Listen, My Children...

Goa

The New and Improved Goa Post!

Before getting to Goa we had been worried, because the only mention of our Goa hotel was on a few internet hotel sites. No printed guide knew of it or even included Bambolim Beach itself on a map. The big Indian hotels directory in Agra didn't list it, and the number wouldn't go through. I did get to place trunk calls, though:

"I would like to make a call to X-location."

"Number, please?"

"number."

"Thank you, I will call you back when I have put the call through."

Even when the girl then calls you back five hours later to explain that the number was not functioning, and would you like her to keep trying all night? it's still a blast!

Once we left the 106-degree Delhi weather and heard that the weather in Goa was 70 degrees, we were happy, even if there weren't a hotel. The taxi (Goa's nice in that there's a prepaid taxi stand in the airport -- no hassles, no telling you your hotel is burned down, no other problems for exhausted travelers) informed us that our hotel did exist, and we settled in at a nice, calm, very remote little beach on the south side of Panjim, just opposite the airport and the city of Vasco. It was beautiful. Peaceful, empty beach, cool and humid and quiet. Well, until the drunk Indian tour group comes along!

They were on a company-sponsored vacation, about 50 men and one woman, and the majority of the men were awful. Drinking to excess, dancing in the restaurant, harassing the restaurant's live entertainment girl; the restaurant staff didn't like them either, and moved us and the woman in the group out to the balcony for our comfort and protection. Our fabulous waiter stood back a bit from our table just making sure nothing would happen; when one of the vile men came over and took a napkin from our table (as pretext for coming over to us), the waiter went and yelled at him. There are some wonderful men in this country. (More on that later, in a forthcoming post on gender interactions.)

As I've said before (and you'll have to forgive me if I get repetitive, posting occasionally over several months), one of the main divides between the British and the Indians lay in their attitude towards women. Nevermind that European chivalry was only a few hundred years old -- many of my octagenarian friends (and I have quite a few) are horrified by the racial attitudes they were brought up on. When you've improved, you can look down on all who refuse to, as well as yourself in the past. Well, some things the British were fine with (and we might be critical of them today). They were generally very understanding of seclusion of women, for example, holding it to be simply a cultural practice, especially after British women made friends with women in purdah and reported that they said they wouldn't have it any other way. That's as may be; I don't know. But beating a woman for violating purdah, or forcibly burning young widows (or making life hell for unburnt ones) -- not as acceptable. (And yes, sati/suttee became more popular after the British outlawed it and made noise about the practice, but I kind of feel that speaks more to the depravity of those who would hear of it for the first time and think it's a grand idea, or those who would defend it as necessary to Hinduism (and, if they spoke the truth, to the depravity of Hinduism as well), than to a false step by the British.) We have the same problem today, with Muslims getting in trouble in non-Muslim countries for advocating the socio-religious practice of wife-beating! And many people date the souring of Indo-Brit relations to the mass arrival of English women in India. The women ensured that the men spent less time on Indian friendships, they typically learned only the rudest Hindi, and they made very little attempt to adapt to India, demanding instead that India adapt to them. India saw this, and saw that Englishmen were often acting subordinate to their wives, and lost much of what respect they had for the manly Englishman.

But not all Indian men are awful. Our waiter here in Goa, and the hotel man in Jaipur, were both fabulous. People would probably see sexism, racism, and so forth in both of them, but it's nothing menacing in either one. There, it's simply upbringing. And, as Bob's learned, that can change! As I've since learned, from talking to someone who runs study-abroad programs across India, "eve-teasing" (sexual harrassment of women) is the worst in and around Pune, although it's pretty bad across the north. Men are brought up to believe that it's acceptable to menace women who dare to be independent or interact with men! In the south, it's different. But, I'm not there yet. Back to your regularly scheduled travelogue...

