India

Mumbai, monsoon, and more

     Bombay, September 22, 2013

     So far, so good. On the flight from Amsterdam to Mumbai, we flew close to Syria, Iraq, and Afghanistan. But even more surprising to me, our Delta flight flew over Iran for two hours. I had no idea that Iran would allow American aircraft in its airspace. We flew near Tehran, but I didn’t see it. Iran looks like Nevada – hundreds of miles of dry, brown hills and desert. There were occasional small towns and farmland, though I don’t know where they get their water. 

     My arrival in Mumbai (Bombay, as the locals still call it) was rather dramatic. It was after midnight, and the streets were thronged with people and choked with traffic. It was the Ganesh festival, the biggest festival of the year, and there were many shrines to the elephant-headed god Ganesh on flatbed trucks. The gods were festooned with marigold garlands, and from the trucks recorded music was blaring from loudspeakers as firecrackers went off in the filthy streets and fireworks lit up the sky. My taxi was stuck in traffic for long periods, giving me a wonderful opportunity to watch up close the people celebrating their Hindu god. 

     Groups of young men danced together in the crumbling, garbage-strewn streets – women and girls were confined to the flatbed altars with their neon lights and gaudy, garish, glitzy Ganesh god. The temperature was in the 80’s, but it was quite humid, making it feel like 100 degrees at midnight. There were occasional flashes of lightning and claps of thunder, as the men shouted and danced in the streets. A Hindu Fourth of July and New Year’s Eve rolled into one at the end of the monsoon season. 

     Well, not quite the end. Suddenly the lightning was unleashed, the skies opened up, and down came the rain. Everyone on the street was drenched to the skin, and some took shelter under shop overhangs and others rushed to protect the flower-bedecked elephant god shrines. But the monsoon downpours only intensified the ecstatic dancing as the men shouted and laughed in exultation of being young and together and ALIVE. The streets were almost instantaneously filled with floodwaters a foot high, as my taxi honked and pushed its way through the water, traffic, and jaywalkers. I was high and dry, an older white man in a sea of revelers with dark brown skin, their youthful exuberance transcending their grinding poverty and filthy surroundings. Laughing and dancing in the streets, they reminded me of why I came to India: they and their country are full of life, undeterred by the squalor that is so appalling to westerners like me. 

     And the show was just beginning. I finally got to my hotel room at 1:30 am and went to bed, but the lightning was extremely close, judging by the instantaneous explosions that followed each flash. Great crashing bangs and torrential rains like I’ve never experienced before, all through the night. My visit to Bombay started with a bang, or with lots of bangs – quite a welcome to this tropical city of life, decay, and rebirth. 

     

Slums, trains, and terrorism

     Bombay, September 28, 2013

     Bombay was probably very pretty 50 years ago. And it still has its palm trees, banyan trees, tropical plants and flowers, beautiful British colonial architecture, and a lovely coastline on the Arabian Sea. But with 15 million people and 2,000 slums (yes, 2,000), this city has quite literally been trashed. I’ve never seen so much garbage in my life. Much of the city looks like a giant landfill. It even beats Delhi for garbage (We’re number one!). Bombay is the largest city in India and its financial and business center, and migrants are arriving here by the tens of thousands looking for jobs and a better life. The government is overwhelmed by the influx of poor people, and it can’t keep up with the need for water, toilets, sewage treatment, housing, healthcare, and education. 

     To make matters worse, the inhabitants have no sense of respect for common areas. I see people littering and spitting all the time. They think nothing of throwing trash into the streets or ocean or out of train or car windows. Add to that the chaotic traffic and jaywalking, along with the blaring of horns, and you can imagine that this isn’t the easiest or most pleasant place to visit. But I’m glad I came, because it’s a very stimulating and exotic city. And boy, does it make me appreciate the good old USA!

     I went on a two hour tour of Dharavi slum, the largest slum in India, with over a  million human beings packed into an area half the size of New York’s Central Park. Most slums are small, with maybe 500 people or so, but Dharavi has 10,000 tiny factories along with separate Hindu and Muslim residential areas. Parts of Slumdog Millionaire were filmed there. Our tour guide was from a non-profit group that provides education and community services to the slum dwellers. He himself lives in a slum, though not Dharavi. He said he likes living in his slum, because with 500 people in it he feels a strong sense of community. He added that most Dharavi residents feel that way about their neighborhoods. There are schools, hospitals, mosques and temples, and shops in the slum. Everyone I saw was busy working or going about their daily routines, and although the living conditions were shockingly bad, no one seemed to mind. They appear to be used to this kind of existence. Although conditions there are far worse than East Oakland or the south side of Chicago, I felt safer in Dharavi, maybe because they don’t have guns. 

