Dear Friends,
Time to fire up ye olde blog engine.
I will be on the 11AM flight to Dehli by way of Chicago on Wednesday. I am hoping that I get an aisle seat. This time we will be staking out in the Bangalore, plugged up in parking lot of the walmart. Very exciting times these are.
I do not plan on throwing any shoes. But damn, Mr. bush is good at ducking... I knew that he must have some redeemable qualities. Lets see if he biodegrades like Compostable Clear Plastic Cold Cups. That would be something very special.
12/15/08
1/1/08
Saving words with more images
Israel and Egypt :: December 2007 - January 2008
(click on the images to see descriptions)
(click on the images to see descriptions)
8/26/07
8/24/07
Beautiful Disaster Area
My first experience with indian domestic flights was when M and I flew from Bangalore to Delhi then Srinagar, Jammu / Kasmir. Yippie.
Kasmir is so beautiful that in the mind's eye, Srinagar's hypertouts become faded colors and shrink to dried flowers. They don't in reality. They whine, they sneer, they snivel and snort. They just want to be friends.
Actually, we made many friends in our walking and bus rides from Dargah to Mosque to Moghul garden. Srinagarians are very sweet and generous if they are not trying to sell you something and we found many that weren't. The city itself sprawls around the edges of Dal Lake. The story is that years ago, folks were prohibited from owing land, so they started building houseboats that stay a short canoe ride away from the shore. Now the stretch of the lake adjacent to the town is sick with houseboats (2000 some) and houseboat waste.
M walked me through incredible crumbly architectures, intricate repetitive painted patterns, exquisitely eclectic chandelier collections, bricks, wood and tin roofs (rusted). I was very happy. We sat and stared at ancient grounds of moghul royalty come alive with school childrens and families both kasmiri and indian. People actually frolicked in the genius features and fountains controlled by the kinetic energy of downhill flowing mountain spring water. We saw it.
Folks we met shared too many conversations about Kasmir's heavenly status: "Is this place not paradise on earth?"... "Beautiful does not begin to describe these mountains."... "When people ask how Kasmir was, you'll have to say it is like your wife."
Although we were nothing but secure, security forces were a ubiquitous reminder of the regions contentious unrest. Checkpoints, flak jackets and Indian soldiers with automatic weapons were the norm. Indian soldiers provided M with many opportunities to speak hindi and practice her mad interrogation skillz.
Kasmiri's equally resent the indian army presence and appreciate the safety that they provide, although most have horror stories to share about the soldiers' abuse of power and mischief. The whole scene reminded me of best case scenario outcomes for the US occupation in Iraq. An occupying force that is relatively integrated into the occupied society. They are not loved, they are not loathed, they are tolerated. It is a question of cultural familiarity and respect I thinks. Everyone wants the occupation to be over - That's not exactly true as some of the solders we talked to enjoyed their time in this heaven-like war zone. If only Iraq was more beautiful, the occupation would be less sticky.
There is a reason that this region has been so hotly contested. So much history, impressive scenery and access to natural resources. We suspect that this will be ground zero for world war four when the access to fresh water grows scarce. Until then, there is always a houseboat to stay on.
Kasmir is so beautiful that in the mind's eye, Srinagar's hypertouts become faded colors and shrink to dried flowers. They don't in reality. They whine, they sneer, they snivel and snort. They just want to be friends.
Actually, we made many friends in our walking and bus rides from Dargah to Mosque to Moghul garden. Srinagarians are very sweet and generous if they are not trying to sell you something and we found many that weren't. The city itself sprawls around the edges of Dal Lake. The story is that years ago, folks were prohibited from owing land, so they started building houseboats that stay a short canoe ride away from the shore. Now the stretch of the lake adjacent to the town is sick with houseboats (2000 some) and houseboat waste.
M walked me through incredible crumbly architectures, intricate repetitive painted patterns, exquisitely eclectic chandelier collections, bricks, wood and tin roofs (rusted). I was very happy. We sat and stared at ancient grounds of moghul royalty come alive with school childrens and families both kasmiri and indian. People actually frolicked in the genius features and fountains controlled by the kinetic energy of downhill flowing mountain spring water. We saw it.
Folks we met shared too many conversations about Kasmir's heavenly status: "Is this place not paradise on earth?"... "Beautiful does not begin to describe these mountains."... "When people ask how Kasmir was, you'll have to say it is like your wife."
Although we were nothing but secure, security forces were a ubiquitous reminder of the regions contentious unrest. Checkpoints, flak jackets and Indian soldiers with automatic weapons were the norm. Indian soldiers provided M with many opportunities to speak hindi and practice her mad interrogation skillz.
Kasmiri's equally resent the indian army presence and appreciate the safety that they provide, although most have horror stories to share about the soldiers' abuse of power and mischief. The whole scene reminded me of best case scenario outcomes for the US occupation in Iraq. An occupying force that is relatively integrated into the occupied society. They are not loved, they are not loathed, they are tolerated. It is a question of cultural familiarity and respect I thinks. Everyone wants the occupation to be over - That's not exactly true as some of the solders we talked to enjoyed their time in this heaven-like war zone. If only Iraq was more beautiful, the occupation would be less sticky.
There is a reason that this region has been so hotly contested. So much history, impressive scenery and access to natural resources. We suspect that this will be ground zero for world war four when the access to fresh water grows scarce. Until then, there is always a houseboat to stay on.
8/12/07
How do you solve a problem like congestion?
We spent the last few days getting up late and wandering around Bangalore. M has dragged me to about half of her favorite restaurants, fast food joints and chaat stands. I feel very accomplished having successfully distracted her from her work to appreciate her inner sloth.
We've walked and caught buses and hailed autorickshaws to get a full appreciation for the City's transportation woes. It is a complete oversimplification to describe what we see as "woes." There are 6.5 million residents of Bangalore who get around. That is an incredible accomplishment, just supporting the roads and transportation facilities. What we do see is constant congestion. The bus system is completely over utilized.
There is a subway system (The Bangalore Metro) that is in construction that will hopefully make things easier. It is modeled after the successful Delhi Metro which has had its share of controversy. Lets hope that the Bangalore version doesn't get bogged down. That won't do it on its own. Hopefully there can be some sort of smart growth, transit preferred development and planning to mitigate the growing traffic disaster. Judging on the futility of other planning efforts in indian megacities, I'm not holding my breath on this one.
I like Bangalore. The streets are tight and the buildings are not too huge. The city is booming like no other city that I've seen. Everywhere you look are the tell tale signs of new wealth and transition - bamboo (for external support while in construction), bricks, mortar, fugly "modern" glass facades and dudes with pans on their heads carrying earth. The congestion really hits you when you are in a hurry to get around the City after 5:30PM. Walking in the park makes you feel like you were in Chicago around the turn of the century... everywhere you look, there are families and people enjoying the sun and atmosphere. Maybe I didn't see it before (maybe my bioclock is ticking) but it is astounding how many families you see. This translates to lotsa fancy baby gear, competitive day-care and yoga for moms. As everyone has a digital camera or cameraphone-type device, I suspect that that the new babies will represent the most documented generation in India's history. We should also look forward to some ass-kicking india photographers.
We did a short stint in Mysore. Which was great mainly because we got to take the train. Michele wanted air conditioned chair class on the way out, but I got IInd class on the way back to bangalore. Mysore has a great raj-era palace, plenty of touts and lots of opportunities for street food.
We stumbled on the palace as the sun was setting and joined the masses waiting for the palace stewards to turn the lights on. White bulbs line the 1912 proto-deco flourishes, colonizing moghul grey granite and guilded turrets. When they pulled the lever and flipped switches, the whole thing lit up like a christmas tree (great pictures now in the flickr set). The whole city of Mysore seemed to wander the palace grounds, which before the sun set was an inhospitable wasterland of a parade-area, better fit for a monster truck rally then a promenade. We witnessed the full metamorphosis from emptyness to vibrant public space and the evening was beayootiful. We sat and watched child laborers sell popcorn and balloons and light-up yo-yo balls to the many mysoreans and their toddling offspring.
We sweated in IInd class with a cute muslim family for the 3 hour ride back. The beautiful mother (who must have been all of 17 years old) and three girl chilluns slept and fought and stared out the window. Rice paddies, sugar cane fields, chinese bicycles and shitting ploughhands flew past the window bars. It is good to be back in India. Tomorrow we fly up to Delhi, then Srinagar, Kasmir. Wish us luck avoiding IEDs, tourist bus bombings and debilitating sunburn.
We've walked and caught buses and hailed autorickshaws to get a full appreciation for the City's transportation woes. It is a complete oversimplification to describe what we see as "woes." There are 6.5 million residents of Bangalore who get around. That is an incredible accomplishment, just supporting the roads and transportation facilities. What we do see is constant congestion. The bus system is completely over utilized.
There is a subway system (The Bangalore Metro) that is in construction that will hopefully make things easier. It is modeled after the successful Delhi Metro which has had its share of controversy. Lets hope that the Bangalore version doesn't get bogged down. That won't do it on its own. Hopefully there can be some sort of smart growth, transit preferred development and planning to mitigate the growing traffic disaster. Judging on the futility of other planning efforts in indian megacities, I'm not holding my breath on this one.
I like Bangalore. The streets are tight and the buildings are not too huge. The city is booming like no other city that I've seen. Everywhere you look are the tell tale signs of new wealth and transition - bamboo (for external support while in construction), bricks, mortar, fugly "modern" glass facades and dudes with pans on their heads carrying earth. The congestion really hits you when you are in a hurry to get around the City after 5:30PM. Walking in the park makes you feel like you were in Chicago around the turn of the century... everywhere you look, there are families and people enjoying the sun and atmosphere. Maybe I didn't see it before (maybe my bioclock is ticking) but it is astounding how many families you see. This translates to lotsa fancy baby gear, competitive day-care and yoga for moms. As everyone has a digital camera or cameraphone-type device, I suspect that that the new babies will represent the most documented generation in India's history. We should also look forward to some ass-kicking india photographers.
We did a short stint in Mysore. Which was great mainly because we got to take the train. Michele wanted air conditioned chair class on the way out, but I got IInd class on the way back to bangalore. Mysore has a great raj-era palace, plenty of touts and lots of opportunities for street food.
We stumbled on the palace as the sun was setting and joined the masses waiting for the palace stewards to turn the lights on. White bulbs line the 1912 proto-deco flourishes, colonizing moghul grey granite and guilded turrets. When they pulled the lever and flipped switches, the whole thing lit up like a christmas tree (great pictures now in the flickr set). The whole city of Mysore seemed to wander the palace grounds, which before the sun set was an inhospitable wasterland of a parade-area, better fit for a monster truck rally then a promenade. We witnessed the full metamorphosis from emptyness to vibrant public space and the evening was beayootiful. We sat and watched child laborers sell popcorn and balloons and light-up yo-yo balls to the many mysoreans and their toddling offspring.
We sweated in IInd class with a cute muslim family for the 3 hour ride back. The beautiful mother (who must have been all of 17 years old) and three girl chilluns slept and fought and stared out the window. Rice paddies, sugar cane fields, chinese bicycles and shitting ploughhands flew past the window bars. It is good to be back in India. Tomorrow we fly up to Delhi, then Srinagar, Kasmir. Wish us luck avoiding IEDs, tourist bus bombings and debilitating sunburn.
8/11/07
Worth a thousand worthless words
Check out the hot photo set action!
(click on the images to see descriptions)
(click on the images to see descriptions)
8/8/07
Singapore is clean...
Welcome to a traveling day. Thanks to Jeff for shuttling me to the airport and reminding me that I needed to ask him to watch the plants and check the mail.
Following a 13 hour flight, I found the Hong Kong airport fancy but a little difficult to navigate. Luckily I know the two internet free access kiosks. I found the starbucks that eluded me during my last visit. I needed the warm milk of a frou-frou latte drink.
Watched the shuttle take off on the big screen TV with many indian families. There were so many kids on the flight! Lots of seniors, too. We were met at the gate by a barrage of wheelchairs and travel assistants to help folks make it through the maze of security and flight check-in points. Watching the shuttle blast into space was exciting, but it reminded me too much of NASCAR races, where the audience is just watching to witness the horrific accident first-hand.
The harsh black peaks surrounding the airport were beautiful as they emerged through the fog and rain. They frame ginormous residential buildings that resembled memory chips. Precise repetition and huge scale to meet the growing housing needs of the peeps.
Now in Singapore after a short flight. It is too hot to do much more than sit in the internet cafe. I am very excited as it is Singapore National Day. Lots of folks out roaming the town in red and white outfits and flags. I witnessed a large contingency of coordinated headscarves. Happy Birthday Singapore!
I've been channeling my inner transit foamer and looking for the accessible buses that are supposed to be around here. I love the tactile pathways in the MRT (subway) stations. The metal bumps and ovals seem to be set in to marble surface, although they are probably just stuck on there. I'm drawn to the paths like a moth to a flame. I kick it and stumble along down the path to see where it goes.
The buses all have smartcard readers that look identical to the Bay Area Translink card system that will soon be unveiled. The S'pore system is cool in that it allows the user to turn the card back in and get a refund when you are done using it. Also checking out the location of the card readers on the buses. They have them at the front right next to the driver (like Muni's new low floor buses) and at the back doors. Give it up for proof of payment (a system that allows you to board at the back of the bus if you have a valid card or transfer.
I'm off to find the Buddha's tooth temple. Michele said that they have great free food there.
Following a 13 hour flight, I found the Hong Kong airport fancy but a little difficult to navigate. Luckily I know the two internet free access kiosks. I found the starbucks that eluded me during my last visit. I needed the warm milk of a frou-frou latte drink.
Watched the shuttle take off on the big screen TV with many indian families. There were so many kids on the flight! Lots of seniors, too. We were met at the gate by a barrage of wheelchairs and travel assistants to help folks make it through the maze of security and flight check-in points. Watching the shuttle blast into space was exciting, but it reminded me too much of NASCAR races, where the audience is just watching to witness the horrific accident first-hand.
The harsh black peaks surrounding the airport were beautiful as they emerged through the fog and rain. They frame ginormous residential buildings that resembled memory chips. Precise repetition and huge scale to meet the growing housing needs of the peeps.
Now in Singapore after a short flight. It is too hot to do much more than sit in the internet cafe. I am very excited as it is Singapore National Day. Lots of folks out roaming the town in red and white outfits and flags. I witnessed a large contingency of coordinated headscarves. Happy Birthday Singapore!
I've been channeling my inner transit foamer and looking for the accessible buses that are supposed to be around here. I love the tactile pathways in the MRT (subway) stations. The metal bumps and ovals seem to be set in to marble surface, although they are probably just stuck on there. I'm drawn to the paths like a moth to a flame. I kick it and stumble along down the path to see where it goes.
The buses all have smartcard readers that look identical to the Bay Area Translink card system that will soon be unveiled. The S'pore system is cool in that it allows the user to turn the card back in and get a refund when you are done using it. Also checking out the location of the card readers on the buses. They have them at the front right next to the driver (like Muni's new low floor buses) and at the back doors. Give it up for proof of payment (a system that allows you to board at the back of the bus if you have a valid card or transfer.
I'm off to find the Buddha's tooth temple. Michele said that they have great free food there.
8/7/07
Once Again... with feeling!
Here we go again dear friends. I leave in several hours. Just wanted to unclog the innertubes. Thanks for reading.
8/7/06
Last Day Standing
Last Day Standing
It was another busy last day in Delhi. I usually save all the shopping for the last minute and then run out of money with too many unaccomplished tasks about 6 hours before the plane skips off the tarmack. This time is no different, except that I've wrought a different type of tragedy. Two blissful days ago, I had inadvertantly knicked M's vibrating alarm clock from her room in Mussoorie. I didn't have a watch with me and she suggested that I use the alarm clock to determine when my sessions with the tutor were finished. A great suggestion at the time, but now, as the bus pulled out of the Haridwar bus stand taking my M off into the early evening dust and chaos towards Dehradun, I felt a bump in my backpack that I had not noticed previously...
My heart sunk. I knew what it was. I knew after tears and hugs and kisses she was going to kill me. After parting shots and parting photographs and video monologues, I had stolen M's vibrating alarm clock and her only means of getting up in time for Hindi classes, 5AM trains and flights home. I kept repeating to myself that at least I didn't take her passport, or her bankcard or her deodorant, but it did no good.
I did what every erring man does when he's gone wrong. I drowned my sorrows in tasty treats. The train I rode from Hardiwar to Delhi was the Shatabdi. Shatabdi means "fast fancy train with lots of free food." Samosas and uncle chipps spicy snacks were downed with boxes of Appy Fizz, the carbonated apple juice drink. I had the Indian Railway's infamous tomato soup, mishti doi (sweet yogurt) and ready to eat tins of shai paneer, daal and rice. The thin hanky style romali roti was not as great as kamal's but it did the job just fine. So fine in fact that I had to beg off the finishing course of ice cream.
We rolled into Delhi at 11:00PM still under a cloud of sorrow and guilt. I read my book, The Life and Death of Great American Cities (I'm tentatively titling my future bestseller "Reading Jane Jacobs in India") and listened to a mix CD to avoid any social contact with my fellow riders. In my guilty funk, it was easy to ignore all eye contact and shun typical train relations. I've been not so much of a conversation magnet this time around. I'm still learning indian customs, but I now know that I don't need to respond to every request for my attention.
