Hey, so despite the alarming size of my last post I failed to tell you what my plans are. My mom and I will stay in Tiruvenamali until Feb. 4. On the fourth we will go to Pondicherry (I think I totally misspelled that). We will stay there for about a week and then we will go to Chennai. My mom flies out of Chennai on the 15th (I think, don't quote me). Then I will be on my own, so who knows what will happen.
I will miss my mom a lot. However, I'm looking forward to going solo. Most likely I will travel around for about a week then go back to Tiruvenamali (I really love it here). I'll be in India until March 17. Then I go to Holland!
Okay, so there is an update. Still, make sure you read the ridiculously long blog too.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Bikin' around
Bikes are ubiquitous throughout India. Everyone has one and in most cases they're more efficient forms of transportation than cars, motorcycles or buses.
Being a bike lover I was very interested in partaking in joining the multitudes of bikers. Every place I've been so far I've said “Here, I'm going to bike.” And at every place the same thing happened. I ran into some sort of complication with the renting of a bike, or I simply forgot.
Well not here at Tiruvenamali. Because I know people here I was able to borrow a bike and find a guide to take me around the holy mountain Mount Arunachalla.
The story behind Mount Arunachalla is awesome. According to Hindu myth Brahmen and Vishnu (Aspects of Shiva, who is God) were arguing about who was the greater god. Suddenly a huge pillar of fire appeared. This pillar of fire pierced all three worlds. The underworld, our world and the higher world. Out of the pillar of fire a voice said, “Who ever finds the end of this pillar of fire is the greater god.” So, Brahmen turned himself into a boar and dug deep into the earth, meanwhile Vishnu became a swan and flew high up into the sky.
Thousands of years go by(that sure does put the Ironman into perspective). Finally both gods return. Neither of them had found the end. As soon as they return the pillar of fire disappears and Lord Shiva (God) appears. Basically the point of the story is that Shiva is the greatest. However, all that was left of the pillar of fire was Mount Arunachalla. Therefor it is a very holy place for Hindus.
So, I wanted to bike around it. My guide was a guy named Aaron, he is 26 and has lived in Tiruvenamali for six years. I borrowed a bike from my hosts Uta and Volker. Aaron and I headed out determined and full of the energy of ignorance. As I wheeled my vehicle out of the garage Uta yelled after me that the tires were “A little low on air, but you can get them filled somewhere.”
Great! No problem there. Except there was. We went from shop to shop asking about pumps. It must have been a bad day or something for the pump industry because there wasn't a single pump. Finally after walking maybe a mile we found a place with pumps. We filled our tires for five rupees and rolled out.
Quickly, before we become too lost in the story let me explain the bike situation in India. Generally speaking bikes in India are old, clunky, rusted and heavy. Really heavy. Like 30 or 40 pounds of rusted steel. Thinking I would be cool I decided to throw my bike over my shoulder and walk with it. In the States this is generally a pretty reasonable and even cool thing to do. I grabbed the bike and lifted it. Like two inches. I quickly abandoned any thoughts of ever picking up this machine again. Like a motorcycle I was sure that if I fell over I would have to ask passersby to help me pick it up.
So, we rolled out. We jumped into the rolling, bucking organism that is Indian traffic. It was amazing. Cars, motorcycles, bicycles, humans, cows and oxen swirling around. Dodging in and out of impossibly small spaces. I loved it. The funny thing is I felt safer in India traffic than I do in American traffic. You have to be alert to drive anywhere in India. You can't drift off. There is no room for error. Therefore people make less errors. Seriously, the accident rate here is lower than in western countries.
Anyways, Aaron and I biked on. It was evening and very cool and beautiful. My bike, which was luxurious by Indian standards, was not exactly a smooth ride. The back wheel was so out of alignment I thought it might just fall off. But it was all good. I was riding around a holy mountain with someone almost my own age. Life was good.
Until it wasn't. Tharump, tharump tharump. At first I though it was just one of the many noises my bike was making. I didn't think it was a problem. I mean maybe it was a problem, but it sure wasn't a problem that needed any attention. Except I began to realize that I was going slower and slower. And every bump on the road seemed to be that much more shocking on the bum.
My back wheel was flat. No problem. I just whipped out my patch kit and patched it, right? No. Not right. Wrong. I kept riding. Tharump, tharump, tharump. With each hideous noise I felt the rim of the back wheel get knocked out of alignment. My conscious was disturbed. Sure, I can handle starving beggar children. Yeah, I can pass by homeless families. But a messed up bike rim? No way. That is crossing the line. What did that poor rim ever do to deserve such treatment?
I cursed God for his cruelty and stopped the bike.
Aaron and I realized that we had three possible courses of action. One we could fill up the tire and continue going and hope to find another place to fill it up by the time it got flat again. Two we could lock up the bike and continue around the mountain. We would double up on Aaron's bike and hope for the best. Three we could lock up the bike and double up on Aaron's bike and bike back to the place I'm staying. There we could get reinforcements, drink some Chai and go at it again.
Being young and therefor invincible we decided that all three of these courses of action were too reasonable. Instead we would fix the tire and finish the intended trip around the mountain.
The first place we asked told us to go down the road. So we did. The place we found was a little combination shop/home deal. The whole family was there. One little boy and one little girl. We asked the woman at the counter if they had a bicycle pump and patches. She waggled her head and began to yell and hit her husband, who was passed out on a bench.
The man looked up groggily and rolled away from his wife. She continued to yell and hit him. Finally he stumbled out of bench cursing in Tamil. He was fairly young looking but had a bad limp. He grabbed a kit and began to work on the bike.
Aaron and I decided that the best course of action was to drink chai. So we ordered two cups of steamy hot chai. Then we sat down to drink and wait for our savior to fix the bike. One hour (and probably 20 mosquito bites) into the whole situation we decided to have a second cup o' chai.
Occasionally the 'bike mechanic' would call me over to help with some minor detail. The problem was the the bike tube was pinched by the rim. It was a pretty easy patch but everything is a little harder in India.
At this point it was almost completely dark. The mechanic called me over and handed me a burning piece of rubber. He asked me (through a series of gestures and garbled phrases) to hold the flaming piece of cancerous fumes closer to his work. I did, trying not to think about what the thick oily smoke was doing to my lungs.
Finally, after two hours the tire was fixed. Nearly skipping with joy Aaron and I jumped onto our vehicles and headed out. Although it was pitch black outside we didn't hesitate in the continuation of our journey. So what we couldn't see the mountain? No big deal.
The rest of the trip went quite smoothly. We raced through Indian traffic becoming one with the organism. We ate at a very good Indian Hotel. The thing is generally the best restaurants are hotel restaurants. Additionally, many 'Hotels' aren't hotels at all. They are only restaurants. So we ate at 'hotel', which may or may not have been an actual hotel (I know it's all very confusing).
After the meal, which was good, we went to a local coffee shops. The coffee shop wasn't local in the sense that local people went there. Or that a local person owned it. The only reason I call it local is because it was in Tiruvenamali. Walking into that shop felt like going into a shop in some eclectic city in the United States. It was full of spiritual 'seekers'. Upon their necks they had so much sacred bling I was surprised I wasn't enlightened simply by being in the same space as them.
The main even of the night at this coffee shop was a poet. He was animated and funny. He acted out most of his poems and seemed to genuinely love what he was doing. Despite my negative comments about the 'spiritual bling' I still enjoyed being there.
I finally made it back to the house. It had been a long day full of interesting trials and tribulations. Wahoo. So then I went to bed and and that was that.
Being a bike lover I was very interested in partaking in joining the multitudes of bikers. Every place I've been so far I've said “Here, I'm going to bike.” And at every place the same thing happened. I ran into some sort of complication with the renting of a bike, or I simply forgot.
Well not here at Tiruvenamali. Because I know people here I was able to borrow a bike and find a guide to take me around the holy mountain Mount Arunachalla.
The story behind Mount Arunachalla is awesome. According to Hindu myth Brahmen and Vishnu (Aspects of Shiva, who is God) were arguing about who was the greater god. Suddenly a huge pillar of fire appeared. This pillar of fire pierced all three worlds. The underworld, our world and the higher world. Out of the pillar of fire a voice said, “Who ever finds the end of this pillar of fire is the greater god.” So, Brahmen turned himself into a boar and dug deep into the earth, meanwhile Vishnu became a swan and flew high up into the sky.
Thousands of years go by(that sure does put the Ironman into perspective). Finally both gods return. Neither of them had found the end. As soon as they return the pillar of fire disappears and Lord Shiva (God) appears. Basically the point of the story is that Shiva is the greatest. However, all that was left of the pillar of fire was Mount Arunachalla. Therefor it is a very holy place for Hindus.
