At the Nek Chand Fantasy Rock Garden in Chandigarh.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Chandigarh...
...is perplexing, is something almost un-Indian. Where do I begin? On my ride from the train station to the hotel, I noticed the wide setbacks and wondered why people weren't taking up every inch of space out on the streets selling fruits, chai, samosas, saris, idols, strings of marigolds, and peacock feather fans. The extra-wide roads, too big for normal traffic have encouraged a different class of vehicles, the SUV. The traffic lights have countdowns and the rickshawallahs actually follow the rules of the roundabouts. My hotel is in a strip mall with a large parking lot out front. I was suprised to find that I had to go looking for a rickshaw... there weren't a dozen waiting outside my hotel ready to take me sightseeing. It's like culture-shock back to US culture, but still in India...
I admit, it's nice, cleaner, quieter. The people who live here are affluent, speak English well, and seem to be enjoying the parks and open spaces...
The City Museum exhibits old photos, maps, sketches, models, newspaper clippings and quotes that give an in-depth look at the planning of the city. After the trauma of partition in 1947, India needed to house the overwhelming number of refugees and Chandigarh was conceived. A site was selected based on a survey of its conditions and geography; an American architecture team led by Matthew Nowicki and Albert Mayer was hired to plan the new city, Chandigarh. When Nowicki died in a plane crash, the American team was dismantled and Le Corbusier and his team was hired to replace them. Corbusier based the city's master plan on 4 primary functions: living, working, circulation and care of body and spirit.
The plan is rigid and Corbu even went so far as to write a long-winded "constitution" as to how the city would operate, down to the finest detail of who will live where and what sort of businesses would operate and in what form. He designed housing, government buildings, sculpture and carpets for the city buildings.
What I found most interesting was that all of this planning seemed to help the middle class move up and but still doesn't care for the laborers, those who literally built the city and who provide all of the service jobs that allow the middle and upper classes to live comfortable lives. Corbu's plan didn't take these people into account and they now live on the fringes of the city, where the government has allotted a sliver of land. Over the past decades, as the city has grown, families have expanded, have had to subdivide their plots, and often rent out small parcels of land to other laborers. Village land that once supported a good milk industry for the city, now cannot support grazing cattle. As development progessed, these villages have become engulfed by the city, however, villages are exempt from the architecture and sanitation controls of the city, so they constitute a problem. Their population density is high while their water, electricity and sanitation is inadequate.
India has contrasts and irony everywhere you look. Chandigarh is at once beautiful, civilized, rigid, and modern. But it's also unsympathetic, detatched from the state of their country, and self-absorbed, if I may be so bold. I've only been here 2 days....
At the rose garden in Chandigarh, a sight unfamiliar in the India I've seen.
Le Corbusier's plan for the new city of Chandigarh, capital of Punjab.
On the train platform, a man is kneading dough.
I admit, it's nice, cleaner, quieter. The people who live here are affluent, speak English well, and seem to be enjoying the parks and open spaces...
The City Museum exhibits old photos, maps, sketches, models, newspaper clippings and quotes that give an in-depth look at the planning of the city. After the trauma of partition in 1947, India needed to house the overwhelming number of refugees and Chandigarh was conceived. A site was selected based on a survey of its conditions and geography; an American architecture team led by Matthew Nowicki and Albert Mayer was hired to plan the new city, Chandigarh. When Nowicki died in a plane crash, the American team was dismantled and Le Corbusier and his team was hired to replace them. Corbusier based the city's master plan on 4 primary functions: living, working, circulation and care of body and spirit.
The plan is rigid and Corbu even went so far as to write a long-winded "constitution" as to how the city would operate, down to the finest detail of who will live where and what sort of businesses would operate and in what form. He designed housing, government buildings, sculpture and carpets for the city buildings.
