Author: Marty Magic

Tabra’s Birthday, Penestanan

Dedi picks us up at 10:30 for the 1.5 hour drive to Penestanan (Ubud.) Dedi is Tabra’s driver and he speaks good English and chats with us as we make our way to Ubud. The road to Ubud is congested with traffic and scooters carrying entire families zip by. We see parents with their young children sandwiched four to a scooter and very few wear helmets. The craft culture is rich in Bali and the road is one continuous craft market of statuary, carving factories and shops, all blending into one another; wood, marble, metal and cement. 

Driving to Ubud
We pass rice paddies along the way; walled family compounds with ornate decorative doorways and the towers of the family alters rising above the walls. The temples are beautifully decorated with flower and food offerings, palm leaves and bamboo towers. 
Family Compounds, Bamboo Towers
 When we arrive in Penastanan-Kaja and see Tabra walking down the road in front of her tiny new shop. She wears a sarong that she has designed from hand printed Indian fabrics and a straw hat and is adorned in her striking jewelry; silver bangles, earrings and a Jaguar ring. She is a lithe and graceful gypsy woman and she welcomes us warmly. 
Tabra, Gypsy Woman
The fare from the airport is $40,000 Rupiah (about $32.00) and Dedi drops us off at the Topok House, just around the corner from Tabra’s new shop. It is the same bungalow complex that we stayed in 7 years ago except that the compound has been divided into two properties, presumably because of a family disagreement and division.  Our two story family bungalow is lovely; overlooking the river with a lush and private garden. There is a small pond,  a spirit wall and a gate to the river below. Orchids grow in the crevices of the rock walls and ferns and flowers frame the walls of our tropical paradise.  Art and I choose the upstairs bedroom with a not so private outdoor rock shower. (When I look up I can see the widows and the balcony of a bungalow above….and I surmise that they in turn can look down into our shower enclosure?)   We settle in briefly before accompanying Tabra a few short blocks to the compound where she works. 

Tabra and Marty, Topok House

Topok House Garden
It is Tabra’s birthday and the family where she rents her workspace has prepared a feast in her honor. They welcome us with tall icy glasses of grapefruit juice and we are introduced to Dekti, Tabra’s manager and Made, Tabra’s accountant and book-keeper.  The extended family lives in this walled compound and we meet and greet them all including Dekti’s and Dedi’s 12 year old son and several other children. The compound has a number of family spirit temples, several cages of birds and three dogs. 
Tabra’s Birthday Lunch

Tabra’s Birthday Lunch
Birthday Lunch Buffet
They must have been cooking for days to prepare this beautiful buffet. We sample chicken tu-tu, chicken ayam sate, a spicy flower salad, curried long green beans and red rice.  I fill my plate cautiously at first but all is so delicious that I return for seconds. We sit in the outdoor enclosure of their compound, eat and visit. Dessert is a decadent chocolate mousse cake from the best bakery in town. We are extremely fortunate to be meeting and experiencing life with this Penestanan village family.  We learn that Penestanan means black magic and Tabra tells us that the villagers believes in black magic.  
Dedi, Art and John, Tabra’s Compound
Tabra and Marty

After lunch Tabra shows us around her workrooms. She rents two rooms, each filled with trays of stones and beads and cast silver components. John and I are especially fascinated with her process and her extensive and delicious collection of stones.  Recently, Tabra has expanded into making skirts and sarongs and there are piles of fabric tucked in the corners. Her space is rich with creative energy. She rents a small bungalow a few streets away and we follow her to her home, one large room secluded behind rock walls with a lush garden.  There is a wrap around outdoor porch for sitting and a small kitchen in a separate room off of the porch.  Folded fabrics are piled on an outdoor table, soon to be sewn into gypsy skirts and sarongs. Tabra has a remarkable eye for color and texture and her clothing collection is beautiful and I imagine that I will be buying a skirt before the week is over. 
At 4:00 P.M. we return to our bungalow to shower, rest and write. John goes swimming in the pool in the adjoining compound, a privilege that we are charged $5 per day for. Tabra calls for us at 7:00 P.M. and with flashlights, we walk down the narrow path towards the stairs and into town. It is New Years Eve and we have unfortunately late (9:30 P.M.) dinner reservation at Bridges, one of the top restaurants in Ubud. The locals are celebrating with fireworks and sky rockets  that burst into flowering cascades of sparks. We walk along the shop lines streets, looking for an open money exchange. John is ravenous and getting cranky and we take a taxi back to Bridges in hopes that we can be seated early and are soon seated on the outdoor terrace of this upscale restaurant.  John and I order Mojitos and Tabra and Art order Mango Margaritas. The drinks are expensive, American prices at $12 each, but the food and the ambience is perfect. I order Mushroom raviolis and a vegetarian napoleon; remarkable. John orders mushroom raviolis and filet mignon; Tabra  a chicken dish and Art seared scallops and duck. Bridges is one of the top 6 restaurants in all of Ubud and our meals are superb.  When we order we let it be known that it is Tabra’s birthday and after dinner, a white dish arrives with 4 chocolate bon-bon’s, a candle and Happy Birthday Tabra written on the plate  in chocolate syrup.  It is a delicious and beautiful presentation and the end a lovely evening.
Tabra’s Birthday at Bridges Restaurant, Ubud
It is midnight when we catch a taxi back to Pennestana. At the intersection of the village and our road to the Topok House, a group of men are setting off fireworks.  These are unregulated rockets and the sky blazes with colorful bursts of fireworks the sparks and trailings raining down upon us.  I am afraid to look up lest a spark fall into my eyes.  We laugh and dodge the villagers and disappear down the dark street to our bungalow where we fall into bed exhausted and listen to the seemingly unending bursts and cracks of the fireworks a block away. I am so tired that I fall asleep to the sound of fireworks and wake later to the soft sound of rain on our roof.

Denpasar Bali

Denpasar  Bali – 12:30 A.M. December 31 
With carry on luggage we are off the plane and through immigration quickly.  Art changes $100  into rupiah and we set off to find a taxi. Several drivers surround us and Art asks the rate to the Bakung Beach Resort Hotel, supposedly very close to the airport. $2500 rupiah is the first bid and groggily, I encourage Art to just go for it; always a mistake. The driver drops the price to $2000 ($16) rupiah and we follow him to his waiting van. 10 minutes later we are dropped off at our hotel. Art will grumble and remind me of my haste and waste for the remainder of our trip.
Our reservations are in order and the night manager shows us to our room; through a pretty garden, past the pool up to the third floor.  It is clean with a  balcony and three single beds. We are asleep almost instantly.
Denpasar Beach
Trash on Denpasar Beach

At 7:30 A.M. we wake to the sound of bells and a crying of a baby and step out onto our balcony.  Art and I leave John sleeping and walk the several blocks down to the beach. Fishing boats are out on the placid water and drift wood and debris, from the recent storms are in piles, waiting to be hauled away. We walk to the end of tip of the crescent beach and find other side strewn with washed up yogurt cups and plastic garbage, a sad reminder of human impact to our environment. 
Bakung Beach Hotel Pool
John Relaxing in the Pool
The three of us have breakfast in the outdoor dining patio; a selection of fruit, eggs, omelet, toast and a meat and vegetable stir- fry. We drink multiple cups of coffee, watch John swim and wait for Dedi to pick us up to drive us to Penestanna, Ubud. 

15 Hours in Manila

The Philippine Airline check in is at the far end of the international terminal and we snake through a long line of returning Filipinos, all with luggage carts piled high with 18” x 18”  Balikbyan Boxes, filled with gifts for their families and friends back home. When we get to the counter the attendant informs me that although my bag is carry on size, it is too heavy so we do an awkward shuffle of my carefully folded clothes into John’s and Art’s back pack to bring my bag down to the allowed weight.  Checked in, we eat an uninspired Japanese bento box dinner before heading through security to wait for our 9:30 P.M. flight to Manila.
Balikbayan Box

I paid $20 additional for each of our seats in a row with an extra few inches of leg room. This proves to be well worth it and with our personal entertainment screens, we settle in, plug in and wait for dinner. Dinner is served about 11:00 P.M. and at 12:00 midnight, we toast to John’s 29th birthday.  John and Art go on to watch a second movie but I take a bite of a sleeping pill and sleep until breakfast is served. Art and John also sleep reasonably well and when we arrive in Manila at 4:00 A.M. we are tired, but functioning.  
Manila Street
Airport Coffee in Manila

Our flight is an hour early and the shuttle pick up from Swagman Hotel has not yet arrived.  We sit outside the modern terminal, drink  bad coffee from paper cups and wait. Art continually scans the arriving vans and the guides that hold up signs for newly arriving passengers.  At 5:30 we have nearly given up hope and are about to accept a van ride from a different hotel when the Swagman van arrives. We drive through chaotic traffic, our van slipping in and out of lanes with just inches to spare. We see colorful Jeepneys, Manila’s “Jeep-buses” crammed with passengers and those people who don’t fit inside, hang off the back or ride on top. 

Street Vendors and Trikes

The grey light of dawn unfolds as we drive through the congested city, past abandoned and dilapidated apartment buildings, dirty with grime, most windows and balconies waving flags of laundry out to dry.  Street vendors are setting up their stalls but the stores are still shuttered. The city street scene is not very much different from any number of other sprawling metropolis in third world countries. 

Children Sleeping in Trike
The lobby of the Swagman Hotel is nice enough and our reservation is in order, but the room is terrible. We only need to rest here for the day but it is doubtful of the sheets have been changed recently and the orange paint is dingy, peeling and depressing. We stow our luggage and head back downstairs for breakfast. Presumably, the life sized crocodile, above the bar is in keeping with the Australian name of the hotel and I am relieved that it is fake and not a stuffed crocodile. 

