There are Maoists in India. Maybe there are Stalinists in Iran too, who knows. This week they attacked a government building west of Kolkata and hijacked a train (no one was hurt besides getting hit by broken windows). But the Maoists are the least of my worries.
In a couple of hours, I have a train leaving for Lucknow. I'm running a little late, but that's not the issue. I booked the ticket online through the government agency, like I've done a bunch of times. I got a confirmation email. I was billed. Yet, no e-ticket has ever shown itself on the website. I went into my booked history it shows only 3 random trains, leaving out this one and many others. It does show the first one I booked. Whenever I look at my booked history, it usually shows different trains. So I hope that, in order of least bad to worst, I don't get charged an extra 50 rupees for not having my e-ticket, get thrown off the train, get thrown off at the first stop, get fed to the Maoists.
The guy at the metro seemed to beem with pride at our smooth transaction (it was a different guy than last night). A kid, who had the whole sidewalk (I was pinned to the wall), slammed right into me, but apologized. I was thinking about my run-ins. It seems like there's a battle between foreigners vs. India and Indians vs. foreigners. That's way too simplistic though. It's important to remember than India is a nation of a billion individuals, tons of different ethnicities, religions, tribes, languages, and classes. Some people see you as a foreigner and not as a person. These are the people who are fighting a misplaced battle. It might just be an innocent drawn out stare. Or it might be pushing you out of the way and when you push back, yelling at you. It might be screaming obscenities because someone, who happens to be foreign-born, doesn't take your advice. Yet, this is a small group. One that I encounter to a disproportionate degree.
We must not forget that foreigners' ignorance plays a role too. While one foreigner's ignorance should not lead to assumptions, people here must encounter a lot of ignorance and arrogance. It's a vicious cycle of misunderstanding.
As for me, I've been torn between the belief that violence is wrong in every circumstance and that one must always stand up for themselves. It's something I haven't figured out yet.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Dinners
Two nights ago, I had dinner with a Peruvian woman, who is volunteering in a village in near Puneand flew to Kolkata for the week. Much of the village hasn't ever been outside of the village. She said it was difficult for her to relate. She was also sad for the girls, whose lives will be determined by their futures husbands.
Last night, I wondered into this weird quasi-karoake bar for dinner. There was a band of 5 musicians playing synthacized Indian tunes while a couple people took turns singing into the microphone, which was set on echo. There were only a few customers in the place. I sat there sipping on a Coke chocolate ice cream float thinking about how funny and ridiculous it all was. Then I took a peek at myself, a grown man, nursing a float in a bar, and realized that I was pretty ridiculous too. The drinks were so overpriced, the Coke float was the least so.
Generally, I'm doing pretty good. It took some time, but I've gotten used to lots of things. I no longer compare everything to the familiarity of America, but instead to the quality of things in the different cities in India I've been to. But there are still frustrating moments that remind me that I'll always be an outsider.
Last night I tried to get chocolate from a stall. No one understood me. The thing is, I've asked for chocolate a million times here. Every vendor knows the word "chocolate." Maybe I was saying it with an accent that I don't normally use. That's the issue, people only know enough English that if you don't say what they know perfectly, it's like you're speaking Greek. The same thing happened an hour ago at the metro. You have to get the ticket from a person at the booth. I asked for "Park." The guy replied, "Where do you want to go?" "Park!" "Park-a-street?" "Yes!" "Where do you want to go?" "Park!" "Park-a-street?" "YES!" I mean, that's the name of the station, Park Street. It's not called something else in Hindi.
As I was getting off the metro at Park-a-street, a little grungy middle aged man decides he doesn't want to wait for people to get off the metro, he has to get on immediately. He puts a swim move on the guy in front of me and helps him along with a push. He does the same to me, which implants my shoulder into the door (and left a visible red mark). I immediately throw up my forearm into him. Of course, I'm pretty buff here, so it gave him a good jolt. Apparently into a number of people because the guy, a woman, and a few more people starting screaming their lungs out in Hindi at me. I yell back repeatedly, "He pushed me first!"As the doors close and I walk away, the few people leaving the metro next to me take turns giving me dirty looks. At that moment, I was discouraged. Perhaps unjustly, thinking that I would never get benefit of doubt here in a situation like that.
Last night, I wondered into this weird quasi-karoake bar for dinner. There was a band of 5 musicians playing synthacized Indian tunes while a couple people took turns singing into the microphone, which was set on echo. There were only a few customers in the place. I sat there sipping on a Coke chocolate ice cream float thinking about how funny and ridiculous it all was. Then I took a peek at myself, a grown man, nursing a float in a bar, and realized that I was pretty ridiculous too. The drinks were so overpriced, the Coke float was the least so.
Generally, I'm doing pretty good. It took some time, but I've gotten used to lots of things. I no longer compare everything to the familiarity of America, but instead to the quality of things in the different cities in India I've been to. But there are still frustrating moments that remind me that I'll always be an outsider.
