Michele Email 5/29/03
"Hi All,
Calcutta reminds me of what I imagine Havanna to be like-- old beautiful crumbling buildings, communist and political graffiti, lots of people out on the streets. The longer I am here, the more impressed and enamored I am with the place. Also, the more depressed I become.
I was initially pleasantly surprised--- the streets were crossable and I wasn't being mauled by beggars. However, on our second day here, we went to visit Nrimal Holiday, Mother Theresa's home for the Dying Destitute and it was really intense. I was not prepared to walk into a room full of cots of dying people. I also wasn't prepared to walk into a room full of cots of dying Indian people lying underneath photos of Jesus and Mother Theresa. While the services that the center provides are substantial and of quality, there seems to be something particularly hideous about this form of missionary work--- why can't there be paintings of Ganesh and Shiva and Vishnu up as well? (The center is located next to a major Hindu temple but I was told by a volunteer that there wasn't too much contact between the temple and the center.)
The next day (yesterday), we went to the Mother Home, which is the headquarters of Mother Theresa's organization-- Missionaries of Charity. (For those who don't know, she was apparently really bad ass and started her own order, complete with it's own unique nunnery-wear and all.) We visited her grave and met nuns from all over the world. I was really fascinated by the language used to describe the service that she did-- passion and thirst and all this other good stuff. It made me think about how powerful faith based work is, even if I do think it's problematic a lot of the time. It really does get shit done. I am planning on reading more about the Mother when I have a chance-- I am fascinated by her.
Speaking about mothers, I met a Dutch man who spent about 3 months at an ashram in Kerala that is run by a guru whose name is Mother. Apparently, she hugs everyone who comes to visit. And it's apparently a very peaceful place. And that brings me to a new tirade--- I can't stand westerners that are here to spend 3 months in an ashram. You want mindfullness, go walk in the slums. Who says sleeping on the streets and walking through shit isn't spiritual? There's something so hideous about people who use this country for spiritual purposes, who come here and go straight to the mountain or backwaters ashrams. Go escape in the streets. Practice meditation while dodging beggars. Go volunteer at the center for the Destitute and Dying. OK, I'll stop preaching now.
Last night, on my way to the internet center, I passed an older man that was making his bed out of newspapers on the sidewalk. When I walked back, after using the internet, he was lying down and seemed to be sleeping. I had 5 rupees in my pocket and so I placed it on his hand. He jumped, which caused me to jump, and then he saw the money and thanked me. Scott pointed out the irony-- I spend my days trying to dodge beggars only to wake up people to give them money. I get annoyed at people poking and touching me, only I poke and touch them in return.
Tomorrow, Jamie and I are going to the market and we are going to buy a lot of food and we are planning on making food packets. Early Saturday morning, we are going to go out and do "hit and runs"-- we're going to try to leave packets with folks sleeping on the street and move on quickly. The trick is not to linger afterwards. I know it's a small gesture in the face of so much poverty, but I feel like I need to do something.
Saturday we leave too-- we head home via Bangkok and will be back on the 1st of June.
Love, Michele
PS-- if there are any ashram advocates out there, I hope I have not offended you. I am just speaking about how I feel and am open to hearing different opinions."
5/31/03
5/29/03
Straws are Extremely Popular
Spicy, rich, incredible flavors and aromas. Bright colors, fresh vegetables, breads cheeses milk and teas...
Everyone drinks things very slow here. Maybe I have a problem with gulping, but one cold drink is usually not enough. The cokes here are sent from the gods. Of course, they are normal cokes, they just are cold and are not water so one is immediately drawn to their magnetic charms. Bottle hygiene is poor, but at least there is a bustling glass recycling program. Straws are extremely popular, and as such I tend to drink even faster. I do need to drink more water. It is not enough that I find myself pissing clear. However as soon as I take one sip (or gulp) of some bottled water I begin to sweat profusely. It makes complete sense that my body waits to be properly hydrated before it cools things down with liquid waste, but it is damn inconvenient.
Everything is rich and thick and oily and spicy. The spicy part I don't mind as my tastebuds left the building years ago. To get a little kick I chew on the green chilis that they provide as garnishes (they are especially tastey when doused in lime and salt). With the dishes you get to choose between Roti (light flat bread) and Rice. Sure they must eat Naan (common Indian bread served in US indian joints) somewhere but I've only seen it on the menu a few times. The rice or rotis are your only utensils if you want to be authentic.
But you've read this all before, haven't you... Oh Sahib! How I yearn for a burrito.
Let me tell you that it is difficult to enjoy indian food when one is afflicted with stomach pains and digestive issues. Then you swear at yourself for dragging Michele into pizza hut. You really didn't want to do it. It is not the taste. You never eat Pizza hut in the states, only froo froo designer slices from Arinell's, the Lane Splitter and Escape from New York. You blame it all on your parents. Too many visits to Little Ceasars. Too many orders from Domino's. But the burden is not theirs to carry, and haven't you blamed Jim and Suze enough for everything in your early twenties... The burden rests square on your shoulders.
McDonald's is not that expensive when you think about it. I'd gladly pay 20 rupies for air conditioning alone for 10 minutes and they have a McVeg burger. The french fries are true blue pure veg as well thanks to recent lawsuits and rioting. If you are lucky the restaurant will say "Pure Veg" somewhere on the menu. Most if not all Hindus are veg. I'm quite happy to add that in the Hindu world eggs are veg. Woo hoo! The phenomenon of McDonalds must plauge every progressive wannabe that comes here. I would add "weak-kneed" to my progressive description but lord knows that we are all weak in the knees, dear friends. I'm sure that even Mother Theresa would get busy with a super sized Limca, fries and a Chicken McCurry.
Really though how do you tell a nation that their idols are clay? Not the Hindu ones, of course I don't want to commit religious heresay or get myself beat up and torn down like an unfortunate mosque. I'm talking about the Western gods of hollywood, capitalism, fast food and consumer goods. Most indians that I've talked to are so happy to have access to westen food and culture. Although as much as I complain about coffee, I am so happy that there have been more sightings of Siberian snow leopords (3) than Starbucks (0). It is like those little girls that you raise to be righteous feminists who still insist on wearing dresses and playing with barbie. How to turn these protowesterners into the "riot grrls" of new world devolopment is the question. How can they take these western icons and turn them on their heads?
Eating with your hands is an altogether different issue. It is romantic to scoop rice and chapati and curry in the right while the left stays under the table. I like the idea of using my fingers as extensions of my tastebuds. Feeling the cumin and saffron and green chilis, but I get too freaked out. Sure, the utensils that you use at a restaurant are not guaranteed to be hygenic, but I just don't trust myself. I mean - I just don't trust my hands to be clean. I have too much guilt.
Last week, Michele's digestive tract was abstract and upset like a Henry Throop photocollage. Despite what the homeopathic Brits tried to sell us, Michele continued to eat like a vegan goat. Still she'll chew on whatever she finds in front of her that doesn't offend her current political and social sensibilities. There are no goats and few wandering cows in Kolkatta. I am in monkey withdrawal, but it is better to go cold turkey. We leave for Thailand then home the day after tomorrow. See you real soon.
Everyone drinks things very slow here. Maybe I have a problem with gulping, but one cold drink is usually not enough. The cokes here are sent from the gods. Of course, they are normal cokes, they just are cold and are not water so one is immediately drawn to their magnetic charms. Bottle hygiene is poor, but at least there is a bustling glass recycling program. Straws are extremely popular, and as such I tend to drink even faster. I do need to drink more water. It is not enough that I find myself pissing clear. However as soon as I take one sip (or gulp) of some bottled water I begin to sweat profusely. It makes complete sense that my body waits to be properly hydrated before it cools things down with liquid waste, but it is damn inconvenient.
Everything is rich and thick and oily and spicy. The spicy part I don't mind as my tastebuds left the building years ago. To get a little kick I chew on the green chilis that they provide as garnishes (they are especially tastey when doused in lime and salt). With the dishes you get to choose between Roti (light flat bread) and Rice. Sure they must eat Naan (common Indian bread served in US indian joints) somewhere but I've only seen it on the menu a few times. The rice or rotis are your only utensils if you want to be authentic.
But you've read this all before, haven't you... Oh Sahib! How I yearn for a burrito.
Let me tell you that it is difficult to enjoy indian food when one is afflicted with stomach pains and digestive issues. Then you swear at yourself for dragging Michele into pizza hut. You really didn't want to do it. It is not the taste. You never eat Pizza hut in the states, only froo froo designer slices from Arinell's, the Lane Splitter and Escape from New York. You blame it all on your parents. Too many visits to Little Ceasars. Too many orders from Domino's. But the burden is not theirs to carry, and haven't you blamed Jim and Suze enough for everything in your early twenties... The burden rests square on your shoulders.
McDonald's is not that expensive when you think about it. I'd gladly pay 20 rupies for air conditioning alone for 10 minutes and they have a McVeg burger. The french fries are true blue pure veg as well thanks to recent lawsuits and rioting. If you are lucky the restaurant will say "Pure Veg" somewhere on the menu. Most if not all Hindus are veg. I'm quite happy to add that in the Hindu world eggs are veg. Woo hoo! The phenomenon of McDonalds must plauge every progressive wannabe that comes here. I would add "weak-kneed" to my progressive description but lord knows that we are all weak in the knees, dear friends. I'm sure that even Mother Theresa would get busy with a super sized Limca, fries and a Chicken McCurry.