What I found most interesting was that all of this planning seemed to help the middle class move up and but still doesn't care for the laborers, those who literally built the city and who provide all of the service jobs that allow the middle and upper classes to live comfortable lives. Corbu's plan didn't take these people into account and they now live on the fringes of the city, where the government has allotted a sliver of land. Over the past decades, as the city has grown, families have expanded, have had to subdivide their plots, and often rent out small parcels of land to other laborers. Village land that once supported a good milk industry for the city, now cannot support grazing cattle. As development progessed, these villages have become engulfed by the city, however, villages are exempt from the architecture and sanitation controls of the city, so they constitute a problem. Their population density is high while their water, electricity and sanitation is inadequate.
India has contrasts and irony everywhere you look. Chandigarh is at once beautiful, civilized, rigid, and modern. But it's also unsympathetic, detatched from the state of their country, and self-absorbed, if I may be so bold. I've only been here 2 days....
At the rose garden in Chandigarh, a sight unfamiliar in the India I've seen.
Le Corbusier's plan for the new city of Chandigarh, capital of Punjab.
On the train platform, a man is kneading dough.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Republic Day
My last day in Delhi, and it's a holiday. I've got my train ticket to Chandigarh, a relatively easy procedure thanks to the International Tourists Bureau at the station near my hotel. I bought myself a chenille throw: the only way people stay warm here is to wrap themselves with fabrics and blankets. Chandigarh is north of Delhi at the very foot of the Himalayas and I expect it to be cold. I saw a 3-D relief map today of flat India against the sudden extreme height of the Himalayas and I'm in awe. I hope I have time to go up to one of the hill stations nearby.
Shops are shuttered for Republic Day today and security is tight. The Red Fort has been closed all week and today entrances to Pahar Ganj neighborhood were blocked off with metal detectors and guards who search every person's bags no matter how long it takes. The internet places won't let you on until you give up your passport. And many streets are pedestrians only today. I haven't seen any celebrations yet, but a couple nights ago a marching band was going up and down the streets by my hotel, drumming at first in a rhythmic beat with trumpets blaring a tune, then turning into a ridiculous, chaotic banging and shouting, a bit of hysteria in their joy. There are some serious formal parades inside the Fort today, which I'm not daring to try to get to, for fear of being trampled, shoved, turned away or whatever else could possibly happen to a small person like me.
Instead, I'm taking my time, walking the streets, observing. Here's what I saw today: I saw a cow pee right behind some policemen who looked, but didn't seem to mind even though I suspect they might've been splashed on. I saw a mini-accident where a car and motorcycle collided (gently) head-on. No one was hurt, so they just re-arranged their driving positions and moved along. Ladies get henna on the streets- a man squirts the dark jelly from a tube onto their hands in curly flowery designs. Another lady was curled up in her own sari, sleeping on a wooden pallet at the market. A man stepped up on the pallet and tilted it suddenly so the sleeping woman almost rolled right off. Everything , every corregated metal roof, tarp roof is covered in a thick layer of settled pollution, everything brown brown, grey brown. A street vendor meticulously arranged bangles for sale in lime green, red and gold, hot pink. The old fashioned bangles were made of glass, which women wore tens of for the clink-clang sound until they broke. Nowadays they're made of resin and have a different kind of jingle I think. I found some old thick glass bangles at a store that sells old things, called Obscure Arts in Jodhpur and bought a couple.
On my walk through Pahar Ganj, the electrical wires in a ridiculous webby tangle above the streets hang sometimes only a couple feet above my head. A man on the street was dying fabric in a small pot over a fire, then draping it over the low hanging wires to dry. I watched as a long piece of chiffon was pulled out of the pot, half lemon yellow, half a brilliant fluorescent pink.
I stopped for jalebis at a stand where they drizzle a sugary batter into a huge wok of oil heated over a fire, the jalebis coming out as crispy, super-sweet, saffron-infused candy swirls. I ate as much as I could and just as I wasn't sure what to do with the rest (no garbage cans, of course) a beggar with his little boy held out his hand to me. I gently offered my jalebi and they looked pleased. I smiled, glad nothing went to waste.
Outside the sweets shops, the ground is littered with leaf plates, coming apart, turning to dust. These are their disposable wares: half bowl, half plate, they use no glue, just a few leaves overlapping, pressed with a vice into shape, secured with by a few quick stitches of the stem. They hold together long enough for you to finish your kheer- a soupy rice pudding with cardamom and pistacio. You can litter these all you want, no harm, it's just leaves!
