Rajpath

Took a stroll through the heart of New Delhi this morning, taking advantage of the Diwali holiday and Abigail's generous offer to watch Kierahn. I jumped into a rickshaw, still too cautious to drive myself despite having been here nearly five months. Shameful, really, especially considering I drive a beast of an SUV and much of the competition on the roads consists of tiny little rickshaws; but not being sure of the way or where I would park once at my destination, I splurged and paid the 5o rupees ($1.25) for the luxury of being chauferred in one of these little three-wheeled demons.

First stop: India Gate. I'd never been so close to the structure and it was much larger than I expected - a colossal arch of red sandstone inscribed with the names of fallen soldiers, mostly Indian in origin. The public was not permitted to walk under the gate for security reasons, and soldiers patrolled the scene, or, more precisely, boys with guns. They were so young, they looked like they were playing dress-up, except that the guns were real. Whether they were also functional, is an open question. The kids tried to look tough, but it is doubtful they intimidated anyone. After snapping a few photos of one these kid's adorable snarl, I moved on up Rajpath, the principal processional thoroughfare in New Delhi.

The street is lined by tidy open spaces tended by barefoot women and men sweeping the dead leaves and litter. Men dozed under trees. The half-naked child of a sweeper-woman played along the side of the road, scooping sand with a plastic cup as a group of pigeons - and his mother - kept a watchful eye. A few rickshaw-wallas tried to engage me in conversation. Rickshaw drivers who speak good English make me nervous; their language skills give them the ability to more effectively fleece foreigners so I tend to avoid them. I brushed them off rudely and without apology. Traffic was light.

I walked past the National Museum and stopped across the road from Central Secretariat, the imposing structures housing various important government ministries. I took a seat on the grass and happily took photos of the passing traffic, snapping some good shots as Ambassadors, ricksaws, bicycles and scooters paused at the traffic signal. A snake charmer with a python sat down nearby, pestering me for money and shattering my happy solitude. (I wonder how many other countries in the world feauture snake charmers kitty corner to their houses of parliament?) Once again, my discourtesy chased him off.

I continued towards Rashtrapati Bhavan, the former home of the Viceroy and current residence of India's president, walking between the North and South blocks of Central Secreteriat. The buildings are lovely, understated but imposing. By the standards of Indian monuments, they have been very well maintained, although birds nests overflowed from the lamp posts lining the road, the glass casings having disappeared.

Policemen lolled about, some dozing in their trucks, others more alert. A few carried weapons. More useful were the whistles some wore around their necks. These were blown with great frequency and vigor for reasons not always clear. One skinny fellow seemed to have forgotten it was between his lips, his languid toots altogether quite random. Another sharp fellow directed one of his toots at me, effectively stopping me in my tracks before I wandered onto a part of the lawn mere civilians are not permitted to tread. Needless to say, I was impressed with the effectiveness of the whistles.

I strolled about a bit more, then found a rickshaw to take me home. Happily, the driver's English was poor.

Anger and frustration. Reading here, makes me angry!

When I pick up the paper, I too often end my perusal of its pages by flinging the pages to the ground, my ire raised by the myriad tragedies and scandals I've just read about. India has problems! Of course, it also has talent, beauty and brilliance. India defies easy analysis and definition and the daily papers are chock full of the contradictions that make India all but impossible to completely comprehend. A first-time visitor, whose reading material on the incoming flight consisted of a business magazine trumpeting the "rising tiger" of Asia, might be surprised at the chaos, stench and criminality that greets the newly arrived at the Delhi airport. Touts swarm, line-ups stretch every which-way and customs officers' fingers nimbly search baggage before unfolding, palms upturned, expecting a few US dollars in exchange for making whatever customs violation they have invented, disappear. This does not mean the business magazine was wrong; much of India is rising, and most impressively. Meanwhile, however, much of it continues to crumble and too many of its people, despite the progress, are falling through the cracks by the millions. Even the most sanitized visit to India will reveal gross inequalities. So if the business visitor can take a break from an undoubtedly hectic schedule of meetings and consultations, to open the newspaper and read, for 15 or 20 minutes about the disturbing communal violence, endemic corruption and ineffective government, well, they may end up flinging it to the floor as well.

