tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61796254036539646992024-02-20T19:07:46.214+05:30A Little More GroundEl Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-27712073760016945812009-11-26T11:45:00.003+05:302009-11-26T11:56:48.199+05:30Pushkar RevisitedThe preface to this entry .... http://justalittlemoreground.blogspot.com/2009/07/pushkar.html<br /><br />====================<br /><br />Our rented scooter’s headlight died with the engine as Thomas and I looked at each other skeptically. The gate to the yard of Shyam Lal’s hut has collapsed since the last time I had seen it and was laying on its side as a barrier to the front steps. “Shyam-baba,” I called out sheepishly, not wanting to disturb the sleepy cluster of neighboring huts. Nothing moved. <br />“Shyam-ji,” I yelled a bit louder. I was about to call out again when a woman suddenly appeared from the other side of a low cinderblock wall. “App kaha se hai? (Where are you from?” she asked accusingly. Thomas looked at me with the “I hate you, man,” glare that only a good friend can effectively pull off.<br />“Ham Ahmerika hai (We’re Americans),” I said quietly, trying to whisper but still be heard.<br />“Ahhh,” the woman sighed approvingly, flashing a toothy white smile across the dark entryway as she walked around the wall and removed the broken gate. We followed her across the tiny yard and up to the entrance. “Shyam Lal!” she shrieked louder than was necessary and simultaneously banged on the thick, wood door.<br /><br />--------------------------------------<br /><br />I had phoned Shyam a week before to let him know that I would be in Pushkar. I assumed that he had understood but, in hindsight, he probably hadn’t. My first day in Delhi with no class was to be on Sunday so Thomas and I, seeing that we had only a two hour Hindi class on Saturday, decided to take both days off for our quick excursion to Pushkar. The two of us shot out of et at 6:00 am on Saturday, confident that we could still make our 6:05 am train to Ajmer. With a little sprinting and a lot of yelling at half-asleep rickshaw drivers we were standing, disappointed, on the empty rail platform at 6:14 am. Overhead on the loudspeaker a shrill woman listed all of the delayed departures. “Jaisalmer Express is five hours late, we are very sorry for the inconvenience. Ahmedabad Mail is seven hours late, we sincerely regret any inconvenience caused.” Apparently ours was the only on-time train in all of India that morning.<br />We found a booking agent and bought two tickets to Pushkar via what was enthusiastically described to us as a “deluxe AC coach.” We found our bus after a rickshaw ride from the New Delhi station to the Old Delhi station… neither deluxe nor AC equipped.<br />Touché, greasy travel agent man… <br />We perked up though as two very cute but similarly put-off French backpackers took their seats in front of us. An irate rickshaw wallah boarded next and began to pester the women from the aisle. Apparently, they had paid him the price that had been agreed upon but he was demanding more. The wallah began to get pushy and hovered over, trying to intimidate them. I got up from my seat to intervene<br />“Price malum hai…Yeh teek nahee hai,” I told him, finishing with “mahdachud” for good measure. He kind of blinked at me then turned back to the women, grabbed one of their legs, and began to yell again. With one hand on his shoulder and another on his slime covered chest I wrestled him to the front of the bus and pushed him out onto the street. I passed the appreciative women and turned to Thomas in desperate need of hand sanitizer.<br />We arrived in Jaipur at 3:00 where, unfortunately, the bus driver decided to terminate the half-completed journey. There was a lot of confusion and a packed tempo ride across town but we eventually found a bus that would take us from Jaipur to Ajmer. Our new bus was even less deluxe than the first and Tom and I found ourselves sharing a tiny, mysteriously stained sleeper compartment. This bus driver decided to end his shift at a dhaba fifteen kilometers outside of Ajmer so we hired a rickshaw to take us to our next bus. The final bus was the least deluxe of all with thirty seats for around fifty occupants but there was a chai-wallah selling one-rupee cups up and down the aisle.<br /><br />Had Tom and I woken up just ten minutes earlier we wound have been in Pushkar by two in the afternoon. But we hadn’t, and at 10:00pm - sixteen hours, four rickshaws, three busses, and zero trains later – we finally arrived in Pushkar.<br /><br />--------------------------------------<br /><br />The iron-studded wood door creaked open and the shrill pro-American woman stopped her screaming. A sleepy, confused Shyam Lal stared at me for a second and when he realized who I was drew me into his hut for about the biggest bear hug he could muster. I apologized repeatedly for our (clearly unexpected) late arrival and tried to avoid waking the four children who lay sleeping on the floor. Endra, the children’s mother, shuffled outside to make chai despite our protests and Shyam shook the rest awake. Anil, the eldest son, was excited but also disappointed to see that I had downgraded from a motorcycle to a busted scooted since the last he had seen me. Gigi, Shyam’s only daughter, stumbled around for a bit until a cup of chai finally cracked her eyes. We both told Endra that we were not hungry but chipati and subzje were nevertheless forced upon us. It being so late, the family’s outpour of hospitality had made us feel a little guilty so we told them that we would be fine on the roof for the night and begged them to go back to sleep. Shyam though would not rest untyil he was certain that we were as comfortable as possible. He, Gigi, Anil, Thomas, and I dragged a few thin sheets and lumpy pillows up their bamboo ladder to the flat topped roof of their hut and the five of us laid down under a blanket of desert stars. The first night of Durga Puja, a nine day Hindu festival celebrating the Goddess Durga and femininity, happened to be that night. At the base of a nearby temple-topped hill a Mayangar band sang, played tablas and harmonium until the five of us had drifted off to sleep.<br /><br />With stiff backs we awoke the next morning on the cool cement roof. Thomas and I continued to wake up as we sipped hot drinks and played with the kids at the family’s chai stand. Anil and the two of us then hiked up to the hill-top Savitri Temple where I was surprised to find an infestation of monkeys that hadn’t been there earlier in the summer. The moment I produced the rice puffs I had brought as a temple offering, the monkeys went crazy and did not stop their assault until I had thrown the entire package into the bushes where they could fight it out amongst themselves.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=4.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/4.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=5.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/5.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=6.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/6.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Back at the chai stand Thomas entertained Gigi and Rual with his camera and ipod as I talked with Shyam. Before leaving for town I remembered that I had brought with me a five-dollar bill and a few quarters for Shyam to add to his impressive collection of foreign currency (Nepal, Zimbabwe, Russia, France, but no $’s). He didn’t seem too interested in my explanation of Abraham Lincoln but he was quick to tell me that he disliked George Bush when I started about George Washington.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=3.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/3.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=7.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/7.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />In town, Tom and I did puja at Brahma Ghat, visited the Brahma temple, and strolled the length of the main bazaar looking at the same pregnant-carved-wood-elephants, chillums, tie-dyes, and cut-off tees for too long. We each had a thali and lassis at a rooftop café, did some writing, and when it became to hot to laze we went for a drive through the village-dotted countryside. At a temple up a short path in a shaded gorge we encountered a group of twenty very drunk men having lunch and playing cards. As soon as we arrived, an argument over a game of rummy turned into a mutton-slinging food fight, into a fistfight, into a stickfight, and then into a slapping match, before ending with the participators either tripping and almost knocking themselves unconscious, or crying while being held back by their slightly more sober friends. A very amused silver-stubbled old guy in a red turban asked me where I was from. Tom and I decided that we were a little out of place and left. <br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=11.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/11.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Back in town we wandered from the main drag to find a bag of chipati flour for Endra. The men in the goods shop were amused if not impressed that two foreigners were buying five kilos of flour and they made no attempt to overcharge us. Pushkar is a very touristy town so it was interesting to notice the different looks that we got in the main bazaar now that we had a bag of flour. Other foreigners, I assume, just thought that we were weird. Indians seemed to think the same (with or without a bag of flour) but they on the other hand were curious to find out what we were up to.<br />“Hey! What is that?” a shopkeeper would shout from a doorway.<br />“What is the name of your friend?”<br />“Shyam Lal? Of course I know Shyam-ji!”<br />Another man, in a jewelry shop, laughed at Tom and I with a good-natured smile.<br />“You both are very odd. I do not see this very often. But I think that it is very good,” he said after we told him about Shyam.<br />“You have the right idea, you two, in seeing the people as well as the places.”<br /><br />We were near the end of the bazaar’s carved-marble elephant-inside-an-elephant, polished fake-gemstone, and incense-stocked gauntlet when a teenaged boy approached us and told Thomas to give him the bag of chipati flour.<br />“But I need it. It’s for a friend,” Tom said… “It’s mine.”<br />The kid looked at us as if we were stupid for not understanding the logic of what he was telling us.<br />“You give me. You buy more. For you, no problem,” he explained.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=8.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/8.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=14.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/14.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=9.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/9.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=12.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/12.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=10.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/10.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />There was nobody home when we sauntered into the Lal’s hut, so we left the flour in a corner and trotted down to the chai stand at the base of the hill. We played with the kids some more, talked with their parents, and happened to run into Bunti, the brother of a friend of mine from earlier in the summer who told me to come see him in Goa in December. Tom and I wanted to see the sun setting over the desert from the ridge west of town so we initiated goodbyes. I thanked Shyam for his hospitality and told him that his was undoubtedly the finest hotel in Pushkar. He regretted that we had a train to catch and that we couldn’t stay for dinner but he carefully wrapped a mound of greasy hot paranthas in newspaper and stuffed them into my bag. Repeating our goodbyes we turned around to wave goodbye before sputtering off on our comically small scooter.<br /><br />--------------------------------------<br /><br />Since the summer and this second visit to Pushkar I have made many friends. There are so many conversations and cups of chai that I have already forgotten. When I first met Shyam I remember being unsure of what the relationship was leading to. When was he going to ask me for money? When would he ask me to buy something? What was the pretext of our friendship?<br />It bothers me when friendships here are underpinned by hopes or attempts at financial benefit. There are other many other people who I have become acquainted with. Some I have visited repeatedly just to hang out with. Some still call me even though they know that I have long since left their city. Months after Pushkar, Rajesh, a rickshaw driver, hosted Thomas and I at his older brother’s house outside of Varanasi. But on the way back from tea with his brother, he tried to overcharge me for the ride. <br />Whenever I passed by Raj, a silkshop owner, he always abandoned his shop to go with me to get pani puri outside of his mother’s bead store. However, when Raj and I would return to his shop, I always had to see every silk scarf he owned and tell him that I didn’t want each one… even if it was, “a very auspicious day for purchasing,” as he would say.<br />Even so, friends are friends and I don’t have enough. But I do wish that I met more people like Shyam.<br /><br />Meeting Shyam-ji for the first time this summer, I had been surprised and moved by his family’s hospitality and genuine warmth; a friendship with no expectations. People say that Indian hospitality is a cut above. I’m not so sure about that. I’ve met generous, caring people all around the world. Moreover, India is by no means devoid of people whose idea of hospitality is to shove a begging street-kid to the ground. There are people like that in all countries and cultures and I don’t expect much warmth from them wherever I am. However, most people here ARE unbelievably hospitable in some way or another and, as the Lal’s have repeatedly shown me, will go out of their way to allow you a glimpse of their lives.<br /><br />I’ve known humbly hospitable people where I’m from in Texas where they say that southern hospitality is a cut above. But I’m sure that India and Texas are oceans apart in this regard. Maybe the two are not even comparable. But I do know that there is a family in Pushkar who, no matter my company nor how unexpected and untimely I may be, will always be ok with me crashing on their roof for the night.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=13.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/13.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-51315761246038381042009-10-07T20:28:00.004+05:302009-10-09T15:15:51.210+05:30Delhi-------------------------------------<br /><br />Delhi is unique in its diversity; of people, religion, politics, and culture. It is a settlement comprised of eight successive cities and has thus become, since its inception as Indraprastra in 1450 BC, the product of dozens of civilizations that developed here. As Delhi grew over time, invaders repeatedly usurped control. As the cycle of new and foreign rule was repeated, the different regions of the city grew, changed, additions were made, and in some cases it was decided that a better city would be build upon or near the existing settlements. When the British Raj moved its administration to Delhi in 1911 a fervent effort to westernize the city ensued. Instead of revamping or modernizing the northern neighborhoods, which in 1857 had been the site of a devastating native uprising, the British established New Delhi just to the South. Radiating from centrally located Connaught Place the Raj constructed wide, tree-lined boulevards such as Janpath and Akbar Road, apparent emulations of strolling European thoroughfares which bore little resemblance to the crowded streets of Old Delhi. Enormous stately mansions, parliamentary buildings, grand public offices and flag-lined embassies were carved out and walled in, effectively protecting the city’s elite class from the unsavory sights, sounds, and smells that might have wafted down from Kashmiri Gate.<br /><br />The differences between the northern and southern neighborhoods of Delhi are striking; it would not be difficult to mistake certain stretches of immaculately manicured Akbar Road for the affluent neighborhoods of Paris or to confuse India Gate and Rajpath with the Arc de Triumph and Champs d'Elise. Shajahanabad, now known as Old Delhi, is a world apart from CP and Lodi Colony but within what remains of its crumbling seventeenth-century bastions lays a city of diversity. Old Delhi’s main artery, Chandni Chowk, runs from the Red Fort to Fatehpuri Mosque and is a vibrant, congested tangle of parading people, cycle rickshaws, cows, and obviously overwhelmed foreigners. Halfway down Chandni Chowk, near the subway station, if you head south on Chatta Shah Ji and turn left at Chawri Bazaar, the massive white dome and minarettes of Jama Masjid appear ahead, rising above the dizzyingly tangled masses of exposed electrical lines. Designed by Shah Jahan and built by a workforce of five thousand people over twelve years, it is India’s largest mosque and can accommodate 25,000 worshipers. It was originally called Masjid-i-Jahanuma – ‘Mosque commanding a view of the world’ – and, given the expansive view of the Red Fort afforded from the mosque’s wide stone staircase entrance, the original name seems fitting. Constructed in the seventeenth century at the height of the Moghul Empire’s power, the mosque must have then been an impressive statement; a representation of the Moghuls’ immense wealth, engineering technology, and piety.<br /><br />A remarkable aspect of life in Delhi, particularly life in proximity to historic monuments, is the disparity between the intended uses of such places and the uses for which the city’s thirteen million inhabitants have appropriated those places.<br />I arrived at Jama Masjid at dusk. Outside of the main gates, chai-wallahs and cart-food pushers had just begun to prepare dinner for the neighborhood’s Muslims who, it being Ramadan, were already salivating, eagerly awaiting the end of the day’s long fast. The half-asleep guard didn’t even look up as I passed through a metal detector barrier and continued up the front steps. The staircase was crowded with people snacking on pakora, channa chatt, or gabbing with friends or on cell phones. Not even half of the crowd appeared to be Muslim. A Punjabi, wrapped in a powder-blue turban, sat silently waiting for someone, or maybe just thinking. A Hindu woman, a young mother, slapped her child repeatedly when the toddler wouldn’t stop crying. The little boy’s dark eyeliner began to run when he cried even harder. Schoolboys in pleated navy slacks, loosened neckties, and shouldered book bags snickered at what I assumed had been a dirty joke. Shirtless street kids scampered up and down the steps, pulling lightly on kortas and touching their filthy fingers to their lips. The older and handicapped beggars sat at the base of the steps with their hands outstretched; most of them too tired or forlorn to actively beg for charity. The entrance to Jama Masjid may have been intended as a glorious ascent into a spectacular place of worship, and it is. However, residents also use it as a secular meeting place, a common ground where people of different religions and regional backgrounds come to talk, picnic, purchase, or just sit in silence.<br /><br />fInside the mosque the scene was not very different. There were fewer non-Muslims but to a certain extent it seemed to also be a welcoming communal area. People of all classes and backgrounds had spread blankets in the marbled courtyard in preparation for the evening service and a steady stream of people continued to enter and wash themselves as I milled about. At sunset the call to prayer exploded from speakers in the towering minarettes and a very cordial bearded man told me to leave the mosque.<br /><br />-------------------------------------<br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=DSC_0377.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/DSC_0377.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Photo cred to Ava</span><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P9095513.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P9095513.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Class in Tugluquabad</span><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P9075467.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P9075467.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />-------------------------------------<br /><br />It has been more than a month now since I left Ladakh for Delhi. Things have changed dramatically as my three months of solo travel have ended. Now I am here with twenty-three other students. The others in my program are great. Everyone is adapting and slowly beginning to enjoy life in India. The gender balance of the group is pretty skewed; there are eighteen women and six men. Traveling with a large group has at times been difficult for me. I have lost a lot of my independence. The spontaneity is still there but sometimes it takes considerable effort and free time to realize it. Walking down a crowded street with twenty-three people is a world apart from walking alone. Obviously, we draw a lot of attention. I drew considerable attention by myself this summer but it was different. People looked at <span style="font-style:italic;">me</span>. I assume that most of them were curious. It is different now. I no longer draw the same kind of stares when I am with the group. The women around me do, but it is fairly clear that innocent curiosity is not the intent of some Indian men. In most cases the unwanted attention is harmless, however, women in my group are whistled at, catcalled, and occasionally groped.<br /><br />I would not want to be a woman traveling in India. Their experience is in so many ways more challenging than mine. I think that I would have difficulty not taking on a negative attitude. Apart from harassment there are numerous challenges that female travelers face.<br />Carol, one of our trip leaders, approached me one evening incensed. Trying to arrange a rickshaw from a government hospital she was bluntly told that the rickshaws were not for foreigners. When I approached the same man whom she had dealt with just minutes before, I was helped without reservation; he drove me around on his motorbike until we found a rickshaw and then refused to accept the ten rupees that I offered for his trouble. It’s a petty example but it does illustrate my point; that what the man meant to say when he refused to help Carol was, “my assistance is not for foreign <span style="font-style:italic;">women</span>.”<br /><br />As well, women cannot afford the independence that I enjoy. I don’t have to think twice about smoking a cigarette in public whereas women must consider the impression they are projecting and the inappropriate responses that they may be inviting.<br />I don’t think twice about going out alone at night, even to the seedier areas of Delhi such as Paharganj. A woman, whether at night or daytime, would be asking for trouble were she to do the same.<br /><br />Traveling with women has at times been hard on my psyche. I hate the feeling of walking around with clenched fists. In certain places, when I am with women, men are viewed with suspicion – an attitude that I am not used to carrying. When it is just I, or I and another guy, men on the street are probable friends, not possible wrongdoers.<br /><br />Visiting the Jama Masjid alone had been a great experience. I had felt a little out of place but very welcome. It was the positive memory of that first visit that I carried with me as I walked up the massive marbled steps, this time with twenty-three others. The women in my group are very culturally conscious with their dress. Some of them wear salwar kamez and all of them wear shawls to cover their arms and bosom, and a headscarf when we are in Muslim areas.<br />After walking the gauntlet of chest-level stares, we were informed by the gate attendant that we would not be allowed to enter. Following tempered arguments with a number of officials, the women who they determined were too scantily clad were permitted entry wearing borrowed pseudo-burqas.<br />On my first visit people had smiled and approached me with curiosity. This time however, people kept their distance; we did not at all feel welcome and I felt that we were making the people there uncomfortable. We were eyed carefully, scaled and appraised as intruders on hallowed ground.<br /><br />Sometimes I resent my group for the diminished opportunities for positive, meaningful social interactions in comparison to my solo experience this summer. At other times I resent the people here for interacting with me, a man, in such a different way than with my female counterparts. Most often though, I resent myself for ill-feelings towards either of the two.<br />It would be unwise and presumptuous to say that Indian society, especially regarding women, should strive to adopt what we in America deceive ourselves in calling social equality. America is less than perfect in its progressiveness. For that matter, America is less than progressive in many regards. But India too has a very long way to go. I wish though that the good in people was more apparent than the bad. I wish that the man who smiled and wagged his head at my group stood out in my memory more than the man who grabbed at one of the women before ducking into the shadows. It is unfortunate that the overwhelmingly numerous positive interactions are sometimes outshadowed by the infrequent but searing negative experiences.<br /><br />-------------------------------------<br /><br /> It has been a struggle to find the time and energy to do much writing since school started. My course began in Delhi where I spent three weeks living and taking classes. There are too many stories to tell in such a short space and I wouldn’t be able to recount them effectively if I tried. To choose between having an elephant as a designated driver after a debaucherous night in Paharganj, or piloting cycle rickshaws around Rajiv Chawk to the delight of backseat cycle-wallahs, would be too difficult. I wouldn’t want to leave out getting pulled over by the police while driving an auto-rickshaw (apparently you have to be a licensed autorickshaw driver), but then I might have to exclude splashing around Old Delhi without umbrellas on a muggy monsoon afternoon. And what about riding Delhi’s subway during rush-hour? If I had tried to write about it all, it might have meant three additional blog-postless weeks.<br />Since leaving Delhi, I have spent time in Pushkar, Agra, Fatehpur Sikri, Vrindaven, Dhera Dun, Rishikesh, and Haridwar. I have now been in Varanasi for a week and will be here until the end of the month.<br />Much more to come soon.<br /><br />-------------------------------------<br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P9135919.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P9135919.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P9075481.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P9075481.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P9136091.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P9136091.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P9146150.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P9146150.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Thomas in Fatehpur Sikri</span><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P9125840.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P9125840.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P9156214.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P9156214.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P9125798.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P9125798.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P9156249.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P9156249.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P9125833.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P9125833.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />-------------------------------------El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-4351018030962095612009-09-18T13:37:00.004+05:302009-09-18T13:54:23.270+05:30Stok Kangri---------------------------------<br />Stok Kangri, at 6,153 m (20,187 ft), is the tallest mountain in the Zanskar Range of the Himalaya. I wasn’t nervous about the climb but I did have a couple of concerns. Firstly, while the literature that I consulted recommended seven days for the ascent, I had only been acclimating in Leh for five days and was left with just five more for the climb. I was a little concerned that I might not have been adequately acclimatized.