one of the principle advantages of being politically retrograde, economically struggling and geographically isolated is that, no matter how sophisticated you may or may not be, you are unwittingly forgiven an egregious degree of political incorrectness (then again, perhaps i only speak for myself; that is, yes, i herein bare my colors: foreigners' prejudices are both amusing and strangely becoming at times. at least, that is, when they differ from one's own. do not humor and fascination occur when our worldviews are merely shaken but not stirred?) that is not to say that only argentina, albania and alabama share this affinity; i would imagine frogs, krauts and canadia-landers to be as epistemologically 'incorrect' as the next kid on the global block, if only by omission rather than commission. what is different, then, is what you take the liberty to say. and in argentina, the difference is huge.
a personal disclosure: i do not condone argies bigotry, i merely hope to expose it (which anyone with a half an ear, .6 of a frontal lobe and a quasi-functioning esophagus can readily do), comedify it and, yes, have a chuckle. tis like what paul mooney said in response to michael richardson: "anyone can make jokes about race, so long as it's funny." i am certainly taking him out of context on this one. he also said that kramer could only make up for his capital blunder so long as he performed the same act on stage at the apollo (after which greta van susteran - yes, i'm using paul mooney and greta van susteran in the same sentence - enlightened her audience by reminding them that the 'famous' theatre was in harlem; to which mooney responded, "trust me, sweatheart, the apollo in harlem is as white as you, so don't worry about it, it's safe.").
there was a time when i lived in a small town in the pampas called 'general villegas,' a micropolis that took its trusty name from one of the more infamous leaders of the 'conquest of the desert' - that is, patagonia and the inland provinces southwest of buenos aires - toward the end of the 19th century. at least the yanks had the good sense to wage their wars of genocide before the invention of the telegraph and global standard time zones (which i imagine greatly facilitated reporting such matters), much less call it a 'desert' campaign. we even named a large chunk of our emerging sporting franchises after the brave resistance with which we were met. the argentines, oddly enough, still name their teams after the english patrons for whom they 'conquered' the 'desert' to begin with (if hints of cynicism or antipathy toward my new gracious host appear, bare in mind i'm living with and being taught by militantes for whom the yanks aren't the sole hemispheric culprits). anyway, back to villegas (which is currently the cause of national scandal, a matter we'll touch upon momentarily).
upon arrival in the small town, i would often wander the streets by day - in between giving lessons, of course - and make for the corner dive at night. humbly opening onto a principle corner, my initial social stakeout boasted a small pool table, an abundant supply of ice-cold 3-peso/liter quilmes and mani salado - and a straggle of interesting, if not quite sober, patrons. i'd bet a peso here and a peso there, usually lose the game, but have a 'local' story in between - and usually a new mate or two after each encounter. they weren't the most strapping gentlemen in town but, remember, this is another advantage 0f travel - or at least removing oneself from the usual socio-economic-educational comfort zone: the further you get from where you started, the more fun, interesting and, frankly, welcoming, they tend to be. and the spot on the corner was no different. as my language teacher reminded me this morning, tis only the reactionary middle classes - identical across the globe - that we need to worry about. i'm still not quite sure if i'm to be rich or poor, though. enough of that, however. the point is that upon arrival to my host family's house, they would ask me where i'd been (these days, my youthful gaze could come in handy: young enough to 'not know better' though old enough to 'hold his own' should the ramparts give way from the other side of the tracks. and yes. the town was literally, socially, aesthetically, footballishly divided by then-defunct tracks). i had been to a history lecture at the catholic church earlier that night (deft alibi, i know), though in the end decided to disclose most of the whole truth - i'd been back to the corner spot to shoot pool with the laborers and drink beer. "no - ebaan! you must not be with these people! the negros are sure to take you for a ride!" every family i stayed with - and they seemed to toss me about throughout town - repeated the same misgivings. "only negros smoke shit - and play pool - and labor - and eat cheese on sundays." i was stunned. i'd only caught my first glimpse of real-life (white) american racism at a high school party on the south side and was flabbergasted these things still existed (in words, if not in every civic body with some social function). yet in argentina - on the pampas - the nebraska of south america - the trou de cul de rien de l'est - there isn't a black person for hundreds of miles. "what do you mean, negros?" i asked one of the landed families i happened to be staying with for several weeks. "no no no - ebaan - no son negro de piel, si no negro de corazon!" ah, yes, now i see.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
bendicion a las 24 horas
underneath the crumbling, calcutta-meets-parisian belle epoque a l'americaine awnings reads the sign, "bendicion a las 24 horas." overblown 'southern-city-that-never-sleeps' comparisons may be premature, though i'll take the 4-am blessing over a paco-induced mugging up the block any day. in what appeared to be an ancien-theatre-aux-spectacles-turned-temple-of-god, the evangelicals outdid themselves once again. if catholics could ever be as creative in their architectural appropriations as their pentacostal counterparts, who knows how many less hearts ole ratzinger would have hardened. en fin, this is neither the time nor the place for such ripostes - merely a call to appreciate the aesthetically-less-intimidated. some day historians will chart the fluctuations of (post)modernity by the structural conversion rate to and fro the house of God: in Montreal the Cathedrals have been converted into condos; in Buenos Aires the theatres now double as neon Pentacostal storefronts.