Goa has the dogs that are found all over India, the little pie-dogs (the British called them pariah-dogs, then pie-dogs) with a curled-up tail, usually brown or brown-and-white shorthair. We went for a walk on the beach, and one came with us. Wish we could take her home to our dog! Last time I was here, one adopted me; she would walk me to class, walk me to friends' houses, walk me to shops, and then wait outside for me. I never petted her or gave her any food, but she was happy with my company. On the beach, there were three Indian women in one-piece western bathing suits, along with two large pre-teen girls in odd skirted boy-legged suits. That's something I didn't see four years ago.

After a fabulous night (drunks notwithstanding), we went into Goa's cities the next day. You can tell the tourists who have been around for a while -- as we were leaving one church, we saw a fellow walk up; his guidebook was falling apart, his clothes were a bit the worse for wear, and he looked greenish-brownish-gray all over, and not at all well. It's similar to the fabulous comparisons between incoming and outgoing soldiers from England.

Our first stop in Panjim was the lovely white zig-zag-staircased Church of the Immaculate Conception. We caught the tail end of mass, in Portuguese, then went outside and met a German tourist! She'd been in the country since late April, and was leaving in mid-June. Her boyfriend had been with her, but he had to go back early, so she was all along -- and it's no fun travelling alone as a girl. So, she palled around with us all day, arguing with taxi drivers for us and seeing the sights of Panjim and Old Goa until we went back to the hotel. It was so nice to meet someone who speakd English (and German) without an Indian accent! She also taught us the most accurate term, "tourist catcher."

We saw St. Francis Xavier, who's doing the Snow White thing up in a glass and gold coffin -- except he's somewhat green. But he does look quite good for someone who's been dead several centuries.

Back at the hotel, there was a guy who didn't look Indian. Dark hair, brown skin, and India-made pants, but something was different. His hair was very short; he walked differently; he drank only Bisleri water; he travelled alone; and he read novels through designer eyeglasses. As we checked out the next morning, after another beach stroll (with strong wind in palm trees sounding for all the world like rain, which is disconcerting when there's not a cloud in the sky), we had him in our car to the airport -- he is from Bombay, but I was right, and he lives in NYC. Not Indian. Bob would approve.

We changed planes in Bangalore -- such cool air, such western (and often fat) people, such bizarre shopping malls that look like Disneyland. India Wins Again: to change planes, you have to leave the airport by the arrivals exit, dodge the taxi men and suspiciously helpful where-are-you-going men, and walk around to the main departures entrance! But we finally made it to Madras, where you can see the air. Pollution's definitely gotten worse!

Next installment coming soon!

Rooftop Excursions

In Agra, children were always out on their rooftops training pigeons or flying kites.

In Madras, children were always out on their rooftops doing absolutely nothing!

In Madurai, everyone's always out on their rooftops brushing their teeth.

Different strokes, I guess!

To Delhi and Beyond

The Agra to Delhi train was an "Intercity Express," which means it's almost as local as trains get. "Express" is rather a misnomer, as it stopped every five minutes (at least) to pick up a few passengers and get a few minutes behind on the schedule. For those of you interested in travelling by train in India, I strongly recommend AC chair car for daytime travel. It's significantly cheaper than 1- or 2-ac, and really all you could want for the daytime. Plus, it's cooled!

As I said, we were getting behind on the schedule. Eventually, we stopped altogether; the train in front of us had derailed. Nothing big; the lady next to us told us it happens all the time. I suppose that's not a specifically Indian occurrence -- when I was living in England, the trains were constantly being stopped because of "dead leaves on the rails." Haven't heard of that with Amtrak or continental trains so much. Perhaps it's a Commonwealth thing?

We passed the time listening to the woman next to us correct her son for pronouncing his brother Baskar's name "Box Car" and wondering if we would need to skip Goa and stay with my grandfather's Punjabi friend in Delhi. We were exhausted from the north Indian weather and from the wretchedness of Agra, so it was beginning to look like a good idea. Our flight was at noon, and it takes generally an hour to reach the airport from the train station. By the time we reached Delhi, over an hour behind schedule, it was 10:00. Quickly into a crazy taxi, and we were off!

