Hello readers of Norm Rasmussen!
I figured since Norm is struggling with blogging about his day-to-day life, I would throw him a bone and write a guest post. That, and I have a pretty good story to tell…
Before I start, introductions are in order. My name is Jodi and I am working at Fireflies Ashram, about 40 km outside Bangalore, and about 2 hours from RT Nagar where Norm lives. I too completed the South India Study Abroad program in 2008 and fell in love with India. My passion for cows, curry, and the smell of burnt garbage combined with the crashing economy brought me back for a second round. My tasks here have been simple thus far: re-do the Fireflies website (I have little to no prior knowledge of web design) and hang out/make friends with the other staff (this includes a lot of me sitting and smiling while I am almost certain they are making fun of me in Kannada).
My story starts on Thursday. Norm came to Fireflies and I introduced him to all the new staff that had come to work here after we left. Included in these introductions was one woman I knew he would instantly love. Her name is Lakshmama. My guess at her age is somewhere between 40 and 60 but the special part about her is that she speaks almost every language in India: Kannada (the local language in Karnataka), Tamil, Malayalum, Urdu, Hindi and English. Norm and her bonded right away and soon she was explaining to us that she had American dollars she wanted exchanged for rupees. I was eager to help and told her that of course I could take her money into the city and exchange it. Where the money was and how she acquired it was not fully disclosed at that time.
Fast forward to Sunday. I wake up, eat some breakfast, talk to my parents on skype. I told them I had a boring day planned; attempting to do some bucket laundry and reading outside. My day turned out to be anything but boring…
Purnabas (a staff member who speaks broken English) asked me if I wanted to walk with him to a function in the next village. Where I live is considered Dinnepalya. Utthari, where we were going, is about a kilometer away. One of the drivers for Fireflies, Muniraj (Moon-ee-raj) and another staff member, Rajesh, both live in that village. Muniraj is the president of the branch of the caste that both him and Rajesh belong to in Utthari. I’m not actually sure what the function was about, and if that explanation seems hazy it’s because it was explained to me while I was riding on the back of a motorcycle that Rajesh was driving from Utthari to Dinnepalya.
Purnabas and I walk to Utthari and along the way I slowly acquire a parade of children who follow me and ask me what my name is, they then repeat my name (CHO-TI) all the way to the village. About half way there we also run into the man who is giving Purnabas harmonium lessons. He demands Purnabas leave and go back to Fireflies with him to practice the harmonium. So now it is just myself attending a function where no English is spoken. I show up to a colorful tent and see Muniraj speaking enthusiastically into a microphone. Although all the villagers attention is on him, it still spreads quickly that there is a foreigner in the audience and all eyes turn to look at me as I am ushered into a seat.
Many women give me evil looks until I fold my hands together and say “Namaskara”. They look relieved and smile broadly back. Children cautiously peer at me and I smile back at their intense stares. About a half hour into watching the events of the function unfold I feel a tap on my shoulder. I think nothing of it as the whole time I am sitting I know the little Indian children are poking at my white skin. But another harder jab comes and I turn around to see Lakshmama. She whispers in my ear, “my sister is waiting for us around the corner.”
It’s important to note that every time Lakshmama has talked to me about exchanging money it is always in private and she reminds me that no one should know about this. She told Norm and I she had about $60 to exchange, we thought maybe a tip from someone who had come to Fireflies.
Lakshmama and I walk to meet her sister and once there she pulls out a piece of computer paper, on it are photocopies of the back and front of a bill. A 1,000,000-dollar bill. My immediate response was to laugh, but as I look at Lakshmama and her sister’s face I know they are serious about getting this exchanged into rupees. I calmly explained that what she handed me is fake. She replied yes, it is a Xerox. I tried to tell her that this amount of money is not printed, but her sister had to catch a bus and a lot was lost in translation, so we decided meet with Purnabas later that night where he could translate between Hindi and English.
I call Norm and explain this ridiculous situation I am now in on my way back to the function. I barely make it to a seat when a man taps me and says “Madam, please” and motions for me to move forward in the audience. I am reluctant, but he is persistent and leads me to the front row. The men who are on stage all smile and whisper to one another while gesturing to me. As the function goes on it is clear they are celebrating certain leaders in the community. I notice they are talking about me more and more and without notice a man leaps down from the stage and makes me stand up while he places flowers around my neck and has the photographer take pictures of me. I was very embarrassed that the only qualification it seemed that I had for receiving this honor was being white. No one else seemed to question the flowers or the plaque that gets handed to me a few minutes later. Although I was worried that the Indians wouldn’t want me invading their function, I wasn’t too happy with the opposite reaction either: an overwhelming welcoming. I am not sure how to react in those situations, or how to thank them. After the function appeared to be over, big buckets of rice were brought out and I was forced to sit and eat. A little girl who had befriended me quickly reprimanded me for using the wrong hand to eat with (it’s the right hand if you ever find yourself in a similar situation) and all the other kids surrounded me to watch the odd way I shoveled rice in my mouth and inquire about my mother, father, sister and brother’s names. Finally Rajesh rescued me and took me back to Fireflies on his motorcycle.
My day was not over… I still had to meat with Lakshmama to explain to her about the fake money. On my way up to the computer lab I hear her call my name and I see her in the kitchen talking with Purnabas. She tells me she has explained to Purnabas about the money. When I ask her how she got her hands on such a bill, she told me she took it out of a donation jar. Why someone would put a fake million-dollar bill in a donation jar and why she would take it out is still a mystery. I also think that when she told Norm and I $60, maybe she meant 6 zeros? I did my best to explain to her that on the photocopy of the bill she gave me, it said it was not actual money, and also that they don’t print that much money. However, she wasn’t convinced and said that she would bring it to my room in 2 days.
So for now the situation is not resolved. Hopefully Lakshmama will not be too disappointed when she realizes that they money she thinks she has is fake.
Anyway, that was my supposed-to-be-lazy-Sunday turned into quite an exciting day with situations that would only happen in India.
Jodi
If you, or anyone you know would like to contribute a guest post (it can be about anything you want, it's not reserved for India only), send me an e-mail and I'll post: norman.rasmussen@gmail.com
Other than that stay tuned for the next in the series, The Apartment (parts I AND II), and Your Weekly Fridge!
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Some pictures
Okay, while this is a post of pictures, I realized I haven't written in a while... fear not - some writing comes soon! Since I am constantly at a computer, I am going to try and write less, more often. And if I don't....bother me! Anyway... here you go....
Don't mind the quality of some... they were taken on my camera phone.
This is the road that connects K.H.B Main Road and Sultan Palya Main Road... this is looking towards Sultan Palya Main Road.
At the end of my road (K.H.B) this is called Dinnur Main Road. If you exit my street and make a right, you will see this sight. From here, if you go straight and make another right, that will be Sultan Palya main road. Are you making a map in your head yet?
Ah, K.H.B! This is my road, but not very close to my house. If you look you can see how the road ends at a T intersection... that is Dinnur Main Road. So if you were to take a right, you would see the two pictures above this one.
Plain Rice, Chapati (Indian flat bread) and a Palya. A palya is more or less a mix of vegetables systematically cooked with oil, onions and various spices. Spices can always vary, but the most basic ingredient (and quite healthy) is turmeric (which turns everything yellow). In this palya, I cooked cabbage and carrot.
Before moving onto the next picture, I remember a conversation I had over dinner before leaving for India. Or perhaps lunch. But the subject was life expectancy in India. All of us guessed various answers, from 35 all the way to 65. As poor as the rest of the world might think India is, (I'll argue against that in another entry, you should see the amount of money the middle and upper classes have here in Bangalore) the truth is, the life expectancy is quite high. Norman Jr. did some research, and the average life-expectancy turned out to be closer to 55-60.
What does this have to do with anything in the middle of pictures of food? Well, the big thing they tote (both in person and on the internet) about the yellow turmeric powder is it's medicinal anti-aging properties. It is said to be very good for your cells, bones, and immune system. Some warm milk with turmeric mixed in is said to be a great, easy cure for a common cold.Anyway, interpret it as you will - India will always hold strong to turmeric.
Now obviously turmeric is not the SOLE cause for a longer life, India has some great hospitals, lots of medicine available, and a wide range of doctors from traditional western doctors, to homeopathic doctors and even the traditional ayurvedic doctors. All of it together plays apart in living a longer life in India.
Ah, breakfast! Chapati, with Indian scrambled eggs (refer to Ballarshah post). Onions, turmeric, chili powder, onions, and eggs.... on top of being delicious, it wakes you up in the morning!.
Oh this is a change. This is what looks like a juice box. In fact it is a juice box... only it's adult juice. See McDowell's on the package? That's a type of whiskey. I never tried whiskey out of a juice box, but it seems to be a convenient, easy way to drink for some here.
Ah... aloo and capsicum. In English -potato and pepper curry. See, everyone thinks Indian cooking is very complicated, confusing and hard to make. But it all starts with oil and onions. Then some spices, some vegetables. It all depends on the timing of when you put in the vegetables (since they all cook at different rates). Anyway, another delicious meal.
Besides taste, my gauge has been this - if I get heartburn, it was a good enough meal. If I get heartburn - I did something wrong....
Haha, this is great. The guys next door to us moved out. So the landlord obviously wants to rent out the apartment. And this is the sign. John had thought about moving into the bigger apartment - but being a meat eater, wasn't allowed. Only in India, right?
Tomato Gojju! Thanks to Gowri for giving me this recipe, it could also be called Tomato curry. I just forgot to add the jaggery.....
This is also great, this is the Varanashi's (Gowri and Siri's) mail box right outside their gate. Varanashi, the family name all the way to the left. The address on the next piece of metal. A box for letters. And a box for packets of milk. Instead of going out to buy milk every morning (as I do everyday) you can have the option to have a certain number of packets delivered right to your mailbox every morning.
