A hanging bat under a breezy midday sun
Blinded by the god of pharaoh
20 paces to the beach
Sand scorches the feet
Urine soaks the air and plunges lungs into the depths of water’s history
Purple flowers line the railroad tracks
4 feet wing spans on a bat?
It’s nice to see bouganvilliers again
A camel on the right, a horse on the left and emaciated cows everywhere
Carts so overloaded they can’t possibly be pulled by a man
The sea is cold when the wind picks up
Sometimes I can cry
Any time of the day I can step outside into the warm tropics
Large Chinese fishing nets are fading into the past
How does a man fall asleep standing?
Roaches come out of the crevices of the trains at every station
How many contradictions can one pile on top of another?
Mountains soaked in white and a lake made invisible by hanging water
I have to work
Can one drown by breathing in the pungent odor of urine?
Can feces be the national bird of a country?
The train doors are open and my legs are hanging in the wind
It’s so gray here. Gray and brown
So many people, so little contact
Why is this man waking me up?
I have to leave, I’ve used up too much electricity
You can add a foreigner to the list of the homeless tonight
I don’t think I can go another 2 months
I’m so bored, I’m so exhilarated
New years eve with strangers in a strange land
The red of pan
The colors of the desert, yellow is just the base on which the rainbow is built
The weed here is mild but I’m crazy stoned
When do I get out of this place?
I’m tired and I need a shower
The water here is cold and I can see my own breath
A faron and some kawava and I’m ready for the day
I can’t believe someone thought they should add salt to tea
Another chai stop
The dogs are thin but the beach life seems to suit them
I’m home and so far away
How many fish can still be left in the seas?
No, I won’t pay more than 500 rupees my friend, thank you
12 dollars
I’m broke but I’m just a walking wallet
And no, I have no chapatti
Chicken on a bed of rice sounds wonderful
salam alykum in this part
The charas is so chanti
Indian sweets suck
800 miles to go
There’s no more time left
How much longer can this cliff be a home to this town?
It’s incredible how much green there is here, how much water
Pigeons fly in circles at the will of a man
How does one win at this?
Yes, I often eat leftovers from a previous day, we don’t always cook every day
I’d like to buy a place here one day
I could never live here
I’m rich again
There is no way we’re going to get to see a tiger people
It’s so nice to see everyone again
I wish I could smoke openly, but it’s too weird
I’m so free here, in many ways so much more me
It’s almost time to go but I just got here
I wish I could hang glide
10 o’clock and the music stops, in the land of goa psy
I should have gone to see the banyan tree
There’s just not enough time
I have to work again
I’m only getting 20kb/s, I’m going to be here all day
I feel like watching tv
Monkeys on the terrace and an elephant just last night
Bureaucracy is superficial and loopholes are law
Time is up, 36 hours of transportation, a moustache I can taste, brown on my face and body, dirt is a state of mind, and I miss it already.
How do you define salience?
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Colors of time
The air was thick with what was once a living tree. In fact, dozens of long dead trees were ablaze and there was nothing out of the ordinary here. This was a city where the norms were redefined by a set of alternative realities and uncommon needs. Flung into an entirely new universe, I could think of nothing but to supplement the smoke-filled inhalations with a more familiar form. I still had my pack from home. From here on in, I would be living an adventure. I would be free of the constraints I had allowed myself to be a victim of. Libertad.
It is incredible how intoxicating the smell of urine can be. Molecules of water once pure adopt a curious personality as they travel through a living body so that by the time they achieve freedom, they have been soured by the weaknesses of the soul. And once airborne, they can suffocate even the strongest lungs. Yet, just as impressive is one’s ability to adapt to the pungent lethality of it and carry on forward with no ill-effect, even given some time, without the recoil previously associated with it. Undoubtedly, one can never be so acclimated that it goes unnoticed, but time does come when the hairs of the nostrils don’t even curl up any more. This is when you’ve gone from tourist to traveler.
Amongst the depravity, the rawness, the purity of the environment, there is a remarkable acknowledgement of the beauty of the human condition. While feces line the railroad tracks, colors grace the eyes in a chaotic unpatterned kaleidoscope. While rats cross your path, the smell of fried foods tickle the pit of your stomach. It is within the constant and permanent extremes that wonder finds a home, calling your name with a seduction that you can’t imagine finding anywhere else.
