I miss Bangladesh

Everything in Pondichery is so... French. I'm not a France hater, but the parts of the city that we've seen so far are a bit too quiet and clean and organized for my tastes. Maybe I'm just bitter because I can't access my gmail account?

Google, I admire your intestinal fortitude for designing a mail service that won't work on 60% (my observed figure) of the machines that we encounter in Indian/Bangladeshi cyber cafes. You give the people what they want when they want and they want it all the time.

A sick little boy puked on the bus from M-puram. He swayed in his mother's arms and stared at the ceiling of the bus. The ticket collecting asshole gave hassled her about the puke on the floor so she quickly filled a bag with roadside dirt and neutralized the spill. Come to think of it, I don't hate google so much anymore.

Impermeable Obliviousness System

Dear Reader.

It is very hot in Mamallapuram (Mahabalipuram)... although I still can't pronounce it correctly. I just start with a "Mah" sound and mumble through the rest. I would probably be more hot if my head wasn't as bald as a cue ball. Now when I sweat, I feel it from the pointy peak of my skull, not just the forehead. I use a bandana/schmatza cloth to cover it for most of the day along with a hat that I stole from Tom. At this point, I'd think that he doesn't want it back.

This head shaving incident was secondary to a long walk that Monica and I took while we were staying in Tirupati, Andra Pradesh. Michele (bless her heart) was delivering biscuits to deaf school children and besides her saintly qualities, DID not want to get out of bed early.

So up we got and 11 km we walked -- straight uphill for the most part. We dripped sweat on sacred stairs that were orange with bright yellow and red face powder. When we arrived at the top, we secured beverages and food and fought to get a place in line for the Kayanna Katta. KK is the place to go to shave your head for Vishnu. As a result, almost everyone in Tirumala was bald. It was amazing.

M very badly wanted to watch and Monica was worried that she would be shaved by an overzealous brahmin. They both waited in line with me and countless other hairy indians. We were shuttled through various holding areas for about an hour, then I got my ticket and a fresh razor blade. I removed my shirt and sat down on the white tile.

We were surrounded by screaming children, whose parents had volunteered their hair for shaving. Fathers grasped kids by the neck to ensure the shaving wallah didn't remove any excess pieces of scalp. I dozed my head in a bucket of water and took a deep breath.

In less than 5 minutes, a man with a straight razor and fresh ten rupie note completely removed all of my hair. I breathed deeply and hoped that Vishnu was watching happily (not momentarily consorting). When I opened my eyes, I saw hair flying everywhere and no blood. My beard was about a month long -- he took that too.

I followed Mothers, daughters, aunties, uncles, nieces, sons, nephews, fathers all bald and happy to the nearest exit. We tried not to step on razor blades or slip on any of the wet hair that flooded the floor. There was no mirror so I had to use M's sunglasses. We took pictures and celebrated our luck with a Pepsi and crackers.

Vishnu must be smiling... or laughing... or pretty pissed off. I'll let you know when I hear from him next.

Dear Readers,

I apologize for the lack of political commentary in our blog posts. Frankly we've both been too overwhelmed with describing our current scenarios to think too much about politics besides here and there. I pledge to write less about what is actually happening to us. This will leave more time to dissect national and local US political happenings. I know that you will all be excited!

Please hold with us for this brave, bold new step for the "Jamie vs. Michele" blog.

Thank you for your continuing support.

The author

PS: We've trudged around the heat of Chennai and are pleasantly surprized. The beaches (although we witnessed them at sunset) did not smell. There was a great carnival atmosphere as men operated hand crank merry-go-rounds and kids and us ingested deep fried eggplants, onions and chillis. The sky was beautiful as storm clouds threatened, but never delivered. The wind picked up and spit sand in the eyes of those selling tchochkes and chaat. Not our eyes, though as we were already making our way back up from the beach.

It was at 9:00AM when Marine beach drive was bitch slapped by last December's terrible tsunami. It snuck up and sucked the lives from 167 people. There were rumors abound that the wave washed ashore a Mermaid, but alas they were proven to be hoaxes. Everyone we talked to said that the beach was hit by a 6 to 10 foot wave that rushed across the entire width of the beach. We saw no obvious signs of the disaster. No death. No destruction and no decaying bodies. Despite the wind and commerce the beach was peaceful.

For RS 25, I bought a book from a beach-vendor that swears it will teach me to speak Tamil in 30 days. I am doubtful as I have no time to read books. I must devote my remaining time to the daft political reporting that you have so demanded. Now, please forgive me -- I must return to my research!

South Park Wankers

From the usual channels (Roy's Place and Atrios):

"Personally, I'm getting a little tired of all this making fun of conservatives. When you think about it, they deserve a lot of respect.

First, they have to believe whatever the Bush administration or lesser congressional-type republicans tells them to believe. Yea sure, I know, that sounds like something any idiot could do, but those beliefs often change from day to day and often end up diametrically opposed to what they were the day before. It takes an incredibly agile mind to constantly change core values and beliefs without ever acknowledging the contradictions.

Next, they have to disbelieve absolutely whatever a certain other class of people believe. This includes democrats, independents, moderates, the educated, the scientists, the French, and just about everyone else in the world.