So, I wanted to bike around it. My guide was a guy named Aaron, he is 26 and has lived in Tiruvenamali for six years. I borrowed a bike from my hosts Uta and Volker. Aaron and I headed out determined and full of the energy of ignorance. As I wheeled my vehicle out of the garage Uta yelled after me that the tires were “A little low on air, but you can get them filled somewhere.”
Great! No problem there. Except there was. We went from shop to shop asking about pumps. It must have been a bad day or something for the pump industry because there wasn't a single pump. Finally after walking maybe a mile we found a place with pumps. We filled our tires for five rupees and rolled out.
Quickly, before we become too lost in the story let me explain the bike situation in India. Generally speaking bikes in India are old, clunky, rusted and heavy. Really heavy. Like 30 or 40 pounds of rusted steel. Thinking I would be cool I decided to throw my bike over my shoulder and walk with it. In the States this is generally a pretty reasonable and even cool thing to do. I grabbed the bike and lifted it. Like two inches. I quickly abandoned any thoughts of ever picking up this machine again. Like a motorcycle I was sure that if I fell over I would have to ask passersby to help me pick it up.
So, we rolled out. We jumped into the rolling, bucking organism that is Indian traffic. It was amazing. Cars, motorcycles, bicycles, humans, cows and oxen swirling around. Dodging in and out of impossibly small spaces. I loved it. The funny thing is I felt safer in India traffic than I do in American traffic. You have to be alert to drive anywhere in India. You can't drift off. There is no room for error. Therefore people make less errors. Seriously, the accident rate here is lower than in western countries.
Anyways, Aaron and I biked on. It was evening and very cool and beautiful. My bike, which was luxurious by Indian standards, was not exactly a smooth ride. The back wheel was so out of alignment I thought it might just fall off. But it was all good. I was riding around a holy mountain with someone almost my own age. Life was good.
Until it wasn't. Tharump, tharump tharump. At first I though it was just one of the many noises my bike was making. I didn't think it was a problem. I mean maybe it was a problem, but it sure wasn't a problem that needed any attention. Except I began to realize that I was going slower and slower. And every bump on the road seemed to be that much more shocking on the bum.
My back wheel was flat. No problem. I just whipped out my patch kit and patched it, right? No. Not right. Wrong. I kept riding. Tharump, tharump, tharump. With each hideous noise I felt the rim of the back wheel get knocked out of alignment. My conscious was disturbed. Sure, I can handle starving beggar children. Yeah, I can pass by homeless families. But a messed up bike rim? No way. That is crossing the line. What did that poor rim ever do to deserve such treatment?
I cursed God for his cruelty and stopped the bike.
Aaron and I realized that we had three possible courses of action. One we could fill up the tire and continue going and hope to find another place to fill it up by the time it got flat again. Two we could lock up the bike and continue around the mountain. We would double up on Aaron's bike and hope for the best. Three we could lock up the bike and double up on Aaron's bike and bike back to the place I'm staying. There we could get reinforcements, drink some Chai and go at it again.
Being young and therefor invincible we decided that all three of these courses of action were too reasonable. Instead we would fix the tire and finish the intended trip around the mountain.
The first place we asked told us to go down the road. So we did. The place we found was a little combination shop/home deal. The whole family was there. One little boy and one little girl. We asked the woman at the counter if they had a bicycle pump and patches. She waggled her head and began to yell and hit her husband, who was passed out on a bench.
The man looked up groggily and rolled away from his wife. She continued to yell and hit him. Finally he stumbled out of bench cursing in Tamil. He was fairly young looking but had a bad limp. He grabbed a kit and began to work on the bike.
Aaron and I decided that the best course of action was to drink chai. So we ordered two cups of steamy hot chai. Then we sat down to drink and wait for our savior to fix the bike. One hour (and probably 20 mosquito bites) into the whole situation we decided to have a second cup o' chai.
Occasionally the 'bike mechanic' would call me over to help with some minor detail. The problem was the the bike tube was pinched by the rim. It was a pretty easy patch but everything is a little harder in India.
At this point it was almost completely dark. The mechanic called me over and handed me a burning piece of rubber. He asked me (through a series of gestures and garbled phrases) to hold the flaming piece of cancerous fumes closer to his work. I did, trying not to think about what the thick oily smoke was doing to my lungs.
Finally, after two hours the tire was fixed. Nearly skipping with joy Aaron and I jumped onto our vehicles and headed out. Although it was pitch black outside we didn't hesitate in the continuation of our journey. So what we couldn't see the mountain? No big deal.
The rest of the trip went quite smoothly. We raced through Indian traffic becoming one with the organism. We ate at a very good Indian Hotel. The thing is generally the best restaurants are hotel restaurants. Additionally, many 'Hotels' aren't hotels at all. They are only restaurants. So we ate at 'hotel', which may or may not have been an actual hotel (I know it's all very confusing).
After the meal, which was good, we went to a local coffee shops. The coffee shop wasn't local in the sense that local people went there. Or that a local person owned it. The only reason I call it local is because it was in Tiruvenamali. Walking into that shop felt like going into a shop in some eclectic city in the United States. It was full of spiritual 'seekers'. Upon their necks they had so much sacred bling I was surprised I wasn't enlightened simply by being in the same space as them.
The main even of the night at this coffee shop was a poet. He was animated and funny. He acted out most of his poems and seemed to genuinely love what he was doing. Despite my negative comments about the 'spiritual bling' I still enjoyed being there.
I finally made it back to the house. It had been a long day full of interesting trials and tribulations. Wahoo. So then I went to bed and and that was that.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Cultural differances (that I have observed)
Hey. So we're still at Thiruvenamali. It's a great place. I think we'll be here for four more days or so. One of the best things about being here is that we have had the chance to learn about the Indian culture. In our travels we had become used to simply not understanding many of the things we saw. We had become somewhat accustomed to 'India'.
Our hosts, Vulker and Uta, have lived in India for eight or nine years (depending on who you ask). They know the ins and outs of India culture and society. Their knowledge has changed how my mom and I view 'India'. The differences between India and America are huge and not always immediately visible. So, here are some of the ones I have observed. I don't want to summarize anything and this isn't meant as the definitive view of Indian culture. I'm a novice and this is simply what I've learned/observed/been told.
Waste Management
One of the most obvious differences is how Indians deal with waste and how Americans/Westerners deal with waste. The deal in Thiruvenamali is that each household has to have their own septic system. There is no sewage system or anything like that. The septic system is meant for 'black water'. This means poop and stuff like that. The 'gray water' is dealt with differently. Gray water can be channeled into trenches that run along side most houses. The government is responsible for digging and maintaining these trenches. The water is filthy and contains pretty much everything. It's often black, so I can only imagine what the 'black water' is like.
This system creates a couple of problems. First of all many families can't afford to have septic systems installed. This means that they simply go to the bathroom in the bushes and discard their garbage on the side of the road. This works OK for small groups of people but becomes a real problem with larger groups.
The other problem (that I've observed I'm sure there are more) is the effect the gray water has on the overall environment. This water simply sits in these trenches. I haven't seen it move or go anywhere. I guess eventually it must be cleaned up but I don't know when or how often. This stagnant water smells terrible. It's also the breeding ground for mosquitoes. Although malaria isn't a problem here the bites still itch like mad.
Marriage
In India people don't marry for love. Instead families arrange marriages (at least in rural areas). When a family is well off financially and truly loves their daughter or son an arranged marriage usually works out. However, if a poor family has a daughter things go differently. Because the brides family has to pay a dowry to the grooms family poor families can't afford to marry their daughter into a good family. The better the family the higher the dowry. So, generally what happens is the family marries their daughter to a drunkard or some other lowly man. This means that they don't have to pay much of a dowry. This also usually means the bride is abused and mistreated by the husband or the husband's family.
Corporal Punishment
In India I've been told everybody beats everybody. Fathers beat wives, wives beat children and children beat animals. Generally this kind of abuse is reserved for poorer families (like in any nation). However, it is much more obvious here than in the States. I've seen parents hit children while waiting in line for groceries. Somehow the fact that everybody hits everyone makes me feel a little bit better, but not much.
Scheduled Power Cuts
Every day the power goes out for for thirty minutes or longer. At first my mom and I thought it was a power failure. It is but it it's a scheduled power failure. The government cuts power to certain areas to conserve power throughout the nation.
