Indian Highlights
Mum and Dad left early this morning, marking a neat month since i first landed in India. Sitting in a dirty dive hotel in the mayhemic (sure it's a word) Pahar Ganj district of Delhi, with a cold beer, i thought i'd compile a quick list of my favourite moments so far. So to go with it there are also some of my favourite photographs. Yes, photographs! Mitch - 1, Technology - 0, hahaha.
So without further undulating delay.
My father Clive has also been tiring of the constant attention that we attract in public places. One afternoon as we were walking through the metro station, a middle aged business man had craned his neck around so far in wonderment, while still walking forwards, that he walked into a wall. Dad and I started clowning when another two young guys were checking us out. Dad preens his moustache and swings an imaginary handbag, like a predatory prostitute sizing up a beat. I comically slip over on the stairs and bang my head on the handrail. Later on the packed train we play at the elevator, slowly sinking downwards into the packed bodies of the carriage while keeping rigid eyecontact. Later when i ask for money the two young guys think that i'm joking. Damn.
...
I seperated from my folks for a few days to go on a Camel Safari in Bikaner, a bustling desert outpost on the edge of the Thar desert in Rajasthan. The train ride there from Jodphur was hot, long, and periodically interrupted by groups of young men sitting down to share my bench seat compartment and watch with great puzzlement as i fixed my own shorts. I swear, I am cursed to always have every pair of pants tear in the crotch. Which domestic god or goddess have i offended?! WHY?! Eventually it was just me and this young guy who didn't have much English, but was heading to Bikaner to rejoin his Army base. Out of nowhere, on this empty train, rushing through the middle of the desert and tiny buttfucknowhere towns, appears a vision of transgendered lovliness. A broad shouldered, sharp nosed, trans lady in a traditional red sari wafts determinedly into our compartment, clasping a series of folded Rupee notes between her masculine fingers. Her gaze pierces into the Army boy, and he shifts uncomfortably. I am having flash backs to Thailand, and i watch from the corner of my eye with interest. Where in the hell did this girl come from? She claps her hands loudly several ties, speaks rapidly in Hindi and then shoves the money in front of his face, apparently requesting that he give her more. When he dismisses her, she slides into the seat next to him and tries forcing her hand into his crotch, which he rebuffs. Then she turns her attention to me, (I gamely try to ignore her) before finally giving up and leaving. Over the next hour a further four lady-boys, one of them not a day younger than 45, arrive in our carriage, trying exactly the same thing each time. By the last time, when she shoves her hand in my face I hoick up a large bit of phlegm and make to let fly into her palm. That gets rid of her. Lady-boy gangs on desert trains! Who would have thought?
...
...
Biri (Beedie?) Cigarettes. Untreated tobacco wrapped in a dried tobacco leaf, which is tied closed with thin red string. Bought in newspaper packages of 25 for only 10 Rupees. Thats 25 cents!
...
Swimming in the lake in Udaipur, after previously seeing a dead fish floating on top of green muck like a bad omen. I reasoned that there was a swell where i swam, and surely all the e-coli (shit bacteria) would disperse. I later met a nice American who told me that his housemate had contracted Amoebic Dysentry after doing the same thing in the Ganges at Varanasi. He lost half his body weight in 3 weeks. I'm thinking of going into business with bottled Indian lake water as a dietary treatment.
...
On the camel safari, I finally had a burning question about India answered by the wise (aka toothless) guide, as he cooked chappati over a fire among the sand dunes (seriously!). Everywhere in Rajasthan you find minature paintings of six significant animals. The Elephant, for luck, The Horse, for power, the Cow for the family/mother, and the Camel, for love. Camel = love. What gives? My word association for Camels is the crusty 40-something street punk named Camel from melbourne, whose matted locks i once chewed (ew) in a drunken dare at the Tote. Incidentally, Camel the punk does actually smell like a Camel, the animal. Amazing? Punks and scents aside, what could possibly be the reason for the association for Camels with love? Wedding gifts? Sturdy desert reputations? No said the guide - it's because the Camel is the only animal that "makes sex" for up to 35 minutes....
Aaaaaaaah, of course. Hard to argue with really.
...
