"The Venice of the East" is kind of a sty. There are two fairly clean scenic canals in the middle of town and the rest is a cacophony of horns and diesel and dirty shops. The road to our guest house has been piled with heaps of dirt we have to haul our bags over which does not improve our mood. By 11 am it is too hot to be outside. This is winter? God save me from a Keralan summer.
We go looking for an internet cafe one morning, but our guidebook mixes up the street names and we head off in the wrong direction. After general confusion and grumpiness we find an internet cafe at last up a flight of dirty stairs. We are the only customers. "Yes, please sit," the lady says. But there is no internet connection. She pokes around. She makes a cellphone call. Half an hour later the whole family (we suppose that's who it is) of 5 or 6 is gathered around trying to figure out how to get online. Well, we are out of the sun and the fans are cool.
While walking down a back-alley we see a skinny tomcat prowling atop a wall. Then a crow swoops down and tries to pick him up by the spine. The cat howls, the bird lets go. Even the animals here obey different laws.
Friday, March 5, 2010
BUSES!
We leave Kollam (near Varkala) to Alleppey by bus, our first.
How to describe the madness of these trips? First let me list the types of vehicles: you have the big trucks, painted golds and reds, given names like LOAD KING, OM SHIVA, or such things. Then the buses, filled to the gills with passengers. Then normal sedan cars (quite rare). The microvans that I love, like toys. The tuk-tuk trucks that haul goods not people (I saw one loaded with crates of eggs, which seemed an excess of optimism). Tuk-tuks themselves. Motorcycles. Scooters. Cow-powered carts. Bicycles. Bicycles pulling carts. The odd horse. The three-wheeled wooden vehicles for the disabled powered oh-so-slowly by a hand crank. And of course people walking. So there you have the players in our game. In general the biggest machines hold court in the center of the road, with vehicles of decreasing size off to the side, though in the thick of things that all can change.
First rule: if the vehicle in front of you is moving slower than yourself you MUST TRY TO PASS IMMEDIATELY, you MUST veer out to the right in the CHANCE, however slim, that you can pass. Even if there are seven vehicles coming the other direction, you MUST swerve out, just to see what will happen.
As a result the two-lane road typically contains six vehicles across, all either passing or falling back from an unsuccessful pass. Say our bus charges up behind a microvan that is passing a scooter that is passing a cow. So it blares its horn and heads to the right. Well it is obvious to us that this is suicidal since the LOAD KING is occupying the center-right portion of the road (as it passes a tuk-tuk truck who is passing a man balancing twenty clay pots on his head). So now we have it: cow-scooter-van-bus all abreast charging head on at truck-tuk-tuk-man with pots. What's more: into the vacuum of space left behind by our buses attempt to pass has charged a two cars and another bus. Out the right side window I look down as see the wheels touch the end of the pavement--in the U.S. this would look perfectly natural but here it means we are about to die.
Rule number two: if you are about to be crushed by a larger vehicle you yield (veer, slow, speed up, whatever). This is where the great faith-based nature of the Indian traffic system comes into play. Because no one driver can save himself from crashing. He requires ten other vehicles to act appropriately. So back to our situation. Our bus is charging head-on towards the truck. Actually we are in his lane and he is half in ours. So they both lay on the horn, slow every-so-slightly, and crank the wheel back towards their proper lanes. And the red sea parts. The van brakes just enough, the two cars behind allow him a space. The scooter drives off the road into a dusty yard. The man with pots steps into a ditch. Only the cow doesn't change its course. They never do. And so the both buses have successfully moved one vehicle up. But there's no time for cheers. The bus behind us has noticed the new opportunity and has moved up alongside us. Two buses side-by-side. A hundred meters ahead the usual mass of motorcycles and cars.
An interesting thing. It is very rare to see any driver get upset, even if they are forced off the road. The only thing that deserves a dirty look is when someone doesn't obey one of the two rules. A scooter that is content to idle in the wake of a cow cart for a minute too long. A car that tries to hold its place despite a larger vehicle moving its way. Aggression is never responded to with aggression. The only things worth reproach are passivity and a lack of good survival instincts.
How to describe the madness of these trips? First let me list the types of vehicles: you have the big trucks, painted golds and reds, given names like LOAD KING, OM SHIVA, or such things. Then the buses, filled to the gills with passengers. Then normal sedan cars (quite rare). The microvans that I love, like toys. The tuk-tuk trucks that haul goods not people (I saw one loaded with crates of eggs, which seemed an excess of optimism). Tuk-tuks themselves. Motorcycles. Scooters. Cow-powered carts. Bicycles. Bicycles pulling carts. The odd horse. The three-wheeled wooden vehicles for the disabled powered oh-so-slowly by a hand crank. And of course people walking. So there you have the players in our game. In general the biggest machines hold court in the center of the road, with vehicles of decreasing size off to the side, though in the thick of things that all can change.