Beggars
When I think of beggars in the United States I generally think of an alcoholic or a drug addict. In India it's a completely different story. Beggars here are born beggars. It's a caste and their job is to beg. Like I said in an earlier post often these men and women are disfigured at birth to improve their job performance.
Holy Men/Spirituality
Like beggars holy men known as Saduhs live on the streets and depend on other people's charity for their livelihood. However, Saduhs are holy men who have taken vows. There are three primary vows that these men (and women sometimes) take. They vow to never work for money, to never own anything and to never spend more than three nights in the same spot. Saduhs are admired and respected for their commitment to god and the divine. However, many beggars pretend to be Saduhs by wearing the characteristic orange robes.
This underlines another interesting difference between India and the west. In India spirituality and the sacred are everyday aspects of life. People don't hide their devotion to God. So, in India renunciates and other holy men and women who depend on the generosity of strangers for their livelihood are respected and taken care of. In the west these men and women are often considered to be lazy or crazy.
Family Business
In India almost every business (I've seen) is a family business. This means that often you will walk into a shop and there will be four people shopping and 10 people working.
Miscellaneous
Some Indian mothers believe it is good to wash your newborn infant in nearly boiling water. Apparently they sleep really well afterward.
You drive on the left side of the road (sometimes).
“Every cow has the right to a human death.” Cows are cared for extremely well in India. After a milking cow has 'gone dry' they are sent to Old Cow Homes. Seriously, not kidding. At these homes the cows are fed and cared for until they die. A lot different than the mechanized killing sheds that American cows live in
People eat with their hands. But only their right hand. The left hand is reserved for wiping your butt.
The lowest people in the caste system are called untouchables. These men and women clean out septic systems and do other jobs that involve close interaction with human feces. Although they are the lowest caste they get paid very well. So, economically they are better off than many of the higher castes (The name untouchables is a misnomer. They are in fact touchable. I touched one).
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
A dowry related crime
Thiruvinamali, our destination, is a very holy and unique town. It is right at the base of Mount Auranchala, a holy mountain in India. It's the home of many gurus and ashrams. We our staying at an Ashram called Trivini II. The people who live here are some friends of ours. They have been living in India for eight years and know a lot about India and her customs.
Talking to them for any length of time is an education. Although my mom and I both have many many so far we have simply listened to what they have volunteered. Volker and Uta (they're from Germany) adopted twins about one year ago. The girls are Indian and were taken from the state of Tamil Nadu. While talking about the adoption process they began to tell us about the social conditions in India that lead to the adoption of little girls.
Dowries, which are sums of money the woman's family has to pay to the man's family, are usually very expensive. They are a must in any traditional Indian wedding. For this reason having a boy is preferred to having a girl. For rich families it isn't too big of a problem. They can marry the girl off to a nice family because they have plenty of money. For poor families, however, it can be a huge problem.
Not having enough money to marry the girl into a nice family means that the brides family has to pick a not so nice family. This usually means that the man is an alcoholic, which usually means that he will beat his wife. For parents who love their children this is a terrible choice to have to make. They know their daughter will be beaten and abused. They know she won't have much of a life. So, often instead of subjecting the daughter to this future the kill the infant girl.
The Indian government is trying to provide options for poor mothers by setting them up with social workers who then get the baby girls to orphanages. It doesn't always work but it's much better than what would happen.
Learning about this is really good for me. Up until this point we had only really seen suffering that appeared to be imposed on the people. The poverty and terrible living conditions can be blamed on the state or central governments lack of money or refusal to help. I had seen India as a terribly poor place. A terribly dirty place. But I had somehow forgotten, or willed myself to forget, that people are still cruel here. That people still determine the worth of a life based upon gender.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Some more sights
What a seat! What a garbage can, 100 percent virgin, kind of creepy. Same garbage can "Use me" umm dead virgin, ah no thanks. And then, those darn cute cows.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Mamallapuram(Mahabalipuram): “Tamil Nadu's only true travelers' enclave”
From Madurai my mom and I took an overnight train to Chennai. It was quite and experience. It was an 11 hour journey and I was jammed between my luggage and the spartan, metal walls of our bunk bed. Surprisingly, I slept OK, like maybe five or six hours.
We got off at Chennai (Madras) and were immediately accosted by a cab driver. We tried to walk around and price check, however is mosquito esque presence deterred any would be saviors. We were able to bargain him down from rs 1,500 eventually paying rs 1,200.
The ride to Mamallapuram was uneventful, and mostly forgotten. I slept the majority of the time, drifting in and out of consciousness as we hurtled through the insanity that is Indian traffic.
We got to Mamallapuram at 5 a.m. We were exhausted but determined to get a reasonably priced room. Luckily for us the first place we stopped, the Sea Breeze hotel, had an open room. We were happy with the price (rs 1200) and the quality until we learned we would have to pay rs 700 in order to stay there until noon (remember it was 5 am). Neither my mom or I liked the idea of paying that much money ($14) for less than half a day.
So we said no. We packed up our stuff and began to walk out the gate, not really knowing where or what we were doing. Luckily for us the person at reception relented and allowed us to check in early.
Upon entering the room my mom and I did two different things. She, being a mother, began to nest. Unpacking her stuff and generally making the place feel more like home. Me, being a man and an exhausted one at that, went to bed.
I slept for probably three hours. It was a sweet, sweet sleep.
When I opened my eyes they were assaulted by the bright sunlight flooding into our room. My mom and I stumbled out of our room, fearfully clutching our wallets. Unsure of what lay ahead.
It wasn't what we expected. The place we are staying, the Sea Breeze Hotel, is like resort. It sits on the ocean and has a pool. All the floors are tile. It has its own gate, separating us tourists from the rest of the town. It's beautiful and bizarre. We love it and we hate it.
We love it, because as Lonely Planet put it, it's the “Only true travelers enclave in Tamil Nadu”. All the food is safe, all the milk is boiled. The beggars (yes there are beggars even in a travelers enclave) look fat and prosperous when compared to their counterparts in Kanyakumari. Although the people here are a wide mix of cultures, they are mostly white. This itself is kind of a shock, because for the last two weeks my mom and I have been in the minority, now suddenly we are thrust back into the majority.
Wow! Power shift! I had already forgotten how it feels to be the majority. It feels safe and familiar and kind of boring.
We hate it for the same reasons that we love it. Because we are so worldly and so travel weary, and because we have been traveling in India for two weeks, we know what the real India is all about (sarcasm intended). So, our first response was one of cynicism. I was embarrassed to be seen at a place like this. I was embarrassed (as if I could ever hide my touristness) to be such an obvious tourist in a town that is so obviously designed to cater to tourists.
But ah man, that beach is sure nice and how about all those hot French girls? And isn't it nice to be able to order pasta? And lattes? And oh jeez it is so much cleaner here and there is hardly any poop on the street, and almost no homeless people...
So maybe you see the dilemma. Everything in this place is meant to make us like this place. And it works. Yet, at the same time both my mom and I know that this isn't why we are traveling. We aren't traveling to hang out with other westerners. We aren't traveling to have a slightly exotic, yet safely predictable vacation.
So why are we traveling? We don't really know, although I'm pretty sure it has something to do with chai.
We got off at Chennai (Madras) and were immediately accosted by a cab driver. We tried to walk around and price check, however is mosquito esque presence deterred any would be saviors. We were able to bargain him down from rs 1,500 eventually paying rs 1,200.
The ride to Mamallapuram was uneventful, and mostly forgotten. I slept the majority of the time, drifting in and out of consciousness as we hurtled through the insanity that is Indian traffic.
We got to Mamallapuram at 5 a.m. We were exhausted but determined to get a reasonably priced room. Luckily for us the first place we stopped, the Sea Breeze hotel, had an open room. We were happy with the price (rs 1200) and the quality until we learned we would have to pay rs 700 in order to stay there until noon (remember it was 5 am). Neither my mom or I liked the idea of paying that much money ($14) for less than half a day.
So we said no. We packed up our stuff and began to walk out the gate, not really knowing where or what we were doing. Luckily for us the person at reception relented and allowed us to check in early.
Upon entering the room my mom and I did two different things. She, being a mother, began to nest. Unpacking her stuff and generally making the place feel more like home. Me, being a man and an exhausted one at that, went to bed.
I slept for probably three hours. It was a sweet, sweet sleep.
When I opened my eyes they were assaulted by the bright sunlight flooding into our room. My mom and I stumbled out of our room, fearfully clutching our wallets. Unsure of what lay ahead.
