Day 20
We woke late for the first time in weeks. It felt strange.
It was hard to wake up and see the same dingy hotel walls we'd seen for days. The team was sick of Hyderabad. I'd taken to calling it Hyderaworse.
We wanted nothing more then a good weekend brunch and then put some distance between us and this town.
Michael had purchased a simple water heater and we'd been using it to make coffee. With some foresight I brought some ground coffee Cheryl and I received for X-Mas from a cousin. It proved a lifesaver although we jokingly referred to our brew as "bathroom coffee" as it was stationed next to the sink. It held much appeal regardless.
I asked our front desk where we might find a good non-veg place for breakfast.
The thinly veiled look of disgust was better suited in response to the statement, "I'd like to eat your dog." I was given it all the same with the useless answer, "go north to Secretariat street. Maybe something there."
I knew Secretariat Street and it ran along a lake and an empty park. We'd never find some sausage up there which I think was exactly her intent.
We walked back over to the area around The Palace Restaurant, and uncomfortably for me, the Taj Mahal Restaurant where I'd had coffee with my punjabi teacher friend.
Past grievances aside, we had a nice, albeit, vegetarian breakfast. We all sampled the samosas and I had a delicious onion masala dosa. Adam went for the masala poori, which was ballooned to the size of a human head. Michael, to his chagrin, ordered just the buttered white toast, regretting it once he saw our fare.
Back at the hotel, we repacked everything and editted out what was expendable to make space for souvenirs. In our preparation for this trip, we'd all tried to both pack light and be prepared for any contingency. We had sleeping bags, tents, mosquito netting, wet wipes, bags of medication, water purifying tablets, etc. I even had a DIY camping stove with a wind screen, all made from recycled soda cans.
Most of this stuff we didn't even use. The sleeping bags came in handy in the hotels with dodgy bedding.
We purged what we could, repacked and settled in for the wait for our ride to the airport. It was 5 hours away and we were ready. It made it seem like 10 hours.
Finally our car arrived.
We ended up abandoning some stuff in the room for the ever present hotel workers to find and giving some stuff away to the parking lot security attendants. They seemed puzzled.
We hoped 2 hours was plenty of time to get to the airport and deal with ticketing and check-in for our domestic flight.
It actually proved to be way more time then needed. Domestic flights in India don't allow more then 1 small carry-on bag. We had loads of camera equipment that needed personal attention, so had to check all our own bags. We should have expected this since we'd gone through the same before. For some reason we didn't. All comfort inducing gadgets and products were checked in with our other luggage.
Gear in hand we made it through security and to our gate. "Our" gate, as it turned out, was everyone's gate. The Hyderabad Airport has only 1 gate.
Domestic airport terminals in India have all been triumphant culminations in this nation's experience at ineffiency, incompetence, over-staffing, poor training and mismanagement.
There is a uniformed employee for every 6 travelers, each one not really doing anything and all incapable of answering a question or performing their assigned task without 3-4 other bobbling worker's.
The necessary patience was quite nearly impossible to muster. Yes, I'm bitter.
Every domestic traveler goes through one large room with the one functioning gate. Outside the gate are shuttle buses. All flights are boarded on the tarmac.
We were remarkably early as our flight was delayed 40 minutes. Everything is late in India.
As a result, we got to watch the room fill to over capacity and empty again, a half dozen times.
Adding some sparkle to the airport experience's luster, were 2 different, yet both discomfort-inducing factors.
1) The heat of the day drives mosquitoes in open doors and windows and conveniently enough for them, closer to people. The airport with it's abundent water, constantly open doors and large population density, made it a veritable mosquito sanctuary.
I've seen fewer, less hungry bugs while trekking through rainforest in the Amazon watershed.
2) The airport paging system, while not really intelligible due to well-worn, blown speakers, makes up for it by being very, very loud.
The staff manning it need to make their pages in multiple languages which requires time. Unfortunately there is little time between shuttles, none really to make the many pages each flight requires - "flight such and such now in security", "...now boarding,"...still boarding,"...now leaving," "Mr. Rasheed why aren't you on the plane?", and "the plane is now gone." Having to announce every stage of the flight's departure means there is one constant page, for hours on end. Each paragraph is separated by an electronic "bong" sound.
Since no one can make out what is being paged, the airport thoughtfully employs droves of workers, shoving through the crowds of waiting passengers and bored employees, shouting everything the page is simultaneously saying. The constant din means you almost certainly have to tune it all out just to keep a grip on your sanity. Every so often you need to go in search of someone who speaks English to tell you the status of your flight. No doubt this confirms their belief in the need for the constant paging and shouting, causing bosses to urge the staff to really put their lungs into it.
The domestic airline Jet & Air India are true anomalies to most other Indian businesses I'd seen. The inflight experience is a relief after the trials of boarding. The staff is always happy, attentive, with top-notch food on real dishware. I wish they'd expand to Chicago.
Finally in Delhi we secured a large car to take us to our hotel - The Maidens (http://www.maidenshotel.com/).
Driving in a car in India is a completely novel thing. It doesn't seem like the same place. Steel doors & glass mean for a quiet(er) ride without the fear of accidentally getting gored by a passing cow or having a stray dog jump on your lap. It also makes you a large, unmissable target for the beggars.
The India in our many travel guide books seem finally understandable. To date we'd thought they had just gotten the whole place terribly wrong. We just entered the India for tourists.
We'd traveled 2000 kilometers of India in the seldom-seen-by-tourists, brown-collared world of the working poor. Rolling up anywhere, commanding your own 'auto' fundamentally changed the dynamic between ourselves and the people we'd meet along the way. While never equalizing us, what we didn't know was, it humanized us in the eyes of the southern Indians. We weren't just strange, rich, foreigners. We were doing the unthinkable, living on their terms, going to places far, far off the tourist map.
The car ride and the people at the airport were different from our Indian world. We'd gone 3 weeks with hardly seeing shoes, only the hardened, wide-toed bare feet of the workers or sandals. Finally I'd found out who bought the socks I'd see for sale on the street corners. We never saw socks actually worn and wondered how the sock vendors made a living. Turns out the well-socked were whipping by us all the time, protected out of sight, in their cars. It occurred to us that we'd never interacted with anyone from a good quarter of population the size of Canada & Mexico combined - the middle class and wealthy.
There is a part of India that seemingly went from walled compound to car, to mall or night club, never really living the street life. That wasn't OUR India.
