The Fish Bone is Connected to

Somewhere below Calcutta above Chennai, in a small town, in a dirty hotel room, surrounded by bed bugs and mosquitoes, TG stares up at the slow circling fan. He has been doing the job of ten NGOs this past week without the paychecks, the prestige, or the gratitude. He has been investigating water sources, sitting in on town meetings, looking for points of contamination, and trying to come up with solutions that suit the local politics and the budget.

His foot is throbbing. He doesn't know why. That same foot, the one stung by the sting ray about a month ago, has not yet healed, not completely. He can walk, yes, a great improvement over the hopping cripple he had been immediately following the injury, but he can not run. TG, a marathon runner, has not been able to walk without a limp or pain since the accident. He wonders if he will be able to run again. Irritated by the heat, and the buzzing of the small hungry bugs flying about his exposed skin, he begins to rub at his old wound. He mutters at it. Yells at it. Picks at it.

"What is wrong with you?" addressing his throbbing foot.

His foot does not answer. He begins to dig into the scab now, the fresh blood getting under his fingernails and the already stained sheets. There is something there. He digs deeper, wincing as he tears into his heel with his fingers. He manages to grab hold of something, something buried in his flesh. He pinches the hard substance and pulls. A two inch fish bone dressed in coagulated blood is wrenched from his throbbing flesh. The doctors kept telling him there was nothing in his foot. The fan does not help to cool the room. The bugs are attracted to the blood. The throbbing in TG's foot begins to subside.

A retelling of what occurred...

Looking Back...

From the batch of the final Kodak disposable camera I was dragging around with me. Enjoy! 

INDIA Update

TG's latest...


Hey Love,
I am staying in Chepaldibbadapalem this week with a family for work.  This village is pretty rad-tastic.  The NGO found me the top floor of a relatively rich person's house, and they rented it to me for about $5/day.  They also include all meals.  It is one of the villages where I have to finalize a bunch of in formation for a 1.5 million rupee project in the next 7 days. No commute, no electricity until night time, and everyone that is supposed to be a leader is corrupt and unprofessional. Time for me to shine. 

Modern Martyr

This Post is dedicated to the memory of the Fakhra Younus, the Pakistani 33 year old female who was a well known acid victim. She recently took her own life. A reminder how hard it is to be a woman in some parts of the world, and how we should take more advantage of the freedoms that we have. 

The Saga Continues... Tough Nuns and the Indian Boy George

 After two international flights and one very long delayed national flight, I am home, well, I am in my mother's home. Buried in the ease and quiet of a small american western resort town, I try to regroup from my travels before returning to Oregon to work. I have depleted the majority of my funds, and TG is already discussing the next country. Oh boy! I better get back to the grind. Meanwhile, TG is still there, in that strange dust and spice infested world, finishing up his projects. He is finally breaking out of his solitude, and beginning to have interactions with the people around him. These are the stories he shares with me, in his own words:


As I was nearing the end of the epic "Shantaram" in the Parkstreet Oxford Bookstore in Kolkata, the characteristically rude staff told me to get out of their cafe.  So I found a corner and was immediately approached by a young man with a lot of questions.  He was a chemical engineer, had once worked on converting methane to hydrogen in a clean energy research program (I had worked on hydrogen transportation in my internship with U.S. Congress) so we talked about that for a bit.  He said he liked to talk to strangers and treat people as his subjects.  The store was closing but he was keen to continue the conversation, so we went and grabbed some chicken tikka in a restaurant shaped like a train.  


He talked about his ambition to be famous so that he could show all the people who had disrespected and disregarded him that he was better than them.  He spoke of hating India and Indians, and hating his job as well.  He mentioned getting a lucrative scholarship in Europe but having to turn it down because his mother said no.  He said that no one really understood him, that he had to act and pretend all the time, and that I was one of the only ones who had ever seemed to accept him.  The next day he called, but I was too busy to meet.  The memory of a neglected and similarly intense lonely boy, when I was young, prompted me to call back this Indian fellow to hang out on my last day in Kolkata.  He told me that his mother ran the family and his father was rarely home.  He had been instructed to be with his sister at all times. He shared her friends from an early age and her things and life.  He almost died after a snake bite as a boy, which made him terrified of dying alone, and caused his mother to never let him go out without his sister till he went to college. His mannerisms were very feminine, and while in most U.S. universities, there would be a group of people ready to accept that kind of behavior, apparently Indian universities are still culturally dominated by machismo.  Even in his working life, he couldn't connect with anybody in Kolkata any more than an effeminate man could connect with anyone in my redneck home town.  Its time for the tyranny of machismo to die in popular culture.  They need a Boy George (or a Michael Stipe) and a Patti Smith (or even a Wendy O).

