1 - 10 September 1974: India > New Delhi / Agra / Bombay

1 September                  Sunday  New Delhi



Humayan's Tomb & Bijou

Mort with Taj Mahal

No true picture of our travels or state of mind during them can be conveyed without a word about hotels and choosing them. We have had guidebooks for each country. But their descriptions are usually sketchy and often out of date. Some airports have useful hotel reservation services, but again it is a blind choice. Brochures and such are little help. If we were staying at 1st class places, no problem, most are alike. But we want cheap, clean, with convenient location, acceptable comfort. Often, it is too much to ask.

We have set a limit of $10 a day and often must struggle to stay within that budget. Once a choice is made, if it is not satisfactory it is hard to change because of hassles of shlepping.

In Kathmandu we asked RNA to telex reservations at a hotel which sounded right in our book. When we arrived, they had not received the word — the only room left was a suite at $14.50. It was a plain, uninspiring place to live. We stayed one night then went to the YMCA guest house— nicer, a bit less $ but far away from the center of things. Finally, we came to the Palace Hotel, one block away from the first choice, drab but clean room, no towel or hot water: $7. We took it, checked out (stealing 2 towels) and checked in. All this was a full morning’s work.

My illness has become Bea’s head cold— misery. But we spent a good afternoon at the Gallery of Modern Art, which restored my faith that all in India is not like Calcutta; and the International Doll Museum.


Gallery Of Art sculpture

Tonight we ate Tandoori chicken, curry, and nan. Excellent, even with sniffles. More about Delhi tomorrow after our tour which we can now afford because of the hotel room savings.

2 September                    Monday                     New Delhi

Another early rising day. During those years of work— waking 5 days a week at the same time to the alarm, it had seemed to me to be one of the signs of freedom to be able to wake when I chose. Yet, here I am waking more often than not around dawn— to the alarm ... to catch a train, taxi to an early flight, or just so as not to miss the sunrise, or as today, to catch a 7 am tour bus.

As it was, it was worth it. There were several things to see, scattered all over the city, which we would never have had the energy to do on our own. Janter Mantra, an observatory in the manner of Stonehenge; India Gate (“No Arc de Triomphe” Bea shrugged.) Humayun’s Tomb, a Moghul Emperor’s, the architecture of which formed the idea for the Taj Mahal, we are told. Qutb Minar, a 238 foot minaret and victory tower built by the Moslem Moghuls to signify their victory over the Hindus. They ruled India for 800 years and built the most beautiful structures in the world.

In the afternoon we visited Ghandi Memorial, simple quiet, peaceful. Jama Masjid, another giant mosque, in Old Delhi amidst bazaars and beggars and near the imposing Red Fort. Later we spent exhausting hours booking flight, fighting with cabbies.

We fell asleep at 8 pm without dinner and slept through the night.

3 September                  Tuesday                   New Delhi to Agra to Delhi
I guess this has to be called a travel day, we sure traveled. Again rising near dawn. Our bus took 5 hours to cover the 200 miles to Agra, the same back. But I have never spent a more worthwhile day.

We rode through the Indian countryside past factories and farms from horizon to horizon. It was all there: the animals— water buffaloes, oxen, goats, camels, elephants; the bullock carts, bicycles, wagons. The villages. The people— women taking water from wells and carrying their jugs on their heads. The goatherds. The boys bathing with their buffaloes. The men plowing behind the oxen. The mud huts. The irrigation canals. The road on which we rode was the same used for centuries from Delhi to Agra by kings and merchants, pilgrims and travelers in caravans.

In Agra we finally saw it— the Taj Mahal. And what can I say— it is simply the most perfect and beautiful looking thing (building or anything else built by Man) I have ever seen. It is perfectly symmetrical. Pure white with inlaid stones, set apart from everything. Its back against a wandering river. Just something you can look at forever and never tire.

So this is India— you can be philosophical and say the beauty is a tomb, a monument to death and therefore just as mordantly symbolic of India as the smell of decay in the streets of Calcutta and maybe it is a truth. But it is only a country, with a rich history and culture and art, drawn from many cultures, trying to make a go of it in a modern world with which it has in common the desire to progress to a good life. Its ascetic religious philosophy has defined “Good Life” as simple, pure, holy.

Delhi-Agra Road

But the modern meaning— requiring material wealth, luxury, comfort, “Progress” — has taken hold and there is no getting away from it. Once in the Race, there is little time to search for Beauty, only time to scrounge, to beg if necessary, to hustle, work, make a buck
4 September Wednesday New Delhi
We spent this day in a shopping and buying frenzy and it left both of us irritable and feverish, literally.

Shopping in Chandni Chowk was fun, because we decided early on what and for who and how much we were going to buy and were helped to a “wholesale” merchant of cloth and wool hand embroidered shawls which Bea says are excellent. The salesmanship was low-pressure, well-mannered and we were served tea, milk and biscuit. Later, we paraded Connaught Circus, carping at each other in the oppressive heat. Tonight we ate at Moti Mahal on fish and chicken— excellent. We met an Israeli couple shell shocked on their first day in India. We felt like old, wise travelers.

5 September Thursday New Delhi to Bombay
The contrasts of India are very evident here— what is beautiful good and pleasant, and what is ugly, evil and unpleasant. We checked out early and tried to get a taxi, several of which were near our hotel, to take us the few blocks to the Indian Airlines office where our airport bus was waiting. In every city in Asia, the taxi customs differ. In Delhi there are meters but the drivers try to set flat rates. Many refuse to go by the meter at all, especially on short trips. We have haggled and by and large, have gotten our way. But now we were over a barrel with our bags to shlep and bus to catch. We paid through the nose and it started our day on a sour note.

We carried the bags off the taxi, painfully dragged them to our waiting area and later dragged them again in the stifling heat to our bus. A porter picked them up and put them in the luggage compartment a few feet away. After we got in, he came round and demanded 50p for each bag for everyone on the bus. One Indian became indignant, seeing in the practice all that is wrong with India. “People expecting pay for doing little or nothing.”
Another passenger was an absurd looking Westerner: he wore a white sun hat over his shaved head, a red shirt and sarong, sandals. He was hefty and hairy-armed but had the manner of a sad “faigele.” Later we chatted with him. He was on his way to an ashram to study yoga. He showed us the mosquito net he’d gotten and offered us a Dunhill. He was an Australian and called the porters “Johnnie.” As he paraded through the terminal, he got stares from Indians and Westerners— he was a very unlikely person.

The flight was routine, hampered only by the worry of going into a city without hotel reservations. In Delhi we had spent the good part of an afternoon trying to get Pan Am, Indian Air, or a travel agent to help us. Pan Am referred us to India Air, who shrugged, a travel agent would only help if we wanted a 4 or 5 star hotel. India government office was polite but no help.

Agra box

On our arrival, Bea went to fetch the bags and I found a hotel reservation desk but the phone was out of order, not unusual in India. But he was pleasant and we amiably chatted away and hour. Eventually, we found a room at the Y. The usual scruffy little guy tried to porter our bags, hail us a taxi—of which there were dozens in line. We gave our directions to the driver with the usual uncertainty about whether he understood and was using the meter, refused to tip the scruffy guy for the aid he had offered which we had declined, and were off.

After a 45 minute ride through and around the “suburbs” and the city—which has several peninsulas and harbors— we were in the vicinity of our Y. This I knew from following the landmarks on our map. But the driver couldn’t find it. He would stop for directions, each time a cabbie, doorman or cop would chatter in Hindi and point and he would drive and fail to find the street—which is a major thoroughfare in the heart of town. After 3 or 4 of these stops, I got out and stopped a passerby and by prodding and urging we finally found it.

The cost was $3.00 which I angrily paid, though trying to be philosophical—ever try to get a cab in the rain in NY? The Y room was a delight: clean, airy modern and with continental breakfast which cost the same as the dive in Delhi. We relaxed, then consulted our guidebook: the Taj Hotel, nearby, had a buffet lunch for $2.50, it said. Also in that hotel was a Pan Am office and government tour office.

We set out. Architecture was English, the streets crowded with auto traffic implying affluence, shops of all kinds were enticing, there were the usual calls to change money or to help, some begging children and some raggedy men sleeping in doorways. But nothing like Calcutta or even parts of Delhi. It was only mildly annoying. We found the Taj Hotel easily—we could hardly miss it—a tall Miami type luxury hotel on the harbor near Gateway to India Arch. We strolled through the terrazzo floored lobby and took the lift up to the ballroom. By its elegance and quiet we could see we were in financial trouble.