So buses are everywhere in India - there's an enormous network of governement and private vehicles ferrying locals and tourists, sometimes even animals, to and fro across this enormous country. When we caught a government bus to Pushkar from Jaipur (about 4 hours) it was wonderfully straight forward. When we went to get a private bus fromUdaipur to Jodphur (around 8 hours to cover 256 km - thats a warning sign right there really..) we found it to be slightly less convienent. There's a major road leaving Udaipur to the West, which connects with a major road going North to Jodphur. We took neither of these, and instead cut through the middle of the unmappable territory in between. The bastard crook conductor and his crony bus driver mate were picking up extra passengers for short journeys along the way. All the while the Bus is bouncing up and down like a bad disco dancefloor as it mounts boulderous road surfaces, and swerves to avoid oncoming trucks on single lane roads. The end result of which is that just as the sun starts to set, the bus breaks down. All the jolting has broken loose a huge bunch of cables, which now hang decapitated fro beneath the engine. After some meddling beneath the hood, 20 or so of the Indian passengers, plus Dad and I. repeatedly attempt to pushstart it, first in reverse, then in first, then in reverse, then in first ad naseum. It's when one of the Indians who i'm shoulder to shoulder with says quite proudly but with a dash of resignation "This is India", that i give up and start laughing.
(We hitchhike the last 90kms to Jodphur...)
...
Possibly best image of the trip so far, seen from the back of a rickshaw in Jaipur - young guy up a ladder made from bamboo spars nailed together. Old guy at the bottom supervising flow of traffic around it. Young guy is painting the traffic post a fresh shade of yellow, straight over the filth that has obscured the last coat. Both men, and the Ladder, are covered in such a thick layer of paint drips, that they too are the same colour yellow. Old guy stares at me grumpily as i burst out laughing while we stop at said traffic lights.
...
We're wandering around Pushkar seperately one day, when i come across Mum. She looks around and realises that she's just lost Dad. We walk back up and down the street but can't find him. When he returns to the hotel twenty minutes later, it is with a black look of utter disgust and slight embarrasment on his face. Pushkar is a beautifully crowded small town of worship, built up around the banks of a holy lake, said to have formed when Brahma dropped a lotus petal. Temples, priests and puja (prayer) abound. While Clive was buying water, the guy in the shop asked whether he would like to make a puja at the lake. Clive, unusually, said yes and taking a handful of petals follows old mate down to the lake, where he's passed over to a Brahmin priest. The priest takes him through a weaving ritual of chanting and om-ing and the daubing of colours on the forehead and etc. Then he begins to ask him how many members in his family. very well the priest says, you will give 1000 rupees for each member of your family. clive says thank you, but he'd rather put his donation in the clearly marked donation box. The priest, realising that Dad isn't the soft touch he thought he was, starts laying it on thicker, talking about starving Brahmin families (Brahmins are one of the top castes in India, equivalent to the clergy in the European Estate systems), holy lakes, and other entreatments to produce the cash. he offers Dad a ribbon which signifies that he has already given and assures him he won't be bothered again. Dad realises that he's being conned, and gets up to leave, at which point he's subjected to a barrage of outrage from the now not so peaceful Brahmin.
Dad's retelling of the incident turns to mixture of hilarity and shame when i point out that had he read the Lonely Planet guidebook which he has so vocally objected to, it details the exact scam he's just fallen for - the "Pushkar Passport" aka the ribbon received at the end to tick you off the cosmic list of tourist ready to be ripped off by fake cynical spiritual conmen prostituting their ancient culture to turn tricks for whatever bastard pimp collection agents that they're fronting for. If i sound uneccesarily harsh about it, it's because a few days later i somehow managed to fall for exactly the same Scam, somewhat naively thinking that it might be different the second time.
Doh!
...
And finally, the most revealing moment so far has to be an encounter with an Indian Muslim in Jodphur late one night when i couldn't sleep. At first this kind man tried to stop me from walking down a lane in the empty marketplace. Annoyed, i asked why. "There is a pack of wild dogs that live there. After dark they will attack!" Fair enough. We started talking and after a bit he asked me if i wanted to come and have chai. I ended up hanging out with him and his Muslim posse on the street for a few hours, all young guys, all working some with families (at home of course), others soon to be married. They asked what i did, and when i said that i was a circus performer, they wanted to see something. I did some hat tricks, some coin tricks, threw a cigarette into my mouth and flicked the matchbox up behind my back to light it. Nothing. I thought that maybe i'd show one of them how to do a trick with the matchbox, flicking it from one hand to the other while lighting the match. He managed to get it after a few shots, and when he did I clapped, and gestured for the others to do the same to congratulate him. Again, nothing. I must have looked confused because my original friend spoke up with this pearl of insight.
