Days 177 & 178: Kampala to Nairobi to Arusha

We were told to be at the Kampala Coach office a half hour before our departure time at 3:00. We arrived a little before 2:30 and waited. And waited some more. Moved outside next to the bus, and waited some more. Men were packing the undercarriage of the bus, shoving as much as possible into the storage cabins, kicking the door shut, and then gathering additional men to help secure the latch so it wouldn’t bust open on the road. It was amusing at first, but after an hour of the same routine, it became annoying and we were ready to go. Our “business luxury” bus was as dirty as an overnight bus in India and was two hours behind schedule. We wouldn’t arrive in Arusha until at least 22 hours  after we left Kampala.

It was close to midnight when we reached our first border crossing (Uganda/Kenya). I feel in a small (small) way that I’ve grown accustomed to sketchy border crossings at this point in the trip. While everyone crowded in the brightly lit Ugandan passport control, I took in the long line and shoved my bag into Andrew’s hands and went out into the dark to look for a ladies room. This is a bit tricky. When there are no lights and people milling about in the middle of the night, it’s a gamble of who you’re going to ask for help or directions. I always assume my ‘I ain’t scared’ face and sometimes hum I won’t deny it, I’m straight rider, you don’t want to mess with me… (only Tupac didn’t sing ‘mess’ and neither did I)

I settled on the two guards outside of the ATM booth. This might have been a mistake as they proved to be creepier than their uniforms deemed them to be. I politely asked where the toilet was. They didn’t look up until I repeated it a few more times, a few more different ways, making it clear that I wasn’t going anywhere until I got an answer.

“Money” One of them eventually replied. (Sometimes bathrooms do cost money, and I gladly pay – when they are clean and there’s tissue. Ok, they are hardly ever clean, and only sometimes is there tissue. But I’m almost always prepared with my own.) I was in a bit of a rush and was slightly annoyed that they were informing me that there was indeed a bathroom, but it cost money.

“Yes. I know. Where. is. it?” I tried to ask patiently.

“Money.” The one demanded again. At this point I realized he was asking for money for directions. He obviously didn’t realize who he was talking to. I became indignant, and considered briefly what would happen if I peed inside his ATM booth. Ok, not really. I wouldn’t do that. But I might have made him a little bit nervous standing in front of him not handing over any money knowing full well I could go wherever I wanted, if I really wanted to. He sighed and waved his arm behind him. Which really, didn’t help at all, but I went and eventually found where I needed to go and got back to Andrew before he started to worry- er, more than he probably already was, but didn’t admit to. I relayed my story briefly before the Israeli guy on our bus relayed his story of almost getting ripped off exchanging money. I think we were all more surprised by the fact that none of us were surprised by the antics of the men loitering around the passport control.

Crossing into Kenya was not only sketchy, but turned frustrating on the Kenyan side when we learned we couldn’t pay for our visa in American bills printed before 2005. This is advertised nowhere and I pity the fool (me) who rolls up to the counter with a perfectly crisp $100 with 2004 stamped on it. Luckily, Andrew had a more recent bill and we were able to get back on our bus heading to Nairobi.

I didn’t think it was possible for dirt roads to be any worse than they were in Uganda… But in Kenya, they turned out to be much, much worse. We stopped in Nairobi for a brief twenty minutes before riding all morning towards Tanzania.

The Kenya/Tanzania crossing was uneventful, save for the giant groups of Americans standing in line and shouting their conversations all over the place. I leaned over to Andrew and whispered, “I get it. I get why people don’t think we’re American now…” We aren’t traveling in a pack of upper middle-class white people. We aren’t wearing American sports jerseys. Our gym-shoes aren’t bright white. We don’t have a guide with us to help us fill out our visa forms. Our backpacks are dirty. And not ‘Oh we just went on safari, look at this smudge of dirt on my awesome new travel pack.’ They. are. dirty. Like a dog peed on mine in India, I washed it in the UAE, but I’m pretty sure dogs would mark their territory on the front pocket if I let them. dirty. Maybe sometimes not looking American is a bad thing… but as proud as I am to be ‘merican, I’m glad I don’t come across the same way the obvious Americans do.

