Swords, Fire, A New Tire Sandal, McDonald's...Leaving India

Dec. 3, 2011

My last few days in Kolkata were spent tying up loose ends, taking a few final photos, buying gifts for people, etc. One major task I had was to replace a sandal I had lost in Puri. This wasn’t just any sandal. I was one from a pair I had gotten in Mali almost a year earlier. These sandals were made from tires and were custom-fitted. It seemed that there was only one man still making this kind of sandal in the capital of Mali, and it had been a mission to even find him. The sandals meant a lot to me, and now I was left with one. I felt like it would be a final test for me in India to see if I could manage to get the same sandal I had had made in Mali re-constructed here in Kolkata.

The first thing I had to do was find the source for rubber. I knew that there were people that sold used tires in a nearby neighborhood, but I was also pretty sure that these would not be the right people. I needed to find the neighborhood where people tore apart tires for recycling and repurposing. For a city where nothing is wasted, I was surprised that people weren’t turning tires into sandals. Then again, it was probably because that rubber was more valuable when put to other uses, and locally made factory flip-flops cost pennies.

Two days before I left, I went with Joe to hang out at Abdu and Kartik’s (our deaf/mute friends) place and they made us lunch. We asked them if they knew about where to find rubber from used tires. They had a vague idea, but weren’t sure. 

Hanging out with Abdul (left), Kartik (center) and Joe (right) at their house.

Kartik examines my sandal.

This is the result of a corrupted Compact Flash card.

Then one of their other deaf/mute friends dropped by. He said he knew where to go and that he would show us. We followed him on a surprisingly short ten minute walk and, as expected, we arrived at a neighborhood where it seemed that everyone’s profession or craft was focused around repurposing old tires. At the front edge of the street there were whole tires. Then a little farther on there were long strips of rubber peeled off the tires. It seemed that the farther we walked into the street the smaller the pieces of rubber got. By this time, the man that had brought us there had left. I didn’t mind, but I also thought that his presence might work to our advantage. I had brought the sandal I still had and tried to explain to some of the people that I was looking for a piece of rubber to match mine. We were pointed farther and farther down the street, until we reached a boy who was making what looked like brake pads. I showed him what I was trying to get, and he quickly grabbed my sandal and examined it. Then he reached for a piece of flat rubber. He traced the shape of the sandal onto the rubber with a piece of chalk. I started to ask him how much the piece of rubber was gong to cost. He ignored me in a fashion I had seen before. He was going to try to do the work and then tell me an inflated price. I had to grab his arm and stop him in order to get him to tell me the price. He told me something like 150 rupees, or three dollars, for one sandal-sized piece of rubber. Of course, this was absurd, as I had originally bought this pair of sandals for $2 in Mali, where most things are pricier than India. Arguing against the price didn’t help. Worse yet, people had started to gather and watch what was going on. We tried moving to the next stall that was working with the same cut of rubber. When we asked the price, it was even more. The word had spread quickly about us and nobody wanted to give a lower price. We got incredibly frustrated. In the end, we left in a huff without the rubber.

The next day I went back the neighborhood alone and tried to rush in casually without making a scene, or being seen. I was able to find a different rubber dealer who was caught off guard by me. I used this to my advantage and got a better price, but it was still not that great. I paid about a dollar for the piece of rubber, but I didn’t mind much since the guy I was dealing with was kind, friendly and didn’t seem to be trying to rip me off.

A tire wallah (right) cuts the rubber for my sandal.

Next I had to find material for a strap. My sandal’s strap was made from material that could have been a belt. So I went to New Market in search of a belt with red, yellow and green stripes. It was surprisingly easy to get, so my next stop was the cobbler. Unfortunately it was a Muslim holiday, and not many people were working. I eventually found a cobbler and showed him what I would like him to do. He seemed confident that he could do it, and we negotiated a fair price. It took quite a while, and his method was different than the man who had made them in Mali. It worked out in the end and it was kind of surreal to have a pair of matching sandals with each one coming from two different cobblers in two different countries on two different continents.

That same night, the night before leaving Kolkata, I was walking around a nearby neighborhood, looking for a few last photos for my project. I turned a corner, and suddenly the street in front of me was packed. There was some sort of parade or celebration going on. It was not calm in the least. What I saw was mostly men, with a strong contingent of school-aged kids, dancing around, waving swords, throwing fireworks, and occasionally a fire breather would emerge from the crowd. There were sword fights, which I kept getting in the way of. At one point, a man who seemed at least a little crazed, sad to me, “Do you know about this day? It is the festival of fire and blood! Today is the fire!...Tomorrow is the blood!” What was I supposed to say to that? I continued to walk through the slightly controlled chaos, watching the dramatic performances that swirled around me like unpredictable clouds. I was confused about the occasion, because it was obviously a Muslim holiday, but I had never heard of it before. I would later find out that it was a more obscure holiday that seemed to have particular significance in West Bengal. Although I wasn’t around the next day, Joe would report back to me that he had seen the “blood”. Apparently during the second street parade some of the men walked through the street shirtless, while slapping their chests with razor-clad hands.

Also, I went to McDonald’s and tried a “Chicken Maharaja Mac”.

A final photo for the Kolkata 9-5 project. A photographer in his studio.

Guesthouse managers Raju and Raju (Pagla) snuggle up for bed. They are two of the best guesthouse workers in all of India.

Another task I had to take care of was to find a gift for Papa. I wanted to get him something bike related, and I figured one of the bike seats made out of used tire could be cool. I knew finding this would be another mission. I got my first tip from Raju, our guesthouse manager, who told me the general area where bikes and bike parts were sold. Joe came along with me. The first stop was a bike shop that was selling shiny new bikes. It was the first evidence we were entering a serious bike-dealing district. When we asked about the seat made out of tire, the shopkeeper seemed offended. He told us he sold bikes not seats. I asked if he knew where we might find one. No. He waved us out of his shop. I tried to ask again if he knew where bike seats were sold, or which direction we might walk. He refused to answer and sent us out of his shop. It took a while to get back on track, but we eventually found ourselves finding more bike shops. Like the tire-stripping neighborhood, it seemed that the farther we went into the neighborhood and the more narrow alleys we walked down, the small the parts got. We went from new bike shops, to used bike shops to shops that sold frames and tires until eventually we were walking down some back alleys where the vendors were hawking break pads and bike ornaments. By asking every shopkeeper we passed, we were eventually directed to a shop that had exactly what I was looking for. Unfortunately the seat did not look nearly as cool as those that were well worn by the cycle rickshaw drivers that I had seen before. The seat, plus the huge coils it sat upon would be a huge portion of my bag, but it seemed worth it. I also found a giant green horn that made the most ridiculous sound that I knew would go great on my bike back home. Plus I got some mud flaps made of car tire tubes that had sexy pictures of Bollywood stars on them. The whole trip took half of our day, but those mud flaps made it worth it.

So that was about it. Another trip in India. Another couple months in Kolkata, learning that the place is unlearnable. The more you know, the more you realize you don’t know. That concept seems to be made for India. As foreign as it is, as grinding and grueling as it can be some times, as often as I feel I don’t understand it and want to leave, I will always have a spot in my heart for India. It seems like a lifelong project of a place. Something I can always come back to when I am feeling in a rut or need a pick-me-up or a put-me-down. I know it will never fail to always fascinate.