It wasn't what we expected. The place we are staying, the Sea Breeze Hotel, is like resort. It sits on the ocean and has a pool. All the floors are tile. It has its own gate, separating us tourists from the rest of the town. It's beautiful and bizarre. We love it and we hate it.
We love it, because as Lonely Planet put it, it's the “Only true travelers enclave in Tamil Nadu”. All the food is safe, all the milk is boiled. The beggars (yes there are beggars even in a travelers enclave) look fat and prosperous when compared to their counterparts in Kanyakumari. Although the people here are a wide mix of cultures, they are mostly white. This itself is kind of a shock, because for the last two weeks my mom and I have been in the minority, now suddenly we are thrust back into the majority.
Wow! Power shift! I had already forgotten how it feels to be the majority. It feels safe and familiar and kind of boring.
We hate it for the same reasons that we love it. Because we are so worldly and so travel weary, and because we have been traveling in India for two weeks, we know what the real India is all about (sarcasm intended). So, our first response was one of cynicism. I was embarrassed to be seen at a place like this. I was embarrassed (as if I could ever hide my touristness) to be such an obvious tourist in a town that is so obviously designed to cater to tourists.
But ah man, that beach is sure nice and how about all those hot French girls? And isn't it nice to be able to order pasta? And lattes? And oh jeez it is so much cleaner here and there is hardly any poop on the street, and almost no homeless people...
So maybe you see the dilemma. Everything in this place is meant to make us like this place. And it works. Yet, at the same time both my mom and I know that this isn't why we are traveling. We aren't traveling to hang out with other westerners. We aren't traveling to have a slightly exotic, yet safely predictable vacation.
So why are we traveling? We don't really know, although I'm pretty sure it has something to do with chai.
Mamallapuram(Mahabalipuram): “Tamil Nadu's only true travelers' enclave”
From Madurai my mom and I took an overnight train to Chennai. It was quite and experience. It was an 11 hour journey and I was jammed between my luggage and the spartan, metal walls of our bunk bed. Surprisingly, I slept OK, like maybe five or six hours.
We got off at Chennai (Madras) and were immediately accosted by a cab driver. We tried to walk around and price check, however is mosquito esque presence deterred any would be saviors. We were able to bargain him down from rs 1,500 eventually paying rs 1,200.
The ride to Mamallapuram was uneventful, and mostly forgotten. I slept the majority of the time, drifting in and out of consciousness as we hurtled through the insanity that is Indian traffic.
We got to Mamallapuram at 5 a.m. We were exhausted but determined to get a reasonably priced room. Luckily for us the first place we stopped, the Sea Breeze hotel, had an open room. We were happy with the price (rs 1200) and the quality until we learned we would have to pay rs 700 in order to stay there until noon (remember it was 5 am). Neither my mom or I liked the idea of paying that much money ($14) for less than half a day.
So we said no. We packed up our stuff and began to walk out the gate, not really knowing where or what we were doing. Luckily for us the person at reception relented and allowed us to check in early.
Upon entering the room my mom and I did two different things. She, being a mother, began to nest. Unpacking her stuff and generally making the place feel more like home. Me, being a man and an exhausted one at that, went to bed.
I slept for probably three hours. It was a sweet, sweet sleep.
When I opened my eyes they were assaulted by the bright sunlight flooding into our room. My mom and I stumbled out of our room, fearfully clutching our wallets. Unsure of what lay ahead.
It wasn't what we expected. The place we are staying, the Sea Breeze Hotel, is like resort. It sits on the ocean and has a pool. All the floors are tile. It has its own gate, separating us tourists from the rest of the town. It's beautiful and bizarre. We love it and we hate it.
We love it, because as Lonely Planet put it, it's the “Only true travelers enclave in Tamil Nadu”. All the food is safe, all the milk is boiled. The beggars (yes there are beggars even in a travelers enclave) look fat and prosperous when compared to their counterparts in Kanyakumari. Although the people here are a wide mix of cultures, they are mostly white. This itself is kind of a shock, because for the last two weeks my mom and I have been in the minority, now suddenly we are thrust back into the majority.
Wow! Power shift! I had already forgotten how it feels to be the majority. It feels safe and familiar and kind of boring.
We hate it for the same reasons that we love it. Because we are so worldly and so travel weary, and because we have been traveling in India for two weeks, we know what the real India is all about (sarcasm intended). So, our first response was one of cynicism. I was embarrassed to be seen at a place like this. I was embarrassed (as if I could ever hide my touristness) to be such an obvious tourist in a town that is so obviously designed to cater to tourists.
But ah man, that beach is sure nice and how about all those hot French girls? And isn't it nice to be able to order pasta? And lattes? And oh jeez it is so much cleaner here and there is hardly any poop on the street, and almost no homeless people...
So maybe you see the dilemma. Everything in this place is meant to make us like this place. And it works. Yet, at the same time both my mom and I know that this isn't why we are traveling. We aren't traveling to hang out with other westerners. We aren't traveling to have a slightly exotic, yet safely predictable vacation.
So why are we traveling? We don't really know, although I'm pretty sure it has something to do with chai.
We got off at Chennai (Madras) and were immediately accosted by a cab driver. We tried to walk around and price check, however is mosquito esque presence deterred any would be saviors. We were able to bargain him down from rs 1,500 eventually paying rs 1,200.
The ride to Mamallapuram was uneventful, and mostly forgotten. I slept the majority of the time, drifting in and out of consciousness as we hurtled through the insanity that is Indian traffic.
We got to Mamallapuram at 5 a.m. We were exhausted but determined to get a reasonably priced room. Luckily for us the first place we stopped, the Sea Breeze hotel, had an open room. We were happy with the price (rs 1200) and the quality until we learned we would have to pay rs 700 in order to stay there until noon (remember it was 5 am). Neither my mom or I liked the idea of paying that much money ($14) for less than half a day.
So we said no. We packed up our stuff and began to walk out the gate, not really knowing where or what we were doing. Luckily for us the person at reception relented and allowed us to check in early.
Upon entering the room my mom and I did two different things. She, being a mother, began to nest. Unpacking her stuff and generally making the place feel more like home. Me, being a man and an exhausted one at that, went to bed.
I slept for probably three hours. It was a sweet, sweet sleep.
When I opened my eyes they were assaulted by the bright sunlight flooding into our room. My mom and I stumbled out of our room, fearfully clutching our wallets. Unsure of what lay ahead.
It wasn't what we expected. The place we are staying, the Sea Breeze Hotel, is like resort. It sits on the ocean and has a pool. All the floors are tile. It has its own gate, separating us tourists from the rest of the town. It's beautiful and bizarre. We love it and we hate it.
We love it, because as Lonely Planet put it, it's the “Only true travelers enclave in Tamil Nadu”. All the food is safe, all the milk is boiled. The beggars (yes there are beggars even in a travelers enclave) look fat and prosperous when compared to their counterparts in Kanyakumari. Although the people here are a wide mix of cultures, they are mostly white. This itself is kind of a shock, because for the last two weeks my mom and I have been in the minority, now suddenly we are thrust back into the majority.
Wow! Power shift! I had already forgotten how it feels to be the majority. It feels safe and familiar and kind of boring.
We hate it for the same reasons that we love it. Because we are so worldly and so travel weary, and because we have been traveling in India for two weeks, we know what the real India is all about (sarcasm intended). So, our first response was one of cynicism. I was embarrassed to be seen at a place like this. I was embarrassed (as if I could ever hide my touristness) to be such an obvious tourist in a town that is so obviously designed to cater to tourists.
But ah man, that beach is sure nice and how about all those hot French girls? And isn't it nice to be able to order pasta? And lattes? And oh jeez it is so much cleaner here and there is hardly any poop on the street, and almost no homeless people...
So maybe you see the dilemma. Everything in this place is meant to make us like this place. And it works. Yet, at the same time both my mom and I know that this isn't why we are traveling. We aren't traveling to hang out with other westerners. We aren't traveling to have a slightly exotic, yet safely predictable vacation.
So why are we traveling? We don't really know, although I'm pretty sure it has something to do with chai.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Madurai
After our time in Kanyakumari we went to Madurai. It's about 200 km north of Kanyakumari. It's a big city (1.19 million). The main draw there is a large temple complex. We stayed in a pretty nice hotel. The streets of Madurai were teeming with people and activity. My mother didn't enjoy it all that much so we only stayed there for two nights (10-12 of Jan.).
On the night of the 11th my mom and I were out and about walking through the streets of Madurai. It was maybe 7:30 pm and it was very obvious that we were mother and son. But this maternal connection didn't deter my would be salesman.