On the other hand, in my first foray talking to foreigners in a long time, I ran into a Portlander volunteering in a hospice for the dying.  He worked with a crew of tough mother fucking nuns helping impoverished Indian people die with some dignity.  The hospitals here.  I mean: people are lying and screaming in crowded rooms with no attendees and the hygiene could not possibly by good enough.  People are taking their last breaths in the streets, coming in with terrible wounds and diseases that could have been cured if they had waited until way, way too late.

And there is me, in villages that are drinking straight out of a waste canal, floods throwing them from their homes 2-3 times per year, barely scraping a harvest together or always a few days away from completely broke.  Fishing, craft markets, agriculture, all declining in a crisis state: and there are safety nets here in India: not always the best implemented safety nets, but the government does help hundreds of millions of people.

It seems like in such a state, a social revolution for equality would be secondary or thirdary to basic human needs.  I'm not sure.  Thats the way it worked in America, we got richer, then we got more tolerant fifty years later.  But India needs to leapfrog the U.S. in development patterns in a lot of ways, and I've met so many women ready to change the way women are treated there and with the power and education to do so.  One more generation of mothers, hopefully.  Mothers that say, "go out and make a good impact on the world" instead of "stay here with me and never leave."  

From His View; The reason we came

A video of some of the small villages we visited, the projects TG has been working on, and the people he has been working with and for. The reason for it all.

Color Me Bengali Baby

On the 11 hour sleeper bus, TG tells me a story. " There was once a girl. She was in love. She followed her lover deep into a crazy world. Everyday she fought past the tangled overgrown web of dangers. The barbs of life pricked at her skin, and though it stung, she plucked the painful poisonous spears from her body, and continued on. She emerged somehow, stronger than before." Oh. So much for ghost stories.

We have arrived in the New York of India, the cultural capital of the country, Kolkata. Banyan trees stretch over the wide sidewalks. The cabs are large, yellow, and furious. Modern colored lights and office buildings couple with tiled mosques and faded time washed walls to makeup the cityscape. The city looks as if it has been burnished; antiqued for our pleasure. We arrive the day before Holi, the colorful Hindu festival of Spring.

We spend the majority of the day searching for internet, but to no avail. Then, happily drench ourselves in the bright customary powders of Holi. Bengalis walk about their skin stained red, green, and purple, for days after the holiday. TG is apple green, and I am cherry red. In our colors, we drink, and are merry.

Until now, we have been living on $15 a day each, including housing, food, and transportation. Talk about budget travel. We live on the locals budget, doing what the locals would never do, and going where the tourists would never want to. The dirtiest hotels, the cheapest buses, the longest commutes, and I am realizing what I have survived, and what I have grown to love.

I seem to have grown quite fond of cold showers, flat shoes, and Mcdonalds. Not all changes are good of course. I have learned I can not go without toilet paper, raw leafy vegetables, or internet. Oh India. Three months ago, I would not have imagined that this would be the impact the country would have on my life. I'm also more grateful than I have ever been. We lead such a privileged existence, and as a woman, with education, choice, and freedom, I have so much, I don't think I ever realized how much, until now.

We are staying at a 600 rupee night hotel, approx $13 a night for two people. They are modest accommodations, but surprisingly clean, homey, and with the best view I have seen in all of India. TG has a few weeks off. We bask in the warmth of the locals, the endless winding neighborhoods, and the emptiness of the day.  The sky turns purple when the sun sets. It is my final week in India. 

Dead or Alive

Wonder of wonders we are miraculously still alive, though it's been a little touch and go the past few days. We had arrived in Vishakapatnam, nicknamed Vizag for short. TG had work and meetings in the area, and his colleague, Ron Jon, a German/Indian fellow partnering on many of the same developmental projects, had rented a room at a rundown sea side resort. We decided to follow suit. We rented the cheapest room; a woven hut with an attached bathroom. All seemed well and right with the world.

After a day of running errands, we decided to take a swim in the ocean. The beach was clean. The water was clear and blue. About twenty minutes in the water, I heard TG cry out. He began desperately swimming for the shore. He collapsed on the beach, twinging in pain. He had stepped on a stingray.   I ran to the reception for them to call a doctor.  Neither of us knew what to do in this instance. All we could remember were that stingrays were poisonous, and sometimes deadly.

He limped, shaking in pain to the hotel. At the hotel, no one knew what a stingray was. They watched him seizing, seeing only the small cut on his foot, and decided that he was overreacting. "No poison. No big fish. Go to room." The doctor finally arrived, and instead of helping, he stood there saying the same thing. "No poison. No big fish. Go to room. Change clothes," they pointed at me, since I was still in my bathing suit. My bare skin was more of an issue to them than TG's health. The doctor didn't even bother to check his vitals, before denying TG's condition. TG thought there was a something lodged in his foot from the sting, and wanted to go to the hospital.