     I’ve been riding the local trains a lot, and the trains are rolling slums. Poor people, hawkers, crumbling buildings and garbage are along the tracks. Security guards and police are everywhere, because Mumbai was attacked by Pakistani terrorists in 2008. And a couple days ago Pakistani terrorists killed several Indian soldiers. The recent terrorist attacks in Kenya revealed that the terrorists are planning to attack Bombay again, including several places I’ve visited. I feel sorry for the folks who live here, but they don’t appear to be worried about anything – they just go about their business. When you read local English language newspapers, though, they’re full of reports of crime, rape, terrorism, and government corruption and incompetence. So maybe the fear and anger are beneath the surface of what I’m seeing. 

     I don’t know how the residents here cope. I’m choosing to stay positive and enjoy every day. I’m working on letting go of being judgmental and opinionated about the negatives here, and instead focusing on appreciation for the little things in life. I’ve met a lot of nice people here, both locals and foreigners, and after the initial deluge upon my arrival, the weather has been mostly dry. So hey – life is good!

     On Monday I fly to southern India, and I expect that the small towns and rural areas will be a welcome change from this mega-city. In the meantime, I’m grateful to be healthy, and I appreciate my good fortune to be able to see the world. 

   

Bollywood

     Kochi, October 2, 2013

     I’m now in the state of Kerala, in southern India, in the city of Kochi (formerly known as Cochin). It’s even more tropical than Bombay, with lots of palm trees and huge old trees I don’t know the names of. Kerala’s slogan is everywhere: “God’s Own Country.” It IS a pretty area, though God apparently approves of the blaring horns and garbage-strewn beaches and streets. Maybe it’s God’s way of reminding the visitors and residents that this may be paradise, but it’s still India. 

     Two days before I left Bombay I met a Hollywood producer at my hotel. Beena is Indian, but now lives in L.A. She’s in Bombay in part to help organize an international film festival in the Indian film capital (Bombay plus Hollywood = Bollywood). She invited me to attend the film festival as her guest. I know that Hollywood and Bollywood sell fantasy and dreams, so I had to laugh at myself for imagining that I might somehow make a connection that could lead to a small part in a Hollywood or Bollywood movie. Beena was vague about the festival details, so I didn’t really know what to expect. She did say that next year she’s making a feature-length movie, and maybe I could be in it. I’m wary of pie-in-the-sky promises, but I’m also a sucker for them. I didn’t want to be disappointed, so I debated whether I might be wasting my time by attending the festival. 

     But hey – I’m here to have adventures. So I thought, what the hell, and accepted the invitation. 

     She said that it would be a formal affair. At first I declined the invite, because I didn’t bring any nice clothes on this trip. But the more I thought about it, the more curious I was to attend a Bollywood event. So I spent an afternoon shopping for clothes, something I rarely do. I spent a grand total of $12 on a nice shirt, tie, dress shoes, and socks. 

     The next night we took a taxi to a movie theater where the shindig was happening. Much to my surprise, Beena and I had to walk the red carpet where photographers furiously snapped our photos and where a camera crew interviewed us about what we expected from the festival. Caught off guard, I said something inane about looking forward to seeing the 10 international offerings. My 15 seconds of fame, and I blew it. 

     We made our way to the booth of one of the festival sponsors, Jameson’s Irish Whiskey, and sampled the product while being plied with hors d’ouevres and small talk from total strangers. Again and again Beena and I had to pose for photos against the backdrop of the logos of the  sponsors. Now I have some idea what it’s like for the Hollywood celebrities who have to smile constantly for the cameras at the Oscars. My face became tired from all the fake smiles I felt obligated to display. Beena kept telling people that I’m a Hollywood actor from L.A., even though she knew better, so I finally had to ask her to stop exaggerating my identity. 

     It was actually tiring standing in a stuffy theater mezzanine for two hours, sipping Irish whiskey and wolfing down appetizers while posing for the cameras. I was bored by the superficiality of the event. Then I had a wonderfully shallow encounter with a Bollywood starlet. She was tall, slender, and shapely in a long, clinging, low-cut black dress. I asked about her film career, and she said that her first two movies are coming out next year. One of them is called (I’m not kidding) “Bang Bang Bangkok.” Must be a serious drama. I can hardly wait to see it. 

     We finally got to sit down in the air-conditioned theater. But before seeing the 10 short flicks, we had to endure speeches, all in English, from a Bollywood actor, an American consular official, and others. Then there was a candle lighting ceremony (why?), and a charity check presentation by Japan’s Consul General, followed by a song by a blind Indian singer. We were already running an hour late by the time we saw the movies. The festival started at 7 pm Sunday night, ended at 1:30 am Monday morning, and was, uh, not ready for prime time. Later Monday morning I left India’s Tinsel Town wannabe for points south. 

