Passage to India

kalamkari

2010-02-23T21:29:00.012+05:30

-

Sri Kalahastri
I first saw this remarkable art craft at a market, and spoke in length to the artist displaying the craft of drawing on cloth, and then painting in the colors with vegetable dye. It is called karumkali, and is based out of this town. People here are taught for generations. The man told us we should come to his town. And so, we did. It is right next to Tiruputi, and we went following our twarted trip to the temple. But, we are not Hindu, so it is ok.Right?
We wound our way through unmarked streets, following our intuition, asking directions in a language we pretend to speak and understand, and head,yes, indeed to Sri Kalihastri. We stop at the entrance of the town, where we are requested to pay 15 rupees--but, no, we are not Hindu, we do not want to go to the many temples beyond the gates--we have just gone to the MAIN temple of pilgrimage--we are here to see kalamkari. AHH!! HEads bob! Faces smile!! A man hops on his bike, and we follow him, until we pass him, because we are in a car, and he is on a bike. We pass him, and he catches up, pedaling quickly and we follow him to a hovel of a home, where inside we find---indeed Kalamkari. We are ushured into a small compound where young girls are painting on the porch. Inside, a woman takes us inside, and shows us where her family has been making kalamkari for generations. Her father is the living master--he draws, and teaches the designs.
They hire women from
the village, who paint in their homes on their
own time, and they sell
their pieces to this
women's coop to sell.
We see young girls
(how young) drawing
and painting (poorly)
the cloth, that sells
for very little.

The master, shown to the left, is a big follower of the new born Si Baba. He spent 6 years making the worldest biggest kalamkari which is something crazy like 60 feet or meters--or bigger than I can think of telling some Hindi story. And he gave it to the fabulously rich SiBaba guy living in Bangalore. I felt a sink in the stomach over this, and the conditions that his family lives in, but a more enlightened friend than I said, "Oh, but think of the meditation and love that evolved out of that 6 years of painting." True.They pulled out hundreds of pieces for us to look at, each one, beautiful and with the imperfect work of a novice. My friend Barbara and I bought several,and then went to see the Kalumkari school of art.

Perhaps I didn't say this clearly enough, the work is drawn free hand, and then the artist dips their brush into a pot of vegetable dye, made through an enormously difficult process of making pigment, and then painted carefully onto the drawings. We met the school master. He had a beautiful educational video on the process, we watched--it is crazy all of the steps necessary to prepare the material and the dyes to work in the process----
and then he told us how he allows the women to work for months for free, until he will then hire them for 2000 rupees, =$40 a month. AHHHHH, I have such a problem, understanding economics. These people are
committing their lives
to the art of family to the expense
of their children going to school,
(to what ends) with unquestioned faith, that this is their job. THeir purpose. Who am I to argue?

medical tourism

2010-01-24T20:49:00.001+05:30

We left the house with the last of sunlight and turned the headlight of the scooter on as we went down our quiet street. Out on ECR (East Coast Road) it was a different story—7:00 peak traffic. Horns blaring, we patiently zigged our way down the pot hole ridden street among bicycles, rickshaws, buses with blasting air horns, and a myriad of motorcycles—“two wheelers”. Watching carefully for the bright green door of AMERICANA-TASTE THE BURGERS! We parked the scooter and clung to each other waiting to dash half way across this morass of traffic and waited on the center median—long enough, we stepped into the stream of traffic holding our hands up and holding our breath as traffic amazingly stopped for us, and entered the bright green door.
We were out to have the last hamburger or any solid food for Tim for 4 months. Tomorrow he goes in for 7 dental extracts and implants with bone grafts. It takes them 4 months to grow in before he gets new crowns on the pegs. No solid food. The burgers are made of mutton, lean and juicy, with chili sauce and jalapenos. We washed them down with mint lime sodas. There were 2 couples sitting at the only 2 other tables, eating the fare sitting close to each other. I suspected them sneaking out to eat beef, and sneaking out to be together. Young couples are as rare as hamburgers here. The air conditioner made us shiver and baliwood music blared out of the little speakers. The walls of the joint were a washed blue with water stains on one wall, and bright orange on the other. The 3rd wall was frosted glass to shield the kitchen and the waiter and cooked kept peeking out at us with wide beaming smiles. Dinner cost about $1.50 and a tip, and we waded out again into the thick humid air and noise of the ECR.
Last month Tim got a state of the art hearing aide. My friend got the same model in the US for $6,000, and Tim paid $1,200. His whole dental bill will be roughly $4,000. I think that is about what one implant costs in the US. Medical Tourism is a big draw here in India. You can buy a ticket, take a trip and have all kinds of medical treatment and surgeries for a fraction of the price, and the treatment far surpasses that at home. I got a root canal and crown for $80, and my bifocals with scratch resistant lenses for $40. I am considering lazer surgery for my eyes. I should consider their liposuction package, but I am too lazy. I see they have botox and other cosmetic surgery as well—but I lack in vanity. I can buy almost any prescription drug direct form the pharmacy. They do keep a record of it. Mine is under “Miss Lauri” and a months prescription costs about $10.
We got back on the scooter and took the back roads home—they were filled with people and dogs. Everyone is out at night when it is blissfully cool. 75 degrees so ear muffs are the latest rage as well as little knit hats and blankets and warm quilted jackets. I wear a sundress and Tim his shorts—perfect.
We’re home now. Tim is reading Gandhi’s autobiography. I will go to pick him up after school tomorrow and after his 3 hour surgery and a whole set of pegs in his mouth. Potential new gleaming teeth.

Tirumala

2010-01-24T16:40:00.006+05:30

January 17,2010
We’ve been back from our Indonesian jaunt for 2 weekends and seized the moment before the heat returns to travel to Tirumala the world’s largest pilgrimage site. This temple sits on top of the 14 km. hill which devotees travel by foot. We traveled by car up the switch back road to the town surrounding the temple. The town was swarming with bald headed people. The chief god there is Venkateswara, an avatar of Vishnu, who grants any request made before him. Many people donate their hair to deities, and hence many freshly shaved people.
We wound our way up the forested hill with windows open and fresh air! When we reached the town at the top it had a serenity atmosphere about it even though 100,000 people had hopefully come to pay tribute. We left the car and our shoes, and cell phones and we realized the lines were snaking a very long way—in the 300r line (vs the 50 rupee line) the wait looked to be about 5 hours long to enter the temple and be in a total crush of people as we went through the dark smoky insides. Even though I need a new job next year, we took our chances and decided against waiting in line—alas missing the guarantee of our wish granted—hair intact, we wandered about the grounds just watching the people. Wishing to take pictures, all I had to do was get the camera out—and endless people asked for their photos taken.
It was blessedly cool, and although people were crowded and waiting long hours, everyone was peaceful and calm. It did have a remarkable atmosphere. The other thing very different from other temple visits, was there were no neon lights (although lots of Christmas lights for the evening) and no blaring baliwood music from 10 foot speakers. There were public toilets that were clean! Everything was clean and calm. A sort of Indian miracle in itself.
Tim bought a charm to guide him through his dental work, and I bought one for a good job. Interesting they are very similar to the Mexican milagra for the same purpose.
The temple’s history dates back 2000 years. India has many more beautiful and elegant or decorated temples—this seems to be the most beloved.

2009-10-31T14:13:00.020+05:30

What is that makes the length of a day? Surely, not the minutes in the hour. I think perhaps it is the amount of new sensory information one can take in—or perhaps the amount of faces you see in a day, that makes one so long. We were in Ahmedibad, Gujerat only 50 hours—but they filled me up to the brim. We just had a 3 day week end for Gandhi’s birthday—and there was a non-stop flight to Gujerat, his home state, which was good enough for me. We stepped off of the plane into astounding heat and humidity. Even compared to Chennai the air was palpable. Heading into town we saw the subtle differences of the north—the way the women wear their saris, pulled over their heads, and men in dhotis rather than lungis and all in white. Camels on the street along with the familiar ox and cattle, and bikes, and scooters and the deafening horns of countless cars and buses.
We (my friends Barbara and Ashley and I ) left our very non-descript hotel to find the MG house, an magnificient hotel well out of my price range around the corner—this became our second hotel. We ordered exotic drinks of ginger and lime and coconut milk and made our plans.