Then to top it all off, every piece of art or entertainment must conform to the daily beliefs, whatever they are, or it must be boycotted, burned, or banished (not stashed under the mattress, no, no, no).

And finally, they have to disbelieve, and disbelieve passionately, easily observable reality. Those people being tortured, they're not feeling any pain. South Park? Karl Rove couldn't have written it any better.

It's not easy being that fucking stupid. It really takes a lot of work. Show some respect, people. "

- from Chuckling over at Roy's place

We get mail

"hi guys, well it has been a pleasure receiving your UPS boxes. beautiful presents, great wall hangings, smelly socks, film, etc but after writing a second $X check to ups we the owners of P aerospace, have decided the honor and thrill should now be given to O TRANSFORMERS. They can also enjoy the excitement when the man/woman in brown rings the bell and brings in that big box. maybe they even have a fed ex account so the joy can be spread to fed ex also. We love you, Mom and Dad"

- From the family F

We do Not have an Exit Strategy

It was June 28, 1990 and Mandela had just been released. He was visiting the US on a goodwill tour of sorts that brought him to Tiger Stadium in downtown Detroit. I was lucky to have been invited to see him speak by my friend Barclay. He, his parents and I sat in the sun and listened to Stevie Wonder and Aretha Franklin perform while Mandela made his way through construction traffic on I-94 (by the way, I love google maps).

Just before the motorcade was due to hit Rosa Parks Boulevard, the main MC for the event taught the whole stadium two phrases... The first: "Asalam Walekum" and in response: "Walekum Asalam." The limosines and police escort rolled up, we all hit him with our new-found greeting, and Mr. Madiba was very happy. With a smile across his face, he discussed his appreciation of freedom and the music of "Motor-Town."

It wasn't until I learned more about world religions, that I recognized "Asalam Walekum" as the universal Muslim greeting. I did not know that Madiba had converted to Islam while in prison, but I remember being happy learning a phrase in another language, perhaps it was Zulu? The greeting and response bounced back and forth in my head. It had a brilliant rhythm, exotic and warm. For many days it rolled off of my tongue.

I think that we've lost the Slovenians. Our friends, Ales and Jernea were a pleasure to travel with, but even they admitted "Four is a difficult number." It is possible that we will run into them again. For all we know, they may be in a hotel next door, but it is not very likely. As pace-setters, they were perfect. They were hardcore budget travelers, riding on the roof of the jeep and staying in the cheapest nasty guest house on a "See Bangladesh in one month!" timeline, while we traveled on a more relaxed pace. Our travel plans did intersect for several days as we had similar destinations, but our differing methodologies drew us apart. They (At least Ales was) were obsessed with seeing Bengal Tigers in the Sunderbans, a UNESCO world heritage site of mangrove forest, delta-country and boatloads of biodiversity. We were more obsessed with meeting tribal peeps and being invited to their houses.

We sat out the rainstorm for at least last two hours in the Tribal Cultural Institute Museum until the din of the ceiling fans drowned the rush of water from the sky. M's lips are discharging pus at regular intervals and my legs are a minefield of last night's mosquito bites. I am dazed and hung over and happy not to be blind. We experimented with a home-brewed rice wine called "Mot" or alternatively "Ara." Ara has a subtle texture and boquet similar to jet fuel.

Last night, we drank with the Chakma and Marma peoples in their seedy subterranean dive beneath the main drag in Rangamati. We had to pose as Buddists to get them to let us in as their relations with Muslim Bangladeshis is strained. The Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT) are alive with bucholic tribal villages and angry indigenous folks. They were chill and very kind to us, although I can't say the same for their firey cusine and libations.

Asalam Walekum comes to me everyday that we've been in Bangladesh. It is the first key phrase that is listed on the front cover of the Bangladesh Lonely Planet, but I've yet to use it. We've met hundreds if not thousands of Muslim people here in our short month, but I can't make it work. It feels too fake - like I'm trying too hard to be "down" with my Muslim brothers and sisters, so I let it lie.

It is not surprising that Phrase number five jumped ahead of phrase number one in the BLP key phrase listing. Beneath the phrase for I don't understand Banla sat "Amar dike takaben na" - Please stop staring at me. Now this is a phrase that we, being Fugly 'Mericuns, could really sink our teeth into. Michele knows it by heart, and we sing it to each other when we are bored and cranky on the bus.

The bag still smells like fish

... Even after repeated washings. All because of a shitty minibus trip from Teknaf to Cox's Bazar. Some Einstein in the back seat decided to bring his catch from St. Martin's island in a bag with ice; however, after 4 hours in the grueling sun on the junk boat across the goddamned Bay of Bengal (my toes are still sunburned) the ice and fish decomposed to foul mush. This fishy sludge attacked the bag with a passion while we jostled and bounced off of the ceiling crammed among annoying bougey dhakanian tourists. My knocking knees gave way to dull, then sharp pains that switched my gasps from air to consciousness. As I envisioned ball-peen hammers striking, our bag marinated. Now we (and those around us) pay.

Posted dated and submitted via fax as the Internet was not with us on April 2, 2005.