Last night I tried to get chocolate from a stall. No one understood me. The thing is, I've asked for chocolate a million times here. Every vendor knows the word "chocolate." Maybe I was saying it with an accent that I don't normally use. That's the issue, people only know enough English that if you don't say what they know perfectly, it's like you're speaking Greek. The same thing happened an hour ago at the metro. You have to get the ticket from a person at the booth. I asked for "Park." The guy replied, "Where do you want to go?" "Park!" "Park-a-street?" "Yes!" "Where do you want to go?" "Park!" "Park-a-street?" "YES!" I mean, that's the name of the station, Park Street. It's not called something else in Hindi.
As I was getting off the metro at Park-a-street, a little grungy middle aged man decides he doesn't want to wait for people to get off the metro, he has to get on immediately. He puts a swim move on the guy in front of me and helps him along with a push. He does the same to me, which implants my shoulder into the door (and left a visible red mark). I immediately throw up my forearm into him. Of course, I'm pretty buff here, so it gave him a good jolt. Apparently into a number of people because the guy, a woman, and a few more people starting screaming their lungs out in Hindi at me. I yell back repeatedly, "He pushed me first!"As the doors close and I walk away, the few people leaving the metro next to me take turns giving me dirty looks. At that moment, I was discouraged. Perhaps unjustly, thinking that I would never get benefit of doubt here in a situation like that.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Synagogues of Kolkata
First I saw Temple Beth El. It's down the narrow Pollard Street and fenced in. After a minute, I saw a guy walk past. I asked if I could come in. He let me in the gate, but told me to wait until he asked someone if I could go inside. I was asked if I was Jewish (which sounds like "Juices" from many Indian people). Which country? America. So far, my story checked out. I also brought a yarmulke for a little insurance and it was perched on my head.
A small hunched old man with one tooth jutting down between his lips and short bristles of white hair forming a beard strolled towards me. He was wearing a wrapping in place of pants, indicating that he wasn't well off. He looked at me hard, a reverse Nazi, trying to find indicators of Jewishness on my face to allow me the privilege to enter the synagogue.
I was told I had to meet a Mr. David somebody who owned a shop in New Market to ask for permission to enter. Then, the guard and the old man changed their minds and called Mr. David somebody. I introduced myself and before I could continue, the old man asked for the cell phone and talked to Mr. David somebody himself. They asked me to write my name, nationality, hotel , and how long I'm staying in Kolkata, which seemed like an odd batch of information.
I asked the reasons for the process, genuinely interested, not annoyed. I was told, wordlwide terrorism was one reason (not locally though). Also, it's a house of worship, not a tourist attraction. And there would be beggars (the guard had a much more apt and less harsh word, but it's not coming to mind) storming the place.
The outside of the synagogue is pastel yellow with blue Stars of David seemingly randomly placed. It looks like an old school house with a tilted roof. Inside was quite striking. It's set in a Sephardic style with the rabbi facing the back wall from the middle of the synagogue and surrounded by open space. The congregation is off to both sides and facing the same direction, save for a few seats behind the rabbi and along the edges of the open space. The old man told me that they didn't have anywhere close to a minion. I believe he said they only have service on Saturday mornings, but that might be optimistic.
The old man then graciously walked me to the bigger synagogue, Temple Moghan David. Both were founded by the Baghdadi Jewish community who arrived from the Middle East (not just Baghdad) a couple hundred years ago. I would have found the barn-red building with a tall steeple (if that's what a steeple is, I don't really know), but I would've never found the way to get in. We had to walk through piles of goods and brush aside a confused vendor to open the gate.
The inside of the Temple Moghan David was quite beautiful. The lay out was the same as Temple BethEl. There were small stained glass windows and lovely calligraphy painted along the facade separating the ground floor from the seats in the balcony.
As the old man and I left, he asked where I was going now. I said the hotel. He asked where it was and I said Chandni Chowk and he pointed to where that was. I asked him for his name. He said, M.D. Khalil Khan (not the most Jewish name, I was reluctant to ask if he was for whatever reason). I asked if I could give him a donation and he said yes. I pulled out a 100 rupee bill and his eyes shined bright. So you can imagine his reaction when I pulled out the other 100.
I know, I'm another Bill Gates or Warren Buffet. 200 rupees is about $4.44. Even if Mr. Khan took that money only for himself, I would be pleased. I accidently followed him to his room, which is in the synagogue. It's smaller than Mother Teresa's was and gets exactly zero natural light. But this is a man who watches over great pieces of Jewish history. He deserves to be rewarded and it's a shame that he's not. It is evident the reverence and pride he has for the two great buildings, regardless of whether or not he's Jewish. It's too bad that we focus on Israel, America, and Europe at the expense of the other places where Jews have called home. That there were Jews in India (and still are a few) doesn't symbolize our history of persecution, but instead represents the wonderful diversity and spirit of the Jewish people.
And I pooped my pants.
A small hunched old man with one tooth jutting down between his lips and short bristles of white hair forming a beard strolled towards me. He was wearing a wrapping in place of pants, indicating that he wasn't well off. He looked at me hard, a reverse Nazi, trying to find indicators of Jewishness on my face to allow me the privilege to enter the synagogue.
