Animal Sightings

While I now think the sight of several cows lazing across the street in rush hour traffic is completely unremarkable, other cultural attitudes apparently remain more deeply ingrained. Monkeys aren't quite as ubiquitous -- but they're close. I've certainly seen several every day. Yet everytime I see one I think: "Oh my god! A monkey!"

Beauty Parlor in Bangalore

Do you know how they give you an eyebrow arching in India? With thread. The woman put a piece of thread in her mouth to keep it taut, wound it around her fingers, and then did this complicated scissoring thing so that she could pluck a bunch of hairs all at once. It doesn't hurt. It's amazing. I was in awe. And for this she charged me 25 cents.

(Addendum from October 28, 2004 -- um, ok, they still haven't grown back. This is incredible. Miraculous. Stupendous. . . The woman who did them -- if you're ever in Bangalore -- was Mrs. Nagarathma R at a salon called Angels. Address: #267/1, 1st floor, 1st Main, 6th Cross Domlur Layout, Bangalore 560-071 Ph 2535 4180)

Favorite Sign of the Day

Always wear a helmet,
otherwise hell is met.

Transportation #12

As we were figuring out our plans for a day trip, Meeta suggested we rent a car instead of take a bus, just to give ourselves a little more freedom. She said it would cost us around $35, which was fine by me, though I was a little surprised at the price, since it's not much less than what a budget car would be in the U.S.

Silly me. I should have realized the car came with a driver.

September 15: Indian Food

Ok, so you know how there are 30,000 different kinds of breads in an Indian restaurant, and even the most dilligent of us sometimes have a hard time remembering just which is which? Now I know why. I have watched an Indian cook in action and I am in awe. Sheer stupefied awe I tell you.
The changes in how you make the breads is so subtle -- and yet the end results are wildly different.

I arrived back in Bangalore yesterday and went straight to my friend Meeta's house. We'd talked about doing some day trips from Bangalore in my last few days here, and as we discussed possibilities we invited her mother to join us too, but she seemed on the fence. She did, however, offer to make us food for the road.

Meeta's mother rolling out chapatis as quick as lightning.

Which is how I ended up watching her make chapatis. And parathas, and 10 other kinds of bread -- because here's the thing. It's all made from the exact same dough. It's just water and whole wheat flour and a litle salt and it's kneaded for about five minutes, and then, then, the only difference is in how you roll and cook it. Except the differences are dramatic. And Meeta's mother is a multi-tasking demon.

She pinched off a piece of dough and rolled it into a ball. This she dipped into flour and then began to roll out with a small rolling pin, with quick motions that simultaneous thinned the dough and span it in a circle until a perfect round was formed. Then she put it in an ungreased, round-bottomed cast iron pan, until it was lightly browned. Then she moved aside the pan and placed the bread over the open gas flame. And it puffed up. Flour and water and a little heat. Wow, is bread cool.

This was not the end of the show however. She then rolled out from the same dough triangles of parathis -- a thoroughly different affair, without puffing, but light flaky layers. After that, she put two balls of dough together with a smear of ghee, and rolled it all out into a circle. After this was cooked in the frying pan the two pieces just pulled apart, and look! two chapatis for the work of one. The whole thing was just incredible.

We ate some lunch, and began discussing world religions. I was explaining the difference between Judiasm and Christianity, when Meeta's mother jumped up and said: "We can discuss these kinds of things in the car! I'm coming!"

We did discuss religions on the trip -- but mostly I have to say we discussed food. They asked me what a typical dinner in the U.S. was like (hard to answer, of course, but I described the stereotypical meat and potatoes and overcooked broccoli). We talked about American desserts (made with refined white flour for cakes; lots of pies). They talked about having roasted a bird last December (despite the fact taht Meeta's mom doesn't eat meat) and told me how to make crisp deep-fried cauliflower, and they insisted that chapatis really were made from nothing more than flour and water. I'm still amazed. Next time I come, Meeta's mother has promised me a 2 week cooking course. Yum!

Transportation #11

I am writing this on the overnight train from Hampi to Bangalore. There is a lovely couple from Hampi, with halting English, who shared their dinner with me. (Homemade chapatis, yum!) There are two delightful young girls from Bangalore who are product designers. I am traveling with two new friends I met in Hampi. There is a group of 15 Keralans singing in the next berth -- and this is somehow pleasant, not too loud or annoying. The window is open, and the air is coming in, and the weather is fine.

And there are cockroaches.

I hate the train.

Favorite Sign of the Day

An example of one of many text messages that have shown up on my Indian cell phone:

Krishna Janmaashtami special ringtones, dial to get them now! Or dial to listen or dedicate Krishna songs/bahjans! Calls at 6 rupees.

September 12: Hampi

The town of Hampi is surrounded by old temples from the 14th century, when this area was called Vijayanagar -- the capital of the largest empire in post-mogul India, covering several states.

My tourguide playing the temple pillars.

Over an expanse of some 25 km, there lie dozens of temples and buildings, some in ruins, some still functional. One of the must-see buildings is a temple with pillars that can be played like a xylophone, simply by tapping the stone with a knuckle. The sounds are so metallic, that it's hard to believe the pillars are pure, solid stone.

I'm not sure what is more incredible as you walk through the site: the buildings or the geology. Everywhere you look are piles of huge, round rocks -- we're talking up to small-house-size boulders here -- that look as if some god casually put down a pile of marbles. It's hard to imagine how this landscape was just created naturally.

What's also caught my eye, however, is the town of Hampi itself. I am amazed at how different every town has been, and Hampi is no exception. It is the first truly small town I've been to. A a true village. Despite the tourists that come through, all the kids stop and stare at me, sheepishly saying hello if they dare. No automobiles are allowed in, and the narrow dirt streets wouldn't accomodate them anyway. There isn't a western toilet to be found in the town, my cell phone has no service, and the internet is strictly a dialup affair.

Last night as I slept, I thought I kept hearing a tiger roar, but no, it was just the ox baying underneath my window.

Animal Sightings

These are the animals I saw today in Hampi.

a) bats. First of all I have been seeing bats all over India, starting in Kumily. Jan pointed at the swarm above us -- swarm, like bees, like as far as the eye could see, circling above us -- and said: "It's like the movie The Birds!" I told him I had bad news. They were bats. I have never seen so many. That wasn't so bad. However, I have to admit having been shocked a day later when a bird with a 3-foot wing-span flew directly overhead and, damn, if it wasn't the exact shape of the symbol on Batman's chest.

Today I went into an underground cave in a temple and there were hundreds of bats hanging upside down from the ceiling. I've never actually seen hundreds of bats hanging from a ceiling. My first thought was that, hey! they really do sleep upside down. My second thought was hey! I need to get out of here!

I know it's illogical, but why on earth are bats so eerie??

I know you can't quite tell from the photo, but this was a foot long. Very scary.

b) a millipede. Not just any millipede mind you. This was a foot long and an inch thick. I swear. Thankfully it wasn't moving, or I would have screamed like a girl.

Transportation #10

As I mentioned, the train to Hampi was canceled due to massive bridge failure. The posh sleeper bus, it turns out, only travels in the high season, which this is not. There was nothing for it. I had to take the state bus -- a ten hour ride. The very helpful guy in the bus station saved me a window seat in the front row of what he claimed was a semi-luxury bus. Since this looked like nothing so much as the prison buses I have seen in movies (I am not exaggerating -- it was all metal, with school bus like seats, two on one side, three on the other, with a metal link fence separating us from the driver) I am hard pressed to imagine what a non-luxury bus could possibly be like. Nonetheless, my seat was the best in the bus, the man crammed into the seat next to me was clean, and I was able to watch our slow travel -- the rainy season plays havoc with dirt roads, and we were traveling through deeply-rutted red mud -- with a measure of amusement.

