Passing Strange

VII- Mt. Abu

Wasn’t it strange to sleep in a mango-tree fort in an Indian jungle with three other adults last night? Not really. It is difficult to find things strange when you are asleep. And I slept quite soundly- despite the fact that the four of us were shoulder to shoulder like sardines- sardines of the future with shoulders. In a mango-tree sardine box. Can. And despite the fact that we were a good, dark walk from any village, out in the jungle with its leaf-rustling and cricket-chirping and foreign wild animal calls. And despite the fact that I eradicated seven members of an unfamiliar species of treebug-cum-cockroach from our wooden sleeping quarters five minutes before turning out the flashlight. And despite the fact that two layers of mattresses, two layers of blanket and two specimens of human were stacked snugly above the trapdoor, (the only way in or out of the mango-tree fort), and that one of those human specimens had suffered from repeated stomach sickness over the course of the entire ten-kilometre hike through the hills to our mango tree. Despite all these things, it was not strange to sleep in a mango-tree fort with three other adults for the simple reasons that I was warm, cosy and most importantly- asleep.

However, it was a little strange, passing strange, to share a chillum of mountain-grown marijuana with a deep-voiced, deep-stoned swami with 5-foot dreadlocks in a cellar lit only by a single candle and full of silent, friendly, non-English-speaking turbaned men in a remote Indian mountain village at sundown. It was strange to be mountain-high, and watch the swami mumble things in broken English to Katya about Atman, while she nodded and sympathized, saying that she’d suffered asthma herself. It was strange to sit on the concrete floor with the turbaned men, drinking a mixture of water and cheap rum while all eyes were glued to the melodramatically melodramatic Indian soap operas on the small TV controlled by the small children. It was then also strange to eat daal and chapati made by a woman who was silently hugging her knees beside the corner floor stove, shrouded in an orange veil from face to toe, and moving only when her husband requested more chapati. Passing strange. And then we carried off bedding and firewood down the path into the dark forest night, enjoying a brief fire before climbing into the mango-tree sardine can and sleeping with the fishes.

Eh, Bhagwan

VI- Khuri

Now Bhagwan is our Indian Tevye, and he holds court at his "Mama’s Guesthouse". A circle of mud and cow-dung huts in the tiny desert village of Khuri where we stayed last night. This is a man who presides. A man of the people. Just big enough to be called jolly, he laughs a 1000-watt laugh and strokes his moustache between pontifications- a long, black, drooping moustache that stands out from the well-cropped stubble beard. He presides in his lungi, his Rajasthani slippers and worn-in bomber jacket. He reminds us again and again that it is the guests that are important to him; not the money.
We’ve returned from the desert dirty and tired. Bhagwan has a group of Indo-Americans staying in the circle of huts, so he offers us his son’s room in his house, which we’re happy to take. Tonight, Bhagwan has arranged for a group of musicians and dancers to perform for his guests. We are seated in a circle, huddled in blankets, outdoors around a blazing pit-fire. The air is clean and cold. Twelve musicians kneel on the ground beneath the light of a bare bulb which hangs proud and lonely from a wire strung across the courtyard. In the firelight, Bhagwan presides- gruff voice and a belly laugh, already a quarter into the whiskey mickey hidden in the bomber. His hand gestures work hard to upstage his blazing eyes and guffaws as he lavishly introduces the evening’s entertainment he has brought to us, and finally he allows them to begin playing. He takes his throne off to the side, stroking his moustache and listening intently. Beneath the bare bulb, an orange-turbaned singer gesticulates heavenward and occasionally, when he is moved, rises himself off his knees as he grapples for high yelps and moans, singing from the gut. Harmoniums drone underneath his voice, and he rises again, glancing sidelong every so often to see if Bhagwan approves. Indian castanets clack-clack and double-headed drums call and answer; two turbaned boys join the fray an octave above, trying to follow along with the men’s laments, choirboy high but not quite there. And soon almost everyone is wailing almost together, but loose enough that it sounds like the whole thing might fall apart. Bhagwan suddenly rises and stands over the group as they play, lowering his hammy hand to indicate a drop in volume, then raising it to bring it up again. He presides. Food arrives on steel plates. The courtyard suddenly JUMPS into light as a waiter pours gasoline on the pit-fire. Then bejeweled and glamorous village girls rise from the group and begin to move their hands and hips not-quite-in-time to the madness of the music. Bhagwan, half a mickey in, sachets over to give them helpful hints. The fire is bright and the wailings louder in the king’s courtyard.
Later, Bhagwan joins us at our table. Whiskey’s gone; Bhagwan, almost. Moustache stroking and broken English falling into smaller and smaller pieces which we can barely pick up any more. But then he suddenly ROARS with laughter, and keeps roaring, so I’m laughing too, slapping my knee, we’re roaring together at God knows what, until he stops it all with a wave of his hand. He leans in, conspiring. Whiskey breath. He tells me there are two things in this world, only two things, and they are very clear- VERY CLEAHH- two things. Money. And religion. The only two things in this world. And Bhagwan, Bhagwan has neither!! ROARING again. And then he is abruptly off to preside somewhere else around the fire. Our tongues are burning from the food, and we’re all wailed out. We leave the king’s court and find our warm bed- warmer than the dunes at night anyway.

