Laura, Eva and I traveled up the industrial corridor of Kerala, from the lazy backwaters of Allepy to the bustling ancient trading city of Fort Cochin. We checked into the Princess Inn in the heart of the tourist district, where we were warmly greeted by the hospitable manager Subash. Tall, lanky, a straight shooter who laid down the rules and stuck to them. We took an immediate liking to him.
Subash had a love of learning and argument style that I appreciated. An unsuccessful haggle over room rates led to a passionate debate about "fairness." Laura insisted that prices should be the same for all (regardless of race, creed, yadda yadda), while Subash argued instead for a sliding scale based on who can afford to pay more. I've heard Laura make sensible arguments for both sides of this debate in the past but as Subash was sticking to his guns Laura stuck to hers just as firmly.
It was deeply satisfying to watch.
Coming as I do from a monotheist culture where so much emphasis is places on The Single Truth and not enough on the Polyphony of Truths, I can appreciate an argument style based on pragmatism. It's not that either Laura or Subash were right or wrong, it's that through their debate they come to agree on a common ground from which all parties can agree and work forward. Something we are in dire need of here in the US.
Later that evening we returned to Princess to find Subash drawing outside the hotel. He has a great artistic eye and in his spare time sits in front of the hotel and sketches passers-by or people relaxing at the outdoor restaurant across the street. We got into a friendly chat that turned serious -- Subash loves a good debate.
"I hear travelers insult India all the time. Why is this? They complain about cow dung on the roads, about poverty, about the toilets. They complain and I hear them. It's insulting to me. This is just the way life is here. Why do they travel to India if they're just going to insult Indians?"
"That's just how Westerners get along," Eva began.
Laura agreed. "Traveling is really stressful. Usually you don't know anybody, so this is how Westerners relax and become friends."
"But do they have to insult us in front of our faces?" Subash argued back. "How would you like it if we did the same to you?"
"You did that with us," I reminded him.
"I did?" he turned to me with surprise.
"Remember when those Americans checked in earlier? They were very rude to you and when they went upstairs you turned to us and said, 'Americans. They're all like that.' It was a way of showing friendship between us. We're American, but we thought it was funny too."
"It's all about context," Laura added. "It's only because we've been getting to know each other that you were able to joke with us like that. Travelers are the same way. In general we enjoy traveling here, but it's important to joke with each other to ease the stress of travel."
Subash considered this.
"OK," he agreed. "So why do you travel at all? Why would you want to go so far from your family and friends?"
"Cultural exchange," Eva answered. "We want to meet other people and see what life is like beyond what we already know. For example back in Holland I never understood why women would want to hide themselves behind their dress. So I worked in a rural school for 2 months where women would give me dirty looks when I wore anything revealing. It was insulting not to the men but to themselves. It is a sign of self-respect to dress modestly. I understand that now, but wouldn't have if I hadn't come here."
"But you can learn about all that on TV," Subash countered. "Why not just stay home and learn about other cultures from there?"
I briefly wondered how to introduce the subject of Macluhan media analysis or the politics of representation, but decided not to swim into deep waters. Instead I listened closer to what Subash was saying and what lay at the heart of his concern.
"You don't understand the power that you have," he insisted. "You are eagles in the sky while I am a frog on the ground."
True enough, but conversely he met and associated with so many eagles that he had accumulated a wealth of knowledge about Westerners and our curious habits. All the more curious because he caught us out of context, strangers in a strange land. Travelers come to Fort Cochin to relax, to let loose, not to be immersed in culture. Subash has not seen travelers at their best.
"Most Westerners don't come here to experience Indian culture," he said. "Instead they go shopping and hang out by themselves. So why come here at all?" he asked. "If you're just going to go get drunk at the bar, why do that in India?"
This called for a more nuanced argument. The girls were tired and left for bed while I puzzled this one out with our friend.
"All this drinking and late-night partying. Isn't it just escapism?" he asked me.
I considered this. "Yes," I agreed, "I think that's exactly the point. In India people live in a very rigid social system. But they also have a lot of freedom. The children run around wild, like the animals. I wish I had a childhood like that. Instead Western children are put in schools by the age of four where they're disciplined to sit up straight, eat with a knife and fork, clean up their messes. We're so disciplined it drives us crazy, so we need a space to go wild. I think it is exactly escapism. I don't think it's healthy, but it is what it is. India and America. We both have our different freedoms."
"But why India?" he returned to his theme.
I thought about this one for a minute as well before speaking. "Remember our earlier conversation about relationships? You told me you didn't want someone who would just say 'yes' to you all the time. Instead you want to marry someone who will be different than you, someone who will challenge you. Well, that's the same reason why we travel. It's a challenge and it forces you to confront yourself. Even if you're just going to bars and shopping you're still in an environment that's saying 'no' to you much more than it's saying 'yes.'"
Our conversation drifted to other things until it was time for bed. We stayed up way too late -- he had to work the next day and I was due up at 6:30 to go on the elephant/waterfall safari (see "Happy Pongol"). When we finally said goodnight Subash added, "I like the relationship comparison, that makes a lot of sense."
It seems all the listening paid off.
One thing unsettling for me, though. Tourism is something we impose upon India, forcing them to open up for us. And then get pissed (not in the drunk sense) when local culture doesn't accept our particularly peculiar ways of being. India, meanwhile, is incredibly tolerant of us Westerners running around flaunting our sensibilities under their frequently disapproving noses. It bothers me that they're tolerant because they have to be. In any case I deeply appreciate it.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
A Series of Assaults
A few weeks ago, we meet Eva, a charming 18-year-old Dutch woman who suffers a sexual assault attempt in Varkala, Kerala just four days prior. She's out at a tourist cafe with some other travelers, loses track of the time, and decides to walk back to her hotel alone. It's about 1:30 am and she walks back along Varkala's famous beach cliffs to reach the remote hotel. Coming off her experience working at a school in Andhra Pradesh for two months, she feels acclimated to Indian culture. She's wearing conservative Indian clothes and symbols of marriage (bindi and toe rings) to show respect and ward off any unwelcome advances. These measures are already going much farther than most other female travelers.
As Eva walks to the hotel, an Indian man assaults her, grabbing her from behind. He attempts to overwhelm her and pull her off the road. She fights hard to break free and manages to run back to the cafe to get help, but the attacker has left deep bite marks on her cheek and arm and she's sustained bad scrapes and bruises on her body from the fight. At the cafe, she receives help from other travelers, and seeks treatment for the bite marks at a clinic and finds a therapist to help deal with the psychological effects. She will certainly be dealing with the emotional trauma for a long time.
But the local police aren't as helpful. Eva goes directly to the authorities and submits a police report, detailing the specifics of the attack. Not only do the police refuse to give her a copy, but the only action they take is to arrest two hotel owners associated with the hostels where Eva stayed. She has to rescind the police report in order to release the hotel owners, who are innocent. She now has no official record of the attack. I've heard plenty of stories of local police corruption, but never imagined they'd go so far with a foreign tourist.
After meeting Eva, I speak with some Indian men who insist that such attacks are a rare exception, while others admit that sexual assaults are more common and suggest that travelers should be very cautious, especially if a solo female (regardless of race or nationality).
Though I never felt overtly threatened by the relentless ogling of Indian men, I wondered if I was being naive. Perhaps I'd been lucky or appearing in public almost constantly with Nick had served to protect me much more than I thought. Most hotels have a curfew at a certain hour, usually no later than 11 pm, and ask their guests be inside by that time. Princess Inn, where Nick & I and Eva book rooms in Fort Cochin, takes a hyper-firm stance on the curfew and tells us that they will refuse us entry if we return past the closing hour. This is for our own protection and if we're out too late, it's at our own risk and the hotel cannot be responsible for us at that point. Fort Cochin isn't a dangerous town; it's small, laid-back, friendly and full of travelers. But given the Varkala police reaction to Eva's assault, it's hard to blame the hotel owners for putting firm curfews in place.
Once my ears are open, I begin to hear more stories of assaults. Subash, the manager at Princess Inn, tells us that a couple of years ago there's a knock on the shuttered door in the middle of the night. He gets up and looks out to find an Indian man carrying an unconscious Western woman on his shoulder. The man begs Subash to let the woman in and give her a room at the inn, but given the situation Subash has to refuse. The entire circumstance doesn't look good and Princess Inn can't take on the responsibility for the woman's fate. The man may or may not be guilty of foul activity, but if the woman was assaulted, raped, or robbed, someone local would certainly be blamed. If Princess Inn takes her in, it would be them. Meanwhile, if the man goes to the police he will be blamed whether or not he's guilty. Subash's reaction isn't Western -- we want to help everyone -- but in the context of India it's the only reasonable response.
When we arrive back in Bombay, we meet up with a few friends. I speak with Anupam, a Bombay resident, who describes a recent incident in Noida, Uttar Pradesh, a Delhi suburb. Two local cricket teams finish a match, and the winning team decides to "celebrate" by assaulting a random woman. A mob of ten spots a young Indian woman in a car with a friend -- just leaving a popular mall -- and attack and gain control of their car. Being in public doesn't stop the cricket players, who beat up the male friend and drive the car to a remote area where several of them rape the young woman. (News story: http://www.telegraphindia.com/1090107/jsp/frontpage/story_10353636.jsp, or Google search for "Noida cricket rape")
Hours before we leave the country, another report on the local news: an attack on women in Mangalore, Karnataka, though not explicitly a sexual attack. A fundamentalist group of Hindu men break into a pub in the afternoon and go after several woman in the establishment, claiming themselves as a moral brigade upholding traditional values. (News story: http://news.in.msn.com/national/article.aspx?cp-documentid=1792540, or Google search for "Mangalore pub women assault")
What is going on here?! Has India always been so dangerous for female travelers and Westernized Indian women? How can these young guys imagine this activity to be acceptable, in their wildest imaginations? My American brain can maaaaybe justify it by blaming alcohol or drug abuse or chalking it up to miscreants; basic lowlife. But the perpetrators don't seem to be criminals pushed outside the bounds of society, they're normal guys. This is not like taking a midnight stroll in East New York (incidentally, another friend tells me it's not as bad as I've heard) or Harlem in the 80s.
In conversations with Anupam and a work colleague of Gunjan (my Bombay friend), I learn that the trouble started recently. Only in the past ten to fifteen years have women started to feel unsafe in India. Buses and trains didn't used to have segregated cabins, but are now necessary. In Tamil Nadu, women have abandoned their traditional one-shouldered sari outfits for more coverage. Reports of threats, assaults, and rapes have increased.
What happened a decade ago? TV, of course!
Television became widely available even in the poorest and most rural regions. Locals gained access to various films, which surely includes the usual family fare of Bollywood, Tollywood, Kollywood or Mollywood movies (Indian masala films in various languages). But the local men also gained exposure to Western films and soft porn.
Out of touch from the modern world and the culture of the West, the local boys see these films with no context for which they were made. They can only see what appears on the screen via the lens of their own culture and experience. There is no one to explain to them that in the West, affection is common and women do not cover up, but the price we pay for our liberties are strict social boundaries that differ from those in rural India.
Back home in a small Indian town, everyone knows the following fact: only prostitutes dress in revealing clothing, look directly at and talk to men, and display affection in public.
Therefore, all Western (or Westernized) women are prostitutes! And men can do anything they want with a hooker.
Watching all the kissing and cuddling on TV, seeing the white girls in skimpy clothing, and watching how every guy on the screen seems to have frequent sex, the local men put two and two together. Hey! I'm the only man in the world not getting laid!
An additional pressure is complete sexual repression in the local community. The men are probably going to have an arranged marriage to a modest woman, someone within their class, and sex before marriage is still a massive taboo. It happens frequently, but it's never discussed and the woman is often seen as "used" -- not marriage material. The young men are mad for release. Forcible sex with a loose Western girl may seem like a pretty good option for getting the old job done. In a country where everyone is striving for a golden chance to rise up out of the confines of their class, many realize that the opportunities are slim and unlikely. This behavior might feel like the only chance to get a taste of the West.
I ask around, what can be done? How will changes be made? Most give me a blank look, a shrug, or an infuriating Indian head bobble.
In the short term, Western/ized women need to be more cautious than ever in India, and efforts need to be made to educate rural men about the culture of the West. It's not going away anytime soon. In the long term it seems only India's continued process of modernization will ultimately provide a feed of information into the depths of the country, radiating outward from the cities. Hopefully a greater understanding will permeate the psyche of these young men. But it's a lot to hope for and the situation is likely to get worse before it gets better.
Western women need to take care of themselves when traveling in India. I wouldn't do it alone. If bringing a man along isn't a possibility, go with two or more female friends and don't wander around without the group no matter how "safe" it feels. If really stuck alone, don't go out after dark. Stick to the hotel or a traveler restaurant/bar on the same block. Never book an out-of-the-way hotel. This is the reality of the situation.
On the other hand, Western women also continue to reinforce the stereotypes and assumptions of Indian men. Many treat India like the West, going to the beach in a bikini, walking around small towns in tank tops, shorts, and mini skirts, ready to party, drink and have a good time. The temptation to be defiant may be there but it's not worth it, and it's contributing to the problem. There's nothing to prove, except how vulnerable we are.
As Eva walks to the hotel, an Indian man assaults her, grabbing her from behind. He attempts to overwhelm her and pull her off the road. She fights hard to break free and manages to run back to the cafe to get help, but the attacker has left deep bite marks on her cheek and arm and she's sustained bad scrapes and bruises on her body from the fight. At the cafe, she receives help from other travelers, and seeks treatment for the bite marks at a clinic and finds a therapist to help deal with the psychological effects. She will certainly be dealing with the emotional trauma for a long time.
