North India is like South India's older brother, or uncle or something: colder, more severe, features more pronounced and ominous, less naive, more distinguished, more smelling of burning tires. Mostly colder and with different stomach bacteria though.
Although I'm told that in the summer it's hotter in the north than in the south, so I might choose different words then, such as: hotter, grimier, sandy, winds of timelessness.
Ian McEwan smiled at me today!
25.1.08
18.1.08
Around Chennai...bored on a Saturday
This is a picture of downtown Argentina.
I paid this auto driver to pretend to be asleep. Auto drivers are phenomenally hard working and wouldn't sleep on the job, especially not in their own autos, and ESPECIALLY not with rich white camera-yielding tourists nearby. So naturally I had to bribe him heavily to get the shot I wanted.
This is a nearby McDonald's I sometimes frequent. They don't serve beef unfortunately (some BS about sacred cows), but the raw dough is much tastier that I expected. And they'll even cook it if you request.
This is the local police station. The man in the pink is the chief fruit thrower. I've seen him gun down two local miscreants with just a pair of limes.
These are motorcycles. They're like cars here. And the cars here are like American buses. And we don't have anything like Indian buses in America. Airplanes are the same in both countries, interestingly enough.
This man is climbing into an airplane and an anonymous women is grabbing his ass.16.1.08
gchat life coach
Me: i think i have this drive to be legitimate in some conventional fashion that goes against my natural inclinations
Adam: you should know this already but, you will never be legitimate or conventional
and i mean that in the nicest way possible
the U.S. Embassy
As I exited into the main courtyard I felt like I could have been in Washington DC—there was grass, somebody was watering it, the parking lot had a few empty spaces, my clothing grasped onto me as if in an attempt to escape the humidity—then I came to my senses, or rather my senses came to me. The perpetual honking reestablished itself as an ambient noise in my inner ear, the traffic on the visible flyover was littered with auto rickshaws, scooters and motorcycles, the grass was less a part of the earth below than a cover up, thinning and shedding like a balding man, and I was surrounded by walls. Yes, I was still in India. No, I had not really forgotten.
It only took me five months to make the five-kilometer journey to the Chennai U.S. Embassy. This could be because my working hours conflicted with theirs, or it could be because the U.S. Embassy possesses very little cultural appeal and seems more like a place to abscond if under imminent attack. It is the only intimidatingly fortified area I’ve seen in all of Chennai, a city of over 8 million, besides the Old Fort, which today acts more as an unnecessarily obstructive wall. Once my Canadian friend and I took the liberty of standing outside the U.S. Embassy walls to reference our map only to be shooed away by Indians in Police uniforms, as a safety precaution of course. In fact everyone working at the Embassy is an Indian in a uniform, not surprising really, it simply makes the degree of the excessive security all the more palpable. Indians on duty have a way of asserting their role as Indians before that as officials: they’ll uphold the law but somehow it’s clear only to avoid reprisal from above.
After passing through two metal detectors, showing my passport twice, and being asked four times about my cell phone and it’s on/off status, I arrived at the “American Library”. A clean, quiet, well-furnished space with those black, mesh computer chairs I so miss from college, I once again felt like I could be in Washington DC. I perused the isles and inquired about the membership fee, I even took some notes, feeling oddly suspicious, as if I’d be shooed away for doing so. But nothing so noteworthy happened. Had I really come all this way just to read a month-old issue of The New York Times? The one thing I’d actually been looking forward to was sitting down with the only hard copy of The NYT in all of south India. But somehow I didn’t really feel like reading about holiday shopping and Thanksgiving recipes in January, not to mention dated Pakistani politics.
Forty-five minutes was more than enough time in the U.S. Embassy, I decided, unless Chennai was under siege. I began the elaborate exit process of signing out, signing in and out of giant booklets is very popular in India, and proceeding through locked doors (less popular) operated by someone whose job description must be something akin to “press button to unlock door when permissible person approaches”. Most of the time I’m left wondering how they manage to keep their jobs.
As I exited the compound the strong impression of crew cuts and sharp glares gave way to mustaches and practiced oblivion. I reflected on the fact that during my last domestic flight in India I hadn’t once had to produce any type of physical identification. I wasn’t sure what I missed back home, what I would miss when I left India, or what was really normal anymore. Not much in any case, not much seemed normal upon reflection.
