Diwali and A Visit From Mama

Oct. 24^th, 2011

The day after I got back was a big day in Kolkata. Not only was it Diwali, the “Festival of Lights” celebrated throughout India, but also Kali Puja, the festival honoring Hinduism’s most morbid god, which is most prominently celebrated in Kolkata. My friend Jasma invited me over for a party at her loft in the suburbs (indoor India). I was hesitant because I needed to go to the airport that same night to pick up my mom. Jasma insisted that I would be able to do both, so I agreed. Part of me wanted to stay close to the streets and experience the neighborhood I was familiar with during all the celebratory fervor. I had already promised Jasma, though, that not only would I come, but also that I would cook Moroccan food for the party. So it was settled.

I met Jasma at the mall and we proceeded to do the shopping for the party. She bought a big candle decoration for the entrance way to her apartment. Then we went to the grocery store where we bought all the ingredients for the dishes we would be making. I also got some candies as gifts for her children, Adu and Tara. There was a very important errand we needed to run that could not be fulfilled at the mall. Fireworks. If there is one Indian holiday that requires fireworks, it is Diwali. For this we had to go into a normal, middle class neighborhood with outdoor markets and storefronts that opened to the streets. A little closer to the India that I was more familiar with where bartering to the last rupee was required for even the most insignificant of items. Jasma made me feel like a kid in a candy store, which is basically like a Joey in a firework store. We didn’t get anything too explosive or high-flying, but I was definitely excited. I was most intrigued by the home-made-looking fireworks. They looked like some sort clay bombs, but the kind of bomb that you would see in cartoons or clipart.

I spent a couple hours in the kitchen before the party got started getting my Moroccan dish ready. I was making a tagine, but without the traditional tagine pot. I still had a jar of Ras-el-hanout, the spice blend used for tagines, that I had brought from France. Jasma asked if I wanted to use a pressure cooker, which to me just looked like a big heavy pot. Seemed fine to me. The maids helped me chop all the vegetables and meat, while also teaching me some words in both Bengali and Hindi. They were also cooking a couple dishes and Jasma was working on desserts and pastries. Her sweets were more of the western, cookie and cake variety, than the syrupy confections typically found in Kolkata. Before the party, I helped Jasma and her kids light the candles and decorate the entrance way to her apartment.

One of the most interesting aspects of the night was the diversity of the guests. The first couple to show up was a German/Malay couple. Next was a Brazilian couple. Even the Indians were a diverse mix of Sikhs, Hindus and people from various parts of the country. Seeing as this was a Hindu holiday, though, with free-flowing alcohol, I didn’t notice any Muslims.

 Me and Edmar, from Brazil.

The Moroccan dish, which I learned cooked much faster than I was used to because of the pressure cooker (never used one before or knew what it was for), was a big hit. I was nervous about it, but people commented at how many of the flavors and ingredients resembled Indian cuisine. I also made sure not to hold back on the spice, which worked well for everyone.

After dark, I started to hear the explosions. If I had been unaware of this holiday and in Mumbai or Delhi, I would certainly have thought that we were in the midst of terrorist attacks. They came from all around us. I stepped out onto their 8^th floor deck and watched the fireworks rise from the neighborhoods and explode in the distance. Within an hour of sunset, the whole city had a thick haze over it. We eventually went onto the roof of the building to watch. From 18 stories up we were actually at eye level with most of the fireworks exploding around us. We could see flashes coming from ground level from the neighborhoods in the distances. It was awesomely loud. I had one of the best views in the city, but at the same town, I had the longing to experience the rowdiness from ground level in the center of the city. I guess you can’t have it all, and it’s a good reason to make sure I go back.

After getting inspired, we went back down to the parking lot with our own fireworks. While most of them were pretty tame, there was the added thrill that some of them would go off prematurely and you would become a victim of the firework’s shrieking, flaming wrath.

***

Back to the part about my mom visiting. The original plan was for me to leave the party around 10:30 to pick her up from her 11:00 flight. Late in the afternoon, I got an email from my sister that her flight from San Francisco to Frankfurt had been delayed because of President Obama flying in unexpectedly (one of his worst moves as president IMHO). Therefore, she was going to miss her connecting flight from Frankfurt to Kolkata. This was her first time leaving the North American continent, and as far as I know, her first time leaving the country alone, so I was really worried. Big airports can be intimidating enough, but finding yourself alone for the first time in a foreign country after a cancelled flight would be downright scary. Since I couldn’t get in touch with her directly, I called Lufthansa (her airline) and asked what was going to happen. They said that she was rerouted to Bombay, and would then change planes and fly to Kolkata. As much as I saw this as a good cultural experience and a chance for her to deal with all the unpredictable problems of world travel, I really just wanted her to get there as quickly and simply as possible. So I put in a polite request with the travel gods to see my mom safely into Kolkata and hoped for the best.

Since my last time in India, my mom had wanted to come with me on my next trip to volunteer with Missionaries of Charity. The problem was that I was never really sure when I would possibly be coming back to India. I had been planning on it for after graduation from college, but things kept changing. And now that I had the opportunity to come back, my mom had to act fast to arrange for a visit. She got her visa, her vaccinations, travel essentials, a plane ticket and cleared her schedule for late October and early November. Somehow she got all this done on about six weeks notice. That was an impressive feat in itself.

So the morning after Diwali, I took a cab with Andi to his work, and then continued by cab to the airport. I had heard that sometimes flights from Bombay arrive at the international terminal, so I went there first. I was running a little late, so after I realized that her plane had arrived down the street at the domestic terminal, I hustled back that way. By the time I got there, she was already outside, wandering amongst all the people going in and out of the airport. It was actually fortunate that she was at this terminal, since there are not nearly as many hustlers giving you problems and harassing you as at the international terminal. It was so exciting, yet weird, to see her. It was the first time I had seen her in over a year and I knew she was in for the adventure of a lifetime.