We arrived in Arusha early in the afternoon and after getting settled in a room at a busy hostel just outside of the downtown ‘Clocktower’ area, we walked into town for lunch. Along the way, a middle-aged western woman approached me and said  “You need to wear your backpack on both shoulders. This is a dangerous area.”

“Oh, thank you. I know. I’m just terribly tired and we’re not going far, but thank you.” I responded, knowing full well it could get stolen, but that I was a big girl. who was tired. But she was just trying to be nice. At least, until she reached around my back and pulled the strap up over my other shoulder and said “No. Really. You need to wear both shoulder straps here.” She walked away sighing, no doubt, at what she assumed was how dumb I was.

My initial reaction was along the lines of ‘that was weird.’ And then I ate a meal for the first time in 24 hours.

“What. just. happened out there? Did she really reach around me to pull my backpack strap up over my free shoulder?” I asked Andrew.

I can understand someone being nice and suggesting care over one’s self and bags. Not that I would ever do so in the same manner that she did… But I can see the motivation for doing so, wanting to be a good samaritan of sorts. But I am 30 years old. THIRTY! I think I can take responsibility of my backpack on one or both shoulders by this point. But I KNOW she walked away judging me as I eased one strap off my shoulder again.

I wondered how old she thought I was. Would she have treated me differently if she knew I my age? If she knew I’ve been traveling around the world for six months now. After traveling for two months by myself throughout S.E. Asia. After living in foreign countries (four in total, if you count the two from studying abroad in college) for six -maybe seven- years.

“Don’t you know I have my head on a swivel, motherfunny?” Andrew said (only he didn’t say ‘motherfunny’) once upon a time in India and it’s always stuck with me. I wish I would have said that to this woman. I wish I would have told her not to talk to a thirty year old like myself, as if I was thirteen. I wish I would have asked her what made her turn into Little Ms. Bossypants with another white girl in the middle of a small town in Tanzania.

“She’s probably gone home to her husband complaining about the stupid young tourist who is probably going to get her bag stolen today…” I sighed. “And now, my bag probably will get stolen…” I thought out loud after my tangent to Andrew about all of the above…

It didn’t. It still might. But at least it didn’t in Arusha.

Day 102: waking up in a desert

Waking up in a desert is cold. Running down a sand dune to make it back to your mattress in time for the self-timer on your camera is a lot harder than you might think. Realizing the saddle on your camel is a little lopsided makes the ride a full out work-out. The whole day was slightly askew, in a wonderful, but sometimes uncomfortable way. The whole night (all 18 hours of it) on a bus to Udaipur was not as wonderful. At least we weren’t sharing our sleeper cabin for two with two other people! At least we had baked goods to snack on. At least our window opened AND closed. (This is what optimism in India sounds like.)

Nearly all of us on the camel safari were heading out of the city at some point in the afternoon or evening. We would run into each other in the city buying souvenirs and having a third coffee or juice just to give us something to do. Little did we know, Andrew and I would be getting on the very worst bus ride yet.

I can assure you that I am not elaborating. Because at our first delay, I didn’t flinch (ok, maybe I did a little) when heavy parcels were being thrown onto the top of the bus. At our second delay, around one in the morning, I figured they would fix the bus soon, or the one person we were waiting for would arrive, regardless we would be on our way. And I fell asleep. Around three in the morning, Andrew nudged me awake, we hadn’t moved, another bus had arrived for us to get on instead. At our third delay, I opened up the window to the countryside. A tree and rocks, not a road were right outside my window. Other travelers opened up their windows. The Israeli in the cabin in front of our cabin, yelled at the men trying to fix the problem (of not being on a road!) by shoving rocks under the wheels that were not budging.

It. was. ridiculous.

We don’t know if they were avoiding roads with tolls… or maybe it had something to do with the heavy parcels on top of the bus that they didn’t want to get caught with… or maybe the heavy parcels weighed the bus down so much that it didn’t matter what kind of road we were driving on, it would be a problem… or maybe the combination of all of the buses we’ve been on in India are so old- too old- that they shouldn’t be on the road?