But India is not defined by its thousand and one problems, anymore than it is by a glowing writeup in some hyper-capitalist periodical. Descriptions that exclusively describe one or the other are superficial.
It is the contradictions themselves that define India; accepting this reality is an important step to understanding the country and if one is a foreigner living here, making peace with it.

I'm cynical, sometimes bitter, often angry. As such, I'm limiting my newspaper intake. There is too much wonder and beauty in India to focus on the negative. It is not even that we have to look too far to find this, living as we are as priveleged diplomats in a lovely, peaceful neighborhood in one of the most historically important cities in the world, one bursting with monuments, creativity, learning and inspiration. So I'm taking tabla lessons. Snapping lots of photos. Counting my blessings. Kissing my wife and playing with my beautiful son. I'll keep my newspaper subscription. But I'll stop throwing the paper around.

Returned from a long weekend in Dharamsala, up in the hills of Himachal Pradesh. We stayed at a charming, somewhat rundown tea plantation just outside of town. The area was lush and green and rain fell periodically, but did not interrupt our sightseeing excursions. We caught occasional glimpses of the massive Himalayan peaks that rise very steeply behind the town. They seemed impossibly close, but despite this apparent proximity, remain elusive to the eye. Dharamsala was shrouded in mist for most of the weekend and the snow-capped peaks were mostly hidden.

We stayed at Whitehaven Tea estate, a typically inconsistent Indian hotel. There was plenty of old colonial charm and attentive service in the dining room, yet, somehow, despite the near $200 per night price tag, our room was not cleaned for the three days we were there. No matter. Kierahn was happy. He especially enjoyed the hair-raising car rides along the steep, narrow roads. Our driver was pretty solid, although he slumped over the wheel as he drove, giving the alarming appearance that he was falling asleep at the wheel. He was not - seems he just had poor posture.

Mcleod Ganj is the seat of the Tibetan government in exile and a popular backpacker town about 20 minutes from Dharamsala. Lots of scruffy westerners of all ages in "Save Tibet" tee shirts, sporting dreadlocks as well as shaved heads, some looking serene, others just bored. We couldn't enter the Dalai Lama's temple as a sermon was taking place. All around a courtyard in the temple complex, disciples and tourists listened to a sermon over a loudspeaker and on small transistor radios. It was a pleasant scene, and people appeared relaxed and engaged in the words of the speaker. The town is a peculiar mix of people: the afore-mentioned backpackers; genuine exiles from Tibet, some who have likely been settled in Mcleod Ganj for years , if not decades; and Indian holidaymakers, who don't quite seem to know what to make of it all, looking like strangers in their own country. Women sell momo's by the side of the road beside backpacker cafes serving lattes and grilled eggplant sandwiches. The roads are narrow and crowded, but all is laid back compared to most of the rest of India, which is why people come here.

On our last day in the area,we drove to Dharamkot, about 3km past McCleod Ganj. It initially appeared to consist solely of a tea stall/rickshaw stand, but our driver directed us down a small road that lead to a decrepit and downright dangerous children's playground perched on a precarious platform at least 3 meters above the road. Without proper supervision, my guess is that it would take about 30 seconds for the average 2 year old to launch himself off the edge of the platform onto the crumbling road below. Kierahn avoided this fate, but did earn a nasty bruise by running head first into the rusting teeter-totter. We didn't stay at the playground long.

Continuing our walk we ended up in a small, rather unique backpacker village, the temporary home of dozens of Israelis. Signs were in Hebrew, falafal a featured item on at least one restaurant menu. The village offered pretty views, a cheap bed, tranquility and little else, including cleanliness. We had a nice walk, saw some cows and donkeys and then turned back.

The Indian Himalayas are my favorite part of the country. The steep hills are breathtaking, the snow-capped peaks, awe-inspiring. It's worth braving the treacherous roads for the views, to mingle pleasantly with the locals and breathe some cool, fresh air, free of choking exhaust fumes and thick humidity. I hope to return again.