Rajas and the untouchable pass each other on the streets without a thought while you question the sanity of such a culture, all the while admiring its ability to work with such longevity within so much undeniable contradiction. The awe is palpable to the viewer, the foreigner, the outsider. Such things are commonplace here, they are overlooked and invisible, but shock makes for a keener eye. Perhaps my eyes weren’t as keen as they could have been, for I found less shock in this magnificent story than I did pure amazement. But it did not escape my attention that shadows were dotting the landscape, desperate, broken, unsupported shadows in the brilliant sun. All around, shadows drove touk-touks, pulled inhuman loads, poured stench onto the streets, rested their haunches on their heels, found dark corners in which to rest overworked bodies and minds. Invisible shadows in an eclipse during the height of the day. These are the truths that attack one’s sense of normalcy.
Where there would be hot dogs, there are biryanis. In place of pizza are samosas. At every pause from here to there via rail, fried products from every corner of the country soar through the cars, infusing the air with grease and temptation. It does not take long for the body to cringe at the idea of another fried food. Kormas, pakoras, chapattis, dahls all race by at lightning speed, stopping in an instant and for an instant in response to a raised hand or a raised voice, then onward to the closest door just in time for the screech of the wheels to signal the continuation of the journey. Cramped, hot, patient brown bodies sway in unison in every direction but all on a common path to areas unknown. Hundreds of standing and sitting waterproof bags of water and blood, each in constant contact with 5 others at any given time manage means of sleep unimaginable to any creature. Feet millimeters from another’s face is no justification for consciousness as 2 or 3 share a space designed for one. Verticality is no excuse for not resting the mind and body, despite the demands it makes on that same body. The sheer fascination these views provide forces the mind open and begs a thousand questions, many of them to do with the very nature of humanity, the very nature of nature itself. That any creature would voluntarily subject itself to these circumstances boggles the mind. That any being can adapt so fundamentally to such an environment, such a society, such aberrance within nature is both absurd and beautiful. For those moments in each individual’s life, they have broken the rules nature wrote up. Never had nature intended that creatures be in such close proximity for such extended periods of time throughout their lives. Nowhere in the natural world does one see a congregation within a species of so many individuals in such close physical contact with one other, even as a means to an end. When rats are forced into confined spaces in large numbers aggression ensues, insanity begins to propagate, and a myriad of aberrant behaviors are all not far behind. Yet, here, it is the accepted collective consciousness. In these moments, understanding trumps nature, individual needs in common override the biological need for the security of personal space.
At times, you can sense that even the roaches have gained a deep respect for human adaptability. While they have found their own means of navigating an artificial landscape, they seem to do so in a more logical manner, exposing a certain ironic truth; that they are the more civilized entity. Hidden from sight while the train displaces masses of air, they reliably and eventually predictably begin their expeditions into the visible human world once the view from the windows becomes static. Scurrying about in search of what tiny scraps were deemed too small to retrieve by a population on the verge of starvation, they scour the floors, walls, and ceilings, even venturing into the frightening depths of the defecation centers. Tiny as they are - and understandably so if they are to fit in the crevices available to them, if they are to escape detection - they prove themselves to be fearless, either out of ignorance or insight.
Incredible sights. Incredible infirmities. Poverty beyond the most terrifying dreams, hopelessness, injustice, all line the streets of every city, while faith, acceptance and survival add a hint of rose to the picture, making it just palpable enough to endure. And in time, enduring turns to resignation, to understanding, to appreciation, and eventually, without realizing it, to sheer enthrallment. Rabid, emaciated dogs still invoke pity and sorrow. Cows dining on plastic bags, cardboard boxes and occasional organic detritus still create emotional reactions of disgust and anger. Scores of homeless and impoverished shadows still tug at the pits of your stomach, but in the constant emotional bath that is this place, confusion and fatigue turn into love. Stockholm syndrome focused on an entire nation, an entire people. Beyond the absolutes a new moderation takes hold, a new sense develops that begins to discover the subtleties, the nuances that both polarize and soften the extremes. Spiritual wealth and corruption stroll hand in hand down every street, excess and destitution stroke each other a hundred times over in every shop, success and failure create an impregnable bond so tight even light cannot shine through it. This is nature in its purest form, where the strong enjoy the delicacies once reserved for gods and the weak become the playthings of demons.
In the face of it all, whether as a product of the Hindu belief in reincarnation and karma, or whether generations of exposure to contradiction and confusion have colored the minds of all, brown skinned men and woman manage to carry the seeds of genuine gentleness and tolerance. If the meek will inherit the earth, this sub-continent will make up a substantial majority of earth borne survivors. The ability to find not only the desire to endure but to pursue life amid this insanity is inspiring and humbling. One has to wonder whether they themselves are inspired and humbled by this very observation.
