PAR AVION

A Day in Mumbai

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 13:08:00 +0000

Alexander and I set off for Mumbai/Bombay in the evening of January 25th, three hours after he successfully finished teaching a two-week course in contemporary book design at NID. By the time we had packed our bags and locked up the apartment we were running a dangerous twenty minutes behind schedule. Luckily we hailed a perceptive rickshaw driver who sensed our anxiety. He weaved through the bumper-to-bumper late night traffic at death defying speeds and played risky games of chicken with oncoming trucks to get us to the railway station on time. As we flew forward– wind-in-hair and heart-in-mouth- I felt the now familiar throb of anticipation pulse through my veins. Adventure ho!

We boarded the night train to Mumbai three minutes before it left the platform. Ten hours later, after a restless night of sleep on a middle berth, we arrived at Chhatrapati Shivaji Station- Victoria Terminus. From there it was a quick seven-rupee ride on the commuter rail to Churchgate in the southern district of downtown.

Immediately after exiting the station, I was struck by a vision of wide brick roads, towering colonial-era architecture and vacant sidewalks. The weather was dreamy: swaths of clouds filtered the warm morning light and a gentle sea breeze carried the scent of salt water. In a city notorious for its relentless crowds, chronic shortage of space, and Asia’s largest slums, my first impression of daybreak in south Mumbai was bewildering.

Alexander and I made our way to the nearby American Center, which was conveniently conspicuous with its kitschy striped awnings. After passing through security we were escorted to the apartment of our friend Lynne. She welcomed us into her home- and what a home it was! The floors were marble and cool to the touch. The spacious guest room had seventh story views and a handicap accessible bathroom. The air was filtered, the fridge was stacked, and the water was purified by a complex system of reverse osmosis. There was even a new issue of Time Out on the coffee table, which listed endless events- from gallery openings to book readings to musical performances.

Unlike Ahmedabad, Mumbai had a bustling, cosmopolitan feel. There was no shortage of events to attend, restaurants to sample, and nightspots to seek out. The city’s composite history was evident in everything from Koli shanties that occupy parts of the shoreline to imposing Art Deco facades. As an island, Mumbai’s only connection with the mainland is several bridges; the surrounding body of water seems to heighten one’s sense of confinement when trying to navigate the crowded streets. Fortunately the ocean views, large maidans (parks), and air-conditioned museums have a calming effect when the frenzied pace of the city becomes too much.

Alexander and I spent the day exploring several districts. A half hour walk from Churchgate brought us to the happening Colaba district on the city’s southernmost peninsula. There we gazed upon the Gateway of India, a striking basalt arch that opens up to the Mumbai harbor and is world famous as the city’s defining landmark. We visited the nearby Taj Mahal Palace and Tower, a grand, water-facing heritage hotel built in 1903. Rumor has it that the hotel’s architect, Parsi industrialist JN Tata, built the Taj when he was refused entry to one of the European hotels on account of being ‘a native.’

We spent the afternoon walking north past Horniman Circle, through Crawford Market, Chor Bazarre and on to Mutton Street, which is lined with antique shops selling old gramophones, vintage Bollywood posters, rusty tins, chipped porcelin, broken clocks and early 20th century postcards. In the evening we walked along the harbor-bordered promenade of Marine Drive before dining at the popular upscale fish restaurant Trishna, where we ordered Padma Laxsmi’s (think Top Chef, or Salmon Rushdie’s fourth ex-wife) dish of pomfret in green masala.

We returned to the American Center at eleven and caught three hours of sleep before hailing a cab to the International airport.

A Better Blogger (From Now On)

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 14:52:00 +0000

Dear All,

I apologize for my two-month-long hiatus. I have failed to post consistently, and in doing so, have forsaken the most fundamental objective of blogging! But my silence has its own reasons, some of which I will briefly explain:

The end of November marked my fourth month in India. When Alexander and I returned from our three-week tour through Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh and Delhi, something changed for the both of us. For the first time, Ahmedabad felt like home, regardless of how transitory or uncomfortable it may be. At first I was excited. I finally felt confident in our new space. I could navigate the city relatively easily and was no longer intimidated by the demands of daily life. In short, I was getting used to living here.

At the same time that life seemed more manageable, it also seemed less interesting. The same objects that once arrested my attention now appeared ubiquitous. My conversations with people, while no less edifying, were quickly assimilated into a perpetual series of daily exchanges from which it became difficult to isolate particulars. Colors started to look duller. Food tasted blander. Even the burning piles of rubbish and human excrement were not quite as assaulting.

My experiences started to feel more like predictable encounters than exciting adventures, and it seemed impossible to retell them in any other way. Activities such as hand-washing laundry, buying vegetables, and ridding the apartment of dust and mosquitoes did not provide much fodder for interesting analysis. They did even seem worthy of a bland summary. On the other hand, anything but my basic routines were too overwhelming to fully digest and regurgitate. My thoughts all seemed embarrassingly incomplete; my observations underdeveloped. I was stuck in a margin between simple actions and their meanings, and my mind felt blocked. It no longer felt possible to describe a walk down the street without talking about the ways my whiteness, gender, nationality and class produced the experience; they were one in the same.

Although I am still trying to figure things out, I feel ready to write. Besides, writing is way of figuring things out in and of itself- a method of inquiry, as Laurel Richardson would say. Alexander and I have accomplished and lived through a lot in the past two months, and much of it is worth mentioning. I will do my best to summarize my favorite moments from recent weeks in the following three posts. I also promise to post more frequently, so please keep checking.

Part I- Highlights from December

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 14:50:00 +0000

In early December Alexander and I returned to the region of Kutch, near the Pakistani border, to film artisan and friend Jabbar. As I mentioned in a previous post, Jabbar is a master tie-and-dyer whose products are popular abroad. Unlike the pieces of bandhani readily available in the domestic market, Jabbar’s work is done on silk (instead of cotton), dyed in natural dyes (instead of synthetic), and requires a great deal more labor and skill (one piece can take up to four months). Alexander and I collected nearly seven hours of footage in our attempt to capture the process from start to finish. We also conducted interviews with Jabbar and his family to provide a social context for the craft. Our main aim was/is to illustrate the ways artisans have been able to preserve and innovate on traditional crafts by entering into an international market.

After returning from Kutch, Alexander started to prepare for the course he was asked to teach at the National Institute of Design. Entitled “Contemporary Book Making and Book Design,” the course concentrates on the physical process of book making and highlights current trends in British and American graphics industries, both of which have seen a resurgence in production oriented and material based design. Alexander designed a syllabus, set up “fieldtrips” to a handmade paper factory and a manuscript museum, and brushed up on his own book binding skills.

At the same time we both continued to work on the Rajasthani turban campaign. Because we were unable to scan the turbans (they cannot be subjected to intense lights), we photographed the long objects in segments. As a result, we are forced to “sew” the individual images together in Photoshop. To make matters more complicated, however, the edges of each image were slightly distorted by the camera. We have had no choice but to spend endless hours trying to create yards of seamless cloth. At one point I started to dream about the complex, colorful, crosshatched design!

Around the same time I made a trip to Ahmedabad’s English bookstore and purchased the complete works of Haruki Murakami and Salmon Rushdie. I am currently making my way through each collection.

Towards the end of December I started to fear that the holiday season would be particularly disorienting and depressing. Wilting in the desert heat without the company of family and friends did not seem like something to celebrate. But Alexander and I managed to make due. We decorated a desiccated, potted shrub with stale popcorn and concocted a strangely satisfying brunch comprised of experimental dishes. Christmas proved to be a wonderful, love-filled day, although we missed everyone a lot.

