Last Night

Last night your faded memory came to me
As in the wilderness spring comes quietly,
As, slowly, in the desert, moves the breeze,
As, to a sick man, without cause, comes peace.

Vikram Seth
Tranlation from Urdu of Faiz Ahmed Faiz

Goa (hotel and countryside)

We stayed at the Park Hyatt in Goa. It's a comparable to a caribbean-type all-inclusive resort with way better service. The best move for finishing our trip to India. Tomorrow we head to Mumbai, do a little sight seeing and then back to the airport for a flight to London and then Toronto.
Me in the pool...had to take a dip every 20 - 30 minutes cause it was soooo hot.

On the beach on our first evening in Goa.




View from the beach looking back at the main building.

Anwar heading down the path from our room to the pool area.



Worker cutting grass...he seemed too old to have to work in 38 celcius weather with humidity about as high as you can imagine.

Mumbai to Goa

September 27, 2009
Arrived today in Goa at the Park Hyatt which is right on the beach and a good place to rest up before leaving for Toronto on Tuesday (September 29th).

Yesterday we moved out of the Ramada in the north end of the city to the Taj hotel in central Mumbai. The hotel was a welcome relief from the Ramada which involved one service nightmare after another: On arrival the people (4 of them) were inattentive and each one seemed to be waiting for the next guy to process us; when we got to the room it smelled smoky; several phone calls later, we were led down the hallway on a different floor to another room (both smelled like they had just been sprayed with sickly-sweet air freshener); our internet connection was to be connected after check-in, we never received a call from the front desk for our password; we called several times over 20 minutes and tried several times over this time with no luck with the internet; the A/C was blowing air but was only barely working; on our first morning, we got a knock at the door at 7:30 a.m. from a staff member asking us if we were ready to check out? – our check out date was two days away.

Also yesterday, we toured the Dharavi slum – the largest slum in Asia with a population of a million people. The tour guide met us on the border of the slum and gave us a great education, was personable and is a resident of Dharavi. We also met some potters who were Gujurathi speakers and it was nice to speak to them in their language and make a better connection. I took a few pictures of our new found friends. We were not allowed to take pictures within the slum throughout the tour to respect people’s privacy and to not turn the whole thing into a circus.

Pictures of Goa to follow shortly.

Kerala to Mumbai

September 24, 2009

Spend the morning relaxing after breakfast by having an ayurvedic massage (60 mins for a mere $25 Cdn). It was a great experience and I was forced by my own volition to tip generously. I tipped my friend (how could he not be my friend after he relieved me of not just my shirt and shorts and socks but also my underwear; He then tied a tiny cotton string around my waist and tucked a 3-inch wide piece of muslin cloth under the string at my belly button and pulled the other end between my legs and up the other side to be tucked at my lower back) a generous Rs 500. A 33% tip -- for it was well worth it!

Meanwhile, Sumo, my travelling companion, went out to complete another round of shopping in the, where else, shopping district. He came back with shiny metal ornaments for the wife and daughter. Inara, are you listening?

Now, as I write this, we are on a flight to Mumbai where we will be for three days. Our plan, so far, consists of taking a tour of the largest slum in Asia. That’s really saying something, because Asia consists of, at a guess, close to 3 billion people. China accounts for 1 billion, India for the second billion and the rest (especially Malaysia) must make up another billion.

I am reading the penguin edition of the collected poems of Vikram Seth. Strangely enough, the book is entitled, “The Collected Poems!” One of the poems in the book made me think of the slum tour:

A Morning Walk

...

To wander through the streets of Calcutta is

To force the whole world’s misery on the heart –

Children on broken stumps, staring with eyes

White and opaque, begging with hardened art.

Far from those eyes, blind in my stead, I wander

Among these affluent trees, and stop and ponder

How fine it is to share the world and not

Its need when there are those who weep for food.