It only took me five months to make the five-kilometer journey to the Chennai U.S. Embassy. This could be because my working hours conflicted with theirs, or it could be because the U.S. Embassy possesses very little cultural appeal and seems more like a place to abscond if under imminent attack. It is the only intimidatingly fortified area I’ve seen in all of Chennai, a city of over 8 million, besides the Old Fort, which today acts more as an unnecessarily obstructive wall. Once my Canadian friend and I took the liberty of standing outside the U.S. Embassy walls to reference our map only to be shooed away by Indians in Police uniforms, as a safety precaution of course. In fact everyone working at the Embassy is an Indian in a uniform, not surprising really, it simply makes the degree of the excessive security all the more palpable. Indians on duty have a way of asserting their role as Indians before that as officials: they’ll uphold the law but somehow it’s clear only to avoid reprisal from above.
After passing through two metal detectors, showing my passport twice, and being asked four times about my cell phone and it’s on/off status, I arrived at the “American Library”. A clean, quiet, well-furnished space with those black, mesh computer chairs I so miss from college, I once again felt like I could be in Washington DC. I perused the isles and inquired about the membership fee, I even took some notes, feeling oddly suspicious, as if I’d be shooed away for doing so. But nothing so noteworthy happened. Had I really come all this way just to read a month-old issue of The New York Times? The one thing I’d actually been looking forward to was sitting down with the only hard copy of The NYT in all of south India. But somehow I didn’t really feel like reading about holiday shopping and Thanksgiving recipes in January, not to mention dated Pakistani politics.
Forty-five minutes was more than enough time in the U.S. Embassy, I decided, unless Chennai was under siege. I began the elaborate exit process of signing out, signing in and out of giant booklets is very popular in India, and proceeding through locked doors (less popular) operated by someone whose job description must be something akin to “press button to unlock door when permissible person approaches”. Most of the time I’m left wondering how they manage to keep their jobs.
As I exited the compound the strong impression of crew cuts and sharp glares gave way to mustaches and practiced oblivion. I reflected on the fact that during my last domestic flight in India I hadn’t once had to produce any type of physical identification. I wasn’t sure what I missed back home, what I would miss when I left India, or what was really normal anymore. Not much in any case, not much seemed normal upon reflection.
11.1.08
the exact wrong job...for me at least
There’s a man and he has a job. At first glance nothing worth a second glance. Men have jobs, women have jobs. Jobs lead to taxes, which, aside from death, is the only thing of which we can be certain.
What makes this man’s job special is that it is the exact wrong job for me. This job was designed for someone with every quality I lack. I look into this man’s eyes and I gleam no comprehension; his motivations are a mystery, his inner-workings that of another realm.
This man is a bus shepherd, and we, humankind, are his sheep. We travel to and fro, fro and to, and this man keeps us organized. He herds us as if we were truly his herd, and for that time, from when the bus pulls into view until we sigh with relief as it leaves us gasping for fresh air, we are his herd.
Bus shepherds in Goa work under extreme conditions—the buses are half-size, for no apparent reason, and I doubt for any unapparent reason. The half-sized bus pulls up to the stand, known to foreigners as an unmarked area of pavement where vehicles spontaneously gather and chaos generally increases, with a flourish of honking and yelling. Deep bellows emerge from small Indian men, all across India, You need to hear it to believe it. So in the tradition of small Indian men the bus herder is bellowing deeply something sounding vaguely like the destination of the bus. He’s leaning out the door waving his hands. As the bus approaches he leaps down and starts to herd. With great intensity and vigor, as if this bus getting to wherever he is yelling about was of such great importance in this land where nothing seems to relate much to punctuality. Oh how he herds! He scolds, he argues, he encourages, he shoos, he urges, he is relentless, he is persistent. He has a way of asking if you are going at the same time as he guides you onto the bus so before you know if you are, you are.
It’s been many seconds, maybe almost a minute. The bus has been steadily filling up thanks to our shepherd. The seats have long been occupied and the isle slowly jams up. Now the isle is full and a group of men have gone to sit up with the bus driver in his little cockpit. Now the entryway is full, feet cover all floor space. Yet the shepherd still herds as if the bus were empty. He is not yet satisfied. He wants every last sheep on this vessel. None shall be left behind. Sweat and tears will be shed before he is through.
Finally we’re all accounted for; we can all breathe and if we try and fall we won’t get far. Except one of course. The shepherd must now play both herder and sheep as he maneuvers himself onto the bus. So after all the yelling, shoving, organizing and general clamoring the bus shepherd squeezes himself into the tiniest possible area, always close enough to the door to push it open and snatch up a stray. He is sweaty and breathless, but oddly satisfied with is work, which he performs for over 8 hours a day in squelching heat.