She knew that I was not going to molly coddle her when it came to the difficult aspects of India, and all of its unpredictability. At the same time, I didn’t want to give her too much shock right off the bat. I had considered taking the bus into town as I had gotten used to, but really felt that even though it would be cheaper (and far easier and more comfortable than it used to be), taking a taxi into town is an incredible experience in itself. On the way to town, I could tell her excitement about everything around her was overriding some of the general nervousness that can come with the wild roller coaster ride of an Indian taxi. One of the exciting things about her visit was that it gave me a chance to see this city again through fresh eyes. I was curious about what she would notice about the city that I had either gotten used to or had missed somehow. Mama is incredibly observant and I knew that she would have just as much to point out to me as I would have to show her.

Out of respect for my mom, I decided to check out of the Modern Lodge (which is the furthest thing from modern that I could think of) to Hotel Galaxy across the street. Galaxy is still basic and fairly cheap, but much cleaner and more comfortable than the Modern Lodge. It would be a much more enjoyable place for her to spend her time in Kolkata. I had already reserved a big room for us. It was old and basic, but still clean. It almost seemed that it was somebody’s room that we were staying in since there were random things on the shelves and a couple random cardboard boxes on the floor. I was worried that my mom would not be into it, but it turned out that she found it comfy and charming. Best of all, though, were the Sikh guys that ran the place. They were so incredibly sweet and accommodating. There is something about Sikhs. As much racial and religious tension as there is in India, it seems that everyone loves the Sikhs. I really hate to generalize, but they seem to be some of the most consistently friendly and hospitable people in India. Their religion is something of a mishmash of Hinduism of Islam, but taking all the best parts. So there is no prohibition of beef, pork or alcohol. And they get swords. Yes, mostly they get swords.

The Other Side of Bangalore

 

October 22, 2011

On my last day in Bangalore, I made an effort to see more of the city. I tried to go to a couple of art galleries, since Bangalore has a vibrantly young contemporary scene. I mostly took buses, but was occasionally forced to take auto rickshaws to get around.

 

 Auto rickshaw traffic

Look how calm it is!

I wasn’t able to find the first gallery, but I did find the second one, located in a building of an arts school. Unfortunately the museum part of it had a steep price tag for foreigners, but the part I had really come for, a photo gallery, was open and free. They had rotating exhibits, and I was disappointed to find that the current display was from a couple of Indian photographers that did wildlife photography. I don’t want to take anything away from the photographers. Wildlife photography is difficult and requires more patience than I could imagine. And it wasn’t bad photography either. Still, though, I am just not that interested in looking at a gallery of wildlife photography. It doesn’t speak to me. They were actually having an opening reception and there were lots of people there. I eventually spotted a couple of guys that must have been the photographers. They were schmoozing with the guests and talking about their work. I avoided eye contact with them and snuck out after seeing the whole show. As much as I was disappointed in the subject matter, it was nice to go to something like a photo exhibition. So much about India is so overwhelming that it is easy to forget that there is a strong contemporary arts scene once you make the effort to find it.

Next, I wanted to get back to the Krishnarajendra market area near the Jama Masjid (central mosque). I was planning to just go directly into the market that I had missed last time I had been in the area.

Jama Masjid

As I ambled from the busy boulevards into the adjacent neighborhoods, though, I found myself in less of a hurry to get to the market. This was a seriously Muslim neighborhood and had an atmosphere that I hadn’t quite seen in the rest of Bangalore. First of all, the streets were narrow and trucks couldn’t even go through them. It must have been one of the oldest parts of the city judging on the way it was laid out. It was less of a grid and more of a warren of tiny streets, dark alleys and dead ends. There was an abundance of street commerce that caused crowding more intense than most any I had seen back in Kolkata. In relatively modern Bangalore, this really felt like a neighborhood that time forgot. The buildings, which were all smashed together, were old and crumbling, donkey and horse carts plied the streets (something I had almost never seen in Kolkata), the dress was exquisitely traditional. When I first stepped into the neighborhood, the crowd of people was just a sea of black and white; the men in their white robes and skull caps, the women in their black hijabs and niqabs. I waded into the slow-moving crowd and made my way through the streets, turns down increasingly smaller and smaller pathways. I wasn’t looking for much; I just wanted to soak in the unique atmosphere. Eventually, though, I had to get back on my way and actually find the market I had come looking for.

  A vendor serving me up a nice cool glass of something milky and sweet.

 Shoe Vendor

Gorgeously gooey sweets

 This scene turned into an angry stale mate between the truck driver and the man with the heavy load on his head. There was not enough room for either of them to proceed, and they got into an aggressive argument over who would yield. 

 After school bros.

 Pedestrian Congestion

It was housed in a multi-level structure that seemed intimidating from the outside. People called out to from their make shift stands as I approached. Some wanted to sell me onions or peppers, others wanted me to take their picture. I abided with the picture taking, but had no need for onions or peppers. Although dark and dingy within, certain sections of the market were wildly colorful. Others were sleepy and depressing. It felt like certain times of day brought crowds to different sections of the market. The blacksmiths and tool vendors were bored or sleeping, while the flower and vegetable markets were thriving. I was stretching my time as thin as possible. I still needed to check out of my room and catch my night train back to Kolkata.

 The flower market.

 

 

Cows eating garbage, auto rickshaws and traffic. THIS is India.

It was after dark when I finally reached the train station. For whatever reason, the station seemed far busier and crowded than I had remembered. As I walked through the crowds toward my train, one of my shoes came untied from the back of my backpack. When I finally realized, it was too late. I would have that somebody had stolen it off my bag, but why would they only take one? Remind you of the shoe shine boy in “The Darjeeling Limited” that steals one of Owen Wilson’s loafers? Still I am almost certain this was a result of my own carelessness. It wasn’t too hard of a pill to swallow that I would only have flip-flops because I sure wasn’t about to buy any shoes.