Really though how do you tell a nation that their idols are clay? Not the Hindu ones, of course I don't want to commit religious heresay or get myself beat up and torn down like an unfortunate mosque. I'm talking about the Western gods of hollywood, capitalism, fast food and consumer goods. Most indians that I've talked to are so happy to have access to westen food and culture. Although as much as I complain about coffee, I am so happy that there have been more sightings of Siberian snow leopords (3) than Starbucks (0). It is like those little girls that you raise to be righteous feminists who still insist on wearing dresses and playing with barbie. How to turn these protowesterners into the "riot grrls" of new world devolopment is the question. How can they take these western icons and turn them on their heads?
Eating with your hands is an altogether different issue. It is romantic to scoop rice and chapati and curry in the right while the left stays under the table. I like the idea of using my fingers as extensions of my tastebuds. Feeling the cumin and saffron and green chilis, but I get too freaked out. Sure, the utensils that you use at a restaurant are not guaranteed to be hygenic, but I just don't trust myself. I mean - I just don't trust my hands to be clean. I have too much guilt.
Last week, Michele's digestive tract was abstract and upset like a Henry Throop photocollage. Despite what the homeopathic Brits tried to sell us, Michele continued to eat like a vegan goat. Still she'll chew on whatever she finds in front of her that doesn't offend her current political and social sensibilities. There are no goats and few wandering cows in Kolkatta. I am in monkey withdrawal, but it is better to go cold turkey. We leave for Thailand then home the day after tomorrow. See you real soon.
5/22/03
Driving Lessons with Yochanan
Email - Michele 5/23/03
"When I was young and my father was teaching me to drive, he devised an ingenius method for turning me into a cautious driver: whenever I hit a pothole or slammed on the brakes or bumped a parked car, he would yell out the amount of dollar damage that he thought that I had caused to the car. As a result, I would often practice driving to the tune of "$200 DOLLAR DAMAGE" and "$150 DOLLAR DAMAGE" (Picture this being uttered in an extremely loud thick Hebrew accented voice.) Over time, this way of thinking was ingrained in me and I now see the relationship between cars and potholes in terms of monetary value. (Thanks Dad.)
I did not want to tell the driver who drove us to Darjeeling this, but he far exceeded the monetary value of his old van in the potholes that he hit. The entire road through the mountains was fraught with potholes and boulders and huge bumps and I was incredibly nervous. I honestly thought we might die. Jamie and I were crammed in the front seat next to the driver, without a seat belt or anything, only a Shiva icon on the dashboard and the vast tea plantations out the window for comfort. We had to stop often to let other cars going the opposite direction come through and I was afraid that we might roll backwards and off the mountain. However, and thanks to Shiva, we did make it to Darjeeling where we now are.
The ride in the van might have been harrowing but it was less morally harrowing than riding in a cycle rickshaw. Jamie and I struggle with this a lot. Cycle rickshaws are everywhere in India and everyone seems to ride them. There are tons of them and they are seen as a cheap, if not particularly fast, way of getting somewhere. However, the bikes are often old, ungreased, and rusty, and they seem bloody hard to peddle. On a hot day, you can see the rickshaw-wallah sweating and exerting great energy to get you somewhere, while you just sit there, silently, above him. It is not a very comfortable feeling at all, to feel like you are forcing someone to work very hard. However, there are pros and cons. If we don't take them, the drivers don't make money. (And do keep in mind that a bus driver in India earns 163 rupees a day.) Also, who are we to say that we find cycle rickshaws to be morally repugnant? In many cases, cycle rickshaw-wallahs are trying to save money for auto-rickshaws or taxis. And in some cases, driving a cycle rickshaw might be more economically efficient--- there's less overhead. And environmentally, cycle rickshaws don't pollute the environment. Hmmmm, am I trying to rationalize taking cycle rickshaws? Am I trying to assuage my guilt? I just know that we bargain really hard with them and then we always pay them way over the amount we've bargained for and we give them our water.
Our friend Scott told us that sometimes the wallahs pretend to be working super hard to make us feel bad. It works. "
"When I was young and my father was teaching me to drive, he devised an ingenius method for turning me into a cautious driver: whenever I hit a pothole or slammed on the brakes or bumped a parked car, he would yell out the amount of dollar damage that he thought that I had caused to the car. As a result, I would often practice driving to the tune of "$200 DOLLAR DAMAGE" and "$150 DOLLAR DAMAGE" (Picture this being uttered in an extremely loud thick Hebrew accented voice.) Over time, this way of thinking was ingrained in me and I now see the relationship between cars and potholes in terms of monetary value. (Thanks Dad.)
I did not want to tell the driver who drove us to Darjeeling this, but he far exceeded the monetary value of his old van in the potholes that he hit. The entire road through the mountains was fraught with potholes and boulders and huge bumps and I was incredibly nervous. I honestly thought we might die. Jamie and I were crammed in the front seat next to the driver, without a seat belt or anything, only a Shiva icon on the dashboard and the vast tea plantations out the window for comfort. We had to stop often to let other cars going the opposite direction come through and I was afraid that we might roll backwards and off the mountain. However, and thanks to Shiva, we did make it to Darjeeling where we now are.
The ride in the van might have been harrowing but it was less morally harrowing than riding in a cycle rickshaw. Jamie and I struggle with this a lot. Cycle rickshaws are everywhere in India and everyone seems to ride them. There are tons of them and they are seen as a cheap, if not particularly fast, way of getting somewhere. However, the bikes are often old, ungreased, and rusty, and they seem bloody hard to peddle. On a hot day, you can see the rickshaw-wallah sweating and exerting great energy to get you somewhere, while you just sit there, silently, above him. It is not a very comfortable feeling at all, to feel like you are forcing someone to work very hard. However, there are pros and cons. If we don't take them, the drivers don't make money. (And do keep in mind that a bus driver in India earns 163 rupees a day.) Also, who are we to say that we find cycle rickshaws to be morally repugnant? In many cases, cycle rickshaw-wallahs are trying to save money for auto-rickshaws or taxis. And in some cases, driving a cycle rickshaw might be more economically efficient--- there's less overhead. And environmentally, cycle rickshaws don't pollute the environment. Hmmmm, am I trying to rationalize taking cycle rickshaws? Am I trying to assuage my guilt? I just know that we bargain really hard with them and then we always pay them way over the amount we've bargained for and we give them our water.
Our friend Scott told us that sometimes the wallahs pretend to be working super hard to make us feel bad. It works. "
Michele in Varanassi/Darjeeling
Email - Michele 5/23/03
"Note: This was started a few days ago. We are currently in Darjeeling.
We are now in Varanasi, otherwise known as Benares and Kashi. It is perhaps the holiest city for Hindus and people come here to die and to be cremated on the banks of the Ganges. It is a place where Hindu rituals, from the cremation ceremony to daily pujas, are played out in extremely open public space and anyone can watch. It is a place where a walk through the old city yields countless shrine sightings and a myriad of small temples. It is also an incredibly filthy city where rubbish lies rotting on the streets and there are ample opportunities to step in cow shit (don't ask how many times I have done this, please). The Ganges, a holy river, is also India's largest garbage can and all-encompassing drain.
Last night, after sitting for about an hour and viewing the cremations (there were about 6 pyres going at once and it's a very public and very matter of fact ritual) I went back to my hotel and hung out with a really cool guy from Australia named Colin. We both were puzzling over the nature of Varanasi. Both of us had visited Jerusalem and we agreed readily that it was a very, if not the most, spiritual city. We also agreed that Varanasi did not seem particularly spiritual even though it was certainly rich with ritual. The rituals seemed mechanical and rushed; there was no outward fervor nor was there anything that seemed to be directed at the unity of man and god. There was also no demarcation of holy space-- the rituals seemed to be taking place in profane everyday space (ie, space strwen with rubbish and cow shit).
What I felt that I witnessed was in direct contrast to what is said about Hinduism in my new favorite book, the 2002 Booker Prize winner The Life of PI by Yann Martel:
"I am a Hindu because of sculptured cones of red kumkum powder and baskets of yellow tumeric nuggets, because of garlands of flowers and pieces of broken coconut, because of the clanging of bells to announce one's arrival to God, because of the whine of the reedy nadaswaram and the beating of drums, because of the patter of bare feet against stone floors down dark corridors pierced by shafts of light, because of the fragrance of incense, because of the flames of arati lamps circling in the darkness, because of bhajans being sweetly sung, because of elephants standing around to bless, because of colourful murals telling colourful stories, because of foreheads carrying, variously signified, the same word--faith."
In the morning, I discussed this all with Jamie who is very cynical about religion and who is not into theoretical religious discussions. His take on it was that it had been established, ages and ages ago as a result of Hindu mythology (ie, the actions of the gods), that Varanasi was a holy place and that the Ganges was auspicious, and as such, those timeless truths still applied. It was because of the actions of the gods that Varanasi was special, not because of the current actions of humans. And therefore, humans can continue to dump shit in the river and on their streets.
And now another word on the cremation ceremonies. If an individual is lucky enough to be cremated on the banks of the Ganges, they will not be reincarnated. For this reason, pregnant women and children under 10 are not cremated. Instead, their bodies are tied to weights and dumped into the river. Saddhus are not burned either as they are already pure. Cremation is fairly expensive and the amount of wood used on the pyres is carefully measured and kept track of. The body is first carried down to the pyre and it is doused with Ganges water. Rites are performed by a Brahmin priest. Within a matter of moments, the body is set ablaze, people move away because of the heat, and the dead person burns. Tourists are allowed to watch, but from a slight distance, and they are forbidden to take photos.
