to make her reschedule her flight, she began to sob. One soft-hearted, flustered official finally relented and let her through, but not before he had admonished her to 'read the paperwork better in the future.'

Hearing about Michelle's near miss, we read the fine print, and although the print doesn't tell us where we're supposed to register, it does tell us to. From our Lonely Planet guide, we figure that we need to go to the Foreign Regional Registration Office, the FRRO.

Last night when we arrived in Delhi, the men at immigration saw our Visas and our Permit to Re-enter but said nothing. When Joshua asked them if we are meant to register at the FRRO, they wobbled their heads and mumbled non-commitally. Joshua asked again, and one of them cracked a smile. 'So you already know, do you? It's behind the Hyatt Regency.'

We walked away, astounded by their evasion. Not only had they pretended not to know what we were talking about (when they did), they also knew that most people re-entering know nothing about it. It's almost like they want us to make a mistake.

To top it all off, the FRRO is on the opposite side of Delhi from our hotel. All in all, we were feeling pretty irritated by this new hiccup in our plans.

The taxi ride took 30 minutes. At the FRRO, we waited in line outside to speak with someone. There were no signs clarifying how we were to register, and when we finally got to the front of the line, the man behind the desk just wobbled his head when we asked him how to register. We asked again, and he head wobbled again. Then, he pointed into the inside of the building.

Walking inside, we came into a room filled with a hundred people. There were counters with officials all over the place, and one sign described the paperwork that we would need register: 3 copies of a registration form, 1 'C' Form from your place of residence or hotel, 3 passport photos, and 1 re-entry form.

Except the sign doesn't tell you that those are all the things that you need to register. It tells you a couple of them, and then you have to wait in a couple more long lines to talk to a live person who then tells you that you need a couple more things, gives them to you, and also gives you a number.

We filled out forms. We took more passport photos. Joshua went to make copies and get a 'C' Form faxed from the hotel. When he came back, our number was finally called and we went up. The guy told us that our forms were incorrect, shuffled them up, and then handed them back to us, telling us to come back after lunch.

Joshua steamed and frothed at the mouth. We waited for the fat official to eat his lunch, and at 2 PM, four hours after we had arrived in the office, we stood at the counter with our forms well organized, stapled together, and absolutely, totally filled out.

The fat official wobbled his head, grunted a few times, and proceeded to stamp and initial the forms. Unsmiling, he sent us off to the 'Incharge' counter where another fat official signed things and then gave us back our registration form, stamped and signed.

It took half the day, and although it was an unpleasant experience, we both agreed that it could have been worse. The room had been filled with Afghani and Pakistani nationals, waiting to be registered. A couple of other Westerners were there too, filling out forms for lost or stolen visas and passports. A large group of Nigerians and Congolese were frantically filling out forms, too. Everyone looked frustrated. Everyone looked overwhelmed.

Outside, we found a rickshaw, and for 150 rupees, the driver took us to Connaught Place. At a popular fast-food, Southern Indian restaurant, we had a short wait before we were ushered to a table. Ordering two onion masala dosas, we people watched. Middle class Indians in polos and sweaters, shalwar kameez, and mini-skirts spoke in Hindi and English and Hinglish.

The dosas were phenomenal. Enormous, crispy crepes with half a dozen sauces for dipping, they were savory and just a little bit greasy. Yum yum.

Outside again, we wandered through Connaught place, looking at all the fancy brand name shops with beggars outside. We walked to a cinema with the intention of watching a film, but there was nothing showing for a couple of hours. A big crowd of people were gathered outside of the doors to the cinema, and a number of people ushered out a gentleman, leading him to a nice SUV. Just before he entered the car, he poked his head above the crowd, flashed a white smile, and waved. The crowd went wild, and we wondered who he was.

We walked back to Paharganj through busy streets. The smog was thick, and by the time we had arrived in the narrower streets of the backpacker district, my throat and lungs felt scratchy. We walked through the streets with shops spilling over, and seeing an Internet cafe, we stepped inside.

