Right to Information

Little did I know how little I knew.

The news about Iran's election protests came at the perfect time. Once I finish this blog post, I'll press a single button, sending my words through a series of wires (or maybe tubes!) to a place where anybody in the world can take a peek at my musings. Meanwhile, hundreds of Iranians are posting videos, pictures, and first hand accounts of their protests on Twitter. Information is a free bake sale, where the cupcakes are bottomless and no one gets fat.

In the States, we have been afforded with a government that mostly allows us to share/obtain whatever information we desire (though its frightening to dream up ways they could take it away). The floodgates opened up when Congress passed the Freedom of Information Act in 1966. Today, with some contentious exceptions, individuals and groups are able to easily obtain government records. Transparency and accountability put our interests first.

India has a tougher gig. They are the largest democracy in the world, by far. Their interests span across language, religion, caste, class, gender, and favorite color. Regions of this country are arguably more diverse than the countries of Europe. Robert Dahl concluded that India "could sustain democratic institutions seems, on the face of it, is highly improbable. It lacks all the favourable conditions."

The goings-ons in Tehran are a miracle, to be sure, but the greatest democratic miracle is India, by a long shot. In 2005, the Lok Sabha belatedly passed its own FOIA--named the Right to Information Act. Indian citizens are now promoting their interests with full access to government records. A web portal has even been set up to ease the process of obtaining these records. The government is allowed 30 days to release the requested material, and anyone is able to see what their local/state/national authorities are up to. It's a remarkable process for a government that is known for its endless bureaucracy and its sizable constituency.

My work at Indicorps these past two weeks has been closely tied to the idea that all Indians should have free and open access to their government. University students and other concerned young people have spent the last month visiting and evaluating the Ahmedabad Municipal Corporation (AMC), essentially an overarching authority that takes care of all the problems a city infrastructure may face: sewage, potholes, you know the drill. Later this week, we are presenting a comphrehensive report on the state of the AMC, its problems, loopholes, and a series of suggestions to improve the system. Meanwhile, we are also compiling a handbook of AMC numbers, FAQs, and RTI information to disseminate out to local Gujaratis. I jumped on this project as official graphic designer (with virtually no graphic design background at all) as well as the undeserved role of "American advisor" who can present some perspective on how local authorities work in the states (under the assumption that they work perfectly). We plan to produce upwards 10,000 copies of this handbook for use at all Indicorps events, as well as offices of AMC and other pertinent businesses.

Between being a working stiff, Nick (Raul), Marc (Marcus), Becky (Pecky), Catherine (CMI), and myself (Crandeesh) spend a few nights working at Seva Cafe. The cafe's business model relies on honesty--customers are allowed to pay whatever amount they wish for their meal. The kitchen and staff consists of volunteers, and all the profits go straight to various NGOs in the city. My first night as a waiter was pretty rough. I thought that my umpiring years were enough training to deal with angry people, until I had a few business men walk out, yelling in Gujarati, because they didn't recieve their roti bread in time. The next night I just stuck to washing dishes.

Within and without Seva Cafe, we have met an endless stream of friendly people more than willing to lend their motorbike, cook up a quick meal, spend their morning leading a trek up a mountain, put us up in a free government-run hotel (thank you, Gujarat taxpayers!), and unwaveringly do anything to make sure we are having the time of our lives. As I type, Kiran-bhai is helping Nick plan out our Himalayan adventure for August.

So as valuable as the internet has been for passing information, leaning of India, and such, it's been useless compared to the insight I'm retaining from the people who choose every day to pass it along.

Pictures soon, and VIDEOS! Still searching for that elusive sustaining internet connection.

Up to Speed

As the days have crept by here in Ahmedabad, I've found it more and more difficult to sum up all that has happened in the past three weeks. Every day, things worth recounting compound themselves and add up until this blog idea becomes more of a mounting paper pile of anecdotes than an easy, brief update--history lessons, colors, food, poverty, love, and enough beautiful architecture to make you sick. But yes, this lazy Sunday opens up enough time for me to build my Indian epic! And so...

If the question is, "How would you describe India?" The short answer would be, "Fast."

The longer answer takes some time to explain.

Close to 5 in the morning, Becky and I landed safely in Bangalore. I wiped the sleep from my eyes as I greeted her, a surprise given that I didn't get a wink from my cubby-like Air India seat. Regardless, Becky and I felt like it was mid afternoon, so we headed straight to the main bus stand. Even at six in the morning, the stand was operating at an unimaginable pace. I'll never forget the four letter words I wanted to scream, instead drowned out by bus horns, chanting attendants, and the staring eyes of about three dozen Bangalorians towards the two hapless American backpackers.

We eventually got our wits about us, weaved through the overfriendly shopkeepers, and toured the city market, Lalbagh gardens, and the MG road area of the city. Thomas Friedman and his goons always rave about the miracle advances of Bangalore's airport, IT campuses, blah, blah, but he skipped the markets, the real heart of Indian economic activity. From dawn to dusk, the majority of India spend their daily earnings buying vegetables, cigarettes, water, cell phones, sandals, sipping cups of chai, and catching up on each other's lives. It's an area unbound by simple exchange of materials.