We took a menu from the captain’s desk. The fare was expensive Indian and Continental. At the front we could see the large columned room. The price was not enticing: 28 rupees, with tax the total for the buffet was about $9 for two. We moaned and so did our stomachs; our stomachs won.

Buffets are always intimidating. You want to get your money’s worth and there are so many good looking things set out—you want a little of everything and you end up stuffing yourself and enjoying it less—maybe a metaphor for world travel. Of course the pastries were a fabulous special treat for both of us—we were tempted to stuff a few in Bea’s huge purse. The knowledge that the leftovers from the diners here could feed half the city was a bit disconcerting and the vapid string orchestra playing benign waltzes and reels added to the aura of unreality.

Bea became furious with me when I complained about the experience and resorted to her well-worn hyperbole: “You always struggle over making a decision, then always regret it and never enjoy the experience you chose!” I became angrier because ... it always hurts when it strikes the mark, and too deeply, especially from her, someone— the only one I care anything about what she feels about me. Which of course I didn’t say—didn’t even get at the time. We let the moment pass, but it was on our chests as much as the pastry.

Now stuffed and logy, we went to Pan Am and had to leave our precious air tickets so they could see about our desire to go to Kabul—there was doubt about whether it could be done without extra cost, and we would have to wait until 4. It was now 2 p.m. and we decided to nap. We had spent a restless night. We both still suffer coughs from our lingering colds and the past days have caused increasing tensions between us.

Bea fell asleep and I read until 4. I dressed and let her sleep. I went out to do our chores. I went the same way to the hotel, being accosted only a few times, seeing a man in rags compete with a pigeon for nuts fallen from a vendor’s roaster, and another whose wracking cough brought phlegm to a hole in his throat. At Pan Am after another bout with the dim-witted worker I got the tickets for Kabul. It meant a 7 A.m. flight on IA back to Delhi and then a 1330 Afghan Air flight to Kabul. Monday would be dreadful, but ... The clerk was annoyed but agreed to try to reserve a hotel room for us there.

I then changed money at Cooks—I could get a better rate on the black market but I am paranoid about that. I have never been “smart” about money. I bought some Indian cigarettes and inquired at the tourist desk for the Elephanta Caves tour. The caves are sculpted Hindu Gods on an island across the harbor. Boats leave every morning from Gateway Arch—except during monsoon season—when they often don’t go at all—May to mid September.

So again our timing is awful. It has become clear what we suspected before we came to Asia—this was the absolute worst time of year to travel. The intense heat and humidity are draining, the rains depressing (as in Kathmandu), difficult. It is off season for tourism, which is a plus in some ways: easier to get hotel room, rates are lower. But empty restaurants are often dreary, and waiters with no one else to wait on are annoyingly attentive. Transport and activities are curtailed. Add that to the usual difficulties of any travel and especially in the East— strikes, like the one of Air India; and international politics—which prevented our visits to Taiwan and Korea. We still worry about Turkey / Greece / Egypt / Israel on that score.

Plus the rigors of suitcase life, the close quarters and being together constantly, with the ever present money worries, and our different personalities, all these have added to the tensions between Bea and I. It has opened old salved over wounds caused by our differences, now sore and bleeding.
It is of course a test and we are today at a low ebb, but we can muddle through and survive and are determined to do it.
After my jaunt I fell into a coma-like sleep and was only dimly aware of Bea’s insistent call for food. I put her off—“in an hour, Okay?” ... “another ten minutes” ... Then I finally admitted that I would rather sleep than get up and traipse about looking for another cheap meal in a dingy restaurant. Bea demurred, but after a while—during which I immediately fell asleep—she insisted on eating.

I grudgingly stirred, whining all the way. This annoyed her. She dressed in a huff and stormed out alone. At first, I was angry enough to let her go, if that’s the way she felt. But soon my conscience woke me up and I went out after her. The streets were dark and filled with strange faces. I became frantic with concern for her safety ... and my loneliness ... after what must have been only a few minutes but seemed to me to be much, much longer. Bea with her white pink skin, light hair and long thin body has been an attraction everywhere in Asia, especially here in India, with children, other curious women and particularly the men who already have a fascination with Western women as proved by the many advertisements pointedly using them to sell everything.

I found her at a greasy spoon open air restaurant nibbling at a yellow sandwich and sucking on a lime. I sat with her and groggily chatted. She was sore as hell, but I think a little relieved that I had come. I ate some salty fried fish—they had a big menu but only fish and coffee were available.

We got into a conversation with a man from Ceylon who was stuck in Bombay trying to get to Teheran. We had the same problem—prevented from doing it by the Asian Games there, which made accommodations scarce. He was going to Europe to stay with friends in Berlin. He worked in the tea business and had lived for some time in East Africa. We talked about food. They eat locusts, grasshoppers, roaches in Africa which he had tried. He seemed somewhat shocked that the French eat snails and frogs legs. In a Masai village he stopped short of drinking the local thirst quencher: milk and cow blood. It turned out he was also staying at the Y. We all strolled back together.

Bea fell asleep before we could resolve our spat and I stayed up to finish Maugham’s “The Razor’s Edge” which has always had something to say to me in an unreal, romantic way.

A note on Hinduism: I have been studying as much as I can about it and talking about it with as many people as I can. It is a remarkable religion—in its complexity it is all things: a faith, a world view, a philosophy, a psychology, an ethos, a mythology. It allows for intellectuality, mysticism, spirituality. It is dark, joyous, witty and somber. It is ascetic and sexual. It is strongly symbolic but provides concrete idols to worship. It contains a panoply of Gods, each with traditional functions and personalities, yet at its heart is monotheistic or in some modes, pantheistic. It is distinctively Indian, but has survived by absorbing the beliefs of many other sects and other major religions. To the pious it provides a faith in eternal peace and a satisfactory if tortuous means of attaining it. To the casual or even agnostic Hindu it provides a sense of community with holidays and festivals, an identity in its rituals, and justification of a way of life.

In my examination it seems to be a perfectly fine religious system. Then why is the country in which it is practiced so fucked up?
Does the religion which defines the value system hold responsibility for the society it serves and influences? Or maybe there is nothing “wrong” with India fundamentally. Maybe it is merely “backward” because by accident of history, climate, or geography, it joined the “modern” world too late. Am I putting too much stock in my own ideas of “The Good Life”? If Hinduism is right, then life on earth is the hell and will always be so even with our comforts and “progress” which are only superficial and transitory and obstacles to the search for true “Goodness” and Peace of Mind.

6 September Friday Bombay
A few words about food. When traveling to different countries a major interest for us is eating the local foods. In the States we were used to some Asian foods: Chinese of course, Japanese, and even Indian “style” cuisine. But eating is always an adventure, a sample of local customs which reflect to some extent the personality, degree of wealth, the eccentricities of each place.

Some friends who had preceded us on similar trips advised that Asia is for buying, Europe is for eating. I am sure this is true; as Bea insists that nothing compares to French cooking, even in the commonest of kitchens. Of course, Italian food we know and love. Perhaps these foods will not be as strange, exotic or adventurous as the foods we have eaten in Asia, just as Europe itself is less alien to our experience.

Tonight we strolled along a broad cool avenue to a restaurant where we ate a meal in a style which was new to us, even here in India. We were brought various vegetarian dishes served in metal bowls on a silver metal tray, a “thali.” (Phonetic spelling, to my ear.) There are light breads and rolls called “puris”. You tear a piece and dip into a bowl with your fingers and eat. You must only use the right hand (awkward for me) since by custom this is the clean one. The waiter hovers and refills your bowls. He leaves a pitcher of water because the dishes are spicy. At the end he dumps rice on your tray if you wish and you pour the leftovers in the rice, mix it together and eat with your fingers. So now we have eaten with chopsticks, spoons, spoon and fork, and hand.

I have also noticed a definite difference in the rice served in the countries we have visited; though it is the staple of all— the grains somehow all seem a little different, whether from the type, or the preparation, I don’t know. I remember reading that sushi chefs in Japan study for rice for a year as part of their education. The rice here seems particularly hardy, rich and fluffy when at its best.

We must rest now because we are stuffed like little pigs.