An elderly man, approached me. He looked sort of like a dirty old grandfather. The kind of grandpa that tells you dirty jokes and slips you a glass of wine when you're 10. He said something along the lines of:
“Hello! Mmmblah blah mm sir, you like?”
I said:
“What?” He repeated himself. This time I caught a few more words:
“Hello! Mmmblah blah grass, good, very good, sir, you like?” Although I now got the gist of his proposition I was still lost.
“No, no, no grass. Thank you though, nani.” As I was standing by one of the many cows plopped down in the middle of a field that had inconveniently been turned into a street, I wondered if perhaps I was supposed to buy some grass from this old man and offer it to the cows as a sort of sacramental spiritual thing.
He must have seen my train of though because he said:
“No, no good sir! Blah blah hashish! Very good mary wanna! Good grass! Mumble mumble.”
My mind went blank. Here I was thousands if not millions of miles away from home and I was being confronted by a drug dealer. Oh no! I searched frantically through my mind. What did lonely planet say about dealing with drug dealers? What was I supposed to say? Should I show him the whites of my eyes as a symbol of his dominance over me? Should I kiss his feet?
I whipped out my Lonely Planet South India guide. Flying to the index I looked up drug dealer. Damn. Nothing. But wait, there were two entries under drugs. I went to the first one page 179 and began to read frantically. It was about Goa and the penalties around the use of drugs. You could spend up to 10 years in prison. Shit. I flew to the other listing page 475. It reiterated what the Goa listing had said. I was frantic.
“No! Master, sahib, mister, OM, my guru! I don't wanna mary wanna! I don't wanna hashish,” I kissed his feet imploringly! “Please don't drug deal me! Oh great drug dealer.” The old man looked slightly scared. No! I don't want him to be scared. That could make him vicious.
“I mean yes I would love some Mary wanna, oh great dealer,” I said. “Meet me in that alley in ten minutes and I will gladly pay you any sum mary wanna (my reasoning here was the in the alley my superior sense of hearing and my unique ability to use echo location would give me the upper hand in a fight)!” The old man broke into a grin,
“Ah, you wanna boy massage,” he leered. “I give you boy massage!”
Shit. No dice. This man seemed determined to give me either drugs or a massage. Neither, of which I wanted.
On the night of the 11th my mom and I were out and about walking through the streets of Madurai. It was maybe 7:30 pm and it was very obvious that we were mother and son. But this maternal connection didn't deter my would be salesman.
An elderly man, approached me. He looked sort of like a dirty old grandfather. The kind of grandpa that tells you dirty jokes and slips you a glass of wine when you're 10. He said something along the lines of:
“Hello! Mmmblah blah mm sir, you like?”
I said:
“What?” He repeated himself. This time I caught a few more words:
“Hello! Mmmblah blah grass, good, very good, sir, you like?” Although I now got the gist of his proposition I was still lost.
“No, no, no grass. Thank you though, nani.” As I was standing by one of the many cows plopped down in the middle of a field that had inconveniently been turned into a street, I wondered if perhaps I was supposed to buy some grass from this old man and offer it to the cows as a sort of sacramental spiritual thing.
He must have seen my train of though because he said:
“No, no good sir! Blah blah hashish! Very good mary wanna! Good grass! Mumble mumble.”
My mind went blank. Here I was thousands if not millions of miles away from home and I was being confronted by a drug dealer. Oh no! I searched frantically through my mind. What did lonely planet say about dealing with drug dealers? What was I supposed to say? Should I show him the whites of my eyes as a symbol of his dominance over me? Should I kiss his feet?
I whipped out my Lonely Planet South India guide. Flying to the index I looked up drug dealer. Damn. Nothing. But wait, there were two entries under drugs. I went to the first one page 179 and began to read frantically. It was about Goa and the penalties around the use of drugs. You could spend up to 10 years in prison. Shit. I flew to the other listing page 475. It reiterated what the Goa listing had said. I was frantic.
“No! Master, sahib, mister, OM, my guru! I don't wanna mary wanna! I don't wanna hashish,” I kissed his feet imploringly! “Please don't drug deal me! Oh great drug dealer.” The old man looked slightly scared. No! I don't want him to be scared. That could make him vicious.
“I mean yes I would love some Mary wanna, oh great dealer,” I said. “Meet me in that alley in ten minutes and I will gladly pay you any sum mary wanna (my reasoning here was the in the alley my superior sense of hearing and my unique ability to use echo location would give me the upper hand in a fight)!” The old man broke into a grin,
“Ah, you wanna boy massage,” he leered. “I give you boy massage!”
Shit. No dice. This man seemed determined to give me either drugs or a massage. Neither, of which I wanted.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
A quick update
Hey, so sorry I haven't written in the last few days. No good excuse it's not like I've been really busy or anything. We stayed in Madurai for two nights. It's a fairly big city (2 million I think). The main thing there is this huge temple complex. It's a pilgrimage city, like Kanyakumari. My mom and I went to the temple. It was pretty amazing. There was a lot we couldn't see because we aren't Hindu. I liked the city but my mom was ready to move on. I was offered 'mary wanna' and 'massages' many times (in the presence of my mom (ama)). No, these offers aren't why I liked the city.
We left Madurai on the 12th. We took an overnight train to Chennai (farther North). We were dumb and booked the train through a travel agen that was based out of the hotel we stayed at in Madurai. He seemed nice but he screwed us over big time. Instead of taking the express train (a straight shot from Madurai to Chennai) we took the passenger train (meaning it stops every 10 minutes!). We clearly asked for the express. So this guy made a nice little bit of money off us. Oh well at least we learned.
The train ride was crazy (and 11 hours). We were in the sleeper car third tier. We didn't really know what this meant untill we actually got on the train. It means you have three bunks stacked on top of each other. So it was very very tight. I ended up sleeping jammed in between my backpack and the wall. Despite that I'm really glad we took the train. We were the only whities on it so it's not the 'preffered' mode of transportation for westerners.
Once we got to Chennai we took a taxi to Mamalapuram (spelling is probably terrible). It's a beautiful artist's community on the ocean. It's about an hour south from Chennai. We are staying in this really fancy resort place. It's kind of embarrasing how nice it is. It's right on the ocean and has a pool. It costs rs 1,200 ($25). We will probably stay here for five more days.
So that is where we are now. I'll write more later. Just wanted to check in with my invisible readers.
We left Madurai on the 12th. We took an overnight train to Chennai (farther North). We were dumb and booked the train through a travel agen that was based out of the hotel we stayed at in Madurai. He seemed nice but he screwed us over big time. Instead of taking the express train (a straight shot from Madurai to Chennai) we took the passenger train (meaning it stops every 10 minutes!). We clearly asked for the express. So this guy made a nice little bit of money off us. Oh well at least we learned.
The train ride was crazy (and 11 hours). We were in the sleeper car third tier. We didn't really know what this meant untill we actually got on the train. It means you have three bunks stacked on top of each other. So it was very very tight. I ended up sleeping jammed in between my backpack and the wall. Despite that I'm really glad we took the train. We were the only whities on it so it's not the 'preffered' mode of transportation for westerners.
Once we got to Chennai we took a taxi to Mamalapuram (spelling is probably terrible). It's a beautiful artist's community on the ocean. It's about an hour south from Chennai. We are staying in this really fancy resort place. It's kind of embarrasing how nice it is. It's right on the ocean and has a pool. It costs rs 1,200 ($25). We will probably stay here for five more days.
So that is where we are now. I'll write more later. Just wanted to check in with my invisible readers.
Friday, January 9, 2009
A holy city
I was sick. Yesterday I began to have diarrhea and headaches. My body ached and all I wanted to do was sleep. Right now I'm blaming my symptoms on an ill-advised stop at roadside shop. I thought I could get away with eating that deep fried bannana. Well, I guess not. The mere thought of that banana makes me want to puke!
So there is a physical reason for my illness. But there is more.
The things that I have seen in the last 48 hours are almost to sureal to describe. But I will try.
Yesterday, my mom and I were walking along and two little girls ran up to us. Well one little girl ran up to us. The other one toddled. She toddled because she was probably two years old. She was filthy and grimy and cute. She was cute like every little kid is cute. But she was homeless and begging for her food. Her older sister (the one who ran) was maybe five. Maybe.
Later we went down to the ocean. On a promenade facing out into the area where three oceans meet, there is a monument in dedication of Mahatma Gandhi. It's a beautiful piece of architecture incorporating building styles reminiscent of Hindus, Muslims and Christians. Families sat on top watching the ocean and eating lunch. Children, the same age as the beggars mentioned above, played with each other and said hello to my mom and I.
