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.

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: 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 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 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.