Part II- Kerala with Melisa and Evan

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 14:49:00 +0000

On December 28th my mother and brother made the long 36-hour journey from California to Ahmedabad. Alexander and I were there to greet them at the airport. I could barely contain my excitement when they exited through the terminal’s glass doors! It was shockingly surreal to see them in the flesh; like worlds colliding.

We spent our first week together in Ahmedabad. Alexander and I served as tour guides showing Mom and Evan our favorite corners of the city. We visited the famous Gandhi Ashram, the busy market of Manek Chowk, the renowned Calico Museum, intricate Jain temples, exquisite Mosques, well-stocked khadi bandhars, the congested New City, and NID’s lush campus. A morning Heritage Walk gave us a well-informed tour of the Old City’s tangled streets and its historic architecture. On New Years, the four of us celebrated with a bottle of Brut that Mom managed to smuggle through airport security.

On the morning of January 2nd, we boarded a plane to the state of Kerala, a narrow, fertile strip on the southwest coast. After a five-hour layover in Mumbai, we landed in Kochi (Cochin). Located in central Kerala, Kochi consists of a cluster of islands and narrow peninsulas and is famous for its many historical sites. The region’s maritime contact with other cultures over the centuries has greatly contributed to Kochi’s eclectic scenery in the form of Syrian-Christian churches, Dutch and Portuguese Heritage homes, Raj-era game lodges, a complex system of Chinese fishing nets, streets reminiscent of Medieval Holland and a visible Jewish community.

The four of us chose to stay in the older, quieter district of Fort Cochin, which is linked to the bustling city of Ernakulam by a bridge. We lodged at a beautiful, calming guesthouse that was within walking distance of nearly all our destinations. Our three days in the area were spent exploring the tranquil streets and absorbing the relaxed, tropical vibe. We saw the oldest church in India, watched the cantilevered Chinese fishing nets in action, strolled along the sunny, sea-bordered promenades, examined the graphic murals of Mattancherry Palace, and gazed upon the crumbling gravestones of the Dutch cemetery. Our last day was spent in a region of the peninsula known as “Jew Town,” an area that is known for the antique and spice shops that line the narrow roads, as well as the centrally located Pardesi Synagogue. First built in 1568 and later re-built by the Dutch in 1664, the synagogue is tucked away at the dead end of one of the town’s many labyrinthine streets. It features a gold pulpit, colorful glass chandeliers, and a floor made up of hand-painted, blue and white tiles imported from China. On our last night we enjoyed a traditional Kathakali performance (a dramatized presentation of a play- usually based on Hindu epics such as the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, and the Puranas- acted out by heavily made-up men wearing extravagant costumes).

Much to my delight, our sweat-inducing adventures were punctuated with excellent meals and retreats into the sanctuary of ocean-view hotels, where we sipped on sodas and cold beer. My favorite dishes included a seasoned snapper steamed in banana leaves and a North Indian inspired fish thali.

On January 7th Alexander, Mom, Evan and I took a morning taxi to the town of Alappuzha (Alleppey). Encompassing laidback markets, groves of palm trees and a system of interconnecting canals, Alleppey was once one of the best-known ports along the Malabar Coast. The four of us stayed outside the town, on the banks of the backwaters, in a cluster of bamboo huts. We spent the day swinging in hammocks strung between palm trees and watching dozens of impressive houseboats drift down the river.

The following morning we boarded our very own houseboat, complete with a personal chef, captain, and navigator. For twenty-four hours we drifted along the network of waterways that fringe the coast, winding their way inland. As the sun made its arch across a cloud-studded dome of blue sky, we passed palm-fringed lakes, lush rice patties, small villages, mosques, temples, children on their way to school, men diving for fish and prawns, and women washing piles of sodden clothes. When we passed a small stall built into the riverbank, Alexander bought a chopped coconut with a pink straw. We played gin rummy and read until our chef presented us with a delicious dinner of cooked spicy fish, vegetables and fried plantains. When twilight descended, and the river water turned ink black, we docked on the bank and counted fireflies before falling asleep to the sound of lapping water.

Our adept captain returned us to Alleppey before noon the next day. From there we took another long taxi ride further along the coast to Thiruvanathapuram (Trivandrum). Trivandrum has a reputation as one of India’s most pleasant cities for its temples, museums and gardens. Mom, Evan, Alexander and I spent a full three days sampling new foods, shopping in the local markets, and visiting the Palace Museum. The highlights of our stay included Patayam, a natural health food restaurant serving multiple mini-courses and tiny shots of blended fruit, and the Swathi Sangeethotsavan Music Festival, where we heard Master Balamuralilkrishna perform carnatic vocals with a violin, mridangam and ghatam.

On the 12th it was time to say goodbye. Alexander and I flew north while Melisa and Evan braved the journey back to the States. All in all, our two weeks together were terrific, but our apartment in Ahmedabad has started to feel a little empty!

Part III- Back to Ahmedabad

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 14:46:00 +0000

Alexander and I returned from Kerala in time for Gujarat’s famous Kite Festival, Uttarayan. In preparation, groups of men dusted yards of kite string with a neon pink powder (made from chalk and ground glass) and wound the colorful thread into spools. Other vendors hawked diamond-shaped paper kites, some with bow-tie tails. Before the festival officially began, children would gather before and after school to hone their kite-flying skills. Soon the streets were littered with wads of bright string and the torn shreds of fallen kites.

In kite flying, as in life, the main objective is to survive as long as possible. Staying afloat is not as easy as it seems, however, because the glass-infused kite strings “cut” each other whenever they meet in mid- air. Sometimes the “cut” kite will attach itself to the victorious kite, and then that lucky someone will be flying a double-headed kite! But in most cases, it is either “cut or be cut.” You can either be defensive by avoiding any contact with other kites, or you can be offensive by trying to “cut” down as many other kites as possible.

On January 14th, Alexander and I ascended the stairs of our apartment complex and joined the thousands of people gathered on rooftops all over the city. The site was breathtaking. The sky was packed with the colorful dots of kites. It looked like the air was churning with colorful confetti. The airborne diamonds swooped and spiraled as they caught different drafts while the severed kites floated down to the street like crisp autumn leaves. Groups of neighbors cheered for their family members and friends as they tried to fell the competition. Alexander and I both tried our hand at flying but I cannot say it went well.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the kites turned into silhouettes against the subcontinental sunset. Firecrackers exploded over the city as children lit small explosives. The vision was scored with the Bollywood music that blasted from rooftop stereo systems.

Days later Alexander started to teach his course at NID. He spent an intense thirteen days teaching both morning and afternoon sessions on campus. The class turned out to be a great success. Most of his students produced innovative books and they had a popular exhibition at the end. Alexander says he loved the experience, but is happy to get back to his own work. Also, we learned recently from some student friends that Alexander has earned quite the reputation at NID as a “harsh critic” and “strict instructor.” Not bad for his first time teaching, especially considering many of his students were older than him!

Now we are off to Mumbai. We will be flying to Thailand on January 27th. Check back for more updates!

Life on the Platform

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 15:07:00 +0000

Express trains regularly run between Agra and Delhi. Despite their frequency, the trains are notorious for running late. Alexander and I had the minor misfortune of waiting two hours for our third class coach to arrive.

Our delay gave us time to examine the station milieu. Plump rats scurried across the tracks nibbling at an abundance of trash. A man with an oversized moustache sold carrot-glucose sweets from a cart. Three teenagers poured hot chai from large silver canteens. “Chai!! Chai Garam!” they called out into the heavy night air.

