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Dear Friends,

Time to fire up ye olde blog engine.

I will be on the 11AM flight to Dehli by way of Chicago on Wednesday. I am hoping that I get an aisle seat. This time we will be staking out in the Bangalore, plugged up in parking lot of the walmart. Very exciting times these are.

I do not plan on throwing any shoes. But damn, Mr. bush is good at ducking… I knew that he must have some redeemable qualities. Lets see if he biodegrades like Compostable Clear Plastic Cold Cups. That would be something special.

Saving words with more images

Israel and Egypt :: December 2007 – January 2008

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More Worthless Words

Updated images in the flickr set:

India 2007

Enjoy.

J

Beautiful Disaster Area

My first experience with indian domestic flights was when M and I flew from Bangalore to Delhi then Srinagar, Jammu / Kasmir. Yippie.

Kasmir is so beautiful that in the mind’s eye, Srinagar’s hypertouts become faded colors and shrink to dried flowers. They don’t in reality. They whine, they sneer, they snivel and snort. They just want to be friends.

Actually, we made many friends in our walking and bus rides from Dargah to Mosque to Moghul garden. Srinagarians are very sweet and generous if they are not trying to sell you something and we found many that weren’t. The city itself sprawls around the edges of Dal Lake. The story is that years ago, folks were prohibited from owing land, so they started building houseboats that stay a short canoe ride away from the shore. Now the stretch of the lake adjacent to the town is sick with houseboats (2000 some) and houseboat waste.

M walked me through incredible crumbly architectures, intricate repetitive painted patterns, exquisitely eclectic chandelier collections, bricks, wood and tin roofs (rusted). I was very happy. We sat and stared at ancient grounds of moghul royalty come alive with school childrens and families both kasmiri and indian. People actually frolicked in the genius features and fountains controlled by the kinetic energy of downhill flowing mountain spring water. We saw it.

Folks we met shared too many conversations about Kasmir’s heavenly status: “Is this place not paradise on earth?”… “Beautiful does not begin to describe these mountains.”… “When people ask how Kasmir was, you’ll have to say it is like your wife.”

Although we were nothing but secure, security forces were a ubiquitous reminder of the regions contentious unrest. Checkpoints, flak jackets and Indian soldiers with automatic weapons were the norm. Indian soldiers provided M with many opportunities to speak hindi and practice her mad interrogation skillz.

Kasmiri’s equally resent the indian army presence and appreciate the safety that they provide, although most have horror stories to share about the soldiers’ abuse of power and mischief. The whole scene reminded me of best case scenario outcomes for the US occupation in Iraq. An occupying force that is relatively integrated into the occupied society. They are not loved, they are not loathed, they are tolerated. It is a question of cultural familiarity and respect I thinks. Everyone wants the occupation to be over – That’s not exactly true as some of the solders we talked to enjoyed their time in this heaven-like war zone. If only Iraq was more beautiful, the occupation would be less sticky.

There is a reason that this region has been so hotly contested. So much history, impressive scenery and access to natural resources. We suspect that this will be ground zero for world war four when the access to fresh water grows scarce. Until then, there is always a houseboat to stay on.

How do you solve a problem like congestion?

We spent the last few days getting up late and wandering around Bangalore. M has dragged me to about half of her favorite restaurants, fast food joints and chaat stands. I feel very accomplished having successfully distracted her from her work to appreciate her inner sloth.

We’ve walked and caught buses and hailed autorickshaws to get a full appreciation for the City’s transportation woes. It is a complete oversimplification to describe what we see as “woes.” There are 6.5 million residents of Bangalore who get around. That is an incredible accomplishment, just supporting the roads and transportation facilities. What we do see is constant congestion. The bus system is completely over utilized.

There is a subway system (The Bangalore Metro) that is in construction that will hopefully make things easier. It is modeled after the successful Delhi Metro which has had its share of controversy. Lets hope that the Bangalore version doesn’t get bogged down. That won’t do it on its own. Hopefully there can be some sort of smart growth, transit preferred development and planning to mitigate the growing traffic disaster. Judging on the futility of other planning efforts in indian megacities, I’m not holding my breath on this one.