These were the friends and relatives of the Indians abroad that warned us to avoid the streets, never drive and never let anyone see your camera. Had we'd heeded their warnings, well, we'd have just stayed home. Our whole trip was about doing what many said we shouldn't.
Arriving at our palatial hotel, a treat for our last night's on the continent, we started to see the India of the typical tourist. An exotic desitination, not too foreign, where everyone speaks English, service is very western and there's burgers and fries on every menu. A tropical locale, not too far off the cultural map, like maybe the Bahamas.
The India of our last couple of days was a bit like a theme park rendition of the India we'd come to know.
Our fancy hotel was so fancy, that rickshaws weren't even allowed to pull up front. While thoroughly enjoying the western comforts, I was just a bit defensive about our India. The real India of the smoky, chaotic streets outside our walled compound.
While it's easy to get caught up in the vivid descriptions of the sights, sounds, smells, and lack of any personal space of our 3 weeks driving, the different way we were treated in our rickshaws is something that almost no outsider will get to experience. It defied description or comparison although we've grappled with it amoungst ourselves.
The India we experienced was one of the most genuinely friendly places I think we'll ever be. The craziness of the day to day is the price of entry.
anthony //
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Indian Universal Truths #3
When making sweeping generalizations about Southern India, in a humorous manner, a writer could go on and on as long as you still have ideas. This will be my last Universal Truths posting even though I could make it a full time job. Enjoy.
#11 There Are 2 Only Types of Indians
India's divided into 2 distinct camps. Yes, there are regional variations in language, culture, religion and race. Sure many partition India along these obvious lines.
To someone born far away and raised in a capitalist culture, controlled by large global corporations, the true divisions in India are different. A foreign sensibility, unable to distinguish between Urdu and Tamil, sees them all pretty much the same. The differences appear in other ways.
I've been told that water quality in this country took a dramatic turn for the worse about a decade ago and now even the locals avoid it. Everyone drinks bottled water or finds themselves vomitting out a bus window adn their children born with six toes.
Enter the corporate sharks.
Indias are either in the Pepsi/Aquafina or Coca-Cola/Kinley camps.
I've been told quite fervently by some well meaning local that either Kinley or Aquafina is the best water in India and urged to drink nothing else.
This sad reality and the all too obvious problem of all the empty plastic bottles, gives one a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. The feeling of global doom seems closer here then anywhere.
#12 Back Fat is Sexy
The properly worn sari with tight half shirt and wrap, reveals large portions of the sides of the female back. Sported by all your typical portly housewives and you have visible rolls of back fat everywhere you look.
It's been the case for thousands of years, I supposed, so it shouldn't have stunned me to see a billboard for a national women's clothing store chain showing of this body part. The photo was of the back of a seated model on a colorful sweep. It was a top-notched, pro job with high production values. The model was leaning to the side and the inside curves of her back had a healthy roll.
Certainly in the US we have more then our share of visible fat in public and maybe as a result great guilt about our excesses and our less then perfect bodies.
I know first hand that a billboard like this would never fly in the States. I've photoshopped my share of fat rolls from models during my stint in advertising. The billboard in question had been lovingly retouched, skin smoothed, color corrected - the usual. The roll in this shot was proudly presented.
My conclusion: back fat is sexy in India.
Or maybe they just have a different opinion about what a little fat means. Maybe it implies success since the working schmoes here are crazily thin. Maybe they just don't have the unrealistic body issues that we Westerners do and showed the model just how she was. Real.
#13 Foreigners Don't Hail Cabs
Instead you shoo them away like gnats until you need one.
Walking down the street in Hyderabad, we had a constant stream of autorickshaws pull up and say, "Hello. Hello. Taxi? Taxi? Where you go? Come. Come!"
We'd always say "no" since if we needed to get somewhere by auto we had our own.
A few plucky driver's, when told "no, we don't need a taxi," would say, "Why?"
It brought to light thier belief that a fat, rich foreigner would certainly rather take a cab 2 blocks then walk, and for that matter, ought to.
Sometimes we'd snap and before they could say anything we'd blurt out, "Yes, can I help you? Are you lost?" They'd be shocked and not know what to say. I'd follow it up by offering to give them a break and drive them around as I was an experienced auto driver. They'd laugh.
#11 There Are 2 Only Types of Indians
India's divided into 2 distinct camps. Yes, there are regional variations in language, culture, religion and race. Sure many partition India along these obvious lines.
To someone born far away and raised in a capitalist culture, controlled by large global corporations, the true divisions in India are different. A foreign sensibility, unable to distinguish between Urdu and Tamil, sees them all pretty much the same. The differences appear in other ways.
I've been told that water quality in this country took a dramatic turn for the worse about a decade ago and now even the locals avoid it. Everyone drinks bottled water or finds themselves vomitting out a bus window adn their children born with six toes.
Enter the corporate sharks.
Indias are either in the Pepsi/Aquafina or Coca-Cola/Kinley camps.
I've been told quite fervently by some well meaning local that either Kinley or Aquafina is the best water in India and urged to drink nothing else.
This sad reality and the all too obvious problem of all the empty plastic bottles, gives one a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. The feeling of global doom seems closer here then anywhere.
#12 Back Fat is Sexy
The properly worn sari with tight half shirt and wrap, reveals large portions of the sides of the female back. Sported by all your typical portly housewives and you have visible rolls of back fat everywhere you look.
It's been the case for thousands of years, I supposed, so it shouldn't have stunned me to see a billboard for a national women's clothing store chain showing of this body part. The photo was of the back of a seated model on a colorful sweep. It was a top-notched, pro job with high production values. The model was leaning to the side and the inside curves of her back had a healthy roll.
Certainly in the US we have more then our share of visible fat in public and maybe as a result great guilt about our excesses and our less then perfect bodies.
I know first hand that a billboard like this would never fly in the States. I've photoshopped my share of fat rolls from models during my stint in advertising. The billboard in question had been lovingly retouched, skin smoothed, color corrected - the usual. The roll in this shot was proudly presented.
My conclusion: back fat is sexy in India.
Or maybe they just have a different opinion about what a little fat means. Maybe it implies success since the working schmoes here are crazily thin. Maybe they just don't have the unrealistic body issues that we Westerners do and showed the model just how she was. Real.
#13 Foreigners Don't Hail Cabs
Instead you shoo them away like gnats until you need one.
Walking down the street in Hyderabad, we had a constant stream of autorickshaws pull up and say, "Hello. Hello. Taxi? Taxi? Where you go? Come. Come!"
We'd always say "no" since if we needed to get somewhere by auto we had our own.
