Mood is a fickle thing, and it looks like I'm going to be blogging Udaipur after all.
You may actually recognize Udaipur; it's the city where the Bond movie "Octopussy" was filmed (as about a million signs and restaurants remind us daily). It's got the white palace floating on the lake, etc. Beautiful, but we're definitely getting a little too used to Rajasthan and the northern architecture; we've been here for three days, and only spent one morning doing anything especially proper-touristy (the City Palace). The rest we've just been enjoying the town, which is a little pricy but very laid-back and comfortable for us Western types because it's absolutely overrun by tourists. That's unfortunate - a town this nice should belong to its people - but it is nice to be able to sit on the rooftop in a tank top for a change.
Mostly, what we did here was Holi. I'm going to write a bit more about it in Mumbai (tomorrow) or Aurangabad (the following day), because some very interesting things happened that have got me thinking, and I know I'll need more than a half hour or so to get it out properly. But, in the meantime, a bit about Holi. (Skip the part of that wikipedia article on the health hazards. We did.)
It starts with a huge serious of bonfires in the streets just after sundown on the night before. Stacks of wood, tented together, reach 12 or 14-feet high in small squares (about the size of 3 driveways), and 6-7 feet in the smaller streets. Firecrackers and cherry bombs are thrown into the blaze or launched into the sky. The noise, in a town the size of Udaipur, was tremendous - as was the fireworks display. (Fireworks are legal here and easy to buy year-round because they're used in weddings and on other auspicious days.) Then, a good chunk of the population starts drinking; for most of the residents of a town like Udaipur, Holi is the only day of the entire year that they won't have to work. The enthusiasm is contagious, and there's no argument about it - they deserve it.
Revelry in the streets is over before midnight, but starts again early the next morning. By 9am, the streets are full of people moving in big groups, swarming through each other. Everyone you pass, you say "Happy Holi" to each other and throw a handful of coloured powder (or water) over each other - sometimes you put it directly on each other's faces. Sometimes hugging follows. The result is an incredibly congenial, hilarious atmosphere in which you can't stop laughing and end up with colour in your mouth as well as everywhere else. People are almost unrecognizeable - after about 20 minutes I could only pick out the other people in our party by height and stature, as even our clothes were so covered in bright colours running together that you couldn't tell what they originally looked like. My skin is still stained in a lot of places (all visible, unfortunately), and my clothes are absolutely ruined.
All of which is fine, because it was so much fun. S. and I went out with a couple we met from Toronto named Aaron and Marion, who are maybe 10-12 years older than us but very fun. (Bonus: he's a criminal lawyer who loves his job, and loved law school, and wasn't a jerk in the least. There's hope!) We'll post photos once we get them from Aaron, who was the only one brave enough to bring a camera into that mess.
There were some tourists who were not loving it - which was maybe the most hilarious part of all. Every once in a while you'd see some sour-looking European in khakis and a white golf shirt lurking around with an expensive camera giving death stares to anyone who approaches them with powder. Imagine coming down from your hotel into that chaos - just a huge mob of people greeting, throwing colours and paint everywhere, hugging, laughing - and expecting to be left to yourself on the sidelines. It doesn't work like that. Like I said, there is no solitude in India - and definitely not on Holi. Did I mention there were people walking around with drums, stopping when they met other drummers to play together, and people came running from the sidestreets to dance in big groups wherever they were?
All of which has reminded me that joy can get you through a lot. Again, I'll save some of the details for a longer, later post, but the last few days have been extremely instructive.