An hour later, someone finally brought a car around. I was getting desperate, since TG was still in terrible pain, and no one would do anything to help. We drove into the city, but the two locals in the car didn't know where the hospital was, and kept driving around in circles asking. I jumped out of the car in evening traffic, barefoot and wet from the beach, trying to wave down an auto to take us to the hospital.  Vizag drivers watched with morbid curiosity as TG hopped in his swim trunks across the street into the auto.

The driver had a passenger who spoke enough English, that he understood that we needed a doctor. They drove us quickly through the tangle of alleys, where we finally reached some sort of empty local emergency clinic. We had made it. Soon after we arrived, TG's pain finally started to subside. The doctors at the hospital dug around in his foot, but found nothing. They shot TG in the ass with a painkiller and sent him to a government hospital.

Upon arrival, we were immediately terrified at the state of the building and interior. The hospital was filthy, and patients were strewn on ripped stained stretchers. Their loved ones stood around the beds, and in the hall. Very few were being helped, and their cries of pain echoed down the corridors. The place was more like a medic tent during the war, than a hospital. We waited for a moment, but quickly left. Treatment there seemed more terrifying than the pain.

After returning to the resort, TG doped up on pain killers and me on adrenaline, looked up stingrays on the web. Rarely fatal, the venom causes muscle contraction, severe pain, and swelling. If the barb of the stingray strikes a vital area, one can die. Steve Irwin died when a stingray struck him in the chest. Experts recommend pouring hot water on the wound to help breakdown the poison. None of the doctors we met did this, or mentioned it. None of them had even heard of a stingray.

TG is well enough now, though he has great difficulty walking. I'm wondering if it is time for me to leave this country. We just can't seem to get a break.

Drought of Milk and Honey- Theme Song

I wrote a song in Mamallapuram. I used to write a lot of songs, but I'm all dried up. I managed to squeeze this one out. Since I wrote it, TG and I will often find ourselves singing or humming the tune. It's been declared the theme song of our travels.  Enjoy!

When a Butterfly Wants a Mango

 I am in Chennai. TG is somewhere in Andhra Pradesh, the neighboring northern state. The do-gooders from GIZ have stolen him away for the week. They perhaps are putting him to better use than I could. I will fly to the northern part of Andhra Pradesh on Saturday, to meet him. Then we will head north to Kolkata. Below are the emails we write to each other.

Note: They are edited for content

Ok so, I'll try this. Writing. I'm sitting in the room, with Slum Dog Millionaire on the television. I'm laughing to myself, because India in real life is so much more like this movie than any of the other movies I had watched prior to coming here. I had forgotten it. If I had watched it again, maybe the culture shock would have been less. 

I have spent so much time alone, venturing through the world, trying on different things, you think that I would know myself better. I am having a mid life crisis before my mid life. I crave glitter, ease, and speed, while at the same time longing for quiet, simple, and gentle. How can I have both? When I have one, I always long for the other.

This past year I have trained myself to care an awful lot about looks, money, and possessions. Now I'm trying to train myself to care about simple things again. It is harder than I thought. It is hard not to be comfortable. I have become so used to being comfortable.

I hate that the world is this way. I get used to one injustice, and then I am introduced to new ones. I don't understand the world we live in. How can I choose something to pursue in this life, when so much of it seems frivolous and unfair. That is what this trip is. Learning how the world works, and I hate it so much. That is the truth, it is not India, it the state of the world. 

How can I go on existing in this place, contributing to the terrible unfairness. You are doing something to change it. What am I doing? Sitting in a $20 a night hotel, writing fantasies. That is the only way I can exist in this world, by creating escapes. Only in them can I escape.

Good night,

I will see you soon :)

---

Escapes kept me alive for the worst years of my life. Escapes are just as much life as reality. Life is just the time we spend eating and finding money.  The rest of sadness is just thinking about shit too damn much: I want to escape for a good chunk of my life.  I love the people who create the best escapes.  Those are the godsends and the king makers.  Teaching us to dream about more than some dim view of what is real.  Quit thinking that you hate the way the world works just cause of the frivolity and unfairness.  We only see .00000001% of what the world is: a fantasy novel is, mathematically speaking, as much a percentage of the infinite "reality" as every single thing your senses tell you.  Don't look at the world around you. Look at the world as a play ground; its all we get and we get to breathe and feel things on our skin and see color and hear juxtaposed tonality. The suffering is no more real than marauding flocks of giant tree bats in cyclone-ploded arboretums.  Your feeling like you want glitz and comfort is no more important or worthy of shame than a butterfly feeling like it wants a mango.  Its interesting. Its insignificant. Its personal and fun and silly and not worthy of guilt.  Nothing you do is worthy of guilt or shame.  We are infinitesimal, largely intestinal, progeny of a gross testicle, grown slaves of the subliminal, worthy of love but not ridicule.  For christ's sweet-ass sake, lets quit moping, ever, and just have fun before we die.  We are healthy enough to feel good, so lets choose to do so no matter what.  If our stupid brains tell us we're sad, deny it.  Don't feel what you feel: that's just hormones deviating according to cellular stimuli; feel what you tell your brain you want to feel: gratitude. I'm grateful that I'm wearing shorts and can push against a matress with my toes. i'm grateful that i get to talk to you and say a bunch of silly things.  i'm grateful that i feel air going into and out of my lungs.  that children threw flowers into my hair today, that the streets were full, that somewhere, someone is ecstatic and blissful right now.  that i don't have to care about anything, that nothing that is too much for me to handle is my responsibility.  i'm happy for movies and not knowing myself and not feeling guilty right now.  There is no injustice because there is no justice.  There is no justice because no one deserves anything.  No one deserves anything because having ever been alive is its own reward.  I don't want to be a void. I want to have existed; I don't care how many horrible things happen, they're worth it and its not my fault.  Lets just take the little lives we were born to and enjoy them; its childish and selfish to do anything else. Lets escape- all the time.