Breakfast with the Swagman Crocodile
Swagman Hotel Room

It is just 7:30 A.M. when we walk towards Rizal Park. Today is the commemoration of the execution of Jose Rizal, a Filipino nationalist and hero.  The park is packed with both dignitaries, families and school children, and we just miss seeing the President . 
Rizal Park, Manila
Rizal Park, Philippine Island Map

Rizal Park Fountains
Jose Rizal Commemorative Celebration

We are functioning but jet lagged and drift through the park and the streets in a hazy time warp. We stop at McDonalds for lunch, with an armed guard at the door.  The restaurant is packed, clean and cheerful and our meals  familiar and safe if not inspired. I want to stow my tray but this is not the Filipino way and the many employees scurry efficiently, wiping down tables, clearing away trays and recycling appropriately.  We walk back to Swagman’s to shower and rest, returning to the Robinson’s Mall late afternoon.  John did not pack well for the trip and he buys some flip flops and chap stick at the Robinson’s supermarket. December 29th, John’s birthday, did not exist because we lost that full day in time zones and we want to treat him to a nice dinner at the Mall. (Already, we are learning that the modern, brightly lit and clean malls are a popular gathering place for the locals and offer a wide selection of restaurants.) We choose a Shabu Shabu restaurant, where we cook our own meats and vegetables. The cooking process is confusing and the food bad and we leave disappointed. 
Robinson’s Mall, Manila

John and Jolly-Bee

Young Girls Outside the Robinson Mall

Swagman’s wants to charge us 500 Pesos for a late check out but they politely waive it when Art reminds them we had a late check in and we take their free shuttle back to the airport. Dusk is settling in and the afternoon rush hour traffic is terrible but the traffic miraculously clears and we arrive in plenty of time. Although we already have our boarding passes, we must pay a country exit fee of $60 but Art discovers that because our stay was so short that we are exempt and we go to a special office and get the stamp free. Jet lag has hit us hard and it is a painful 2 hour wait in the terminal and there is virtually no food available. When we finally board our plane to Denpasar,  we are all asleep before it even takes off.

Time Travel to Manila

Saturday, December 27th 

When I walk into Art’s office after running last minute errands in preparation for our trip, Art is reading the news online.  He tells me that an Asia Air plane traveling between Indonesia and Singapore carrying 162 passengers has just gone missing and is presumed down.  Just three months back the Malaysian airliner 370 vanished with 239 passengers onboard traveling between Kuala Lumpur and Beijing. I want to pretend that this doesn’t concern me, but it does and a dark cloud hovers in my subconscious as I pack for our upcoming trip.
                                                                                                                              
Sunday, December 28th 
I wake at 6:30 A.M. with a list of unfinished tasks spinning in my head.  Our flight to Bali with a stopover in Manilla leaves tonight at 9:30 P.M.  For two early morning hours, I sit at my wax station to put the finishing touches on my new Wave Wrapture Ear Wrap.  It is a quiet, meditative time, detailing the wax and sipping coffee.  The remainder of the day is a blur of pre-travel tasks.  Alisha will be taking care of the Marty Magic business in our absence and throughout the day, I write notes to her and enter time related tasks into her calendar.  I check and re-check trying to remembered everything – passports, flight information, hotel conformations, dive cards, travel insurance and credit cards.
Alisha waving goodbye

At 3:00 P.M. Alisha arrives to drive us to the Santa Cruz Metro station where we will begin our trip commuting to the S.F.O airport. John is somewhat under the weather, much of it self-imposed from a late night gathering with his friends. A cream cheese bagel, purchased from the bus kiosk settles his stomach and after many parting hugs and kisses, Art, John and I board the Highway 17 bus to take us to Deardon Amtrak Station.  Alisha waves cheerfully goodbye, but my heart aches knowing that she would love to accompany us on this adventure. With two children in school and the Marty Magic business to attend to, she is staying home. 
Amtrak Train to S.F.O. 

John however is on winter break from S.F.S.U. through the end of January. At Deardon Station we catch the train to Millbrae where we transfer to Bart for the 10 minute trip to S.F.O. International.  The train rumbles along the industrial side of the upscale Peninsula cities in the fading light. John is coming alive, recovering from last night’s excess and feeling excited about our trip. He checks his phone to see if his grades have been posted and he Hi-Fives us announcing that he has two A’s; one in Limnology and the other in Biological Oceanography. His other grades are not posted yet but Art and I congratulate him on his success

Midnight flight to Cambodia

Midnight flight to Cambodia – January 1-3

John and I successfully sleep much of the way between S.F.O. and Taipei.  Our China Airline flight departs from S.F.O. at 12:05 A.M. on January 2nd so after three long and tedious hours in the terminal we are exhausted when we board and both John and I fall asleep prior to take off.  Our seats, two rows from the back of the plane are surprisingly comfortable.  The body of the plane narrows towards the rear of the plane and there are only two seats abreast, instead of the usual three. This gives John an extra 10” along one side and he is able to extend one of his legs completely. Our seats truly recline; further than we have experienced in economy seats on other airlines and we cocoon ourselves in thick and silky blankets and prop our heads against agreeable pillows and sleep. 

As nice as the seats are, the food on the flight is awful.  Twice, gracious and pretty stewardess, wake us; once at 2:00 A.M. for a nearly inedible dinner of chicken and rice and then again for a breakfast omelet, cold and soggy with coagulated grease. John pushes his omelet aside immediately and after one bite, I follow suit. Neither of us dare to bite into the flaccid grey chicken sausage curling along side. I drink two cups of bitter coffee only to put a stop the a coffee deprived headache that is threatening to worsen. We land in Taipei in one hour and I must be alert to navigate the terminal and make tight change connections for our flight to Phnom Penh, Cambodia.   

  • Taipei Airport
  • Taipei Airport

It is only 6:00 A.M. when we arrive in the Taipei airport and the terminal is a glitter with name brand stores and cafes.  The signage is good and we head directly to the change counter where a robotic man scrawls gate A5 onto our boarding passes and points us down a flight of stairs to the platform for the train connecting the various terminals. We crowd into the train and with a whoosh of closing doors are jetted off towards the A gates. Two minutes later we emerge from our pneumatic tube into another sparkling and busy wing of this immense terminal.  We check John’s watch (when did he get a watch?) can see A5 in the distance and with time to spare we walk in the opposite direction in search of decent coffee. We verve into Illi café and after scanning the illegible menu, I whisper to John that this cup of coffee may be almost as expensive as our coffees in the Abu Daubi terminal.  A woman in line ahead  of us signs a credit card slip and asks the exchange rate and I relax when the stylish barista tells her that her latte is just $4.00.   

We savor our two Illi cappuccinos, smooth, intense and delicious. The cobwebs of my brain clear somewhat and we head to our gate to find both a high tech charging station and free wifi and John connects to Facebook while we wait for our plane to board. 

The China Airline flight between Taipei and Phnom Penh is nearly 4 hours. Once airborne, we are offered another breakfast but since we are still on China Airlines both John and I steer clear of the omelet option, choosing instead the fish noodle breakfast entrée. We grimace when we peel back the tinfoil covers and look down on the slimy concoction of oily brown mystery sauce with chunks of composite translucent fish. John tells me he cannot eat it, but I cautiously push some of the slime away and take a bite of noodles. It is not awful and hunger gets the better of both of us and we nibble around the mystery chunks of gelatinous fish to fill our growling bellies.     

We will need to get “on arrival visas” in Phnom Penh and I am anxious. Happily the visa line is short and I grab two applications and both John and I set to filling them out. There is a blank square for a visa photo, which we do not have and my blood pressure rises as the young man beside us tells me that he has brought his photos with him. We head to the counter and the dour face official tells me that it will cost more without the photos. I ask how much, waiting for the ax to fall but he tells me $2.00 each. Relieved, I whip out $4 dollars and the young man with his U.S.A. photos smiles sheepishly and tells us that he spent $12 for his photos back home.  

We head towards immigration and John and I are directed to two different kiosks where an unsmiling official orders me to put the 4 fingers of my right hand on a glowing green scanner. I obediently oblige, following with my thumb and then a repeat performance of my left hand.  I pass through and wait anxiously as John is scanned and allowed entry.  We collect our baggage which has happily arrived with us and I do a quick change act, shoving my shoes and coat into my bag and slipping on my sandals. The couple in front of us have their baggage opened and searched but John and I are waved through and step out into an open breezeway with a series of exchange kiosks, phone card kiosks and tour kiosks to navigate. I exchange $200 at the rate of 380 per dollar and know that Art would really hate this, not knowing if the rate was a good one.  The woman counts out a huge pile of bills and both John and I cautiously check the many zeros against the official receipt to ascertain that the amount is correct.  I shove half of the thick stack at John and the other half into my wallet and we exit the terminal.

A petite woman is holding up a sign printed Marthalynn Bobroskie.  We make eye contact and she puts her hands together, fingers pointed upward and bows slightly.  She introduces herself as Maria and we follow her to a waiting car alongside the curb. We surmise that Maria is about 26 years old, perky and pretty but with an accent that will be challenging to comprehend.  Our driver is also in his mid 20’s and we learn that these two will be our guide and driver for the next several days, until we reach Sim Reap. As we drive, Maria chatters nervously and incomprehensible about the history and government of Cambodia. Her English is passable, but her intonations are wrong and I stop her frequently and ask her to repeat herself.  Mostly John and I just wish she would be quiet and allow us to gaze out the window and watch Cambodia scroll past.  There are the usual scooters and tut tuts but traffic is tame compared to India and understandably so with Cambodia’s total population at just 15 million. John reminds me that there were 22 million people in New Deli alone.

A 30 minute drive from the airport brings us to our hotel, two blocks from the Tonle Sap River.  Three star, Hotel Cara is centrally located and our room is spacious and clean but without a view as the only small window faces out under the overhang of the roof. It is noon when we arrive at our hotel and Maria advises us to rest and take a tut tut to the riverside for dinner later on.  Within 30 minutes, John and I are showered and we walk along the bustling street in the direction of the riverside; or so we hope.  It is hot and humid and the tourist map is vague and after several blocks we retrace our steps and ask for better directions. Although we are only two blocks inland from the river, we opt to take a tut tut to the heart of the “Riverside” and negotiate our ride down from $4 to 10,000 Riel, about $2.80.