I had somewhat expected the train to be extra crowded, but it was far worse than I had imagined. This train was destined for Kolkata a day before Diwali, one of India’s biggest holidays, which also falls on Kali Puja, one of Kolkata’s biggest holidays. I had a middle berth, which meant that during the day I would be sitting on the bench seat, rather than laying down up top like I had done on the way there. Bedtime came quickly, though, and I was glad to curl up in my own bed. I could already see that I was one of the lucky ones. Several people were sharing the tiny, hard beds and even a couple people had laid out newspapers on the floor to sleep on.

In the morning, I tried to savor my time laying down, but knew that I would be told to fold my bed down soon. Sure enough, soon after the 7 AM sunrise, I was woken up by someone motioning for me to get down. I folded up the bed and joined my fellow travelers on the bench seat. There were only supposed to be three people on the two benches that faced each other. We squeezed five onto each, plus there were a couple of people on each of the top berths above us. At every stop a few people would get off, but more people would get on. At one point I counted about 18 people in our little section. It is meant for eight people. Most of the people probably didn’t have a ticket and I am guessing they just bribed the controllers to let them stay in the nooks and crannies of the train. The people that were in my section were lucky, though. There were plenty more people shoved into the spaces around the open train doors and the filthy bathrooms. One time when I got up to go to the bathroom, there was somebody sleeping right in front of it, with their head resting on the damp, cock-roach laden floor next to the door. You can imagine how disgusting a train car and its bathrooms get on a 36-hour ride at double or even triple capacity. During stops, I would usually by snacks through the window, since I didn’t want to risk losing my seat and getting into an argument with someone that didn’t care that I had actually paid for a ticket. Most people were traveling in pairs, groups or families, and could send someone out to get meals for everyone. Food scraps and garbage that didn’t make it out the window would litter the floor. Sometimes a disabled person would climb on at a station and sweep the aisles in exchange for tips. This was especially lucky for the growing number of people that would be sleeping on the floor that night. I enjoy the 2^nd class sleeper and don’t mind its griminess or the lack of air conditioning. However, I have my limits and I have to say that I was incredibly grateful to have a seat or a bed for the entire trip.

After the second night, people woke up and pulled out clean clothes, razors, soaps and all sorts of toiletries. I could see that everyone was making their way towards the sinks and bathrooms, trying to freshen up before arriving in the city. A 36-hour train ride is not good for anyone’s hygiene, and it was especially important for all these people going to visit family for the holidays to present themselves well. By the time we arrived in the urine-fragranced platform at Sealdah Station in Kolkata, everyone was looking spiffy and smelling nice. I, on the other hand, stumbled out of the train like a stinking zombie. I’m not really proud of that, and the other people on the train probably thought less of me for it, but I was not out to impress anyone. I was just looking forward to getting back to my little home on Sudder Street.

The International Conference on the Art and Joy of Wood

Oct. 19^th 2011

When the conference started, I was moved to a new guesthouse where all the people giving presentations for the conference would be staying. I couldn’t believe the room. It was possibly the nicest room I have ever stayed at while traveling (save for this one time in Nicaragua). It had hot water, air-conditioning, lots of space, two beds, a couple of armchairs and even a hot water pot with an assortment of teas and coffee. It was so comfortable, I kind of felt like just staying there for the next three days. The other people at the conference were from all over the world with completely different backgrounds. The only thing that united everyone was some vague association with wood. There were wood scientists, wood architects, wood craftsmen, officials from departments of forestry, and people involved in the international lumber trade. Even by the end of the conference I was trying to figure out who everyone was, their motives for coming to the conference, and what interest they truly represented. Words like sustainability and responsible forestry were thrown around, but I couldn’t tell how much of it was for show. Subtle things from hearing one man snidely refer to conservationists as “huggers” or Vietnamese business people seeming quite interested to speak with forestry officials from Africa.

Every morning there was a breakfast waiting for us in a hotel dining room. At first everyone seemed would come, but most people ended up either confused or disgusted by the simple Indian breakfast of Idli, sambar and coconut chutney. True, it was relatively bad idli, but free breakfast nonetheless. Two of the first people I met were a couple of guys that I would see hanging out throughout the conference. Physically, they were probably the oddest-looking couple of friends I had ever seen. One was a 6’6” Rastafarian wood scientist in his 60’s from Grenada. He was friendly, talktative, a little loud and had a big, boisterous laugh. The other guy was a young 5’4” Bhutanese government official. He was mild-mannered and quiet, but friendly. Throughout the three-day conference, I almost never saw this dynamic duo apart. I ended up spending most of my time with a couple of young Ghanaians from the department of forestry and agriculture who were there to give presentations on the changing use of wood in their home countries and the cultural significance of different building materials. I found them easy to get along with. We also spent some time with a Nigerian man who had recently spent a year in northern India doing some sort of fellowship. He was never too fond of the Indian food and as he explained it, “I passed through India, India did not pass through me.”

