Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Dizzy.
Sitting still with the expectation of movement makes me dizzy. I seem to be getting dizzy a lot these days. Sometimes, it happens when I look out the train window before we've started moving, the anticipaion of the repetitious sound and momentum sparked from sights and smells. Other times, someone will stop walking or, worse, driving directly in front of me, my body having thought it would keep going without obstructions, me unsure if I should move around to the right, risking the person or autorickshaw or bike's movement again, or to the left in front of another person or vehicle that has no intention of stopping. That awkward dance where both you and he other mirror each other wishing you were doing the opposite And then occasionally, it is the expectations themselves that just have physics wrong. Leaving me, for a moment, stupefied. It's easy to say I have/had no expectations about India, but I know that, in reality, that's simply not true.
Things that we remember: Part one.
One the dirty road across from the train station, last night's rain has left Amritsar a giant mud puddle. Literally a hole in the wall with holes in the walls, the greasy restaurant serves up one dish cooked on the side of the road. There is too much butter on my naan, a brick for each piece. Shivering in my damp clothes that couldn't dry overnight after getting caught in the flooded dark street the night before, I watch Jon watch a guy try to plug a lightbulb, hanging from the verandah, with the bare wires directly into the poorly constructed power outlet standing on the chair the whole time. So, after moistening these bare wires, he sort of, almost confidently, sticks then in, one wire into each hole. After a spark, power flicker and a yelp, a lot of laughter follows. And the lightbulb does not light up. Dazed but not defeated, he rests for a minute and then fiddles with the wires again, maybe getting rid of burnt rubber, getting ready to try again. A small crowd of men has gathered and cheers him on. He tries again with the same results, except now the laughter is louder to go along with the growing crowd. This time he has to sit down. We thought he had given up, but e goes back to the wobbly chair. He is scared but determined. This time he's got it figured out. But again it doesn't work. With three minor electric shocks, the lightbulb remains unlit.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Mumbai.
Excerpts written February 12th through 21st.
It is probably because I've become more comfortable in India, but in any case, Mumbai is much less overwhelming than I was expecting. Meaning, instead of feeling crippled by the population density, traffic, slums, confusing trains and buses, terrible drivers (etc., etc.), I am enjoying each moment walking through a city that, with its history and popularity in novels and movies, seems lie it isn't even supposed to be a real place. For example, Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance (if you have not read it, you must) is apt, real. Even the scene where Dina goes to the courthouse, sits in the courtyard, sees men sitting on the ground along the street outside at typewriters atop crates unfolds before my eyes.
Jon was the first to remark that it's one of those places that exists only in stories, that being there physically feels somewhat magical. The city itself, the suburbs and slums, seem to go on forever. And, really, one can ride the suburban trains for more than 100 miles before it seems you've left.
It helps that I'm no longer sleep deprived after overnight buses that arrive in strange areas of strange cities at strange hours before catching a 17 hour train 10 hours later. I will admit that at 4:40am yesterday, Mumbai didn't seem so great.
I suddenly realize I haven't seen a cow in almost two days - where have my friends gone?
The city is an atrocious mix of poverty and prosperity, of modern conveniences and luxuries and petrified ideals. Standing from the sixth floor balcony of our couchsurf hosts' balcony of a middle-class high-rise complex, the moon rises over the slums below. The noise everywhere is deafening, between traffic and temples, the smog crushing. The smell of fish along the docks mixes uncomfortably with Gothic architecture, the sounds of men hawking their wares between bizarre statues of lions with human heads. Five star hotels line one street, with paan shops and tailors right behind them in cubby holes of buildings that look like they've either been recently destroyed due to an earthquake or are in the middle of being constructed. Kittens sit eagerly awaiting spilled milk at the chai stand in front of the bustling street. If you don't walk fast enough someone pushes you from behind, but at the same time, there is art everywhere begging to be looked at.
The Kada Ghoda Art Festival is near it's end. Two weeks of art - street art, dance, music, sculpture, film, literature - is all over the district and it is with great difficulty that we walk through the crowds. Galleries full of works by hopeful art students, the streets packed with many who wished they could have their work inside, folk dancing in the streets, a man who can play two flutes at the same time with his nose, and the type-written zines of "Bombay Underground" make wandering the streets infinitely more interesting than the National Gallery of Modern Art.