Off to the market! It was not that far away and the road was packed! We passed elephants, and endless vendors sell everything from underwear to household utensils. The crowds were dense and the sweat streamed down our backs and bellies and we followed the tide of humanity along. We bought garish clothing for little girls, and shoes and shawls, a head scratcher. We looked at the whole street of glittering saris hung over the streets, and were called to come in! Come in! Looking is free!
In the evening, Ashley and I went to eat on a roof top where we were attended by about 10 handsome young waiters who filled our glasses and watched us for any sign of need. We had a Thali, a traditional vegetarian meal with endless food brought for our delight.
At ten o:clock a history professor volunteers to take us on a night tour, a walk through the old part of the city. The neighborhoods are called “poles” and they are like rabbit warrens through the city. Each one has a center area and at this late hour there was a party in one, with light and food and children running to exclaim at the oddity of white women in their neighborhood. There are building there called havelis, like we saw in Rajisthan—only carved of wood, teak from Burma. Buildings that survived numerous earthquakes. There were secret passage ways that freedom fighters hid in. And each pole has at least one large bird feeder—and it is daily stocked with fresh water and bird food—a Jain tradition.
Children ran after us and people gawked. Not much tourism in Gujerat, and we were the only white faces around. Families hung out of their windows—everyone seemed to be up. We were drawn by the sound of the Indian oboe and drumming, and passed under a gateway to the kings tomb. The people played there every night for 5 generations as a notice that the gates were closing. Anyone not in, in time was locked out for the night. We saw the kings tomb, and

people were lying about sleeping—“It is the living to fear, not the dead.”
We went back to our hotel by midnight and slept like the king.
Gujerat had many treats to offer. Gandhi’s ashram on the river, now a library but still a place for prayer and meetings. Mosques, with carvings like lace through the rock for windows. Quaking towers mosque, where people are no longer allowed to climb. Markets, blocks and blocks long—selling underwear and household goods. Shoe shops to make Imelda Marcos pause, shawls, and baby clothes fashioned after Bollywood.
We spent the morning at the Ashram and watched the washer women in the river, and children bathing. Groups of school children were there in matching hats or uniforms. Gandhi is alive and well in Ahmedibad.

We saw women who wore so much gold on the top of their ear, that they flapped down.We visited a shop where they sold emeralds the size of dimes on rings and ancient textiles. We went to the market, and spent hours looking at wares. WE walked the streets greeting that of God in everyone. We rode in rickshaws around ox-carts and camels and elephants.

We went to Jain temples, where the gods all look the same, and resemble the children of the corn, with astonishing carving in stone.

And then, we visited perhaps my favorite spot so far in India. It was a mosque, possibly called the Sarkhej Rosa

—but what delighted me beyond explanation was the mixing of Hindu and Moslem---people were gathered there at the courtyard of the neon lit shrine—moslem women in burkas, and hindi women in saris, holding each other’s babies, eating each other’s food. Children laughed and ran around and peered at us. We were invited to come in and observe and partake. No segregation. The Hindu’s went inside to pray and there was singing and dancing in the courtyard.
Gandhi would have been so pleased. I have never seen anything like it before or since.

After we went to eat where there was traditional dancing, and music, and puppet shows—again a traditional Thali dinner, without the white shirted waiters. Another night in a hotel with no windows, but very attentive room service--$4/day.

We spent the last day seeing the calling cards of Ahmedibad. The Step Wells are a remarkable and beyond our understanding in the West. Water storage structures were developed, the grander they were reflected the power of their patrons. They are wells dug stories deep, each one supported by intricately carved columns, and as the water evaporates one climbs deeper into the well on, yes, steps. Along the way are carvings in the stone and pillars. We walked down realizing the coolness that they provide and sat on the steps for a moment before whisking back to the airport, and our lives in Chennai.

On the way to school. . .

2009-09-27T18:04:00.001+05:30

The security man is sitting under the overhang reading the paper. He jumps up to “Vannacum” me. I rev up the scooter and head down the early morning street—3 men in orange lungis, one on a drum, one with a flute, and one with a flag are coming down the street, we touch our hearts in greeting. The flame forest tree is dropping the last of the brilliant orange blossoms, causing a carpet of orange on the wet pavement. A crow pulls at the skin of a dead rat. The flower seller is tying jasmine blossoms the size of a marble to strings to sell, sitting on the curb next to the temple—incense smells waft out as I pass by. Men in coats and blankets walk abreast in the street oblivious to the car horns—I veer around them. The bus blares its air horn at me as it vrooms by, splashing a sheet of water over my freshly ironed clothing. Women gather at the faucet to fetch the days water in large brightly colored plastic urns. They carry one on their head and one in each arm, swaying along the street to their home. The woman with the Alaskan husky on a leash is at the tea stand. The well groomed, well behaved dog stands leaning into her leg. On the tree lined avenue there is a coconut stand stacked neatly in a pyramid 6 feet tall. The vendor sleeps on the sidewalk next to it, arms folded over his chest. Bikes with a large cart in front on two wheels, pedal with loads of green bananas, and one carrying boxes that look like televisions. Men gather at the tea stand, drinking from small silver cups and smoking. Always men standing around—the only women I see are working. The oxen stand patiently chewing. One wears a new garland of yellow and red flowers around its neck, its horns painted bright green and blue. The bamboo weavers loom is empty, with bamboo poles leaning next to it—ready for busy hands and chatter. A dog, with balls the size of grapefruit charges out to snarl at passing dogs, defending its territory. They skitter, and he heaves a sigh and stands proud. 3 men pissing on the side of the road. Two children shitting next to the garbage heap—a man brushes his teeth while squatting on the other side. The idol vendors, who live in a black plastic tent on the side of the busy road are just getting up. The mother holding the naked baby and the little girl stretches and rubs her messy hair. The pot holes in the road are full of water, and it is dangerous to hit them, not seeing how deep they are. I pull into the school and take off my helmet—another day to school. All of these sights are now so common to me—like the ride to Friends school, I drive on automatic, taking the sights and smells in without even gasping in surprise.