We pulled into our final stop of Hospet, some 6 km from Hampi, at the inhospitable hour of 11 PM. The door to the bus is in the very back so, lugging my increasingly-heavy black bag, I was the last person off. There was just one man standing there in the parking lot, a few feet from the door when I got out.

"Do you want a rickshaw to Hampi?" he asked.

All was well in the world. "Yes," I said. "Yes, I do." I handed him my bag. He drove me 15 minutes to town, and then took me to three hotels until I found one that had a room for me.

Rickshaws are clearly my very favorite form of transportation in the whole world.

Animal Sightings

I realized that I have had a major internal schema change when we pulled into the bus station at Hubli and I saw two cows and a pig lying down in one of the bus parking spots and I didn't bat an eyelash. It was a solid five minutes before I realized that at home this would have been a wee bit unusual.

Traveler's Tips for Goa

--I stayed in Colva beach. . . but I wouldn't recommend it. A fairly dirty little town. That having been said, my hotel, the Star Beach Resort, was peopled with fantastically friendly staff and the food was truly fantastic. Get th.e wadas for breakfast -- sort of a savory donut-hole-like thing filled with the yummiest mashed potato mix.

-- The Kentuckee was a good time for dinner.

--Get thee a motorbike or a bycicle and just go exploring on your own. The beaches are all so different, it's worth it to figure out which area you like the best.

September 11: Partying in Goa

I spent my first day in Goa (the 9th), a wee bit shell-shocked. I arrived at the Goa train station at 5 AM, having not slept so well due to the whole roach thing. A rickshaw took me to a handful of hotels until I found one I liked in a town called Colva. I got a little cottage next to a pool, and fell asleep for a few hours before going for a walk on the beach.

The beach I was entirely unable to walk on.

It turns out that this was impossible.

Not only was I swamped by the prettiest, craftiest salesgirls you ever did see (I can't even talk about how much they fleeced me for) but every guy on the beach wanted to take their picture with me. The girls -- my new best friends, (you know like the kind who stick their knife in your back in junior high -- did I mention how they fleeced me?) -- told me not to let them take the pictures. "They will tell everyone back home that you are their girlfriend!" Since I am not concerned about my reputation back in Calcutta, I decided not to let this bother me. But it did make it hard to walk down the beach.

In the end, I went back to my hotel and lay down with a book next to the pool and let them soothe me with fresh coconuts, and I thought affirming thoughts to myself about how it is OK That I Just Hide In My Hotel If I Want To, Dammit. I also thought grumpy thoughts about how Goa's reputation for being a happy-go-lucky, party state was ill-deserved, and that it seemed to have turned into a sort of us-against-them, tourists vs the locals mentality.

The next day I met Rahul.

Rahul as it happens, felt the same way. He is a 23 year old banker, originally from Rajasthan, who now lives in Dubai. He came to Goa alone for a three week vacation because he'd heard it was beautiful. He really wanted to try weed for the first time, too. So far he had been disappointed on both scores.

"Dubai is CLEAN," he said. He was as alarmed by the litter everywhere as I was. And, due to his Indian coloring, everyone was looking at him blankly when he tried to buy pot. Like he was a narc or something.

I met him in a money changing store, and instantly claimed him as my beard. I walked down the beach with him -- and no one talked to me. They were probably whispering things like "Western slut!" behind my back. But no one approached me. Not even the girls. (Did I mention that while they were fleecing me, they started yelling at each other in -- Hindi? Kanada? -- about the prices they were charging me? And then, later, one came to my hotel crying and made me walk back to the beach and order the others to share the money equally? Junior high, I tell you.)

Rahul told me that he had been wanting to eat at a beachside restaurant called Kentuckee -- a nod towards Americans, apparently, in an attempt to conjure up Kentucky Frid Chicken. But, he said, it just didn't seem like the kind of place one went alone.

The cowboy-hat-wearing, Yamaha-playing, crowd-bantering singer.

So we went. And I got my taste of Goan partying. First, we ordered cocktails with cashew feni and coconut feni in it. Feni is the Goan prize liquor. Straight cachaca -- just so you know -- is infinitely more tasty and less alcoholic. Feni is scary scary stuff. It induced Rahul and me to start requesting songs from Emmanuel -- the cowboy-hat-wearing, electric-keyboard-playing singer. We also sang along. Loudly. We sang along to Summer of 69 (click here, if you want to hear a .wav file of the song), Hotel California, In the Air Tonight, Against All Odds. Rahul ordered us tequila shots, which I had sense enough not to drink, but by then we'd acquired a new friend and I passed my shot off to him. David from Australia, age 67, had sat down at our table. David is the kind of guy who sends in letters to magazines about how he has come up with a brand new, cheap way to power all space craft with only solar energy. I know this, because he told me that he has come up with a brand new, cheap way to power all space craft with only solar energy. He is also the kind of guy who thinks that he is all about peace and calm and that it is the rest of the world that is screwed up. I didn't believe him since he told us stories about how a) the Indian police had recently thrown him in jail b) the Cuban police had thrown him in jail c) he had ridden a motorcycle to the hotel he'd stayed at for a night and threatened the landlady who'd kicked him out and d) his daughter won't speak to him.

He also complained about India. I didn't like David much, but I felt priveleged to have met a genuine specimen of the kind I'd heard Goa was filled with. He was one of the old-time hippies who have made Goa their home but who do nothing but complain about the Indians.

Rahul and I kept right on singing, and occasionally rolled our eyes about David. I was planning on leaving the next day for Hampi, but Rahul had rented a motorbike and was trying to convince me to stay and drive around Goa with him the next day. He was as starved for good conversation and interesting company as I had been the day before. Part of me wanted to stay -- India is known for offering hidden gifts when it destroys your plans, and I had found out that day that a landslide had destroyed the railway bridge to Hampi. I was planning, instead, to leave on a bus the next day. Perhaps the cosmos was speaking to me and I was supposed to stay here, find some nicer beaches, experience the beauty that everyone claims can be found in Goa?

I looked at the umbrella in my feni drink. I looked at Emmanuel's cowboy hat. I looked at the anklet I'd bought from the girls on the beach. I looked at David.

I had to tell Rahul no.

Transportation #9

Today I took a mini-van taxi. When it backed up, instead of a mechanical beep beep noise, it played Fur Elise.

September 10: Identities

Warning: these are ramblings. . . very little coherent thought here.

Nothing like the Melton Foundation to get you thinking about identity. What you consider yourself, does it matter, how can you be that thing and yet not be placed in some specific category, how can you learn about others' identities but not place THEM in some specific category, yada yada yada.

India, it turns out, is a good place for such thoughts too. Especially in the south of the country where every state has its own language, in addition to a whole host of other regional identities that I haven't quite been able to identify. The first thing anyone asks me is where I am from. This from anyone anywhere -- a rickshaw driver, a child on the street, a waiter, a well-to-do tourist. (They also then ask me "my good name" and whether I'm married.) Since I have regularly been the only Caucasian in sight -- much less the only young, female Caucasian -- in the last week, this kind of makes one self conscious about one's identity as well. I'm not used to being so obviously classified so quickly.

There are other themes here though.

The Cochin synagogue.

The usual big brush strokes not being enough, of course. Goa is known for being its own hodgepodge of cultures. With a strong Portuguese influence over the centuries, there is a strong Catholic culture, and also serious Jewish influences. Jews have been in India since the time of the second Temple as traders from Jerusalem, and several centuries thereafter as permanent residents. In the 16th and 17th centuries, more came from Portugal. What happened to Jews here mirrored what happened on the Iberian peninsula -- inquisitors came, many were killed, synagogues were destroyed. The Jewish town in Goa was so gorgeous, and the destruction so complete, that the Jews here liken it to the destruction of the temple.