7 September Saturday Bombay
It is funny how days that begin inauspiciously have often ended with our best experiences. This day we began listless, without much ambition. We have been at low tide for a few days now; our energies seemingly drained. We have slept away huge chunks of days and lain in bed reading and dozing for hours. It is partly our colds which linger annoyingly, the ever present heat which causes malaise and the let down of spending our last days in India.

We decided quickly that Bombay had not much to offer—it is a bit prettier, its architecture a bit more exotic, new skyscrapers, art deco apartments, cathedral like public buildings. It has a harbor, the usual hectic smelling bazaar, a great deal of traffic on its wide avenues; but not much of the tension of the other cities. Of maybe it is there but we have simply gotten used to it. Even the child beggars here seem better fed, their hearts not really into their pleas.

We supped continental dinner, lobster thermidor, and strolled back ready to read—I bought and began “War and Peace” of all things to read on holiday! Then we got into a 2½ hour discussion about Hinduism, Sikhs, prejudice, travel, etc., with two young Indians: the guy who is the night clerk and a young woman who is an engineer. It was friendly, funny and informative. They were intelligent, witty, tolerant, worldly, fine people.

It reinforced my notion that there is nothing particularly mystical or threatening about India. The people are different only in custom and superficial mannerisms; but they want the same things, have the same frustrations, prejudice and ignorance about the way things are and ought to be. It gave me a much warmer feeling for the country and people than our first impression.

I guess that is why India is so “difficult” to figure out. You have to “get past” the first and most vivid negative impressions in order to see more deeply into the vast complexity and discover—not The truth—but other truths.

8 September Sunday Bombay
We have spent our last full day in India in an enjoyable and worthwhile way, visiting Elephanta Caves on an island 6 miles from Bombay. They contain sculptures of Hindu Gods which are chiseled from the solid basaltic rock of a mountain in the 6th or 7th centuries. As a monument it is in the category of the Taj Mahal, the Gold Buddha of Bangkok and the Great Buddha in Nara (which was created around the same era) in awesomeness and achievement.

All four are interesting to me because of the effect they have—and were meant to have—on the viewer: respect, for the skill of the artisans, sure, but more, respect for the power and wealth of the patron religion or ruler which ordered its creation. Imagine the impact over the Ages of the visitors to the shrine of the Gold Buddha, 52 tons of gold, in a society which is poor beyond our conception. The huge statue in Nara in the solemn shrine must have inspired enormous awe at the power of such a symbol.

Ironically, the Taj Mahal is the most awesome because of its intrinsic “artistic” beauty, but also because it is a tomb, a shrine to one dead person in a world in which millions live in anonymity. As a romantic symbol by a man of enormous wealth, power and arrogance created as a monument to a woman he loved, a miraculous extravagance.

9 September Monday Bombay to Delhi to Kabul
Today we believed that our flying luck had finally run out, after so many flights, including those on exotic airlines like Indonesian, Royal Nepal, and now Indian Air.

Our jet taxied to the runway at Bombay airport and sat there in stifling heat for what seemed like an eternity. The cabin temp felt like it pushed way over 110̊ as we sat, without cabin air conditioning, either because of a malfunction or in prep for take-off. Peering from my seat in the second row through the open cockpit door, I could see no planes ahead of us in a cue which might cause such a long delay and for a long time there was no explanation.

The Indian businessman across the aisle sat in his business suit trying to look business like reading his wilting newspaper while stains of sweat darkened the collar of his shirt.

Janter Manter detail

The stewardess finally opened the door, which allowed the temp to lower a few degrees as new air drifted into the cabin. Bea, who always nears the boiling point as the thermometer rises, had been getting redder around the nose and ears. I fanned her with a magazine while I was not craning to see if the pilots were still alive.

Suddenly the pilot announced that there was a “slight mechanical problem” and that it was nothing to be alarmed about and that it would be repaired shortly. A ramp appeared at the doorway and a workman climbed the steps and entered the cabin. He wore Indian Air overalls and carried a toolbox. I watched as he entered the cockpit and kneeled on the floor behind the pilot. He unscrewed a plate, and began to probe what looked like wires and cables.

After another long period, during which I watched Bea closely for signs of faint, my attention was jerked toward the cockpit by a loud “clank, clank” sound. The workman was on his knees pounding with a hammer at the works under the plate. My eyes became huge.

After a short time, he rose and left. The stewardess closed the door behind him. I expected her to tip him. The engines whirred and we began to move.

I held Bea’s hand tightly and kissed her fingers. I told her I was glad we had this brief time together and that I hoped we would spend eternity in a cool place.
We grasped our hands until we landed in New Delhi.

Now we only had to survive our next flight on Afghan Air to Kabul.

We found that our flight was canceled, and we had to wait for hours in the airport for a seat on the next one.

10 to 13 September - Afghanistan

10 September Tuesday Kabul
I have been very busy last night and this morning, covering great mileage ... between my bed and the toilet. I expected to get sick in India but have not. But the moment I leave, I become ill. In Kathmandu it was a fever, now it is my stomach. I may have had some bad food or water, or the nervousness of yesterday's 4 hour wait in the Delhi airport for a cancellation, or maybe it was a bug. Whatever, everything came out both ends of my body after hours of painful cramps. Lomotil, bless it, has helped, but I still cannot look a piece of spicy meat in the eye without queasiness.

We ventured out to the airline office and to inquire about tours. Tonight we met 2 girl teachers from Montreal who have spent a year in Europe, now are in Asia for a year. They had spent a month in Iran and loved it. One was engaged to an Iranian, had paratyphoid, whose symptoms sound suspiciously like what I've got.

Bijou is having a hard time with me. She can't stand the sight of vomit and can't help much. It is preventing her own enjoyment because I am sick and can't eat and don't feel like wandering too far away from the head.
Our room is comfortable with modern head, but we wake up at 5 am to prayer call from the minaret. At 6 am the vendor under our window blares the radio until 10-11 p.m..

11 September Wednesday Kabul to Jalalabad to Haddar to Kabul
Finally feeling human we engaged a car along with "Vladimir," a Czech psychiatrist living in New York and went to Jalalabad and Haddar near the Pakistani border.

The ride started through the “suburbs” of Kabul where nomads sleep in tents while sheep and goats graze. There were small villages with mud brick walls and donkeys at the well wheel. Other walls were vacant and ageless, made of the material of the rocky hills and mountains. We went through the rugged pass on the road which was built by Germans. We stopped to view a gorge in which the Kabul River trickled below steep high mountains. We wound through the mountain, barren of green until suddenly we saw a lush valley between the mountains and green rice and corn fields and a deep blue lake—a German built dam. The scenery continued like that—rugged mountains and desert and then a dam—a Russian one then an American one.

Jalalabad is a small town and near it is Haddar, a walled town, outside of which are digs which reveal a Buddhist monastery 2000 years old, containing sculptures of definite Greek influence. Buddha sits in robes while Greek Gods and Roman senators listen in their togas and uniforms. All of this amazing history was buried in the sand of the centuries until uncovered in 1923. Only recently was it open to the public.
We dined in Jalalabad, parking on the dusty unpaved street, which looks like a cowboy movie town set. Wood store fronts, donkeys and few cars. Men carrying rifles. We ate in a dining hall at a long table. We ordered a big pot of chai; the others ordered various local dishes to eat; my stomach is still gurgling, so I stuck to chai and bread. When the chai came, along with spoons for everyone and the steaming plates of rice, vegetables, meats cubes and red sauce, Vladimir, our medical expert and exuberant raconteur, filled an extra glass with chai and dumped the spoons into the glass to sterilize the eating utensils.


Haddar Buddha


When the food came, the spoons were distributed and diners, including Bijou, ate ravenously. Meanwhile, I crunched the stone-ground bread and glanced at the glass where the spoons had been. The tea in the glass was now black. I dipped in a spoon and when I removed it, it looked like it had been dipped in silver polish: clean up to the hot water level but black above.

I pointed this out to Bijou, who thought it an interesting phenomenon and continued to dip her spoon into the rice dish. I looked around the restaurant, noticing a waiter clear a table by scraping a plate of food into a barrel, dipping the plate and shaking off the excess water, then go into the kitchen and immediately come out with the plate filled for another table of diners.

12 September Thursday Kabul
The heat continues to be intense and dry. We spent the day shopping for a coat for Bijou. Afghani sheep and lamb skin and fur, which is hip back in LA. Bijou must have tried on 100 before finding one with the right combination of style, fit and comfort—bargaining made the price about $26. Now she only has to shlep it to Europe. The bargaining and shopping is fun for me ... for a while. But my patience runs dry quickly with the heat. Bijou then bought a hat and when the boy tried to short change us by 1 Afghani, I nearly blew my stack. I sulked most of the afternoon, angry at human nature which cheats, grovels and begs so pitifully.