back home

2009-09-08T21:21:00.000+05:30

I have returned from a cool green, lush and loving summer. Minnesota, Michigan and Montreal each offering gifts of love and laughter and comfort. So much so, that I couldn’t bare to return—to pack or plan or even think of returning to India and adventures with my niece Nicole who was joining me. My heart ached and was heavy when I got on the plane, but lifted as the flight carried me from one reality into another.
We landed in Delhi to find the parking lot under a foot of water, and our faithful driver and new friend, Dillbagh waiting for us. He hustled us into his brand new car and deposited us at a hotel for a short rest before we left Delhi for Agra and the Taj Mahal. We decided to travel by car as we had no definite plans set in front of us, and the heat was grueling. Dillbagh and the driver, Rakshesh, were to spend the next 4 days with us. We traveled in luxury, airconditioning and two knowledgeable guides who entertained us with philosophy, medical advice, religion, and local customs. Dillbagh gave us advise on losing weight, constipation and the helpful medical advise of how to chose the gender of your unborn child—which, apparently is to take some secret capsules 2 months into pregnancy. Nicole and I laughed until we cried, much to the gentlemen’s delight. We were more fortunate at this decision than we knew at the time, because the things we wanted to do turned into different opportunites that we didn’t even know existed.
The drive to Agra in the early morning showed the world waking up. Stone masons carving, camel carts on the move, people walking to the fields, women, always women carrying huge bundles on their heads. Riding in the car allowed us to stop to meet women working in the field, who shyly let us join them. We stopped for lunch and found a young boy with a half dead cobra that he rallied up with a few pokes and notes from his flute. Nicole’s first Indian meal. Roadside stands that no white women had ever frequented, and the mistaken idea that we were with our Indian boyfriends caused considerable stares and discussions.
We arrived at the Taj Mahal in the late morning. There were throngs of people, all Indian to see their national treasure. Entering through an ornate archway my breath caught as I had my first glimpse of the monument. The Taj is built as a mausoleum by the Emperor Shah Jahan for his wife who died in childbirth of their 14th child. The construction began in 1641 of pure white marble inlaid with semi-precious stones and remarkable mosaics. The marble brought from 40 miles away. Truly a wonder of the world of architecture and craftsmanship. Startling, and yes, the Indian people are so proud of it, but my western mind could only think what a waste—how much riches used for this decorative place that serves no one. The Emperors invaded and robbed India of untold wealth, stripped her bare, and then left. Not one school built. Not one hospital or public service of any kind.
We rested that afternoon and when Nicole woke up and looked out the window—there was an elephant! We joined our guides at a place they frequent for an authentic meal. A road side stand with rough wooden benches and table right next to the road. We ate rice and dahl and chapatti. Nicole has already experienced things here that my friends in Chennai would gag at—and all with the eager excitement of a new traveler in India.
In the morning we left early again, to head to Akbar’s palace, perched on top the highest hill. Again, and opulent development which only served his many wives and children, guarded by eunuchs. The courtyards were expansive, circled by detailed carving in granite. Thinking about the amount of work and what they had to work with is mind boggling. We were the only visitors, and we could imagine children running here and playing hide and seek, and women wiling away their days in idleness.
We visited Akbar’s mausoleum—another stunning piece of useless architecture totally inlaid with mother of pearl—sparkling in the sun. People’s devotion was palpable.
There were vendors selling wares. One man was selling garnet stone necklaces. I remembered my aunt Tina wearing a ring with 3 garnet stones. I could see her hands and fingernails, and felt a surge of love for her. I bought it and it inspired me to write her a letter and send it to her after decades of neglect. A gift for my heart. Traveling unearths long forgotten memories—smells, sounds and sights trigger them from the depths of the mind.
We drove in luxury along dry hot roads, with the women carrying large bundles on their heads, and endless streams of goats followed by a fellow dressed in white carrying a stick—often with a white turban—scenes from a movie we had never seen. There was a bird sanctuary along the way, and because we were not on a bus, we could stop. Cars were not allowed in, and there were men who ferried us on their bicycle rickshaw. We sat in covered shade while the old man pedaled our considerable load in the blazing sun. After 40 years of working there he knew where every bird lived and what each call was. We saw baby owlets! And so many songbirds and small water birds—the big ones north on migration from the heat. At the end of the long quiet and beautiful road, we got out to walk. He took us to a place where the fruit bats were nesting—hanging upside down—wings occasionally fluttering—he spooked them up for our delight! They flew over head, and visions of batman were not to imagine. They are the size of large cats and soared over head to land and hang upside down again. Nicole was as delighted as a child on Christmas morning. She was more fun to watch than the bats.
On to Jaipur!! Visions of my favorite jewelry dazzeled in my mind. I only have 5 rings to wear daily, and was scheming of another 5—with earrings and presents glittering next to them. I was planning on all of the things I could buy for family and friends—JAIPUR!!! The shopping mecca of the world! We arrived late afternoon and Dillbagh immediately took us to a shop that only Indians shop at (and he gets a commission). But it was grand, and Nicole bought several things to take home—a jewelry store (not my price) but Nic bought her mom some stunning earrings—and other shops, until we could ditch Dillbagh and were dropped off in front of the Palace of the Winds. There were far more hawkers than shoppers,, and crossing the street made our hearts beat with terror! We just wandered—trying to get away from the people grabbing at us to come into their shops. We found little fried lentil balls from a street vendor, which we wolfed down—delicious! We bought only a few things—our energy waning, and decided to return to our run down musty hotel, where only Indians stay—of course, we are so hearty. We looked at our loot and recanted the day. Traveling with a dear friend is such a treasure—someone to hear the minutia and really be interested. We showered and slept under a rattley fan. When we woke up, I was pumped to SHOP!! We came out to meet Dillbagh sitting on the couch in the lobby—“So sad. The Mattahani died! Everything closed!”“EVERYTHING??””“Yes. She was so very loved and died in the middle of the night.” And indeed everything in Jaipur was closed—even tea stands. She was 93 and was once voted one of the top ten beautiful women by vogue magazine. She was gorgeous—Rita Hayward beautiful. And she actually did things to improve people’s lives. She worked for education for the girls in Jaipur—and living conditions. People loved her! We got out of town, with my purse still full, but empty bags. How fortunate that was.
We went to the Ajmer Palace and fort, and rode elephants up to the top—another first! They were gaily painted and wore festive cloths. They kind of rock side to side as they made their way up the hairpin curves to the top. It was such fun to see the ones coming down and other tourists sitting on top. The view breath taking—and the ancient fort was enormous, the walls made of rock rolling out to the edge of sight. Part of it still inhabited, and some in ruins 6 hundred years old. At the top of the hill we entered the courtyard to find Dillbagh waiting for us with his smiling face beaming at us. “So lucky,na? Here I am waiting for you!” And we did feel so lucky to have him there for us.
“A new plan!” he jabbered, “We will go to Sariska Animal preserve! Maybe we see a tiger!” And happily we headed out again. The land going east this time was very rugged terrain—scrub trees and no houses. Ridiculous vehicles jury-rigged from tractors, trucks and trailers. WE saw many pilgrims carrying water jars hanging on the ends of sticks they carried across their shoulders, and there were people along the way feeding them. We began to realize that there were many flat bed trailers and trucks carrying large crowds of people heading the way we were. The people were thin and wirey and more packed together than sardines in a can. “AHHH! Sariska! No promise of a tiger you know—only luck, but we are lucky!” WE pulled into a large lodge with beautiful gardens, but---no cars. Lucky! We went inside, and it felt like the old British movies of India. A sign read ASK FOR DOCTOR- TAXI- OR GYPSY, which cracked Nicole and I up. It was quiet. In fact, it was closed. Someone had poached a tiger, and they were closed until Monday. We really cracked up then! Laughed our heads off at the absurdity of it, and bundled back into the car. “No problem! I know a village near by—we’ll eat there, and a temple festival that I took my mother to every year.” We didn’t feel troubled, but just wondered what window of opportunity this would open for us.
The trucks kept coming, and buses all heading to the festival. We stopped in the nearest town, and gawked at the people gawking at us. Wild dramatic people, women in such rich garb and bangles—cars with 20 people in them, children who screamed when we went near them—old men in dhotis (ankle length cloths pulled up between the legs)and kurtas (long simple shirts) and white turbans. The women in long skirts, mid-driff shirts and long dupatas (scarves) worn over their heads, and sometimes pulled over their faces. They had rings in their noses and bangles up to their elbows. Crowds gathered to look at us, and we were the first white person many had ever seen. Men and women totally separate. We ate at the local “café” chapatti and a thin dahl and vegetables and then took tons of pictures, to everyone’s delight. They would laugh and scream at their images. And on—to the festival. We parked and walked down a dusty road lined with people selling icons, jewels, barettes, mirrors, holy cards, cigarettes. Dillbagh insisted Nicole and I buy necklaces that married women wear—for our husbands sake and we walked on. People singing and 3 men and a boy laying in the dirt scootching their way to the temple—first on their stomachs, then on their backs, never walking. “They may do this for 15-20 kilometers! IT is for success in business!” Dillbagh explained as though that made a lick of sense to us. There were throngs of people, and drumming and chanting and balloons and toys—festival is really a festival here. People picnicking dand eating ice cream and corn –just like the state fair. Nicole was surrounded by hoards of young men wanting to shake her hand and have her take their picture as they made macho poses. Holy men bowed to us and everyone welcomed us. It felt the farthest I had ever been away from the familiar in India—nothing I had ever seen or felt…
The temple was crammed full, and the temperature over 100 degrees—lots of smoke and incense and people washing the idols and each other, and people praying and yelling and laying on the floor prostrate. Kids running and blowing bubbles, and women gathered, huddled sharing news with those not often seen. Dillbagh got all freaked out that he couldn’t see Nicole and started ordering us around—his feet were burning without shoes on the hot cement. We worked our way out to our sandles and back through the crowd. We stopped to listen to a group of women singing and Nicole joined them. A haunting movie in my head. I hated to go—it was so rich, so beautiful, so wild.
We decided to zip back to Delhi to catch a flight that same night to Chennai—the days were so long and full and rich—a true time warp in many ways. Dillbagh took us to his home to see his family and get my bags and dropped us at the airport—we were dazed and amazed, and I was heading. . .home.