Their children’s limbs will atrophy, brains rot

Swollen for lack of it, while ‘all things good’,

Food, shelter, health, are mine; interests; love;

The time to walk through avocado groves.

...

Nice.

In some ways I feel I should not be taking the tour as the t-shirt I am wearing cost me about $35, shoes were around $60, Shorts – at least $35 and socks, well, we’ll leave it at $3. That’s Rs 1575.00! The average mean annual income in India is $735 (US). While the numbe of people living under the poverty line is 42%...that's less than $1.25 (US) per day.

Photos of the Hotel and Departure from Orissa

The view into the central courtyard at our hotel in Bhubaneswar, Orissa.

Hotel lobby in Bhubaneswar.

Detail of wood carving in hotel lobby.

The lobby of the hotel in Bhubaneswar.

Statue outside the hotel restaurant.

Anwar at the airport. Yep, I'm a tourist taking pictures at the airport.

A part of the airport under construction.

Orissa to Kerala in Two Easy Steps

We were in Bhubaneswar (located near the east coast of India, close to the megalopolis of Kolkata formerly known as Calcutta) for only two days. Bhubaneswar is a medium sized city and is very different compared to the hurried, impolite bustle of Delhi. Anwar was here to meet with his business partners and so his meeting chewed up a lot of time. Nevertheless, we both managed to see different things in different ways.

Anwar went with his business partners to view some temples and caves in the area and I begged off, went to the hotel, rested and took a auto-rickshaw or tuc-tuc to find an art gallery set up by several colleges of art in the area. This was my first time ever in a tuc-tuc and so, just the ride to the gallery was a new and great to experience. The gallery was located in a converted house but was nevertheless very nice. I liked a piece showing two women wearing plain but colourful sarees. Unfortunately, the price 15000.00 Rupees (Rs) was a little too steep and the artist, when we finally found him on his cell, was unwilling to bargain. I left empty handed and hired another tuc-tuc to head back to the hotel. The cost for a 20 minute ride of something like 8 kilometres was Rs 70. I gave the driver Rs 100. One hundred Rupees amounts to $2.50 at current rates. I've paid more for rides at the CNE -- and they don't even take you anywhere!

I was absolutely tired, exhausted, tapped out, so, I went to the infinity pool and loitered. The water temperature was deliciously warm. After stepping out of the pool it took only ten minutes to get dry with the help of the all pervading heat. The hotel, Bhubaneswar Trident, was wonderful for the atmosphere and hospitality of all the staff.

This morning, Tuesday, September 22, 2009, we took a flight from Bhubaneswar to Delhi, then, from Delhi to the state capital of Kerala, the city of Kochi (Cochin). The changeover of the names of cities (Kolkata (was Calcutta), Mumbai (was Bombay), Kochi (was Cochin) is a part of a process which started with the Independence movement led by Mahatma Gandhi and is still spinning out.

The Independence movement, and this latest sign of seeking distance from the bad old days of the British Raj, are seen to be positive assertions of statehood; The British gave much to India that helps to make it the modern and cohesive state that it is today: English is chief amongst this list -- it is the lingua franca of the nation and the language spoken by the elites (politicians, scientists, literati, bureaucrats and the armed forces). It allows for the obvious exchange of ideas between otherwise disparate peoples and (by not having any association with any region or group) rises above the sectarianism which is still very present in India today; The railroad system which criss-crosses the nation helps to bind it together and is also a bequest of the British; And lastly, the system of national governance, that is, a democratically elected parliamentary system is also an influence left over from the days of the Raj.

But I digress.

Arrived in the south western state of Kerala today. Weather is hot, humid and hovers, even at midnight, around 30 celcius. The city, Cochin, is essentially built in a mangrove which must stretch the entire ten kilometres from the nearby coast of the Arabian Sea.

Travel advisor directed us to go to a little hole in the wall known as, Dal Roti (Desi Khanna). The owner, Ramesh, was present as the maitre d' and is a gregarious man filled with cheerful energy. The food was excellent!