In the evening our spirits were lifted. We met a couple: a French woman and her Indian husband and son who were in transit to Paris. He spoke 4 Indian languages, French and English. We went with them to the nearby cinema which showed an Indian film.
Our Indian friend translated the dialogue into French for his wife, who whispered it in French to Bijou who whispered it in English to me. After about 10 minutes, I decided it was unnecessary.

It was about a peasant boy who is kidnaped when his father is murdered by a land grabbing lord. He becomes a bandit and pursues a girl and revenge. The film was full of fights, chases, comedy and musical scenes in which the main characters break into operatic song and dance. The stars are zoftig Sophia Loren types, the male stars all round faced. It was marvelous old style movie entertainment

The audience was more entertaining. The men carried long rifles. The women wore their chadris from head to toe and sat apart from the men. The men hooted and cheered the action loudly. The women made that eerie tongue waggling noise that Arab women make. We spent the movie looking around, expecting the men to shoot their rifles at the screen.

13 September Friday Kabul
We went to the Kabul museum this morning. It is supposed to be the one of the world’s unique collections, ethnographically and archeologically speaking. Whatever that means it is probably true. It contains chards of Afghanistan’s checkered past— from all the empires that have attacked, sacked, colonized, converted, passed through or near.

The country itself is a mixture of races—Persian, Pakistani, Indian, Mongol. Rugged mountain tribes and isolated village cultures that have reluctantly succumbed to statehood only in the past century. Everywhere are evidences that these are still rugged, independent primitive people not far removed from the recent tradition of banditry, thievery, and tribal wars (as late as 1929 the “civil war” raged and for months, a bandit usurper controlled the capitol.

In the streets most of which are rock and dust roads, mules and donkeys carry people to market, many parade in unlikely costumes of Pushtan baggy pants and shirts, suit jackets, plastic shoes and distinctive turbans. Women are rarely seen—most wear Islamic chadri (marriages are still arranged here). Rifles are sold in many stores and many carry well used ones. Nomads with shaggy sheep and goats camp close to the town which is surrounded by dry mountains on which mud houses spring from the rock.

In other cliffs in the country, caves dug eons ago are still used by whole tribes. Russians, Americans, Germans have had a hand in aid and China and India look at the maps and see mountain land in military strategy. Pakistan is an uneasy carping neighbor. After seeing the Buddhist, Persian, Greek, Roman, Macedonian, Bactrian and Indian influence in the museum, it is not hard to imagine the far off future with displays of coke bottles and crumbling photos of Chairman Mao.

26 - 31 August 1974: Kathmandu



"Mister, buy hashish?"

 26 August   Monday             Calcutta to Kathmandu

In Calcutta and Nepal there are odd young people with stringy yellow hair and skin as grey and transparent as rice paper. Faded clothes hang from their bodies like the heavy roots of a banyan tree. They wear old jeans, tank tops some, but most wear the scratchy cotton Indian shirt, its white faded to a dirty grey to match their faces. The skin clings to their hollow cheeks stretched over their bones as dried chamois. On their feet, grimy and cow-dunged, are sandals, leather molded by wear. But of all their strange features it is their eyes which are most commanding. Blue, the washed out muddied blue of an Indian river, and saucer-big, they peer from the hollows under their brows. These eyes are old and in what despite its decay can be recognized as a young body. They may be eyes that continue to see through endless incarnations, or perhaps in one brief half-life they have scanned enough for many lifetimes. But then, it may be that their strain is from too much turning inward, inside those heads. Because it is to look both within and without that these young people have seemed to come; have rejected other uniforms and the suffering of ennui for this.

But their eyes say that they have found no answers in what wisdom they have attained, no soul in the Gods they have entreated, no home.

27 August Tuesday through 29 August Thursday   Patan to Kathmandu

29 August: I have somehow lost two more days of my life, as with the flight from LA to Tokyo. The 27th, our second day in Kathmandu began with a drizzle. We had breakfast, arranged our morning plan and set out. By the time we reached the Royal Nepal Airways office, it was raining hard. But we got our business done and, having driven away uncertainty, we gaily tromped through the puddles.

Our plan was to find a book store, get a couple of novels, walk around a bit, then have lunch at the hotel and spend a cozy afternoon reading in bed. Tomorrow we will explore further. We felt as though we would like Kathmandu better than India. The air is much more tranquil, the surrounding mountains provide physical beauty and cooling. The beggars are few and more good-natured about their business; the tourist hustlers are better-mannered, less insistent. The place is not threatening.

The narrow, cobbled streets with building fronts of intricately carved wood with the many bicycles give the feeling of a small European mountain town. Bea bought a fez, like all the men wear, and we excitedly “discovered” Tibetan woven rugs, bargained but were unable to choose and to plunk down the money. We would go to other shops, decide later.

Bea had been suffering a mild case of “tummy” since Calcutta and now had the sniffles. On our first night in Kathmandu she had rushed to the restaurant head while I gleefully cleaned the plate of rice, curry, dal, nan, just as I had at lunch.

At the hotel, we stripped off our damp clothes and snuggled in our bed. It was raining steadily and I felt a chill and muscle ache. In an hour, I stripped the blanket. I shook down the thermometer. It read 100. I felt a slight swelling in my throat. I took aspirins, but by late afternoon, the thermometer read 101. For dinner I had toast and tea and more aspirins. Still, it climbed to 102. Other than chills, aches, and heat all over, I didn’t feel that bad. I decided not to worry unless it rose again. In an hour it was at 103.

At Bea’s insistence we taxied to the emergency at the local hospital. It was like others: a corridor with dingy walls and curtained examination room. Peeking in I could see a man lying with a towel over a bloodied head. We waited and Bea hailed a young Nepali woman doctor. She wore a white coat and glasses and stethoscope. I described my symptoms and she depressed my tongue and wrote “Pharyngitis.” She prescribed tetracycline and Bea produced from her ample purse a vial that Dr. Tarr had given us for just such occasion. The Nepali doctor looked at it and smiled — amused that we brought it, either thinking that Americans will buy any drugs, or that our doctor would provide us with so many such pills without a diagnosis. In fact, Dr. Tarr had been reluctant to do this and had warned us to see a doctor if ill. Even so, I was relieved that I had self-diagnosed as a flu or mild bacterial infection was correct. The doctor charged us nothing.

We went back to our room and I took the medicine as ordered and went to sleep. I awoke in a chilled sweat with serious muscle cramps and buzzing in my head. It was 1 a.m. With great effort in the dark I poured water and took another dose. I could not sleep. My chills shook the bed. Time passed slowly. My moans woke Bea. She took my temperature. 103+.

Now we were scared again. I do not remember ever having a higher temperature, but I felt I could wait it out. Yet, in my fevered mind were melodramatic visions of convulsions, shock, coma. Didn’t my mother say that my brother had a fever of 105 that crossed his eyes for life! Bea was for going again to the hospital — or the “American hospital” in Patan that someone we met had mentioned. Shivering, I pointed out that it was pouring, near 2 a.m., I probably only had pharyngitis and the temperature would eventually break. But I was scared, too. We agreed that if it reached 104 we would go.

In an hour, my temperature had risen from 102 to 103. Now we watched as it edged up, minute by minute, to 104. It was like a movie where some decision or crisis forms the suspense, watching the water level in the dam rise, or the altimeter needle shakily move through the sound barrier or the wind level reach hurricane force so the rocket can’t be launched. 104!

Bea dressed quickly, eyes wide with concern. I dressed warmly, shaking with chills. Each movement was dizzying and painful. She went down the stairs in the dark and woke up the houseman, explained over and over what was wrong and what she wanted. Then she came up and we went down together. She spoke calmly, but with an edge of panic: “I got the American hospital. I spoke to a woman. She said we should come and gave the guy directions for the taxi. He’s out trying to find one.”

I was able to shudder: “He’ll never find one. Its 2 am and raining.” A steady drizzle fell. We waited in the dark, cramped lobby. My body was shivering uncontrollably now; cramps ripped across my stomach. I suspected my fever had risen still further. There was a loud ringing in my ears. Finally, Bea told another man to call an ambulance immediately. He did so. We waited. It came and directions were passed.