Texture
Blue City of Jodhpur
At the weavers cooperative, Bishnoi village
At the potter family's home and work, a craft passed down for several generations
Jalis at the Meharangarh fort at Jodhpur
Water
Jodhpur: Parrots and other birds everywhere in this ancient city which might be my favorite of all Indian cities
Udaipur: Ghats- where people bathe, pray and wash clothes. This is the largest of 7 manmade lakes in Udaipur, the other 6 acting as overflow ponds, strung in a series. When there was no monsoon for three years, these lakes dried up and one could walk right up to the "floating" Palace Hotel seen in the background.
Ahmedabad: filtering water with a sari
Ahmedabad: Rainwater harvesting cistern is below this courtyard in a Pol (neighborhood). It can hold 100,000 litres of rainwater which is collected from all the roofs surrounding the courtyard. The cistern is made of limestone which increases in strength over time and helps to purify the water. The brass bucket and rope shown is thrown down the octagonal hole with the flick of the wrist to tip it to the water properly, then pulled up by hand.
Friday, January 25, 2008
What it means to be in someone else's land
On my walk this morning, I thought about the garbage issue. Food scraps go to the street animals; glass bottles are used over and over, then broken for topping walls to keep out invaders; paper is burned at night for heat; metal is always recycled over and over. Plastic. Now, plastic is the only thing that has one use, one life, never to be reincarnated, but to only stay on the street, collecting into piles, not to biodegrade for a thousand years, and only then into a chemical dust. It feels even more important here to carry my fabric shopping bag because we all have to live with my plastic bag, your plastic cup clogging the open channel dug in the road where our own sewer water travels. We all have to sweep the plastic off our front steps into the pile at the end of our block that will only grow bigger and bigger in time. There's no garbage collection here. There's no landfill, but I know a village is approaching on the train when I see a depression in the land, filling up and trailing off with plastic. What a wonderful invention, plastic! Not everyone uses plastic though. When I buy fresh sugarcane or orange juice from the street vendor, I use a glass cup that he washes (or at least rinses) out when I'm done. Often there are chai stalls that use clay cups. When you're finished, you can either fill up again or smash your cup to the ground, turn it back into dust from where it came. I suppose the chai maker is also a potter at night. I give my utmost respect to the hundreds of millions of Indian people who truly live off the land, naturally preserving their resources, having the foresight to see the dangers of what we in the west see as essential to life itself. I don't see the shoe maker with his decades old brass tools and the laundry woman with her flat stone and solid-iron iron feeling miserable for themselves. That's not to say that everyone's job is of equal fairness. There are millions of laborers, slaves to rich landowners who are forced to work 16 hours a day and still live in extreme poverty. Poverty, like hundreds of families who have no choice but to live practically on top of one another, in torn, tattered tents on polluted, unauthorized land. These people are the most resourceful because everything is precious and can be turned into something usable.
Now, regarding the farms and the tribal peoples who have lost their ancestral land, as I understand it, there was no monsoon for three years and much of the farmland in the Rajasthani desert was dried up, unfertile for this time. Last year the monsoon came back, but in its absence, the government and wealthy corporations persuaded and even forced farmers to sell or give up their land, often for a very small sum of money because farmers were destitute, hardly producing enough food for their families. All over Rajasthan for miles and miles outside any city, there are walls dividing plots of land, walls built 3 to 10 feet tall, some topped with broken glass bottles to deter people from jumping the wall. Walls, walls, fortifying, containing, keeping humans out. Some walls have signs, "this plot of land is the property of such and such industries". But all of these plots are barren. What was once fertile farmland of the ancient peoples rich with history, dignity and customs, is now in the hands of a corrupt government and corporate giants, ready to build the next "mall destination", "master-planned community for extraordinary lifestyles" (cut to a golfer swinging a club on an artificial green hilly course), and Florida style condo "self-contained neighborhoods". I'm happy to give shameful credit for these quotes to EMAAR MGF, whose commercials play constantly on most Indian TV channels, convincing the younger generation that this is what they want.