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8264910.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8264910.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8234093.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8234093.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Three summers ago, at 18,000 ft. on Denali, I had a brush with severe altitude sickness. On day twenty-two of a thirty day expedition, stormed in at high camp, I began to fill Nalgenes with blood-streaked vomit. A helivac was impeded by the inclement weather and so, pumped full of dexamethasone, I was short-roped down the mountain in an indescribable thirty-two hour ordeal that involved the efforts of the national park service and innumerable faceless, but not forgotten, people who I will never be able to thank. <br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=n1555980002_30010197_9381.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/n1555980002_30010197_9381.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />-------<span style="font-style:italic;">Denali</span>-------<br /><br />Altitude sickness can be unpredictable. It can impair a person at one time or on a certain climb and not at all on the next. For some reason, younger people are more susceptible to altitude sickness, but unfortunately not much is really known about it; there haven’t been many scientific studies done and I assume that there isn’t much money or motivation in finding a “cure.”<br />So, taking all of this and my past experiences into account, I was hoping for the best but was still a little uneasy.<br /><br />---------------------------------<br /><br />My guide was at my hotel at eight o’clock on Wednesday morning. I had met him the previous day but he had been quiet; he had sat there in the staging room with the solemnly reserved attention of a military man awaiting the orders of a superior officer.<br />“Tzetin, it’s good to meet you,” I had said, “but don’t call me ‘sir.’ My name is Ben.” Tzetin had been in the Indian Army for ten years and had lived in Ladakh for thirty-five. His parents had been Buddhists but he wasn’t. He worshiped the mountains but reluctantly agreed with Buddhist principles.<br /><br />We packed a Tata pickup full of gear and drove to Stok Village, crossing the Indus River on a suspiciously rusty steel bridge along the way. In Stok we met Mutup the donkey driver. Two of the nine donkeys were babies, there not to carry loads but to learn the life of a pack animal. I think that donkeys’ nicknames belie their true character. They know what they want; after rubbing their too-large ears they would follow you around until I found a scrap of corrugated cardboard for them to snack on.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8264946.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8264946.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />The trek meandered from the village up and into a rocky riverbed canyon. It soon began to rain, unusual for the region, and we stopped at one of the trailside yurts for a chai massala. The knock-off Northface shell that I had bought for six dollars in Leh had revealed itself as worthless in the downpour so Tzetin and I just waited in the dripping tent until it let up.<br /><br />The rest of the way to Mankarmo only took us an hour and the entire day’s hike had been completed in two…half the time prescribed by the guidebook. We didn’t actually camp at Mankarmo but at a site six hundred meters down slope. An elderly man and woman live at the site during the summer months in a big white tent surrounded by donkey shit. The pair, I’m sure, does very well selling overpriced soup, tea, cigarettes, and poisonous spiced rum to foreigners. Tzetin and I crawled into the soggy tent and found seats on a dirt floor around the central support pole. The old man in a red robe emerged from a pile of blankets and switched on a cracked radio that he had fixed with strategically positioned rubber bands. The woman sat near us, stirring a pot of salt-tea on a kerosene stove. She smiled as Tzetin accepted a cup of the salt brew and cackled disapprovingly when I requested the exclusion of a wad of butter that dripped down her utensil index finger. Tzetin and the donkey driver talked for a while with the two mountain people before setting up camp. I asked Tzetin what it was the toothy woman had said that had so immediately drawn the attention of Mutup.<br />“He is worried about his baby donkeys. The woman says that she saw a snow leopard this morning on the ridge above campsite.”<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8264920.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8264920.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />I sat in the cook tent with the men and quickly understood why we had brought so many donkeys. I preparation Tzetin laid out a full pantry’s worth of spices, fresh vegetables, juice boxes, soup mixes, grains, lentils, and a bloody newspaper-wrapped sheep’s leg that had been severed just above the hip.<br />Supper was fantastic, begun with homemade french fries and tomato soup with parsley. We had Zuchini and cucumber mash followed by red dhal and rice with carrots and fresh ginger, fire roasted onions with garlic, and chili mutton in aubergine gravy. Just when I thought that the onslaught of food was finally over I was compelled to force down bananas and sliced pear for dessert. Alcohol and altitude do not mix well so I was a little unsettled when Tzetin produced a bottle of rum from one of the burlap donkey bags. The bottle looked nice. On closer inspection I was amused to see the warning on its label: “Possession by non defense personnel is a punishable crime.” <br />I quickly got over my reservations and took a few pegs in my cup of salt tea. <br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8264936.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8264936.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8264938.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8264938.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />---------------------------------<br /><br />I woke up to Mutup re-zipping my tent and rolled over to find a polished tin platter with a teapot and a plate of ornamentally arranged cookies on a doily napkin. The hike from Mankarmo to Basecamp took only two hours and was characterized by Tzetin and I rapidly overtaking groups that had left camp long before us. It’s always nice to travel in small groups; larger groups are slowed down by things that light travelers just don’t have to deal with.<br />The route was gorgeous, first following the same riverbed as the previous day and then rising out of the canyon into an alpine tundra littered with scampering marmots and lichen covered boulders. Basecamp was a small, tent city populated by roughly fifty people, thirty horses, nine donkeys, and a dozen wandering dzo – a mild mannered, bushy tailed cross between a yak and a Himalayan cow. The site was incredible but its aesthetic beauty was tarnished by an obscene amount of trash that not even the garbage disposal dzos could keep up with, though they did give an alarming but ultimately unsuccessful effort to ingest discarded soda bottles. Now, as a NOLS (www.nols.edu) boy, I am particularly sensitive to violators of Leave No Trace principles and so in this case, the trashing of the campsite was disturbing. Every time I saw some smiling idiot duck behind a rock with a roll of toilet paper instead of using the pre-dug latrine, I felt like going vigilante with my ice axe.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8264951.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8264951.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8274967.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8274967.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Dinner, again, was great. More mutton, chow mien with broccoli and chilies, steamed cauliflower, ginger saffron tea, anchovies in tomato sauce, and creamed chicken soup.<br />At midnight I stumbled into the cook tent where Tzetin was warming some porridge. Most people spend a day acclimating at Basecamp, and move to High Camp the following day, before finally making the push to the summit. However, Tzetin and I had been feeling good, and the mountain gods had given us a window of perfect weather that we couldn’t resist, so we decided to just go for it from Basecamp. Even if we had to turn around, we figured that we would have two more days to either try again or move to High Camp and take it from there.<br /><br />I was a little dismayed by how cold it was; much more so than I had expected. A dozen headlamps speckled the ridge high above camp. I wondered if we were starting too late but Tzetin and I caught up and passed the other parties within an hour of leaving camp. The first ridge was tough. I was cold, breathing heavily, and sucking dust that was being kicked up by Tzetin in front of me. We were moving very fast and when we reached the other hikers in High Camp at the edge of the glacial moraine we decided to stop and have some hot tea. Tzetin poured me a cup from his thermos and we were both surprised that it had already gone cold. I schwilled my water bottle but choked on the tinkling shards of ice that were beginning to form. Looking around the star-lit moonscape at the other people perched on their backpacks I thought to myself that they too must have been silently questioning their motivations. At 18,000 ft, at a time of night when sane people are comfortably asleep in their beds, you begin to wonder why you are not. Maybe you are insane…maybe you are an addict…or maybe you’re just a little weird. My suspicions were confirmed when a group of four announced that they were turning back. The others in their party seemed disappointed but at the moment were to self-occupied to voice much of an opposition. The other climbers, in their plastic mountaineering boots, down, fleece, polypropylene, and insulated stretchy tech-wear, seemed content to sit there for as long as their guides would allow. I, on the other hand, was too cold to rest. My toes were freezing through one layer of thin wool socks and it took kicking my New Balance jogging sneakers against boulders to return feeling to them. After a summer in Rajasthan my cold weather clothing was pretty limited but I had found a few, warm, wool-stuffs in Leh. Under my blue jeans I wore a pair of thick wool Indian Army long underwear. I had on a thin wool T-shirt, a thick yak-wool sweater, and a kashmir/rayon pullover hoodie. My yak-wool mittens were thin an ineffective, but my knit hat and silk paisley scarf saved me.<br /><br />The glacier crossing didn’t take more than half an hour. It wasn’t much of a glacier; completely incomparable to those of Alaska or Washington that take hours, sometimes days, to cross. Even so, I disagreed with the route that Tzetin had chosen. I suggested an alternative to which he agreed more out of appeasement than concern for safety. My route took longer but ran perpendicular rather than parallel to the beckoning crevasses. <br /><br />By then there were no climbers ahead of us and as we climbed the headwall I would turn every now and then to see the slower groups snaking their way through the moraine, each one of them a triangular beam of fluorescent glow and shadow on a colorless wall. My favorite thing about glaciers has always been their animate characteristics. These massive forces of nature appear static and lifeless, but they are not. From ice worms that burrow at night and wiggle to the glistening surface at dawn, to the steam train rushes of wind that howl through deeper blue-ice crevasses: glaciers are alive and will show you if you pay attention.<br />Nearing the black silhouette of the saddled summit ridge I stared stupidly at the brilliant night sky. With comparatively little atmosphere between us, the starscape was absolutely spectacular and I tripped often, looking at frequent shooting stars instead of at my feet. Every so often the muffled gunshot sound of the cracking, groaning glacier would interrupt our silenced heavy breathing.<br /><br />We had reached the summit ridge at 4:45 and by then it was bitterly cold. Thankfully though, the eastern sky began to glow and the promise of warming sun reenergized us both. The ridge was steep and the drop on the frozen western side gaping. I was tired but by no means exhausted. The high altitude meant that we were taking three deep breaths between every paused step, but for me the thin air was not as big of an issue as what I call “electric hands.” At 20,000 ft. your body’s circulatory system begins to protest and the sudden rush of blood into inert limbs can be surprisingly painful. I have had the same issue on other climbs, and especially on Mt. McKinley, but never before as severe as on Stok Kangri. As the ridge became steeper and I was forced to use my hands for scrambling stability, each reach or outstretch sent a startling electric shock radiating from my fingertips to my neck. I tried to use my hands as little as possible, tried stuffing them in the pits of my sweater, but I decided that electrified hands were more acceptable than tumbling down the sheer western face.<br /><br />The final hundred meters of the climb were silly. Tzetin and I wanted to be on the summit to see the sun rising over the eastward range and so we would scramble too quickly for thirty seconds before stopping to wheeze, laugh, and lean on our ice axes for a few minutes before doing it all again.<br />We sat on the summit and sucked on frozen apricots as the sun ignited the Indus Valley 10,000 ft. below. The valley and mountains to the west were eclipsed by the massive triangular shadow cast by Stok Kangri and to the north, in the far distance, were the 7,000-meter massifs of the Karakorum. <br /><br />---------------------------------<br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8274998.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8274998.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8275013.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8275013.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8275031.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8275031.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8275055.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8275055.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />---------------------------------<br /><br />About an hour had passed before the first of the other parties arrived on the summit. An Austrian woman took a few photos of me and Tzetin posing next to a frozen mass of wind-sculpted prayer flags before, shouldering our bags, we began down the ridge. The headwall was steep and chocked with crumbling, shifting rocks and I was glad to be able to use my axe as a walking stick.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8275069.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8275069.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8275092.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8275092.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8275112.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8275112.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Basecamp is in the bottom-left corner<br /></span><br /><br />It had taken us only four and a half hours to summit and, after an hour spent on top and two hours downclimbing, the two of us loped into Basecamp at 9:00am. Another guide, a friend of Tzetin, stepped into our cook tent, blinking, surprised to see us back so soon.<br />“What happened?” he asked us, assuming that we had turned back below the summit.<br />“Nahee,” said Tzetin. “It was too cold and we couldn’t go slowly.”<br />“That must be some sort of record,” the other guide said before leaning in to give us both high-fives.<br /><br />Tzetin and Muttup would have been content doing what most groups do after summiting. that is, spend the day resting in Basecamp and hiking the fifteen kilometers back to Stok village the following morning. But I had a lingering altitude headache and didn’t want to pay for an extra day of needless guiding and donkey portering. So, after endless grumbling from Muttup, who had been expecting five days’ pay rather than three, we packed up camp and began the stumble-step trek back through the high meadows, riverbed canyons, and rocky alpine passes.<br /><br />---------------------------------<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8285225.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8285225.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8285155.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8285155.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8285255.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8285255.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8285282.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8285282.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8285319.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8285319.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />---------------------------------<br /><br />Later, that evening as I sat on the rooftop of my hotel with a full beer and a full stomach, across the valley the engorged sun dipped behind the summit ridge of Stok Kangri and, as the stars slowly revealed themselves to me for the second time that day, I thought to myself for the umpteenth time that day, “hell yeah...this is it.”El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-15642162513387319442009-08-25T19:54:00.005+05:302009-08-28T19:01:23.103+05:30Leh - The Jewel In The Crown of India--------------------------------<br /><br />The sleeper train to Delhi was uneventful as far as I know. I slept. The taxi ride to my hotel took forty-five minutes. We drove from the train station near the Red Fort, past Chodni Chawk and India Gate, to Nehru Place in South Delhi. I was struck by how different Delhi appears to be from Jodhpur. The streets are wide and tree lined, a far cry from the sandy alleyways of the Blue City. I didn’t see any camels or horse-drawn carriages, and Delhi’s rickshaws are painted green; they run on clean natural gas.<br />I went for a walk after checking in and was startled by the lack of garnered stares. I realized as I retreated to my hotel, that I was experiencing a sort of unexpected culture shock. If this is what it’s like transitioning from the third work to the “second world,” I wonder how I will fair when I return to Portland.<br /><br />I was at Indira Gandhi well before sunrise and in the air at about six o’clock. The descent into Leh was spectacular. Cruising at 30,000 ft, the jagged peaks of the Indian Himalaya appeared much closer than that. Viewed from above it is obvious that the Himalaya is a young range. The glacier carved valleys are shallow and the knifed ridges have not been as affected by erosion as, say, the Appalachian. <br /><br />Leh is located in the Zanskar Range of the Himalaya, a high desert with picturesque towns nestled between soaring snow-capped peaks. The snowiest of those, at just over 20,000 ft, is Stok Kangri, the tallest mountain in the range.<br />At a headache inducing 11,500 ft, Leh has become a haven for treckers and climbers. The town of 28,000 is part of the Ladakh district of Jammu & Kashmir and because of its proximity to Chinese occupied Tibet it is heavily populated with Tibetan refugees. I didn’t fully realize until I arrived here that I might as well have traveled to a different country. The people here speak Ladakhi, a language that sounds to me more oriental than Indic. It’s strange to all of a sudden not be able to use the Hindi I have picked up over the summer. Even so, it’s easy to get by with just one Ladakhi word, “joo-lay,” which means, ‘hello’, ‘goodbye’, ‘please’, and, ‘thank you.’<br /><br />The people here are beautiful; light skinned with Asian features and permanently blushed cheeks. The women wear their hair in long braided pigtails tied together at the small of their back with pink yarn. They wear turquoise bracelets, draping beaded necklaces, and quilted top hats that flare above their ears. The men wear long, yak-wool overcoats, colorful Kashmir sweaters, and pashmina scarves. Many of the people here have light colored eyes; perhaps, I was told, a genetic remnant of the armies of Alexander the Great.<br /><br />--------------------------------<br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213495.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213495.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213617.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213617.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8254835.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8254835.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213510.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213510.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8234327.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8234327.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />--------------------------------<br /><br />The people of Leh are friendly, warm, and interestingly almost all speak fluent English. Even the monks in the town’s many gompas, seemingly removed from the influences of the modern world, greet you in English.<br />One monk, again in perfect barely-accented English, told me the history of his fifteenth century monastery before walking me through and explaining the significance of the thousands of painted representations of the Buddha that adorned the interior walls.<br /><br />--------------------------------<br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8223848.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8223848.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8224044.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8224044.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />--------------------------------<br /><br />The city itself is a maze of shops, guesthouses, and restaurants. Tibetan handicraft stores sell shawls, buddah figurines, hook-loop carpets, and an array of knit clothes, socks, and shoulder bags. Between the craft stalls are outfitters that peddle insulated army jackets, knock-off North Face sleeping bags, crampons, and well-used ice axes. There are tons of tourists here. They consist mostly of the trekking and ex-pat crowd. Lots of beards, even more backpacks, and the per capita dreadlock rate in Leh might even outdo Portland. The downside is that it is expensive here. A cup of chai masala (some of the best I’ve had in India) is twenty rupees whereas it cost only three in Jodhpur.<br />The shopkeepers are pushy but amicable. Each one from whom I have made a purchase remembers me by name and, when I walk past, comes from their store to shake hands and chat for a minute.<br />--------------------------------<br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8234222.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8234222.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8234232.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8234232.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">It isn’t so much the six-foot python around my neck but the cobra inches from my face that has me a little freaked out in this picture</span><br />--------------------------------<br /><br />The restaurants here are fantastic. Many are on rooftops with views of the valley and mountains. Compared to my diet this summer in Rajasthan, this is heaven. There is little ghee used, and not every dish is either dripping in oil or fried in it. Enjoying steaming hot thenthuk or thukpa soup on a sunny but chilly rooftop as prayer flags flutter in the afternoon mountain breeze is about as close as I have ever come to moksha.<br />Delicate momos, saffron tea, mushroom chow mein, and steamed vegetables have replaced crispy samosas, butter lassis, gut-busting bhiryani, and murg mutton and, frankly, I couldn’t be more relieved. Instead of snacking on my usual vice, pani puri, I have been taking full advantage of the regional specialty of Ladakh: apricots. Dried apricots, fresh apricots, dehydrated apricots, apricot seeds, apricot juice, and apricot jerky; all of it is delicious and doesn’t slow you down like fried chatt does. <br /><br />The mountains and hilltops that surround the city are topped with gompas (Tibetan Buddhist monasteries), stupas, ruined forts, and palaces. Leh Palace, uninhabited for what seems like centuries is perched on a hill overlooking the main bazaar. The bare interior is unlit and I was thankful for the burst flash on my camera; the dirt floors are crumbling and a misstep could result in a one-way express ticket to the basement. A steep switchback trail leads from the palace to the ruins of Tsemo Gompa. Prayer flags radiate from chortens surrounding the dilapidated building and the views of the Indus Valley are heart stopping.<br /><br />--------------------------------<br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8223947.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8223947.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213520.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213520.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />--------------------------------<br /><br />On the way back down from Tsemo a monk invited me into Chambo Gompa. At first glance the interior looked surprisingly plain. That was until the monk pulled back the curtain that divided the room. Behind it was a thirty-foot, psychedelically painted, seated Buddha statue, flanked on each side by fearsome fanged creatures.<br /><br />There are many surrounding villages that are well worth visiting. Thiksey, about twenty kilometers from Leh, is a gompa but it might as well be called a village. Hundreds of monks live and work among the white washed huts that spill from the temple at the top of a dramatic hill. Prayer wheels line the staircase paths that wind around the entire place. An English sigh above some of the wheels reads, “Spin in a clockwise fashion. This will be very beneficial.” The prayer chamber has gorgeous hardwood floors, is covered in colorful patterned trim work, and above an alter is a framed portrait of the smiling Dalai Lama.<br /><br />--------------------------------<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8244573.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8244573.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8254862.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8254862.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8244465.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8244465.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />--------------------------------<br />On my first full day in Leh I woke up to a frigid morning. I followed the crowd to the main bazaar and by 6:30am found myself squeezed into a minibus that was a cramped on the roof as it was inside. The bus descended an impossibly steep road down into the valley and unloaded us in Choglamsar, a village seven kilometers from Leh. I followed the flowing red robes, the top hats, and the spinning handheld prayer wheels towards a lush green field bordered by thousands of multicolored prayer flags. A soldier with an AK-47 patted me down while another with a Sten machine gun inspected my satchel. I was directed to the “foreigners section” and was surprised and thrilled to find a spot in the grass only fifty feet from the stage. Looking around at the well-bundled masses I made a note to purchase a shawl that afternoon.<br /><br />--------------------------------<br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213637.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213637.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213652.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213652.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213707.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213707.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213673.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213673.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />--------------------------------<br /><br />After haveing sat there waiting for two hours a murmur began to sweep through the crowd. First, deep Tibetan horns filled the valley with an electrifying vibration. Higher pitched ones joined in - hundreds of them – all with different squealing pitches and varying intensities.<br />For most of the morning the thousands of monks that surrounded me had remained calm and pensive. Now, as the crush of base drums erupted around us they seemed to be overcome with emotion. They trembled with excitement and smiled joyously; the way one might in the presence of a beloved grandfather.<br />The murmur turned into a deafening monotone chant. “Ohm mani padme hum…ohm mani padme hum…ohm mani padme hum,” over and over.