Oh yeah, I almost forget, now he must work his way through the people, often appearing from under an armpit or beneath the curve a sari, and collect the fare, and give change, and remember who’s paid and who hasn’t, and make sure to yell and herd at every stop, and organize people according to their destination, and tell the driver when to go and when to stop, and for God’s sake I’m happy to be doing anything else. I really am. I really really am.
What makes this man’s job special is that it is the exact wrong job for me. This job was designed for someone with every quality I lack. I look into this man’s eyes and I gleam no comprehension; his motivations are a mystery, his inner-workings that of another realm.
This man is a bus shepherd, and we, humankind, are his sheep. We travel to and fro, fro and to, and this man keeps us organized. He herds us as if we were truly his herd, and for that time, from when the bus pulls into view until we sigh with relief as it leaves us gasping for fresh air, we are his herd.
Bus shepherds in Goa work under extreme conditions—the buses are half-size, for no apparent reason, and I doubt for any unapparent reason. The half-sized bus pulls up to the stand, known to foreigners as an unmarked area of pavement where vehicles spontaneously gather and chaos generally increases, with a flourish of honking and yelling. Deep bellows emerge from small Indian men, all across India, You need to hear it to believe it. So in the tradition of small Indian men the bus herder is bellowing deeply something sounding vaguely like the destination of the bus. He’s leaning out the door waving his hands. As the bus approaches he leaps down and starts to herd. With great intensity and vigor, as if this bus getting to wherever he is yelling about was of such great importance in this land where nothing seems to relate much to punctuality. Oh how he herds! He scolds, he argues, he encourages, he shoos, he urges, he is relentless, he is persistent. He has a way of asking if you are going at the same time as he guides you onto the bus so before you know if you are, you are.
It’s been many seconds, maybe almost a minute. The bus has been steadily filling up thanks to our shepherd. The seats have long been occupied and the isle slowly jams up. Now the isle is full and a group of men have gone to sit up with the bus driver in his little cockpit. Now the entryway is full, feet cover all floor space. Yet the shepherd still herds as if the bus were empty. He is not yet satisfied. He wants every last sheep on this vessel. None shall be left behind. Sweat and tears will be shed before he is through.
Finally we’re all accounted for; we can all breathe and if we try and fall we won’t get far. Except one of course. The shepherd must now play both herder and sheep as he maneuvers himself onto the bus. So after all the yelling, shoving, organizing and general clamoring the bus shepherd squeezes himself into the tiniest possible area, always close enough to the door to push it open and snatch up a stray. He is sweaty and breathless, but oddly satisfied with is work, which he performs for over 8 hours a day in squelching heat.
Oh yeah, I almost forget, now he must work his way through the people, often appearing from under an armpit or beneath the curve a sari, and collect the fare, and give change, and remember who’s paid and who hasn’t, and make sure to yell and herd at every stop, and organize people according to their destination, and tell the driver when to go and when to stop, and for God’s sake I’m happy to be doing anything else. I really am. I really really am.
Yesterday as I was walking I got asked directions. This was very odd. It's similar to asking an Indian woman in a sari how to get to the Burrito Spot in Santa Fe: chances for success are slim. But for some reason an auto drove up beside me, presumably aware of my white skin and foreign dress as a significant part of being an auto driver is visual capacity, and the man in the back asked "this is Shastri Nagar?" This is like driving up to someone in the Bay Area and asking "this is Oakland?" Well, it turns out this person was just lost enough for an aloof foreigner to actually help them out. I responded "no, this is Besant Nagar." Which is like saying "no, you're in Berkeley buddy." The guy seemed to value my answer, and they drove off with a wag of the head.
9.1.08
4.1.08
shoe gazing
As I was shopping for sandals today, meaning being finagled into purchasing something I really didn't intend to buy, someone tried to buy my shoes.
That's right. I took my shoes off to try on some sandals, on the sidewalk in some ancient city, and an innocent observer, Indian, male, twenties, asked how much I wanted for my shoes. I didn't think he was serious but when he persisted that I say a price first I realized this was no tourist trick; this man actually saw my old, old moss green Saucony shoes sitting on the sidewalk and thought "I would look good in those", or maybe "my prospective wife would really respond well to those", or possibly "green shoes!". He certainly didn't consider the size or relatively poor condition of the shoes.