Nothing better than the paper and a packet of milk.
The other language on the mailbox is Kannada.
Writing.... coming soon!
Ah, one more picture, as requested by the parents. They wanted to see me with my hair chopped off - sorry the picture is fuzzy, camera phone again!
Myself, Aishwarya and Natasha on Natasha's birthday this past week.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Fast Food
Last night I went over to Sreenagar to hang out with Paul, Gowri, Ravindra, his wife Chinoo, and their friends, a pair of environmentalist. Actually I went mostly so I could finally meet Ravindra's adorable baby daughter. She was great.
Anyway, after an hour or so we were getting hungry. Paul was craving some chicken - American chicken if we could find it. Understandably he was getting tired of spices and cardamom and chili powder, and everything else in Indian cooking. Don't get me wrong, Indian cooking is more than fantastic, but if I had a nice burger everyday, eventually I would crave some pasta.
So we headed out, and Ravindra told us to head to Jayanagar. He knew this great place to have chicken - American chicken. What else could he be describing but the famous Colonel's Kentucky Fried Chicken! So we went to feast.
And let me say, that was my most expensive meal for the little amount of food I got. Rs. 117 is generally a semi-expensive meal for "fast food". Let's see, for that money I got 75 grams of french fries (apparently thats the "regular" size, but they told it to me numerically), 2 strips of chicken, and one hot & crispy chicken leg.
Considering if I go to a local joint and for less than Rs. 60 I can get a Thali, that's pretty expensive. What is a Thali? Most simply it's a "meal" (like choosing a number one, or two etc), but what constitutes a thali is different for different parts of India. The biggest divide is North Indian vs. South Indian Thalis, but there are also Punjabi Thalis (which are EXCELLENT) etc etc. I'll briefly describe a South Indian thali. One big plate with 6-8 small bowls of various vegetables, sauces, chutneys etc. These are all just different combinations of spices and foods, varying in thickness, spiciness, taste, texture etc. There is a thin crispy type of fried dough, and then a man comes around and piles a nice heaping scoop of rice on your plate. You also receive a small sweet for after the meal. You are supposed to eat the small bowls one at a time, slowly mixing a portion of one into the rice, moving onto the next etc. Anyway, the key feature is, once you are out of one thing, they come by and replace it. Every ten minutes you could have a waiter behind you asking if you want more rice. So for half the price of KFC I can eat as much as I want?
Not bad.
But back to KFC. In America, you see all walks of life in a fast food joint. You could see students, families (however if you are one to regularly bring your family to a fast food place, STOP NOW) middle class folks, people from lower socio-economic backgrounds, and even those considered poor.
After all, fast food was designed to be quick, cheap, and available to everyone. And how it IS available to everyone in America.
Here, things are a little different. Going to a fast food place is almost a "cool" thing to do. Although it seems many things that we think are common in America might be taken as a "cool" thing to do here.
So to generalize again, who did I see last night, and who did I see in a McDonalds while in India? Students, a lot of students. And these students aren't wearing lunghies and tattered clothing. They are fashionable, with iPhones and cool new iPods and modern dress. Whether they have money or not isn't important, but they are portraying to others that they are hip, cool and appear as if they have money.
KFC, McDonalds, and "American" fast food here in India is largely targeted towards young kids with money to spend. Comparing to the dollar, the prices are about the same, so it shouldn't be a big deal right? Wrong. Compared to the rest of India, fast food is some of the most expensive food you can eat. And thus why all the commercials and ads are targeted towards youngsters and middle class or upper-middle class families.
Interesting and strange how even though fast food started out as quick food available to all, it has grown into a fashionable thing to eat. A cool place to hang out. A place for the somewhat wealthy.
If someone walked in with a ripped shirt, oil and dirt on their hands from work, I know there would be many to look and question what he/she was doing there....
In America, that's common place though. So what is common place here, that is cool in America? Curry Powder I suppose....
Anyway, after an hour or so we were getting hungry. Paul was craving some chicken - American chicken if we could find it. Understandably he was getting tired of spices and cardamom and chili powder, and everything else in Indian cooking. Don't get me wrong, Indian cooking is more than fantastic, but if I had a nice burger everyday, eventually I would crave some pasta.
So we headed out, and Ravindra told us to head to Jayanagar. He knew this great place to have chicken - American chicken. What else could he be describing but the famous Colonel's Kentucky Fried Chicken! So we went to feast.
And let me say, that was my most expensive meal for the little amount of food I got. Rs. 117 is generally a semi-expensive meal for "fast food". Let's see, for that money I got 75 grams of french fries (apparently thats the "regular" size, but they told it to me numerically), 2 strips of chicken, and one hot & crispy chicken leg.
Considering if I go to a local joint and for less than Rs. 60 I can get a Thali, that's pretty expensive. What is a Thali? Most simply it's a "meal" (like choosing a number one, or two etc), but what constitutes a thali is different for different parts of India. The biggest divide is North Indian vs. South Indian Thalis, but there are also Punjabi Thalis (which are EXCELLENT) etc etc. I'll briefly describe a South Indian thali. One big plate with 6-8 small bowls of various vegetables, sauces, chutneys etc. These are all just different combinations of spices and foods, varying in thickness, spiciness, taste, texture etc. There is a thin crispy type of fried dough, and then a man comes around and piles a nice heaping scoop of rice on your plate. You also receive a small sweet for after the meal. You are supposed to eat the small bowls one at a time, slowly mixing a portion of one into the rice, moving onto the next etc. Anyway, the key feature is, once you are out of one thing, they come by and replace it. Every ten minutes you could have a waiter behind you asking if you want more rice. So for half the price of KFC I can eat as much as I want?
Not bad.
But back to KFC. In America, you see all walks of life in a fast food joint. You could see students, families (however if you are one to regularly bring your family to a fast food place, STOP NOW) middle class folks, people from lower socio-economic backgrounds, and even those considered poor.
After all, fast food was designed to be quick, cheap, and available to everyone. And how it IS available to everyone in America.
Here, things are a little different. Going to a fast food place is almost a "cool" thing to do. Although it seems many things that we think are common in America might be taken as a "cool" thing to do here.
So to generalize again, who did I see last night, and who did I see in a McDonalds while in India? Students, a lot of students. And these students aren't wearing lunghies and tattered clothing. They are fashionable, with iPhones and cool new iPods and modern dress. Whether they have money or not isn't important, but they are portraying to others that they are hip, cool and appear as if they have money.
KFC, McDonalds, and "American" fast food here in India is largely targeted towards young kids with money to spend. Comparing to the dollar, the prices are about the same, so it shouldn't be a big deal right? Wrong. Compared to the rest of India, fast food is some of the most expensive food you can eat. And thus why all the commercials and ads are targeted towards youngsters and middle class or upper-middle class families.
Interesting and strange how even though fast food started out as quick food available to all, it has grown into a fashionable thing to eat. A cool place to hang out. A place for the somewhat wealthy.
If someone walked in with a ripped shirt, oil and dirt on their hands from work, I know there would be many to look and question what he/she was doing there....
In America, that's common place though. So what is common place here, that is cool in America? Curry Powder I suppose....
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Finally! The start of Bangalore
What a re-introduction into Bangalore! You've all seen the pictures, so here is the story and description.
While in Mysore, I got an e-mail from my friend from the states, Paul Rosolie, that he was coming to India on Sunday. Paul is person who changed my perception on a lot of things by bringing me down to Peru to spend 2 weeks in the Amazon Jungle. It was the most amazing trip I've ever experienced. The flora, fauna, the beauty. I highly reccomend this to anyone.
In fact, before I begin with my own story I want everyone to be aware of Paul's company in Peru. The name is Tamandua Expeditions (www.tamanduajungle.com) and is run by Paul (the U.S.) and Juan-Julio (from Peru). If anyone is interested in going on an Amazon trip, finding out what Paul and Tamandu Jungle is doing to preserve the rainforest and educate people on the importance of what a big impact the rain forest has on the rest of the world, please find Tamandua Jungle or Paul on facebook, or e-mail him at: Paul@tamanduajungle.com or you can call his U.S. cell phone at: 201-675-5379
He is always looking for interested people, donations, or anything that will support the conservation of the biggest rainforest in the world. The rainforest is one of those really specific places that if something is out of place - a certain bee doesn't polinate a certain flower, or a certain animal doesn't migrate to another specific place - everything is out of whack. It affects everything else. I had the opportunity to witness when I was down there in December, that the biggest causes of these problems are loggers, oil companies and gold miners. They constantly disrupt the wildlife and flora patterns in the area. I would look into his organization, it's vastly important and I fully support all their efforts to make the world a better place. You should too.
But, onto to Bangalore. So while in Mysore, I got this e-mail from Paul and decided to arrive in Bangalore the same day as himself. I found a hotel, got some stuff unpacked and jumped on a bus to meet him at the bus terminal "Banashankari" as we had planned. I got out of the bus, and as if it were all planned out for us, Gowri and Paul got out of their auto rickshaw at the same exact time. It was all smiles and excitment, ready for what adventures lay ahead.
And off we went to eat dinner at Gowri's house. They were also nice enough to let me stay the night. The biggest change for me wasn't finally seeing friends, or being able to talk and communicate with people in a manner I was used to, it was being in a house. And not just a house. A home. A place where I fely physically and emotionally comfortable. I went from observing many different ways of life in India, living on a shoe-string budget, to living with a middle-class family. People that you might see on the street everyday, but never really see their homes.
I imagined Gowri's house as my own. If my parents were living in India, they would want the same quality of living that Gowri's parents have provided her. And it was great. A home cooked meal, a friendly cat that likes to sit on your lap, a couch. I was actually more relieved to hear that they didn't have cable TV in the house. I've gotten tired of watching TV. But I have been able to relax in the morning with a nice cup of home made chai and a paper to read. It's been great.