The cab ride from the hotel cost us Rs 1200 (return) with a wait period for the taxi of 4 hours. Which brings me to this: Everyone here is on the take. Here's how things play out: we start with my wallet. The concierge orders us a cab, the cabbie will pay a certain amount to the concierge for the fare. On the way to the destination, the cab driver asks us to pay for the bridge tolls. As we are about to leave the restaurant, the cabbie says, 'I would like to eat also.' In other words, 'feed me!' So you hand over a few rupees towards the cab driver's dinner. Later, if you decide to go for a short walk, as we did, the cabbie may direct you to a handicraft emporium and on your way to the emporium as you are only 20 metres from the entrance, an auto-rickshaw driver says, jump into my rickshaw...if I drive you to the front door, I will get 100 rupees. Meanwhile, the cabbie is yakking about losing his 100 rupees from the emporium and on and on it goes. The guy in the emporium will try and sell you a 'real kashmiri silik' (sic) rug for 1000's of rupees more than it's worth, plus taxes, and shipping costs of only $150.00.

Tomorrow, I will relax at the hotel and maybe visit a gallery/cafe suggested by the owner or Dal Roti.

Incidents in Delhi

Hawkers

You absolutely must watch a short video of Anwar and myself, stuck in our cab without driver or air conditioning, being assailed by a couple of hawkers. Normally, I would simply not make eye contact and politely say no in Hindi or English depending on the weather in my head. But these two relentless fuckers (sorry, but they were annoying) would not take no for an answer. They stood outside our windows, calling out like emergency beacons, Swiss watches in their regularity, Chatty Cathys in their range of vocabulary, spinning tops with the miracle of perpetual motion built-in. And, when all else failed, these gentlemen took to scraping their wares against the windows, just in case, you understand -- just in case.

Loverboy

Our maid at the Sheraton was a man. Tall, slim, with hair oiled and shiny, swept back from his forehead. Oh yes, and he was friendly. With only a few words of English, he used his melodious, mellifluous voice to his advantage. Normally, this would be a signal that the maid was giving good service and, in return, hoping for a good tip. Nothing wrong with that. No. Nothing

The man-maid, however, took a certain liking, a shine, a fondness for, developed a crush, it would seem for my roommate. Yes, Anwar found hisself an admirer at the Sheraton in Delhi. Lucky Bastard! To get on with the story: Anwar happened to be in the hallway, by himself, on his way to the lobby of the hotel. The man-maid somehow got to chatting with Anwar and Anwar, being a schmoozer by nature, got to talking with the man-maid. Pretty soon, or so the story goes, man-maid and Anwar were shaking hands. A handshake which the man-maid refused to end. And so, Anwar, being a sharp sort, figured that there was more than just a good cleaning of our room on offer.

Now, before you go flying off and call me a homophobe, please keep in mind that like most people -- like you -- I too, am filled with prejudice. When confronted by a nameless face or an anonymous grouping, I use, as a shorthand, certain stereotypes, prejudices, to make sense of the world around me.

Okay, let's return to the tale at hand. Anwar finally extricates himself from the man-maid's handshake, comes down to the lobby a little breathless to announce that (expletive deleted for Anara's sake) likes him. I, naturally, am happy for Anwar and, must admit, a little jealous. My theory: Any attention is good attention. So, we laugh and get on with our day. Visit the Taj Mahal....which, as you may already know, is a monument of love built my a man who started his life as a maid at a five star hotel and grew up to be the Emperor of all of India. Also, Coincidentally, the lady for whom the Taj was built was named Mumtaz (which by another coincidence was also the name of the man-maid of present day India and now crushing like a school girl over Anwar).

We returned to the hotel at the late hour of 9 p.m. to find three pieces of cake -- one for me, nice; one for Anwar, nice; and one for someone else. Also, some Indian cookies sat on Anwar's side of the room, lovingly topped with a glass cover to keep anything from tainting the food. Anwar refused to touch the cake out of fear that the cake might be laced with strange and wonderful ingredients.