Two hundred yards away little boys and girls begged for money.
After the Gandhi memorial we went to see the famous sunset. Kanyakumari is known for its glorious sunrises (6:30 am) and sunsets (6:45 am). On our way down to beach we walked by piles of poop. Human poop. The smell was overwhelming. I felt like throwing up.
Meanwhile the sun was setting. The last golden rays of the day intermingled with the stench of human waste. It's too much for a person to handle. How can you not enjoy a sunset that is that beautiful? How can you enjoy a sunset with the smell of putrid poop in your nostrils? Ah, India.
Last night, desperate for something, anything that was familiar, my mom and decided to go to a restaurant recommended by Lonely Planet. Not really knowing where it was we hired a rickshaw. We said very firmly we weren't willing to pay more than rs 20. Surprisingly he agreed (usually they argue and you have to threaten to leave before they will lower the price). Well, after two minutes we realized why he had been so agreeable. It was maybe four block away. Ah well, what can you do?
The restaurant was very nice, albeit surreal. It was clean (wow) and didn't smell like anything really. There were three waiters and a busboy serving my mom and I and an elderly couple.
It sure didn't feel like India.
It was a welcome break though. We needed a place to touch down. The food was good and clean (I hope). We inquired at the hotel (the restaurant was part of a hotel) about room prices. A room at the top of the hotel with A/C and a balcony cost $90.
We left the hotel ready to walk back to our slightly shabby abode. Immediately upon exiting a little girl ran up to us. Her mother, who was carrying an infant was right behind her. They gestured, begging for food. We gave them five rupees (one cent). In that restaurant we had just spent 235 rupees (five dollars). For probably the tenth time that day I felt like crying.
So there is a physical reason for my illness. But there is more.
The things that I have seen in the last 48 hours are almost to sureal to describe. But I will try.
Yesterday, my mom and I were walking along and two little girls ran up to us. Well one little girl ran up to us. The other one toddled. She toddled because she was probably two years old. She was filthy and grimy and cute. She was cute like every little kid is cute. But she was homeless and begging for her food. Her older sister (the one who ran) was maybe five. Maybe.
Later we went down to the ocean. On a promenade facing out into the area where three oceans meet, there is a monument in dedication of Mahatma Gandhi. It's a beautiful piece of architecture incorporating building styles reminiscent of Hindus, Muslims and Christians. Families sat on top watching the ocean and eating lunch. Children, the same age as the beggars mentioned above, played with each other and said hello to my mom and I.
Two hundred yards away little boys and girls begged for money.
After the Gandhi memorial we went to see the famous sunset. Kanyakumari is known for its glorious sunrises (6:30 am) and sunsets (6:45 am). On our way down to beach we walked by piles of poop. Human poop. The smell was overwhelming. I felt like throwing up.
Meanwhile the sun was setting. The last golden rays of the day intermingled with the stench of human waste. It's too much for a person to handle. How can you not enjoy a sunset that is that beautiful? How can you enjoy a sunset with the smell of putrid poop in your nostrils? Ah, India.
Last night, desperate for something, anything that was familiar, my mom and decided to go to a restaurant recommended by Lonely Planet. Not really knowing where it was we hired a rickshaw. We said very firmly we weren't willing to pay more than rs 20. Surprisingly he agreed (usually they argue and you have to threaten to leave before they will lower the price). Well, after two minutes we realized why he had been so agreeable. It was maybe four block away. Ah well, what can you do?
The restaurant was very nice, albeit surreal. It was clean (wow) and didn't smell like anything really. There were three waiters and a busboy serving my mom and I and an elderly couple.
It sure didn't feel like India.
It was a welcome break though. We needed a place to touch down. The food was good and clean (I hope). We inquired at the hotel (the restaurant was part of a hotel) about room prices. A room at the top of the hotel with A/C and a balcony cost $90.
We left the hotel ready to walk back to our slightly shabby abode. Immediately upon exiting a little girl ran up to us. Her mother, who was carrying an infant was right behind her. They gestured, begging for food. We gave them five rupees (one cent). In that restaurant we had just spent 235 rupees (five dollars). For probably the tenth time that day I felt like crying.
What men do for money
Everyone is trying to sell something. Everyone wants to make a quick buck (or rupee). Lots of men are honest and kind. They want to make money but they will only go so far to make money. They won't compromise their integrity or morales on the alter on the cash god.
Some men aren't so kind and honest. They are the kind of men who will sell you a faulty car. They are the kind of men who steal money from their bosses or embezzle people. These men are willing to take advantage of people if they have something to gain. But these men, usually, draw the line somewhere. They won't hurt women or children or they won't steal from someone they consider to be poor.
Some men will though. Specifically some men will hurt children.
They will mutilate them.
My mom and I arrived in Kanyakumari on Jan. 8. We had just spent the last five days at Amritpuri. We were staying in the ashram of Ama (Ama means the divine mother). It was a beautiful place.
Kanyakumari is on the southern most tip of India. It's a holy spot for Hindus. According to the stories Devi Kanya (Kanya means virgin, Devi means divine mother) single-handedly conquered the demons of the world and secured mans freedom.
After a five hour taxi ride from Amripuriy my mom and I were ready to walk (and eat). We left our hotel the Hotel Tamil Nadu and waked along the ocean. There were thousands and thousands of people out and about. We were overwhelmed but quickly adjusted. We walked around for about three hours.
The city was dirty, loud and cramped. I can handle that.
Then I saw him.
His legs were twisted backwards. One hand was smashed into a claw like fist the other hand was perfect. He didn't have a shirt on and his hair was matted and filthy. He couldn't walk, due to the twisted legs, so instead he had a plank of wood with wheels on it. He pushed himself with his one functioning hand going from spot to spot begging for money.
At first I figured that he was simply a crippled child forced to beg. But looking at him I realized that it wasn't right. Both hands had five fingers. Both feet had five toes. His legs were atrophied by disuse but they looked like they would work just fine if one could somehow straighten them.
What really happened was that a man twisted that child's legs and arms when he was a baby. That means that some man picked up and infant and mutilated his arms. They did this all for money.
The men who do this are called beggar masters. They find or create beggars. The more disfigured the beggar is the better. Then the beggar master feeds, clothes (to some extent) and houses the beggars in exchange for a commission from their earnings. It's full fledged laissez fair capitalism at its best. They saw a market and capitalized on it.
These men provide for many of the basic needs of these children. The kids are better off with the beggar masters than they would be if they were on their own. But that doesn't change the fact that these men did the mutilating.
I'd read about this. Mentally I know that terrible things like this are happening all the time. But emotionally it just wasn't real.
It will fade in my mind once I move on and begin to live my safe little life again. But for right now it is dreadfully real. All I have to do to see this kind of horror is walk out of my little hotel room. There, right on the street, right next to the brand new Mazda, the children mutilated by someones greed cluster around.
They pantomime feeding gestures with their filthy hands. They want food. They need love. They ask for money.
Money that the beggar master will take.
Some men aren't so kind and honest. They are the kind of men who will sell you a faulty car. They are the kind of men who steal money from their bosses or embezzle people. These men are willing to take advantage of people if they have something to gain. But these men, usually, draw the line somewhere. They won't hurt women or children or they won't steal from someone they consider to be poor.
Some men will though. Specifically some men will hurt children.
They will mutilate them.
My mom and I arrived in Kanyakumari on Jan. 8. We had just spent the last five days at Amritpuri. We were staying in the ashram of Ama (Ama means the divine mother). It was a beautiful place.
Kanyakumari is on the southern most tip of India. It's a holy spot for Hindus. According to the stories Devi Kanya (Kanya means virgin, Devi means divine mother) single-handedly conquered the demons of the world and secured mans freedom.
After a five hour taxi ride from Amripuriy my mom and I were ready to walk (and eat). We left our hotel the Hotel Tamil Nadu and waked along the ocean. There were thousands and thousands of people out and about. We were overwhelmed but quickly adjusted. We walked around for about three hours.
The city was dirty, loud and cramped. I can handle that.
Then I saw him.
His legs were twisted backwards. One hand was smashed into a claw like fist the other hand was perfect. He didn't have a shirt on and his hair was matted and filthy. He couldn't walk, due to the twisted legs, so instead he had a plank of wood with wheels on it. He pushed himself with his one functioning hand going from spot to spot begging for money.
At first I figured that he was simply a crippled child forced to beg. But looking at him I realized that it wasn't right. Both hands had five fingers. Both feet had five toes. His legs were atrophied by disuse but they looked like they would work just fine if one could somehow straighten them.