Gordon, a British man we met in Pachmari who has been coming to India for 15 years, said over and over again that India is the great teacher about humanity, and that whenever you start to get it wrong, India will correct you. That's certainly what's happened here. Just when I've had all I can take of touts and aggressive salespeople and everyone trying to squeeze every penny they can from you, staring at you, talking about you, and giving you wrong information, you meet a young shop worker who stops you with a glance and all but closes up his shop to sit and talk with you - and then refuses to sell you anything. That's what happened the day before yesterday, to E. and I., when we were out in the market. A man named Surya (appropriately, he's named after the sun) started the conversation the way most touts do - "From which country?" - but ended up being so sweet and so interesting that we spent a few hours with him drinking chai and talking Big Ideas. He grew up in an ashram in Kerala, but when he was in his teens his guru told him he needed to see the world before he would understand anything. So she gave him Rs. 2000 (about $50) and sent him on his way. Ever since then (about 10-15 years ago) he's been moving from place to place every few years, working two jobs for 11 months of the year and then using his 12th to travel around India. He had a really interesting perspective on the world. Although astrology is Not My Thing, he was talking to both E. and I about our signs and whether we match with them (it seems like everyone here takes astrology very seriously), and suddenly got very intense about needing to read my palm. He told me a pretty good story. A lot of it was familiar. With these things, it's not so much about the accuracy or inaccuracy of what people can tell about you; it's about paying attention to how you react to the news. Your own response can be highly, highly instructive. Mine was.
(Actually, this is the second time a relative stranger has singled me out to read my fortune for free. The first time was years ago, and it was helpful too.)
A wave of goodwill can carry you for a long time. I'm hoping mine carries me through Mumbai, but I'm dumping it there, because I have things to do and some serious business to write about. As always, the last few days weren't all rainbows, and I think there's some big shit brewing here. Holi, joy, and the British travel warning released last week about Goa - and, for good measure, how all these remote things on the other side of the world help shape how we perceive our communities at home.
Be good, all.
Showing posts with label east and west. Show all posts
Showing posts with label east and west. Show all posts
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Atwood, "The Loneliness of the Military Historian"
Confess: it's my profession
that alarms you.
This is why few people ask me to dinner,
though Lord knows I don't go out of my way to be scary.
I wear dresses of sensible cut
and unalarming shades of beige,
I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser's:
no prophetess mane of mine,
complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters.
If I roll my eyes and mutter,
if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror
like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene,
I do it in private and nobody sees
but the bathroom mirror.
In general I might agree with you:
women should not contemplate war,
should not weigh tactics impartially,
or evade the word enemy,
or view both sides and denounce nothing.
Women should march for peace,
or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery,
spit themselves on bayonets
to protect their babies,
whose skulls will be split anyway,
or, having been raped repeatedly,
hang themselves with their own hair.
These are the functions that inspire general comfort.
That, and the knitting of socks for the troops
and a sort of moral cheerleading.
Also: mourning the dead.
Sons, lovers, and so forth.
All the killed children.
Instead of this, I tell
what I hope will pass as truth.
A blunt thing, not lovely.
The truth is seldom welcome,
especially at dinner,
though I am good at what I do.
My trade is courage and atrocities.
I look at them and do not condemn.
I write things down the way they happened,
as near as can be remembered.
I don't ask why, because it is mostly the same.
Wars happen because the ones who start them
think they can win.
In my dreams there is glamour.
The Vikings leave their fields
each year for a few months of killing and plunder,
much as the boys go hunting.
In real life they were farmers.
They come back loaded with splendour.
The Arabs ride against Crusaders
with scimitars that could sever
silk in the air.
A swift cut to the horse's neck
and a hunk of armour crashes down
like a tower. Fire against metal.
A poet might say: romance against banality.
When awake, I know better.
Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters,
or none that can be finally buried.
Finish one off, and circumstances
and the radio create another.
Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently
to God all night and meant it,
and been slaughtered anyway.
Brutality wins frequently,
and large outcomes have turned on the invention
of a mechanical device, viz. radar.
True, valour sometimes counts for something,
as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right --
though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition,
is decided on by the winner.
Sometimes men throw themsleves on grenades
and burst like paper bags of guts
to save their comrades.
I can admire that.
But rats and cholera have won many wars.
Those, and potatoes,
or the absence of them.