Deserting

V- Khuri

Sunrise in the sand dunes, camel-bell wandering tunes and campfire chai, we slept under the sky, a speckling of freckles from light years away. It’s the human way to start the day, when the sun rises high and the bag gets too hot to lie in any more. I don’t remember much about last night- eating daal fry and chapatti with my fingers in the firelight, drawing country flags in the sand with a stick which graduated to explicit sexual scenes which, in turn, collapsed into laughter. Dozing off bundled in under the planetarium sky; me a sleeping snow-globe dweller under a blizzard of stars, shook up every time I opened my eyes. A new blizzard every time. The sand was hard and I awoke often to give one side of my bones a break, and I would gaze, half-sleeping, at that rain of stars above me, that desert of open space so outmatching my meager dunes. And I slept soundly. Light snores. Insignificant reverberations.

Walkin Rupee

Tourist town, temporary hippies, I’m a walking rupee, a running crore, there’s a pattern here, it goes- temple, store, temple, store, (give a little bit more). Laid back enough here but I feel a little like I’m on a movie set- universal Studios, India. It’s all so quaintly "Indian", except for the hundreds of hotels and the Hebrew on the shop signs. In Ranthambore we went in the general store and made a friend, ended up at a wedding- here they rip you off on peanuts. Prices aren’t so bad though. We’ve seen a lot worse. I shopped till I dropped I can’t walk no more.

Two nights in a row we hit the bhang lassi, and it creeps in and numbs you from the inside out. Comfortable numb. We ate real pizza at the Real Baba’s rooftop joint, and afterward sat on straw stools in the street and sipped the lassi out of a paper cup. Banana flavour. We talked to a British neo-hippie twit with neo-dreds for a while whilst his faux-hawked friend taught beardo Americanos how to juggle balls. We wanted badly to go but decided that one lassi might not be enough, so we downed another one, bought some chocolate for later and wandered off. Pushkar gets quiet at night- rustling cows eating plastic in wet corners, lingering shopkeepers enticing us with midnight monologues;

YesfriendHellofriendToiletpaperminralwaterchocolatechipscandybatteries??
..Ne-ext ti-ime!

But we’re back at the Maharaja room in minutes.

In the day, they coerce you down to the Holy Lake; it’s green as sick and hairy-shouldered men plunge in headlong and headstrong. The Brahmin "priest" forces a flower into my hand, makes me come down to the water, sit, grudgingly repeat a Hindu prayer with him and though he told me at first it all had nothing to do with money, now he’s dropping the word "donation" everywhere and I’m telling him I don’t believe in giving money to religious institutions and if I’m going to give money to a charity I don’t want to be tricked into it. But Katya already got out a 100. Sew. Soe. Sough. Soh. Sow. So..
More faux spirituality. Holy Hindu town and tourist trap central- trap indeed. God’s got a piece of cheese and a smile on his face two blocks long, women in flocks singing holy songs and shuffling along the river’s banks- "there are many ways to show your thanks and they’ll barely cost you a dime and just a moment of your time, sir. Where do you come from and where are you going? Is it snowing this time of year in your home? Are you really traveling alone? There are many ways to show your thanks, kneeling in the riverbank, waiting in the only bank, wading in the bank..