One piece of art was titled "Backbone of the City" - a sketch of a skeletal spine with handles dangling every few inches. The suburban trains are an experience - what kind of one is up to you. But I assure you, being in Asia's busiest train station during rush hour, getting on and off the train, involves being okay with jumping off moving trains, fitting 12 people into a space comfortable for 5, and getting body checked if you happen to be in the way of someone.
I am constantly in the way.
It is probably because I've become more comfortable in India, but in any case, Mumbai is much less overwhelming than I was expecting. Meaning, instead of feeling crippled by the population density, traffic, slums, confusing trains and buses, terrible drivers (etc., etc.), I am enjoying each moment walking through a city that, with its history and popularity in novels and movies, seems lie it isn't even supposed to be a real place. For example, Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance (if you have not read it, you must) is apt, real. Even the scene where Dina goes to the courthouse, sits in the courtyard, sees men sitting on the ground along the street outside at typewriters atop crates unfolds before my eyes.
Jon was the first to remark that it's one of those places that exists only in stories, that being there physically feels somewhat magical. The city itself, the suburbs and slums, seem to go on forever. And, really, one can ride the suburban trains for more than 100 miles before it seems you've left.
It helps that I'm no longer sleep deprived after overnight buses that arrive in strange areas of strange cities at strange hours before catching a 17 hour train 10 hours later. I will admit that at 4:40am yesterday, Mumbai didn't seem so great.
I suddenly realize I haven't seen a cow in almost two days - where have my friends gone?
The city is an atrocious mix of poverty and prosperity, of modern conveniences and luxuries and petrified ideals. Standing from the sixth floor balcony of our couchsurf hosts' balcony of a middle-class high-rise complex, the moon rises over the slums below. The noise everywhere is deafening, between traffic and temples, the smog crushing. The smell of fish along the docks mixes uncomfortably with Gothic architecture, the sounds of men hawking their wares between bizarre statues of lions with human heads. Five star hotels line one street, with paan shops and tailors right behind them in cubby holes of buildings that look like they've either been recently destroyed due to an earthquake or are in the middle of being constructed. Kittens sit eagerly awaiting spilled milk at the chai stand in front of the bustling street. If you don't walk fast enough someone pushes you from behind, but at the same time, there is art everywhere begging to be looked at.
The Kada Ghoda Art Festival is near it's end. Two weeks of art - street art, dance, music, sculpture, film, literature - is all over the district and it is with great difficulty that we walk through the crowds. Galleries full of works by hopeful art students, the streets packed with many who wished they could have their work inside, folk dancing in the streets, a man who can play two flutes at the same time with his nose, and the type-written zines of "Bombay Underground" make wandering the streets infinitely more interesting than the National Gallery of Modern Art.
One piece of art was titled "Backbone of the City" - a sketch of a skeletal spine with handles dangling every few inches. The suburban trains are an experience - what kind of one is up to you. But I assure you, being in Asia's busiest train station during rush hour, getting on and off the train, involves being okay with jumping off moving trains, fitting 12 people into a space comfortable for 5, and getting body checked if you happen to be in the way of someone.
I am constantly in the way.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Perfect.
Written February 15th at Miraj Junction Railway Station.
What better time to reflect on train stations and night travel than at six am in Miraj? Arriving at four-thirty this morning walking on the footbridge over the tracks, I think to myself "perfect". And I don't think I'm being sarcastic.
We got on the bus in Mt. Abu at eight pm - the night bus to Ahmdevad. In our narrow seats, we ask enough questions and receive enough help from the passengers behind us - the bus will let us off near the train station. With a noon train to Mumbai, there will be enough time for chai, breakfast, and a walk to a few mosques.
How right we were - at two am we arrive. Needless to say, we are early. Luckily, a chai stall is open. With so much time, it seems worth finding a guest house. But, we don't really know where we are, so we do what we never ever do - trust a rickshaw driver to take us to a cheap guesthouse. Of course, where he takes us is full, no rooms. Going to the train station (blocks form where we originally were) and lacking the energy to argue with the overpriced and useless ride, we wander around the busy platforms. People are sleeping everywhere, or sitting huddled under shawls sipping chai. After a while, we sit down too. For hours we watch the world watch us, watch everyone pass the time. Finally, the sky brightens and we take to the streets to idle away what time is left.
The mosques were indeed beautiful.