Despite the excess of distractions, my attention was drawn to the dozens of begging children darting about the platform. They tugged on arms, motioning to their empty tummies and mouths. The girls wore tattered, ill-fitting dresses with broken zippers and missing buttons. Their hair was either cropped close to their head or tied back in long, matted ponytails. I watched as one girl, clad in a ragged, orange shirt, coughed up large amounts of phlegm and spit into the tracks below.

Each time a train arrived at the platform, the children greeted it with excitement. After the passengers boarded, they clung to the sides of cars, waiting for their ride to begin. As the train picked up speed, the kids jumped between the coach doorways and crowded platform. The coughing girl joined her peers, giggling as she ran alongside the train in search of a vacant spot. But the car was moving too fast. Her leg slipped into the dark crevice between platform ledge and train. Onlookers screamed as two young men sprinted to the rescue, violently whacking her back towards safety and away from the lethal chasm. It was all too much for me to bear and I closed my eyes until our train arrived.

Pretty Picture Postcard

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 15:06:00 +0000

Alexander and I took the 6 a.m. train to Agra and arrived four hours later. Although the city was wrapped in a thick morning mist, I recognized the subtle outline of the Taj Mahal as we drove to our hotel. It stood like a distant mirage, luring us closer.

As can be expected, the highlight of our stay in Agra was the Taj Mahal. Alexander and I woke at five a.m. to be present when the sight’s doors opened an hour later. We shuffled past security and several tour groups wearing matching yellow baseball caps. Through a colossal red-stone entrance gate I caught my first intimate look at the world’s most famous monument to love.

The Taj was built by Emperor Shah Jahan to commemorate the passing of his second wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their fourteenth child in 1631. The elaborate monument took more than two decades to complete and required a work force of 20,000 people from India and Central Asia. Architects were brought in from Europe to help produce the intricate marble screens and inlay work made with thousands of semiprecious stones.

For years I envisioned the Taj to be creamy white with the smooth texture of a meringue. Imagine my surprise as I began to notice the gray swirled marble and intricate inlay work. As we walked along the thin reflecting pool I could distinguish intricate designs on the exterior. Vines of colorful flowers and large Koran passages written in Arabic calligraphy decorated the mausoleum’s entrance. It was beautiful.

Alexander and I spent five hours wandering around gardens and mosques. We took pictures from every angle and sketched pieces of the structure in our sketchbooks. In the central mausoleum we admired the lace-like marble screens and dragged our hands over the flawless inlay work. The Taj changed colors with the rising sun. Under our gaze the central dome transformed from pale blue to a golden yellow to a subtle cherry-blossom pink. At noon the Taj turned a brilliant cotton-white, framed by a cloudless, autumn sky. By the time we left, however, a thin haze had settled over the gardens, veiling the monument in a thin lavender curtain.

As we departed, I felt a twinge of discontent, as if I had somehow failed to absorb, capture or retain the Taj’s beauty. Here I was: Standing halfway around the world and in the presence of one of the world’s most celebrated wonders, the image of which I have seen reproduced on stamps, calendars, book covers, postcards and on TV. But how can one consume such a significant landmark? How can one preserve an impermanent moment? Staring, wandering, taking pictures, sketching, meditating, touching, smelling- all yielded fleeting pleasures that immediately congealed into memories. When we exited the monument’s gates, the Taj Mahal had already converted itself into an imprecise image projected against the black of my mind.

Research in Jaipur

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 15:06:00 +0000

In the morning Alexander and I visited our first contact in Jaipur- Gitto, an ex-faculty member of NID who specializes in wood block printing. It took a half-hour for the rickshaw driver to find her workshop hidden behind the lush palms of a residential garden. We were greeted by a team of men dipping wooden blocks in pads of colored ink, and stamping them on long sheets of white cloth.

Behind them sat boxes of unused blocks stacked in marked boxes. The range of patterns was incredible! From intricate roses to clusters of ants to tiny cartoon dogs to Japanese-inspired clouds- it seemed as if there was a design for every possible market. Gitto took a break from her meeting with three Italian clients to give us a brief tour of the studio. When Alexander told her that he was particularly interested in leheria (an intricate wave pattern created by tying and dyeing thin material such as the silk and fine cotton used to make traditional Rajasthani turbans) she informed us that the best person to talk to had recently “expired.” Instead she provided us with the name of a sari shop owner who sells contemporary leheria pieces.

We spent an hour in the sari shop sipping chai and examining crude examples of leheria, all of which had been dyed in synthetic, neon colors. “Women want bright colors. Dusty colors do not sell,” the owner explained. “Rani- dark hot pink- sells best,” he said holding up a piece of translucent silk the color of fuchsias. The borders of the more expensive saris were decorated with intricate, sequin-studded, hand-stitched embroidery that glinted under the store’s fluorescent lights. Although our discussions about the contemporary Indian market were edifying, it was disappointing to see how much the quality of the craft has been comprised due to the cost of labor and the availability of natural dyes.

Next we visited the City Palace, next to which was our second contact in Jaipur- an antique textile dealer who collects Rajasthani turbans. We ogled over his impresive collection of rare specimens. The most expensive turban for sale cost $3,500 (the best ones are in his private collection and are not for sale) and was 120 years old! Despite its age, the colors remained vibrant and the cloth was in perfect condition. Before leaving the shop the owner gave us permission to photograph his collection if we ever returned to Jaipur. He also gave us our third contact in the city: Badshah Ahmed, a national award-winning leheria dyer who uses only natural dyes.

When we called Badshah the following day, he immediately sent his son to pick us up on his motorcycle. Alexander and I climbed aboard and gripped the bike for dear life. We swerved around large pigs, their swollen teats dragging in the dust. Curious bystanders stopped to gawk at the motorcycle carrying two foreigners. After we dismounted, a group of children ran to welcome us to their neighborhood.

Badshah’s son brought us inside where his father displayed several award winning pieces and talked about his craft. Next his son brought us to the rooftop terrace. We gazed upon a bustling neighborhood. Dozens of kites spiraled in the afternoon breeze. The son spent four hours teaching us how to make leheria, from rolling the cloth to tying the knots to boiling indigo dye. Our final products were less than impressive, but we purchased several of the son’s leheria silk pieces to add to our collection.

Up At Arms

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 14:51:00 +0000

Over the months I have grown somewhat impervious to the aggressive calls of rickshaw drivers, salesmen and the occasional delinquent teen. But when Alexander and I arrived in Jaipur, tired and shaken from our bus driver’s insistent demands for a bribe, I lost it. As a crowd of drivers swarmed around me, I started to pull at my hair and shrieked: “Leave us alone!” Small tears balanced on the rims of my eyes. My scene must have made quite an impression because the pack of vying men quickly dispersed. The single, remaining gentleman quietly offered us a fair price and remained mute for our ten-minute journey to the hotel.

At the reception counter a short, slimy attendant told us that he had nearly given away our room. “You are forty minutes late,” he said, casually pointing to a clock. “Now I must tell the couple waiting for your room that you have showed up.” I stared hard in disbelief. Alexander had booked our room one month in advance and re-confirmed three times! He had even called the previous night to verify our time of arrival. “You are very lucky,” the attendant reiterated. I watched as a German couple scowled from a corner couch.

The man showed us our room, and offhandedly informed us of the price. It was twice the listed price that the hotel had confirmed and reconfirmed over the phone! November is the busy season in Jaipur (one must book their rooms ahead) and we had no choice but to accept the fee. Meanwhile, the attendant acted as if we should thank him for not canceling our reservation. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow we will find you a cheaper room,” he lied confidently.

To forget our worries, Alexander turned on the tiny television set in our room. We laughed at episodes of Seinfield and Friends until our sides hurt. In retrospect, none of the jokes were particularly funny, but we were in dire need of a good laugh.