I was told I had to meet a Mr. David somebody who owned a shop in New Market to ask for permission to enter. Then, the guard and the old man changed their minds and called Mr. David somebody. I introduced myself and before I could continue, the old man asked for the cell phone and talked to Mr. David somebody himself. They asked me to write my name, nationality, hotel , and how long I'm staying in Kolkata, which seemed like an odd batch of information.
I asked the reasons for the process, genuinely interested, not annoyed. I was told, wordlwide terrorism was one reason (not locally though). Also, it's a house of worship, not a tourist attraction. And there would be beggars (the guard had a much more apt and less harsh word, but it's not coming to mind) storming the place.
The outside of the synagogue is pastel yellow with blue Stars of David seemingly randomly placed. It looks like an old school house with a tilted roof. Inside was quite striking. It's set in a Sephardic style with the rabbi facing the back wall from the middle of the synagogue and surrounded by open space. The congregation is off to both sides and facing the same direction, save for a few seats behind the rabbi and along the edges of the open space. The old man told me that they didn't have anywhere close to a minion. I believe he said they only have service on Saturday mornings, but that might be optimistic.
The old man then graciously walked me to the bigger synagogue, Temple Moghan David. Both were founded by the Baghdadi Jewish community who arrived from the Middle East (not just Baghdad) a couple hundred years ago. I would have found the barn-red building with a tall steeple (if that's what a steeple is, I don't really know), but I would've never found the way to get in. We had to walk through piles of goods and brush aside a confused vendor to open the gate.
The inside of the Temple Moghan David was quite beautiful. The lay out was the same as Temple BethEl. There were small stained glass windows and lovely calligraphy painted along the facade separating the ground floor from the seats in the balcony.
As the old man and I left, he asked where I was going now. I said the hotel. He asked where it was and I said Chandni Chowk and he pointed to where that was. I asked him for his name. He said, M.D. Khalil Khan (not the most Jewish name, I was reluctant to ask if he was for whatever reason). I asked if I could give him a donation and he said yes. I pulled out a 100 rupee bill and his eyes shined bright. So you can imagine his reaction when I pulled out the other 100.
I know, I'm another Bill Gates or Warren Buffet. 200 rupees is about $4.44. Even if Mr. Khan took that money only for himself, I would be pleased. I accidently followed him to his room, which is in the synagogue. It's smaller than Mother Teresa's was and gets exactly zero natural light. But this is a man who watches over great pieces of Jewish history. He deserves to be rewarded and it's a shame that he's not. It is evident the reverence and pride he has for the two great buildings, regardless of whether or not he's Jewish. It's too bad that we focus on Israel, America, and Europe at the expense of the other places where Jews have called home. That there were Jews in India (and still are a few) doesn't symbolize our history of persecution, but instead represents the wonderful diversity and spirit of the Jewish people.
And I pooped my pants.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The Shanghai of India
I wonder if Gandhi loaded up and knocked people out of the way while he walked the streets and then turned and glared at them, brushing imaginary dirt off his shoulders. Maybe not. But then again, he had his own little ashram, he didn't have to walk the congested sidewalks of Kolkata. I bet Mother Teresa was shoving people left and right.
Speaking of which, I saw her house today. I walked away with a nice feeling, but it wasn't the spiritual pilgrimage that it probably was for other foreigners and Indians. Maybe that's because the word Jesus was everywhere and so was the cross. I saw the room where she lived for 44 years. It was like a college dorm. There was a bed, a desk, and a picture of the man of her dreams on the wall (that being Jesus). Yes, her room was basic, but I must say, I've had hotel rooms smaller than that. The hotel rooms didn't have fancy desks either. My biggest issue at the house was whether or not to take off my shoes. I walked in and someone (not a nun) asked me to. Then I went back ready to do so and saw a sign that said, "We have no objection if don't take off your shoes." What's with the double negative? Very confusing.
A chicken roll from a stall I could handle, but Domino's gave me a little diarrhea. I tried to get change for 500 rupees at the Hotel VIP Continental and they laughed at me and were very rude, which caused me to start screaming. I went to another store and they politely said they didn't have the change. Then another store gladly gave me the money. 500 rupees is around $11, but it's practically worthless in most places because they won't have enough change to give you back if you buy something.
When I went to sleep last night, I realized that I wrote about the grittier side of Kolkata last time. That's the side that most Westerners associate with Kolkata because of Mother Teresa. But this is a very urbane place. Many people are well-to-do. There are more cars than motorcycles. Shanghai is to China what Kolkata is to India. In Shanghai, I dared to order a plain cheeseburger and Sprite with no ice at McDonald's. I would have never dreamed of doing that anywhere else in China, even Beijing (in 2005). Shanghai is China for sure, but it's not as foreign as the rest of China. There is no one symbolic representation as apt in India as language is in China, but Kolkata (and Mumbai too) are more familiar than other places in India that I've been to.
