Man I hate Indian computers! I just wrote out this entry, saved it in Word (since the internet is unreliable) and the moment I finished it, it was promptly deleted. Well, I’ll try again, but rewrites are always shorter have a slightly bitter tone (ever try rewriting a 15-page paper in college?), but let’s see…
I am excitedly waiting to meet my father at the Chennai airport. I certainly hope he’ll be there as I am exhausted from a 24-hour bus ride to get here in time. I’m happy to be traveling with my parents, because frankly I’m tired of transient relationships, and I haven’t seen anyone I’ve really cared about (I mean for a long time) in more than 3 months. Most travelers I’ve talked to are jealous I’m getting to travel with my parents. Most travelers couldn’t imagine their parents in India, so I’m pretty damn impressed that mine should be on separate flights right now to Chennai (dad) and Delhi (mom).
My dad and I will be traveling for a week and half, down to the only French colony of Pondicherry and then to the state of Kerala, God’s country: beautiful tropical canals and home of the first elected communist government (1957) with the highest literacy, health, and education rates in the nation. But communism doesn’t work, right? It’s been historically proven. Capitalism seems to be fairing much better in the rest of overpopulated, unequal, poverty-stricken India. Right…
My mom is heading up to Rishikesh, where the Beatles set up camp, to stay in an ashram until I get there on the 20th in time for us to watch the inauguration of the messiah. We’ll be traveling afterwards in N. India and Nepal until I hightail it out of here on Feb 13 for a week in France (woohoo!) and finally back home. I’m so close yet so far away. Nevertheless, the signs of my parents’ coming hopefully indicate the beginning of the process of my disorientation (get it? dis-ORIENT-ation; it’s not my joke I admit).
The past three weeks have been really wonderful actually. The Frenchies and I became really close. I’ve never had such close friends to whom I didn’t speak English. In the past 3 weeks I’ve spoken nothing but French and pidgin English. It’s made me think again about living in France, depending on where. I think it is a culture to which I could adapt rather quickly. My Frencies were sad when I left and they gave me a postcard cut-out of an autorickshaw jampacked with Indians with well wishes for the future on the back, just like when you leave summer camp.
Well, it wasn’t quite summer camp, despite the weather, but it was pretty damn sweet. I’m glad I didn’t buy into the “I would never touch Goa cause it’s just for tourists and hippies” hype. First of all, at the moment, I’m both, but Goa is way more than that. Visiting Goa shows you how different India can be. With the highest per capita wealth, I never saw a single beggar. Colonized by the Portuguese, who didn’t leave until 1961, beautiful Mediterranean houses line the oceans and huge Baroque cathedrals dwarf temples to Hanuman et alios. This is not to laud Goa for being more westernized; rather, it gave me a glimpse of how diverse India is. It is aptly called a continent, as a Goan and Punjabi are as different from one another as a French and a Turk. I’m so impressed that India manages to function at all. As I read recently, “India’s choice is not between order and chaos, but between manageable chaos and unmanageable chaos”.
Our time in Goa was, well, licentious. Goa is freer than any place I’ve seen in the west (yes, including Amsterdam). We danced late to trance on the beach (hippies of the world, unite!), smoked and drank where we pleased, befriended everyone, rode scooters from gorgeous beach to gorgeous beach seeing everything from indigenous villages to hippies who came in the 60s and forgot to leave. The only setback was a forced a baksheesh (bribe) on New Year’s Eve to a cop who told me I needed an international driver’s license to drive a scooter. He’d have kept my license had I not given him 10 bucks to go right on driving “illegally”; I put it in quotes because, as I thought, you don’t need an international drivers license to drive a scooter. The corrupt cops made me pay them to get out of something that wasn’t even a crime. The culture of baksheesh needs to be wiped out if India is to advance.
Our days began drinking chai with the 27 year-old Indian store owner in our neighborhood who was by far the coolest Indian I’ve met; we spent many lazy hours with him, trying on hippy clothes, drinking chai, etc. Then we’d wander down a 5 minute walk to the beach and eat breakfast, swim a bit, maybe take a scooter trip to another beach. We’d invariably meet up at the same shop and pregame a night of trance music. Then we wound up in the same damn restaurant (really the same one every night) on the beach, eating seafood and blathering away in French. We had to leave for a number of reasons, the most urgent of which was my getting to Chennai in time. But it was also prudent to do so, as the arrival of the storeowner’s wife and son (arranged marriage, at least) would have put him and one the French girls in a compromising position. I’d have had to leave anyway. Decadence is great for the holidays, but there’s too much to do and see here to justify wiling my time away like that. Many westerners live there half of the year, but I couldn’t do that either. I have too many projects, too many people I love to check out of Western Civilization at this point. Maybe I’m not a real hippie; sure, I want to turn on and tune in but not drop out.
We took a sleeper to Hampi, once home to the capital of the South of India and the reason the South was never taken by the Muslims (they are the purer Hindus in their opinion). The ruins are vast, the largest I’ve ever seen, and they put Europe’s to shame (though it’s not really fair to compare as Hampi dates only from the 15th century). Temples and palaces in various states of ruin adorn a tropical boulder-laden paradise. Walking, biking and scooting around them was an awe-inspiring pleasure.