But the local police aren't as helpful. Eva goes directly to the authorities and submits a police report, detailing the specifics of the attack. Not only do the police refuse to give her a copy, but the only action they take is to arrest two hotel owners associated with the hostels where Eva stayed. She has to rescind the police report in order to release the hotel owners, who are innocent. She now has no official record of the attack. I've heard plenty of stories of local police corruption, but never imagined they'd go so far with a foreign tourist.
After meeting Eva, I speak with some Indian men who insist that such attacks are a rare exception, while others admit that sexual assaults are more common and suggest that travelers should be very cautious, especially if a solo female (regardless of race or nationality).
Though I never felt overtly threatened by the relentless ogling of Indian men, I wondered if I was being naive. Perhaps I'd been lucky or appearing in public almost constantly with Nick had served to protect me much more than I thought. Most hotels have a curfew at a certain hour, usually no later than 11 pm, and ask their guests be inside by that time. Princess Inn, where Nick & I and Eva book rooms in Fort Cochin, takes a hyper-firm stance on the curfew and tells us that they will refuse us entry if we return past the closing hour. This is for our own protection and if we're out too late, it's at our own risk and the hotel cannot be responsible for us at that point. Fort Cochin isn't a dangerous town; it's small, laid-back, friendly and full of travelers. But given the Varkala police reaction to Eva's assault, it's hard to blame the hotel owners for putting firm curfews in place.
Once my ears are open, I begin to hear more stories of assaults. Subash, the manager at Princess Inn, tells us that a couple of years ago there's a knock on the shuttered door in the middle of the night. He gets up and looks out to find an Indian man carrying an unconscious Western woman on his shoulder. The man begs Subash to let the woman in and give her a room at the inn, but given the situation Subash has to refuse. The entire circumstance doesn't look good and Princess Inn can't take on the responsibility for the woman's fate. The man may or may not be guilty of foul activity, but if the woman was assaulted, raped, or robbed, someone local would certainly be blamed. If Princess Inn takes her in, it would be them. Meanwhile, if the man goes to the police he will be blamed whether or not he's guilty. Subash's reaction isn't Western -- we want to help everyone -- but in the context of India it's the only reasonable response.
When we arrive back in Bombay, we meet up with a few friends. I speak with Anupam, a Bombay resident, who describes a recent incident in Noida, Uttar Pradesh, a Delhi suburb. Two local cricket teams finish a match, and the winning team decides to "celebrate" by assaulting a random woman. A mob of ten spots a young Indian woman in a car with a friend -- just leaving a popular mall -- and attack and gain control of their car. Being in public doesn't stop the cricket players, who beat up the male friend and drive the car to a remote area where several of them rape the young woman. (News story: http://www.telegraphindia.com/1090107/jsp/frontpage/story_10353636.jsp, or Google search for "Noida cricket rape")
Hours before we leave the country, another report on the local news: an attack on women in Mangalore, Karnataka, though not explicitly a sexual attack. A fundamentalist group of Hindu men break into a pub in the afternoon and go after several woman in the establishment, claiming themselves as a moral brigade upholding traditional values. (News story: http://news.in.msn.com/national/article.aspx?cp-documentid=1792540, or Google search for "Mangalore pub women assault")
What is going on here?! Has India always been so dangerous for female travelers and Westernized Indian women? How can these young guys imagine this activity to be acceptable, in their wildest imaginations? My American brain can maaaaybe justify it by blaming alcohol or drug abuse or chalking it up to miscreants; basic lowlife. But the perpetrators don't seem to be criminals pushed outside the bounds of society, they're normal guys. This is not like taking a midnight stroll in East New York (incidentally, another friend tells me it's not as bad as I've heard) or Harlem in the 80s.
In conversations with Anupam and a work colleague of Gunjan (my Bombay friend), I learn that the trouble started recently. Only in the past ten to fifteen years have women started to feel unsafe in India. Buses and trains didn't used to have segregated cabins, but are now necessary. In Tamil Nadu, women have abandoned their traditional one-shouldered sari outfits for more coverage. Reports of threats, assaults, and rapes have increased.
What happened a decade ago? TV, of course!
Television became widely available even in the poorest and most rural regions. Locals gained access to various films, which surely includes the usual family fare of Bollywood, Tollywood, Kollywood or Mollywood movies (Indian masala films in various languages). But the local men also gained exposure to Western films and soft porn.
Out of touch from the modern world and the culture of the West, the local boys see these films with no context for which they were made. They can only see what appears on the screen via the lens of their own culture and experience. There is no one to explain to them that in the West, affection is common and women do not cover up, but the price we pay for our liberties are strict social boundaries that differ from those in rural India.
Back home in a small Indian town, everyone knows the following fact: only prostitutes dress in revealing clothing, look directly at and talk to men, and display affection in public.
Therefore, all Western (or Westernized) women are prostitutes! And men can do anything they want with a hooker.
Watching all the kissing and cuddling on TV, seeing the white girls in skimpy clothing, and watching how every guy on the screen seems to have frequent sex, the local men put two and two together. Hey! I'm the only man in the world not getting laid!
An additional pressure is complete sexual repression in the local community. The men are probably going to have an arranged marriage to a modest woman, someone within their class, and sex before marriage is still a massive taboo. It happens frequently, but it's never discussed and the woman is often seen as "used" -- not marriage material. The young men are mad for release. Forcible sex with a loose Western girl may seem like a pretty good option for getting the old job done. In a country where everyone is striving for a golden chance to rise up out of the confines of their class, many realize that the opportunities are slim and unlikely. This behavior might feel like the only chance to get a taste of the West.
I ask around, what can be done? How will changes be made? Most give me a blank look, a shrug, or an infuriating Indian head bobble.
In the short term, Western/ized women need to be more cautious than ever in India, and efforts need to be made to educate rural men about the culture of the West. It's not going away anytime soon. In the long term it seems only India's continued process of modernization will ultimately provide a feed of information into the depths of the country, radiating outward from the cities. Hopefully a greater understanding will permeate the psyche of these young men. But it's a lot to hope for and the situation is likely to get worse before it gets better.
Western women need to take care of themselves when traveling in India. I wouldn't do it alone. If bringing a man along isn't a possibility, go with two or more female friends and don't wander around without the group no matter how "safe" it feels. If really stuck alone, don't go out after dark. Stick to the hotel or a traveler restaurant/bar on the same block. Never book an out-of-the-way hotel. This is the reality of the situation.
On the other hand, Western women also continue to reinforce the stereotypes and assumptions of Indian men. Many treat India like the West, going to the beach in a bikini, walking around small towns in tank tops, shorts, and mini skirts, ready to party, drink and have a good time. The temptation to be defiant may be there but it's not worth it, and it's contributing to the problem. There's nothing to prove, except how vulnerable we are.
Back in the U - S - S - A
We arrived safe and sound in Newark, NJ on Monday night after spending 20 hours in the air. My brother was waiting happily for us at international arrivals with warm jackets to face the winter air. After the heat of southern India the shock of the cold felt like breathing broken glass; simultaneously, it felt refreshingly like home. We chatted deliriously and crashed as his apartment in New Brunswick that night, then breakfasted at LePeep for some good old-fashioned Jersey Diner American food. I was amazed at how bland my smoked salmon eggs benedict was. I miss Indian food already. Laura and I then caught a train into NYC to pick up our car, then drove to mom's in Philly to spend the rest of the week recovering.
I was more than a little worried about our flight(s), and I'm still half-amazed that we're home safe. I didn't want to blog about any of this before we left, but now that we're home safe I can spill the beans.
1. We flew out on Republic Day, one of India's two major national holidays. Our cell phone service was cut off when we returned to Mumbai due to heightened security (see "Problems with Penmanship" post earlier), and there was a general sense of foreboding in the air. Police and security guards were crawling all over Colaba, the ritzy touristy area where we were staying (and home to the Taj and Oberoi hotels that were hit in the Nov 26th attacks, as well as the CST station and Israeli house). There were now-familiar sandbag machine gun turrets lining Colaba Causeway and staged around the Taj hotel. Even the Krishna temple down the street had 3 armed guards outside 24-hours a day. Yeesh.
2. We learned early on in our trip about the "terrorist calendar" that 4 major attacks had followed. The first was in Dehli on May 13th. Attacks then occurred every other month alternating between the 13th and 26th, culminating in the Mumbai attacks on Nov 26th. Jan 13th was next in line. When that failed to yield an attack it seemed only natural that Republic Day, Jan 26th would be next.
3. To make matters more interesting (and to excite the superstitious among us), there was a total eclipse of the sun on Jan 26th in India.
The signs indicated that flying was risky that day. We braved it anyway. I was heartened by the INTENSE security at the airport. Bags and people searched multiple times at multiple checkpoints. Of course being white we were waved through a few of them while nice Indian families got the full-search treatment. And then again at London Heathrow we were waved through a final check point while two black families ahead of us were pulled aside.
An appropriate return to post-Obama USA. Racism is alive and well around the world. It's one of our big exports, infused with the Great American Dream of Coca-Cola, McDonalds, two car garages, and surround-sound digital HD TV's.
I was more than a little worried about our flight(s), and I'm still half-amazed that we're home safe. I didn't want to blog about any of this before we left, but now that we're home safe I can spill the beans.
1. We flew out on Republic Day, one of India's two major national holidays. Our cell phone service was cut off when we returned to Mumbai due to heightened security (see "Problems with Penmanship" post earlier), and there was a general sense of foreboding in the air. Police and security guards were crawling all over Colaba, the ritzy touristy area where we were staying (and home to the Taj and Oberoi hotels that were hit in the Nov 26th attacks, as well as the CST station and Israeli house). There were now-familiar sandbag machine gun turrets lining Colaba Causeway and staged around the Taj hotel. Even the Krishna temple down the street had 3 armed guards outside 24-hours a day. Yeesh.
2. We learned early on in our trip about the "terrorist calendar" that 4 major attacks had followed. The first was in Dehli on May 13th. Attacks then occurred every other month alternating between the 13th and 26th, culminating in the Mumbai attacks on Nov 26th. Jan 13th was next in line. When that failed to yield an attack it seemed only natural that Republic Day, Jan 26th would be next.
3. To make matters more interesting (and to excite the superstitious among us), there was a total eclipse of the sun on Jan 26th in India.
The signs indicated that flying was risky that day. We braved it anyway. I was heartened by the INTENSE security at the airport. Bags and people searched multiple times at multiple checkpoints. Of course being white we were waved through a few of them while nice Indian families got the full-search treatment. And then again at London Heathrow we were waved through a final check point while two black families ahead of us were pulled aside.
An appropriate return to post-Obama USA. Racism is alive and well around the world. It's one of our big exports, infused with the Great American Dream of Coca-Cola, McDonalds, two car garages, and surround-sound digital HD TV's.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Last thoughts on India
Scattered thoughts about India on the eve of our departure.
The dogs and monkeys are wild and will attack you. The bulls, however, placidly roam the streets.
George Lucas owes India a LOT of money. Everything magical about Star Wars is already here. I don't think he wrote the movie or thought up any of the wacky cantinas or epic battles. He just came to India and took good notes.
For every generalization I can make about the people, my experiences, etc, I can think of an immediate example where it's not true. For example, the trip was (generally) wonderful and life-changing.
I already miss India and we haven't left yet. At the same time I'm sick of the anticipation of leaving and just want to be gone. I saw on the news today that some (Indian) girls were assaulted at a mall in Mangalore earlier. This is not as uncommon as it should be, and disgusts me.
With all the grime, pollution, beggars, etc, Indians are also the most hygenic people I've met. Though deodorant remains elusive. I've been forced to use Axe Body Spray this entire trip. This also disgusts me. The stuff smells like a skunk on a bad day.
I can't wait for a regular hot shower. Though I'll miss the food.
I'm surprised at how many friends we made. Even more surprising is the feeling that they won't entirely disappear from our lives.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ... In short, it was like any time that has been or is or will be. I wonder what I'll make of the States when I return?
Just about out of minutes. I'll write more State-side.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Penmanship Problems
Our cell phone stopped working last night when we arrived in Mumbai.
After months of haggling and hassling and all-but-wrestling shop owners to keep minutes in fresh supply, we received a curious greeting when we tried to call anyone after checking into our hotel.
"We're sorry," a sickeningly-cheery recording of a young woman greeted us. "You're account is unable to make outgoing calls. Please dial 111 to speak with a Customer Care Representative."
If you know anything about IVR lines, you know that it's nearly impossible to reach an actual representative. The Vodaphone IVR line proved no different.
Resolved to tackle the problem today I went to a big Vodaphone store nearby after breakfast. Still battling with my hangover I waited in line and punched in an excerpt from the first paragraph of "Tale of Two Cities" into an on-display Blackberry. (If you're ever in the Fort area Vodaphone Store in Mumbai, check the notepad application on one of the Blackberries ...) It's a habit I enjoy.
My number was called and I approached the desk of the smiling representative.
"Hello, sir, how may I help you?" the nice man asked.
I calmly explained the situation. "I purchased this Vodaphone in Mumbai 2 months ago. I've been travelling India with it, no problem. When I arrived in Mumbai last night it started telling me I can no longer make outgoing calls. I'd like to make outgoing calls."
"Ah, ok. Can you please verify you're phone number? OK. You're from US? No problem. Let me see, OK, one second please, sir." And he wandered away from his desk into a back room.
The Vodaphone stores are actually really cool. There are many customer desks to help you, they have a phenomenal queuing system, several automated computers to deal with easy transactions (paying your monthly bill if you have an account, for example). I'm very impressed. The services we have in the States are, relatively, crap. One of the many small ways in which India is way ahead of us. If only they had safe running water.
I was left to contemplate on this and other things for an unusually long time before my customer service friend returned with several pieces of paper.