For a brief, all-too-fleeting moment a thought crossed my mind which I believe to have had something to do with giving him the shoes for free, out of generosity or universal indifference or something, but then I came to my senses. Even though he was willing to pay more than I was paying for my new handmade, leather flip-flops, equipped with the individual big-toe hole of which we all thought Dustin and his hippie friends were forerunners of but in reality has been around in India since blessing elephants and sacred cows, I couldn't imagine my hard-earned and well-worn Sauconies on the feet of a short, skinny Indian youth.
Anyways this surprise double bargain impeded on my bargaining abilities for the sandals and I felt unable to run a hard deal and not sell my shoes to the bystanding India. So I paid a little extra to keep my shoes. Maybe not such a bad deal after all.
That's right. I took my shoes off to try on some sandals, on the sidewalk in some ancient city, and an innocent observer, Indian, male, twenties, asked how much I wanted for my shoes. I didn't think he was serious but when he persisted that I say a price first I realized this was no tourist trick; this man actually saw my old, old moss green Saucony shoes sitting on the sidewalk and thought "I would look good in those", or maybe "my prospective wife would really respond well to those", or possibly "green shoes!". He certainly didn't consider the size or relatively poor condition of the shoes.
For a brief, all-too-fleeting moment a thought crossed my mind which I believe to have had something to do with giving him the shoes for free, out of generosity or universal indifference or something, but then I came to my senses. Even though he was willing to pay more than I was paying for my new handmade, leather flip-flops, equipped with the individual big-toe hole of which we all thought Dustin and his hippie friends were forerunners of but in reality has been around in India since blessing elephants and sacred cows, I couldn't imagine my hard-earned and well-worn Sauconies on the feet of a short, skinny Indian youth.
Anyways this surprise double bargain impeded on my bargaining abilities for the sandals and I felt unable to run a hard deal and not sell my shoes to the bystanding India. So I paid a little extra to keep my shoes. Maybe not such a bad deal after all.
3.1.08
India.Aried
I am still in India. I am excited about this sometimes. Usually not when there isn't a fan on my face. I spent more time on the beach in the last two weeks than I did for all of college, and I went to school at UC-Santa Barabara: college kids die there every year from getting too close to the beach cliffs when they are wasted. My roommates and I once saved a kids life, he was running straight off the cliff like a pop-punk music video and we all kind of regretted grabbing him.
In India the tourist beaches are like other worlds situated closely, in fact, immediately against, as if in support of each other, the real India. The real India is full of Indians and food places with excessive dishes but no silverware. The streets are the bathrooms and wireless internet is under no high demand. Traffic pulses and dirt spills, etc. The tourist beaches have omelettes and some restaurants even have magazines to read. French press coffee is often available and so are board shorts. Everyone wears clothing they purchased in the last two weeks and they tell each other they know it looks silly but it's so darn comfortable. Everyone not trying to take money from you is white, perhaps Russian, perhaps Icelandic, probably French. There are no buses, just beaches, and backpacks, and tanning lotions. Indians put oil in their hair, we rub it on our body.
On my way to the airport with Jenn two weeks ago, at the beginning of this vacation, we shared our auto with an Indian man, or rather he shared it with us. He imparted many words of wisdom upon us, as English-speaking Indian men interested in sharing their auto with white people are inclined to do. I forget most of it, but one thing stuck, "In your country you kiss in public and pee in private, in our country we kiss in private and pee in public."
Take your pick.
In India the tourist beaches are like other worlds situated closely, in fact, immediately against, as if in support of each other, the real India. The real India is full of Indians and food places with excessive dishes but no silverware. The streets are the bathrooms and wireless internet is under no high demand. Traffic pulses and dirt spills, etc. The tourist beaches have omelettes and some restaurants even have magazines to read. French press coffee is often available and so are board shorts. Everyone wears clothing they purchased in the last two weeks and they tell each other they know it looks silly but it's so darn comfortable. Everyone not trying to take money from you is white, perhaps Russian, perhaps Icelandic, probably French. There are no buses, just beaches, and backpacks, and tanning lotions. Indians put oil in their hair, we rub it on our body.
On my way to the airport with Jenn two weeks ago, at the beginning of this vacation, we shared our auto with an Indian man, or rather he shared it with us. He imparted many words of wisdom upon us, as English-speaking Indian men interested in sharing their auto with white people are inclined to do. I forget most of it, but one thing stuck, "In your country you kiss in public and pee in private, in our country we kiss in private and pee in public."
Take your pick.
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