In contrast to Bombay, Delhi was cleaner than it had been four years before. Jaipur, incidentally, has gotten much dirtier. When I was last in Jaipur, four years ago, it was only a few months after the Clintons' trip there, for which they'd cleaned the city; most of the postcard photos were taken then as well, when the streets weren't covered with piles of festering filth. (One thing in favor of vegetarian areas, in a country where the concept of waste disposal is not very developed: at least there you have fewer rotting carcasses in the streets where people are walking barefoot.) But Delhi, on the other hand -- well, New Delhi, because the rest of Delhi is still slums and garbage-heaps -- has trash cans, lanes on the street, traffic cops, street-sweepers, and all sorts of fascinating (evil occidental ethnocentric imposition) inventions that make life so much more pleasant and safer. I was amazed!

At the end of our fast trip (35 minutes at breakneck speed), we were not too late for our flight. We even had a few minutes to call the Punjabi friend from the pleasantly-provided free local telephones. (In the Delhi airport they also provide free places to recharge your cell phone! Now that's what I call customer care.) He said what everyone else has said: stay away from small shops, and don't drink the water!

Every flight has been different, when it comes to baggage. From Bombay to Jaipur, we checked our bags, went through security, and, although there was no notice that we could tell, everyone got up suddenly and boarded, so we followed them. On this Delhi-Goa flight, we had to identify our baggage after security check and before boarding -- although they just expected you to know that, so several foreigners didn't do it until we were boarding -- and there was a sign that changed over to say that we were boarding. On the Goa to Madras flight, there was a PA announcing the boarding times, and everyone identified their bags while walking from the gate to the plane.

Devadasis

Breaking from my travelogue to make a short post that I'll forget to write if I leave until later:

I met a most interesting man today. He works with a NGO that focuses on religious prostitutes. My teachers in America had all led me to believe that the "devadasi" (lit: servant of god) system had either died out or never existed in the first place, being a fictional creation of orientalist whites. Apparently not.

What's all the fuss about? Parents eager to get in good with the deity (or just with the priests who speak for the deity) will donate or sell their first daughter to the temple, where she'll function as a prostitute either for just the priests or for anyone willing to make a good enough donation. How this differs from other child prostitution systems (where girls are told they'll be household help and end up in forced prostitution) is that the parents are quite willing participants and fully aware of what's going on, but their religious beliefs have them convinced that it's a great thing and will get them merit in the next life. So, the parents are also working against the people trying to free these girls.

Some people are just horrid. I'm very glad there are so many NGOs in this country working to rid it of its evils. (Perhaps we need some in America to stop the frequent problems with wealthy immigrants bringing their slaves with them... or the stories I hear about from California and parts of Texas of indentured labour of Mexicans.)

Iran War?

I'm not able to follow US politics too closely; all I get here is the Guardian's columns in the Hindu. (My teacher, a remarkably sensible person when it comes to Indian politics, also appears to get all his international news from that column, so has rather a skewed position on the US.) But one thing confuses me: I hear that the US, while including Kuwait in the list of charges against Saddam Hussein, makes no mention of the Iran war. Why ever not? I'm sure there must be some reasons; I just can't for the life of me make any out, and the only ones suggested in the paper here involve dark conspiracies to keep the US's nefarious dealings secret.

John meets John

I like John Edwards. I would even have had difficulty deciding how to vote (at my current level of knowledge of his policy advocacies, not "right or wrong" whatever he eventually said), had he won the nomination. But perhaps that's just because he's dang cute. Hey, that's why I watch NBC, at least until December 1 (Tom Brokaw's a hottie), and that's why I'm doing so well in one of my classes... it's a good reason!

Seriously, though, I think that's a wise move on Kerry's part. I think this might be a wise move for the President, as well, but I don't know enough to say.