But being with Paul, a day of that is already too long. Let the adventure begin!!
On Tuesday, out of the blue and with no planning, we decided to go camping. Being in Bangalore, and having no idea where one could possibly go camping, I was confused. It's not like at home where we could drive 15 minutes and go to Harriman and get lost in the woods for 3 days. Instead, they told me about this giant monolithic rock. According to them, it's the second biggest in the world, called Savan Durga. The name might be misspelt. Either way, it used to be a summer home of sorts for Tipu Sultan, and what remains is the ruins of the house, some walls, and an old stable. And of course, being that it is so tall, there is a temple at the top.
So off we went. It was Paul and Gowri, as well as Gowri's sister Siri, and myself.
We took our time and climbed around the rocks, and made our way to the top. In one small alcove of rocks there was a tree with many vines growing. They grew up and down, side ways, snaking their way around the rocks and boulders, some how finding water and soil for nourishment. As amazing as the tree looked (you can see it in the pictures, the one with me crouching on a branch to the right is a good example), for us it was a play ground. Like monkeys we jumped and leaped from branch to branch. We swung and hung and made jokes and climbed around. That is, until we realized the sun was quickly setting and we needed to make it to the top before dark.
Getting to the top was not easy. There was an easier way that skirted around the more flat parts of the mountain, but the four of us were feeling adventurous that day. We decided to try for the steep part. The funny thing about climbing a steep rock face is that when you are clmbing, you exert a lot of effort. And after climbing for five minutes you get tired, and look up, and see still so much ahead of you. But then you look down, and (for me at least), it is ALWAYS surprising how far you make it in so little time. I climbed quickly, looked back, and while I still had a ways to go, the other three already looked like ants far below.
So climbing rocks that are perched at 45 degrees from flat ground, it's best to be on all fours. Not on your hands and knees (a giant gash on my knee shows why not), but using your hands for balance, and your feet to keep pushing you up. It's actually kind of fun. You feel like a monkey running up a steep cliff.
But enough games and monkey business, we finally made it to the top. And by now, night had fallen. In fact the last 10 min or so of climbing was in the dark. And since we were clamboring up this giant rock, our hands were too tied up to grab head lamps. Oh well, it makes the climb all the more exciting. You just have to pray that your footing is secure.
So we arrived at the ruins. Plain, with some graffiti, we weren't there for aesthetic value. What amazed me aesthetically is when I turned around from facing the ruins where we were camping. What lay at my feet was a vast forest of lights. Bangalore, in all it's glory. Unlike New York, which is on a relatively small space and grew up towards the sky, Bangalore is located on the Mysore Plateau and has space to grow. Even now, Bangalore is expanding out wards. There are very few 10+ story buildings, but instead, like a giant amoeba, Bangalore had spread out in front of us on this pleateau. You could almost touch it. The fortunate thing about seeing Bangalore from where we were was that you could not hear it. Thankfully it was silent except for the howling of wind on that rock.
As is standard in camping, the first thing we did was search for firewood. It was begining to get chilly. We made two fires, one inside the ruins and one outside. Both were... well, not the best to say the least. The one inside, while it was windy, produced so much smoke that you couldn't stand being inside the ruins without hacking up a lung. If a fire was going all night, there was a good chance we would have all died of asphyxiation.
I'm kidding.
But it was quite windy outside, which made the one we made outside hard to maintain. We had to move some small boulders and rocks to keep the fire protected from the wind. We talked, we jumped around, we explored a bit, and we ate Cup Noodles. After a while, we laid down and attempted to sleep. That, however, did not come easy. If you can believe it, it got so cold at night that it actually kept us from sleeping. Eventually, I think I got 2 hours of sleep or so before 6 am.
At 6:30am though, our day began anew. This time, we were going for the small forest located in the center of this rock. We climbed rock faces, and down vines. We hugged boulders as we inched our way across ledges that had just enough room for a foot. Looking down, with the wind around you was not always a good idea, as many drops were over 20 feet in depth. We leaped from boulder to boulder, branch to branch and without an planned route, made a trekking, rock climbing adventure on the rocks.
At one point I had gotten a little ahead in climbing and decided to round his one rock. Inching across quite a precarious cliff... I mean this cliff got my heart racing -I heard a strange sound. Like squeaking? Or a lot of people talking but really far away. I yelled for Paul to come hear what I was witnessing. He came over, and that's when it hit me and I understood what I was listening to. He looked at me and understood too.
Guano! That's spanish for Bats! Tons of bats! It sounded like there must have been over a hundred bats in a cave some distance away. Unfortuneately, we couldn't reach them from where we were. We were going have to descend from that cliff, and head in the general direction to try and find an entrance.
Clamboring down we reach a chamber of rocks right before the bat cave entrance. It was more of a small cathedral. We had to crawl under rocks to enter it, but once inside, it was magnificent. A giant rock created one wall, and in a dome shape went 30 feet into the air. Smoothly it curved and connected to another rock on the other side of this "cathedral". It was magnificent. But we couldn't be distracted from the task at hand. The sound of the pats was growing.
We found a narrow passage that was acting as a sort of wind tunnel. How did we know we were heading towards the bats? Well this wind tunnel was blowing air from the bat cave towards us. So it smelled. Bad. Horrible. All the feces and urine of the bats were just sitting in that cave, and the fumes were blowing in our faces. We pressed on.
The passage got tighter. And steeper. But now, in the distance we could see the shadows of bats on the ground. They were talking and flying and doing whatever bats do. Then, the passage was too tight. As we got to this point, as if the bats knew of our presence, they grew in volume. The passage was like this. It got really steep, and a rock was lodged about 4 feet above the ground. So to arrive in the cave, one would have to slip under the rock, and between the two tight walls into this small tunnel. The bat cave lay just beyond that.
First Paul got down and tried to squeeze through. His hips wouldn't make it through. Being a little smaller, I tired next. I lay on my side, kicked away debris in front of me and began to slide down. I also had too much girth to slip through. We climbed ontop of the rock that was lodged above the ground and sought out a way to get down on that side. Since it was getting steep though, we would have had to jump 10-15 feet from the rock to hit the ground. And in such a small space the danger was greater than the benefit of seeing a bat cave.
Then Gowri spoke up. "I'll go." Excellent! We thought. Gowri, so you know, is a small girl. Weighing in at about 80-90 pounds, she just barely slipped through the crevice, through some mud and feces, and down into the bat cave. All we heard from our position were "Oh my gods!" and "You guys should see this."
She hurried back through the tunnel to tell us what she witnessed. She told us it would have been bad to enter because bats were just flying around, defacating and urinating all over the place. She wasn't under neath them, but she said if we went in, it would have been impossible to dodge it all. And we didn't have an umbrella. But more amazingly, she described how there must have been hundreds of bats just hanging from the cieling, all talking and squaking, and doing what bats do best. It really shook the stereotype that bats sleep during the day. The sound of them all at times was deafening.
It was a crazy experience. Too bad we didn't get to see them that day (the rest of us) but Paul and I want to make a point to go back and make an effort to really see the cave. It was crazy that we found it in the first place. From there we continued to climb around and have fun, but that was by far the most exciting part of the experience. We eventually made it to the temple at the top, where (as you can see from pictures) it was windy!
We also found some trees with definite leopard scratches on the tree. And from the position of the tree, it would be impossible that it was a bear. Only a leopard could have the agility to climb to that position.
Sorry for the rushed post, I am trying to get through responding to e-mails and phone calls, as well as writing this. However... there is more to come! Tonight, Paul, Gowri, Siri and I are heading to Pondicherry until next week. According to everyone ever Pondy is an amazing place. A place where everyone rides their bikes, where the atmosphere is calm, and it has beaches. I'm excited to relax on a beach with some friends for the next week. So hopefully I'll have some good stories for when I return.
However, on the blogs next episode: Hanchehalli, The Archimedes Rock, and Pondicherry!
More soon!
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Pictures of Bangalore and Savandurga
Paul and I at the Nandi temple on the top of Savan Durga, the second biggest monolithic rock in the world.
Just to show you how windy it got at the top... standing was a challenge
Climbing down a rock wall using these conveniently placed roots. The only precarious thing was some of them were rotten, so falling 24 feet onto rocks would have hurt.
Myself, Siri, Paul and Gowri at 3am because it was too cold to sleep. Who would have thought that it could get too cold near Bangalore
A tree growing amongst the rocks. The first one you can see me crouching amongst the vines on the right hand side, and the bottom one is me looking up at Gowri.
Monday, August 10, 2009
48 Hour Train Ride
So I found a USB Thumb drive! 8gb for a little under 20 USD, not bad.And I found (bought) a bicycle! So here is the long train post. Mind you I wrote it while still in Allepey. I leave Cochi today, and will leave the next post when I feel my adventure is complete. (Hope the tension isn't killing everyone) So here it is:
So... how to explain 48 hours in a train. Most say they would die of boredom, or not being able to move, or something of the sort. In the end it was pleasant, entertaining... a very neutral ride. The ride itself, in chronological order would be quite boring. Instead what constituted the interesting parts of this ride were the people and their actions. So don't be surprised if you find that this post is more a description of people than the ride itself. After all, the ride would be nothing if it weren't for the people I met.
When I originally bought the ticket, I was waiting list 14. That was before the trek. When I got back from the trek I was waiting list 5. An improvement, I thought, and with 3 days left, I was bound to geta seat. Two hours before my train ride I checked my status again and I was waiting list one. “Crap”, I thought. No worries, I'll bribe the conductor despite the rumors I heard that bribing the conductor in the AC class is much harder than in the sleeper non A/C.
