Of Boars and Bats

Carol here. This is probably my last post as we leave tonight on our Continental flight home via Newark. We separated from the group last night at the Mumbai airport, some leaving from the airport that night, others going into the old part of the city near the Taj hotel that has been under siege to stay at its sister hotel the Taj President and others to continue on to south India for more travel. We are staying at hotel near the international airport. In reflection about our travels for the past four weeks I find it hard to properly compose my thoughts for a final blog. India is so alive with images for me. As we left the caves on the last official touring day in Aurangabad we drove down the narrow road from the plateau and a family of wild boars (a boar with huge tusks, a sow and 10 piglets) raced up the hillside brush. Later as we watched out the window fruit bats flew alongside the bus with what looked like two foot wingspans. Here we were driving past villages, watching mothers cook dinner and children play in the dust while bats accompanied our bus. The many special memories we have of the conversations with local people, from children to shopkeepers and village men, are as vividly detailed as the sight of the boars running and bats flying. My memories of India will always hold the special beauty of vibrant people and colors as well as the desperation of the poverty, even more intense with knowledge that terrorism will have its ugly impact on this wondrous country. Our last days with the local hawkers at the caves were palpable with the desperation of their efforts to sell us something, anything in the knowledge that we might be the last tourists they would see for a long time. In Ajanta, nine tours had been cancelled, in Mumbai at our luxury hotel it was a ghost town in the lobby and restaurants, tourists having fled Mumbai leaving the boutique staff pleading with you to come into their shops. (Mike here: The hotel has 90% vacancy and we had our choice of rooms on the Club floor. Our personal butler practically hovers outside our door.) The American economic crisis had already hit India a severe blow, now terrorism had brought it down even more. We hope that its resilient people can find ways to survive. We want to remember the fruit bats and tigers, Hassan who sold me my carved wooden camel as we rode along in a camel cart, the bell maker’s daughter who helped us navigate the paths in a village, the silversmith who sold his tribal jewelry on Ebay, the toddlers that played peak a boo with me and most importantly the women that embroidered and wove, that always were working whether carrying rock for road construction, water for washing, or caring for the goats and cattle, their children and families.