I like Bangalore. The streets are tight and the buildings are not too huge. The city is booming like no other city that I’ve seen. Everywhere you look are the tell tale signs of new wealth and transition – bamboo (for external support while in construction), bricks, mortar, fugly “modern” glass facades and dudes with pans on their heads carrying earth. The congestion really hits you when you are in a hurry to get around the City after 5:30PM. Walking in the park makes you feel like you were in Chicago around the turn of the century… everywhere you look, there are families and people enjoying the sun and atmosphere. Maybe I didn’t see it before (maybe my bioclock is ticking) but it is astounding how many families you see. This translates to lotsa fancy baby gear, competitive day-care and yoga for moms. As everyone has a digital camera or cameraphone-type device, I suspect that that the new babies will represent the most documented generation in India’s history. We should also look forward to some ass-kicking india photographers.

We did a short stint in Mysore. Which was great mainly because we got to take the train. Michele wanted air conditioned chair class on the way out, but I got IInd class on the way back to bangalore. Mysore has a great raj-era palace, plenty of touts and lots of opportunities for street food.

We stumbled on the palace as the sun was setting and joined the masses waiting for the palace stewards to turn the lights on. White bulbs line the 1912 proto-deco flourishes, colonizing moghul grey granite and guilded turrets. When they pulled the lever and flipped switches, the whole thing lit up like a christmas tree (great pictures now in the flickr set). The whole city of Mysore seemed to wander the palace grounds, which before the sun set was an inhospitable wasterland of a parade-area, better fit for a monster truck rally then a promenade. We witnessed the full metamorphosis from emptyness to vibrant public space and the evening was beayootiful. We sat and watched child laborers sell popcorn and balloons and light-up yo-yo balls to the many mysoreans and their toddling offspring.

We sweated in IInd class with a cute muslim family for the 3 hour ride back. The beautiful mother (who must have been all of 17 years old) and three girl chilluns slept and fought and stared out the window. Rice paddies, sugar cane fields, chinese bicycles and shitting ploughhands flew past the window bars. It is good to be back in India. Tomorrow we fly up to Delhi, then Srinagar, Kasmir. Wish us luck avoiding IEDs, tourist bus bombings and debilitating sunburn.

Worth a thousand worthless words

Check out the hot photo set action!

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Singapore is clean…

Welcome to a traveling day. Thanks to Jeff for shuttling me to the airport and reminding me that I needed to ask him to watch the plants and check the mail.

Following a 13 hour flight, I found the Hong Kong airport fancy but a little difficult to navigate. Luckily I know the two internet free access kiosks. I found the starbucks that eluded me during my last visit. I needed the warm milk of a frou-frou latte drink.

Watched the shuttle take off on the big screen TV with many indian families. There were so many kids on the flight! Lots of seniors, too. We were met at the gate by a barrage of wheelchairs and travel assistants to help folks make it through the maze of security and flight check-in points. Watching the shuttle blast into space was exciting, but it reminded me too much of NASCAR races, where the audience is just watching to witness the horrific accident first-hand.

The harsh black peaks surrounding the airport were beautiful as they emerged through the fog and rain. They frame ginormous residential buildings that resembled memory chips. Precise repetition and huge scale to meet the growing housing needs of the peeps.

Now in Singapore after a short flight. It is too hot to do much more than sit in the internet cafe. I am very excited as it is Singapore National Day. Lots of folks out roaming the town in red and white outfits and flags. I witnessed a large contingency of coordinated headscarves. Happy Birthday Singapore!

I’ve been channeling my inner transit foamer and looking for the accessible buses that are supposed to be around here. I love the tactile pathways in the MRT (subway) stations. The metal bumps and ovals seem to be set in to marble surface, although they are probably just stuck on there. I’m drawn to the paths like a moth to a flame. I kick it and stumble along down the path to see where it goes.

The buses all have smartcard readers that look identical to the Bay Area Translink card system that will soon be unveiled. The S’pore system is cool in that it allows the user to turn the card back in and get a refund when you are done using it. Also checking out the location of the card readers on the buses. They have them at the front right next to the driver (like Muni’s new low floor buses) and at the back doors. Give it up for proof of payment (a system that allows you to board at the back of the bus if you have a valid card or transfer.

I’m off to find the Buddha’s tooth temple. Michele said that they have great free food there.

Once Again… with feeling!

Here we go again dear friends. I leave in several hours. Just wanted to unclog the innertubes. Thanks for reading.