First rule: if the vehicle in front of you is moving slower than yourself you MUST TRY TO PASS IMMEDIATELY, you MUST veer out to the right in the CHANCE, however slim, that you can pass. Even if there are seven vehicles coming the other direction, you MUST swerve out, just to see what will happen.
As a result the two-lane road typically contains six vehicles across, all either passing or falling back from an unsuccessful pass. Say our bus charges up behind a microvan that is passing a scooter that is passing a cow. So it blares its horn and heads to the right. Well it is obvious to us that this is suicidal since the LOAD KING is occupying the center-right portion of the road (as it passes a tuk-tuk truck who is passing a man balancing twenty clay pots on his head). So now we have it: cow-scooter-van-bus all abreast charging head on at truck-tuk-tuk-man with pots. What's more: into the vacuum of space left behind by our buses attempt to pass has charged a two cars and another bus. Out the right side window I look down as see the wheels touch the end of the pavement--in the U.S. this would look perfectly natural but here it means we are about to die.
Rule number two: if you are about to be crushed by a larger vehicle you yield (veer, slow, speed up, whatever). This is where the great faith-based nature of the Indian traffic system comes into play. Because no one driver can save himself from crashing. He requires ten other vehicles to act appropriately. So back to our situation. Our bus is charging head-on towards the truck. Actually we are in his lane and he is half in ours. So they both lay on the horn, slow every-so-slightly, and crank the wheel back towards their proper lanes. And the red sea parts. The van brakes just enough, the two cars behind allow him a space. The scooter drives off the road into a dusty yard. The man with pots steps into a ditch. Only the cow doesn't change its course. They never do. And so the both buses have successfully moved one vehicle up. But there's no time for cheers. The bus behind us has noticed the new opportunity and has moved up alongside us. Two buses side-by-side. A hundred meters ahead the usual mass of motorcycles and cars.
An interesting thing. It is very rare to see any driver get upset, even if they are forced off the road. The only thing that deserves a dirty look is when someone doesn't obey one of the two rules. A scooter that is content to idle in the wake of a cow cart for a minute too long. A car that tries to hold its place despite a larger vehicle moving its way. Aggression is never responded to with aggression. The only things worth reproach are passivity and a lack of good survival instincts.
VARKALA
A gorgeous strip of beach below red rock cliffs. It's for tourists only pretty much, which doesn't ruin the view exactly. If you walk long enough alongside the cliff, you reach another less spectacular beach, where fishermen squat in the sand near their wood and thatch huts. We stay one night.
HAPPY CHILDREN
This is a vast generalization (and dozens of exceptions leap to my mind), but it seems to me that here in India the children are so intensely happy, both the packs of uniformed school kids, and the poor kids washing themselves in buckets or playing with puppies in the street. And then there are many fun-loving groups of young men (not as many women) holding hands, riding three to a scooter, taking pictures of each other. They shake your hand, they ask you questions, they strut around in their embroidered jeans. Even at work the young men seem to be having a lot of fun. But then once they hit middle-age, the Indian men (not all, obviously, but a noticeable bunch) seem so gruff and rude. They push people out of their way, they will not step aside, they scowl beneath their mustaches. While little girls wave and smile, old women glare and give us what B calls "the stink eye."
I wonder what this change from gleeful children to glowering adults is all about. "Isn't that how it works everywhere?" B asks. I suppose it does. But here it seems more pronounced. I wonder if it is a generational thing--the young have more opportunities now or are more welcoming of Westerners? Or perhaps the responsibilities of the adults in India are somewhat spirit-crushing. So many relatives to feed, so hard to earn so few rupees. Or perhaps it is cultural--you have fun when you are young, then you became a man, a husband, a woman, a wife, and there is no more time for fun.
B comments later, "Of course the kids are happy here. You can run wherever you like. No one tells you to stop or be careful. The whole city is your playground. You don't have to wash for days. You have lots of siblings and friends and you parents aren't around. It doesn't seem like kids are in school much. You fly a kite, you chase a cow. What's not to like?"