A Picture is Worth A Thousand Bats

The Botanical Garden BEFORE Cyclone Thane.

This entry is a nod to the wonder and power of nature. We are in Pondicherry, heading back to the Chennai area. It's nice to be somewhat familiar with a city. After hours of internet, we decide to visit the botanical garden here. It is 22 acres of lush green and flowering walks, but when we arrived, we found something else entirely.  Cyclone Thane had hit Pondicherry just prior to our original arrival. We had seen little evidence of the damage that the cyclone had caused during our first visit, but strolling through the garden, the destruction was hard to ignore.

The entrance of the garden AFTER the storm.

The "Dancing Fountain" no longer dances. The pond has been emptied so it could be cleaned out. This is the bottom of the pool.

Me in the yellow skirt talking to a family in the garden. They were gathering wood for their fire at home. You can see the bent and broken trees around us.

At the top of this picture, you can just make out the outline of wings. Is it a bird? A plane? No those flying creatures are bats, and if one examines the picture closely, they can see that there are thousands of bats hanging from the tree on the far right. We stood and craned our heads upward, and listened to them screech. They were the largest bats either of us had ever seen, and the greatest number we had ever seen at one time. I apologize we don't have a zoom on the camera.

Later, after the botanical garden, we went for a stroll around town and were lucky enough to encounter this creature. The blurry handsome fellow in the picture is Lakshmi the blessing elephant. He was standing outside one the central temples, decked out in jewelry, wearing decorative marks on his head and ears. If you gave him a coin, he would raise his trunk and bless you. He was quite large and had freckles all over the bridge of his trunk, and the tips of his ears.  It was the closest I had ever been to an elephant. Many of the locals stood around donating money, being blessed, and feeding him handfuls of sweet grass and fruits. The elephant headed Indian God is named Ganesha. He is a popular deity, and considered the remover of obstacles, and the Lord of beginnings. After all the chaos, we probably needed a blessing or two.  I carry a picture of Ganesha in my backpack as we travel. Whatever helps. To new beginnings.

Guilty Pleasure

After two months, the culture shock is finally starting to wear off. I've been traveling internationally since I was two, and I have to admit, that I naively thought that I was immune to things like culture shock. I was wrong. The Indian world is starting to make a strange sort of sense, and things have become, dare I say, easier. Though, I'm sure I've just jinxed myself.

I'm going to use this time of ease to talk about something that many you expressed interest in, FOOD! There is a variety of fresh cut fruit being offered on every street, sweet shops galore, and hot dishes made to order. Indian food is the best fast food I've ever had, though I do miss vegetables a great deal,  but I think I'll survive.  Indian food is simple, filling, and delicious.  These are some of my favorites:


Gulab Jamun
 I first discovered this sweet round morsel of heaven on the streets of Barcelona, Spain. My girlfriend and I were exploring the neighborhood near where we were staying, and happened to meander down an alley where there was little Pakistani sweet shop. No other sweet shop we encountered in Spain sold this sweet. Days later, we couldn't remember where the shop was, or the name of the new favorite treat we had so happily devoured. The simple treasure was lost! Years later, I am happy to find Gulab Jamun being sold on nearly every corner in India. It is originally from the Arab desert, and similar in taste to a round honey soaked doughnut. Sweet caloric reunion!


Dosa
This savory crepe like food is a staple of South India.  It was recommended to me by other travelers before I even arrived in the country. The best dosa I have consumed thus far, was from a street vendor in Nagappattnam. It was terribly thin, golden, and almost crispy, and was served loosely wrapped in a cone shape standing upright on a banana leaf with sambar (a watery lentil soup) and chutney. It tasted just as good as it looked! I assumed that it had to be an unhealthy dish, because it was so delicious, but to my delight, it is quite nutritious. There are many variations of dosa, but it is traditionally made of ground rice and dahl (lentils). It is so popular that is served all over the country.