1.1 billion incarnations of Shiva and Vishnu. 1.1 billion children of Ganesh and Hanuman, of Guru Nanak, of Mohamed, of Siddhartha, exchanging glances, rupees, cell phone calls, seats and meals. 1.1 billion in a land designed to house no more than half that. Incredulity has a home in this place, alongside ignorance and tolerance. Each of these three little pigs is threatened by the presence of the other, anticipating the emergence of its neighbor, yet coexisting peacefully in the interim. A precarious and longstanding, unwritten, unspoken truce covers the realm, invisible to most, but there for the curious and skeptical to see. Non-violence may have been perfected here, but on occasion its counterpart bares its teeth and tears flesh from bone with a cold ruthlessness that seems sprung from the mind of a psychopath. Yet in those moments, the world appears finally to make sense. For that stretch of localized history psychosis is the only state of being that fits. It is in fact the consistent lack of psychosis within this cauldron of contradiction that is the most shocking revelation this loose assembly of states presents.
Here communism and democracy are not opposing forces. Capitalism and religion don’t engage in battle. Spirituality and enslavement aren’t foes. Coexistence is the norm. Muslim and Hindu, Buddhist and Sikh, Christianity and Zoroastrianism all find a place, even if they are never sure how they will pay the next month’s rent. Inclusion on a national scale is tempered with exclusion on a social one. Federal goals are thwarted by regional philosophies. Power shifts hands from the government core to the financial center, from bread basket to organized uprising upon news of the latest tragedy, the latest assault, the latest success. In the constant displacement of power, balance is found as no one entity can calm the frenzy of momentum that has become the nature of this particular strain of endowment. Miraculous.
At the whim of a breeze the mind is snapped back from lavish thoughts of philosophy and politics into the world of the physical senses. A brightly colored sari wrenches ideals from you and replaces them with the calming attraction to the superficial. Bright orange embroidery on purple and yellow worn by an attractive young rajasthani woman with hazel eyes reminds you that there are many levels of glory here. A graceful man with a Raja moustache and a bright green desert turban lazily meanders in the opposite direction, bringing color to the otherwise dirty yellow background of a territory rarely acquainted with the exquisite violence and tranquility of water. From the grays and browns of the Muslim north I have been carried on wheels of steel to the warm days and cold nights of a multicolored conspiracy of sand dunes and barren rock mountains. As though to compensate for nature’s lack of hued expressions, the human inhabitants have signed an unconscious pact to infuse vivid color into every article they wear, produce, eat, sell, and share. Reds interact with aquas, yellows brighter than the sun mingle with lime greens, oranges do battle with violets, and the cacophony of visual stimulants injects warmth into the air and its people. Here, the lack of resources is bearable. Life without, still appears to hold meaning and purpose. The warmth of a million noons has left beautifully patterned scars on the hearts of this wasteland. Solar energy has been cultivated via photosynthesis by humans and cows, dogs and birds so that each has the surplus energy to find pleasure in the slightest breeze and the shyest smile. Pockets of water demand the immediate outcropping of habitations. The presence of trees begs for the cultivation of the surrounding acres. Temples shine brighter, side strewn garbage lining the highways glows innocuously. Stern faces of the north are replaced by toothless smiles etching the face with awkward and pleasant lines. The power of the sun on the human condition is more obvious in this part of the world than anywhere else.
A few hundred kilometers closer to the summer home of Helios reveals this truth in additional detail. Yellow is replaced by greens even the gods did not foresee. Fields of ripening rice aside stretches of predominantly unblemished forest make for consecrated land. Streams flow into rivers and rivers into the sea. Sunsets wage war on the night with a brilliance of color never intended for any eye. Mango trees are separated by brush and violet flowers thick enough to hide the infinite armies of plastic liquid and solid receptacles. So alive is this place that even the presence of the high-pitched flying sound machines is almost welcomed for a short time. All is as it should be. Life has taken a different path in this land of water and flora. Churches begin to replace hindu temples and the mind desperately attempts to reconcile these new forms of architecture and symbolism. Indian huts turn into European homes, the streets seem wider and less congested, the air is cleaner, the land is fresher, and that smile that was at home in the desert has begun to creep onto my face.
The nights are tolerable here. Save for the mosquitoes, this seems to be the place my body can call home. Poverty has lost all its immediacy. Filth has acquired charm, infirmity has hired capacity, dogs have subjugated rabies and cows have managed to entice layers of fat to make a home under their hides. Salt travels freely in the air, ice cream finds its way into a million mouths, and meals are not ashamed of their meat content.