"Well, sir," he explained, "it seems that you're account has been rejected due to a signature problem." He spread out the paperwork in front of me and started writing x's in various locations. It was the same paperwork we'd filled out to get the phone in the first place. "You are staying in Mumbai, yes? OK. Do you have a friend here? OK, good. Now you're friend is going to have to get a letter from the embassy and you'll need to give us another passport photo and we'll need your signature here, here and here," he pointed to his x's. Before he could continue I stopped him.
"We did this paperwork already when we got the phone 2 months ago," I said.
"Oh yes, yes I know sir, it's just that after the terrorist attacks new regulations are in place."
In the US this might have been a big problem and could have meant that we would be without cell phone for the rest of our journey. Fortunately I'm in India, so I knew how to handle the situation. I began to haggle.
"Look, we fly home in 2 days on the 26th. Republic Day."
"Oh, yes, Republic Day."
"There's no way I'm going to be able to get anything from any embassy now."
He agreed and called a security guard over. They discussed the situation in rapid Hindi. Finally my friend turned to me.
"You are from America, yes?"
I nodded.
"Can we come to America?"
I was taken aback. "I'm sorry? What was that?"
"Can we come to America?" he repeated with a smile.
"Sure," I said. "If I had it my way, there'd be no problem."
Those may have been the magic words that saved me because my friend apologized and slipped off into the back again. In a few minutes his manager arrived and was brought up to speed on the situation, again in rapid Hindi. I understood the gist: I was a nice guy, I was gone in two days, couldn't they just turn on the phone?
The manager was reluctant.
"OK, you have ID?"
"ID?"
"Passport, license?"
Yes, Laura had our passports. But she was out shopping nearby while I was handling the phone with the customer service desk-turned-customs security.
"Yes," I said. "My wife has them. She's down the street shopping, I can go get them."
"OK, you wait for her here," the manager said defiantly.
"No," I countered. "She's shopping, she's not coming here. I have to go to her. She's two stores away."
"How soon can you be back?"
What was I going to do? Flee with a cell phone that didn't work? I looked at my watchless-wrist sarcastically and looked back. "Two minutes," I said.
I forget frequently that Indians, though they have phenomenal senses of humor and have a deep appreciation of irony, don't get dry sarcasm. The manager looked at my wrist, then at me, unsure of what to do.
"I'll be right back," I assured him.
"She comes here," he tried again.
"No, I need to get the passports from her."
"OK," he allowed. "You come back with your passport, we'll make a copy."
I left feeling like everything was going to work out. Ah, if only it was that easy. I was back in less than a minute with my passport. My friend inspected it, checked the visa, checked the (grungy college-era) photo.
"Where's the signature?" he asked. I pointed it out. Satisfied, the security guard took it into the back to make a Xerox while my friend and I chatted as best we could through his broken english. "I don't speak very well," he lowered his head in shame.
"No, no," I encouraged him, "you speak fine."
The passport and copy returned.
"Please sign," my friend instructed. I scrawled out my usual scrawl next to the copy of both the passport info page and the visa page. My friend frowned. "Why doesn't your signature look the same?"
I stared, incredulous. Could he really see a difference between the two sets of chicken scratches?
"Well," I tried to be as patient as possible, "this was my signature 5 years ago in college. This is my signature now." I examined the pair. I guess there was a difference. An extra crest here, a little bit of a wave there. I could even almost make out a discernable letter. I considered explaining the poor marks in penmanship in the 3rd grade -- the first bad grades I had received! I still carry the scars of shame in the form of an ever-deteriorating signature style.
My friend shook his head and scratched out my initial attempt. "Try again."
Shit, he was serious. OK. I studied my old signature carefully and tried my best to copy it. We looked at the result. Neither of us was satisfied but he took the paperwork into the back anyway. In about as much time as it took for me to retrieve the passport from Laura, the manager was back.
"Why isn't your signature the same?" he demanded. I realized with horror that my signature -- something as simple as penmanship -- could be all that identifies me as me. This is a bad, bad situation for me to be in. Thankfully I'm not in some of the more strict Asian countries. I might have been dragged out and beated with bamboo.
Instead I thumped my head on the desk in frustration.
"Look," I pointed desperately to the date on my passport. "This was my handwriting 6 years ago." I took a second look. Actually, 8 years ago. Crap how time flies. "My handwriting has changed."
"Signature is not the same," he chastized and stormed off to make another copy for me to sign. My friend had returned to the desk and was looking at me very sheepishly. When his manager disappeared I asked for a notepad to practice my signature on. I noticed then that my friend was already doing the same -- and quite well, too. When the new photocopies were placed on the desk I was still frowning at my practice attempts and silently contemplating how to wrangle my way out of this. (It occurs to me now that a good bribe would have done the trick.) Fortunately it wasn't necessary. My friend grabbed the papers while his manager's back was turned and deftly crafted my signature onto both sheets.
My eyes widened with appreciation and surprise.
"Your phone will be activated within 2 hours," my friend beamed. "Thank you for choosing Vodaphone."
I thanked him and tried to whisper a friendly conspiratorial "I won't tell your boss," but he either didn't understand or was simply eager to get me out of there. In any case the phone is working again.
And when I renew my passport I'm going to be pretty damn careful about how I sign it.
After months of haggling and hassling and all-but-wrestling shop owners to keep minutes in fresh supply, we received a curious greeting when we tried to call anyone after checking into our hotel.
"We're sorry," a sickeningly-cheery recording of a young woman greeted us. "You're account is unable to make outgoing calls. Please dial 111 to speak with a Customer Care Representative."
If you know anything about IVR lines, you know that it's nearly impossible to reach an actual representative. The Vodaphone IVR line proved no different.
Resolved to tackle the problem today I went to a big Vodaphone store nearby after breakfast. Still battling with my hangover I waited in line and punched in an excerpt from the first paragraph of "Tale of Two Cities" into an on-display Blackberry. (If you're ever in the Fort area Vodaphone Store in Mumbai, check the notepad application on one of the Blackberries ...) It's a habit I enjoy.
My number was called and I approached the desk of the smiling representative.
"Hello, sir, how may I help you?" the nice man asked.
I calmly explained the situation. "I purchased this Vodaphone in Mumbai 2 months ago. I've been travelling India with it, no problem. When I arrived in Mumbai last night it started telling me I can no longer make outgoing calls. I'd like to make outgoing calls."
"Ah, ok. Can you please verify you're phone number? OK. You're from US? No problem. Let me see, OK, one second please, sir." And he wandered away from his desk into a back room.
The Vodaphone stores are actually really cool. There are many customer desks to help you, they have a phenomenal queuing system, several automated computers to deal with easy transactions (paying your monthly bill if you have an account, for example). I'm very impressed. The services we have in the States are, relatively, crap. One of the many small ways in which India is way ahead of us. If only they had safe running water.
I was left to contemplate on this and other things for an unusually long time before my customer service friend returned with several pieces of paper.
"Well, sir," he explained, "it seems that you're account has been rejected due to a signature problem." He spread out the paperwork in front of me and started writing x's in various locations. It was the same paperwork we'd filled out to get the phone in the first place. "You are staying in Mumbai, yes? OK. Do you have a friend here? OK, good. Now you're friend is going to have to get a letter from the embassy and you'll need to give us another passport photo and we'll need your signature here, here and here," he pointed to his x's. Before he could continue I stopped him.
"We did this paperwork already when we got the phone 2 months ago," I said.
"Oh yes, yes I know sir, it's just that after the terrorist attacks new regulations are in place."
In the US this might have been a big problem and could have meant that we would be without cell phone for the rest of our journey. Fortunately I'm in India, so I knew how to handle the situation. I began to haggle.
"Look, we fly home in 2 days on the 26th. Republic Day."
"Oh, yes, Republic Day."
"There's no way I'm going to be able to get anything from any embassy now."
He agreed and called a security guard over. They discussed the situation in rapid Hindi. Finally my friend turned to me.
"You are from America, yes?"
I nodded.
"Can we come to America?"
I was taken aback. "I'm sorry? What was that?"
"Can we come to America?" he repeated with a smile.
"Sure," I said. "If I had it my way, there'd be no problem."
Those may have been the magic words that saved me because my friend apologized and slipped off into the back again. In a few minutes his manager arrived and was brought up to speed on the situation, again in rapid Hindi. I understood the gist: I was a nice guy, I was gone in two days, couldn't they just turn on the phone?
The manager was reluctant.
"OK, you have ID?"
"ID?"
"Passport, license?"
Yes, Laura had our passports. But she was out shopping nearby while I was handling the phone with the customer service desk-turned-customs security.
"Yes," I said. "My wife has them. She's down the street shopping, I can go get them."
"OK, you wait for her here," the manager said defiantly.
"No," I countered. "She's shopping, she's not coming here. I have to go to her. She's two stores away."
"How soon can you be back?"
What was I going to do? Flee with a cell phone that didn't work? I looked at my watchless-wrist sarcastically and looked back. "Two minutes," I said.
I forget frequently that Indians, though they have phenomenal senses of humor and have a deep appreciation of irony, don't get dry sarcasm. The manager looked at my wrist, then at me, unsure of what to do.
"I'll be right back," I assured him.
"She comes here," he tried again.
"No, I need to get the passports from her."
"OK," he allowed. "You come back with your passport, we'll make a copy."
I left feeling like everything was going to work out. Ah, if only it was that easy. I was back in less than a minute with my passport. My friend inspected it, checked the visa, checked the (grungy college-era) photo.
"Where's the signature?" he asked. I pointed it out. Satisfied, the security guard took it into the back to make a Xerox while my friend and I chatted as best we could through his broken english. "I don't speak very well," he lowered his head in shame.
"No, no," I encouraged him, "you speak fine."
The passport and copy returned.
"Please sign," my friend instructed. I scrawled out my usual scrawl next to the copy of both the passport info page and the visa page. My friend frowned. "Why doesn't your signature look the same?"
I stared, incredulous. Could he really see a difference between the two sets of chicken scratches?
"Well," I tried to be as patient as possible, "this was my signature 5 years ago in college. This is my signature now." I examined the pair. I guess there was a difference. An extra crest here, a little bit of a wave there. I could even almost make out a discernable letter. I considered explaining the poor marks in penmanship in the 3rd grade -- the first bad grades I had received! I still carry the scars of shame in the form of an ever-deteriorating signature style.
My friend shook his head and scratched out my initial attempt. "Try again."
Shit, he was serious. OK. I studied my old signature carefully and tried my best to copy it. We looked at the result. Neither of us was satisfied but he took the paperwork into the back anyway. In about as much time as it took for me to retrieve the passport from Laura, the manager was back.
"Why isn't your signature the same?" he demanded. I realized with horror that my signature -- something as simple as penmanship -- could be all that identifies me as me. This is a bad, bad situation for me to be in. Thankfully I'm not in some of the more strict Asian countries. I might have been dragged out and beated with bamboo.
Instead I thumped my head on the desk in frustration.
"Look," I pointed desperately to the date on my passport. "This was my handwriting 6 years ago." I took a second look. Actually, 8 years ago. Crap how time flies. "My handwriting has changed."
"Signature is not the same," he chastized and stormed off to make another copy for me to sign. My friend had returned to the desk and was looking at me very sheepishly. When his manager disappeared I asked for a notepad to practice my signature on. I noticed then that my friend was already doing the same -- and quite well, too. When the new photocopies were placed on the desk I was still frowning at my practice attempts and silently contemplating how to wrangle my way out of this. (It occurs to me now that a good bribe would have done the trick.) Fortunately it wasn't necessary. My friend grabbed the papers while his manager's back was turned and deftly crafted my signature onto both sheets.
My eyes widened with appreciation and surprise.
"Your phone will be activated within 2 hours," my friend beamed. "Thank you for choosing Vodaphone."
I thanked him and tried to whisper a friendly conspiratorial "I won't tell your boss," but he either didn't understand or was simply eager to get me out of there. In any case the phone is working again.
And when I renew my passport I'm going to be pretty damn careful about how I sign it.
Synchronicity / Coming Full Circle
We've come full circle and India feels smaller than it did 2.5 months ago when we started out here in Bombay. Having returned to Colaba, the sticky heat is the same, the tourist hassle still present, the men just as persistent in their ogling. Everywhere there is the unsolicited and ever-hopeful "Yes?!" echoed by every shopkeeper, taxi driver, coconut man, and beggar.
But the surroundings seem more familiar on the second pass, brought into clarity by weeks of getting used to the way things work here, making sense out of chaos. So there is a cow in the middle of a busy street. So there is a poor family squatting with hungry eyes in front of a store selling a glimmering array of baubles that they could never afford. So the taxi driver tries to rip us off and smiles anyway when we give him the fair fare. This is the way of life and we are starting to see it all with an Indian lens rather than an American one.
India, and the world as a whole, feels smaller now than ever. We've spent time with people from around the globe, including several French and Australians, the occasional Brit, a Manx, a Dutch, a Swede, a Pole, the Spaniards, some Americans, a South African, a Japanese, and at least one Irish. We ran into a group of architects from Dubai, which alone included several Filipinos (fashionably sleek with a Louis Vuitton bag, certainly the real thing), an Indian, and a Dubai national. In some ways we've traveled only within the bounds of one country but we've also encountered people from such a variety of backgrounds and cultures. Of course India is hardly a homogenous country, with its dozens of religions, millions of gods, and a mind-boggling array of spoken languages (ranging in count from the 18 official ones, to Lonely Planet's citation of up to 1600 minor ones, including dialects). And us poor Americans, all we can speak is English!
Synchronicity has dominated our trip. It's as if certain people, key players, have come into our lives at the right time and in the right place.