Poori and Potato Curry
When I asked TG what his favorite Indian dish was so far, he said "The breakfast potato curry with the puff bread." That "puff bread" is called Poori or Puri. It can be found all over South Asia. It is an airy unleavened fried wheat bread. The potato curry served with it is a refreshing change to most of the curries we have consumed so far. Its consistency is creamier, and the spices used are more subtle. It's a great comfort food. I had it for the first time the other day. It was wrapped up in newspaper, banana leaf, and twine. It was a our breakfast to go, as we bussed back up the coast from Nagappatnam heading north again towards Pondicherry.

With all the great food available, it is a wonder that so many go hungry. A simple street dish is 15-30 rupees, but the majority of the population can not afford the daily indulgence, and malnutrition is a common problem. To carry extra weight here is a sign of comfort and wealth. Many of the depictions of the deities are round in the face and belly. When we are approached by children or beggars, they make the common gesture of their hand to their mouth, as if they were eating. We try to avoid donating money, but if we ever have bread or fruit on us, we happily give it away. The children shriek with delight when they are handed an orange or a banana. They are so excited over a single piece of fruit, that we always wish we had more to give. In India, it is difficult to prevent even the simplest pleasure from being a guilty one.

Backpacking: The Life

Eight hours on the bumpiest cheapest all night bus ride of my life, and we arrive in the early morning. We resemble turtles, with our large packs strapped to our bodies. We have traded luggage life for backpack life. It is a better way to be. We are not sure about the name of the town. We know we are south, way south. Everyone speaks the state dialect, Tamil, and very few people know English or Hindi. We are the only white people to to be seen for miles. We like it. Finally, I'm starting to experience the concept of Indian hospitality that I had heard so much about. I had begun to think it was a myth or something that existed before my time.

People here are kind to us. They gesture us in, and smile. The rides are cheaper, as is the food, and the accommodation. We are not hounded by beggars, or people determined to sell us their wares. We share cabs with the locals, who nod and point, when we try to ask directions. There is a market street lined with shops on either side and the sky is covered by the awnings and fabric of the stores. The street is relatively quiet for being their center of commerce, and we can actually stroll down the aisle and partake in the purchasing of goods without pushing or yelling or feeling like we will be charged our soul if we decide to stop.  This place is closer to what I had romanticized India to be. It is a welcome change.

Parota!!

We can both eat the street food, now that our bodies have healed from the initial onslaught of foreign bacteria, and thank goodness because the street food is so good. In the South, it is all served on banana leaves, and the right hand is the only utensil. I've never washed my hands more often and more thoroughly in my life. My favorite are the parotas, a flaky tortilla type south Indian bread that is made fresh on hot tavas, and is usually served with veg or non-veg gravy. I have to walk a bit before and after so I feel like I've earned this indulgence. I try to encourage TG to eat, so he can put on some weight. He was sick for so long that he was starting to resemble some of the locals, but he is finally feeling better, and it's a good thing to because it's time to work.

Map of Tamil Nadu - We arrived in Chennai from Delhi by train. Since then we have been busing up and down the coast of Tamil Nadu to Mamallapuram (an hour south from Chennai), Pudicherry, and now Nagappattnam.

The city we have arrived in is called Nagappattnam, and it turns out we are just down the street from TG's office. Yay! Something went right! GIZ helps fund and improve various non-profit programs around the world, and the program TG will be assisting is called AVVAI Village Welfare Society. The twenty year old program organizes emergency service, shelters, rehabilitation, and educational works throughout the coastal towns of Tamil Nadu. TG will be bouncing from town to town finding how current projects can be improved or expanded, whether it's through some form of reorganization, funding, or presentation. The office is setting him up with Tamil speaking guides, and they will bus it from village to village. We will be here for two days. Then it's back up to Chennai to have similar visits to surrounding villages. Then it's off to the neighboring state, Andhra Pradesh, to continue the work, until he is needed in West Bengal for his other project. It is unpaid work, but they will be covering his travel expenses. I am proud of him.

Note: TG will be starting his own blog soon, to discuss and document his work

Without Words: Mamallapuram

 I finally have wireless! Yay! Here are some pictures of life in Mamallapuram. All the pictures were taken by TG with fish eyed GoPro camera. My disposable camera is also full of pictures, but I haven't been able to develop them yet.

The park with the famous rock carvings.

On top of the rock reliefs over looking Mamallapuram.

Their functioning light house.

Happy Pongal!

The reliefs and ruins that this town is famous for.

More of these elaborate rock carvings.

A temple outside our favorite pizza place.

On the street where we live.

Our bedroom. We would have died without our misquito net.

Our apartment was on the blue second floor of this house. We also had access to the roof

Email Excerpt

Mom!