It's no use pinning all those medals
across the chests of the dead.
Impressive, but I know too much.
Grand exploits merely depress me.
In the interests of research
I have walked on many battlefields
that once were liquid with pulped
men's bodies and spangled with exploded
shells and splayed bone.
All of them have been green again
by the time I got there.
Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day.
Sad marble angels brood like hens
over the grassy nests where nothing hatches.
(The angels could just as well be described as vulgar
or pitiless, depending on camera angle.)
The word glory figures a lot on gateways.
Of course I pick a flower or two
from each, and press it in the hotel Bible
for a souvenir.
I'm just as human as you.
But it's no use asking me for a final statement.
As I say, I deal in tactics.
Also statistics:
for every year of peace there have been four hundred
years of war.
that alarms you.
This is why few people ask me to dinner,
though Lord knows I don't go out of my way to be scary.
I wear dresses of sensible cut
and unalarming shades of beige,
I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser's:
no prophetess mane of mine,
complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters.
If I roll my eyes and mutter,
if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror
like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene,
I do it in private and nobody sees
but the bathroom mirror.
In general I might agree with you:
women should not contemplate war,
should not weigh tactics impartially,
or evade the word enemy,
or view both sides and denounce nothing.
Women should march for peace,
or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery,
spit themselves on bayonets
to protect their babies,
whose skulls will be split anyway,
or, having been raped repeatedly,
hang themselves with their own hair.
These are the functions that inspire general comfort.
That, and the knitting of socks for the troops
and a sort of moral cheerleading.
Also: mourning the dead.
Sons, lovers, and so forth.
All the killed children.
Instead of this, I tell
what I hope will pass as truth.
A blunt thing, not lovely.
The truth is seldom welcome,
especially at dinner,
though I am good at what I do.
My trade is courage and atrocities.
I look at them and do not condemn.
I write things down the way they happened,
as near as can be remembered.
I don't ask why, because it is mostly the same.
Wars happen because the ones who start them
think they can win.
In my dreams there is glamour.
The Vikings leave their fields
each year for a few months of killing and plunder,
much as the boys go hunting.
In real life they were farmers.
They come back loaded with splendour.
The Arabs ride against Crusaders
with scimitars that could sever
silk in the air.
A swift cut to the horse's neck
and a hunk of armour crashes down
like a tower. Fire against metal.
A poet might say: romance against banality.
When awake, I know better.
Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters,
or none that can be finally buried.
Finish one off, and circumstances
and the radio create another.
Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently
to God all night and meant it,
and been slaughtered anyway.
Brutality wins frequently,
and large outcomes have turned on the invention
of a mechanical device, viz. radar.
True, valour sometimes counts for something,
as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right --
though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition,
is decided on by the winner.
Sometimes men throw themsleves on grenades
and burst like paper bags of guts
to save their comrades.
I can admire that.
But rats and cholera have won many wars.
Those, and potatoes,
or the absence of them.
It's no use pinning all those medals
across the chests of the dead.
Impressive, but I know too much.
Grand exploits merely depress me.
In the interests of research
I have walked on many battlefields
that once were liquid with pulped
men's bodies and spangled with exploded
shells and splayed bone.
All of them have been green again
by the time I got there.
Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day.
Sad marble angels brood like hens
over the grassy nests where nothing hatches.
(The angels could just as well be described as vulgar
or pitiless, depending on camera angle.)
The word glory figures a lot on gateways.
Of course I pick a flower or two
from each, and press it in the hotel Bible
for a souvenir.
I'm just as human as you.
But it's no use asking me for a final statement.
As I say, I deal in tactics.
Also statistics:
for every year of peace there have been four hundred
years of war.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The other side of Delhi
Yesterday morning we saw a rickshaw driver beaten by a policeman. The police here carry a long stick, about 4 feet, which I didn't want to see used. We're not really sure what the rickshaw driver did wrong... obviously it was something, but we couldn't tell what. He caned him in the side of the knees twice, and hit him three or four times in the face and chest with the butt end of a shorter instrument. The street, like everywhere in Pahar Ganj, was packed. We seemed to be the only ones who were surprised.