The bulk of the conference was a series of lectures and presentations by these people from all over the world. Some of them were incredibly dry and boring, and on at least one occasion snores were heard from the back of the audience. Some of them were truly inspiring or fascinating, even for someone as uninformed on the subject of wood as me. A couple of presentations discussed the possibilities of construction using bamboo, a sustainable and environmentally friendly resource. One of the best presentations was from two men representing a Canadian company that specialized in designing and constructing large buildings from wood. They discussed their plans to build a 30+-story structure from wood, once the Canadian government lifts their ban on the construction of wooden buildings higher than nine stories. Although many of the presentations threw around those buzz-words like sustainability, very few, if any, seemed focused specifically on conservation. Some of them openly spoke about the lumber trade from such unethical sources as Burma, Malaysia, Indonesia, and West Africa, where illegal logging is rampant, as something of a necessary evil. An official from the government of Kerala, one of India’s most forested states, spoke about how they had been able to conserve so many of their forests, but casually noted that they now import most of their wood from Burma and Malaysia. I tried to take in as much as I could, simply because this conference was a random opportunity for an intellectual experience that is not always available when traveling. It turned out that I probably went to more of the presentations than most anyone else in the conference. By the third day, one of the organizers of the conference commented to me that he had seen me around more than anyone else at the conference, and almost felt bad that I wasn’t out seeing Bangalore part of the time. The West Africans that I had met were absent most of the last day, and I asked them where they had gone. They said they had gone to a couple of malls to do some shopping. At first, I was disappointed in them for not going out to see some temples or have a more cultural experience. Then again, I had to remember, that for someone from Ghana, going to a mall was an opportunity equally rare and even cultural as going to see temples or markets. They bought clothes and electronics that were either unavailable or more expensive in Ghana.

A great perk about the conference was that all the meals were provided and some of the dinners were spectacular. The opening night featured a pre-dinner music performance from a local group. The nine or so piece ensemble specialized in classical Indian music. This did not limit them to one style, and the diversity of their sound made you really appreciate all that classical Indian music has to offer. They opened with a piece from the Himalayan regions that featured heavy flute riffs and enchanting chanting. The second half of their ninety minute set, they performed an elaborate raga, a style of music piece popularized by Ravi Shankar that starts out quiet and simple, but slowly grows into an intense climactic cacophony. The whole performance was enthralling, but I could tell that many of the people were growing tired of the raga after fifteen minutes. I could see the relief on the faces of the West Africans after it was finally over and the meal was about to begin. One of my Ghanaian friends, who appeared exhausted from the music was polite and simply said, “that was a great cultural experience…just a little too long for me.”

During the dinner, men with trays of beer, wine, appetizers and entrees walked around topping off glasses and loading up plates. The food was of high quality, and they were so generous with the meat. My typical Indian diet didn’t include much meat, so I was happy to get my fill and avoid the rice and naan. One of the Ghanaians was not interested in eating meat (I believe he said that he only eats meat on Fridays), but kept asking the servers for refills of an appetizer that was basically tater tots. “Please, excuse me. Can I please have more potatoes,” he would repeatedly ask. I don’t know why I thought this was so funny, but I did.

It was interesting to see how people tended to segregate themselves during these meals. Understandably it is easier for people to organize themselves based on a common language. However, most everyone spoke English. Yet one table would be dominated by Asians, another would be westerners, another would be Indians, and the Africans at another. The only people I really connected with their were the Ghanaians, so I ended up sticking with them when I wasn’t sure where else to sit. During one of the dinners, I was at a table that was divided between West Africans and Vietnamese. I got into a long conversation with a Togolese man and was glad to find that I was still capable of getting by in French. As usual, the West Africans were lively and constantly laughing. I think I was definitely among the most fun table.

Oh but wait, why was I actually at the conference? Oh, right, my photos were on display. I had been to other conferences like this before, and when some sort of art or photography is being presented it is usually framed and prominently displayed. I was a little disappointed when I found the poor condition in which my photos were presented. First, the eight-photo series was slapped haphazardly onto one single sheet of glossy poster paper. They didn’t follow any particular order and it was difficult to tell which captions went with which pictures. Worst of all, the quality of the printing was horrendous. They looked like they had been enlarged from tiny thumbnails, and it was almost impossible to tell what the photos were even of. They were also tucked away in a back corner of a random exhibition hall of wood arts. Nobody seemed to even notice the photos. The organizers of the event apologized for the print quality and had them redone after the first day, but at that point it didn’t even matter much to me. On the last day of the conference the photographers that were invited to the conference were briefly recognized for their work by receiving a certificate on stage. For how far we had traveled, it seemed like an awkward token of recognition. There were two other photographers. One happened to be from India, and he was a pretty serious hobbyist photographer. He loved to enter contests and with his limited English he would repeated tell me about all the awards he had won and showed me the pictures on his cell phone. His work was pretty decent for a hobbyist and he had won many awards. He said that he had already been to Singapore and Hong Kong to receive awards. The other guy was an Australian that I didn’t meet until after we received our awards.  His winning photo was of some sort of elaborate wood architecture/monument project in his home town. Since he was also involved in the project (he was an architect more than a photographer) they invited him to give a thirty-minute presentation. I have to admit that I was jealous. Two of the organizers of the conference had spoken to me about the background of my project. When I told them about my time in Mali, one of them was so intrigued that she thought that I should give a presentation too. The other organizer, said we just didn’t have enough time. It would have been fun to actually show all the people I had met through the conference what I was actually there for. Not many of them had actually seen my work, but it would have been nice to show them what I was about.

On the shuttle bus back to the hotel, I spoke to the Australian guy. He was a friendly dude, as most Aussies tend to be, and we got into a long conversation. He interrupted, suddenly, and asked the driver to let him out a few blocks early. He said he was going to pick up some beers and asked me to join. Duh. We bought a few of the strong beers, and walked back to the hotel. It turned out that our rooms were actually next to each other. Somehow we had not yet met before the bus ride. And like a good Aussie, he enjoyed the drink. He said he was going to meet up with his South African friends for dinner and invited me to come along. Aussies and Saffos (sp?) mix well. He drank his big, strong beers incredibly fast, and I struggled to keep up. Before I knew it, we were flagging down an auto rickshaw. One of the biggest conveniences about Bangalore is that the auto rickshaws work like taxis, meaning they go anywhere and also have a meter. The biggest inconvenience in Bangalore was that most drivers did not want to put on their meters. Getting them to do so was a constant battle and sometimes required going from rickshaw to rickshaw to get a driver that would follow the supposed rules.