The “Riverside” district is lined with tourist restaurants, tiny shops and massage parlors. We are ravenous and choose a corner restaurant quickly, sitting at an outside table facing the trafficked street. (The river is just across but all of the restaurants are on the inland side.) We each order a $2 bottle of beer; John a dark Angkor and I opt for Cambodian beer.  John foolishly orders a club sandwich, the bread like cardboard, but I choose Khmer curried chicken which is excellent. Our food takes a long time to arrive but we are content to sit and watch the world pass by.  We laugh incredulously when we see three motor scooters zip by, their drivers and rear passengers sandwiching  4 x 8  foot sheets of glass between them, the glass sheets pointing high into the air. What a terrible accident waiting to happen.  Street children approach us selling woven bracelets strung on wire coat hangers. A few crippled and deformed men scoot along on makeshift wheeled boards and John gives each of them a 1000 note bill, equivalent to .38 cents.   

After lunch, John and I cross the busy trafficked street. John grabs my hand and it is an easy game of “Frogger” and we reach the other side without incident and walk along the river bank, gazing down at the piles of garbage along the river’s edge. There are numerous large round gilded floating objects and John climbs down the steep steps to the to examine them. He yells up to report that they are gilded floating coconut decorations and that there is a small water dragon basking on the rocks.

We stroll inland towards the Wat Phnom Stupa, situated on a knoll, a lush and lovely tropical garden surrounding it. This will be the first of many temple steps that I will climb up over the next three weeks and and we ascend the stairs up to the pagodas terrace. Several wooden bird cages rest on the stone walkway, crowded with tiny fluttering brown songbirds. For a price, one can pay the attendee to set one free but we soon surmise that the birds will be caught again, caged and their freedom resold.  We remove our shoes and John drops the suggested offering into the box at the entrance to the pagoda. We preamble slowly across the cool stone floor inhaling the incense and the gilded statues surrounded by offerings of fruits and flowers.  Many spirit houses surround the Stupa’s terrace, each adorned with flowers and sticks of incense. 

 Jet lag has caught up with me and at 4:00 P.M. we return to our hotel where I attempt to nap for an hour.  Although I don’t feel badly, I have been fighting a cold for the past two weeks and my sinuses are still streaming bloody mucus. Although I cannot sleep, an hour and a half later, I am somewhat revived and we make a plan for our evening. There is a night market on Friday, Saturday and Sunday and we take a tut tut to the market at the riverside. It is 5:50 when we arrive and the fading light is magical and a sliver of moon hangs in the sky.  Music blares from a loud speaker above an empty stage and surrounding food stalls stir up delicious smelling concoctions that we choose not to risk. Families picnic on mats and blankets spread out on the ground in the center of it all. A maze of lighted stalls sell cheap souvenirs and clothing and John is enthralled with it all. He examines counterfeit sunglasses and wallets and I patiently stand back and watch, catching his enthusiasm and enjoying the sights and the smells of the market, all the time holding tightly to my back pack and checking frequently that the hidden zipper is always closed. 

My guide book recommends a restaurant in a different part of town and we hire a tut tut to take us there but the restaurant no longer exists. John is hungry and a bit impatient with me so we tut tut back to the strip of touristy restaurants along the riverside and quickly choose one, not for it’s menu but because it has a vacant sidewalk table. Dinner is not especially good but we are contented and happy, sipping our drinks and people watching. Four young boys approach John selling woven friendship bracelets. The oldest boy of about ten wants one dollar for three bracelets but John only has a five dollar bill. The boy urges John to go and get change but John does is not motivated to do this. Thirty minute later, the boys return with change for a five dollar bill and John, having consumed several beers, ends up buying 3 bracelets each from each of the 4 young entrepreneurs.

Dubai to Abu Dhabi and Home at Last!

January 25th. Dubai to Abu Dhabi and Home at Last!

It’s a good thing that I have set John’s alarm or we might have slept several more hours. I shower, dress and leave our room quietly to check on the times for breakfast. A handful of guests are eating breakfast in the canvass covered courtyard and I am happy to discover it is only 9:15 A.M.  John’s phone was set on New Deli time, not Dubai time and there is a 1 ½ hour difference. While John showers, I send e-mail to Art with our arrival information into S.F.O. and attempt Skype again without success. A few minutes later, my computer rings and it is Art calling. It’s heartening to hear his voice and both John and I talk excitedly with him for several minutes.

We sit in the canvas shaded courtyard and enjoy strong coffee, creamy yoghurt, omelets, tahini and Arabic bread and with map and guidebook in hand, make our plans for the day. For $55 each, we could take the guided tour on the double-decker “Red Bus” and be limited to their schedule, or we can take taxis to the same sites for what I hope will cost about half. I look over the Red Bus itinerary and make note of their stops, starting the farthest away and working back towards our hotel.

Bastakiya Dubai
Bastakiya guard and John

We stash our luggage in a corner of the tiny office, close the heavy wooden doors to this artsy, 9 room guest house and navigate from the maze of the historical district out to the main street. There are very few tourists out yet, but each time I lift my camera to take a photo, a nuisance-some tourist rounds a corner of this historical labyrinth and pops into my view finder. I’m sure they are equally irritated when John and I pop into one of their photographs.  I am taking a photo of John in the narrow shaded lane when a security guard crosses. He spots my pointed camera, beams and indicates that he wants his photo taken beside John. I happily oblige and show him the image in the back screen of my camera.  He walks beside us and tells us he is from Nepal and proudly shows us his laminated identification work card.  If I understand correctly, he has a two year permit; works for 9 months, returns home for 3 months and repeats the process. In broken English, he tells us that Nepal is poor but the USA is good and is helping in Nepal. He relays that his family was “bad” but now they are a “nice” family because he has work in Dubai and can send money home. These brief encounters are much of what makes traveling such a joy.

The taxis in Dubai are metered, starting at 3 dirham, and in less than a minute we are scooped up and are driving towards the Dubai Marina.  I have been told to expect the 25 minute drive to the Marina to cost about 60 dirham and the meter shows 58 dirham when we arrive.

John at Dubai Marina
Dhow at Dubai Marina

An elegant pedestrian promenade curves along the waterfront and shimmering yachts are moored in this inner harbor, reflecting the morning sunlight off the water. Wait staff are readying the sidewalk Cafes and restaurants lining the promenade. Although there are many tourists and foreign families out with their children, it is Friday, a holy day, and there are few Arabs out at 11:30 A.M. (It is no wonder since they were all at the Dubai Mall at midnight last night!) Earlier, we considered taking the metro to the Marina, but on Fridays, even the metro does not open until 1:00 P.M. Except for the futuristic high rises and sky scrapers piercing the skyline, we could be strolling along the marina at Cabo San Lucas or any number of other upscale harbors in sundrenched parts of the world.

Marty at a Dubai Marina Cafe
Arab women walking the Marina Promenade

We take turns taking photos of each other, leaning up against the railing, boats and skyscrapers in the background. Although there are many small and medium sized yachts in the marina, John wants to know where the big boats play?  We succumb to the touristy lure of Captain Jack’s, 1 hour dhow cruise, a circular loop of both the inner and outer harbor. 120 dirham later, ($33) the two of us are settled comfortably into overstuffed tribal upholstered beanbags on the canvass shaded deck of a large wooden dhow.

Captain Jacks Marina and Harbor Cruise

The boat could easily accommodate over 50 passengers but we are two of less than 20 other passengers on this cruise. The dhow motors out of the harbor and I wish immediately for our jackets that we have left stored with our luggage back at the hotel. John points out several immense yachts moored in the outer harbor, but surprisingly, they pale in comparison to the jaw dropping yachts we sae in the harbor at Cairns, Australia. A helicopter sits atop a helipad and a ribbon of a runway, constructed on pylons, with yellow and black reflecting girds at its end, stretches out into the ocean. It is cold and foggy outside of the inner harbor and the skyscrapers have all but disappeared excepting the tips of a few, peeking eerily out and above the fog bank.

Helicopter and Fog
Fog on the landing strip in the outer harbor
Cranes in the Dubai Marina
Cranes in the Dubai Marina
Re-entering the Dubai Marina by Dhow

We catch a second taxi towards Palm Jumeirah, the “Crescent and Frond” development with the Atlantis resort at its tip. When one sees photos of Dubai, it is the futuristic Burj al Arab hotel and the Crescent and Frond community that epitomizes Dubai. 

Burg Al Arab 
Atlantis Resort

 I am disappointed that we can see little of this artificial island community, sans for the gated entrances to each “frond.”  Each “frond” is constructed along an artificial canal so that every luxury estate has a waterfront view. I catch a glimpse or two of a canal through the security gates but the aerial photos I have seen are stunning and I soon gather that this is a sight that must be viewed from above. When our driver drops us at the Atlantis resort, we are still hopeful that there might be a public view tower where we might be able to see the Crescent and Frond island community, but there are none. I have heard much raving about Atlantis resorts and perhaps the guest areas are lovely but I am not impressed. It is an unimpressive, mini-mall with shops and restaurants radiating out from a central dome. The garishly painted dome depicts a childish underwater scene that hangs heavily overhead and a series of misproportioned, leaping bronze dolphin chandeliers swing from the arched ceilings between the shops. There are 4 restaurant options and we choose the least expensive but even so, our shared bacon and cheese hamburger with fries comes in at $25.00. We pass on visiting the aquarium, knowing that we have seen some of the best in the world and make our escape by taxi to Jumeirah, the public beach of Dubai.

Handstand silhouette – Burj al Arab
Afternoon at Jumeirah beach- Burj al Arab 

Bikini clad bodies bask in the sunshine and children play on the half mile strip of golden sand. John strips off his shirt and we both take off our shoes and roll up our pants. We leave our belongings neatly piled on the beach and I realize that I am not worried about them being stolen. That is not to say that the possibility doesn’t cross my mind, but Dubai feels extremely safe and we head towards the crystal clear turquoise water.  There are no waves and the Arabian Gulf water is warm and children splash is the calm shallow sea.

Jumeirah Public Beach – Dubai

A Muslim woman stands waist deep dressed in her abaya and two Indian woman wade in wearing saris. I am grateful to be a western woman and almost feel that in solidarity, I should wade in wearing my jeans.