Today while trying to run all my last minute errands I slipped into a conversation with Golden Yogi. A smarmy Sikh man who tried to read my palm and tell me my future. He was nice enough and worldly (he'd been to LA) but his turban was too close over his eyes. He also confused me with a "bindhiesque" forehead marking which I haven't seen on many sikhs. As I approached him, I noticed his partner walk away quickly. His partner came back into play when I motioned to leave. He played the second man to a T when he caught my attention and gave me a thumbs up (not a Thums up), pointing at Golden Y and indicating that he was both knowledgable and trustworthy.
I practiced newly learned hindi phrases with my new friends:
Mujko vishwaas nahi hai -- "I do not believe."
Ye asambhav hai -- "It is impossible."
Mujhe chalnaa chahiye -- "Please allow me to go."
Maaf Kijiye, mai bahut jaldi me huun -- "Excuse me, I am in a great hurry."
I waved, namasted and walked away. Things I wished I had remembered to say:
Tum Ullo Ho -- "You are a stupid owl."
Mai sabse kharab hindi bolta huun -- "I speak the most rotten Hindi." (just for old times sake)
I don't know how to say the plural form for you or owl, so I would have had to say it Golden Y and his second man. It is interesting how Indians are not so fond of owls. In general, they are considered a stupid animal and to be called an owl is a great insult. In the west we think of owls as wise and old. There is probably some great analytic cultural comparison looking at how we insult each other. Feel free to look it up.
I do know this, if really want to piss someone off in Hindi, address them as "Sala." Out of the multitude of terms describing Indian familial relations, this one translates to brother in law. I used to think that Indians just didn't like their brother in law's; however, Kevin, M's friend from Berkeley noted the implied close friendship with the brother in law's sister... duh.
I finished up the day with a few more journeys across Delhi via autorickshaw and the Delhi metro. I stopped by the Delhi Deaf Women's Sweatshop to give our friends my parting regards and dropped off the vibrating alarm clock for M to pick up when she stops by in a couple of weeks on her way back to the US. My taxi should be here in an hour, so I'll go stare at Paharganj's vital street life and try not to step in cow shit. Wish me luck.
It was another busy last day in Delhi. I usually save all the shopping for the last minute and then run out of money with too many unaccomplished tasks about 6 hours before the plane skips off the tarmack. This time is no different, except that I've wrought a different type of tragedy. Two blissful days ago, I had inadvertantly knicked M's vibrating alarm clock from her room in Mussoorie. I didn't have a watch with me and she suggested that I use the alarm clock to determine when my sessions with the tutor were finished. A great suggestion at the time, but now, as the bus pulled out of the Haridwar bus stand taking my M off into the early evening dust and chaos towards Dehradun, I felt a bump in my backpack that I had not noticed previously...
My heart sunk. I knew what it was. I knew after tears and hugs and kisses she was going to kill me. After parting shots and parting photographs and video monologues, I had stolen M's vibrating alarm clock and her only means of getting up in time for Hindi classes, 5AM trains and flights home. I kept repeating to myself that at least I didn't take her passport, or her bankcard or her deodorant, but it did no good.
I did what every erring man does when he's gone wrong. I drowned my sorrows in tasty treats. The train I rode from Hardiwar to Delhi was the Shatabdi. Shatabdi means "fast fancy train with lots of free food." Samosas and uncle chipps spicy snacks were downed with boxes of Appy Fizz, the carbonated apple juice drink. I had the Indian Railway's infamous tomato soup, mishti doi (sweet yogurt) and ready to eat tins of shai paneer, daal and rice. The thin hanky style romali roti was not as great as kamal's but it did the job just fine. So fine in fact that I had to beg off the finishing course of ice cream.
We rolled into Delhi at 11:00PM still under a cloud of sorrow and guilt. I read my book, The Life and Death of Great American Cities (I'm tentatively titling my future bestseller "Reading Jane Jacobs in India") and listened to a mix CD to avoid any social contact with my fellow riders. In my guilty funk, it was easy to ignore all eye contact and shun typical train relations. I've been not so much of a conversation magnet this time around. I'm still learning indian customs, but I now know that I don't need to respond to every request for my attention.
Today while trying to run all my last minute errands I slipped into a conversation with Golden Yogi. A smarmy Sikh man who tried to read my palm and tell me my future. He was nice enough and worldly (he'd been to LA) but his turban was too close over his eyes. He also confused me with a "bindhiesque" forehead marking which I haven't seen on many sikhs. As I approached him, I noticed his partner walk away quickly. His partner came back into play when I motioned to leave. He played the second man to a T when he caught my attention and gave me a thumbs up (not a Thums up), pointing at Golden Y and indicating that he was both knowledgable and trustworthy.
I practiced newly learned hindi phrases with my new friends:
Mujko vishwaas nahi hai -- "I do not believe."
Ye asambhav hai -- "It is impossible."
Mujhe chalnaa chahiye -- "Please allow me to go."
Maaf Kijiye, mai bahut jaldi me huun -- "Excuse me, I am in a great hurry."
I waved, namasted and walked away. Things I wished I had remembered to say:
Tum Ullo Ho -- "You are a stupid owl."
Mai sabse kharab hindi bolta huun -- "I speak the most rotten Hindi." (just for old times sake)
I don't know how to say the plural form for you or owl, so I would have had to say it Golden Y and his second man. It is interesting how Indians are not so fond of owls. In general, they are considered a stupid animal and to be called an owl is a great insult. In the west we think of owls as wise and old. There is probably some great analytic cultural comparison looking at how we insult each other. Feel free to look it up.
I do know this, if really want to piss someone off in Hindi, address them as "Sala." Out of the multitude of terms describing Indian familial relations, this one translates to brother in law. I used to think that Indians just didn't like their brother in law's; however, Kevin, M's friend from Berkeley noted the implied close friendship with the brother in law's sister... duh.
I finished up the day with a few more journeys across Delhi via autorickshaw and the Delhi metro. I stopped by the Delhi Deaf Women's Sweatshop to give our friends my parting regards and dropped off the vibrating alarm clock for M to pick up when she stops by in a couple of weeks on her way back to the US. My taxi should be here in an hour, so I'll go stare at Paharganj's vital street life and try not to step in cow shit. Wish me luck.
8/2/06
Crooked just the same
Crooked just the same
My Hindi is still the most rotten, but it is slowly improving. Mussorie is proving to be a much better place to study in July/August than it was in February. M and I are ensconced in the christian guest house at the top of the big hill and few hundred meters down from the language school. I've actually been making all of the scheduled classes. I don't miss the 30 minute walk uphill through the cold rain and snow.
It has been raining quite a bit, although we had a respite over the weekend. The mountains here are incredible. We had dinner a few nights back with a fellow student who lives in the Fruitvale area in Oakland. We sat on his back patio and ate local cheese and stared googley eyed at the snowcapped peaks of the Yamunotri and the Gangotri Glacier until the clouds snuck up underneath us and the sun set.
We are sparingly using the digital camera. There are just too many vistas to capture. It does have a nice video record feature that I've been using to torture M. I wait till she is napping, then I attack her with recording camera in hand (not that sort of attacking). Although I get a big kick out of it, M may be counting the days until I leave her to nap in peace.
The rain makes it easy to study or sleep. There is a small posse of likeminded students staying at our guest house, so we sit around reading Hindi books and making fun of missionaries and each other. We stayed up late last night drinking rum and whiskey and a local rice-based alcohol that did not (as some were worried of) cause us to go blind. There were rumors that the rocket-fuel-esque drink would make us all sterile, but we've not verified this theory so far. From what I can tell, consumption of said hooch has not effected the local population growth.
We've been talking a lot about disability and identity development in India. It turns out the too many of the language school students and guest house residents happen to study Anthropology / Sociology. I turn back to reading my Hindi books and practicing writing the script whenever the topic turns to focaultian analysis.
I have had great conversations about young indian call-center employees and the unsustainable trajectory that the industry is following. It turns our that call center jobs that are supposed to level the global playing field are really opportunities to turn young educated indians into wage slaves and office drones. Economic opportunity is helpful to some degree, but there are no avenues for advancement and people get trapped by extravagent lifestyles and debt. We speculated on what the indian call center employees will do when their jobs are outsourced to China.
Will there will be an exodus of millions of over-educated, under-employed, american accented, english speaking indians back to the simple life of the rural villages?
Probably not. But I do see increased trends in repetitive stress injuries and depression in this new generation of worker bees. What a wonderful time for the pharmacuetical companies to save the day. Prozac futures in the subcontinent are high!
My Hindi is still the most rotten, but it is slowly improving. Mussorie is proving to be a much better place to study in July/August than it was in February. M and I are ensconced in the christian guest house at the top of the big hill and few hundred meters down from the language school. I've actually been making all of the scheduled classes. I don't miss the 30 minute walk uphill through the cold rain and snow.
It has been raining quite a bit, although we had a respite over the weekend. The mountains here are incredible. We had dinner a few nights back with a fellow student who lives in the Fruitvale area in Oakland. We sat on his back patio and ate local cheese and stared googley eyed at the snowcapped peaks of the Yamunotri and the Gangotri Glacier until the clouds snuck up underneath us and the sun set.
We are sparingly using the digital camera. There are just too many vistas to capture. It does have a nice video record feature that I've been using to torture M. I wait till she is napping, then I attack her with recording camera in hand (not that sort of attacking). Although I get a big kick out of it, M may be counting the days until I leave her to nap in peace.
The rain makes it easy to study or sleep. There is a small posse of likeminded students staying at our guest house, so we sit around reading Hindi books and making fun of missionaries and each other. We stayed up late last night drinking rum and whiskey and a local rice-based alcohol that did not (as some were worried of) cause us to go blind. There were rumors that the rocket-fuel-esque drink would make us all sterile, but we've not verified this theory so far. From what I can tell, consumption of said hooch has not effected the local population growth.
We've been talking a lot about disability and identity development in India. It turns out the too many of the language school students and guest house residents happen to study Anthropology / Sociology. I turn back to reading my Hindi books and practicing writing the script whenever the topic turns to focaultian analysis.
I have had great conversations about young indian call-center employees and the unsustainable trajectory that the industry is following. It turns our that call center jobs that are supposed to level the global playing field are really opportunities to turn young educated indians into wage slaves and office drones. Economic opportunity is helpful to some degree, but there are no avenues for advancement and people get trapped by extravagent lifestyles and debt. We speculated on what the indian call center employees will do when their jobs are outsourced to China.
Will there will be an exodus of millions of over-educated, under-employed, american accented, english speaking indians back to the simple life of the rural villages?
Probably not. But I do see increased trends in repetitive stress injuries and depression in this new generation of worker bees. What a wonderful time for the pharmacuetical companies to save the day. Prozac futures in the subcontinent are high!
7/30/06
Connecting the dots
Connecting the dots
I had a long and productive meeting with an NGO that specializes in architectural accessibility. They are a small organization an are just getting the ball rolling in regard to providing engineers, architects and developers feedback on how their designs comply with international accessibility guidelines.
The meeting was a typical 4 hour marathon session with multiple cups of chai and plates of biscuits. I learned a great deal more about india's access nightmare. The first of which is that my friends in the NGO did all their work for free. Although there is a law mandating access, there is no actual enforcement of it. As such, projects have no reason to comply with a law that will never be enforced.
The few projects they've worked on have included access facilities "just for the fun of it." These amenities provided out of the kindness of the project's hearts have been a positive step in increasing awareness of the needs of the disabled, but have done surprisingly little in terms of actually increasing their independence.
For example, while a wheelchair user can independently get to any station while they are in the system, they can't make it to the elevator door. The shiny new elevators on the new Metro system that I previously spoke so highly of cannot be independently accessed by someone from the street level. They either had a nice concrete ramp that fed down to a 12 inch curb, or had a ramp that was obstructed by metal barrier.
The second nightmare access issue is that there are no set standards for accessibility. There is just vague language that requires architects to make the buildings they design "accessible." There are no definitions of accessible, so they leave it up to the designer which groups of people with disabilities will be allowed to utilize their designs.
Delhi is creating a series of accessible islands. There is no integration with the city streets and no way for users to connect the dots between isolated access zones. You have to give them credit for moving things forward, but you have to question the roadmap that they are following.
Following my great meeting, I left sweltering Delhi for the hill station of Mussorie. Finally, I've met up with M, to join her on the honeymoon that she started several months ago (without me). I'm very happy to see her. I'm elated. I'm dizzy and giddy and out of breath... I may be experiencing some sort of elevation sickness. But we'll call it "love" for now. Mussorie is beautiful and much more pleasant in July than in February. I start Hindi classes tomorrow.
It will be nice to gain a better handle on the culture and be able to interview more people about accessibility. We'll see how much my mind is able to soak up in the short week I've got left.
I had a long and productive meeting with an NGO that specializes in architectural accessibility. They are a small organization an are just getting the ball rolling in regard to providing engineers, architects and developers feedback on how their designs comply with international accessibility guidelines.
The meeting was a typical 4 hour marathon session with multiple cups of chai and plates of biscuits. I learned a great deal more about india's access nightmare. The first of which is that my friends in the NGO did all their work for free. Although there is a law mandating access, there is no actual enforcement of it. As such, projects have no reason to comply with a law that will never be enforced.
The few projects they've worked on have included access facilities "just for the fun of it." These amenities provided out of the kindness of the project's hearts have been a positive step in increasing awareness of the needs of the disabled, but have done surprisingly little in terms of actually increasing their independence.
For example, while a wheelchair user can independently get to any station while they are in the system, they can't make it to the elevator door. The shiny new elevators on the new Metro system that I previously spoke so highly of cannot be independently accessed by someone from the street level. They either had a nice concrete ramp that fed down to a 12 inch curb, or had a ramp that was obstructed by metal barrier.
The second nightmare access issue is that there are no set standards for accessibility. There is just vague language that requires architects to make the buildings they design "accessible." There are no definitions of accessible, so they leave it up to the designer which groups of people with disabilities will be allowed to utilize their designs.
Delhi is creating a series of accessible islands. There is no integration with the city streets and no way for users to connect the dots between isolated access zones. You have to give them credit for moving things forward, but you have to question the roadmap that they are following.
Following my great meeting, I left sweltering Delhi for the hill station of Mussorie. Finally, I've met up with M, to join her on the honeymoon that she started several months ago (without me). I'm very happy to see her. I'm elated. I'm dizzy and giddy and out of breath... I may be experiencing some sort of elevation sickness. But we'll call it "love" for now. Mussorie is beautiful and much more pleasant in July than in February. I start Hindi classes tomorrow.
It will be nice to gain a better handle on the culture and be able to interview more people about accessibility. We'll see how much my mind is able to soak up in the short week I've got left.
7/27/06
I'm on a ramp to nowhere
I'm on a ramp to nowhere
As I'm prone to do, I spent yesterday geeking out over Delhi's many public transportation opportunities. I rode the Metro to the end of the line and back to peruse the various stations. I was prepared to act like a dumb tourist and pretend that I got off at the wrong stop if need be, but there was no need.
On my joyride, I saw many groups of indians crammed into elevators. I saw many people following the detectable warning tactile guides from the Metro entrance to the boarding platforms. I saw many people reading the station and destination information as it flashed over the LED display screens simultaneously in hindi (amber) and english (green). I saw seating and space on the vehicles reserved for the "old and physically challenged." I did not however, see ANY people with disabilities.
The system is cheap (6 to 12 rupies per ride depending on the destination) so as far as I could tell it was a mixed demographic. People from different classes, religions, occupations and economic stratas peacefully sitting together in air-conditioned, space-aged comfort.
While I'm impressed, I know that countless people have been displaced to make way for Metro stations and rail rights of way. The DMRC is not as huge an entity as the Indian Railways Corporation, but from what I've read on my Delhi Urban Planning mailing list it is equally ruthless in commandeering real estate. It is the specialty of governments everywhere, but indian beaurocracies are hyper-efficient at steamrolling the rights* and needs of the little guy. You see and hear about this happening all the time - from urban Mall developers erasing slum villages to hydroelectric facilities submerging whole rural indigenous communities.
I've also been relying on the Delhi bus much more often than in previous travels. I pay 7 rupies for a 40 minute to hour and a half ride from where I stay to the approximate heart of the city. The catch is that I have to stand the whole way and the vehicle is completely full. It is unfortunate, as the buses are designed for people much shorter than I, so I can only see the street surface and adjacent traffic not the actual surroundings as we make our way into the citay.
Last night I was surrounded by 6 women - each one 4 feet tall and wrapped in a brilliantly colored sari. They fit the profile of many of the slum dwellers and street folks that work intersections in groups for alms. They usually have a sleeping (or wailing) child or two in tow. I used to think that they were bangladeshis because of the darkeness of their skin, but they could be from any rural district. When you see them on the streets, they give you the eye, then attach themselves to your vehicle while gesturing to their mouths and chanting "Baby hungry! Baby hungry! Chapatti! Chapatti!"
On the bus, they were without children. Other riders warily watched as they encircled me. Without my knowledge or permission, they opened up my backpack and dug around. All the while the bus conductor tried to convince them to pay their fare. Luckily I wasn't holding anything of value in my bag or in my pockets. They realized I was of no value and immediately set their saris dragging through the sea of people in the aisle and hanging from the ceiling bars to the front of the bus where they hopped off.
With high drama like this to entertain me, how could I ever think of taking the autorickshaw again?
* Of course the peoples of downtroden and backward castes have no rights.
As I'm prone to do, I spent yesterday geeking out over Delhi's many public transportation opportunities. I rode the Metro to the end of the line and back to peruse the various stations. I was prepared to act like a dumb tourist and pretend that I got off at the wrong stop if need be, but there was no need.