A few plucky driver's, when told "no, we don't need a taxi," would say, "Why?"
It brought to light thier belief that a fat, rich foreigner would certainly rather take a cab 2 blocks then walk, and for that matter, ought to.
Sometimes we'd snap and before they could say anything we'd blurt out, "Yes, can I help you? Are you lost?" They'd be shocked and not know what to say. I'd follow it up by offering to give them a break and drive them around as I was an experienced auto driver. They'd laugh.
Day 19: The Rally Comes To An End
Day 19
As has become second nature, we woke before dawn and headed out of town. It was the last day with the autorickshaws and our last day of shooting. We were determined to do it right.
Back towards Vijayawada seemed like the shortest route to the countryside. The goal was to get a shot that illustrated a roadside intestinal emergency. Specifically Michael running from the rickshaw with TP in hand.
We found the perfect spot out in the desert. It just so happened to be across from the tent city for the School of Surveyors.
The set up was on a small rise of pink granite, just off the highway. The region is solid granite and marble, yet the buildings are all constructed of cheap brick, cement or palm leaves.
The photo turned out to be quite funny with only a few spectators around, all at a safe distance away. The ironic part of the shot was that we barely had any stomach problems at all. At least up until then.
Back in Hyderabad we decided to walk around town some. Our driving was done and the last photo taken. It was time to be tourists.
We struggled a bit under the blazing sun to find the side street entrance to the India Industrial Expo 2007 that I'd stumbled upon the previous night.
Finally it appeared and we paid our 10Rs. to get in.
Where the expo had been hundred and hundreds of tents with thousands of shoppers, now most tents were closed and no people milled about. There were no street vendors hawking blinky necklaces, fresh sugar cane water, mini poories, or watermelon. The expo was basically closed except for the a handful of shops and the ticket office.
They were willing to sell you a ticket if you were dumb enough to buy one.
We were, unknowingly.
Michael and Adam wanted some souvenirs and we got lucky and found a place with some cool stuff from the Indian state of Orissa. They are known for their delicate illustrations. The boys bought some amazing folding wall hanging made from palm leaves. They were intricately illustrated and hand cut. Medallions in each panel flipped open changing from a diety to a form of the kama sutra. Funny stuff.
Back at the hotel we called the Rickshaw Run organizers in the UK, to find out the progress on arranging a hand off. We were told they had a local lined up who would come to our hotel and lead us to a Bajaj dealer.
We cleaned up our chariots and prepared to say goodbye.
What once terrified us had now become a close friend. We never went as far as naming the vehicles, just calling them 'yours' or 'mine' for Adam or my auto.
Regardless we'd come to respect the mighty autos. They'd herded us over 2000 kilometers of Souther India, providing a thin protective layer of metal and vinyl between us and certain, messy death. We were going to miss driving them despite the rigors required. They would be quite fun to have back home.
Someone needed them more then us and we were glad they could provide a way of life for family.
Our contact guy arrived and led us on his moped to a nearby Bajaj place. It was a brief, bittersweet drive down a small alleyway.
Like all things in India, handling off 2 petrol-fueled auto rickshaes from 2 states over, was going to require lots of people staring, much paperwork (hand-written in triplicate,) time and patience. Not to mention frequent explanations of what 3 white dudes were doing driving Kerala-based autos, all of which needed to be translated into Urdu, Telugu and Hindi.
During this long and trying process I became aware of trouble in my abdomen. Instantly I felt the need to get back to the hotel - fast. Being only a couple blocks away I thought I could make it.
I did, but just barely.
After 3 weeks in Indai, nothing gave me "Delhi Belly" including the questionable street food, until I had the lunch in my fancy hotel. It would be the 'nice' place with the contrived cleanliness, utensils and napkins that would do me in.
Luckily, maybe because of the Cipro., I immediately started taking, my affliction was very temporary.
I was ready for culinary action by dinner that evening.
We relaxed that afternoon and let the idea of the end of the rickshaw traveling sink in.
Later that night, well rested and ready to try on our new roles, we set out for a fancy dinner.
We walked, much to the chagrin of the local taxi drivers, to the acclaimed restaurant, The Palace.
It sits atop Hyderabads tallest building, a squat, 8-storied concrete business structure, full of IT and software companies.
It's hard to believe that in one of India's largest urban sprawls, with millions of residents, no structure comes close to 8 stories tall.
Our windowside table afforded a panoramic view of the smoking Hyderabadi nightscape.
We were in a celebratory mood and relishing a rare non-vegetarian restaurant, we all ordered meat of some kind. I thoroughly enjoyed my Rajistani spicy ginger mutton. Michael had fish and Adam the murgh kabobs, also known as chicken.
As has become second nature, we woke before dawn and headed out of town. It was the last day with the autorickshaws and our last day of shooting. We were determined to do it right.
Back towards Vijayawada seemed like the shortest route to the countryside. The goal was to get a shot that illustrated a roadside intestinal emergency. Specifically Michael running from the rickshaw with TP in hand.
We found the perfect spot out in the desert. It just so happened to be across from the tent city for the School of Surveyors.
The set up was on a small rise of pink granite, just off the highway. The region is solid granite and marble, yet the buildings are all constructed of cheap brick, cement or palm leaves.
The photo turned out to be quite funny with only a few spectators around, all at a safe distance away. The ironic part of the shot was that we barely had any stomach problems at all. At least up until then.
Back in Hyderabad we decided to walk around town some. Our driving was done and the last photo taken. It was time to be tourists.
We struggled a bit under the blazing sun to find the side street entrance to the India Industrial Expo 2007 that I'd stumbled upon the previous night.
Finally it appeared and we paid our 10Rs. to get in.
Where the expo had been hundred and hundreds of tents with thousands of shoppers, now most tents were closed and no people milled about. There were no street vendors hawking blinky necklaces, fresh sugar cane water, mini poories, or watermelon. The expo was basically closed except for the a handful of shops and the ticket office.
They were willing to sell you a ticket if you were dumb enough to buy one.
We were, unknowingly.
Michael and Adam wanted some souvenirs and we got lucky and found a place with some cool stuff from the Indian state of Orissa. They are known for their delicate illustrations. The boys bought some amazing folding wall hanging made from palm leaves. They were intricately illustrated and hand cut. Medallions in each panel flipped open changing from a diety to a form of the kama sutra. Funny stuff.
Back at the hotel we called the Rickshaw Run organizers in the UK, to find out the progress on arranging a hand off. We were told they had a local lined up who would come to our hotel and lead us to a Bajaj dealer.