Well, hopefully my parents will indeed show up. I’m going to try to love every damn minute of this last month! Hope the new year is awesome all around.
Andrew and I Go Trekking to – and in – Gingee Fort
On the bus in Pondicherry late yesterday morning for what turned out to be a 2-1/4 hour ride WNW to the town of Gingee (“Shinjee”). We were among the first to board; and I thought “well, it’s really short on legroom, but it isn’t going to be too bad. But by the time we actually started moving we had acquired a seat-mate, and it was shoulder-to-shoulder in a seat meant for two people (with very short upper legs!). Anyway, I had plenty of time to read the extensive history-of-South-India section in the Rough Guide to South India – quite interesting.
We were let off in the center of town – absolute Bedlam – and our first task was to find a place for lunch. We picked what seemed our best option – a hot griddle in front frying parothas (a nice kind of bread) and a narrow passageway back to some 6-8 small tables. A bit “sketchy”, as Andrew is fond of saying, but not too off-putting on the whole.
Had banana leaves placed before us (looking like good-sized placemats), which were then sprinkled with water – not out of a bottle, I’m afraid – and then received a generous load of brown rice containing a chicken leg (me) and thigh (Andrew). Plus ladles of several different cooked vegetable preparations and spicy sauces. Andrew advised against eating the chicken – which we hadn’t ordered – the guy just assumed – and I followed his advice.
Anyhow, it wasn’t exactly like a French restaurant in Pondicherry (“Pondy”), but it was tasty and filling and had no unfortunate after-effects.
Then, time to set out for the Fort, 2 km. west of town. Andrew scored an auto-rickshaw (1 front wheel, handlebars, semi-enclosed – pretty powerful motor – we rode one, with our gear, 58 km. from Chennai to Mamallapuram, where we stayed Sat. night). As usual, I was in awe of his bargaining prowess!
At the entrance to the Fort (ruins – built in 15th century) Andrew was issued a stick for use in fending off monkeys. (As it turned out, we only saw a couple of them, but I made GOOD use of the stick as a climbing aid.) Our ultimate destination was Rajagiri, “Gingee’s loftiest citadel; at 165m above the surrounding plain it’s a very stiff climb in the heat, but the views are well worth the effort” (Rough Guide).
Actually, the heat was no problem – being early Jan., it’s been an extremely pleasant 75-85 (maybe not even 85) every day. But RG wasn’t kidding about the “very stiff climb” (or about the great views from the top). I was very proud of myself for making it all the way at 68 and with a relatively sedentary lifestyle! (Thank God for the monkey stick!)
On the way we got seriously blessed, as we turned a corner and found ourselves being accosted (nicely) by an elderly gentleman who was either a Brahmin (priest) or a guy making his living by impersonating one. Next thing you know, we were having white and red ash smeared on our foreheads and throats and being led to a very small temple with a small shrine a bit to the side. The guy lit incense and showed us that we were to wave the smoke into our faces. (I guess I over-complied – just now getting rid of the cough!) He rang his bell and had us walk around the temple – in bare feet – ouch! – and then walk around the shrine. We each gave him several Rupee coins – and each took pictures of him and the other – and resumed the climb. It was actually a welcome respite from the path up, and I told Andrew I felt I had received the spiritual fortitude to make it to the top!
Anyhow, EVENTUALLY we made it to the top and took pictures of a real panorama. Then back down again (“The bear went over the mountain….”) Even tho we got back by the 5:00 closing time (just), the guards asked for baksheesh for “waiting” for us, but we politely declined (did turn in the stick, tho).
So we’re ready to go back to town – and thence back to Pondy – and there are no auto-rickshaws. This is where the good luck starts happening – due, no doubt, to the blessing on the trail. Andrew goes over to a car we’d noticed; and it turns out to contain an older gentleman in the backseat with his driver nearby, and he says he’ll take us to town shortly. So, after 10-15 minutes, off we go with Andrew and me in the front seat with the driver (as we shortly picked up the guy’s wife who’d been walking and got into the backseat).
We were dropped off at the bus area (Bedlam), and the guy says “thank you for giving me the opportunity to help you” – exact quote and completely sincere. So far so good, but we had no idea when a bus would leave for Pondy or how we would know that was the right bus, as the bus area was just a wide spot in the road in the center of town. But a nice gentleman, noticing our obvious cluelessness, inquired where we were trying to go. Turned out he was going to Pondy also – and it further turned out that, altho he didn’t know when a bus there would be along, it was only about 5 mins. Talk about living right! (Tho again, I figure it was all due to the blessing-guy.)
Most of the way back it was just the two of us in the seat (same lack of legroom, tho), and I finished the history. We rewarded ourselves with an ab-fab dinner at the roof-top restaurant Le Rendezvous, where Andrew had the lobster and avocado salad – a real deal at Rs400 (a bit over $8) – and I had a wonderful paneer/vegetable kebab with rice (paneer being a cottage-cheese preparation with a consistency approximately of grilled tofu) at Rs175. Also the house wine, which appeared to be a kind of rose; I thought it had a very strange taste, but Andrew liked it and polished mine off.
And so to bed after a fun day.
Tonight we take the overnight sleeper (!) bus SW to Kumily and the Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary. I can hardly wait to see the overnight sleeper bus!
Best to all – blessings too!
George