Living Lakeside

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 14:50:00 +0000

In Udaipur we ate on the city’s highest terraces. In Jodhpur we stayed in a haveli’s sky-scraping room. When we were escorted to our quarters in a Pushkar guesthouse, it became clear that we are destined to experience some of Rajasthan’s most spectacular altitudes.

Our room itself was unremarkable, with pallid walls and a pink-tiled bathroom, but the large, lake-facing windows were some of the best in town. Our door opened up to an enormous, private rooftop terrace overlooking the water. From its edge I accessed an unobstructed, 360-degree view of my surroundings.

Imagine: An imperturbable body of water bordered by blanched marble stairs. The holy lake shines jade in the morning and dulls to a pale azure in the afternoon. Barefooted women draped in vibrant cloth descend the steps of Pushkar’s famous bathing ghats while their bare-chested male counterparts thrash about in the thick water. Instrumental music pours from the surrounding temples, drowning out the excited chatter of pilgrims and impersonating priests.

Alexander and I sipped fresh lime sodas and black chai from our private vantage point. We spent our days wandering the surprisingly serene bazaars and eating fresh Israeli food. In the evening we visited the legendary Brahma temple- marked with a red spire. And on our last day in Pushkar we stopped by the town’s khadi bhandar where a retired priest gave us a fervent lecture on the benefits of monogamy. “I hope, and I REQUEST, that you remain faithful,” he said waving a bony finger at Alexander.

To Pushkar!

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 14:50:00 +0000

We left Jodhpur at 7 a.m. in a rickety bus. I spent most of the six-hour ride watching scenes of hot rocky desert and rural villages. I saw a group of men wearing neon orange turbans leading an elephant painted in the same color. I observed a slight woman in a pink sari balancing giant tree branches on her head. I noticed advertisements painted on menacing boulders in primary colors. “Buy Ax Tires,” one said in yellow. Another one depicted a bar of blue soap next to a line of Hindi script. At the end of our journey I was unpleasantly surprised when a shower of human spit came through my window. Apparently a woman several rows up had decided to spew and the force of the wind had blown it back several rows down. My stomach turned as I wiped the foul substance from my arm.

Although our final destination was Pushkar, our ticket was to the nearby city of Ajmer. From the Ajmer bus station we intended to take a local bus 10km to the scenic town of Pushkar. Our plans were complicated when our bus driver decided to deposit us on the outskirts of Ajmer, far from the bus station. “You going to Ajmer? Get off. We are here,” he lied. Once we had been ejected, the bus abandoned us. A group of rickshaw drivers quickly smelled our vulnerability and crowded around, yelling their exorbitant rates. Alexander and I joined forces with a similarly unfortunate French couple and, after a short walk and several hostile interactions, jumped on a cramped shared jeep for the twenty-minute ride.

Once at the Ajmer bus station we purchased a ticket for Pushkar and immediately boarded the already crowded local bus. Alexander and I were forced to stand in the aisle, crushed between knees and our burdensome backpacks. The winding, hilly road took more than thirty minutes to traverse.

Pushkar’s distinctive vibe was discernible the moment we exited the bus. The main street was bustling with tourists and Hindu pilgrims. New age music blasted from boom boxes in shops selling hemp clothing, pipes, used books, crystals, yoga videos, earth-toned pashminas and posters of Bob Marley. Restaurants claimed to serve “organic” and “healthy” food. Barbers advertised dreadlocks. Most foreigners sported facial hair, baggy pants, tight tees and tattoos of the “om” sign; the similitude between their styles was almost comical.

The Lonely Planet Effect

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 14:09:00 +0000

We spent our second night in Jodhpur strolling through the busy Sadar Bazaar, a market that is famous for its spices. The different stalls twinkled with metallic decorations, painted mirrors and strings of rainbow lights. Aggressive men attempted to lure us into their shops, yelling prices and motioning to their goods. We toured a spice shop recommended to us by our Lonely Planet guidebook, but it was so packed with foreigners that we decided to look elsewhere. Several stores down we came upon an empty, well-lit spice market nearly identical to the first (except, of course, it was missing customers). The single salesman seemed surprised when we entered on our own accord. He offered us two generous glasses of his best product- pure saffron with a single bud of green cardamom and three chunks of cinnamon bark. The taste was incredible!

When the young salesman said that his family’s spice shop had first opened its doors in the sixties, I immediately inquired about whether the publication of Lonely Planet’s India guidebook- with its endorsement of another local shop- had affected profits. At first he denied the idea claiming, “people are smart…they see the high prices and eventually wander over to our store.” But several more questions confirmed that foot traffic had decreased and that his shop had been forced to offer more deals and gifts (such as large free samples and free cloth gift bags) in order to stay in competition. They had even opened an identical shop around the corner.

His story was one of countless indications that Lonely Planet has dramatically changed tourism in India. Lonely Planet guidebooks (referred to by locals as the “foreigner’s bible”) dictate where much of the foot traffic goes, whether it is guesthouses, restaurants or shops. The power of their reporting is unfathomable. In short, their journalists have succeeded in creating a tiny, reliable world inside the unpredictable chaos of India’s cities. Although their work is a welcomed relief to many tourists, it makes it possible to travel without wandering off the beaten path. Furthermore, (according to my conversations with several Rahasthanis) it seems to greatly affect the local economy.

I bought some green cardamom buds and tea masala- a finely ground powder made from cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, and white pepper. On my way back through the bazaar I noticed the popular spice shop we had seen before, now packed with a new group of tourists. They sat on short stools while fingering plastic bags and smelling open containers. Many held a printed list of prices. I asked a salesman for a list and compared it to the price I paid for my tea masala. The difference was astounding; every item was marked up by at least two US dollars.

The Attraction of Discovery

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 14:09:00 +0000

When I heard that Jodhpur has some of India’s best antique shops, I imagined unmarked stores hidden in a maze of twisted streets. I expected to find overlooked treasures in discarded heaps of rubble. But our trip to Palace Road defied all assumption.

As we exited the rickshaw we were greeted by several plush tour buses packed with ageing Brits. The “antique shops” resembled enormous warehouses, most with multiple levels. The first place we toured turned out to be a handicraft emporium specializing in export. A young salesman named Saleem eagerly showed us a sampling of the famous company’s products. We saw blankets and pashminas custom-made for Hermes, duvet covers ordered by Donna Karen New York, and quilts designed by Armani. Saleem showed us a recent photograph of famous American actors Bill Murray and Jason Schwartzman sitting in the store’s largest showroom (apparently they had visited while shooting’s Wes Anderson’s new film “The Darjeeling Limited”) as well as an article printed in the UK that documents Richard Gere’s purchase of 108 blankets from the same store. “He bought one hundred and eight,” Saleem confirmed, pointing to the colorful stack of fine Hermes throws.

A neighboring store lived up to the “antique shop” sign hung above its door. From British cookie tins from the 1930s to green-tinted glass perfume bottles to old plastic toys, the shop’s endless shelves made its singular treasures seem like the ubiquitous stock of a grocery store. Meanwhile, hoards of tourists swarmed through the rooms, thumbing through faded postcards and inspecting miniature paintings. “Is this authentic?” a woman wearing black and holding up a crude piece of pottery asked the salesman. It was a strange sight to behold.

The most disturbing aspect of this scene was outside, where hundreds of priceless, museum-worthy artifacts lined both sides of the road. Intricately carved wooden haveli doors- some painted unexpected shades of pale green, bright violet and salmon- leaned against a stretch of chain link fence. The dust kicked up by passing trucks fell on hand carved window frames complete with their original panes of glass. Many of the items were enormous- entire solariums, iron entrance gates and painted gazebos. There was even a complete wing of a haveli transplanted on the barren desert highway! All such historic relics had been ripped from their original location to be sold into the homes of wealthy Europeans and Americanss.