<br /><br />--------------------------------<br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213812.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213812.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213758.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213758.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />--------------------------------<br /><br />A procession of men in gold mohawked hats led an old monk to the flower-strewn stage. The other monks on the platform raised their praying hands to their foreheads and then, as the high horns, low horns, and base drums reached a crescendo, they bowed before the old man, the Dalai Lama.<br />The music and mantra stopped abruptly and the Dalai Lama turned, smiling at the crowd of around 15,000 people. He took a seat on a massive gold-leafed throne and began to speak in Tibetan. <br /><br />--------------------------------<br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213740.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213740.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213750.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213750.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8213792.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8213792.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />--------------------------------<br /><br />His voice was amplified by massive speakers that, unfortunately, drowned out the English translation which was being provided to the foreigners’ section.<br />I heard the translator say that the teaching would be on the Dharma Discourses but other than that I was only able to pick out key words such as, “virtue, piety, and selflessness.” Not being able to understand the Dalai Lama didn’t bother me too much, though. I was enamored just watching him and observing the effect that his words precipitated in the crowd. It was obvious, however, that some of the English speaking enlightenment seekers around me were devastated. I felt genuinely bad for them; those people who must have planned their trip to Leh specifically to see the Dalai Lama. For them it must have been like buying a ticket to the Superbowl only to find out on game day that their prized seat had an obstructed view. I on the other hand, replete with dumb luck as of late, didn’t know about the teaching until I arrived here.<br /><br />Leh is a spectacular place. The past five days have been relaxing and revitalizing. Since I started writing this, I have visited many more gompas and palaces, and have met countless people who I wish I had more time to write about.<br />Tomorrow morning I leave for the town of Stok. Hopefully the four donkeys that I have arranged for my attempt of Stok Kangri will be there. With a little dumb luck, and a lot of hiking, all will go as planned and I will be back in Leh on August 30th. Until then, “joo-lay.”<br /><br />--------------------------------<br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8244388.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8244388.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />--------------------------------El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-19737194091750839182009-08-18T19:03:00.013+05:302009-08-18T19:32:36.050+05:30The Land of Kings -- RajasthanYou know that the time spent somewhere has been special when nostalgia creeps in before you have even left. I feel fortunate for these months in Jodhpur and benefited by having spent my period of initial adaptation in one city. I wonder how different are the experiences of other tourists; those who hit ten cities in as many days before flying home. It took me nearly a week just to get over my jetlag. It is hard to imagine that a two-week traveler could do the same and also begin to digest this immensely diverse country. I am sure that there are advantages to such a style of travel. Each day is fresh, and unseen. Each sight is spectacular. However, there is a disconnect when you spend each night in a different bed. It is easy, if not compulsory, to observe and appreciate sights but it takes time to connect with and try to understand people. My interactions with people have defined my summer here in Rajasthan. <br /><br />I will miss Govind, the owner of Durag Niwas Guesthouse, his wife, Mukta, and their young son Ayush. I never ceased to be amused by Govind’s complaints about certain unsavory or difficult guests. I was always impressed by his passion for addressing the many social injustices that, growing up here, he has seen firsthand. That a man my age has successfully implemented an effective non-governmental development organization (www.sambhali-trust.org) in this socio-political environment is truly extraordinary. I look forward to a continued friendship and to following his organization’s progress in bettering the lives of so many at-risk women. <br /><br />Govind’s guesthouse has been a blessing. I couldn’t have hoped for the company of a kinder family or more caring staff. I will miss Bunti and Pintu, the day-to-day managers who always smiled in passing even when such accommodation had become unnecessary. Towards the end of my stay I have often become uncomfortable asking for guest services as I have felt more like a clan member than a paying tenant. After putting up with a dripping shower for most of my stay and then over the last week resorting to showering with a bucket and cup, I finally asked Pintu to fix it for me. A few hours later, he had torn the bathroom wall down, fixed the broken pipe, and patched it back up. It’s great to have a nice working shower now; I just wish I had asked sooner than five days before I leave.<br />I have enjoyed the tireless spirit of Pauol Singh and Sunil, the Nepalese cooks who always seem to be laughing at a joke to which I am not privy. They always make fun of me when I forget to wear shoes when opening the refrigerator; without grounding, the handle of the 1970’s era icebox gives a startling electric shock. I hope when I return to Jodhpur in December that my improved Hindi will enable conversation with the two boys.<br />I will miss, Shakti, Govind’s stout younger brother. I always got a kick out of running into him around town, proudly steering his murder-black Enfield Bullet through traffic. Sometimes I would salute him as I motored past on my comparatively wimpy Honda Hero. Shakti’s style always seemed well suited to his machismo personality. His only apparent fashion requirements seemed to be mirrored aviators and T-shirts sufficiently short sleeved to show off his bicep tattoos.<br />The guests at the guesthouse have also been great. Many of them have been volunteers for Sambhali Trust. Many of them like minded, and similar in age to me, they were usually up for an excursion to a nearby town or in-city tandoori pit<br /><br />------------------------------------------<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8032699.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8032699.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8163339.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8163339.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7192166-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7192166-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262373.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262373.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8113209.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8113209.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />------------------------------------------<br /><br />One of the most satisfying aspects of spending an extended time in one city is that people begin to recognize you. Whether the security guards at National Handloom who bend the rules in allowing me to enter the store with my messenger bag, or the guys at Makhania Lassi who always grin when I park my bike illegally in front of their juice stand, it is always comforting to be something more than a stranger in this strange place.<br /><br />One night I walked past an unrecognized man in the parking lot of a restaurant.<br />“One dosssaaaa,” he said with a gruff but friendly tone. <br />“Excuse me?” I asked, startled by his comical reference.<br />“You are one dosssaaaa gora,” he repeated. “I see you all days at dosa cart on MG Rd.” <br />Apparently he had overheard me ordering breakfast at my favorite street-cart and found funny the way I had asked for the South Indian crepe-like snack.<br /><br />The dosa-wallah himself had also come to know me. He would thoughtfully use the less greasy corner of his shirt to clean my plate and came to predict my dietary preferences as well. For breakfast he knew that I would have one “dosssaaaa” masala. In the afternoons he would serve me idli sambar. After the first half-dozen times, I never had to ask for either again.<br /><br />I’m sure that I will miss Vicky, the omelet-wallah whose cart, depending on the position of the sun, was always parked either just inside or outside the northern gate of the clock tower bazaar. He always teased me whenever I walked by.<br />“Oh Benja-bhai! Have you finally come for my delicious omelet? I have telling you my omelets are world famous but today’s are better than evers before!”<br />I would always sit down and talk with Vicky for a minute but not once in the months that was in Jodhpur did I try his omelet. Maybe I’ll have one when I return in December. Afterall, I am sure that then they will be "evens better" than before.<br /><br />It’s always unexpectedly fun to run into one of the guys from the gym. One night I was having dinner with some friends at the Park Plaza Hotel. At first I didn’t understand why the chef had come from the kitchen to shake my hand. That was until I realized that the man under the silly white chef’s toque was, Digpal, the same guy from the gym with the silly yellow pants.<br /><br />Sometimes a rickshaw-wallah, recognizing me from my pre-motorcycle days, will pull up next to me for a chat while we cruise down High Court Rd.<br /><br />I’ll miss the guard with the walkie-talkie, a young off-duty policeman outside of the haveli on the way to work, with whom I always shared an acknowledging “dude nod” as I sped past.<br /><br />------------------------------------------<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8163383.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8163383.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8032798.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8032798.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8032867.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8032867.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8163376.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8163376.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7161924.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7161924.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7282612.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7282612.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />------------------------------------------<br /><br />I believe that people are profoundly shaped and sometimes even defined by their surroundings. It is no wonder then that in an amazing place as Jodhpur live such incredibly warm, curious, generous people.<br />Each area of town has its own distinct flavor. Brahmapuri/Jalori, with its indigo-washed mosques and sizzling samosas, is vastly different from the clock tower bazaar, with its pyramids of spices and sulfurous rock salt.<br />Sardarpura has some of the swankier restaurants in town and is also the best place to go for western style clothing. <br />Near the cricket stadium you can find much of the same. There is even a starbucks-esque coffee shop. It can be challenging, however, to find anything on its menu that doesn’t include a scoop of ice cream. If you ask for coffee sans ice cream the baristas look at you as if you’ve gone mad.<br />In my neighborhood, Raika Bagh, there are countless antique and trinket stores, akin to Houston’s Montrose neighborhood and, similarly, a bohemian pack rat’s dream.<br />Nearby, on Nai Sarak, you can find countless tie-dyers among the incense and pani puri carts…just come with hard candy or bananas: the beggars there are the town’s most tenacious. <br />Also close to Raika Bagh, on the way to Mandore, is the bustling circle that intersects High Court Rd. If it’s sunny outside – which it always is – you’re sure to see ‘Ole One Horn standing somewhere in the road, impervious, oblivious to the cars buzzing within centimeters of his long face. I guess that it IS time to move on when you begin to recognize the cows around town, to say nothing of naming them as well.<br /><br />------------------------------------------<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7282534.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7282534.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8163329.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8163329.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8163316.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8163316.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8032787.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8032787.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7182071.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7182071.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8032674.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8032674.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8163406.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8163406.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />------------------------------------------<br /><br />I will admit that I am a little apprehensive about leaving Jodhpur. My experience of India has thus far been limited to Rajasthan. This is India’s largest state. With its rolling deserts and fairytale hilltop forts, it is arguably India at its most majestic.<br />This place fulfills all of the romantic expectations one might have about this country. Flowing, vibrant saris in bustling incense bazaars. Mustached men dressed in white except for their blood-red turbans and pointed shoes. Camels and opium. Gold-hoop nose rings, spices, tie-dye, sabers, and monkeys.<br />I am sure that other places in India will surprise and thrill me as Rajasthan has. I know that those places will also be special to me. But I suspect that something about Rajasthan has been different.<br />For now though, I remain sentimental, sometimes pre-nostalgic, about the extraordinary summer that I have had here.<br /><br />------------------------------------------<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6261674.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6261674.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />------------------------------------------El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-15674719525371988922009-08-16T22:26:00.013+05:302009-08-18T23:42:36.422+05:30Low Ridin' - High Flyin'I was thrilled when I learned that I would get the next two days off from work. Rakhi is a Rajasthani holiday during which sisters give their brothers gifts in return for the promised protection of their honor. Charming… I know. In reality however, at least as I experienced it, Rakhi isn’t as painfully patriarchal as it sounds.<br /><br />On the first day I did absolutely nothing. Well, that’s not true; I did go and get a shave from my barber at the “American Saloon” on Station Rd. I walked next door afterwards, face stinging from ayurvedic balm, and had a fresh-squeezed pineapple juice.<br />I also went to “Fitness Planet”. Leaving the gym, tired, I was considering stopping for a cane and mint juice. I was rounding Ratanada Circle, slowly, when the bastard cut me off. Complain as I may, it was actually my fault. Driving in India, when someone cuts you off, you have to be ready for it. I wasn’t. My right foot mashed the rear brake just as I passed over a pile of drift-sand. It all happened incredible fast but somehow, as the bike went down, I summoned the reflexes of the panther I hadn’t seen in Ranakpur and sprang off the footpegs. If forced to do it again I would surely end up in the hospital, so this account should by no means be taken as representative of my athletic prowess (generally lacking) but rather a freak burst of coordination. I landed in front of the crashing motorcycle on the balls of my feet, tripped, and rolled back into an awkward decelerating sprint. As I dusted myself off, rubbing my bruised shoulder through the tear in my shirt, I realized that two hundred bewildered pedestrians were gawking at me. It was awkward and embarrassing to say the least. Flustered and frustrated that I hadn’t thought of a biting Hindi insult to shout before the other driver had fled the scene, I turned and walked back to my bike. In retrospect, I am glad the other driver took off: I don’t have a driver’s license and, after the Day of the Deliveryman, I am keen on avoiding hot encounters with Indian police. The motorcycle wasn’t as badly beaten up as I had expected it to be. The headlight’s plastic cover had been shattered but the bulb was still intact. The front fender and chrome crashbar had been scraped up good but luckily there wasn’t any mechanical damage. The forward, right turn indicator had been sheered off. Not a big deal though; drivers here do not look behind so forward turn signals are effectively useless. I righted the bike, struggled with the kick-start as traffic buzzed around me, and rode slowly back to the guesthouse.<br /><br />-----------------------------------------<br /><br />For Wednesday, the day of Rakhi celebrations, I had been invited to a coworker’s house. Ever since that first week here in Jodhpur when I jumped out of the village jeep to change its flat, Santoz-ji Jain has treated me as a surrogate son. When I walk into a room she beams, curls her upper lip in a manner that if I didn’t know was affectionate I might mistake for slight annoyance. She unfailingly relinquishes her seat to me when there are none left. I found this very uncomfortable at first but now that I’m aware of the futility of resistance it is actually quite endearing. <br /><br />Now, even as we are good friends, before going to Santoz-ji’s house, I knew next to nothing about her or her family; she does not speak a word of English. Come to think of it, she doesn’t even call me by my English name. She’s always calling me “Prem” which I think means “love” in either Hindi or Marwari.<br /><br />I woke up early to go buy a housewarming gift. A while back I asked Govind if a plant (flowers?) was an appropriate thing for a guest to bring. He laughed at the peculiarity of my assumption.<br />“No, Benjamin-Singh, that would be… weird. Indians bring sweets.”<br />So, in an effort not to be weird – those of you who know me well know that this is a daily struggle – I drove to the nearest sweet shop and bought a one-kilo box-o’-diabetes. Fresh Indian candies are crammed with refined sugar and ghee. Most of them are too sweet for my taste but a few, the pistachio ones especially, are pretty good.<br />Santoz-ji’s youngest son, Praveen, showed up at the guesthouse at eleven o’clock and I followed him, on my bike, through Sojati gate and into the labyrinth of the old city. Horn blaring at innocent bystanders, I tailed him as we careened recklessly through knee scraping alleys and backstreets. He looked back every now and then, smiling, half surprised that I was keeping up. We pushed through the maze, drawing closer to the fort, and finally rumbled up to an indigo washed house, indistinguishable in color from its neighbors’.<br /><br />Stepping over the open sewer and into the foyer, I kicked off my sandals and followed Praveen to the second floor.<br />“Ram ram,” Santoz-ji said, curling her lip and beckoning me towards an open-front room overlooking the alley and my parked motorcycle. Santoz-ji called her daughter to come and lay down some sitting cushions. I wasn’t at all prepared for the young beauty that walked into the room. She was small, a bit wispy, but moved with the obnoxiously elegant poise of a runway model. As she floated across the floor she looked at me and curled her upper lip into a smile. I quickly realized that I was being weird and awkwardly shifted my gaze away. I knew better than to get my hopes up but I was nevertheless disappointed when her husband entered shortly behind her.<br /><br />Someone brought me their wedding album and we all sat in a circle flipping through hundreds of photographs. I noticed that the son-in-law, the husband, was not looking at the photos but at me. That was fine though; at least I wasn’t the one being weird.<br />Santoz-ji returned to the kitchen to continue lunch preparations while her husband and sons sat and “talked” with me. None of them spoke English but because one of the sons was deaf, they were all fluent in sign language. The entire family was very attuned to hand signals and gestures. As a result, even with no sign knowledge myself, we found it relatively easy to communicate with each other. When lunch was ready it was placed on the floor in front of us. There was veg. pulauo, warm khil, channa curry, bhati, fried puri, papad, and a mountain of the fresh sweets that I had brought.<br />I ate too much trying to appease everyone who begged me to eat more. When we had had enough, everyone stretched out on the floor, belching and massaging their bellies.<br /><br />I noticed that the light in the room had shifted when I opened my eyes. Propping myself up on my elbows I blinked around the unoccupied area. It was almost five o’clock when Santoz-ji, seeing that I was finally awake, called for Praveen. He had wanted to take me to his uncle’s house so I grabbed my camera and we set off on foot through the confusing alleys. Rakhi is celebrated throughout Rajasthan but like most cultural celebrations it has developed unique regional characteristics. In Jodhpur, perhaps due to the city’s proximity to Pakistan, the predominantly Muslim tradition of kite flying has been adopted. As Praveen and I walked through the old city, gangs of children scampered about, squealing as they chased runaway kites. Kite salesmen crouched at street corners winding spools of multicolored string. Looking up at the narrow strip of sky between tenements, dozens of strings crisscrossed, kites darting perilously close to power lines. The responsible conscience cringed; apparently America has not yet exported the lessons of Benjamin Franklin.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8052987.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8052987.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8053061.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8053061.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8052999.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8052999.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />The uncle’s house was near Sardar Market and sat facing a modest Hindu temple. The songs of tabla and harmonium players escaped the shrine and resonated in the surrounding streets. I followed Praveen to the roof of the house and was immediately taken aback by the view. Against the backdrop of imposing Mehrangarh Fort fluttered thousands of paper kites in the sunset breeze. Thousands of people craning their necks on rooftops that stretched to the horizon in every direction.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8052955.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8052955.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />I took hundreds of pictures and soon people on neighboring rooftops were calling for me to join them. Praveen had disappeared downstairs so, balancing on a walled ledge I leapt to the next house over the narrow but gaping drop to the alley below. The father and son who had urged me were delighted and invited me to come down into their home for chai. I took tea and papad and talked with the older man for a bit. His right ear was severely disfigured and he told me, shouted at me with a voice resembling Kermit the Frog, that he was effectively deaf. I finished my chai and by then was tired of shouting at the man so I thanked the family and returned to their roof.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8052980.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8052980.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8053094.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8053094.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />A girl called out to me from a few houses over. I made my way, creeping over water pumps, busted spring cots, and apologizing to a sweet old woman who I startled by dropping onto her roof from the adjacent raised one. I ascended a staircase, mere slabs embedded in a cement wall, and mantled onto the girl’s parallel roof. She smiled at me, blushed, and tied a white garland around my wrist. As the man with one ear had, she led me downstairs to meet the rest of the family. We all took chai and laughed at the girl’s little brother, a toddler who couldn’t even be in the same room with me without bursting into tears. I thanked them all and returned once again to the roof.<br />This scene was repeated a number of times – jumping roofs, flying kites, meeting families, exchanging cell-phone numbers – until, jittery from too many cups of chai, I returned to street level. I didn’t know exactly where I was but was able to find my way back to Praveen’s uncle’s house by the sound of the music coming from the temple across the street. I felt a little guilty about disappearing but Praveen didn’t seem to have been at all worried about where I had been.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8053103.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8053103.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8053105.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8053105.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8053161.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8053161.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Along the way back to Santoz-ji’s house, we stopped for fresh pan. I watched the pan-wallah meticulously clip a palm sized betel leaf, spread three different pastes, sprinkle betel nuts, coriander, anis, cinnamon, and dried fruit and then fold the whole thing up into a bite sized package resembling a Greek dolma. We tucked the pan into our cheeks and continued walking, frequently stopping to spit sour blood-red betel juice into the foul sewers.<br /><br />Santoz-ji’s eldest son, Kishore Jain, had just come home from a friend’s house and was thrilled to meet me. He was even more excited by my eagerness to “talk” with him through crudely written notes and assumed sign language (Kishore is deaf and mute but reads and writes English semi-fluently). We struggled sometimes but he was patient with me and beamed whenever we finally understood each other. He told me that he loved to travel, slapping his hand and extending it away from his face in imitation of an airplane. I flipped through photos of him and his wife at the Lake Palace in Udaipur, the Taj Mahal, and at India Gate in Delhi. We watched a DVD of his wedding celebration and he proudly showed me his talented wife’s portfolio of drawings and watercolors.<br /><br />The Rakhi ceremony took place in the main upstairs room in front of the family’s Jain shrine. What I had expected to be an outmoded show of Rajasthani patriarchy was actually a loving display of familial affection. From the description I was given I thought that I would see the manly men of the family, the protectors, avow their swords to the defense of the fragile, incapable womenfolk. <br />But their were no swords, no snorting bulls, and no subsidiary siblings. Santoz-ji’s daughter, my future wife in some favorable alternate reality, smiled at her brothers as she tied red string bracelets around their wrists. They gently touched her shoulders as she pressed a dot of vermillion between their eyes and placed sweet barfi on their tongues.<br />The gorgeous young woman then turned to me and, to my surprise and delight, repeated the ritual. Now, I’m no patriarch, and I’m an even worse swordsman, but as she dotted my forehead I was pretty sure that, for her, I would follow Kishore and Praveen into battle.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8053138.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8053138.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8053083.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8053083.