i am exaggerating, of course. gaging the piety of metropolitan outposts in the New World has never been an simple affair - and i, for one, claim no insight thereupon. furthermore, we must also bear in mind the socio-geographic origins of our study: the capital federal, as is well known amongst portenos and astute outsiders alike (however subtly acknowledged), is as geographically divided by class as any other metropolis; what makes the geography of its socio-economic divide slightly more enthralling is that they begin (at least in theory) at one major east-west thoroughfare (the Avenida Rivadavia) and proliferate the further north - and, consequentially, south - you get. furthermore, as if popular urban folklore weren't enough, the names of the north-south bound streets even change once they cross this threshold. imagine, for example, if something like 'malcolm x boulevard' became 'avenue of the americas' on respective sides of central park (oh wait, it does). now imagine if that happened at one intersection, ad infinitum, all they way from east to west of town. now that's what i call a roundabout cabbie's dream ride with recently arriving swedes heading for their hostel.
it should go without saying, then, that we live on the southern side of the tracks (though with the current exchange rate could also readily live in much of the northern bits. that being said, if it is only somewhat degrading to pay triple for tall-boys in the west village, tis that much more demeaning to forgo their presence altogether - as is the case in bougified bits of argie-towns). if Saint Louis, Mo can boast neither a particularly privileged northern or southern side of town (much less east or west), then both parties (if not all four) have the distinct privilege of claiming the hard-earned pride of the materially-less-endowed that occurs in many an American town. (no high schooler, on the other hand, gets to brag about growing up in clayton). Buenos Aires, alas, does not seem to allow for this sociological incongruence: wealthy enough to for its privileged classes to believe themselves part and parcel of the global, developed elite they so desperately strive to embody - but poor enough to sense the potential onslaught of darkened 'masses' at their door - northern-dwelling portenos, as of yet, do not seem to relish the prospect of dining, shopping, relaxing - much less living - in the south. as far as i can tell, there is no romanticization of the barrio - much less those that live there, as is the case in some american cities (i once had a mate who moved to bed-stuy to be closer to jay-z's birth place; no one, i'm afraid, will be moving to the villa to honor maradona).
i am exaggerating, of course. gaging the piety of metropolitan outposts in the New World has never been an simple affair - and i, for one, claim no insight thereupon. furthermore, we must also bear in mind the socio-geographic origins of our study: the capital federal, as is well known amongst portenos and astute outsiders alike (however subtly acknowledged), is as geographically divided by class as any other metropolis; what makes the geography of its socio-economic divide slightly more enthralling is that they begin (at least in theory) at one major east-west thoroughfare (the Avenida Rivadavia) and proliferate the further north - and, consequentially, south - you get. furthermore, as if popular urban folklore weren't enough, the names of the north-south bound streets even change once they cross this threshold. imagine, for example, if something like 'malcolm x boulevard' became 'avenue of the americas' on respective sides of central park (oh wait, it does). now imagine if that happened at one intersection, ad infinitum, all they way from east to west of town. now that's what i call a roundabout cabbie's dream ride with recently arriving swedes heading for their hostel.
it should go without saying, then, that we live on the southern side of the tracks (though with the current exchange rate could also readily live in much of the northern bits. that being said, if it is only somewhat degrading to pay triple for tall-boys in the west village, tis that much more demeaning to forgo their presence altogether - as is the case in bougified bits of argie-towns). if Saint Louis, Mo can boast neither a particularly privileged northern or southern side of town (much less east or west), then both parties (if not all four) have the distinct privilege of claiming the hard-earned pride of the materially-less-endowed that occurs in many an American town. (no high schooler, on the other hand, gets to brag about growing up in clayton). Buenos Aires, alas, does not seem to allow for this sociological incongruence: wealthy enough to for its privileged classes to believe themselves part and parcel of the global, developed elite they so desperately strive to embody - but poor enough to sense the potential onslaught of darkened 'masses' at their door - northern-dwelling portenos, as of yet, do not seem to relish the prospect of dining, shopping, relaxing - much less living - in the south. as far as i can tell, there is no romanticization of the barrio - much less those that live there, as is the case in some american cities (i once had a mate who moved to bed-stuy to be closer to jay-z's birth place; no one, i'm afraid, will be moving to the villa to honor maradona).
Sunday, June 20, 2010
the departure
It all started on the way to the airport, as many a tale does. Not that this is really a tale - more like a sketch of sorts; an observational sphinx that rears its head during occasional moments of reflection. We were ahead of schedule, but I'd missed my flight to Saint Louis from New York the week beforehand and was still a tad agitated with my recent negligence; a league or two shy of anxious, I didn't mind sitting around O'Hare for a few hours and catching up on the weekly periodicals. Might as well, now that they're trying to charge $7 for the Economist. (and $45 pesos on the Recoleta stands, mind you. Didn't think reactionaries could also be opportunists, a friend of mine from Bushwick might have quipped.) In any case, I would need at least a short hour to mull over my pack of Camels and the summertime continent I was henceforth abandoning.
Brasil had just beaten the North Koreans, and my uncle was to bring me to the airport at 5:30. This is neither the time nor the place for a meritable character sketch, though a proper rendition of such would be, of no doubt, unquestionable benefit to humankind. I say that without any facetiousness or hint of irony. This chap is one truly funny bastard. That being said, we set off for O'Hare around 6:15, slightly behind schedule but with enough slack to check in before the 9:10 haul to Sao Paulo. After pretending to rear-end a Hyundai with his Audi A8 - and coming alarmingly close to doing so - we were met with uncanny delay of sorts, even by Chicago rush-hour standards within a missile's throw of the world's fourth busiest airport (I'll let the reader divine the first three). The standstill, shall we say, posed a particularly interesting dilemma. Historically speaking, I've always find it more than remotely difficult to engage with this particular uncle, if not with older relatives in general whom I only encounter on rare occasions. Within recent years, however, and with one particular occasion in mind, he'd displayed several miraculous gems of comedic genius - if you were able to consign a layer or two of social conditioning to oblivion. (For instance, the time on New Years day with Christoph when my uncle pretended he was going to run over the poor Mexican lad standing in the cold and taking orders at the hotdog joint; only minutes later, he offered the same bloke $100 if he could read the signature on the credit card receipt. A bold fresh piece of humanity, I must admit.) The question of breaking the ice, however, is always the same: where to begin?