By eleven-thirty we make it back to the station, exhausted. At least we have a reservation, we can lay down and sleep on the train all day.
Turns out we're on the local train (never trust the word "express"). One hundred stops between Ahmdevad and Mumbai means a very busy train. I'm in an upper side berth, which means I can lay down. But Jon, below, gets no rest. A lot of guys his age really want to talk to him; people sit on his feet, cram for an inch on the side, until he gets up. The flow of passengers slows down in the evening. We sleep.
Turns out local trains are never late. We pull into Mumbai dutifully at four am. At Dadar Station, we are told it is the last stop, even though our ticket says we go all the way to Mumbai Central. Working on the tracks, apparently. It doesn't take too long before a helpful soul tells us which suburban train to take from which platform. But we still need to kill time, get our couchsurf host's information. A taxi driver tells us which station to go to for internet cafes open at this terrible hour. Easy, the man says when we go to buy tickets - go back to Dadar Station and then transfer trains to CST. Platform One and then Three. We ride the train. For fourty-five minutes. Something is wrong. We are in the suburbs. We ride back. We are hungry. We walk around and - of course - discover another Platform Three. The other train line. After almost four hours, we make the fifteen minute journey.
Lesson - when arriving in a big city, have a metro map on hand.
So now, at Miraj at six am, we wait for our nine am connecting train. "Perfect".
The trains are only on time when you've scheduled time for them to be late.
(And, my thought this morning when we got into Begaluru before four thirty am, early when you'd prefer them to be just a little behind schedule.)
Monday, February 13, 2012
Puzzle pieces.
Quick thoughts jotted down between Udaipur and Mt. Abu, February 4-9.
Small town, big city. I move in and out of daily life like falling back into a dream after my alarm clock goes off. Surrounded now by sites to see, I am more interested in sitting along Pichola Lake with it's mix of visitors. The sound of women slapping laundry, children laughing, running around in their underwear waiting for their clothes to dry in the sun, a mother in the shade carving stone, my own private laughs thinking if yesterday's sneezing cow, autorickshaws honking in the distance... In Bundi, I spent hours in Krishna's chai shop, quietly sipping masala chai, forgetting time. Now, I forget time by being surrounded by busy lives bumping into eachother so gracefully; everything occurs in slow motion.
The contrast of the age and aging of the architecture and the youth of children running beneath the arches, swinging on pillars, jumping over cracks in the once carefully laid stone road.
Getting lost down narrow back market roads, finding little treasures. I am getting used to the hectic traffic and people everywhere. Sometimes I forget to haggle my way through almonds, oranges, fresh peas. Sometimes I look like a fool. I am always getting in the way. But then I remember that it's nice to make others smile.
In the same day I can go well off the tourist trail and then watch Occtopussy at an overpriced rooftop restaurant, looking for the scenes filmed on the same streets I walked down earlier that day, the same palace I admired at sunset.
"India is a lot of things. Clean is not one of them." - Ira.
Drinking chai in a parking lot, a puppy wandered up, hungrily searching around our feet to see if we had anything to offer. Timid, he moves away each time out legs move, afraid of being kicked. A young man sitting next to us looks down, walks to the tea stall and purchases a packet of biscuits. Crouching down to the dog, he feed them to him one by one, the whole packet. I didn't know dogs liked biscuits. I'm glad I know that now. It was my favorite moment of the day.
Though the men smashing coconuts against concrete walls, throwing the shards to a group of monkeys was also pretty grand.
Our hotel is like a 3D puzzle gone wrong - every addition colliding not-so-gracefully with the room, floor, walkway, staircase, next to it and definitely not looking right. Yet, everything remains standing because, turns out, if you force the pieces together enough, they'll stay put. At least for a while.
The traveler's delusion remains strong. Really, though, I've been writing so little because my experiences just aren't translating. All the little things would slip through if I tried to describe Ranakpur and Delwara and walking down the street and eating lunch and the sunset on Mt. Abu and missing the bus and laughing with strangers and...
The intricacy and intensity is impossible to explain or capture in any way.