This burgeoning upper middle class that is the product of the US, Europe and Australia's tech-outsourcing is creating a new culture that cuts off its family's sensible traditions of saving for retirement, house upkeep and kitchen wares, and instead disposes its disposable income on disposables and entertainment pleasures. Are we reducing India to our simple, happy ways? India is a capitalist democracy and has been since before we existed! So what exactly is happening here?? Can we not just simply come here to learn their ways? There is so much to learn here about the traditional ways, but it's a slow, quiet process of learning, teaching, doing, making, understanding, respecting and preserving.
There is so much energy here. It seems that people talk faster, are more enthusiastic, always wanting to be a part of your existence. If you ask an honest person where to go for dinner, they will tell you their personal favorite place, what to order and how much to spend. Often an Indian will describe how beautiful each sari in their shop is, all the intricacies of its stitching, patterning, and who made it, the history of their village, and on and on.
People here are so proud of their history, their lives, families. When you meet someone the common conversation goes like this: What is your country? What is your good name? What is your business? What are your brothers' businesses? Are you sisters married? What is your father's business? What do you think of India? What are your political views on India, on your own country? That's it. That's what they want to know and hope you will ask them back the same questions. That is how you know someone here.
It's a fine line we tread as tourists. On one side, we help the economy, and occasionally help sustain small communities when unobtrusive tourist programs are in place and we can seek them out, buying directly without middleman. On the other side, we Westerners are huge waste producers, electricity and water consumers, and by staying in mega-hotels, constantly asking them to provide us with western style comforts, then we're asking India to change its ways. I'm guilty as any other traveler here in that I need my peaceful hotel at the end of the day to stay sane. I stayed just one night in a roach-infested hotel with a bathroom that only vented into another bathroom that only vented into the hallway. I promptly packed up and left the next morning happy to pay quadruple at the next place which boasted 24 hour hot water and room service. Still at less than 30 USD a night, I'll splurge on this level of comfort.
So what can we do now, to actually help this country? I believe it starts grassroots. There is little faith in the government here. Any Indian will tell you flat- it's corrupt. Period. But the people here are so smart and resourceful. I went to a weavers cooperative, a beautiful series of round, mud homes where they spend a month to 3 months constructing, weaving, creating one exquisite rug from mere threads on a bamboo loom. They sell rugs direct to heritage hotels in Jodhpur and make a decent living to sustain the cooperative. Three small solar panels on high poles powered the lights at night for the village. I was quite happy to pay full price for a rug there, knowing that it would sell for the same price in the US, but this little community would only see a fraction of that, middlemen and fuel charges bringing the net profit down for the weavers.
Sometimes I see solar hot water collector plates on the roof tops and I'm inspired.
I would propose to anyone who wishes to travel to India or anywhere else in this glorious world, to do your research and really think about your impact, then seek out ways to contribute positively, directly, to the people who need your business the most. It is so important to do this, if we all want to be world-travelers, intelligent beings and citizens of this earth.
Now, regarding the farms and the tribal peoples who have lost their ancestral land, as I understand it, there was no monsoon for three years and much of the farmland in the Rajasthani desert was dried up, unfertile for this time. Last year the monsoon came back, but in its absence, the government and wealthy corporations persuaded and even forced farmers to sell or give up their land, often for a very small sum of money because farmers were destitute, hardly producing enough food for their families. All over Rajasthan for miles and miles outside any city, there are walls dividing plots of land, walls built 3 to 10 feet tall, some topped with broken glass bottles to deter people from jumping the wall. Walls, walls, fortifying, containing, keeping humans out. Some walls have signs, "this plot of land is the property of such and such industries". But all of these plots are barren. What was once fertile farmland of the ancient peoples rich with history, dignity and customs, is now in the hands of a corrupt government and corporate giants, ready to build the next "mall destination", "master-planned community for extraordinary lifestyles" (cut to a golfer swinging a club on an artificial green hilly course), and Florida style condo "self-contained neighborhoods". I'm happy to give shameful credit for these quotes to EMAAR MGF, whose commercials play constantly on most Indian TV channels, convincing the younger generation that this is what they want.