So I suddenly found myself in the more upscale and trendy urban area of Bangalore on MG (Mahatma Ghandi) Road. It wasn’t too intriguing, but it was definitely more flashy than anywhere in Kolkata. That very day the city’s first subway had opened, with one of its principal stations on this street. We were going to a restaurant called “Ebony” on the 13^th (top) floor of a shopping center. I was nervous to go to such an upscale place, not because I was underdressed (though I was a little) but because I knew that it would be expensive. I relaxed, though, since I had spent almost nothing for the last week, and could afford to splurge a little. The South African couple was already seated on the rooftop terrace with one of the best views in the city. Apparently they had already been there for hours, just downing margarita after margarita. They were an interesting couple of architects in their 50’s. The man had only been in South Africa for a few years and was originally from Germany. The Australian first made sure that the beers were on their way and then we ordered some appetizers. Although the restaurant had French and Thai options we stuck to the more Indian-oriented Parsi options. We were quickly inundated with all sorts of grilled meets and savory appetizers. I was trying my best to keep beer pace with the Australian, but it was not an easy task. I also didn’t know how much they were, and could assume they were far more than I would normally be willing to pay. I didn’t really care, though, since I was having so much fun with these people. When the bill came, the South Africans grabbed it. They had correctly seen through my attempt at seeming professional and that underneath I was just a broke traveler. They told me they’d been young and wild like me before and were happy to treat me. I was relieved, but also felt a little lame, so I at least insisted on paying for our cab ride home as a token of my appreciation.

All in all, the conference was a great time and added another bit of variety to my constantly unpredictable year of travel. When people ask me what I was doing in India, I have to take a deep breath and consider how to answer the question. Do I answer why I was there, or what I did mostly? Usually, though, it’s a lot easier to just smile and say, “traveling”.

36-Hour Train Ride for Taco Bell

Oct. 16, 2011

So now I was off to Bangalore for this mysterious conference. It is the event that lured and enabled me to finally come back to India. Back in May, when I was living with Lise in France, I was applying to a slew of photography competitions, galleries and submitting a few grant proposals. Not much resulted from my efforts, but one of the more obscure ones proved worth it. When I was in Cambodia, I was contacted by the UN’s Forestry and Agriculture Organization, notifying me that I had won their photo competition. The award, for my series on the use of wood by the Bozo people of Mali, was a trip to India to attend the organization’s conference on “The Art and Joy of Wood”. And since I was already halfway to India from my home town, I had managed to come to agreement with them that they would pay for whatever the travel costs were for me to get from Cambodia to Bangalore and back to Idaho, as long as it did not exceed the cost of a roundtrip ticket from Idaho to Bangalore. This gave me some flexibility with how I got from Kolkata to Bangalore. In fact, I could have easily gotten a first class train ticket or maybe even flown. I still couldn’t bring myself to do this though, and ended up going with second class sleeper. I did, however, splurge and paid the extra few bucks to get meals included in the ticket.

I checked out of my hotel room early in the morning, and went to the Sikh-run guesthouse across the street to check in most of my baggage into their storage area, since they would charge me less. I was traveling pretty light and it felt good to be that much more mobile. I hopped onto a crowded bus, then a crowded ferry and eventually arrived at the overwhelming Howrah Station. I was a little bit nervous, for I was about to embark on my longest trip on public transit in my travel history. It was a 36-hour train (if there were no delays) to get to Bangalore. It would surpass my previous record of a 24-hour bus ride from the Caribbean coast of Nicaragua to the capital. At least on this new journey I would have a bed to myself.

I felt fortunate to have scored an upper berth. This meant that if I ever felt like laying down throughout the trip I was welcome to. The middle and lower berths are only used for laying down at night. The only downside was that if I chose to stretch out up top, I wouldn’t be able to see out the window. The meals were hearty portions of rice, roti, dal (lentils), egg curry, pickles and chutneys. It was hot and filling, but pretty bland nonetheless. I would usually descend from my berth to eat my meals. When everyone was done they threw their waste either on the floor or out the window. I was fine with this behavior in the city, where everything would eventually get swept up, but it was hard to do this when we were cruising through the countryside. I really just had to not think about it.

The scenery I did see was not the most intriguing. Mostly just flat fields of rice and grains and the occasional non-descript town or village. In the end, the journey was not nearly as grueling or uncomfortable as many others I have taken. I have always been a pro at road trips as long as I have something to read. 

I arrived at Yesvantpur Train Station in the late afternoon. It was far from town and surprisingly uncrowded. The fact that it was not the busiest station in the city did not mean that there wouldn’t be hustlers preying on the one foreigner getting off the train. They were persistent about latching them onto me to help with transport or hotel, but I was equally persistent with a rude, intolerant attitude. None of the auto rickshaws would agree to take me with their taxi-meter on, so I ended up asking around for which bus to take to get to the part of town I needed to get to. A young, polite college student helped me out and got me onto the right bus. I am always very grateful for the rare person like him that always ends up saving you in a typical Indian jam. As I was on the bus, it occurred to me that everyone else arriving for the conference, especially those that were invited to the conference like me, were flying directly into Bangalore and would be met with an arranged taxi to take them to their hotel room. Since I was arriving on train, I told them not to go out of their way for me and I would be able to figure it out. It didn’t seem odd to me, as this was just business as usual.