On my joyride, I saw many groups of indians crammed into elevators. I saw many people following the detectable warning tactile guides from the Metro entrance to the boarding platforms. I saw many people reading the station and destination information as it flashed over the LED display screens simultaneously in hindi (amber) and english (green). I saw seating and space on the vehicles reserved for the "old and physically challenged." I did not however, see ANY people with disabilities.
The system is cheap (6 to 12 rupies per ride depending on the destination) so as far as I could tell it was a mixed demographic. People from different classes, religions, occupations and economic stratas peacefully sitting together in air-conditioned, space-aged comfort.
While I'm impressed, I know that countless people have been displaced to make way for Metro stations and rail rights of way. The DMRC is not as huge an entity as the Indian Railways Corporation, but from what I've read on my Delhi Urban Planning mailing list it is equally ruthless in commandeering real estate. It is the specialty of governments everywhere, but indian beaurocracies are hyper-efficient at steamrolling the rights* and needs of the little guy. You see and hear about this happening all the time - from urban Mall developers erasing slum villages to hydroelectric facilities submerging whole rural indigenous communities.
I've also been relying on the Delhi bus much more often than in previous travels. I pay 7 rupies for a 40 minute to hour and a half ride from where I stay to the approximate heart of the city. The catch is that I have to stand the whole way and the vehicle is completely full. It is unfortunate, as the buses are designed for people much shorter than I, so I can only see the street surface and adjacent traffic not the actual surroundings as we make our way into the citay.
Last night I was surrounded by 6 women - each one 4 feet tall and wrapped in a brilliantly colored sari. They fit the profile of many of the slum dwellers and street folks that work intersections in groups for alms. They usually have a sleeping (or wailing) child or two in tow. I used to think that they were bangladeshis because of the darkeness of their skin, but they could be from any rural district. When you see them on the streets, they give you the eye, then attach themselves to your vehicle while gesturing to their mouths and chanting "Baby hungry! Baby hungry! Chapatti! Chapatti!"
On the bus, they were without children. Other riders warily watched as they encircled me. Without my knowledge or permission, they opened up my backpack and dug around. All the while the bus conductor tried to convince them to pay their fare. Luckily I wasn't holding anything of value in my bag or in my pockets. They realized I was of no value and immediately set their saris dragging through the sea of people in the aisle and hanging from the ceiling bars to the front of the bus where they hopped off.
With high drama like this to entertain me, how could I ever think of taking the autorickshaw again?
* Of course the peoples of downtroden and backward castes have no rights.
7/26/06
Ah... the smell of rain
The smell of rain is a little different in Delhi. It kills most of the fumes and dust. As a result it smells less. Instead of being openly assaulted, you have to sneak up on scents. Or stay inside.
Nonetheless, I need an umbrella. I left mine at the exurban enclave of patparganj. I am staying with a sweet couple that we met last time we were here. I had asked the man (a retired garmet maker) if the monsoon was over, and I thought that he had said yes, but his english is about as good as my hindi. So I may have to bargain for a new one.
It is odd not to experience India with M. I will meet her on Saturday (If Ganesha grants me the strength to make the 6AM train). Now, I sit in the internet cafe that I've written so many previous missives. I have grown to love hating the other people that frequent this spot. English, French, Italian, Australian, American and Israeli hippies who are here to learn different yoga techniques and come closer to finding nirvana. I wish that they were all closer to Kurt Cobain, but I'm happy that they bring money to India. As you can tell, I'm conflicted.
I'm in this godforsaken hippie tourist ghetto, because I'm going to meet with my friends at the Delhi Deaf Women's Sweatshop. I may talk to them about transit accessibility, and learn about how Delhi's system works (or doesn't work) for them. I'm worried that they will call me fat. Luckily the rain makes me look thinner.
Nonetheless, I need an umbrella. I left mine at the exurban enclave of patparganj. I am staying with a sweet couple that we met last time we were here. I had asked the man (a retired garmet maker) if the monsoon was over, and I thought that he had said yes, but his english is about as good as my hindi. So I may have to bargain for a new one.
It is odd not to experience India with M. I will meet her on Saturday (If Ganesha grants me the strength to make the 6AM train). Now, I sit in the internet cafe that I've written so many previous missives. I have grown to love hating the other people that frequent this spot. English, French, Italian, Australian, American and Israeli hippies who are here to learn different yoga techniques and come closer to finding nirvana. I wish that they were all closer to Kurt Cobain, but I'm happy that they bring money to India. As you can tell, I'm conflicted.
I'm in this godforsaken hippie tourist ghetto, because I'm going to meet with my friends at the Delhi Deaf Women's Sweatshop. I may talk to them about transit accessibility, and learn about how Delhi's system works (or doesn't work) for them. I'm worried that they will call me fat. Luckily the rain makes me look thinner.
7/4/06
'nuff said
Note from Michele:
"actually, i really dont want ANY emails on the blog. please remove them. thanks."
contact her directly to request updates.
"actually, i really dont want ANY emails on the blog. please remove them. thanks."
contact her directly to request updates.
6/23/06
Chug alug alug
Dear friends,
I'm turning the crank handle and starting to get ye old blog engine up and running. I've changed servers since the last time we posted, so I needed to do some housekeeping to get things happily communicating. I'm also starting to seriously stare and contemplate rehabbing the site template or migrating things to another blog service.
I've got plenty of time to do this as Michele has left me for India. Alas! She will be spending the rest of the summer enjoying the subcontinent. Sweating profusely.
We are sad to be apart, but happy that we can share our continued tales of misery and woe with you our faithful readers.
The journey was off to a little rough start as we had some minor miscalculations on the actual departure time (we were off by 24hrs). We scrambled, and luckily had no problems getting things together and M off to the airport.
Michele made it to Hong Kong, Bangkok and has successfully reported from Bangalore. I now get to share your feeling of helplessness as I watch things unfold. Let me tell you that it is much easier to be in the thick of the unfolding than it is to be on the receiving end.
In a few weeks I will join M for a few weeks. Until then I sit with you and wait.
Mazel tov!
I'm turning the crank handle and starting to get ye old blog engine up and running. I've changed servers since the last time we posted, so I needed to do some housekeeping to get things happily communicating. I'm also starting to seriously stare and contemplate rehabbing the site template or migrating things to another blog service.
I've got plenty of time to do this as Michele has left me for India. Alas! She will be spending the rest of the summer enjoying the subcontinent. Sweating profusely.
We are sad to be apart, but happy that we can share our continued tales of misery and woe with you our faithful readers.
The journey was off to a little rough start as we had some minor miscalculations on the actual departure time (we were off by 24hrs). We scrambled, and luckily had no problems getting things together and M off to the airport.
Michele made it to Hong Kong, Bangkok and has successfully reported from Bangalore. I now get to share your feeling of helplessness as I watch things unfold. Let me tell you that it is much easier to be in the thick of the unfolding than it is to be on the receiving end.
In a few weeks I will join M for a few weeks. Until then I sit with you and wait.
Mazel tov!
7/12/05
Don't cry for me
After more than a week of non-posts, you've certainly stopped reading this blog. But here I go babbling more nonsense about Bangladesh and India.
The last night of my stay at CRP (Savar, Bangladesh) there was a huge party. It was the rag day festival for graduating physiotherapists and occupational therapists of CRP's academic institute, BHPI (Bangladesh Health Professional Institute). Christmas lights were strung everywhere, there was a big dance party and a talent show. Much merriment was made.
I was supposed to me my friend Alagir in the afternoon, but our timing was off. We had attempted to meet before with similar results. Either I was late, or we had the wrong time or wrong location, etc. Those who know me are familiar with this process.
I was actually on time and had waited for Alamgir for close to 50 minutes before I decided to bail and take a rickshaw to Savar Bazar (the writhing commercial hotspot of seemingly sleepy Savar). I could go there and be entertained for hours - people selling strange smelling dried stuff, big buses barreling through the scene with horns blaring and scattering pedestrians and rickshaw pullers, lungie shops, lots of fried foods, and of course internet cafes. I found out later that Alamgir, chased me by rickshaw to the Bazar, but lost me in the chaos.
I met up with him at the talent show. He gave me a big hug, and started in with "Oh, Doshto! Where did you go? I was so worried." Doshto is Bengali for best friend. You can also use "Bendu" for friend, but Doshto - much more intimate.
I give a pound to the rest of the seating clinic posse and procede to watch staff and students strut their stuff onstage (in front of the drum machine wallah and heavy metal guitar guy). Now my friend is grabbing my knee and intensely holding my hand. I'm thinking "Dude, back off! I ain't like that!" But I know better, by now I'm used to the physical intimacy between men.
I hold hands with guys like a pro. Social pressure has also trained me to become physically uncomfortable when I am left alone in a room with a woman, but that's another story. When I traveled with Michele I enjoyed yanking her up and down less visible barriers. She doesn't like to be yanked so much, so we developed a system where a short upward pull would alert her to an impending step. Thus, when I walk with Alamgir, or any other Bangla man, I have to keep myself in check with the yanking. It doesn't always work, so I'm often left with odd looks. If it discourages them, maybe I should do it more.
When I was wandering around the Savar Bazar, I purchased a lungie. It was my first actual lungie shopping experience, as my previous lungie (still my favorite) was a gift from my friend in Rangamati. I sat and looked at different patterns and fabrics next to two muslim women, completely hijabed out. Covered in a cloak of dark fabric - You could only see their eyes. I was impressed by their lungie finding skills and asked for their help. They were very sweet and found a nice blue and white plaid. I was stoked - Blue and White plaid! The storekeeper was there, so it wasn't like we were sitting alone. My thoughts were innocent... I swear that I was actually thinking of M and how much she like lungies because they "Show off my sexy calves."
I was excited to take the lungie back and try it on, but selfless me decides to give it to Alamgir as a token of our friendship. I had gone overboard previously and given him a copy of the latest Whitey on the Moon CD, Discolandia (Yes, it is like giving somebody a picture of yourself), but thought that the lungie would be more... personal?
I met with him later to exchange gifts. He was very excited. He had purchased a ceramic piggy bank shaped and painted like a rooster. He called it a "Cock bank" and gave me elaborate instructions on how to knock a hole in the bottom when the bank was full. It was sweet, he actually didn't give it to me, but said that I should give it to his "Older sister - Michele." He included a small ceramic sculpture of a wedding couple and a picture of himself.
When I first saw the CB I was amazed and confused... and then slightly pissed off. It is beautiful and weird and an example of folksy vernacular shit that always gets me, but it weighs approximately 10 pounds and is not small. But it didn't matter - I was going to carry that thing from Savar to Kolkata and then from Kolkata to Dehli. Yes I was going to carry it. It was a great gift. I will treasure it always. Thanks Alamgir.
At that point I gave him the lungie. In my opinion it was nothing compared to the CB, but it was my gift to him. He looked at the lungie and shrugged. I guess I've never actually seen him wear a lungie before, so maybe it was a little inappropriate. You probably wouldn't give your best friend a pair of pants, but men hold hands in bangladesh, and besides, my other lungie was a gift from a friend - that we knew only for a few hours. My gift was entirely culturally appropriate!
But he didn't want it. Alamgir was adamant about his refusal of my gift. What could I do? I didn't have money. I couldn't offer him a work visa. I couldn't help him find an American wife. Maybe I didn't bitch loud enough - but I took back the lungie. I'm going to give it to my friend Amir, he won't give it back.
So with the wind knocked a little out of my sails, I listen to Alamgir's elaborate instructions on the proper technique for carrying the CB. He had packaged it in several plastic and tied it up in paper bags. He showed me two loops of plastic and demanded that I hold both tight...
Maybe you can see where I'm going with this.
But I swear I was holding the CB in the prescribed manner. The plastic bag ripped and the rest is history dear friends.
Besides my profuse and repetitive apologies, Alamgir and I spoke few words for the remainder of the evening. I gave him a hug, wished him good luck and we walked different directions into the night.
On the way back to my room I was intercepted by Rachel, one of the CRP volunteers, who invited me to go with her to hang out with the other volunteers. To my surprise, to wish me safe traveling and good luck they presented me with a strong liquor drink and not one, but TWO lungies (Thus doubling my current lungie collection).
I stayed up late playing guitar and trying to understand the Australian and British kids talking smack about rugby. Surprisingly, packing the CB (and its shards) along with the rest of my crap wasn't too difficult. After a few hours of sleep, I was on the bus. 12 hours later I was in Kolkata and drinking the best Lassi in the world. 40 hours later I stumbled onto the platform at New Dehli station (I took the superfast Rajdani Express) where I set out to meet M admist in the seedy hotels and alleys of Pahar Ganj.
The last night of my stay at CRP (Savar, Bangladesh) there was a huge party. It was the rag day festival for graduating physiotherapists and occupational therapists of CRP's academic institute, BHPI (Bangladesh Health Professional Institute). Christmas lights were strung everywhere, there was a big dance party and a talent show. Much merriment was made.
I was supposed to me my friend Alagir in the afternoon, but our timing was off. We had attempted to meet before with similar results. Either I was late, or we had the wrong time or wrong location, etc. Those who know me are familiar with this process.
I was actually on time and had waited for Alamgir for close to 50 minutes before I decided to bail and take a rickshaw to Savar Bazar (the writhing commercial hotspot of seemingly sleepy Savar). I could go there and be entertained for hours - people selling strange smelling dried stuff, big buses barreling through the scene with horns blaring and scattering pedestrians and rickshaw pullers, lungie shops, lots of fried foods, and of course internet cafes. I found out later that Alamgir, chased me by rickshaw to the Bazar, but lost me in the chaos.
I met up with him at the talent show. He gave me a big hug, and started in with "Oh, Doshto! Where did you go? I was so worried." Doshto is Bengali for best friend. You can also use "Bendu" for friend, but Doshto - much more intimate.
I give a pound to the rest of the seating clinic posse and procede to watch staff and students strut their stuff onstage (in front of the drum machine wallah and heavy metal guitar guy). Now my friend is grabbing my knee and intensely holding my hand. I'm thinking "Dude, back off! I ain't like that!" But I know better, by now I'm used to the physical intimacy between men.
I hold hands with guys like a pro. Social pressure has also trained me to become physically uncomfortable when I am left alone in a room with a woman, but that's another story. When I traveled with Michele I enjoyed yanking her up and down less visible barriers. She doesn't like to be yanked so much, so we developed a system where a short upward pull would alert her to an impending step. Thus, when I walk with Alamgir, or any other Bangla man, I have to keep myself in check with the yanking. It doesn't always work, so I'm often left with odd looks. If it discourages them, maybe I should do it more.
When I was wandering around the Savar Bazar, I purchased a lungie. It was my first actual lungie shopping experience, as my previous lungie (still my favorite) was a gift from my friend in Rangamati. I sat and looked at different patterns and fabrics next to two muslim women, completely hijabed out. Covered in a cloak of dark fabric - You could only see their eyes. I was impressed by their lungie finding skills and asked for their help. They were very sweet and found a nice blue and white plaid. I was stoked - Blue and White plaid! The storekeeper was there, so it wasn't like we were sitting alone. My thoughts were innocent... I swear that I was actually thinking of M and how much she like lungies because they "Show off my sexy calves."
I was excited to take the lungie back and try it on, but selfless me decides to give it to Alamgir as a token of our friendship. I had gone overboard previously and given him a copy of the latest Whitey on the Moon CD, Discolandia (Yes, it is like giving somebody a picture of yourself), but thought that the lungie would be more... personal?
I met with him later to exchange gifts. He was very excited. He had purchased a ceramic piggy bank shaped and painted like a rooster. He called it a "Cock bank" and gave me elaborate instructions on how to knock a hole in the bottom when the bank was full. It was sweet, he actually didn't give it to me, but said that I should give it to his "Older sister - Michele." He included a small ceramic sculpture of a wedding couple and a picture of himself.
When I first saw the CB I was amazed and confused... and then slightly pissed off. It is beautiful and weird and an example of folksy vernacular shit that always gets me, but it weighs approximately 10 pounds and is not small. But it didn't matter - I was going to carry that thing from Savar to Kolkata and then from Kolkata to Dehli. Yes I was going to carry it. It was a great gift. I will treasure it always. Thanks Alamgir.
At that point I gave him the lungie. In my opinion it was nothing compared to the CB, but it was my gift to him. He looked at the lungie and shrugged. I guess I've never actually seen him wear a lungie before, so maybe it was a little inappropriate. You probably wouldn't give your best friend a pair of pants, but men hold hands in bangladesh, and besides, my other lungie was a gift from a friend - that we knew only for a few hours. My gift was entirely culturally appropriate!
But he didn't want it. Alamgir was adamant about his refusal of my gift. What could I do? I didn't have money. I couldn't offer him a work visa. I couldn't help him find an American wife. Maybe I didn't bitch loud enough - but I took back the lungie. I'm going to give it to my friend Amir, he won't give it back.
So with the wind knocked a little out of my sails, I listen to Alamgir's elaborate instructions on the proper technique for carrying the CB. He had packaged it in several plastic and tied it up in paper bags. He showed me two loops of plastic and demanded that I hold both tight...
Maybe you can see where I'm going with this.
But I swear I was holding the CB in the prescribed manner. The plastic bag ripped and the rest is history dear friends.
Besides my profuse and repetitive apologies, Alamgir and I spoke few words for the remainder of the evening. I gave him a hug, wished him good luck and we walked different directions into the night.