Women wearing abayas and saris in the Arabian Gulf

Three Indian or Pakistani men find a dead crab floating in the shallows and they laugh as one take photos of his friend, wearing it as a hat.  I run towards them, camera aimed and they pose happily for my photos.  John does hand stands and back flips on the beach and my heart fills with pride and love for this young man. According to our guide book, this is the best place to get an unobstructed view of the iconic, Burj al Arab. The sun is unfortunately, directly overhead of this futuristic architectural wonder, but we take the required photos of each other with Burj al Arab, an indistinct grey silhouette in the background. 45 minutes later, after having walked the stretch of beach we return to our pile of shoes, cloths and guide-book, dust off the sand and catch a taxi back to our XVA hotel.

Sunbathing on Jumeirah Public Beach – Dubai
Man with a dead crab on his head!

The taxi ride to the bus station is just 10 dirham and I leave John waiting curbside with our luggage while I go in search of tickets. There are dozens of busses, moving in and moving out, all new and well maintained and orderly lines of mostly young male immigrants waiting to board the appropriate busses. It appears that the immigrants are invaluable to the infrastructure to the UAE. They fill the service, construction, merchant and security jobs in a similar way that many Mexican immigrants do in California. I surmise that their work week is over and that these young men are heading back to a shared apartment in the outskirts of Dubai or Abu Dhabi, their temporary home until their work visa and contract expire and they can return home to their native land and their family. I am directed towards a low cluster of buildings, the perimeter consisting of a string of hole-in-the-wall, Middle Eastern restaurants. I enter a central courtyard and see a line of over 30 men waiting for the toilet. Another long line snakes around the ticket window and I take my place at the back. Seconds later a security guard escorts me to the “ladies only” window where I am next in line. The two bus tickets to Abu Dhabi are only 25 dirham each ($8 each) and I walk quickly back to find John. We wait in a long line as the double-decker bus for Abu Dhabi fills but luckily, we are first in line for the next bus which is already pulling towards us. An official escorts other ladies from further back in our line to the front and John is motioned to step back. I am first to board and choose the seat behind the driver with unobstructed views, saving the adjoining seat for John. John takes care of seeing that our luggage is loaded beneath the bus, takes his seat beside me and within minutes, we drive away. We fly along the 5 lane freeway, skyscrapers zipping past us reflecting the late afternoon sunlight in their mirrored glass surfaces. I relax into the journey contented and resigned that our trip will end easily at a sterile airport hotel. As we enter the outskirts of Abu Dhabi, and as dusk settles in, we see the striking and immense silhouette of the new, Sheikh Zayed Mosque, one of the world’s largest mosques. Two days is simply not enough time for these cities and I hope to come back one day and visit this impressive mosque.

Leaving the skyline of Dubai
 Dubai skyscrapers 

We arrive at the Abu Dhabi bus station in just 1 ½ hours and I realize I have made a logistical mistake. Our hotel is out by the airport and we are in downtown. Perhaps, had we taken a different bus, it would have dropped us at the airport? We hail yet another taxi and drive towards Yas Island in search of the Yas Viceroy Hotel that I booked for $120 on Priceline many weeks ago.  After just one wrong turn our driver deposits us at the entrance to a futuristic hotel, seeming built in the center of a professional auto race track. The organic roof of our hotel is constructed of interconnecting rods and pods, surreally illuminated by changing colored lights.  I have stayed at the Ritz Carlton in both London and Paris, slept on rooftops in Greece, safari tents in Africa, hostels in Europe and flea bag hotels around the world but tonight’s hotel and room is a surprise. After the formalities of check in, the desk attendant from Romania subsequently shows us to our room.

Our sitting room at the Yas Viceroy, overlooking the racetrack
The illuminated roof above our room

Our spacious, ultra modern room has a large seating area with a kidney shaped purple couch, a curvaceous white resin chair and coffee table and an extremely large, flat screen T.V. Our hospital Romanian demonstrates the remote control options for the lighting and the sound system in the room and with a push of a button he opens the automated sliding shades that cover the floor to ceiling sliding glass door. Our door opens onto a narrow balcony overlooking a slanted corrugated metal roof and a brilliantly lighted race track just below. Initially, the three partitioned bathroom with frosted sliding glass doors between the shower, bidet and toilet and wash stand and bathtub seems luxurious, but the frosted glass lacks privacy and the arrangement is confusing.

Room door opening over the roof and racetrack below
Abstract transparencies, Yas Viceroy Hotel, Abu Dhabi

 As soon as our luggage is delivered, John slips into swim trunks and we head to the roof top swimming pool. The rod and pod roof has a circular opening in the center and a full moon is framed and suspended above. We are in a flight path and every few minutes the silhouette of a plane passes by the moon. The alternating colored lights illuminate the pool in an ever changing pallet of purples, greens and blues. I feel as if I have stepped into a Star Trek episode.

John swimming in the Yas Viceroy roof top pool
John, Yas Viceroy roof top pool

There are 5 restaurants in the Yas Viceroy hotel and all are expensive.  We peruse the various restaurant and menu options and choose the Arabic restaurant after we spot a Mezze selection for two that includes a choice of four hot mezzes for 100 dirham. ($35) The sign at the entrance to this elegant restaurant requires “upscale casual” dress and at best, John and I are wearing “frumpy traveler.” We straighten our shoulders and step inside.  The interior décor is minimalistic Arabic style with soft golden lighting and a curved bar with glimmering bottles of liquor reflected in the gilded mirror behind. A dozen or more ornate shishas (waterpipes) are clustered at one side of the bar. A hostess glides towards us, welcoming us and asking if we wish to sit inside or if we might prefer to sit outside?  We were unaware of the outside option but obediently follow her to an expansive patio overlooking the race track. There are tall obelisk shaped heaters to warm the night, flames rising high, and a half dozen other diners sit at tables at the edge of the patio watching the cars race around the track. We do not have reservations and are seated at a table off from the railing but this allows us watch the other diners and we still have a good view of the race track.  We splurge and order two Arabic beers, ($6 each) the mezze platter and sit back and watch the show.  In the corner against the railing is a canopied table with about 8 Arabic women, the adult women all wearing black abays; a pre-teen girl, an infant and a nanny are part of the entourage. The women are between 18-24 years old and one of them is smoking a shisha, blowing white clouds of smoke into the faces of her friends with no mind for the baby.

Yas Viceroy Rooftop Arabian Restaurant

John is fascinated by the racing cars.  The track is a professional one but John tells me that he thinks the drivers are just wealthy Arab men who just want a place to race their “toys.”  John has watched videos about this on U-tube; that racing on the streets in the UAE became a problem and now the men with their Porches and Ferraris can reserve the track for an evening and burn rubber and testosterone without endangering others. John critics the drivers; most of who are cautious when coming to the curves but he applauds one driver in a red Porches who seems to have little fear and tears around the track much faster than the others. We soon surmise that the women, seated at the corner table, are somehow related to one or several of the drivers. Our four mezze plates arrive along with a basket of varied Arabian breads and a dish of pickles and olives.  The spread is ample and we dip pieces of bread in hummus and share tiny lamb shanks, sausages and calamari as we listen to the revving and downshifting of the cars. This is the final night of our trip and John asks to smoke a shisha.  A shisha, with two flavors of tobacco, costs 60 dirham ($16) John asks flavor advice from the shisha attendant and subsequently orders mint and grape tobacco.  A few minutes later an ornate silver shisha is set on the floor beside John’s chair. It is 2 ½ feet tall and with tongs the attendant places hot coals in the dish above the prepared tobacco, puffs on the hose several times to get it started, and then inserts a fresh mouthpiece and hands it to John. John leans back, inhales and blows white clouds of mint scented smoke in my direction. I too take several puffs but inhaling smoke is foreign to me and my head spins on the second inhalation.  We laugh, take photos of each other and when the coals burn low, head up to our luxurious room for 6 hours of sleep.

Inhaling mint and Grape shisha
Exhaling mint and grape shisha 

Our trip is over and it has been amazing throughout. John and I are well matched as traveling companions and ending it with two days in futuristic Dubai has been perfect contrast to the chaos, colors and culture of incredible India.

New Deli to Abu Dhabi and onto Dubai

January 24th
New Deli to Abu Dhabi and on to Dubai
Our phone rings at 12:30 A.M. It is our wakeup call and our car and driver are due to arrive at 1:20 A.M. to transfer us to the Deli International airport. We managed a solid 3 ½ hours of sleep and shower and pack quickly. We work our way through various airport checkpoints, and by 3:00 A.M. have cleared security and wait for our flight to board. The flight time between Deli and Abu Dhabi is 3 ½ hours and John and I fall asleep before the plane even takes off. We ignore the stewardess whispered offer of dinner and I sleep until the pilot loudly announces that we are 30 kilometers away from Abu Dhabi, waiting for clearance to land. The view below is breathtaking in the early morning light and I wake John. He is in a deep sleep and snarls at me but when he looks out the window and sees shrouds of fog wisping over golden ripples of shimmering sand, he too is awed by the unusual beauty of it.

Shrouds of fog over the UAE

We circle for over an hour, waiting to land, and when we finally deplane we are an hour and a half behind schedule. Both John and I feel surprisingly rested and anticipate the day. Immigration is quick and easy and the agent, dressed in a white throbe and keffiyeh (Arabian headdress) is warm and friendly. Our luggage appears quickly and we choose the custom lane with “noting to declare,” smile at another white throbed official and exit into the terminal. No one is waiting with a sign to pick us up but ticket holders on Etihad Airlines can take advantage of a free express bus to Dubai.