This burgeoning upper middle class that is the product of the US, Europe and Australia's tech-outsourcing is creating a new culture that cuts off its family's sensible traditions of saving for retirement, house upkeep and kitchen wares, and instead disposes its disposable income on disposables and entertainment pleasures. Are we reducing India to our simple, happy ways? India is a capitalist democracy and has been since before we existed! So what exactly is happening here?? Can we not just simply come here to learn their ways? There is so much to learn here about the traditional ways, but it's a slow, quiet process of learning, teaching, doing, making, understanding, respecting and preserving.
There is so much energy here. It seems that people talk faster, are more enthusiastic, always wanting to be a part of your existence. If you ask an honest person where to go for dinner, they will tell you their personal favorite place, what to order and how much to spend. Often an Indian will describe how beautiful each sari in their shop is, all the intricacies of its stitching, patterning, and who made it, the history of their village, and on and on.
People here are so proud of their history, their lives, families. When you meet someone the common conversation goes like this: What is your country? What is your good name? What is your business? What are your brothers' businesses? Are you sisters married? What is your father's business? What do you think of India? What are your political views on India, on your own country? That's it. That's what they want to know and hope you will ask them back the same questions. That is how you know someone here.
It's a fine line we tread as tourists. On one side, we help the economy, and occasionally help sustain small communities when unobtrusive tourist programs are in place and we can seek them out, buying directly without middleman. On the other side, we Westerners are huge waste producers, electricity and water consumers, and by staying in mega-hotels, constantly asking them to provide us with western style comforts, then we're asking India to change its ways. I'm guilty as any other traveler here in that I need my peaceful hotel at the end of the day to stay sane. I stayed just one night in a roach-infested hotel with a bathroom that only vented into another bathroom that only vented into the hallway. I promptly packed up and left the next morning happy to pay quadruple at the next place which boasted 24 hour hot water and room service. Still at less than 30 USD a night, I'll splurge on this level of comfort.
So what can we do now, to actually help this country? I believe it starts grassroots. There is little faith in the government here. Any Indian will tell you flat- it's corrupt. Period. But the people here are so smart and resourceful. I went to a weavers cooperative, a beautiful series of round, mud homes where they spend a month to 3 months constructing, weaving, creating one exquisite rug from mere threads on a bamboo loom. They sell rugs direct to heritage hotels in Jodhpur and make a decent living to sustain the cooperative. Three small solar panels on high poles powered the lights at night for the village. I was quite happy to pay full price for a rug there, knowing that it would sell for the same price in the US, but this little community would only see a fraction of that, middlemen and fuel charges bringing the net profit down for the weavers.
Sometimes I see solar hot water collector plates on the roof tops and I'm inspired.
I would propose to anyone who wishes to travel to India or anywhere else in this glorious world, to do your research and really think about your impact, then seek out ways to contribute positively, directly, to the people who need your business the most. It is so important to do this, if we all want to be world-travelers, intelligent beings and citizens of this earth.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Indian Experience
Taking refuge, passing the time in a rooftop restaurant called Club India, I sat with some other single travelers reading, writing, thinking. I ordered grilled cheese with tomato, just for something like home, and afterall, it's on the menu. They still seemed confused, though, asking several times exactly how I want the bread cooked. I ordered orange juice, fresh, but it's just not possible, since the man on the street who pushes the cart with an enormous pile of oranges and a hand-cranked juicer viced to the cart is not around at the moment. As it turns out, he appeared an hour and a half later and I got my juice, frothy, pulp separating, a bit warm from the afternoon sun, and sweet as a tangerine.