But those foreign sounds kept at our ears, beyond the seeming scramble of the Kannada language (Bangalore's mother tongue). The culture shock is undeniable, and the sudden pressure to transfigure into a world-worn traveler on spot comes nipping at my novice heels.

We got used to this much more quickly than I had expected, out of necessity. Becky and I stood out and we also acted the part, all the way to Mysore, where a hashish dealer named "Max", who seemed innocent enough behind his smirk, followed me around for two days beckoning me to check out his "incense shop". The strangeness was beat out days later when a man in Mumbai stuck a wax-covered needle into my ear without warning. You have to take these moments in stride if you want to "succeed" as a traveler in India.

Success does come in the form of the numerous people who are simultaneously intrigued by us, and intriguing themselves. So much of the warm, warm hospitality that Becky and I were treated to (thanks to Ram, the married couple from Hyderabad, hotel clerks, the dozen or so per day we asked about directions, and that really cute girl at the electronics store) seemed undeserved from our side, but nonetheless revived our spirits and our love for this beautiful place.

We moved on from Mysore, home of the beautiful Maharaja's Palace, Chamundi Hill, and a fantastic market (in which Becky tried every fragrance) and took a long journey (about 14 hours) by train and bus to Hampi, the former capital of the powerful Vijaynagar Empire. I spent the sunrise looking (or hanging, if I want to sound adventurous) out the train door at the moving countryside.

Hampi was, for lack of a better word, a dreamscape. The mountains in the area were in reality just stacks of huge boulders, like a pile of rocks, tipping precariously on top of one another. The capital supposedly hit its peak in the 15th century with a population of half a million, and it shows. Although the city was essentially destroyed by invaders in the 16th century, the foundations and half-razed temples stretch for miles from the bazaar of Hampi. The centerpiece is the Virupaksha temple, which predates most other buildings, and looms over the bazaar. We met a Brit named David and caught dinner at the Mango Tree. While Becky took a tour, David and I rode motorbikes around the ruins and explored as much as we could, although even two days is not enough to do this World Heritage site enough justice.

After afternoons of sipping Mango lassis at the rooftop restaurant in Hampi, Becky and I headed to Goa, once a Portuguese colony, then a hippie/bohemian Mecca, and now a generally touristy beach area. The state, although one of the smallest in India, is a two hours drive from north to south. We stayed in a hut in southernmost Palolem (ahh, but no AC!) and I got sick (I had it coming), but the beach was remarkable. It was low season, meaning all other westerners were basically non-existent, which, as you would expect, had its pros and cons. Nick arrived after a day, and we immediately formed like Voltron into an unstoppable traveler trio.

I brushed up on my market skills (but I still should let Becky bargain on my behalf) and we headed up north to Vagator beach, searched fruitlessly for "the party", and woke up all the dogs in the neighborhood from our walk back to the hotel.

Before I could blink, we were in Mumbai, where we met up with a few of Becky's old friends for a bit of coffee and a bunch of cricket. Now that I know the rules, I've been sporting my TEAM INDIA jersey proudly and try valiantly to discuss their chances in the ongoing T20 cricket World Cup. For those who know me well, I am a mighty talented BSer. The next day took me to the Gateway of India (which, ironically, was gated) and the Prince of Wales museum, aka the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya (aka The Museum of Too Many Large Words). We decided last minute to stay in Mumbai for an extra day, and take an overnight bus to Ahmedabad.

We arrived in our "hometown" half awake, but anxious. Luckily, Catherine had been in town for a week, and had found a flat for us to live in. We found ourselves in the home of the leaser's brother, who fashioned himself an entrepreneur and had an assistant who carried around close to 10 cell phones. The man was 76, and within the five-hour negotiation on the lease went into a beautiful soliloquy on the health benefits of soymilk, which apparently is all he has been drinking for the past five years. Whether this man is in the mafia, his tenant brother is imaginary, or we are part of some massive money laundering scheme, I don't really care. We have the property now, and we plan to keep it.

Almost as soon as we arrived, we turned north to Udaipur, in Rajasthan, where fellow Carolina students are working on a documentary of village life for Nourish International. My jealousy meter broke when I saw that all of my friends in Udaipur had seamlessly picked up Hindi during their stay, and I can still only say "The boy is holding a red ball." Much work to do.

We checked out the ominous City Palace, a lonely place with way too many balconies for the prince to issue his proclaimations. The Monsoon Palace, perched on top of a massive cliff overlooking Udaipur, was the place to be at sunset. We dined endlessly on thalis (all you can eat) and danced all evening.


And now, back in Ahmedabad.

The speed, or "fastness", is still there, in the rickshaws that careen on disaster (I saw a pretty nasty crash at a roundabout today--luckily [and surprisingly] nobody was hurt) to the drum salesmen who are ambitious and confident enough to follow you for blocks around Mumbai. It is non-stop living, and to hesitate is to relent, to show traveler’s weakness, to act as a westerner (beware!), to miss out. If I stop to smell, I get overrun roughshod by a mob of men, women, and children racing for the roses.