Last Day Standing

Last Day Standing

It was another busy last day in Delhi. I usually save all the shopping for the last minute and then run out of money with too many unaccomplished tasks about 6 hours before the plane skips off the tarmack. This time is no different, except that I’ve wrought a different type of tragedy. Two blissful days ago, I had inadvertantly knicked M’s vibrating alarm clock from her room in Mussoorie. I didn’t have a watch with me and she suggested that I use the alarm clock to determine when my sessions with the tutor were finished. A great suggestion at the time, but now, as the bus pulled out of the Haridwar bus stand taking my M off into the early evening dust and chaos towards Dehradun, I felt a bump in my backpack that I had not noticed previously…

My heart sunk. I knew what it was. I knew after tears and hugs and kisses she was going to kill me. After parting shots and parting photographs and video monologues, I had stolen M’s vibrating alarm clock and her only means of getting up in time for Hindi classes, 5AM trains and flights home. I kept repeating to myself that at least I didn’t take her passport, or her bankcard or her deodorant, but it did no good.

I did what every erring man does when he’s gone wrong. I drowned my sorrows in tasty treats. The train I rode from Hardiwar to Delhi was the Shatabdi. Shatabdi means “fast fancy train with lots of free food.” Samosas and uncle chipps spicy snacks were downed with boxes of Appy Fizz, the carbonated apple juice drink. I had the Indian Railway’s infamous tomato soup, mishti doi (sweet yogurt) and ready to eat tins of shai paneer, daal and rice. The thin hanky style romali roti was not as great as kamal’s but it did the job just fine. So fine in fact that I had to beg off the finishing course of ice cream.

We rolled into Delhi at 11:00PM still under a cloud of sorrow and guilt. I read my book, The Life and Death of Great American Cities (I’m tentatively titling my future bestseller “Reading Jane Jacobs in India”) and listened to a mix CD to avoid any social contact with my fellow riders. In my guilty funk, it was easy to ignore all eye contact and shun typical train relations. I’ve been not so much of a conversation magnet this time around. I’m still learning indian customs, but I now know that I don’t need to respond to every request for my attention.

Today while trying to run all my last minute errands I slipped into a conversation with Golden Yogi. A smarmy Sikh man who tried to read my palm and tell me my future. He was nice enough and worldly (he’d been to LA) but his turban was too close over his eyes. He also confused me with a “bindhiesque” forehead marking which I haven’t seen on many sikhs. As I approached him, I noticed his partner walk away quickly. His partner came back into play when I motioned to leave. He played the second man to a T when he caught my attention and gave me a thumbs up (not a Thums up), pointing at Golden Y and indicating that he was both knowledgable and trustworthy.

I practiced newly learned hindi phrases with my new friends:

Mujko vishwaas nahi hai — “I do not believe.”
Ye asambhav hai — “It is impossible.”
Mujhe chalnaa chahiye — “Please allow me to go.”
Maaf Kijiye, mai bahut jaldi me huun — “Excuse me, I am in a great hurry.”

I waved, namasted and walked away. Things I wished I had remembered to say:

Tum Ullo Ho — “You are a stupid owl.”
Mai sabse kharab hindi bolta huun — “I speak the most rotten Hindi.” (just for old times sake)

I don’t know how to say the plural form for you or owl, so I would have had to say it Golden Y and his second man. It is interesting how Indians are not so fond of owls. In general, they are considered a stupid animal and to be called an owl is a great insult. In the west we think of owls as wise and old. There is probably some great analytic cultural comparison looking at how we insult each other. Feel free to look it up.

I do know this, if really want to piss someone off in Hindi, address them as “Sala.” Out of the multitude of terms describing Indian familial relations, this one translates to brother in law. I used to think that Indians just didn’t like their brother in law’s; however, Kevin, M’s friend from Berkeley noted the implied close friendship with the brother in law’s sister… duh.

I finished up the day with a few more journeys across Delhi via autorickshaw and the Delhi metro. I stopped by the Delhi Deaf Women’s Sweatshop to give our friends my parting regards and dropped off the vibrating alarm clock for M to pick up when she stops by in a couple of weeks on her way back to the US. My taxi should be here in an hour, so I’ll go stare at Paharganj’s vital street life and try not to step in cow shit. Wish me luck.