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />The sun had long since set behind the fort and the old city was by then dark except for the occasional crackling flicker of fireworks. I thanked Santoz-ji and her husband, said my goodbyes and motored away slowly through the restricted maze. Turn left where the camel is tethered to the kulfi cart, turn right at the house in front of which the shirtless fat man sits munching on a jalebi, and turn right again at the courtyard with the hanging, freshly-dyed saris. My route markers remained fresh in my mind’s eye but they were now unhelpful; the camel had wandered off, the fat man had had his fill, and the saris had dried and been removed from the clothesline. I directed my bike aimlessly though the alleyways, honking around blind turns and squinting for potholes and sewage canals.<br />I pulled over next to an elderly woman who was sitting on her stoop in some unfamiliar backstreet. I feel that it is rude to talk to people while wearing a motorcycle helmet, so after killing the engine, I unbuckled my chinstrap. Sometimes I feel a bit like Darth Vader removing his helmet and finally revealing himself to Luke Skywalker. The only thing that’s missing is the overdubbed oxygen-mask effect…and I guess the whole, embodiment of evil, thing. I must have fooled the old lady though because, as soon as I unveiled myself, she stood up, retreated into her house, and slammed the door behind her. No bother. Even without the old Jedi’s help, I eventually found my way back home by just “using the force.”<br /><br />It is always fascinating to meet a friend’s family. Although I didn’t know what to expect of the Jains, I cannot say that I was surprised. Having myself come from an overtly affectionate household, I find that I am sensitive to and perceptive of similar families. In the villages, over the past two and a half months, I have observed Santoz-ji: the pincher of babies’ cheeks, the heroine, the inspiration for and close friend to countless rural women. Santoz-ji, the coworker, and friend who always gives away her curled-lipped smiles for free. It is incredible people such as she and families like hers who have defined my summer here in Rajasthan, a time characterized by not so unexpected love.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P8053165.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P8053165.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-19445177915429212622009-08-09T21:56:00.008+05:302009-08-13T23:23:03.028+05:30Sadhu's Got StyleSitting at my desk at work, I was a little startled when my phone rang.<br />“Let’s get outa town this Sunday. Can you meet me at Raika Bagh in an hour?” asked Soham on the other end. Looking at my watch I knew that it would take me at least three hours to finish my work.<br />“Ya, I’m done here,” I said. “I’ll see you in a bit.”<br />Six hours later, Soham, an ethnically Indian, American graduate student, Marion, also an ethnically Indian, but French, graduate student, Karen, an American college student, and I were stranded in darkness at a roadside dhaba in Ranakpur. The four of us had been living in Jodhpur for a collective ten months and, forces combined, made a pretty solid team. Soham, captain linguistica, fluent in Gujrati and proficient in Hindi, was able to organize a jeep ride to the town’s only budget hotel and so, by nine o’clock we, plus two delightfully bohemian Italians, were getting drunk, talking about nothing under the moonless starscape of another Rajasthani night.<br /><br />Sunday morning came quickly and the team was soon assembled over a breakfast of toast and chai. Ranakpur is not so much a town but a temple, hidden in the creeping jungle of the Southern Aravali Mountains. One of the most spectacular Jain temples in all of northern India, it is a popular pilgrimage site for Indian and foreign tourists alike.<br />Before visiting the temple though, we wanted to do something physical. The Italians had told us of an incredible hike that they had taken from our hotel the previous day.<br />“Be sure to hire a guide,” one of them had said. “The jungle here is teaming with panthers and wolves,” chimed the other.<br />Unless the guide carried a rifle, which was doubtful, we reasoned that we would be no safer accompanied by a professional than not. So, after breakfast the four of us set off into the dew dripping forest.<br />We crossed a dry lake basin and followed its source, a drier riverbed, up into the jungle. The four of us pushed through the dense greenery, sometimes stopping to circumnavigate an especially spectacular banyan tree. We could hear the ‘wholps’ of monkeys among other stereotypical rainforest sounds, but couldn’t pinpoint from where the primates were observing, us, an intrusive gang of larger, less stealthy monkeys.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262300.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262300.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Scrambling up a steep hill for a more expansive view, I spotted one of them: its bewildered black eyes barely distinguishable from its shadowless ball of a face. The monkey must have sensed my predatory intentions because it turned and ran instinctively towards the crest of the hill, turning back frequently to see if I was keeping up. I was, and I yelled for Soham to hurry up if he didn’t want to miss it. I wasn’t but ten meters behind the monkey when I rolled over the hilltop and stopped in my tracks. Screeching and squealing, the scout monkey and forty others fled the area, tumbling down the backside of the hill, some catching hold of branches or vines and swinging themselves up and into the protective canopy.<br />Not long after, Soham came up behind me. Panting and mildly put off, “What were you yelling about? I’ll miss WHAT?” he stammered.<br />“Oh… never mind. Have you still got those mangos?” I asked him.<br />The two of us sat on a rock ledge scanning the forest from above. We ate the mangos in the far superior, utensiless, Indian style: first squishing and bruising it between massaging fingertips before biting off the cap and sucking the pulpy purée through the hole.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P1030995.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P1030995.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Photo cred to Marion for this mango-eatin' action shot</span><br /><br />Following the riverbed back to the hotel I was surprised by a water buffalo that arose from the brush only fifteen feet away from me. Suddenly recalling that buffalo in Africa account for a significant proportion of animal related human deaths, I implored the beast to think of Gandhi-ji and draw upon its Hindu influences – those being non-aggression and non-violence. As I eased past, the animal turned and stared at me with its lone, crystal-blue eye. The other, a hollow socket, I could only assume had been forfeited in some epic battle with an equally unwary, guideless, rifleless, American hiker.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262360.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262360.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />The same jeep drove us back to the dhaba that the bus had dropped us at the previous night. We hadn’t noticed in the darkness that the entrance to the temple compound was only fifty meters up the road.<br /><br />------------------------------<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">- scenes from the dhaba hut - </span><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262375.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262375.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262517.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262517.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262369.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262369.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />------------------------------<br /><br /><br />Entering through a marble archway, I removed my belt and buried it in my messenger bag. Jains are strict vegetarians, even abstaining from “hot” foods such as garlic and onion. They do not wear leather shoes or leather belts, and believe that harming any living creature is a grave sin. In fact, the most observant Jains wear cheese-cloth masks so as to prevent the accidental killing of insects by inhalation. It is truly a shame that there are not more Jains in this world. I myself might be convinced were it not for the fact that I worship the gastronomic god of garlic. I suppose that that is the basic difference between people like me and the religiously devout; the pious abstain for the promise of eventual gratification whereas I want that 16oz ribeye now… with a side of garlic fries.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262398.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262398.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />The ascending temple steps were shiny and depressed, rounded smooth by a thousand visitors every day for a thousand years. Stepping silently, barefoot through the front hall and into the grand atrium, I was completely floored. I have been inside the Dome of the Rock, I have cowered in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. I have wandered through Westminster Abbey, Notre Dame, and Gaudi’s Basilica. I have never seen such consummate symmetry, such carved perfection, as the Jain temple at Ranakpur. Unlike those other grandiose monuments of religion, the temple was unassumingly magnificent. It was awe-inspiring without giving way to pretentious overindulgence.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262417.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262417.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262448.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262448.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Hundreds of pillars supported the interior space in an expansive, airy hypostyle. The cavernous domed atriums swirled with concentrically smaller patterns until the intricate fractals at their apexes could seemingly be squeezed onto the point of a pin. In one room, a creeping, creaking oak tree illuminated the white marble pillars with a reflective green hue. A quarter-scale elephant, polished from the same stone as the surrounding pillars, reared its head, pointing its tusks towards the kaleidoscopic ceiling.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262503.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262503.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262474.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262474.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />In each cardinal corner of the temple sat pilgrims perched on covered balconies that overlooked the leopard filled forest that draped itself over the upturned terrain. I didn’t want to leave. I wished that we could stay longer, in the temple or in the forest with its unending trails and promises of predatory encounters. But we had a bus to catch and doubted that it would wait for us.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262494.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262494.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Sipping on a chai at the bus stop dhaba hut, I eyed the longhaired, white-robed man who puttered up on his scooter. Sometimes I chance upon someone whose relative purpose then and there seems to be for me to photograph them. Usually this is because their character, their self, is so effortlessly projected, seamlessly transmitted by their surrounding aura to even the most casual observer such as myself.<br />I sprung for my camera and began shooting. The man was thrilled and, chuckling, puffed out his chest with dignified regality as I circled him snapping my shutter furiously. Satisfied and smiling ear to ear we sat down at a table so that we were then facing each other. He ordered a cup of black tea. He ceremoniously declined the cigarette that I offered him. “Mera nama Benjamin hai,” I began.<br /> “I am Sadhu Ranakpur. I am Sadhu,” he replied.<br />From what I have read, I have gathered that sadhus are ascetic holy men; shamanic Hindu wanderers who renounce their earthly relationships and pleasures in pursuit of the ultimate path to moksha – enlightenment.<br />The chai wallah brought his tea and the sadhu sipped it pensively. When he finally spoke, I didn’t know how to respond.<br />“I no eaten foods for five years. Only black teas and chipatis.”<br />I was admittedly a bit skeptical given the holy man’s rather rotund frame but I kept quiet, instead nodding in mesmerized acknowledgement. I said nothing. I just wanted to listen. Would he afford me some hard earned scrap of wisdom? Perhaps some fate fought shard of brilliance?<br />Nope… he liked my shades.<br />“Real Ray-Bans?” the sadhu asked as he tried them on.<br />“Um… ya, I bought them back home,” I managed, a little thrown off by his unexpected interest in my sunglasses.<br />“Bahud acha (very good),” he said as he took them off and set them on the table. We talked for a while. I still didn’t really know what to say though, so I asked the first thing that came to mind.<br />“Don’t you ever get hungry eating only tea and chipatis?”<br />“Ha,” he said. “When hungry I eat banana.”<br /><br />In another time and place I think that the self-depriving-except-for-bananas-(but only if he’s REALLY hungry)-holy-man and I could have become good friends but, just then, the bus to Jodhpur thundered to a stop in front of the dhaba. I knew that it wouldn’t wait so I hurriedly said goodbye and turned to see Soham, Marion, and Karen already boarding. I bounded down the front steps and into the muddy street but stopped when I heard Sadhu Ranakpur call me from behind.<br />“Anglez! Your Ray-Bans!”<br />The sadhu was standing next to our table waving the sunglasses that I had carelessly left behind. As I sprinted back into the dhaba, thanking him with hands in prayer, the faintest smile emerged from his natty overgrown beard.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7262524.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7262524.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Peering out the grimy window of the bus I could see that he was still smiling as we started back towards Jodhpur.El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-15462013202747520342009-07-31T22:04:00.009+05:302009-08-13T23:11:53.341+05:30PushkarWork can sometimes get very frustrating. The villages are incredible. I have enjoyed every minute of my village visits and I am sure that those experiences have changed my life in ways that I cannot yet fully comprehend let alone articulate. When I am not visiting the villages my days are spent writing at the Veerni office. I have written the organization’s annual report, proposals for the continuation of funding from our donors, a presentation that was given at an international health conference, reports in specific Veerni programs, and this week I finally finished writing a report on a study that I developed and administered at Veerni’s boarding school for girls. I enjoy writing about things that stimulate me. And what Veerni is doing here in Jodhpur is important. We are affecting a centuries-old, destructively patriarchal social structure, ensuring that the young women of today and future generations enjoy the most fundamental human right: the opportunity to choose one’s path in life. I love to write, and I take pride in producing quality work for Veerni. Therefore, I get frustrated with my job when the resources necessary to produce professional writing are unavailable. <br /><br />Two weeks ago my patience with the inefficiencies and disorganization at my office was pushed to its limit. I was tired, stressed out, and found myself to be short tempered with my well-intentioned coworkers. I needed a break, and so I felt justified in asking my boss for permission to take a three-day weekend.<br /><br />I packed my messenger bag that night. An extra shirt, a tie-dyed bandana, and my camera were all that I would need for a weekend in Pushkar. I had just finished my book so I traded it for another from the guesthouse’s library, a collection of fifty worn paperbacks representing at least ten languages. I slept through my alarm on Friday morning and rushed out the front gate at 8:00am, eager to begin the six-hour drive. As I motored through waking Jodhpur chai wallahs were just beginning to stir their steaming teapots, preparing for the early morning rush of weary decaffeinated workers. Stopping at a fruit stall, I filled the remaining space in my bag with bananas, plums, and harpoose mangoes. The shopkeeper eyed my 150cc bike with skepticism when I told him that I was on my way to Pushkar.<br /><br />The first twenty kilometers were familiar, following the same road that I have taken many times to the village of Meghwalon Ki Dhani. After leaving the familiar singlewide I had nothing left to guide me but the kindness of strangers and the scrap of paper upon which I had written, in Hindi script, the names of the villages along my chosen route. For fifteen kilometers I rode on a well-paved two-lane road. I had clear sight for miles ahead of and behind me, so, seeing that the road was clear, I opened up the throttle. Traveling fast enough that people in the fields on either side didn’t seem to notice me, I realized that I was invisible. I know that it sounds trivial but, honestly, not being noticed here is a noteworthy part of my day. Some of the looks I get on the street are startling; sometimes people stop whatever it is they were doing to gape, slack-jawed, until I smile and wag my head, which usually snaps them out of their fixated trance. But, now, charging across the desert nobody even glanced at me. It was my turn to stare at them!<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7192179.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7192179.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />It was easy to space out, ogling at the dusty sanitized landscape that blurred past. I had to be careful though. There are many roadside vendors out there, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, who sell cold drinks, paan, and beedis. Their enticement strategy, although dangerous for motorcycle-bound daydreaming foreigners, is actually quite brilliant. To get motorists to slow down enough to see what the stall sells, some vendors create a speadbreak, either in the form rocks, branches, or crudely poured humps of crumbling concrete. I learned my lesson after almost being thrown over the handlebars; as with other features of life in India, I have found it wise to assume nothing and expect anything.<br /><br />At the first unexpected fork in the road, I pulled into a dhaba hut to get a drink and ask for directions. In Rajasthan, people store drinking water in clay pots so that it remains cool. A communal cup sits on top of the plate that covers the cistern. This aluminum cup has an outturned rim that enables the user to waterfall liquid directly down their throat in an alternately gulping and then gasping fashion. In this way, the whole pot is not contaminated by the touch of lips. Removing the plate and peering inside can be a mildly nauseating experience. Depending upon how long the water has been sitting, varying viscosities of grease and slime glaze the surface. I have only been sick once and, even then, “Delhi Belly,” wasn’t so bad. It was no worse than mild food poisoning and I was fine after thirty-two hours. I have been drinking the tap water and eating the street food and, despite the morbid warnings in my guidebook, I feel no worse for it.<br /><br />So, with slimy water dripping down my chin and onto my shirt – the waterfall method has not yet been perfected – I asked one of the men in the hut to kindly tell me which road led to Barunda, the next town on my scrap paper route. The first man to speak up, in Marwari, told me that the right-hand fork led to Barunda and that, coincidentally, he was heading there as well. Now, I don’t speak Marwari, the tribal dialect that roughly translates to “the language of the land of death,” but I have found it remarkable how effectively communication can be achieved through inflection, gestures, and facial expressions. I told the tall Rajput man, in English, that I would be happy to take him to Barunda and, leaving the chuckling group of men in the hut, we motored away, taking the right-hand fork out of Pipar. In Barunda, the appreciative man begged me to take chai with him at his house but I politely declined. I had gotten a late start and, already, the desert furnace was heating up.<br /><br />Continuing on across the barren landscape, I slowed down when passing shepherds, fearful that one of their goats would foolishly dart in font of my bike. Occasionally a solitary bull would appear, rising out of the oil-slick mirage miles ahead. When this happened, I found myself whistling the theme to, “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly,” as if I was facing down a gunslinger on a deserted western main street. Once close enough to see that the bayonet-crowned bovine was clearly top gun in those parts, I would swerve to the other side of the road to give the lazy beast ample space for whatever it had in mind.<br />I passed through Merta, Piras, and countless other remote towns. Sometimes, spotting an inviting tree, I would turn off the road and bump across rocky unplowed fields to enjoy a mango in shaded solitude.<br /><br />With only half an hour's drive remaining it began to rain. Seeing no shepherds, I sped up and finally arrived, drenched, at the first hotel whose name I recognized from the guidebook. The hotel was too expensive but I cringed at the thought of returning to the steaming, flooded streets.<br />During monsoon the benign open sewers overflow and spill into low-lying areas, forming rivers and pools of putrid slush. You can only drive so far on a motorcycle with knees tucked timidly to chest before you have to lower your feet for a downshift or hard brake. Being covered in sewage isn’t so bad; it’s the prospect of having to do it again that gets you reaching for your wallet.<br />Besides, the hotel had a swimming pool, a luxury that I was willing to be overcharged for. For the remainder of the rainy day, I swam, napped, and finished the well-read book that I had stolen from the guesthouse.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7171971.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7171971.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />---------------------------------<br /><br />I didn’t sleep through my alarm on Saturday morning; I wanted to get an early start on my hike. Pushkar, a town of 14,000, one of India’s holiest pilgrimage sites, is an oasis in the desert. In the northern foothills of the Aravali Range, the town itself has been built around a lake, a basin scooped from the surrounding jungle-green peaks. When the world was created Brahma dropped a lotus petal into its ocean. Where it floated to the surface, according to legend, became Pushkar. The lake at the center of town is ringed by fifty-two bathing ghats, the most auspicious of which leads down from the Brahma Temple, one of only a few such temples in the world. While it is undoubtedly the most important temple in Pushkar, it is but one of over 500 that sprout from the city and surrounding forests. The town, owing to its reverence of the cow god Lord Brahma, is strictly veg-only and alcohol-free. Cannabis, however, is openly consumed in the forms of hashish or bhang-lassi, a potent yogurt drink that is sold at restaurants and roadside stalls. As such, Pushkar has a heady atmosphere that caters to the hippy travelers who throng there.<br /><br />I drove my motorcycle to one of the ghats, weaving cautiously through the mass of Indian pilgrims and stoned European tourists. After performing puja with the help of a Brahmin priest I rode to the outskirts of town where I would begin the 1000-foot climb leading to the sky-scraping Savitri Temple. It was at the base of the towering hill that I met Shyam Lal and his wife Endra.<br />As I parked my bike near his chai dhaba he beckoned me over and, after spirited conversation, he offered to watch my helmet for me as I hiked. I thanked him with a palms-pressed “namaste” and promised to take chai with he and his wife when I returned. The trail to the temple followed a well-worn stone staircase that crept and twisted over drainages choked with goatherds struggling to make it to the top. I hadn’t been walking for more than fifteen minutes when I turned and saw Shyam’s son, Anil, sprinting, scrambling to catch up with me.<br />“Bhanjeemoon-ji,” he panted as he finally reached me. “I walks with you?” he asked exuberantly.<br />“No, it’s alright,” I told him. “I don’t need a guide.”<br />“Ji nahi, only friend, only talk, no money,” he responded.<br />“Ok,” I relented, fully expecting to pay him for his service when we returned to the base of the hill.<br />Although Anil looked to be about twelve years old, he told me that he was seventeen while his father later informed me that he was, in fact, fourteen. I was very impressed with his English, especially after I learned that he had never before attended school, and we conversed easily for the remainder of the climb to the top.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7182048.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7182048.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />The temple wasn’t nearly as spectacular as the views that it afforded. The farmed valley spread to the horizon like an organic patchwork quilt. Seeing it from above, I realized that the town was even smaller than I had initially thought. I could see Shyam Lal’s chai stand, just a speck among countless specks. I imagined him squatting over his steaming pot of creamy tea, every now and then peering up the winding path.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7182065.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7182065.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />When Anil and I did return, the chai was not yet ready. I played with Shyam’s four other truant children while he tended to the frothing pot. After tea and talk the family led me up a neighboring hill to their humble home. Crammed into a narrow space between two just like it, the single-room plaster hut was two paces deep and four paces wide. Windowless and without a bathroom, the Lal’s home was decorated with practical wall hangings: a yearly calendar of important Hindu dates, tin bowls, plates, and ladles. One of the walls had become a shrine dedicated to various Hindu deities. Above the prints, postcards, and drawings of multi headed, multi limbed, and fire-dancing gods was a faded framed photograph of a young, chubby-cheeked boy. <br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7192155.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7192155.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />The father’s voice wavered as he told me how much he had loved his first-born son. There were no beds, or cots, or even cushions; just a few frayed cotton blankets, all of which were spread out for me, their guest, to sit on. I hung out with the Lal’s for some time before deciding to leave to go explore the main bazaar.<br />“Come back for suppers at six o’clock,” Shyam told me.<br />“Absolutely, I would love to,” I beamed, stealthily slipping to Anil, my guide, a fifty-rupee note as we walked back to my motorcycle.<br /><br />At six o’clock I returned to the hut on the hill. The children were thrilled with the box of pistachio sweets that I produced from my satchel. Endra stirred a pot of Dhal Makhani as her daughter, Jiji, kneaded paratha dough on the cold cement floor. We ate, talked, and joked for hours until the retreat of the fire’s last glowing ember left us in darkness.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7182094.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7182094.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7182085.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7182085.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Over the course of the evening I had noted Shyam’s curious interest in my feelings about chicken. I told him that I thought chicken to be both healthful and delicious. He quickly made it known that he too shared a proclivity for poultry and so we decided that the following morning Anil would take me to an off-the-map Shivaite temple while Shyam would travel to Ajmer, a nearby city, to purchase a chicken for our lunch. I gave him three hundred rupees (six US dollars), enough for the price of the bird and his two-way bus ticket.<br /><br />-------------------------------<br /><br />The doorman at my hotel clicked his heals together, straightened his pointed spear, and saluted me as I avoided his gaze. Distant, suppressible pangs of guilt or disgust crept over me as I settled into my plush, air-conditioned room, my thoughts drifting to the family of seven snoring on the cramped stone floor of their hut on the other side of Pushkar.