The time we spent early on in our trip with Mire and Edu, the Spanish couple, seems like many moons ago indeed. But meeting them when we did and gaining some insight into the wonders and troubles they had encountered throughout India prepared us for what lay ahead. When we arrived in Varanasi, we expected a frighful barrage of the ultimate hassles, but instead we enjoyed the laid-back attitudes at Assi Ghat and discovered that Varanasi was one of our most favorite places in all of India. They were down-to-earth, experienced travelers (more so than us) and watching Edu interact with locals so effortlessly inspired us to do the same later on.
Meeting Phil the Manx was like encountering a guiding spirit. He was always just around the corner wherever we roamed in Darjeeling, appearing from an alleyway or the door of a tiny restaurant just as we realized we were lost. This happened not once but a dozen times. On the way back from viewing the sunrise at Tiger Hill, there he appeared from a sidestreet to say hello. Numerous dinner or lunch spots we picked out randomly only to arrive to find him already there, or about to arrive within a few minutes' time. He treated us with fantastic storytelling of his many years traveling in the region and of his life back home on the Isle of Man. He was a kindly, gentle soul, but firm in his self-awareness, like a grandfather who transforms into a genie, like Obi-Wan Kenobi.
And because of Phil the Genie, we met Anna and Bjorn, who were gradually realized as mirrors of ourselves, older and wiser. Anna is a project manager working in a biology lab, she's from Poland, an avid (and good) photographer, a ball-buster at times, completely practical, a wonderful sense of humor but no-nonsense, never shy, she wears the pants at just a few inches over 5'. (In case you don't know: me - a project manager in advertising, wrote a biology thesis for undergrad, a Polish ancestry, an avid photographer, could be called a ball-buster at times, reserved, growing a greater sense of patience and humor, and 5'2" in height.) I could learn the most from her self-confidence, her lack of restraint, the complete absence of shyness. Bjorn, mild-mannered, intelligent, quiet, but accomplished and very confident, he and Nick understood each other well.
After leaving Anna and Bjorn to continue on to the Andaman Islands for scuba diving, we traveled south to meet our college friend Anaka in Madras. Not many days later, stopped in a shop on a random street in Bangalore, we met an art store owner who knew Anaka and her mother, who owns a textile business, quite well.
And, if Anna and Bjorn were perhaps older and wiser versions of ourselves, we also met our younger self, like a sister born of our past. We met Eva, from Holland, in Alleppey and traveled on together to explore Fort Cochin. An 18-year old who picked India as her first trip outside Europe, traveling alone, an adventurous type with incredible youthful energy, loads of spunk, and a bright optimism about the world despite being attacked by an Indian man only a few days before (she escaped but not without scrapes, bruises and toothmarks). It reminded me of my innocent walk many years ago down a very dark road in Jalapa, Nicaragua, gripping hands with my friend Sarah Klain, realizing that we were very much in the wrong, wrong, wrong place, and suddenly far from anything safe. The young Nicaraguan man that approached us on the bicycle turned out to be helpful, but in another reality he could just as easily have been an attacker. At the time I wasn't sure, as I spoke to him in very broken Spanish and trembled, hoping for the best.
I have finally met the parents of my girlhood pen pal, a meeting over 15 years in the making. Somehow, us here in India with Linga and Vijay, and their daughter, Sneha, living in Indianapolis. So, in a cross of synchronicity, I meet her wonderful parents first and have yet to meet my penpal, whose friendship has spanned over more years of my life than anyone else outside of my family.
And now, here again in Bombay, we meet up with our friend Bart, a college friend, somehow halfway around the world in the same city, precisely at the same time as us.
Last night, meeting Gunjan again, my advertising friend living in Bombay, having drinks with her advertising colleagues, just like home: the same mannerisms, the same humor, the same eccentric rowdiness. Full circle.
Synchronicity has been a major factor on this journey, and the people we've encountered along the way, seemingly randomly, will make it all the more unforgettable. Had we spoken to no one and isolated ourselves, this trip would never have meant the same or been as memorable.
Perhaps in India, it is impossible to isolate yourself. There are one billion people here and growing. It is not a country where you can avoid being around people, and running into a few you really click with seems like part of the script.
Jogging the memory
There was something I really wanted to write about earlier, but can't remember it for the life of me. Another funny story about one of the many ironies I've encountered here. Ah, well.
Now there's a RIDICULOUS 1970s sci-fi movie (American, dubbed into Hindi) on the TV. The well-dressed young Indian lad sitting next to me is scanning the internets for photos of scantily-dressed western women. (Pretty common in the internet cafes. But then, with no privacy to allow fun Google searches at home, where else can they go?) As Laura said in a recent post, it's not really a good idea to wander the streets in a bikini. It kind of gives the wrong idea. Clothes identify you in particular ways here. Similar to the States (only the rich can fashionably look poor, for example; then there are popular religious communities where women aren't allowed to wear pants; then, of course, there's the Amish). Similar, only different rules.
Oh, wait, it's not a ridiculous 1970s sci-fi. It's Roger Moore as James Bond, with epic NASA space battle at the end. And by "epic" I mean "ludicrous." Indians love Roger Moore. I think it's connected to their overall fantastic sense of humor.
So many things to write about! We've been all over and done so much. On the train ride back to Mumbai the other day Laura commented that one of the big differences between this and trips we've done in the past is that we've met and travelled with so many interesting people. I don't know if it's us, India or something in between, but we've made many new friends who we're eager to see again. Unfortunately they're scattered across the globe. Well it'll give us more reason to travel, and hopefully more frequently.
My notebooks are full of stories, adventures, phone numbers, names, places, words & phrases in several different languages. My spanish is more fluent, I've even picked up french again. So what did we do today that reminded me of a story I wanted to write?
We arrived last night and got a hold of Gunjan, Laura's co-worker from Boston who's living with her husband now in Mumbai. She invited us out to what turned out to be a going-away work party for her. This being the advertising world, drinks were instantly procurred for us upon our arrival and we were invited into the fray. Small world, and agency life seems to be about the same here as in NYC. We could pick out the designers, the techies huddled awkwardly in the corner, the strategists, the finance people. After a few Coronas I dragged Laura onto her feet to get the dance floor going. A few drinks later and the party was in full swing. The more boisterous of us were yucking it up on the dance floor and goofing around while others watched. Cameras were pulled out, enticing people to act out further. Excellent food came around, as did my favorite drink -- the gin & tonic. Gunjan giggled happily and staggered up to us after awhile.
"Guys, office parties aren't usually like this."
Either she was being humble or they need to invite New Yorkers to their parties more often.
For us it was a fantastic way to blow off steam after a 24-hour train ride from Bangalore and from the anxiety we're both feeling about going back home. I was sore and cranky as hell when I woke up this morning, but after a lot of water and food to ease away the hangover we ran around the city and had a fun day. Which reminds me of a story I want to tell ...
Now there's a RIDICULOUS 1970s sci-fi movie (American, dubbed into Hindi) on the TV. The well-dressed young Indian lad sitting next to me is scanning the internets for photos of scantily-dressed western women. (Pretty common in the internet cafes. But then, with no privacy to allow fun Google searches at home, where else can they go?) As Laura said in a recent post, it's not really a good idea to wander the streets in a bikini. It kind of gives the wrong idea. Clothes identify you in particular ways here. Similar to the States (only the rich can fashionably look poor, for example; then there are popular religious communities where women aren't allowed to wear pants; then, of course, there's the Amish). Similar, only different rules.
Oh, wait, it's not a ridiculous 1970s sci-fi. It's Roger Moore as James Bond, with epic NASA space battle at the end. And by "epic" I mean "ludicrous." Indians love Roger Moore. I think it's connected to their overall fantastic sense of humor.
So many things to write about! We've been all over and done so much. On the train ride back to Mumbai the other day Laura commented that one of the big differences between this and trips we've done in the past is that we've met and travelled with so many interesting people. I don't know if it's us, India or something in between, but we've made many new friends who we're eager to see again. Unfortunately they're scattered across the globe. Well it'll give us more reason to travel, and hopefully more frequently.
My notebooks are full of stories, adventures, phone numbers, names, places, words & phrases in several different languages. My spanish is more fluent, I've even picked up french again. So what did we do today that reminded me of a story I wanted to write?
We arrived last night and got a hold of Gunjan, Laura's co-worker from Boston who's living with her husband now in Mumbai. She invited us out to what turned out to be a going-away work party for her. This being the advertising world, drinks were instantly procurred for us upon our arrival and we were invited into the fray. Small world, and agency life seems to be about the same here as in NYC. We could pick out the designers, the techies huddled awkwardly in the corner, the strategists, the finance people. After a few Coronas I dragged Laura onto her feet to get the dance floor going. A few drinks later and the party was in full swing. The more boisterous of us were yucking it up on the dance floor and goofing around while others watched. Cameras were pulled out, enticing people to act out further. Excellent food came around, as did my favorite drink -- the gin & tonic. Gunjan giggled happily and staggered up to us after awhile.
"Guys, office parties aren't usually like this."
Either she was being humble or they need to invite New Yorkers to their parties more often.
For us it was a fantastic way to blow off steam after a 24-hour train ride from Bangalore and from the anxiety we're both feeling about going back home. I was sore and cranky as hell when I woke up this morning, but after a lot of water and food to ease away the hangover we ran around the city and had a fun day. Which reminds me of a story I want to tell ...
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Wrong god.
Apparently Lakshmi is the wife of Vishnu. Parvati is the wife of Shiva.
(Which makes sense if you follow the old tradition of matched husband-wife pairings that arose in similarly joined cities. For example, if Varanasi is the city of Shiva then Mugalsarai, the city across the river, would be the city of Parvati. Don't know if that's true or not, just extrapolating based on ancient history.)
Still, Shiva has resonated with me. We visited several Shiva-associated shrines and temples today around Bangalore, including the Big Bull Temple and one of the oldest lingam-cave temples in all of India. I find this fascinating to no end.
(Which makes sense if you follow the old tradition of matched husband-wife pairings that arose in similarly joined cities. For example, if Varanasi is the city of Shiva then Mugalsarai, the city across the river, would be the city of Parvati. Don't know if that's true or not, just extrapolating based on ancient history.)
Still, Shiva has resonated with me. We visited several Shiva-associated shrines and temples today around Bangalore, including the Big Bull Temple and one of the oldest lingam-cave temples in all of India. I find this fascinating to no end.
Monday, January 19, 2009
New York, New York
Thank goodness I live in New York City. Though the place drives me mad with both ecstatic amazement and choking frustration, it has given me something of true value. Living in NYC for the past two years has prepared me for India in a way that no other city in America could have. Indians keep asking me, "Aren't you surprised by such-and-such customs or situations here?" and I have to say no, not really. We have these things too. In New York.
We too have a problem with public urination.
We too bear a tragic chasm between our mega rich and our desperately poor (we just try to hide it).
We too lack any discernible traffic lanes or real road rules of any kind, with large trucks often whizzing by on the narrowest of BQE lanes at ludicrous speed, narrowly missing my vehicle by two inches.
There are so many things about New York that remind me of India, or maybe it's the other way around, and it's India that reminds me of home. Many travelers, particularly women of course, seem shocked by the constant hassle of male attention. The masses of generic Indian men are not shy. They cross our lines of respect with endless staring, getting way too close, making lewd suggestions, enjoying the thrilling feel of their eyes on white skin. Western women constantly cross their lines of respect by wearing little more than a bikini. Hello, prostitute!
Well, tough cookie, mister, because I am having none of it. I've been dealing with this for a long time. At home they're just Jamaican and have dreads and say "man," "sister," and "mama" a lot and smell like pot. Not a day goes by in my neighborhood when I go home without getting stared at, and usually cat-called too. "Heyyyy baby, it's hoooot out today, why you walkin' so faaast? Slow down and cool off hooooney, awww, come on..." the homeboys say. Long ago I learned how to project an icy exterior. I never make eye contact, I scowl, I walk with a purpose and intent. It was irritating at first, now it's faintly amusing, and it will never stop. For the Indian men, I just say "Excuuuuse me" and look 'em in the eye and the look of utter shock on their face is priceless. A woman has just talked back! Wow! I don't get bothered after that.
Westerners told me before I left, "India is dirty." Yes, they were right, India could be called dirty. Well, so could NYC. We enjoy a whiff of stale urine from a stairwell and (apparently) dump garbage in empty lots, or just on the street if the inclination arises. I've seen some cleaner railway platforms and subway stations throughout India than some of the crumbling ones owned by the MTA, with fat rats crawling around bags of garbage and that homeless man doing - yes, THAT - defecating over in the far corner. Today, as we approached India's IT hub, I saw a row of nicely spaced poor men, back facing the train, doing their most personal of business in the dust of a half-constructed road. Moments later we pulled into one of Bangalore's sparkling new train stations. How is it that the best of the world's cities, where some of the biggest business deals get made and the brightest and best-educated talent lives, also have some of the nastiest filth? Whatever the answer, man, I live in NYC. I've seen people poop in the street before, no big deal.
For a minute it's funny to me that Western backpackers are surprised by any of this. Then again they probably live in places like Paris, or Israel, or Florida, where the contrasts are not in your face quite in the same way.
I'm pretty sure that NYC was mistaken for greatness and is really a developing country, struggling with a thousand inconsistencies every day. It's entirely feasible that Brad Pitt, or someone as handsome, rich and famous as him, stumbles onto the nameless-homeless guy's shopping cart tent because they're just accidentally in the same street at the same time. I don't think this is how I'd ever describe Seattle, Portland, or Boston, the other cities in which I've lived. They do a much better job of separating their filth from their beauty.