After purchasing two vintage postcards, Alexander and I decided to walk to a nearby restaurant. We followed the lights of the highway for a quarter mile, stepping over sleeping cows and holding pieces of cloth over our mouth to filter the stifling exhaust. Near our destination we were startled by a wild scream in the bushes. Terrified, we watched as a homeless woman emerged, her gray hair in a wild halo around her head. I froze. “What should we do?” I asked Alexander. We both stood for a second, deciding how to best negotiate our imminent encounter (Although we are forced to deal with extreme poverty on a daily basis, this woman’s desperation was petrifying). I stared as she feverishly clawed over gravel and came running (as best she could) directly at us. My heart started to race. “RUN!” Alexander cried. And so we were forced to flee, sprinting along the highway, fear and guilt following us like a dark cloud.

Adventures in the Blue City

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 13:50:00 +0000

Singhvi’s Haveli is a red sandstone wonder complete with a large courtyard, half dozen flights of stairs, and multiple terraces at varying levels. Each façade is lined with exquisite jails- carved lattice screens made from peach-painted stone. The Guest House is family run and decorated in traditional Rajasthani style with ornate floor cushions, hanging swings, wall paintings and silk sari curtains.

In the morning we were directed two flights of stairs to the top terrace. There were three old wooden doors, one of which led to our simple whitewashed room. The walls were adorned with a hand painted scene of two Indian lovers and a portrait of a young woman wearing a translucent sari. Our single window faced the “Blue City,” the oldest district of Jodhpur.

The view from here is arresting. We gaze upon a vision of cubist buildings fit together in a tight puzzle of disorienting angles and lines. Most homes have been painted an electric shade of neon pastel blue; they glow against the duller tones of earthy brown and gray. According to locals, the unique shade is thought to repel mosquitoes and other unwanted insects. Decades ago, the color denoted the residence of a Brahmin family, the most respected caste known for producing teachers and priests. But such symbolism has worn away as members of other castes adopt the trend, leaving Jodhpur’s cityscape a haunting and memorable blue.

The city sits at the edge of the Great Thar Desert. The urban sprawl is seemingly built into the surrounding ridges, the crests of which dramatically rise above the last line of houses. A 10-kilometer wall encircles the oldest and bluest part of the city. Founded in 1459, the city of Jodhpur served as a vital trade route for goods such as opium, sandalwood, dates and copper. The surrounding Kingdom of Rathore was once fondly known as Marwar- the Land of Death.

Now Jodhpur is famous for the Meheran Garh, a huge fort that towers above the city with an unexpected palace poking above its foreboding walls. It took Alexander and I more than half an hour to climb to the entrance gate while vultures circled overhead. The architecture is remarkable. It looks as if the fort’s massive turrets sprouted naturally from the ochre-shaded rocky cliffs. The view from the top is no less impressive; the scene extends for miles and gives a rare aerial perspective on the city’s seemingly erratic urban geography. Hundreds of feet blow we could make out people immersed in their daily routines. They looked like tiny, colored dots moving on rooftops and in labyrinth of tangled streets.

Our ventures into the picturesque old city contrasted to our placid views from above. The rickshaws dangerously swerved through the narrow, winding streets leaving clouds of lilac exhaust in their wake. Vendors called to us to purchase bananas, heavy locks, pointed shoes, silver jewelry, and sweets made from spices and boiled milk. Old men (many with ear hair several inches long!) sat in the doorways of their tiny shops spitting tobacco juice into the street. Small mules, their backs swaying under heavy loads of crumbling bricks, meandered through the congested traffic as a boy whipped them from behind. A middle-aged man pushed a cart filled with stacks of white, women’s underwear. Bands of schoolchildren clad in starched uniforms tried to touch my arms.

Once in a while Alexander and I would stop to browse through doorways and windows. We watched artisans at work as they tooled leather, cut picture frames and strung together garlands of pink flowers. Near a main square we saw teenagers stirring copper vats of boiling cooking oil used to make many popular snacks. One of our most rewarding stops was at a local turban shop. We examined contemporary designs and asked questions about modern consumer tastes. It was fascinating to see how much the products have changed- from color to design to labor- in such a short period of time.

On to Jodhpur

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 13:48:00 +0000

Following another memorable rooftop dinner, a rickshaw dropped us off at the local bus station. We joined a herd of foreign backpackers, most of who hailed from France, Britain or Spain. At 9:30 a stout man with a commanding voice ordered us to follow him to our bus. Everybody formed an awkward single file line and marched through the small dunes of red dust lining the busy street. We looked silly, like a pack of timid livestock migrating through unfamiliar territory.

After passing several comfortable-looking buses, we were ushered towards an unpleasant vehicle with rusty paint. “To Jodhpur,” our informal guide announced. Alexander and I made our way to the back of the bus and scaled the metal lattice into our sleeper (that same tiny compartment built into the ceiling of the bus that we had occupied in the first leg of our journey). But this sleeper was different. The windows were caked with a thick layer of dust. There was no air-conditioning. Orange curtains, dulled from the unforgiving desert sun, billowed in the putrid night breeze. It was not until the end of our ride that I would realize that the stench I assumed was coming from outside was in fact the cloth inches from my nose.

To make matters worse, our suicidal bus driver was intent on speeding. He careened to the right and left, dodging the slower cars and trucks, sending his passengers flying. My head knocked against the ceiling as I tried to brace myself; Alexander slammed against the compartment walls. When the paved roads turned to gravel, the bus often teetered on the sharp curves, giving the sensation that we were momentarily balancing on two wheels. It was impossible to fall asleep and so we lay as rigid as boards, preparing for impact.

At four a.m. the driver announced our destination- more than two hours before the scheduled arrival. Most of the tourists exited with us. By the time we had made it to the street, all but one rickshaw had departed, bumbling off in different directions. We squeezed into the one remaining vehicle with a British couple traveling in India for a two-week holiday. (The woman was an accountant- “very boring,” she said- and was enjoying the adventure.) The driver dropped us off at Singhvi’s Haveli, located in the heart of the old city. All rooms were occupied and so we were asked to wait until the 10 a.m. checkout time. In the meantime we gratefully snoozed on an abandoned twin mattress in the corner of the lobby.

Gastronomic Adventures in Udaipur

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 13:45:00 +0000

No account of Udaipur would be complete without mention of our memorable dining experiences. In this I am not referring to the quality of the food (although the diverse dishes we ordered were some of the tastiest meals I have ingested to date.) It was the location of each restaurant that made our meals so remarkable. At Udai Kothi we ate by candlelight on the terrace of one of the city’s fancy, historic hotels. As dusk fell we watched the striking skyline change into constellations of blinking yellow lights reflected back to us in the heart-shaped lake below. The following day, our aimless rambles through the old city led us to an eye-catching, near vacant heritage hotel where we took dinner IN a turret overlooking Lake Pichola. We were so high that flocks of diving white birds looked like mere specks against the lake’s blue-black water. And I cannot forget our lunches at the outdoor restaurant Ambrai, situated on a strip of land that juts into the lake. Alexander and I sipped black chai and ate Aloo Palak (Potato and Spinach curry) while taking in the surrounding scenery: the creamy vanilla city palace façade; the sun setting over the bright, water-bounded lake palace; and a nearby ghat, busy with women in colorful saris washing their jewel-toned, dirty laundry.