We cleaned up our chariots and prepared to say goodbye.
What once terrified us had now become a close friend. We never went as far as naming the vehicles, just calling them 'yours' or 'mine' for Adam or my auto.
Regardless we'd come to respect the mighty autos. They'd herded us over 2000 kilometers of Souther India, providing a thin protective layer of metal and vinyl between us and certain, messy death. We were going to miss driving them despite the rigors required. They would be quite fun to have back home.
Someone needed them more then us and we were glad they could provide a way of life for family.
Our contact guy arrived and led us on his moped to a nearby Bajaj place. It was a brief, bittersweet drive down a small alleyway.
Like all things in India, handling off 2 petrol-fueled auto rickshaes from 2 states over, was going to require lots of people staring, much paperwork (hand-written in triplicate,) time and patience. Not to mention frequent explanations of what 3 white dudes were doing driving Kerala-based autos, all of which needed to be translated into Urdu, Telugu and Hindi.
During this long and trying process I became aware of trouble in my abdomen. Instantly I felt the need to get back to the hotel - fast. Being only a couple blocks away I thought I could make it.
I did, but just barely.
After 3 weeks in Indai, nothing gave me "Delhi Belly" including the questionable street food, until I had the lunch in my fancy hotel. It would be the 'nice' place with the contrived cleanliness, utensils and napkins that would do me in.
Luckily, maybe because of the Cipro., I immediately started taking, my affliction was very temporary.
I was ready for culinary action by dinner that evening.
We relaxed that afternoon and let the idea of the end of the rickshaw traveling sink in.
Later that night, well rested and ready to try on our new roles, we set out for a fancy dinner.
We walked, much to the chagrin of the local taxi drivers, to the acclaimed restaurant, The Palace.
It sits atop Hyderabads tallest building, a squat, 8-storied concrete business structure, full of IT and software companies.
It's hard to believe that in one of India's largest urban sprawls, with millions of residents, no structure comes close to 8 stories tall.
Our windowside table afforded a panoramic view of the smoking Hyderabadi nightscape.
We were in a celebratory mood and relishing a rare non-vegetarian restaurant, we all ordered meat of some kind. I thoroughly enjoyed my Rajistani spicy ginger mutton. Michael had fish and Adam the murgh kabobs, also known as chicken.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Day 18: Buddha, Eating with Hands, and Coffee
Day 18
We woke before dawn as has become our routine and headed out before the traffic made the transition from dangerous to lethal.
There is a large statue of Buddha in the middle of a large lake on the north side of town. The lake, Hussain Sagar, is actually manmade and divides Hyderabad from Secunderbad. The statue was built and floated out to a small island by ferry. The boat and statue sank and it was nearly decade before they brought it back up, in the late 90's. It seemed like a great thing to capture in the golden, smog-induced, first light of the day.
The statue, while huge, is in the middle of a large lake and wasn't going to be big enough for our purposes. As typical in all our photo scenarios, the real photo only becomes apparant once we get somewhere and find out we can't do what we'd planned on. This was no different.
We set up the gear and go a fun shot of Michael doing his morning excercise in a park setting. It should be good.
From there we headed out west to a small town called Pataneherv. There was a roadside food shack that Michael thought would be a good scene to get a "eating with hands" shot.
Our restauranteurs may not have understood completely what we were doing, but went along with it anyway. Michael set up one of the plastic, dirty tables outside of the restaurant and we got to getting the gear up.
This drew a crowd, as usual, but they were an amicable bunch and we had more then enough extras for the scene.
The shot was excellent and Michael claims the food was too. The place looked even sketchy to me, so we took his word on it.
Adam tipped the owners of the Hotel New Manjira 100 Rs. and they laughed. Seems like it wasn't enough. They weren't really taking into consideration that the meal was 7 Rs. and their vacant restaurant now had 60 gawkers in it. We'd done them no small service.
On the way back through town we gassed up and got bad gas. Our rickshaw was acting funny and we kept stalling. Poking around everywhere narrowed the problem down to the gas we'd just purchased. We pushed the auto into another station and somehow managed to convinced them to take out the full-tank's worth of petrol we had. They looked really skeptical but got to sucking on a long tube pushed into our tank. The attendant got a mouth full of the bad gas and oil mixture we'd just put in, but we got the gas out. While he was off spitting in the street, we filled a 5 liter plastic jug.
There was still more left, so I had to start another bottle and got a case of gas mouth too.
Unpleasant.
The station folks were incredulous when we asked them to fill the auto back up again with different petrol. They thought we were either insane or supersitious and thought our fuel was possessed by evil spirits. In truth it was a little of both.
We had some breakfast when we got back to the hotel. Our hotel restaurant is really uninspired when it comes to breakfast. It's vegetarian so no eggs. Just vidli, some grits like stuff and white bread. They were even reluctant to toast the bread. Forget about coffee. We thought we'd walk over to the fancy, Quality Inn nextdoor and have breakfast there. It was the same as ours.
We relaxed in the afternoon and I went out for a long session at an internet cafe. The blog needed to be updated and I wanted to check my email. It took 3 hours. Dial-up is your only option in India. Atleast this cafe was only charging 15 rupees an hour and not the 200 like the hotel.
At the end of my long session I met a Punjabi teacher who wanted Team Good Korma to come to his school and talk to the kids. He showed me some photos of some people from Greece in a classroom full of students and said they were some tourists he's met last week. He stressed how great it was for the kids. I thought it was a cool idea but didn't want to promise anything. We had full agenda planned the next day with getting some last minute photography done and then turning over the auto rickshaws.
Unswayed my Punjab friend asked me to get some coffee nearby and tell him about the charity. I told him that I had to meet my friends for dinner in 15 minutes and needed to go. He was graciously forceful and told me coffee would take 5.
The potential for actual coffee won me over and I said yes. Instead of being "nearby" and walkable, it was nearby and scooterable. I didn't want to be rude but I was not really happy about riding double on a strange man's scooter. Sure you see it all day and night here, but...
He started it up and said get on. I did and got a firm grip on the handle in the back. We sped off and he shouted for me not to be shy and get in close.
I didn't.
This wasn't going well and I didn't like the conclusions I was coming to about the situation.
We arrived at the plush, Taj Mahal restaurant and hotel not far away. I reiterated that I could only have a quick coffee and then would have to go.
I immediately started the conversation around his school and found out he "taught" all over town. When asked what he wanted people to talk about to the kids, he said we could talk about whatever we wanted. He was seeming more and more dodgy.