Speaking of which, I saw her house today. I walked away with a nice feeling, but it wasn't the spiritual pilgrimage that it probably was for other foreigners and Indians. Maybe that's because the word Jesus was everywhere and so was the cross. I saw the room where she lived for 44 years. It was like a college dorm. There was a bed, a desk, and a picture of the man of her dreams on the wall (that being Jesus). Yes, her room was basic, but I must say, I've had hotel rooms smaller than that. The hotel rooms didn't have fancy desks either. My biggest issue at the house was whether or not to take off my shoes. I walked in and someone (not a nun) asked me to. Then I went back ready to do so and saw a sign that said, "We have no objection if don't take off your shoes." What's with the double negative? Very confusing.
A chicken roll from a stall I could handle, but Domino's gave me a little diarrhea. I tried to get change for 500 rupees at the Hotel VIP Continental and they laughed at me and were very rude, which caused me to start screaming. I went to another store and they politely said they didn't have the change. Then another store gladly gave me the money. 500 rupees is around $11, but it's practically worthless in most places because they won't have enough change to give you back if you buy something.
When I went to sleep last night, I realized that I wrote about the grittier side of Kolkata last time. That's the side that most Westerners associate with Kolkata because of Mother Teresa. But this is a very urbane place. Many people are well-to-do. There are more cars than motorcycles. Shanghai is to China what Kolkata is to India. In Shanghai, I dared to order a plain cheeseburger and Sprite with no ice at McDonald's. I would have never dreamed of doing that anywhere else in China, even Beijing (in 2005). Shanghai is China for sure, but it's not as foreign as the rest of China. There is no one symbolic representation as apt in India as language is in China, but Kolkata (and Mumbai too) are more familiar than other places in India that I've been to.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
In Kolkata
I was in a Bengali restaurant for dinner, called Radhuni, recommended by Lonely Planet. No one was in there. I sat down and ordered and soon found out why. A rat ran out of the kitchen. Yes, I stayed and ate. Kolkata is in West Bengal. East Bengal is now Bangladesh. Before partition, it was just Bengal. Then Bangladesh was called East Pakistan. In 1971, Bangladesh gained independence from West Pakistan, which is now just called Pakistan.
The Sudder Street area, where the travelers hang out, is a terrible place. I was offered hashish maybe 7 times last night. Only in India does a dirty look means yes. Today, I saw a group of guys shooting up heroin on the street. I did see two white hippie women sitting with two beggar women there last night. I only look at the beggars and smile.
The sidewalks are very crowded. In India, after getting hit a few times, I toughened up and started knocking heads. I carefully avoid even brushing up against women, but if there's a man, and he won't get out of the way, I load up and hit him hard! In fact, I did that on the way over here. The guy let out an, "Oy, baba!" Hey, it was either that or get run over by a bus!
I was coming from the Victoria Memorial, which looks like a cheap Taj Mahal knockoff, but it was still nice. This might be the time to say this, but prices are different for Indians and foreigners. I'm not just talking about a few rupees for a Sprite or a high starting price when bargaining. The The Victoria Memorial costs 10 rupees for an Indian and 150 for a foreigner. The Taj Mahal is 20 for an Indian and 750 for a foreigner.
In Kolkata, there are a lot more women walking around on the street. The men, as unsubtle as possible, gaze at them. It's better than what the men do in other cities, gaze at me! At least for me, it' better. The clothes here, particularly western shirts, are very garish. I thought about buying a leather vest to put over a shiny florescent green shirt, but then I would just look like a gay Taliban. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just not the look I'm going for. One more thing, I noticed on the metro as everyone was grabbing the metal bars above them, people's arms are so skinny. I'm a tiny man, but I'm like a King Kong on steroids compared to them having the arms of Darfur refugees... or an analogy less outrageous.
The Sudder Street area, where the travelers hang out, is a terrible place. I was offered hashish maybe 7 times last night. Only in India does a dirty look means yes. Today, I saw a group of guys shooting up heroin on the street. I did see two white hippie women sitting with two beggar women there last night. I only look at the beggars and smile.
The sidewalks are very crowded. In India, after getting hit a few times, I toughened up and started knocking heads. I carefully avoid even brushing up against women, but if there's a man, and he won't get out of the way, I load up and hit him hard! In fact, I did that on the way over here. The guy let out an, "Oy, baba!" Hey, it was either that or get run over by a bus!
I was coming from the Victoria Memorial, which looks like a cheap Taj Mahal knockoff, but it was still nice. This might be the time to say this, but prices are different for Indians and foreigners. I'm not just talking about a few rupees for a Sprite or a high starting price when bargaining. The The Victoria Memorial costs 10 rupees for an Indian and 150 for a foreigner. The Taj Mahal is 20 for an Indian and 750 for a foreigner.