Unfortunately, schemes have been developed and there are touts that try to give tourists "tours" and then they ask for money for the wood or for people waiting to die and if one refuses to listen to them or give them money they try to shoo you away. Since I have been visiting the ghats every day since my arrival, I have had a few encounters with such touts and I can not describe how angry they make me-- to think that they have the right to tell me where I can or cannot go in such a holy place, to think that they have the nerve to ask for money for their own personal gain. And don't even get me started on the dude that tried to get us to go to his silk shop after the ghats. First stop death, next stop silk.
I realize that my reaction is a very western one and that to Indians, the space where people are cremated is not necessarily sacred in the sense that every day exchanges cannot take place there. I realize that I rigidly compartmentalize things in terms of good and bad, sacred and profane, holy and secular, etc. I'm very comfortable and passionate about doing this and anything else makes me uncomfortable. I'm trying to explore this for what it is, but I do know that I am NOT going to pay some tout for permission to stand and watch a public ritual.
Maybe it should not be free. Maybe someone should be paid. I don't know. All I know is that it is 110 degrees here and hotter at the burning ghat.
Thanks for reading. "
"Note: This was started a few days ago. We are currently in Darjeeling.
We are now in Varanasi, otherwise known as Benares and Kashi. It is perhaps the holiest city for Hindus and people come here to die and to be cremated on the banks of the Ganges. It is a place where Hindu rituals, from the cremation ceremony to daily pujas, are played out in extremely open public space and anyone can watch. It is a place where a walk through the old city yields countless shrine sightings and a myriad of small temples. It is also an incredibly filthy city where rubbish lies rotting on the streets and there are ample opportunities to step in cow shit (don't ask how many times I have done this, please). The Ganges, a holy river, is also India's largest garbage can and all-encompassing drain.
Last night, after sitting for about an hour and viewing the cremations (there were about 6 pyres going at once and it's a very public and very matter of fact ritual) I went back to my hotel and hung out with a really cool guy from Australia named Colin. We both were puzzling over the nature of Varanasi. Both of us had visited Jerusalem and we agreed readily that it was a very, if not the most, spiritual city. We also agreed that Varanasi did not seem particularly spiritual even though it was certainly rich with ritual. The rituals seemed mechanical and rushed; there was no outward fervor nor was there anything that seemed to be directed at the unity of man and god. There was also no demarcation of holy space-- the rituals seemed to be taking place in profane everyday space (ie, space strwen with rubbish and cow shit).
What I felt that I witnessed was in direct contrast to what is said about Hinduism in my new favorite book, the 2002 Booker Prize winner The Life of PI by Yann Martel:
"I am a Hindu because of sculptured cones of red kumkum powder and baskets of yellow tumeric nuggets, because of garlands of flowers and pieces of broken coconut, because of the clanging of bells to announce one's arrival to God, because of the whine of the reedy nadaswaram and the beating of drums, because of the patter of bare feet against stone floors down dark corridors pierced by shafts of light, because of the fragrance of incense, because of the flames of arati lamps circling in the darkness, because of bhajans being sweetly sung, because of elephants standing around to bless, because of colourful murals telling colourful stories, because of foreheads carrying, variously signified, the same word--faith."
In the morning, I discussed this all with Jamie who is very cynical about religion and who is not into theoretical religious discussions. His take on it was that it had been established, ages and ages ago as a result of Hindu mythology (ie, the actions of the gods), that Varanasi was a holy place and that the Ganges was auspicious, and as such, those timeless truths still applied. It was because of the actions of the gods that Varanasi was special, not because of the current actions of humans. And therefore, humans can continue to dump shit in the river and on their streets.
And now another word on the cremation ceremonies. If an individual is lucky enough to be cremated on the banks of the Ganges, they will not be reincarnated. For this reason, pregnant women and children under 10 are not cremated. Instead, their bodies are tied to weights and dumped into the river. Saddhus are not burned either as they are already pure. Cremation is fairly expensive and the amount of wood used on the pyres is carefully measured and kept track of. The body is first carried down to the pyre and it is doused with Ganges water. Rites are performed by a Brahmin priest. Within a matter of moments, the body is set ablaze, people move away because of the heat, and the dead person burns. Tourists are allowed to watch, but from a slight distance, and they are forbidden to take photos.
Unfortunately, schemes have been developed and there are touts that try to give tourists "tours" and then they ask for money for the wood or for people waiting to die and if one refuses to listen to them or give them money they try to shoo you away. Since I have been visiting the ghats every day since my arrival, I have had a few encounters with such touts and I can not describe how angry they make me-- to think that they have the right to tell me where I can or cannot go in such a holy place, to think that they have the nerve to ask for money for their own personal gain. And don't even get me started on the dude that tried to get us to go to his silk shop after the ghats. First stop death, next stop silk.
I realize that my reaction is a very western one and that to Indians, the space where people are cremated is not necessarily sacred in the sense that every day exchanges cannot take place there. I realize that I rigidly compartmentalize things in terms of good and bad, sacred and profane, holy and secular, etc. I'm very comfortable and passionate about doing this and anything else makes me uncomfortable. I'm trying to explore this for what it is, but I do know that I am NOT going to pay some tout for permission to stand and watch a public ritual.
Maybe it should not be free. Maybe someone should be paid. I don't know. All I know is that it is 110 degrees here and hotter at the burning ghat.
Thanks for reading. "
5/18/03
Michele in Delhi #4
Email - Michele 5/17/03
"Hi Everyone,
Jamie and I just finished doing a presentation on HIV/AIDS to the Delhi Foundation on Deaf Women, not that we're experts or anything... Yesterday, I was visiting the center and they had a list of diseases up on the board-- it was a random list that included leprosy, malaria, pimples, cough, SARS, and fever, but no AIDS. I asked them why AIDS was not on the board being that it is a huge issue in India, and they invited me to come and talk about it today. I tried to decline and they would not let me, aod so I ran off to the internet place and did mad research on AIDS and women. Thank goodness for the WHO!
It was a really interesting presentation as we were talking about the importance of condoms and when we asked them where they could find condoms, they did not know. They also said that there were no places for free testing and that they did not really talk to their partners about previous sexual experiences (since no one is supposed to have such experiences prior to marriage). I wasn't sure if they were shocked by the presentation or if it seemed relevant or what.
The Delhi Deaf Womens' Foundation is way cool by the way. There are women of all ages and it's also a craft cooperative and the women make leather products, textiles, batik, and handmade paper books. A deaf-run sweat shop! Since these women receive salaries, they're much better off than most women who are not financially independent.
I finished my dance class today and it was really cool in the end-- I think I learned a lot and I was able to (not very gracefully) perform a whole series to the Tabla. It's interesting as there are all these notes that I need to learn in order to keep in tune with the tabla and so my teacher had someone write all the notes down for me to memorize. I might try to find a Kathak class when I return although I'm not as hardcore about dance as Jamie is about music-- he's really rocking out on the harmonium and he has learned like 3-4 hindi songs and he can actually sing and play them and he sounds great. I think his teacher is super impressed with his playing. His teacher bought him a cassette of classical Indian music and he recirprocated by buying her a Lauren Hill tape. Cool, no?
Let's see, what else is up? We went back to Nizamuddin, the congested Muslim area 2 nights ago in an attempt to hear Sufi Quawwali music and it was less intimidating than it was last time. We did not get to hear any music, but it was interesting to watch peoples' behavior at the Sufi shrine and we looked around in this interesting ideological bookstore and we saw people with all kinds of disabilities on display as beggars. It's a really intense area of small alleys with sheep running through them juxtaposed with women in full black juxtaposed with the bright pink of flowers that they sell to place at the shrines. I don't feel quite at ease but I don't think I necessarily feel threatened either. I think I said in a previous email that this area is very different from the Islam that I am familiar with.
We ate muslim bread for a rupee a piece and then took a rickshaw to a fabulous icecream place where scoops are 40 rupees each. Such contrasts....
Incidentally, it really is hotter than an armpit right now and riding in a rickshaw is like having a hairdryer blowing on you.
Love, Michele "
"Hi Everyone,
Jamie and I just finished doing a presentation on HIV/AIDS to the Delhi Foundation on Deaf Women, not that we're experts or anything... Yesterday, I was visiting the center and they had a list of diseases up on the board-- it was a random list that included leprosy, malaria, pimples, cough, SARS, and fever, but no AIDS. I asked them why AIDS was not on the board being that it is a huge issue in India, and they invited me to come and talk about it today. I tried to decline and they would not let me, aod so I ran off to the internet place and did mad research on AIDS and women. Thank goodness for the WHO!
It was a really interesting presentation as we were talking about the importance of condoms and when we asked them where they could find condoms, they did not know. They also said that there were no places for free testing and that they did not really talk to their partners about previous sexual experiences (since no one is supposed to have such experiences prior to marriage). I wasn't sure if they were shocked by the presentation or if it seemed relevant or what.
The Delhi Deaf Womens' Foundation is way cool by the way. There are women of all ages and it's also a craft cooperative and the women make leather products, textiles, batik, and handmade paper books. A deaf-run sweat shop! Since these women receive salaries, they're much better off than most women who are not financially independent.