He switched the conversation over and said he was an amatuer filmmaker and he'd love to show me some of his work. I said it was too bad we were leaving in the morning.
He offered to take me on a late night tour, after my dinner with my friends, of a local bazaar. He had some friends in the Kasmiri Fabrics business there that would just love to meet me.
I told him that I'd been to that bazaar, oddly enough, to look at fabric for MY WIFE.
He looked like kid outside a closed candy store. Looking away for the first time he casually asked if I had children. I told him that I had one on the way and he mumbled a blessing.
I asked if he had children himself and he said maybe in a couple years. He was presently single and didn't have much time these days because he was busy. Taking up his time was working on social issues like, (eye contact made) lesbian and gay issues in India and also poverty and stuff.
Confirmation.
The coffee ended quickly.
He insisted that I call him about coming to the school the next day. Even if I couldn't come, he'd like a call so he could arrange sending me some of his movies.
The boys got a nice laugh out of my story.
We decided we'd earned some beer and went out for some drinks.
We woke before dawn as has become our routine and headed out before the traffic made the transition from dangerous to lethal.
There is a large statue of Buddha in the middle of a large lake on the north side of town. The lake, Hussain Sagar, is actually manmade and divides Hyderabad from Secunderbad. The statue was built and floated out to a small island by ferry. The boat and statue sank and it was nearly decade before they brought it back up, in the late 90's. It seemed like a great thing to capture in the golden, smog-induced, first light of the day.
The statue, while huge, is in the middle of a large lake and wasn't going to be big enough for our purposes. As typical in all our photo scenarios, the real photo only becomes apparant once we get somewhere and find out we can't do what we'd planned on. This was no different.
We set up the gear and go a fun shot of Michael doing his morning excercise in a park setting. It should be good.
From there we headed out west to a small town called Pataneherv. There was a roadside food shack that Michael thought would be a good scene to get a "eating with hands" shot.
Our restauranteurs may not have understood completely what we were doing, but went along with it anyway. Michael set up one of the plastic, dirty tables outside of the restaurant and we got to getting the gear up.
This drew a crowd, as usual, but they were an amicable bunch and we had more then enough extras for the scene.
The shot was excellent and Michael claims the food was too. The place looked even sketchy to me, so we took his word on it.
Adam tipped the owners of the Hotel New Manjira 100 Rs. and they laughed. Seems like it wasn't enough. They weren't really taking into consideration that the meal was 7 Rs. and their vacant restaurant now had 60 gawkers in it. We'd done them no small service.
On the way back through town we gassed up and got bad gas. Our rickshaw was acting funny and we kept stalling. Poking around everywhere narrowed the problem down to the gas we'd just purchased. We pushed the auto into another station and somehow managed to convinced them to take out the full-tank's worth of petrol we had. They looked really skeptical but got to sucking on a long tube pushed into our tank. The attendant got a mouth full of the bad gas and oil mixture we'd just put in, but we got the gas out. While he was off spitting in the street, we filled a 5 liter plastic jug.
There was still more left, so I had to start another bottle and got a case of gas mouth too.
Unpleasant.
The station folks were incredulous when we asked them to fill the auto back up again with different petrol. They thought we were either insane or supersitious and thought our fuel was possessed by evil spirits. In truth it was a little of both.
We had some breakfast when we got back to the hotel. Our hotel restaurant is really uninspired when it comes to breakfast. It's vegetarian so no eggs. Just vidli, some grits like stuff and white bread. They were even reluctant to toast the bread. Forget about coffee. We thought we'd walk over to the fancy, Quality Inn nextdoor and have breakfast there. It was the same as ours.
We relaxed in the afternoon and I went out for a long session at an internet cafe. The blog needed to be updated and I wanted to check my email. It took 3 hours. Dial-up is your only option in India. Atleast this cafe was only charging 15 rupees an hour and not the 200 like the hotel.
At the end of my long session I met a Punjabi teacher who wanted Team Good Korma to come to his school and talk to the kids. He showed me some photos of some people from Greece in a classroom full of students and said they were some tourists he's met last week. He stressed how great it was for the kids. I thought it was a cool idea but didn't want to promise anything. We had full agenda planned the next day with getting some last minute photography done and then turning over the auto rickshaws.
Unswayed my Punjab friend asked me to get some coffee nearby and tell him about the charity. I told him that I had to meet my friends for dinner in 15 minutes and needed to go. He was graciously forceful and told me coffee would take 5.
The potential for actual coffee won me over and I said yes. Instead of being "nearby" and walkable, it was nearby and scooterable. I didn't want to be rude but I was not really happy about riding double on a strange man's scooter. Sure you see it all day and night here, but...
He started it up and said get on. I did and got a firm grip on the handle in the back. We sped off and he shouted for me not to be shy and get in close.
I didn't.
This wasn't going well and I didn't like the conclusions I was coming to about the situation.
We arrived at the plush, Taj Mahal restaurant and hotel not far away. I reiterated that I could only have a quick coffee and then would have to go.
I immediately started the conversation around his school and found out he "taught" all over town. When asked what he wanted people to talk about to the kids, he said we could talk about whatever we wanted. He was seeming more and more dodgy.
He switched the conversation over and said he was an amatuer filmmaker and he'd love to show me some of his work. I said it was too bad we were leaving in the morning.
He offered to take me on a late night tour, after my dinner with my friends, of a local bazaar. He had some friends in the Kasmiri Fabrics business there that would just love to meet me.
I told him that I'd been to that bazaar, oddly enough, to look at fabric for MY WIFE.
He looked like kid outside a closed candy store. Looking away for the first time he casually asked if I had children. I told him that I had one on the way and he mumbled a blessing.
I asked if he had children himself and he said maybe in a couple years. He was presently single and didn't have much time these days because he was busy. Taking up his time was working on social issues like, (eye contact made) lesbian and gay issues in India and also poverty and stuff.
Confirmation.
The coffee ended quickly.
He insisted that I call him about coming to the school the next day. Even if I couldn't come, he'd like a call so he could arrange sending me some of his movies.
The boys got a nice laugh out of my story.
We decided we'd earned some beer and went out for some drinks.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Day 17: Hyderabad by Day
Day 17
I'm starting to think I was a little hard on Chennai at first. Large cities in India are terrible places to live and try to move about. Hyderabad is a fine example of this phenomenon.