The "City of Lakes"

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 13:43:00 +0000

Rajasthan’s southern city of Udaipur is known as one of India’s most romantic destinations. The surrounding ginger-shaded mountains give the impression of a secluded and serene retreat, far from the flat lands of Gujarat. Intricate, sun-bleached buildings surround the placid lake Pichola, at the center of which sits the extravagant bone-white Lake Palace on a tiny island all to its own. Dozens of rooftop terraces provide excellent views of the golden city palace, the famous Jagdish temple and a chaotic urban sprawl.

I was immediately put off by the commercialism that had (according to locals) transformed the most historic part of the old city. Every shop was designed to appeal to tourists. French bakeries and Italian restaurants lined the narrow streets. Overpriced tailors advertised that they could sew exact replicas of H&M jackets. “Madam, you like this dress?” one man asked, thrusting a British Vogue in my face. “Only 4,000 rupees.”

It did not help matters that we were two of many tourists. Crowds of foreigners, their white skin turning pink under the Indian sun, sipped espresso on verandas and took pictures of locals without asking. Small groups of middle-aged women donned skimpy tank tops and large Chanel sunglasses, eagerly buying large numbers of overpriced, striped pashminas. Men wore shorts. Young partners kissed in public. Elderly British couples held hands as they shooed away begging children.

Understandably, relations with residents were tense. Nearly all interactions ended in talks of money. Groups of boys lit fireworks in our path; Onlookers laughed as we covered our ears. Alexander’s attempts to contact a textile dyer dead-ended in several textile “boutiques” where salesmen lied about their products. “So this is tie-and-dye?” I asked, looking at Alexander. (By this point our knowledge of different crafts can easily distinguish an imitation). “Yes, yes, hand tied, natural dye, my family makes,” said the desperate retailer. “Oh,” I replied, obviously unconvinced. And then: “We live in India…yes…no, we study textiles…yes…but this is screen printed imitation, no?” The salesmen gave a disappointed smirk. “Yes, yes, imitation, but a good price for you.”

Despite some unrewarding interviews and an unshakable sense of discomfort, we managed to have a spectacular time. We visited the colorful Indo-Aryan Jagdish temple with its ebony black stone image of Vishnu as Jagannath. A young boy with a bowl cut greeted us at the entrance. “What country?” he asked. When I replied “the U.S.” he broke into song:

“I’m just a buffalo soldier in the heart of America…Stolen from Africa, brought to America.” Then he smiled and said, “Bob Marley- American, no?”

In the afternoon we explored a restored 18th century haveli consisting of 138 rooms set around a central courtyard, and enjoyed the setting sun from its rooftop. The following morning found us at the enormous City Palace where we examined countless miniature paintings, intricate stained-glass windows, carved stone lattices, jewel-encrusted mosaic sculptures of peacocks, ornate tiles, delicate glass work, and mirrored rooms. The view from the top balcony was breathtaking. On the third day we wandered the gardens of Saheliyon ki Bari, where countless Indian mothers took pictures of us posing with their children.

Our less touristy experiences included a peek into an empty junk shop. The salesman, a once nomadic musician with a passion for German psychotherapy, shared stories about the many foreigners who came to Udaipur to “find themselves” and “get cured.” He explained that chosen people were naturally attracted to his shop; he always had a steady stream of strangers requesting his assistance. “Five years ago, an Olympic rower from Seattle marches in here and announces, without any explanation, ‘I am a narcissist. Can you cure me?’ And I reply, ‘Why, of course. I can cure you in one sentence: You let the world go to hell.’ Then the man ran in circles, because I had cured him.” The junk salesman gave a satisfied nod. He commenced to tell us several additional vignettes about curing foreigners and told us about his “hot hammer” technique, a four-five hour intense process in which he yells and insults his “patient” until they “open-up.”

Perhaps to erase my look of doubt, he presented several leather-bound books, each brimming with the comments of “satisfied customers.” I flipped through the pages and saw the business cards of Stanford professors, the email addresses of Brown University students, and the gushing gratitude of countless foreigners. “You have changed my life. I will remember you forever,” one letter read. “You are the man I have been searching for. You are the star I saw from my balcony. I will never doubt again because fate has brought us together,” another page said. And then: “You have given me my second birth. You are an angel, touched by god.”

“People come here, and they are all so unhappy,” the junk seller said. “I send them home with a lighter heart and a clearer mind.” I withheld judgment and answered, honestly, that I was truly happy. Then I purchased a vintage postcard and Alexander and I departed.

On the Road (Again)

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 13:31:00 +0000

After surviving our disastrous trip to Bhuj, I prepared for our journey through Rajasthan by expecting the worst. I packed carefully, making sure to include those precious items I had forgotten on my first attempt at traveling in India. A clothesline, flip-flops, clean pillowcases, anti-nausea medication, bed sheets, extra toilet paper- all found their way into my backpack. I also readied myself mentally by anticipating food poisoning, dirty buses and money-hungry strangers looking for every opportunity to pounce.

Alexander and I embarked on our trip at 9pm. A friendly rickshaw driver with three teeth delivered us to a bus station crowded with people eager to attend their Diwali family reunions. We watched green and saffron fireworks explode in the sky as we waited for our bus to arrive.

But the bus was nowhere to be seen. After an hour we started to worry. Did we miss it in the holiday chaos? Had we confused the identification number of our vehicle? The men at the nearby travel agency were of little help. Each time we asked a question they directed us to wait in a different place. “Across the road, by the paan cart- there you should wait,” one man said. Minutes later his co-worker pointed in the opposite direction. “Down the road, on your right…should be there any minute.” And then suddenly a young man was ordering us to run. He shouted at a passing bus in Gujarati, motioning for us to sprint after it. Finally the bus driver pulled to the side of the road. We boarded, panting and sweat soaked, shocked that we had made it onto the correct vehicle.

My surprise was instantly replaced by joy as I observed a luxury bus that lived up to its name. The center isle was wide, the seats plush, and the commodious sleepers were clean. There was even (gasp!) a bathroom on board! Alexander and I slept until 5am when the driver announced our first stop: Udaipur. A talkative rickshaw driver took us to our hotel where a sleepy attendant checked us in at no extra charge.

Welcome Home

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 13:30:00 +0000

We returned to Ahmedabad via train and slept peacefully through the eight-hour journey. Alexander gently woke me up at 4am to say we had reached our final destination. Although a swarm of crooked rickshaw drivers nearly assaulted us after we exited the station, we were able to find an honest man who gave us an “Indian price.” “My cousin lives in Arizona,” he said with bright eyes. “I like Americans.”

I could not contain my excitement as I climbed the flight of stairs to our first story flat. My body convulsed with shivers of relief. My heart trembled as our apartment door fell open, welcoming us into a familiar space. …And then it hit me: Ahmedabad felt like home. Regardless of how temporary it may seem, our comfortable little flat has become a true refuge from the outside world.

After our return, I had a renewed sense of energy. Suddenly everything seemed manageable. I woke easily at daybreak and consistently accomplished all the tasks at hand. I hand washed our mounting loads of laundry and scrubbed the apartment. I bought fresh flowers for our beloved landlord who recently survived a heart attack. And I spent hours connecting raw images of turbans in Photoshop. Most importantly of all, however, I convinced Alexander to see a doctor at the best hospital in Ahmedabad and, following the doctor’s orders, he followed it up with a visit to the main clinic in the neighboring city of Ghandinagar. All test results came back negative (including his blood type, which turns out to be O-), but our excellent American-trained physician was able to locate the reason for Alexander’s recurrent health problems and prescribed some pills accordingly.

Meanwhile, Ahmedabad prepared for Diwali, the nationwide festival of lights celebrating the beginning of the Hindu calendar. Street vendors started to sell the small bags of colored rice flour and large stencils used to make impermanent designs on doorsteps. At night our neighbors lit tiny oil lamps and placed them on either side of their front doors- a symbolic act thought to show Rama (the seventh incarnation of Vishnu) the way home from exile. Everyone from local children to our tailor offered us cashew sweets wrapped in thin sheets of real silver.