I finished my dance class today and it was really cool in the end-- I think I learned a lot and I was able to (not very gracefully) perform a whole series to the Tabla. It's interesting as there are all these notes that I need to learn in order to keep in tune with the tabla and so my teacher had someone write all the notes down for me to memorize. I might try to find a Kathak class when I return although I'm not as hardcore about dance as Jamie is about music-- he's really rocking out on the harmonium and he has learned like 3-4 hindi songs and he can actually sing and play them and he sounds great. I think his teacher is super impressed with his playing. His teacher bought him a cassette of classical Indian music and he recirprocated by buying her a Lauren Hill tape. Cool, no?
Let's see, what else is up? We went back to Nizamuddin, the congested Muslim area 2 nights ago in an attempt to hear Sufi Quawwali music and it was less intimidating than it was last time. We did not get to hear any music, but it was interesting to watch peoples' behavior at the Sufi shrine and we looked around in this interesting ideological bookstore and we saw people with all kinds of disabilities on display as beggars. It's a really intense area of small alleys with sheep running through them juxtaposed with women in full black juxtaposed with the bright pink of flowers that they sell to place at the shrines. I don't feel quite at ease but I don't think I necessarily feel threatened either. I think I said in a previous email that this area is very different from the Islam that I am familiar with.
We ate muslim bread for a rupee a piece and then took a rickshaw to a fabulous icecream place where scoops are 40 rupees each. Such contrasts....
Incidentally, it really is hotter than an armpit right now and riding in a rickshaw is like having a hairdryer blowing on you.
Love, Michele "
5/17/03
Spartan Dupatta
This may ruin the surprise, but I bought my mother a dupatta yesterday. I tried to color coordinate it with outfits that I know she has. I also did my best to make it functional for her. A green and white dupatta will go wonderful with the fall colors that she likes, mainly green and white. I'm excited because dupattas are supposed to be wonderful to wear on sunny afternoons. Indian women that I've spoken to rave that they keep the head shaded, asthetically pleasing and may at a moments notice can be converted to help the wearer look extremely mysterious. This is always a good feature when you've spilled somebody's soda or simultaneously insulted their grandmother and alma mater.
Please note that my mother and brother are both quite talented at making friends using this method at spectator sporting events. Maybe it is because she lives in Grosse Pointe, but my mother shares the indian obsession of all things plaid, so I picked not just one but two possible dupatta options for her. Of course these facts are not necessarily relevant, but they are important. Well maybe not to you, but by this point I gather that you are used to suffering through my digressions so I'm sure you won't mind another.
My brother quit his job a few days back. A fact that weighs heavy on my mind for no other reason than I've exhausted all other stories about criminal rickshaw drivers. There are a multitude of possible vocations for him to pursue, but I think he is going to try his entreprenuerial skills and create a website called www.nastybreakup.com. I'm sure that he has already reserved the URL, so maybe this advance advertisement will be all that is necessary to kick start the business. At nastybreakup.com, users may solicit expert advice for breaking up with romantic interests or they may send their soon-to-be-future ex-partner "anonymous" notice of their soon-to-be-future aspirations.
In my expert opinion, it sounds like a service that those who find themselves in arranged marriages may greatly appreciate. So we'll soon be kicking things off at nastybreakup.co.in (indian web address) for those in the subcontinent lucky enough to have internet access and an axe to grind. Folks here are much to polite and modest to take care of these much needed communications in person, so things here are as they say "ripe for the picking." We will even include a section for brides to be who have found an unrealistic dowry demanded of their families (Thanks David).
For a logo we will "borrow" the sikh logo or IkOnkar (Pronounced EkOankaar). To me nothing indicates a trustworthy business more than an Ikonkar, or anything remotely sikh-y. Is it wrong for me to love all that is sikh? Sikh men are all like the grandfather's that I never met. Their long beards and turbans exude a cuddly sexiness, that drives Michele (And I!) crazy. We do not bargain, harass or feel up any rickshaw driver that could be a sikh. I sleep soundly on all government buses with a sikh drivers and pictures of sikh gurus surrounded by flashing green and red LED lights. Michele calls it "sikhtotification." I don't know what to call it. I'm just drawn to these men... I admit it! I am not above trusting all sikhs for their religious views and practices that I know nothing about.
This has been driving me crazy since we last spoke in Amritsar, dear reader. At the golden temple, the sikh holy book (the Guru Granth Sahib) is continuously sung by sikh priests while comping chords and improvisng melodies on the harmonium. When accompanied by a tabla guru the guru granth sahib is some serious science dropped. Imagine our dismay when we learned that the beautiful cloth covering could not be used as a wall hanging and could not be purchased by non-sikhs. We were absolutely crushed.
I have begun to wear the sacred comb in my hair (not actually comb my hair with it though) and have promised not to trim my beard, ever. I have always been fond of the color orange and until I talk to the customs agent at the Kokatta international airport, I've got one of those little daggers with the nylon holster around my leg. Also, Michele and I have decided to name our first child "kahlsa," not "akivha" as she annoyingly teases. Even as we speak Guru Nanak beams over my left shoulder from Paharganj's finest internet access joint. It is good to have finally found a spiritual home. It is good to find a people to trust in the chaos of india*
* This is not necessarily an accurate statement as Deepa's parents and most of the other incredible people we've met were very trustworthy, but I should hope that you don't count on this blog for accuracy.
It is good to tie up this blog entry. I admit that I lied to you about the relevance and importance of my mother's Michigan State dupatta. I'm sorry, but Happy Mother's day (yes it is six days late) to you, mom. Jeff was in charge of the flowers. I can't take credit for them. I can only bask in the glory of his behavior. I do take credit for the indian version of the breakup website, so make note of that in your records. Also make note that we've changed the dates of our return flight and as such we will be back in San Francisco on June 1.
Please note that my mother and brother are both quite talented at making friends using this method at spectator sporting events. Maybe it is because she lives in Grosse Pointe, but my mother shares the indian obsession of all things plaid, so I picked not just one but two possible dupatta options for her. Of course these facts are not necessarily relevant, but they are important. Well maybe not to you, but by this point I gather that you are used to suffering through my digressions so I'm sure you won't mind another.
My brother quit his job a few days back. A fact that weighs heavy on my mind for no other reason than I've exhausted all other stories about criminal rickshaw drivers. There are a multitude of possible vocations for him to pursue, but I think he is going to try his entreprenuerial skills and create a website called www.nastybreakup.com. I'm sure that he has already reserved the URL, so maybe this advance advertisement will be all that is necessary to kick start the business. At nastybreakup.com, users may solicit expert advice for breaking up with romantic interests or they may send their soon-to-be-future ex-partner "anonymous" notice of their soon-to-be-future aspirations.
In my expert opinion, it sounds like a service that those who find themselves in arranged marriages may greatly appreciate. So we'll soon be kicking things off at nastybreakup.co.in (indian web address) for those in the subcontinent lucky enough to have internet access and an axe to grind. Folks here are much to polite and modest to take care of these much needed communications in person, so things here are as they say "ripe for the picking." We will even include a section for brides to be who have found an unrealistic dowry demanded of their families (Thanks David).
For a logo we will "borrow" the sikh logo or IkOnkar (Pronounced EkOankaar). To me nothing indicates a trustworthy business more than an Ikonkar, or anything remotely sikh-y. Is it wrong for me to love all that is sikh? Sikh men are all like the grandfather's that I never met. Their long beards and turbans exude a cuddly sexiness, that drives Michele (And I!) crazy. We do not bargain, harass or feel up any rickshaw driver that could be a sikh. I sleep soundly on all government buses with a sikh drivers and pictures of sikh gurus surrounded by flashing green and red LED lights. Michele calls it "sikhtotification." I don't know what to call it. I'm just drawn to these men... I admit it! I am not above trusting all sikhs for their religious views and practices that I know nothing about.
This has been driving me crazy since we last spoke in Amritsar, dear reader. At the golden temple, the sikh holy book (the Guru Granth Sahib) is continuously sung by sikh priests while comping chords and improvisng melodies on the harmonium. When accompanied by a tabla guru the guru granth sahib is some serious science dropped. Imagine our dismay when we learned that the beautiful cloth covering could not be used as a wall hanging and could not be purchased by non-sikhs. We were absolutely crushed.
I have begun to wear the sacred comb in my hair (not actually comb my hair with it though) and have promised not to trim my beard, ever. I have always been fond of the color orange and until I talk to the customs agent at the Kokatta international airport, I've got one of those little daggers with the nylon holster around my leg. Also, Michele and I have decided to name our first child "kahlsa," not "akivha" as she annoyingly teases. Even as we speak Guru Nanak beams over my left shoulder from Paharganj's finest internet access joint. It is good to have finally found a spiritual home. It is good to find a people to trust in the chaos of india*
* This is not necessarily an accurate statement as Deepa's parents and most of the other incredible people we've met were very trustworthy, but I should hope that you don't count on this blog for accuracy.
It is good to tie up this blog entry. I admit that I lied to you about the relevance and importance of my mother's Michigan State dupatta. I'm sorry, but Happy Mother's day (yes it is six days late) to you, mom. Jeff was in charge of the flowers. I can't take credit for them. I can only bask in the glory of his behavior. I do take credit for the indian version of the breakup website, so make note of that in your records. Also make note that we've changed the dates of our return flight and as such we will be back in San Francisco on June 1.