Back "home" again

2009-08-23T12:27:00.026+05:30

2009-05-18T19:36:00.000+05:30

Time is going quickly. I wasn’t excited about it, but I had promised Ashvini that I would come, and there was no other time, and no reason not to. I got up at 5 and had coffee and set off in the early morning on my scooter for Vilavanur, a small village west of Pondicherry. I left early to avoid the hot sun and traffic. My first big adventure on my scooter.
It was clear and cool in the early morning. No traffic, and I buzzed along pushing 60 kph. I passed Mahabalapuram, the first milestone singing along at the top of my voice. When I came to small towns, I would slow way down. I watched the little dog crossing the street—I beeped and slowed down. It looked like he was going to continue, when for some unknown reason, he turned back—right in front of me. I yelled loudly, heard the thump and yelp, and went down. People rushed to me and somehow lifted me and my bike up and a large crowd materialized out of no where. I stood up, and looked around. No sign of the dog. My pants were torn and people had worried looks on their faces. I went to the side of the road to have a drink of water. My face and knee and hands were bloody, but I didn’t feel any pain. I stood up and shook myself out. The bike had a similar gash on the left side, but other wise just fine, too. One man insisted I follow him. We wove through the little dirt streets to a small catholic church, parked and walked in. The dark cool hall was a relief, and two women in white nighties came out to see me. They cleaned me up, gave me a tetnus shot and swabbed the scrapes with iodine—yeouch! She gave me 1000mg of ampicillin and 800mg ibuprophine and ointment for later. No charge—I left a donation in the pot and headed out again. I was thinking about some story about getting back on the horse, or bike—as I very carefully head back down the road.
I arrived at Vilavanur at about 10:00. It was a dusty little town along the road. I bought fruit and sweets and waited for Ashvini to fetch me. I was surprised that she came by bus, with her “brother.” Her village is about 5 miles down the road---a true small village. We passed through rice paddies being harvested, and canes of brilliant green sugar cane. The air smelled sweet, and there were birds other than crows. People on the bus were all agog, and Ashvini, all smiles explained how I was HER friend, and had come to see her. Her brother following on my scooter.
She had told me the whole village would be waiting for me, and she did not exaggerate. There were at least 50 people around me by the time we reached her auntie’s house. We started the long introductions which we were met with peals of laughter from everyone I greeted—except the little children. Children under 2 looked at me with widened eyes, and then screamed bloody murder. “She thinks you are a ghost!” Ashvini laughed. The louder the children cried the harder the crowd laughed. They would bring other little children to look at me and scream. It wasn’t until I returned that I realized I had a large abrasion and bloody, scabby chin, that I did look pretty scary. Ashvini took me inside her aunt’s house. It had three rooms and was constructed of country bricks covered with a hard mud. One room was the kitchen, about 4 x 8 with 2 window openings, but no glass. The main room was about 5 x 8 with one bed inside, a board on bricks. It also had an opening in the wall, and the puja room with an enormous clay pot, that must have been built in that room for it was too large for the doorway. It was where they kept the rice harvest. There were many other pots, and a metal wardrobe for their belongings. 4 people in the family, and everything fit easily inside, with room for Ashvini, her sister, brother and mother’s things while they stayed the month there. Ashvini kept a tight grip on my hand and a huge smile on her face. I was there. I was her friend, a white girl, and I was there. Everyone was greatly concerned with my face and knee and wanted to touch it. I suggested a walk in the village, and to visit her grandfather, who was at the rice field he is the caretaker of.
The heat had set in, but in the greenery, with a breeze it felt much more pleasant. The colors of the green and blue sky seemed to vibrate as we walked along the road. The first stop was her church. A non descript brick building with a tin roof. We went in to a room about 15 x 15. Ashvini had told me before that she was a Christian. The room was plain, with a blackboard on the back wall, and a raised area in the front. No pictures or symbols. The pastor came in to meet me, a pleasant young man named Simon. Simon had grown up in that village with the name of Krishna. He went off to the university where he got his degree in mathematics and landed a government job—a coveted job, with a pension. One night he had a dream about Jesus, and when he woke up he knew that he represented the one true god. He went to theological school for 3 years, and decided that his calling was to come back to his village to enlighten the people. His family disowned him, and he built his wife and him a small house and hung up a sheet for his church. And some people came. This was two years ago, and somehow this little non-denominational church has a following of about 50 kids and 25 adults—no small amount, for the village only has 50 houses. He is well thought of by everyone, and is reunited with his family. He tutors kids, and reaches out to people in other villages similar to this one. He joined us for our walk, and was my translator. He told me I was the first white person to ever visit that place.
We heard drumming, and saw a funeral and the large wood pile for the pyre. We walked through the patties and sat under the shade of the jackfruit and mango trees—laiden with green fruit. It was a large group of people—Ashvini introduced everyone as her small mamma, or small auntie, or large auntie, or brother/cousin, or uncle—everyone in the town related to her in some way, biological or symbolic. We walked through the village, greeting everyone, and telling them I was Ashvini’s friend. I took pictures and showed the people their image in the tiny camera to their amazement and delight.
We sat on the stoop of their house with the crowd pushing to see me. Amazed at my gold teeth. One old woman held and stroked my hands staring intently at me. She said, “I see her talking, but I can’t understand anything she says.” She had never heard anyone speaking English before—never traveled further than the small town down the road. Her first white woman. I was there for 7 hours, and was beginning to feel my aches and pains. How much more have these people endured? The only work in the village is in the fields—10 rupees an hour—25 cents—when there was work. The big concern and talk was that the farmer had bought the first tractor harvester—reducing the already meager work. The first of what is to come I think. What will happen to these naïve people? Like Ashvini’s family they will migrate to the city in hopes of better wages—the same house in the city less livable with cement all around and no sanitation. Families separated, little hope for a better life.

JAISALMER

2009-04-23T14:32:00.022+05:30

It’s hard to wrap words around Rajasthan. We arrived in Delhi in the morning and had the day to spend. A friendly taxi driver escorted us around the classic sights of the city, and we wandered like zombie tourists, the red fort, the gate of India, the Indira Gandhi monument was especially moving. Mostly photos and text written on her. I had never really stopped to consider the immensity of her election—not only a woman in India, but also a widow--- (check out the Deepa Metha movie, WATER). I really didn’t know a lot about her, or her reign, but had a negative flavor in my mouth about her. Seeing her house, and reading her words cast a different light. I read a short book about her written by her chief secretary and learned more. There was a very negative press from the US because she stayed the course of non-alignment—she would not side with the US or with Russia, but insisted on neutrality. This caused the western press to present her as one of them. In 1984 she removed all of the privileges of the Maharajas, which Mahatma left in place in order to keep India a whole country, and not several little kingdoms. The government was providing them with stipends and they were land fiefs, overseeing and bleeding their kingdoms dry. At the time Rajasthan had 21% literacy—within ten years it rose to 61% because they started building schools there. The Maharajas sound like spoiled little rich boys, playing polo in England, and traveling throughout Europe with the finest educations and jewels in their crowns. The monuments they built for themselves rivaled their palaces, literally jewel studded with astounding marble and inlay. “ . . .his true spirit had called to him, then, informed him that it, too, was wild and brave, and refused to be denied the right to adventure(royalty, in this case). As always, the price for such romance had been high and paid for by others. Porters had carried boulders from the riverbed—legs growing bandy, ribs curving into caves, backs into U‘s, faces being bent slowly to look always at the ground—up to this site chosen for a view that could raise the human heart to spiritual heights.” (Inheritance of Loss, Keran Desai). They provided Rajasthan with rich artistic heritage, but a hell of a life for the common person. Needless to say, this did not endear her to the people of this area either—very hard to let the benevolent oppressor go—people seemed to love them, even now(more later.) Reading her words, and seeing the grave tragedies she endured moved me beyond words. The night before her death she told a political rally: "I don't mind if my life goes in the service of the nation. If I die today, every drop of my blood will invigorate the nation." She was shot in her own garden by one of her own security men. No exact motive is known but it is believed the pair were Sikh extremists acting in retaliation for the storming of the Sikh holy shrine of the Golden Temple in Amritsar . Her family paid huge amounts with her assassination and after that the murder of her son—also for political reasons. I still have a lot to learn, but I am leaning a supporter of this selfless and courageous woman.
We caught a 17 hour train out of Delhi that afternoon to Jaiselmer. The day tripping we did only showed us the shiny side of Delhi. Riding out of town on the train, we began to see a different side—a harder life, the term “under belly” came to my mind, even though I am not really sure what that means, I am fairly sure I saw it. Shelters made of plastic and any scavenged material. Densely populated, and I am quite certain that there was no sanitation. Yet, even here, as we chugged past, I saw men dangling children on their knees, children laughing and playing, women talking together throwing their head back in laughter. How can people living such difficult lives know joy? Something to learn here. The evening settled slowly as the landscape became dustier resembled Eastern Africa—scrubby trees and tumble weeds. As total darkness took over there were brilliant flashes of lightening in the night sky. I rumbled asleep, and when I awoke I wondered, “Where AM I?” The Great Thar Desert. Watching out our windows we gaped at the men in huge white turbans and women with chiffon veils covering their faces—sticking my camera out the window to grab my first impressions to have people wave and step in front of each other to get their pictures taken. Some women peeked shyly around their sari veil and stared me in the eye. We saw houses made of stone—no trees for building. Some of the houses were made of granite slabs cut 12 inches wide and 5 feet tall with thatch roofs. Herders with their goats and women with pots on their heads gracefully wove through the tapestry of the land, offering splashes of color in the bleak landscape.
I realized in the morning that my passport and small purse were missing—it felt like such a small blister on my foot—nothing to do about it. We arrived in Jaisalmir in the morning and were met by a little car to trundle us off to our hotel. We were offered rooms for $1/day, but decided to stick with our reservations--$3/day, right in the center of the old city with breathtaking views of the fort and the city. The Jeet mal Hotel was a 350 yearold building still lived in by the original family, with modern amenities added. Clean, with the most amazing chief (a former camel driver) and a not so honest hotel owner, who seemed to think that we were women of very little brains or understanding. We left our bags and headed up to the Golden Fort—the only living fort left—meaning that life there continued as in the past, with shop owners, shops, temples and workers living within the fort. 25% of the city still resides within the fort walls. And of course The Palace.
Jaiselmer was founded in 1156 on the camel train routes between India and Central Asia. IT was a city of wealthy merchants who constructed the fascinating design of Havelis—grand mansions built of the yellow Jaiselmer stone. The amazing thing about them is that they have great windows cut of the stone with intricate designs cut out for light to come in and to allow women to look out at the world passing them by. Built by the Rajputs ,a warring people, they went through endless sieges and wars. The development of Mombay caused the decline of the city.
Entering the fort there is a maze of small narrow paved streets—7 beautiful Jain temples (12th -16th century), and lots of tourist stalls and shops. There is a large square in front of the 7 story palace of which part is open as a museum of opulent wealth. The first night there was an old man sitting on the palace terrace playing a stringed instrument and singing in a high thin wavery voice. He wore a multicolored turban and dhoti and sat cross legged for hours singing his ballads. I am told that he has been doing this for20 years and sings songs about life in the villages. He smiled and singed to sing to each person who came by. Spellbinding.