It still could have been worse. We could have been in the sleeper compartment the Korean girl was in with a window that wouldn’t close. She woke up at some point in the middle of the night without her bag. (It fell out of the window while she was sleeping) Apparently her passport was in that bag. We rolled into Udaipur around 9 or 10 in the morning, exhausted, to say the least. But, it could have been worse.

Day 86: The Taj Mahal

Ok, so here's what the guidebooks don't tell you: The ticket booth for The Taj Mahal, is not at the entrance of The Taj Mahal. No, it does not open at dawn, so don't waste your time leaving early to stand in line while the sun rises. I knew to leave my tri-pod at home, but we didn't know we had to leave ALL electronic devices at home as well, including Andrew's kindle and computer. Apparently, my whistle wasn't allowed inside either. Despite the hour and a half it took us to simply get into The Taj grounds, it was worth it. It was amazing and breathtaking and beautiful and spectacular and I didn't want to leave it…

So, Andrew and I were walking to The Taj when a rickshaw driver pulls up and asks us, and then the other tourist walking close by if we wanted a ride. "No, thanks" we all responded automatically. And then instead of further badgering us for a ride (as is common practice) he insisted we get our ticket before we go to The Taj Mahal. We could get the ticket up on the left, he declared. We wearily agreed, but then confirmed it must be a scam. Why wouldn't we get our ticket at the gate? Right? Another rickshaw driver did the same, by this point, Justin (that other tourist walking to The Taj) began walking with us and we talked it over and agreed, it was probably a different ticket… If the rickshaw drivers were telling you where to go or taking you there when you didn't tell him then they were going to get a commission off of it- that none of us wanted to pay. We declined. again.

After a couple of kilometers, we get to the east gate and see a huge line waiting, tickets in hand, outside of the gate. Confusion set in. Why was there a line? The sun was already up and we were told it would be open when the sun was up. And why was everyone holding tickets? As it turns out, the rickshaw drivers weren't trying to scam us. And we had to walk back the 2 kilometers we just came to the unmarked building off the side of the road to get tickets to The Taj. We walk back. Andrew realizes he forgot his camera. He walks back to the guesthouse. Justin and I get tickets (where they say they don't have change. Despite the HUGE line we just saw standing outside of the Taj entrance.) We wait for them to dig out change. Get our tickets. Then wait for Andrew. Then we walk back to The Taj Mahal.

We go through security. Separately. One line for ladies, one for men. I'm looked at apprehensively bundled up in my blanket, I mean, yak wool scarf until I unwrap myself underneath for the officer. I shrug. She rolls her eyes and then hands my backpack over to be searched. Andrew yells over to me that he has to go back. His computer is not allowed inside The Taj Mahal grounds. I'm pulled back to my backpack. My whistle is not allowed inside The Taj Mahal grounds. I run after him and hand over my whistle.

"Seriously?" He asks.

"Seriously." I reply.

And then I wait. Justin sits down with me. I tell him to go without us, I don't mind waiting… He says we're the first people he's spoken to in a few days and he doesn't mind. (He was sick, too) So we wait together. Andrew gets back around 8:00, and we walk into a surprisingly less crowded than we thought it would be Taj Mahal. So, my advice is to go around 7:30. After the line of eager beavers. Before the group tours.

I think the best part of The Taj Mahal is walking through the front gate and just being stunned that your'e in it's presence. It's just like the pictures (only that pool of water is much skinnier than it looks in pictures) you see on post-cards and in travel books. We took the obligatory pictures. And then again, I was asked to take pictures with some other visitors (Seriously? What gives?) and then it turned into the whole family! HA! 

I was snagged away from Andrew and Justin by someone who pointed out the reflecting pool to me and offered to take my picture. 'And this is when my camera gets stolen…' I thought, until I decided I could make quite the commotion if necessary inside the grounds. I guess pretending to hold The Taj Mahal with your fingers is all the rage. He made me do that, and then I actually turned down a jumping shot opportunity to "find my friends" as I told him before the photo shoot got too out of control. 

We sat and chatted for awhile, people watching as everyone took photos in front. We put our shoe protectors on and walked inside to view the tombs of both Mamtaz Mahal and Shah Jahan. We took a few more photos, and then we headed out just as tour group after tour group after tour group arrived… (Yuck.)