I wonder what this change from gleeful children to glowering adults is all about. "Isn't that how it works everywhere?" B asks. I suppose it does. But here it seems more pronounced. I wonder if it is a generational thing--the young have more opportunities now or are more welcoming of Westerners? Or perhaps the responsibilities of the adults in India are somewhat spirit-crushing. So many relatives to feed, so hard to earn so few rupees. Or perhaps it is cultural--you have fun when you are young, then you became a man, a husband, a woman, a wife, and there is no more time for fun.
B comments later, "Of course the kids are happy here. You can run wherever you like. No one tells you to stop or be careful. The whole city is your playground. You don't have to wash for days. You have lots of siblings and friends and you parents aren't around. It doesn't seem like kids are in school much. You fly a kite, you chase a cow. What's not to like?"
BIRTHDAY
For my birthday we go to Trivandrum's zoo which is well known. First I must confess, that considering how unpleasant I've made Trivandrum sound, that surrounding the zoo is a large beautiful park, green and filled with gazebos and packs of children and young men and women.
The zoo is still closed so we sit down on a bench and are swarmed by one group of people after another, all wanting photographs. "Hello! Hello! Where are you from?" When they sit next to you they hold your hand. After an hour of this we make our escape.
The zoo is a zoo. Though he is very sad, I adore an old vulture sitting in a too-small cage. He is as tall and large as a trash can and has a white mane like a lion. There is a giant squirrel with a golden tail running back and forth back and forth on his wire. We stare at the leopard cage for minutes until slowly, suddenly they appear right before our eyes, in the crook of a branch, on top of a rock.
For dinner we go to a pizza chain. "The perfect place for a birthday bash!" Okay then. I get a cone-izza, which is a pizza wrapped up like an ice-cream cone and filled with cheese and hot Indian spices.
The zoo is still closed so we sit down on a bench and are swarmed by one group of people after another, all wanting photographs. "Hello! Hello! Where are you from?" When they sit next to you they hold your hand. After an hour of this we make our escape.
The zoo is a zoo. Though he is very sad, I adore an old vulture sitting in a too-small cage. He is as tall and large as a trash can and has a white mane like a lion. There is a giant squirrel with a golden tail running back and forth back and forth on his wire. We stare at the leopard cage for minutes until slowly, suddenly they appear right before our eyes, in the crook of a branch, on top of a rock.
For dinner we go to a pizza chain. "The perfect place for a birthday bash!" Okay then. I get a cone-izza, which is a pizza wrapped up like an ice-cream cone and filled with cheese and hot Indian spices.
STITCHING
So much of the wonder of India is discovering the odd ways in which things work. We are in an awful mood, sweaty, dirty, lost. A dozen tuk-tuks honk at us asking to drive us when we want to walk. When we need a a ride there are none to be found. Anyhow, we decide to send our Hampi tapestries and some postcards back to the U.S. so after finally finding the central post office (of the capital city of Kerala, mind you) we ask how we can wrap our package. "Stitching! Stitching!" the man shouts making the usual vague wave out into the street.
Finally we head out and wander down an alley. After a few zigs and zags we see a shop the size of a closet with a hand-painted sign says "stitching." Inside a half-naked man sleeps on a wooden plank. We wake him up. He takes our tapestries, wheels out an old foot-pedaled sewing machine, and begins to sew us two perfect little pillowcases. "Please, sit," he says, and we sit on the wooden plank. It's cool inside. We have no choice but to wait and watch. For the first time all day we feel relaxed. When he is done he seals the hem with melted red wax.
Finally we head out and wander down an alley. After a few zigs and zags we see a shop the size of a closet with a hand-painted sign says "stitching." Inside a half-naked man sleeps on a wooden plank. We wake him up. He takes our tapestries, wheels out an old foot-pedaled sewing machine, and begins to sew us two perfect little pillowcases. "Please, sit," he says, and we sit on the wooden plank. It's cool inside. We have no choice but to wait and watch. For the first time all day we feel relaxed. When he is done he seals the hem with melted red wax.
ECONOMICS & THE ENVIRONMENT
It is to notice the ways that India is eco-friendly and the ways that it is eco-evil. Basically, it's all based on rupees. Since electricity costs money, every power outlet has its own on/off switch so you can turn off every appliance completely AND similarly an entire room/house will have an on/off switch so you can make sure there is no excess electricity being used. On a similar principle, anything that can be recycled will be recycled. Of course, since it costs you nothing to throw some trash into the park, go right ahead, and I'm sure no one would ever consider using a cleaner engine if it cost a rupee more. So it just goes to show, I suppose, that IF you can link the capitalist system (in poor countries) to good deeds, people will do the right thing. But if you fail to, you can turn your whole gorgeous country into a trash heap.
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