The less pleasant preparations included the erection of large firework stalls on the side of the road. Boys of all ages lined up to purchase the cheap explosives. It soon became impossible to walk outside without encountering an unexpected blast. I watched in thinly veiled horror as small children lit their crackers with matches and then sprinted away, a shower of sparks erupting behind them. The city was transformed into a veritable war zone, and the air became clouded with choking smoke.

To Kutch and Back

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 13:23:00 +0000

Alexander and I set off for Bhuj at 10 pm. We caught a rickshaw to nearby Paldi Crossroads, where dozens of buses begin their journey to different regions of India. After waiting nearly an hour, a tourist agent instructed his ten-year-old boy to lead us to our vehicle. We were the last to board.

Weeks prior, when we purchased our tickets for a double sleeper in a luxury vehicle, I naively assumed that our journey would be relatively comfortable. I was sincerely surprised to discover that a "double sleeper" is in fact a tiny, claustrophophic compartment attached to the ceiling of a regular bus. A flimsy metal lattice provides the only way up. As is the case in most buses here, a tiny television (with no “off” switch) broadcasted loud Hindi movies throughout the night. We swallowed some sleeping pills and waited to be lulled to sleep by the bumpy ride.

At four a.m. we arrived weary and disoriented. We hailed a rickshaw and made our way through the dusty streets. Even in the dark it was clear that Bhuj was no metropolitan city. The unmarked bus station, deserted streets and heavy quiet were all signs of a smaller town.

Our first day exploring the region of Kutch was wildly successful. In the morning we called Jabbar, a master artisan who specializes in the traditional Gujarati technique of tie-and-dye. He was extremely responsive to our questions over the phone and moments later showed up at our hotel on his motorcycle. Alexander and I hopped on and were escorted back to his family home where we drank black chai and talked about his craft.

We discussed changes in consumer demand, the differences between the American, European and Indian textile markets, and how he imagined his industry changing in the future. To illustrate his words he pulled out a diverse selection of his best silk shawls, which ranged from traditional red and black designs to modern, multi-colored floral patterns. He spoke about the different methods that made his technique so respected, as well as the ways he has been able to maximize production while remaining a creative overseer. The more we talked, the more varied his job description seemed. The titles of businessman, creative director, market researcher, professional teacher, student and artisan proved equally fitting.

Following our informal interview, he showed us his dyeing headquarters in the back of his brother's home. Large copper pots boiled with natural dyes. "This is turmeric and pomegranate skin," he said, pointing to an alluring shade of lavender gray. "And this is iron-ore and berries.”

We watched as a dyer took two pieces of white material, each with countless tiny knots sectioning off almost invisible points of fabric. "It takes one part-time working woman one or two months to complete the ties on this shawl," he said, pointing to a single piece. The dyer submerged the blank cloth into the liquid color. Moments later it emerged a brilliant ochre. "This will sell well in the States," Jabbar said. "Americans like natural, duller tones."

Our second stop of the day was at a family-run shop dealing in antique textiles. We spent more than two hours talking to the shop's owner about how local crafts have changed in the last century. He showed us exquisite embroideries, most of which dated back one hundred years. We discussed the development of textile NGOs in the area, as well as his fears for the future of Indian crafts. “What happens when the NGO leaves?” he asked, rhetorically. “When you teach people to make products marketable for foreigners, they forget their traditional techniques.”

The remaining four days we spent in Bhuj were memorable for all the wrong reasons. Alexander fell extremely ill and, after twenty-four hours of no improvement, we were forced to call a local doctor. I watched horrified as he received an injection and was hooked up to an I.V. (which they hung from our florescent light!). It took days for him to fully recover and we were forced to delay our return home to Ahmedabad. Thankfully, he has not been sick since.

Dancing Nine Nights Away

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 15:14:00 +0000

Alexander and I heard about Navarati the day we arrived in Ahmedabad. While touring the NID campus our guide said we should look forward to the October celebrations. “There are many festivals in Gujarat,” she said, “But I think you will enjoy Navarati the most.”

Navarati is a nine-day celebration that honors the Mother Goddess and her different forms each night. Known as the world’s longest dance festival, it is celebrated in every village, town, and city across the state of Gujarat. People of all ages congregate in the night to dance Garba, a folk dance that involves circular actions and repeating steps.

In October we witnessed the city prepare for the festivities. At dusk Law Garden’s sidewalks transformed into a glittering night market selling silver jewelry and chaniya cholis- the traditional, mirror studded Gujarati dresses worn for Navarati. Groups of young men practiced complicated dance steps on the side of the road. Local residents decorated their homes with metallic streamers and strings of lights. The lawn in the center of our apartment complex was converted into a flashing atrium complete with a shrine and garlands of marigolds.

Determined to participate as best we could, Alexander and I prepared in advance. Several NID students and Jay’s girlfriend helped us learn the basic twelve steps of Garba, which included twirls, claps and synchronized steps. Alexander purchased a khuta and a colorful duppatta. We even got our hands on some traditional pointed flats made from tooled leather.

Despite our appropriate attire and skilled moves, we were not ready for the chaos that ensued. On the first night of Navarati fifteen boys from our apartment complex knocked on our door. “What is your name?” one asked Alexander. “Please- come dance with us,” another commanded. Soon we were in the crowded courtyard, surrounded by hundreds of people. Dozens of men approached Alexander, shaking his hand and asking questions. “What country? Where you from?” Two children filled our hands with an assortment of mints and sticky hard candy.

Then two gigantic speakers started to blast the first song of the night. The bass reverberated through the entire complex as the concrete driveway transformed into a pulsing dance floor. People quickly formed a circle and started to move in rhythm to the music. Round and round we went, much to the delight of onlookers. First came the sweat, rushing down our faces and soaking our cotton outfits. Next came the ache in our lungs, as the crowd insisted we continue without taking a break. After two hours of continuous dancing, blisters started to form on the soles of our feet. Finally we called it a night, but not before saying goodbye to our countless acquaintances and the band of children.

The next night we attended Garba at NID (much to the disappointment of our neighbors). The setting was far more impressive than the homemade celebrations at our apartment. A large circular dancing ground had been cordoned off with colorful bunting on a grassy field in the corner of campus. A tall, red flame-like structure stood in the center, symbolic of the “garbha deep,” the oil lamp set in a perforated earthen pot around which people traditionally dance. A live band played Navarati tunes while a man and a woman sang the accompanying lyrics. Many of the attendants wore traditional garb. Booths selling Gujarati food and water lined the periphery. The entire event was sponsored by Airtel, a popular Indian cell phone company.

Dancing at NID was a completely different experience. The steps were more complicated, but once we memorized them, we flew! The moist grass felt so good under our bare feet. Instead of thinking about the steps, I simply listened to the loud music and let my body move on its own accord. It felt as if I was connected to the other dancers in my line, as if we had turned into a single organism. Every time I twirled I caught a glimpse of Alexander as he pranced behind me. “I felt like a Modern Dancer!” he said at the end of the night.

The ninth and final night of Navarati celebrations at NID was conducted in the dark. Each dancer was given two votive candles to place in either palm. The music started slowly. From far away the scene looked like a sea of floating candles, gently moving in rhythm to the singers’ voices. As the beat quickened, so did the movement of the dancers. They spun in small circles and took large leaps forward, making their way around the circular dance floor. The warm candlelight reflected in the small mirrors stitched onto the women’s tops and skirts. By the end of the song, it was impossible to decipher the fast-moving dancers from the mass of illuminated hands, smiling faces and sparkling outfits.