Anyway, I needed to get to Bangalore.
Being an hour or so late, I jumped on the first Three Tier (Sleeper A/C) car I saw and hoped for the best. The cars inside are divided thus: on one side you have an open-air compartment style seating where six people can sit and sleep (you need to lift up the middle berth bed when you are ready to sleep). On the other side, you have two seats, facing each other. The top half is a bed, and the two seats on the bottom fold down to become a lower tier bed. Since this latter half of the car holds less people,(two there versus six on the opposite side) I sat down in the first available seat I found.
Almost immediately after (as New Jalpaiguri is a crowded station and it seemed like everyone was going to Bangalore), a young man sat across from me on the same side. Little did I know he was going to be one of my companions for the next 48 hours.
Surya Maan (spelling might be incorrect) was his name, and as a native from Gangtok, was going into his third or fourth year of engineering school in Bangalore. At 22 years old, he says he wants to become a software engineer. Surya does not look Indian on first glance. On first appearance he might look like he is from the Philippines or somewhere. I took immediate interest in him because of two things he was carrying.
A guitar and an amp. We began talking about music, what he likes, what he plays, what I like, what I play, and it paved the beginnings of a calm, entertaining, and talkative journey. Due to his love of thrash metal and knowledge of American bands, cinema and the like, (as well as speaking perfect English), something new came out of me as well. For the first time after departing from Jared and Mark, I was acting like I acted at home. He understood my sarcastic remarks, American humor, and things of that nature. It was interesting and relieving at the same time.
Through some shuffling around, and Surya knowing that I was on waiting list one, he told me to follow him to his seat. The whole train was confused because the train numbers on the plaques were in actuality incorrect, and the correct seat numbers were written in blue marker. So I followed him to the next set of seats, and we sat waiting for the conductor. I got my money ready to bribe him, but Surya kept saying don't worry I'll speak for you, don't pay him anything.
Surya more or less became my cultural adviser for the trip. To him I was able to ask questions other might find rude. He explained, from a younger perspective, things about beggars, children, mafia, hijras, conspiracy theories, government, Bangalore, music culture in Bangalore etc etc. He also, like I was meant to meet him, told me where to get good guitars in Bangalore. Birthday present, here I come.
During the trip, he asked if I wanted to see the pantry car. “Sure?” I had said, thinking, like all other trains, its where you can buy snacks and what not. Apparently not. All the breakfasts, lunches and dinners they serve on the train are freshly made in this pantry car. Dividing sleeper non A/C and sleeper A/C this car has grills, broilers, and giant vats of oil where everything is cooked. In small sleeping rooms people were peeling onions and chopping lettuce. It was quite interesting to see all the workers cooking over hot stoves. And apparently their monthly income comes to about Rs. 13,000. 15,000 is USD$300.
On that day (the 5th of August) it was also Raki, the brother sister festival. What is supposed to happen is the brother is supposed to go visit the sister wherever she is. The brother gives the sister a present. Maybe some money, or a sari, or some gold, anything within your means will do. The sister then puts a small bracelet around the brothers wrist and places a single gulab jamun in his mouth (a pancake type of Indian sweet). Well in the pantry car, they were celebrating this festival, and since not everyone could go visit their sister, in one of the sleeping compartments there were two surrogate sisters with a bunch of bracelets, a bag full of gulab jamun, and a tray full of money.
On the 5th of August, 2009, I became an official brother of India and have the little yellow bracelet to prove it.
Towards the end of the trip, Surya and I shared an interesting moment. He said he wanted, for atleast a week, to live an American life. He said he wanted burgers, and hot dogs, and stuff of that nature. Mostly it was the food. So, I described to him what me and my friends did every night. I told him it was great cause we're with friends, but it gets boring too. Sometimes you want to do new stuff. He then described his life, which he thought boring, with his friends and what they did etc. Turns out, we didn't really have that different of lives. We did similar things, as long as it was with friends. Still, he yearned for an American life, and I have been yearning for an Indian life. In the end, this is the conclusion we came to:
Fight for whatever life you want, but be happy with what you have anyways. Just cause you are happy with one situation doesn't mean you've given up on all alternatives, or situations you want. Being happy with your current situation is your control over life. Not life's control over you.
But, that's not always the way things are. What can you do.
Let's back track a little, back to when I first got on the train. I was sitting where there are two seats, and Surya was on the compartment side, where six people sit (this is after I followed him to his seat). On the bench opposite to Surya were three people. Three people who would quickly also become companions on my journey. Tenzing, Tshering, and Udait.
First, let me explain Udait. He was without a doubt a companion on the journey, despite how much he slept. I would not very quickly call him a “friend” either – though he did draw a picture of me because he said he was a painter. Udait had to be at least 40 years old and was on holiday from the Army. He was sleeping when I arrived on the train. Let me rephrase, he was passed out because of how drunk he was. When the conductor came by and checked tickets, I was relieved (and I think everyone else was too) to find that he and I had to switch seats. So he sat alone (where he didn't bother anyone) and I was able to sit with the other three.
When Udait first got up to switch seats he looked around and asked “Where is this train going?”
Let that be a guide-post into his character.
He carried three to four bottles of the cheapest rum. When we first saw him, he had finished off one bottle. On trains, its technically illegal to drink, so he did not sit around sipping his rum having a good time. He would wake up, fill a large cup half with rum, half with lukewarm water, and down the hatch it went. No hesitation, no pausing to catch his breath, just an open throat and a lot of cheap liquor.
Then he would fall back asleep.
Occasionally he woke up to entertain us with a dance, or shake all our hands as if he were for the fourth time, meeting us for the first time. I swear he had the memory of a gold fish. He was all the talk of other passengers, and they laughed and made jokes of him, some saying, “He's not enjoying the rum, the rum is enjoying him”, and everyone broke out in laughter.
The first night for him was a doozy though. I woke up to another army man (this one in uniform) yelling at him. People were upset. The family in the compartment next to us was upset. The next morning when I passed by them, they urged me to go to the conductor and complain, complain, complain. What happened? I thought nothing of it and went back to my business.
That is, until Surya and Tenzing explained to me what happened. Apparently this drunken ogre had stumbled awake in the night, walked into the next family's compartment, and believing it to be the bathroom, decided to relieve himself in front of everyone. That explains all the screaming and complaining.
Thank God he got off before night fell on the next day.
Anyway, Udait seemed only fueled by the rum. He would get up, eat something small, make jokes, drink, dance, make more jokes, and fall back asleep. It sounds like a funny story, but his demeanor more than anything disgusted me. Later, when the food conductor came by the collect his bill, he claimed he never ordered anything and the conductor was a dirty liar. So it goes.
(Sorry Vonnegut, it just worked.)
But, while he was the bulk of entertainment, I was most enlightened by a 27 year old man from Gangtok that sat with us.
Tenzing was his name, and he was a social worker in Sikkim. A native Lepcha (people native to old, old Sikkim when it was still a country,) he said that I looked familiar, and perhaps he had seen me on Tibet road when I was in Gangtok. Tenzing was bringing his seventeen year old sister Tshering (pronounced Cher-ing) to Bangalore to begin her schooling as a Nurse.
Tenzing had short hair for the most part. I say for the most part because the back of his head, right above the neck, the hair was kept long. I asked him why? Religious? Political? Personal? He simply said “I cannot tell you why I keep my hair like this, but I do have a joke. Usually when I go to the barber my hair cut costs Rs. 20. Then one day, without me knowing they changed the price. When he was almost done with my haircut I asked how much it would be and he said Rs. 22. So I said, 'okay just stop here!'. And so this is why my hair is like this.”
Funny how little things like that, seemingly insignificant, completely changed my respect for that man. As soon as he said that he couldn't tell me why his hair was like this, I thought better of him. Is it right, or wrong? Who knows. In fact, who cares – but that was the feeling that ensued.
We began talking, as most travelers do, about what each other does. He completed his under-grad a couple years back with a degree in Sociology. Currently he said he is working as a social worker for village people in the Gangtok area. On top of that, he is somewhat an activist.
This is where it got interesting.
Him an his team, which I believe go by the name of A.C.T (but I need to confirm this) work against government “development” projects. As with most things, its a double edged sword. Development for the government is building dams, power plants, and other such things, while destroying nature, exploiting the Lepchas and basically forcing them to migrate. He says he understands the importance of such projects, and why the government does them, but global solutions don't always work. He's looking to push for more micro-solutions.
Solutions initiated by the people. Solutions that protect the environment. Solutions that protect culture.
Now it may seem like I am harping on the government a lot. To some, this is not anything new, you've heard my opinions. However, everyone, and I mean every single native Indian that I have asked since being in India the second time around, says “Yes, of course the government is corrupt.”
You saw the post on Pawan and his opinions on the train. Surya, Tenzing, even John thinks the government is corrupt. It's like it is common knowledge. And isn't the government just supposed to be a representation of the people? We can only hope. Therefore, if this is the census of some people of India (who I'm beginning to believe is the majority), how can we trust a government in their “development” projects. Thus why I support Tenzing so much.
I urge everyone to check out, just to see what it's like, his movement's blog – weepingsikkim.blogspot.com . Whether you support them or not, at least see what they are doing. According to Tenzing, they have halted 4 out of the 6 development projects in the area. The pressure from the people is really building in the area and they are making an impact. And all I can think about is what I saw on the trek, and the pictures I took. I would want future generations of tourists and locals to be able to see those sites that I have seen and more. If the government continues their projects, it's all going to be ruined. Sad.
Funny thing is, on my way down to NJP (before I met Tenzing) I saw the dam being made on the Teesta river. Even then I looked down from the road and thought - “That thing looks so ugly. It's going to make the flow of the river look so different.”
It seems almost like I needed to meet Tenzing.