The problem for me is that I'm utterly fascinated by it all. I love that NYC is so bizarre with it's inability to prevent everything from mixing together in total chaos. I also love this about India. I like that I'm not surprised by anything anymore, except for the way the strangeness sticks out awkwardly. New Yorkers - keep honking obsessively, it's weird and really annoying, but now I'm used to it and silence in the street is also weird (wouldn't you want to let everyone around you know, WATCH OUT HERE I COOOOMMMMEEE! if you drive like a maniac?).
As a traveler in India I can't effectively do my own driving, wash my own laundry, book my own transportation, shop in a proper grocery store, avoid creepy men, get a fair price, pretend like discrimination doesn't exist, or forget about poverty. I can't do any of these things in NYC either.
India feels like home, and home feels like India. Hello, cousin!
We too have a problem with public urination.
We too bear a tragic chasm between our mega rich and our desperately poor (we just try to hide it).
We too lack any discernible traffic lanes or real road rules of any kind, with large trucks often whizzing by on the narrowest of BQE lanes at ludicrous speed, narrowly missing my vehicle by two inches.
There are so many things about New York that remind me of India, or maybe it's the other way around, and it's India that reminds me of home. Many travelers, particularly women of course, seem shocked by the constant hassle of male attention. The masses of generic Indian men are not shy. They cross our lines of respect with endless staring, getting way too close, making lewd suggestions, enjoying the thrilling feel of their eyes on white skin. Western women constantly cross their lines of respect by wearing little more than a bikini. Hello, prostitute!
Well, tough cookie, mister, because I am having none of it. I've been dealing with this for a long time. At home they're just Jamaican and have dreads and say "man," "sister," and "mama" a lot and smell like pot. Not a day goes by in my neighborhood when I go home without getting stared at, and usually cat-called too. "Heyyyy baby, it's hoooot out today, why you walkin' so faaast? Slow down and cool off hooooney, awww, come on..." the homeboys say. Long ago I learned how to project an icy exterior. I never make eye contact, I scowl, I walk with a purpose and intent. It was irritating at first, now it's faintly amusing, and it will never stop. For the Indian men, I just say "Excuuuuse me" and look 'em in the eye and the look of utter shock on their face is priceless. A woman has just talked back! Wow! I don't get bothered after that.
Westerners told me before I left, "India is dirty." Yes, they were right, India could be called dirty. Well, so could NYC. We enjoy a whiff of stale urine from a stairwell and (apparently) dump garbage in empty lots, or just on the street if the inclination arises. I've seen some cleaner railway platforms and subway stations throughout India than some of the crumbling ones owned by the MTA, with fat rats crawling around bags of garbage and that homeless man doing - yes, THAT - defecating over in the far corner. Today, as we approached India's IT hub, I saw a row of nicely spaced poor men, back facing the train, doing their most personal of business in the dust of a half-constructed road. Moments later we pulled into one of Bangalore's sparkling new train stations. How is it that the best of the world's cities, where some of the biggest business deals get made and the brightest and best-educated talent lives, also have some of the nastiest filth? Whatever the answer, man, I live in NYC. I've seen people poop in the street before, no big deal.
For a minute it's funny to me that Western backpackers are surprised by any of this. Then again they probably live in places like Paris, or Israel, or Florida, where the contrasts are not in your face quite in the same way.
I'm pretty sure that NYC was mistaken for greatness and is really a developing country, struggling with a thousand inconsistencies every day. It's entirely feasible that Brad Pitt, or someone as handsome, rich and famous as him, stumbles onto the nameless-homeless guy's shopping cart tent because they're just accidentally in the same street at the same time. I don't think this is how I'd ever describe Seattle, Portland, or Boston, the other cities in which I've lived. They do a much better job of separating their filth from their beauty.
The problem for me is that I'm utterly fascinated by it all. I love that NYC is so bizarre with it's inability to prevent everything from mixing together in total chaos. I also love this about India. I like that I'm not surprised by anything anymore, except for the way the strangeness sticks out awkwardly. New Yorkers - keep honking obsessively, it's weird and really annoying, but now I'm used to it and silence in the street is also weird (wouldn't you want to let everyone around you know, WATCH OUT HERE I COOOOMMMMEEE! if you drive like a maniac?).
As a traveler in India I can't effectively do my own driving, wash my own laundry, book my own transportation, shop in a proper grocery store, avoid creepy men, get a fair price, pretend like discrimination doesn't exist, or forget about poverty. I can't do any of these things in NYC either.
India feels like home, and home feels like India. Hello, cousin!
In the home of the gods
After an incredibly active past two weeks we've arrived safe and sound in Bangaluru, aka Bangalore, the tech-capital of India. Think Seattle during the tech boom of the 1990s. We're visiting Linga & Vijay, the parents of Laura's girlhood pen-pal (who now lives in Indianapolis, Indiana). Laura is learning how to make chapati with Vijay right now, the two of them laughing and chatting in the kitchen while I write and Linga catches up with the TV. We have all the comforts of home -- nice bathroom, home-cooked meals, but most importantly warm and welcoming hosts as only India could provide.
Or my grandparents.
Fittingly, they have the names of the god Shiva (Lingaiah, from "lingam," the pedestal representing Shiva) and his wife Lakshmi (Vijaylakshmi), so you could say that we are in the care of the gods for the next few days. Why fittingly? It occurs to me that I haven't discussed my new-found reverence for Shiva. Very early in the trip, around the time Mumbai was exploding, something was pressing me to establish a shrine. A centerpiece to solidify my travels, sort of, but also this general sense instilled in me from traveller's tales and the panoply of divinity that a focal point was necessary to stay grounded and to help make sense of it all. I read and read and quizzed locals I chatted with about various gods and temples. Ganesh -- son of Shiva and also god of luck & wealth -- is predominant currently, but he didn't ring true to me. Perhaps it was the focus on money, perhaps it was the elephant head. I was looking for something else. Krishna came to mind as a possibility. Musician, chaser of milkmaids. Also plays the role of advisor to Arjuna in the Bhagavad Gita. But I'm not really the milkmaid-chasing musician anymore.
Then there's Hanuman, the monkey-god. Strong, reknowned for knowledge and serving Rama. Or I could follow the footsteps of countless westerners before me and follow the Buddha or the Dhali Lama, both of which are easily accessible here. But while Buddhism still resonates with me, I've learned how entwined it is with Hinduism -- it was originally a rebellion against the caste system some 2,000+ yrs. ago. Ok, then, how about the Jesus? He's kind of a big deal here, whether you're new-born or you've been into his movement since his apostles landed here some 1,900 yrs. ago. (Seriously, folks, India has got it all and has had it longer than we know! Watching "authentic tribal dance" in the Sunderban Tiger Reserve Laura and I were both amazed to find African rhythms and movements than must have migrated here some 40,000 yrs. ago, to take an uneducated guess.)
Things somehow came to a head for me in Varanasi, the most holy city along the most holy Ganga, where the (dharmic) wheel of life begins and ends. Quite literally ends with the dead at the Burning Ghats, burning on pyres while their ash is sucked back into the mud of the Holy Mother (anyone heard that deitic phrase before, "Holy Mother"?). Varanasi, the oldest continuously-inhabited city on earth, where I was able to fulfill part of my pre-figured mental search via consultation with an aryuvedic medical authority at the university hospital there and where India finally came together emotionally for me, where things began to make sense despite (or perhaps because of) the heavy mist upon the Ganga that engulfed us every night; Varanasi is the city of Shiva: god of virility (fitting for a honeymoon, no?), compassion, wisdom. You would be shocked (or would you?) to see some portraits of him: peeling apart his chest to expose his bleeding heart (are you familiar with Catholic iconography?); the sacrificial lamb who gave up his life to end Kali's blood-lust and save humanity (do I need to spell this one out?). And more, not all Jesus related (he's not only the god upon the Ganga, he's also the god of ganja -- heh, heh, heh).
Needless to say, Shiva resonated. I searched fruitlessly for Shiva idols for a month until, tucked away in a Tibetan store in Fort Cochin (aka, 2 days ago), I found the perfect one. And for 50 rupees, no less! How fitting, then, that we've come for a stay at Shiva and Lakshmi's home before we return to Mumbai to fly home.
India is full of synchronicity.
I'm being called off to dinner ... more blogging (from at least one of us) later tonight.
Or my grandparents.
Fittingly, they have the names of the god Shiva (Lingaiah, from "lingam," the pedestal representing Shiva) and his wife Lakshmi (Vijaylakshmi), so you could say that we are in the care of the gods for the next few days. Why fittingly? It occurs to me that I haven't discussed my new-found reverence for Shiva. Very early in the trip, around the time Mumbai was exploding, something was pressing me to establish a shrine. A centerpiece to solidify my travels, sort of, but also this general sense instilled in me from traveller's tales and the panoply of divinity that a focal point was necessary to stay grounded and to help make sense of it all. I read and read and quizzed locals I chatted with about various gods and temples. Ganesh -- son of Shiva and also god of luck & wealth -- is predominant currently, but he didn't ring true to me. Perhaps it was the focus on money, perhaps it was the elephant head. I was looking for something else. Krishna came to mind as a possibility. Musician, chaser of milkmaids. Also plays the role of advisor to Arjuna in the Bhagavad Gita. But I'm not really the milkmaid-chasing musician anymore.
Then there's Hanuman, the monkey-god. Strong, reknowned for knowledge and serving Rama. Or I could follow the footsteps of countless westerners before me and follow the Buddha or the Dhali Lama, both of which are easily accessible here. But while Buddhism still resonates with me, I've learned how entwined it is with Hinduism -- it was originally a rebellion against the caste system some 2,000+ yrs. ago. Ok, then, how about the Jesus? He's kind of a big deal here, whether you're new-born or you've been into his movement since his apostles landed here some 1,900 yrs. ago. (Seriously, folks, India has got it all and has had it longer than we know! Watching "authentic tribal dance" in the Sunderban Tiger Reserve Laura and I were both amazed to find African rhythms and movements than must have migrated here some 40,000 yrs. ago, to take an uneducated guess.)
Things somehow came to a head for me in Varanasi, the most holy city along the most holy Ganga, where the (dharmic) wheel of life begins and ends. Quite literally ends with the dead at the Burning Ghats, burning on pyres while their ash is sucked back into the mud of the Holy Mother (anyone heard that deitic phrase before, "Holy Mother"?). Varanasi, the oldest continuously-inhabited city on earth, where I was able to fulfill part of my pre-figured mental search via consultation with an aryuvedic medical authority at the university hospital there and where India finally came together emotionally for me, where things began to make sense despite (or perhaps because of) the heavy mist upon the Ganga that engulfed us every night; Varanasi is the city of Shiva: god of virility (fitting for a honeymoon, no?), compassion, wisdom. You would be shocked (or would you?) to see some portraits of him: peeling apart his chest to expose his bleeding heart (are you familiar with Catholic iconography?); the sacrificial lamb who gave up his life to end Kali's blood-lust and save humanity (do I need to spell this one out?). And more, not all Jesus related (he's not only the god upon the Ganga, he's also the god of ganja -- heh, heh, heh).
Needless to say, Shiva resonated. I searched fruitlessly for Shiva idols for a month until, tucked away in a Tibetan store in Fort Cochin (aka, 2 days ago), I found the perfect one. And for 50 rupees, no less! How fitting, then, that we've come for a stay at Shiva and Lakshmi's home before we return to Mumbai to fly home.
India is full of synchronicity.
I'm being called off to dinner ... more blogging (from at least one of us) later tonight.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Happy Pongal!
Who says chivalry is dead?
It was another sticky-hot day in Kerala. Every day hit broiling in the mid-afternoon and our day trip to Elephant Camp and the waterfalls outside of town was no exception. We melted away in the hired jeep while Rahul (every other person we've met has been named Rahul!) patiently drove us to the sites. There were five of us westerners in tow: Laura and myself, another honeymooning couple from the States, and our Dutch friend Eva.
There were elephants in the morning, then a long drive to the falls that afternoon down long and winding roads. The falls were relatively far off the tourist map, we were to discover, and we passed several water parks and Roman Catholic Churches on the way. Local tourism, a real "authentic" Indian experience. Ha, ha.
But we were all on tourist-time so our surroundings didn't penetrate our consciousness quite as much as they probably should have. We arrived at the falls and leapt out of the jeep-turned-roasting oven into the little market surrounding the entrance. That's when the Pongal pilgrims approached, shaking hands (with the men) and sharing treats.
"Happy Pongal," they greeted me enthusiastically.
It took me a bit to figure out what they were saying. But we recognized their garb: all black clothes with painted foreheads, part of a 40-day preparation for devotions at a local temple. Eva had met several of them on her journey to Kerala so between her and Rahul we got an account of their 5 AM baths, specific diets, etc. And, apparently, trips to waterfalls and waterparks. Hinduism is an inclusive religion. It just sort of takes things in stride.
But back to Pongal, the falls, and a group of out-of-place westerners looking for some water to cool off in. The falls were fairly nice, and the river that fed them was full of bathing families. (Laura has some great photos). Rahul suggested that if we wanted to swim we hike up the river aways to get some privacy.
And that, I think, is where the trouble began.
As we (very obviously) headed upstream away from the civilities of modest dress a loud series of hoots and hollars rose up from the river. Imagine in your mind's eye what those Indian men saw: 3 western girls looking to go for a dip and do whatever it is those crazy western women do. Rahul lead us into the forest to take a land path up there, but the hoots and screeches didn't subside. We were being followed.
By a group of men looking for a very happy Pongal.
We found ourselves at a nice quiet spot upriver, but the men were on our tails. We tried shouting to them to go away and leave us in peace, as such:
"Hey! Leave the ladies alone!"
But to no avail. Their leader innocently explained that they just happened to be hiking up-river at the same time as us, and the river was for everyone to share, etc etc etc. I frowned and looked at the girls. Laura shifted uncomfortably, but the other two shrugged.