Small town, big city. I move in and out of daily life like falling back into a dream after my alarm clock goes off. Surrounded now by sites to see, I am more interested in sitting along Pichola Lake with it's mix of visitors. The sound of women slapping laundry, children laughing, running around in their underwear waiting for their clothes to dry in the sun, a mother in the shade carving stone, my own private laughs thinking if yesterday's sneezing cow, autorickshaws honking in the distance... In Bundi, I spent hours in Krishna's chai shop, quietly sipping masala chai, forgetting time. Now, I forget time by being surrounded by busy lives bumping into eachother so gracefully; everything occurs in slow motion.
The contrast of the age and aging of the architecture and the youth of children running beneath the arches, swinging on pillars, jumping over cracks in the once carefully laid stone road.
Getting lost down narrow back market roads, finding little treasures. I am getting used to the hectic traffic and people everywhere. Sometimes I forget to haggle my way through almonds, oranges, fresh peas. Sometimes I look like a fool. I am always getting in the way. But then I remember that it's nice to make others smile.
In the same day I can go well off the tourist trail and then watch Occtopussy at an overpriced rooftop restaurant, looking for the scenes filmed on the same streets I walked down earlier that day, the same palace I admired at sunset.
"India is a lot of things. Clean is not one of them." - Ira.
Drinking chai in a parking lot, a puppy wandered up, hungrily searching around our feet to see if we had anything to offer. Timid, he moves away each time out legs move, afraid of being kicked. A young man sitting next to us looks down, walks to the tea stall and purchases a packet of biscuits. Crouching down to the dog, he feed them to him one by one, the whole packet. I didn't know dogs liked biscuits. I'm glad I know that now. It was my favorite moment of the day.
Though the men smashing coconuts against concrete walls, throwing the shards to a group of monkeys was also pretty grand.
Our hotel is like a 3D puzzle gone wrong - every addition colliding not-so-gracefully with the room, floor, walkway, staircase, next to it and definitely not looking right. Yet, everything remains standing because, turns out, if you force the pieces together enough, they'll stay put. At least for a while.
The traveler's delusion remains strong. Really, though, I've been writing so little because my experiences just aren't translating. All the little things would slip through if I tried to describe Ranakpur and Delwara and walking down the street and eating lunch and the sunset on Mt. Abu and missing the bus and laughing with strangers and...
The intricacy and intensity is impossible to explain or capture in any way.
Moments.
I am constantly having moments where I forget where I am. Where I am somewhere between feeling lost and completely at home. Overwhelmed and surrounded by familiarity. Shocked at how strange things seem and seeing similarities between states of being, ways of doing. Amazed. Terrified. Uncomfortable with my being rather than everyone else's.
That's probably just due to the stares and being surrounded by fifty men, attracting what feels like equal attention as the parade of camels and play-fighting masses behind us. Wandering around, it was impossible to not stumble on the mass procession through town - the Gujjar caste celebrating the birthday of their god, people from over thirty villages in the district in town today to celebrate through the market streets.
Bundi's markets burst with scent and colours. Women haggle over bangles, cloth - a street lined with dozens of sacks of dried chilis soak the air to the point where, just breathing, you can taste them. But it is Krishna's chai shop I am constantly drawn back to. Sitting in front if a slate, rock, propane burner and a few pots, he makes the best chai I have has yet, and what he shamelessly believes to be the best in India. "Shanti shanti" he says, and you at and wait. And then, in your hands, is something that must be magical.
I have the recipe now, but I'm thinking buffalo milk might be hard to find back in Canada.
(written in Bundi February 1st. Please bare with the infrequent posts and backlog. I'll try to catch up while here in Mumbai!)
That's probably just due to the stares and being surrounded by fifty men, attracting what feels like equal attention as the parade of camels and play-fighting masses behind us. Wandering around, it was impossible to not stumble on the mass procession through town - the Gujjar caste celebrating the birthday of their god, people from over thirty villages in the district in town today to celebrate through the market streets.
Bundi's markets burst with scent and colours. Women haggle over bangles, cloth - a street lined with dozens of sacks of dried chilis soak the air to the point where, just breathing, you can taste them. But it is Krishna's chai shop I am constantly drawn back to. Sitting in front if a slate, rock, propane burner and a few pots, he makes the best chai I have has yet, and what he shamelessly believes to be the best in India. "Shanti shanti" he says, and you at and wait. And then, in your hands, is something that must be magical.
I have the recipe now, but I'm thinking buffalo milk might be hard to find back in Canada.
(written in Bundi February 1st. Please bare with the infrequent posts and backlog. I'll try to catch up while here in Mumbai!)
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