The van went through the empty streets of the city and onto a highway and then to the hospital gate. We were let in by a watchman who had a bad cough. By this time, I was becoming less conscious of my surroundings. Burning up, head buzzing, each step dizzying and painful. We walked down a dark long corridor which faced a central plaza to an “emergency” sign. It was locked and dark. The whole place seemed to be deserted. One of the drivers left and after a long time a Nepali nurse came, unlocked the door and sat me on a table.

She took my temp, pulse and blood pressure. Then a doctor came. It was like a dream. He looked just like one of my clients. My last trial, in fact. Carlos Godoy, a Guatemalan, brown face, black curly hair, thin black mustache over a long, thin tight lipped mouth and black rimmed glasses. The doctor, a Nepali, was a dead ringer for Carlos Godoy. In my fevered state I wondered if I imagined the resemblance because of my guilt at having left for my long-planned trip before the final court date. I had won the case, really, he had been found not guilty of the felony of bouncing a tire iron off the heads of his wife and her lover, and had been convicted of a misdemeanor assault, for which I was sure he would simply be fined.

The doctor examined me carefully and slowly. Finally he said “Pharyngitis is correct. A bacterial infection. We will keep you tonight. Penicillin for the fever and glucose for strength. Rest.” His voice was reassuringly calm but his face was inscrutable. Is there anyone more inscrutable than an Eastern doctor?

We were led through the cold corridors upstairs and into a room. There was one old fashioned hospital bed, a sink, a naked bulb and a low cot near the door. The walls were hospital yellow but drab. The powerful odor of disinfectant was annoying, yet also reassuring. I stripped and was put into loose fitting pajamas and under a cover. I was still cold. Soon two nurses came in. In their faces was mixed the round delicate Nepali beauty and the competent nurse’s detachment. One carried the glucose bottle and tube. I had feared this, having seen it many times. People in hospitals with needles in their veins. I imagined the annoying pain of the needle continuing, nagging hour after hour. The other nurse carried a syringe which seemed to me — looking through fever weighted eyes — to be the size of a tube of blood and a rich red color. She rolled me to one side and gave me the penicillin injection.

I do not remember whether pain is supposed to be beyond description or beyond memory. I will always remember this pain, though I am unsure that I can describe it so as to give a “feel” for its impact. My dentist has often marveled at how I can take deep drilling without a wince. In the month before we left I took nine shots, including Cholera, almost laughing. In Bangkok I took one in each cheek, 14 cc’s, with mild annoyance. But when this needle sunk into my muscle, I writhed in such torment and for so long that I scared myself as well as Bea who knows — and kept repeating to the nurses — about how well I take shots. My right leg felt paralyzed! I bit the pillow and Bea told me later, I cried: “I want to go home!”

In my agony I asked the nurse what they had given me. Even as a child I had gotten many penicillin shots without such pain. Their answer was so shocking that even in my agony, it made me laugh. “Christian penicillin,” I thought I heard them say. This was a mission hospital, and later when my wit returned I thought that my bad reaction was because I am Jewish and should have asked for Jewish penicillin, which everyone knows is chicken soup!

When the pain subsided, I was almost too exhausted and relieved to feel the jab of the needle into a vein in the back of my hand. It was taped securely and a gauze pad tied to keep my hand and arm in place so the glucose would drip into the bottle and the blood would not drip out of my vein. Finally I was left. Bea stood by me a while, then dragged herself to the low cot. The next four hours dragged by. Like life, sometimes, the only thought making it bearable — as the minutes of writhing agony before it — was the lesson I had learned well on this trip: this too shall pass.

The hours were spent in stuporous sleep, pain, awareness of the steady plodding rain, sounds of crying and moans of pain from other rooms, sweating coldly and shivering. When I finally awoke, I was bathed in clammy sweat, the heat in my ears lessened. Nurses arrived. Temperature down to 102. They toweled my body and changed my pajama top and the sheets. They were sweet and lovely in their starched white uniforms which were saris, starched and belted. They smiled at me. One said to the other that I looked Nepali. I imagined that with my week old scraggly whiskers, unshaven, unwashed and odorous, I must have looked more like a nomad who lives with camels.

Bea had gone to get some food, looking ghastly after her brave and traumatic night. When she returned she explained that she had arranged to take her meals in the hospital dining hall and inquired of the cost, which was incredibly small compared to a US hospital.

At nine, two English doctors arrived. One in his thirties looked like Victor Spinetti (the actor who played the t.v director in “A Hard Day’s Night”); the other was young and wore a red beard. The older one spoke, read the chart, and said: “If you are jumping about tomorrow morning, maybe you can go.” He asked if I could take liquids. I said yes. I had no appetite, but I wanted no more food dripping in my veins. He promised that when the bottle was dry to feed me orally. He murmured something about another shot. I told him of the excruciating pain. “Oh, yes, we have to mix with saline which is many times more painful than water because the pharmaceutical firms don’t find it profitable to sell us those with water solutions.” He said this matter-of-factly, then consented to oral doses.


When they left, Bea finally broke down. She explained that part of her fear was that she had discovered that her previous assumption that we would always be only a plane flight away from civilization and home was shaken. When she thought I might be seriously ill, she had inquired about flights and discovered that obtaining a quick return would have been impossible.

She cried uncontrollably and for several minutes. I kept telling her that I was sorry. I wanted to say how proud of her I had been during the crisis, how I needed her to be there and looked for her each moment like a child looks for its mother for reassurance. I wanted to say that to her. I was sure she knew it but was equally sure that she would want it said. But I left it largely unsaid. I held her hand. She smiled through red eyes: “You gave me quite a scare.” She herself had developed a cute cough and sniffle independent of her tears. I joked to her that after what she had seen me go through, there was no way that she would even look sideways at a doctor.

I spent the day dozing, watching the bottle empty drip by drip and getting my pills and a urine bottle which a boy thrust into my shorts while I was lying down, expecting me to pee at will in that position. I tried, then sat up, finally stood up and filled the bottle and half the water carafe besides. I was later jabbed for a blood test and given more pills. My fever went down but by the end of the day had risen again and I knew that I would have to spend another night. It rained all day. And all night.

Finally the next morning I awoke feeling like a specie akin to human. My temp was near normal and I convinced the young doctor to angle for my pardon. By midmorning it was done. The rain had stopped with the sunrise and the nurse had opened the window to a framed view of Oz-like magnificence. A large fern tree hung in the foreground over a garden of roses and a purple coleus between the hospital buildings. Beyond was a farm, a worker walking in the green textured paddies. In the distance, all the varying shades of green made of terraced farmlands rose to a village of brown- topped white walled houses. Two mountains, fog clinging to their low folds and clouds tipping their lush ridges edged the horizon. The sky was a deep and cloudy blue. It was like a Cezanne and my room being so rough and primitive, I imagined what the Impressionists must have seen and lived was not much different from this view.

The day was bright and clear as our taxi took us to our hotel which was like a Catskills resort on a rainy weekend in May or June. Deserted, dampened, and somewhat melancholy. We spent the day in bed, Bea sleeping a drugged and relieved sleep, I enjoying my convalescence reading a biography of Freud.

30 August Friday   Kathmandu


Awaking, I took inventory. I slept well. Muscles no longer sore. Throat still a little tight. Temperature normal. It was amazing how quickly the body recovers. Was it only two days ago that I was so feverish that I was near delirious?

Bea awoke wheezing, sneezing and snorting. Her cold was making her miserable but had not caused any fever. We both ate. It was raining steadily again. We decided what to do. We toyed with the idea of staying a few more days and seeing the sights. But after the one clear day — which we were forced to spend in bed — the rain had begun. This was really the rainy season and it would continue, probably for days without letup. We had gone to Japan without seeing Fuji. Now we would leave Nepal without seeing Everest. A certain distinction for world travelers, you must admit. We went to the RNAC office and reconfirmed our flight for 31 August and had them telex reservations in New Delhi. We then flagged a taxi and went back to Patan (no pun intended on the war movie of a similar sounding name) to the village of Tibetan refugees. Surrounded by idyllically beautiful mountains and lush valleys, the Tibetans who fled the Chinese takeover of their country have made a home and thriving business of their woven goods. There is a factory where the Tibetan goat’s wool was spun, dyed and woven on looms into the meticulous, beautiful and vibrantly colored rugs. We chose one. It was too expensive for us but we loved it and Bea assured me that it would cost twice the price in the States.