One of the first things I noticed about Bangalore, which is now known as Bengaluru, was the local script for the local language of  “Kannada”. It reminded me a lot of the Khmer script from Cambodia, and I believe that they are actually related. The first Indians that came to Cambodia to spread the Hindu religion were from the south, and the modern script of Cambodia is actually based on what was brought from the Hindus. I also noticed that there were a lot more drinking establishments and liquor stores. In Kolkata, bars seemed rare and seedy and the liquor stores were equally sketchy. Bangalore has a reputation as something of a young party town. Then again, it does not say a whole lot to be THE party town of India. I would later find out that it still has a lot of progress to make to keep up with the rest of the world’s party towns. Although it is an incredibly old city with lots of religious history, it is now most famous as one of India’s biggest IT and science hubs. Despite its traffic and outdated infrastructure, it is a quickly changing and fast-growing city with a youthful population flaunting a surplus of disposable income.

My bus dropped me off close to where I would be spending my first night, although it took a while to get oriented and figure out which direction I actually needed to go. I had a room reserved at the guesthouse at a research institute that was part of one of Bangalore’s science and technology schools. The room was pretty decent and definitely several steps up from anything else I had ever had in Kolkata. It was not a surprise to suddenly have air-conditioning and even a TV in my room, but it was still a welcome treat.

That night, I walked around the neighborhood west of where I was staying. The streets were crowded with young couples and families out shopping for clothes and decorations for the upcoming holiday of Diwali, the festival of lights. I was excited to see what kinds of street foods were on offer, as Bangalore has a great reputation in this realm. Although this part of India has one of the most consistently pleasant climates year round (never too hot, nor humid) they had a surprising selection of cool, refreshing drinks and snacks available. There were tons of stalls hawking cold fruit juices, ice creams and shake-like drinks. Although this exists in Kolkata, they are the expensive exception, not the norm.

One surprise was that in this supposed hub of modernism and technology, it was actually quite difficult to find an internet café. Perhaps it was simply because of their advanced technology, though. Nobody needs internet cafes because people actually own their own computers here and might even have the internet at home.

Since I arrived a little early for the conference, I spent my next day exploring a few different parts of the city. I first took a series of buses to the “Bull Temple”, a Dravidian style temple built in the 16^th century. I got a little lost on the way as the buses were rerouted due to construction. This didn’t bother me as it led me to explore some of the surrounding neighborhoods. They were the closest thing to quaint that I had seen in India. It was calm and the buildings were colorful. Nothing seemed cramped or rushed. It was a rare moment that I could be in an Indian city and go for a stress-free stroll.

The Bull Temple was set within a quiet public park. The temple itself was relatively modest and there actually weren’t too many people there, unlike many of the other pilgrimage sites that I had seen. Within the temple there was a gigantic granite statue of “Nandi”, Shiva’s bull vehicle. After admiring the nearly half-millennium old structure, I took a walk through the park. Bangalore is known for its green spaces and this one was impressively clean and well kept. There was another temple, this one for Ganesha, but it was closed, so I went on my way. Getting back to my part of town on the bus wasn’t easy and it took a couple of transfers. One of the points of transfer was at a major transit point near the Krishnarajendra Market. My first impressions of the city were that it was cleaner, quieter and less crowded than Kolkata. This market area and transit hub next to the Jama Masjid (central mosque), however, was suffocatingly congested and overwhelming. At the same time, it was good to see that this mall-ridden up-and-comer of a city still had quite a bit of edge to it. Since we were near the central mosque and what seemed to be a Muslim district, I decided I wouldn’t waste the opportunity to get some cheap beef kebabs. It is a special treat I try to indulge in every time I find myself in a Muslim neighborhood in India. I wandered down a narrow street and eventually found a small alley with a couple of kebab shops. The men walking around the streets gave me less than inviting looks. Or perhaps I was just imagining the feel of being unwelcome because of all the Urdu script and Pakistani flags hanging in the shops and windows. It was a little intimidating, but I chose a decent stall and got a couple of kebabs that tore at my throat with their unrelenting spice.

Back on the street, I was surprised to see that just behind the mosque there were a couple of dingy looking drinking establishments. I have barely experienced any sort of drinking culture in India, but was curious what I would find. I walked up a narrow set of dark stairs that led to a dark room with some tables and a little liquor shop. It basically functioned like a liquor store that you can drink in. The only light source was from the windows. The men glanced up from their drinks apathetically or with a slight hint of disdain. It was about as close as I have felt to Steve Buscemi’s character in the opening scene of Desperado. I looked around and followed everyone’s lead by getting a tiny bottle of whiskey and had the bartender pour me a glass of coke. At my empty table I looked around and realized it was one of the most depressing drinking establishments I had ever seen. There was no hint of joy on anyone’s faces. Nobody was having a good time. They were just getting through their miserable day, letting the liquor help them ignore their demons. I felt bad for them, but felt worse for the family they might be going home to at the end of the day. I finished my drink quickly and got out of there. Usually I like the rough around the edges, working man’s bars when I am traveling. They are usually the most fun. This, however, was very different and I had very little desire to go to another one.