The following day was the festival of Gargol—a goddess of fertility. At 4:00 we heard singing and followed it to find a group of women and girls going house to house and singing. The mistress of the house came out to give each of them sweets, and they went to the next house—all this on the way to the center in front of the palace. 30 camels decked out in extreme finery standing at attention—drummers pounding and thousands of people from surrounding villages all there for the envent. Girls and women in sequined saris and bangles and nose rings and disks. Children with kohl in their eyes darting in and out of the crowds. A festive crowd filled with anticipation. The Maharaja arrived in a land rover and went into the palace to do “puja” (prayer) with the goddess and then after a few hours returns to the masses with a 4 foot tall statue carried on shoulders, while he follows (unsteadily) on his white steed to walk to the small lake at the far end of town, for the goddess to have a drink of the water to ensure all women fertility and good marriages. The girls carried coconut wrapped in cloth with faces drawn on them to set afloat on the lake. Being in such a loud, hot, raucous crowd was exhilarating. The people so happy, laughing, talking—reunions taking place. We went enmasse to the lake as the sun was setting.
We ate our delicious Rajput meals on the roof top of the hotel watching the fort and havelis change colours in the sunset. Beautiful. Wandering through the little streets, with open sewers running along side, I was pushed and nudged by the many cows here—a brazen group who people place left over food for and bring in hay from the fields. They wander at will and traffic and people all defer to them. The town was not as crowded as one might expect, and I saw no beggers or homeless people. Certainly not wealthy, but looking as though they had “enough.” There are many shops here for the tourist, rich mirror work and embroidery done by local people. I bought a slew of pillow covers at a “cooperative” which claims it is a direct dealer for the artisan…hmmm. There were antique tribal dresses and bead work—weavings and paintings. Wandering through them a man teaches how to tie the turban—how could I have left without one? People encouraging to come in and “make your eyes happy—no buy! Look is free!” They are master sellers, showing you a lovely piece and then asking how much you would pay for it—even if you had no intention of buying they get you to bargain and you leave feeling you got a great deal, only to realize you never really wanted it in the first place. I bought a beautiful tribal dress all hand stitched and embroidered—I can’t wait until it is cold enough to wear.
We arranged for a 2 day camel ride into the desert to where the dunes begin to form. Leaving at 5:30 to watch the sun come up out of the desert—an orange ball at the end of the road. We rode 60 km out of town before we turned off onto an unmarked road? Place that led into the scrub. We rode several miles until we spied 2 men huddled over a small fire who turned to look at us. Hamja and Suban, our guides for the next two days. Both of them were stunningly handsome and smiled easily. Iwas astounded to hear their excellent English uttered in soft tones. They served us tea as our gear was unloaded. We could hear the bell of a sheep in the distance, other than that complete silence. An older man wandered in—“This man is the father of the desert,” Suban said. They laughed and joked with him, and we shared our breakfast of hard boiled eggs and bread/jam. The shepherd appeared in tattered clothes and wouldn’t make eye contact. I would catch him looking at us, and was slightly crosseyed. His sister joined in out of no where—a stunning beauty with a large nose ring, and beautifully appliquéd and stitched clothing. She tossed her hear, and laughed loudly—grabbing my camera and exclaiming about herself. She was 20 years old and looked much older. Everyone was laughing and it was a precious moment. The realization of being in the desert with people in a setting that could be 100s of years ago---Is this my life? The camels were off grazing and they rounded them off, packed us up, we climbed aboard and they rose carrying us into the blue sky above the dusty ground. We headed off into what looked like no where in particular. The men talking and laughing in a friendly banter with each other—offering us bits of information about the landscape and answering our questions with a cheerful air. WE passed compounds where 4-5 families lived. Children run out to stare at us yelling, “One pen? One pen?” Sheep the only opportunity, as they haven’t had rain in 2 years. A pipe line brings water in from some river to the north, as long as it stays flush. Without that, no one could survive here any longer.
At mid-day we stop under a rare tree to sit the heat of the day out and let the camels rest. Hamja and Suban gather sticks and cook a feast for lunch of fresh vegetables sautéed and rice and fresh chapattis—we try our hand at them and laugh at the results. Laying under the tree I realize it is alive with lizards and insects and birds. One bird made 9 different calls from the perch inches over my face. The sky through the branches was clear and blue and there were no sounds of people anymore. Everyone took a siesta and I was left to my musing on the enormity of the moment.
In the afternoon we headed off again. Another man had joined us with his camel. I commented on how good he smelled—like clean laundry and herbs. The men laughed and whacked his back—this was his last safari. He was getting married in 20 days to a woman he had never met, never seen. He was planning on staying home with the sheep and his new bride. Suban rode behind me on the camel and talked softly to me as we plodded along into the endless horizon. He told me of growing up in his village and going to school until 3rd grade when he took up working with the camel safaris, learning English and a little German from the tourists. He told me that is exciting to go to your wedding day with anticipations and dreams of what your wife will look like. I am sure his wife breathed a huge sigh of relief when she saw him. He is 22 and has 2 children. He sees them for about 2 months in the summer when it is too hot for safaris—and then maybe 2 other times a year. His wife/children live with his parents about 60 miles away in a very small village, which seems to mean a compound of an extended family. He talked about trying to save money and find a way that his children will not have to be camel drivers. HE talked about being part of the desert, and knowing his way anywhere, even in the dark. “It is part of me,” he said with no sentimentality. We passed wild girl camels, who are left to roam the desert and not work—“Their job is to have strong young, they are not strong enough for this work.” Hamja burst into song and sang love and marriage songs as we rode along. We passed dead sheep and a cow in the deserted desert—they weren’t eaten, because they only eat the sheep if they do a ceremony in killing it. They left the skin as well. Curious. And then over one rise—a dead camel! It had died when it broke his leg and they killed it, leaving its bones in the sun to bleach. So of course, I came home with a camel skull and jaw bone much to the amusement of the drivers. Near dusk, we first spotted the dunes—small ones but so pristine and beautiful. There are large sprawling dunes south of us, but they have become a huge tourist attraction with buses of people coming and stands of food and trinkets. Plastic bags and litter plentiful. We opted for this smaller version, hungry to be away from the madding crowd. Standing on them you can see for 360 degrees the horizon—only on Lake Superior have I experienced that. This was indeed a sea of sand and sky.
At the camp fire another camel boy of about 10 came to sit with us—clearly enjoying the company of Hamja and Suban. They laughed and sang and we sang and ate the wonderful food they cooked for us. WE watch many peacocks strutting down in the valley, their blue shocking on the drab sand. They make wonderful squacking calls in the night. We had thick bedrolls rolled out for us with heavy blankets and white sheets. The sky was overcast, and no stars when we went to sleep—waking up in the night, there they were in glorious twinkling and the sound of the camel munching near my head. The sky meeting the horizon in a full circle around me with me in the center. The air was cold and crisp. I looked over to see Suban and Hamja rolled in quilts. A perfect moment.
Breakfast and coffee and off to meet some of the people that live here. Of course they knew we were coming—it is an arrangement with the camel drivers—and the news of our arrival came in on the wind. Their compound was so clean—swept, no trash or mess. The clay walls surrounding the homes were painted with colored clay. WE were invited in and everyone wanted their pictures taken. A 8 year old boy took my camera and shot a lot of photos there—many of them excellent—and now I have some of me. Generous people of the desert—I had a glass of milk, freshly milked from the cow. I peered into their homes, almost totally bare with small drawings on the wall, that the boy took pictures of. The women tried to take my rings off, and laughed at the toe rings and mendhi. Each person eager to show us their home, their goat, their mother and grandmother. A woman shows us how to grind the rice in an ancient stone contraption she rotates. Children touch us and laugh and stare—makes it even—I stare back. There is a grace and elegance in these women. Quiet and hesitant but comfortable in their homes and surrounding. Proud of what they have made there. A bus now comes by to take the children to a school—we heard it pass in the distance—the kids stayed home to see the foreigners. Ah, well.
The next village we were told was a village of “untouchables.” An old idea outlawed, now—but clearly representing a lower class—the lowest class. They also welcomed us in, and I took a picture of 2 small boys. Their young father taps me and points to himself—pleased to see his image in my small camera. I don’t understand what it is that fascinates me so about seeing people living in such conditions. I am mystifies and tear at my mind trying to grasp what it would be like—what their lives are like. How is it that I am me and they are they?