Love springs eternal in the busiest city I have yet to see. Sometimes it is reciprocated and sometimes it goes unrequited. Still, 'the heart wants what the heart wants.' Or something like that. Unfortunately, the man-maid was barking up the wrong tree. We decided to take a picture with our man-maid but did not find him before checking out early this morning. It would have been a perfect end to this little episode. Unfortunately, I cannot write life, I can only report on it.

Taj Mahal...Day 3

Went on a four hour drive to the Taj Mahal in Agra. Spent two hot, sunny, humid hours at the Taj taking pictures and finding ways to keep cool. Got some great pics and went to some pretty expensive art shops. Many of the street scene pictures were taking right out of the car whose driver, Peter, was relentless in his pursuit of speed and aggression.

Me and Anwar at the Taj Mahal

Every other person seemed to have some piece of cloth covering their head from the fierce sunlight. Oh, to have hair!

Anwar composing a shot of the Taj from afar.

The obligatory shot of the Taj.

Most of the people riding bikes were helmeted men. In Agra, we saw quite a few younger women running about in scooters and motor cycles. The scarf is for protection from pests (like men and insects) and the dust and fumes in the air.

A building still under construction in the style of the Taj. Not bad for a shot taken from a car moving at 50 kph.

This little girl was dancing for tourists at a highway stop while her father played an instrument and sang. I couldn't resist taking a picture or giving her a little gift. Intense little thing and a pretty snazzy dancer too!

A couple of old guys (Sadhus? Holy men?) taking it easy in the back of a pick up...but you can see that can't you?

Just a street scene: I am fascinated by the volume and speed of activity: People, vehicles, cows, donkeys, camels, the vivid colour of saris -- like a pot of water on the boil or a dervish-like spinning of atoms, water falling a hundred metres to through up a mist, the final act of consummation.

Shopping Delhi...Day 2

Went out with Tracey O's sister, Debbie, today. She came with car and driver in tow and led us on whirlwind tour of a couple of the shopping areas in town. Debbie was tireless in her pursuit of the "deal" and I managed to complete a large part of my gift buying.

Fell in love with a few kids who happened to be hawking various things. The kids were full of energy, hustle, inventiveness, charm and savvy. They make eye contact and don't back away from challenges. And so darn cute!

India Gate from afar.

Sardar-ji: Tuc-Tuc driver who very kindly posed for me and not once did he reach out for a tip. Which, incidentally, I did not give him because it felt like I would be insulting him by doing so. He was gracious and a hand shake and a thank were gladly received by him. The only person on this day who was not looking, thinking, talking, insinuating or signalling that I give him some money, please, sir.

Mother and daughter in shopping district.

Street scene at shopping district.
Heaven defined: In Delhi, McDonald's delivers!


Debbie, me and Anwar at a cafe after a hot and long day of shopping.

New Delhi Sheraton

The view from our window.

Toronto - Zurich - Delhi

We left Toronto with an upgrade from economy to first class thanks to my friend , and travelling companion, Anwar's previous days of flying. First class allows one to lie virtually flat with a blanket on top to take the chill off the over conditioned air; A TV suspended over your knees; attendants who are less flight hostesses and more nurses hovering over you at carefully selected intervals.

Across the aisle from me is a woman, dark (I'm assuming genetically derived since she seemed otherwise at ease and rested) shadowy circles beneath her eyes, reading The Koran and eyeing me and Anwar occasionally, but never smiling or making eye contact for too long.

We landed in Zurich and headed for a lounge dedicated to the business traveller. Hand over our boarding passes and munch on whatever foods happen to be on hand. Our lady of the dark circles turns out to be a businesswoman and a mother of Pakistani birth. We begin to chat with her and find that her family owns a business of making and then exporting and distributing clothing in North America. She has kids, is, it turns out, Ismaili (same as Anwar) and has a sense of humour.