School's Out!

In the evening we finally dined at Unity, a restaurant praised glowingly by our friends. It was just okay, but then, neither of our appetites were back to normal. We strolled home along the quiet streets. I felt I would like to return here to visit when it is clear and the air crisp and cool and you can see the perpetual snow of Everest and the other peaks of this range at the top of the world. I enjoyed a fantasy of living here if I had the wealth to be comfortable, and to leave at will.

We saw many young westerners here, so lonely and so morose in appearance, so much into their heads that they are unable to see outward. They miss so much.

31 August        Kathmandu to New Delhi

The last day of our first month of the trip and fittingly, spent as the first day, traveling — to the airport, weighing in, waiting, flying, waiting, making our way from airport to hotel, checking in. Fatiguing it certainly was as always, and also melancholy and a bit saddening to leave Nepal which we instinctively liked despite the illness and the rain and which we hardly got the chance to know; and going back to ominous, unknowable India.

From the glimpse of our bus ride and our dinner at a modern restaurant, New Delhi seems to be in a different century than Calcutta — that is, in the present one instead of some primitive age of horrifying want (maybe in the near future rather than the past!)

But that impression was at night. The darkness covers many things that the Indian sun exposes. And the sun does shine and scald (99̊ at landing, 6 p.m.) Our hotel reservation did not precede us, but we found a room at our chosen hotel. It is a suite which means an extra useless room and too much money. Tomorrow we will seek out the “Y”. Having made our attack plan for the city, we sleep a little easier, though our sniffles will not be aided by our fan and central air conditioning which are too chill but without which we would suffocate in the airless suite.

We have vowed in blood not to miss the Taj Mahal as we missed Fuji and Everest.

23- 24 August 1974: Calcutta

23 August     Friday      Calcutta

This day was one of absurd contrasts. From the cloister of the Fairlawn we taxied through the incredible streets to the Maidan, a large green park a short distance away and arrived at the Victoria Memorial.

It is a white Italian style building, with a reflecting pool near it. It is quite out of place with the Indian city, but within the confines of the pastoral Maidan, is right in its proper place. It contains paintings depicting the history of the Raj (the British rule in India) all calm and tasteful and colorless, like a boiled potato.

This evening, after a sumptuous dinner, I conversed with Dr. Thomas. He was in the final week of a 3 month project with World Health Organization of the UN., advising on smallpox prevention. He had previously spent time in India and two years in Lahore. He was young, grey, serious faced but friendly and witty. He had firm, sound opinions asserted in a doctorly way but without dogmatic certainty. I asked him what he thought could possibly be done for Calcutta short of blowing it up and starting from scratch. He told of the small steps that were being taken: water supply, sewage, housing. But he acknowledged that these things were rudimentary and minimal. The chaos is so large, the impediments so many. We discussed the Asian or Indian mind which rejects planning; the self-satisfied, obstructive bureaucracy. All of India was bad, he said, but Calcutta was, by far, the worst; maybe the worst in the world, perilously brinking on hopelessness.



Jain Temple Sithalanatha



24 August     Saturday      Calcutta

This morning we awoke very early to take a tour of the city. I am letting my mustache and beard grow, poor though that growth is, because I want to look as grubby as possible to cut down on molestation. I won’t shine my shoes or wash my jeans until I leave India. Bea, as expected, has trouble with the heat. I do, too, but my skin, so awful in other respects, protects me with its greasiness. Bea: “You look swarthy.” Her kind way of saying “oily and ugly.” She has a bit of the Trots and a congestive cold so is understandably cranky. As our bus bounced around the sweltering streets, she paled and felt faint a few times. The air does not willingly go into the lungs: you must make a conscious effort to breathe.

Blowfish faces

Our bus wended through sections of slum shanties, the “Bustees,” registered slums. We saw the old section with its government buildings, also in decay, on narrow streets with iron-railed balconies reminiscent of New Orleans. But the tumultuous life in the streets told a greater truth.

Bea found a way of dealing with beggars. As we stopped at each temple, young children appeared with big sad eyes and little hands outstretched. I have begun to notice that most seem well-fed though clearly poor beyond western imagination. To one such group, Bea made her blowfish face by pursing her lips, puffing cheeks and widening her eyes. At once, the surprised grins broke out on their faces and they laughed freely in the way only children can. Soon they were begging, not for “pais” but for more laughs. Time and again the trick made them squeal in glee. They called others who joined in the show. They were children after all.

[On that day we went to the Calcutta Zoo to see the rare white tigers. We stood close to the fence surrounding the enclosure and were watching until I became aware that there was a crowd behind us, watching us rather than the tigers. That alarmed me because I wondered if we were in a forbidden area or something. Then I noticed that they were looking more at Bea than me. A small boy near her was standing very close and looking up at her. He looked like he might have Down’s Syndrome or some other condition that gave him a very strange manner. When he stared at her arm, I realized why she had attracted all the attention.

Bea’s hair was very light reddish brown, her skin very pale with brown freckles. She wore a pink scoop neck short sleeve t-shirt like top. It was not exactly revealing by our standards, but compared to the Indian women there who were very dark and wore saris that covered their bodies completely except for a thin band of skin around the midriff, she must have looked quite exotic to the Indians and much more of a rare attraction than the tigers. MB 20 June 2002]

Oldest Banyan Tree

Tonight we spoke to Andre Amchin, a French seafood merchant in India to buy shrimp and frog legs. He was a large man, a youthful and manly forty, with a full beard and a twinkle in his eyes when he smiled. He was charmingly cynical about India. They were hopeless; in business lazy, in culture and religion un-Christian and foolish (“They have a temple for rats!” Arms upraised in Gallic shrug, as if that said it all); in cuisine the worst insult: they are un-French. His conversation was confrontational: America was foolish to destroy Nixon; Watergate was nothing. He told us (rather Bea, who translated for us) that Indian women were lousy lovers—“They lie there like death.” Turkish women were better. But the best was his French mistress—in Villeparisis(!)

Lord Shiva Temple Dakshineswar

David Thomas joined us and the conversation was hostile between the two. Andre called the doctor a foolish idealist; David called the Frenchman a reactionary. I mediated but was annoyed at the Authoritarian sureness of the Frenchman, and, I admit, his attentions and charm poured on Bea. But he did give us some restaurants in Paris.





PART TWO: 22 August - 14 September 1974: India, Nepal, Afghanistan > Calcutta: The First Day

[While on most days thus far, my journal entries had fit onto one page each, occasionally spilling over for a line or two into the next day’s page, this first day in Calcutta was so extraordinary, it required inserts of 6 or 7 flimsy onionskin hotel papers. I taped them into the proper page as best I could at the time, and now, so many years later, the tiny print has faded. It took all of my concentration, memory, and patience to read my printing and unfold without tearing the worn pages. MB 8 June 2002.]

22 August Thursday Bangkok to Calcutta
While in Bangkok, our companions on a tour of the Floating Market had been a Canadian doctor, his wife and two children. When we remarked to them how drab, grey and poor the streets and Klongs of Bangkok seemed to us, they exclaimed that to them it seemed quite prosperous after India from where they had just come.

After only a 1/2 hour ride in from the Calcutta airport I understand and agree with everything they said. The airport is modern and relatively efficient. But soon we are riding in a ramshackle taxi down a dusty highway, past fields, a river, cows and water buffaloes.