III-Ranthambore Park

She was strolling down the road when we saw her, sexy swagger, confident, paws the size of frying pans padding the earth with a soft-sure gait. Her coat was glossy and healthy, her potent power was magnificent from 100 yards- I have never in my life seen such a beautiful animal in the wild. She sauntered along on Indian time, even with so many eyes on her- she took her time, picking at leaves, spraying trees, lolling her tongue out her mouth. And finally she eased off into the yellow brush, high arc of a striped tail above the tall grass, a descending jungle periscope. And the ripples vanished.
We’re in Ranthambore Park. But I guess now we’re leaving Ranthambore Park- we saw what we came to see. But we still have the day, so we’ll visit another park with the Belgian couple, Alain and Jacobin, and their daughter Yulia, who shared our jeep this morning. We got up at a quarter after four this morning to get to the booking office by 5. It was typical Indian madness- we were the only goras because most tourists pay guides and hotels commissions to get up and book jeeps and canters for them. But we met the Belgians and found ourselves a jeep, so it all worked out.
The park was misty and beautiful, straight out of the Jungle Book. The arched gateway mossy and vined, blending into the forest- man meets nature. And we saw other wildlife from our open-top jeep- sambar, spotted deer, black-faced monkeys, crocodiles, kingfishers, egrets, “tiger dentists”.. but it was tense and quiet with tiger hopes in the jeep. We got almost-lucky near the end- I could see a beast from a distance through the brush, padding his way carefully down a rock to the water- a striking sight, to see such a familiar shape, huge and feline, while peering through the tress. I’ve peered through a lot of trees in my time, but never seen a shape like that. But he disappeared, and despite the cacophony of birds in the trees above him, we didn’t see him again. We thought we were done, but in the homestretch suddenly there She was, out for a stroll.

Beer Ears

II- Jaipur

Pink city, pink palaces, was the Maharaja gay? says Hendrik. We’re speeding along in the rick Kuldeep hired us for the day. The driver is Don, his nickname after the Big B movie. He’s a friendlyguy, yells to us from the front about the various palaces we’re speeding past in a rickshaw-yelling voice that is strong and practiced. We got to the Tiger Fort pinnacle just before sunset and found wrought-iron chairs and tables on the terrace in the sky high above the city sprawl and we drank Kingfisher beers and chatted, Katya, young Hendrik (from Germany) and me. The sun became an orange bowl and sunk slowly into the dun of smog until it was swallowed whole- at least five whole minutes before it should’ve set properly. Set into the smog. And soon after, a curious sound reached our beer-ears- like wailing bats between the cave-walls of the valley, a thousand mosques singing a thousand ALL-AAHS reverberated between the guardian cliffs edging the city, and rose into the smog. I cupped my ears and it was all I could hear- a fine blend of prayer calls, almost frightening in their unfamiliarity. An unexpected conspiracy. A sudden siege of piety for the smog-swallowed sun. And then the boytoy Dutch boys with Nazi eyes and fraternity cut-off shirts saunter over with sauntering smiles and beer breath to small talk and ask what the hell the racket is. I explain. They snigger, and tell me about an Amsterdam painter who purposely painted an incorrect Mecca compass on the ceiling of a mosque there. Hi-larious. These fresh faces belong at spring break in Miami beach, not in Jaipur. They laugh and tell me how their driver is just like a dog, coming when they call and even asking permission to use the bathroom. I tell them I need to finish my beer. Too polite. Too Canadian.
We finish our beer and make for the parking lot where K saw a rick (for some reason our rickshaw driver said he couldn’t go all the way up to the Tiger Fort, so we hiked around the bag-eating pigs and leering motorcycle lads, climbing a quick fifteen minutes up to the clifftop fort to catch the sundeath). But there is no rick in the lot anymore. Just one car left with a couple climbing in. Katya begs them for a ride down, and they’re happy to oblige. Indians are kind. He’s Dinesh, owns a textile store. When K tells him she worked with Shiamak he swivels round to shake her hand, and tells her he won’t wash it after this. They sure love a sniff of celebrity in this country, that’s for sure.
They get us down to Don, and he drives us crosstown to an Italian terrace joint, wood-fire pizza and Spaghetti Bolognese. Surrounded by goras we’d barely know we were in India if not for the mock-Mughal hotel across the way. It’s a tourist town in a tourist time- it’s to be expected. They’re in throngs around the palaces and the touts and sellers are watching them, ten-to-one. We even saw the snake-charmers earlier and I found myself with a cobra around my neck.
I’m on the terrace roof in the night that’s almost cold, someone’s blaring Hindi love songs down the street, in the distance I can hear a highway. Don’t even know how we found our way back here tonight, twists and turns in the dusty backroads.