After lunch with Justin, Andrew and I headed out to the bus station to catch a bus to Delhi. We were trying to find the bus for "the new highway" that only took 2-3 hours. After asking around, one man suggested driving us to that private bus company office. We followed him, but then I got super weary when he made it a point to go into the office before us, knowing our ticket price just went up, and the money was going directly in his pocket. Sure enough, the prices sounded high: 420 Rs each? I ducked back out to ask the white couple outside how much they paid. 270 Rs. The ticket guy said "Oh you want No AC, right… That price is 270." 

Mmmmhmmmm.

So we get our tickets at 270 Rs each and wait an hour for our bus. Our bus comes. We manage to get on the bus, and for some reason were directed into the sleeper cabin above the seats. It was only about three feet high or so, but we could kinda lay down, and had a curtain, and it didn't seem sooo bad. The British couple snag the two seats in the front of the bus they requested (and paid for). And then all hell breaks loose. The British couple, Brandon and Amy are told to move up into our sleeper compartment. Which is impossible. All of our bags are with us. They had big backpacks, too. No. Not possible. Not at all. They fight. They paid for seats. (We paid for seats too but we didn't feel like fighting against the sleeper cabin as long as it was just the two of us) They didn't understand why they had to move. I didn't either.

The bus is full. All of the other passengers are Indian and watching. Other passengers ask me if we are all traveling together. I respond that we're not, but I don't understand the problem. They tell me the other bus broke down and there needs to be four of us in the sleeper compartment. I glance at the other compartments and sure enough, there are four occupants. Which is fine- if all four of us booked a sleeper compartment. I explain this to the other passengers. They nod, understanding the situation. The creepy ticket agent gets on the bus and says he will give money back to the Brits. (after they waited for a bus to Delhi for two hours) They say "No" and ask to see the bus chart to see the seating chart. The creepy ticket agent says "No." He yells at me to move our bags to let them sit in our compartment. 

This was after I learned that all other passengers in the sleeping compartments paid less than what we paid for our "seats." I tell the Brits this. They ask for money back from the creepy ticket agent. I ask for money back from the creepy ticket agent. The creepster yells at the other Indian passengers who told us how much they paid in Hindi. Then in English, tells us that everyone has paid what we paid (while other passengers shook their heads "no") and tells me again to move my bags. Seeing that we weren't going to get our money back and that we were going to have to share the sleeper compartment, I did the only thing I could: I shamed him.

"Sir, I am happy to move my bags and share this compartment with them. But you have cheated us and you are representing India very poorly right now." 

The whole bus knew he was in the wrong. It didn't make any sense to put all of us together in one little travel compartment when we had so much stuff. They could have easily moved two Indian passengers without bags in with me and Andrew at least letting the British couple keep their seats. We were moved together because we were foreign and he could. It happens. At least other passengers on the bus were kind and shared oranges and snacks with us along the way. Folded up a little too tightly, Andrew ended up standing for about three hours on the bus until we got into Delhi.

Oh but wait, we didn't even get into Delhi, because our bus decided to stop 20 kilometers outside of the city, right on the highway and tell us all to get off there. Seriously. "This is ridiculous." has become synonomous with "This is India." Rickshaw drivers accosted the four of us when we got off the bus demanding we pay 600 Rs for 2 rickshaws into the city. The Indian women on our bus gasped in awe when they heard how much they wanted.

"Everyday. This is what we hear." I told them.

"They are very clever!" One woman told me. I wanted to correct her. Trying to rip off foreigners is not "clever." But instead we all said no to the drivers and walked to the intersection where we agreed to pay 200 Rs for 1 rickshaw. When we arrived at the backpackers district, it began all over again, with hotels instead of rides. We checked out three different hotels before coming back to the first, and agreeing to pay more for a nicer room. After an overnight train, a crappy room in Agra sans hot water, and this busride, I was in no mood for a "budget" room in Delhi. (Ew.)

When I asked the attendant if there was hot water and wi-fi, he responded: "And free toilet paper and soap!" He laughed when my eyes got big and I smiled repeating "FREE TOILET PAPER AND SOAP?!"