Halfway through the ride, I decided to probe a little deeper into his thoughts and doings. I inquired - “So you guys are really scrapping the governments projects, that's pretty awesome. But I must ask – have you guys done any physical work against government projects? Like going in and taking out a few cement blocks and stuff?” What I meant was obviously destructive undertakings.
He looked at me for a long moment and a small grin crept up the side of his mouth. “I can't say these things, or tell you what I have personally done.”
But we were on the same level, his eyes were telling me, “Drastic times call for drastic measures.”
And so I hope to see Tenzing and Surya in the future. Either in Gangtok, or in Bangalore. I told Tenzing if I ever go to Gangtok again I will surely call him and support him in their fight.
The majority of the ride was like this, talking and explaining, laughing and joking. A fun ride.
Some cross-cultural things I noticed, and was happy about:
Touching and Eating. Let me explain:
Eating first; never once did any of us eat alone. On the first day, I thought in the morning I wouldn't be very hungry for lunch, and didn't order any. As they began to bring out lunches, my hunger swelled, and I asked for an extra egg curry for seat 53. Since I ordered so late, and in the middle of the lunch rush, its not surprising that mine came late. Quite late. As Tenzing and Surya's lunches were getting cold they patiently waited for mine to arrive. Over the course of 45 minutes I urged them many times to 'eat', 'it's getting cold', 'don't worry about me', but still they waited, repeating to me, “better to eat together.”
That is something I really value about India, or any culture that makes sure even traveling strangers don't eat alone. You don't see that too much in America any more (hint hint thank you family for making us eat together!)
Like wise, once when Tenzing's dinner was quite late, we also waited. I think you'll find that your food is much more rewarding when it's eaten with other people even if it is cold.
Onto touching. As I said in another post about guys naturally holding hands as friends; having a smaller personal space is normal here. On the train, other people often came to sit down and talk with us, or talk with neighbors, and our seats became crowded. I began to explain to Surya and Tenzing how being this close is not as widely accepted in America. How even if we did have enough space, and my leg stretched out to touch another persons (friend or not friend) I would not be surprised if that person would promptly retract their leg so as to stop the contact.
Often times during a joke Tenzing would slap my leg. Or if Surya would turn to me to tell me something a little more personal, I noticed his hand on my knee. After explaining my frame of mind, they said they took no notice of the touching. It was common place. Understandably. Not that I had any problem, in fact I admired the acceptance of smaller personal space. My American mind though registered every time I touched someone else.
Personally what this did for me was reestablish a male camaraderie that had been lost after I left Europe. The slapping of foreign knees, the putting hands on shoulders, leaning on others, or touching to pass between people, strangers, tourists, natives, children, men, women...
It seems more and more that America's ideas of male camaraderie are more backwards than anywhere else. But I am not here to harp on America; I just believe that the closer connection between friends is a positive aspect and can improve lives and relationships.
I'll end it on that. Now I am in Kerala and will post soon the snake boat races. All I can say is that I saw some drills going on, and... wow. The songs, the drum beat, the rowing. I'll save it for another time. Now I am preparing for my next adventure – which may be lengthy. You'll all hear about it soon.
So... how to explain 48 hours in a train. Most say they would die of boredom, or not being able to move, or something of the sort. In the end it was pleasant, entertaining... a very neutral ride. The ride itself, in chronological order would be quite boring. Instead what constituted the interesting parts of this ride were the people and their actions. So don't be surprised if you find that this post is more a description of people than the ride itself. After all, the ride would be nothing if it weren't for the people I met.
When I originally bought the ticket, I was waiting list 14. That was before the trek. When I got back from the trek I was waiting list 5. An improvement, I thought, and with 3 days left, I was bound to geta seat. Two hours before my train ride I checked my status again and I was waiting list one. “Crap”, I thought. No worries, I'll bribe the conductor despite the rumors I heard that bribing the conductor in the AC class is much harder than in the sleeper non A/C.
Anyway, I needed to get to Bangalore.
Being an hour or so late, I jumped on the first Three Tier (Sleeper A/C) car I saw and hoped for the best. The cars inside are divided thus: on one side you have an open-air compartment style seating where six people can sit and sleep (you need to lift up the middle berth bed when you are ready to sleep). On the other side, you have two seats, facing each other. The top half is a bed, and the two seats on the bottom fold down to become a lower tier bed. Since this latter half of the car holds less people,(two there versus six on the opposite side) I sat down in the first available seat I found.
Almost immediately after (as New Jalpaiguri is a crowded station and it seemed like everyone was going to Bangalore), a young man sat across from me on the same side. Little did I know he was going to be one of my companions for the next 48 hours.
Surya Maan (spelling might be incorrect) was his name, and as a native from Gangtok, was going into his third or fourth year of engineering school in Bangalore. At 22 years old, he says he wants to become a software engineer. Surya does not look Indian on first glance. On first appearance he might look like he is from the Philippines or somewhere. I took immediate interest in him because of two things he was carrying.
A guitar and an amp. We began talking about music, what he likes, what he plays, what I like, what I play, and it paved the beginnings of a calm, entertaining, and talkative journey. Due to his love of thrash metal and knowledge of American bands, cinema and the like, (as well as speaking perfect English), something new came out of me as well. For the first time after departing from Jared and Mark, I was acting like I acted at home. He understood my sarcastic remarks, American humor, and things of that nature. It was interesting and relieving at the same time.
Through some shuffling around, and Surya knowing that I was on waiting list one, he told me to follow him to his seat. The whole train was confused because the train numbers on the plaques were in actuality incorrect, and the correct seat numbers were written in blue marker. So I followed him to the next set of seats, and we sat waiting for the conductor. I got my money ready to bribe him, but Surya kept saying don't worry I'll speak for you, don't pay him anything.
Surya more or less became my cultural adviser for the trip. To him I was able to ask questions other might find rude. He explained, from a younger perspective, things about beggars, children, mafia, hijras, conspiracy theories, government, Bangalore, music culture in Bangalore etc etc. He also, like I was meant to meet him, told me where to get good guitars in Bangalore. Birthday present, here I come.
During the trip, he asked if I wanted to see the pantry car. “Sure?” I had said, thinking, like all other trains, its where you can buy snacks and what not. Apparently not. All the breakfasts, lunches and dinners they serve on the train are freshly made in this pantry car. Dividing sleeper non A/C and sleeper A/C this car has grills, broilers, and giant vats of oil where everything is cooked. In small sleeping rooms people were peeling onions and chopping lettuce. It was quite interesting to see all the workers cooking over hot stoves. And apparently their monthly income comes to about Rs. 13,000. 15,000 is USD$300.
On that day (the 5th of August) it was also Raki, the brother sister festival. What is supposed to happen is the brother is supposed to go visit the sister wherever she is. The brother gives the sister a present. Maybe some money, or a sari, or some gold, anything within your means will do. The sister then puts a small bracelet around the brothers wrist and places a single gulab jamun in his mouth (a pancake type of Indian sweet). Well in the pantry car, they were celebrating this festival, and since not everyone could go visit their sister, in one of the sleeping compartments there were two surrogate sisters with a bunch of bracelets, a bag full of gulab jamun, and a tray full of money.
On the 5th of August, 2009, I became an official brother of India and have the little yellow bracelet to prove it.
Towards the end of the trip, Surya and I shared an interesting moment. He said he wanted, for atleast a week, to live an American life. He said he wanted burgers, and hot dogs, and stuff of that nature. Mostly it was the food. So, I described to him what me and my friends did every night. I told him it was great cause we're with friends, but it gets boring too. Sometimes you want to do new stuff. He then described his life, which he thought boring, with his friends and what they did etc. Turns out, we didn't really have that different of lives. We did similar things, as long as it was with friends. Still, he yearned for an American life, and I have been yearning for an Indian life. In the end, this is the conclusion we came to:
Fight for whatever life you want, but be happy with what you have anyways. Just cause you are happy with one situation doesn't mean you've given up on all alternatives, or situations you want. Being happy with your current situation is your control over life. Not life's control over you.
But, that's not always the way things are. What can you do.
Let's back track a little, back to when I first got on the train. I was sitting where there are two seats, and Surya was on the compartment side, where six people sit (this is after I followed him to his seat). On the bench opposite to Surya were three people. Three people who would quickly also become companions on my journey. Tenzing, Tshering, and Udait.
First, let me explain Udait. He was without a doubt a companion on the journey, despite how much he slept. I would not very quickly call him a “friend” either – though he did draw a picture of me because he said he was a painter. Udait had to be at least 40 years old and was on holiday from the Army. He was sleeping when I arrived on the train. Let me rephrase, he was passed out because of how drunk he was. When the conductor came by and checked tickets, I was relieved (and I think everyone else was too) to find that he and I had to switch seats. So he sat alone (where he didn't bother anyone) and I was able to sit with the other three.
When Udait first got up to switch seats he looked around and asked “Where is this train going?”
Let that be a guide-post into his character.
He carried three to four bottles of the cheapest rum. When we first saw him, he had finished off one bottle. On trains, its technically illegal to drink, so he did not sit around sipping his rum having a good time. He would wake up, fill a large cup half with rum, half with lukewarm water, and down the hatch it went. No hesitation, no pausing to catch his breath, just an open throat and a lot of cheap liquor.
Then he would fall back asleep.
Occasionally he woke up to entertain us with a dance, or shake all our hands as if he were for the fourth time, meeting us for the first time. I swear he had the memory of a gold fish. He was all the talk of other passengers, and they laughed and made jokes of him, some saying, “He's not enjoying the rum, the rum is enjoying him”, and everyone broke out in laughter.
The first night for him was a doozy though. I woke up to another army man (this one in uniform) yelling at him. People were upset. The family in the compartment next to us was upset. The next morning when I passed by them, they urged me to go to the conductor and complain, complain, complain. What happened? I thought nothing of it and went back to my business.