A Teardrop on the Face of the Subcontinent

I love India's trains. Germany's ICE trains are fabulous, but the other European trains (not to mention Amtrak), in my personal experience, just can't measure up. Everyone is friendly, you can furnish your house and do all your shopping without leaving your seat (on a local train), and you get to see everything out the window. Night trains, second-class AC, are a dream. You find your berth, you acquaint yourself with your companions, you wait for the ticket man and the sheets man, and then you settle in for the night -- perhaps ordering breakfast before you drop off and get rocked to sleep in your pleasantly cool car.

On our train to Agra, there was a lovely girl, staying on until her hometown -- a fifteen-hour trip. That's pretty short, as things go; it's fairly common to take a two-day train. My mother tells me of taking the train from Houston to New York with my father back in the 1970s, and it sounds something like that -- get off in Louisiana for dinner, then sleep and get in to NYC the next afternoon. Our fellow passenger was returning from her father's house with all the required post-dowry gifts for her inlaws. She seemed very modern, with short hair and nail polish, and was rather unskilled with her salwar kamize. Also known as a punjabi suit, or a chudidar down south ("churidar" up north refers to a specific pants style, but down here it means everything), that is the pants and tunic outfit popular here since the Islamic period. It's got a long flowy scarf called a dupatta that some girls are quite fluent with; this young woman was not, however. Hers kept dragging on the ground, getting caught in things, falling off, and otherwise needing a lot of adjustment. Even I am better with them! I got the impression she was one of a breed I have met several times, where her father requires Indian clothes and traditional behavior (such as dowry), but her husband lets her lead a very modern and westernized life. She shared her food with us and helped us disembark.

Another man, not friendly, was also in the car. Over the course of the trip, he ate a huge box of very oily potatoes and fried bread with his fat hands, pausing occasionally to run his greasy fingers through his hair, then ate a mound of sweets and, shifting his massive body, lay down and made sickening noises. He's also a specific "type," and one generally ridiculed in movies (and occasionally played by Govinda, now a politician, like many Indian movie stars). And a type I could do without! No wonder diabetes and hypertension are so common here...

The train coursed through desolate land, with only a few twigs, and bony cattle and goats eating those twigs, and occasional people out trying to do something to stay alive before retiring to their tiny straw hut for the night. They need rain pitifully, and it looks like it won't be coming this year much either.

In Agra, we ended up with an auto-rickshaw before we knew it, and, dying in the heat, learned en route to our hotel that, despite what the Rough Guide and various websites said, the Taj Mahal does indeed now close on Fridays. It being Thursday, and past 4 pm, we staggered into our hotel rooms (thank goodness for advance booking) and out to the Taj. Once we got through the assault of tourist catchers, worse there than in any other part of India, even off-season, we found out that it's now $17 each if you can't pass as an Indian (Rs. 10 -- 22 cents -- if you can), and cash only. So, back to the hotel in an eco-friendly electric taxi (Bill Gates needs to give India three million of those next -- they're fabulous) -- asking price Rs. 400, final price Rs. 150 -- to change money, then back and in.

We were so sick of people by this time that the word "madam" uttered in an Indian accent made us cringe, because it had always preceded a persistent request for $10 USD for a plastic Ganesh or some such. It took all the strength I had left to remember that, once you're past the several layers of tourist-catchers and the "take a picture to look like you're holding the Taj!" photo-men, and the shoe-cover men (who at least stay put), the only people at the Taj are tourists, many of whom see light-skinned foreigners as an additional tourist attraction and photo opportunity. [It's the same here in the south.] Taller females, especially ones in Indian clothes, are very popular for "may I have one picture with you please?" requests.

The Taj is, of course, breathtaking. Last time I saw it was better, though; this time the gardens were dry, the river behind it was empty, the sky was white with heat and dust, and it was oppressively hot. We caught a very few raindrops, which helped the heat a bit, but it simply makes you want to cry for that country that so desperately needs rain.