In Kolkata, there are a lot more women walking around on the street. The men, as unsubtle as possible, gaze at them. It's better than what the men do in other cities, gaze at me! At least for me, it' better. The clothes here, particularly western shirts, are very garish. I thought about buying a leather vest to put over a shiny florescent green shirt, but then I would just look like a gay Taliban. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just not the look I'm going for. One more thing, I noticed on the metro as everyone was grabbing the metal bars above them, people's arms are so skinny. I'm a tiny man, but I'm like a King Kong on steroids compared to them having the arms of Darfur refugees... or an analogy less outrageous.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Allahabad to Kolkata
I was feeling pretty bad as I waited for the train to Kolkata (formerly known as Calcutta). I was upset that I didn't get to see the Nehru's houses in Allahabad, because I just wasn't feeling well enough. Then, a bird decided he didn't like my shirt and shat on my shoulder. I determined that the bumps covering my face are mosquito bites. So, things weren't off to a great start. Next, I'm sitting there, new shirt on, and a guy yells at me in Hindi to move over to the side so his family can sit together. As I shift, I let out a loud, "I was just sitting there, you don't have to yell at me!" There was room to sit on the other side and that way I wouldn't have to move, so I was upset. Then this guy tries to talk to me.
He seemed like he was ok-off and was with his daughter and wife. In broken English, he asks, "Alone or with group?" "Alone," I reply, already agitated by his yelling and the audacity to then converse with me like nothing happened. He repeats the same question; I repeat the same answer, even less friendly. "Um. Where is you group?" "Alone!" I say after giving him a dirty look. A question later he asks, "How many Americans are with you?" "Alone! Alone! Alone!" I yell, about ready to knock him out. He then says something to his wife in Hindi, which included the words, "Alone! Alone! Alone!"
But the conservsation, unbelievably, didn't end there. He asked to see my camera. I said no. He thought maybe I didn't understand, so he repeated. At this point, everything I'm saying is a yell. Then he wanted to see an "American pen," which I got news for everybody, looks remarkably like an Indian pen or what I would imagine a Danish pen, an Armenian pen, or a Kenyan pen look like. Then he wanted to listen to the "American songs" on my Ipod, which I believe was playing some Klezmer music at that point. I declined every offer.
I got a lot of rest on the train ride, although I only ate rice and chapatis because I couldn't do the veggie curry. We got off at Howrah station at 4am. Kolkata at 4am is a great introduction. I went to the hotel that rejected my online booking attempt. I woke up the receptionist and after a miscommunication, he let me in, thinking I had a booking. He didn't find it, but he did give me a room and at a great rate. I watched the Yankees make the World Series. I took the metro, which isn't as nice as Delhi's but still good, and walked around a bit. So far, I really like Kolkata. It has many of the familiar features of a city, with big buildings and tons of taxis. People go on their merry way, not stopping to stare at you or try to scam you. It's like New York meets India. Yet, there isn't the safety concerns that accompany most visits to big cities around the world. Except of course, when you're trying to cross the street.
He seemed like he was ok-off and was with his daughter and wife. In broken English, he asks, "Alone or with group?" "Alone," I reply, already agitated by his yelling and the audacity to then converse with me like nothing happened. He repeats the same question; I repeat the same answer, even less friendly. "Um. Where is you group?" "Alone!" I say after giving him a dirty look. A question later he asks, "How many Americans are with you?" "Alone! Alone! Alone!" I yell, about ready to knock him out. He then says something to his wife in Hindi, which included the words, "Alone! Alone! Alone!"
But the conservsation, unbelievably, didn't end there. He asked to see my camera. I said no. He thought maybe I didn't understand, so he repeated. At this point, everything I'm saying is a yell. Then he wanted to see an "American pen," which I got news for everybody, looks remarkably like an Indian pen or what I would imagine a Danish pen, an Armenian pen, or a Kenyan pen look like. Then he wanted to listen to the "American songs" on my Ipod, which I believe was playing some Klezmer music at that point. I declined every offer.
I got a lot of rest on the train ride, although I only ate rice and chapatis because I couldn't do the veggie curry. We got off at Howrah station at 4am. Kolkata at 4am is a great introduction. I went to the hotel that rejected my online booking attempt. I woke up the receptionist and after a miscommunication, he let me in, thinking I had a booking. He didn't find it, but he did give me a room and at a great rate. I watched the Yankees make the World Series. I took the metro, which isn't as nice as Delhi's but still good, and walked around a bit. So far, I really like Kolkata. It has many of the familiar features of a city, with big buildings and tons of taxis. People go on their merry way, not stopping to stare at you or try to scam you. It's like New York meets India. Yet, there isn't the safety concerns that accompany most visits to big cities around the world. Except of course, when you're trying to cross the street.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The Mentor
What I've found is that many foreign travelers have had some difficulties adjusting to India, particularly the garbarge, the pollution, and being a target. It's funny because invariably, whenever I meet a foreign traveler, I end up listening to their troubles and empathizing. Because I've been here before, many ask me questions like how long will it take to adjust and what is going home like. Also, I'll be here longer than most travelers I've run into, which surprises me. Only the Swiss woman who volunteered will end up being here longer, but I'm still traveling around India for a longer period.
I also feel like I know more about Indian culture, history, and politics than most foreign travelers, which is a little embarrassing. It does help to relate to people here. I can talk a little about Bollywood movies, cricket, and I know enough Hindi words that Indian people tend to appreciate the effort, even if that amount is pitifully low. I've also gotten questions from foreign travelers about India's system of government and other questions like this. It's just funny because I feel so ignorant being here. I feel like an outsider. And yet I'm able to provide a little window for some.