I went and saw the synagogue in Cochin when I was there and was so moved, partially because it was familiar-- the sh'ma was written in Hebrew next to the ark, the gravestones looked like they could have come from Prague -- and partially because it was so different, so Indian, with colorful decorations, blue and white tiles on the floor. I loved the mix of the two. Love the glorious identity crosses that India presents.

The conquering Portuguese over the Indian native.

And so I was also affected by the fact that what happened here was the same in terms of anti-semitism too. And I can make that be broader. Today I went to Old Goa, the heart of what was Portuguese India. There is an archway into town showing a Portuguese man with his foot ontop of a native. It seems an odd thing to still have up. But Goans are simultaneously proud of their Indian identities and their Portuguese heritage, without seeing much contradiction. More than one Goan emphasized to me that he had a Portuguese passport. Most are Christian, and they show off the huge churches scattered throughout town.

I went to the cathedral of St. Francis Xavier. The Saint still lies there in a glass case, in a state of suspended animation. His bones don't disintegrate despite having been interred 400 years ago from a lime-filled grave. St. Francis Xavier is considered one of the greatest missionaries of all time. But he's also the one who called the Inquisitors to Portugal, leading to the torturous deaths of numerous Jews, Muslims, and Hindus. I'm just not sure how I feel about the man.

On the flip side, my identity comes packaged with the all girls' National Cathedral School high school I went to. I am well-versed in my cathedral architecture. I can't help but walk around such a place and think: "Wow, what fantastic curclicues on those flying buttresses" or "look at the colors on the tiles in that groin vaulting" or "you'd never see a semi-naked woman carved into the rood screen anywhere in the West."

And so I am back where I was with the Cochin temple. It's so wonderful that there is a mix here. Christianity suffused with an Indian sensibility.

I have been picked out of the crowd a lot in Goa. Swarmed by people who want to sell me things, to take me somewhere in their taxi, get me to eat in their restaurant. It is off-season and so I am fought over as one of the few tourists who might give them some business. I want so much to be able to understand these nuances, the religious mix, the cultural mix, but it seems impossible when I have to spend so much time being what they assume I am: a rich American who is snubbing them. Even though I am snubbing solely out of self-defense.

My last stop in Old Goa was at what's left of the cathedral of St. Francis of Assisi. It was built in the 16th century, and torn down by mobs after the Portuguese left about 50 years ago. You'd never know it had been standing complete so recently. Dark stone ruins are covered in moss. A lonely tower juts up in the East. The occasional bay still stands. It is a beautiful, beautiful spot. It is also, weirdly, schema-altering. I have never seen a church in that kind of state of ruin. When it comes to ruins, I am used to Greek columns and Roman marketplaces. It was a good Indian identity mix, this. A stunning spot, shown off by people who are proud of their Christianity and Portuguese heritage, who also tore it down when the Portuguese left.

I thought of the archway as I came into town. And I thought of the Jews of Goa. I felt strangely gratified that the place was in ruins.

Favorite Sign of the Day

"Don't jump red light; it will land you in trouble."

Not only are the words in of themselves good -- but this sign was on a road in a small town (Colva Beach, Goa) that had not a single traffic light.

Come to think of it, I've only seen two or three traffic lights the whole time I've been in this country. . .

Transportation #8

Ok, I think I got over confident . . . The train thing just went too easily. I had a quick time buying a ticket since I jumped in the shorter, credit-card only line; and when I got onto the train I was amazed that it was fairly clean and not particularly crowded. I had a nice little berth, with curtains to close myself off from the rest of the train. I was served lunch, it was good. The bathrooms -- while technically being a hole in the floor -- nevertheless had Western style toilets, and were also clean. It was all just fine. I put my bed down and got ready to sleep.

Which is when I saw the cockroach. And the other cockroach.

I can't even go into it. Despite a text message that made me laugh from Wayan telling me that they were a) good luck in Mongolia and b) a good source of protein -- I just couldn't really even bear it.

I think I like the bus better.

Traveler's Tips for Cochin

-- Stay in Fort Cochin. There is absolutely no reason to stay in Ernukalam. There is really no reason to even venture into Ernukalam other than for the bus or train station.

-- We stayed in Casa Linda. Clean, nice, friendly, even has internet access.

-- The Kashi Art Cafe is all that the guidebooks say. A little haven where you could sit for hours. They serve a grilled tomato and cheese sandwich to die for.

September 8: Leaving Cochin

Ok, I have so many holes to fill in this log still -- there are many essays on my palm pilot that will be uploaded here in the next couple days, so do check back. In the meantime, I am leaving Cochin today -- alone for the first time -- on a train. I had to stay an extra day, after the MF group left, just due to train ticket logistics, so I found myself a lovely hotel right on the water and spent the night in a cottage overlooking the sea. But I'm checking out now, and it's off to the station -- Junction station, as it happens, this time I am sure I have the right one.

I arrive in Goa at 3:45 AM and do not yet have a place to stay there, so I am relying on the 24-hour information desk my book insists is in the train station, and the fact that it is out of season. I figure one night in whatever I can find, and then I go find the prettiest beach in the whole world and stay there for a few days. . .

Transportation #7

The MF travel group got tickets to go to Mumbai some time ago, planning to leave Cochin on September 7. I knew from the beginning that I wouldn't go with them, but would travel to Goa instead. If it worked, I'd try to get on the same train, but I hadn't bought a ticket. Their tickets said they were supposed to leave from Ernakulam Town trainstation at 3:10; but everyone everywhere said that the fast train was really a 12:45 train. There was general confusion, but it was agreed that they'd aim for 12:45 and I'd buy a ticket at the station.

The first hitch was in getting to the station. As we checked out of the hotel, we had, um, something of a rickshaw boycott due to the fact that we had paid Indian prices for a fee earlier that day instead of inflated Western prices. The three drivers we'd had were camping outside our hotel -- whether to insist on more money, warn others not to pick us up, or make sure they got the juicy fare to the train station I'm not sure. Suffice it to say that much bargaining was going on, and it slowed us down. The others called a few cabs, but I decided to just get into a rickshaw with Peggy in order to get to the trainstation ahead of time and buy a ticket. We jumped in with Ashok Kumar, (Ashokkumar919@yahoo.com as it happens. It was written across the inside of the rick. I highly recommend him.) who carefully explained that he was not used to having such trouble with tourists, he always did everything for them, since German tourists had bought him this rickshaw last year. We nodded and didn't say much.

We got increasingly panicked, however, when it took some 40 minutes to get to the station -- we had no idea how the rest of the group was going to make it in time. Ashok told us to pray that the train would be late.

We did. (I am not sure to whom Peggy prayed. I prayed to the Transportation Goddess who has watched out for me for years, including getting me good parking spots.)

When we got to Town station, Peggy jumped out and grabbed Ashok to come with her to help translate if necessary. A moment later they came tearing back. "It's at the OTHER station!" they said. One of our taxis showed up that moment, we told them the information, and with about ten minutes to spare we began racing through town to the Ernakulan Junction station. Ashok really showed his stuff. He swerved in and out, honked his horn. We managed to spot the other taxis as we were driving and signalled them all to turn around and follow us on the mad chase through the city.