The Biggest Kid on the Block

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 15:13:00 +0000

After Alexander made an appearance at the neighbors’ Navarati celebrations, he became extremely popular among the local children. “ALIX!” they yelled up to our window from the street below. Every night a group of eight or nine boys knocked on our door. “Hi Alix! Can you play with us?” they asked in unison. When I answered the door, they made no attempt to mask their disappointment. “Where is Alix? When will he be back?” they inquired. “He is tired,” I would tell them while Alexander hid in the bedroom.

After several days of harassment, Alexander caved. In a desperate attempt to end the constant knocking he consented to a game of cricket. Near noon, when the hot sun was at its peak, he put on his small tennis cap and set out for the concrete “playing field.” Hours later he returned to our flat, sweaty and dazed. “I think I played well,” he said, choking down our filtered water. It took no more than fifteen minutes before we heard a loud knock from the front room. As I expected, a small boy was waiting for me when I opened the door. “Can Alexander come play?” he asked.

The boys were not satisfied with just one game. They continue to visit us daily in the hope that their new American friend will join them for another afternoon of play. Alexander is running out of excuses.

Alexander's Sick Day

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 15:09:00 +0000

Contrary to expectations, I have remained incredibly healthy since landing in India. I have survived some risky roadside food and questionable glasses of water. Unfortunately, Alexander has not been so lucky.

I blame the air in NID’s Knowledge Management Center (yes, that is a fancy word for library), which is recycled and overly air-conditioned. After several long days researching Rajasthani turbans in the KMC, Alexander complained that he felt dizzy. Hours later his fever spiked and he suffered a severe bout of indigestion. By one a.m. he was clutching our decrepit toilet and crying out that he wanted to go home. “I am done! It’s over!” I stroked his head and made him drink mineral water with a dash of sugar and lime.

It took forty-eight hours for the worst to subside. His teeth chattered with chill while his brow sweated. He was unable to sleep or eat, and could not keep the antibiotics down. It was excruciating to watch, in part because I was convinced that I would be next!

Just when I began to seriously worry, his health improved. Within a day the viral infection mysteriously transformed into a serious cold, complete with congestion and a deep cough. I am happy to say I remain in the pink.

Adjusting

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Fri, 12 Oct 2007 08:39:00 +0000

Today I saw a cow eating a discarded newspaper. It struck me like most things have in recent weeks: unexpected, unsettling and seemingly absurd.

Most agree that the human mind has an inherent tendency to impose order upon the chaos of its environment by classifying its contents. Without classification, knowledge of the world and the ability to live in it would be impossible. Culture is the method of classification that imposes a collectively shared cognitive order upon a world that, objectively, is totally incomprehensible.

What happens when one must adjust to a foreign culture? What happens to one’s now useless systems of meaning once used to decode her surroundings? How can one collapse her order of the world into another foreign system of classification? And what is lost in this translation?

It is impossible for me to assimilate the world I see here with the world as I know it. As I adjust to life in India, I abandon my points of reference along with an urge to classify all that I encounter. I try to process information without judgment. All that is simply is. Begging amputees, constrictive gender roles, indigent children are no longer individual moral crises. They are simply connected parts of the larger cultural system.

There is a boy who lives in the open-air courtyard beneath our flat. I estimate him to be about ten years old. It is hard to tell, however, because he is confined to a metal cot. He remains prostrate through the hottest hours of the day, feebly swatting at flies. Sometimes he pulls a thin blanket over his entire frame, giving the impression that he has disappeared.

I always look for the boy on my ascent and descent from the apartment. Yesterday I was surprised to see the cot empty, the blankets thrown aside. I glanced around for a clue to his whereabouts. Several yards away I caught sight of his emaciated frame, silhouetted by the brilliant morning light. He limped slowly, with rigid, unbending limbs like those of a scarecrow.

My first impulse is to approach his bedside, to bring him cold water or maybe a snack. I know enough Gujarati to ask him his name. “Aap kaa shubh naan kyaa hai?” I could ask. “Maru naam Amelia che.” If I wanted to engage in further conversation, I could easily ask one of my Gujarati friends to translate.

But the truth is that far more lies between this boy and me than a barrier of language. Although we live less than thirty feet apart, we occupy different worlds. I cannot begin to imagine what he is thinking during those long, lonely, humid afternoons.

Last week we visited Ahmedabad’s train station for the first time. When Jay picked us up for a late dinner, he insisted we go to the only twenty-four hour restaurant in city. We drove through the desolate roads while the radio blared Indian pop music. The streets looked eerily beautiful, like the abandoned set of a movie. Colorful wrappers littered the ground and twinkling canopies of lights were suspended overhead. With the warm breeze blowing in through our car window, it was almost possible to forget the sea of bodies that had inhabited the same spaces hours earlier. It was as if we were momentarily privy to a post-apocalyptic vision.

But the streets were far from deserted. Thousands of motionless forms lined our route. Tucked beneath blankets and lying in rows. Families huddled together in an indecipherable mass of arms and legs. As we approached the station, the density of sleeping people increased.

After parking the car, we walked to the nearby platform. Jay noticed my eyes fixating on a sleeping teenager lying in the middle of our path, her face resting directly on the filthy pavement. “It is OK,” he said, waving his hand as if to fan away the stench of the nearby bathrooms. “This is their bed. This is the real India.”

Gandhiji!

noreply@blogger.com (Amelia) — Fri, 12 Oct 2007 08:38:00 +0000

October second marked the anniversary of Gandhi’s birthday. It also marked the first day that Alexander and I picked up our camera and started filming. Jay came to get us at 5:30am to attend the rally that his political party was supporting. Like the thousands of parade participants we would soon film, he wore white khadi.

Khadi is handspun, hand-woven cloth made from threads of cotton or silk. In the 1920s, Gandhi started promoting the spinning of khadi as a way to boycott the British and foreign made fabrics that had flooded the market. Khadi thus became a symbol for India’s struggle for independence and self-sufficiency.

After parking the car, Jay ran to join his political party. Hundreds of young men were waiting, green and red National Congress Party scarves around their necks. Soon after they were joined by a group of older men and senior politicians. One of Jay’s unofficial assistants helped direct Alexander and I to the action as the crowd began to surge. The men chanted as the walked “Gandhiji! Gandhiji! Gandhiji! NCP (National Congress Party)! NCP! NCP!”

In the early morning hours a transportable float festooned with garlands of flowers had been placed in one of the city’s busiest intersections. Now the men walked towards the red contraption and ascended the steps to a raised platform. They blessed a figure of Gandhi at the top. Later, the ruling party (BJP) would ascend the same steps and wash the figure in milk and water. The members of the BJP were the only people allowed to have this honor; anyone who attempted to do the same would be arrested.

Alexander filmed while I steadied his body, pointed to interesting shots, and navigated us both through the steady stream of traffic. Buses and rickshaws barreled down the streets in both directions as we nervously perched ourselves on the median. After Jay and his congregation had descended, we followed them to watch a parade. A constant stream of men dressed in white extended as far as the eye could see in two directions. Many carried large Indian flags that rippled in the morning breeze. Towards the end of the parade we saw a thin Gandhi look-a-like dressed up for the part. Using the support of a wooden stick, he walked with large strides, raising his hand as if to politely refuse the cheers that greeted him. It was a beautiful scene, both in person and on camera.

Throughout the day people responded well to the camera. Everyone we interviewed was excited to have his opinion heard. When Jay introduced us to a large group of friends, they whipped out camera phones to record our voices and take our picture. Many insisted we show clips from our footage. It felt like a more equal exchange than it has in the past.