"Indians don't need magic. We have our families, we have our homes, we have our jobs. That is all."
Indians don't need magic? I'm not sure whether I'm jealous or appalled.
That's all for now,
upside down love from across the world
RUIN
So without further undulating delay.
My father Clive has also been tiring of the constant attention that we attract in public places. One afternoon as we were walking through the metro station, a middle aged business man had craned his neck around so far in wonderment, while still walking forwards, that he walked into a wall. Dad and I started clowning when another two young guys were checking us out. Dad preens his moustache and swings an imaginary handbag, like a predatory prostitute sizing up a beat. I comically slip over on the stairs and bang my head on the handrail. Later on the packed train we play at the elevator, slowly sinking downwards into the packed bodies of the carriage while keeping rigid eyecontact. Later when i ask for money the two young guys think that i'm joking. Damn.
...
I seperated from my folks for a few days to go on a Camel Safari in Bikaner, a bustling desert outpost on the edge of the Thar desert in Rajasthan. The train ride there from Jodphur was hot, long, and periodically interrupted by groups of young men sitting down to share my bench seat compartment and watch with great puzzlement as i fixed my own shorts. I swear, I am cursed to always have every pair of pants tear in the crotch. Which domestic god or goddess have i offended?! WHY?! Eventually it was just me and this young guy who didn't have much English, but was heading to Bikaner to rejoin his Army base. Out of nowhere, on this empty train, rushing through the middle of the desert and tiny buttfucknowhere towns, appears a vision of transgendered lovliness. A broad shouldered, sharp nosed, trans lady in a traditional red sari wafts determinedly into our compartment, clasping a series of folded Rupee notes between her masculine fingers. Her gaze pierces into the Army boy, and he shifts uncomfortably. I am having flash backs to Thailand, and i watch from the corner of my eye with interest. Where in the hell did this girl come from? She claps her hands loudly several ties, speaks rapidly in Hindi and then shoves the money in front of his face, apparently requesting that he give her more. When he dismisses her, she slides into the seat next to him and tries forcing her hand into his crotch, which he rebuffs. Then she turns her attention to me, (I gamely try to ignore her) before finally giving up and leaving. Over the next hour a further four lady-boys, one of them not a day younger than 45, arrive in our carriage, trying exactly the same thing each time. By the last time, when she shoves her hand in my face I hoick up a large bit of phlegm and make to let fly into her palm. That gets rid of her. Lady-boy gangs on desert trains! Who would have thought?
...
 |
| Indian Mitch (TM) - the outsourced substitute Mitch for all your Mitchy needs. Now with less clothes! |
Biri (Beedie?) Cigarettes. Untreated tobacco wrapped in a dried tobacco leaf, which is tied closed with thin red string. Bought in newspaper packages of 25 for only 10 Rupees. Thats 25 cents!
...
Swimming in the lake in Udaipur, after previously seeing a dead fish floating on top of green muck like a bad omen. I reasoned that there was a swell where i swam, and surely all the e-coli (shit bacteria) would disperse. I later met a nice American who told me that his housemate had contracted Amoebic Dysentry after doing the same thing in the Ganges at Varanasi. He lost half his body weight in 3 weeks. I'm thinking of going into business with bottled Indian lake water as a dietary treatment.
...
On the camel safari, I finally had a burning question about India answered by the wise (aka toothless) guide, as he cooked chappati over a fire among the sand dunes (seriously!). Everywhere in Rajasthan you find minature paintings of six significant animals. The Elephant, for luck, The Horse, for power, the Cow for the family/mother, and the Camel, for love. Camel = love. What gives? My word association for Camels is the crusty 40-something street punk named Camel from melbourne, whose matted locks i once chewed (ew) in a drunken dare at the Tote. Incidentally, Camel the punk does actually smell like a Camel, the animal. Amazing? Punks and scents aside, what could possibly be the reason for the association for Camels with love? Wedding gifts? Sturdy desert reputations? No said the guide - it's because the Camel is the only animal that "makes sex" for up to 35 minutes....
Aaaaaaaah, of course. Hard to argue with really.
...