The Indian experience can be taxing. You're very often walking on dirt, rock and broken brick or pavement, tripping over dogs and avoiding piles of shit, wet puddles of you don't want to know what, and the red spots of spit from flavored tobacco chew packets sold at every stand in the bazaar. You try to walk at the edge of the road, but it's a shifting, zigzag path taken over by cars, bikes, rickshaws, or streetdwellers, street vendors, groups talking in the middle of the road, oblivious to you trying to get by or even a motorcycle speeding inches away from their or your ankles. All the while, you're distracted every few steps, summoned by merchants with emphatic voices, "Excuse me, mam, please look! Excuse me!!" Power outages happen daily, at the worst times, when I'm on the computer, or trying to use an Indian toilet. Shop owners often sit in the almost dark of their shops, only to turn on lights when a customer comes by. Navigating the city is not easy, as there are few maps that actually draw more than the main roads, hundreds of windy streets going undocumented. I have yet to see any street signs in all of India. I actually don't even know what they might look like! In certain areas, if anyone actually looks like they're willing to help you with directions, it is most likely they will just listen to where you want to go and then try to persuade you to go to their shop and will tell you that where you want to go is either closed, no more, or too expensive. And they will not give a clue to where you've asked to be directed to. It's quite maddening.
An Australian traveler we met on the train to Delhi said he's met a lot of travelers who really were unhappy being in India. I've wondered before who I might recommend this trip to. It's extremely strenuous and one must get completely out of their comfort zone to enjoy it.
Either way, I love walking the streets where I'm not bombarded by merchants selling saris and brass trinkets. (Joseph says he likes those markets because he feels so popular.) I love the spice market with its jute bags rolled down to expose a dozen varieties each of rice and lentils, the red and yellow chili and turmeric carefully sculpted into high peaks, the carrots- all over India, redder and bigger than I've ever seen. There's the man who lugs the silver dispenser of chai, shouting chayeechayeechayee like a siren through the market. In little alcoves, little holes in the wall all over the place, tailors or shoe makers set up shop, with few instruments, an beautiful old sewing machine or a long brass needle. The shoemaker sits on the floor holding the shoe with one hand and a foot, toes curled around the sole, the other hand stitching. India has not stopped being overwhelming to me. I don't think it will. I try to stay just on the edge of the tourist part of town. I fluctuate between wanting a truly Indian experience and to be in the comfort of other travelers.
Since Joseph left this morning, I've been trying to decide what to do next. I have a week before I will be at Bija Vidyapeeth, a school and organic farm started by Vandana Shiva, my hero. I've decided to go to Chandighar, a city planned by Le Corbusier. I hear it's very cosmopolitan, the young people are very West-influenced and it's green with lots of open space, a respite from this choatic life. I'm interested, though to experience this modernist utopia that Corbu has forced upon Indian people. An American architect, Nowicki said, "this dream of some modern planners depends entirely on a way of life alien to that of India". Still, Corbu envisioned this utopia where "arithmetic, texturique and geometrics" would replace the "oxen, cows, and goats driven by peasants crossing the sun-scorched fields. Honestly, I can't imagine any Indian in Johdpur, Agra or anywhere wanting to change ways and live in a set up such as Chandighar.
I was just reading today that 84 million Indians are tribal people, with over 450 tribal groups, with origins going back several thousands of years. However, in recent decades, more than half! have been dispossessed of their ancestral land and turned into impoverished laborers. India's incredibly corrupt government is behind the dispossession and exploitation of these people. I find it heartwrenching that their ancient traditions and culture is eroding and will soon exist no more. At the school, Bija Vidyapeeth, they are training farmers to farm organically and biodynamically, to preserve seeds in seed banks, to protect ancient knowledge with courses that teach homeopathic medicine, cooking traditions and ways we can live on the land, save precious water, and defend our environment. All of the knowledge they teach has been passed down from many generations. I will be attending a 4 day course at the farm called Grandmother's University where we learn a little bit of many of these things. More here: http://www.navdanya.org/
The Indian experience can be taxing. You're very often walking on dirt, rock and broken brick or pavement, tripping over dogs and avoiding piles of shit, wet puddles of you don't want to know what, and the red spots of spit from flavored tobacco chew packets sold at every stand in the bazaar. You try to walk at the edge of the road, but it's a shifting, zigzag path taken over by cars, bikes, rickshaws, or streetdwellers, street vendors, groups talking in the middle of the road, oblivious to you trying to get by or even a motorcycle speeding inches away from their or your ankles. All the while, you're distracted every few steps, summoned by merchants with emphatic voices, "Excuse me, mam, please look! Excuse me!!" Power outages happen daily, at the worst times, when I'm on the computer, or trying to use an Indian toilet. Shop owners often sit in the almost dark of their shops, only to turn on lights when a customer comes by. Navigating the city is not easy, as there are few maps that actually draw more than the main roads, hundreds of windy streets going undocumented. I have yet to see any street signs in all of India. I actually don't even know what they might look like! In certain areas, if anyone actually looks like they're willing to help you with directions, it is most likely they will just listen to where you want to go and then try to persuade you to go to their shop and will tell you that where you want to go is either closed, no more, or too expensive. And they will not give a clue to where you've asked to be directed to. It's quite maddening.