What really happened was that a man twisted that child's legs and arms when he was a baby. That means that some man picked up and infant and mutilated his arms. They did this all for money.
The men who do this are called beggar masters. They find or create beggars. The more disfigured the beggar is the better. Then the beggar master feeds, clothes (to some extent) and houses the beggars in exchange for a commission from their earnings. It's full fledged laissez fair capitalism at its best. They saw a market and capitalized on it.
These men provide for many of the basic needs of these children. The kids are better off with the beggar masters than they would be if they were on their own. But that doesn't change the fact that these men did the mutilating.
I'd read about this. Mentally I know that terrible things like this are happening all the time. But emotionally it just wasn't real.
It will fade in my mind once I move on and begin to live my safe little life again. But for right now it is dreadfully real. All I have to do to see this kind of horror is walk out of my little hotel room. There, right on the street, right next to the brand new Mazda, the children mutilated by someones greed cluster around.
They pantomime feeding gestures with their filthy hands. They want food. They need love. They ask for money.
Money that the beggar master will take.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Kanyakumari
Hey, so we got to Kanyakumari on Jan. 9. It's on the Southern most tip of India and is a holy place for Hindus. It's a lot different than the Asram we were at. It's very loud and filthy. The place we're staying is pretty nice, however, there are lots of bugs (possibly even bed bugs! I have lots of little bites this morning).
There are lots of beggars. We try to give money but we've had to limit ourselves somewhat. It is easy to be swarmed and overwhelmed by the beggars. There are lots of homeless children. I've seen ones that look as young as five. It's hard not to give them money.
I'm really glad we're here. It isn't nice or comfortable but it's good to see this. We will stay one more night and then go to Madurai (a big city farther south). I'll have more to say later.
There are lots of beggars. We try to give money but we've had to limit ourselves somewhat. It is easy to be swarmed and overwhelmed by the beggars. There are lots of homeless children. I've seen ones that look as young as five. It's hard not to give them money.
I'm really glad we're here. It isn't nice or comfortable but it's good to see this. We will stay one more night and then go to Madurai (a big city farther south). I'll have more to say later.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Ocean
Went for a walk along the ocean today. Figured I would just walk and walk. I was hoping to find a place where I could swim a bit. Anyways I saw a group of kids swimming. They said hello and asked if I wanted to go swimming with them. We swam and talked about America and India for about two hours. They taught me some words in Payalan (the language spoken in most of Kerela). It was really fun to hang out with them all. The oldest was 17 the youngest was probably 12. Anyways I'll probably see them tomorrow.
Trip is going very well.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Quick Update
So, my mom and I are at Amritpuri. It's the home of Ama's (the mother's) ashram. It's a huge place and very, very busy. We are helping out by cutting vegetables and sweeping. We also have a lot of down time. It's right on the ocean, however, we can't swim because it's dangerous.
I'm very dissapointed. Right now it's 84 degree F (29 C) but it feels hotter because it's very muggy. Anyways, I'm at this little internet cafe with very nice and very fast computers. However, our flash drive isn't working. So... no photos. Which is a shame because we had some great ones. As soon as we can we will put up some photos (and hopefully a video or two or three!). Anyways untill then all you get is my writing.
The ashram is very, very big. There are many hundreds of people there (especially since Ama is there right now). There are four very tall (15 stories) apartment buildings. This is very weird because everything around the ashram is jungle village type land. So basically you are riding along through these jungle roads and boom out of no where there is minature city. It's a pretty specacular sight. I really wish we could put photos up because there is no good way to convey the amazingness of it all.
I'll write more but right now I'm sitting in a cramped interenet cafe. So more later.
I'm very dissapointed. Right now it's 84 degree F (29 C) but it feels hotter because it's very muggy. Anyways, I'm at this little internet cafe with very nice and very fast computers. However, our flash drive isn't working. So... no photos. Which is a shame because we had some great ones. As soon as we can we will put up some photos (and hopefully a video or two or three!). Anyways untill then all you get is my writing.
The ashram is very, very big. There are many hundreds of people there (especially since Ama is there right now). There are four very tall (15 stories) apartment buildings. This is very weird because everything around the ashram is jungle village type land. So basically you are riding along through these jungle roads and boom out of no where there is minature city. It's a pretty specacular sight. I really wish we could put photos up because there is no good way to convey the amazingness of it all.
I'll write more but right now I'm sitting in a cramped interenet cafe. So more later.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Lots of Photos
Hey, we're at Ama's ashram. They have a fast internet connect here so I'm going to upload a lot of photos. Some might not be the best quality. So sorry!
Friday, January 2, 2009
So much food
I'm running through the streets of Fort Cochin. My body is about to collapse but I won't let it. I know that the pain that I'm feeling in my gut is a good pain. It's the pain of hunger. I haven't eaten since this morning. Even then I didn't eat a lot. A slice of grapefruit and some bread is all I allowed myself.
I don't starve myself because I think I'm too fat. I don't exercise incessantly because I'm training for some uber hard long-distance death-a-thon. No. My behavior is necessary to survive. It's a war and my life and honor is at stake.
I'm starving myself in an effort to make room for the copious amounts of food that I'm going to be forced to eat come dinner time. The owners of the home stay that my mom and I are staying at are amazing people. They are good hosts and seem to really care about their guests. But, like all heroes/hosts they have one tragic flaw. For Achilles it was his Achilles' Tendon (Was there even an Achilles tendon before Achilles?). For the Patrick's (our host family) it's their inability to watch a foreigner not eat. Maybe they just assume that all Americans do is eat. But whatever the reason the result is always the same.
Mrs. Patrick cooks some delicious dinner. My mom and I sit down, ready to enjoy it. They serve us. We say thank you. We eat the food on our plate. They serve us again. We say thank you. We eat the food on our plate. They serve us again. We say thank you. We eat the food on our plate.
Repeat.
Finally by the third or fourth round we are gasping for air. Rice and eggs are dribbling out of our mouths. We can barely see. We croak out "No more thank you so much. Very good. We are very full, very full." Then they say, " No problem! Eat slowly!" (With a huge smile) and serve us again (Somehow eating slowly allows you to eat more food).
The continual pushing of food is sweet. I am usually very hungry. But there is something about it that bothers me. I feel like saying "Dammit no! I'll eat when I want to! Leave me alone!" The important thing is to remember that this is a different culture. In America it would be rude to ignore your guest's pleas for no more food. But in India it is different. I'm not sure just exactly how it's different but it is.
I feel kind of like an explorer. Every day we discover new roads and new foods. But we also discover new aspects of the culture we are immersed in. Slowly but surely we will begin to piece together the do's and don'ts of India. We will never know them all, but hopefully by the end of our trip we will have a better sense of what is appropriate behavior.
This kind of thing can't be learned by reading about India. You have to go and experience it.
Maybe in a month we will know why the Patrick's forced so much food on us. But for now all we can do is shut up and eat.
I don't starve myself because I think I'm too fat. I don't exercise incessantly because I'm training for some uber hard long-distance death-a-thon. No. My behavior is necessary to survive. It's a war and my life and honor is at stake.
I'm starving myself in an effort to make room for the copious amounts of food that I'm going to be forced to eat come dinner time. The owners of the home stay that my mom and I are staying at are amazing people. They are good hosts and seem to really care about their guests. But, like all heroes/hosts they have one tragic flaw. For Achilles it was his Achilles' Tendon (Was there even an Achilles tendon before Achilles?). For the Patrick's (our host family) it's their inability to watch a foreigner not eat. Maybe they just assume that all Americans do is eat. But whatever the reason the result is always the same.
Mrs. Patrick cooks some delicious dinner. My mom and I sit down, ready to enjoy it. They serve us. We say thank you. We eat the food on our plate. They serve us again. We say thank you. We eat the food on our plate. They serve us again. We say thank you. We eat the food on our plate.
Repeat.
Finally by the third or fourth round we are gasping for air. Rice and eggs are dribbling out of our mouths. We can barely see. We croak out "No more thank you so much. Very good. We are very full, very full." Then they say, " No problem! Eat slowly!" (With a huge smile) and serve us again (Somehow eating slowly allows you to eat more food).
The continual pushing of food is sweet. I am usually very hungry. But there is something about it that bothers me. I feel like saying "Dammit no! I'll eat when I want to! Leave me alone!" The important thing is to remember that this is a different culture. In America it would be rude to ignore your guest's pleas for no more food. But in India it is different. I'm not sure just exactly how it's different but it is.