We ran into the station, ran to the information booth, only to be told that it was indeed the FIRST station. But, thankfully, it was also a 3:10 train as they'd originally been told. We laughed and decided the adrenaline rush had been kind of fun, and calmly ordered a whole new round of rickshaws to takes us back to Town station. Jan said: "I think if I were alone I'd just sit in a corner and cry, but together it always works out."

Once we were at the other station again I discovered that no train to Goa left from Town station, and indeed, I had to go back once again to Junction station for a 2 o'clock train. Meaning I would see both Cochin stations twice in the space of about 20 minutes. Since were all together though, the whole thing was just kind of amusing.

Except for the part where I had to say goodbye.

I climbed into my rickshaw alone. . . and cried.

September 6: Houseboat!

Eleven of us piled onto our houseboat in Allapouzha at 3 PM yesterday, complete with eleven very large backpacks. There were three men working the boat, one to cook, two to steer and navigate. We shoved off, the crew put out sliced pineapple, we turned on the stereo system and the good ship "Welcome Cruise" (that was really the boat's name) set sail.

Xianguo "Dora" Zhong steering our houseboat.

Imagine the scene: Eleven people from five countries dancing to Abba on the deck of a coir-covered houseboat while eating vodka-infused pineapple and drifting by palm-trees and fishing canoes along perfectly still estuaries in the middle of India. The moon was high, the bats two-feet across, and the crew a little worried at how much the boat was shaking. Personally, I kept waiting for the fishermen police to show up -- but it turns out the music didn't carry particularly far and we were an island unto ourselves.

This scene of fraternal and international bliss brought to you by the Melton Foundation. Pretty hard to imagine it happening any other way.

Transportation #6

On our way out of our hotel in Allapuzha, while carrying all our baggage, the staff offered us a lift. We piled into a minivan -- only to find that the car wouldn't start. Five men started pushing the car backwards -- slightly up a hill -- and then let go so the car could roll down and the driver could jump start the car. We did this three times. I swear. Finally they asked us to get out of the car, but they didn't give up. On the next try it worked.

Travel Tips for Allapouzha

--Not the loveliest town ever, but the UAE bank is a solid place to change money, and the Kream Korner isn't bad for dinner.

--You can trust the people who walk up to you randomly on the street and offer hotels, boats, cars, as much as the people in the tourist offices. Somewhere along the way -- perhaps in Europe -- I got the idea that this wasn't so smart, but it seems to be a fairly effective way of getting things done here.

--We stayed at the Gowri, phone number: 0091477223637 and it was clean, inexpensive, and had really friendly staff.

September 5: Multi-cultural Bargaining in Allapouzha

The travel guide books warned that Allapouzha in of itself was not a particularly pretty town -- and they're right. We got into town after dark on the 4th, and picked a hotel to stay at called the Gowdri -- largely because their emissaries were standing at the boat landing with offers of driving us and our baggage to their hotel. The hotel was clean and quite pretty -- though it would have been mroe so if the lovely plants in the garden were spaced out by, say, grass, instead of dirt. The people who worked there, however, were fantastically friendly, staying up late to teach us how to play a game something between air hockey and billiards.

But by the next day we were ready to leave. It's off-season in Kerala, so we figured we had a good shot at getting a houseboat at a reasonable price. Peggy, Dora, Jan, and I, walked into a tourist information center and were offered an overnight, two-room boat for -- after some haggling -- 9000 rupees (about $200). We said we'd let them know.

We walked out of the store and were instantly picked up by a guy promising us a boat at a better price. 4500 rupees for a two-room boat. We asked for a bigger boat, and he convinced us to get into two rickshaws and come see his boat. Despite some misgivings about leaving the main center of town, we all piled in. Dora, a petite Chinese fellow, turned to us as our rickshaw rolled down a four-foot wide dirt road and said: "This is definitely not something I would do if I was alone." I had to agree.

The houseboat we were shown was beautiful. Three bedrooms plus some extra room to sleep outside (there were 11 of us) with the nicest bathrooms we'd had at any hotel so far. We sat down around the dining table on deck to talk. His opening bid was 9000. Since he'd offered us a two-bedroom for 4500 back in town, I told him that doubling the price for one extra room was unreasonable. This was about the last semi-nice thing anyone said to him -- which led to his addressing all comments to me, despite the barrage of barganing he was getting elsewhere. It was a glorious multicultural haggling event. He, in typical Indian style, always wrote out his counter offers on a piece of paper. I smiled and tried to make everyone just get along. Peggy and Jan sat with German cool, arms crossed across their chests. Dora simply sat quietly and watched.

Peggy did most of the takling. This was far too much for an extra room, she was willing to pay extra for food, but not that much, etc. Finally she told the man that we'd already gotten an offer in town and while this boat was clearly nicer, we'd just take that if he didn't match the price.

"What price did they give you?"

She hesitated only a moment. "7000." She said later that she even surprised herself. I could tell that she almost started to laugh. The guy looked apalled and said that for 11 people it was impossible.

And that's when Dora started. Dora jumped in in full force. Trust me, you never want that girl angry at you. "Look! Do you want ust to give you the money or not?? We're going to just walk away and take the other boat! it's your choice. Do you want the money?"

He accepted the offer.

Favorite Sign of the Day

On a giant billboard for 501 jeans with a shirtless man wearing Levis stretched across a bed:

"6 oz of steel where it counts."

Excuse me??? I'm not allowed to wear a low cut blouse but they can put that in an ad??

Travel Tips for Kumily

--We stayed at the Rolex hotel (ph 0091-94869-222081) which was clean and nice, and centered right in town. It's still got the whole cold water shower thing going on, but quite comfy. We payed 300 rupees per room per night, though they asked for 400 for starters. The guy behind the desk also runs a sound tourist office, and --while he didn't do a lot of smiling -- he really steered us right in terms of the amenities we took him up on.

--Don't eat at the Lake Shore hotel for dinner. Vile. (Corrollary: don't go off in search of your own restaurant out of sheer perversity when several people have already told you to eat at the Lake Queen hotel.)

--Eat at the Lake Queen hotel. Order appams and puttus a day ahead if they say they don't have them on the menu. So good.

--Go on a spice and plantation tour. Leave yourself at least a half day. Get Shaji (mobile phone: 0091-94475223986) to lead it if you can!

September 4: Spice Tour

There is something strangely efficient about India. It's not always logical, or on time, but things generally get accomplished fairly smoothly. Things are even fairly regimented sometimes -- as evidenced by the spice tour we went on this morning.

The region around Kumily is known for its spices and coffee and tea, and a plantation tour usually takes a half a day. We only had two hours early in the mornign to spare before hopping a noontime bus. The guy at our hotel said no problem he'd arrange it, and at 7 AM there were three rickshaws waiting for us downstairs. We piled in and careened off in rickshaw style to our first coffee plantation. Our guide, Shaji, walked us up a hill and showed us our first coffee plant. He held up three fingers (a gesture I knew well from yesterday's Periyar tour, in whic the guid mostly said things like: "There are five deer here -- small, big, white, white and big, and black." Or "There are three kinds of squirrels -- small, giant, and flying." Cataloguing and naming is a big deal here.) and announced there were three kinds of coffee grown: arabica, and two others that I can no longer remember. This would disturb Shaji greatly, as nto only was he a vataloguer, but he wanted to make sure we were paying attention. He would stop and start over if he saw someone's attention wandering. Since not everyone understood his fast-paced, Indian-accented English, I told him not to worry about it, that I would repeat what he said to everyone. Thisonly helped partially, since he was just as adamant that everyone pay close attention when I spoke and he made me stop if they weren't.

"That one. Him. He's not listening." Once, when Peggy was fiddling with her camera, interrupted me to get her attention. "You. Do you already know this? Yes? Then why don't you explain it to everyone?" Like an elementary school teacher.