On the way back to my room I was intercepted by Rachel, one of the CRP volunteers, who invited me to go with her to hang out with the other volunteers. To my surprise, to wish me safe traveling and good luck they presented me with a strong liquor drink and not one, but TWO lungies (Thus doubling my current lungie collection).
I stayed up late playing guitar and trying to understand the Australian and British kids talking smack about rugby. Surprisingly, packing the CB (and its shards) along with the rest of my crap wasn't too difficult. After a few hours of sleep, I was on the bus. 12 hours later I was in Kolkata and drinking the best Lassi in the world. 40 hours later I stumbled onto the platform at New Dehli station (I took the superfast Rajdani Express) where I set out to meet M admist in the seedy hotels and alleys of Pahar Ganj.
6/29/05
Singapore... bloody hell
No there's on blood or hell, in Singapore. It is a very clean and safe place. I've been hanging out with too many Brits, so I've picked up some international slang. I do feel so much more Cosmopolitician...
Based on previous advice, we did not attempt to shoplift or smuggle drugs into the country. We did engage in some malicious j-walking to see if we were really being monitored by security cameras.
We didn't get arrested. No fines. No threats of death or torture. We just got across the street a little more quickly.
We leave tomorrow morning for SF, but fear not dear readers. Unlike last time, we have many more experiences to share with you. It won't exactly be real time though, we've got notes and papers and shit to write up. We also have lots of pictures to process and post and link to relevant content.
We did leave everyone hanging last time, so when we've hit the bottom of the barrel of our canned stories of entanglement and woe, we will officially let you know. I promise.
In the meanwhile, I wanted to brag about a little piece of feedback from Motivation UK, regarding the report on our new wheelchair prototype:
Here is the .pdf version of the report I submitted. It has plenty of pictures and meangingless dry comments for everyone to enjoy. Yippee!
Based on previous advice, we did not attempt to shoplift or smuggle drugs into the country. We did engage in some malicious j-walking to see if we were really being monitored by security cameras.
We didn't get arrested. No fines. No threats of death or torture. We just got across the street a little more quickly.
We leave tomorrow morning for SF, but fear not dear readers. Unlike last time, we have many more experiences to share with you. It won't exactly be real time though, we've got notes and papers and shit to write up. We also have lots of pictures to process and post and link to relevant content.
We did leave everyone hanging last time, so when we've hit the bottom of the barrel of our canned stories of entanglement and woe, we will officially let you know. I promise.
In the meanwhile, I wanted to brag about a little piece of feedback from Motivation UK, regarding the report on our new wheelchair prototype:
James & Firoz,
Thank you very much for compiling this report, it made inspiring
reading. I have circulated it here at Motivation UK and the reactions
have been fantastic.
On behalf of Motivation I would like to send our best wishes and
congratulations to the whole special seating team at CRP! Well done.
It is great to hear that CRP is open to collaborating with Motivation on future projects...in fact there are several programmes coming up which I think would be of interest to CRP... Many thanks again - it's a magnificent achievement that the service has developed so well.
Kind regards
Ray
Motivation
www.motivation.og.uk
Here is the .pdf version of the report I submitted. It has plenty of pictures and meangingless dry comments for everyone to enjoy. Yippee!
6/25/05
Agamical, Ami Kolkata Geachelam
I stumbled out of bed at 10:15am yesterday and ran out to the front gate to wish goodbye to Catherine and Chris. They had been at CRP for the last 4 months. Catherine is a Physiotherapist and Chris, a IT geek who helped with (more like designed it from scratch) the website. They are off to SE Asia, then Australia and New Zealand. Please read all about it in their blog www.expectedresult.co.uk/Personal/.
I wish them and the rest of the volunteers well.
I mentioned earlier that CRP felt a little like sleep away camp. The last few days were had the same feeling as the end of summer. Everyone was exchanging gifts and gathering emails and talking smack about possible reunions. They were very sweet and got me two lungies as going away presents.
After seeing C and C off, I took the bus down to Dhaka. I was in much need of the airconditioning and ATM at the Standard Chartered Bank. The clouds were low and the wind pushed black waves across the marshlands dotted with brick-making smokestacks. This final day should have been filled with reverance, but I was reading "The Running Man." A beat-up Stephen King pulpy thriller immortalized by the awful movie starring my governator. I was embarressed to be reading it, but I've read all of the other books in my flat. I folded the cover around the back to avoid showing the beaming arnold to unsuspecting Bangladeshis.
I miss my stop on the bus and have to walk a kilometer back to Mirpur road. Along the way I stop again to oggle Louis Kahn's National Assembly Building (I've visited it three times so far). It hits me - I am stalking a building. It was the reason for our initial border crossing into Bangladesh and here I was staring at it again. I imagined the building pulling down a great window shade from the sky, calling me a "Masher" and threatening to call the police. Instead of sliding down the fire escape and running into the night, I sit down on the curb.
The building is astonishingly simple and so beautiful, especially from the 3/4 mile marker where I sit. It is a concrete structure with gridlines of marble. The marble shares the same hue as the sky. As such, the clouds seem to seep into the structure and roll down the sides like rain. Window's peek out from huge incisions into the concrete. Repetitive triangles, circles and squares gape for several stories, then return to the marble mesh. There is a solitary flag of bangladesh and a chorus of mullahs ring from surrounding masjids. Across the immense grounds flow a steady procession of burkas, hijabs, and multicolor plaid lungies. The lighting is the only feature that places the building in a time frame. Mod-style arrangements of glass bulbs on steel trunks bring one back to the mid 70's.
I attract a small gathering (12 people) of gawkers gawking at me gawking, but it starts to rain so I beat it for the shelter of Parbatana, a women's rights organization that houses a quiet cafe a bookstore and several handloom goods boutiques. I buy my mom a tshirt for exercise class - It is a drawing of a Bangla bus full of people. They hang out the doors and are crowded on the roof. Although, the salesperson told me that the quotation in Bangali read "Travel safely" or "Have a safe journey," I like to think that it says "You will know that an accident has turned fatal when the bus pilot absconds - As such, always watch the pilot." My timing is tops, as the rain falls heavily now. I much on samuchas and wish that my lassie was from Sharma's in Kolkata.
I'm due back in Savar at 3, so when the rain has stops I'll scuttle to the bus with a bag full of things for Michele, a couple of posters and the T-shirt.
I wish them and the rest of the volunteers well.
I mentioned earlier that CRP felt a little like sleep away camp. The last few days were had the same feeling as the end of summer. Everyone was exchanging gifts and gathering emails and talking smack about possible reunions. They were very sweet and got me two lungies as going away presents.
After seeing C and C off, I took the bus down to Dhaka. I was in much need of the airconditioning and ATM at the Standard Chartered Bank. The clouds were low and the wind pushed black waves across the marshlands dotted with brick-making smokestacks. This final day should have been filled with reverance, but I was reading "The Running Man." A beat-up Stephen King pulpy thriller immortalized by the awful movie starring my governator. I was embarressed to be reading it, but I've read all of the other books in my flat. I folded the cover around the back to avoid showing the beaming arnold to unsuspecting Bangladeshis.
I miss my stop on the bus and have to walk a kilometer back to Mirpur road. Along the way I stop again to oggle Louis Kahn's National Assembly Building (I've visited it three times so far). It hits me - I am stalking a building. It was the reason for our initial border crossing into Bangladesh and here I was staring at it again. I imagined the building pulling down a great window shade from the sky, calling me a "Masher" and threatening to call the police. Instead of sliding down the fire escape and running into the night, I sit down on the curb.
The building is astonishingly simple and so beautiful, especially from the 3/4 mile marker where I sit. It is a concrete structure with gridlines of marble. The marble shares the same hue as the sky. As such, the clouds seem to seep into the structure and roll down the sides like rain. Window's peek out from huge incisions into the concrete. Repetitive triangles, circles and squares gape for several stories, then return to the marble mesh. There is a solitary flag of bangladesh and a chorus of mullahs ring from surrounding masjids. Across the immense grounds flow a steady procession of burkas, hijabs, and multicolor plaid lungies. The lighting is the only feature that places the building in a time frame. Mod-style arrangements of glass bulbs on steel trunks bring one back to the mid 70's.
I attract a small gathering (12 people) of gawkers gawking at me gawking, but it starts to rain so I beat it for the shelter of Parbatana, a women's rights organization that houses a quiet cafe a bookstore and several handloom goods boutiques. I buy my mom a tshirt for exercise class - It is a drawing of a Bangla bus full of people. They hang out the doors and are crowded on the roof. Although, the salesperson told me that the quotation in Bangali read "Travel safely" or "Have a safe journey," I like to think that it says "You will know that an accident has turned fatal when the bus pilot absconds - As such, always watch the pilot." My timing is tops, as the rain falls heavily now. I much on samuchas and wish that my lassie was from Sharma's in Kolkata.
I'm due back in Savar at 3, so when the rain has stops I'll scuttle to the bus with a bag full of things for Michele, a couple of posters and the T-shirt.
6/20/05
I've got a ceiling fan
I have black under my fingernails, because we painted the wheelchair prototype today. Also, there was a little drama at work. My good friend Alamgir, may lose his job. I don't understand the circumstances at all, but I think that it has something to do with budget cuts. CRP has a new CEO and he may be stretching out his power with the organization's founder in Europe on a fundraising visit. I want to write him a letter of recommendation or do something to help, but I don't want to overstep boundaries or get into politiky bullshit either.
He prayed at every call today - I haven't seen him ever do that.
A few days ago, Team Bangladesh beat the Australian cricketers in a One-Day International (ODI) match. The BBC says that it was a "huge shock with a five-wicket win." Thus, people are generally in good spirits. I did manage to see a little of the game from a big TV in an electronics store near Gulshan II. People were all crowded around the store out into the street. Rickshaw pullers were pissed - Their handle bar bells rang as they swung around the mob into oncoming traffic.
I've passes a milestone in my Bangla speaking. Very quickly I can rattle off:
"You able to walk away - I have no money - I unable to give any taka" It makes me very happy.
Go pistons.
He prayed at every call today - I haven't seen him ever do that.
A few days ago, Team Bangladesh beat the Australian cricketers in a One-Day International (ODI) match. The BBC says that it was a "huge shock with a five-wicket win." Thus, people are generally in good spirits. I did manage to see a little of the game from a big TV in an electronics store near Gulshan II. People were all crowded around the store out into the street. Rickshaw pullers were pissed - Their handle bar bells rang as they swung around the mob into oncoming traffic.
I've passes a milestone in my Bangla speaking. Very quickly I can rattle off:
"You able to walk away - I have no money - I unable to give any taka" It makes me very happy.
Go pistons.
6/16/05
Why I hate computers
The monsoon has finally kicked into gear in Savar. Rubber sheets of rain pound the tin roofs of the workshop and the plants rejoice in heavy contrast green. On the bus to Dhaka this afternoon, my dear friend chris noted that the TV's color was off. In this city of greys and browns the color of everything seems amplified... blown out of proportion with reality.
The faces (of Bangla moviestars, grimacing and toting guns and bloody knives - but we've been throught this before) on the seats of rickshaws glow in an orange pink that matches the hue of "sharuhk khan's" mug dancing above the driver's head. I can't believe it - they dance at the foot of Lombard street where the road sublimely turns like wheelchair ramps only at a worse slope and without handrails. Now they are dancing on the top of church street? Or is it Russian Knob something hill? I can't tell but I swear that I saw Gavin Newsome while they danced around the steps of the city / county building. But we were talking about color.
The red of the bucket, a little less amplified then shahruk's face reflects the jackfruit. Let me describe my lunch feast. Sickly sweet pods with threetimeskidney bean sized pits. A cross between a perfectly ripe mango and a banana? to be honest, the national fruit of Bangladesh sometimes reminds me of Starburst candy. Michele thinks that they taste like Tums, or rolaids, just ask her.
The red bucket of ripe jackfruit is continually replentished by the junior of the workshop technicians. He is the same sweet guy who brings me chai and shingara (like samosa only better) at 10:30 everyday. He waits until I've finished and then takes the tiny glass mug back to be washed. Today he has jackfruit glue all over his fingers. He pulls in the jackfruit body and deposits pods of the shining fruit in the red bucket. After a couple dozen of fruit pods, another technician pours puffed rice into the bucket. His hands are covered with a white substance that requires kerosine to rinse off. When I fake to shake his hand the whole room yells at me not to touch him. But he smiles.
A senior technician then digs his hand in and thoroughly mixes the concoction. We all watch and try not to drool. On our haunches, we are crouched around the bucket bangla style. We all reach our right hands into the mixture and return with a puffy wad. Stuffing the rich ball into our mouths, we all spit out the pit. They rain on the floor like the water falls from the sky and we chew together.
I like all 12 of the seating, positioning and orthotics workshop crew. While consuming mass quantities of Jackfruit and puffed rice, they tease me about my lungie. I should NOT have worn it to work - A big faux pas.
I've heard the lecture before about my choice of work clothes. So I try not to laugh when my boss, Firoz, discusses the merits of the lungie... as a sleeping outfit, not a work one. We continue to savor the rich fruit.
We have made great progress on the portable seating system. We are not quite there yet, but a few minor details away. We took a few hours off and built a keyguard from scrap plexiglass. An award plaque from 2001 was sacrificed. I scraped the 4 year old paint off the surface and washed it in detergent. It is a beautiful keyguard, although I'm starting to regret our use of superglue. I should have paid the 350 taka for a keyboard with Bangla characters... Although not entirely useful for those unfamiliar with english characters, our keyboard and keyguard look pretty.
This cybercafe monitor is on it's last legs - it's contrast has pushed the blogger blue to purple.I pray that allah keeps you all well and functioning, then knock, knock knock knock knock on wood and pray the same for blogger.
The faces (of Bangla moviestars, grimacing and toting guns and bloody knives - but we've been throught this before) on the seats of rickshaws glow in an orange pink that matches the hue of "sharuhk khan's" mug dancing above the driver's head. I can't believe it - they dance at the foot of Lombard street where the road sublimely turns like wheelchair ramps only at a worse slope and without handrails. Now they are dancing on the top of church street? Or is it Russian Knob something hill? I can't tell but I swear that I saw Gavin Newsome while they danced around the steps of the city / county building. But we were talking about color.
The red of the bucket, a little less amplified then shahruk's face reflects the jackfruit. Let me describe my lunch feast. Sickly sweet pods with threetimeskidney bean sized pits. A cross between a perfectly ripe mango and a banana? to be honest, the national fruit of Bangladesh sometimes reminds me of Starburst candy. Michele thinks that they taste like Tums, or rolaids, just ask her.
The red bucket of ripe jackfruit is continually replentished by the junior of the workshop technicians. He is the same sweet guy who brings me chai and shingara (like samosa only better) at 10:30 everyday. He waits until I've finished and then takes the tiny glass mug back to be washed. Today he has jackfruit glue all over his fingers. He pulls in the jackfruit body and deposits pods of the shining fruit in the red bucket. After a couple dozen of fruit pods, another technician pours puffed rice into the bucket. His hands are covered with a white substance that requires kerosine to rinse off. When I fake to shake his hand the whole room yells at me not to touch him. But he smiles.
A senior technician then digs his hand in and thoroughly mixes the concoction. We all watch and try not to drool. On our haunches, we are crouched around the bucket bangla style. We all reach our right hands into the mixture and return with a puffy wad. Stuffing the rich ball into our mouths, we all spit out the pit. They rain on the floor like the water falls from the sky and we chew together.
I like all 12 of the seating, positioning and orthotics workshop crew. While consuming mass quantities of Jackfruit and puffed rice, they tease me about my lungie. I should NOT have worn it to work - A big faux pas.
I've heard the lecture before about my choice of work clothes. So I try not to laugh when my boss, Firoz, discusses the merits of the lungie... as a sleeping outfit, not a work one. We continue to savor the rich fruit.
We have made great progress on the portable seating system. We are not quite there yet, but a few minor details away. We took a few hours off and built a keyguard from scrap plexiglass. An award plaque from 2001 was sacrificed. I scraped the 4 year old paint off the surface and washed it in detergent. It is a beautiful keyguard, although I'm starting to regret our use of superglue. I should have paid the 350 taka for a keyboard with Bangla characters... Although not entirely useful for those unfamiliar with english characters, our keyboard and keyguard look pretty.
This cybercafe monitor is on it's last legs - it's contrast has pushed the blogger blue to purple.I pray that allah keeps you all well and functioning, then knock, knock knock knock knock on wood and pray the same for blogger.
6/8/05
That is What We Do
Although there is no camping or, counselors, or arts and crafts activities, I get this strange impression that I am at summer camp. Don't get me wrong, dear reader, I am very happy here, but it feels slightly odd.
I write from the bowels of the Center for Rehabilitation of the Paralysed (CRP). CRP is in Savar, a quaint townlette 30 minutes to the north of Dhaka in Bangladesh. I've been here for the last 6 days, and has been way to preoccupied to blog. This may be hard to believe for some of you, but I am actually working very hard. I walk in the door to the workshop at 8:30am and stumble back to my room around 6:00pm.
I'm now on a volunteer vacation!
This is what doo-goody, doo-gooders do when they get sick of dooing good at home, I suppose. Like all of the rescue ronnies flooding New York City post 9-11, I just wanna help people, dig? I do like the tsunamni tourists in India and Sri Lanka, or all the annoying christian helpers up in Ma Theresa's joint.
The workshop is the rehabilitation engineering / seating and positioing clinic on the sprawling CRP campus. I am joined by a bevy of technicians an a handful of occupational therapists and engineers. Well, they were here already, I just sit in the corner and stare at the tools and try not to cut myself.