My final mission for the day was to go to a mall on my way home and make a pilgrimage to India’s first (and currently only) Taco Bell. I remember when I first heard that Taco Bell would be opening in Bangalore a few years ago. I was intrigued by the idea of it. So when I found out I would be going to Bangalore, I knew that I would need to try it. It was in one of Bangalore’s many malls, across the corridor from a KFC, which actually appeared to be a lot more popular. While McDonald’s, Domino’s and KFC serve foods that are easily recognizable internationally, I wouldn’t be surprised if Taco Bell’s menu just seemed confusing to people in India. It was almost empty, and I wondered if this would remain the only Taco Bell in the country. It was also the cleanest Taco Bell I have ever seen, with the best service. There was a colorful standup sign that introduced customers to the basics of the Taco Bell menu. It explained what a taco was and said that a tortilla was like a Mexican roti. I am sure that plenty of Americans have likewise explained roti as like an Indian tortilla. I ordered the chicken and rice burrito so I could compare it to what I knew back home, and also a paneer and potato burrito to see what kind of Indian twists would be brought to the table. They were stingy with the fire sauces, which I thought was not only unfair to me, but also to all the other Indians that need their heat. In the end, the food was pretty similar to what I knew back home, except of course with the addition of paneer, and the potatoes came in the form of tater tots. Of course, I am against the idea of fast food, and even more so the potential it has in destroying food cultures globally. Places like Subway and KFC are invasive weeds that can now pop up almost anywhere in the world and be successful at the expense of local businesses and eating traditions. However, I still find them interesting as a cultural experiment to see how these chains adapt their rigid image to fit in just enough where they open up. My decisions to visit the divey drinking hole and the Taco Bell were both made based on my curiosity, perhaps even in a voyeuristic way. And as different as they were, I left them a little bit more depressed than when I had entered. Something about what the privileged in the developing world are aspiring to, and what those that are left behind turn to in their rough situation. 

Indoor India/Outdoor India

My second time in India, I got to see a side of Kolkata that I had only caught a vague glimpse of the first time. It was the lifestyle of the upper class of the city. It was a part of the city that I knew existed, but nothing in my daily life there would normally lead me to take part in it. However, through an old friend from my first time in Kolkata, I would have the opportunity to see how people live in what I would come to refer to as “Indoor India”.

I had first met Jasma through Katie when we were volunteering five years ago. Katie and Jasma volunteered at an orphanage and we were eventually invited over to her flat where she lived with her German husband Andi. Although she was about eight months pregnant with her first child, she was still an energetic host and prepared us a wonderful meal. Their flat was a basic but cozy space in a more middle class neighborhood. Our night there was actually far more comfortable and luxurious than what we were used to over on Sudder Street.

Five years later, I was back in touch with Jasma, and we arranged to meet up at a mall in south Kolkata. Arriving at the mall shook me a little. It was a huge, modern, brand new shopping center unlike anything else I had seen in the city. It was the closest thing to American-style consumerism and commercialism that I could have imagined. And somehow it made me feel really out of place. I was still dressed in my carefree traveler costume of baggy, colorful cotton pants, a t-shirt and sandals. Of course these were not normal clothes anywhere, but I felt more self-conscious about it here for some reason.

We met at a bookstore where Jasma was buying gifts for a friend’s child’s birthday party. She assumed I had taken a cab there, but when I told her I had taken the metro and an auto rickshaw, she seemed shocked. She said she had only taken the metro once and that it was awful. In all fairness, it is usually terribly crowded and uncomfortable. She also said she had never taken an auto rickshaw. This was especially shocking for me, as not only did I take them on an almost daily basis, I loved them.

It wasn’t until we got into her car and I realized she had a driver that I started to get an idea about how much Jasma’s life had really changed in the last five years. I also saw that Jasma herself had changed somewhat. First of all she, a formerly proud native of Delhi, had finally come to love Kolkata. She even criticized Delhi harshly, talking of the tacky displays of wealth by the city’s elite.

On the way home, we did some shopping at a huge grocery store. The variety and prices at the imported foods section boggled my mind. There were versions of American snack foods that I hadn’t even heard of before. There was a large variety of French cheeses and even some charcuterie. I remember hearing American volunteers complaining about how it was impossible to get peanut butter in India. Not that it mattered much to me, but they had obviously never been to this kind of grocery store.

On the way home, Jasma told me that they had moved to a new flat in a housing development farther outside of town. It was far from the bustling congestion that I was so used to. There were about eight fifteen story buildings that shot up out of the flat, sparsely populated areas around it. Some of the buildings were still under construction and I could see dark-skinned laborers milling around between the development and their nearby shanties.

We took an elevator up to the eighth floor to her flat. I had wondered where her kids were, but quickly realized that they were under the care of the maids. The flat was beautiful and had an incredible view of the city. Since I had last seen Jasma, Andi’s tech company had been doing very well and they had been moving on up at a quick rate. One of the maids made some lunch for me and we hung out and caught up on things. The meal of curry chicken, roti and rice was quite possibly the best meal I had in India. It neared my limit for spice tolerance and the pieces of chicken were plump and juicy like nothing I’d ever had in India.

Jasma invited me to go with them to the birthday party that evening and then stay the night. I didn’t want to intrude, but she insisted. There were some stipulations, however. Basically she needed to turn this beast into a prince in just a few hours. My hair was a little shaggy, so our first stop was to the barber that Andi usually goes to. It was weird to be at a nice salon, rather than a street side stall. Then we went back to the mall where I needed to pick up some new, presentable clothes. I needed to do this anyway since I would be going to Bangalore for a conference in a couple days and needed to have a little more formal attire than my normal rags.

Jasma took me to a department store that was a little fancy for me. As soon as we walked in Jasma went to find the bathroom and a young, well-dressed and friendly salesman latched himself onto me. He started to show me all of the latest styles from a variety of high-end brands. I listened and thought about some of them, discreetly looking at the price tags. They were about the price I would expect to pay for a decent shirt back in America, which is to say the equivalent of several days of travel in India. I was down to my last chunk of money before going home, and I just couldn’t afford to waste anything. It was embarrassing to do, but when Jasma came back I had to tell her that I really couldn’t afford what they were selling. She was cool with it and we went to a different store that more closely resembled K-Mart with its reasonably priced clothing, home appliances and groceries. It was still more expensive than if I had shopped in the street market near Sudder Street, but not terrible and I needed it.

Next stop was to the Croc store. Yep, there was an entire store devoted to Crocs. I had never worn them, but Jasma seemed to think I would love them. More importantly, they would be an improvement over the sandals made from tires that I was wearing. In the end though, I had to say no to the crocs too, since they were just too expensive. On the way home, we stopped by Andi’s office and picked him up from work.