Thanks for that awesome email. Yeah we have been thinking about a lot of different options. I keep mentioning the states, but both of us love the cheap living, and TG isn't quite ready to give up yet, and neither am I. I've only been here a month. There is something in me that loves this sort of living; the fresh fruit, the heat and humidity, the ocean. It's that island girl buried deep inside of me. So, who knows what the future will hold. It has been a crazy experience so far, and makes me realize again how spoiled we are back home. It is good to have a reminder. We bought a papaya the other day from a fruit stand. It didn't have any seeds in it! Genetically modified produce being sold at a fruit stand in Mamallapuram India! Oh the future! Scary, isn't it?

French Escape

Everyone waits along the highway in the heat, and then they wave down the speeding vehicles they want. The buses slow, but never stop. It is our job to fling ourselves on board. It is a weekend, and many of the buses are quite full, so we wait a good twenty minutes or so before we literally run and jump to catch our bumpy ride to Pondicherry.

Pondicherry, also known as Pudicherry, is considered the French region of India. It had once belonged to France, before the British occupation, and now, after Indian Independence, is a tourist hot spot. The region stretches along the coast of the Bay of Bengal, and the city is quite a bit larger than my out of date lonely planet guidebook lead me to believe. There is a noticeably French influence, especially in the tourist district near their famous boardwalk, but it is all together Indian in feel and flavor. We have come to Pondicherry for a night in an effort to momentarily escape and distract from my anxiety.

I have walked the streets of Portugal, Spain, England, Paris, and the Federal District of Mexico by myself several times in both the bright of the day and the wee hours of the morning, and I have never before experienced this sort of dark surprise. During my first solitary evening stroll in India,  I am molested. If I am not safe in a small quiet tourist dependent town, I wonder if I can be safe as a woman alone anywhere in this country.

We splurge a bit on a hotel, $20. The prices in India, even when you are being ripped off, are some of the best. The hotel room is worth the extra $10. Oh the soothing simple wonders of hot water, television, and a western toilet. I am already feeling much better. Now that holidays are over, TG has suddenly become very popular in the climate change research non-profit world. The meetings are regular, and two jobs have already been secured. One job is for TERI  and the other is for  GIZ . The TERI project takes place in West Bengal. The GIZ project requires TG to jump up and down the coast of Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh. Either way, our time in Mamallapuram is rapidly coming to an end. It is a bittersweet transition. I search for a place to purchase pepper spray.

The terribly catchy song we hear playing everywhere in India.  "Why this Kolaveri Di? "
Translation: Why this urge to murder/hurt? It is a love song.

Beach Attack

Tomorrow is my birthday. Last night, I was attacked. TG was in Chennai, having business meetings. I had spent the day cleaning our lovely little home, and doing laundry on our roof. I went to have a massage, and it was so wonderful, that immediately after I thought I would take a stroll down the beach.

In front of the Radisson hotel and their open-air restaurant, just a little after 7pm, a stranger lunged for me. He was not trying to steal from me. He was after me because I was a woman. I fought him off, and he ran back down the beach towards town. I took off after him, screaming, and some young local boys heard me, and went to find him. I went home to cry. Today we filed a police report, and the boys said that they beat him up some.

India's attitude towards women is not one of freedom. One of the first newspaper articles I read after arriving in Delhi, was a list of bodies that had been found in the city. All of the bodies were female. They had all been murdered by different people for different reasons. The India Times ran an article just this week about a young girl who was raped by two men .  Women all over the world deal with these sort of injustices everyday. We are targeted only for being the opposite sex. That is wrong, no matter what country you come from.

My attack could have been much worse, but I was raised to defend myself. I screamed and punched, and ran, fueled with the knowledge that no person has the right to violate me, ever. I hope that more women know that this right is theirs. Every women deserves to feel worthy. Any person who tries to take that away should be held accountable. Happy Birthday to me.

Simple Summary

"All I know is this: I hate misquitos."

Quote of the day from TG

Scooter it!

Scooter! Scooter is the way to see rural India! TG and I rent one, and tear around the coast and countryside of this beautiful southern state. As we tutt along, down the dirt roads, and around the honking local traffic, we feel for a moment liberated. He is not worried about trying to save the world, and I am not concerned with money and time. We scoot by farms of rice and vegetables we do not know the names of, The streams are filled with water buffalo and above are ideal blue skies. The children and adults stare at us in wonder, and wave and smile hello.

We have been experiencing this rare phenomenon. The locals always want to take our picture! The children break out into large wide grins when they see TG and his long limbs trouncing down the street. The young men pose with us, while their friends take pictures with their Iphones. Everyone waves and smiles, and asks where we are from. It is a far cry from our experience in Delhi; different worlds altogether. I don't know if they think TG is some American baseball player or movie star, or if they find us particularly strange looking, or perhaps locals always take pictures with tourists, but we find it curious. We laugh, and always say yes. We are mostly glad that people seem happy to see us, instead of the angry stares that was so often our interaction with locals in Delhi.