Besides all of the chairs and prosthetics that they are busily constructing, they get to babysit me and my project. Mine is a project of necessity not glamour. While I wanted to get all jiggy with architects and designers, and talk high-fallutin nonsense about universal design, I'm getting jigified with jigs... and shunts too. Me and my dear friend Mister Alamgir (Alum-Ghee) are designing a portable seating and positioning system. I ask him lots of questions about the shop equipment and he scowls.
For wheelchairs, you have two basic seating types: the plain jane and the special seat. Each can be dissected and stratified into niches and needs. The plain jane is for peeps who have lower level spinal cord injuries, amputations or have plenty of upper body muscles to move them around. The special seat user needs help propping their body up.
Special seats in the US are really high-tech wonders. They buzz, jerk, slide, tilt with an efficiency that would make NASA proud. They are constructed of molded plastic and space age fabrics, gels and meshes. Chairs get used hard, because like any piece of durable medical equipment, they become an extension of your body. Western Special seats are designed to clean easy (to shed a user's funk), adjust to the user's bodies needs and whims and be easily transportable. Special seating for people with cerebral palsy and other mobility disabilities, is essential for increasing their independence in life, being productive and getting shit done.
In the developing world, like most things for people with disabilities, wheelchairs are a luxury. If you are born with, or acquire a serious mobilities disability, you'll be lucky if your family doesn't disown or divorce you. Then you'll be super-psyched if you get your hands on a flat board that may or may not have little wheels, like a Michael J Fox skateboard in Back to the Future. For those with a little more luck, you'll be channeled into an organization that will hand you a 1950's everett and jennings style tank-chair that 5 generations of neighbors have died in.
You can see where I'm going with this... Special seating is like the frill of your big-pimpin '64 impala's shaggy ceiling.
At CRP, we design and fabricate new chairs from durable components available locally, we design in plain jane and special seat flavors. People who can make it to our seating clinics are very happy. The chairs we design are efficient, but are not exactly high tech. They utilize rickshaw wheels, and rubber castors and a thick grade of steel tubing. They will hopefully last the user a lifetime of bumps and spills and falls from the top of local busses (from which we guarantee the life of the chair, not the user).
We're working on a portable seating system so that families of children with disabilities can actually bring the seat back to CRP for adjustment and recalibration as they grow. A device that plays such a serious role in a person's life, needs to adjust to their changes. A return trip to CRP is like a kid's journey to Footlocker. To insure correct development of their minds and bodies, they have to come back. But, they have to come back by bus, and buses here (or any mode of personal or public transportation) are not wheelchair friendly. There are plans for satellite seating centers throughout Bangladesh, but there is only one for now.
Along with annoying Alamgir and my boss, Firoz, my job is to make it easier for the caregiver, while keeping the quality and adjustment settings of the chair consistent. We are hoping that if a family can bring just the "guts" of the seating system back, then they will be more likely to return. I'm excited about the accessorizing possibilities, such as handstraps and carrying bags and baseball hats. F and Alamgir and Nehpa our OT, are more worried with other things... like my date of departure. I'm sure that they are all going to celebrate my return to India (then back to home) in a couple more weeks.
Go Pistons.
I write from the bowels of the Center for Rehabilitation of the Paralysed (CRP). CRP is in Savar, a quaint townlette 30 minutes to the north of Dhaka in Bangladesh. I've been here for the last 6 days, and has been way to preoccupied to blog. This may be hard to believe for some of you, but I am actually working very hard. I walk in the door to the workshop at 8:30am and stumble back to my room around 6:00pm.
I'm now on a volunteer vacation!
This is what doo-goody, doo-gooders do when they get sick of dooing good at home, I suppose. Like all of the rescue ronnies flooding New York City post 9-11, I just wanna help people, dig? I do like the tsunamni tourists in India and Sri Lanka, or all the annoying christian helpers up in Ma Theresa's joint.
The workshop is the rehabilitation engineering / seating and positioing clinic on the sprawling CRP campus. I am joined by a bevy of technicians an a handful of occupational therapists and engineers. Well, they were here already, I just sit in the corner and stare at the tools and try not to cut myself.
Besides all of the chairs and prosthetics that they are busily constructing, they get to babysit me and my project. Mine is a project of necessity not glamour. While I wanted to get all jiggy with architects and designers, and talk high-fallutin nonsense about universal design, I'm getting jigified with jigs... and shunts too. Me and my dear friend Mister Alamgir (Alum-Ghee) are designing a portable seating and positioning system. I ask him lots of questions about the shop equipment and he scowls.
For wheelchairs, you have two basic seating types: the plain jane and the special seat. Each can be dissected and stratified into niches and needs. The plain jane is for peeps who have lower level spinal cord injuries, amputations or have plenty of upper body muscles to move them around. The special seat user needs help propping their body up.
Special seats in the US are really high-tech wonders. They buzz, jerk, slide, tilt with an efficiency that would make NASA proud. They are constructed of molded plastic and space age fabrics, gels and meshes. Chairs get used hard, because like any piece of durable medical equipment, they become an extension of your body. Western Special seats are designed to clean easy (to shed a user's funk), adjust to the user's bodies needs and whims and be easily transportable. Special seating for people with cerebral palsy and other mobility disabilities, is essential for increasing their independence in life, being productive and getting shit done.
In the developing world, like most things for people with disabilities, wheelchairs are a luxury. If you are born with, or acquire a serious mobilities disability, you'll be lucky if your family doesn't disown or divorce you. Then you'll be super-psyched if you get your hands on a flat board that may or may not have little wheels, like a Michael J Fox skateboard in Back to the Future. For those with a little more luck, you'll be channeled into an organization that will hand you a 1950's everett and jennings style tank-chair that 5 generations of neighbors have died in.
You can see where I'm going with this... Special seating is like the frill of your big-pimpin '64 impala's shaggy ceiling.
At CRP, we design and fabricate new chairs from durable components available locally, we design in plain jane and special seat flavors. People who can make it to our seating clinics are very happy. The chairs we design are efficient, but are not exactly high tech. They utilize rickshaw wheels, and rubber castors and a thick grade of steel tubing. They will hopefully last the user a lifetime of bumps and spills and falls from the top of local busses (from which we guarantee the life of the chair, not the user).
We're working on a portable seating system so that families of children with disabilities can actually bring the seat back to CRP for adjustment and recalibration as they grow. A device that plays such a serious role in a person's life, needs to adjust to their changes. A return trip to CRP is like a kid's journey to Footlocker. To insure correct development of their minds and bodies, they have to come back. But, they have to come back by bus, and buses here (or any mode of personal or public transportation) are not wheelchair friendly. There are plans for satellite seating centers throughout Bangladesh, but there is only one for now.
Along with annoying Alamgir and my boss, Firoz, my job is to make it easier for the caregiver, while keeping the quality and adjustment settings of the chair consistent. We are hoping that if a family can bring just the "guts" of the seating system back, then they will be more likely to return. I'm excited about the accessorizing possibilities, such as handstraps and carrying bags and baseball hats. F and Alamgir and Nehpa our OT, are more worried with other things... like my date of departure. I'm sure that they are all going to celebrate my return to India (then back to home) in a couple more weeks.
Go Pistons.
6/1/05
Same as the old Kolkata
When I spend time in Detroit, it seems that no visit is complete without an orbit or snack of Lafayette Coney Island. It is my favorite hot dog place in the entire world (Mustard's Last Stand with locations in Denver & Boulder is my second favorite). I consider myself a quote-vegetarian-unquote but I'm never bothered by the processed filler sludge in the Lafayette's dogs or chilli fries. Who knows, they could easily be some type of soy product.
I am drawn back to these places for the food, but also for the consistency of experiences. When I want to be reminded of people and times in the past these places are essential. It is also helpful to see what changes have taken place at these points to gauge my overall sense of a place's differences.
Yesterday afternoon, I arrived slightly frazzeled, but okay, to Kolkata's Howrah railway station via Chennai from Bangalore. The trip was about 40 hours of consistent clanking and buzzing of the three tier sleeper car. Along the way I met a construction team from a village near Auroville that was headed here to work on a new DVD shop. The firm's owner and manager has done extensive construction in Auroville and had even worked on the Matri Mandir and US Pavillion that we visited. We both laughed at the Mandir's fugly design and wondered if it would ever be completed. He showed me drawings of the project here and invited me by the worksite.
Since arriving, I've been busy with errands that are essential to my trip back to Bangladesh. In between getting passport photos and waiting in line to get my Bangladeshi Visa (3 passport photos, copies of passport & indian visa, correctly filled out forms and RS 5000) I've hit the street corners, Internet cafes and restuarants that hold meaning to me. The repetition is deliberate as it helps me feel more grounded in this chaotic indian metropolis.
I am on my way back to Bangladesh to volunteer at the Center for Rehabilitation of the Paralysed. While I'll be there for the next three weeks, M has chosen to stay in India and meet with the Deaf communities in Bangalore, Srinigar (don't ask) and Dehli. I miss her like crazy, but it is also nice to travel alone.
While I dodge the same guys who try to sell me hash and marajuana 2 months ago, I've also taken in fine sweet lime sodas, paw bahji (Kolkata variation on the Mumbia staple Pav Bhaji) and the views of New Market from the 9th floor of the Lindsay Hotel. This is the same time that we stayed here prior to our departure back to the US in 2003, so it is an interesting repeat of climate - Godawful f'ing hot and humid. Thus, I've been zipping in and out of air-conditioned spaces like an artful boxer dodging punches.
Speaking of punching, I've been enjoying the recent political flags and graffiti that cover every spare square-inch of wallspace in the city. All the candidates have slogans and color schemes, but each ad has prominent directions to "Punch this symbol." In a region where so many people are illiterate (who knows about learning and cognitive disabilities), it is nice to see the ballots have icons.
As the posting could hardly be complete without a status report on my digestive system - I'm in the grips of another fun bout with dysentery. However, the Cipro flows like water here. It is less than $3 for two doses (RS 9 per tablet at two tablets / day by 3 days for each dose). With rates that good, I could survive more than a couple rounds with Anthrax - Bring it on you commie terrorist scum!
Tomorrow morning, I'll hop a bus at 5:00AM to the border at Benapole, then on to Dhaka by 6:00PM or so. I did finally score an alarm clock with glow in the dark numbers, Japanese design and Chinese manufacturing. I'm just uncertain as how to turn the alarm off without removing the batteries... Don't fret dear reader, as I will keep you updated as this important story unfolds.
PS: Just for fun
I am drawn back to these places for the food, but also for the consistency of experiences. When I want to be reminded of people and times in the past these places are essential. It is also helpful to see what changes have taken place at these points to gauge my overall sense of a place's differences.
Yesterday afternoon, I arrived slightly frazzeled, but okay, to Kolkata's Howrah railway station via Chennai from Bangalore. The trip was about 40 hours of consistent clanking and buzzing of the three tier sleeper car. Along the way I met a construction team from a village near Auroville that was headed here to work on a new DVD shop. The firm's owner and manager has done extensive construction in Auroville and had even worked on the Matri Mandir and US Pavillion that we visited. We both laughed at the Mandir's fugly design and wondered if it would ever be completed. He showed me drawings of the project here and invited me by the worksite.
Since arriving, I've been busy with errands that are essential to my trip back to Bangladesh. In between getting passport photos and waiting in line to get my Bangladeshi Visa (3 passport photos, copies of passport & indian visa, correctly filled out forms and RS 5000) I've hit the street corners, Internet cafes and restuarants that hold meaning to me. The repetition is deliberate as it helps me feel more grounded in this chaotic indian metropolis.
I am on my way back to Bangladesh to volunteer at the Center for Rehabilitation of the Paralysed. While I'll be there for the next three weeks, M has chosen to stay in India and meet with the Deaf communities in Bangalore, Srinigar (don't ask) and Dehli. I miss her like crazy, but it is also nice to travel alone.
While I dodge the same guys who try to sell me hash and marajuana 2 months ago, I've also taken in fine sweet lime sodas, paw bahji (Kolkata variation on the Mumbia staple Pav Bhaji) and the views of New Market from the 9th floor of the Lindsay Hotel. This is the same time that we stayed here prior to our departure back to the US in 2003, so it is an interesting repeat of climate - Godawful f'ing hot and humid. Thus, I've been zipping in and out of air-conditioned spaces like an artful boxer dodging punches.
Speaking of punching, I've been enjoying the recent political flags and graffiti that cover every spare square-inch of wallspace in the city. All the candidates have slogans and color schemes, but each ad has prominent directions to "Punch this symbol." In a region where so many people are illiterate (who knows about learning and cognitive disabilities), it is nice to see the ballots have icons.
As the posting could hardly be complete without a status report on my digestive system - I'm in the grips of another fun bout with dysentery. However, the Cipro flows like water here. It is less than $3 for two doses (RS 9 per tablet at two tablets / day by 3 days for each dose). With rates that good, I could survive more than a couple rounds with Anthrax - Bring it on you commie terrorist scum!
Tomorrow morning, I'll hop a bus at 5:00AM to the border at Benapole, then on to Dhaka by 6:00PM or so. I did finally score an alarm clock with glow in the dark numbers, Japanese design and Chinese manufacturing. I'm just uncertain as how to turn the alarm off without removing the batteries... Don't fret dear reader, as I will keep you updated as this important story unfolds.
PS: Just for fun
5/30/05
Hate the game, not the Playa
Today was the last day that M and I spend together for a while. Since Sai Baba was in Bangalore (instead of his compound in Puttapatti) we decided to get up early and check his shit out.
After two buses and a long walk we ended up at the gates of Brindivan, his Bangalore Ashram at 8:00AM. Sai Baba's cult is one of the richest religious movements in India today, so we were anxious to actually see him and witness his magnificence.
I really wanted to believe that he was the manifestation of all things good. I did, I swear. I was focused on not letting my predisposition to cynicism and hating shade the experience. M and I have met several guru-heads on our trip and found them all to be good people, if not a little odd.
I offered Sai Baba and his flock an entry into my heart, although I was certain that I'd find them all dupes. I was ready to see their points of view, and I'd forgive them of their blind faith and over-generous contributions if SB put on a good show.
I left with no pity. My heart was black. I hated everyone involved in the process of the Sai Baba sound and light show. Maybe before, I would have wanted the sai-heads to fly and be free of their awful oppressor. But after the morning "Darshan" - I wanted the ashram to burn.
The darshan, as M so eloquently descibed was nothing but a group sing-along and staring session at a crazy old guy, dressed in orange, sitting in a wheelchair and flying a powerful afro. He sat and stared and the entire group seemed to act as addicts at the crack house. People were on their knees, they were crying they were jumping up and down, climbing over each other just to get a glimpse of him staring.
Crazy indians, europeans, isrealis, and I'm sure more than a handful Marin county and other US freaks. They looked like they'd been kept in a closet for 20 years worshipping posters of SB. Before and after his viewing (completed in 20 minutes) they meditated on what his presence meant to the universal conscious.
I wanted to smack them and scream "Get a frickin' life you losers!" I suppose I've also got some issues (anger) to work out. But what a waste of good people's time and resources. I kept thinking about how many starving villagers the sale of SB's least favorite Mercedes feed.
I know that I'm being harsh, but I don't know what to say to these people. These believers, who spend lakhs and lakhs of rupees just jockeying to touch his hand or glimpse his teeth. I'd like to think that his obvious relying on assistive technology would be a boon for people with disabilities everywhere. However, looking back at the dead-pope's time on wheels... I doubt it.
I just have to wish SB and his flock of crazies eternal salvation, in hopes that I'll never have to deal with them in any of my future reincarnations. Amen. I'm going to miss M.
After two buses and a long walk we ended up at the gates of Brindivan, his Bangalore Ashram at 8:00AM. Sai Baba's cult is one of the richest religious movements in India today, so we were anxious to actually see him and witness his magnificence.
I really wanted to believe that he was the manifestation of all things good. I did, I swear. I was focused on not letting my predisposition to cynicism and hating shade the experience. M and I have met several guru-heads on our trip and found them all to be good people, if not a little odd.
I offered Sai Baba and his flock an entry into my heart, although I was certain that I'd find them all dupes. I was ready to see their points of view, and I'd forgive them of their blind faith and over-generous contributions if SB put on a good show.
I left with no pity. My heart was black. I hated everyone involved in the process of the Sai Baba sound and light show. Maybe before, I would have wanted the sai-heads to fly and be free of their awful oppressor. But after the morning "Darshan" - I wanted the ashram to burn.
The darshan, as M so eloquently descibed was nothing but a group sing-along and staring session at a crazy old guy, dressed in orange, sitting in a wheelchair and flying a powerful afro. He sat and stared and the entire group seemed to act as addicts at the crack house. People were on their knees, they were crying they were jumping up and down, climbing over each other just to get a glimpse of him staring.
Crazy indians, europeans, isrealis, and I'm sure more than a handful Marin county and other US freaks. They looked like they'd been kept in a closet for 20 years worshipping posters of SB. Before and after his viewing (completed in 20 minutes) they meditated on what his presence meant to the universal conscious.
I wanted to smack them and scream "Get a frickin' life you losers!" I suppose I've also got some issues (anger) to work out. But what a waste of good people's time and resources. I kept thinking about how many starving villagers the sale of SB's least favorite Mercedes feed.