Surfing jobs on-line, we both happened to find ones that looked good. We spent the next couple of hours filling out applications, writing cover letters, and sending out our resumes. Keep your fingers crossed :)

Back outside, we walked through the darkened streets back to our hotel. Feeling absolutely grimy from a day in the smog, we took showers, and afterwards, we headed upstairs for a quick snack of stuffed pranthas and water.

Now, Joshua's watching TV (like a man starved), and I'm catching up on writing. Tomorrow, we explore Delhi.

December 5, 2010

Nepal gave Joshua a going away present. It arrived some time around 4 AM, and it was the sort of gift that just kept on giving and giving and giving....

By 8 AM, Joshua was cold and exhausted. He came in from his twentieth toilet tango, gripping toilet paper in one hand and hand sanitizer in the other. I asked him if there was anything I could do for him.

'I need some rehydration salts. If I keep pissing out of my ass like this, we're going to have some serious problems.'

I went in search of rehydration salts and more toilet paper. Joshua went back to the toilet.

Sucking down orange liquid that tasted about as good as it looked, Joshua knocked back first two Immodium, and when that didn't work, three more.

I don't know if you've ever taken Immodium, but I'll have you know that just one of those little buggers stopped me up for one whole week. Joshua took five, and he was still, as he so eloquently puts it, 'pissing out of his ass.' He took a cipro for good measure.

I read while Joshua beat a path to the toilet, and after a while, I went off to secure a hotel for Delhi tonight. Unfortunately, the phone numbers in Lonely Planet were mostly non-functioning, but eventually, I managed to speak with someone from Hotel Amax. By the time I got of the phone, I was unsure. I may or may not have booked a double room with pick-up from the airport. For good measure, I sent a confirmation e-mail with all the pertinent details.

Back in the room, we packed up and checked out. In the attached restaurant, I ordered a bowl of soup, and Joshua sat across from me, looking worried and occasionally running for the toilet. He was considerably worried about our upcoming travels. He smelled strongly of cabbage.

When our taxi came at 1:30 PM, Joshua was feeling a bit more hopeful. It had been fifteen minutes since the last time he had run for the toilet, and even then, it had begun to slow down.

In the taxi, we sat as our driver navigated the streets of Kathmandu. In the distance, hills rose out of the smog, and behind them, white mountain tops revealed themselves between buildings and racing vehicles.

Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the airport. Looking out at the valley and the distant mountains, I felt sad to go. I'm not sure if we'll ever be back, and when we're traveling like this, we do it as if it's our only chance. Maybe, someday, we'll be back. Probably not.

Kathmandu airport is small. From outside, it looks a bit scruffy, and after making our way through a couple of pat-downs and metal detectors, we were inside a simple, unadorned space. Once we had checked in, we passed through another series of metal detectors, and on the other side, we entered a large room with hundreds of people. There are no gates in Kathmandu airport. There's just one hall, and when flights come, an announcer comes over the loudspeaker and people line up to be driven to their airplane somewhere on the tarmac.

While we waited, we watched TV. None of it was in English, but the bright colors and dramatic expressions were easy to understand. We're both looking forward to a Bollywood film in Delhi.

When our flight was called, we boarded a shuttle and went through another pat down before we climbed the stairs to our flight.

It takes little more than an hour to fly to Delhi, and when we got there at 6 PM, the sun had just set. In the terminal, our bags were the first ones off the carousel, and in the arrivals waiting area, a man stood with the name of our hotel and a sign that said, 'ANDERD.'

Feeling much relieved, we followed the man to the taxi and then settled in for the ride.

When we first arrived in Delhi three months ago, the city was in the midst of preparing for the Commonwealth Games. I'm not sure what the city looked like before, but I've heard a number of people say that the difference is startling. Things are cleaner and tidier, and the metro system is both new and in good order.

From other sources, I've heard Delhi is a mess. It's over-populated, polluted, and incredibly dirty. People go out of their way to avoid this busy city, but we're here to see what all the fuss is about.