Nearing our destination Subhan tries to talk us into staying on—so many things he could show us! The desert is so vast! He can tell we have a special feeling for it! Yesl we are different than others. Of course he is right—I am SO special, but his plea had more to do with possibly being the last safari of the season with the heat just around the corner---With genuine gratitude, we said our good-byes, feeling all the richer for this taste. It makes sense to me that it is hard to find words to explain the desert—it is silent and filled with space.
We still had 2 days in Jaisalmer and spent them weaving in and out of the small streets, watching the men play cards and the children play tag in the streets. Drinking sweet chai in the shade and drinking in the sights and sounds of this magical place stuck in time. On afternoon there was a lot of drumming and trumpets and singing in the street where we saw what I would call a parade—led by a sabu (holy man) sitting on front of the tractor which was pulling a trailer covered with flowers and people and an alter with a idol perched drenched in marigolds. There were some horses and motorcycles and many sabus dressed in orange followed by girls and women singing. They are going to temple we were told. We were there long enough and it is small enough that people greeted us as we came by. We looked in endless shops at the wonders made there for pennies. Again, people only kind and curious—no resentment or hostilities felt.

2009-03-26T14:42:00.006+05:30

Circling over Madurai I saw large rock forms with temples on the top of them. They looked like tables with toy houses from the air. Driving out of town the Western Ghats came closer and loomed larger. Lightening streaked and the colors of the sky provided dramatic backdrop. I arrived at the guest house where I would be staying. A beautiful, spacious house with tall ceilings and large rooms. The chair person of the school I was to visit was waiting for me, along with the principal. They stood when I entered, and immediately set off to the dining room. Over dinner he lectured me on Hindu religion—intense. There were servants who watched our every move in order to anticipate our needs—more water, finished with plate, more rice. . trying to be invisible. In the early early morning when I took a walk with the principal throughout their compound the servants walked behind us with flashlights to light our way. . .

I was invited by the Raja family to visit a private English Indian School in Rajapalayam, south of Madurai. The school serves children pre K-standard 10. Friday was an observation day. I was impressed with the facilities and the high academic standard of the school.

Children demonstrated a startling amount of memorization coupled with a working understanding of what they were doing. They had math lab time and performed plays around the English stories they read. Americans love to say that the Indians only do rote learning (because they are so much better in math than American kids) without understanding what they are doing. I watched very little children recite their math tables and vocab words—but they did know what they meant. I also saw that this was memorization practice. These kids, by the time they are in high school have great strategies for memorization. I think as a generalization, we as Americans are afraid to have kids memorize, or do hard work if they don’t want to. I watched children write sentences (in perfect handwriting in K) ten times. Here is another fascinating thing,folks. The kids don’t hate it. They are so grateful to have the opportunity to be in school, and have the books to write in. I watched their faces scuewed up in concentration, with their tongue sticking out the corner of their mouth as they work on their sentences in English. But guess what? These kids are bi-or tri lingual. Out under the banyan tree, they performed—oh did they perform! Plays or folktales, songs, poems, speeches, yoga, tae kwon do, dances—It was glorious fun. It was a very happy school—lucky kids going there.
One aspect appears to be missing in Indian schools, creative writing. It is a novel idea that young children should do creative writing rather than copying work or writing answers to questions. I presented a slide show and showed videos of the AISCH staff teaching creative writing from 1-10th grade as models. Thanks to another teacher here, I have learned a lot about tech, and actually enjoyed giving the presentation—

Saturday morning, In the secondary school Imet with each class and the students questioned her about world events and being an American—and of course, “What do you think of our school? Indian education?” Every child dressed the same, every school age girl in all of India wears her hair in long braids, circled up and tied with bows. The lack of need for individualism is really striking in a high school class—as well as the discipline and segregation of boys/girls. This is a co-ed school, but boys on one side of the room and girls on the other. No cooperative learning. Or group projects. Rarely discussions. I was dreading it, thinking I had nothing to say to them, but they had a lot to ask and it was exciting exchanging ideas. I found it helped me develop my own ideas as I talked with them. Ideas about individualization, unity, materialism, communalism, equality, freedom, opportunity, fate—my head was reeling. . .”How did you get to be so famous?” one boy asked me—crazy.
I ended the day sitting under the 700 year old baobab tree where Gandhi held talks and parakeets live.

2009-03-19T20:39:00.000+05:30

I came home from dinner at a little diner with friends. Laughing and talking. When I arrived home Permal was lying in the driveway on a blanket wearing towels on his head and wrapped in wool shawls. It is times like this I am furious at my lack of understanding Tamil. It is 87 degrees out. He is telling me somehow that he has a fever and is cold. I give him a sweater that Tim left here and an extra blanket and make tea and tylenol. He is sitting on my living room floor singing his prayers now. He assures me that he will go to the Dr. tomorrow if he is not better. He makes little moaning sounds. No, no no no! He can’t possibly go home for fear of losing his job—crazy. He finishes his tea and crackers. It is about ½ hour since he took his Tylenol. He stopped making the little sounds. He goes out and I watch him make a bed on the floor of the little guard shack and curl up. Two people under the same sun—but our lives are so vastly different.

hope

2009-03-04T18:31:00.001+05:30

I am surprised to find winter doldrums in this country—although, I suppose they are not in this country, but my own heart/mind. I always attributed this malaise to the weather in Minnesota, the grey days and long nights with inclement conditions for these old bones. It was this time last year that I entertained the idea of leaving—a time of unrest. Even as I write this at my desk with a breeze I am covered with a sheen of sweat and a coil of it roll down my throat. No, it’s not the weather. Perhaps it is because I have always either been a student or a teacher, and have the rhythm of school in my bones. But here I am with bougainvillea blooming outside my window and I have the blues. Perhaps it is because Sylvia, Lydia, and Tim have come and gone. . .Pat and Ned. . . and I see what I am missing. Perhaps it is because I no longer marvel at chartreuse and pink houses, but pass them like the taupe ones in Church hill farms. The faces I pass everyday on my scooter are familiar now, as are their habits, and mine. I am not astonished when I ride my bike.
So today I recognized this and actively sought beautiful moments on the way to work. I took a new route, and got tangled up in streets that don’t run parallel. Backtracking, and backtracking again I saw a small girl, maybe 6 years old with a very small scrawny plant outside of her very dilapidated palm house. She had dug a hole and was planting it amongst the trash. I stopped my bike and watched her pump a glass of water to feed it, and then she stood back and admired her work and clapped her hands. The plant had one white flower growing on it, and drooped its’ head, but held the promise of life. These moments are everywhere—scattered broadside by a generous hand if only one watches for them.