I thought I could knock at the golden gates of comedic folly with the odd quip on whether or not Lebron was thinking of coming to the Bulls from Cleveland. Twas the only thing I could muster about sports and Chicago, apart from the recent Stanley Cup parade (and my uncle didn't strike me as much of a hockey type). "Now why would he wanna do that?" Uh oh. "Oh I don't know," I blustered, "they say Chicago's a much bigger market." "You think that guy give's a shit about the market?" Fuck. "Maybe he wants to go to Miami," he continued. "Oh yes, good point," I feebly reply, "that's certainly a possibility." He pauses, before resuming, "Think I give a rat's ass about those guys? Absurd, the amount of money they make. Fucking kiddin' me," was the general response. (Keep in mind that none of this is verbatum - I'm merely trying to recapture the essence of what is now a five day old memory. Not particularly mnemonically ambitious, I know.) 0 for 1 - but at least we're onto Miami.
My uncle then went on to recount his most recent experience in that lovely Floridian hedonopolos - the highlight of which was the extraordinary people watching in the hotel's lobby. I can only imagine. (I do envy witnessing the monstrously fabulous gems that are said to exist in that town - if only from a somewhat (temporally) short, if not sweet, distance.) Somehow, we get to the topic of stripclubs - of which, to my great relief, neither of us were big fans. Were the opposite the case for either party, things could have become slightly more awkward, as each either sought to play down his 'sensibilities' - or subtly justify his own lack thereof; en fin, that wasn't the case - and we could get back to more important matters - like finding the terminal, for instance.
"So where am I taking you anyway?" he fondly repeated every third minute or so. "Oh I'm pretty sure there will be a sign up ahead," I reply with the wisdom of an ancient sage. "You sure about that?" "Ye-yeah," I stammer, "I think so." "I think, therefore I am - they teach you about that, eh?" For some reason, I hesitate just enough for him to answer his own question: "Immaan-yua-al Kant." Seconds later, I come to my mnemonic senses, "No, I think it might've actually been Descartes." "Whatever... they're cousins, anyway," he assures me. "Nothing but a bunch of screwballs, those Europeans. Mothers, brothers, aunts and uncles, who knows what the fuck those nutjobs are up to over there." My love and appreciation for the New World have grown seven-fold ever since.
We reached but another interminable light - at which point I began to wonder if I really should've have watched the rest of that game after all. As we sat in the rain and funneled the stations for the usual inaudible high-afternoon mutterings, some crafty chap zips by on the left, a blasphemous violation of both those holy yellow stripes - and our notion of order, not to mention our pride and sense of urgency, mind you. As we inch forward in the early summer drizzle, my uncle reminds me of the civic costs of such an undertaking. "All it takes is one cop - and POOF you're in the slammer for some bullshit you didn't do. You never know with these guys; they got mix-ups all the time. We get pulled over and all they gotta do is screw up their records and BAM you're on the phone with your lawyer and missing your flight. Now, you got any idea how to get to the airport?" Before I can answer, he's driven up the curb and onto the 10 foot wide median separating the four-lane road at the upcoming intersection. He hits the accelerator and we buzz pass the remaining 30-40 cars dutifully inching toward the blinking red light at the intersection. We momentarily pause at the corner, before hitting a hard left onto the perpendicular thorough-fare. "Bunch of suckers," he reminds me, as we scurry on into the horizon and make for the terminal.
Brasil had just beaten the North Koreans, and my uncle was to bring me to the airport at 5:30. This is neither the time nor the place for a meritable character sketch, though a proper rendition of such would be, of no doubt, unquestionable benefit to humankind. I say that without any facetiousness or hint of irony. This chap is one truly funny bastard. That being said, we set off for O'Hare around 6:15, slightly behind schedule but with enough slack to check in before the 9:10 haul to Sao Paulo. After pretending to rear-end a Hyundai with his Audi A8 - and coming alarmingly close to doing so - we were met with uncanny delay of sorts, even by Chicago rush-hour standards within a missile's throw of the world's fourth busiest airport (I'll let the reader divine the first three). The standstill, shall we say, posed a particularly interesting dilemma. Historically speaking, I've always find it more than remotely difficult to engage with this particular uncle, if not with older relatives in general whom I only encounter on rare occasions. Within recent years, however, and with one particular occasion in mind, he'd displayed several miraculous gems of comedic genius - if you were able to consign a layer or two of social conditioning to oblivion. (For instance, the time on New Years day with Christoph when my uncle pretended he was going to run over the poor Mexican lad standing in the cold and taking orders at the hotdog joint; only minutes later, he offered the same bloke $100 if he could read the signature on the credit card receipt. A bold fresh piece of humanity, I must admit.) The question of breaking the ice, however, is always the same: where to begin?