I know that I'm being harsh, but I don't know what to say to these people. These believers, who spend lakhs and lakhs of rupees just jockeying to touch his hand or glimpse his teeth. I'd like to think that his obvious relying on assistive technology would be a boon for people with disabilities everywhere. However, looking back at the dead-pope's time on wheels... I doubt it.
I just have to wish SB and his flock of crazies eternal salvation, in hopes that I'll never have to deal with them in any of my future reincarnations. Amen. I'm going to miss M.
5/26/05
Mall Mayhem
I have a warning for all of you planning on attending a movie in India:
Be very aware of the balcony.
Last night we saw a Tamil Movie called "Mumbai Express." The movie has an English title, features dialog in Tamil and was shot in Mumbai (where they speak predominantly Marathi)... Only in Bollywood.
As far as we could tell, the movie was a comedy about a kidnapping and featured a stunt motorcycle driver who has a hearing disability of unknown origin. Apparently, the misunderstandings that result from his difficulty in hearing lead to much comedic mayhem. He uses a hearing aid that is a headphone earbud attached to a small amplifier unit (We've seen adults and kids all over India and Bangladesh using them). He spends most of the movie saying "Ki?" or "What?" and holding the amplifier up to his cell phone. There were some great sight gags, but no dancing - M was very dissapointed.
We walked into the theater an hour after it started (Now wait a minute! 1. The movie is in Tamil and we don't enough speak Tamil to really get the dialog 2. The movies here are never less than 3 hours long, so missing the first hour is similar to missing the first 10 minutes of a Western movie... No, not that type of western). We sat down and began to work out the details of the plot. After 10 minutes into our sitting, I hear a hawking loogie-esque noise from behind me.
Ever get sick of our repetitive bitching, moaning and smug-ass traveler inside jokes? Here are two additional travel-blogging India voices for you to enjoy:
PlannetMars.blogspot.com
Our friend Marcella from Spain. She's a self-proclaimed "Meher Baba lover", but don't hold that against her. We hung out with her in Kochi, she's really a sweet person and takes great pictures. I took the picture of her and the elephant that looks like it is actually going to rip her head off. He's actually a boy... But be careful with your n's and try not to visit planetmars dot blogspot dot com. Please avoid it.
Chart and Waters
Yes, dear friends, it is the long lost Gabriella Marcus. And she's ripping shit up in the subcontinent. Gabi is the bestest writer I know besides me, but she is slightly crazy. We love her anyways and so will you. M and I are threatening to take over her blog's comments section... but she hasn't written us back yet. I can't imagine why.
Don't forget the old favorites:
Monica in the WorldOur friend Monica is "In the world," so looky out all you metal poles. We miss you Mon! Good luck rocking things in Thailand and Laos and China.
Debra in India
Debra (like Zebra with a D) is a film-maker in Bangalore. She and her French mad-scientist husband Giles like it there. They infrequently post about frequenting pizza hut and fixinating macintosh computers.
Yes, somebody spit on my arm during the movie. I am not easily enraged, but this time I turned around in a fury and pointed to a drunk looking guy a few rows behind us. I pointed to my arm and at him. I shook my head, wiped the spit from my arm and attempted to throw it in his general direction.
During the intermission I stared at him and gave him a "mean mug." Then hit him with the patented "gas face." I was on fire. I had to cool down with a bag of Mysore Masala popcorn and a cold drink to suppress urges of returning the favor.
As we walked back in to the theater I looked up a the balcony. Below the balcony, the 4 to 5 rows of seats were empty. As the second half of the movie began, I grabbed M's hand and lead her to the occupied front of the hall. I heard spitting noises and waited for the landing of someone's spit on my head, but I was right. I followed local customs and sat out of spitting distance from the assholes in the balcony.
This tale is just another caste system refuge case. Balcony tickets are RS 35 and floor seats are RS 25. The brahmin in the balcony think that they can just spit on the dalits on the floor. I wish I could have apologized to the drunk guy. He looked like he needed a hug.
Be very aware of the balcony.
Last night we saw a Tamil Movie called "Mumbai Express." The movie has an English title, features dialog in Tamil and was shot in Mumbai (where they speak predominantly Marathi)... Only in Bollywood.
As far as we could tell, the movie was a comedy about a kidnapping and featured a stunt motorcycle driver who has a hearing disability of unknown origin. Apparently, the misunderstandings that result from his difficulty in hearing lead to much comedic mayhem. He uses a hearing aid that is a headphone earbud attached to a small amplifier unit (We've seen adults and kids all over India and Bangladesh using them). He spends most of the movie saying "Ki?" or "What?" and holding the amplifier up to his cell phone. There were some great sight gags, but no dancing - M was very dissapointed.
We walked into the theater an hour after it started (Now wait a minute! 1. The movie is in Tamil and we don't enough speak Tamil to really get the dialog 2. The movies here are never less than 3 hours long, so missing the first hour is similar to missing the first 10 minutes of a Western movie... No, not that type of western). We sat down and began to work out the details of the plot. After 10 minutes into our sitting, I hear a hawking loogie-esque noise from behind me.
Ever get sick of our repetitive bitching, moaning and smug-ass traveler inside jokes? Here are two additional travel-blogging India voices for you to enjoy:
PlannetMars.blogspot.com
Our friend Marcella from Spain. She's a self-proclaimed "Meher Baba lover", but don't hold that against her. We hung out with her in Kochi, she's really a sweet person and takes great pictures. I took the picture of her and the elephant that looks like it is actually going to rip her head off. He's actually a boy... But be careful with your n's and try not to visit planetmars dot blogspot dot com. Please avoid it.
Chart and Waters
Yes, dear friends, it is the long lost Gabriella Marcus. And she's ripping shit up in the subcontinent. Gabi is the bestest writer I know besides me, but she is slightly crazy. We love her anyways and so will you. M and I are threatening to take over her blog's comments section... but she hasn't written us back yet. I can't imagine why.
Don't forget the old favorites:
Monica in the WorldOur friend Monica is "In the world," so looky out all you metal poles. We miss you Mon! Good luck rocking things in Thailand and Laos and China.
Debra in India
Debra (like Zebra with a D) is a film-maker in Bangalore. She and her French mad-scientist husband Giles like it there. They infrequently post about frequenting pizza hut and fixinating macintosh computers.
Yes, somebody spit on my arm during the movie. I am not easily enraged, but this time I turned around in a fury and pointed to a drunk looking guy a few rows behind us. I pointed to my arm and at him. I shook my head, wiped the spit from my arm and attempted to throw it in his general direction.
During the intermission I stared at him and gave him a "mean mug." Then hit him with the patented "gas face." I was on fire. I had to cool down with a bag of Mysore Masala popcorn and a cold drink to suppress urges of returning the favor.
As we walked back in to the theater I looked up a the balcony. Below the balcony, the 4 to 5 rows of seats were empty. As the second half of the movie began, I grabbed M's hand and lead her to the occupied front of the hall. I heard spitting noises and waited for the landing of someone's spit on my head, but I was right. I followed local customs and sat out of spitting distance from the assholes in the balcony.
This tale is just another caste system refuge case. Balcony tickets are RS 35 and floor seats are RS 25. The brahmin in the balcony think that they can just spit on the dalits on the floor. I wish I could have apologized to the drunk guy. He looked like he needed a hug.
We get Letters
From my mother:
good to hear from you. Please be careful. stay away from movie theatres in someplace. I read they were being bombed. also i think it adds nothing to solving any handicap/gov't issues to make fun of a sick old man. Is it going to make the person who had to drag himself/herself up the court house steps feel any better?
I thought India was all about mediation and positive feelings.
5/24/05
An Injury to One
It is unfortunate that US Supreme Court Chief Justice William H. Rehnquist has a accessible path to his office in the supreme court. It would have been nice to see him crawl up the steps. It is fitting to see him roll up to work in a wheelchair as it was a little less than a year ago that he dissented on the Tennessee v. Lane decision ("... which involved a criminal defendant who used a wheelchair and was forced to crawl up steps or be carried to get to his trial in a State proceeding, and other issues around access to State courthouses" - From AAPD and Station504).
His championing of states rights over individual civil rights and his striking down key provisions of the ADA in 2000 have won him few fans on this blog.
Quoth the Nation:
Yes, we will dearly miss him, not because of the real estate boom in DC secondary to a John-Paulesque deathwatch, but because any replacement sent up by the current administration will certainly be worse.
His championing of states rights over individual civil rights and his striking down key provisions of the ADA in 2000 have won him few fans on this blog.
Quoth the Nation:
Rehnquist said that the law in question was ill-conceived because he didn't agree with Congress's evaluation of evidence on the subject, saying it was based on "unexamined, anecdotal accounts" that did not qualify as "legislative findings.
Yes, we will dearly miss him, not because of the real estate boom in DC secondary to a John-Paulesque deathwatch, but because any replacement sent up by the current administration will certainly be worse.
5/22/05
Nose Punches 75 Rupees
I've been carrying a black notebook full of graph paper for the bulk of our journey. It is now getting towards the last of its pages, so I'm trying to write small and conserve space. It is a bible of mobile numbers, email and street addresses, sketches and notes that essential to helping me remember this trip. Conversations, phrases, phonetic guidelines, directions and unfinished blog entries drip out the spiral binding.
Sure most of the information makes sense only to me. The chickenscratch writing and scattered diagrams don't translate well to the outside reader. This is most unfortunate, for you dear reader as I'm sure you value my meanderings quite highly.
The above picture is followed by:
Incense... oil smoke... lemon... jasmine... dirt...
Sunlight in shafts filter the smoke, creating the illusion of a protective cage around temple carvings - lions, elephant, gods, etc. The stump (although not necessarily a stump - an old branch or black knotty piece of timber?) is caged this time by more solid metal bars and adorned with signs forbidding something.
On the floor, huddled groups of women are praying to ________(Diety Sri Sidhar?). Pentagrams (see diagram) and "Tamil Universe" diagrams in chalk clutter the granite floor. They use prayer tiny prayer pamphlets. Grand-daughters, daughters, mothers, nervous waiting boys talking, reticent fathers (OK - I'm officially projecting now), surround the diagrams and dig through plastic tote-bags of puja supplies. They are not messing around.
A sign says:
The description was followed by a list of Tamil vowels and a phone number. Like the phone number's origin, I do not know any of the 41 Tamil consonants.
When I'm not arguing with M or applying sunscreen or bug spray, I contemplate the future of blogging and note-taking. In several years we'll just carry computer-book sketch pads with wireless connections. We could do so now, but I'd hate to throw my $2000 laptop on top of the bus, or use it to cushion my tired ass while lounging on the train platform. I think that these devices need to become more durable and cheaper for us to really use them.
Of course, I see people toting laptops, scanners, digital cameras and cell modems all over the subcontinent - but not me. I can hardly be trusted to carry sunglasses or a watch without breaking or misplacing.
The forgetful and clumsy (along with the poor) need better technology options! I should know. We'll have to make due with the book until we find better options. With the non-linear, non-specific functions that the book offers in such durable casing... we will be waiting for a while.
M and I passed a jewelry shop in the Fort Cochin area that offered "Nose and Ear Punches." In an instant, I was bargaining with the owner over the cost of the punches. I tried to buy one for M, as she was due for a good nose punch. When the sneaky owner changed his song to "piercings, not punches" we kept walking towards the dusty antique stands, spice warehouses and synagoge of Jew Town. As we walked away, M punched me in the shoulder.
Sure most of the information makes sense only to me. The chickenscratch writing and scattered diagrams don't translate well to the outside reader. This is most unfortunate, for you dear reader as I'm sure you value my meanderings quite highly.
The above picture is followed by:
Incense... oil smoke... lemon... jasmine... dirt...
Sunlight in shafts filter the smoke, creating the illusion of a protective cage around temple carvings - lions, elephant, gods, etc. The stump (although not necessarily a stump - an old branch or black knotty piece of timber?) is caged this time by more solid metal bars and adorned with signs forbidding something.
On the floor, huddled groups of women are praying to ________(Diety Sri Sidhar?). Pentagrams (see diagram) and "Tamil Universe" diagrams in chalk clutter the granite floor. They use prayer tiny prayer pamphlets. Grand-daughters, daughters, mothers, nervous waiting boys talking, reticent fathers (OK - I'm officially projecting now), surround the diagrams and dig through plastic tote-bags of puja supplies. They are not messing around.
A sign says:
Beyond this limit
1. No cameras allowed
2. Lungies not allowed
3. Non-Hindus not allowed (in RED)
Order of Deputy Commissioner / Executive Officer
The description was followed by a list of Tamil vowels and a phone number. Like the phone number's origin, I do not know any of the 41 Tamil consonants.
When I'm not arguing with M or applying sunscreen or bug spray, I contemplate the future of blogging and note-taking. In several years we'll just carry computer-book sketch pads with wireless connections. We could do so now, but I'd hate to throw my $2000 laptop on top of the bus, or use it to cushion my tired ass while lounging on the train platform. I think that these devices need to become more durable and cheaper for us to really use them.
Of course, I see people toting laptops, scanners, digital cameras and cell modems all over the subcontinent - but not me. I can hardly be trusted to carry sunglasses or a watch without breaking or misplacing.
The forgetful and clumsy (along with the poor) need better technology options! I should know. We'll have to make due with the book until we find better options. With the non-linear, non-specific functions that the book offers in such durable casing... we will be waiting for a while.
M and I passed a jewelry shop in the Fort Cochin area that offered "Nose and Ear Punches." In an instant, I was bargaining with the owner over the cost of the punches. I tried to buy one for M, as she was due for a good nose punch. When the sneaky owner changed his song to "piercings, not punches" we kept walking towards the dusty antique stands, spice warehouses and synagoge of Jew Town. As we walked away, M punched me in the shoulder.
5/17/05
Backwater Plug Tuning
Our houseboat journey was the bomb. We lucked out on the boat and crew that we were directed to from the tout at the Allepy bus stand.
The good book says that for close to RS 3000 per day you should be able to get a houseboat for 24 hours (including 3 meals and overnight accommodation). Through our friendly tout and houseboat pimp we arranged a fare of RS 2500. We were happy until we learned that the pimp takes RS 250 from the boat crew.
Keep that in mind fellow travelers! Do not follow the touts. Do not wander into travel agency offices. Just wander down the street, cross over the footbridge and start bargaining directly with the houseboat owners and operators.
It was quite possibly the best two days that we've spent in Kerala. I felt really guilty about the quality and quantity of food that we enjoyed. There is really nothing to do on the boat except eat, drink and stare at kilometers and kilometers of beautiful lakes, canals and tributaries lines with coconut trees, rice paddies and villages.
The boat that we had moved at a leisurely pace... if you didn't hear the put-put of the outboard yamaha, you would think that you were drifting. It had a big veranda above the driver's seat and an open-air lounge area. Sorry! There's no shuffle board or skeet shooting.
It was like being pushed through a neighborhood in a stretch limosine, except that the limo has no doors, sides or top. I occasionally can enjoy a pimped out ride, but I don't to flaunt the luxury. Unfortunately on the houseboat, you live large on the backwater and rub it in folk's faces. There is no low-key cruising, as the canals are too tight and the houses and villages are 20 feet away. Eventually numbed by the comforts and bored by the beautiful scenery, I burrowed into my book and hardly looked up - Despite M's attempts to engage me.
So if you are thinking of checking out Kerala's backwaters, please look these guys up when you get to Allepy:
The good book says that for close to RS 3000 per day you should be able to get a houseboat for 24 hours (including 3 meals and overnight accommodation). Through our friendly tout and houseboat pimp we arranged a fare of RS 2500. We were happy until we learned that the pimp takes RS 250 from the boat crew.
Keep that in mind fellow travelers! Do not follow the touts. Do not wander into travel agency offices. Just wander down the street, cross over the footbridge and start bargaining directly with the houseboat owners and operators.
It was quite possibly the best two days that we've spent in Kerala. I felt really guilty about the quality and quantity of food that we enjoyed. There is really nothing to do on the boat except eat, drink and stare at kilometers and kilometers of beautiful lakes, canals and tributaries lines with coconut trees, rice paddies and villages.
The boat that we had moved at a leisurely pace... if you didn't hear the put-put of the outboard yamaha, you would think that you were drifting. It had a big veranda above the driver's seat and an open-air lounge area. Sorry! There's no shuffle board or skeet shooting.
It was like being pushed through a neighborhood in a stretch limosine, except that the limo has no doors, sides or top. I occasionally can enjoy a pimped out ride, but I don't to flaunt the luxury. Unfortunately on the houseboat, you live large on the backwater and rub it in folk's faces. There is no low-key cruising, as the canals are too tight and the houses and villages are 20 feet away. Eventually numbed by the comforts and bored by the beautiful scenery, I burrowed into my book and hardly looked up - Despite M's attempts to engage me.
So if you are thinking of checking out Kerala's backwaters, please look these guys up when you get to Allepy:
Harilal, Sunillal and Ani
Ph: 0477-2724849
Mob: 9447174849
Boat: Bhagya Leksmi / Sriaukuttan
Daily Rates: RS 5000 (in season) to RS 2250 (off season)
Hari and Sunil are brothers and have named the boat after their children. Next time, Sunil will charge us extra for Keralan cooking classes.
5/16/05
The White Sadhu was Deeply Confused
On the train from Madurai to Trivendrum, I met Prasanth and Das, two wonderful individuals from Kerala. They were in their mid-twenties and were returning from a short holiday to the Sri Meenakshi-Sundareshwarar Temple. They loved the temple but found Madurai a little too dirty and congested.