2009-02-21T11:38:00.029+05:30

The second largest city in Andra Pradesh (the state to the north of Tamil Nadu)is Vishakhapatnam. It is right on the coast, boasting of beautiful beaches and near the Araku Valley. A woman at school told tales of visiting there, and I couldn’t wait to take advantage of our 3 day weekend to go. Tim, Barbara and I booked tickets on an all night sleeper bus to leave at 6 p.m. Friday and arrive 6:00a.m. Saturday. We really had no idea what to expect, and were surprised when the bus arrived decked out with no seats but bunk beds, 4 to a compartment. Sounded perfect to me. We stopped after a couple hours at a restaurant where they had these woven benches/beds that people sat on to eat. They served “meals” which is a premade dinner consisting of rice and a variety of gravies on banana leaves for a set price. About 50 cents. They served it out of buckets ladling it out with a generous hand. Other buses pulled up while we were there. Looked like a good deal for the restaurant owner.

I had no problem sleeping, and welcomed the 10 hour stretch ahead of me. It seems about every two weeks I need to sleep 12 hours for a night—this was my chance. We got up at 6 to find we had another 4 hours until we really reached Vishakhapatnam. Why was I surprised? Our hotel was just minutes from the bus stop. The woman at the desk shuffled through a stack of papers, “No reservation. We have no rooms,” she sadly shook her head. As I waited without speaking, I realized I have learned a lot about living here. We just stood at the desk while she looked through the unorganized papers looking sad. After a bit she offered an air-conditioned room. “No, no air conditioning,” I said, settling in for a long wait. I was pleasantly surprised when she offered us one room with an extra bed—just what we reserved in the first place, and we went upstairs to drop our gear.

We booked another all day bus tour to go up the mountain and into the Valley, as the trains were all sold out, and headed out to the beach north of town.

The beaches were what one hopes for in your dreams—long stretches of sand lined with palm trees and clear beautiful water. There were huge signs on the beaches warning of the dangers of swimming in the sea. The local people were gathered and happy, picnicking playing ball and running in and out of the water—but not too deep. If anyone ventured into the water the police would rush over and blow their whistle and scold them furiously. We wandered way down away from the crowds and settled down on the sand. Thousands of little crabs scuttled about us dodging into the tiny holes in the sand. With Tim as our guard Barbara and I wore our bathing suits—I forgot the tabu of a bathing suit. We were flocked by curious well wishers wanting to shake our hands and learn our “good names.” The water was fresh and clean and such a relief to swim in. A lovely afternoon.

We walked up to the road to wait for a bus to come to take us back into the city. 3 People approached us, praising the lord. “Maybe we want to catch a rickshaw,” I suggested, smiling and trying to avoid the Christians. A rickshaw arrived and we scrambled into it, to have the 3 join us. “Do you love Jesus?” and I thought of the perfect song and belted out, “Oh Jesus, I love you—and I love Buddha too Rama, Krishna, Guru Dev, Toa de Ching and Mahommed. . .” There smiling faces were inches from ours, bobbing up and down to my singing. When I stopped they asked us about our religious faiths, and t=Tim started to explain how he was studying to become a Hindi. “A Hindi!!” They were flabbergasted and clearly crest fallen at such a prospect. “Hey, Lauri! How about singing Jesus Loves ME?” Tim suggested, happy to change the subject without changing the subject, I began, followed by a Gift to be Simple. The vision of 6 of us in a rickshaw rocking down the coastal road was at times more than I could manage containing laughing. The absurdity and humor of such a sight tickled me to death. A favorite moment. When we arrived in town and exited the rickshaw we all shook hands with the heart felt connection we made.

We left early on the morning on the bus, winding through the town, and up the hills through little villages. The bus was a luxury bus owned by the state of AP for tourism. We were the only whites—a situation more common than not—I think we were the only white people we saw on the whole trip, come to think about it, so we are frequently objects of curiosity. My goal on this leg of the trip was to see areas where tribal people live. We passed within 13 K of Orissa and into some serious hill country. The landscape of the eastern ghats was stunning, and we were impressed that roads, railroads, and electricity came so far out into the bush.

We stopped along the way to see the vistas, and bought coffee and honey from local farmers. We stopped in small villages and bought fresh papaya and pineapple slices. We visited a tribal museum about life in the hills. The most startling tidbit was that at the wedding ceremony, the man spits water in the bride’s face. A metaphor of life to come? After lunch there was a performance of local women dancers who were bold and stared you in the face. One woman on the street had hair to waist in one continuous dense mat. The women have 3 rings in their nose and a fierceness about them. They danced with precision and grace and humor. Clearly something they are hired to do, but enjoy themselves and each other doing it.
The drums accompanying them.

The day ended in India’s version of Mammoth Caves. Again, filled with Indian families on vacation enjoying the tourist sights of their own state. Friendly and proud to talk about their country.

We got back sometime very late to the city—Tim bought some chicken to eat from a vendor on the street—a real local.

We spent our last day by hiring a car to drive us up the coast to a town that was previously a Dutch
Settlement. There is an old (1700) cemetery there and still traces of their influence. The fishermen use sailing boats here, colorfully painted of course. Along the shore there were many statues built along the coast—as a tribute, or tourism we weren’t sure. Barbara and I wanted to buy baskets we saw the women carrying fish in—before they were used. We stopped along the way and found a woman in the process of making them. Bamboo—strong and beautiful

We lingered on top of a hill outside the city overlooking this paradise near two large statues of 2 of Rama and Sita. Feeling a little antsy to get back to the bus, but savoring the last smell, sight and sound. This is a place I would gladly come back to, but India is a big place, and there is so much to do. . .

2009-02-15T13:21:00.008+05:30

It all goes by so fast--like a blur. . .

rice harvest. . .

This was a little Muslim girl at the palace. It seems they have to get their fashion fame early.

Christmas in INDIA!

2009-02-15T10:53:00.022+05:30

Lydia arrived exhausted after 40 hours of traveling—we were anxiously awaiting her with our bags in hand to whisk her off on yet another airplane to Bangalore where a driver was waiting to drive us 3 more hours to Mysore and a resort where friends were waiting. Phew! She was too exhausted to be shocked, happy or surprised. We arrived at the resort at 3 a.m. and hopped into beds as hard as rocks. The night air was really chilly and we huddled in the woolen blankets—for the first time in a long time, there was no other sound than a bird in the distance—what could that be? In the morning it was Christmas Eve. I thought this would be a good quiet place to introduce India. It was indeed quiet. My dear friend from school, Esther arranged for us to stay for 5 days at her cousin’s resort on Lake Kaveri. They were anxiously awaiting us to get up and had made a genuine South Indian breakfast of idly, sambar, and chutney. Tim and Lydie reluctantly ate it, and I noticed them both eating cookies shortly after. The coffee was strong, and the morning crisp. Nothing planned but a day of rest and feasting our eyes. The land was scrub and being reforested by Nakesh, the cousin. I swam in the quiet dark lake with white egrets and black cormorants. We ate, and napped, and looked at the water. Quiet. Quiet. A new unknown side of India. We had a great dinner after Ester’s son and nephew and girlfriend arrived. A big bonfire, Santa hats, Christmas carols sung by the fire accompanied by the soft sweet voices of the boys—but it sure didn’t feel like any Christmas I ever knew. . .In the morning, we got up to fresh juice and coffee, sliced fruit and Esther and her cousin Sheila had bought presents for all of us. We opened them next to a little plastic Christmas tree under palm trees. We piled into Nakesh’s truck to head to the bird sanctuary for early morning viewing—and what a view!
Spoon bills (so aptly named!), cormorants, ibis, heron, pelicans, storks, ducks, geese—and there hanging in the trees fruit bats the size of cats! We took a boat with a man who rowed us silently across the still water—we glided right up to trees and rocks where they rested barely noticing our passing. In the boat, on the water, in the sun. . .exotic bird life as I had never seen. . .this is Christmas? This is Christmas in India.