I thought I could knock at the golden gates of comedic folly with the odd quip on whether or not Lebron was thinking of coming to the Bulls from Cleveland. Twas the only thing I could muster about sports and Chicago, apart from the recent Stanley Cup parade (and my uncle didn't strike me as much of a hockey type). "Now why would he wanna do that?" Uh oh. "Oh I don't know," I blustered, "they say Chicago's a much bigger market." "You think that guy give's a shit about the market?" Fuck. "Maybe he wants to go to Miami," he continued. "Oh yes, good point," I feebly reply, "that's certainly a possibility." He pauses, before resuming, "Think I give a rat's ass about those guys? Absurd, the amount of money they make. Fucking kiddin' me," was the general response. (Keep in mind that none of this is verbatum - I'm merely trying to recapture the essence of what is now a five day old memory. Not particularly mnemonically ambitious, I know.) 0 for 1 - but at least we're onto Miami.
My uncle then went on to recount his most recent experience in that lovely Floridian hedonopolos - the highlight of which was the extraordinary people watching in the hotel's lobby. I can only imagine. (I do envy witnessing the monstrously fabulous gems that are said to exist in that town - if only from a somewhat (temporally) short, if not sweet, distance.) Somehow, we get to the topic of stripclubs - of which, to my great relief, neither of us were big fans. Were the opposite the case for either party, things could have become slightly more awkward, as each either sought to play down his 'sensibilities' - or subtly justify his own lack thereof; en fin, that wasn't the case - and we could get back to more important matters - like finding the terminal, for instance.
"So where am I taking you anyway?" he fondly repeated every third minute or so. "Oh I'm pretty sure there will be a sign up ahead," I reply with the wisdom of an ancient sage. "You sure about that?" "Ye-yeah," I stammer, "I think so." "I think, therefore I am - they teach you about that, eh?" For some reason, I hesitate just enough for him to answer his own question: "Immaan-yua-al Kant." Seconds later, I come to my mnemonic senses, "No, I think it might've actually been Descartes." "Whatever... they're cousins, anyway," he assures me. "Nothing but a bunch of screwballs, those Europeans. Mothers, brothers, aunts and uncles, who knows what the fuck those nutjobs are up to over there." My love and appreciation for the New World have grown seven-fold ever since.
We reached but another interminable light - at which point I began to wonder if I really should've have watched the rest of that game after all. As we sat in the rain and funneled the stations for the usual inaudible high-afternoon mutterings, some crafty chap zips by on the left, a blasphemous violation of both those holy yellow stripes - and our notion of order, not to mention our pride and sense of urgency, mind you. As we inch forward in the early summer drizzle, my uncle reminds me of the civic costs of such an undertaking. "All it takes is one cop - and POOF you're in the slammer for some bullshit you didn't do. You never know with these guys; they got mix-ups all the time. We get pulled over and all they gotta do is screw up their records and BAM you're on the phone with your lawyer and missing your flight. Now, you got any idea how to get to the airport?" Before I can answer, he's driven up the curb and onto the 10 foot wide median separating the four-lane road at the upcoming intersection. He hits the accelerator and we buzz pass the remaining 30-40 cars dutifully inching toward the blinking red light at the intersection. We momentarily pause at the corner, before hitting a hard left onto the perpendicular thorough-fare. "Bunch of suckers," he reminds me, as we scurry on into the horizon and make for the terminal.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
harlem streets flooded in white
dear (imaginably numbered) readers,
i never got around to concluding - or even reasonably updating - my (perhaps only relatively/quasi) epic indian tale, and fear the task shall have to wait for an even rainier day. (i'm having trouble falling asleep in this harlem summer heat.) alas - the winds have swept us to another shore, where other tales await...
it is not altogether illicitly embarrassing to arrive on the shores of popondetta in a magenta loincloth and shirtless collar only to suddenly remember you've shamelessly forgotten your felt tipped boots (just as the king begins to unveil the red carpet in your honour). such are the trappings - and benefits - of international travel. though an age of ever increasing cultural monotony is slowly dawning upon us tech-savvy, youtubing, globe-trotting heathen, you can still get away with quite a bit under the simple tried and weather-true "that's how we do shiite in my part of the world." 'my' part almost always entailing a national territorial affair, you can usually pull the wool over many a wanker's eyes - provided you spit with confidence (and that almost goes for us Yanks as well... though don't get too excited - tis only because the Indians are surprisingly pro-american that i'm feeling rather generous in my bloated generalizations). "why are you wearing those stupid plaid shorts with that blasted pink shirt," they first asked me upon arrival in france some many years ago. "because that's how all the gangster yankeedoodles get down," i replied in turn. they each cooed and offered me a cigarette (mind you - this was long before it went up to 5.20euro/pack).
the point of these ramblings is that one is often more protected by the veil of fettered nationalism than one imagines. if some indigent frog blames the iraq war on overweight 13 year old americans that watch too much television, you respond in turn with an elegy on the vendee or petain's naked tuesday night amblings along the banks of the allier (please quote me). on the flip side, however, every national has the god-given right to take .17% of the credit for any admirable individual undertaking of his country's past. this includes everything from pasteurization to penal code, which we all know the irish invented.
nationalism - or national pride on an individual scale - can easily be oversimplified as such. (whether one has the confidence to back the bushwank up is another matter.) if one is ambiguously cunning enough, it is almost possible to be forgiven any national crime from an individual perspective, e.g. "that german guy's a really cool guy" - or - "he's probably just austrian" (which, as we all know, forgives very little to nada...). race, on the other hand, is a completely different matter. (i'm tired - to be continued)
i never got around to concluding - or even reasonably updating - my (perhaps only relatively/quasi) epic indian tale, and fear the task shall have to wait for an even rainier day. (i'm having trouble falling asleep in this harlem summer heat.) alas - the winds have swept us to another shore, where other tales await...