     I arrived in Bombay with a crash, and left it after a night of flash. Bang Bang Bombay. 

     

Dancing my way through India

     Mysore, October 10, 2013

     There may be more beautiful places than the south of India. But I’ve never seen so many wildflowers or wild animals. And sitting by a pool in a national tiger reserve, watching the mist float up the valley above the tops of the forest and below the mountain cliffs, I have to say that the green jungle, rice paddies, and hillside tea plantations are sights to behold. 

     There may be more impressive architecture in northern India and in other countries. But Mysore Palace is an opulent blend of Hindu, Muslim, and European design. And the centuries-old Hindu temples give the land depth and mystery. 

     There may be friendlier people than the Indians I’ve met here. And I’ve met my share of hustlers, liars, and cheats, not to mention lunatic drivers. But once you get away from the tourist areas, the locals are humble, down to earth, warm, and friendly. And they really like the U.S. and Americans. They often ask where I’m from, and when I tell them, they usually have something very positive to say about my country, and never have a negative comment.

     I’m now traveling as part of a tour group of six people (the others are from India, Australia, New Zealand, and England), and we are getting along well. We started off in the tropical Kerala backwaters along the Arabian Sea, and from there went up to the Nilgiri mountains to Coonoor and Ooty, then down to the forests of Madumalai national park. Now we’re in Mysore, getting ready to take an overnight train to Chennai and then the east coast of India. A couple days ago we took a train from Coonoor to Ooty, and since it’s a train mostly popular with tourists, I didn’t expect much of a cultural experience. 

     Wrong. 

     The six of us were the only people in our carriage until shortly before it left the station. Then suddenly a group of 30 or 40 young Indian women poured into our car, accompanied by their male teacher and a male tour guide. I thought they were high school girls, because they looked so young and were so shy and demure. I found out later that they’re electrical engineering college students from Hyderabad. Since that city has virtually no tourists, they were as fascinated by us as we were by them. 

     Men here, like men in most places, look drab next to women. And these young women were almost as colorful as the bright tropical flowers that grow wild along the train tracks we were traveling over. I tried to talk to them, but they declined, even though they all speak English. So I just looked at them. One wore jeans and a t-shirt, and one wore a Muslim headscarf. But the rest wore beautiful stylish clothes popular with Hindu women. The clothes are comprised of a three piece outfit: knee-length tunic, long pants, and a scarf. It’s colorful and elegant, yet modest. I was curious about who they are, and wished I could cross the cultural divide. But I was a male and a foreigner, so the wall between us was just too great. 

     Then their tour guide spoke to them in their language (not Hindi), and the girls in front of me began to sing, followed by those behind me. They alternated, spontaneously coming up with songs they all knew the words to. The singing got louder and more energetic as their tour guide/cheerleader urged them to compete with one another. I marveled that they knew the words to so many songs. Then, egged on by their guide, two girls got up right in front of me and danced with each other, as their classmates cheered, laughed, and clapped. Louder and louder the singing became, and the dancing became more and more energetic. God, they were graceful, as they did traditional and Bollywood-style moves. I couldn’t believe this was happening one foot in front of me. 

     The guide called to me in English, urging me to dance with the girls. So I did! I jumped up and began doing a Steve Martin-like wild and crazy guy routine, as the girls howled and shrieked in delight. The barriers melted away, as we all became human beings enjoying ourselves immensely in the present moment. My companions were invited to join us in the dancing, and a couple of them did. I’ve never had so much fun on a train trip. When we arrived at our destination, every girl came up to me and shook my hand and said thank you. And I sincerely thanked each one of them for the time of my life. 

     The next day we were riding in our van and had almost arrived at our jungle destination, when we came across a Hindu temple where maybe 100 people were singing and dancing outside. It was an extended family celebrating a local festival, though we didn’t know that at first. We approached the gathering cautiously and respectfully, standing on the fringe, not wanting to intrude.

     After a few minutes I was tapping my foot to the singing, and a man saw that and approached me and invited me to dance. I had no idea what to expect, but said yes. To my surprise, he took me by the hand and pulled me in front of all his relatives, and began showing me how to dance. I copied his every move, to the cheers and laughter of his family, who welcomed me and later my comrades into their family celebration. Then a couple women got up and danced with me, and we took turns leading and following each other, as these local tribespeople marveled at the exotic sight of a white man doing their traditional dances under a banyan tree next to their Hindu shrine. And my  friends and I exulted at the hospitality of these wonderful people who were so generous and welcoming to total strangers. 