That is, until Surya and Tenzing explained to me what happened. Apparently this drunken ogre had stumbled awake in the night, walked into the next family's compartment, and believing it to be the bathroom, decided to relieve himself in front of everyone. That explains all the screaming and complaining.
Thank God he got off before night fell on the next day.
Anyway, Udait seemed only fueled by the rum. He would get up, eat something small, make jokes, drink, dance, make more jokes, and fall back asleep. It sounds like a funny story, but his demeanor more than anything disgusted me. Later, when the food conductor came by the collect his bill, he claimed he never ordered anything and the conductor was a dirty liar. So it goes.
(Sorry Vonnegut, it just worked.)
But, while he was the bulk of entertainment, I was most enlightened by a 27 year old man from Gangtok that sat with us.
Tenzing was his name, and he was a social worker in Sikkim. A native Lepcha (people native to old, old Sikkim when it was still a country,) he said that I looked familiar, and perhaps he had seen me on Tibet road when I was in Gangtok. Tenzing was bringing his seventeen year old sister Tshering (pronounced Cher-ing) to Bangalore to begin her schooling as a Nurse.
Tenzing had short hair for the most part. I say for the most part because the back of his head, right above the neck, the hair was kept long. I asked him why? Religious? Political? Personal? He simply said “I cannot tell you why I keep my hair like this, but I do have a joke. Usually when I go to the barber my hair cut costs Rs. 20. Then one day, without me knowing they changed the price. When he was almost done with my haircut I asked how much it would be and he said Rs. 22. So I said, 'okay just stop here!'. And so this is why my hair is like this.”
Funny how little things like that, seemingly insignificant, completely changed my respect for that man. As soon as he said that he couldn't tell me why his hair was like this, I thought better of him. Is it right, or wrong? Who knows. In fact, who cares – but that was the feeling that ensued.
We began talking, as most travelers do, about what each other does. He completed his under-grad a couple years back with a degree in Sociology. Currently he said he is working as a social worker for village people in the Gangtok area. On top of that, he is somewhat an activist.
This is where it got interesting.
Him an his team, which I believe go by the name of A.C.T (but I need to confirm this) work against government “development” projects. As with most things, its a double edged sword. Development for the government is building dams, power plants, and other such things, while destroying nature, exploiting the Lepchas and basically forcing them to migrate. He says he understands the importance of such projects, and why the government does them, but global solutions don't always work. He's looking to push for more micro-solutions.
Solutions initiated by the people. Solutions that protect the environment. Solutions that protect culture.
Now it may seem like I am harping on the government a lot. To some, this is not anything new, you've heard my opinions. However, everyone, and I mean every single native Indian that I have asked since being in India the second time around, says “Yes, of course the government is corrupt.”
You saw the post on Pawan and his opinions on the train. Surya, Tenzing, even John thinks the government is corrupt. It's like it is common knowledge. And isn't the government just supposed to be a representation of the people? We can only hope. Therefore, if this is the census of some people of India (who I'm beginning to believe is the majority), how can we trust a government in their “development” projects. Thus why I support Tenzing so much.
I urge everyone to check out, just to see what it's like, his movement's blog – weepingsikkim.blogspot.com . Whether you support them or not, at least see what they are doing. According to Tenzing, they have halted 4 out of the 6 development projects in the area. The pressure from the people is really building in the area and they are making an impact. And all I can think about is what I saw on the trek, and the pictures I took. I would want future generations of tourists and locals to be able to see those sites that I have seen and more. If the government continues their projects, it's all going to be ruined. Sad.
Funny thing is, on my way down to NJP (before I met Tenzing) I saw the dam being made on the Teesta river. Even then I looked down from the road and thought - “That thing looks so ugly. It's going to make the flow of the river look so different.”
It seems almost like I needed to meet Tenzing.
Halfway through the ride, I decided to probe a little deeper into his thoughts and doings. I inquired - “So you guys are really scrapping the governments projects, that's pretty awesome. But I must ask – have you guys done any physical work against government projects? Like going in and taking out a few cement blocks and stuff?” What I meant was obviously destructive undertakings.
He looked at me for a long moment and a small grin crept up the side of his mouth. “I can't say these things, or tell you what I have personally done.”
But we were on the same level, his eyes were telling me, “Drastic times call for drastic measures.”
And so I hope to see Tenzing and Surya in the future. Either in Gangtok, or in Bangalore. I told Tenzing if I ever go to Gangtok again I will surely call him and support him in their fight.
The majority of the ride was like this, talking and explaining, laughing and joking. A fun ride.
Some cross-cultural things I noticed, and was happy about:
Touching and Eating. Let me explain:
Eating first; never once did any of us eat alone. On the first day, I thought in the morning I wouldn't be very hungry for lunch, and didn't order any. As they began to bring out lunches, my hunger swelled, and I asked for an extra egg curry for seat 53. Since I ordered so late, and in the middle of the lunch rush, its not surprising that mine came late. Quite late. As Tenzing and Surya's lunches were getting cold they patiently waited for mine to arrive. Over the course of 45 minutes I urged them many times to 'eat', 'it's getting cold', 'don't worry about me', but still they waited, repeating to me, “better to eat together.”
That is something I really value about India, or any culture that makes sure even traveling strangers don't eat alone. You don't see that too much in America any more (hint hint thank you family for making us eat together!)
Like wise, once when Tenzing's dinner was quite late, we also waited. I think you'll find that your food is much more rewarding when it's eaten with other people even if it is cold.
Onto touching. As I said in another post about guys naturally holding hands as friends; having a smaller personal space is normal here. On the train, other people often came to sit down and talk with us, or talk with neighbors, and our seats became crowded. I began to explain to Surya and Tenzing how being this close is not as widely accepted in America. How even if we did have enough space, and my leg stretched out to touch another persons (friend or not friend) I would not be surprised if that person would promptly retract their leg so as to stop the contact.
Often times during a joke Tenzing would slap my leg. Or if Surya would turn to me to tell me something a little more personal, I noticed his hand on my knee. After explaining my frame of mind, they said they took no notice of the touching. It was common place. Understandably. Not that I had any problem, in fact I admired the acceptance of smaller personal space. My American mind though registered every time I touched someone else.
Personally what this did for me was reestablish a male camaraderie that had been lost after I left Europe. The slapping of foreign knees, the putting hands on shoulders, leaning on others, or touching to pass between people, strangers, tourists, natives, children, men, women...
It seems more and more that America's ideas of male camaraderie are more backwards than anywhere else. But I am not here to harp on America; I just believe that the closer connection between friends is a positive aspect and can improve lives and relationships.
I'll end it on that. Now I am in Kerala and will post soon the snake boat races. All I can say is that I saw some drills going on, and... wow. The songs, the drum beat, the rowing. I'll save it for another time. Now I am preparing for my next adventure – which may be lengthy. You'll all hear about it soon.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
The New Jalpaiguri Turnaround
First, no worries everyone - pictures from the trek are coming soon! I'm about to get on a 52 hour train ride to Bangalore, so give me a couple days. First... a story!
Did I expect to be woken up in my hotel room at 6:45am to a cup of tea and a biscuit? And have it delivered to me from a young man who simply makes chai everyday on the streets? Why would I ever suspect him to come to my hotel, find my room, and deliver me this treat? Let me explain...
It was incredible.
New Jalpaiguri on first glance was - for lack of better word - a nothing-to-see town. When I arrived I was thinking that I should have stayed in Geyshing for a night. I slept soundly one night, awoke the next morning and tried to quell my boredom by getting a shave, eating some food, sending some e-mails (in which there was only one internet place in the whole town), bought some Darjeeling and Assam tea etc.
I began to get tired for a while, so I went to my room, read, and fell asleep. After a nap, I walked around. Bored, I found some youngsters playing carrom and played a few games with them, but because of two of them being punks, I quickly went my own way. I decided to sit at a tea shop that I had bought tea and biscuits from earlier. It was near my hotel, and the young man running the shop was particularly nice as compared to the others I have met around town. The tea wasn't necessarily the greatest; I was going for the atmosphere.
I sat just off the street on a small wooden-made bench. First for a cup of chai, then for a biscuit. I had given him five rupees for the chai upfront, and then when I offered more money for the biscuit, he responded, “No, no, is okay... um... next time.” So I went up to my hotel room. Realizing I was alone, and not in the mood to read, I decided to head back down to Pritam (the chai maker). So I sat and we chatted as he worked, and for someone who never went past class eight (he was 19 years old), spoke better English than those of his friends in class eleven or twelve (the class he should be in if he continued with school).
I asked what he wanted to be, what he wanted to do, what his aims were. I questioned him on school and if he would finish or not. He didn't seem to interested in school, but just wanted to make money, and survive. Pritam Ray (pronounced Rai) was his name, and he was an extremely devoted religious person for a man of his age. “Where did you get that scar under your eye?” I had asked. “Erm, cyc- bi-cycling when small... I... um, slip. No, another truck coming to me, going very fast, I fall.”
We talked about life and love and Indian women. He said they weren't for him. Everyone was asking if I was married.. When I asked Pritam if he was married, he said no, he was not interested in girls. Naturally, due to my cultural upbringing, I would have assumed (due to that phrase) that he might have been gay. However, as it is not openly accepted or talked about in Indian culture, I decided not to ask, and assumed what he meant was that he was more concerned with working and surviving than marrying and having other responsibilities.