it is not altogether illicitly embarrassing to arrive on the shores of popondetta in a magenta loincloth and shirtless collar only to suddenly remember you've shamelessly forgotten your felt tipped boots (just as the king begins to unveil the red carpet in your honour). such are the trappings - and benefits - of international travel. though an age of ever increasing cultural monotony is slowly dawning upon us tech-savvy, youtubing, globe-trotting heathen, you can still get away with quite a bit under the simple tried and weather-true "that's how we do shiite in my part of the world." 'my' part almost always entailing a national territorial affair, you can usually pull the wool over many a wanker's eyes - provided you spit with confidence (and that almost goes for us Yanks as well... though don't get too excited - tis only because the Indians are surprisingly pro-american that i'm feeling rather generous in my bloated generalizations). "why are you wearing those stupid plaid shorts with that blasted pink shirt," they first asked me upon arrival in france some many years ago. "because that's how all the gangster yankeedoodles get down," i replied in turn. they each cooed and offered me a cigarette (mind you - this was long before it went up to 5.20euro/pack).
the point of these ramblings is that one is often more protected by the veil of fettered nationalism than one imagines. if some indigent frog blames the iraq war on overweight 13 year old americans that watch too much television, you respond in turn with an elegy on the vendee or petain's naked tuesday night amblings along the banks of the allier (please quote me). on the flip side, however, every national has the god-given right to take .17% of the credit for any admirable individual undertaking of his country's past. this includes everything from pasteurization to penal code, which we all know the irish invented.
nationalism - or national pride on an individual scale - can easily be oversimplified as such. (whether one has the confidence to back the bushwank up is another matter.) if one is ambiguously cunning enough, it is almost possible to be forgiven any national crime from an individual perspective, e.g. "that german guy's a really cool guy" - or - "he's probably just austrian" (which, as we all know, forgives very little to nada...). race, on the other hand, is a completely different matter. (i'm tired - to be continued)
Friday, July 31, 2009
slowly rambling
we left varanasi with a magical taste in our mouth, ready to encounter whatever the road and train had in store with grace and indian ease. we hopped into an auto-rickshaw, the often extremely elaborate three-wheeled maniac-on-spinster machines that dot and dart across every urban indian horizon, and made for the train station. our driver was a lively, boisterous man, full of mirth, mustache and music (quite a catch, eh there girls?!), and the three of us - B, mike and i - were having a ball. as it is, indian women neither smoke nor drink, and they usually never drive; they certainly don't sit in the front (of semi-public transport such as autos and cabs) - nor are they "socially accustomed" to spit, curse, cheat, yell, swim (in public) or eat cheese (since the war in 1971 that is). en bref, it is a conspicuously 'old-school' populous with a rather 'antiquated' social contract - much to the chagrin of many a western female traveling throughout the land. to truly do justice to the essence of the story would first require a fullblown character sketch of French B (Berenice). (however, seeing as I am still traveling with her, that will have to wait until further ado)
anyhoo, the auto's buzzing through the narrow, meandering backroads out of varanasi, blasting his favorite hindi movie ballads and basking in his midday fortune. mike and i are crammed in the backseat with the bags, and B is in the front. already an anomaly+2 of sorts, B lights up a smoke and begins to sing along with our driver to the thumping, wailing, screeching madness of the hindi tune. seeing as women customarily neither sing, show emotion, sit in front or even smoke, the driver is on 300millionth heaven (one for each hindi god). the two in front bob their heads together and moan in unison to the earsplitting wails of the neutered chanteur, and mike and i die of laughter in the back seat. we approach a central thoroughfare and he slows down to greet a local coppermate of his. as the piggy approaches, the driver draws an inconspicuously (not) mysterious package wrapped in newspaper and hands it to the baksheesh beneficiary. the cop smiles, puts it in his jacket and lumbers back to his previous post. the driver cranks the music back up and speeds off into the bustle of cars, horns, horses, bikes, rickshaws, porters and pedestrians.
we're heading north out of a different station than that through which we'd arrived and need to get the lay of the land before debarking. as with any other station on the subcontinent, its bustling with yet another wealth of human density that would shake the foundation of montana's bucolic resolve and send her running for the (Northern) border in no time. we look up at the time table and try to track down our train. "it'll be on platform six in one hour," proclaims mike, a man on a praxical mission who, throughout our travels, was always on point. "cheers man, sounds good." suddenly a local officer approaches us, the glint and gleam of opportunism sparkling in his eye. "ah yes, show me your tickets and i will decipher their meaning."