"We were going to swim with our clothes on anyway." And into the cold water they went, shortly followed by the other American guy. I hesitated but it was hot out and we had driven all this way anyway, so I also dipped into the chilly, murky depths.
Now it was about this time that I looked around and noticed that quite a band of locals had come to join us. Hooting and laughing from the nearby rocks -- but not close enough to alarm us yet -- the men were having a grand old time. They were having such a good time that they were signalling more friends from downstream to follow.
I feel I should make mention of a curious affinity Indian men have for extremely tight Speedos. Somehow when thong-fashion crossed the world and came to Asia something was lost in translation, because the men enjoy flaunting their package-loaded, crack-backed Spandex. (Again, wait for Laura's photos.) So for as much as they were cackling and yucking it up on the sidelines, we were having just as much fun laughing right back.
"My friends, my friends," they were calling to us. So, for a lark, the other honeymooning guy and I swam over to joke around.
"Where you from?" the leader asked me, shaking a stick in the water.
"USA," I said.
"USA?"
"Obama-land." A sure-fire way to get people excited.
"Obaaaaamaaaaa!" the cheer went up across the waters.
"Condi!" another man called out. (She had recently visited Pakistan.)
"Cooooondiiiii!" another cheer followed, along with much hand-shaking.
"And where are you from?"
"Me?" the leader looked at me surprised. "Tamil Nadu. Governor. I am governor of Tamil Nadu!"
"Tamiiiil Naddduuuuuu!"
They were just pranking. Tamil Nadu has the reputation of being a backwards, stuck-in-the-Stone-Age state.
But then he added something disconcerting.
"I have two drinks!" he said.
"Two driiiiiiiinks!" the chorus echoed.
Two drinks? My mind put two and two together, just as I heard Laura yelling to me from across the water.
"Hey! Nick! Come back here!" The girls were huddled on a rock with a nervous-looking Rahul, surrounded by Speedos at an alarming distance.
I looked back at the "governor" and for the first time noticed his blotto eyes. Shit.
I high-tailed it back across the water.
"Rahul says it's getting dangerous," Laura hissed when I got back, physically placing myself between the girls and the Speedos. Crammed onto the rock with the girls and a growing legion of blissfully drunken men I smelled the alcohol, the eager delerium.
"Alright, get out of here," I said. Eva and Laura followed Rahul back into the woods while the American couple lingered on with me. One of the men tried to follow the girls -- he must have been twice my weight -- and I automatically grabbed his wrist, hard.
"Hey!" I shouted, but quickly reigned in my temper as the band of drunkards look curiously at me. "Photo?" I quickly added.
"Phooootooooo!" they hollared, and I assembled them around me, grabbing another lingering wrist and pulling the group into a huddle. Another man fumbled for a cell phone and lined up the shot.
I turned to the Americans. "This is your chance to RUN."
"Oh," they smiled, and followed the rest of the western group into the forest.
The photo shoot was over too quickly and more of the drunken band was arriving on the rock where I was perfectly placed to block their pursuit. They were probably having the happiest Pongal of their lives, and were eager for more. Taking my cue from a thousand school children I've met around the country, I stalled as best I could.
"One more photo? Just one more!"
Somewhere, someday on the internet you'll find a photo of me huddled in the middle of a group of beaming, highly intoxicated Indian men in tight Speedos trying in vain to look as relaxed (if not masculine) as possible.
The things we'll do for our women. Who says chivalry is dead?
It was another sticky-hot day in Kerala. Every day hit broiling in the mid-afternoon and our day trip to Elephant Camp and the waterfalls outside of town was no exception. We melted away in the hired jeep while Rahul (every other person we've met has been named Rahul!) patiently drove us to the sites. There were five of us westerners in tow: Laura and myself, another honeymooning couple from the States, and our Dutch friend Eva.
There were elephants in the morning, then a long drive to the falls that afternoon down long and winding roads. The falls were relatively far off the tourist map, we were to discover, and we passed several water parks and Roman Catholic Churches on the way. Local tourism, a real "authentic" Indian experience. Ha, ha.
But we were all on tourist-time so our surroundings didn't penetrate our consciousness quite as much as they probably should have. We arrived at the falls and leapt out of the jeep-turned-roasting oven into the little market surrounding the entrance. That's when the Pongal pilgrims approached, shaking hands (with the men) and sharing treats.
"Happy Pongal," they greeted me enthusiastically.
It took me a bit to figure out what they were saying. But we recognized their garb: all black clothes with painted foreheads, part of a 40-day preparation for devotions at a local temple. Eva had met several of them on her journey to Kerala so between her and Rahul we got an account of their 5 AM baths, specific diets, etc. And, apparently, trips to waterfalls and waterparks. Hinduism is an inclusive religion. It just sort of takes things in stride.
But back to Pongal, the falls, and a group of out-of-place westerners looking for some water to cool off in. The falls were fairly nice, and the river that fed them was full of bathing families. (Laura has some great photos). Rahul suggested that if we wanted to swim we hike up the river aways to get some privacy.
And that, I think, is where the trouble began.
As we (very obviously) headed upstream away from the civilities of modest dress a loud series of hoots and hollars rose up from the river. Imagine in your mind's eye what those Indian men saw: 3 western girls looking to go for a dip and do whatever it is those crazy western women do. Rahul lead us into the forest to take a land path up there, but the hoots and screeches didn't subside. We were being followed.
By a group of men looking for a very happy Pongal.
We found ourselves at a nice quiet spot upriver, but the men were on our tails. We tried shouting to them to go away and leave us in peace, as such:
"Hey! Leave the ladies alone!"
But to no avail. Their leader innocently explained that they just happened to be hiking up-river at the same time as us, and the river was for everyone to share, etc etc etc. I frowned and looked at the girls. Laura shifted uncomfortably, but the other two shrugged.
"We were going to swim with our clothes on anyway." And into the cold water they went, shortly followed by the other American guy. I hesitated but it was hot out and we had driven all this way anyway, so I also dipped into the chilly, murky depths.
Now it was about this time that I looked around and noticed that quite a band of locals had come to join us. Hooting and laughing from the nearby rocks -- but not close enough to alarm us yet -- the men were having a grand old time. They were having such a good time that they were signalling more friends from downstream to follow.
I feel I should make mention of a curious affinity Indian men have for extremely tight Speedos. Somehow when thong-fashion crossed the world and came to Asia something was lost in translation, because the men enjoy flaunting their package-loaded, crack-backed Spandex. (Again, wait for Laura's photos.) So for as much as they were cackling and yucking it up on the sidelines, we were having just as much fun laughing right back.
"My friends, my friends," they were calling to us. So, for a lark, the other honeymooning guy and I swam over to joke around.
"Where you from?" the leader asked me, shaking a stick in the water.
"USA," I said.
"USA?"
"Obama-land." A sure-fire way to get people excited.
"Obaaaaamaaaaa!" the cheer went up across the waters.
"Condi!" another man called out. (She had recently visited Pakistan.)
"Cooooondiiiii!" another cheer followed, along with much hand-shaking.
"And where are you from?"
"Me?" the leader looked at me surprised. "Tamil Nadu. Governor. I am governor of Tamil Nadu!"
"Tamiiiil Naddduuuuuu!"
They were just pranking. Tamil Nadu has the reputation of being a backwards, stuck-in-the-Stone-Age state.
But then he added something disconcerting.
"I have two drinks!" he said.
"Two driiiiiiiinks!" the chorus echoed.
Two drinks? My mind put two and two together, just as I heard Laura yelling to me from across the water.
"Hey! Nick! Come back here!" The girls were huddled on a rock with a nervous-looking Rahul, surrounded by Speedos at an alarming distance.
I looked back at the "governor" and for the first time noticed his blotto eyes. Shit.
I high-tailed it back across the water.
"Rahul says it's getting dangerous," Laura hissed when I got back, physically placing myself between the girls and the Speedos. Crammed onto the rock with the girls and a growing legion of blissfully drunken men I smelled the alcohol, the eager delerium.
"Alright, get out of here," I said. Eva and Laura followed Rahul back into the woods while the American couple lingered on with me. One of the men tried to follow the girls -- he must have been twice my weight -- and I automatically grabbed his wrist, hard.
"Hey!" I shouted, but quickly reigned in my temper as the band of drunkards look curiously at me. "Photo?" I quickly added.
"Phooootooooo!" they hollared, and I assembled them around me, grabbing another lingering wrist and pulling the group into a huddle. Another man fumbled for a cell phone and lined up the shot.
I turned to the Americans. "This is your chance to RUN."
"Oh," they smiled, and followed the rest of the western group into the forest.
The photo shoot was over too quickly and more of the drunken band was arriving on the rock where I was perfectly placed to block their pursuit. They were probably having the happiest Pongal of their lives, and were eager for more. Taking my cue from a thousand school children I've met around the country, I stalled as best I could.
"One more photo? Just one more!"
Somewhere, someday on the internet you'll find a photo of me huddled in the middle of a group of beaming, highly intoxicated Indian men in tight Speedos trying in vain to look as relaxed (if not masculine) as possible.
The things we'll do for our women. Who says chivalry is dead?
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Voyaging Into the Keralan Backwaters
Our bathroom seems to have a small garden in it, and it's host to a small frog. This would be startling in a normal hotel, but it's wonderful here: we're in Alleppey, in the Keralan tropics, and our bathroom has no roof. The Gowri Residence is more of a collection of small varied huts made of brick and thatch, though there are some rooms in the main heritage home. Our next door neighbors' room is unusual... it's a treehouse. We're a bit envious of that one.
Here we met the only other honeymooning couple so far on our trip. I can understand why, as Alleppey and the Keralan backwaters in general are what you picture when you think typical "honeymoon." Here you can laze on boats, sipping on fresh juice, while drifting along the interconnected waterways under a canopy of palm trees. Locals are friendly and in no rush at all. Dozens of stunningly beautiful resorts line the banks shrouded in greenery, with rooms coming right up to the water's edge and an Ayurvedic massage available right there on the spot (hopefully gentler than Nick's experience!). Birds dart from tree to tree or stand perfectly still, the storks looking like statues until they suddenly fly to a new lilypad.
Today we embark on what's regarded as one of India's best experiences - a 22-hour overnight houseboat cruise through Alleppey's waterways. From what we saw on our sneak preview yesterday (a 3-hour canoe tour), some of these houseboats are true luxury. Some have cabins with A/C, interiors of rich, dark wood, huge glass window panes, multiple decks, full kitchens, hot showers. Others are more modest but still more than comfortable. We're hoping for a low-key boat and have opted for no A/C; seems extravagant and the weather really is pleasant this time of year.
The houseboats were once used throughout Kerala's backwaters for a more practical purpose: rice shipping. The style of barge was originally designed to carry rice from the paddys outwards, to locations of processing, packaging, and further shipping. As technology changed and more efficient shipping methods were used, the tradition of making barges started to become a thing of the past. Fortunately, someone(s) realized that Alleppey could be a real tourist gem, and transformed the entire experience to cater to tourists. The houseboats were either retrofitted or newly built and is now a huge part of the local economy.
I think Lonely Planet sited 3,500 boats in Alleppey alone, and counting. And I believe it. As we floated quietly and gently along the waterways yesterday in our little covered canoe, our guide/boatman pointed out many things along the way. There were some rice paddys, kingfishers, Ayurvedic resorts, and a 62-foot long racing boat that can hold 120 people. But he certainly didn't need to point out the houseboats - they were tethered all around us, at every turn and on every bank of the waterways, and some were actively cruising in the water (with loads of friendly faces inevitably grinning and exchanging the "hello fellow tourists" wave). We saw some monstrous luxury boats that could hold a large, rich Indian family or group of Western tourists (20-30 guests on some, we guessed). Some smaller ones built just for a couple, but still impressive.
We're not sure exactly what we're going to get but it's bound to be a good experience!
Here we met the only other honeymooning couple so far on our trip. I can understand why, as Alleppey and the Keralan backwaters in general are what you picture when you think typical "honeymoon." Here you can laze on boats, sipping on fresh juice, while drifting along the interconnected waterways under a canopy of palm trees. Locals are friendly and in no rush at all. Dozens of stunningly beautiful resorts line the banks shrouded in greenery, with rooms coming right up to the water's edge and an Ayurvedic massage available right there on the spot (hopefully gentler than Nick's experience!). Birds dart from tree to tree or stand perfectly still, the storks looking like statues until they suddenly fly to a new lilypad.
Today we embark on what's regarded as one of India's best experiences - a 22-hour overnight houseboat cruise through Alleppey's waterways. From what we saw on our sneak preview yesterday (a 3-hour canoe tour), some of these houseboats are true luxury. Some have cabins with A/C, interiors of rich, dark wood, huge glass window panes, multiple decks, full kitchens, hot showers. Others are more modest but still more than comfortable. We're hoping for a low-key boat and have opted for no A/C; seems extravagant and the weather really is pleasant this time of year.
The houseboats were once used throughout Kerala's backwaters for a more practical purpose: rice shipping. The style of barge was originally designed to carry rice from the paddys outwards, to locations of processing, packaging, and further shipping. As technology changed and more efficient shipping methods were used, the tradition of making barges started to become a thing of the past. Fortunately, someone(s) realized that Alleppey could be a real tourist gem, and transformed the entire experience to cater to tourists. The houseboats were either retrofitted or newly built and is now a huge part of the local economy.
I think Lonely Planet sited 3,500 boats in Alleppey alone, and counting. And I believe it. As we floated quietly and gently along the waterways yesterday in our little covered canoe, our guide/boatman pointed out many things along the way. There were some rice paddys, kingfishers, Ayurvedic resorts, and a 62-foot long racing boat that can hold 120 people. But he certainly didn't need to point out the houseboats - they were tethered all around us, at every turn and on every bank of the waterways, and some were actively cruising in the water (with loads of friendly faces inevitably grinning and exchanging the "hello fellow tourists" wave). We saw some monstrous luxury boats that could hold a large, rich Indian family or group of Western tourists (20-30 guests on some, we guessed). Some smaller ones built just for a couple, but still impressive.