They asked many questions about Michele and I and the US. It turns out that they were studying furiously to pass the IATA examinations. An excellent score on the IATA (Indian Airlines Ticket Agent) will make it easier for one to find a job as a ticket agent. India has a uber-competitive examination system for almost all trade positions. I wouldn't doubt that Indian airline ticketers are the most competant and highest qualified in the world.
P and D and I stayed up all night talking about culture and politics. The rest of our fellow travelers must have certainly enjoyed our roaring and snorting and shouting. It was one of my fonder memories from the trip - a good honest dialogue, no drugs, no alcohol. Afterwards, they wrote:
As you can see they were very sweet and hospitable. I on the other hand was not.
I was supposed to call them, but I couldn't. I wished and washed and gave them a weak email filled with weak excuses about how I was too sunburned and too tired to meet up. My sunburned body is somewhat better now. I'm leaving a trail of dead skin for us to follow on the way back down the mountain from Kumily.
As an apology to my boys P and D, I've included this classic "Action Caption Game" from the Annabelle, Michele and Jamie archives. I hope that they appreciate it:
They asked many questions about Michele and I and the US. It turns out that they were studying furiously to pass the IATA examinations. An excellent score on the IATA (Indian Airlines Ticket Agent) will make it easier for one to find a job as a ticket agent. India has a uber-competitive examination system for almost all trade positions. I wouldn't doubt that Indian airline ticketers are the most competant and highest qualified in the world.
P and D and I stayed up all night talking about culture and politics. The rest of our fellow travelers must have certainly enjoyed our roaring and snorting and shouting. It was one of my fonder memories from the trip - a good honest dialogue, no drugs, no alcohol. Afterwards, they wrote:
hai,
do u remember me?how r u ? hope u fine.i think now u r in kovalam and really enjoying your trip.i like u so much bcoz u r the only one american love indians .so i am very glad 2 invite u 2 my home.will u accept my invitation?please let me know when u r coming.i will be waiting 4 u.
Reply me at the earliest
with love & prayers
Aneeshdas
Hai,
Do u remember me ? How r u ? Hope u fine.I think now u r in Kovalam & really
enjoying there. I know u r very busy with ur journey.
U told me u r planning 2 go 2 kollam 4 boating.That time i forgot to told u
about the boating facility available near 2 my home. You can go 4 boating frm near 2 my home . I think this place is more beautiful than Kollam.
If u come 2 my home i will show u some good places near 2 my home.
I like u so much.u are a good person with high thinking. so i am very glad 2 invite u 2 my home and spend a few hours with me and my friends. Will u accept my invitation? Please let me know when u r coming.After reaching VARKALA inform me.Then we can reach there and meet u. call me after 10 PM then i will be at home.
Waiting 4 your earliest reply.
With love and prayers
Prasanth.
As you can see they were very sweet and hospitable. I on the other hand was not.
I was supposed to call them, but I couldn't. I wished and washed and gave them a weak email filled with weak excuses about how I was too sunburned and too tired to meet up. My sunburned body is somewhat better now. I'm leaving a trail of dead skin for us to follow on the way back down the mountain from Kumily.
As an apology to my boys P and D, I've included this classic "Action Caption Game" from the Annabelle, Michele and Jamie archives. I hope that they appreciate it:
5/12/05
Post sunburn afterglow
We slipped and hit the beach at Varkalla at the wrong time. Now Michele and I are basking in that fuzzy warm, post sunburn glow. God how I yearn for the good old days where we were whining about baby powder and diaper rash. We are now approaching Kerala's backwaters in Kollam (Quilom).
According to a friendly local "economist" who was working as a carpenter, the town planners and developers have killed the golden goose of Varkalla in the past 5 years. The place is paradise with a clifftop view, but with an absurd shambling of restaurants and guesthouses that bump house and techno all night long during the main season. Besides the sunburn and increased temperatures, we are glad that there are not too many annoying Euro-disco package tourites.
More later...
According to a friendly local "economist" who was working as a carpenter, the town planners and developers have killed the golden goose of Varkalla in the past 5 years. The place is paradise with a clifftop view, but with an absurd shambling of restaurants and guesthouses that bump house and techno all night long during the main season. Besides the sunburn and increased temperatures, we are glad that there are not too many annoying Euro-disco package tourites.
More later...
5/4/05
Bye Monica!
As you've noticed, we've been lucky enough to be joined by Monica G. for the last two weeks on our travels. She has taken ill of our inane banter and stupid games and has thus decided to hit the high-road. As such, she will be visiting Kodaikanal, a hill station set up by friendly 'muricans in 1840. We miss her already and wish her well.
You can follow her travels via her blog - monicaintheworld.blogspot.com.
Note: We were joined by M's friend Annabelle in our early weeks of traveling. Even though AB is too cool to have a blog, we miss her and hope that she has good luck on job interviews. AB recently wrote M to request that she put a link to FabIndia on our fair blog (This is a complete lie). Thanks for the reminder AB - Consider it done.
Today we dug Chola Bronzes at the Thanjavur Art Gallery. I don't know how many we saw - My head was spinning after the first hundred. They were all intricate bronze sculptures, ranging in size from two inches to 4 feet. These sculptures were designed to be portable worshipping tools, for hindoos on the go. Since the temples were too heavy, Brahmins would shuttle the sculptures through town and perform drive-by worshipping services. It seems very convenient. I'm continually impressed by our host country's efforts to improve efficiency.
Most CBs featured my boy Shiva, the Nataraja dancing machine, high stepping on a crying child (or evil monster) and surrounded by a ring of fire. Shiva's hair is flying like medusa-snake dreads. We also saw lots of tasy bits of shivas chief consort Parvothi. She's a hot little number! When I suggested to M that her backside resembled that of Shiva's other consort Uma, she smacked me and wished aloud that I had gone to Kodaikanal instead of Monica. You can see why I like traveling with M.
You can follow her travels via her blog - monicaintheworld.blogspot.com.
Note: We were joined by M's friend Annabelle in our early weeks of traveling. Even though AB is too cool to have a blog, we miss her and hope that she has good luck on job interviews. AB recently wrote M to request that she put a link to FabIndia on our fair blog (This is a complete lie). Thanks for the reminder AB - Consider it done.
Today we dug Chola Bronzes at the Thanjavur Art Gallery. I don't know how many we saw - My head was spinning after the first hundred. They were all intricate bronze sculptures, ranging in size from two inches to 4 feet. These sculptures were designed to be portable worshipping tools, for hindoos on the go. Since the temples were too heavy, Brahmins would shuttle the sculptures through town and perform drive-by worshipping services. It seems very convenient. I'm continually impressed by our host country's efforts to improve efficiency.
Most CBs featured my boy Shiva, the Nataraja dancing machine, high stepping on a crying child (or evil monster) and surrounded by a ring of fire. Shiva's hair is flying like medusa-snake dreads. We also saw lots of tasy bits of shivas chief consort Parvothi. She's a hot little number! When I suggested to M that her backside resembled that of Shiva's other consort Uma, she smacked me and wished aloud that I had gone to Kodaikanal instead of Monica. You can see why I like traveling with M.
5/3/05
Ceiling Fan Pooja
One of the many constants throughout our trip has been the never ending hum of the ceiling fan. We must be followed by flocks of them. In every restaurant, temple, hotel room we go - there they are hovering in the center of the room and pushing air down on the people below.
AC is nice, but it most cases not really sanitary. The cooled air sits, then recycles itself through stagnant filters. Does anyone actually clean AC filters? I think in certain parts of the world AC gnomes travel from high-class joint to high-class joint wiping clean the filters of dirty AC machines. In India this in just not so. Along with being five times the normal ticket price, AC train compartments in India also have the added benefit of sharing your bacteria and viruses with the other passengers. Dust, bacteria, viruses, mold, fungus, mildew and gases all stew around with you and your compartment dwellers. But please don't believe me, ask your local HVAC expert.
The ceiling fan repairmen should have their own caste - Just below the Brahmin and above the businessman. Continually in motion they are the engine that runs things in the indian subcontinent... particularly between the months of March and July. I suggest some form of flywheel mechanism to use the kinetic energy of the gajillions of spinning blades. Arundati Roy would be so happy, just think about what that would do to the India and the World Bank's dreadful Hydroelectric Scheming!
I will not faint when I see the first temple constructed to the ceiling fan. I will lean forward and embrace the air as it evaporates the sweat on my pointy head. I will close my eyes and feel the air lift the remains of 2:30's bottle of mineral water from my elbows (It is 2:35 as I write). I will be at peace with the creator.
When we return to SF, the first thing we do is equip our ceiling fan-less apartment with several. Luckily, in my past life I was a CF repairwallah, so I can fix a wobble in a jiffy.
4/28/05
I miss Bangladesh
Everything in Pondichery is so... French. I'm not a France hater, but the parts of the city that we've seen so far are a bit too quiet and clean and organized for my tastes. Maybe I'm just bitter because I can't access my gmail account?
Google, I admire your intestinal fortitude for designing a mail service that won't work on 60% (my observed figure) of the machines that we encounter in Indian/Bangladeshi cyber cafes. You give the people what they want when they want and they want it all the time.
A sick little boy puked on the bus from M-puram. He swayed in his mother's arms and stared at the ceiling of the bus. The ticket collecting asshole gave hassled her about the puke on the floor so she quickly filled a bag with roadside dirt and neutralized the spill. Come to think of it, I don't hate google so much anymore.
Google, I admire your intestinal fortitude for designing a mail service that won't work on 60% (my observed figure) of the machines that we encounter in Indian/Bangladeshi cyber cafes. You give the people what they want when they want and they want it all the time.
A sick little boy puked on the bus from M-puram. He swayed in his mother's arms and stared at the ceiling of the bus. The ticket collecting asshole gave hassled her about the puke on the floor so she quickly filled a bag with roadside dirt and neutralized the spill. Come to think of it, I don't hate google so much anymore.
4/25/05
Impermeable Obliviousness System
Dear Reader.
It is very hot in Mamallapuram (Mahabalipuram)... although I still can't pronounce it correctly. I just start with a "Mah" sound and mumble through the rest. I would probably be more hot if my head wasn't as bald as a cue ball. Now when I sweat, I feel it from the pointy peak of my skull, not just the forehead. I use a bandana/schmatza cloth to cover it for most of the day along with a hat that I stole from Tom. At this point, I'd think that he doesn't want it back.
This head shaving incident was secondary to a long walk that Monica and I took while we were staying in Tirupati, Andra Pradesh. Michele (bless her heart) was delivering biscuits to deaf school children and besides her saintly qualities, DID not want to get out of bed early.
So up we got and 11 km we walked -- straight uphill for the most part. We dripped sweat on sacred stairs that were orange with bright yellow and red face powder. When we arrived at the top, we secured beverages and food and fought to get a place in line for the Kayanna Katta. KK is the place to go to shave your head for Vishnu. As a result, almost everyone in Tirumala was bald. It was amazing.
M very badly wanted to watch and Monica was worried that she would be shaved by an overzealous brahmin. They both waited in line with me and countless other hairy indians. We were shuttled through various holding areas for about an hour, then I got my ticket and a fresh razor blade. I removed my shirt and sat down on the white tile.
We were surrounded by screaming children, whose parents had volunteered their hair for shaving. Fathers grasped kids by the neck to ensure the shaving wallah didn't remove any excess pieces of scalp. I dozed my head in a bucket of water and took a deep breath.
In less than 5 minutes, a man with a straight razor and fresh ten rupie note completely removed all of my hair. I breathed deeply and hoped that Vishnu was watching happily (not momentarily consorting). When I opened my eyes, I saw hair flying everywhere and no blood. My beard was about a month long -- he took that too.
I followed Mothers, daughters, aunties, uncles, nieces, sons, nephews, fathers all bald and happy to the nearest exit. We tried not to step on razor blades or slip on any of the wet hair that flooded the floor. There was no mirror so I had to use M's sunglasses. We took pictures and celebrated our luck with a Pepsi and crackers.
Vishnu must be smiling... or laughing... or pretty pissed off. I'll let you know when I hear from him next.
It is very hot in Mamallapuram (Mahabalipuram)... although I still can't pronounce it correctly. I just start with a "Mah" sound and mumble through the rest. I would probably be more hot if my head wasn't as bald as a cue ball. Now when I sweat, I feel it from the pointy peak of my skull, not just the forehead. I use a bandana/schmatza cloth to cover it for most of the day along with a hat that I stole from Tom. At this point, I'd think that he doesn't want it back.
This head shaving incident was secondary to a long walk that Monica and I took while we were staying in Tirupati, Andra Pradesh. Michele (bless her heart) was delivering biscuits to deaf school children and besides her saintly qualities, DID not want to get out of bed early.
So up we got and 11 km we walked -- straight uphill for the most part. We dripped sweat on sacred stairs that were orange with bright yellow and red face powder. When we arrived at the top, we secured beverages and food and fought to get a place in line for the Kayanna Katta. KK is the place to go to shave your head for Vishnu. As a result, almost everyone in Tirumala was bald. It was amazing.
M very badly wanted to watch and Monica was worried that she would be shaved by an overzealous brahmin. They both waited in line with me and countless other hairy indians. We were shuttled through various holding areas for about an hour, then I got my ticket and a fresh razor blade. I removed my shirt and sat down on the white tile.
We were surrounded by screaming children, whose parents had volunteered their hair for shaving. Fathers grasped kids by the neck to ensure the shaving wallah didn't remove any excess pieces of scalp. I dozed my head in a bucket of water and took a deep breath.
In less than 5 minutes, a man with a straight razor and fresh ten rupie note completely removed all of my hair. I breathed deeply and hoped that Vishnu was watching happily (not momentarily consorting). When I opened my eyes, I saw hair flying everywhere and no blood. My beard was about a month long -- he took that too.
I followed Mothers, daughters, aunties, uncles, nieces, sons, nephews, fathers all bald and happy to the nearest exit. We tried not to step on razor blades or slip on any of the wet hair that flooded the floor. There was no mirror so I had to use M's sunglasses. We took pictures and celebrated our luck with a Pepsi and crackers.
Vishnu must be smiling... or laughing... or pretty pissed off. I'll let you know when I hear from him next.
4/20/05
Dear Readers,
I apologize for the lack of political commentary in our blog posts. Frankly we've both been too overwhelmed with describing our current scenarios to think too much about politics besides here and there. I pledge to write less about what is actually happening to us. This will leave more time to dissect national and local US political happenings. I know that you will all be excited!
Please hold with us for this brave, bold new step for the "Jamie vs. Michele" blog.
Thank you for your continuing support.
The author
PS: We've trudged around the heat of Chennai and are pleasantly surprized. The beaches (although we witnessed them at sunset) did not smell. There was a great carnival atmosphere as men operated hand crank merry-go-rounds and kids and us ingested deep fried eggplants, onions and chillis. The sky was beautiful as storm clouds threatened, but never delivered. The wind picked up and spit sand in the eyes of those selling tchochkes and chaat. Not our eyes, though as we were already making our way back up from the beach.
It was at 9:00AM when Marine beach drive was bitch slapped by last December's terrible tsunami. It snuck up and sucked the lives from 167 people. There were rumors abound that the wave washed ashore a Mermaid, but alas they were proven to be hoaxes. Everyone we talked to said that the beach was hit by a 6 to 10 foot wave that rushed across the entire width of the beach. We saw no obvious signs of the disaster. No death. No destruction and no decaying bodies. Despite the wind and commerce the beach was peaceful.
For RS 25, I bought a book from a beach-vendor that swears it will teach me to speak Tamil in 30 days. I am doubtful as I have no time to read books. I must devote my remaining time to the daft political reporting that you have so demanded. Now, please forgive me -- I must return to my research!
Please hold with us for this brave, bold new step for the "Jamie vs. Michele" blog.
Thank you for your continuing support.
The author
PS: We've trudged around the heat of Chennai and are pleasantly surprized. The beaches (although we witnessed them at sunset) did not smell. There was a great carnival atmosphere as men operated hand crank merry-go-rounds and kids and us ingested deep fried eggplants, onions and chillis. The sky was beautiful as storm clouds threatened, but never delivered. The wind picked up and spit sand in the eyes of those selling tchochkes and chaat. Not our eyes, though as we were already making our way back up from the beach.
It was at 9:00AM when Marine beach drive was bitch slapped by last December's terrible tsunami. It snuck up and sucked the lives from 167 people. There were rumors abound that the wave washed ashore a Mermaid, but alas they were proven to be hoaxes. Everyone we talked to said that the beach was hit by a 6 to 10 foot wave that rushed across the entire width of the beach. We saw no obvious signs of the disaster. No death. No destruction and no decaying bodies. Despite the wind and commerce the beach was peaceful.
For RS 25, I bought a book from a beach-vendor that swears it will teach me to speak Tamil in 30 days. I am doubtful as I have no time to read books. I must devote my remaining time to the daft political reporting that you have so demanded. Now, please forgive me -- I must return to my research!
4/17/05
South Park Wankers
From the usual channels (Roy's Place and Atrios):
"Personally, I'm getting a little tired of all this making fun of conservatives. When you think about it, they deserve a lot of respect.
First, they have to believe whatever the Bush administration or lesser congressional-type republicans tells them to believe. Yea sure, I know, that sounds like something any idiot could do, but those beliefs often change from day to day and often end up diametrically opposed to what they were the day before. It takes an incredibly agile mind to constantly change core values and beliefs without ever acknowledging the contradictions.
Next, they have to disbelieve absolutely whatever a certain other class of people believe. This includes democrats, independents, moderates, the educated, the scientists, the French, and just about everyone else in the world.