"oh thank you officer, but i think we're set," replies mike, with ample certitude in his response. "indian train station very crazy," he takes pains to remind us, "you wait here while i go invent solution." knowing that he was only looking for a little baksheesh himself (eg tip, bribe), we sat down and laughed it off - resolved to the see the joke to its bitter end. about 50 minutes later, the officer returned. "ah yes, my friends, i have make discoveries - your train is on platform six, boarding in ten minutes!" "wow, officer, your expediency never fails to impress," mike replies with a sarcastic grin, "have a nice day," and we grumble on with our rucksacks towards platform six.
our compartment was uncharacteristically empty and we lumbered on into the slow, hot distance with ample room to chat and chive. we smoke cigarettes and drink warm water, for the car's dearth of density didnt justify the usual chai-wallah march that is customary on most indian trains (when a different vendor selling hot, sweet and spicy chai marches up and down aisles selling 10cent teas every five-seven minutes - a true delight indeed if ever an indian one there was!). we're almost exactly in the northern center of the country, about 200km south of nepal and equidistant between the arabian sea and the bay of bengal. though the monsoon has been too little and too late this year, the effects are still remarkable, and what had been the crispy, arid and earthen scorched beige that reigned across that same horizon only 4 weeks prior was now a mosaic of patchwork, richly irrigated greens that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. i tried to cram through my novel, the telling though travel-cliche backpackerhit book named 'shantaram' while B and mike played cards, though was too restless to remain put.
there are always certain, particular advantages to every human system, for any inherent 'order of things' that was truly unbearable to every party involved would surely crumble in due organic fashion. and though nearly everything in india is late, slow, inefficient and disorderly, rules are only a wise remark, regulations a faint suggestion. as we traversed the indian countryside, i'd sit in the open doorway, dangle my feet and engage my cancer stick, one after the other, as i watched the subcontinent and its inhabitants fade into horizontal oblivion. as the dusty breeze rasped through my dirty hair, we passed through medieval villages made of straw and mud, where the most colorful sari-clad women toiled endlessly in the fields, and the men would wander about barefoot, riding their bikes along the dirt roads, conducting their 'affairs' or simply squatting along the side of the tracks to get the demons out their tummy (which they seemed to do quite often and with great perspicacity. as of yet, i've counted 687 squatting nastiness/getting/ridders/of within view of the train since traveling from Calcutta. perhaps there's something in the wawa)
dusk finally approached and the train began to fill. around 8:30 we pulled into Lucknow, the sight of the famous 1857 indian rebellion, when upwards of 2,000 brits and their loyal locals were sent to the clouds after a year+ seige in and around the governor's mansion (im only 'lightheartedly' recalling the 'facts' of the incident, you may check wikipedia for your own peace of mind...). as is customary in larger cities, you have 35-45 minutes' rest at the train station, enough time to fill your water bottles and fetch a hot meal. by the time we sat down in the stationary compartment to eat our indian takeaway TV tray dinners, a small, gaping crowd had muscled its way into our compartment and immediate surroundings to catch a glimpse of the escaped convicts. woman, man and child alike had gathered to witness the mythical procession of three dirty occidental travelers shoveling an array of precooked curry, beans, rice and roti into their grimy mouths with their greasy fingers and no visible cutlery (as is normal with indian grub)
their curiosity wasn't merely culinary and by the time we'd finished eating, one of the young men mustered up the courage to spark up a conversation, though only once B, our female companion, had taken momentary leave to wash her hands. by the time she got back, our new companions were teaching me magic tricks, how to sing hindi songs and how smoke a cigarette with the cherry in the back of your mouth and the filter at the front. the main jokester sitting across from me was a virile and vivacious puntz of a little man, not unlike the great argie "el gordo" i'd known in general villegas, provincia de buenos aires some years before. when i asked whether he was sure we could smoke inside a crowded, festering train, he replied, "but of course, with this little document i have from my aunt, the transportation minister, my friends and i do as we please, whenever we please, hahahaha! we don't pay train if we don't feel like paying train, and we ride at our own pleasure!" Just at that moment, a ticket-taker was passing through the cabin. "Should i chuck my smoke?!" i asked with a worrisome demeanor. "hahahaha but of course not, let's light another for the occasion! guard - get over here! show me what you've got!" The ticket taker hurried along the corridor without looking back. "Haha - you see - between this little card and my magic tricks, they are all afraid of us!" I chuckled, took another drag and stared off into the starless distance
anyhoo, the auto's buzzing through the narrow, meandering backroads out of varanasi, blasting his favorite hindi movie ballads and basking in his midday fortune. mike and i are crammed in the backseat with the bags, and B is in the front. already an anomaly+2 of sorts, B lights up a smoke and begins to sing along with our driver to the thumping, wailing, screeching madness of the hindi tune. seeing as women customarily neither sing, show emotion, sit in front or even smoke, the driver is on 300millionth heaven (one for each hindi god). the two in front bob their heads together and moan in unison to the earsplitting wails of the neutered chanteur, and mike and i die of laughter in the back seat. we approach a central thoroughfare and he slows down to greet a local coppermate of his. as the piggy approaches, the driver draws an inconspicuously (not) mysterious package wrapped in newspaper and hands it to the baksheesh beneficiary. the cop smiles, puts it in his jacket and lumbers back to his previous post. the driver cranks the music back up and speeds off into the bustle of cars, horns, horses, bikes, rickshaws, porters and pedestrians.
we're heading north out of a different station than that through which we'd arrived and need to get the lay of the land before debarking. as with any other station on the subcontinent, its bustling with yet another wealth of human density that would shake the foundation of montana's bucolic resolve and send her running for the (Northern) border in no time. we look up at the time table and try to track down our train. "it'll be on platform six in one hour," proclaims mike, a man on a praxical mission who, throughout our travels, was always on point. "cheers man, sounds good." suddenly a local officer approaches us, the glint and gleam of opportunism sparkling in his eye. "ah yes, show me your tickets and i will decipher their meaning."