<br /><br />-------------------------------------<br /><br />The younger children, Raual and Gijndr, were sitting on the side of the road, waiting for me, when I rounded the bend the next morning. Jabbering gleefully in Hindi, they climbed onto the back of my motorcycle for the short ride to their father’s chai stall. Shyam Lal was still in Ajmer, buying our chicken, so Endra made chai for Anil, his friend, and I. Afterwards, the two teenagers squeezed onto the bike and the three of us took off heading south out of Pushkar. Judging by Anil’s uncontainable excitement, I knew that he was leading me somewhere special.<br /><br />The rolling road was deserted. We drove past rain-logged patty fields and through narrow walled canyons. At one point a dust covered woman, standing in the middle of the street, signaled for me to stop. As I shifted into neutral a tremendous blast exploded from the crags above. A geyser of rocks and smaller pebbles showered the path ahead. I snaked the bike through the rubble as the woman, a quarry worker, waved me on.<br /><br />“Turn here,” Anil shouted over my shoulder.<br />“Where, here?” I shouted back. Surely he couldn’t have meant where I thought he did.<br />“Here!”<br />We turned off of the road and onto a goat trail that I could see twisted up into the mountains ahead. Bouncing over shifting rocks and across trickling streams I prayed that the quality of the path would not degrade any further. I struggled to keep the motorcycle upright as it chugged over a shale-covered rise, the rear tire projecting slate missiles with every over-rev of the engine. We fishtailed, slipping and sliding down sandy declines, six flailing legs outstretched like supports on an outrigger canoe. It was a feat of strength and will that kept us from capsizing. <br />On the final decline, however, I lost it. I was going a little too fast and the boulder-strewn step-downs were too big. By the time I knew that we were going down, Anil and his friend had already thrown themselves clear and were trapped, limb twisted, in a stand of nearby thorn-bush. I credit my survival to the crash experience that I have developed through many seasons of borderline reckless skiing. Or maybe, and I prefer this theory, after years of climbing I now have a karmically favorable relationship with rocks. In either case, I too had cleared the bike before the front wheel locked and it tumbled down the hill, finally stalling out in a muddy ditch. Removing my helmet and checking for missing or impaled body parts I looked up as Anil and the other boy, unphased, scampered down the hill and past the defeated motorcycle to the banyan shrouded temple.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7192113.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7192113.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />As I followed them on foot I noticed that there were peacocks everywhere. There were dozens in the trees and even more strutting about the grassy temple surroundings. Monkeys bounded over rocks to drink from the temple’s pools. Pairs of them sat in the sun taking turns grooming each other. They swung from vines and branches and always snarled when I got too close. The temple itself sat in a depressed mountaintop valley among hundreds of colossal boulders and incredible rock formations. As I caught up to Anil he pointed at a truck sized boulder and asked, “You see Ganesh?” On the stone to which he pointed was a naturally formed image of the elephant god whose “trunk” devotees had painted white.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7192118.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7192118.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />I watched the boys perform puja at the temple’s stained lingam – a carved phallic representation of Shiva – and afterwards explored the area with them and a few other kids who appeared and decided to tag along. <br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7192153.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7192153.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />To my surprise the motorcycle had not been damaged in the crash and it roared to life on the first kick-start. After a quick stop to collect wild peppers for his father’s curry, Anil, his friend, and I veered back onto the main road. Zooming past the quarry and the flooded fields, the boys were thrilled and held their arms out as if they were flying. <br /><br />By the time the three of us sauntered into the Lal’s front yard, Shyam had already killed and cleaned the bird and was carefully studying it as it simmered in a pot of boiling water. Anil told me to follow him, that we needed to get something else for the curry, something he didn’t know the English word for. I assumed that we were heading to the market but instead he led me to a stand of clustered trees further up the hill.<br />“There…very tasty,” he exclaimed as he pointed and knelt to pick the two-dozen mushrooms that poked through the underbrush. <br />When we returned to the hut, Shyam presented me with a steaming gray slab of spongy meat. I figured that it was an honor to be given the liver, the most protein rich part of the bird, and so I gobbled it down with a smile. A few beedis later and the stew was finally ready to eat. It was delicious, spiced with garam masala, fresh wild peppers and mushrooms, yellow squash, and gourd. <br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7192176.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7192176.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />After mopping up my second helping with endless piping hot chipati I realized that it was getting late and that I should begin the trek back to Jodhpur. I talked with the family a little while longer, exchanged contact information, hugged, shook hands, patted heads, and turned around one last time to wave goodbye as I motored away.<br />The six hour drive was uneventful by Indian standards; I gave a few more rides to random villagers, only got lost once, and arrived safely back in the Blue City at around ten o’clock.<br /><br />The weekend in Pushkar was exactly what I had needed. I felt refreshed by the unexpected hospitality that the Lal’s had lavished upon me. My workplace stress had effectively dissolved and that giddy love for this country returned and lingered for days thereafter. I don’t think that my first encounter with that incredible family will be my last either.<br />In October the desert oasis hosts the Pushkar Camel Mela, an event that draws a quarter million dromedaries, and which is now considered to be the largest livestock fair in Asia. The weeklong mela is complete with races, camel beauty contests, folk art, music, dance, and spirited Rajput mustache competitions. Shyam begged me to come stay with his family for the festival and I fully intend to take him up on his generous offer.El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-8495984649414329722009-07-27T14:26:00.008+05:302009-07-28T15:29:18.817+05:30Solar Eclipse--------------<br /><br />I saw a solar eclipse on July 22. According to Wikipedia it was the longest total solar eclipse that will occur during the 21st century. The path of totality spanned from parts of northern India, to Nepal, Bangladesh, Myanmar, China (unfortunately, DJ, my good friend living in Shanghai, was unable to see it because of cloud cover), Japan, and the Philippines. The papers here in Rajasthan said that it was witnessed by more people than any previous solar eclipse in history, which makes sense given the location. Here, we did not get the full, diamond ring, umbra. At peak the sun was about 85% eclipsed. Still, pretty epic.<br /><br />--------------<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7212225.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7212225.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-44035874060442675342009-07-21T18:42:00.013+05:302009-07-21T22:53:18.528+05:30Zen and the Art of Not Dying Young<span style="font-weight:bold;">7/21/09</span><br /><br />There is something romantic, stereotypically so, about motorcycles. When you drop the clutch, growl into fourth gear, open up the throttle, and feel the quarter-ton machine purr beneath you, it’s hard not to smile. Hell, it’s sometimes hard not to hoot and holler.<br /><br />Now, there are probably better places than India’s free-for-all roadways for a beginner to learn how to ride a bike. But, hey, we only live once…I think. Most of the Hindus here would probably disagree.<br /><br />A month ago, with the assistance of Kett Singh’s bargaining superpowers I rented a motorcycle for three months for $200 US. I know that I said that climbing to the roof of the speeding Tata truck on the way home from the wedding was the best decision ever. So, I lied. Sue me.<br />My acquisition of a bike has been glorious for a number of reasons.<br />When I ride around, or walk around helmet in hand, its as if people say to themselves, “well, the guy drives on our streets. Maybe he’s not just another wacky Rajasthan-in-a-week tourist.” The helmet is the conversation ice breaker; people seem to assume that I am here for an extended stay and, judging by the increased frequency with which I am now approached, feel compelled to talk to me regardless of, in many cases, their lacking English fluency. I say, “Meera nama Benjamin hai,” after which some assume that I speak their language. “Ney Hindi,” I tell them, no doubt sounding like a thick-browed Neanderthal in the process. In the markets also, the helmet has greatly increased the credibility of my haggling. I no longer get ripped off nearly as bad as before.<br /><br />The motorcycle in many ways has been liberating. It has vastly expanded the explorability of my surroundings. Sometimes I drive around after work, cruising parts of the city that I haven’t seen, or neighborhoods that merit repetitive visitation – there are many. Occasionally I get so hopelessly lost, delightfully lost, that when I kill the engine and step off to take a few pictures, I am quickly surrounded by a friendly mob of curious people, no less surprised to see me than I would be to chance upon them playing their cricket game on some obscure spring-blossomed Portland street. <br />Now I can leave Jodhpur, venture beyond the city limits without the hassle and unpleasantry of choking on petrol fumes in the back of one of those annoyingly slow rickshaws.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, and a number of times since, I rode to Mandor, a town ten kilometers from Jodhpur that is famous for its primate infested public garden.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6140851.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6140851.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />I parked my bike next to the garden’s stone wall. An entrepreneurial teenager skipped over and offered to watch my helmet while I was inside. Sans helmet, I strolled through the park, weaving through many picnicking families. It was a Sunday, India’s only workless day. I’m not sure of the species of monkey that resides in Mandore. They vaguely resemble capuchin, but are much larger I think. In any case they were big enough to cause the ground to quake when, seeing something (someone) interesting, they would eject themselves from the overhead banyan trees like rocket-powered escape pods and come crashing down, howling and screeching, provoking pandemonium among the picnickers.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6140921.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6140921.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />The monkeys live in the half dozen ninth century cenotaphs that jut out from the center of the garden. Vaguely resembling Gaudi’s Barcelona Basilica, the redstone monuments melt from their pointed apexes like beach sand drip-castles. Visitors, and monkeys, are free to enter, even climb all over them. Exploring the ornate, ancient buildings, surrounded by grunting primates, it was easy to imagine where Rudyard Kipling drew his inspiration for “The Jungle Book.” I half expected King Louie, the talking orangutan, to pass by swinging himself on his knuckles. <br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6140887.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6140887.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Passing through the exit gates, I was a bit surprised to see my helmet guardian standing next to my untouched bike; it hadn’t been stripped and sold for parts after all. I gave the kid ten rupees – double what I had promised – and drove back to Jodhpur.<br /><br />--------------------------------------------------<br /><br />I joined a gym about a month ago. Never again will I grumble about my Portland gym’s (The Circuit Bouldering Gym) lack of free weights and useable equipment. At least the use of the Circuit’s equipment does not present a legitimate risk of limb amputation. Once, at the gym in Jodhpur, my foot slipped while doing seated leg-presses. Loaded with 150 kg, the sharp, un-rounded, rusted metal footplate came swinging down towards me, finally crashing to a halt only centimeters from my shins. I suppose you get what you pay for when a monthly membership is $4.00 US.<br />I am always filthy after leaving, having done pushups or crunches on the sweat greased floor. Sometimes my workouts are so abrasive that I think a shot of penicillin or a tetanus booster would not be an unnecessary precaution.<br /><br />The gym, Fitness Planet, is not far, so I usually take the scenic route, tearing up the winding road that leads to Umaid Bhawan Palace, the stately hilltop residence of the Maharaja. The downhill road that leaves the compound passes through an army base. Beyond the barbed wire fences and signs warning of random identity checks, dozens of battle tanks sit in formidable formation, ready under camouflaged awnings. Downshifting and veering onto the main road I motor past the encampments of two tank battalions: the Black Mace Squadron whose sign posted motto reads, “Cut Hard, Cut Deep,” and the presumably more docile, Mighty Mediums, whose sign reads, “Each One, Teach One, Plant One.”<br /><br />Sometimes a fellow rider will pull up next to me and strike up conversation as we weave, screaming through thick afternoon traffic.<br />“WHERE FROM?” some of them ask.<br />“AH-MEI-RRI-KAH,” I yell back over the burp of the engines, in my unperfected Indian-English accent.<br />“WHY NO GIRLFRIEND?” they ask, staring at me instead of at the road ahead.<br /><br />I find it very interesting, and telling, that most English speaking Indians have a hard time understanding my metropolitan-Texas accent. I say “metropolitan” because, while I do not have the small town drawl that typifies the Texan’s accent, I speak gutturally, from the back of my mouth rather than my tongue. I shun proper pronunciation of even simple words and tend to roll most of my consonants. I never have problems being understood in the States, but here in India my speech engenders puzzlement.<br />Wandering into a shop here, I ask, “cigarette lighter hai?”<br />The shopkeeper stares at me blankly.<br />“Do you have a see-gahrr-ett li-torr?”<br />“Seegahrrett litorr! Ha, ha, acha.”<br /><br />A few weeks ago Kett Singh and I were talking about movies. “Have you seen The Dark Knight?” I asked him.<br />“Vah kya hai?”<br />“You know…Batman,” I said.<br />“What is that, Batman?”<br />I couldn’t believe that he had never heard of Batman. “You know… Batman! He fights criminals and wears a flying bird costume. C’mon Kett Singh… Bhatt – Mahn.”<br />“Ah, Bhattmahn! Ha, ha, acha.” Of course he knew who Bhattmahn was.<br /><br />Early on, I was nervous and too self-conscious to use an Indian-English accent. I felt that my efforts to be understood sounded patronizing. I find now, having been here for two months, that most people are appreciative of my effort to speak in an accent they are familiar with.<br /><br />--------------------------------------------------<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7171955.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7171955.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />I try not to think about crashing. It's not that I'm unaware of or unprepared for the possibility of a wreck... it's just that I don't like the mental images. I improve my odds by trying to stay off the road after dark; very few of the cars, bicycles, pedestrians, bullock carts, pavement dwellers, camels, dhaba carts, pani-puri pushers, or water buffalo have working headlights.<br />Sometimes, when rocked by an unexpected, unseen pothole, I question the sense of my chosen method of transportation. <br />Was it the wisest of my decisions? Probably not. Are there more suitable places for a beginner to learn how to ride a motorcycle? Absolutely.<br />But we only live… a few times (?).<br />And man am I having fun.El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-53987822820188559032009-07-19T23:03:00.010+05:302009-07-21T19:00:37.489+05:30A Few Pictures<span style="font-weight:bold;">------------------------------</span><br /><br />I know, I've been slacking. I promise a new post sometime this week. Until then enjoy these pictures from Jodhpur, Meghwalon Ki Dhani, Aktali, and Asanda. <br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7051834.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7051834.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6050581-3.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6050581-3.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6090802-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6090802-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6050594.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6050594.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7161920.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7161920.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6040405-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6040405-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6271694.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6271694.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6050504.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6050504.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-61351116968589545402009-07-11T14:19:00.008+05:302009-07-12T00:54:24.806+05:30Deja Vu Drinking, Roof Surfing, and Drunk Driving<span style="font-weight:bold;">6/19/09</span><br /><br />I woke up long before I opened my eyes. The taste of the previous night’s debauchery lingered on my lips like the stale memory of a too-sweet candy. Cracking my eyelids I slowly surveyed my surroundings. Captain Bollywood, the personal reference nickname I had assigned to the twenty five year old Mumbai fashion model whose exuberant dance moves were no doubt borrowed from his favorite Hindi movies, snored loudly on top of undisturbed sheets. I was surprised by how well I felt as I rolled off the way too short cot and into the way too small shower. Feeling worse after a heavy breakfast of jalebis, idli and something so indistinguishably deep-fried that it bore no likeness to its former self, I gathered my belongings and piled onto the bus along with the other soldiers, many of who were much more seriously wounded than I. More than a few aching heads were cradled tenderly between clammy palms. I figured that we were heading back to Jodhpur, trying to get an early start on the long, bumpy journey home. Like most of the assumptions I have made since arriving in India, it too was wrong. The bus came to a stop ten minutes after lurching out of the turnaround. Assuming that the man next to me spoke English I asked, “are we stuck?”<br />“Ha,” he replied – “yes.”<br />For some inexplicable reason, I shouldered my messenger bag as I deboarded, ready to push the monstrous Shiva-mobile out of the mud. That turned out to be a sage decision on my part. We began to walk.<br /><br />I didn’t recognize where we were going until I saw the familiar golden tinsel streamers and pink tent rising above the roofline of a two story, cinder block house. Before proceeding into the tent we were invited to walk through the lower level of the bride’s home. On display in the courtyard was the lavish dowry. Dozens of silk, tie-dyed saris, each with their own set of rhinestone bindis. Countless yellow-gold necklaces, rings, and earings, sparkled in polished rohidawood jewelry cases. Stereos, a computer, and other assorted electronics were reflected in the face of a huge flatscreen television. A new car, wrapped in garlands of tawny marigolds, glistened in the car park. The most important dowry item was not on diplay; I was told that the bride’s family had given Banu’s father seven thousand US dollars.<br /><br />Upon taking my seat at one of the eight-man tables I noticed in health conscious horror that the empty, liquor bottle centerpieces had been replaced with untapped, dew-dripping flagons of Kingfisher and Royal Stag Whiskey. As I poured myself a glass of mineral water Jitu asked me what was the matter.<br />“Are you having the loose motions?” he queried, clearly concerned by my non-alcoholic beverage choice. People don’t tend to beat around the bush with their line of questioning here in India. This is especially true with topics such as marriage, salary, and intimate bodily functions. <br />“No Jitu, I’m fine.”<br />“Ok… but you know what is best remedies for whiskey sick?”<br />“Really, man, I’m fine.”<br />“…Gin and mutton!”<br />“Ok Jitu… <span style="font-style:italic;">now</span> I feel sick.”<br /><br />In a sweaty daylight deja vu, we ate too much, drank too much, and laughed too much, for no apparent reason, into the early afternoon. I had been sitting for some time at a corner table, my back turned to the bulk of the party, talking to a few of the bride’s guests. Jitu, who was by then sitting at a neighboring table with his back facing me, pushed off and rocked his chair against mine. Craning his neck, presumably looking at a grey gecko crawling across the ceiling, he leaned over my shoulder. “Your buses is leaving,” he said nonchalantly.<br />“Wait, it <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> leaving or it <span style="font-style:italic;">has</span> left?” <br />I instantly knew the answer to my question as I turned and realized that the tent had purged half its occupants. “Fan-fucking-tastic,” I thought as I glanced around in search of an alternate mode of transportation.<br />“No problems, Ben. You ride in dowry Tata with me,” he said, flashing me his trademark smile…the sleazy one that only seems to appear when incited by liquor.<br />Great. Problem solved, I thought. Anyways, its not as if he’s asking me to DRIVE the damn thing.”<br /><br />Indian freighters; lorries, otherwise known as Tata trucks, are essentially jacked-up, off-road, dump trucks, with wood panel cargo siding and a bad attitude to boot. They are all elaborately painted with vines, flowers, and repetitive geometric patterns in an effort to soften the startling reality: they are enormous, rolling deathtraps. Many have messages written in English and Hindi on their rust eaten tailgates such as, “honk please,” or, “Bishnoi,” the later an indication of the driver’s tribal affiliation. Some are morbidly witty, perhaps unintentionally; I once saw one that read, “ten minutes sooner isn’t worth your life,” under which was written, “have a lovely day.” The decorations all seem a bit outlandish – that is until you remember that American eighteen-wheelers are often plastered with decals of confederate flags and naked women. These colossal Tata trucks have anywhere from two to four feet of ground clearance, plenty of room to allow stubborn, unmoving dogs to pass underneath unscathed.<br /><br />Hiking up my pants and gripping the ladder that was bolted to the outside of the truck, I hurled myself up and into the driver’s cabin. The driver, an unsavory looking fellow whose greasy tank top clung to his hunched shoulder blades, flashed me a yellow, crack-toothed smile as I surveyed his office space. In the middle of the cab, between his seat and the grimy passengers’ platform, was the metal encased transmission. Fringed tassels lined the rim of the cabin, which was plastered with heat-warped postcards of numerous Hindu deities. A plywood plank was wedged under the huge, flat windshield. When removed it revealed an open slot, protected by a mesh bug stopper, which theoretically enhanced air circulation. The driver’s friend, an equally questionable character, sat squeezed between the gearbox and an upturned, glass coffee table that had been deemed too fragile to ride in the back with the rest of the dowry items. Jitu crammed in next to me, removed his shirt, shoes, and commanded the driver to, “challo!” The driver honked the horn, I wasn’t sure why, releasing a multi-tonal chorus of beeps that would have been enough to turn the “General Lee” red with redneck envy. I glanced nervously at Jitu as the vehicle shuddered and then creaked to life.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6181660.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6181660.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Jitu and the truck driver</span><br /><br />An hour into the drive, I was painfully uncomfortable. An unavoidable metal hook gouged my spine. I couldn’t move my legs; by then the snoring friend of the driver had commandeered them as his pillow. Arms and legs became indiscernible from their rightful owners as the tangled mass of men tried to gain comfort in the 110 ºF, afternoon heat. I knew before I came to this country that Indians have a different sense of personal space than we, “touch-a-phobic” Americans. Furthermore, I arrived here ready to embrace it. American touchaphobia has always bothered me. Why is it that, to many of us (myself sometimes unfortunately included), the unintentional touch of a stranger, a person on the subway, the guy behind us in line, is viewed as an unacceptable encroach upon ourselves? That said, I personally draw the line when the sweat that drips from my body is sourced from another man. I glanced at the black, plastic swatch on my wrist. Something has to give, I thought to myself. I can’t do this for another nine hours.<br />Removing Jitu’s armpit from my now soaked shoulder, I shook him awake.<br />“Is it cool if I ride up there on the roof,” I asked in a tone connoting more of a statement than a question.<br />“It is cools… but look out for power lines,” he said, groggily rubbing his eyes.<br />“Don’t worry, I told him. “They don’t call me hawk-eyed-Ben for nothing.” Most people back home don’t find my jokes very funny. I suppose that it’s foolish to assume that my humor would succeed on the Asian subcontinent.<br />He looked at me blankly.<br />“Um… never mind.”<br /><br />The driver didn’t bother to slow down as I squirmed out of the passenger window and heaved myself, like a beached walrus, onto the roof of the speeding truck. “Best… decision… ever,” I thought as the hot wind rushed through my hair and wicked the perspiration from my exposed arms. The sensible young adult in me shrieked, urging me to return to the relative safety of the miserable cabin. But it was too late. I wasn’t going back inside. Besides, it was beautiful. I had a 360º view of rural Rajasthan: the crown jewel of India. I watched camel herds charge over rolling sand dunes in their exaggerated, slow motion lope. I was startled by countless male peacocks exploding from desert-brush hides in flashes of iridescent aquamarine. We passed through many small villages. Occasionally an old man, wrapped in a white lungi of homespun cotton, would point up at me and yell in the direction of the driver beneath – presumably something to the effect of, “Hey! Don’t you know that there’s a crazy foreigner on the roof of your truck?” I would salute him, wiggling my head ever so slightly provoking a responsive head wag, beaming smile, or in some cases, hooting exaltations of delightful amusement. Every now and then I would drop down into the open-top cargo area, lounging on the velvet dowry sofa before, always, returning to the exhilarating rooftop.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6181666.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6181666.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6181667.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6181667.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />We made many short pit stops – to purge our gin and mutton-bloated bodies and to stock up on water or kulfi ice cream pops. At one of our middle of nowhere truck stop breaks, I climbed down the rickety ladder to see how my companions were holding up. After buying the guys a round of Pepsi, Jitu turned to me and asked, “So Ben, you want to fuck somebody?” Perceiving his devious intention, I responded with a rude, emphatic, “no way, man.”