Here you are either immobilized by the comfort of the warmth of the sun’s rays combined with its niece the breeze or you are seduced to put one foot in front of the other in a repetitive manner with no destination in mind. Waves crash upon the shore while skin makes its first appearance in 2 months in strange new shades of white and tan and other tints not seen since the summers of the west. Scantily clad men and women frolic in the ocean, walk in embraces across scalding sand, lie for extended periods in the glow of the day next to local fishing boats mysteriously beached on the shores. Bamboo huts and thatch roofs line the coast, serving foods from around the globe, alcohol flows with fervor, lassis call upon the aid of mind altering substances to entice the weary and adventurous. If not for the elevated monetary consequences of the acquisition of this bounty and the absurdity of the restrictions on where and when vibrations of melody and thumps can grace your ears, this place would have no other name but paradise. But this island of tranquility and comfort, like the entire nation, is not sustainable. Time is closing upon this journey as it does with all journeys, as it has with all forms of matter, and shortly this will become a series of fragmented visuals and smells, thoughts and sounds, ideas and reactions. Elephants and camels walking beside one another, each dawning a look of superiority over the other, pigeons and eagles sharing the same sky, dogs and goats ignoring the other, cows and horses envying the other for their freedom or their security, monkeys and men fighting over bowls of sugar, neither confident enough to strike at their former or future selves; these are some of the random occurrences that come from this bastion of purity, innocence, cruelty and depravity. From a night shared sleeping with all the homeless in the world to the excesses of a week’s rent spent on one preparation of ingestibles, and a thousand salient and forgettable moments in between, this place has written an unintelligible and irretrievable story in Sanskrit across my many chakras and I still cannot put to words or symbols what it has chosen to share with me. Enchanted, disgusted, inspired, depressed, excited, peaceful, chaotic and wonderful as it was, I still can’t help feeling as though the bulk of its teachings was lost on me. Cherished as an experience can be, I was and will always be incapable of grasping the unfiltered wisdom that was offered so generously and genuinely to me by the people, the life and the land I called home for such a fleeting spec of time.
It is incredible how intoxicating the smell of urine can be. Molecules of water once pure adopt a curious personality as they travel through a living body so that by the time they achieve freedom, they have been soured by the weaknesses of the soul. And once airborne, they can suffocate even the strongest lungs. Yet, just as impressive is one’s ability to adapt to the pungent lethality of it and carry on forward with no ill-effect, even given some time, without the recoil previously associated with it. Undoubtedly, one can never be so acclimated that it goes unnoticed, but time does come when the hairs of the nostrils don’t even curl up any more. This is when you’ve gone from tourist to traveler.
Amongst the depravity, the rawness, the purity of the environment, there is a remarkable acknowledgement of the beauty of the human condition. While feces line the railroad tracks, colors grace the eyes in a chaotic unpatterned kaleidoscope. While rats cross your path, the smell of fried foods tickle the pit of your stomach. It is within the constant and permanent extremes that wonder finds a home, calling your name with a seduction that you can’t imagine finding anywhere else.
Rajas and the untouchable pass each other on the streets without a thought while you question the sanity of such a culture, all the while admiring its ability to work with such longevity within so much undeniable contradiction. The awe is palpable to the viewer, the foreigner, the outsider. Such things are commonplace here, they are overlooked and invisible, but shock makes for a keener eye. Perhaps my eyes weren’t as keen as they could have been, for I found less shock in this magnificent story than I did pure amazement. But it did not escape my attention that shadows were dotting the landscape, desperate, broken, unsupported shadows in the brilliant sun. All around, shadows drove touk-touks, pulled inhuman loads, poured stench onto the streets, rested their haunches on their heels, found dark corners in which to rest overworked bodies and minds. Invisible shadows in an eclipse during the height of the day. These are the truths that attack one’s sense of normalcy.
Where there would be hot dogs, there are biryanis. In place of pizza are samosas. At every pause from here to there via rail, fried products from every corner of the country soar through the cars, infusing the air with grease and temptation. It does not take long for the body to cringe at the idea of another fried food. Kormas, pakoras, chapattis, dahls all race by at lightning speed, stopping in an instant and for an instant in response to a raised hand or a raised voice, then onward to the closest door just in time for the screech of the wheels to signal the continuation of the journey. Cramped, hot, patient brown bodies sway in unison in every direction but all on a common path to areas unknown. Hundreds of standing and sitting waterproof bags of water and blood, each in constant contact with 5 others at any given time manage means of sleep unimaginable to any creature. Feet millimeters from another’s face is no justification for consciousness as 2 or 3 share a space designed for one. Verticality is no excuse for not resting the mind and body, despite the demands it makes on that same body. The sheer fascination these views provide forces the mind open and begs a thousand questions, many of them to do with the very nature of humanity, the very nature of nature itself. That any creature would voluntarily subject itself to these circumstances boggles the mind. That any being can adapt so fundamentally to such an environment, such a society, such aberrance within nature is both absurd and beautiful. For those moments in each individual’s life, they have broken the rules nature wrote up. Never had nature intended that creatures be in such close proximity for such extended periods of time throughout their lives. Nowhere in the natural world does one see a congregation within a species of so many individuals in such close physical contact with one other, even as a means to an end. When rats are forced into confined spaces in large numbers aggression ensues, insanity begins to propagate, and a myriad of aberrant behaviors are all not far behind. Yet, here, it is the accepted collective consciousness. In these moments, understanding trumps nature, individual needs in common override the biological need for the security of personal space.