But never mind her. I have a craving for a cigarette which needs to be assuaged. A hunger which is now more than 8 hours old. I leave the business lounge and eventually find a glassed off room on a lower level of the Zurich airport. The room is 20 feet square and you can smell it's inhabitants long before you open it's one door. Inside the cube, smoke lingers -- thick, floating languidly around the heads of some 10-12 people who are inside. And, as I have a better, second thought, I imagine the smoke clinging to their hair, infusing their clothes, marking them as addicts to their neighbours in the next leg of their journey.

I let the door shut in front of me and head back the way I came. I learn that in order to have a cigarette in Zurich, I will have to pass through security the wrong way, take a short train ride to another terminal and then go through customs (which for a Canadian passport holder is no big deal) and then find a door out into the fresh air. Wow! Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Fortunately, there are two other lounges that only one person so far has thought to alert me to. A lengthy room with high ceilings, good ventilation, a view of the tarmac and no smokers in sight. In other words, the closest thing to fresh air smoking.

I reach into my pocket, cigarette already in hand and find I have no lighter! With no one around at all except people lined up to go through security and out to the terminal, I contemplate my dilemma. The smoking lounge is far enough away that I couldn't ask anyone in line for their lighter, walk to the lounge to smoke and return their lighter before they clear security. I ask a security guard if he has a light? No. None of his co-workers smokes either. So I stand around outside the rectangular smoke room waiting for some other addict to drift by. Eventually, two cops, both non-smokers, saunter by and the older more senior of the pair produces an old lighter that just barely produces a flame and I proceed to fill my lungs with smoke. The cigarette is not nearly as satisfying as I had expected.

We eventually get on the flight to Delhi and spend an interminably long time sitting in business class watching the image of a pixelated plane make its painful way slowly across the backdrop of the Earth.

We land in Delhi at 11:55 p.m. local time (it's mid-morning in Toronto already), and proceed to collect our luggage. And then it happens, the first wave of culture shock: It strikes me as weird that every single person I see is Indian! Here Indian, there Indian, Indians everywhere! We fail to find our driver from the hotel and opt to take a local taxi to, what we think of as, the world famous Sheraton brand hotel.

Our driver speaks no English (why should he?), owns a beat up old taxi of the kind I've seen in Indian movies hundreds of times and has no clue what hotel we are going to or even which area we want him to go to. What's a Sheraton anyways? As the little cab races headlong into fumes and dust, over potholed dirt streets, I turn to Anwar and tell him to prepare to be gang-raped at the hands of a bunch of cab drivers who have a meeting point specially designated for hapless travellers arriving in the middle of the night in a strange city. I designate this imaginary, not unlike blueberry hill or lookout point, as rape point. Anwar runs his fancy new camera and, we find later at the hotel, takes some great video images of the lightless streets leading into the city center.

There is no place in Toronto which compares to what little we've seen of Delhi. If you have ever seen a homeless man, living under a bridge, in a makeshift home, complete with a skinny dog, fumes and dust mixing in the air, smells of cow shit and piss all around, than you have a good sense of what the streets that led us eventually to our 5-star hotel were like.

In lieu of actual pictures of the city, I am enclosing pics of the wholly satisfactory room of our hotel.

Today, we meet with my friend's sister to hand over her sister's care package from Canada and to have her show us the city.

Trip to India

I will be leaving for a two week holiday to India this Thursday.

Will have my digital camera and my laptop with me and, if you're so inclined, you can read/see about my travels on my blog. I'm guessing my first post will be from the airport where I will, no doubt, be sitting around twiddling my thumbs.

I am going with a friend (Anwar) and we will be in Delhi then Bhubaneswar (capital of Orissa state) on the east coast of india; then to Conchin, Kerala; then Mumbai; then Goa and finally back to Mumbai for the flight home.

Click on the map of India and it will show much larger. To get back to this blog post, just hit your back button.