"oh thank you officer, but i think we're set," replies mike, with ample certitude in his response. "indian train station very crazy," he takes pains to remind us, "you wait here while i go invent solution." knowing that he was only looking for a little baksheesh himself (eg tip, bribe), we sat down and laughed it off - resolved to the see the joke to its bitter end. about 50 minutes later, the officer returned. "ah yes, my friends, i have make discoveries - your train is on platform six, boarding in ten minutes!" "wow, officer, your expediency never fails to impress," mike replies with a sarcastic grin, "have a nice day," and we grumble on with our rucksacks towards platform six.
our compartment was uncharacteristically empty and we lumbered on into the slow, hot distance with ample room to chat and chive. we smoke cigarettes and drink warm water, for the car's dearth of density didnt justify the usual chai-wallah march that is customary on most indian trains (when a different vendor selling hot, sweet and spicy chai marches up and down aisles selling 10cent teas every five-seven minutes - a true delight indeed if ever an indian one there was!). we're almost exactly in the northern center of the country, about 200km south of nepal and equidistant between the arabian sea and the bay of bengal. though the monsoon has been too little and too late this year, the effects are still remarkable, and what had been the crispy, arid and earthen scorched beige that reigned across that same horizon only 4 weeks prior was now a mosaic of patchwork, richly irrigated greens that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. i tried to cram through my novel, the telling though travel-cliche backpackerhit book named 'shantaram' while B and mike played cards, though was too restless to remain put.
there are always certain, particular advantages to every human system, for any inherent 'order of things' that was truly unbearable to every party involved would surely crumble in due organic fashion. and though nearly everything in india is late, slow, inefficient and disorderly, rules are only a wise remark, regulations a faint suggestion. as we traversed the indian countryside, i'd sit in the open doorway, dangle my feet and engage my cancer stick, one after the other, as i watched the subcontinent and its inhabitants fade into horizontal oblivion. as the dusty breeze rasped through my dirty hair, we passed through medieval villages made of straw and mud, where the most colorful sari-clad women toiled endlessly in the fields, and the men would wander about barefoot, riding their bikes along the dirt roads, conducting their 'affairs' or simply squatting along the side of the tracks to get the demons out their tummy (which they seemed to do quite often and with great perspicacity. as of yet, i've counted 687 squatting nastiness/getting/ridders/of within view of the train since traveling from Calcutta. perhaps there's something in the wawa)
dusk finally approached and the train began to fill. around 8:30 we pulled into Lucknow, the sight of the famous 1857 indian rebellion, when upwards of 2,000 brits and their loyal locals were sent to the clouds after a year+ seige in and around the governor's mansion (im only 'lightheartedly' recalling the 'facts' of the incident, you may check wikipedia for your own peace of mind...). as is customary in larger cities, you have 35-45 minutes' rest at the train station, enough time to fill your water bottles and fetch a hot meal. by the time we sat down in the stationary compartment to eat our indian takeaway TV tray dinners, a small, gaping crowd had muscled its way into our compartment and immediate surroundings to catch a glimpse of the escaped convicts. woman, man and child alike had gathered to witness the mythical procession of three dirty occidental travelers shoveling an array of precooked curry, beans, rice and roti into their grimy mouths with their greasy fingers and no visible cutlery (as is normal with indian grub)
their curiosity wasn't merely culinary and by the time we'd finished eating, one of the young men mustered up the courage to spark up a conversation, though only once B, our female companion, had taken momentary leave to wash her hands. by the time she got back, our new companions were teaching me magic tricks, how to sing hindi songs and how smoke a cigarette with the cherry in the back of your mouth and the filter at the front. the main jokester sitting across from me was a virile and vivacious puntz of a little man, not unlike the great argie "el gordo" i'd known in general villegas, provincia de buenos aires some years before. when i asked whether he was sure we could smoke inside a crowded, festering train, he replied, "but of course, with this little document i have from my aunt, the transportation minister, my friends and i do as we please, whenever we please, hahahaha! we don't pay train if we don't feel like paying train, and we ride at our own pleasure!" Just at that moment, a ticket-taker was passing through the cabin. "Should i chuck my smoke?!" i asked with a worrisome demeanor. "hahahaha but of course not, let's light another for the occasion! guard - get over here! show me what you've got!" The ticket taker hurried along the corridor without looking back. "Haha - you see - between this little card and my magic tricks, they are all afraid of us!" I chuckled, took another drag and stared off into the starless distance
monkey see monkey do
this morning i was sitting atop a large, ornamented concrete railing the encircles the span of the lake when i got a new and particularly exciting scare of sorts. as has become my quotidian custom here in the raj-era himalayan hill station of Nainital (at roughly 7,000ft), each morning after i awake and shower, i stroll down the steep and narrow street to the makeshift center of town, which pleasantly wraps around the banks of the beautiful pear-shaped lake Naini. as was customary during these lazy, ambulant days, i was eating my omelette sandwich, drinking my chai and reading arabian nights under the bright midmorning sun when suddenly a large, foreign object - alive and extremely well - pierced my periphery vision and then paused, only inches away to the left. i put down my book without recovering the page number to look up at a grey-haired, leather-faced baboon, the same massive monkey that roamed with such grace and authority in the Corbett Tiger Reserve some two weeks back. As it was still relatively early for Indian mountain standards, I was the first and only sitting atop the rail, and we both had momentary troubles understanding the other's intransigence. Though mine was mostly steeped in sheer and utter surprise (ok, ok i was scared shitstupid for 1.23 seconds there), the monkey hesitated only briefly, waiting for me to put my book down before he began to step over me, his front and back paws (hands, rather!) lightly gripping and releasing the flesh of my thighs as he nimbly crawled across me and clambered over on his way down the line...