Regardless, Shaji smiled a great deal and was full of wonderful information. "Please, Madam" he would say to me -- now that I was acting as interpreter, I got most of his attention, and the gruop continued to echo his "Please Madam" at me for the rest of the day -- and he pulled me over to taste a raw coffee bean. (They taste, well, green.) He was meticulous with numbers, telling us how long the beans were roasted and at what temperature. He corrected me if I skipped this information in my retelling. He also fed us small purple flowers called mimosas, said to be an Aryuvedic cure for a sick stomach. Half the gruop grabbed at them, laughing. The coolest thing about the mimosas, however, was taht their fern-like leaves pulled closed if you touched them. (The Germans said they finally understood a phrase where you mock someone who is being too timid by calling them an alte mimosa.)

Next we rickshawed our way to some cardamom-covered hills. Cardamom plants, it turns out, are beautiful. Long thing leaves, almost like a thick blade of grass, tower up over your head; the seeds grow close to the ground on stalks that jut out of the roots. The season lasts some three months, with seeds taking two weeks to ripen. Every two weeks women come through and hand pick a crop of seeds. "Please, Madam!" Shaji cracked open a pod for me. It was delicious. Still raw, and slightly green-tasting, but cardamom nonetheless.

Shaji then bustled us up a hill. He wanted us to be quick sine we only had two hours and he wanted us to see everything. He barked when people stopped to take pictures of the view. "It's better from the top," he said.

And it was.

I stepped out from behind a tree and gasped out loud. One by one I heard everyone else make the same involuntary noise. We were at the top of a hill ("Two miles high," said Shaji) looking down onto an extensive valley. As far as you could see, the sides of the hills were covered with dark green tea plants -- they grow strangely geometrically, leaving winding passageways in between the bushes, almost like a garden labyrinth. Spaced in perfect rows. among the tea plants, were trees for shade. Colors dotted the landscape -- the occasional cottage, women int eh fields. Shaji finally allowed us to take some photos.

On the way back down we stopped at another coffee plant. they grew straight upwards, Shaji said, but they were pruned to stay low, so women could pick the beans. "Men ask for 120 rupees [$3], women only ask for 65. And the men maybe they work one day but not the next. The women don't go on strike." I repeated this to the group unthinkingly. It wasn't until Lars said, "65 per day?!?" that I processed the information. Keep the trees lower for hassle-free labor. (See? Strangely efficient.)

Next stop: a cardamom roasting house. A fire outside pumps hot air through pipes at the bottom of a room. The cardamom pods lie on screens above this for 24 hours at 50 degrees Celsius. I think one kil of raw pods reduces to 750 grams, but I can't remember how much it sells for. Shaji would be very disappointed in me.

What I do remember is this-- as Shaji picked spices for us on the walk back to the rickshaws: vanilla (only one kind, not tasty raw, reduces from one kil to 250 grams when roasted) looks like green beans on the stalk; allspice (only one kind) is a combination of cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, and cloves; and peppercorns (four kinds, but all from the same plant, harvested at different times) have the spiciest, loveliest, most complex flavor right off the vine.

Transportation #3

On the ride out of Periyar our rickshaw driver rode 72 times faster than any one previously. He told us tales about how, of course, he saw tigers all the time, they rambled across his path most evenings. I held on for dear life as he careened around potholes, and over speed bumps, and I tried to focus on the whole tiger thing. Periodically he would ask: "Is it fast?" and I would say: "It's a bit fast." Then he would launch into tigers again and wouldn't slow down at all. When he let us out at our hotel, he asked again if it had been fast, and when I said, "Yes, it really was a bit fast" he got a big smile and said: "Thank you."

Favorite Sign of the Day

"Fluentzy in English Taught Here"

September 3: The Trip to Kumily

I seem to be overly concerned with forms of transportation. Perhaps it's just a less complicated topic then writing about some of the tougher stuff concerning poverty and dirt, though I'm sure I will get to that too. . BUT the bus to Kumily was, in retrospect, pretty much exactly the way an Indian bus should be -- all the noise and contrasts one expects in this country. It was a semi-sleeper, meaning that its seats reclined almost as much as a business class airplane seat, but that the person in front of you pretty much had their head in your lap. There was extremely loud music paying that somehow fit into my India Is Exuberant theme, and so felt quite festive, until it was replaced around midnight with an even louder movie. At which point the shrill noise was a little much, but thankfully, someone realized everyone on the bus was trying to sleep and it was turned off about twenty minutes later. Every time I would just get to sleep, thinking it wasn't so bad, they would turn on the lights in order to let new people on.

The best part, however, was at 6 AM when the ticket taker -- of which there were two on board, in addition to the driver -- roughly shook everyone awake in order to inexplicably remove the seat cover over the top of the headrest. I am not sure why this was necessary at all, much less an hour before we reached our final destination, but clearly he had had enough of a bus full of sleepers.

Regardless, it meant that all of us -- there are ten in our group, five Germans, three Chinese, one Chilean, and me -- sleepily stared out the window trying to parse this. . . this land we were looking at. We had gone to sleep in the traffic and heat of Bangalore, and suddenly there was rain on the windows and the day was dawning over palm trees, kelly green rice fields, and hazy mountains on the horizon.

I think there must be something innate in humans where we try to associate where we are with some schema we have in our brains. This was kind of Florida (the palm trees) and kind of Iowa (it was amazingly flat). But then, well, there were the roaming bands of pigs. And the rich terracotta red earth, the women sweeping of their front (dirt) hearths with straw brushes and then drawing white geometric patterns on the ground to signify the home's purity, the Garden of Wisdom and Research Institute (???), and various tiny huts advertising internet access. Oh, and my favorite, a huge billboard in the middle of a rice field proclaiming: "Theme park coming soon." Nothing particularly Floridian or Iowan about it.

So, the next step was to try to associate it all with things more exotic-- i.e. things I've seen on screen. Next thing I know I am imagining Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Predator. Then to shake that image I suddenly switched to the episode when all of Sesame Street went to Hawaii (Mexico?) and the mountains turn out to be a giant snufulufagus. I ask you. How does this stuff get lodged in a girl's brain? I gave up.

But, damn, is it gorgeous here.

September 2: Bus

Looks like it's going to be the bus after all -- but the train just doesn't go to the Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary which is where I'm headed next, with a group of fellows from the foundation . . I may or may not have internet access once there, but will upload anything I do write as soon as I get to a computer!

August 31: Transportation #2

The symposium will be over tomorrow, and on Thursday I'm planning on heading south on what is supposed to be one of the most comprehensive railway systems anywhere. Except, um, I just can't find the time tables online (the Indian railway has a great website with lovely maps -- just the actual time table page refuses to work for me) and it turns out the trains don't really go to any of the places I want to go and I am about to chuck it all in exchange for taking a bus. But then I found this:

BUSES AND TRAINS IN INDIA

Buses - "But by far the worst places to sleep are on overnight bus rides in India. The roads are so bad that I kept falling forward out of my seat and hitting my head against the seat in front of me. Not a wink of sleep the whole night and a sore back and neck to boot." Contributed by Erik Bielefeldt

Buses - "this is relevant to 2001, but it will probably be still relevant till the next century:
if you want to have an overnight ride on an Indian bus, just consider two things:
1. NEVER sit at the back of the bus. the buses are designed in such a way that every small bump will break the bones of the people sitting at the back.
2. be careful about sitting too close to the driver - the buses have horns that can be used as a non-conventional weapon, and the drivers use them quite often through the ride. however, they can be convinced to try and not use the horn so often." Contributed by ? (Added 18 JAN 03)

Overnight Train (New Dehli to Varanasi) - " June 1996 - By far the worst sleeping/traveling story I have, after traveling around the globe, is when my girl friend and I made the mistake of getting a 2nd class sleeper from New Delhi to Varanasi, India. Pure Hell. Beside the rank odor and the disgustingly dirty "beds", we really never managed to sleep because of being constantly bothered. In the middle of the night a woman tried to join my girl friend in her bed, and at one point a thief from outside the train tried to reach in through the metal barred windows and make off with what he could. He was caught, but he then grabbed a hold of the sleepy passenger by the collar as the train started off, both screaming at each other. We felt like we were on a cattle train. Another winner is trying to sleep on any bus in India. Just suck it up and figure you're just not going to get a wink. "

Clearly I'm just going to have to suck it up and go down to the train station, wait in line, and figure this whole thing out. . .