As I sat, he told me to wait five minutes, not to go anywhere. He had to do his daily pooja, a prayer of sorts. He first took water and washed (or purified in Hindu culture) his hands. He then splashed water on the stoop of his shop and rubbed the stoop so it was nice and wet. Moving past me into the back of his shop, I smelt two incense being lit and turned to see him gazing upon an (invisible to me) picture that he later revealed was his grandfather. He waved the incense around that picture, the picture of his God and guru, around stickers and idols that were holy, and the like. He came to the stoop and waved it around the stoop, touched the stoop with his hands and prayed briefly. He continued this action around his tea kettle, stove, food and biscuits, inside his money box, and whatever else that needed blessing. He then stuck one incense on a pole near his stand to let it burn down. With the other, I saw him move to the back and for a good minute or two closed his eyes, face his Grandfathers painting, put his hand together in front of his heart, then is forehead, then his heart again, all the while his lips moving, chanting a prayer or mantra. He then kissed the feet of his Grandfather, then his forehead, and placed the picture back on the mantle.
Then, as if nothing had changed, he sat down across from me, smiling. We then spoke of family. How many brothers and sisters I had and where they were, where my parents were, etc. Then we spoke of his. His grandfather was a sadhu, a acetic holy man of India. Their god was Makali, a variation of the mother God Kali, an avatar of Lord Shiva.
Thinking about eating soon (it was coming up on 6 pm and I had been there for a good two hours already), I asked about good restaurants, and he gave me the name of a few, which I figured I would head out to a little later. I thought about him always manning the restaurant, and wondered when he eats, so I asked what he does for dinner. He eats right there at his shop between nine and ten, alone. I told him it was better to eat in company than alone in a restaurant (or at home) so I asked if I could join him for dinner. Not really believing that I was asking that, he agreed to cook for the both of us.
Time flew by. I went around the block with his two friends on a motorcycle. I attempted to drive it, but being that it was already dark, the streets were crowded, and it was a manual bike, the three of us (Rakesh, Prasham and I) thought maybe that was a bad idea. His other friend, Prashan, had come by a little earlier. Seeing a white foreigner sitting in an Indian tea stall for so long, and talking with Pritam for all that while was beginning to attract attention. No matter, let them watch.
To quell any confusion, Rakesh was just a friend of Pritam who owned the shop next over, a mobile phone shop. However, he was different from Prashan and Pritam. Rakesh smoked, drank, used chewing tobacco etc. Prashan and Pritam were for the most part “clean”. They didn't smoke, didn't use any tobacco, and never drank. They were diligent in their duties, honored their friends and family, and are a sterling example for good people the world over. There was much more kindness and sincerity in the voices of Pirtam and Prashan than Rakesh. However, this is my mind saying this, and many different cultural influences must be taken into account as the cause.
Anyway.
No one was buying chai, so the three of us (Pritam, Prashan, and myself) shared many good laughs and talked as best we could of different subjects. Calling various friends by different animal names and what not. Pigs, Cows, Chilis. I joked that because Pritam was so nice that he was my guru. When I got up to jokingly touch his feet, he gripped my arms very tightly and pulled me up, being serious that I don't do that, but giving all his friends a good laugh.
After some time, Prashan asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I walked with Prashan to his house and met his family, his brothers, his cousins and his shop. Everyone wanted to shake my hand. Prashan kept encouraging me to say 'nice to meet you' in both Hindi and Italian. Why not? It seemed like entertainment for everyone. He kept saying people were upset and jealous of him. Can people really be that jealous over befriending a foreigner? Did I misunderstand the jealousy?
As a wonderful and hospitable treat, his father served me a drink called catu (pronounce Cha-Too). It is a lemon based drink. It consists of water, lemon powder, and salt. Lemons are not my favorite taste, but I enthusiastically drank it in light of their kindness. To put it down and say no thank you would have been a great insult. So I and Prashan sat in his father’s tiny shop, the only source of light being a small oil lamp. He encouraged me to drink the catu as curious towns folk looked on. This was not a main street in town, and it was obvious that Prashan came from a poorer upbringing than I had imagined. After the catu, they served me more chai of course.
On our walk, Prashan was also kind enough to also give me the gift of his necklace to remember him by. He kept saying how I was his best friend (although I don't think it can be thought of in the same context that we usually think of “best friends.”) The necklace is small, quaint, and has the pendant of Lord Hanuman on one side, and Lord Shiva on the other. It was one of the kindest gifts I have received. We also, which was strange to me, held hands. While it is strange in American or some Western cultures, it is more common place in India for good friends of the same sex to hold hands as opposed to friends or significant others of the opposite sex. Due to globalization though, in modern cities you can see a change.
As I am a tourist in this place, in many other cities it seemed normal for people to ask for money for their hospitality. No one had asked, but I felt a sort of duty to spare some change for his poverty-stricken family. But even as I reached into my pocket to get a few bills, Prashan's eyes widened, and he quickly cupped his hands around mine and said “No, no, no, no, bringing you here makes me very happy. No money. This makes me happy.” I tried again to even offer a small bill, but he very tenaciously denied it.
This made me all the more happy that it was true hospitality at it's core, pure kindness without a thought of repayment. It seems that true hospitality always comes at a price in the western world, and while there are millions upon millions of kind people, we can't lie to ourselves, the majority often looks for a return when they give. “Give and you shall receive.” Well sometimes, it's not immediate, and I think that's something we have to remember. You will receive, but don't force it, let it happen on it's own terms. You'll find the surprise return all the most enlightening.
A quick note on New Jalpaiguri and everyone's hospitality:
New Jalpaiguri is basically a big transport hub next to the city of Silliguri. It doesn't serve many other purposes and there is not a lot to see (hence my first thought of the town). That being said, very few foreigners come here, especially to stay for a full day of talking to people. So for them to have so much time with a tourist I think was a very new, strange, and different experience, which it seemed they were enjoying.
After Prashan's house, introductions, saying hello, nice to meet you over and over, I came back to Pritam and saw him preparing dinner. I watched him cook chapatis, egg and potato curry, and some fresh onions. As we sat down to eat - just the two of us, Prashan had gone home while Pritam was cooking – he brought out some fresh fish curry for us to eat. They looked like sardines, but how can I turn down such hospitable service. And when I ate them, they were delicious! The whole meal had some of the most delicious foods I've ever eaten. But beyond taste, it was the atmosphere that really added to the experience.
When we finished, I put my small plates all into my main plate and this seemed to upset Pritam. He kept saying “very bad, very bad”, and when I asked why, and apologized ten times over, he would say, “No, very bad me, very bad me.” All I could figure out was that it had something to do with me being his guest. Perhaps not taking away my plates before I could stack them? I still haven't figured that one out.
After dinner, I asked if he liked sweets. He said yes, he likes Ladu (these small Indian sweet balls comparable to a dry gulab jamun), so I ran a couple shops over and grabbed four for us to share. He kept saying no, I was his guest, but he was so hospitable I insisted that he eat them. So together we sat and ate two Ladu each. Coming up on eleven, he said it was getting time to close up shop. No problem, I was getting tired, and I had already spent seven hours hanging out with him. So I came up close to him and told him I had a gift (earlier as a first gift, I had given him a single American dollar bill and one of my Apple t-shirts). He kept saying no, no, no, trying to deny me, but I placed a bill in his hand, closed his hand and told him not to look at it till later. He grabbed my arm trying to pull me back to give me back the money, but I pulled away quickly, chuckling, and leaping out of his reach saying it was for him. He said tomorrow, chai is free.
And then I went to sleep. This brings me back to the beginning of the story. I was woken up at 6:45 by Pritam, hand delivering me a chai and biscuit. He must have come to the hotel and asked where the foreigner was staying. After I woke, showered and packed up, I went down to hang out at his shop with Prashan where he made me egg and toast. All because he wanted to. Together the three of us ate. What a kind, gentle man. After a while, and one more cup of chai, we exchanged hugs and kisses, and away I went.
It was an overall great experience, and it turned around my view of the city. There might not be a lot to see here. It's not at all a touristy town. Cities can be dreadful, but it's really true – it is the people that make up the city. I am happy to be leaving today, but will sincerely remember and miss my dear friend, Pritam.
Pritam had kept repeating one mantra throughout me thanking him for his hospitality. He said:
“With friends, no sorrys and no thank yous.”
As a side note:
Strange though, both Pritam and Prashan asked if I could get them jobs... either in America or Bangalore. I want to help them so bad. Get them away from a small tea stall in New Jalpaiguri. Get them away from the poverty, and struggling. From the day to day hustle and bustle of a town that has very little to offer other than a train station. At least they have friends and laugh and appear to be happy.
I have their addresses, so I hope that there is a way that I can help.
Did I expect to be woken up in my hotel room at 6:45am to a cup of tea and a biscuit? And have it delivered to me from a young man who simply makes chai everyday on the streets? Why would I ever suspect him to come to my hotel, find my room, and deliver me this treat? Let me explain...
It was incredible.
New Jalpaiguri on first glance was - for lack of better word - a nothing-to-see town. When I arrived I was thinking that I should have stayed in Geyshing for a night. I slept soundly one night, awoke the next morning and tried to quell my boredom by getting a shave, eating some food, sending some e-mails (in which there was only one internet place in the whole town), bought some Darjeeling and Assam tea etc.
I began to get tired for a while, so I went to my room, read, and fell asleep. After a nap, I walked around. Bored, I found some youngsters playing carrom and played a few games with them, but because of two of them being punks, I quickly went my own way. I decided to sit at a tea shop that I had bought tea and biscuits from earlier. It was near my hotel, and the young man running the shop was particularly nice as compared to the others I have met around town. The tea wasn't necessarily the greatest; I was going for the atmosphere.
I sat just off the street on a small wooden-made bench. First for a cup of chai, then for a biscuit. I had given him five rupees for the chai upfront, and then when I offered more money for the biscuit, he responded, “No, no, is okay... um... next time.” So I went up to my hotel room. Realizing I was alone, and not in the mood to read, I decided to head back down to Pritam (the chai maker). So I sat and we chatted as he worked, and for someone who never went past class eight (he was 19 years old), spoke better English than those of his friends in class eleven or twelve (the class he should be in if he continued with school).