<br />Ignoring both the facts that India has the fastest growing AIDS problem in the world and that I am repulsed by the thought of paying for sex, I found it reprehensibly hypocritical that the man offering to hire me a prostitute had, over glasses of spiced Rajasthani liquor not forty-eight hours before, been lecturing me on the superiority of his conception of love and intimate relationship.<br />Apparently, however, Jitu didn’t get the message. He began negotiations with the two women who approached our truck. Their thick, black eyeliner disguised the dejection that welled behind their subdued eyes. Uneven, home-done tattoos blotched their otherwise beautiful, brown cheeks. As he bargained with them, the younger of the two smiled at me seductively, swirled her tongue in a pathetic imitation of pseudo-sexual expression.<br />“Jitu,” I said angrily, “I’m serious, man. Let’s get out of here.”<br />“Ok, no problems,” he said as he climbed back into the truck. “They wants too much anyways – 1000 rupee. I never pay more than 300 rupee,” (roughly six US dollars.)<br /><br />We moved on, blazing trail across the arid landscape. Black buck deer and smaller, blue bull antelope craned their necks to reach flowering buds atop stunted trees. I wasn’t too worried about falling off. Piloting one of the larger vehicles on the road, our driver was rarely forced to apply the brakes. Only when a shepherd was too slow in herding his flock off the path was I forced to scramble for the support rope I had lashed to a bolt for sudden stops. The sun began to fall as we raced across the desert, chased by our wake of dust. At one point, the driver’s friend appeared in the cargo bed, cradling a 750ml bottle of Royal Stag that had been surreptitiously swiped from the party. Happy when I declined, he quickly scampered back into the cab. I ignored the ominous red flag, assumed that the three grown men would exhibit a bit of self-restraint. A moonless, shadowless night spread itself over the wilderness. No longer able to see the power lines that had challenged my limbo skills all afternoon, I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the springy, red, dowry couch. Stars twinkled and shot across the blackened sky. Why is it that stars seem to brighten the farther we travel from home? I lay there for hours, staring into space, trying to form a philosophical answer to my question.<br /><br /> I knew that we were getting close to Jodhpur and so I was surprised when we pulled into a truck stop at 11:00 pm. I was even more surprised when Jitu half stumbled, half fell out of the cab and began to vomit. Understandably a little concerned, I swung myself from the ladder, through the window, and into the truck. The entire cab reeked of something between a men’s locker room and the beer-pong basement of a Vanderbilt frathouse. The driver, breathing laboriously, was slumped over the oversized steering wheel in a way that gave the impression that he was trying to hug the dashboard. His friend, who had also passed out, was splayed across the transmission box. For the second time that day, I uttered my favorite made up word: “fan-fucking-tastic.” I ventured outside and found a now pantsless Jitu pouring water over his head in an effort to quickly sober up.<br />“What the hell, man?”<br />“No problems,” he slurred.<br />“No problems? I beg to differ.”<br />“No, no, no… they just needs to sleep for a few hours.”<br />“Jitu, I have to be at work early tomorrow morning. This is most definitely a problem.”<br />“Ok, ok, ok… I talks to them,” he said as he put his pants back on and struggled into the Tata. <br />He honked the melodic horn a few times in an effort to wake the well-lubricated men. I gave him plenty of room, fearful that he would slip and come crashing down on top of me as he climbed back down the ladder. He planted his shaky feet on solid ground, steadied himself with outstretched arms, and turned to me. <br />Staring, glaze-eyed, at my duplicate image, he said, “Ben, Ben, Ben,” pausing for a moment as if to gain his bearings.<br />“Ben, you must drive.”<br /><br />Honestly, the responsible young adult in me said, “don’t even think about it.” But I am at that peculiar juncture of age where sensibility and youthful recklessness crash into each other head-on.<br />“Ok,” I said to Jitu. “Give me the keys.”<br /><br />After shoving the incapacitated driver onto the center console next to his friend, I seated myself into the worn captain’s chair. The truck growled as I sparked the ignition. I honked the horn for no reason, just as I had seen the driver do that afternoon; perhaps it had been an effort to awaken the Hindu gods of good fortune. I popped the clutch and slowly shifted the freighter into gear. The truck shuddered, lurched forward, and stalled out with a hiss of exasperated hydraulics. The sensible adult - the one that I was telling you about - smirked triumphantly at the cocky young man who sat defeated in the driver’s seat.<br />“Jitu,” I said, turning to the very sweaty Indian who sat cross-legged next to me, swaying in the motionless truck like a drunken pirate on a poop deck. “This is a bad idea, man. I don’t even drive on the same side of the road back at home. And, I saw those swords at the wedding, buddy… I don’t want to be skewered for destroying Banu’s dowry if… when I crash this thing.”<br />“No problems,” he said. “We wait a few hours for the driver to make not drunk.”<br />Two hours later we roused the confused reprobate and guided him to the dhaba hut that served as a roadside truck stop. The very understanding, elderly, Sikh proprietor fixed us a basic meal of dhal bhati, chipati, and extra-strong chai, all the while eyeing our driver with contempt. After the snack and a little more waiting, marginally convinced that he wasn’t going to kill us all, I climbed back into the cargo bed, too nervous to accompany Jitu in the cab for what was, as it turned out, an uneventful half-hour ride.<br /><br />I dragged myself into work the next morning, weary, but with quite a story to tell. The week of the Rajput wedding (including the next night when a five-hundred person reception was held at a Jodhpur club) had been truly extraordinary. It wasn’t just an event. It wasn’t just another series of night after night partying. I had been invited, honored, not as a foreign reporter but as a member of the family. In a weird twist of circumstance, my being forgotten by the bus, left behind in the outskirts of Mandawa, allowed me to see how truly accepted I had been. I wasn’t given undue attention; they didn’t feel the need to coddle me. I think that I will always be grateful to them for that – to have been welcomed as just another sword wielding, turban swaddled, warm-hearted Rajput.El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-63136623254560927672009-07-06T12:56:00.004+05:302009-07-09T12:28:24.670+05:30Rajput Wedding<span style="font-weight:bold;">6/18/09</span><br /><br />I boarded a sweaty chartered bus at eight o’clock the morning of the wedding day. Like everywhere in Rajasthan where one spends an extended period of time, it lacked both a bathroom and air-conditioning. It did, however, have a Shiva motif painted on the wall, the young god bathing in a fantastic lagoon surrounded by peacocks and nymphs. With two seats in two rows split by an aisle, I was fortunate to score my own row next to a sticky, cracked window. The plan was to drive for ten hours at a northeastern bearing until we reached the bride’s home, a village outside of Mandawa, nearly five hundred kilometers from Jodhpur.<br /><br />The wedding was to be a men’s affair; the women, remaining in the Sun City, would spend the day praying for the safety of Banu and his fraternal entourage. Traditionally, the group of Rajput men who accompanied the groom did so for his physical as well as honorable protection should a dispute between the respective families turn violent. A remnant of that tradition was manifested in the razor sharp, curved sabers that many of the men in our party carried.<br /><br />Not everyone traveled in the bus – half rode in a fleet of cars that sped far ahead – the men who did were for the most part elderly, with indirect connections to the family. The ancient grandfather sitting across the aisle from me silently chain-smoked beedies inside of his cupped hands, inhaling the fragrant smoke through a space between his two withered thumbs. It wasn’t until five hours in the journey that I noticed that his left shoeless leg was made of a grotesquely pink plastic. However, it didn’t seem to bother him nearly as much as it did me.<br /><br />By mid-afternoon the heat became unbearable. The outer panels of the bus, and the window facing side of my white linen shirt, dripped blood-red betel nut juice. The smell of that mildly intoxicating chew filled the oven-heated space with a rancid sour odor. As I nodded off into unconsciousness, my head inching towards the blow-drier air rush of the open window, I was jarred by the hair splitting screech of sideswiping metal; a narrow kind-of-miss with a head on Tata truck. I scowled accusingly at the Shiva mural before falling back asleep.<br /><br />The sun was low in the sky when we at last arrived in the village. I’m not sure what it actually was, where we stayed that night. It could have been a dormitory or it might have been a hotel that was rented out for the occasion. In any case, we overran the place.<br />A brass band struck up a lively tune as we debarked the Shiva-forsaken bus. Chai-wallahs darted from one man to the next offering much needed refreshments.<br />After a pre-dinner tiffin of raj kachori and samosas, we retreated to our rooms to shower and change. <br /><br />My three-week scruff, I determined, did not befit the occasion, and so I opted for a shave by the barber that had been hired. It is difficult to completely ignore the possible existence of colonial animosity when a nineteen-year-old Indian holds a glistening straight razor to your neck. Thankfully, I survived and, an hour later, wearing my iron-warmed metallic blue kortah, was bouncing down dark back alleys crammed into the cargo space of a Bolero (Land Rover-ish truck).<br /><br />As we approached the party, the sound of a brass band gradually grew louder, eventually overtaking the repetitive ‘unce’ of the house music that our driver blasted. As we opened the doors and piled out, the shockwave of horribly distorted amplified music hit us; the band was accompanied by a recording of classical Indian vocal music, projected from absurdly large, Dr. Suess-like, steel cornucopia speakers. The ghetto-ness of the ridiculous sound system was only enhanced by the fact that it was powered by a generator that was fastened on a miserable platform, which had then been strapped to an even more miserable looking donkey.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6171527.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6171527.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />I soon learned that we were not yet at the bride’s house but rather at the pre-wedding groom’s ceremony; I have found that in India it is best to follow without question…eventually you will discover where it is you’re being taken, or at the very least, where you’ve ended up.<br /><br />In a dusty open area next to a bullock cart porte-cochere, Banu Pratap sat stoically on a red velvet cushion. Dressed in the same regal maharaja attire from the previous night, he was flanked and faced by one hundred suspicious men from the bride’s party. Twice as many eyes judged him by the rituals he performed with the Brahmin priest who sat cross-legged across from him. The golden embroidered tunic he wore was sequined with tiny semi-precious stones. Half a dozen freshwater pearl necklaces hung from his neck to his muscular chest. His usually emotive mustache stood at attention under an orange, feather-plumed turban. I was astonished by how composed he seemed to be. If I had been in his position – a twenty eight year old man being stared at by one hundred strangers, about to wed a woman he had never before met – I would be about as calm as a sugar-loaded kid in a toy store.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6171480.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6171480.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />The groom mounted a Marwari stallion as the priest concluded the pre-wedding ceremony, and we all fell into a processional march, led by the brass band and its mascot, a dancing horse. The trained colt, in time with the music and to the amusement of the crowd, pranced and reared on its hind legs as we dance-walked through the village towards the bride’s home.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6171509.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6171509.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />I decided to put away my camera and watch where I was going after stepping and sinking shin-deep into a pile of stinking raw sewage. I was less bothered by the filth that dripped down my leg than by the peculiar realization that I wasn’t very bothered by it. This country seems to be altering my perception of acceptable personal cleanliness in ways that I could not have foreseen; as it stands I have yet to decide if that is a good thing or bad.<br /><br />Banu finally dismounted in front what seemed to be the most sumptuous house in the village. After wiping away the beads of sweat that cascaded from his brow, he ambled towards the front entrance of the khana. Thirty or so women packed themselves into the interior foyer to lavish the groom with offerings of spice, food, and gifts. Elevated on a dais, a small stepping stool, to give each lady equal opportunity to view their eye-candy, Banu performed amicably, smiling, laughing, and joking with each of them individually. <br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6171540.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6171540.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6171550.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6171550.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />We left him there to get acquainted with his new family and continued into the backyard where a cavernous, pink, wedding tent had been erected.<br /><br />The ‘no girls allowed’ beer garden sat two hundred men at circular tables of eight. In an ‘L’ formation that wrapped around one corner of the tent were extended buffet tables covered by gold tasseled awnings. Exquisitely polished, brass tureens and silver platters sat empty for the moment, but would soon be filled with rogan josh, dhal pekora, creamy cucumber raita, cumin spiced basmati rice, and three different stews of mutton; all of which were being prepared tantalizingly nearby, in huge cast-iron ghanis, wider across the middle than the arm spans of the teenage boys who stirred their sizzling contents.<br /><br />A drumming ensemble played uplifting songs to the beat of barefoot dancing women and their clapping audience. I was passed around from one table to the next, insistently offered whiskey after gin after beer. We toasted to love, to India, and to the defeat (God willing) of the Pakistani cricket team. I was about to move on to a new table of prospective drinking buddies when I felt a gentle, but firm, hand grasp my shoulder. Banu’s father, a starry-eyed man who towered over me even in his shrunken old age, smiled down intently.<br />“You dance now, like Rajput,” he said, blasting me with over ripened whiskey breath.<br />I glanced over at Govind, my dependable Indian intermediary, for a way out. Laughing at me, he raised his palms to his shoulders in a gesture that told me I was on my own.<br />“What the hell…” I said, taking the elderly man’s hand as he guided me to the elevated stage. I took up my position next to the traditionally dressed Rajput dancer who smiled at me seductively from the corner of her gorgeous, jeweled face. Her jet-black dress shimmered reflective mirrored patchwork. Her tigress’ hair, smoothed to a dark sheen with coconut oil, was woven with a gold braid that encircled her head like a crown. Her bell-adorned anklets waited, silently, for the music to begin. One of the seated musicians began wailing a beautiful unaccompanied vocal solo. The harmonium player joined in followed by an army of tables that dripped their tribal sound into the medley like a thousand monsoon raindrops piercing the surface of a stagnant pond. We danced and danced, the two of us. To her delight, I pantomimed the movements of her hands – blossoming lotuses snapping at invisible honeybees. I laughed when she did. When she didn’t, I tried harder. When she reached out for me, I held her delicate, henna painted hands as we spun in an opposing circle, my world a blur except for her smiling face. Then, too soon, the song was over and, as quickly as they had dissolved into nothing but a memory, two hundred men filled the tent with a thunderous applause.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6171586.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6171586.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />After second helpings of sheep stew, a new round of toasts, and many more beers, those of us who were still mobile stumbled, shoulder-locked for support, back into the house for the wedding ceremony. A twig fire smoldered atop a mound of earth on which a pentagram had been painstakingly created from sprinkled spices. <br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6171642.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6171642.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />The Brahmin priest who had conducted the groom’s ceremony sat on one side of the canopy-covered fire. Facing him were Banu and his bride, hands pressed together in mutual prayer. I was beginning to falsely convince myself that I understood the foreign matrimonial ceremony when Govind stooped down and whispered in my ear.<br />“We should get going. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”<br />Unsuccessfully hiding my disappointment in our ‘early’ departure (it was, by then, 1:00am), I walked with him and three other turban-wrapped, sword-wielding Rajputs back to the Bolero. Had I known what the following day had in store for me, I would have followed with even less resistance.<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Dq7lEt19LJQ&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Dq7lEt19LJQ&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Video of a band similar to that which performed at the wedding. Watch the whole thing...Their music is truly extraordinary.<br /></span>El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-82917556877372166602009-07-01T17:18:00.000+05:302009-07-01T23:36:31.383+05:30Another Afternoon<span style="font-weight:bold;">7/01/09</span><br /><br />Today I seized the opportunity of a relatively cool afternoon to take a few pictures around Sardar Market. Now that I have a motorcycle (more on that to follow soon, I promise) it's much easier to explore for a little while rather than be out for hours in the sweltering heat. The pictures aren't extraordinary. Rather, I'm sharing them to give you a sense of my surroundings and of what I encounter on a normal day after work.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6271690.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6271690.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7011735.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7011735.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7011741.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7011741.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P7011744.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P7011744.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6281726.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6281726.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Don't worry, Mom. Helmet is strapped to the bike - I was only posing.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6261670.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6261670.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-50271047821454733762009-06-29T19:12:00.000+05:302009-07-01T22:23:21.420+05:30More Storm, More Drink, More Rajput Revelry<span style="font-weight:bold;">6/17/09</span><br /><br />I try to refrain from day by day recounting. I find such writing style to be boring and that writing about every day diminishes those that are truly extraordinary. Occasionally, however, events unfold in a way that justifies sequential retelling.<br /><br />---------------------------------------<br /><br />The day after the sandstorm was surreal. The city, shrouded in a dusty patina, seemed calmer than usual. Cows and wild hogs munched on green branches felled by the raging winds of the previous night. People roamed the streets searching for possessions that, untethered, had been blown away forever. My previously nameless coworker, Keth Singh (pronounced kett-sing) told me that a number of unfortunate people, caught on the road when the storm hit, had been killed in traffic accidents or by falling power lines. The third pre-wedding party was planned for that evening. Everyone hoped that it would be a little less eventful than the previous night had been.<br /><br />Ten minutes after the power failed, as Jodhpur settled into twilight, the city was hit by an aftershock sandstorm. Far less in intensity than the first, the wind raged for no more than five minutes before subsiding. Although the power remained off, as it had the night before, the party went on. Illuminated in darkness, a ten-man marching band played surprisingly somber tunes in the foyer of the guesthouse next door. I was the first, and last, person to clap at the end of the opening tune. The crowd stared at me awkwardly as I nervously retreated into the shadows.<br /><br />Having by the third night proven my worthiness as an honorary Rajput drunk, one of the guesthouse family members, Jitendra (Jitu for short), asked me if I would like to come to his room for a drink. <br />“When in Rajputana…” I replied.<br />His mustache twitched uncontrollably; clearly confused by the lame pun he shouldn’t have understood.<br />“Um…never mind. What are we drinking?”<br />“Special Rajasthani spiced liquor,” he beamed, flashing me a self-assured, yet unsettlingly sleazy grin.”<br /><br />I entered the bedroom and was introduced to a discernibly clean-cut man perched on the edge of a wooden folding chair. He wore a cream colored Nehru suit – the other guests wore slacks and button down shirts. After answering the standard battery of questions – Where from? How much money do you make? Are you married? Why no girlfriend? – I asked Mr. GQ what he did for a living.<br />“I’m a police officer,” he replied, too quickly.<br />“No he’s not,” Jitendra quipped. “He’s CID,” (The Indian equivalent of the CIA).<br />After shooting Jitu a look of threatening contempt, the man excused himself to use the toilet in the hallway. He didn’t return.<br /><br />Over glasses of watered down spiced liquor Jitu and I began to discuss the merits of arranged versus love marriages.<br />“Arranged marriages,” he explained, “far better is than love marriage. The man worships the woman and works to pleases. Look at your culture…too much divorces. In my culture we enters marriage with high expectation – In yours we enter with very low expectation, isn’t it?”<br />I disagreed with him and, as diplomatically as I could, explained my thoughts on the matter. Eager to paddle out of the treacherous waters our conversation had entered, I asked him about his family.<br />“I marries in 1999,” he began. I has it three children; my oldest son is fourteen.”<br />I stared at him quizzically, affording him the opportunity to correct either his marriage date or the age of his first-born. Spurred by my look, Jitu finally realized his error.<br />“Ah, Benjamin, you are very good with math,” he exclaimed without a hint of embarrassment.<br />“Umm…I play a lot of darts," I sarcastically replied.<br />“I call my wife’s and ask,” he said as he retrieved the cell phone that hung beneath his shirt from a lanyard around his corpulent neck. He seemed to be as amused as I was as the phone began to ring. “Hello sexy,” he crooned before diverging into Marwari for the remainder of the short conversation.<br />“I marries in 1995,” he giggled as he put down the phone and reached for his rapidly diminishing bottle.<br />“Jitu,” I said, “I may not know much about arranged marriage, but I do know that in my culture misjudging your anniversary by four years is grounds for divorce.”<br />He put down his glass. His mustache quivered again as he carefully considered his words. Locking eyes with me, he solemnly replied, “and that, I think, are the problems with love marriage.”<br /><br />We ventured outside when a female arm, ornamentally adorned in fractal henna patterns, cracked the door to tell us that the groom’s procession was about to begin.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6161416.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6161416.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />The downpour that had followed the lesser sandstorm had finally ended and, now, reflections of string lights danced in rippling puddles on the street in front of the guesthouse. A Marwari horse, bred for battle and distinguished by curved ears that touched at the tips, stood snorting, awaiting its soon to be betrothed rider. Silver tassels shimmered at its haunches – brilliantly colored pom-poms, woven into its chestnut hair, bounced with flicks of its mane. Banu Pratap, the lumbering Rajput groom adorned in the full regalia of a maharaja, tenderly approached and mounted his stallion. Silent lightning, too high up to be heard, exploded deep within the clouds overhead. The procession of one hundred people set off, shuffling in time with the too-fast tribal drumbeat that resonated between buildings on either side of the waterlogged cul-de-sac.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6161424.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6161424.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Left of the mob walked ten chandelier-bearing children, strung together by the frayed power cord, dragging through puddles, which linked each luminescent pewter lamp. Every twenty or so meters we would come to a halt behind Banu’s warhorse. One of the Nepalese boys from the guesthouse would run ahead and light a firework in the middle of the road. He made a show of sprinting away as quickly and frantically as possibly before the charge rocketed out its cardboard mortar tube, detonating and momentarily eclipsing the brilliantly electrified sky.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6161450.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6161450.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />We reached our destination, a hotel one kilometer away, and said goodnight to the groom. He and his closest friends would spend the night there drinking and regaling in the final night of his bachelorhood. The women would be staying in Jodhpur, uninvited to the actual wedding ceremony. The rest of them, Banu’s entourage of one hundred Rajput men, would be traveling 500 kilometers to Mandawa the next morning – and with them would be me, the comically conspicuous foreigner.El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-13229517742006948422009-06-24T18:52:00.000+05:302009-07-01T23:30:08.548+05:30It Must Have Been the Karma<span style="font-weight:bold;">6/16/09</span><br /><br />The hung-over morning after the first night of wedding festivities was spent in my office working on the annual report for the Veerni Project’s European donors. Over the methodical drone of click-clacking sewing machines I suddenly heard the approaching chiming of bells. I went to the window to investigate and was surprised to see a full-grown elephant walking down the middle of the street. The animal’s face and flapping ears were painted white with creeping vines and lotus blossoms. The bells that hung from either tusk announced the presence of the holy pachyderm. Representative of the elephant god of prosperity, Ganesha, people streamed out of their homes with offerings for the creature and the master who perched on its back. They freely gave fruits, cakes, and roti, which were all promptly noshed. The elephant used its trunk to collect rupee notes off the ground that it then handed back to its master. It gingerly stepped on a coconut, breaking it into two pieces. As with the other edible offerings, half was inhaled by the animal while the remaining bit was trunked back to the master for safekeeping.