Then to top it all off, every piece of art or entertainment must conform to the daily beliefs, whatever they are, or it must be boycotted, burned, or banished (not stashed under the mattress, no, no, no).
And finally, they have to disbelieve, and disbelieve passionately, easily observable reality. Those people being tortured, they're not feeling any pain. South Park? Karl Rove couldn't have written it any better.
It's not easy being that fucking stupid. It really takes a lot of work. Show some respect, people. "
- from Chuckling over at Roy's place
"Personally, I'm getting a little tired of all this making fun of conservatives. When you think about it, they deserve a lot of respect.
First, they have to believe whatever the Bush administration or lesser congressional-type republicans tells them to believe. Yea sure, I know, that sounds like something any idiot could do, but those beliefs often change from day to day and often end up diametrically opposed to what they were the day before. It takes an incredibly agile mind to constantly change core values and beliefs without ever acknowledging the contradictions.
Next, they have to disbelieve absolutely whatever a certain other class of people believe. This includes democrats, independents, moderates, the educated, the scientists, the French, and just about everyone else in the world.
Then to top it all off, every piece of art or entertainment must conform to the daily beliefs, whatever they are, or it must be boycotted, burned, or banished (not stashed under the mattress, no, no, no).
And finally, they have to disbelieve, and disbelieve passionately, easily observable reality. Those people being tortured, they're not feeling any pain. South Park? Karl Rove couldn't have written it any better.
It's not easy being that fucking stupid. It really takes a lot of work. Show some respect, people. "
- from Chuckling over at Roy's place
We get mail
"hi guys, well it has been a pleasure receiving your UPS boxes. beautiful presents, great wall hangings, smelly socks, film, etc but after writing a second $X check to ups we the owners of P aerospace, have decided the honor and thrill should now be given to O TRANSFORMERS. They can also enjoy the excitement when the man/woman in brown rings the bell and brings in that big box. maybe they even have a fed ex account so the joy can be spread to fed ex also. We love you, Mom and Dad"
- From the family F
- From the family F
4/12/05
We do Not have an Exit Strategy
It was June 28, 1990 and Mandela had just been released. He was visiting the US on a goodwill tour of sorts that brought him to Tiger Stadium in downtown Detroit. I was lucky to have been invited to see him speak by my friend Barclay. He, his parents and I sat in the sun and listened to Stevie Wonder and Aretha Franklin perform while Mandela made his way through construction traffic on I-94 (by the way, I love google maps).
Just before the motorcade was due to hit Rosa Parks Boulevard, the main MC for the event taught the whole stadium two phrases... The first: "Asalam Walekum" and in response: "Walekum Asalam." The limosines and police escort rolled up, we all hit him with our new-found greeting, and Mr. Madiba was very happy. With a smile across his face, he discussed his appreciation of freedom and the music of "Motor-Town."
It wasn't until I learned more about world religions, that I recognized "Asalam Walekum" as the universal Muslim greeting. I did not know that Madiba had converted to Islam while in prison, but I remember being happy learning a phrase in another language, perhaps it was Zulu? The greeting and response bounced back and forth in my head. It had a brilliant rhythm, exotic and warm. For many days it rolled off of my tongue.
I think that we've lost the Slovenians. Our friends, Ales and Jernea were a pleasure to travel with, but even they admitted "Four is a difficult number." It is possible that we will run into them again. For all we know, they may be in a hotel next door, but it is not very likely. As pace-setters, they were perfect. They were hardcore budget travelers, riding on the roof of the jeep and staying in the cheapest nasty guest house on a "See Bangladesh in one month!" timeline, while we traveled on a more relaxed pace. Our travel plans did intersect for several days as we had similar destinations, but our differing methodologies drew us apart. They (At least Ales was) were obsessed with seeing Bengal Tigers in the Sunderbans, a UNESCO world heritage site of mangrove forest, delta-country and boatloads of biodiversity. We were more obsessed with meeting tribal peeps and being invited to their houses.
We sat out the rainstorm for at least last two hours in the Tribal Cultural Institute Museum until the din of the ceiling fans drowned the rush of water from the sky. M's lips are discharging pus at regular intervals and my legs are a minefield of last night's mosquito bites. I am dazed and hung over and happy not to be blind. We experimented with a home-brewed rice wine called "Mot" or alternatively "Ara." Ara has a subtle texture and boquet similar to jet fuel.
Last night, we drank with the Chakma and Marma peoples in their seedy subterranean dive beneath the main drag in Rangamati. We had to pose as Buddists to get them to let us in as their relations with Muslim Bangladeshis is strained. The Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT) are alive with bucholic tribal villages and angry indigenous folks. They were chill and very kind to us, although I can't say the same for their firey cusine and libations.
Asalam Walekum comes to me everyday that we've been in Bangladesh. It is the first key phrase that is listed on the front cover of the Bangladesh Lonely Planet, but I've yet to use it. We've met hundreds if not thousands of Muslim people here in our short month, but I can't make it work. It feels too fake - like I'm trying too hard to be "down" with my Muslim brothers and sisters, so I let it lie.
It is not surprising that Phrase number five jumped ahead of phrase number one in the BLP key phrase listing. Beneath the phrase for I don't understand Banla sat "Amar dike takaben na" - Please stop staring at me. Now this is a phrase that we, being Fugly 'Mericuns, could really sink our teeth into. Michele knows it by heart, and we sing it to each other when we are bored and cranky on the bus.
Just before the motorcade was due to hit Rosa Parks Boulevard, the main MC for the event taught the whole stadium two phrases... The first: "Asalam Walekum" and in response: "Walekum Asalam." The limosines and police escort rolled up, we all hit him with our new-found greeting, and Mr. Madiba was very happy. With a smile across his face, he discussed his appreciation of freedom and the music of "Motor-Town."
It wasn't until I learned more about world religions, that I recognized "Asalam Walekum" as the universal Muslim greeting. I did not know that Madiba had converted to Islam while in prison, but I remember being happy learning a phrase in another language, perhaps it was Zulu? The greeting and response bounced back and forth in my head. It had a brilliant rhythm, exotic and warm. For many days it rolled off of my tongue.
I think that we've lost the Slovenians. Our friends, Ales and Jernea were a pleasure to travel with, but even they admitted "Four is a difficult number." It is possible that we will run into them again. For all we know, they may be in a hotel next door, but it is not very likely. As pace-setters, they were perfect. They were hardcore budget travelers, riding on the roof of the jeep and staying in the cheapest nasty guest house on a "See Bangladesh in one month!" timeline, while we traveled on a more relaxed pace. Our travel plans did intersect for several days as we had similar destinations, but our differing methodologies drew us apart. They (At least Ales was) were obsessed with seeing Bengal Tigers in the Sunderbans, a UNESCO world heritage site of mangrove forest, delta-country and boatloads of biodiversity. We were more obsessed with meeting tribal peeps and being invited to their houses.
We sat out the rainstorm for at least last two hours in the Tribal Cultural Institute Museum until the din of the ceiling fans drowned the rush of water from the sky. M's lips are discharging pus at regular intervals and my legs are a minefield of last night's mosquito bites. I am dazed and hung over and happy not to be blind. We experimented with a home-brewed rice wine called "Mot" or alternatively "Ara." Ara has a subtle texture and boquet similar to jet fuel.
Last night, we drank with the Chakma and Marma peoples in their seedy subterranean dive beneath the main drag in Rangamati. We had to pose as Buddists to get them to let us in as their relations with Muslim Bangladeshis is strained. The Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT) are alive with bucholic tribal villages and angry indigenous folks. They were chill and very kind to us, although I can't say the same for their firey cusine and libations.
Asalam Walekum comes to me everyday that we've been in Bangladesh. It is the first key phrase that is listed on the front cover of the Bangladesh Lonely Planet, but I've yet to use it. We've met hundreds if not thousands of Muslim people here in our short month, but I can't make it work. It feels too fake - like I'm trying too hard to be "down" with my Muslim brothers and sisters, so I let it lie.
It is not surprising that Phrase number five jumped ahead of phrase number one in the BLP key phrase listing. Beneath the phrase for I don't understand Banla sat "Amar dike takaben na" - Please stop staring at me. Now this is a phrase that we, being Fugly 'Mericuns, could really sink our teeth into. Michele knows it by heart, and we sing it to each other when we are bored and cranky on the bus.
4/2/05
The bag still smells like fish
... Even after repeated washings. All because of a shitty minibus trip from Teknaf to Cox's Bazar. Some Einstein in the back seat decided to bring his catch from St. Martin's island in a bag with ice; however, after 4 hours in the grueling sun on the junk boat across the goddamned Bay of Bengal (my toes are still sunburned) the ice and fish decomposed to foul mush. This fishy sludge attacked the bag with a passion while we jostled and bounced off of the ceiling crammed among annoying bougey dhakanian tourists. My knocking knees gave way to dull, then sharp pains that switched my gasps from air to consciousness. As I envisioned ball-peen hammers striking, our bag marinated. Now we (and those around us) pay.
Posted dated and submitted via fax as the Internet was not with us on April 2, 2005.
Posted dated and submitted via fax as the Internet was not with us on April 2, 2005.
3/31/05
No-Talking... Period.
We will be out of Internet contact for the next few days. Tomorrow morning we travel 3 hours by bus, then 4 by sea to St. Martin, a tiny flyspeck off the southern coast of Bangladesh.
Cox's Bazar is huge and astoundingly clean. I don't know how they do it, but the B'Deshis have done a great job preserving this stretch of coastline. It is just about at a midpoint of turning into a monstrous Las Vegas/Panama City Beach scene, but for me it is almost perfect. People are still everywhere. On the beach, we are almost always surrounded by troups of kids singing their hello-goodbye songs.... "Hello? Hello? Hello? Goodbye! Bye-bye!"
They say that this is the longest and widest stretch of Beach in the world. Sure - I'm not in the mood to measure. It is really fricking long. Unlike the beaches in Orissa, we saw no-one discharging onto the sand. Discharge is now M's favorite word. It really is astounding at the lack of public pissing in Bangladesh.
We've seen pleas from Bangladesh to the rest of the world: "Look at me! Look at me!" There is a noticeable air of neglect compared to it's neighbor, big-brother India, but things are booming here. Like we saw in Chittagong, there's and abundance of butt-ugly skyscraping hotels of glass and cement. It reminds me of Hotlanta in the early 90's with bamboo scaffolding and construction sites everywhere.
I am the king of speculation without actually knowing what I'm talking about, so take this with salt... This growth is immense, I doubt the governments ability to shape it, let alone, monitor it. With the development at such a clip, I guesstimate that the buildings are not quite earthquakeproof. We'll just have to wait and see what happens. NGO's are more common following social services, not building codes. Building codes and zoning in India are often seen as set-up lines to big jokes. I hope that they can get it right here.
Apparently, the ecotourism bug is doing quite nicely in St. Martin, so I'll give y'all updates. Until then, you will just have to explore the newly linked:
Billmon's Whisky Bar and Joanna Kirkpatrick's fucking incredible Ricksha Arts of Bangladesh Page.
Have yerselves a merry little christmas.
Cox's Bazar is huge and astoundingly clean. I don't know how they do it, but the B'Deshis have done a great job preserving this stretch of coastline. It is just about at a midpoint of turning into a monstrous Las Vegas/Panama City Beach scene, but for me it is almost perfect. People are still everywhere. On the beach, we are almost always surrounded by troups of kids singing their hello-goodbye songs.... "Hello? Hello? Hello? Goodbye! Bye-bye!"
They say that this is the longest and widest stretch of Beach in the world. Sure - I'm not in the mood to measure. It is really fricking long. Unlike the beaches in Orissa, we saw no-one discharging onto the sand. Discharge is now M's favorite word. It really is astounding at the lack of public pissing in Bangladesh.
We've seen pleas from Bangladesh to the rest of the world: "Look at me! Look at me!" There is a noticeable air of neglect compared to it's neighbor, big-brother India, but things are booming here. Like we saw in Chittagong, there's and abundance of butt-ugly skyscraping hotels of glass and cement. It reminds me of Hotlanta in the early 90's with bamboo scaffolding and construction sites everywhere.
I am the king of speculation without actually knowing what I'm talking about, so take this with salt... This growth is immense, I doubt the governments ability to shape it, let alone, monitor it. With the development at such a clip, I guesstimate that the buildings are not quite earthquakeproof. We'll just have to wait and see what happens. NGO's are more common following social services, not building codes. Building codes and zoning in India are often seen as set-up lines to big jokes. I hope that they can get it right here.
Apparently, the ecotourism bug is doing quite nicely in St. Martin, so I'll give y'all updates. Until then, you will just have to explore the newly linked:
Billmon's Whisky Bar and Joanna Kirkpatrick's fucking incredible Ricksha Arts of Bangladesh Page.
Have yerselves a merry little christmas.
3/29/05
Get it on -- Chittagong!
Through our travel reading and bookstore browsing, we've stumbled onto a group of westerners who are obsessed with, you guessed it: rickshaws. Rickshaws are a subject that both M and myself hold dear. They are part of our daily existence (especially in Bangladesh). They are often a point of contention, and sometimes violence, but we love them still.
For the record, we'll call bicycle rickshaws "rickshaws" and autorickshaws "Autos." The human (without machine augmentation) pulled carts we'll just refer to as HPCs.
I finally got over my issues with letting a 60-year old man with no shoes, pull us and our big-ass bags around town on his three wheeler -- M hasn't.
Here, rickshaws are much, much more prevelent than in india. It must have something to do with the dearth of human capital. They jam every street and lane and dusty place with space. They carry everything. They are also adorned with the coolest shit ever.
Rickshaw pullers like to accessorize, and with limited resources, they are dependent on local artists to custom them and craft dope accoutrements. This is similar to airbrushing your custom van, or tricking out your 64 impala with hydrolics, but at a more realistic scale for Bangladeshis (and Indians, Pakistanis and prolly all southeast asian cultures with roads and bicycles).
Vinyl stiched siding, tin and acryic paintings, wood and scrap metal sculpture and frilly plastic. Some are beat, some are beautiful. When we sit in traffic, we drool at the pictures and patterns and colors. Abstract peacocks, little muslim boys praying, Bangla film stars all bloody and gun-toting. This stuff makes me want to personally scrape off all of the boring 2-color, politically correct slogan bumper sticker crap that we see in Berkeley (just kidding, Diane). That type of mobile-creative expression has nothing on RICKSHAW ART.
In Dhaka, we went overboard and bought a ton of stuff. We visited Bicycle street two days in a row and accosted rickshaw accessories dealers. We bitched and bargained and made a fuss over what most Bangladeshis consider to be the most inane shit. Imagine a crowd of speed idled, art crazed space aliens, purchasing all of the toothpaste tubes they could get their eyes on... no don't do that. But that is kinda how we come off.
We're in Chittagong now and sadly, no, we're not taking orders. All of the stuff we get we are mainlining on our apartment walls. We are even thinking of getting a three bedroom, so that we can hang more rickshaw art. Don't even try to mess with our obsession -- we are riding high on this rickshaw art euphoria hog. NO SLEEP TILL WE HIT REHAB, YO!
... or untill M's parents take away the keys to the UPS account.
For the record, we'll call bicycle rickshaws "rickshaws" and autorickshaws "Autos." The human (without machine augmentation) pulled carts we'll just refer to as HPCs.
I finally got over my issues with letting a 60-year old man with no shoes, pull us and our big-ass bags around town on his three wheeler -- M hasn't.
Here, rickshaws are much, much more prevelent than in india. It must have something to do with the dearth of human capital. They jam every street and lane and dusty place with space. They carry everything. They are also adorned with the coolest shit ever.
Rickshaw pullers like to accessorize, and with limited resources, they are dependent on local artists to custom them and craft dope accoutrements. This is similar to airbrushing your custom van, or tricking out your 64 impala with hydrolics, but at a more realistic scale for Bangladeshis (and Indians, Pakistanis and prolly all southeast asian cultures with roads and bicycles).
Vinyl stiched siding, tin and acryic paintings, wood and scrap metal sculpture and frilly plastic. Some are beat, some are beautiful. When we sit in traffic, we drool at the pictures and patterns and colors. Abstract peacocks, little muslim boys praying, Bangla film stars all bloody and gun-toting. This stuff makes me want to personally scrape off all of the boring 2-color, politically correct slogan bumper sticker crap that we see in Berkeley (just kidding, Diane). That type of mobile-creative expression has nothing on RICKSHAW ART.
In Dhaka, we went overboard and bought a ton of stuff. We visited Bicycle street two days in a row and accosted rickshaw accessories dealers. We bitched and bargained and made a fuss over what most Bangladeshis consider to be the most inane shit. Imagine a crowd of speed idled, art crazed space aliens, purchasing all of the toothpaste tubes they could get their eyes on... no don't do that. But that is kinda how we come off.
We're in Chittagong now and sadly, no, we're not taking orders. All of the stuff we get we are mainlining on our apartment walls. We are even thinking of getting a three bedroom, so that we can hang more rickshaw art. Don't even try to mess with our obsession -- we are riding high on this rickshaw art euphoria hog. NO SLEEP TILL WE HIT REHAB, YO!
... or untill M's parents take away the keys to the UPS account.
3/27/05
More fun photo:
"The problem with these women is that they just want to be pampered. They're so used to handouts from people with a soft spot like me." -- From 2/14/05
The audience is greatly impressed by the author's angst filled hawaiian shirt with Boy Scouts of America Patch... And looky he is communicating in ASL!
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