I asked what he wanted to be, what he wanted to do, what his aims were. I questioned him on school and if he would finish or not. He didn't seem to interested in school, but just wanted to make money, and survive. Pritam Ray (pronounced Rai) was his name, and he was an extremely devoted religious person for a man of his age. “Where did you get that scar under your eye?” I had asked. “Erm, cyc- bi-cycling when small... I... um, slip. No, another truck coming to me, going very fast, I fall.”
We talked about life and love and Indian women. He said they weren't for him. Everyone was asking if I was married.. When I asked Pritam if he was married, he said no, he was not interested in girls. Naturally, due to my cultural upbringing, I would have assumed (due to that phrase) that he might have been gay. However, as it is not openly accepted or talked about in Indian culture, I decided not to ask, and assumed what he meant was that he was more concerned with working and surviving than marrying and having other responsibilities.
As I sat, he told me to wait five minutes, not to go anywhere. He had to do his daily pooja, a prayer of sorts. He first took water and washed (or purified in Hindu culture) his hands. He then splashed water on the stoop of his shop and rubbed the stoop so it was nice and wet. Moving past me into the back of his shop, I smelt two incense being lit and turned to see him gazing upon an (invisible to me) picture that he later revealed was his grandfather. He waved the incense around that picture, the picture of his God and guru, around stickers and idols that were holy, and the like. He came to the stoop and waved it around the stoop, touched the stoop with his hands and prayed briefly. He continued this action around his tea kettle, stove, food and biscuits, inside his money box, and whatever else that needed blessing. He then stuck one incense on a pole near his stand to let it burn down. With the other, I saw him move to the back and for a good minute or two closed his eyes, face his Grandfathers painting, put his hand together in front of his heart, then is forehead, then his heart again, all the while his lips moving, chanting a prayer or mantra. He then kissed the feet of his Grandfather, then his forehead, and placed the picture back on the mantle.
Then, as if nothing had changed, he sat down across from me, smiling. We then spoke of family. How many brothers and sisters I had and where they were, where my parents were, etc. Then we spoke of his. His grandfather was a sadhu, a acetic holy man of India. Their god was Makali, a variation of the mother God Kali, an avatar of Lord Shiva.
Thinking about eating soon (it was coming up on 6 pm and I had been there for a good two hours already), I asked about good restaurants, and he gave me the name of a few, which I figured I would head out to a little later. I thought about him always manning the restaurant, and wondered when he eats, so I asked what he does for dinner. He eats right there at his shop between nine and ten, alone. I told him it was better to eat in company than alone in a restaurant (or at home) so I asked if I could join him for dinner. Not really believing that I was asking that, he agreed to cook for the both of us.
Time flew by. I went around the block with his two friends on a motorcycle. I attempted to drive it, but being that it was already dark, the streets were crowded, and it was a manual bike, the three of us (Rakesh, Prasham and I) thought maybe that was a bad idea. His other friend, Prashan, had come by a little earlier. Seeing a white foreigner sitting in an Indian tea stall for so long, and talking with Pritam for all that while was beginning to attract attention. No matter, let them watch.
To quell any confusion, Rakesh was just a friend of Pritam who owned the shop next over, a mobile phone shop. However, he was different from Prashan and Pritam. Rakesh smoked, drank, used chewing tobacco etc. Prashan and Pritam were for the most part “clean”. They didn't smoke, didn't use any tobacco, and never drank. They were diligent in their duties, honored their friends and family, and are a sterling example for good people the world over. There was much more kindness and sincerity in the voices of Pirtam and Prashan than Rakesh. However, this is my mind saying this, and many different cultural influences must be taken into account as the cause.
Anyway.
No one was buying chai, so the three of us (Pritam, Prashan, and myself) shared many good laughs and talked as best we could of different subjects. Calling various friends by different animal names and what not. Pigs, Cows, Chilis. I joked that because Pritam was so nice that he was my guru. When I got up to jokingly touch his feet, he gripped my arms very tightly and pulled me up, being serious that I don't do that, but giving all his friends a good laugh.
After some time, Prashan asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I walked with Prashan to his house and met his family, his brothers, his cousins and his shop. Everyone wanted to shake my hand. Prashan kept encouraging me to say 'nice to meet you' in both Hindi and Italian. Why not? It seemed like entertainment for everyone. He kept saying people were upset and jealous of him. Can people really be that jealous over befriending a foreigner? Did I misunderstand the jealousy?
As a wonderful and hospitable treat, his father served me a drink called catu (pronounce Cha-Too). It is a lemon based drink. It consists of water, lemon powder, and salt. Lemons are not my favorite taste, but I enthusiastically drank it in light of their kindness. To put it down and say no thank you would have been a great insult. So I and Prashan sat in his father’s tiny shop, the only source of light being a small oil lamp. He encouraged me to drink the catu as curious towns folk looked on. This was not a main street in town, and it was obvious that Prashan came from a poorer upbringing than I had imagined. After the catu, they served me more chai of course.
On our walk, Prashan was also kind enough to also give me the gift of his necklace to remember him by. He kept saying how I was his best friend (although I don't think it can be thought of in the same context that we usually think of “best friends.”) The necklace is small, quaint, and has the pendant of Lord Hanuman on one side, and Lord Shiva on the other. It was one of the kindest gifts I have received. We also, which was strange to me, held hands. While it is strange in American or some Western cultures, it is more common place in India for good friends of the same sex to hold hands as opposed to friends or significant others of the opposite sex. Due to globalization though, in modern cities you can see a change.
As I am a tourist in this place, in many other cities it seemed normal for people to ask for money for their hospitality. No one had asked, but I felt a sort of duty to spare some change for his poverty-stricken family. But even as I reached into my pocket to get a few bills, Prashan's eyes widened, and he quickly cupped his hands around mine and said “No, no, no, no, bringing you here makes me very happy. No money. This makes me happy.” I tried again to even offer a small bill, but he very tenaciously denied it.
This made me all the more happy that it was true hospitality at it's core, pure kindness without a thought of repayment. It seems that true hospitality always comes at a price in the western world, and while there are millions upon millions of kind people, we can't lie to ourselves, the majority often looks for a return when they give. “Give and you shall receive.” Well sometimes, it's not immediate, and I think that's something we have to remember. You will receive, but don't force it, let it happen on it's own terms. You'll find the surprise return all the most enlightening.
A quick note on New Jalpaiguri and everyone's hospitality:
New Jalpaiguri is basically a big transport hub next to the city of Silliguri. It doesn't serve many other purposes and there is not a lot to see (hence my first thought of the town). That being said, very few foreigners come here, especially to stay for a full day of talking to people. So for them to have so much time with a tourist I think was a very new, strange, and different experience, which it seemed they were enjoying.
After Prashan's house, introductions, saying hello, nice to meet you over and over, I came back to Pritam and saw him preparing dinner. I watched him cook chapatis, egg and potato curry, and some fresh onions. As we sat down to eat - just the two of us, Prashan had gone home while Pritam was cooking – he brought out some fresh fish curry for us to eat. They looked like sardines, but how can I turn down such hospitable service. And when I ate them, they were delicious! The whole meal had some of the most delicious foods I've ever eaten. But beyond taste, it was the atmosphere that really added to the experience.
When we finished, I put my small plates all into my main plate and this seemed to upset Pritam. He kept saying “very bad, very bad”, and when I asked why, and apologized ten times over, he would say, “No, very bad me, very bad me.” All I could figure out was that it had something to do with me being his guest. Perhaps not taking away my plates before I could stack them? I still haven't figured that one out.
After dinner, I asked if he liked sweets. He said yes, he likes Ladu (these small Indian sweet balls comparable to a dry gulab jamun), so I ran a couple shops over and grabbed four for us to share. He kept saying no, I was his guest, but he was so hospitable I insisted that he eat them. So together we sat and ate two Ladu each. Coming up on eleven, he said it was getting time to close up shop. No problem, I was getting tired, and I had already spent seven hours hanging out with him. So I came up close to him and told him I had a gift (earlier as a first gift, I had given him a single American dollar bill and one of my Apple t-shirts). He kept saying no, no, no, trying to deny me, but I placed a bill in his hand, closed his hand and told him not to look at it till later. He grabbed my arm trying to pull me back to give me back the money, but I pulled away quickly, chuckling, and leaping out of his reach saying it was for him. He said tomorrow, chai is free.
And then I went to sleep. This brings me back to the beginning of the story. I was woken up at 6:45 by Pritam, hand delivering me a chai and biscuit. He must have come to the hotel and asked where the foreigner was staying. After I woke, showered and packed up, I went down to hang out at his shop with Prashan where he made me egg and toast. All because he wanted to. Together the three of us ate. What a kind, gentle man. After a while, and one more cup of chai, we exchanged hugs and kisses, and away I went.
It was an overall great experience, and it turned around my view of the city. There might not be a lot to see here. It's not at all a touristy town. Cities can be dreadful, but it's really true – it is the people that make up the city. I am happy to be leaving today, but will sincerely remember and miss my dear friend, Pritam.
Pritam had kept repeating one mantra throughout me thanking him for his hospitality. He said:
“With friends, no sorrys and no thank yous.”
As a side note:
Strange though, both Pritam and Prashan asked if I could get them jobs... either in America or Bangalore. I want to help them so bad. Get them away from a small tea stall in New Jalpaiguri. Get them away from the poverty, and struggling. From the day to day hustle and bustle of a town that has very little to offer other than a train station. At least they have friends and laugh and appear to be happy.
I have their addresses, so I hope that there is a way that I can help.
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