<br /><br />I went back to the guesthouse after finishing my work early. While I was eating a late lunch in the courtyard, a deliveryman showed up bearing a package for me. With no documentation and nothing to sign, he made a demand of, “1,700 rupeeye deliveries for.” I laughed aloud at the ludicrously high baksheesh I assumed he was trying to squeeze out of me. In India, many people’s monthly salaries top out well below 1,700 IR; I wasn’t about to give in to this con artist. With Govind providing basic translation we proceeded to yell at each other. I told the man that if indeed the money was for something legitimate, such as, say, customs duty, I would be more than happy to pay the full amount. I was unwilling, however, to pay him even one paisa without documentation indicating such legitimacy. The man told me that if I didn’t pay he would not give me the package. Now mind you, the box was not in the back of his truck; it was on the ground directly in front of me. Snarling through clenched teeth I told him that he was missing the point. There was a third option that he had failed to consider. I would keep the package, keep my money, and he would turn around and leave.<br /><br />With an affirmative nod from Govind I picked up my box and started walking with it back to my room. Suddenly he was on top of me. One arm held me in a pathetic half headlock while the other clamped down on my wrist, trying to pry the package from my grip. Equally surprised and infuriated I gouged his sternum with my elbow and shook myself free. Now, there are only a few facial expressions, which in any situation truly transcend all linguistic and cultural barriers. One of those is the look used by a man to inform another man that he is about to have his teeth knocked out. Thankfully Govind threw the guy out of the guesthouse before I could do something that I would have regretted. “Nobody treats my guests like that,” he said as he returned, trying to compose himself.<br /><br />An hour after the incident with the deliveryman, Govind knocked and entered my room. “We have to go to the police station. That bastard is trying to charge you with assault.”<br />Oh shit, I thought…<br />…This could be interesting.<br />Before leaving I stuffed my pockets with cliff-bars just in case I was otherwise about to spend the next three months chewing the leather straps of my Birkenstocks for sustenance. Riding to the station in Govind’s classic 1970’s Ambassador, he turned to me and asked, “You’re a law student, right?”<br />“Um…political science undergrad…. but, sure.”<br />“Ok, I tell them that you are a law student…you let me do the talking.”<br />At this point that wasn’t too reassuring seeing as Govind was still in his flaming Johnny Cash getup from the previous night.<br /><br />The chief inspector sat at his desk, flanked by two truncheon wielding officers. Directly behind the inspector was an open door leading into a storage room in which dozens of WWII era carbine rifles were propped up on display. Nearly as many medieval looking rusted iron handcuffs were hung on hooks above the firearms. Peering down the hallway to my left I could see numerous barred jail cells dissolving into darkness…a darkness that I wanted nothing to do with. As I was told to have a seat I glared at the deliveryman who stood in the corner of the room.<br /><br />Govind began to explain, in Hindi, the situation as it had unfolded. Every so often the deliveryman’s boss, seated next to me, would interject with a defensive comment. Govind repeatedly snapped around and, with the mercilessness of an 8th grade math teacher, would yell, “you shut up, I am talking.” My defense seemed to be going pretty well. For the first time confident that I was probably not going to spend the night in prison, I sank into my grimy plastic chair, tried to appear attentive, and continued to struggle to understand the foreign judicial proceeding in which I had somehow become entangled. I’m not sure if it was comforting or alarming that the inspector seemed to possess the powers of judge, jury, and executioner... probably a little of both.<br /><br />It was finally determined that the 1,700 rupee demand had in fact been a legitimate customs excise. I paid the money. “Shit,” I thought, “I’m going to jail.” However, as it turned out, the inspector was on my side. He rebuked both the deliveryman and his boss for the ham-handed way they had mismanaged the whole thing. When I asked about the status of the assault complaint against me, he told me to, “don’t worries about it.” Govind turned to me and muttered, “let’s get the fuck outa here before he changes his mind,” and with that we turned and made a swift getaway back to the Ambassador.<br /><br />“Thanks for that man. I really owe you one,” I told him as we bounced down Jodhpur’s absurdly potholed roads, the newest Shakira hit blasting from the vintage ride’s custom sound system. “No you don’t,” he said, shooting me a mischievous smile before quickly returning his gaze to the road ahead… “Nobody treats my guests like that.”<br /><br />--------------------------------------------<br /><br />The pre-pre-wedding party was to be held at my guesthouse later that night. Chann Singh and the two other Nepalese servant boys ran around all afternoon, sweeping, moping, dusting, and generally preparing the place for the hundred or so expected guests. String lights were hung from the exterior balconies. Cobwebs were cleared away and the fountain in the center of the tiled courtyard was filled with water for the first time since I arrived. Women laughed and gossiped as they stirred bubbling cauldrons of fragrant white stew and spiced saffron mutton. The heat emanating from the bustling kitchen amplified the skin-sizzling intensity of the afternoon’s desert sun. The air was still. Everything seemed to be perfect, and then, without warning, it hit.<br /><br />I was in the downstairs office room working on my laptop when it happened. The lights flickered before they went out. In the darkness of the windowless, motionless room, I listened as the overhead fan struggled to make one last powerless rotation before creaking still. Power cuts in Jodhpur are a daily occurrence. Most mornings, for at least a few hours, the government shuts off the city’s electricity in an annoyingly effective conservation effort. This, however, was different. I hadn’t heard of power cuts at six o’clock in the evening, a time when most people would have been returning from work to prepare dinner. I couldn’t hear them from inside my close-doored chamber, the air raid sirens that wailed a song of approaching doom.<br /><br />I sat in the stillness of the office for two, three, four minutes, waiting for the fluorescent bulbs to crackle on, the fan to groan back to life. Something was wrong. I could sense it, and not just because the power hadn’t returned. A primal shiver crept up my spine. It was the same feeling that drives dogs mad before an electrical storm. The same sense that makes birds crazy prior to a solar eclipse. I fumbled for my sandals and prepared myself for the blinding light that would turn my pupils to pinholes the second I opened the doors. Throwing back the latch I stepped into the void in front of me... complete, terrifying, ego-crushing darkness.<br /><br />Confused, trying to find the time on my wristwatch, I stumbled further into the courtyard. The wind whipped around me, howling angrily, coming at once from all directions. Something was in the air, tearing at my skin, filling my useless eyes and choking my lungs with every breath I took. I knew it was ash. I knew that the unthinkable had happened. Pakistan had finally attacked. I knew that this was nuclear holocaust. Time stood still. I had to get back inside. I had to escape the radiation that was poisoning me as I stood there unable to move, unable to think. Blinded as much by my terror as by the black vortex that enveloped me I scrambled up a flight of stairs, desperate to make it to my room before my face melted off. I must have been unconsciously yelling something to the effect of, “what the fuck is going on,” because I heard someone, somewhere, scream, “SANDSTORM!”<br /><br />I collapsed into my room, drenched in sweat, but relieved that I was not, in fact, witnessing the apocalypse. I quickly located my headlamp, tied a bandana around my face, and ran back out into the torrent. In the span of one minute the storm had gone from being one of the scariest things I had ever seen, to pretty much the coolest thing I had ever seen.<br /><br />Since first stepping out of the office the temperature had dropped more than forty degrees. With my light I could see about ten feet through the swirling fog of biting dust. I managed to find a few of my friends and after confirming that, no, none of us had never seen anything like it, we decided to go up to the rooftop. As we climbed the stairs leading to the roof, the wind began to ease; the blackness faded into an eerie amber twilight. The storm was finally passing…<br />…and then in began to rain mud. Water droplets mixed with the dust that lingered in the air and fell to the earth as gritty globules of auburn mud. We all stayed up on the roof and let the dirty deluge cover us. It was cold but, after three weeks of weather that had failed to sink below 100 degrees, it felt great to shiver. After the rain subsided the lightning show began; sky-spanning lightning that would have made Zeus tremble. The static electricity that had been generated by airborne sand particles transformed the sky into a giant strobing canvas.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6151150.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6151150.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />--------------------------------------------<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6151360.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6151360.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />After a while I decided that the rooftop was not the smartest place to watch a lightning storm, so I ventured downstairs to offer a hand with the daunting cleanup that lay ahead. The food had been saved, the cauldrons covered when the sirens had warned of the approaching storm. The pre-pre party went on as planned with partygoers dancing in the dripping candlelit courtyard until the early hours of the next morning. Many of the lifelong Jodhpurians I talked to agreed that they had never before seen a sandstorm of that magnitude.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6151373.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6151373.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />I went to sleep with a smile on my face, a notion that karma had favored me on this tempestuous day. Somehow I had managed to not only avoid jail time, but had also lived to talk about what I have heard a few people refer to as ‘the storm of the century.’<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/hxmcVa3qskI&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/hxmcVa3qskI&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Video (not mine) of the sandstorm from Mehrangarh Fort</span><br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FwN-4Meb9Lg&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FwN-4Meb9Lg&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Video (not mine either) of day turning to night in twenty seconds</span>El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-26197313206760107572009-06-23T18:35:00.000+05:302009-06-23T18:45:38.118+05:30Aint No Party Like a Three-Pre-Party<span style="font-weight:bold;">6/15/09</span><br /><br />I was sitting in the courtyard of the guesthouse trying to do some writing when, suddenly, my peace was shattered by what can only be described as Bollywood trance. The music seemed to be coming from the roof of the guesthouse next door, Durag Villas, not to be confused with my temporary home, Durag Niwas. Seemingly cued by the racket, Govind, the manager of my guesthouse, burst out of his room looking like burlesque Johnny Cash. He was dressed in black skinny jeans, a gunmetal black dress shirt, and an even blacker tuxedo vest which appeared to be a few sizes too small. “Ben, you absolutely must come to the party,” he said in his slightly effeminate style of speak. “Govind, I thought the wedding wasn’t until Wednesday,” I replied, a little confused. With a look of amusement that suggested I should have known better, he told me, “tonight is the three-pre-party. Tomorrow we pre-pre-party, then we have the pre-party. Wednesday is the wedding party in Mandawa, which by the way, you are coming to. After, the wedding we have the post-party brunch, and two days after the wedding we have the reception back in Jodhpur, the post-post-party.” Still confused, but intrigued, and also a little intimidated, I quickly changed into nicer cloths and followed him to the roof of the neighboring building.<br /><br />Seated in a circle of couches and armchairs were fifteen men dutifully drinking chilled kingfishers and munching on Gujarati bar snacks. Making my way around the circle I was introduced to each guy. “This is the groom,” Govind said, motioning towards the most massive man in the group. Banu Pratap, an oaf of a man, stood and devoured my hand in a rumbling handshake. Eyeing the half-empty bottle of whiskey that he held in his free hand, I told him what a pleasure it was to be there and that I would have whatever he was drinking. He let loose a trembling laugh that originated in the depths of his substantial gut before exploding from beneath his fluttering mustache. Handing me an untapped bottle and indicating that it was meant as my personal stash he proclaimed, “tonight, my friend, we see if you can drink like a Rajput.”<br /><br />Everyone talked, laughed, joked, drank, and watched as the women danced to their favorite Bollywood love songs. In a culture of such pervasive sexual repression, I was surprised by how sensual their movements were. However, it began to make more sense when I realized the ladies were as plastered, if not more so, than the men. I couldn’t contain my amusement as I watched an elderly woman stealthily snatch a bottle of gin and retreat to her group of friends for round after round of straight bottle pulls.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6140926.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6140926.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />On the fringe of the dance floor sat three people who looked very out of place and exceedingly unhappy. A round faced, dark skinned man sat barefoot and cross-legged next to a purdah-keeping woman clad in a drab lower-caste sari. Next to the motionless woman sat an unveiled young lady who, despite her matted hair and exasperated facial expression, was the most beautiful woman on the rooftop. Her eyes flittered nervously around the room, too unsure to linger for long on any one person. I resolved to stop looking at her when I realized that my gaze was causing considerable emotional anguish on her part. In front of the trio was a metal collection plate that quickly brimmed with five, ten, and twenty rupee notes. Partygoers would wave bills in circular motions over the heads of everyone on the dance floor before depositing them in the collection plate. I watched this ritual persist for an hour before asking Govind to explain it. I hid my disgust as best I could when I learned that the money was believed to extract the evil from within the dancers. The bills were then given to the three, seated untouchables thereby transmitting that evil into their impure, insignificant bodies. <br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6140934.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6140934.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />One of the most interesting aspects of that night on the rooftop, at the three-pre-party, was the initial separation of men and women in contrast with the eventual mingling that occurred. When I first had arrived, the men sat by themselves in fraternal drinking groups while the women sat on floored cushions and pillows on the opposite side of the room. By the end of the evening it was hard to keep track of the numerous coed dance pairs spinning, twirling, and stomping their way around the dance floor.El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-29010174077712394462009-06-22T13:45:00.000+05:302009-06-24T23:25:29.967+05:30Veerni<strong>6/22/09</strong><br /><br />I realized that I haven't really spoken much about the organization that I am working for here in Jodhpur. This is the first page of a proposal that I have been writing for continued funding of our sewing program by the Global Foundation for Humanity. It's a little out of context, but explains what it is we do here at the Veerni Project.<br /><br />--------------------------------------<br /><br /><strong>Introduction</strong><br /><br />Beginning in 1993, the Veerni Project has worked tirelessly in its efforts to combat gender discrimination in the Jodhpur district of Rajasthan. Veerni’s success has come through the implementation of medical, social, and income-generating programs. One of the organization’s most important income-generation projects has been its sewing program. <br /><br />Due to patriarchal social structures, women are not often given the opportunity to earn an income. Many women who could otherwise be generating additional money for themselves and their families are instead relegated to housework or childcare. The Veerni Project sees the employment and financial independence of women as a key factor for real social change. A woman who is not bound by the financial constraints of her spouse is able to independently provide for her family and take a more active role in their well-being. In the rural villages in which Veerni has implemented the sewing programs, participating women have benefited not only from increased financial efficacy but also from the resulting elevated social status. This “lifting up” of women is proving to be pivotal in ending the destructive cycle of discrimination and subjugation as these newly empowered women engage in the struggle themselves.<br /><br />For all that Veerni does, it would not be possible without the support of international organizations and foundations. The success of the sewing program relies on Veerni’s capacity to provide girls and women with a qualified teaching staff and the necessary training materials. With your help, the Veerni Project’s sewing program will continue to provide this vulnerable demographic with the financial and social opportunities they so desperately need and deserve.<br /><br />The Veerni team thanks you for your consideration of this proposal and looks forward to a continued relationship with the Global Foundation for Humanity by which we will further our shared goal of addressing injustice and ensuring human rights.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6080735.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6080735.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br /><strong>What is the Veerni Project?</strong><br /><br />The Veerni Project was founded in 1993 by Ms. Jacqueline de Chollet, in collaboration with the Global Foundation for Humanity. The Veerni Project’s mission is the empowerment of girls and women in rural Western Rajasthan through development of medical, educational, and social programs. Unlike many NGO’s, however, the Veerni Project is not built upon an unsustainable model of simple aid provision. Instead, Veerni generates a comprehensive and long-lasting impact on these communities by mobilizing women in grassroots campaigns. In Hindi, <em>veerni </em> means “heroine” – a word which symbolizes Veerni’s mission of encouraging women to fight to reclaim their rightful place in society and to demand the benefits of their inalienable human rights.<br /><br />The Veerni Project, currently active in six rural villages, is composed of four general programs: a health outreach program, a malnutrition program, an educational program, and a social program.<br /><br /><em>Health Outreach</em><br />The health outreach program is comprised of a number of projects: primary healthcare, maternal and reproductive healthcare, child immunization, HIV/AIDS education and treatment, general healthcare workshops, and traditional midwife training. Veerni’s innovative clinics, workshops, and rallies facilitate honest dialogues within communities regarding the health of women and children.<br /><br /><em>Malnutrition</em><br />Veerni has employed innovative approaches in its work to alleviate malnutrition among women and children in rural communities. Veerni, in 2007, launched its own brand of mineral-rich spirulina powder and soybean-based biscuits, both of which are proven as effective treatment for childhood malnutrition. In the drought affected areas that Veerni operates, the malnutrition programs have been effective at ensuring proper nutrition even during times of food scarcity.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6090790.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6090790.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><em>Education</em><br />Schools in Rajasthan are categorically substandard. This, combined with gender bias, results in parents who often deprive their daughters of educational opportunities by keeping them at home. To address the needs of these girls, and to ensure that they have the opportunity to benefit from the associated advantages of a comprehensive education, Veerni has organized a number of educational programs. Additionally, Veerni has established a successful Jodhpur-based boarding school (hostel) which currently provides eighty-five rural girls a complete and uninterrupted education.<br /><br /><em>Social</em><br />Veerni’s social program is comprised of various projects that aim to improve the quality of life in Veerni’s villages, while providing women with the skills and confidence needed to employ their independence. Veerni's efforts have been vital in the acquisition of basic infrastructure in the villages such as potable water, electricity, improved roads, and other necessities for social development. Veerni, however, is most proud of its highly successful sewing schools. The Veerni Project’s sewing program empowers women and girls by training them in a trade that will allow them to establish and exercise their financial independence. It is this program for which the Veerni team requests your continued support.<br /><br />----------------------------------------------<br /><br />So, there you have it. I go on and on after this about the sewing program and how awesome it is, how expensive it is, how vital its continuation is...but, correct me if I'm wrong, I don't think that most of you would be interested in all of the boring data and such.El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-74837919908837596572009-06-14T17:39:00.000+05:302009-06-24T23:36:15.120+05:30The Sun City<span style="font-weight:bold;">6/14/09</span><br /><br />Jodhpur, the Blue City, the Sun City, sits in the geographic center of Rajasthan. Jodhpur peaked in prosperity and wealth during the middle ages, serving as a hub for trade in spices, textiles, and opium. Being here, it isn’t hard to imagine caravans of weary merchants riding into the city’s bazaars on numerous parched dromedaries. <br /><br />Jodhpur’s main point of orientation is its massive citadel, Meherangarh Fort. Claimed to be one of the largest forts in the world, it seems not to have been built but rather carved, from the top down, out of the mountain that serves as its foundation. In fact, I have yet to take a single picture of its entirety…it is one of those things whose enormity cannot be captured on film. A single snaking road leads up to the fort’s towering outer bastions. As it nears the gate the path tapers at sharp angles in an effort to deter the rampaging charges of attacking Jaipurian elephant regiments. Evidence of those epic battles can be found in the fort’s ramparts that are scarred and pockmarked with dozens of cannonball explosions.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6060617.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6060617.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Inside are countless linked courtyards, surrounded by ornate pathways walled by exquisite marble latticework. Golden rooms spill into pearled hallways which lead to ruby-studded atriums. Quiet and uninhabited now, it is nevertheless easy to imagine the commotion of Rajput warriors and royal women who once existed here. Concealed in its beauty, the fort is not without its share of tragedy. On one of the interior walls are thirty-one small handprints, carved into the red stone; the last testament of Maharajah Rau Jodhah’s surviving wives before they were immolated on his funeral pyre in ritualistic “sati,” the ultimate act of devotion, or as I see it, the ultimate act of compulsion.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6070646.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6070646.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Sati handprints at Meherangarh Fort</span><br />-----------------------------<br /><br />Under the western shadow of the fort lies Sardar Market, a sprawling bazaar centered around a beautiful pre-Mughal clock tower. Vendors sell everything from exotic fruits and vegetables to incense and hand-rolled bidis. One can buy a stereo for four dollars, or a kurda for half that. Teetering pyramids of clay water vessels sit in front of textile shops that trade in block printed fabrics and tie-dyed tapestries. Shirtless men feed long staffs of sugarcane into mechanical grinding contraptions. Wiped “clean” with oily rags, they sell grimy glasses of pure sugarcane juice, flavored as much by the sweat of their labor as the raw cane sugar.<br /><br />If you venture from the market, you become delightfully, hopelessly lost in a labyrinth of medieval alleyways. Soon you are in Brahmapuri, where everything but the family dog is painted sky-blue to signify the presence of spiritually superior Brahman caste members. There doesn’t seem to be any method to the random layout of tentacle backstreets. Perhaps, though, I have seen too many six lane highways I my life to ever be able to understand this madness.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6070701.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6070701.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Brahmapuri seen from Meherangarh Fort</span><br /><br />A few nights ago I was wandering the alleys of Brahmapuri, searching for a rickshaw after having eaten at an underground, lower-caste tandoori pit. Head down, trying in vain to avoid the stares of toothless, sari clad women, I rounded a corner and was suddenly face to face with one of the city’s innumerable 2,000-pound bovine. In other neighborhoods such an encounter would not present much of a problem, however, due to Brahmapuri’s four-foot wide passages this was an entirely different story. Hindus believe that cows are the reincarnations of passed loved ones. With this in mind and, invoking at once the blessings of Shiva, Hanuman, Prita, Sita, Kali, and Vishnu, I squeezed by, protecting with my hands my most valued organs. Not to let me off too easy the beast whipped around and stuck me in the flesh of my thigh with its blunted horn. “Screw you, buddy,” I thought aloud. “I should’ve known you were a bastard in a past life!”<br /><br />-----------------------------<br /><br />Leaving the area immediately surrounding Meherangarh Fort, the streets become wider. Cascades of raw sewage no longer flow in cut channels along soot covered plaster homes. People don’t stare as intently, or as accusingly for that matter. Occasionally, in these more suburban regions within the city, a dark haired, fire-eyed beauty can be spotted defiantly strutting in tight fitting blue jeans. Such sightings, however, are unfortunately few and far between.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6070658.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6070658.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />I have found it difficult to walk very far without being stopped by someone on the street. Young, curious, semi-fluent young men seem to see me as an opportunity to improve their English conversational skills. All of them offer their cell phone numbers; many extend dinner invitations in heart-warming exhibitions of Indian hospitality. Rickshaw drivers, as well, pull to the left side of the road, creeping along to match my stride. “Where going,” they ask, or simply, “get in, boss.” Usually dismissing them with a flick of my wrist, most look bewildered that a rich foreigner would prefer to walk. It is interesting and, I suppose, one of the many manifestations of post-colonial stereotyping in India, that no matter my appearance (think bearded dude wearing ratty tie-dyed shirt) I am almost always perceived as immensely wealthy. Now, I’m not saying that this is always a bad thing; for instance, I’ve never had such good bar service in my life. As any twenty-two year old, bar frequenting, stingy-tipping guy knows, bartenders in America can be a little aloof, if not downright callous. Here, it is completely different. “Would you like more peanuts of papad sir?”