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.