I feel kind of like an explorer. Every day we discover new roads and new foods. But we also discover new aspects of the culture we are immersed in. Slowly but surely we will begin to piece together the do's and don'ts of India. We will never know them all, but hopefully by the end of our trip we will have a better sense of what is appropriate behavior.
This kind of thing can't be learned by reading about India. You have to go and experience it.
Maybe in a month we will know why the Patrick's forced so much food on us. But for now all we can do is shut up and eat.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Explosions, orphans and bikes
Explosions
Well it's a new year. In America the new year is welcomed by fireworks, falling balls and the consumption of alcohol. In India it is much the same, however, there is one big difference. In America the fireworks are all about the lights and colors. A loud noise usually accompanies the lights and colors, however, the main attraction is the light and color.
It's not the same in India. In India it's all about the noise. The louder the better. Sometimes lights are present, but mostly everyone is there for the 'bang'.
I didn't know this. So it's understandable that I was startled when something exploded next door. My first though was terrorist or something melodramatic like that. My second thought was exploded vehicle. Finally my third thought was "What the hell?"
It was simply India's way of celebrating 2009. All night they celebrated, climaxing at midnight with a massive explosion that shook the house.
The celebration wasn't just limited to explosions. All over Cochin there were people dancing in the streets. They had stereos and boom boxes. They were drunk, sober and high. Parades marched by, followed by trucks with shrines to Jesus and Mother Mary (Fort Cochin is very, very Catholic). It was amazing. People called out to me and my mom. It was truly a celebration.
Orphans
The next morning we woke up early. We were going to go to Mother Theresa's orphanage. We had seen a flier encouraging people to bring gifts and money. We went the day before and they told us to come and help feed the mentally disabled children. We took a rickshaw (a motorized tricycle much like a taxi but cooler and cheaper) to the orphanage. A rickshaw ride costs 30 rupees (about 60 cents). We arrived at 8:15.
They didn't seem terribly thrilled to see us, which is understandable. They are working all the time and seeing some rich white foreigners waltz in and offer help must seem kind of like a bad joke. They had us push some of the children around in wheelchairs. Both my mom and I felt like complete idiots. What were we doing here trying to help? The amount of suffering is vast and incomprehensible to us soft Westerners. We stayed with it though. We pushed the children (all girls) around talking to them and saying prayers out loud. For a while they didn't respond. They just sat there. But slowly and surely they began to come alive. Laughing and mumbling with us.
There was one girl called Avanti (or something we couldn't quite catch what she said). She had some sort of leprosy. Her skin was cracked and peeling. The area around her eyes were red and inflamed. Her hair was short and patchy. You could see skin peeling off her scalp. She was the kind of girl that you see in National Geographic articles about leprosy. She wasn't mentally disabled or anything like that. She was very very shy (Imagine getting self-conscious about pimples). Eventually though she began to open up. She mostly played with and talked to my mom, however, I interacted with her too. She was very very sweet. We raced matchbox cars together. Looking at her I could see the real little girl there. She is scarred for life. She will always be a leper (unless there is a cure but I'm sure it is expensive and she has nothing). But that beautiful little girl is there.
There is another thing about these little girls. They are all terribly sick in some way or another. There lives are already harder than most. And then, on top of it all, they have no mamas. They don't have anyone to hold them. They don't have anyone to love them more than anything else in the world.
The sisters care and do the best they can. They do better than anyone else could. But there are too many little boys and girls in the world without mamas. They can't be a mama to all of the little orphans in the world. They have to spread their love and attention out. They have to make it last.
Tomorrow we will go again and play with the little girls.
Bikes
On a lighter note everyone here rides bicycles. For those of you who don't know this makes me very very happy. I love bikes. However, these bikes aren't the bikes you see in America. Or maybe you did see them in America, but you probably saw them there 25 years ago. I have posted a photo of a bike. The photo is a pretty fair representation of the average state of Cochin's bike population. There are some nice ones, but not many. I haven't seen a single road bike. That is because the roads here don't lend themselves to 28'' slicks. If you tried riding on one of those you would kill yourself. No, Indian roads demand wide knobby tires and quick reflexes. Driving in India is Crazy! There are road rules and even the occasional sign, however, they are all optional. Yes, the law is you should ride on the left side of the road (India is weird like Britain) but that doesn't mean you shouldn't also ride on the right side and down the middle, too. So far I haven't seen any accidents. It all flows together somehow. Cars, pedestrians, cows, goats, rickshaws and buses all dodge each other in an insane kind of dance. Tonight I think I will rent a bicycle and join the dance.
Well it's a new year. In America the new year is welcomed by fireworks, falling balls and the consumption of alcohol. In India it is much the same, however, there is one big difference. In America the fireworks are all about the lights and colors. A loud noise usually accompanies the lights and colors, however, the main attraction is the light and color.
It's not the same in India. In India it's all about the noise. The louder the better. Sometimes lights are present, but mostly everyone is there for the 'bang'.
I didn't know this. So it's understandable that I was startled when something exploded next door. My first though was terrorist or something melodramatic like that. My second thought was exploded vehicle. Finally my third thought was "What the hell?"
It was simply India's way of celebrating 2009. All night they celebrated, climaxing at midnight with a massive explosion that shook the house.
The celebration wasn't just limited to explosions. All over Cochin there were people dancing in the streets. They had stereos and boom boxes. They were drunk, sober and high. Parades marched by, followed by trucks with shrines to Jesus and Mother Mary (Fort Cochin is very, very Catholic). It was amazing. People called out to me and my mom. It was truly a celebration.
Orphans
The next morning we woke up early. We were going to go to Mother Theresa's orphanage. We had seen a flier encouraging people to bring gifts and money. We went the day before and they told us to come and help feed the mentally disabled children. We took a rickshaw (a motorized tricycle much like a taxi but cooler and cheaper) to the orphanage. A rickshaw ride costs 30 rupees (about 60 cents). We arrived at 8:15.
They didn't seem terribly thrilled to see us, which is understandable. They are working all the time and seeing some rich white foreigners waltz in and offer help must seem kind of like a bad joke. They had us push some of the children around in wheelchairs. Both my mom and I felt like complete idiots. What were we doing here trying to help? The amount of suffering is vast and incomprehensible to us soft Westerners. We stayed with it though. We pushed the children (all girls) around talking to them and saying prayers out loud. For a while they didn't respond. They just sat there. But slowly and surely they began to come alive. Laughing and mumbling with us.
There was one girl called Avanti (or something we couldn't quite catch what she said). She had some sort of leprosy. Her skin was cracked and peeling. The area around her eyes were red and inflamed. Her hair was short and patchy. You could see skin peeling off her scalp. She was the kind of girl that you see in National Geographic articles about leprosy. She wasn't mentally disabled or anything like that. She was very very shy (Imagine getting self-conscious about pimples). Eventually though she began to open up. She mostly played with and talked to my mom, however, I interacted with her too. She was very very sweet. We raced matchbox cars together. Looking at her I could see the real little girl there. She is scarred for life. She will always be a leper (unless there is a cure but I'm sure it is expensive and she has nothing). But that beautiful little girl is there.
There is another thing about these little girls. They are all terribly sick in some way or another. There lives are already harder than most. And then, on top of it all, they have no mamas. They don't have anyone to hold them. They don't have anyone to love them more than anything else in the world.
The sisters care and do the best they can. They do better than anyone else could. But there are too many little boys and girls in the world without mamas. They can't be a mama to all of the little orphans in the world. They have to spread their love and attention out. They have to make it last.
Tomorrow we will go again and play with the little girls.
Bikes
On a lighter note everyone here rides bicycles. For those of you who don't know this makes me very very happy. I love bikes. However, these bikes aren't the bikes you see in America. Or maybe you did see them in America, but you probably saw them there 25 years ago. I have posted a photo of a bike. The photo is a pretty fair representation of the average state of Cochin's bike population. There are some nice ones, but not many. I haven't seen a single road bike. That is because the roads here don't lend themselves to 28'' slicks. If you tried riding on one of those you would kill yourself. No, Indian roads demand wide knobby tires and quick reflexes. Driving in India is Crazy! There are road rules and even the occasional sign, however, they are all optional. Yes, the law is you should ride on the left side of the road (India is weird like Britain) but that doesn't mean you shouldn't also ride on the right side and down the middle, too. So far I haven't seen any accidents. It all flows together somehow. Cars, pedestrians, cows, goats, rickshaws and buses all dodge each other in an insane kind of dance. Tonight I think I will rent a bicycle and join the dance.
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