People still want to sell us the moon, but there are fewer people here, so we are not hounded. Temples and ruins sit in surprising pockets, and remind us that there is more history here then we might ever understand. I long to know the stories, before the tourists, before the iphones, but they are as difficult to find as the small roads that lead to these intricate places of worship.

The wind rips through our hair, and the vibration of the street and small rickety vehicle hums though our bodies. Palm thatched roofs, barefoot children, tractors, and so many strange happy wayward cows (I now harbor a strange love for these large simple animals), brainwash us into thinking that maybe we haven't made a mistake after all. There is something here, waiting for us in the sometimes harsh simplicity. When I figure out what that is, exactly, I will let you know. Until then, we clumsily stumble in and out of the hard beauty of India. My advice: rent a scooter! The view is better.

Green Acres

We stand atop the rock reliefs of ancient times, and survey the gleaming backwaters, the blank reaching coast, and the bright painted fishing boats, that make up this small coastal town. The people here have prospered off of these simple riches. As the monkeys beckon us to stay, TG and I look to each other and agree; this is paradise.

This is the sleepy beauty of Mamallapuram, and both of us are terribly infatuated. We long to make this affair last, so we rent the unused second floor of a home from a local family. We have a sunny roof, a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, living space, furniture, a washing machine, and all utilities for $200 month. The only thing we don't have is a fridge, so we market daily, and cook anything perishable the same day.

The electricity in the entire town goes out exactly from noon to two every day, during which few restaurants serve food, and we are forced to unplug from our computers. The businesses rarely have what they advertise. We are learning to manage our expectations.  The local men stare a little too long when I wear my two-piece bathing suit to the beach. The only people who know how to swim are the fishermen. The rest of the locals just wade, and I have yet to see a single Mamallapuram woman with more than her feet in the water. All the prices are inflated, due to us being foreigners, but these small inconveniences are completely worth the quiet beach, and the dusty charms of this little Indian town.

The woman all wear saris here, and the men wear Lungis, a piece of cloth wrapped around the waist. It falls at the ankle or at the knee, depending on one's taste and the heat of the day. Most live off the yearly supply of tourists and the bountiful sea. The fishing boats go out everyday, and return in the afternoon. The older generation speaks predominantly Tamil, one of the main dialects of the state. The younger generation seem to have some knowledge of English, and can usually speak some Hindi. Everything is closed by 11pm, and the town falls silent. It is a welcome silence, filled only with the constant whispering of the beach.

TG spends his day researching, tracking down leads, and saving goats. I spend my days writing, swimming, and learning to cook the local dishes. Life is simple here. It will be hard to leave it behind, but in the mean time, we can sit back, and enjoy the little things. I had forgotten what simple was like.

                                                                 TG saving a goat!

Where in the World...?

Where the hell are we? Good Question. If you have been following, we were scheduled to depart for Alleppey, the Venice of the East, but as all things in real time, everything changed. We were there, waiting happily, chatting about our escape from the crowds of Delhi to a warmer place and a more relaxed state of being. We sat, and sat, and still our train did not come. Platform 3, Platform 3, that is where everyone had told us to wait for the train to Kerala, but it never came, or it came and went. Either way, we were not on it. We would not be going to Alleppey, not that day anyway. We spent the night in a rundown hostel, after purchasing new train tickets. Chennai would be our new starting destination. No more trains to Alleppey that week, we had missed the last one. Anywhere that wasn't Delhi would do. The next night, determined not to be foiled again, we boarded the correct train. Hurray! We are not complete idiots!

We sped through the country side, the change in environment and temperature nearly instant. If I could give one piece of advice about Indian train travel, it would be to pack toilet paper. Our train compartment was full of friendly, middle class Indians, this particular group returning home to Chennai after the international auto show in Delhi.

Chennai was warm, and relaxed, everyone wearing their best for Pongal. Pongal is a Hindu harvest festival predominately celebrated in the state of Tamil Nadu. It goes on for three days. It is similar to thanksgiving, but longer, and the food is better. In actuality, Pongal kicks Thanksgiving's ass. The pastel street chalk art, the balloons, the ladies and children dressed in their best and brightest, the cups of raw sugar cane juice, the incessant smiling and family activity, Pongal is a holiday I can definitely get behind.

We stayed just a night in Chennai, not wishing to be stuck in another city if we didn't need to be, but already things were a great deal better than our previous adversary, "Winter in New Delhi". We had met a nice fellow on the train, just out of college who directed us to another town, Mamallapuram*. We had planned on hopping the bus down the coast, towards Pondicherry, a well known coastal village, near the green future friendly European planned city of Auroville, but we had not heard of Mamallapuram. We decided we would put ourselves in fate's hands. Mamallapuram, here we come, and then we went.