Josie (conclusion)

December 8

As it turned out, you called me yesterday afternoon and left a message on my machine. Where would I be without this machine? You had taken the day off and asked that I call you back to talk or maybe come over for a visit. At 2 p.m. I called you and we talked and you did not invite me over. We hung up and then I called you back to say, "What are you doing for the rest of the day?"

"Nothing," you say. I wait. It's quiet, you don't venture to invite me. I hang by a thread. Then, "If you want to come over, that's fine. If you don't, that's okay too, 'cause I'm doing my own thing for another hour or two."

We hang up. I am angry and frustrated and I will myself to take a nap.

Evening

Against my own best advice, such as it is, I decide to call you at 5:30 p.m. I let you know I'm angry with you. I tell you, "I'm going downtown."

You say, "Hey, I can come with you."

What? I say, "Alright."

Five minutes later you call to say you can't come because your colleagues from work may see you shopping on a day when you have called in sick. I'm not surprised. I say, "You're killing me, you know?"

Even before you said anything on the phone, I knew you had called to cancel. With me, it's your way: One step forward, two steps back.

I go downtown to the Eaton's Centre and on my way back I'm captured by this brilliant idea: I am going to get a milkshake for myself; you like milkshakes; wouldn't it be great if I surprised you by bringing you a milkshake too?

I do this, I come over, spend a half hour at your place and then get up to go. You don't resist. My welcome is thirty minutes thin. You don't get up to see me off because, I imagine, you think, I might try to kiss you or something.

I say, "Don't get up, I'll see myself out."

You laugh. I'm halfway down the hall when you stick your head out your door to say, "Drive carefully."

I'm lost in my thoughts, you catch me off guard and all I can manage is a sad nod of my head. On my way home I tumble in anger and turmoil, adolescent angst and adult sorrow. I hurt all the way home.

December 9

Today, I have not called you and you have not called me. Now the scales must be balanced.

I went to a Chinese restaurant with a friend. Got the obligatory fortune cookie. The fortune read: "An admirer is concealing affection for you." I bought a dozen other cookies trying to uncover your identity.


December 15 Morning

Not talking to you is not as bad as I thought it would be. And if it's this easy for me, it must be a breeze for you. Now, if only I could stop these technicolour, neck tightening dreams!

11:22 p.m.

You have not called. I must face those dreams again tonight.

Josie (16)

December 6 (12:20 a.m.)

I've debated all day on whether I should call you or not. Part of me is saying, don't call, save yourself from more pain. In the end, I succumb to baser instincts and call. I will call you now and simply won't call you as often or as quickly the next time. (Yeah, right!).

We talked for an hour and you took a somewhat cavalier attitude in dealing with the topic of when to call and how often and on and on. Otherwise, our conversation ranges from politics, to poetry, to your family, to your trip to Trinidad, to my job hunt, to stuff. In the end, we got off the phone somewhat abruptly with nothing spoken of the future.

I lie on my bed for a few seconds and feel sorry for myself, then I get up to use the washroom. The phone rings. I race out thinking it may be Lisa calling from Montreal. It not Lisa; it's you! What the...?

You say you just felt like calling back, but you don't have anything profound to say except that I'm a "helluva nice guy." I'm quiet. The line is silent. You add, "Just take it as that...don't read into it."

"Okay."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Click.

So I'll paint a scene from memory, so I'd know who murdered me
It's a vain pursuit but it helps me sleep

The Tragically Hip

December 7 (11 a.m.)

The time when we would normally get in touch with each other has passed. In the meantime, my search for a job has opened up; whereas before I had a contact, I now have a potential job. A completely charitable and unforeseen turn of events. And now, I'm excited and then sad because my first impulse is to call you and tell you the good news. But I can't -- shouldn't do this. I should be happy to tell it to myself. Happy -- by myself, without the excuse of anything to talk to you about. No excuses. No call made.