We're not sure exactly what we're going to get but it's bound to be a good experience!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Chennai & environs
Laura and I have found the Atlanta of India: the city of Chennai. A bustling, sprawling metropolis, it is one of the cultural meccas of the south (it claims to be the cultural center of India, but don't tell it's northern rival, Kolkata). It's a city of neighborhoods without a center, where old world (and I mean OLD world -- this is where the Ramayana was written down over 3000 yrs ago) meets the new (last night we had dinner at a friend's house; we know her from Reed College and her father runs his own marketing PR firm with clients such as Volkswagon).
Further comparisons: it's hot and humid down here; the city is known for its cuisine & vibrant culture; there's the French colony town of Pondicherry (a la New Orleans) nearby, some great beaches, rich intellectual scene coupled with a more conservative religious sensibility -- but then Hinduism is a religion that accentuates and celebrates diversity of being.
Lonely Planet is rather disparaging, saying this is a tourist un-friendly city with hassling rickshaw drivers. But all in all we've found it to be quite fun. The rickshaw drivers have been pleasant (only one bad encounter out of a dozen or so rides), the food has been excellent (lots of seafood, too!), and the city lazes along through the heat and humidity. Not a bad show, at all.
"So why is Lonely Planet so critical?" Laura asked over dinner in Pondicherry the other night. After a brief pause she realized: "Oh, it's because it's geared towards Europeans. They're used to small, walkable cities."
"Not our sprawling American ones," I agreed.
"So you have to drive everywhere. So what? Get over it."
It's a really fun town when you crack the surface. Though, come to think of it, I've run into an unusual number of American tourists here. Birds of a feather.
Further comparisons: it's hot and humid down here; the city is known for its cuisine & vibrant culture; there's the French colony town of Pondicherry (a la New Orleans) nearby, some great beaches, rich intellectual scene coupled with a more conservative religious sensibility -- but then Hinduism is a religion that accentuates and celebrates diversity of being.
Lonely Planet is rather disparaging, saying this is a tourist un-friendly city with hassling rickshaw drivers. But all in all we've found it to be quite fun. The rickshaw drivers have been pleasant (only one bad encounter out of a dozen or so rides), the food has been excellent (lots of seafood, too!), and the city lazes along through the heat and humidity. Not a bad show, at all.
"So why is Lonely Planet so critical?" Laura asked over dinner in Pondicherry the other night. After a brief pause she realized: "Oh, it's because it's geared towards Europeans. They're used to small, walkable cities."
"Not our sprawling American ones," I agreed.
"So you have to drive everywhere. So what? Get over it."
It's a really fun town when you crack the surface. Though, come to think of it, I've run into an unusual number of American tourists here. Birds of a feather.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Dear Mom(s)
Dear Mom(s),
We are safe and sound, don't worry. That said, the men with the guns say that if they do not receive the money by Jan 5th we may find ourselves in a more desperate position.
Ha, ha. Just joking. All the men with guns we have met -- including the ones in the sandbag machine gun turret outside the Chennai Central Train Station -- have been very nice and helpful. As a fellow passenger said, "They are the good guys."
Which is to say, they aren't targeting us.
All that aside, we read in the morning paper that there were riots in Kolkata yesterday over the new 2-stroke auto ban. And Victorie tells me that the strikes in Siliguri/Darjeeling have indeed turned violent, as we were warned. Not that any of this would have affected us (except to possibly delay travel). Nov. 26th aside, all the internal violence and strife has been just that -- internal. And, including Nov. 26th, it has all remained safely on our heels. People remain incredibly welcoming and happy to see us wherever we go.
Suspicion: it only seems dangerous because it's (a) foreign and (b) reported. Compare this with the homocide rate in the US and I think you'll find India to be much safer. Even with a cranky, corrupt, unstable, nuclear-armed neighbor.
Another interested tidbit from the newspaper this morning regarding Nov 26th. A man staying at a guru's compound near one of the attacked hotels had apparently stepped out into the street when the commotion broke out that night. He looked up and saw a man on a balcony.
"What are you doing up there?" he called out. "Come down!"
The man turned with his automatic weapon and said something sinister -- "Come closer, mister," or something to that effect. Seeing the weapon the guru-man high tailed it out of there as a grenade exploded where he had been standing. The police later had him identify the body when the terrorist was killed.
Guru-man's thoughts on the matter: "Now I know what is meant when they say, 'you will not die until it is your time to die.'"
In the meantime we do our best with the time we have. (And keeping an ear to the ground helps too.)
We are safe and sound, don't worry. That said, the men with the guns say that if they do not receive the money by Jan 5th we may find ourselves in a more desperate position.
Ha, ha. Just joking. All the men with guns we have met -- including the ones in the sandbag machine gun turret outside the Chennai Central Train Station -- have been very nice and helpful. As a fellow passenger said, "They are the good guys."
Which is to say, they aren't targeting us.
All that aside, we read in the morning paper that there were riots in Kolkata yesterday over the new 2-stroke auto ban. And Victorie tells me that the strikes in Siliguri/Darjeeling have indeed turned violent, as we were warned. Not that any of this would have affected us (except to possibly delay travel). Nov. 26th aside, all the internal violence and strife has been just that -- internal. And, including Nov. 26th, it has all remained safely on our heels. People remain incredibly welcoming and happy to see us wherever we go.
Suspicion: it only seems dangerous because it's (a) foreign and (b) reported. Compare this with the homocide rate in the US and I think you'll find India to be much safer. Even with a cranky, corrupt, unstable, nuclear-armed neighbor.
Another interested tidbit from the newspaper this morning regarding Nov 26th. A man staying at a guru's compound near one of the attacked hotels had apparently stepped out into the street when the commotion broke out that night. He looked up and saw a man on a balcony.
"What are you doing up there?" he called out. "Come down!"
The man turned with his automatic weapon and said something sinister -- "Come closer, mister," or something to that effect. Seeing the weapon the guru-man high tailed it out of there as a grenade exploded where he had been standing. The police later had him identify the body when the terrorist was killed.
Guru-man's thoughts on the matter: "Now I know what is meant when they say, 'you will not die until it is your time to die.'"
In the meantime we do our best with the time we have. (And keeping an ear to the ground helps too.)
Friday, January 2, 2009
Exotic Tigers?
Although it would push our daily budget a bit, Nick and I opted to go on a 3 day/2 night package-adventure deal to the Sunderban Tiger Reserve outside Calcutta. After our experience with painful haggling in Darjeeling (where the travel agent ended up looking so sad I thought he might burst into tears) and Jaldhapara Wildlife Sanctuary (where I heard the word "impossible" so many times I thought my head would explode), the operation for Sunderban Tiger Camp is refreshingly well run and clearly defined. The website is nicely done (http://www.sunderbantigercamp.com/), with firm prices at different tiers, explanations of what you get for the price, and the benefit of an all-inclusive deal.
Getting to the meeting point was probably the hardest part of our trip: our taxi driver tried to insist on dropping us off at Purna Cinema, but finally he understood that we needed to get to Priya Cinema. The "P" aside, these words really sound nothing alike. Shrug.
We boarded for a long bus trip south of Calcutta, where we were headed to the world's largest mangrove forest and river delta, spanning two countries (split between India and Bangladesh). Mangrove flora and fauna is often specific to the territory given the unique natural aspects of a water-logged saline swamp. The mangrove tree itself is an odd looking plant, with exposed root structures reaching outward and deep into the mud. The plant growth can be extremely thick in places and barren in others, and because the mangrove forest is composed of dozens of muddy islands, reaching the area is difficult. The plants, animals and people who live here have to survive in an area dominated by tides and brackish water. As a result it is eerily isolated.
On board our bus we met a group of three Americans, John, Lisa and Janine, who were in Calcutta for a friend's wedding. After some discussion we learned that John and Lisa live in Crown Heights (next door to Lefferts Garden, where we live in Brooklyn), and Janine also used to live in Brooklyn. It's a small world. It got even smaller when (later in our trip) we discovered that John works at Cornell's Sackler Institute for a woman named BJ, the very same that our good friend Sarah Getz worked for up until this fall. John was pretty sure he remembered Sarah, though their overlap had probably been only a month or two.
Our three hour bus ride passed with relative ease (nevermind the occasional unexplained idle and argument with some people in the road and plenty of swerves and short stops), and we were transferred to large two-tier river boats for the next segment of our journey into the swamp. We drifted by dozens of tiny villages on the water's edge, where locals would stop to stare at us from the road or sometimes wave. Some people rode bikes or hearded livestock, and others were in the water on small canoe-like fishing boats. The scenery seemed idyllic with plenty of cool breeze off the water and a lack of need for lots of vehicles. The villages had a few autorickshaws but they didn't really need cars or trucks: there are no roads connecting the mangrove islands. Mostly we saw pole-propelled boats.
We arrived at the camp, which was high luxury for us. Our "tent" was a permanent canvas structure with high ceilings, a brick bathroom, real beds, electricity, and an owl-motif theme (apparantly someone had forgotten we were at tiger camp). Here we met Aki, a wonderfully amiable and chatty Japanese man who would share our accommodation. He told us with a giggle about how cranky his wife felt about being left behind with the kids: She told me on the phone last night, 'Imagine! How much fun we are having back here. In Tokyo!' Aki impressively speaks fluent Japanese, English and Hindi and has come to India nearly every year for well over a decade.
After a delicious and long awaited lunch at the dining hall, an open-air pagoda set among beautiful gardens, we were off on our first boat ride into the mangrove swamps. The brackish water lapped on muddy shores, where the thick plant growth suddenly stopped. Many bright blue kingfishers darted from tree to tree and we caught sight of a tall and elegant white egret.
That night, we attended a local dance performance within the camp and were sucked into an ecstatic Bengali family's private festivities after dinner. Hearing music and laughter, we stopped in curiously and the women absolutely insisted I dance with them and share a "light" drink of vodka with Sprite. The men drummed on anything they could find: a chair, a cup, and sung with passion. These Bengalis were unrestrained and having a great time, and it was hard not to get caught up in their joy.
Over the next two days we took several more boat excursions deep into the mangroves. I wondered why we were on such large and noisy boats (normally eschewed for scaring animals away) until I found out more about the elusive Sunderban tiger. They have a reputation for being man-eaters, and with good reason. The Royal Bengal tigers who live in the area have developed a taste for humans and the local villagers risk their lives when venturing into the Sunderban swamps to make a living by fishing or collecting honey.
The tiger is an integral part of life here. It is worshipped and feared in the form of Dakshin Roy by Hindus and Muslims alike. The locals also revere Bon Bibi, the forest goddess who offers them protection. The villagers hope never to see a tiger, while us tourists were there hoping for just the opposite. I also wondered what they thought of us, eagerly seeking out the thing which they most wanted to avoid.
Researchers have long questioned why the tigers in the Sunderban like the taste of humans, while tigers elsewhere have no interest and attacks are extremely rare. Other reserves allow elephant rides in tiger territory, and tourists routinely find themselves just meters away from wild tigers. One theory about the Sunderban population takes into account the harsher terrain - perhaps being forced to drink salty water has made the population mad or more aggressive. Or maybe tigers have developed a different preference over generations and are passing habits down to their young.
One thing occurred to me that I did not hear explained by common theory: in this area, humans are the largest and easiest snack around. The deer and wild boar in the Sunderban are very small, and there is no other large game readily available. Being cut off on tiny islands means that finding food is more difficult, so when a group of people wander into tiger territory an attack makes sense, from a biological perspective.
One small portion of the reserve is completely cut off for all people except ranger staff, including local villagers. They are allowed to fish and collect honey, at their own risk, in other portions of the reserve, but not here. At one point a group of locals illegally snuck into the closed area by boat hoping for a jackpot of natural resources. They were promptly attacked by a hungry tiger, who single-handedly killed three of them - an unheard of incident. The tiger was probably desperate for its favorite food. Something else occurred to me: people, at least in the Sunderban, are easy prey. Perhaps armed humans are equally dangerous, but tigers can easily attack from out of nowhere as the mangrove growth is dense and comes up to the water's edge.
Elsewhere in India, tiger attacks were once common during early colonial days. But humans brought thier weapons and their thirst for exotic skins and nearly devestated the entire tiger and wild cat population in the subcontinent. Hundreds of skins were collected and the Brits were eager to practice their wild game hunting when faced with the dangerous and exotic tiger. It was a tragic era, but perhaps tigers learned to avoid humans over time, with the result that most tiger populations will not attack people under normal circumstances.
But in the Sunderban it's a different world and one that humans have not mastered. When venturing into the mangrove swamp a person is suddenly small and vulnerable - an experience we are not at all used to. It's a wild and untamed area, and while a glimpse of a tiger would have been exciting, it's fine by me that they remained hidden. This is perhaps the only territory left on the planet that they can truly own: and let them - we have the rest.
Getting to the meeting point was probably the hardest part of our trip: our taxi driver tried to insist on dropping us off at Purna Cinema, but finally he understood that we needed to get to Priya Cinema. The "P" aside, these words really sound nothing alike. Shrug.
We boarded for a long bus trip south of Calcutta, where we were headed to the world's largest mangrove forest and river delta, spanning two countries (split between India and Bangladesh). Mangrove flora and fauna is often specific to the territory given the unique natural aspects of a water-logged saline swamp. The mangrove tree itself is an odd looking plant, with exposed root structures reaching outward and deep into the mud. The plant growth can be extremely thick in places and barren in others, and because the mangrove forest is composed of dozens of muddy islands, reaching the area is difficult. The plants, animals and people who live here have to survive in an area dominated by tides and brackish water. As a result it is eerily isolated.