At the resort there were the only visitors—it seemed like maybe the only visitors ever—such a luxury, such a mid-western thing to want the solitude and quiet, not an Indian ideal. We took the little fishing boat out with one of the men who lived there. They are typical boats we saw in rivers and on the lake. They’re called parisols—they leak badly and spin around. So funny. The man paddling us brought us a large fish he had caught that morning for our dinner.

The following day we had a reservation to go to the Bandipur Wildlife reserve! We entered the
National Park holding our breath hoping for a glimpse—when the driver started beeping his horn every 30 sec. “Why?” “So we don’t hit any animals,” he explained. Of course! What was I thinking? When we got to the office you need to have a ticket to ride a bus into the bush. Actually, it is good that is monitored so—just frustrating. There is only a small part of the park that people can ride through—the rest is really a reserve. We waited amongst troops of cheeky monkeys—one of which tried to pull my purse away from me—we had a tug of war! (I won, but he got the cookies out of it) There were working elephants there we could look in the eye, wild boars skittered on the outskirts—unthreatened, and un afraid. We boarded a rickety school bus that belched and farted its way down the two track—into the Indian forest, gears grinding loudly. The bus was filled with children yelling to each other, but yes, as we turned the bend, there was a beautiful bull elephant munching unconcernedly away. We stared slack jawed, and then I turned to look at the children. Their expressions of awe were more wonderful to me than the elephant. Lots of deer and monkeys, but no tiger—although the driver said that there was a tiger nearby—he could tell by the barking of the deer and the way they were behaving. WE drove back to the resort at sunset with flocks of pure white herons heading back to where ever it is they go.

Mysore is a charming area. There is a much slower pace, and the agriculture looks far more prosperous. It was harvest season for the rice. There were mountains of grain stalk on the road into the city—farmers spread it out on the road for cars to go over it and thrash the rice off the stalk, and then they sweep it up.

The cart here are specialized to the area—and too quaint. Beautiful scenes painted in brilliant colors on the sides of the carts. WE passed through one region where the carts had large 6’ high wooden wheels. Closer to town, tires. Sometimes the rice was piled so high, hanging over almost covering the oxen’s heads. We never tired of seeing them, exclaiming each one the cutest. IT is recognizing these small distinctions in the different states that make me feel like an Indian. Of course, everywhere we traveled, and stopped to take pictures, the people were tickled to see us, laughing waving and posing for the photo. Digital cameras! What a wonder. To see their image on the tiny little 1 inch screen causes huge delight. I think they are happy about the attention, maybe they are saying, “Look—another ridiculous white person! Don’t they look crazy? What a joke!”

Lydia read 4 books at the resort—we took long walks and talks and naps.

Into Mysore for a peek at the rich heritage and history. First the summer palace to the Maharaja. Simple, cool grounds with restfull lawns of grass and flowers. The house indeed built for summer heat—tall ceilings and 25 foot tall rooms whose entire walls are open. Mosaic and intricate carving adding the elegance. The regular palace rivals Versailles in France. Gold embossed walls, all hand painted of historic battles with a hall of mirrors and sculpture, and ceramics—truly a grand place. Churches and temples and markets! Tim And Lydia definitely cramped my style shopping—but even Lydia bought some precious treasures. Traveling with them, sharing the delight of such sights—precious.

The train ride back to Chennai was 9 hours—and about every hour they would come around with another course to a magnificent meal that went on and on. Lydia’s first sighting of Chennai! She writes the following, and says it all.

There is no way I can explain what India has been to me, what it is like. But If I had to try, I would want to give you all the smells that I have had. I think the sense of smell is greatly overlooked. I know I have an oversensitive nose, but here... here it is different. There are so many things here, so much... I have seen many things, and I can show pictures or try to describe feelings, but to give you an idea of what it would actually be like to be here, to experience it, I would want you to smell India.

India is a smelly country. The sweet smell of curry. The smell of sewage that only a polluted city river can give off. Exhaust from 10 rickshaws and motorbikes waiting to merge into traffic. Shit so heavy it sags your shoulders. The smell of urine that is so overpowering your eyes water. The calmness of a lake that has not yet seen a motor boat.

We passed what must have been a garlic pressing factory, because the smell of garlic, strong and rich, filled the air in a way only Kelsey Decker would understand. The salty smell of the ocean. A hundred bodies pressed together on a bus, all moving individually and all going nowhere. The smell of crushed flowers, fading in front of a statue of a deity painted bright blue. The fresh smell of passing the rice paddies, the smell is as green as the plants that hold sunlight in their color. The smell of garbage, of bags and bottles and organic matter waiting to be picked over. Orange from a street stand so strong and piercing it cuts through the haze and zips your brain.

Stores that smell of incense and musty artifacts and perfumed silks, bathrooms that smell of the mothballs they keep in the sink as air fresheners. Goats and cows and wild dogs. Samosas frying in oil and sending out their spices down the street on the breeze. Thick choking smoke to get rid of mosquitos, or the black tarry smell from burning garbage. Buildings of stone that give off their age and dampness, that reek of experiences they have witnessed, the tiredness of a hundred or a thousand lives seen.

This is what I have smelled, what I have breathed in and out. The beauty and richness, the dank and the sour, the good and the bad, all this has become my experience.

PS- the night guard just came in to order more water, and the only greeting he knows is "Good morning". Seeing as he is the night guard, this always gives my mom a good chuckle before bed.

I have just had one of the hardest and most eye opening experiences of my life.

My mother is in India for the year, and I have come to visit her for the holidays. She lives in a community area that is made up of homes that are gated with nice middle class homes behind them. In front the world is a dirt road with trash, dogs, a trash plot nearby and a few empty lots nearby, except for the small huts that are plopped in them as though dropped by a tornado, or someone stripped a palm tree of its branches.

In one of the lots lives a family of 11, although that was recently downsized to 8. The lot next door has about 6, I think. These huts are roughly 5x8 feet. They cook and eat outside.

My mother befriended the children that live in these huts. The eldest, Ashvani, is 14. Her father is an alcoholic, something not very common in India. When someone in her family needed medicine, she came to my mother, who gave it against the advice of friends. They told her she would never see that money again. She never did, because they have no money to pay her back. But that 14 year old came to clean my mothers house for her, because that was all she had to offer, her labor.

My sister Sylvia was here before me. She also met these children, 6 in all. She sent back presents for them, sweaters because the 80 degree weather we are experiencing is winter here. And they were thrilled. They were thrilled just to meet me. They called me and my family "friend" instead of our name. The second oldest girl, Jiamani, said "I am so happy" and covered her face in her hands. Not crying, just overcome with joy. Their brother, cousin and the two neighbors did not speak English except to say "Happy New Year".

They showed me off to their cousin- I got the impression that he was higher up on the social scale than them. They brought me down the street to meet their brother and his wife and infant, having me hold her as though it were an honor for them when I said she was cute. They held my hands and put their arms around my shoulders to show that I was with them, and when we posed for pictures together or

I agreed to race with them down the street they were literally thrilled. These are children who were so excited to have me as their friend.

Me, who have not done anything in my life. I am not a celebrity, a hero, a doctor/lawyer/politician. I am just a white person, someone who is not very special in the Western world but here in this small corner gave these children a sense of fame, of being special themselves. They were honored just by shaking my hand.

I am boggled at this meeting, it was a mind-boggling experience, meeting these people. Being in India is a mind-boggling experience. This seems to be a world of such contrast, of being tossed back and forth. I feel thrown around, as though I was in an emotional rickshaw (imagine bumper cars, but instead of hitting, you swerve or break- and it isn't a ride...)

I had never met these before and most likely never will again. They will go through as much school as they can; my mother told me that if students are not good enough they are asked to leave school, luckily that has not happened to them yet. My mother is here for two years, after that we probably will lose contact. But I think that they have left a lasting impression on me, of how lucky I am. I cannot imagine what it would be like to be in awe of someone because of the color of their skin or their nationality or their economic status. To honor someone because of that. The children were not the only ones, their parents seemed so pleased that my mother noticed their children. Their mother shook MY hand with such fervor, clasping it in both of hers,