Of course, this broad post means one thing, not much has happened since the last time I posted. I wish I could do a broad post all the time in addition to writing about the events that happen. I've been sick, though I am optimistic that I'll be better soon. Last night, I took part in my fantasy basketball draft, which I was nervous I'd miss. In a few hours, I take a train to Kolkata. I tried to book a hotel room there, but as of now, to no avail. I think I'm arriving in the middle of the night, to complicate things further. But I'm things will work out.
I also feel like I know more about Indian culture, history, and politics than most foreign travelers, which is a little embarrassing. It does help to relate to people here. I can talk a little about Bollywood movies, cricket, and I know enough Hindi words that Indian people tend to appreciate the effort, even if that amount is pitifully low. I've also gotten questions from foreign travelers about India's system of government and other questions like this. It's just funny because I feel so ignorant being here. I feel like an outsider. And yet I'm able to provide a little window for some.
Of course, this broad post means one thing, not much has happened since the last time I posted. I wish I could do a broad post all the time in addition to writing about the events that happen. I've been sick, though I am optimistic that I'll be better soon. Last night, I took part in my fantasy basketball draft, which I was nervous I'd miss. In a few hours, I take a train to Kolkata. I tried to book a hotel room there, but as of now, to no avail. I think I'm arriving in the middle of the night, to complicate things further. But I'm things will work out.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Crossing the Street
I'm probably going to receive some guff for the pictures I've taken. I brought 4 disposable cameras and have used two half way through my trip, so I'm on pace. But it's been a struggle to find things to take pictures of. That's because I want to take a picture of everything! Also, because if I stand for more than 2 seconds in any one spot, I will be run over and killed.
So here are some tips for crossing the street in any Indian city. First, pretend that bicycles and cycle rickshaws are invisible. There are too many of them, they go slow, and if they do hit you, you won't die. I've been hit by a couple on this trip and I'm fine. Second, cross the street in steps. Don't worry if you find yourself in the middle with motorcycles wizzing by you on both sides. Just proceed as much as you can whenever you can. Theoretically, people don't want to run into you. Another step is to judge vehicles' speed and act accordingly. The final rule is don't worry about acting cool. Sure, most of the time, Indian people stroll through the traffic without any concern. But if you're not local, there's no shame in making a dash for it. If you follow these simple steps, there's a chance you'll only get hit a few times in 3 and half weeks in India.
Today I ran into a version of a bingo game at lunch featuring a about 20 women, which was neat. Other than that, I've been a bit sick. I've developed the same phlegm induced whooping cough as many people here. My body had held up, but the option of either full blast AC or nothing has been the straw. Also, I'm allergic to something as I've broken out in hives all over my forehead. It might be the bug spray or the bugs themselves. It might be the sheets. But I think it's the washing powder I bought to clean my clothes. Whatever it is, I'll be fine.
So here are some tips for crossing the street in any Indian city. First, pretend that bicycles and cycle rickshaws are invisible. There are too many of them, they go slow, and if they do hit you, you won't die. I've been hit by a couple on this trip and I'm fine. Second, cross the street in steps. Don't worry if you find yourself in the middle with motorcycles wizzing by you on both sides. Just proceed as much as you can whenever you can. Theoretically, people don't want to run into you. Another step is to judge vehicles' speed and act accordingly. The final rule is don't worry about acting cool. Sure, most of the time, Indian people stroll through the traffic without any concern. But if you're not local, there's no shame in making a dash for it. If you follow these simple steps, there's a chance you'll only get hit a few times in 3 and half weeks in India.
Today I ran into a version of a bingo game at lunch featuring a about 20 women, which was neat. Other than that, I've been a bit sick. I've developed the same phlegm induced whooping cough as many people here. My body had held up, but the option of either full blast AC or nothing has been the straw. Also, I'm allergic to something as I've broken out in hives all over my forehead. It might be the bug spray or the bugs themselves. It might be the sheets. But I think it's the washing powder I bought to clean my clothes. Whatever it is, I'll be fine.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Sangam
Wednesday night, as I was returning from Varanasi to Allahabad, and leaving the train station, the rickshaw drivers went after me. One followed me all the way to the hotel, running over my foot in the process. He felt bad and tried to direct me to the hotel (I knew where it was). He pointed to the hotel, I said I knew, and walked past it to get water and chips. When I came back, he was waiting there and only rode off when I walked up the path. I think he wanted to see if I was lying about my hotel or was ignoring his instructions.
Today I went to Sangam. It's a spot where the holy rivers Ganges and Yamuna meet. I walked a ways and then argued down a rickshaw ride from 60 to 25. When I gave him 25 at the end, he tried to claim I owed him 50. But I had remembered that he said "deese," which means 30, and I kept bargaining down at that point, showing fingers. In Delhi, a similar thing happened, where the cycle rickshaw ride magically went from 15 to 50 by the end of the journey. Then, I wasn't sure of myself, but now I know the drill.