An Australian traveler we met on the train to Delhi said he's met a lot of travelers who really were unhappy being in India. I've wondered before who I might recommend this trip to. It's extremely strenuous and one must get completely out of their comfort zone to enjoy it.
Either way, I love walking the streets where I'm not bombarded by merchants selling saris and brass trinkets. (Joseph says he likes those markets because he feels so popular.) I love the spice market with its jute bags rolled down to expose a dozen varieties each of rice and lentils, the red and yellow chili and turmeric carefully sculpted into high peaks, the carrots- all over India, redder and bigger than I've ever seen. There's the man who lugs the silver dispenser of chai, shouting chayeechayeechayee like a siren through the market. In little alcoves, little holes in the wall all over the place, tailors or shoe makers set up shop, with few instruments, an beautiful old sewing machine or a long brass needle. The shoemaker sits on the floor holding the shoe with one hand and a foot, toes curled around the sole, the other hand stitching. India has not stopped being overwhelming to me. I don't think it will. I try to stay just on the edge of the tourist part of town. I fluctuate between wanting a truly Indian experience and to be in the comfort of other travelers.
Since Joseph left this morning, I've been trying to decide what to do next. I have a week before I will be at Bija Vidyapeeth, a school and organic farm started by Vandana Shiva, my hero. I've decided to go to Chandighar, a city planned by Le Corbusier. I hear it's very cosmopolitan, the young people are very West-influenced and it's green with lots of open space, a respite from this choatic life. I'm interested, though to experience this modernist utopia that Corbu has forced upon Indian people. An American architect, Nowicki said, "this dream of some modern planners depends entirely on a way of life alien to that of India". Still, Corbu envisioned this utopia where "arithmetic, texturique and geometrics" would replace the "oxen, cows, and goats driven by peasants crossing the sun-scorched fields. Honestly, I can't imagine any Indian in Johdpur, Agra or anywhere wanting to change ways and live in a set up such as Chandighar.