We went back home and I showered, shaved and got dressed for the party. An important thing for me to explain, though, is that a child’s birthday party in affluent India is celebrated a little differently than in America. The biggest difference is that it is just as much, if not more, of a social event for the parents of all the kids. When Jasma had mentioned going to a birthday party for a child, I assumed it was a pretty casual thing. Little did I know that a big part of the party would be mingling with all of Jasma and Andi’s friends as if it was a cocktail party parallel to the simultaneous birthday party.

The party was held on the terrace on the roof of a five-story building. It was catered by the restaurant on the next floor down. While the kids were entertained by face painters and a magician, Jasma introduced me to all of her friends. They all seemed worldly and sophisticated. They spoke to each other in English with bits of Bengali mixed in for flavor. Many had studied or lived in America or Europe at some point in their lives. The magician had a difficult time holding the attention of the kids with his predictable, old school tricks. These kids were surely used to much more high tech forms of entertainment. Then there was the piñata. I was surprised that they had this, but then again, most of the means of celebration going on were being borrowed from American birthday traditions. They did not use a bat or a stick, though. Instead one of the parents just pulled the little trap door in the bottom and all the candy trickled out. The kids scrambled on the floor for all the raining loot. Another thing that stayed consistent with American birthday parties was that there was one kid left crying after failing to get any candy. It was Jasma’s daughter Tara, but the problem was quickly remedied with a secret stash of candy. We left soon after the dinner and cake. When we got back outside, the car and driver was nowhere to be found. He apparently thought we would take a little longer and went out on his own errands for whatever reason. I think it was safe to assume that he used the down time to conduct some other side business and just got caught this time.

My plan was to go back to Sudder Street the next day since I wanted to volunteer and had to get ready for my trip to Bangalore. Jasma, however, is very convincing and wanted me to spend the day with them. Since it was Saturday, they were going on a family outing to something of a resort outside of town a couple hours. It was a place called “Ibiza” that had a large pool, a nice restaurant and some other luxurious facilities. I didn’t have a bathing suit, but Jasma assured me that I could buy one there. I wasn’t too excited to spend money on something I didn’t need, but I was kind of excited about swimming. Kolkata could be unbearably hot and humid and a swim would be incredible. The shorts I had to by were a little spandexy number not unlike really small bike shorts. This was way out of my comfort zone, but I did what I had to do. The day was pleasant and I enjoyed splashing around with the kids, Adu and Tara. They couldn’t really swim yet, but they did enjoy being in the water. Suddenly about four dozen high school aged kids showed up on some sort of field trip. They basically took over the pool so we moved to the poolside café and ordered beers and appetizers. The kebabs were incredible and whatever else we ordered was top notch. I felt a world away from my previous day-to-day life of living on Sudder Street and volunteering. There was a little bit of guilt for missing the day of volunteering. I also felt so out of place in this high society experience. Just like back home, I am more comfortable in more humble settings and don’t do well when I have to present myself in a certain way in more upper class settings.

I was planning to go back to Sudder Street that night, but Jasma wanted me to stay another night. I still felt like I had to get back to volunteer and get ready for Bangalore, but she was very persistent. Andi had to work the next day, and she wanted to hang out with me and the kids.

So I decided to stay for another day. Most of our next day was spent at the mall. First, Jasma treated me to lunch at a nice Italian restaurant. She tried to insist that I get one of the seafood platters, but my frugal nature forced me to get one of the more modestly priced items, the cannelloni. I was also basing my choice on whichever dish would have the most cheese. After lunch, we went to see a movie at a theater in the mall. I had no idea that a Three Musketeers movie was out, but that is what we saw. Also, it was in 3D. It is funny how India such a place for new experiences that even seeing my first movie in 3D happened there. Between the day at the mall, the Italian lunch and going to the movie I was having a more typically American type of day than I ever could have imagined having in Kolkata. The funny part is that you can almost never find me at malls, theaters or Italian restaurants while actually in America. I guess there is a time and a place for everything. And while it seemed that so much of this modern Indian culture was simply trying to emulate America, there were a few aspects where the India could not be held back. The popcorn at the theater was a great example of this. It came in four different flavors that reflected the true Indian need for spice. The popcorn was an American concept, the flavor was all India.

The day at the mall finished with a little bit of time in the arcade where Tara and Adu seemed surprisingly less excited about some of the games than Jasma and I. I didn’t expect to find myself at an arcade, but it turned out to be a fun time.  Afterword, I finally had to leave the indoor India though, and return to my home on Sudder Street. I had to say goodbye to the air conditioning, the modern bathrooms, the quality food, the clean and comfortable bed. They were nice treats for a couple of days, and I couldn’t have thanked Jasma enough for the hospitality, but I ended up relieved to get back to Sudder Street. I think part of me was afraid of getting too attached to that lifestyle and losing the ability to happily get along in my cheap, and fairly filthy guesthouse, eating from street stalls and volunteering for the dying and destitute. It amazed me how I could go from a life where I never encountered air conditioning to one where I was constantly going from one air conditioned space to another, without ever feeling the cruel Kolkata climate. Thus why I came to refer to the Indias I was seeing as “indoor” and “outdoor”. The indoor and outdoor Indians lived parallel lives, very close to each other, but never crossing each other’s paths.

When I got back that evening, I realized that I had left my new clothes in Jasma’s car. I was leaving for Bangalore the next morning and now I needed to go and get new clothes again in a rush. I grabbed my friends Joe and Mel to help me find clothes at the nearby street market. For a pair of khakis, two shirts, a tie and a belt, I ended up spending less money than on the one pair of khakis I had bought at the mall.