Starbucks in the Abu Dhabi Airport

John gleefully spots a Starbucks and tells me he is “down for one!” Having ordered dirhams before our trip, I pass him a 100 dirham bill and head off to investigate the express bus. When I return to Starbucks, John hands me a cappuccino and tells me that he thinks these may be the most expensive cappuccino and latte that we have ever had. We do the math and figure that two “grandes,” (not “ventes”) cost $17.00.  Mine is delicious and when the caffeine takes effect, I have no regrets. The express bus is waiting just outside the terminal door; John loads our luggage into the belly of the bus and we climb onboard.  Within minutes we are driving along an ultra modern 5 lane freeway bordered by date palms and desert. John points out that the cars traveling this highway are all expensive and new and we laugh and observe that there are no tut-tuts, motorcycles or livestock traveling this ultra modern expressway. We are alert and watch out the window but there is little except desert and the occasional silhouette of a mosque until we near Dubai. The industrial and commercial outskirts boast all of the familiar U.S. companies. We pass large block buildings wearing the logos of IBM, Microsoft, Oracle, Citi-bank, Ford, Ferrari and Toyota; presumably their corporate or manufacturing headquarters.

Riding the bus into Dubai
The bus ride into Dubai

As we enter the city, skyscrapers loom upward beyond the vision of the busses window. The reflective glass on these soaring buildings shimmer the colors of steel, blue, green and occasionally fiery gold in the morning sunlight.

It is nearly 11:00 A.M. when the bus deposits us in the outskirts of Dubai. John offloads our luggage and we head for the nearest taxi. I hand the driver the printed conformation of our XVA Art Hotel with the address clearly printed. He is confused and in broken English, asks me to speak the address.  I phonetically pronounce the address, Bas-ta-ki-ya, and he beams in recognition and tells me that it is “no problem.”  We quickly grasp that he cannot read, but being the cautious traveler, ask the approximate price of the fare?  He repeats his “no problem” mantra and points to the meter on his taxi.  We settle into the back seat and trust to fate. 20 minutes later and after a few wrong turns, he drops us off in front of the Bastakiya, a meticulously restored section of the old city. The meter reads just 30 dirham, less than $10.

The historical Bastakiya district
The historical Bastakiya district

 The small compound is a maze of narrow lanes, snaking between two-story, beige stucco buildings, all of them with wind towers. The district was built in the 1900’s by Iranian merchants and the rectangular wind towers, with four triangular flues that channel the breeze downward is a means of ventilation and cooling before air conditioning. It takes us a few minutes to locate our guest house, hidden on the back side of one of the lanes and discretely identified by a small sign; XVA Guesthouse.

John in front of the door to our room. XVA Guesthouse

The heavy, double wooden door is open slightly revealing a pretty, canvas shaded courtyard café. A half dozen marble topped tables with rattan chairs askew are in the patio and a covered arched arcade lines the perimeter. There are only 9 rooms in the hotel and all open up onto one of two patios.  Our room is off the back patio and the receptionist unlocks the padlock on the double wooden door of our room, revealing a small sitting room with a couch, a second room with a double bed and a private bathroom.  I tell her that we need two beds and she indicates that the couch makes into a bed, points out white cotton bathrobes and slippers in the curtained closet and makes her exit. The rooms are cool white stucco with cubbyhole shelves built into the thick paster walls. I booked this guesthouse online and although it was quite expensive, $260, I am pleased with the location and the ambience of the small hotel.

Tourist shop in the arcade
Covered shopping arcade near the Dubai Creek

We regroup quickly, leave our secluded guest house and head out to explore the old section of Dubai.  We are just a few blocks from the Dubai Creek and walk through soaring, arched wooden arcades lined with tourist shops selling pashmina scarves, embroidered dresses, curved toed Arabian sandals, spices and tourist nick-nacks. The merchants pounce on us and once again, their aggressiveness makes it unpleasant to stop and look. We power on in search of lunch, leaving the tourist area and choosing a hole in the wall Shawarma café. I worry slightly about the sanitation as we sit at one of two tiny formica tables and order Shawarma platters and a fresh squeezed mint and lime juice.  I recollect the wonderful Shawarma meal we enjoyed off a side street in Quito Ecuador with no ill effects. By my standards the meal is disappointing but John is ecstatic about the food, happy to be eating anything other than stewed Indian curries. I pay our $15 bill and we head off to the Dubai museum.

The museum is excellent and John takes his time to read the signs beside each exhibit.  We get lost in an underground labyrinth of life sized montages depicting life and the history of Dubai and watch a 15 minute film about the warp speed transformation of Dubai from the 1920’s to the present. 1 ½ hours later, we have a much better grasp of the remarkable transformation of a small desert town to a futuristic city of power.

Dhows on Dubai Creek
Dhows on Dubai Creek

 We exit into the sunlight and walk towards the “Creek,” the life blood of earlier Dubai. The creek is a river running through the city center and beautiful, antique wooden dhows are moored on the far bank. A dhow is a wooden cargo ship and many of these colorful vessels are close to 100 years old. They are moored at the Deira warfage, are weighted down with tons of cargo, owned by Arabs and manned by foreign crews. Smaller dhows ferry locals and tourists from one side to another for the price of 1 dirham; about 35 cents. We climb onboard and in 5 minutes are deposited at Diera. With map and guide book in hand we navigate to the covered gold souk, disappointedly un-exotic, but staggering with the excessive amounts of gold jewelry draping the window displays and lining the shelves.  We enter a few shops and I surmise that the casual ambiance within is backed up by plenty of security cameras and weapons as well.

Marty in the gold souk – Dubai
Gold necklace on display

We wander the narrow streets of old Dubai and are repeatedly approached by Pakistani and Indian men wanting to show us designer hand bags and beconning to us to follow them. My ear cuff designs are copied and counterfeit in China and I am strongly against buying counterfeit goods. John however is intrigued and lustful and he follows one man down twisted alleys and up several flights of dirty stairs to a fourth floor clandestine “showroom,” filled with copies of Louis Vutton, Channel, Gucci etc. I have no choice but to follow John and I sit stone faced on a plastic stool while John inspects counterfeit sunglasses, belts and t-shirts.  As I sit watching the sales man “work” John, other tourists arrive gleeful to purchase “best quality copies of designer goods.”  It is difficult to make our escape but when we are again at street level, I lecture John on ethics. This is the first and only time on our trip that we have had any conflict and John does not understand my point of view.  He wants to buy a pair of sunglasses, a wallet and a belt and I decide that this does not warrant a fight and quietly follow John, who follows a second and then a third man to tiny upstairs rooms packed full of counterfeit goods. I am curt with the sales men who try to interest me in a designer bag and tell them I would be embarrassed to own one. They don’t know how to handle me and at one point, I am moved to a stool on the upstairs landing and a young Indian man sits beside me and we talk about his family back in Kerala, India.  I am sure he has been instructed to get rid of the “old bag” so that they may make a sale to John but it is interesting to talk with him and he is happy and proud to be living and “working” in Dubai and able to send money back home to his family. I am almost relieved when John eventually makes a purchase so that we can move on with our day.

Spices and Shishas
John in the souk

It is late afternoon and the light is perfect and I take many photographs from the dhow as we motor back across the creek and to the Abra, ferry station in Bur Dubai.

View of Dubai from the dhow

We decide to go to the Dubai Mall for the evening and the receptionist at our guest house recommends that we take the metro instead of a taxi.  This turns out to be bad advice because we are repeatedly misdirected but we eventually find the station, descend, purchase tickets and after two transfers and seemingly miles of underground passages followed by more miles of lighted glass “habitrails” that funnel us up and over brightly illuminated boulevards, we arrive at the mall.  The mall is immense, stunning and overwhelming.  John and I are giddy with delight and culture shock. We eventually find a map of the mall and after some quick math we conclude that there are between 900 – 1000 shops and eateries.

Aquarium at Dubai Mall
The “Underwater Zoo” Dubai Mall

The mall is 4 levels with an aquarium and underwater zoo that boasts the largest sheet of glass of any aquarium in the world. There is an Olympic sized ice rink, a Souk, a Fashion Avenue, a Village, an indoor waterfall and an expansive outdoor area with Venetian style bridges spanning moats of water and dancing fountains that surpass the Bellagio’s dancing fountains in Las Vegas.

Cafe at Dubai Mall
Car Expo at Dubai Mall

Arab men, wearing white throbes and keffiyehs literally float across the marble floors of the mall. Amusingly, some push baby strollers and all wear designer watches and have a Mont Blanc pen tucked in the pocket of their white throbe. They are elegant, extremely handsome and presumably very wealthy.

10:00 P.M. Thursday night – Dubai Mall
10:30 P.M. Thursday night – Dubai Mall

The women glide along in their black abayas clutching designer hand bags and wearing expensive watches  and shoes that are barely visible below the drapings of their abayas. There are plenty of Western clad visitors as well and the mall is packed on this Thursday night.  The promenade between the store fronts is unusually wide and there are groupings of leather couches every few hundred feet.  Arab women lounge in these rest areas, gossiping and watching their children to play.  Men sit with other men at the sidewalk cafes, sipping coffee. Although we see Arab couples and families walking together, it is uncommon to see mixed gender groups gathered together.

Women shopping in Dubai Mall 

John and I are fascinated by it all and wander the mall for several hours until hunger motivates us to look for a restaurant.  We see the glittering of lights and illuminated fountains outside and exit the mall onto a lakeside promenade.

Dubai Mall, lakeside at night
John outside the Dubai Mall

 A Venetian style bridge arches over an artificial lake and fountains sparkle. Hundreds of people mill along the promenade and patio and others work their way slowly up and over the crowded bridge. Security guards keep the masses on the bridge moving and when I slow to take a photo at the top of the bridge, a guard chides me and motions me to keep going.  Once over the bridge, I am able to find a place to pause and gaze at the illuminated night time skyline of futuristic Dubai.

Burj Khalifa – The worlds tallest building
Skyline at night – Dubai

Burj Khalifa, the world’s tallest building looms above, a glittering silhouette. Outdoor cafes and restaurants line this side of the promenade, every table seemingly occupied. I am intimidated by such opulence but leave John at the railing and head through the far arcade to find a restaurant. Luck prevails and a table has just cleared at the restaurant closest to the bridge. I follow the hostess to a small table, in from the railing, but with an unobstructed view of the lake.  John is watching for me and I catch his eye and motion for him to go around and enter the patio from the inside of the restaurant.  Minutes later, he is seated beside me and another extravagant fountain show begins.  Alcohol is only available at tourist hotels or licensed night clubs so we order a tall bottle of sparking water. Just as in the U.S.A. there are expensive entrees on the menu but John orders chicken penne pasta and I order a large goat cheese salad and our bill is a very reasonable $55 including a tip.