Rickshaw drivers here have been on my mind. Taxis are rarely used here. Usually it's either autorickshaws, little three-wheeled green affairs that resemble a dirtbike with a two-person back seat and an enclosure (rent Darjeeling Limited to see), or regular rickshaws, which are a two-seated carriage pulled by a man on a bicycle. We haven't used a cycle one yet, partially because I'm having a hard time stomaching it. Some of the men pulling these little open carriages are well past retirement age. Even our autorickshaw driver confessed he works seven days a week, as many hours as he can stand. Some things I'm getting used to here - like ignoring pushy vendors, negotiating aggressively, declining any offers of help - but I'm nowhere near ready to ride through town in a carriage pulled by a 70-year old barefoot man on a bike.
And where are all the women?
During the day the ratio of men to women in public is easily 15 or 20:1. I have my guesses as to why. I suspect they're busy elsewhere.
A large percentage of the women we see, actually, are white tourists. We've noticed a pretty strange demographic: white tourists here (other than the middle-aged, of which there are tons) tend to be of certain ages. Two men travelling together will universally be in their late thirties. A man and woman will be in their mid twenties, a little older than us but not much. The only people our age you tend to see are pairs or threes of women, and you see no men our age here unless travelling with a woman. (Exception: the odd man our age here and there who's travelling alone.) It's bizarre, we have no idea why this is the case. Why would women our age be drawn to India as a travel destination more than men, particularly? If anything, I would have expected the reverse; that pairs of women would be more drawn to more familiar places (relatively) like Europe for safety reasons, while men would feel more comfortable venturing farther.
Who knows.
D is also for Dizzying. Personal space and solitude don't exist in Delhi. Although there have been quiet moments on our rooftop, in our hotel room, briefly while walking along Rajpath away from the touts, there is no silence and no solitude. We're getting used to people brushing us as they pass, to motorcycles and rickshaws passing within inches of each other on the streets, to veering sideways while walking to avoid getting clipped by the bikes whizzing by.
We're having a slightly harder time getting used to the low-level but persistent harassment. On the subway yesterday, it really felt like the whole platform was staring at us. This isn't just paranoia, it's substantial. We find it happens less when we take certain precautions - dress as covered-up as we can, keep our hair tied back tidily (braided is best) and don't make eye contact - but it's unavoidable in certain circumstances. It's yet to become really threatening - I don't think either of us have particularly feared for our safety since arriving - but it does make things uncomfortable.
We both think it will be easier when Sumeet is with us, which will be in about two weeks. It makes me angry that this behaviour will stop when we have a male with us - shouldn't it stop because we have a right to move freely in public, to dress as we're comfortable, and to be shown some basic respect? - but then I think more, and it's the same in Canada. Women don't get street harassed in Canada when with a male friend, a boyfriend, or, best, their father. The same disrespect is there, the same attitude that men are not to be messed with but women are open territory when in public. Plus, as far as we know, violence against white tourists is much less prevalent here than various types of violence against women is in Canada. Once or twice in Canada I've experienced street harassment that was genuinely menacing, and genuinely frightening. Here it's a low drone with little behind it. We stand out here; it happens more; but its differences from the streets of Montreal or Toronto are differences of degree not of kind.
Which gets me thinking about one of the few occasions when I've been cat-called while with a boyfriend. It was from a moving car in New York City. My partner was actually pleased; he felt good to be with a woman who was deserving of cat-calling (... by other men [my addition]). I'm not sure I have the time right now to fully take apart what that means, but I think it's relevant.
I think that's long enough, and E. needs to use the computer. We'll have to talk later about where textiles come from, why the cook in our hotel kitchen had to come here from Nepal (we don't know the answer), and why everybody everybody everybody wants to sell us something. Whatever the social problem, poverty is usually the reason.