On board our bus we met a group of three Americans, John, Lisa and Janine, who were in Calcutta for a friend's wedding. After some discussion we learned that John and Lisa live in Crown Heights (next door to Lefferts Garden, where we live in Brooklyn), and Janine also used to live in Brooklyn. It's a small world. It got even smaller when (later in our trip) we discovered that John works at Cornell's Sackler Institute for a woman named BJ, the very same that our good friend Sarah Getz worked for up until this fall. John was pretty sure he remembered Sarah, though their overlap had probably been only a month or two.
Our three hour bus ride passed with relative ease (nevermind the occasional unexplained idle and argument with some people in the road and plenty of swerves and short stops), and we were transferred to large two-tier river boats for the next segment of our journey into the swamp. We drifted by dozens of tiny villages on the water's edge, where locals would stop to stare at us from the road or sometimes wave. Some people rode bikes or hearded livestock, and others were in the water on small canoe-like fishing boats. The scenery seemed idyllic with plenty of cool breeze off the water and a lack of need for lots of vehicles. The villages had a few autorickshaws but they didn't really need cars or trucks: there are no roads connecting the mangrove islands. Mostly we saw pole-propelled boats.
We arrived at the camp, which was high luxury for us. Our "tent" was a permanent canvas structure with high ceilings, a brick bathroom, real beds, electricity, and an owl-motif theme (apparantly someone had forgotten we were at tiger camp). Here we met Aki, a wonderfully amiable and chatty Japanese man who would share our accommodation. He told us with a giggle about how cranky his wife felt about being left behind with the kids: She told me on the phone last night, 'Imagine! How much fun we are having back here. In Tokyo!' Aki impressively speaks fluent Japanese, English and Hindi and has come to India nearly every year for well over a decade.
After a delicious and long awaited lunch at the dining hall, an open-air pagoda set among beautiful gardens, we were off on our first boat ride into the mangrove swamps. The brackish water lapped on muddy shores, where the thick plant growth suddenly stopped. Many bright blue kingfishers darted from tree to tree and we caught sight of a tall and elegant white egret.
That night, we attended a local dance performance within the camp and were sucked into an ecstatic Bengali family's private festivities after dinner. Hearing music and laughter, we stopped in curiously and the women absolutely insisted I dance with them and share a "light" drink of vodka with Sprite. The men drummed on anything they could find: a chair, a cup, and sung with passion. These Bengalis were unrestrained and having a great time, and it was hard not to get caught up in their joy.
Over the next two days we took several more boat excursions deep into the mangroves. I wondered why we were on such large and noisy boats (normally eschewed for scaring animals away) until I found out more about the elusive Sunderban tiger. They have a reputation for being man-eaters, and with good reason. The Royal Bengal tigers who live in the area have developed a taste for humans and the local villagers risk their lives when venturing into the Sunderban swamps to make a living by fishing or collecting honey.
The tiger is an integral part of life here. It is worshipped and feared in the form of Dakshin Roy by Hindus and Muslims alike. The locals also revere Bon Bibi, the forest goddess who offers them protection. The villagers hope never to see a tiger, while us tourists were there hoping for just the opposite. I also wondered what they thought of us, eagerly seeking out the thing which they most wanted to avoid.
Researchers have long questioned why the tigers in the Sunderban like the taste of humans, while tigers elsewhere have no interest and attacks are extremely rare. Other reserves allow elephant rides in tiger territory, and tourists routinely find themselves just meters away from wild tigers. One theory about the Sunderban population takes into account the harsher terrain - perhaps being forced to drink salty water has made the population mad or more aggressive. Or maybe tigers have developed a different preference over generations and are passing habits down to their young.
One thing occurred to me that I did not hear explained by common theory: in this area, humans are the largest and easiest snack around. The deer and wild boar in the Sunderban are very small, and there is no other large game readily available. Being cut off on tiny islands means that finding food is more difficult, so when a group of people wander into tiger territory an attack makes sense, from a biological perspective.
One small portion of the reserve is completely cut off for all people except ranger staff, including local villagers. They are allowed to fish and collect honey, at their own risk, in other portions of the reserve, but not here. At one point a group of locals illegally snuck into the closed area by boat hoping for a jackpot of natural resources. They were promptly attacked by a hungry tiger, who single-handedly killed three of them - an unheard of incident. The tiger was probably desperate for its favorite food. Something else occurred to me: people, at least in the Sunderban, are easy prey. Perhaps armed humans are equally dangerous, but tigers can easily attack from out of nowhere as the mangrove growth is dense and comes up to the water's edge.
Elsewhere in India, tiger attacks were once common during early colonial days. But humans brought thier weapons and their thirst for exotic skins and nearly devestated the entire tiger and wild cat population in the subcontinent. Hundreds of skins were collected and the Brits were eager to practice their wild game hunting when faced with the dangerous and exotic tiger. It was a tragic era, but perhaps tigers learned to avoid humans over time, with the result that most tiger populations will not attack people under normal circumstances.
But in the Sunderban it's a different world and one that humans have not mastered. When venturing into the mangrove swamp a person is suddenly small and vulnerable - an experience we are not at all used to. It's a wild and untamed area, and while a glimpse of a tiger would have been exciting, it's fine by me that they remained hidden. This is perhaps the only territory left on the planet that they can truly own: and let them - we have the rest.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
On Safari (aka 5-pixel rhino butts)
After fighting with a bad travel agent we got tickets out of Darjeeling through our hotel. We travelled with our Swedish friends Anna and Bjorn to the Jadalapara National Wildlife Sanctuary, narrowly avoiding an anti-Gorkhaland protest that shut down Siliguri.
We had met Anna and Bjorn a while back at the infamous Mugalsarai train station near Varanasi. While we travelled straight to Darjeeling they went to Bodgaya first (world center of Buddhism, allegedly the site where Siddhartha attained enlightenment; a shoot from his bodhi tree still grows there). We met up again in "the Darj" (as Darjeeling is affectionately called) for Christmas, then the four of us took our leave of Phil (or "Mr. Wise," as Anna affectionately calls him) to go on safari for Asian One-Horned Rhinos in Jadalapara.
The Swedes are remarkably like Laura and I in many ways. Anna is a firey go-getter (originally from Soviet-ruled Poland, actually) to balance Bjorn's calm laid-back style. They work well together. As Bjorn said early on, couples grow to compliment each others' strengths. That certainly was the case with them.
The shared jeep to the wildlife sanctuary (naturally) took twice as long as we were told. A few bridges were out and at one point we took a detour through a river. Additionally we had been warned that all the rooms in the sanctuary -- where you get to sleep near the elephants and wild rhinos -- were long since booked. None of this was a hinderance to Anna. We followed her lead as she charged ahead.
Arriving at the sanctuary Laura and Bjorn waited in the jeep while Anna and I talked to the forest guards. Anna insisted (to them) that we had been told to come by the tourist center. They just shook their heads.
"Ma'am, that is not possible. There are no rooms."
So we toured around town for a bit looking for someone who could help. Laura and I tried talking with people but neither of us were nearly as effective as Anna. She had holed up in a tourist center and was wheeling and dealing with some guy who had somehow found a room for us (there's always a room somewhere) as well as promised to get us into the park for elephant rides to see rhinos the next day. For a price, of course, but hell, that's what we had come out for. While Bjorn and I kicked back in the jeep commenting on circuitous haggling conversations that revolved around the social "event" of salesmanship, Anna and Laura finalized the deal. Soon we were transported to a very new (ie unfinished) hotel with a very pleased owner who was more than happy to assist us.
All we wanted was to get at the jug of Old Monk 7-year Rum the Swedes had brought with them. It was our celebration for sucessfully arriving and swinging a deal that got us into the park. We drank and chatted and laughed the night away while the owner or various family members interrupted us every 15 mins or so with chai, sandwhiches or basic ammenities for the unfinished rooms (lights, furniture, blankets). We expounded upon the rule of 75% and various happenings in the tech field. Dinner arrived (late) from the tourist agent, as did news that he wasn't able to get us the elephant rides he promised. Instead we could travel by jeep through the park.
Well.
Thus began a new round of negotiations. Anna (tipsy now) was fired up and Laura joined her to haggle long into the night. I gave up and went to bed, listening to the angry ladies and the defensive men bicker on into the evening.
We bopped around in a jeep the next day, an early morning drive into the park before breakfast and then another trip in the afternoon. Anna and Bjorn's group was delayed but as a result encountered a rhino across a stream in the morning. In the afternoon we travelled into the jungle where we saw monkeys, several tame elephants (one of which I got to pet, which was fun), and -- far in the distance from a watchtower -- a rhino! More precisely there was a dot far down a river. Laura would take a picture with her excellent Nikon D90. When we zoomed in we could see a 5-pixel rhino butt.
Thrilling!
Laura and I had a train to catch from Siliguri that night so we jumped in a jeep after a late lunch and took off, bidding the Swedes adieu and promising to meet up in Kolkata in a few days. Anna was still determined to get into the park that night, but apparently the head of the Indian Communist Party had a booking there already. We left her to figure that one out and had a pleasant ride back over the river and through the farmlands.
.....
We met up in Kolkata as planned a few days later. They were tired from their fun travels but still up for adventure so we all journeyed through a slum/market (wait till you see the photos!). We had a great time, many friendly people and good food. Then a Rajasthani restaurant for dinner and, exhausted, to the hotel for sleep. We said a final farewell that night, then prepared for our journey into the Sunderbund Tiger Park the next day.
...
I think there's a lesson to be learned here. With enough persistence, arguing and money, you too can see 5-pixel rhino butts.
We had met Anna and Bjorn a while back at the infamous Mugalsarai train station near Varanasi. While we travelled straight to Darjeeling they went to Bodgaya first (world center of Buddhism, allegedly the site where Siddhartha attained enlightenment; a shoot from his bodhi tree still grows there). We met up again in "the Darj" (as Darjeeling is affectionately called) for Christmas, then the four of us took our leave of Phil (or "Mr. Wise," as Anna affectionately calls him) to go on safari for Asian One-Horned Rhinos in Jadalapara.
The Swedes are remarkably like Laura and I in many ways. Anna is a firey go-getter (originally from Soviet-ruled Poland, actually) to balance Bjorn's calm laid-back style. They work well together. As Bjorn said early on, couples grow to compliment each others' strengths. That certainly was the case with them.
The shared jeep to the wildlife sanctuary (naturally) took twice as long as we were told. A few bridges were out and at one point we took a detour through a river. Additionally we had been warned that all the rooms in the sanctuary -- where you get to sleep near the elephants and wild rhinos -- were long since booked. None of this was a hinderance to Anna. We followed her lead as she charged ahead.
Arriving at the sanctuary Laura and Bjorn waited in the jeep while Anna and I talked to the forest guards. Anna insisted (to them) that we had been told to come by the tourist center. They just shook their heads.
"Ma'am, that is not possible. There are no rooms."
So we toured around town for a bit looking for someone who could help. Laura and I tried talking with people but neither of us were nearly as effective as Anna. She had holed up in a tourist center and was wheeling and dealing with some guy who had somehow found a room for us (there's always a room somewhere) as well as promised to get us into the park for elephant rides to see rhinos the next day. For a price, of course, but hell, that's what we had come out for. While Bjorn and I kicked back in the jeep commenting on circuitous haggling conversations that revolved around the social "event" of salesmanship, Anna and Laura finalized the deal. Soon we were transported to a very new (ie unfinished) hotel with a very pleased owner who was more than happy to assist us.
All we wanted was to get at the jug of Old Monk 7-year Rum the Swedes had brought with them. It was our celebration for sucessfully arriving and swinging a deal that got us into the park. We drank and chatted and laughed the night away while the owner or various family members interrupted us every 15 mins or so with chai, sandwhiches or basic ammenities for the unfinished rooms (lights, furniture, blankets). We expounded upon the rule of 75% and various happenings in the tech field. Dinner arrived (late) from the tourist agent, as did news that he wasn't able to get us the elephant rides he promised. Instead we could travel by jeep through the park.
Well.
Thus began a new round of negotiations. Anna (tipsy now) was fired up and Laura joined her to haggle long into the night. I gave up and went to bed, listening to the angry ladies and the defensive men bicker on into the evening.
We bopped around in a jeep the next day, an early morning drive into the park before breakfast and then another trip in the afternoon. Anna and Bjorn's group was delayed but as a result encountered a rhino across a stream in the morning. In the afternoon we travelled into the jungle where we saw monkeys, several tame elephants (one of which I got to pet, which was fun), and -- far in the distance from a watchtower -- a rhino! More precisely there was a dot far down a river. Laura would take a picture with her excellent Nikon D90. When we zoomed in we could see a 5-pixel rhino butt.
Thrilling!
Laura and I had a train to catch from Siliguri that night so we jumped in a jeep after a late lunch and took off, bidding the Swedes adieu and promising to meet up in Kolkata in a few days. Anna was still determined to get into the park that night, but apparently the head of the Indian Communist Party had a booking there already. We left her to figure that one out and had a pleasant ride back over the river and through the farmlands.
.....
We met up in Kolkata as planned a few days later. They were tired from their fun travels but still up for adventure so we all journeyed through a slum/market (wait till you see the photos!). We had a great time, many friendly people and good food. Then a Rajasthani restaurant for dinner and, exhausted, to the hotel for sleep. We said a final farewell that night, then prepared for our journey into the Sunderbund Tiger Park the next day.
...
I think there's a lesson to be learned here. With enough persistence, arguing and money, you too can see 5-pixel rhino butts.
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