     They invited us to stay for dinner, but after coffee we had to move on. A young man told us that we had honored them by our visit, but I assured him that it was we who were honored. They’ve probably forgotten us by now, but I’ll remember them for a long time to come.  

     

God

     Kochi, October 17, 2013

     There are times when India feels like a god-forsaken hell hole. Tuesday was one of those times. 

     After a beautiful early morning hike through Periyar National Forest in the mountains of the state of Kerala (“God’s Own Country”), my comrades and I had a free afternoon. But even though we were staying in the small town of Kumily, it’s still India. Heat, along with dusty rubble-strewn streets filled with garbage, exhaust fumes, blaring horns, and jostling pedestrians and vehicles, test one’s patience. Kumily is an ugly town carved out of the peaceful mountain forest. 

     I needed some cash, but had to walk to four ATMs all over town before I finally got some. It’s almost laughable how hard it can be to do the simplest things in India. The first ATM had run out of money, the second one was out of order, the third had a long line, and at the fourth some guy brazenly cut in front of me. Cutting in line is common here, as men (it’s almost always men) can be aggressive, rude, and inconsiderate.  I usually say nothing when someone here cuts in front of me, because I don’t speak the local languages. And I try not to get too angry at the little provocations one must endure in such overcrowded cities and towns. 

     As Jahan, a young guide in Bombay explained to me, “India is synchronized chaos.” It’s crazy, but somehow it works. He added that unlike Western countries, Indians have no street etiquette for drivers or pedestrians – people do anything they want, creating chaos with jaywalking, reckless driving, and honking horns. And cutting in lines. I mentioned a quote from a local newspaper saying that Indians are habitual rule breakers, and Jahan said that’s true – Indians enjoy defying government rules and social niceties. Another newspaper article said that this defiance comes from the civil disobedience encouraged by Gandhi and others during the Indian independence movement. 

     In any case, India works, but it’s also dysfunctional. Over one third of the world’s poor live in India, and half of the world’s lepers live here. One third of the politicians are convicted criminals, mostly for corruption but also for murder and rape. The streets are mostly shabby and dirty, and beggars are commonplace. 

     Yet in spite of the nasty behavior and conditions, the country has a growing middle class and high tech sector. And the poor people are stoic, and patiently endure hardships. For every inconsiderate jerk I encounter, there are 100 kind and helpful people whose smiles help to salve the wounds inflicted by their thoughtless neighbors. I have hundreds of human interactions daily, some quite unpleasant, but most on the positive side of the ledger. 

     I have to smile when Indians ask my name, and I tell them “My name is Dave.” What they hear is “My name is God,” because in Hindi, “Dev” (pronounced Dave) means God. 

     I don’t know if religion is part of the problem or part of the solution to India’s woes, but here religion is in your face all day long. You can’t escape it. Hindu shrines are everywhere, as are posters and statues of Shiva and Ganesh, the two most popular gods. 80% of Indians are Hindus, 15% are Muslims, and the remaining 5% are Christians, Buddhists, Jains, Parsis (Zoroastrians of Persian origen), and a handful of Jews. There are few Christians in northern India, but in the south there are a lot of Catholics, thanks in part to Portugese and French colonies from past centuries. 

     Our tour leader is Sam, a 33 year old single Catholic from Kerala. I asked him if he’d be willing  to marry outside his religion, and he said he’d be willing to marry a Hindu but not a Muslim. When I asked him why not a Muslim, he said that “religion is OK, but Muslims are too religious. And they have too many rules.” 

     There is some mixing of the religions, and that’s a hopeful sign. There are statues of the Jewish/Catholic goddess Virgin Mary everywhere in Catholic towns and neighborhoods. In Bombay I saw a group of Hindu women chanting and praying to a statue of Mary, and Jahan explained that Hindus worship so many gods and goddesses, why not Mary? Auto rickshaw (tuk tuk) or taxi drivers usually have little plastic figures of Ganesh, Shiva, Jesus, or Mary on their dashboards, but a couple times I’ve seen decals of Mecca, Ganesh, and Jesus together above the dashboard, suggesting religious tolerance and harmony. 

     Even so, it won’t be easy to reconcile these different tribes. Jahan said that Bombay is being held back by corrupt bureaucrats and cops, as well as conservative Hindu and Muslim mindsets. He added that the most progressive people in Bombay are Christians, Parsis, and Jews, though the latter two are dwindling in population. 

     India may be the most religious place I’ve ever visited. Ironically, it has the most images of God I’ve seen, and the least evidence of God’s presence. If God is love, then I hope that God/love finds a way to bless the Indian people. They need it. 

     I hate India. And I love it. I’m leaving tonight. 

     Thank God. 

     Namaste, 

     Dev