Take care, all.
Rickshaw drivers here have been on my mind. Taxis are rarely used here. Usually it's either autorickshaws, little three-wheeled green affairs that resemble a dirtbike with a two-person back seat and an enclosure (rent Darjeeling Limited to see), or regular rickshaws, which are a two-seated carriage pulled by a man on a bicycle. We haven't used a cycle one yet, partially because I'm having a hard time stomaching it. Some of the men pulling these little open carriages are well past retirement age. Even our autorickshaw driver confessed he works seven days a week, as many hours as he can stand. Some things I'm getting used to here - like ignoring pushy vendors, negotiating aggressively, declining any offers of help - but I'm nowhere near ready to ride through town in a carriage pulled by a 70-year old barefoot man on a bike.
And where are all the women?
During the day the ratio of men to women in public is easily 15 or 20:1. I have my guesses as to why. I suspect they're busy elsewhere.
A large percentage of the women we see, actually, are white tourists. We've noticed a pretty strange demographic: white tourists here (other than the middle-aged, of which there are tons) tend to be of certain ages. Two men travelling together will universally be in their late thirties. A man and woman will be in their mid twenties, a little older than us but not much. The only people our age you tend to see are pairs or threes of women, and you see no men our age here unless travelling with a woman. (Exception: the odd man our age here and there who's travelling alone.) It's bizarre, we have no idea why this is the case. Why would women our age be drawn to India as a travel destination more than men, particularly? If anything, I would have expected the reverse; that pairs of women would be more drawn to more familiar places (relatively) like Europe for safety reasons, while men would feel more comfortable venturing farther.
Who knows.
D is also for Dizzying. Personal space and solitude don't exist in Delhi. Although there have been quiet moments on our rooftop, in our hotel room, briefly while walking along Rajpath away from the touts, there is no silence and no solitude. We're getting used to people brushing us as they pass, to motorcycles and rickshaws passing within inches of each other on the streets, to veering sideways while walking to avoid getting clipped by the bikes whizzing by.
We're having a slightly harder time getting used to the low-level but persistent harassment. On the subway yesterday, it really felt like the whole platform was staring at us. This isn't just paranoia, it's substantial. We find it happens less when we take certain precautions - dress as covered-up as we can, keep our hair tied back tidily (braided is best) and don't make eye contact - but it's unavoidable in certain circumstances. It's yet to become really threatening - I don't think either of us have particularly feared for our safety since arriving - but it does make things uncomfortable.
We both think it will be easier when Sumeet is with us, which will be in about two weeks. It makes me angry that this behaviour will stop when we have a male with us - shouldn't it stop because we have a right to move freely in public, to dress as we're comfortable, and to be shown some basic respect? - but then I think more, and it's the same in Canada. Women don't get street harassed in Canada when with a male friend, a boyfriend, or, best, their father. The same disrespect is there, the same attitude that men are not to be messed with but women are open territory when in public. Plus, as far as we know, violence against white tourists is much less prevalent here than various types of violence against women is in Canada. Once or twice in Canada I've experienced street harassment that was genuinely menacing, and genuinely frightening. Here it's a low drone with little behind it. We stand out here; it happens more; but its differences from the streets of Montreal or Toronto are differences of degree not of kind.
Which gets me thinking about one of the few occasions when I've been cat-called while with a boyfriend. It was from a moving car in New York City. My partner was actually pleased; he felt good to be with a woman who was deserving of cat-calling (... by other men [my addition]). I'm not sure I have the time right now to fully take apart what that means, but I think it's relevant.
I think that's long enough, and E. needs to use the computer. We'll have to talk later about where textiles come from, why the cook in our hotel kitchen had to come here from Nepal (we don't know the answer), and why everybody everybody everybody wants to sell us something. Whatever the social problem, poverty is usually the reason.
Take care, all.
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