As we were leaving, we attracted a swarm of children selling things. One little boy, who can't have been over five, was hawking a plastic Ganesh. My mother handed him a pack of gum, at which point he gleefully vanished. And one stunningly beautiful pre-teen girl selling glass ball-point pens. I should have bought some; that is the one thing I really regret not doing. One other little boy, selling dirty popcorn, whose sandal got caught by the tire of our bicycle rickshaw and broken. He started to cry, and, really, who could blame him? Not all the children had shoes, by any stretch, and those flip-flops were clearly his only pair. He finally figured out how to fix it, we and all the children all carried the rickshaw up and down a flight of steps (now, that's an experience...), and we were at the hotel.

We spent the next day sick, from the exhausting Thursday, so no more sights in Agra. We saw the Agra Fort and the fascinating faerie-town of Fatehpur Sikri from the train, anyhow.

Agra is famous for two main things: The Taj Mahal, and crime.

On the train, and especially for the stations closest to Agra, everyone pulled out locks and chains for their bags and attached them to the wall. The guidebooks and Indian newspaper articles agree that Agra probably beats Delhi in the crime category. They say, don't trust a single person headed your way. And if even the Indians don't trust their fellows, how much less should foreigners trust them!

Apparently, they've had a scam in which the restaurant would put something in your food, you'd get sick, your rickshaw driver would take you to a doctor he knows, the doctor would keep you sick, and the hotel (and even the police) might be in on it too, all to get money from you and your insurance company! A news article in the daily Agra paper mentioned that a whopping six percent of corruption cases there end in a conviction; it's hard to fight crime when the courts and cops are corrupt as well.

India is sometimes a frightening country. There was an editorial in a Delhi paper on the plane the next day where a man talked about a recent business trip to America; he wrote that he was awed at how upfront and honest everyone was, how quickly things moved, how people trusted that there would be no corruption, etc. It's so odd to think that someone would be surprised by those things!

And all the enlightened academics in America [and, occasionally, among my fellow students here] insisting that there is no difference between America and India in terms of human rights, sexism, racism, poverty, censorship, or corruption -- or, if there is a difference, that America's worse! Then explain why our waiter in Agra, who had cousins in America, expressed his amazement at how good they have it there; even though he was head waiter of a nice hotel in India's biggest tourist spot, he dreamed of going to America and building a good future for his children. Indians in India (except for the communists, of course, and certain of the wealthy elites -- but I'm talking about the common people) love globalization; the great economist Jagdish Bhagwati just wrote a book in praise of it. It provides Indians with jobs and expands the market for Indian products. But the western liberals are such fools, they can't see the difference between court-ordered gang-rape and a girl dressed as a hooker getting catcalls when she walks past a construction site; between crossing the street to avoid a black man at night and lynching a low-caste person for taking water from the high-caste well (sure, it's illegal, but it happens); between a politician being corrupt and, when found out, made to resign or sent to jail, and one who is found out and praised for his political acumen; between Tamil Nadu's Chief Minister Jayalalitha throwing newspaper editors in jail and starting criminal cases against all journalists who criticize her, and a private individual refusing to buy the New York Times because he disagrees with Maureen Dowd. Eh, fools all.

We woke up bright and early and caught a 6am train to Delhi; next installment from there!

Disclaimer

Two points:
1) I am writing about my own experiences and observations during my stay here. I might change details like a person's name, but I am not fabricating experiences. Take issue with my views, fine; but don't say I'm making stuff up. (Well, say what you like, but you'll be wrong.)
2) Currently, the photos here are not mine, but are taken without reference or any other acknowledgement from Google Images. Yes, bad practice. But pictures are nice to have, and I've taken the same photos, and I hope to have some of my own up soon -- if not, we'll get a nice big mass-dump in a month and a half. Sorry to disappoint!

Now back to your regularly scheduled traveloguing.