Flaming fountains by night
Dancing fountains by night

 Every 30 minutes, a different “water” show begins. John is mesmerized by the illuminated dancing fountains, arching and spiraling, Las Vegas style in the center of the lake. The fountains subside and a series of holographic images float eerily above the water on an invisible screen, all choreographed with music.  The holographic images fade and fountains of flaming fireballs burst out of the water. It is a joy to watch John’s amazement and admittedly, it is a stunning water show, but if it were not for the towering skyscrapers looming above, I might just as well be in Las Vegas.

11:30 P.M. on Thursday at the Dubai Mall
11:30 P.M. on Thursday at the Dubai Mall

It is close to midnight when we try to find our way back to the metro and we take what we think is a shortcut but walk the wrong way around the perimeter of the mall. We have walked miles today and my feet hurt and my body aches and I want desperately to be back at our hotel. We back track, retracing our path through the mall, and are amazed to see all of the shops are still open and the mall still bustling. We pass back through the glass habitrail tubes spanning the boulevards below, along endless moving walk ways and finally down into the belly of the metro. At 12:00 P.M. there is standing room only on the train, we successfully transfer from the red line to the green line and have only 6 or 8 blocks to walk to our hotel. Many blocks later we discover we have walked the wrong direction, turn disheartenedly around and plod mechanically back in to our guest house hotel. I am utterly exhausted, set John’s phone alarm for 10:00 A.M. and slide gratefully between the sheets.

Hitchhiking

Thursday, January 24th,

The India part of our adventure is over and we expect today to be no more than a day of travel and transition.

Our 7:00 A.M. wake up allows us time to pack leisurely before our final pick up for our flight between Varanasi and New Deli. As expected, the Incentive Destination liaison is waiting when we exit our hotels elevator. We are transported seamlessly to the airport but our departing flight is delayed two hours due to heavy fog. We have nothing significant planned for today and I am grateful that we had a clear day yesterday for our morning boat ride on the Ganges.

Our flight to New Deli eventually departs and when we exit the domestic terminal in Deli, a familiar Incentive Destination face holds a Marty Bobroski sign (always minus the e of my last name.) We offload our minimal luggage into the waiting car and an hour later, are deposited at the Inari hotel on the outskirts of the International airport.

Incentive Destination Tours has booked this hotel so that we can relax and sleep until our 2:00 A.M. wake up call for our flight to the U.A.E. The Inari hotel is in a no-man’s land, between the international airport and edged in by a 4 lane freeway. John and I are not good at relaxing and we are hungry and feel trapped in this plush and corporate hotel. The dining room prices equate to a Maharajas ransom and there are no taxi’s or tut tuts waiting outside the hotel. We ask the concierge how we might get into the city and he coldly tells us that is a very long ways away, suggesting instead, a nearby mall, 8 kilometers away. We have not seen a mainstream mall during our trip and this sounds like a good way to pass the afternoon. He tells us that the hotel shuttle will take us there for 1200 rupees each way. ($50 U.S. dollars for 16 kilometers of freeway travel seems excessive and I inquire about a taxi?) He writes down the taxis phone number but is disinclined to call one for us, so we exit indignantly, march down the palatial steps, cross the expansive circular drive way and pass through the hotels security gate. Joyful to be free of the confines of the hotel, we walk another 300 meters towards the main street in search of a tut tut or taxi.

Our flair of independence is blocked by the rushing freeway and we stand defeated in the dirt behind dented guard rails, quickly realizing that there will be no tut tut passing by. A few taxis wiz past but unless the driver spots us well in advance of the road leading to our hotel, it will be impossible for it to pull over and pick us up. There is a small triangle of dirt between the freeway and the off ramp and we stand in our presumably safe triangle and ponder our plight. Just when we are about to return defeated to our hotel, a sedan veers off of the freeway and pulls along side of us.  A woman in her late 20’s rolls down the window and asks if we need help? We tell her that we are trying to flag down a taxi to take us to the Mall. Her English is perfect and she tells us that it is doubtful that a taxi will stop here and suggests that we return to the hotel and phone for one. I lamely mutter that I do not have a cell phone and she immediately pulls out her cell phone and makes a call to a taxi service on our behalf. Several minutes later she hangs up, shakes her head and tells us that it will be over an hour before a taxi can be sent. She then makes us an unexpected proposition: She is returning from work, lives nearby and must go home first to relieve the nanny of her toddler.  She suggests that it would be a fun outing to go together to the mall and that we ride home with her to pick up her 3 year old daughter, after which she will drive us all to the mall.

I glance over at John; he looks quizzically at me and we slide impulsively into the back seat of her small sedan.  She is 28 years old with a 3 year old daughter and lives 5 minutes away.  We chat nervously as she drives, each sizing the other up. Minutes later, she pulls off of the freeway, drives a mile along a frontage road and we arrive at the gated entrance to her house? She tells us that we must wait outside while she drives inside a secure compound to pick up her daughter. We accept her “terms” and once again, John and I are standing in the dirt along side of a road. John, more observant than myself, is exchanging cautions glances with an armed guard looming sentry above the gate. I am oblivious, hot and unbearably thirsty and plop down on wooden rail just outside the gate. The tower guard is not pleased by our presence and asks us what we are doing there? (Apparently he did not notice our new friend offload us prior to entering his supposedly secure compound?) I rattle off a nervous explanation which is less than satisfactory to him and he calls down to us, telling us that we cannot wait here. I try again to explain, at the same time shuffling crab like 20 feet down from the entrance. Another armed guard appears from behind the gate, also unsettled and confused by our presence, but happily, the second guard determines that we are not a threat and asks if we would like some water to drink while we wait?  I gratefully accept the offer expecting a bottle or glass to be brought to us outside but instead the gate slides open and we are escorted inside the secure compound.  We tentatively enter a several room guard house, sink into stained and saggy couches and are handed two glasses of water. The guards have now switched from guarding to hosting and when we greedily drain our glasses of water, another guard brings us glasses of warm sweet tea, pumped from a thermos. Our eyes dart around the room taking in the framed photos on the walls; pictures of armed special force maneuvers, fighter jets and smiling soldiers with their arms thrown over their buddy’s shoulderss. I am no longer nervous and could sit drinking tea comfortably in this cool room with these handsome young soldiers for some time, excepting that our new female friend will be returning with her daughter soon and wondering where we have gone?

The door to the guard house opens, sunlight sneaks in, and a soldier barks that our friend is waiting outside. John and I rise quickly, offer our thanks, and slide again into the back seat of our new friends car.  I have forgotten her name but will  refer to her as Majaha and her daughter as Sanja. Her 3 year old daughter sits in the front passenger seat, buckled in but without a car seat. John and I sit in back. On our drive to the mall we learn that Majaha is married to a special forces officer and the family lives in the secure army housing compound.  Majaha is a teacher/phycologist and was commuting home when she spotted us along side the freeway. The 3 year old Sanja is full of questions, obviously precocious.

The 8 kilometer drive to the mall is fraught with obstacles.  Until today, we have not experienced an Indian freeway, but it is commute time in Deli and this multi-lane freeway is moving slowly.  We wait in the traffic jam of cars at a freeway toll gate before snaking slowly towards the mall. (I now understand why the hotel charged 1200 rupees for their shuttle.)  Pay parking is the only option and Majaha graciously pays the attendant the 30 rupee fee. We are scanned through a security arch and my purse and John’s back pack are put through an x-ray machine before we are allowed entry into the mall.

Majaha, Sanja and John

Hours ago, John and I wanted lunch and we are now starving. I offer to treat everyone to a meal and Majaha leads us up a central escalator along the upper level to a small cafe. The decor and menu are very Americanized with cushioned bench seats and low tables.  Majaha and Sanja confirm that they are vegetarians and I order a large Greek pizza to share. Everyone has juice smoothies and John orders a additional hamburger and fries.  We chat amicably and cater to the antics of an imaginative and hyperactive 3 year old.

After our late lunch we wander the upper level of the mall and 3 year old Sanja tugs us into a gaming arcade.  In addition to the usual arcade games there is a mechanical bull and I buy a 300 rupee game token card that we can share. We laugh as John is thrown three times from the bull and I am delighted to watch John and Majaha enjoying competitive games of air hockey and bowling. I am not much for games and am content to keep an eye on Sanja, who is happy to sit at the controls of driving and shooting games, simply watching the bright lights flash. I observe a cultural difference in mothering. It may be that I am the presumed babysitter, but when Sanja wanders off, Majaha seems unconcerned of her daughters whereabouts. Is it that we are in a secure mall or that Indian children are presumed safe from abductions? This may be a healthy outlook because Alisha and I panic instantly if either Molly or Sterling disappear from our site for more than a few seconds. After an hour, I can tell that even John is bored by the games but Snaja begs and whines to stay longer and gets her way. Eventually, Majaha carries her daughter, kicking and screaming from the arcade and I reflect on my daughters competent way of communicating boundaries with her children with minimal tears and tantrums.

Majaha receives a call on her cell phone and her demeanor changes. I imagine it to be her husband; perhaps questioning her whereabouts and wondering why in the hell she picked up two strange American tourists? It is dark when we exit the mall and return home in rush hour freeway traffic. Majaha advises us that she will not be able to take us to our hotel but that she will pull onto the shoulder of the freeway to let us out and that we should climb over the guard rail and walk back to our hotel. Horns honk, brakes squeal and John and I slip from the back seat of her car and quickly climb over the dented guard rail to presumed safety, practically sprinting up the dark drive way towards the lights of our hotel.

We have a 2:00 A.M. wake up call and our plans are to go to bed immediately but when we enter the hotel we see a wedding celebration underway on the garden lawn. The restaurant offers an unobstructed view of the party below and we allow ourselves to be ushered to a window table in the dining room, order a large beer to share, and recount the unusual events of our day.

I am not in Kansas any more and this is the great joy of traveling; the unexpected turn of the road when two cultures interconnect.