At times, you can sense that even the roaches have gained a deep respect for human adaptability. While they have found their own means of navigating an artificial landscape, they seem to do so in a more logical manner, exposing a certain ironic truth; that they are the more civilized entity. Hidden from sight while the train displaces masses of air, they reliably and eventually predictably begin their expeditions into the visible human world once the view from the windows becomes static. Scurrying about in search of what tiny scraps were deemed too small to retrieve by a population on the verge of starvation, they scour the floors, walls, and ceilings, even venturing into the frightening depths of the defecation centers. Tiny as they are - and understandably so if they are to fit in the crevices available to them, if they are to escape detection - they prove themselves to be fearless, either out of ignorance or insight.
Incredible sights. Incredible infirmities. Poverty beyond the most terrifying dreams, hopelessness, injustice, all line the streets of every city, while faith, acceptance and survival add a hint of rose to the picture, making it just palpable enough to endure. And in time, enduring turns to resignation, to understanding, to appreciation, and eventually, without realizing it, to sheer enthrallment. Rabid, emaciated dogs still invoke pity and sorrow. Cows dining on plastic bags, cardboard boxes and occasional organic detritus still create emotional reactions of disgust and anger. Scores of homeless and impoverished shadows still tug at the pits of your stomach, but in the constant emotional bath that is this place, confusion and fatigue turn into love. Stockholm syndrome focused on an entire nation, an entire people. Beyond the absolutes a new moderation takes hold, a new sense develops that begins to discover the subtleties, the nuances that both polarize and soften the extremes. Spiritual wealth and corruption stroll hand in hand down every street, excess and destitution stroke each other a hundred times over in every shop, success and failure create an impregnable bond so tight even light cannot shine through it. This is nature in its purest form, where the strong enjoy the delicacies once reserved for gods and the weak become the playthings of demons.
In the face of it all, whether as a product of the Hindu belief in reincarnation and karma, or whether generations of exposure to contradiction and confusion have colored the minds of all, brown skinned men and woman manage to carry the seeds of genuine gentleness and tolerance. If the meek will inherit the earth, this sub-continent will make up a substantial majority of earth borne survivors. The ability to find not only the desire to endure but to pursue life amid this insanity is inspiring and humbling. One has to wonder whether they themselves are inspired and humbled by this very observation.
1.1 billion incarnations of Shiva and Vishnu. 1.1 billion children of Ganesh and Hanuman, of Guru Nanak, of Mohamed, of Siddhartha, exchanging glances, rupees, cell phone calls, seats and meals. 1.1 billion in a land designed to house no more than half that. Incredulity has a home in this place, alongside ignorance and tolerance. Each of these three little pigs is threatened by the presence of the other, anticipating the emergence of its neighbor, yet coexisting peacefully in the interim. A precarious and longstanding, unwritten, unspoken truce covers the realm, invisible to most, but there for the curious and skeptical to see. Non-violence may have been perfected here, but on occasion its counterpart bares its teeth and tears flesh from bone with a cold ruthlessness that seems sprung from the mind of a psychopath. Yet in those moments, the world appears finally to make sense. For that stretch of localized history psychosis is the only state of being that fits. It is in fact the consistent lack of psychosis within this cauldron of contradiction that is the most shocking revelation this loose assembly of states presents.
Here communism and democracy are not opposing forces. Capitalism and religion don’t engage in battle. Spirituality and enslavement aren’t foes. Coexistence is the norm. Muslim and Hindu, Buddhist and Sikh, Christianity and Zoroastrianism all find a place, even if they are never sure how they will pay the next month’s rent. Inclusion on a national scale is tempered with exclusion on a social one. Federal goals are thwarted by regional philosophies. Power shifts hands from the government core to the financial center, from bread basket to organized uprising upon news of the latest tragedy, the latest assault, the latest success. In the constant displacement of power, balance is found as no one entity can calm the frenzy of momentum that has become the nature of this particular strain of endowment. Miraculous.