* If you follow this link, I have to note that I personally disagree with how Wikitravel has painted Mamallapuram. I found it a million times less touristy than half of the other places I have visited in India so far, but the Wikilink is otherwise informative.

Note from GRACE: I am currently working from internet cafes where there is no wireless, so I apologize for possible format issues, and the absence of visuals. Once we have the problem solved, I will be updating entries with more pictures and video. Thanks for understanding the ways of the road!

All or Nothing

So in the last few days, we have been getting our tourist freak on. TG and I have visited...

• Red Fort, an amazing sprawling example of Mughal prowess taken over by the British during their rule here, is now preserved as a cultural monument and serves as house for several museums.
• India Habitat Centre, a contemporary coming together of Indian art, history, music, and environmental studies. We took a moment and listened to some accomplished classical Indian musicians that were playing in the theatre that day.  Also within the centre is the hilariously accurate 'All American Diner' , where one can have milkshakes and listen to American 50's tunes. 
• Spice Market, found in Old Delhi, its open aired stalls are overflowing with barrels of turmeric, pepper, rice, dried fruits, and pickles, etc. 
• Dilli Haat, a formal craft market that sells food and wares from rural areas all over the country. 
• the Imperial, considered one of Asia's finest luxury hotels where the reign of the British in India is celebrated in the art deco design, and the many paintings of English royals and military that hang on the ornate walls. It is the only place to have a real martini that I've found, as long as you don't mind spending 800 rupees per cocktail.
•  Lodhi Gardens, a 90 acre green enclave of trees, ancient mosques, and kingly tombs.

Today I vomited, and slept. Maybe too much too soon, but all of the places were worth visiting. I have seen more foreigners these last few days than I would care to admit. These destinations are popular with tourists, and also the ex-pats and the privileged locals. The chaos of Delhi drives people to these spots, which are more expensive and westernized, but the search for quiet is a commodity that seemingly only money can buy here.

We are planning on going South this next week. "Got a ticket to ride". The railway is to be our way of going, and how I love traveling by train! Our destination is Alleppey, the "Venice of the East", for hopefully some quiet, warmth, and water relaxing time. TG's presentation has been put off again, oh India time, so we are packing our bags and getting out of Delhi while we can. Not a second too soon. There is plenty of India still to see, and I intend on experiencing more of it before I give up on this place all together.

Godless New Delhi

http://www.toonpool.com/cartoons/Servitude_4379

Delhi does not make me want to get on my knees and pray. It makes me want to denounce every God I possibly can at the top of my lungs. The extremity of poverty and wealth, in combination of the overall attitude of the locals, this bitterness of seeing their neighbors die and starve while a Levis is built across the street, makes me think that all the Gods must have deserted this place long ago.


Khan Market, a common and popular destination for wealthy locals and tourists, is "more expensive than Luxumbourg, Oslo, Stockholm, Dubai, Manila, and Mexico City,"* according to the Times of India.  It is a small circular bit of pavement where one can purchase princess anne roses, french pastries, buy a book in English, and designer sunglasses. One might imagine that the constant visual of poverty would cause those in a better position to become more compassionate to those without, but that is not the case. The majority of people here have become blind to the constant cry rising from the streets and the slums, the survival instinct taking on a cruel and unusual sort of deafness. 

I watch from the ground of Lajpat Nagar, from the pavement of Lodhi Road, from the fortified walls of the British High Council, and from the rocking outlook of the rickshaw, and the people I see, the children, the elders, the women, and the teens, are all grimaces. The lines working into their faces, in both the poor and the privileged. 

There is a long line, everyone barefoot baring flowers to pay their respects to the deities. They will stand for hours waiting. In the mean time, they stare callously without smiles or laughs. It is proper if you are muslim to pray five times everyday, but despite all the praying, I do not see miracles. My normally magical, rather Pollyanna-like way of looking at the world, changes here. If anyone ever said that Delhi invoked in them a spiritual experience, they must have lied or had spent all their time in an ashram or $200 night hotel, away from the piss and crippled of the rest of the city. 

The western world is dealing with their low numbers, their flailing business plans, their national bankruptcies, and a scarce job market, but many of them don't know the true concept of struggle. Their babies are not shitting themselves to death due to poor sanitation. Sorry U.S.A. and Europe, but your cries of suffering go unheard here. Delhi is not the past, it is the future, with its rolling slums, high population, and limited resources. It is a future, where no matter the religion or God, we all suffer. 

http://www.polyp.org.uk/wealth-poverty_cartoons/cartoons_about_wealth_and_poverty2.html

* http://articles.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/2010-09-24/delhi/28243111_1_hong-kong-s-causeway-global-markets-delhi-s-khan-market 

Without Words: New Delhi