Friday, July 17, 2009
Varanaserating
Varanasi is a marvellous testament to the collective insanity that is India. More eloquently put, they're out of their wanking minds. Not that any of us can claim the contrary, of course; at least the Indians have the gut and (grimy) grace to do it in style (and by style I mean conviction and color.) July is one of 12 holy Hindu months (on the Gregorian calendar of course), though of particular importance to the Shiva-worshipping pilgrims of afar. From wealthy Indian MBA's and drunken rickshaw pullers to American graduate students, I've tried on numerous occassions to understand the theological premises of Hinduism - what overriding principles inflame their fervent beliefs, what inspires the celestial apple of their eye, what brings clairvoyance to the contact lenses of their third-eye... and all to no avail. Hinduism, its myriad gods, multitudinous traditions and multifarious manifestations, remains an absolute and utter mystery to me. That being said, you needn't always do the reading before you show up for lecture.
As we took the auto-rickshaw from Bodhgaya (the surprisingly uninspiring town where the Buddha is said to have achieved enlightenment - though more on that later) to Gaya, there was a strange conglomeration of barefooted orange-clad men carrying idol-adorned walking sticks strung with highly ornate silver incense burners. They seemed to be in and around every cab, corner and platform at the train station. Though they were a remarkable sight to foreign eyes, however, they were no match for Swiss Lilly and French B - my two traveling companions - and I.
I have often heard that if you travel to rural China or the bucolic African bush, the locals are likely to pinch you to verify (on a superficial level) the color of your skin and (on a more intimate level) the veracity of your temporal existence. In India, they mere form a tight-nit circle around you and stare. The comments and sly cell phone pix do not come until the third minute, after which you're relieved they haven't mauled you to death or sold you into an arranged marriage. I exaggerate, of course, and though it's not bad for guys - and can even slightly amusing - it's got to be one hell of a trip for the western woman to take that kind of visual beating from all ten thousand of the platform's freakshow participants (us providing the momentary entertainment). They don't ask me if I'm married until the second cup of tea (and only after I've annoyed them with too many intrusive questions about their religion) On the other hand, most girls traveling here can expect to reveal their marital status within 37.23 seconds of any normal conversation (which is why my traveling companions now respond with the utterly predictable "I'm going to meet my boyfriend of four years in Varanasi (the next train station)" after which their Indian interlocuteur aptly responds: "Only four years together?!" or "You twenty-two years and still no childrens?!") At one point in Bodhgaya, a man came and sat with us at our table. After the usual gibes at our variant nationalities and linguistic capabilities, he gets straight to the meat of any discussion worth having in the modern world: "What us your study?" was followed by a more subtley phrased "What is your hobby," only to be topped by the grandiloquent "What is your desire?"
But back to the little orange men. They were pilgrims from who knows how far, barefoot and henna-ed out, and ready for some transcendental action. Their median age couldn't have been more than 19 or 20 (though I am a poor judge of age when it comes to the subcontinent), yet they weathered the standing corridors of the human and fly-infested trains for hours on end to reach their metaphysical apogee incarnate, the magical Varanasi (and I say that with no hint of sarcasm - it truly is the most mind-boggling place I've ever step foot in), India's holiest Hindu city and primary urban host to the Mother of all Mothers (of the Indus Valley civilization of course), the river Ganges.
Varanasi is the perfect embodiment of the sheer and utter chaos that encapsulates every inch of urban Indian life. I have yet to see Mumbai or the center of Delhi, though would reckon to wager the aforementioned. (a six inch gecko just ran up the wall and into the corner of the internet cafe... he's come back down and is now about 24 inches from my monitor). In short, it's a painfully beautiful and monstrous display of human, animal and architectural density on a crack-binged amorous rage, struggling to test the limits of a sovereignly organized organic infrastructure. The thousands of orange-clad pilgrims that roam the streets by foot, float and SUV, chant the Shiva-worshipping mantras and bath in the disease-ridden, human ash infested Ganges, fade into the background of an even more eclectic human and animal tapestry (despite the impression one mistakingly gets that the Dutch Suriname has just won the World Cup on Queen's Day). You may be wondering why I constantly evoque the 'animal' element of Varanasi. That, my friend, is because in between the asphyxiatingly narrow, meandering and adventurous four foot lanes that criss-cross the old town through stairs, tunnels and (literally hundreds of) temples, live, roam and rule the real sovereigns of Varanasi: the holy cow. Cows, bulls and what honestly look to be bison linger around every corner of the old city, in every crevice (however small!) and every narrow opening. The sit in the middle of an already disorienting narrow lane, at the bottom, middle and top of the stairs, in front of the door to the hostel, hotel or restaurant. They eat the humble refuse of local residents, or the oats of (the all too) generous neighbors, swatting their tails at tourists and flies alike as you pass. The old quarter is excruciatingly hard to navigate as it is. The narrow streets (sometimes a mere 4-5 feet wide), packed with merchants of every spice, fabric, sweet and incense, already vertiginously strained by the multitude of the faithful, must now contend with ambitious motorcycle drivers and pastoral life alike. When it rains, the slippery cobblestoned streets become awash with the run of their liquified stank, and you begin to regret rocking the open-toed sandles.
All that being said, the city comes together marvelously. Varanasi, that intricate web of explosive and pious humanity topped off by an army of holy cows, roaming rooftop hordes of monkeys, mendicant baby goats and myriad meandering temples of every shape, size, color and god, exudes a baffling and mystical charm unlike any other I've had the pleasure to witness.
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