As we approach the city, the people begin to be more numerous and soon the streets— including every inch of sidewalks and gutters— are filled with hundreds of thin, often emaciated faces, horsecarts, bicycles, a few smoky cars, and occasional rickshaws carrying fat and thus apparently rich women in colorful saris.
A bus goes by, more rickety and spewing more black smoke than any in Bangkok, tilting with people hanging to its sides like those to a lifeboat. There is a streetcar jammed to the gunnels. And of course, the people of whom we have read and prepared ourselves for; they unimaginatively poor, who live and die in the street by the hundreds of thousands. There they are on every block, in the precious shade under the overhangs of decaying buildings. Children lay limp on mothers’ robes, old men stare blankly. Men dodge traffic fatalistically and no one smiles.
I choke down the feeling of guilt as we ride by like Maharajas in our junky taxi. I’ve promised myself I would not feel this way, but here it is, overwhelming me.
Our taxi goes down a main thoroughfare where there were government buildings, hotels, and a large park (The Maidan). Honking his horn all the way, our driver turns into a side street which is a narrower version of the many poor ones we’ve passed. A way up we see the Lytton Hotel, which our guide book states is next door to our destination.
Our driver slows, and points. The sign tacked onto the wall says:
“FAIRLAWN HOTEL — >”

[Check this link for photos of The Fairlawn Hotel. Clearly, neither the hotel nor its proprietor, Mrs. Violet Smith, have changed a great deal. MB]

I thought we would have to get out and drag our bags the rest of the way, through the gauntlet of people I could see were drying their palms for outstretching. But, no, he turned into a drive.
“It certainly does have a pretty garden,” Bijou says, referring to the hotel’s description in our trusty guidebook. And it is calming to the eyes after what we have coursed through in the past half hour.
We get out. A porter snatches our bags. It begins to rain. It’s been sunny and white hot on the drive in. I had noticed tumultuous thunderheads at the airport. I’d also seen puddles near the runway as we taxied. As it has all during our travels in Asia during the rainy season, I fully expect a downpour. And here it is, a steamy, violent outburst.
We sign the register and follow the porter. Near the desk, in the garden of green plants and palms are chairs around white metal painted tables with umbrellas. On the other side is a dining room with tablecloths neatly spread and big fans overhead. We climb a marble, carpeted staircase and walk through what we would call a lounge. I suppose the English would call it a salon or parlour. There are black lacquered cases with knick-knacks: china dolls, plates, Buddhas, other statues. Four padded rattan chairs surround a round glass topped table. To the right is a veranda, sun-drenched, with more chairs, tables and brass pieces. I’m looking for Somerset Maugham with a gin sling.
We walk to the left and are in a large marble floored room. Large black statues in wood stand near more display cases. Punkah fans droop from the high ceiling. We walk by a large desk which stands at the far end of the room. A man sits behind the desk like a librarian. We cross a short stretch in the rain and are at the door to our room which fronts on a motel-like exterior walkway.
The porter opens the door.
“No air conditioning,” I blurt in a panic, noticing the ceiling fan turning slowly. But as soon as I say it, I see the machine set into the window.
The room is larger than most of those we have had on the trip. Two single beds face the door on either side of the room. Between them is a red and black painted table and two smaller ones on either side of it. Two upholstered chairs face the tables, their backs to the door. The windows back each bed, curtained neatly. There is no view, the windows are locked. There are wardrobes painted a dull yellow as are the walls.
The porters (another had walked alongside the one who bore our luggage) wait. I give the one who had carried the luggage two rupee notes. He looks at his palm, scratches the crisp bills together and eyes me impatiently. I thank him and turn away. He walks to the door, mutters something to his mate, shows his palm to prove the point, and stalks out.
“Myra says to give the porter one per bag,” Bijou says.
“I did, but you saw his look.”
“The hell with him.” Bijou is as as angry and tired as I am with the hustling we have endured so often in Asia.
“Smell!”
I did as Bijou instructed and was met by the strong odor of turpentine.
“Well, in Hong Kong we complained that the paint was peeling off the walls. Now we’ve got fresh paint.”
We sniff about the room. A writing desk stands next to the door. On the other side is a curtain and through it the bathroom; barely western. An old chipped porcelain tub over which hangs a pipe connected to a painted shower head. A sink in the corner. As if to cater to the expected tender tummies of its users, the john sits right next to the doorway. Its wooden seat is painted putrid green. A pull chain hangs like a hanging rope from a gallows. All the fixtures are like the atmosphere of the entire hotel — as if preserved from a distant age.

We sit on the bed and look about cautiously. Slowly we go through the mental process of acclimatization that has now become a familiar pattern in our travels. The drive in from the airport had been, to say the least, breathtaking. We had often grasped each other’s hand in the way a child comes back and hugs its mother from time to time. More than once, our eyes turned from the “sights” toward one another; our eyes met, and rolled to indicate “Wow!” or “Oy vey!”

Now we look at each other from across our new home. Bijou says: “The hotel is fabulous.”
I say: “Let’s rest and wait for the rain to stop. Then we can walk around the place a bit.”
“Okay,” she agrees, “then let’s walk to American Express and collect any mail.”
The plan and the prospects of word from home cheer us.

We retrace our steps, through the lounges which are cheerful and amusing, and go downstairs. We get a map and I walk over to a man who is poring over the register book. I ask him for directions. He is a spare, dark little man, with black wavy hair sprinkled gray, and a Ronald Coleman mustache. He wears a white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and a handkerchief knotted around his neck. His eyes sparkle amiably. He speaks English in an attractive, clipped Indian accent. He shows us on the map where we are in relation to the monuments, restaurants, etc. I introduce Bijou and myself. He says: “I am Ali Baba, the Muslim.” Okay.

We walk through the garden and driveway and turn at the wall which fronts the street. As we reach it, a shine boy pesters me, a taxi driver hoots his horn and beckons. A young boys begs, sad faced and empty palmed, walks apace with us, not threateningly—at least not intending to threaten, at least not yet. Soon, he is joined by other boys, who match my increasingly rapid New York-bred walking pace, a few steps behind, palms upraised, offering help for rupees.

The temperature must be over 100, and the air is sluggish. We walk in what seems the right direction, though I could not be sure, still unfamiliar with the map. As we trod the cracked pavement, threading between puddles, we pass people in rags sleeping on the sidewalk.
Our companions who continue their insistent pleas are joined by a young man who gets in step with me and asks confidentially, “You want anything, anything for the lady? Change money, student card? Buy anything?”
My answer to all offers is a head shake, then a “No, I’m sorry,” then “No thanks,” then “No!” Nothing fazes them: ignoring them seems the only way but it is like ignoring a swarm of bees around your head.
For once, Bijou does not complain of my rapid pace. She grips my arm tightly and breathlessly keeps up. We both want to run and hide.
We turn up a main street, through crowds. There are shops, each keeper beckoning — vendors of books, toys, fruit, nuts — all arrayed on the wide sidewalk. And massive Brahma cows just sitting on the sidewalk. People walk around the beasts as though they are pieces of furniture in a living room. And always the eyes and palms often alongside us for a block or more, seeming interminable and to us, unbearable in their insistent reminder of our relative wealth.

The buildings are in varying states of disrepair. All look old, none of the granite, steel and glass of modern cities. Paint is tired looking, chipped and faded and grimy. Here and there underlying bricks show through cracks in plaster facades.
The street is hectic; trams, busses, taxis, people rushing every way, threading recklessly across the jammed street. Here and there cows stand on curbs and in the traffic lanes, like stalled cars and are treated similarly.
We walk almost silently, speaking only to each other about whether we are going in the right direction, or to say “Ignore him,” or “Don’t look” at some particularly heart-wrenching specter. But constantly, to the pleas and nagging, we spout ever more insistent and less polite “No’s.”

Finally we enter the Am Ex office. It is blessedly air conditioned. We take stock of ourselves. Bijou’s face is sunburn red; she looked near to fainting.
“I’ve never sweated so much,” she says.
I can see the beads on her forehead. I am concerned; Bijou is pigment deprived, her skin defenseless against the searing sun. Her complexion registers heat like a cheap thermometer — pink to red to magenta, then steam. She never sweats in L.A. I give her my handkerchief.
My darker skin sweats with far less provocation. Now, my dashiki hangs from my shoulders, filled with water and heavy. Sweat pours from under my hair, down my neck, my back, into my shorts, down each leg and into my socks.

We catch our breaths and light cigarettes. We’re directed to a desk and we ask for mail. A stack is brought out and gone through one by one. Nothing. Bea’s shoulders slump. I try to look sympathetic.
“The mails here are probably slow.”
But we’re both dejected, not only from the disappointment usual in such situations, but also because we feel we have gone through so much to get there, driving ourselves through terrors with the goal of getting a word from home.
After the cigarettes, we’re ready to run the gauntlet again. I crack that it’s a good thing we both have good strong Polish peasant blood — we just plod on, pulling our plows behind us.