Sacred Varanasi to Mindful Sarnath

The alarm sounds at 5:30 A.M.  We dress quickly and head downstairs to wolf down the buffet breakfast before meeting our guide and driver at 6:30 A.M.  The streets are already bustling with traffic and in 20 minutes we arrive at the end of the trafficked street above the main ghat. Most of the shops are still shuttered but a chai stall ladles up hot milky tea and a few food carts are operational.

Morning Chai Cafe

The women with babes in arms are out early to catch the tourist rupees and many approach me imploringly. In the grey light of the morning, I observe that the babies, although dirty, look healthy and fat and I give my pocketed 10 rupee notes to the amputees and an old women scavenging along the street. We descend the long flight of stairs to the river ghats and watch morning rituals, both mundane and holy, in the grey light of dawn. It is apparent that many men spent the night sleeping here and we watch them sitting in intimate groups, huddled over small fires and holding cups of presumably hot tea. Pilgrims in saffron robes wait to board large wooden boats and we board our smaller vessel. This morning’s boat ride on the Ganges is included in our tour and we look forward to seeing the sun rise and watching the morning rituals along the river.

Boys preparing their boats for the tourists
Men gathered in the early morning on the ghats

A boy of about 12 rows our boat and our guide tells us that he paddles tourists each morning to earn extra money before going to school. We glide silently down river, keeping close to the bank where both men and women stand waist deep and wash themselves in the river.

Dawn on the Ganges River
Boat boy rowing

The men wear a diverse array of undergarments and are mostly shirtless but the women wade in fully dressed wearing their sarees. Some people stand with their hands folded in prayer or meditation and others energetically wash laundry. Mornings on the Ganges can be foggy and we are fortunate to be here on a clear morning.

Men bathing in the Ganges River
Women bathing in the Ganges River
Morning activity along the Ganges Ghats

Other boats with tourists and pilgrims are on the river and we see them silhouetted dark against the rosy glow of dawn. John dips his hand in the water and reports that it is surprisingly warm, but neither of us would relish a morning bath in the tepid and murky river. Our boat-boy paddles us downriver for 30 minutes and 30 minutes in return to the moorings at the central ghat. The boat owner looms dockside and our guide pays him an undisclosed amount and John tips the young boy 100 rupees for his hard rowing.

Morning activity along the Gange River ghats
Morning Prayer
Morning meditations

Our guide leads us along the shadowed narrow lanes of the old city in the direction of the Golden, Vishwanath Temple.

School Children
Narrow lane in the old city

We stop first at a tiny masala chai shop and our guide tells us that we need to leave all of our belongings here before passing through a high security check point and proceeding to the temple. As we sit on a narrow bench along the wall of the small tea shop a man from down the alley appears carrying a tray of steaming tea cups. We have not yet had our morning coffee and we gratefully sip the hot sweet and milky tea from the tiny cups and wish for more. John accepts the offer of a refill but I stubbornly decline, not wanting to feel further indebted when a sales pitch for the masala chai begins. I am uncomfortable leaving our valuables with the merchant but pass them over and follow our guide down an alley filled with soldiers. Perhaps it is just the presence of the armed soldiers but I can palpably feel tension when we pass through a metal detector spanning the width of the narrow lane. We snake our way towards the temple entrance but only Hindus are allowed entry and John and I take turns standing on a ledge to look above the cloistered temple walls to view the golden dome and spires weighing 800kg. They glint magically in the morning sunlight and and I wish that we could enter the temple grounds.

Narrow lanes in the old city
Unknown temple in alley way

When we return to the masala chai shop to reclaim our valuables, my suspicions are realized and we are treated to a full sales pitch for their special blend of chai along with a pitch for strands of beads that will lower our cholesterol, blood pressure and the cash in our wallets. Miraculously, and to our guide and the merchant’s disappointment, we do not succumb to the many, price inflated temptations.

It has already been a full day and it is not even 10:00 A.M. We drive back to our hotel, have the chance to shower and prepare for our afternoon visit to Sarnath, where Buddha delivered his first sermon in the Deer Park. The drive is less than 45 minutes and we begin by visiting the Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple, built in 1931 by the Mahabodhi Society.

Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple
Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple Bell

For me, this realatively modern temple is a highlight, painted with richly colored frescos by the Japanese artist, Kosetsu Nosu, depicting Buddhist art and literature. I am not well versed in the history of Buddhism but I am mesmerized by the fluid and graphic murals covering the walls. The illustrative, 19th century murals bring the stories alive and I come to understand much of the lore and can relate the means of presentation to the illustrated bible stories that I was taught as a child.

Fresco by Japanese artist, Kosetsu Nosu
Fresco by Japanese artist, Kosetsu Nosu
Buddhist Temple bookshop

An immense and stunning golden Buddha radiates compassion from the altar and a monk in saffron and orange robes sits reading, behind the offering box.  John is fascinated by it all and asks many questions of the monks selling literature at the back of the temple.

Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple Buddha

The ruins of the 9th and 10th century, Chowkandi and Dhamek Stupas are in close proximity to the Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple and after a brief historical overview, our guide sets us free to explore the significant site. John and I walk the maze of interlocking pathways and circumnavigate the immense stone Stupa but the red brick and stone ruins are overly restored and we do not feel any sense of history or place here.

Sarnath Deer Park
Stupa detail with gold foil offerings

Sarnath Stupa

The site is gated but we encounter a few woman and children who have slipped into the confines hoping to sell their wilted carrots in exchange for rupees. A boy of 6 or 7 approaches us and John gives him candy and hotel shampoo and soap packets from our 5 star hotels. His mother or grandmother appears momentarily and John gives her our remaining soaps and shampoos.  A 6 or 7 week old puppy staggers wearily at the base of a low wall and I search in my purse for any sort of nutrient and come up empty. We know the puppy will not survive the day.

John with boy selling carrots
A gift of hotel soap and shampoo

By mid afternoon our tour of Sarnath is complete and our guide and driver wish to be done with us and to return us to our hotel. Once again, I disrupt their plan and ask to be dropped off elsewhere.  John and I are salivating over the prospect of an evening on our own and with free reign, we set out to explore the souks and markets in Varanasi.

Weighing cooking oil
Brick layers

Boys hauling goods

It is magical to be set free and we feel seasoned enough to explore alone. Our trip is coming to an end and both John and I have a shopping agenda as we walk along the shopping streets and souks with determination.  We find ourselves in a Muslim shopping souk and peruse tiny shops filled with brass deities, spices and teas and jewelry.

A side street 
Muslim women shopping

So as not to get lost, we set our internal G.P.S. on the main street and wander without hesitation or time constraints along fascinating alleyways. We bargain and buy 2 dozen bindis; (an Indian forehead decoration.)  John barters for brass Hindu deities and strands of beads that may or may not lower his cholesterol and blood pressure. We laugh when we encounter cows along the narrow lanes and I search for Indian Kurtas, a thigh length tunic and a possible souvenir for myself and for gifts. John and I have patience with each other’s quests and we trace and retrace our paths examining the splendid goods in the various shops.

Mannequins
Cows in the souk

Sarees for sale

Eventually we tire of shopping and wind our way out of the maze of shops, onto the main street and back to the Dolphin Café.  It is very late and the ghats below the Dolphin Café are deserted except for a few beggars and holy men. I feel anxious as we walk the deserted steps towards the café, but also exhilarated (and out of breath) as we climb the many flights up to the rooftop café. Tonight’s dinner is better than last nights and we are again alone at this roof top café, overlooking the blackness of the Ganges River and the ghats below.

After our late night dinner we have little choice but to walk back via the lonely ghats. We walk briskly and watchfully and arrive safely on the main street, now thinning out with traffic. There are still plenty of late night tut-tuts on the main street and we quickly choose one and climb aboard. As our driver maneuvers his vehicle into the chaotic late night traffic, I imagine that he feels triumphant to have scored a tourist fare, 20 minutes away. John and I huddle together in the back for warmth, still laughing and joyful from another adventurous day. Moments later our driver rear ends the car in front and the impacted driver jumps out and a serious argument unfolds. John and I stand by hesitantly as the argument escalates but soon realize that we have no part in this incident and another tut-tut driver swoops us into the confines of his vehicle and we are swept back to the safety of our tourist hotel.

Erotic Khajuraho to Sacred Varanasi

Monday, January 21- Erotic Khajuraho to Sacred Varanasi

Lakshmana Temple

Just when I think that the best part of our trip is behind us, temples worthy of an Indiana Jones adventure await, but instead of the Temples of Doom, we explore the “Temples of Erotica.”  We have all day in Khajuraho to visit the many temple sites and are picked up at 8:30 A.M. by our familiar driver and a new guide. Unfortunately, I do not remember the guides name but both John and I like him immediately. He is middle age, rounded, soft spoken and seemingly wise. He wears an ecru tunic and sarouel pants and imparts the appropriate historical facts to us, at the same time, allowing us the freedom to make our own assessments about the artistic and erotic aspects of the temples.

Equine Erotica
Erotic Embrace


Vishnu’s Boar Shrine stands impressively just inside the entrance to this World Heritage Site.

Carved detail on leg of Vishnu’s Boar
View of Vishnu’s Boar’s Legs



Detail on leg of Vishnu’s Boar












Detail on leg of Vishnu’s Boar



There are many temples dating between 900 A.D. to 1050 A.D. in the Khajuraho temple complex and our tour begins at the Lakshmana, the temple adjacent to the Matangesvara Hindu temple that John and I visited yesterday afternoon. This temple is the largest and most impressive with soaring sikharas (temple rooftops) an ornate silhouette of elaborately carved conicals. 

Chitragupta Temple
Devi_Jagadamba_Temple


Detailed, bas relief friezes embellish the exteriors of all and our guide discusses the more famous, which in many cases are the most erotic. Voluptous women and virle men take pleasure in each other, contorting in various Kama Sutra positions along the exterior walls. Men are intimate with their horses and rows of elephants and monkeys cavort playfully. Many of the carvings are in remarkably pristine condition and the thousands of carvings, depicting the daily activities of the people, help us to visualize their lives. A beautiful woman holds a mirror and looks back over her shoulder, servant girls attend to chores and lovers repeatedly embrace in ecstasy. 