From the windows of our taxi, we could see wide roads with freshly painted traffic lines. On the sides, turned-up turf faded into smog. Our driver stradled the lane line and leaned on his horn.

The deeper we drove into the Delhi, the more people we saw. Rickshaws and bicycles crowded the roads, and near the curb, homeless gathered around trashcan fires. When we turned off the main boulevard, we entered a street lined with signs that looked like they belonged on the Vegas Strip. Hotel Grand, The Palace, Krishna Hotel... All of the hotels had flashing lights and glittering lobbies.

Hotel Amax was off on a small side street. There was no flashing sign nor glittering lobby, but it looked relatively clean, and we were just glad to have arrived without major incident (including potty incidents). Once we had tipped our driver and filled out the paper work, we were led upstairs. Although we had set our expectations extremely low, the room was actually really nice. The bed is the softest we've had in ages, and there's an attached bathroom and a TV. There are a couple of windows, and there's even some paint on the walls. Fine living here in Delhi.

Settled in our room, we wandered upstairs to the rooftop restaurant. Looking a bit gaunt, Joshua ordered a couple slices of toast, and I ordered a vegetable prantha. We sat, chatting with a couple of odd, spacy travellers from Quebec and Belgium. Another woman from Australia came and joined us, and we compared our plans for Delhi. They asked us if we were headed for Agra, and I confessed that I had never been all that interested in seeing the Taj Mahal. They looked at me as if I had just farted.

Taking our cue to leave, we headed back to the room. Weary from a day of travel (to bathrooms, to Delhi), we fell asleep.

December 4, 2010

Joshua decided that we needed a change of pace today, so instead of following our well-trodden path to the German Bakery, we stopped in at another cafe in Thamel.

The inside looked just like a Starbucks, and once we had ordered, we sat down next to a bunch of other travellers. With sunlight pouring in, people speaking English everywhere, and cups of steaming coffee at every other table, it felt like we were back in Seattle.

When it came, the food was pretty good (but not as good as the German Bakery). We both had tomato-cheese omletes with toast, and Joshua supplemented with two chocolate croissants. In the back corner, a woman from Detroit loudly catalogued the flaws of India.

Once we had finished, we gathered our things and...

Conducted Super-Secret Business of Which You Can Know Nothing About

Four hours later, we made our way back to OR2K. We ordered another platter to share, and sitting cross-legged in the sunlight, we played some more cards.

We relaxed there for a while, recovering from our super-secret business and eavesdropping on other hippie - travellers who had likewise exhausting daily routines. One man was walking from table to table, trying to swap his biography of the Dalai Lama 'for any good reads you have, man.' We let him down gently, and he dejectedly continued on his search.

Across the room, a couple of Brits came in and sat down. Looking at the colorful menu, one of them said, 'I'm so sick of this spiritual bull-shit. I'm like, 'It's a menu, man, not a fucking sutra.'' Joshua quietly cracked up next to me.

At another table, two beautiful college students were talking about philosophy. Actually, she was talking, and he was looking at her boobs. The man with the Dalai Lama biography finally found a soul-mate in a Westerner-cum-Buddhist. Apparently, he's here in Kathmandu, learning Tibetan and racking up some serious karma points.

After sharing another delicious dessert, we paid and headed for the nearest Internet cafe. I wrote a feel e-mails and then browsed Minnesota Council of Non-profits and Craigslist for jobs. There was nothing much, but I did spend a good hour or so filling out an application to be a paraprofessional for Woodbury schools.

Off in the corner, Joshua was filling out applications too. When I'd finished, I left him to continue while I headed back to the guest house for a shower.

Clean again, I retrieved Joshua, and we sat in Tashi Delek, slowly sipping tea, slurping soup, and reading.

Eventually, we grew tired and walked home in the dark, stepping over sleeping dogs and dodging rickshaws.

December 3, 2010

We spent another slow morning at the German Bakery, playing cards and sorting through photos. The morning rush came and went, and in the garden, little sparrows swooped down to clean up left over crumbs. They were brave, and every once in a while, one would venture over to our table, hopping and flicking its head curiously.