We got up before dawn and headed far out of town, the way we'd come in. We found a remote area with palm trees, scrub brush and big rocky hills near a the town of Malkapur. It was the perfect spot to get some off road shots.
We took the top off one of the Rickshaws and mounted the medium format camera to the framework. We got some stupendous shots of Michael driving a rickshaw as the lead rickshaw towed it through the desert. After he clones out the tow line, the shots will look amazing.
A local came to gawk (even in the middle of nowhere) and we had him trip the shutter for a reenactment shot of our team logo. It was hysterical.
After a long rest that afternoon, Adam and I went to the Charminer district of old Hyderabad. It has one of the oldest mosques in this area, from the 15th century, Mecca Masjib.
This is an obviously heavy Islamic town and it was the first time I'd seen so many burqas. It was like something out of a movie or CNN.
The dense bazaar part of town is known for it's perfume and essential oils. We found a little shop just like we'd read about in a guide book. They had the local specialty we'd read about, "Gil". It was also known as "Miti" in Hindi and is supposed to smell like the wet earth from the first rain after a long, hot summer. It does smell dirt-like, but we're not experts on the seasons here yet.
During the past 2 evenings, motivated by the team's utter lack of intestinal problems the whole trip, I decided to throw caution to the wind and eat street food. Late the previous evening I had a couple samosas, some curried popcorn (mine's better,) and a palak paneer baked pastry. They were all amazing and I was kicking myself I hadn't been braver during our 3 weeks here.
This evening I told Adam about it as we walked about and he got into the spirit. This surprised me as Adam has lived up to his nickname, "control group", as he likes to be the control group in any ingesting experiment that Michael and I undertake. If we order the house special, Adam will invariably say, "I'm going to control group that."
When he ordered some peanuts from a street cart, I was quietly shocked. The cart looked really cool. It was a high, wooden platform on large wooden wheels. It could have come from Europe in the dark ages. There were large metal platters with all sorts of grains piled on them. Towards the vendor was a small, metal scale with cast iron kilogram equivalents for measure out the goods. Adams 1kg of peanuts went into the scale and then the guy put a smoking pot on top if it. The pot was a ceramic vessel full of hot coals with a handle and a leather grip. A minute of "toasting" and the peanuts and seasonings went into a freshly rolled newspaper cone. Way cool.
I decided to find another hot samosa, as the one I had the night before was stellar. I reasonably crowed cart presented itself in no time and I went to ordering my snack. The options at this cart were different from the other night and the communication breakdown left me wondering what I was going to get.
The vendor took my 8 rupees with a wet, messy hand and set to making my dish. He selected a samosa from a pile and then smashed it with his hand. It was put into a small bowled formed out of compressed, dried palm leaves. On top of the samosa went a ladel of masalaish stew, some green sauce and some spices. I was given a tiny wooden "spoon" like you'd get at an old icecream parlor. I was nervous because of how this looked and was prepared. It is one thing to get a piping hot, fried samosa, and another altogether to get what I was handed. I decided it was worth whatever was about to happen and I went for it. It was incredible. I wish I knew what it was.
India is finally getting to Michael and he is suffering from the same deep sinus pain that Adam and I went through the week before. It is debilitating and he has been resting in the hotel. We joined him and fell asleep watching National Treasure.
TV here is terrible.
I'm starting to think I was a little hard on Chennai at first. Large cities in India are terrible places to live and try to move about. Hyderabad is a fine example of this phenomenon.
We got up before dawn and headed far out of town, the way we'd come in. We found a remote area with palm trees, scrub brush and big rocky hills near a the town of Malkapur. It was the perfect spot to get some off road shots.
We took the top off one of the Rickshaws and mounted the medium format camera to the framework. We got some stupendous shots of Michael driving a rickshaw as the lead rickshaw towed it through the desert. After he clones out the tow line, the shots will look amazing.
A local came to gawk (even in the middle of nowhere) and we had him trip the shutter for a reenactment shot of our team logo. It was hysterical.
After a long rest that afternoon, Adam and I went to the Charminer district of old Hyderabad. It has one of the oldest mosques in this area, from the 15th century, Mecca Masjib.
This is an obviously heavy Islamic town and it was the first time I'd seen so many burqas. It was like something out of a movie or CNN.
The dense bazaar part of town is known for it's perfume and essential oils. We found a little shop just like we'd read about in a guide book. They had the local specialty we'd read about, "Gil". It was also known as "Miti" in Hindi and is supposed to smell like the wet earth from the first rain after a long, hot summer. It does smell dirt-like, but we're not experts on the seasons here yet.
During the past 2 evenings, motivated by the team's utter lack of intestinal problems the whole trip, I decided to throw caution to the wind and eat street food. Late the previous evening I had a couple samosas, some curried popcorn (mine's better,) and a palak paneer baked pastry. They were all amazing and I was kicking myself I hadn't been braver during our 3 weeks here.
This evening I told Adam about it as we walked about and he got into the spirit. This surprised me as Adam has lived up to his nickname, "control group", as he likes to be the control group in any ingesting experiment that Michael and I undertake. If we order the house special, Adam will invariably say, "I'm going to control group that."
When he ordered some peanuts from a street cart, I was quietly shocked. The cart looked really cool. It was a high, wooden platform on large wooden wheels. It could have come from Europe in the dark ages. There were large metal platters with all sorts of grains piled on them. Towards the vendor was a small, metal scale with cast iron kilogram equivalents for measure out the goods. Adams 1kg of peanuts went into the scale and then the guy put a smoking pot on top if it. The pot was a ceramic vessel full of hot coals with a handle and a leather grip. A minute of "toasting" and the peanuts and seasonings went into a freshly rolled newspaper cone. Way cool.
I decided to find another hot samosa, as the one I had the night before was stellar. I reasonably crowed cart presented itself in no time and I went to ordering my snack. The options at this cart were different from the other night and the communication breakdown left me wondering what I was going to get.
The vendor took my 8 rupees with a wet, messy hand and set to making my dish. He selected a samosa from a pile and then smashed it with his hand. It was put into a small bowled formed out of compressed, dried palm leaves. On top of the samosa went a ladel of masalaish stew, some green sauce and some spices. I was given a tiny wooden "spoon" like you'd get at an old icecream parlor. I was nervous because of how this looked and was prepared. It is one thing to get a piping hot, fried samosa, and another altogether to get what I was handed. I decided it was worth whatever was about to happen and I went for it. It was incredible. I wish I knew what it was.
India is finally getting to Michael and he is suffering from the same deep sinus pain that Adam and I went through the week before. It is debilitating and he has been resting in the hotel. We joined him and fell asleep watching National Treasure.