5/13/03
Michele in Shimla/Chandigarh/Haridwar
Email - Michele 5/10/03
"Hi All,
After a whirlwind last few days, we are back in Delhi. Tomorrow I start Kathak dance classes and Jamie is going to take Harmonium and Guitar classes. I am a little nervous-- the lessons are private, there's going to be a tabla accompaniment, and what if I suck? What if I trip over my dupatta or something?
The last time I wrote, we were in Shimla (British raj-era hill station) for the first day. On our second day there, we made friends with a 23 year old hash-smoking Indian boxer named Happy who was anything but happy. In fact, he spent the whole day brooding (and smoking hash) over the fact that his ex-girlfriend had just become engaged. Being high did not stop him from taking us to the Kali temple and praying fervently though. Hmmm.. Anyways, he introduced us to his friend Amit and Amit was really cool-- he was really into the Beatles and other western musicians and so he and Jamie talked music a lot (he was also into Amway, but that's another story). The four of us spent the day together roaming in these botanical gardens and then we went to eat-- it was really nice.
Happy also took ua to his house to meet his family, more specifically, the women of his family. It's interesting how in small Indian homes, the center of the home is the largest bed and people congregate on the bed at all hours. It's really nice. Unfortunately, we did not get to sit on the bed-- we sat on chairs next to the bed and smiled awkwardly and drank tea and listened to punjabi music, and Happy (who was not very happy) showed us cards that his ex-girlfriend had given him.
The next day, we left Shimla and Amit insisted on driving us to Chandigargh, a city that is about 3 hours from Shimla and it is the capital of Punjab. It's an interesting city as it's the first planned Indian city and as such, it looks extremely orderly and Communistic, almost like Beijing in some ways. There's this amazing rock garden park there with sculptures made out of broken bangles--it's really awesome. The place was built by an eccentric engineer that worked for the state roads department and he used discarded concrete and other things to make the park. By the way, it was really amazing that Amit insisted on driving us as he was essentially going 2 hours out of his way to spend time with us. He insisted that the pleasure was all his and that he enjoyed it. I enjoyed it too but I still felt bad that he drove two hours out of his way for us.
Amit dropped us off at the bus stand and we got on a bus to Haridwar, one of the 7 holy Hindu cities, where pilgrims go to bathe in the Ganges as it is very clean and near the source at that point. We got on the bus at 7 and were not supposed to arrive until about 1. However, our seatmate Manoj (people are crammed 3 to a seat on Indian buses) and Jamie started talking and he invited us to spend the night with him and his family in Roorkie, which is about 20 KM from Haridwar (Ed: Please note that Michele has actually experienced positive results of Jamie talking to indians and has failed to mention so in this email - Twice!). We accepted and we got off the bus at about midnight and took a bike rickshaw to his house. Even though it was almost 1 AM, everyone was up and his mom and sister insisted that we eat a full meal and drink tea.
Manoj is 25 and he works as a systems administrator in Chandigargh and he goes home about once a month and since he is the only son, it's a big deal when he does go home. It's interesting, as he works with high technology but his family lives in a place without a computer and with an outhouse without electricity-- such a discrepency, although, it's not a potentially turbulent discrepency as Indian families are so tight and family really comes first. And since the culture is so homogenous in terms of values, material differences really don't seem to result in other, more dangerous, differences.
We finally made it to Haridwar the next morning and it was really amazing. There's a temple on the top of a hill that they have a chairlift going up to (think religous Disney World) and people from all walks of life and all parts of India were at this temple with us. It was really crowded and the crowds made it even more powerful-- people pressed together with their puja offerings, clamoring for prasad, trying to perform darshan with the different deity images, incense smoke billowing, signs of faith imprinted on peoples' foreheads-- really powerful. Even more powerful was the Ganges at sunset--- tons of people standing and kneeling on the ghats and sending flower boat offerings down the river. You look out into the river and you see these candlelit offerings heading rapidly down stream and you see people bathing and there's lots of saddhus in orange smoking hash on the sides--- wow. On our second night there, Jamie and I bought a flower boat and made an offering. The flame only lasted so long but it seemed like the boat was going to make it a significant distance, at least I hoped. It was really amazing for me to be at the Ganges after studying about it for so long, I could not help but hope that the river does wash away your sins and so that I too could become purified to some extent.
That's all for now.
Love, Michele"
"Hi All,
After a whirlwind last few days, we are back in Delhi. Tomorrow I start Kathak dance classes and Jamie is going to take Harmonium and Guitar classes. I am a little nervous-- the lessons are private, there's going to be a tabla accompaniment, and what if I suck? What if I trip over my dupatta or something?
The last time I wrote, we were in Shimla (British raj-era hill station) for the first day. On our second day there, we made friends with a 23 year old hash-smoking Indian boxer named Happy who was anything but happy. In fact, he spent the whole day brooding (and smoking hash) over the fact that his ex-girlfriend had just become engaged. Being high did not stop him from taking us to the Kali temple and praying fervently though. Hmmm.. Anyways, he introduced us to his friend Amit and Amit was really cool-- he was really into the Beatles and other western musicians and so he and Jamie talked music a lot (he was also into Amway, but that's another story). The four of us spent the day together roaming in these botanical gardens and then we went to eat-- it was really nice.
Happy also took ua to his house to meet his family, more specifically, the women of his family. It's interesting how in small Indian homes, the center of the home is the largest bed and people congregate on the bed at all hours. It's really nice. Unfortunately, we did not get to sit on the bed-- we sat on chairs next to the bed and smiled awkwardly and drank tea and listened to punjabi music, and Happy (who was not very happy) showed us cards that his ex-girlfriend had given him.
The next day, we left Shimla and Amit insisted on driving us to Chandigargh, a city that is about 3 hours from Shimla and it is the capital of Punjab. It's an interesting city as it's the first planned Indian city and as such, it looks extremely orderly and Communistic, almost like Beijing in some ways. There's this amazing rock garden park there with sculptures made out of broken bangles--it's really awesome. The place was built by an eccentric engineer that worked for the state roads department and he used discarded concrete and other things to make the park. By the way, it was really amazing that Amit insisted on driving us as he was essentially going 2 hours out of his way to spend time with us. He insisted that the pleasure was all his and that he enjoyed it. I enjoyed it too but I still felt bad that he drove two hours out of his way for us.
Amit dropped us off at the bus stand and we got on a bus to Haridwar, one of the 7 holy Hindu cities, where pilgrims go to bathe in the Ganges as it is very clean and near the source at that point. We got on the bus at 7 and were not supposed to arrive until about 1. However, our seatmate Manoj (people are crammed 3 to a seat on Indian buses) and Jamie started talking and he invited us to spend the night with him and his family in Roorkie, which is about 20 KM from Haridwar (Ed: Please note that Michele has actually experienced positive results of Jamie talking to indians and has failed to mention so in this email - Twice!). We accepted and we got off the bus at about midnight and took a bike rickshaw to his house. Even though it was almost 1 AM, everyone was up and his mom and sister insisted that we eat a full meal and drink tea.
Manoj is 25 and he works as a systems administrator in Chandigargh and he goes home about once a month and since he is the only son, it's a big deal when he does go home. It's interesting, as he works with high technology but his family lives in a place without a computer and with an outhouse without electricity-- such a discrepency, although, it's not a potentially turbulent discrepency as Indian families are so tight and family really comes first. And since the culture is so homogenous in terms of values, material differences really don't seem to result in other, more dangerous, differences.
We finally made it to Haridwar the next morning and it was really amazing. There's a temple on the top of a hill that they have a chairlift going up to (think religous Disney World) and people from all walks of life and all parts of India were at this temple with us. It was really crowded and the crowds made it even more powerful-- people pressed together with their puja offerings, clamoring for prasad, trying to perform darshan with the different deity images, incense smoke billowing, signs of faith imprinted on peoples' foreheads-- really powerful. Even more powerful was the Ganges at sunset--- tons of people standing and kneeling on the ghats and sending flower boat offerings down the river. You look out into the river and you see these candlelit offerings heading rapidly down stream and you see people bathing and there's lots of saddhus in orange smoking hash on the sides--- wow. On our second night there, Jamie and I bought a flower boat and made an offering. The flame only lasted so long but it seemed like the boat was going to make it a significant distance, at least I hoped. It was really amazing for me to be at the Ganges after studying about it for so long, I could not help but hope that the river does wash away your sins and so that I too could become purified to some extent.
That's all for now.
Love, Michele"
5/8/03
Michele in D'Sala/Shimla
Email - Michele 5/8/03
"Hi All,
On our last day in Dharamasala, Jamie and I sat outside in the Dalai Lama's compound catching the last rays of sun and watching monks play hacky sack-- they were really getting down by the way, robes flying and feet jumping. It was especially cool as we were so close to the Kalachakra temple and so such mundane activity seemed almost paradoxical. Anyways, we were sitting there when we were approached by a monk who asked us where we were from and what our names were. He sat down with us and showed us a map of where in India his monastery was located (in Maharastra). There were obvious language issues but we asked him questions about what he was doing in Dharamsala and how long he was visiting for. It seemed like a pleasant encounter and we were both excited to be talking to a monk. However, he then showed us a photo of his mother and he told us that she was very sick with Parkinsons Disease. I responded extremely empathetically as my grandmother was recently diagnosed with the same and I asked questions about whether or not she was taking meds, how long she has had it, etc. He then asked us if we wanted to donate any money to help his mother. At that point, an awkward pause occurred and we responded that "it's hard, we're sorry but we don't think that we can". After that, the three of us just sat in silence until he got up to leave and he shook our hands goodbye.