I didn't plan to take a boat out to the confluence of the rivers (I have no idea if confluence is the right word or what it means, I'm just trying to sound like a big man). I accidently bargianed one guy down to 100 to go out and come back. That seemed fine to me. I made it clear 100 to go up and come back and that was it. We rowed out to where the rivers meet. The Yamuna is green and the Ganges are brown. There's a visible difference and it's very cool to see. When we got out there, men began screaming at me. One, who I think was a priest, offered me a coconut and wanted to place red paint on my forehead. I also think they wanted me to bathe in the Ganges. Of course, all this would've been for a fee. I declined and got a stern thrashing in Hindi. In any event, we got into our boat and went back. The rower asked, "Teekay?" meaning "Alright?" and I wobbled my head back and forth indicating yes.
When we got back to shore, he tried to claim it cost 200, but I had made it so clear that I would only pay 100. He wouldn't take the 100. So I walked out of the boat and start to leave, holding the 100 out stretched until he finally relented. I walked some ways out of Sangam until I got a rickshaw ride back for 20. At the end, I quickly gave him the 20 and fled before he could argue for more.
So Allahabad is chill except for the train station, the bus stand, and Sangam. I've also been heckled twice by people shouting "Dude!" at me. But comparatively speaking, Allahabad allows you to be as anonymous as a supremely attractive foreigner can be.
Today I went to Sangam. It's a spot where the holy rivers Ganges and Yamuna meet. I walked a ways and then argued down a rickshaw ride from 60 to 25. When I gave him 25 at the end, he tried to claim I owed him 50. But I had remembered that he said "deese," which means 30, and I kept bargaining down at that point, showing fingers. In Delhi, a similar thing happened, where the cycle rickshaw ride magically went from 15 to 50 by the end of the journey. Then, I wasn't sure of myself, but now I know the drill.
I didn't plan to take a boat out to the confluence of the rivers (I have no idea if confluence is the right word or what it means, I'm just trying to sound like a big man). I accidently bargianed one guy down to 100 to go out and come back. That seemed fine to me. I made it clear 100 to go up and come back and that was it. We rowed out to where the rivers meet. The Yamuna is green and the Ganges are brown. There's a visible difference and it's very cool to see. When we got out there, men began screaming at me. One, who I think was a priest, offered me a coconut and wanted to place red paint on my forehead. I also think they wanted me to bathe in the Ganges. Of course, all this would've been for a fee. I declined and got a stern thrashing in Hindi. In any event, we got into our boat and went back. The rower asked, "Teekay?" meaning "Alright?" and I wobbled my head back and forth indicating yes.
When we got back to shore, he tried to claim it cost 200, but I had made it so clear that I would only pay 100. He wouldn't take the 100. So I walked out of the boat and start to leave, holding the 100 out stretched until he finally relented. I walked some ways out of Sangam until I got a rickshaw ride back for 20. At the end, I quickly gave him the 20 and fled before he could argue for more.
So Allahabad is chill except for the train station, the bus stand, and Sangam. I've also been heckled twice by people shouting "Dude!" at me. But comparatively speaking, Allahabad allows you to be as anonymous as a supremely attractive foreigner can be.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Fight
Yesterday in Varanasi, I was in a fight. But we'll get back to that a little later.
Another drug dealer approached me at one in the afternoon as I was walking the path of the Ganges. He offered me hashish in a whispered voice. He said it was sold at a government emporium. I went through my usual spiel to the drug dealers, telling him he was a bad person. Things got pretty heated. At one point, we were face to face. Later, I threatened to take his picture, which really angered him.
After the drug route didn't work, he attempted to explain the burning ghats in broken English. Normally I'm quite patient in that situation, considering I don't speak much Hindi at all, but here I mocked him. He mentioned that I was clever, meaning a smart ass. Then, he tried to change the conversation by saying he didn't want me to continue walking towards the burning ghats because it would defile Hindu culture. He was merely a guide and was just informing me that hashish was sold at government emporiums. I called him out on his shit. This isn't about Hindu culture, I told him. "The first thing you did was to whisper, 'hashish, hashish,' to me. If this is about Hindu culture, why did you let those two white guys pass?" At that point I drove home that he knew I was right and that he should leave, which he did with his face curled in anger.
Later, a vendor, slightly taller than me and far rounder, offered to sell me something, not a rare occurrance. I decline and asked where the river was as I had strayed away from it. He told me it was around the corner, but I didn't want to go there because I had just come from that narrow alley, which was covered in garbage, and had turned back. I told him that as I continued on my way. At that point he screams, "Up yours!" I turn around and said, What?" He repeats. I bellow, "FUCK YOU!", fly down the incline to him, and throw my face in front of his. Then he grabs my throat. I knock his hand away. There's a short pause. I grab his throat hard, with my thumb squeezing the front middle of his neck. Then, a number of men rush over exclaiming, "No fighting!" I yell back, "He put his hands on me first! He started it!" An elderly man with vanishing teeth walks me back up the hill apologizing. He said I was a guest in his country and that it shouldn't have happened.