Temporary Homes

RAJASTHAN- I

On the oustskirts of Jaipur. Dust road village, terrace and small stuc-up homes where the one-room general shops don’t sell bottled water for some reason. We’re staying at our first couch-surfing site. It started off auspiciously enough when we stepped off our 5 and a half hour non-AC train from Delhi to find a little man with a big sign- Welcome Adrian and Katya. There’s nothing like having someone meet you in an unfamiliar city.
We piled into the little man’s rickshaw, and he darted and dodged camels and trucks, finally taking us off paved roads and onto the dust ones, urban surroundings sinking further and further into suburbia. Middle of nowhere. We stop outside a pinkish one-storey home, and I step out of the rick and into a cowpat- supposed to be lucky. Kuldeep (the homeowner, my contact here) is at work, but his wife and two small children are home. I don’t know if her and Kuldeep see eye to eye on this whole couchsurfing thing, because she doesn’t seem too excited by our presence and our questions. But she is cordial. The place is: stone floors, a threshold, two bedrooms, a kitchen and small bathroom and terrace roof. We out our bags in room number 2, which looks like it is probably usually the kids’. I knew already that there was another guest staying (Uncle Stephen from Britain), but we’re informed there will be a German guy as well. Four people in this room that’s about 10 by 10 and already has a single cot, two chairs and a loveseat and a computer desk crammed in it. Looks like three of us will be on a mat on the stone floor. Katya’s taking it well.
We’re famished. The little girl, Pinky, walks us through the dusty village to find something to eat. Little shops sell gum and chips, then one unlikely looking place called Indian Idol is said to be a restaurant by the little girl. The friendly owner seats us in what appears to be his household office (turns out this is his home), and says his wife can cook us noodles or rice, but nothing else. He assures us they are a restaurant, but just getting started. We’re too hungry to be picky. We ask for noodles and potatatoes and rice. They bring us delicious, creamy-sweet lassi drinks as well. And the food turns out to be scrumptious. Raul, the owner, chats with us in enthusiastic if not struggling English. Introduces us to his young son and wide-eyed daughter- apparently he’s Good and she’s Naughty. When we finish eating Raul has no change for my 500, so he takes me on a motorbike up to the main road where we find change as well as water and some fresh fruit.
Katya and I walk back to our temporary home, escorted by our pint-sized guide. Crossing the dusty field, a group of boys finally overcome their shyness and start to ask , What country you are from?, etc. They’ve got some pick-up cricket going, and are gleeful when I agree to give my batting a try. I connect for a four on the third ball, and try my hand at bowling as well. They all crowd in as Katya snaps a snap, and we continue on. In a strange town in a strange home with a strange sleeping arrangement, but we’ll make the best of it. More interesting than the Marriott anyway.

Hutment

They squat on the beach, little brown bums in a tideline wasteland, bubbling refuse and rat-tails in drainpipes. This is harmony, though- human harmony. Here on the edges of Bombay, the crammed corners, the hutments nestled and squeezed to the edges of the Earth, where city meets sea. Human harmony. Naked kids exploring overturned boats, men playing afterwork table-games in huts with chai, women ariring out tiny tidy huts, starting stoves, sweeping doorways. Selling fresh-caught fish (the cats hide under the low tables, greedy fish-head mongrels, wiry and alert); vegetables for sale, men for evening shaves in plywood closets with cracked mirrors and torn barber’s chairs. There isn’t fighting or screaming or misery in the air in the poorest place I’ve ever seen. There is mainly activity. If people are still, they are alive with conversation. Otherwise they’re walking, cleaning, playing, laughing, buying, selling, smoking, spitting, shitting.. Every narrow alleyway between stalls and stalls of huts is a Christmas-in-New-York bustle with humid heat and smoke for dinner. Hundreds of thousands of people, stacked like broken teacups around the beachhead toilet garbage dump, all with joy and sorrow and lives and love, all puzzled into a space about the size of my high-school’s grounds, and they are in harmony. Clicking along. Another unintentional choir, singing strong.

The Happy War

Diwali, Indian New year-

Crackerbomb festival, a sea of smoke and the Queen’s Necklace was the Ring of Fire; every bright-eyed kid a joyful mercenary in the Happy War of Diwali, shooting botlle-rockets over the hotels on Marine Drive, exploding sparkshowers raining on the cars and on the ocean, a sea of splattered cardboard shrapnel littering every square inch of concrete between happy families’ feet. And the trenches stretched as far as the eye can see in Bombay, right around the Queen’s neck; they’re trying to blow her head off, they’re trying to smoke out the New Year, scare the shit out of any demons looking for a way in. Scared the demons outta me. I moved stealthily through the Happy War with Pvts. Nooshin and Rebekah at my side. We ducked for cover from a dynamite row of mighty-mites a half a block long, made a run for it under a sudden sparkshower, explosions and flashes and squeals of glee all around us in the air as we reach no-man’s land, observing from the protection of a tree across the Drive, doing reconnaissance for how to navigate this New Year.