August 30: Music

I am humbled. I am realizing there is no way to understand all the details of another country. Tonight we had a short concert of traditional Southern Indian music with a great deal of verbal explanation as well. The music was energetic, and the percussion the kind that makes you tap your feet -- lovely to listen to. But, but, but, there were just so many things to take in. Not that any single one was so unique or incredible, but there were just so many. A few of the things I remember:

--In addition to the drum made of lizard, one musician played a clay pot.

--There was a flute in conjunction with five percussion instruments. The percussionists by and large improvised.

--The word "improvise" does not mean "do whatever you want" but "cater to an exact rhythm that might, just might, have 13 and a half beats to each bar."

--As it was, they played to a 32-beat rhythm, divided into 4 groups of eight. To count out the eight beats of each bar, you tap the palm of your hand once, the back of your hand once, then the palm, the back, and then the palm four times.

--It was very important for each player to name their guru, their teacher, as musicians have a lineage a lot like martial arts senseis.

--One of the musicians described the constant math going on in his head while playing -- "what's 57 divided by 3?" -- I am hoping he was exaggerating, but I am not sure.

I say all this, and I have not even mentioned that the music clearly is based in a specific culture from a specific spot in India, and that the music was tied to a particular mythology -- as most music and dance is here.

The point is not that the music was so radically different from what I've heard before -- it wasn't. It's just that given the small handful of points I've listed above, all of which are interesting and new, and given that they are just a small tip of the iceberg of one small form of entertainment from one area of a very large country. . . how can one ever presume to get a handle on all that makes up a different country??

I am reminded of a book my roommate in graduate school was reading for her anthropology studies in which the author referred to herself in three ways, two of which were in the third person, while studying a tribe in Africa. The book had sentences like "I am walking along the beach, while the anthropologist notes that today the children are not working. The professor wants to organize their games." Or something like that -- where everyone in the sentence was really a name for herself. This was some post-modernist phase in anthropology where one was trying to hang one's biases and perspectives out for everyone to see.

I think what I'm saying, in a fairly convoluted way, is that I'm jettisoning any pretense of The Anthropologist and The Professor. The only way to travel is just to walk on the beach and see what you can see.

August 28: Festival!

Today’s events were over-the-top fantastic. The Indian fellows organized a “mele” – a traditional village carnival -- on an adjunct campus several miles outside of the city. We got out of the buses and were welcomed by a) fireworks b) a 20-foot diameter pattern of flower petals c) necklaces made of jasmine and c) a band. The band began to play and then walk backwards. We were told that at a festival the band always led you to the next event -- so we followed it up the hill to a stretch of field where it was announced that it was time to play games.

Games are always good . . . but in this case, even better. For one thing, they’d created five or six stations for various games all of which already had kids playing on them. They had invited kids from all the neighboring schools to come out on the field and demonstrate, so we could learn the games and then jump in. This is sheer genius and I’m doing it at every party I ever have from now on. But better yet, the games were, well, awesome is the only word. I am humbled when I think that I thought, say, tether ball was a good way to pass recess. There was a game called Coco which is not unlike Duck Duck Goose, in the way that chess is not unlike checkers – I mean it was Duck Duck Goose that required agility and strategy. The fact that this was being played by girls in pigtails and perfect blue-gray sari school uniforms didn’t hurt the picture either. There was another game that was sort of team tag, but you have to hold your breath while you try and tag someone. But the best game, the most intricate of all . . . involved a tennis ball and a tower of flat rocks about a foot and a half high. The game starts out serenely enough, kind of reminding me of cricket. One team stands behind the rocks, while each of the members of the other team have three tries to fling the ball at the tower and try to knock it over. The team in the outfield calmly throws the ball back if they miss. But if the ball makes contact, then the game – I swear this is true – turns into a frantic game of dodge ball. The team that threw the ball rushes forward to try and stack the rocks back up, all while the other team flings the tennis ball at them. If they hit a team member before the tower gets restacked, then they win. It is possibly the best game I have ever seen in my entire life.

After about 45 minutes of games, the band struck up again. I think I may be doing a disservice when I say “band.” We’re talking about seven people dressed in bright yellow robes, three on brass horns, four on drums, playing as loudly as they can while jumping along, inciting all the rest of us to fall into line behind them doing rhythmic dances like rats behind the pied piper. One of the Chilean professors said it nearly moved her to tears. The other Chileans were too busy shaking their hips to worry about crying. The band took us to another field littered with various blankets and activities at each. There were more dancers and musicians, there was a puppet show, there were girls grinding grain, women who wove flowers into your hair, people who strung bangles onto your wrist, a woman giving out henna tattoos (guess where I got mine?), a potter working on a manual wheel that he would keep spinning by periodically giving it a couple good shoves with a long pole like he was a punter on the Thames, men who hacked apart coconuts to eat with machetes, and two fortune tellers. The fortune teller said I would have more than one home abroad but “only” two children and that pretty much nothing was ever going to go wrong in my life. He also said I was supposed to have been born male and that I was very brave. (I neglected to tell him I was so brave that I was carrying a stuffed hippo in my backpack.)

One of the best things about the entire carnival was how many extra people were there. All those working the fair brought their friends and families, there was staff from the college, and there were of course the school children running everywhere – one bold one from each group stepping forward occasionally to ask a name or where one of us was from. There were as many, if not more, non-Meltonites there as members of our own group, and it made the experience all the better, both in its being more realistic, and in watching how much others were enjoying it. One of the musical groups began playing during the carnival and a group of Indian and Chilean fellows began to dance. There is something of a stereotype within the Melton Foundation that it is the Chileans who are the best dancers – so it’s great to realize they’re not the only ones who can really do it up. The Indians were leading the way -- just a handful of the rest of us jumping in – and then members of some of the other dance troupes joined up and a group of uniformed schoolgirls finally dared each other to join too.

We had some snacks at this point, and I thought the afternoon was winding down when the band struck up and led us to a courtyard where we watched 45 minutes of a dance troupe. Then the band led us outside, playing music as the sound of fireworks exploded above -- and again I assumed it was time to leave. But we were called forward to sit on the grass in the dark. Someone lit a match, and suddenly colored sparklers lit up to spell “Symp 2004.” There is, it turns out, a whole genre of fireworks that I didn’t know about. Seven or eight wire contraptions were set up in front of us, all covered with fireworks nailed to them. Once a fuse was lit, the crackers would begin to emit flame that would suddenly send all the moving pieces swirling around furiously – a drunken globe, a spinning wheel, and the best: a cobra some twenty feet tall just writhing back and forth. Each whirligig lighting was spaced out by either a display of ground-based firecrackers, spraying sparks like a water fountain into the air, or an intense display of air fireworks. Since these were lit just for our group, we all sat directly underneath the umbrellas of color.

“I’ve never been this close to fireworks,” I said.