Finally, we gathered our things and headed for Freak Street.

In the 60s and 70s, hippies started coming through Kathmandu on their way East. The weird and the lovely gathered just South of Durbar Square, and although this street isn't nearly as freaky as its legends, there are still a few guest houses, cafes, and bong shops holding strong.

Lonely Planet raves about the infamous chocolate cake from the Snowman Cafe, so we stopped in to try some.

It was an odd crowd. Inside, the walls are a bit dingy, but it's a studied shabbiness. It's dark, but a few hanging lanterns cast a cozy, yellow glow. At one table, a couple of travellers in dreads and crochet are reading about Zen. In a dark corner at the back, a young Nepali couple are discreetly dry-humping one another. At the counter, a middle-aged Westerner with a long, scraggly beard and gaged ears smiles, unspeaking.

We order two pieces of gooey cake, and while we're eating, two Israeli girls come in and order the same thing. They're blitzed out of their minds, giggling and eating everything in sight, and the man behind the counter suggests a couple shots of espresso to sober up. They agree.

Cracked out on chocolate, we pull out the Lonely Planet and begin another walking tour through the city.

True to its description, the tour takes us through the little traveled streets of Kathmandu, and for two hours, we don't see another Westerner. While this tour isn't as surprising as the first walking tour we took with Michelle, Steven, and Scott when we arrived in Kathmandu, it's still pretty wonderful. All the things we loved about Kathmandu the first time are here too: peaceful courtyards through doorways and alleys, pagoda-like temples with curved eaves and wooden votives, colorful shops spilling with wares, and relatively clean, cobblestoned streets.

We take photos. After a bit of wandering, we notice that many of the people walking or going about their daily activities are actually gathering water. In the streets, they're using pumps connected to hoses to fill big, gallon buckets. In courtyards, they're gathered around spigots. Women are carrying water on their heads and in both arms.

Outside of one courtyard, we spy a small, barefoot girl in a ruffled, dirty skirt. Her hands pressed together in supplication, she is bent over an altar to Ganesh. She can't be more than seven years old, and the sight of such youthful devotion is startling. She sees us watching her and quickly scurries off. Before she leaves, she grabs two buckets of water. Just one of them probably weighs more than her little body, but she improbably wrestles both down a narrow alley way.

What I really want to do is take pictures of the people. They are dressed in the loveliest colors, and they are all engaged in the most foreign of activities: picking scalps, beating mattress batting, carrying water atop their heads... But I feel rude. Instead, I hold the camera at my belly, and without aiming or focusing, snap photos of people as I walk by. It's still rude, but at least people don't know I'm doing it.

We finish in a square where men and women are selling fruit from bicycle stands and carts. Off to one side, three men are sitting on tarps, and in front of them, they are taking bats to mattressing. One of them is holding an instrument like a one-stringed harp. He wraps the matressing around it and then thumps it, making a sharp, twanging noise.

Back in Thamel, we find OR2K, an Israeli run cafe in the heart of the hustle and bustle. It's a warm, cozy spot, and everyone takes off their shoes to sit on pillows, mats and rugs. When we get there, people are already eating and laughing, but after an hour or so, it's absolutely hopping. We end up having to share our table.

It doesn't matter, though, because the food is sublime. Joshua orders a platter of babaganoosh, humous, tahini, falafel, and naan, and I order the falafel. It's so good, we wipe our plates clean.

Sitting in the warmth and fuss, we play cards, and after our stomachs aren't quite bursting anymore, we order a chocolate crepe. It's also amazing, and we divide it evenly in half, jealously guarding our corners of the plate.

A couple of groups at tables next to us come and go, and we eavesdrop on conversations in American-accented English, Israeli, and Nepali. We decide it's time to go when the girls next to us compare just how 'fucked up' they really are. They try to sound enlightened, but they end up just sounding really, really fucked up.

Back at the room, we burrow under the blankets and encased in warmth and the glory of good food, we fall asleep.