<br />“What television you like to see?”<br />“Would you prefer me to put on your cricket game?”<br />I try to leave generous tips; fifty rupees at the end of the night, the equivalent of one US dollar, leave everyone smiling.<br /><br />------------------------------<br /><br />In a land of immense faith, simple actions like crossing a busy street are enough to make one question their purpose in life. In situations such as these, I have found that faith is a necessity. You cannot wait for a break in traffic – there are none. Jaywalking in India is not unlike climbing. You visualize your route, give yourself a little pep talk, and in fluid yet dynamic movements you make your move. Don’t look back until you’ve accomplished your goal, and never second-guess yourself. Unflinching commitment is the only way to not get run over. The only difference is if you fall when climbing you usually don’t end up pancaked under an unforgiving five-ton bus. Ignore the trucks, cars, and motorcycles that head straight towards you as you confidently stay your course; they’ll swerve away at the last moment…have faith.<br /><br />Jodhpurians cannot be bothered with using side or rear view mirrors. In fact, such luxuries are conspicuously missing on many vehicles. To be a good driver here in India one is required to never take their eyes off the road directly in front of them…ever. Vehicles ahead of you always have the right of way, no matter how many intoxicated, swerving turns and variations they wish to make without any indication. When overtaking you first have to blast your horn obnoxiously for at least five seconds. Then, when the forward vehicle (without looking behind) senses your intentions and eases left, you gun it…always glaring at the annoyingly complacent other driver as you smother him with toxic petrol fumes.<br />It is exceedingly fascinating, if not surprising, that such a system of unwritten traffic law works as well as it does; I think that it warrants the attention of sociologists, or whoever it is who studies this sort of behavioral phenomenon.<br /><br />--------------------------<br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6070655.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6070655.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />One of the many reasons why I have so quickly fallen for this city is that its residents seem to love food nearly as much as I do. Food is everywhere: in limitless restaurants and guesthouses, on street corners, in markets, on portable push-carts, and in the military style, stainless steel lunchboxes that everyone carries with them. The cuisine of Rajasthan is unlike most of the normative Indian food found in America. Molded adaptively by the limitations of a desert environment, everything is cooked with minimal use of water. The food is oily, buttery, greasy, creamy, and deep fried to delicious perfection. In fact, I can feel myself getting fatter as I write these words.<br /><br />Last week I ventured to a restaurant called “Gypsy,” my guidebook’s most highly recommended eatery. They served only one thing: an all you can eat, seven-course veg. thali platter. I had four waiters assigned to my table. Now, when I say that they were assigned to my table, I mean it. These four bow-tied young men stood at attention, not two feet from my table, awaiting indication that I was ready to gluttonize myself with more aloo gobi, dhal bati, or steaming hot roti. After two hours of performance eating, my stomach satisfied that it had received its money’s worth, I paid the bill and left. Including the hundred percent tip, the extravagant meal had cost me nearly three dollars.<br /><br />Have I forgot to mention that I love this town?El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-85726269748684054512009-06-11T22:20:00.001+05:302009-06-23T14:37:24.887+05:30Sweet Honeycomb Daze<span style="font-weight:bold;">6/11/09</span><br /><br />Upon returning to Meghwalon ki Dhani the next day, Dinesh did not appear to have moved an inch since I had seen him last. “Benjamin, you come to my home,” he said in his shy yet endearingly assertive manner. We walked slowly down the village’s lone strip of road. On either side of the street lay mountainous piles of roughly cut sandstone, waiting to be further chiseled and shipped off to Jodhpur in tractor-drawn trailers. Faces peaked around doorways and through open air window sills, glaring with suspicious concern at the curious looking duo led by an entourage of fresh faced children. A man busy repairing a thatched roof stopped and stared as we passed by. I tipped the brim of my straw hat in his direction causing him to wiggle his head in unrestrained excitement.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6080775.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6080775.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />We entered Dinesh’s home through the low front doorway. As I stooped to squeeze my way in, he turned, saying unapologetically, “we are very poor.” “It is very lovely,” I told him, hoping that his grasp of English was not good enough to detect my lie. In the dim light of the hut I could make out the silhouette of a woman tending a twig fire on the dusty floor. “Sit,” Dinesh motioned to me as the woman sprung to fetch a tattered, woven cot. One of the children presented me with a platter of red vermilion powder and golden chunks of dried honeycomb. She dipped her bony index finger into the vermilion and pressed it firmly between my eyebrows. She then pointed at the honey and instructively brought her hand to her mouth. I ate the smallest piece possible, wary of the countless hours of work that would have been required to purchase what was to me just a small delicacy.<br /><br />Dinesh and I sat there talking for two hours, all the while surrounded by mesmerized children. We talked about my country, and his. He spoke of his aspiration to become a tour guide at the Taj Mahal. He was fascinated by what he called “love marriages,” and pressed me to tell him about the “friendships” I had experienced with American women. I declined; “friendships with women aren’t what they’re cracked up to be,” I said, lying to him for the second time. Before walking back to the Veerni field team he gave me a handmade card that he had decorated with colorful paisley patterns and drawings of flowers. I patiently watched as he laboriously wrote a personalized note on the card’s centerfold:<br /><br />"My dear friend Benjamin,<br />I am glad to meet you. I wish to you that you are again time come to my village.<br />-Dinesh"<br /><br />Before making it more than twenty meters from Dinesh’s house, I was called over by an old man who was sitting on the single step in front of his hut. He cleared a place for me to sit, hurriedly brushing away grain seeds and bidi ash with the back of his hand. He was about sixty years old and everything he wore, including his turban, was a sweaty yellow-white. His cracked face appeared to have endured hundreds of whipping sandstorms, and he sported a huge bristly mustache that exaggerated his comical facial expressions. He prattled away in Marwari, occasionally pausing for affirmation that I understood what he had just said. “Yes,” I would say, or, “uh-huh,” at which point he would nod at me sternly and begin jabbering again.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6080738.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6080738.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />As the conversation inevitably began to lull he reached into the folds of his robe and produced a small wicker container. He removed the lid and placed a small ruddy-brown chunk of unidentifiable substance in the palm of my hand. Repeating the same gesture as the little girl with the honeycomb, he urged me to eat it. Unlike the intensely sweet honey, his mysterious food tasted of spiced earth. I swallowed it chewing as little as possible and, when I was finished, put my hands together in prayer to thank him. As we continued on our way down the dirt road, Dinesh turned to me with the content smile of a tour guide who had satisfied his client. “The old man very likes you,” he said. “He usually not give opium to anybody.”<br /><br />Needless to say, the ride didn’t seem as bumpy, nor the lorries quite as terrifying, on the drive back to Jodhpur.El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-43363358149726186062009-06-08T21:46:00.000+05:302009-06-13T23:31:37.628+05:30Meghwalon ki Dhani<span style="font-weight:bold;">6/7/09</span><br /><br />"I take to work?" the rickshaw driver asked. "I'm going to the Veerni project, just up the road, same place as yesterday," I told him. After a few violent pulls of the starter cord, the three-wheeler burped to life and we were off.<br /><br />The Veerni headquarters sits in an alley surrounded mostly by shops selling reproductions of Mughal antiques. Outside the front gate a Brahman cow sat drooling, lazily chewing its cud. I could hear, and smell, a few pigs foraging for edible trash in the empty lot across the street. The field team, whom I had met the previous day, was already loading supplies into the jeep when I arrived.<br /><br />After a quick stop at a mango stall on our way out of town we continued towards the village of Meghwalon ki Dhani. There was Rashmi, the nutritionist, the driver, and three others whose names I immediately forget each time I am told. Two of my nameless coworkers are nurses while the third is more of an office guy (I'm not yet exactly sure what he does). Rashmi speaks perfect English. Office guy speaks broken English. The others speak Marwari Hindi, the language of Rajasthan. <br /><br />As we progressed further from the city center it wasn't just the road that became more primitive. Pants were replaced by lengths of white fabric gently wrapped around the slender waists of turban wearing men. Rickshaws became fewer and in their place, camel-drawn bullock carts. The drive itself was very nerve wracking. The broken road was barely the width of our car. Our driver, as well as the other passengers, seemed unphased by the repeated games of "chicken" that our jeep played with huge, gas-guzzling lorries. I would watch in horror/fascination as these trucks bore down on us head on, until at the last moment, when I could see the squished bugs in the radiators of these monstrosities, both drivers would veer off onto the dirt shoulders, invariably jolting us out of sweat soaked seats. I very quickly came to appreciate the unwavering Hindu belief of instant reincarnation.<br /><br />The landscape grew increasingly arid. Lush banyan trees shriveled into drab stand-alone bushes. Rock and dirt turned to sand and dust. The only trace of color seemed to be an occasional flash of opal as a peacock darted across the road ahead. As we curved around blind corners and twisted through small villages, did our driver flinch or slow down? Hell no! He rolled up his sleeves, wiped his brow, and parked his elbows on the car horn, confident that any man, woman, or bovine would have enough sense to get out of our way. I concluded that if we spoke the same language we would be very good friends, the driver and I.<br /><br />An hour into the journey we suddenly took a sharp left and were no longer on a road. Ten minutes later, horn blaring and trailed by a cloud of dust, we rolled into Meghwalon ki Dhani. The purpose of our visit was to draw blood from participants in the anemia eradication program which was implemented six months ago. We set up a medical station in a small stone and mortar hut and soon, about forty women and children had congregated in and around the building. Awe-struck and wide eyed, some children curiously approached me while others hid between their mothers' legs, burying their innocent faces in colorful saris. Many of the women, in traditional Hindu fashion, hid their faces behind veils of silky, translucent fabric. It was not until the following day that I would learn that many of the villagers had never before seen a "foreignee." <br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6050581-2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6050581-2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Initially I sensed that some of the people there were wary of my presence, however, any tensions that existed seemed to be dissolved when I brought out my digital camera. The ability to take a photo and then instantly show the person the result made them giddy with excitement and soon they were elbowing each other for the chance to have their picture taken. More than a few people rushed back to their homes only to return wearing their best trousers or saris. There was one girl in particular who I could not stop taking pictures of. She appeared to be about ten years old, however, I am sure that she was older. It is startling how effectively malnourishment can disguise a child's age. She was breathtakingly beautiful, yet there was a sadness about her. She didn't smile like the rest of the children...I loved her for that. I resented myself for not being able to talk to her; for not being able to gain some of the relative wisdom that undoubtedly results from having lived a life 1,000 times harder than my own.<br /><br /><a href="http://s685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/?action=view¤t=P6040305-3.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i685.photobucket.com/albums/vv215/mannimarwari/P6040305-3.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Amid the smiling faces, groping hands, and indecipherable chirpings of Marwari that enveloped me, a soft voice suddenly rose above the rest: "What is your good name, sir?" Before me stood a good looking young man who I presumed to be about eighteen years old. Not even five feet tall, his knees were bowed awkwardly to shoulder width. I would later learn that he was an unfortunate victim of polio, an archaic disease which has been eradicated in nearly every country in the world except for India. He told me his name was Dinesh and that, because he attend a school for the handicapped in Jodhpur, he was the only person in his village who spoke English. He asked me if I would like to see his home..."of course," I said, and we set off shuffling slowly down the village's only dirt street. "You see that man?" he asked, pointing towards an eighty-something year old man sitting cross legged under the shade of a thorny desert tree. "He is afraid of you. He remember British white saheb come loot village long time past." Cringing at this revelation, I smiled generously at the man, and said "Namaskar saheb (hello sir)" as I passed by. Before we reached Dinesh's hut, a young boy trotted up to us and said something in Marwari. "Your Veerni is time to be leaving," said Dinesh. "You see to my home tomorrow," he stated in a matter of fact tone, as I turned and began to walk back towards the jeep.<br /><br />On the way back to Jodhpur our car blew a tire. I immediately jumped out and, ignoring the nurses' anguished pleas to remain in the car, helped the driver change the tire. I could have rid the entire country of polio and not gained the respect that I did with that small gesture. From that moment on the women of the field team, Rashmi says, have referred to me as "their son."El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-67602816034762151662009-06-04T06:42:00.000+05:302009-06-04T16:42:26.765+05:30Generally Speaking<span style="font-weight:bold;">6/03/09</span><br /><br />I was awoken this morning by the soft pitter-patter of shuffling feet just outside my door. A Rajput woman wearing a red sari with golden trim was shuttling water to the kitchen in a five-gallon, pewter drum expertly balanced on her head. Her neck remained perfectly still even as she kicked the annoying little dog that nipped at her ankles with every graceful step. <br />Mukta, the house mother brought me a fresh chai as I sat sweating bullets in the scorching 7:00 am heat. The warm, frothy drink was delicious despite the congealed chunks of fresh butter that bobbed up and down throughout it.<br /><br />I left the guest house on foot but was quickly apprehended by one of the many rickshaw wallahs who seem to scour the city for westerners whom they can overcharge. I had been told to go meet with Brigadier General Singh upon my arrival as he also happened to be the administrative director of the Veerni Project, the NGO that I am working for. As the rickshaw snaked its way up the winding road to Umaid Bahwan Palace we sped past a group of Dalit (untouchable outcaste) ragpicker children. Their radiant, pearly smiles sharply contrasted their dirt covered faces and matted, dready hair. Passing by, I turned around to watch them return to the gutter in search of recyclable plastic scraps.<br /><br />The rickshaw driver pulled up to the palace gate and expressed to me with gestures that he would wait there for me to return. After explaining to five mustached guards that I was not there for the audio tour, I was eventually led to the General's wing. He had not yet arrived but his secretary insisted that I wait for him in his office. After initially resisting incessant attempts to serve me tea, coffee, water, or cola, I finally succumbed and settled into a chair opposite the general's empty desk.<br /><br />Now, I know that Indians are very trusting...but I decided then that it was exceedingly unwise to leave a curious, mischievous young man alone in the office of such an important man. What state secrets lay unprotected in the file cabinet to my right? Was the nuclear football sitting in the drawer to my left? A large framed photo of the Maharajah of Jodhpur hung unassumingly on the papered wall in front of me, above the general's chair. His highness looked down on me with a Mona Lisa smirk that seemed to say, "don't even think about it, man." <br />The general's desk was mostly bare. There were no papers waiting to be signed; no dossiers to be considered. Two blown glass paperweights sat on each corner opposite from me. I picked one up to examine its fiery colors but quickly put it down, fearful that at any moment the general would arrive and arrest me for snooping. The only other item on the desk was a rhinestone encrusted fingernail-care kit. Through the glass top I could see clippers, brushes, lotions, balms, and salves; I began to suspect that Brigadier Singh was a well groomed man.<br /><br />Fifteen minutes passed...no general.<br /><br />Half an hour...nothing.<br /><br />A full hour passed before the general burst through the door like John Wayne busting into a saloon in an old spaghetti western flick. I awkwardly rose to meet him, embarrassed that I had dared to sit down before his arrival. "Namaste Brigadier Saheb," I stuttered as we shook hands. His nails were long but well manicured; just as I had suspected.<br /><br />He invited me to sit down and we began to talk. He told me about the Veerni Project and other programs that he was involved with. He asked me if my hotel was satisfactory; I wonder what he might have done had I said that it wasn't. Who knows...maybe I missed out on a stay at the palace! Nearing the end of our conversation, the general asked if I had any questions. I suddenly remembered the advice that Govind, the hotel manager, had given me earlier: "Ben saheb, do not ask any questions...Brigadier hates questions." With that in mind, I politely said, "no saheb," stood, shook his hand a second time, and made my exit. The five mustached guards stared at me as I passed through the palace gate. The rickshaw wallah, who had not moved an inch for nearly two hours, drove me back to the hotel, seemingly content with the forty rupees (less than one dollar) I had promised.<br /><br />------------------<br /><br />I find it a little strange that Brigadier Singh is the director of the Veerni Project. It is the older generation of Rajput men afterall, who have instigated and perpetuated the patriarchal aspects of society that result in the extreme subjugation of women in Rajasthan. I suppose that his position as director is indicative of the interplay between social organizations and the political mechanism here in Jodhpur. Could it be that Veerni is only able to do what it does because there are watchful eyes keeping it in check?El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-47950764837687240402009-06-03T04:28:00.000+05:302009-06-03T13:33:35.768+05:30Arrival<span style="font-weight:bold;">6/02/09</span><br /><br />Sitting in Indira Gandhi International Airport, waiting to board my flight to Jodhpur, I cannot help but feel as though I am going through a major life transition. Only two days ago I was enjoying air-condition, HDTV, and potable water. A mantra is supposed to inspire and support one through life's tougher moments; but all that keeps running through my head is, "BM, what the hell have you got yourself into?!"<br /><br />I sat next to a Sikh from Amritsar on the flight from Newark to Delhi. He was young; only a few years older than I. He was tall, and strong, and very handsome, with chiseled features that hinted at his warrior lineage. His jet-black beard rippled as he giggled at the absurdity of me spending the summer in Jodhpur. "Life is too hot my friend," he said, chuckling once more. Indeed, I thought. How ironic it is, then, that I have chosen to avoid the heat of life in one of the hottest places on earth!<br /><br />-----------------------<br /><br />A private taxi brought me from the hotel to the airport this morning. As I got out of the car, a man no bigger than my duffel bag materialized by my side offering to carry my luggage. As I put on my straw cowboy hat he asked me with a look of wonderment, "sir, are you the rock star?" With a look of bewilderment that I am sure surpassed his own I replied, "no, I am the tourist!"<br /><br />-----------------------<br /><br />I am now sitting in an air conditioned hotel-bar drinking the most delicious, thirst quenching, soul-satisfying, ice-cold beer. I do not know how to even begin to describe the last few hours (that doesn't bode well for the rest of this trip).<br />The flight from Delhi was...confusing. My ticket said that there were scheduled stops in Jaipur, then Udaipur, before arriving in Jodhpur. The pilots, however, decided not to stop in Jaipur after all. No problem though; we got to Jodhpur an hour ahead of schedule!<br /><br />As the plane broke through the low-lying clouds, descending into Jodhpur, I was struck by the bleakness of the landscape below me. The only greenery to be seen were the pathetic shrubs demarcating what once may have been fields but are now dusty sand dunes. The even, patchwork squares of land looked like a quilt whose color had been washed out. As the rickety age-old prop plane continued its descent we buzzed over countless dry riverbeds. Shriveled trees grasped at their banks desperate for even a drop of water that won't be seen until the monsoon next month. Before even stepping foot in Rajasthan I began to understand why the Rajputs call it Marwar, "the land of death."<br /><br />I took an autorickshaw to my hotel, the Durag Niwas Guest House. More an apartment complex that a hotel (think no AC, sheets, or towels), Durag Niwas sits at the end of a dead end road about one mile from the old city. My room is simple and unremarkable; 10x7 feet with a bed, a nightstand, and a private bathroom. My shower consists of a cup and bucket that can be filled with hot water using an electric heater that must be plugged in long before use. The rooms surround a common courtyard and are about ten in number.<br />In the courtyard I met a British man who has been staying here for a few weeks. About forty years old, he looked as though he had been traveling for the majority of that time. He wore dirty, loose fitting, saffron pants and a tattered tank top with a tie-dyed "ohm" patch in the middle of his weathered chest. I smoked a few bidis with him as he imparted some of his hard-earned knowledge of India. Originally intending to spend only a few days in Jodhpur, his departure was inevitably postponed by his discovery of "some of India's finest opium."<br /><br />After a homemade lunch of green beans, dhal, rice, and chipati, I left to explore the old city. After walking in the wrong direction for half an hour I finally got my bearings. As I passed by a young boy I made the mistake of smiling at him. "Hallo," he said. "Hello," I responded. "Wasyar nam," he gleefully chirped. I told him. "Banjeemoon," he repeated as he contorted his face in disapproval. "Ben" was a little easier for him. After this short exchange I was stuck with him for the next half hour as he incessantly badgered me for money or food, or both. Eventually I began to respond to his querries with a firm "chello," a word that the Brit had told me meant "go away." Either the message was lost in my butchered pronunciation or the Brit had been putting me on. For all I know, "chello" might mean "walking free ATM." After every one of my "chello's" the boy would smile and repeat his request for five dollars.<br /><br />By the time I reached Sardar Market I was dripping with sweat; my fingers were so swollen from the heat that I could barely clench my hand into a fist. I walked between fruit stalls overflowing with rotten papaya and watermelon. Flies and hornets swarmed the displays for a free drink of putrid fruit nectar. The sweet smell of inscence and charras began to mix with the decaying aroma of raw sewage as I ventured deeper into the narrow medieval alleyways of Brahmaputra. I don't yet know what to make of the stares that I draw from people on the street. I know that virtually all come from kindhearted, well-intentioned people, but it is still a bit unnerving. Maybe I should cut myself a little slack; it is after all only my first day in India.<br /><br />Something that I find very amusing: More than once I would be walking past a shopkeeper who seemed to be sound asleep under the shade of an umbrella. Almost as if they could sense my presence, they would pop up as I passed by, imploring me to enter their store. One whom I particularly remember shouted to me "Sir, come to my spices stores. I make your noses very happy, isn't it?" At the moment my noses wanted a cold bottle of water rather than a bag of cardamom. I grinned widely and respectfully at the spice man, shaking my head "no" as I plodded away.<br /><br />A little later on I was clipped by a motorcycle in an alleyway. I now realize that I need to be conscious about moving in a straight line while walking. A zigzagging tourist is an unpredictable target for maniacal Indian drivers. Matters are not helped by the fact that "one way road" seems to be merely a suggestion here. <br /><br />After three hours on foot I ended up at the Maple Abhay bar. For about four dollars I have since enjoyed two bombers and a mountainous plate of chana chat; garbanzo beans with onion, tomato, parsley, and turmeric. As my first day fades into my first night I can already feel this place taking hold of me. I am physically and emotionally exhausted, yet I want more! Is this masochism or healthy curiosity? I do not know...but so far, I like it.El Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179625403653964699.post-8478557854205965242009-06-03T03:57:00.000+05:302009-06-24T23:28:06.072+05:30First Time BloggerFirst of all I want to let everyone know my contact information. I'm using the paid version of Skype which means that I have a US phone number and voicemail. That number is (503)342-2921. When you call the number it rings on my computer. Also, I can call any US land line or cell phone from my computer (so don't be too surprised when I call you). For the next three months I will be living in Jodhpur, Rajasthan working for a development organization called the Veerni Project (veerni.org). Following my time here, I will be meeting up with the college overseas program in Delhi. I plan to return to Portland on January 15. I am twelve and a half hours ahead of Portland time; ten and a half ahead of Houston time; and nine and a half hours ahead of New York time. <br /><br />I have never blogged before, so expect this to be a work in progress. I'll try to update as frequently as possible. As of now, I am planning to copy my journal entries onto the blog (the ones that I'm comfortable sharing, that is). As we progress, I'd love to hear suggestions from you guys on how to make the blog better. If anyone wants me to write about anything they are particularly interested in or curious about, just ask -- you can enter comments below each of my posts.<br /><br />Namaste,<br />-BMEl Gringohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208297130232620564noreply@blogger.com1