And Adrian, an alum from Dillard, responded: “Yeah, that’s because we have laws about it in the U.S.”

It was at this point that a five-inch ball of flame landed at my feet. It went out quickly enough, but I realized my eyes had had a close call, since it was still attached to the three-foot long dowel the firecracker had originally been stuck to. This was not enough to keep me from staring up into space, however. The fireworks lasted for a solid half an hour – one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. The rain of ash chunks falling into my hair was just part of the price.

August 28: Transportation

I took a rickshaw into town by myself today to do an errand, and then had to get into another one to get to the BMS campus for the symposium. It was my first outing all alone (I have to admit that I, um, put the hippo into my backpack for company) but being out on my own was fairly uneventful, with the exception of the fact that the drivers don’t always know where everything is. The first driver pointed at a building I knew full well was not the building I wanted, but I got out anyway, since I was on the right road and I only had to walk a couple blocks. The second driver, however, took me to a completely different university, and I had to go through some lengthy descriptions to help him figure out where I was really supposed to be, way across town.

Being lost, however, is always said to be one of those things travelers are supposed to delight in (Oh – I just have to put an aside in here. I talked to a friend from Germany today who knew exactly nothing about India ahead of time, an experience he prefers when traveling so that he can make his own opinions. He will then go back and read about the country afterwards. “The better to get a culture shock,” he said. And a beat later: “I’ve certainly had one.” Now, while I refuse to read the backs of books ahead of time – this not knowing a thing about the place you’re going . . . wow. There’s a situation in which this girl is never going to find herself. All of which is to say I did, of course, have to take a deep breath and remind myself that it’s ok to be “lost” on a rickshaw, but then it became An Adventure and therefore Alright.) so I leaned back and just enjoyed the ride. I knew we were again on track when I recognized a huge billboard I’d seen on the first day: “Traffic rules are for your safety. Please follow them.”

Which gave me my adventure. . . I started watching the signs. Because the signs on the side of the road, coupled with the actual behavior of the drivers, now there’s a pretty stark contrast. One of my favorite signs is: “Buckle Up! It’s a law!” It’s not “the law” mind you. Just a law. One of them. One you might consider following, perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble.

Stenciled onto the sides of cubbies set at various intersections – cubbies wherein officers sit during rush hour to manually change the traffic lights, because the traffic is so bad that someone needs to oversee the process to keep the roads moving – are the basics like: “Don’t drink and drive.” They also remind one to please “not overtake on the left” – something that only the cars, if that, are following. There are far more motorcycles and rickshaws on the road than cars, and these weave in and out of the rest of the scene with impunity. “Please don’t cross the yellow line” shows up repeatedly, which would be of more use if the roads HAD yellow lines. I haven’t seen any. As it is, the weaving in and out of traffic regularly takes place on both sides of the street, oncoming traffic not withstanding. Just where that imaginary yellow line dividing the road is seems to be a fairly fluid construct.

I have to speak out against the “No Honking” signs, because how else would the other vehicles know you’re flying through an intersection at 90 miles-an-hour without even looking if you didn’t warn them? Thankfully many of the trucks have printed in bold blues and reds across their backs: “Sound Horn OK.” I am not sure if this means you should let them know if they’re in your way, or if it’s just a general suggestion, but they certainly get lots of takers. Also written on the backs of cars – i.e. you can see it when you are starting straight at its exhaust pipe -- “Please don’t pollute the air.” I can’t even begin to comment on that one.

My favorite of all, however, stenciled in large red letters on a piece of white-washed wood: “Accident area, drive slow” with a huge, red death’s head across the top. These aren’t merely accidents zones mind you, but areas being overseen by the skull-and-crossbones. Thankfully, my driver actually obeyed that sign, though I think this had more to do with the fact that we were going uphill and his Little Rickshaw That Could was having a hard go of it.

Regardless, I am still a big fan of the rickshaw. After asking other motorcyclists where the college was, we finally got there in one piece after a 25 minute drive . . . and I forked over $1.70 – including tip.

August 27: Technology and Culture

The slippery slope argument has never been one I'm fond of. It is too easy to say "but if we allow liquor to be legal/women to vote/gays to marry, then the entire fabric of our society will rot away and next thing you know society we'll sanction women presidents and/or marriage to goats." I believe that life doesn't actually work that way -- one step and, boom! you lose control. In reality we all pretty much know the line when we come to it, and over time that line will legitimately fluctuate. Female presidents now are officially acceptable (in theory, not that the U.S. has had one); marriage to goats -- never.

This kind of argument invariably gets raised in cross cultural encounters: how can one embrace the good in another culture without losing your own identity? If a poorer nation seeks Western standards of living will they invariably lose their own traditions? Will working at a Western pace destroy villages and families?

This morning at the symposium we had a discussion about leveraging technology to increase cultural communication, and it was interesting to see -- in a group that relies on the Internet to create bonds -- that many people were vocal about fears that I.T. itself could too easily create a society devoid of human contact, arts and music, old traditions, anything but the drive to seal onesself off into a cubby earning money, seeking a certain sterilized version of life.

It brings up issues that U.S. citizens have wrestled with for much of the last century or so: is it hubris to press your values and culture onto another? Or is it hubris to deny them access to better health care, more food, better education because you have decided they are better off without your attempting to change their way of life? In India, Bangalore especially, as the technological boom has revolutionized the city, the question becomes -- for some -- is the new wealth destined to create a new middle class divorced from traditional Indian culture?

It's in my nature to reject this kind of argument in general. For one thing I fall on the side of thinking it's presumptuous to judge the correctness of how another person seeks to climb out of poverty, when you're sitting in a position of wealth and can't possibly relate.

But more importantly, I just don't believe in the slippery slope. The fact that Bangalore sports a Pizza Hut notwhithstanding, there is just too much here that is unique. This is not a place doomed for homogeonization.

My feelings were emphasized when we visited a temple to Shiva later in the day. This was a statue of the god, five stories tall, carved out of ivory-colored soapstone. Shiva is the god who destroys evil, so he wears snakes around his neck and wrist. Shiva is also said to tbe the source of the river Ganges, so a giant water fountain sprayed out of the top of his head. replenshing a pool at his feet. Sitting in front of Shiva were various cross-legged practicioners praying. And there were signs hanging around offering bits of advice, such as: "Work as if everything depends on you; pray as if everything depends on Lord Shiva."

But here's the thing about this temple. And I don't mean to be disrespectful, since it was an impressive place, but my first reaction was that it reminded me of Space Mountain. It was just so much larger-than-life that it kind of deserved to have a roller coaster inside. I figured, however, that such caricatures appear in places like Disney World specifically because they're based on real historical treasures, so I asked how old the temple was.

"Two years," came the answer.

Yeah, trust me, Bangalore is not in danger of losing its personality.

August 25: WOW

This is nothing like I expected. Nothing.

This is surely because I am:

a) in Bangalore -- a slightly wealthier, more modern city than, say, Bombay or New Delhi, that has gone through incredible growth in the last five years

b) staying in a modern hotel -- the bathroom has, I SWEAR, for its sink one of those trendy glass basins that sits on top of the marble. The kind of thing that is de rigueur in every new urban restaurant bathroom these days. (Still better than those see-through Swiss toilets though.

c) am surrounded by locals whom I know fairly well.

But still.

My plane landed at 1 AM, and so I wasn't in a cab to my hotel until about 2 AM. I chalked up the spaciousness -- of the airport, the sidewalks, the streets -- to the late hour. I had prepared myself for crowds and poverty. Instead as my cab driver sped forward (never slowing down at an intersection, simply leaning on the horn to make sure his presence was known) my thoughts were along the lines of: "Those banyan trees would make good climbing trees," or "Hey, we're driving on the left side of the road!"