I keep on thinking about why I didn't donate, or if I did donate, how much money would have been meaningful, or how I could know that he was even telling us the truth. And then I think about how I could use money that I would have donated to go and visit my grandmother. And then I think about how we have been donating money, a little bit, but not to individuals. Is this good enough? Are we selfish bastards? It really hits me every day how much more privileged I am than the people that I meet and encounter here, and even though beggars and shoe shiners and street musicians annoy the hell out of me, that annoyance is mitigated by a certain degree of sympathy.
We've been taking a lot of government buses over the last few days as Himachal Pradesh is not well served by trains. The buses go painfully slow and they stop quite often at various bus stations. When we arrive at the bus stations, the driver promptly jumps out for however long (5-10 minutes) and us passengers are treated to a steady stream of vendors, hawkers, and musicians. We're captives as we don't know when the bus might leave. On one bus, there was a particularly earnest musician playing a simple droning string instrument. He came on board with a young girl that was there to collect tips. We put a 2 rupee coin in her tin and she moved on. She then apparently collected a 5 rupee bill from someone else, and so she came back to us to show us and ask for more money. Disgusted, I took the 2 rupee coin back. She then proceeded to hit my knee over and over again with the tin. I tried to take the 5 rupee note from her (after all, it seemed like she was offering it to me) although I did this jokingly. Finally, they left the bus and the torture session was over.
Currently, we are in Shimla, another hill station in HP that is the most British of them all. This is the place where the entire Indian government used to relocate in the summer. It's interesting--- British architecture that is crumbly and its very cool out. It reminds me a bit of Oxford only everyone is Indian. It's nice to see all the Indians out in their cold weather gear. Tonight at sunset, we climbed a steep path to the Monkey Temple. On the way up, we rented a wooden walking stick which was pitched to us as "a good thing to scare the monkeys away". We didn't really need to scare them away although they did get very close to us. They're fascinating to watch and the babies are just so cute. I wonder why we don't have monkeys in America like here. In a way, I guess they are like raccoons-- they eat food and they're nuisances.
We are staying at the YMCA here and it's cool-- kinda like a big antiquated haunted British house that's slightly musty and damp.
That's all for now. I can't believe that our trip is almost over.
Love, Michele"
"Hi All,
On our last day in Dharamasala, Jamie and I sat outside in the Dalai Lama's compound catching the last rays of sun and watching monks play hacky sack-- they were really getting down by the way, robes flying and feet jumping. It was especially cool as we were so close to the Kalachakra temple and so such mundane activity seemed almost paradoxical. Anyways, we were sitting there when we were approached by a monk who asked us where we were from and what our names were. He sat down with us and showed us a map of where in India his monastery was located (in Maharastra). There were obvious language issues but we asked him questions about what he was doing in Dharamsala and how long he was visiting for. It seemed like a pleasant encounter and we were both excited to be talking to a monk. However, he then showed us a photo of his mother and he told us that she was very sick with Parkinsons Disease. I responded extremely empathetically as my grandmother was recently diagnosed with the same and I asked questions about whether or not she was taking meds, how long she has had it, etc. He then asked us if we wanted to donate any money to help his mother. At that point, an awkward pause occurred and we responded that "it's hard, we're sorry but we don't think that we can". After that, the three of us just sat in silence until he got up to leave and he shook our hands goodbye.
I keep on thinking about why I didn't donate, or if I did donate, how much money would have been meaningful, or how I could know that he was even telling us the truth. And then I think about how I could use money that I would have donated to go and visit my grandmother. And then I think about how we have been donating money, a little bit, but not to individuals. Is this good enough? Are we selfish bastards? It really hits me every day how much more privileged I am than the people that I meet and encounter here, and even though beggars and shoe shiners and street musicians annoy the hell out of me, that annoyance is mitigated by a certain degree of sympathy.
We've been taking a lot of government buses over the last few days as Himachal Pradesh is not well served by trains. The buses go painfully slow and they stop quite often at various bus stations. When we arrive at the bus stations, the driver promptly jumps out for however long (5-10 minutes) and us passengers are treated to a steady stream of vendors, hawkers, and musicians. We're captives as we don't know when the bus might leave. On one bus, there was a particularly earnest musician playing a simple droning string instrument. He came on board with a young girl that was there to collect tips. We put a 2 rupee coin in her tin and she moved on. She then apparently collected a 5 rupee bill from someone else, and so she came back to us to show us and ask for more money. Disgusted, I took the 2 rupee coin back. She then proceeded to hit my knee over and over again with the tin. I tried to take the 5 rupee note from her (after all, it seemed like she was offering it to me) although I did this jokingly. Finally, they left the bus and the torture session was over.
Currently, we are in Shimla, another hill station in HP that is the most British of them all. This is the place where the entire Indian government used to relocate in the summer. It's interesting--- British architecture that is crumbly and its very cool out. It reminds me a bit of Oxford only everyone is Indian. It's nice to see all the Indians out in their cold weather gear. Tonight at sunset, we climbed a steep path to the Monkey Temple. On the way up, we rented a wooden walking stick which was pitched to us as "a good thing to scare the monkeys away". We didn't really need to scare them away although they did get very close to us. They're fascinating to watch and the babies are just so cute. I wonder why we don't have monkeys in America like here. In a way, I guess they are like raccoons-- they eat food and they're nuisances.
We are staying at the YMCA here and it's cool-- kinda like a big antiquated haunted British house that's slightly musty and damp.
That's all for now. I can't believe that our trip is almost over.
Love, Michele"
Michele in D'sala
Email - Michele 5/4/03
"Hi Everyone,
I'm sitting here in the Green Cyber Cafe listening to allegedly soothing music. My newly acquired Tibetan monks bag is on the bag of my chair and my Tibetan wool hat is on my head. I'm surrounded by other white folks most of whom are wearing wool Tibetan shawls. My stomach is full from Tibetan mo-mos and real coffee, and I haven't dropped a drip of sweat in 2 days. Life is good despite the fact that we are surrounded by annoying mindful people that talk about clairvoyance and sharing at dinner. (Incidentally, we ate homemade gnocci and ravioli last night at Richard Gere's favorite restaurant.)
Quite honestly, I am relieved to be in a place where Indian people might be the minority. I am relieved to not have to bargain and dodge rickshaws and cow dung in the street. McCleodGanj is a lot cleaner than most other places we've been, maybe because of the white mindful people or maybe because of the Tibetans-- not sure. It's really beautiful here with views of the Himalayas when it's not foggy/misty and we've been going on lovely walks in the hills. Yesterday, after the hellish 5 hour bus ride that we took here (which was scary by the way), we went for a nice walk to a small town called Bhagsu where there was a cold spring and a waterfall that we scampered up to. And then we walked back in the setting sun to eat at the abve mentioned restaurant.
Today we went to the Tibetan compound where the two primary temples are and the Dalai Lama's residence is. There were prayer wheels to spin and monks and nuns to gawk at. And it's really cool as they're making a kalachakra sand mandala right now which is a rare occurence-- we got to watch the monks drawing the initial lines of the mandala on the board-- it's very intricate and involved. Apparently, it's possible to get tickets to a public audience with His Holiness so we might try to do that tomorrow, to be among the hundreds that he greets everyday. There are so many institutions here for the Tibetans- clinics, schools, social service departments, welfare ministries, etc. I wonder how much support, if any, they get from the Indian government.
I want to say something else about the India-Pakistan situation and about our experience at the border a few days ago. It was really amazing to see "average" Indians from all walks of life shouting such nationalist slogans and chants. But it's really not all that surprising as the front pages of the Indian papers are always about Pakistani atrocities and the unreasonableness of the Pakistani leader. Indians are very resentful that America does not see Pakistan in the same light as to them, Pakistan is equivalent to Iraq and they are it's victims.
I also want to say that I think I reached a low point two nights ago in terms of my interactions with Indians. We arrived at a border town at about 8 PM after a crazy busride. I was tired and hungry and sick of carrying my bag and sick of walking along salivating rickshaw drivers. We met this older man who immediately latched on to us and wanted to give us advice and help us. I was immediately suspicious and wary in response. He walked us over to a restaurant and left for a few minutes; after he came back, he insisted on paying for our dinner. He then invited us out for a drink but we refused. (He said that his brothers had immigrated to Canada and as such, he really felt an obligation to foreigners.)
He was nothing but nice and courteous the whole time but I could not cease to be suspicious. And it's really a shame as after being bombarded by people with unsavory intentions in Rajastan, it's hard not to be suspicious, but as a result, I miss out on quality interactions with genuine people. After this whole experience, I was left with a feeling of shame and remorse-- I feel like I don't like the way that I relate to people here right now but at the same time, I feel like it's hard to stop being suspicious. And it really is impossible to talk to everyone who wants to talk to us.
Well that is what is up with us. We leave probably the day after tomorrow for Shimla, another hill station, and then we head back down into the heat. I think we plan to spend about 5 days in Delhi. Jamie will study music and I am thinking about taking some Kathak dancing classes (Deepa's mom inspired me!).
Love, Michele"
"Hi Everyone,
I'm sitting here in the Green Cyber Cafe listening to allegedly soothing music. My newly acquired Tibetan monks bag is on the bag of my chair and my Tibetan wool hat is on my head. I'm surrounded by other white folks most of whom are wearing wool Tibetan shawls. My stomach is full from Tibetan mo-mos and real coffee, and I haven't dropped a drip of sweat in 2 days. Life is good despite the fact that we are surrounded by annoying mindful people that talk about clairvoyance and sharing at dinner. (Incidentally, we ate homemade gnocci and ravioli last night at Richard Gere's favorite restaurant.)