So buses are everywhere in India - there's an enormous network of governement and private vehicles ferrying locals and tourists, sometimes even animals, to and fro across this enormous country. When we caught a government bus to Pushkar from Jaipur (about 4 hours) it was wonderfully straight forward. When we went to get a private bus fromUdaipur to Jodphur (around 8 hours to cover 256 km - thats a warning sign right there really..) we found it to be slightly less convienent. There's a major road leaving Udaipur to the West, which connects with a major road going North to Jodphur. We took neither of these, and instead cut through the middle of the unmappable territory in between. The bastard crook conductor and his crony bus driver mate were picking up extra passengers for short journeys along the way. All the while the Bus is bouncing up and down like a bad disco dancefloor as it mounts boulderous road surfaces, and swerves to avoid oncoming trucks on single lane roads. The end result of which is that just as the sun starts to set, the bus breaks down. All the jolting has broken loose a huge bunch of cables, which now hang decapitated fro beneath the engine. After some meddling beneath the hood, 20 or so of the Indian passengers, plus Dad and I. repeatedly attempt to pushstart it, first in reverse, then in first, then in reverse, then in first ad naseum. It's when one of the Indians who i'm shoulder to shoulder with says quite proudly but with a dash of resignation "This is India", that i give up and start laughing.
(We hitchhike the last 90kms to Jodphur...)
...
...
We're wandering around Pushkar seperately one day, when i come across Mum. She looks around and realises that she's just lost Dad. We walk back up and down the street but can't find him. When he returns to the hotel twenty minutes later, it is with a black look of utter disgust and slight embarrasment on his face. Pushkar is a beautifully crowded small town of worship, built up around the banks of a holy lake, said to have formed when Brahma dropped a lotus petal. Temples, priests and puja (prayer) abound. While Clive was buying water, the guy in the shop asked whether he would like to make a puja at the lake. Clive, unusually, said yes and taking a handful of petals follows old mate down to the lake, where he's passed over to a Brahmin priest. The priest takes him through a weaving ritual of chanting and om-ing and the daubing of colours on the forehead and etc. Then he begins to ask him how many members in his family. very well the priest says, you will give 1000 rupees for each member of your family. clive says thank you, but he'd rather put his donation in the clearly marked donation box. The priest, realising that Dad isn't the soft touch he thought he was, starts laying it on thicker, talking about starving Brahmin families (Brahmins are one of the top castes in India, equivalent to the clergy in the European Estate systems), holy lakes, and other entreatments to produce the cash. he offers Dad a ribbon which signifies that he has already given and assures him he won't be bothered again. Dad realises that he's being conned, and gets up to leave, at which point he's subjected to a barrage of outrage from the now not so peaceful Brahmin.
Dad's retelling of the incident turns to mixture of hilarity and shame when i point out that had he read the Lonely Planet guidebook which he has so vocally objected to, it details the exact scam he's just fallen for - the "Pushkar Passport" aka the ribbon received at the end to tick you off the cosmic list of tourist ready to be ripped off by fake cynical spiritual conmen prostituting their ancient culture to turn tricks for whatever bastard pimp collection agents that they're fronting for. If i sound uneccesarily harsh about it, it's because a few days later i somehow managed to fall for exactly the same Scam, somewhat naively thinking that it might be different the second time.
Doh!
...
And finally, the most revealing moment so far has to be an encounter with an Indian Muslim in Jodphur late one night when i couldn't sleep. At first this kind man tried to stop me from walking down a lane in the empty marketplace. Annoyed, i asked why. "There is a pack of wild dogs that live there. After dark they will attack!" Fair enough. We started talking and after a bit he asked me if i wanted to come and have chai. I ended up hanging out with him and his Muslim posse on the street for a few hours, all young guys, all working some with families (at home of course), others soon to be married. They asked what i did, and when i said that i was a circus performer, they wanted to see something. I did some hat tricks, some coin tricks, threw a cigarette into my mouth and flicked the matchbox up behind my back to light it. Nothing. I thought that maybe i'd show one of them how to do a trick with the matchbox, flicking it from one hand to the other while lighting the match. He managed to get it after a few shots, and when he did I clapped, and gestured for the others to do the same to congratulate him. Again, nothing. I must have looked confused because my original friend spoke up with this pearl of insight.
"Indians don't need magic. We have our families, we have our homes, we have our jobs. That is all."
Indians don't need magic? I'm not sure whether I'm jealous or appalled.
 |
| Taj Mahal Headstand |
That's all for now,
upside down love from across the world
RUIN
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