This morning, after a breakfast of vegetable curry that despite all warnings that REAL Indian food was going to be too hot, was fantastic, I made plans to go into town with five fellows -- two from Germany, two from New Orleans, one from China. As I walked out of the hotel, a friend from India stopped me and gave a bit of a warning that sounded almost like an apology: "Now you're going to see the real craziness of India." The six of us hopped into two rickshaws (which are powered by motorcycles here, not bikes) and . . . went into Indian craziness.

Except it wasn't crazy. It was exuberant. Simply energetic and exciting and happy. Our rickshaw looked a lot like a yellow hansom cab, except there was only a roof and a floor. The sides are wide open, so you feel the wind as you drive -- an automatic mood enhancer. But there was more. The inside of the rickshaw was decorated in puffy blue and green designs with gold piping, and had a fake chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Our driver didn't know the exact address of where we were going, so he called to motorcycle drivers -- often with a woman in a sari riding side-saddle behind them -- as he went asking directions. He, too, blew the horn as he passed through every intersection, but it sounded nothing like a cranky NYC traffic jam. This was more of an announcement to the world, a rickshaw's shout of "I am!"

When we got out of the rickshaw, a little boy perhaps age 5 called out, excited about the Westerners and a chance for money. He did three cartwheels with a smile and then held out his hand for coins.

I didn't give him any. I had been so prepared for hoardes of people begging that I had inured myself ahead of time. I was going to nod and say no to anyone who asked . . . and I realize now I didn't need to. He was the only person all day who asked for money, and he even did something in return: he gave me his exuberance. Next time I'm paying up.

August 23: Flight

. . . And now I'm sipping champagne in a business class seat on a Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt. One of my visitors in Woods Hole, Eleni, has a friend who works for Lufthansa, and she asked him to get me an upgrade. It's one of those kinds where they decide about 5 minutes before the flight leaves if they have room for me, but hey, so far so good. I'm crossing my fingers that I get the upgrade for the second leg from Frankfurt to Bangalore too. It's a much needed rest, since I drove home from Cape Cod yesterday, getting home around midnight, and then rushed around all morning to do the last things that needed doing. I really truly thought I was completely packed, but there are always a few things left to be done. And then suddenly there are 3000 things left to be done and life gets hectic and then I have to call Noah and have him come over and help me pack and pick which books to take with me, and then have him go through the last of my bills that need dealing with, and, and, and. . . .

I was not completely unready, however, I did get some very important things done prior to departure -- both crucial on this current airplane excursion. First of all, I have the tricked-out-est of palm pilots that you ever did see. It has a little keyboard and it's an MP3 player and a digital camera and it pretty much rocks. It's what I'm writing this on on the plane. . . but even more importantly -- I bought a hippo. Do not laugh. It is the softest, coziest, most comforting creature of all time, and I am convinced it is going to solve any and all loneliness problems while traveling alone. Really.

August 5: Vaccinations

Today I took my fourth and final typhoid vaccination pill. So now I am vaccinated for five years. Two weeks ago I got a polio booster and a Hep A shot. I need to get a second Hep A in six months and then I'm immunized against that -- forever.

This is just a note to say that I cannot describe for you the thoroughly irrational pleasure and (perhaps misplaced, given all that India may throw at me) security being vaccinated makes me.

(In a separate note: Am reading Medical Firsts by Robert Adler, and I was intrigued to read that the first small pox vaccine created the same amount of ridiculous, unreasoned reactions that modern day vaccines do -- including those who were convinced that introducing something from a cow was not merely an abomination but might cause people to grow cow parts. Though the most outspoken opponent, the Reverend Thomas Robert Malthus, simply stated that vaccines went against God's will to weed out the poor. )

August 2: Visas

Ok, my organization level has hit its first snag. And I have to say, I just should have seen this one coming. Today was the day for me to get my Indian visa -- and years of going to the DC Department of Motor Vehicles for anything from a renewed driver's license to registering my car, has taught me that it's easy to get caught unprepared in a bureacracy if you don't do your homework ahead of time. As far as such things go, the Indian consulate was FAR easier than the DC DMV. All the information I needed was right here, clearly printed, easily explained. I got extra passport photos over the weekend, I printed up the pdf application, I got cash since they Do Not Take Credit Cards.

The Indian embassy is a ten-minute drive from my house. The website said it would take not even a full day to turn around the visa processing. I had everything I needed -- I was proud of how organized I was.

And pride goes before a fall.

First of all, let me say -- it was SO much better than the DMV. At the DMV when you pick a number, and then you look up at the flashing red digital sign to see what number they are currently on, you usually do a double take. How can they only be on 45, when your number is 162? You sit on a chair and settle in for the long hall. In this case I got number 36 and they were already on number 29. And they moved through people quickly. I should have known it was all going too smoothly.

I walked up to the booth when my number was called, handed it all over -- and she said in surprise: "You're a writer?" And I said "yes." And she said: "Your application will take ten days."

"Because I'm a writer?"

"Yes."

And that was that.

Pilates instructor. I have to remember to put down "pilates instructor."

July 30: Preparing

You'd think I'd never traveled anywhere before.

Or perhaps you'd think I was the most organized -- dare I say OCD? -- person you've ever met.

Neither is true, but I have spent the last week totally focused on what to bring with me to India, what I need to get done before I go, and -- I'm embarrassed to say -- I'm almost completely packed.

. . . and I don't leave for another three weeks.

Now, since I am going to Cape Cod for two of those three weeks, one could argue that I do only have a single week left to get ready, but still, even I can see that this is a little ridiculous. It's just that. . . well, INDIA.

Everyone I know who has gone to India has just had their mind blown away when confronted with a world that is so unbelievably different from their own. Some have then gone on to fall in love with its beauty, others have cut their trips short, some have just muddled through, but everyone has said it's not only different from anything they'd ever experienced, but different from anything they could possibly have prepare themselves for.

Despite knowing this, I seem to be on a tear to at least be as prepared as humanly possible.

I have the basics: polio, typhoid, and hepatitis a vaccinations; malaria pills; a couple books on what to do; 130 anti-bacterial wet naps; a door alarm; a security belt. And I have much else to get: my visa; travel insurance; hypodermic needles; travelers checks.

And I am getting prepared mentally for things, too. I write them down here not because I have the hubris to think that I will succeed at being prepared, but for posterity. So three weeks from now, alone in a foreign country, I can laugh at myself for thinking I knew what I was getting into. I have decided that just "being prepared for anything" is not enough. I have to get psyched up to be simultaneously accepting and curious, while being aggressive -- women alone are apparently not in much physical danger, but are regularly groped. A line in one of the books I read said: "Don't be afraid to slap such men -- the Indian women do." And I have to say I'm almost looking forward to the freedom of being high maintenance -- to tell people to keep away. To protect my space if need be.

Of course, space-protecting, I've been told, is not something that will possibly happen. The country's population naturally leads to dramatically different concepts of space, and add to it that there's no way I can hide that I'm a 5'8" Western female. . . and I can expect to be constantly surrounded. I don't know yet how I will handle this. Not well, I think. But even this I am sort of trying on for size. Trying to see if I can for a few weeks give up something so culturally-based as discomfort in crowds.

I am lucky in that the first week I will be in Bangalore in a modern hotel for the Melton Foundation symposium. I have numerous friends from Bangalore who will be there, and so right off the bat, I will have a local support system.

Hmmm. . . we shall see. I don't feel so nervous about it right now -- but I think that may be because I have no concept of what I'm getting into.