TV here is terrible.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Indian Universal Truths #2
Indian Universal Truths #2
7)There Are No Unemployed Artists
If a vehicle hauls anything - from hay to humans - it is decorated to the fullest degree. Indian trucks, taxis, rickshaws, peditaxis, even ox carts are covered stem to stern in slogans, initials, pictures, floral designs, and pinstripes. Usually all at once. No space is left undecorated. Even the windshields are bespangled until the barest minimum space is left to operate the vehicle to a passable degree.
Trucks, the masters of the road, in particular have taken the artform to the highest levels. We've seen trucks from every state looming up to us, passing us or heading directly towards us for hours on end, so have a pretty good idea what's out there.
Some advice for aspiring truck artists:
Know your canvas. For most truck artists it is the standard brown flatbed truck the size and roughly the same shape as a Mack truck in the US. Atop of said truck is a headboard like crown that should depict the nickname of the vehicle or home town in large multicolored script. Immediately below that is more text but in one of the local languages and I haven't the foggiest what that says. Maybe it's a translation of the first. You'll have to ask around.
All around the edges of the windshield should be stripes, huge intials of the drivers, maybe even illustrations in cut vinyl of saints, prophets, holymen or even Jesus.
On the grill it is customary to have large, rainbow-colored floral motifs, lotus flowers, flying monkeys, or scroll work designs. The entire grill should be pinstriped in every color of paint the shop has. No scrimping.
The bumper should have a pithy description of the driver's such as, "Road King" (very popular,) "Water King," "Super Fast," "King of the Road," or the trump card - "King of the Kings."
The sides, where possible, should be decorated also. "Diesel" should be stenciled on the gas tank with decorations following the same theme as the front grill.
The mudflaps are good for stencils of praying hands, flowers, elephants or the popular devil's face with extended tongue. I think he wards off demonic flat tires.
The back of the truck is wonderful for getting across a message to the world considering you'll have a large and attentive captive audience behind you as take up both lanes on the "highway". The irony won't be missed on those in the rear of your lumbering, black-smoke-beltching beast with such progressive phrases as, "Save Rain Water" and "Trees = Life". While the obvious "Black Smoke Lungs Choke" will leave folks scratching their heads wondering if you are "for" or "against". You may score more good samaritan points with the topical "Stop Aids" or "Help Childrens" or the like. This is good place to get creative so don't hold back.
Interspersed amongst the politicking it is a good idea to give immediate instructions to those behind you. No truck can be road-ready without "Stop & Proceed" or "Please Sound Horn Please" in large dayglo type.
8) The Same Words Mean Different Things
Britain was here mucking about for almost 300 years unchecked. The locals were finally able to rid themselves but were stuck with remnants of the English language.
Since all the local languages are equally Greek to us, it was confusing when English words in use in India suddenly didn't mean the same thing from one town to the next. It was as if someone was playing a trick on us.
For example, "hotel" in Kerla and Tamil means "hotel". In Telugu it means "restaurant." If you want a hotel you have to ask for a "lodge."
"Meals" is a term for a rice based all encompassing dinner, like a Hungryman from Swansons. It is great to order in a restaurant as you get 15 different cups of stuff to mix with your rice. Leaving Tamil and entering Telugu, we have learned to ask for "Thali".
In the tourist paradise of Kochi, the phrase "As you like" meant that "I have heard your request, understood it, and am now off to complete it for you." In Chennai it meant "I won't tell you the price for this cab ride and just keep saying 'As You Like.' There is an outstanding chance that if you pay whatever you think it's worth I'll get way more money out of the deal." We had to literally threaten to jump out of a cab unless we got a price. Cab drivers will do anything to be your driver for your entire stay, camping out in their car outside your hotel, just for chance to fleece you royally.
In Tamil "Autos" are autorickshaws and "rickshaw" is a bicycle rickshaw. I have no idea what they call the footpowered rickshaws. In Telugu cars are "autos" and autorickshaws are "mini-taxis". There are "4 in all" and "7 in all" sizes of autorickshaws unlike the rest of Southern India although they seem to pack in how ever many they like.
9) Techo is Music to Eat By
There hasn't been a restaurant to date that wasn't blasting the most insipid Euro-Techno loudly. Today was the first day we entered a restuarant and they were playing something with local Indian flair. It was our hotel restaurant which surprised us greatly as they hadn't deveated from the norm prior. We weren't there 2 minutes before they switched to the techno. I went so far as to comment on how the previous music was so nice and ask what it was. Our waiter had no idea and kept smiling.
Maybe the idea is that you'll eat faster and get out.
10) To a Westerner India Looks Swishy
Public displays of affection are strictly forbidden...unless you are men. In a culture where marriages between a man and a woman are rarely for love, the long-lasting emotional relationships in our life, as a man, are with other men. Men aren't allowed to touch women publically if the women were ever seen outside, which they aren't. For men, holding hands, walking with arms around shoulders, riding on a tiny moped, 3 to a seat is quite normal and occuring every 5 feet in India. This cultural norm is expressed by males from the smallest boys to the oldest men. They are sitting in parks, under trees, seemingly cuddling to our Western eyes. There are male beauty parlors everywhere with no female versions that I've seen. Men can where nail polish here. Their bars are all men listening to Euro dance music from the mid-Eighties. They put vinyl slogans on their cars such as "Flamboyant". There are billboards all over town with hunky, nearly naked men selling tiny briefs with the headline, "Prepare To Be Assaulted."
Homosexuality is illegal in India. Acting like it isn't.
7)There Are No Unemployed Artists
If a vehicle hauls anything - from hay to humans - it is decorated to the fullest degree. Indian trucks, taxis, rickshaws, peditaxis, even ox carts are covered stem to stern in slogans, initials, pictures, floral designs, and pinstripes. Usually all at once. No space is left undecorated. Even the windshields are bespangled until the barest minimum space is left to operate the vehicle to a passable degree.
Trucks, the masters of the road, in particular have taken the artform to the highest levels. We've seen trucks from every state looming up to us, passing us or heading directly towards us for hours on end, so have a pretty good idea what's out there.
Some advice for aspiring truck artists:
Know your canvas. For most truck artists it is the standard brown flatbed truck the size and roughly the same shape as a Mack truck in the US. Atop of said truck is a headboard like crown that should depict the nickname of the vehicle or home town in large multicolored script. Immediately below that is more text but in one of the local languages and I haven't the foggiest what that says. Maybe it's a translation of the first. You'll have to ask around.