At the whim of a breeze the mind is snapped back from lavish thoughts of philosophy and politics into the world of the physical senses. A brightly colored sari wrenches ideals from you and replaces them with the calming attraction to the superficial. Bright orange embroidery on purple and yellow worn by an attractive young rajasthani woman with hazel eyes reminds you that there are many levels of glory here. A graceful man with a Raja moustache and a bright green desert turban lazily meanders in the opposite direction, bringing color to the otherwise dirty yellow background of a territory rarely acquainted with the exquisite violence and tranquility of water. From the grays and browns of the Muslim north I have been carried on wheels of steel to the warm days and cold nights of a multicolored conspiracy of sand dunes and barren rock mountains. As though to compensate for nature’s lack of hued expressions, the human inhabitants have signed an unconscious pact to infuse vivid color into every article they wear, produce, eat, sell, and share. Reds interact with aquas, yellows brighter than the sun mingle with lime greens, oranges do battle with violets, and the cacophony of visual stimulants injects warmth into the air and its people. Here, the lack of resources is bearable. Life without, still appears to hold meaning and purpose. The warmth of a million noons has left beautifully patterned scars on the hearts of this wasteland. Solar energy has been cultivated via photosynthesis by humans and cows, dogs and birds so that each has the surplus energy to find pleasure in the slightest breeze and the shyest smile. Pockets of water demand the immediate outcropping of habitations. The presence of trees begs for the cultivation of the surrounding acres. Temples shine brighter, side strewn garbage lining the highways glows innocuously. Stern faces of the north are replaced by toothless smiles etching the face with awkward and pleasant lines. The power of the sun on the human condition is more obvious in this part of the world than anywhere else.
A few hundred kilometers closer to the summer home of Helios reveals this truth in additional detail. Yellow is replaced by greens even the gods did not foresee. Fields of ripening rice aside stretches of predominantly unblemished forest make for consecrated land. Streams flow into rivers and rivers into the sea. Sunsets wage war on the night with a brilliance of color never intended for any eye. Mango trees are separated by brush and violet flowers thick enough to hide the infinite armies of plastic liquid and solid receptacles. So alive is this place that even the presence of the high-pitched flying sound machines is almost welcomed for a short time. All is as it should be. Life has taken a different path in this land of water and flora. Churches begin to replace hindu temples and the mind desperately attempts to reconcile these new forms of architecture and symbolism. Indian huts turn into European homes, the streets seem wider and less congested, the air is cleaner, the land is fresher, and that smile that was at home in the desert has begun to creep onto my face.
The nights are tolerable here. Save for the mosquitoes, this seems to be the place my body can call home. Poverty has lost all its immediacy. Filth has acquired charm, infirmity has hired capacity, dogs have subjugated rabies and cows have managed to entice layers of fat to make a home under their hides. Salt travels freely in the air, ice cream finds its way into a million mouths, and meals are not ashamed of their meat content.
Here you are either immobilized by the comfort of the warmth of the sun’s rays combined with its niece the breeze or you are seduced to put one foot in front of the other in a repetitive manner with no destination in mind. Waves crash upon the shore while skin makes its first appearance in 2 months in strange new shades of white and tan and other tints not seen since the summers of the west. Scantily clad men and women frolic in the ocean, walk in embraces across scalding sand, lie for extended periods in the glow of the day next to local fishing boats mysteriously beached on the shores. Bamboo huts and thatch roofs line the coast, serving foods from around the globe, alcohol flows with fervor, lassis call upon the aid of mind altering substances to entice the weary and adventurous. If not for the elevated monetary consequences of the acquisition of this bounty and the absurdity of the restrictions on where and when vibrations of melody and thumps can grace your ears, this place would have no other name but paradise. But this island of tranquility and comfort, like the entire nation, is not sustainable. Time is closing upon this journey as it does with all journeys, as it has with all forms of matter, and shortly this will become a series of fragmented visuals and smells, thoughts and sounds, ideas and reactions. Elephants and camels walking beside one another, each dawning a look of superiority over the other, pigeons and eagles sharing the same sky, dogs and goats ignoring the other, cows and horses envying the other for their freedom or their security, monkeys and men fighting over bowls of sugar, neither confident enough to strike at their former or future selves; these are some of the random occurrences that come from this bastion of purity, innocence, cruelty and depravity. From a night shared sleeping with all the homeless in the world to the excesses of a week’s rent spent on one preparation of ingestibles, and a thousand salient and forgettable moments in between, this place has written an unintelligible and irretrievable story in Sanskrit across my many chakras and I still cannot put to words or symbols what it has chosen to share with me. Enchanted, disgusted, inspired, depressed, excited, peaceful, chaotic and wonderful as it was, I still can’t help feeling as though the bulk of its teachings was lost on me. Cherished as an experience can be, I was and will always be incapable of grasping the unfiltered wisdom that was offered so generously and genuinely to me by the people, the life and the land I called home for such a fleeting spec of time.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