When we return to the hotel, we are greeted by a smallish European woman who stands behind the front desk. She asks us our first impressions of the city. She speaks with a distinct English accent. She can tell more from our excitement, exhaustion and sweat than our words: “Incredible” and “Overwhelming.”
“Yes,” she says. “Calcutta has that effect. We once had an Englishwoman from New Zealand. You know, we used to get the Sundowners and such. She checked in, went out for a walk and returned after just a few minutes. Fainted dead away. Spent the rest of her stay in her room. Really, she wouldn’t leave her room!”
She begins a prepared speech. “I’m Mrs. Smith, the proprietress. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here. The place has been in my family for forty years. Father was a major in the army. He bought it. Used to be called Canada House.”
“I’m dying for a drink,” Bijou says.
“Of course. Try some Limca. It’s quite nice. Refreshing.” She calls a crisp order in Hindi. In a moment, bottles of a cloudy soft drink with straws are set on a table near us. It is cold and refreshing, not as sweet as Coke, lime-flavored.

Mrs. Smith wears an absurd jet black wig styled in a flip. Her moon shaped face is a little too made up for the scene. Her cylindrical torso is wrapped in a sheath dress. Of course, she wears spiked heels. The effect is a bit unsettling. She doesn’t look like a proprietress of a charming, eccentric hotel in the middle of Calcutta, more like a Jewish lady from Miami Beach on her way to a Bar Mitzvah. [Years later, I compare her to Mrs Fawlty of Fawlty Towers.]
“I think you’ll like the food. We have full board, meals, morning and afternoon tea. I’m sorry you missed breakfast, but lunch is at one. Many of the servants have been with us for 40 years; our chef is quite good; he’s been with us a long time.”
We tell her we think the hotel is lovely.
“I’ve collected all the little things myself from all parts of the world,” she says proudly. “I’ve been everywhere, you know. Where have you been?”
We tell her about Japan, Hong Kong and Bangkok, and of our plans.
“Charming! Hong Kong is lovely. My daughter is there. Not what it once was, but not as bad as this place.” She nods her ample chins in the general direction of India. “Gone to hell in twenty years.” Then remembering her place in the tourist business: “It is fascinating, though, isn’t it. We’ve got very friendly guests. From all over the world. Couple of Americans, too.”
In a lull, we excuse ourselves. Bijou says: “So long.”
“Yes, so long,” Mrs. Smith laughs, apparently easily amused. “See you later, alligator,” she intones in mock-American.
“After ‘while, crocodile,” Bijou tosses back.
“What? After while, crocodile. Ha-ha. That’s jolly good. Yes, I must remember that.”

After showering and relaxation, we anxiously and hungrily pad through the lounges to the dining room. We’ve read that the fare is western food and speaking to Mrs. Smith, expect boiled beef and Yorkshire pudding. We’re placed at our table by a waiter dressed in Indian whites. Another wearing a red turban pours ice water into our glasses. The table is formally set with linen. A third waiter brings a tray of food to Bijou, then to me.
There are fried egg roll type things and boiled potatoes. Since I am famished and have not seen a potato for three weeks, I heap my plate with as much as seems decent. The potatoes are marvelous and the egg rolls turn out to be just that: an egg paste lightly spiced, and quite good.
We’re afraid to drink the water, so order Limca and drink them quickly. We’re quite satisfied, no longer famished.
A servant removes our plates and replaces them with another. The red turban waiter, who I now notice is badly cross-eyed, stands by Bijou with another tray. This one contains a large dish of rice, another of red vegetables, and a boat of curry.
“Not too hot?” Bijou asks timidly.
“No.”
I fill my plate. A servant with yet another tray arrives, with bowls of a variety of chutneys: mint, potato, onion and pepper. We sample each. We’re greatly impressed: two courses, one western and very tasty; the second Indian and non-threatening. We find our appetites renewed. We also find that in its insidious way, the curry begins to bite. Like Mexican chili, it burns the lips, tongue and palate, makes the eyes water and in a particularly strong dose, clears the sinuses. But unlike Mexican food, the Indian curry continues to singe all the way down. And after the initial fire, comes the afterburner, way down like a slug of Uzo or Slivovitz thrown down your throat into the pit of your stomach.
We quickly sip the last of our soft drink and look longingly at our cold glasses of water. Other diners are guzzling their water, the servants at their elbows with chilled pitchers. But we don’t dare. It is our first day in India; too soon to be sick. Soon, a bowl of grapefruit type thing appears before us and we suck those dry.

Feeling renewed, we decide to brave the horror of the streets again. We strike off in the opposite direction, toward a shopping area called the “New Market.” Bijou is desperately in need of a sun hat. On the way, we witness again the “realities of life in Calcutta,” which, even as we view them and try at times to avoid viewing them, seem unbelievable. Again, the beggars, the taggers-along, the hustlers.
I clutch Bijou’s oversize carry-all and Bijou clutches me. After a few blocks that seem to take years, we reach the New Market. It is a block long brick building fronting on a wide pot-holed street. We cross the street and enter a maze of shops and walkways. Shops selling clothes, foul and sweet smelling food, toys, books, fabrics.
But no hats.
As we walk aimlessly the shopkeepers in entrances beckon us insistently.
Of course, we are never alone. Our guidebook, in its authoress’ lady-like way, describes the “Pengalis” as boys who are not beggars, but people who make their pitifully meager livelihood running errands, carrying packages or guiding tourists. At night, they sleep in the streets. Her description is an annoying understatement. These men who might have once been boys nag and pursue us from the moment we cross the street. Many carry wicker baskets. “Carry your things, sir?” “Want to buy something?” “Something for the lady?” “Some silk?” “A dress?” On and on, the voices.
“We only want to buy a hat to wear, not to carry.” “We are sorry, but we do not need anyone to help.”
It is no use. The chorus continues. I’m polite. I’m firm. I’m insistent. I’m rude. I’m angry. “No.” Again and again.
Bijou verges on tears or flight.
I angle us into a book shop and we try to browse. The proprietor is at our side in a moment.
“You want a book? We have many kinds. What would you like?”
I say we’re just looking and I try to read the titles of the worn covers.
He hovers; there is no fun in it.
We leave by another doorway around the corner. We’re met by new faces with baskets and voices.
“We are only looking, not buying.” “Please, no thanks.”
Others take up the pursuit as we continue.
“Please leave us alone.” Bijou has stopped, and pleads, her voice near panic.
I try calm reason. “Please, my wife is not well. You are bothering her. Please go away.”
Still, the voices.
At last, we see some hats in a window and duck into the store. We bargain with an insistent old man and make the sale. Bijou wears the hat as we leave.
The droning begins again. We search for a way out. We are in a maze and it seems like the nightmare might go on forever. But we see a light and soon are in the street.
We find our way back to the oasis of our hotel, again through the gauntlet of decaying misery and pleading voices. We rush through the gate and fall into wicker chairs, exhausted and soaked again to the skin.
We are just in time for tea.

In the evening, after another ample and varied meal, we meet some of the other guests. One is a blond haired guy in his mid twenties. He’s been raised in Kentucky and has a mild drawl. He’s worked on fishing boats in California, Canada and Alaska and worked his way over here on a merchant ship. He’s been to Bombay and come east to Calcutta about six days ago.
“Blew my mind.” He’s been sick. Tonight’s is the first meal he’s been able to digest in a few days. He chuckles when he talks about it and doesn’t seem too troubled by the experience.

“Went to a store and bought some of this,” he says. He takes two bottles from a newspaper wrapping. “This one’s paregoric, made of opium. Can’t get it in the States, even with a prescription,” he laughs. “Here you can get anything. A guy in the street offered me a jar of cocaine yesterday. The other one is ampicillin.”
He shrugs. “I just walked in an plopped down the rupees. A slug of paregoric settled my stomach — a bit too much will really set you straight!”
Bijou asks him how he knew where to go.
He chuckles. “My guide, a little guy who hangs around here. He’s been showin’ me around. Knows the city real good. I give him a couple of rupees a day. All he wants is my jeans when I leave.” He pats the thighs of jeans that are perfectly faded, streaked, and worn.
Bijou notes what a prize they are.
“Yeah, I love ‘em. I think I’ll give ‘em to him,” he says kindly.

He’s leaving for Kathmandu the next day, he hopes, by train. It will take 24 hours and he has to bribe the guy at the station. The plane flight we’ve booked for the next week takes an hour and a half.
“Then to California,” he says. “I have a boat hull in Seattle. If I can get a ship back I can start putting some money together and build it. Then I’m gonna get a crew and sail the islands of the Pacific. I’ve been through some of ‘em.” He rattles off some exotic names. “But there’s thousands. Nobody goes there. I know a guy who does it all the time. He gets girls to pay to be the crew.”
He laces his hands behind his head. “I been traveling for 10 years and I could do it forever. No sweat. I love it.”