The tough part is that so many Indians are not invited to this race, and it's highly visible. Rolling into Mumbai by train or bus is an exercise in poverty tourism--enough to feel disgusted, and yes, guilty, but also unable to look away from the mounds of plastic trash that shield the slums from the wind. A stroll past midnight required me to constantly watch the pavement for fear of tripping over a daytime merchant who called the street curb his bedroom. This is no-frills poverty. It is laid out in the open, in public, juxtaposed with the "other half" of regular, middle class activity. This transparency is a good thing--it acts as a searing warning to the leaders of India's government to help the poor, as well as a strong impetus to bring in aid and assistance from all sides.

Which brings us to this intoxicating country, and to Ahmedabad, to see how we can be best put to use. Ahmedabad, fortunately, has a swath of well-established, well run NGOs that perform miracles every day for people all around the state of Gujarat. It's also fortunate that I am living with four highly passionate people (Becky, Nick, Marc, and Catherine) that won't stand to just stay on the train when they pass the slums--there's only so much that non-Indians can do/learn/accomplish in two months, but we are all here to at least give it a try and provide the little resources we have to volunteer around the city.

I start much of my work tomorrow, which I guess I'll have to get to later. Perspective is the word of the week, and I'm sure there will be plenty gained. More to come.

ಕ್ರೇಜಿ ಟೈಮ್ಸ್ ಇನ್ ಮೈಸೂರ್!

Helloooooooo.

This is not really much of a post, but I wanted to inform you that Becky and I are safely in Mysore, India. This country is absolutely intoxicating, and when I have my laptop, I have some posts, pictures, and video to share. Feel free to email if you'd like to catch up (claymanchris@gmail.com)

Stories to come later.

-Chris

Where We Begin

According to the Rigveda, The temple at Somnath saw the creation of the universe. Today, the temple stands in its seventh incarnation. The first one disappeared before records were kept. Junayad of Sind razed the second in 725. Following a dream, Madmud Ghazni destroyed the third in 1024. The Delhi Sultanate took out the fourth and fifth temples in 1297 and 1394. Aurangzeb the Mughal raided the sixth in 1706. At each moment of destruction, someone was there to rebuild on the old ashes.

This could be the perfect metaphor for India...at least coming from a student who has never traveled to the country, whose ethnic background is thoroughly European, and until two weeks ago thought that ghats were a type of insect.  Nonetheless it seems (well...the guidebooks, film, and new articles tell me) that India is a constant work in progress, a cycle of destruction and reconstruction that is central to its definition--the Hindustani concept of reincarnation.  Steeped in heavy tradition, yet still searching for its role in this globalized world, a solution to its crippling poverty (almost cleverly juxtaposed with the beneficiaries of the recent IT boom), and a political structure that can effectively represent a subcontinent of over twenty mother tongues, four major religions, and countless special interests, India is always sitting around and asking itself, "Where to begin?"

But as of right now, all I have is second-hand information: my preconceptions.  Tonight I'm sitting at my kitchen table in St. Louis, Missouri.  Beside my laptop is a creased copy of Lonely Planet and a headset used for my now-daily Hindi lessons.  Upstairs, my packing list is thrown across the floor beside my backpack.  All of this and I'm still half a world away from where I will be in just nine days.  I'm still proudly using the adjective "prepared" knowing full well that in stepping off the plane in Mumbai, that word will fly away into oblivion, dissipating in the bustle of India's largest city.

So, where to begin?  

Right now: the planning.  With our final destination in Ahmedabad, Becky and I will arrive in Bangalore on May 20.  Then, we begin a two week jaunt up the coast, picking up a friend (Nick) along the way.  The train will drop us off in Ahmedabad on June 1, where two more friends (Marc and Catherine) will join.  From there, two whole months in Ahmedabad.  Beyond that, God knows.  I'll be back in St. Louis on August 14 with an older age and most certainly a new psychological disorder or strange bacterial diarrhea to blame on the whirlwind of India.

Now: the blog. I'll try my best to post at least once a week, but there may be moments with little internet and even less free time.  There will be a flood of pictures that will most likely be put on a flickr account that I will link from this blog.  Also, be sure to check out the other blogs from my fellow travelers, as well as other Robertsons who are traversing the globe this summer.  Loads of links to come.

Here's an overview of the next few weeks, between Bangalore and Ahmedabad:

18-19 May: Flight from Lambert In'tl with stops at Newark, Frankfurt, and Mumbai.

20 May:  Arrive early morning in Bangalore.  Meet up with Becky and explore.

21 May: Morning train to Mysore.  Palaces and markets.

22 May: Overnight train to Hampi, ruined capital of the Vijayanagar by way of Hubli and Hospet (Day of the Hs)

23-24 May: Explore Hampi, reminisce on the days we had air conditioning.

25 May: Train ride to the warm beaches of Goa.

26-27 May: Nick will fly in.  Soak in the sun.

28 May: Night train to Mumbai.

29 May: 24-hour Mumbai marathon.

30 May: Train to Nasik.  Temple hunting.

31 May: Taxi to the coast: Daman. Train journey to Ahmedabad.

Thank you to everyone past and future for your advice!  See you on the other side.