My India Journal Entries
From here on in, unless otherwise stated, are my journal entries written during my stay in India, with no retrospection and little if any editing. These are just the random experiences and descriptions of my days in India. Unfortunately, most are quite boring, as I do lack imagination, but it is what it is. Hopefully, there will still be the occasional moment of appreciation.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Day 0 - the process of getting there
It’s all been quite surreal. I sorta expected that I wouldn’t really feel anything till I was on the plane, and well that’s certainly been the case, but I’m on the plane this very moment and I still don’t feel it. It’s as though my mind has managed to compartmentalize this entire experience and stow it away with the dormant adventurer in me who somehow I just can’t get in touch with and therefore I simply can’t process this at this moment. But from the moment I stepped out of the apartment, got into Diane’s car, dropped off the computer at Jad’s, it’s all felt so normal, and then only occasionally, did it have that tint of surrealness. Strange. This should feel so much more significant and yet, I’m on the plane writing about how it somehow feels mundane. But, there’s still something there, underneath the surface, something surreal that is trying to be heard, to be recognized as a reality I simply can’t grasp yet. It’s in the details. It’s in the little moments I’ve had that I either haven’t had in a really long time, or haven’t had at all. In the security measures at the airport, in not being able to step out for a smoke, in getting onto my first 777, my first 747, in flying over Paris. This dichotomy of banality and underlying excitement is strange and I can’t really describe it, but I think the best analogy, the best example of how I can describe this, the normal and unique living together in these many moments, is to say that just outside my window, travelling at 500mph, at 40,000ft is a tiny ass dust-bunny flapping in the wind within a crevice of the wing. Now if that’s not surreal, I have completely misunderstand the meaning of the word.
I came looking for something new, something different. I suspect by the time I leave it will feel that way, for now, it just seems like a touch of home, transplanted onto the bald head of another land. It’s all so familiar, the traffic, the smells, the shops. It’s only been a few days. I’ve walked around Connaught place, worked from my hotel room, met a couple fellow travelers, nothing too out of the ordinary. It took only one night to get accustomed to the shabby accommodations and I feel as though I’m in some unusually real dream. I think it hasn’t hit me yet.
I came looking for something new, something different. I suspect by the time I leave it will feel that way, for now, it just seems like a touch of home, transplanted onto the bald head of another land. It’s all so familiar, the traffic, the smells, the shops. It’s only been a few days. I’ve walked around Connaught place, worked from my hotel room, met a couple fellow travelers, nothing too out of the ordinary. It took only one night to get accustomed to the shabby accommodations and I feel as though I’m in some unusually real dream. I think it hasn’t hit me yet.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Days 1 and 2
Day 1:
over 12 hours of flying and airports, the doors on the plane open and I step out to the smell of burning wood. So it begins. Walk through the airport, it seems pretty new, though still unfinished and not very efficient, but I never expected differently. Time for immigration. Hell, this is taking forever, so disorganized. In fact I’d say it’s worst than Haiti. Finally, I’m out, I grab my backpack from the carrousel, grab a bottle of rum from the duty free and I step out into the unknown, into the real india. I’m hoping to see a sign that has my inordinately long name written on it, indicating the pickup from the airport I was supposed to get. Not to be. I should have known, in fact part of me kind of expected it. So I try to call the “hotel” and can’t get through, meanwhile some cab middle man had followed from the minute I stepped out of the airport soliciting a cab ride and making small talk. I stand outside the airport taking it in, witnessing the mess and loving it, smoking a cigarette, then finally giving up and taking that ride from this middle man. He passes me on to a cab driver, then I’m off. So that’s how it works here. Everyone has deals with people. It’s a country of middle men, all collecting tiny commissions which somehow add up to a living at the end of the day. Rife with graft and cons and trickery you have to watch your back the whole time. I made my first couple mistakes that first night, but luckily I didn’t pay much for them and India still treated to me to the sight of a couple elephants hauling goods on Delhi’s main highwayat 2 in the morning. I finally get to the hotel after a whole ordeal of not finding the place and I get settled in.