Quite honestly, I am relieved to be in a place where Indian people might be the minority. I am relieved to not have to bargain and dodge rickshaws and cow dung in the street. McCleodGanj is a lot cleaner than most other places we've been, maybe because of the white mindful people or maybe because of the Tibetans-- not sure. It's really beautiful here with views of the Himalayas when it's not foggy/misty and we've been going on lovely walks in the hills. Yesterday, after the hellish 5 hour bus ride that we took here (which was scary by the way), we went for a nice walk to a small town called Bhagsu where there was a cold spring and a waterfall that we scampered up to. And then we walked back in the setting sun to eat at the abve mentioned restaurant.
Today we went to the Tibetan compound where the two primary temples are and the Dalai Lama's residence is. There were prayer wheels to spin and monks and nuns to gawk at. And it's really cool as they're making a kalachakra sand mandala right now which is a rare occurence-- we got to watch the monks drawing the initial lines of the mandala on the board-- it's very intricate and involved. Apparently, it's possible to get tickets to a public audience with His Holiness so we might try to do that tomorrow, to be among the hundreds that he greets everyday. There are so many institutions here for the Tibetans- clinics, schools, social service departments, welfare ministries, etc. I wonder how much support, if any, they get from the Indian government.
I want to say something else about the India-Pakistan situation and about our experience at the border a few days ago. It was really amazing to see "average" Indians from all walks of life shouting such nationalist slogans and chants. But it's really not all that surprising as the front pages of the Indian papers are always about Pakistani atrocities and the unreasonableness of the Pakistani leader. Indians are very resentful that America does not see Pakistan in the same light as to them, Pakistan is equivalent to Iraq and they are it's victims.
I also want to say that I think I reached a low point two nights ago in terms of my interactions with Indians. We arrived at a border town at about 8 PM after a crazy busride. I was tired and hungry and sick of carrying my bag and sick of walking along salivating rickshaw drivers. We met this older man who immediately latched on to us and wanted to give us advice and help us. I was immediately suspicious and wary in response. He walked us over to a restaurant and left for a few minutes; after he came back, he insisted on paying for our dinner. He then invited us out for a drink but we refused. (He said that his brothers had immigrated to Canada and as such, he really felt an obligation to foreigners.)
He was nothing but nice and courteous the whole time but I could not cease to be suspicious. And it's really a shame as after being bombarded by people with unsavory intentions in Rajastan, it's hard not to be suspicious, but as a result, I miss out on quality interactions with genuine people. After this whole experience, I was left with a feeling of shame and remorse-- I feel like I don't like the way that I relate to people here right now but at the same time, I feel like it's hard to stop being suspicious. And it really is impossible to talk to everyone who wants to talk to us.
Well that is what is up with us. We leave probably the day after tomorrow for Shimla, another hill station, and then we head back down into the heat. I think we plan to spend about 5 days in Delhi. Jamie will study music and I am thinking about taking some Kathak dancing classes (Deepa's mom inspired me!).
Love, Michele"
5/7/03
In light of decent and well conversation - Michele has forced me to come up with a list of traveling tips for couples. I think that this sounds like a perfectly awful idea. So far we've only had minor scuffles. I think that focusing on the positive aspects of this goddamned journey will only turn them sour.
Don't look back I say... Okay, that will be rule number one.
Rule number two: Consistently schedule quiet time. It is quite okay and absolutely essential to not have to talk all the time.
Rule number three: Occasionally use separate beds. Thank shiva for monastary guest houses.
Rule number four: Buy two of everything. Otherwise you'll have squabbles over who gets the bitchin' wall hanging or the funky pink hat. Less will be hanging over your heads if things as a couple go south. The itemization and separization of stuff is much easier.
Rule number five: Pretend that you you are married. This actually makes things much easier when conversing with indians. You will most certainly have those strange conversations regarding having sex with women/men before you were married, but it reduces the odd moments. Most of them anyway.
Rule number six: Don't dwell on certain subjects too long. Let discussions regarding future employment, educational status and housing options wait until you are home...
And with that rule, dear reader, I will traverse our conversation back to something less flammable:
Michele and I never made it to Tibet. We did make it to Macleod Ganj, a beautiful hill station just north of Dharamsala in india. Mac ganj is where the exiled Tibetan government has set up shop. All things tibetan that haven't been trashed by the Chinese over the past 50 years have been moved here. Tibetan music and art work and clothing is everywhere. Images of H.H. (his holiness) the Dalai Lama are ubiquitous as are tibetan prayer flags.
Most of the migration to India from Tibet has come over the last 10 years. As such, westerners are only now starting to react to the atrocities completed by the Chinese government against tibetans. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but despite bumperstickers and benefit concerts, Tibet will never be free. It will be an incredibly expensive ordeal to buy off the chinese government. Cold hard cash is the only thing that could bring H.H. the Dalai Lama back to his home. In my opinion, the tibetans need to become more comfortable calling themselves Tibetan Indians.*
Money will talk. Maybe if there was some sort of terrorist activity in chinese tibet, then our popularly selected government could put together some sort of invasion scheme together. But the question remains: is there any oil in Tibet?
Tibet also needs a lobbying firm in Washington to help shape future policy. They must imitate the jewish lobby. Or maybe they could imitate the italians and form a tibetan mafia. They could definately do with a security force. I can see groups of buddist commandos in their maroon and mustard robes taking back their capital from the chinese occupiers.
I do like the idea of a boycott. I think that boycotting all chinese made products may be as effective as chosing not to breath air, but an olympic boycott now that is another story. Maybe we could round up all the olympic atheletes and ask them to wait another four years. Hell, we'll probably have to buy them off too with all the possible lawsuits. You know how annoying those parents of athletic kids are. Just ask Tonya Harding.
* Michele takes offense to this comment. She notes that the comment is "presumptuous" and "insensitive to the plight of the displaced tibetans." In response, I must admit to not knowing much more than a wink about the said plight. Please note that all comments I made (and will continue to make) were mere observations and opinions and do not reflect the views of all parties contibuting to this web log.
Rule number seven: Make as many non-relationship related inflammatory statements as possible (written form is preferred). These statemetns provide couples a unique opportunity to work through any underlying relationship tensions.
Don't look back I say... Okay, that will be rule number one.
Rule number two: Consistently schedule quiet time. It is quite okay and absolutely essential to not have to talk all the time.
Rule number three: Occasionally use separate beds. Thank shiva for monastary guest houses.
Rule number four: Buy two of everything. Otherwise you'll have squabbles over who gets the bitchin' wall hanging or the funky pink hat. Less will be hanging over your heads if things as a couple go south. The itemization and separization of stuff is much easier.
Rule number five: Pretend that you you are married. This actually makes things much easier when conversing with indians. You will most certainly have those strange conversations regarding having sex with women/men before you were married, but it reduces the odd moments. Most of them anyway.
Rule number six: Don't dwell on certain subjects too long. Let discussions regarding future employment, educational status and housing options wait until you are home...
And with that rule, dear reader, I will traverse our conversation back to something less flammable:
Michele and I never made it to Tibet. We did make it to Macleod Ganj, a beautiful hill station just north of Dharamsala in india. Mac ganj is where the exiled Tibetan government has set up shop. All things tibetan that haven't been trashed by the Chinese over the past 50 years have been moved here. Tibetan music and art work and clothing is everywhere. Images of H.H. (his holiness) the Dalai Lama are ubiquitous as are tibetan prayer flags.
Most of the migration to India from Tibet has come over the last 10 years. As such, westerners are only now starting to react to the atrocities completed by the Chinese government against tibetans. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but despite bumperstickers and benefit concerts, Tibet will never be free. It will be an incredibly expensive ordeal to buy off the chinese government. Cold hard cash is the only thing that could bring H.H. the Dalai Lama back to his home. In my opinion, the tibetans need to become more comfortable calling themselves Tibetan Indians.*
Money will talk. Maybe if there was some sort of terrorist activity in chinese tibet, then our popularly selected government could put together some sort of invasion scheme together. But the question remains: is there any oil in Tibet?
Tibet also needs a lobbying firm in Washington to help shape future policy. They must imitate the jewish lobby. Or maybe they could imitate the italians and form a tibetan mafia. They could definately do with a security force. I can see groups of buddist commandos in their maroon and mustard robes taking back their capital from the chinese occupiers.
I do like the idea of a boycott. I think that boycotting all chinese made products may be as effective as chosing not to breath air, but an olympic boycott now that is another story. Maybe we could round up all the olympic atheletes and ask them to wait another four years. Hell, we'll probably have to buy them off too with all the possible lawsuits. You know how annoying those parents of athletic kids are. Just ask Tonya Harding.
* Michele takes offense to this comment. She notes that the comment is "presumptuous" and "insensitive to the plight of the displaced tibetans." In response, I must admit to not knowing much more than a wink about the said plight. Please note that all comments I made (and will continue to make) were mere observations and opinions and do not reflect the views of all parties contibuting to this web log.
Rule number seven: Make as many non-relationship related inflammatory statements as possible (written form is preferred). These statemetns provide couples a unique opportunity to work through any underlying relationship tensions.
5/5/03
Good Lord! Sweet Baby Jesus!