Elephants watching
Orgey
Kama Sutra
Camel and Horse Parade
Musicians
Musicians

Our guide supplies historical information  as we examine the carvings on the first temple but excuses himself and waits on a bench in the shade while John and I move on to temple number 2 and 3. John is thrilled by it all and I watch with delight as he stands on tip toe to take photos of the friezes. He circles the buildings slowly, carefully examining and photographing the friezes that are within his reach and sight. 

John taking photos
John taking photos



















I watch John stand on tip toes and lie prone below carved ceilings to take shots looking up and he impishly asks if I think they would mind if he climbed up the wall? (The three dimensional friezes provide tempting grips for any climber to scale to the top of the temple.) 

Looking Up

Looking Up
Interior temple carvings

























Our guide periodically checks in with us but we are thoroughly engrossed and contented to move methodically from one site to another. Eventually our guide suggests that we leave, telling us that the temple structures in the distance are very similar and not as well preserved as the ones we have already visited, but John is determined to see each structure and we have been told that we have all day. We explore the interior of the temples, the carvings inside are polished from years of touch and we circumambulate the interiors reverently.

Interior temple carvings
Interior temple carvings












Interior temple shrine


















At 12:30, we descend the steps of the final temple site and see our guide anxiously looking for us. There has been a change in our flight schedule to Varanasi and we must leave immediately.  We are disappointed since we are looking forward to having some shopping time in the village square and possibly returning to bronze shop in the old village.  Instead we are hurried through the square past the street vendors, to our waiting car and whisked to the nearby airport.

Varanasi traffic

Khajuraho street vendor

















Regretfully, our plane is delayed an hour but we land in Varanasi late afternoon, are met by a new guide and driver and delivered seamlessly to the Taj Gateway Hotel Ganges. This blog is not intended to be a review of our various guides, but the personality and knowledge of each guide makes a huge difference in the experience.  Our Varanasi guide is disappointing in that he cannot bear a moment of silence and prattles on about inconsequential trivia.  He repeatedly tells us that if we wish him to be quiet to tell him so but this is not as easy as it might sound.  In an effort to calm him, we are unnaturally quiet and nonresponsive to his jokes and running commentary but this seems to inspire him to talk more in an effort to fill the silences.

Varanasi flower seller
Varanasi beggars and holy men

The Varanasi Ghats are tonight’s destination and our driver drops us some distance from the river Ganges where he can park and wait for our return.  We walk with our guide through the teeming streets in the direction of the river. The divided city street is wide, wild and crazy with the usual mixture of traffic; cars, motorcycles, tut-tuts, trikes, cows and pedestrians. Shops brimming with colorful goods line either side of the street and the no man’s land between shops and traffic is an obstacle course of pedestrians, children, beggars and carts. The light is fading making the illuminated shops all the more enticing and we wish to explore but know that we are on a schedule and that the Ganges is our destination. Shop vendors beacon us into their stalls and mothers with outstretched palms thrust babies towards us. I maneuver through the chaos, periodically offering coins to the mothers, the disabled, the holy men but the demands are endless.   

Varanasi beggars and holy men

We come to the top of a wide and long stairway, one of the Ganges many ghats. A jumble of wooden boats are moored at the water’s edge below and a vertically descending row of a dozen holy men sit cross legged with bowls in front of them. These bearded men, faces etched by time, wisdom and hardship wear soiled tunics of saffron, yellow and white and for a coin or two, allow me to take their photographs. 

Varanasi Ghat
Varanasi Ghat





















I am not clear on tonight’s plan and our guide suggests that we hire a boat to row us down river to a funeral ghat where we will be able to see the cremation fires at night. The area above the “log jam” of waiting boats is being prepared for tonight’s prayer festivities and I am torn between wanting to sit above the river and look down, or be in a boat, on the river looking up. Our guide tells us that the price for the boat is not included in our tour but that it costs only 700 rupees ($10) and that we can pay him and he will arrange it. It is not the money that is of concern but I have read in the Lonely Planet guide book that one can hire a boat for 100-200 rupees and I want to be sure that the boatman, not our guide, gets the 700 rupees.  

Our boatman
Funeral ghats at dusk


It is near dark when the three of us climb aboard the small wooden boat. Other boats are filling with tourists and young boys with baskets of floating candle votives, walk nimbly between the boats selling their prayer votives. 

Boy selling floating flower votives
Funeral ghat


John suggests we buy a dozen but regretfully, I have not quite grasped the spirit of the river and buy only 5. We paddle silently down river towards the cremation ghat only slightly aware of the many other boats gliding along side of us, silhouetted reflections in the dark water.  We stop 100 meters from shore and watch as shrouded bodies adorned with orange flowers are submerged in the river, anointed by the holy water and placed onto waiting funeral pyres. 5 or 6 fires alternately blaze and smolder attended by priest, family and friends. This is a sacred setting and we are awed by the beauty and the holiness. 

Funeral ghat

Unfortunately, our guide continues his irritating commentary, even when John begins to light the votives and places them one by one in the river. John lights three to honor his friends who have died and we light the remaining two for mom and for Mizuho. Our emotions swell and I begin to cry and know that when we are back at the dock, we will buy more to set afloat to honor the memory of other departed friends and family. Our votives drift with the current, joining others and glinting bright against the midnight black of the river.

Lighting a prayer votive
Setting a prayer votive afloat






















Our boat paddler, rows us back to the main ghat where a prayer ceremony is about to begin. We remain seated in our boat and watch the ceremony unfold. Other barefoot boys are peddling baskets of the flower votives and I purchase 12.  There are 4 or 5 ceremonial stages along the edge of the ghat and priests begin to gesture and chant. Festive stage lights blaze, music swells and the chanting reverberates in the night. 

Holy celebration
Holy celebration



Holy celebration






























Since my tears, our guide has remained blessedly quiet but he now mindfully suggests that this would be a good time to set the other prayer votives adrift.  A breeze comes up and John struggles to light them and we prayerfully set one after another into the river in rememberance of cherished departed friends and family. 

Pilgrims
Devotees
Devotees

The chanting continues for nearly an hour but when the ceremonies end, we disembark our small boat and walk up the many stairs of the ghat amidst the throngs of humanity, on the Ganges River.    

Holy man
Holy man

Varanasi Ghat Celebration


























Our evening tour is at an end and our guide expects to return us to the safety of our hotel but John and I wish to have dinner in the area, at the Dolphin Café, overlooking the river and recommended in the Lonely Planet guide book. Our guide is unsettled by our request and asks how we plan to get back to our hotel? He walks with us to the Dolphin Café and guest house and explains to the concierge that we will need a tut-tut after our dinner there. He warns us to be careful and writes both the name of our hotel and his cell number on a piece of paper and departs. 


Holy cow, shopping the bazaar
Evening bazaar


Evening cafe
















John and I hurry back to the bustle of the main shopping street and walk down several narrow souks, ogling the colorful embroidered dresses, pashima scarves, spices and brass figurines. John admires the embroidered mens tunics and pants and we step up into a small shop and with the speed of a magician, the merchant quickly has John dressed in a creamy ensemble. After we have paid the modest amount for the outfit, the merchant suggests a “hat” and leaves us alone and in charge of his shop, returning 10 minutes later with an assortment of colorful  turbans fit for a Maharaja. John chooses one and we laugh over the logistics of transporting it back home in an un-crumpled state; perhaps John will need to wear it? 

Maharaja John
Merchant with John

















It must be nearly 9:00 P.M. when hunger gets the better of us and we return to the ghat, now dark and nearly deserted and climb the many flights of stairs up to the rooftop Dolphin Café. We pass a few parties, descending after finishing their dinner and one couple assures us that it it’s worth the climb. We sit outside, the only diners at this late hour, overlooking the river and the main ghat, that just two hours ago was brilliantly illuminated and crowded with humanity.  We share a beer and wait for our tandori chicken, rice and sweet cheese stuffed potatoes to arrive.  All is delicious and the end to a near perfect day.

The concierge phones for a tut-tut driver who appears shortly in the downstairs Dolphin Guest House lobby and we follow our driver along a dark and narrow alley to the main street where his tut-tut waits. He ties down the canvas sides to the tut-tut, cocooning us against the cold wind and John and I huddle together in the back seat in an effort to keep warm. 20 minutes later he drops us outside the gates of our hotel; 5 star hotel security being rigid throughout India. John and I nod to the night guardsmen and pass into the grounds of the hotel to find a wedding party in full swing on the expansive back lawn and patio. Hundreds of wedding guests jam the hotels circular driveway and a 6 piece band blasts trumpets in anticipation of the groom’s arrival. Two dozen dancers twirl and sway wearing meter high, lighted and rotating headdresses, adding to the festivities and illuminating the procession. We observe with amusement, that each lighted head piece is connected by a long cable to a battery powered cart that rolls along in unison with the tethered dancers.  We are not invited guests and John and I stay a respectful distance back, straining to catch a glimpse of the bride or groom, above the heads of the gathered crowd. 

Lighted wedding celebration parade

We enter the hotel, surmising that we will be able to see more of the wedding festivities through the windows of our hotel’s restaurant. Other hotel guests have the same idea and we sit at one of the few remaining window tables adjacent to the back garden patio. We order yet another beer and sit for nearly an hour watching the marriage celebration of an apparently important and wealthy couple. The guest attire is impeccable and formal. A mixed group of elegantly dressed teens sit together at a patio table and the girls eye John through the glass. Just as in America, the young people sip their drinks, awkwardly adjust their uncomfortable clothing and fiddle with their cell phones.  We do not see the bride but eventually an older groom arrives on horseback with a boy of about 5 seated in front of him. We have seen other wedding processions on the streets and all the grooms ride double with a young boy in front. From what I have learned, this is a symbol of luck and the couples desire to bear children. We are told that the festivities will continue for several more hours but John and I have had our fill of this “ball” and before the clock strikes 12:00 P.M. and we turn into pumpkins, we head upstairs to our room to sleep.