It hasn’t hit me yet. I’m still in some real dream that I can’t wake up from. Maybe tomoro. I have a rum and coke and I crash.
Day 2
I sleep in a bit, till bout 10:30 or so, send some txts stay around the hotel, walk onto the terrace and look around. Monkeys have ventured onto the rooftop and are chilling. The sun is blotted out by the smog, a thick light gray haze that covers everything you can see. Across the street is a market and cars, cars, cars, all kinds, auto-rickshaws, motorcycles, it’s crazy and the deafening sound of the horns leaves no doubt that I’m not in Kansas anymore. Time for a short walk, get some grit on me, feel things out a bit. People hardly give me a second look. Other than my shaved head, earrings and backpack I think they see me as possibly an upper class Indian. It’s a cool little walk, I have no idea where I’m going but end up following the train tracks, human feces on the dirt path lining the tracks, still not a second look from anyone. I feel like I’m home. It’s port-au-prince just bigger and slightly busier. And it’s crazy. Indians have a great sense of spatial awareness honking their way through town inches away from everything but able to weave through without a hitch. It’s beautiful to watch.
It’s easy to get lost round here but somehow, like being home I just sensed where I was in relation to where I started from. Enough of a walk for today. I grab some food from off a small street stand, my first meal and I head back to the hotel to chill on the roof. Check my emails, let clients know I’ve arrived, do some work. I meet a couple travelers, chill with them, go for dinner with them, get hassled a bit, all part of the game.
It hasn’t hit me yet. The dream won’t end, I’m still home and I’m not lost here though I have no idea where I’m going or when.
over 12 hours of flying and airports, the doors on the plane open and I step out to the smell of burning wood. So it begins. Walk through the airport, it seems pretty new, though still unfinished and not very efficient, but I never expected differently. Time for immigration. Hell, this is taking forever, so disorganized. In fact I’d say it’s worst than Haiti. Finally, I’m out, I grab my backpack from the carrousel, grab a bottle of rum from the duty free and I step out into the unknown, into the real india. I’m hoping to see a sign that has my inordinately long name written on it, indicating the pickup from the airport I was supposed to get. Not to be. I should have known, in fact part of me kind of expected it. So I try to call the “hotel” and can’t get through, meanwhile some cab middle man had followed from the minute I stepped out of the airport soliciting a cab ride and making small talk. I stand outside the airport taking it in, witnessing the mess and loving it, smoking a cigarette, then finally giving up and taking that ride from this middle man. He passes me on to a cab driver, then I’m off. So that’s how it works here. Everyone has deals with people. It’s a country of middle men, all collecting tiny commissions which somehow add up to a living at the end of the day. Rife with graft and cons and trickery you have to watch your back the whole time. I made my first couple mistakes that first night, but luckily I didn’t pay much for them and India still treated to me to the sight of a couple elephants hauling goods on Delhi’s main highwayat 2 in the morning. I finally get to the hotel after a whole ordeal of not finding the place and I get settled in.
It hasn’t hit me yet. I’m still in some real dream that I can’t wake up from. Maybe tomoro. I have a rum and coke and I crash.
Day 2
I sleep in a bit, till bout 10:30 or so, send some txts stay around the hotel, walk onto the terrace and look around. Monkeys have ventured onto the rooftop and are chilling. The sun is blotted out by the smog, a thick light gray haze that covers everything you can see. Across the street is a market and cars, cars, cars, all kinds, auto-rickshaws, motorcycles, it’s crazy and the deafening sound of the horns leaves no doubt that I’m not in Kansas anymore. Time for a short walk, get some grit on me, feel things out a bit. People hardly give me a second look. Other than my shaved head, earrings and backpack I think they see me as possibly an upper class Indian. It’s a cool little walk, I have no idea where I’m going but end up following the train tracks, human feces on the dirt path lining the tracks, still not a second look from anyone. I feel like I’m home. It’s port-au-prince just bigger and slightly busier. And it’s crazy. Indians have a great sense of spatial awareness honking their way through town inches away from everything but able to weave through without a hitch. It’s beautiful to watch.
It’s easy to get lost round here but somehow, like being home I just sensed where I was in relation to where I started from. Enough of a walk for today. I grab some food from off a small street stand, my first meal and I head back to the hotel to chill on the roof. Check my emails, let clients know I’ve arrived, do some work. I meet a couple travelers, chill with them, go for dinner with them, get hassled a bit, all part of the game.
It hasn’t hit me yet. The dream won’t end, I’m still home and I’m not lost here though I have no idea where I’m going or when.
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