We forgot to unpack Talula. I though I heard some sort of grunt when my bag fell from the roof of the bus. I now know who has been smoking all the hash I was planning on smuggling from Pakistan. Drat.
And to dispell and popular myths, Michele does the laundry, her's at least. I've got the special undergarments that you can wear for 6 weeks and not take off. I just pay for stuff.
Speaking of which, I am currently soliciting orders for tibetan peace flags. Please contact me so that I can get a bulk order of peace. The pricing is reasonable in quantities of 16 or more. velaparatodo@yahoo.com
Much love to the crack engineers and staff of TMP, inc. for providing the logistics and wherewithall to make this annoying website possible.
And to dispell and popular myths, Michele does the laundry, her's at least. I've got the special undergarments that you can wear for 6 weeks and not take off. I just pay for stuff.
Speaking of which, I am currently soliciting orders for tibetan peace flags. Please contact me so that I can get a bulk order of peace. The pricing is reasonable in quantities of 16 or more. velaparatodo@yahoo.com
Much love to the crack engineers and staff of TMP, inc. for providing the logistics and wherewithall to make this annoying website possible.
Dear World
On the one hand it's really cool that they haven't discovered me yet, but on the other hand it is EXTREMELY stuffy in this suitcase and only when Jamie and Michele are fast asleep (which rarely happens, if you know anything about Jamie) that I can crawl out from underneath their dirty laundry and scrounge through their garbage for bits of food. But STILL! This has been an amazing adventure, my very first stowaway experience! I was sooooooo glad I was well hidden when Michele beat up the rickshaw driver- I would have died if I'd had to look him in the eyes... but thankfully, i just got dragged along anonymously like some bag of laundry. Which I guess is what I was. Oh well. Thankfully I've eaten so little that I haven't had any digestive episodes, and I think the canvas of the laundry bag has done a good job of shielding me from SARS. Boy am I ever thankful that these guys never actually do their laundry, they just lug it around from place to place! Sure it's much heavier than it ought to be, but they're so innocent... or gullible... they think it has something to do with humidity. WTF? Oh well. Anyway it's been a great trip, wish you were here, ha ha ha. I'll tell you about some of the better quibbles I have overheard, next time. Love, Talula
5/1/03
Michele at Waga Border
Email - Michele 5/1/03
"Hi All,
Tonight, Jamie and I joined hundreds, perhaps a thousand or so (Ed: I'd be surprized if it wasn't 8 to 10 thousand), Indians at the India-Pakistan border in the north of Punjab. A spectacle takes place every night at sunset when the border gates are closed and the military touts from both side march to the gates to the tune of shouts of "VICTORY TO INDIA" and other such things, and I am not sure what was said on the Pakistani side. We sat on bleachers, in a mini-stadium in fact, that was built for this purpose, sandwiched tightly between Indian familes and young men and couples.
We waited for about an hour while the crowd warmed up (lots of flag waving and chanting) until the sun was in its proper place (or perhaps, the whistle bearing army men were sick of ordering the Indians to sit down) and the nightly ritual began. Immediately, everyone jumped to their feet and started shouting and screaming at the other side. We were told to scream as loudly as possible, so that they could hear us in Lahore (Ed: A neighboring city in Pakistan that was part of Greater Punjab in 1947. Lahore is also a city that your faithful editor refused to be dragged to by the author).
Unfortunately, it was very difficult to see due to the testosterone rush that seemed to transfix all the young men around us and make them run to the very front. Although I could not see very well, it was OK. I enjoyed looking in my binoculars at the Pakistani side and I thought three things:
1. The Pakistanis were smart to have separate seating for men and women as the women's side was calmer and it seemed like the women could see
2. It is very possible that a former neighbor of someone on the Indian side was sitting on the Pakistani side, and
3. Fifty or so years ago, it was all one country and now people are screaming threats at each other across a border. Wow.
It was an interesting thing to do and a sporting way to pass a sunset, I suppose. After taking pictures with people that we met there, our driver took us to this trippy temple where Indian women apparently go to pray to wish for babies and fertility. It's a really random, garish, and bright place and at one point, you have to crawl through a tunnel and at another point, we walked through a fake womb with a water pathway. We liked the latter so much, that we actually did this twice. Hopefully this does not mean that I am uber-fertile. Who knew religion could be so fun and user-friendly? Wouldn't it be great if Jewish temples were so interactive? There could be a wave pool where we could practice "escaping from the Egyptians" and maybe a sandpit for "40 years in the desert".
Currently, we are in Amritsar, the site of the holy Sikh Golden Temple and it is BEAUTIFUL, really really lovely. And it's really gold and it gleans in the middle of a lake, surrounded by marble courtyards. And the Sikhs that we have been meeting have been so friendly. We're actually staying in a gurudwara, one of the places where Silkh pilgrams stay. For 50 rupees (1 dollar), we have a double room, our own bathroom, and check this out-- free gecko service. I was initially concerned about this service as my interactions with geckos have been minimal but Jamie explained the virtues. He's growing on me-- he's cute and white and small (the gecko, not Jamie). He's been content to stay in the bathroom but we are trying to coax him out to explore the larger room. I'll keep you posted, if you wish.
But the Sikhs really take care of their own--- lodging, food, friendship--it's really incredible. And I am looking forward to seeing the temple tonight, in the dark. The Sikh community is really interesting, their focus on ferocity and their apparent skill at war, but at the same time, they really value honesty and integrity. And it's a really colorful and devoted community, it seems.
Jamie and I are hatching a plan to buy lots of merchandise from the Golden Temple to sell to the Sikh "India out of Khalistan" cab drivers in NY and Berkeley. We're looking for tee shirts and posters and whatever else is fit to carry. If you want to get involved, feel free to contact your local friendly Sikh cab driver and find out what kind of merchandise he would like. But make sure that it's portable and easy to carry -- no replica statues are possible.
I hope that you are all well.
Love, Michele"
"Hi All,
Tonight, Jamie and I joined hundreds, perhaps a thousand or so (Ed: I'd be surprized if it wasn't 8 to 10 thousand), Indians at the India-Pakistan border in the north of Punjab. A spectacle takes place every night at sunset when the border gates are closed and the military touts from both side march to the gates to the tune of shouts of "VICTORY TO INDIA" and other such things, and I am not sure what was said on the Pakistani side. We sat on bleachers, in a mini-stadium in fact, that was built for this purpose, sandwiched tightly between Indian familes and young men and couples.
We waited for about an hour while the crowd warmed up (lots of flag waving and chanting) until the sun was in its proper place (or perhaps, the whistle bearing army men were sick of ordering the Indians to sit down) and the nightly ritual began. Immediately, everyone jumped to their feet and started shouting and screaming at the other side. We were told to scream as loudly as possible, so that they could hear us in Lahore (Ed: A neighboring city in Pakistan that was part of Greater Punjab in 1947. Lahore is also a city that your faithful editor refused to be dragged to by the author).
Unfortunately, it was very difficult to see due to the testosterone rush that seemed to transfix all the young men around us and make them run to the very front. Although I could not see very well, it was OK. I enjoyed looking in my binoculars at the Pakistani side and I thought three things:
1. The Pakistanis were smart to have separate seating for men and women as the women's side was calmer and it seemed like the women could see
2. It is very possible that a former neighbor of someone on the Indian side was sitting on the Pakistani side, and
3. Fifty or so years ago, it was all one country and now people are screaming threats at each other across a border. Wow.
It was an interesting thing to do and a sporting way to pass a sunset, I suppose. After taking pictures with people that we met there, our driver took us to this trippy temple where Indian women apparently go to pray to wish for babies and fertility. It's a really random, garish, and bright place and at one point, you have to crawl through a tunnel and at another point, we walked through a fake womb with a water pathway. We liked the latter so much, that we actually did this twice. Hopefully this does not mean that I am uber-fertile. Who knew religion could be so fun and user-friendly? Wouldn't it be great if Jewish temples were so interactive? There could be a wave pool where we could practice "escaping from the Egyptians" and maybe a sandpit for "40 years in the desert".
Currently, we are in Amritsar, the site of the holy Sikh Golden Temple and it is BEAUTIFUL, really really lovely. And it's really gold and it gleans in the middle of a lake, surrounded by marble courtyards. And the Sikhs that we have been meeting have been so friendly. We're actually staying in a gurudwara, one of the places where Silkh pilgrams stay. For 50 rupees (1 dollar), we have a double room, our own bathroom, and check this out-- free gecko service. I was initially concerned about this service as my interactions with geckos have been minimal but Jamie explained the virtues. He's growing on me-- he's cute and white and small (the gecko, not Jamie). He's been content to stay in the bathroom but we are trying to coax him out to explore the larger room. I'll keep you posted, if you wish.
But the Sikhs really take care of their own--- lodging, food, friendship--it's really incredible. And I am looking forward to seeing the temple tonight, in the dark. The Sikh community is really interesting, their focus on ferocity and their apparent skill at war, but at the same time, they really value honesty and integrity. And it's a really colorful and devoted community, it seems.
Jamie and I are hatching a plan to buy lots of merchandise from the Golden Temple to sell to the Sikh "India out of Khalistan" cab drivers in NY and Berkeley. We're looking for tee shirts and posters and whatever else is fit to carry. If you want to get involved, feel free to contact your local friendly Sikh cab driver and find out what kind of merchandise he would like. But make sure that it's portable and easy to carry -- no replica statues are possible.
I hope that you are all well.
Love, Michele"
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