I was just reading today that 84 million Indians are tribal people, with over 450 tribal groups, with origins going back several thousands of years. However, in recent decades, more than half! have been dispossessed of their ancestral land and turned into impoverished laborers. India's incredibly corrupt government is behind the dispossession and exploitation of these people. I find it heartwrenching that their ancient traditions and culture is eroding and will soon exist no more. At the school, Bija Vidyapeeth, they are training farmers to farm organically and biodynamically, to preserve seeds in seed banks, to protect ancient knowledge with courses that teach homeopathic medicine, cooking traditions and ways we can live on the land, save precious water, and defend our environment. All of the knowledge they teach has been passed down from many generations. I will be attending a 4 day course at the farm called Grandmother's University where we learn a little bit of many of these things. More here: http://www.navdanya.org/
New Delhi
On our taxi ride from the New Delhi train station to our hotel, I saw two McDonalds and a Baskin Robbins, and far fewer rickshaws, bicycles and livestock. I realized throughout the night that I had left something magical, mythical and surreal in the old fortified cities, the death and life of the desert and the tribal villages of Rajasthan. Delhi is metropolitan, full of cell-phone touting 20-30 somethings, women wearing jeans (!) and upper middle class spending their money on NYC-priced drinks and fancy dinners at hotels. They've even got a metro system that's clean, easy, with great security, a countdown to the next train, etc. Maybe, I think this was the right place for Joseph to leave and go back to New York, an ease of transition. I had to lose my travel companion today and I'm working myself up to do this alone now.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Bazaar for Indians Only
We were dissuaded by the guidebooks and our rickshaw driver to go to this market. Only things for Indians here; we should really be at the tourist market where we can buy souvenirs. We went anyway and found an entire block where merchants were tossing yards of fabric and covering the pavement on both sides of the street. Women were picking and choosing, chaotic to us. At one point a woman grabbed my arm and asked what we were doing at this crowded bazaar. Her look was incredulous.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Taj in the Morning
As the morning light changed, the white marble Taj Mahal went from blueish lavender to golden. Fog hung over the wetlands behind it and the building looked weightless and ghostly, blending into the atmosphere. It is incredibly beautiful and exquisite and unlike any architecture I've ever seen. Rubies, emeralds and solid gold are encrusted in the marble in delicate, floral design.
Tourists were getting annoyed when this man warped the mirror-like reflection of the Taj and their perfect postcard photos.
Parrots everywhere
Wetlands and a few structures behind the Taj
Agra: Street Life
I'm so happy. I can smell the flowers. We are in Agra, in a "No Pollution Zone", where only battery powered vehicles are allowed, where pedestrians and cyclists rule the streets. Only after living in smoky, polluted, dense, urban Indian air could clean air and trees be so unbelievably refreshing. I have this dream about the Taj Mahal at sunrise, mist hanging like a blanket, making it invisible at the base. So we're waking up extra early tomorrow and walking down the quiet road to the Taj. I got a few glimpses today from afar and thanks to my super-telephoto zoom, some good pics too.
Agra is a great city to walk, get lost in, wander the windy, narrow streets. Children are everywhere, playing games in the streets at intersections where the road widens a bit. Even outside the No Pollution Zone, few cars and rickshaws drive. As usual we were followed by groups of kids asking our names, our country, and 5 rupees??? I've started to just give in and hand them what ever change I have. Anyway, 5 rupees is only 20 cents.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Monkey Temple, Jaipur
We walked a steep trail up to a temple on top of a mountain that is home to 5000 monkeys this morning. We didn't see that many, maybe a couple hundred, mingling with goats, cows, dogs, and humans. It was like an urban safari, very real, very 12 Monkeys.
This Little Piggy Went to Market
Jaipur, the capital of Rajastan, is the center of commerce with markets for everything an Indian could want. (And we had fun shopping too!) Buying saris is a family affair- an entire family will choose a shop, take off their shoes, slip them under the shop (each is raised 2 ft off the ground for flooding during the monsoon), and they sit cross legged on the floor for hours. The merchants will unfold dozens of saris while the family sips chai and the children run around barefoot, everyone haggling and negotiating. Although I wanted to buy a sari, the whole experience was just too much for me so we just walked around with our mouths open and tried to sneak a few blurry shots of the madness.
Every step we take is a different smell. In the spice market it's fennel, curry or saffron. Where there's street food it's hot sugary goodness thrown into hot oil and solidfied into swirls, the smell of which is like caramel and cardamom. Then you pass an alley and the air is heavy with the smell of urine. It is perfectly legal for anyone to pee on the street whenever, wherever they choose. Add that to the smell of the animals. It's a country rife with contrasts and irony.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Mehrangarh Fort, Jodhpur
View from the fort looking towards the city palace and the blue city below.
Jalis and Charokas
Scaffolding of trees tied with rope
Handcarved screens called jalis are typical of the region. Each is unique and filter sunlight in geometrical patterns and allow air to circulate. It's impossible to look in but easy to look out. Swooping curved stone eaves called charokas, along with jalis are the traditional Rajput architecture. Systems of interlinked courtyards are typical with clusters of built spaces held together by courtyards at various levels.
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