In one sense, he was wrong. I understand where he was coming from. After trying to sell me something, he genuinely tried to help by telling me how to get back to the river. Perhaps he assumed I thought he was lying as I kept walking in the opposite direction, but that still doesn't call for an "Up yours!" Of course, that isn't why I didn't follow his instructions anyway, so he comes across as foolish, saying "Up yours!" for no real reason and putting his hands on me first. But in a broader sense, we were both wrong. I should have ignored it, no matter how unjust his insult. I have an inborn impetus to challenge injustice, whether grand or petty. This was petty. Also, I should not have put my hands on him under any circumstances. Grown men shouldn't be fighting.
Later, I had a nice talk with a grad student from Benaras University. One of the first things he asked was, "Had any trouble in Varanasi?" "A little," I replied. Varanasi is reknown as a tough city and not just the charging buffalo that patrol the narrow alleys. At the train station, I met a professor from a Haryana agricultural college and we had a nice chat. On the train, I talked with an 8 year old girl, who had a dimple above her cheek when she smiled, and her father for the entire 3 hour journey back to Allahabad. They were on their way to Kanpur. It was the usual collection of random thoughts that make up a conversation with an 8 year old, but fun nonetheless. At one point, she wanted to playfully fight me. I told her one fight in a day was enough for me. For the last 30 minutes, she kept waving to me and saying "bye" in a very unhappy manner. When it was time for me to leave, I must adimt, I've never seen a lip so pouty as hers. I almost considered following her home to Kanpur, I felt so bad. The experience was vindicating for me. If an 8 year old girl can like me that much, maybe I'm not such a terrible person after all.
Another drug dealer approached me at one in the afternoon as I was walking the path of the Ganges. He offered me hashish in a whispered voice. He said it was sold at a government emporium. I went through my usual spiel to the drug dealers, telling him he was a bad person. Things got pretty heated. At one point, we were face to face. Later, I threatened to take his picture, which really angered him.
After the drug route didn't work, he attempted to explain the burning ghats in broken English. Normally I'm quite patient in that situation, considering I don't speak much Hindi at all, but here I mocked him. He mentioned that I was clever, meaning a smart ass. Then, he tried to change the conversation by saying he didn't want me to continue walking towards the burning ghats because it would defile Hindu culture. He was merely a guide and was just informing me that hashish was sold at government emporiums. I called him out on his shit. This isn't about Hindu culture, I told him. "The first thing you did was to whisper, 'hashish, hashish,' to me. If this is about Hindu culture, why did you let those two white guys pass?" At that point I drove home that he knew I was right and that he should leave, which he did with his face curled in anger.
Later, a vendor, slightly taller than me and far rounder, offered to sell me something, not a rare occurrance. I decline and asked where the river was as I had strayed away from it. He told me it was around the corner, but I didn't want to go there because I had just come from that narrow alley, which was covered in garbage, and had turned back. I told him that as I continued on my way. At that point he screams, "Up yours!" I turn around and said, What?" He repeats. I bellow, "FUCK YOU!", fly down the incline to him, and throw my face in front of his. Then he grabs my throat. I knock his hand away. There's a short pause. I grab his throat hard, with my thumb squeezing the front middle of his neck. Then, a number of men rush over exclaiming, "No fighting!" I yell back, "He put his hands on me first! He started it!" An elderly man with vanishing teeth walks me back up the hill apologizing. He said I was a guest in his country and that it shouldn't have happened.
In one sense, he was wrong. I understand where he was coming from. After trying to sell me something, he genuinely tried to help by telling me how to get back to the river. Perhaps he assumed I thought he was lying as I kept walking in the opposite direction, but that still doesn't call for an "Up yours!" Of course, that isn't why I didn't follow his instructions anyway, so he comes across as foolish, saying "Up yours!" for no real reason and putting his hands on me first. But in a broader sense, we were both wrong. I should have ignored it, no matter how unjust his insult. I have an inborn impetus to challenge injustice, whether grand or petty. This was petty. Also, I should not have put my hands on him under any circumstances. Grown men shouldn't be fighting.
Later, I had a nice talk with a grad student from Benaras University. One of the first things he asked was, "Had any trouble in Varanasi?" "A little," I replied. Varanasi is reknown as a tough city and not just the charging buffalo that patrol the narrow alleys. At the train station, I met a professor from a Haryana agricultural college and we had a nice chat. On the train, I talked with an 8 year old girl, who had a dimple above her cheek when she smiled, and her father for the entire 3 hour journey back to Allahabad. They were on their way to Kanpur. It was the usual collection of random thoughts that make up a conversation with an 8 year old, but fun nonetheless. At one point, she wanted to playfully fight me. I told her one fight in a day was enough for me. For the last 30 minutes, she kept waving to me and saying "bye" in a very unhappy manner. When it was time for me to leave, I must adimt, I've never seen a lip so pouty as hers. I almost considered following her home to Kanpur, I felt so bad. The experience was vindicating for me. If an 8 year old girl can like me that much, maybe I'm not such a terrible person after all.
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