All around the edges of the windshield should be stripes, huge intials of the drivers, maybe even illustrations in cut vinyl of saints, prophets, holymen or even Jesus.
On the grill it is customary to have large, rainbow-colored floral motifs, lotus flowers, flying monkeys, or scroll work designs. The entire grill should be pinstriped in every color of paint the shop has. No scrimping.
The bumper should have a pithy description of the driver's such as, "Road King" (very popular,) "Water King," "Super Fast," "King of the Road," or the trump card - "King of the Kings."
The sides, where possible, should be decorated also. "Diesel" should be stenciled on the gas tank with decorations following the same theme as the front grill.
The mudflaps are good for stencils of praying hands, flowers, elephants or the popular devil's face with extended tongue. I think he wards off demonic flat tires.
The back of the truck is wonderful for getting across a message to the world considering you'll have a large and attentive captive audience behind you as take up both lanes on the "highway". The irony won't be missed on those in the rear of your lumbering, black-smoke-beltching beast with such progressive phrases as, "Save Rain Water" and "Trees = Life". While the obvious "Black Smoke Lungs Choke" will leave folks scratching their heads wondering if you are "for" or "against". You may score more good samaritan points with the topical "Stop Aids" or "Help Childrens" or the like. This is good place to get creative so don't hold back.
Interspersed amongst the politicking it is a good idea to give immediate instructions to those behind you. No truck can be road-ready without "Stop & Proceed" or "Please Sound Horn Please" in large dayglo type.
8) The Same Words Mean Different Things
Britain was here mucking about for almost 300 years unchecked. The locals were finally able to rid themselves but were stuck with remnants of the English language.
Since all the local languages are equally Greek to us, it was confusing when English words in use in India suddenly didn't mean the same thing from one town to the next. It was as if someone was playing a trick on us.
For example, "hotel" in Kerla and Tamil means "hotel". In Telugu it means "restaurant." If you want a hotel you have to ask for a "lodge."
"Meals" is a term for a rice based all encompassing dinner, like a Hungryman from Swansons. It is great to order in a restaurant as you get 15 different cups of stuff to mix with your rice. Leaving Tamil and entering Telugu, we have learned to ask for "Thali".
In the tourist paradise of Kochi, the phrase "As you like" meant that "I have heard your request, understood it, and am now off to complete it for you." In Chennai it meant "I won't tell you the price for this cab ride and just keep saying 'As You Like.' There is an outstanding chance that if you pay whatever you think it's worth I'll get way more money out of the deal." We had to literally threaten to jump out of a cab unless we got a price. Cab drivers will do anything to be your driver for your entire stay, camping out in their car outside your hotel, just for chance to fleece you royally.
In Tamil "Autos" are autorickshaws and "rickshaw" is a bicycle rickshaw. I have no idea what they call the footpowered rickshaws. In Telugu cars are "autos" and autorickshaws are "mini-taxis". There are "4 in all" and "7 in all" sizes of autorickshaws unlike the rest of Southern India although they seem to pack in how ever many they like.
9) Techo is Music to Eat By
There hasn't been a restaurant to date that wasn't blasting the most insipid Euro-Techno loudly. Today was the first day we entered a restuarant and they were playing something with local Indian flair. It was our hotel restaurant which surprised us greatly as they hadn't deveated from the norm prior. We weren't there 2 minutes before they switched to the techno. I went so far as to comment on how the previous music was so nice and ask what it was. Our waiter had no idea and kept smiling.
Maybe the idea is that you'll eat faster and get out.
10) To a Westerner India Looks Swishy
Public displays of affection are strictly forbidden...unless you are men. In a culture where marriages between a man and a woman are rarely for love, the long-lasting emotional relationships in our life, as a man, are with other men. Men aren't allowed to touch women publically if the women were ever seen outside, which they aren't. For men, holding hands, walking with arms around shoulders, riding on a tiny moped, 3 to a seat is quite normal and occuring every 5 feet in India. This cultural norm is expressed by males from the smallest boys to the oldest men. They are sitting in parks, under trees, seemingly cuddling to our Western eyes. There are male beauty parlors everywhere with no female versions that I've seen. Men can where nail polish here. Their bars are all men listening to Euro dance music from the mid-Eighties. They put vinyl slogans on their cars such as "Flamboyant". There are billboards all over town with hunky, nearly naked men selling tiny briefs with the headline, "Prepare To Be Assaulted."
Homosexuality is illegal in India. Acting like it isn't.
Day 16: The Long Drive to Hyderabad
Day 16
We woke early and hit the buffet at the cafe in our Quality Inn hotel in Vijayawada. It was refreshing to get some variance in breakfast options and one gets so tired of vadas, burnt toast and various chutneys. Today the had something they were calling "hashbrowns". They weren't what you expect to get if you ordered "hashbrowns" but enjoyable nonetheless.
283KM is how far Hyderabad is from the town of Vijayawada. It would mean a long day of driving but we were confident that it was doable.
The pleasantness of the coastal National Highway 5, a well maintained toll road, were left far behind for the grueling mess they call National Highway 9. Were 5 had 4 lanes divided by a well-kept, flowering shrub planted median, 9 is only 2 lanes of opposing traffic, studded with potholes the like we hadn't seen since Tamil Nadu poor excuse for a road. Gone also were the curbs, helpful signage and a wide and safe shoulder in case you had to pull over.
It was an exhausting day of intense driving where we were run off the road many times by huge trucks. The traffic in Hyderabad to end the day was the worst we've driven in and may ever drive in.
The long day gave lots of time to think about India. It's time for a round 2 of India Universal Truths.
We woke early and hit the buffet at the cafe in our Quality Inn hotel in Vijayawada. It was refreshing to get some variance in breakfast options and one gets so tired of vadas, burnt toast and various chutneys. Today the had something they were calling "hashbrowns". They weren't what you expect to get if you ordered "hashbrowns" but enjoyable nonetheless.
283KM is how far Hyderabad is from the town of Vijayawada. It would mean a long day of driving but we were confident that it was doable.
The pleasantness of the coastal National Highway 5, a well maintained toll road, were left far behind for the grueling mess they call National Highway 9. Were 5 had 4 lanes divided by a well-kept, flowering shrub planted median, 9 is only 2 lanes of opposing traffic, studded with potholes the like we hadn't seen since Tamil Nadu poor excuse for a road. Gone also were the curbs, helpful signage and a wide and safe shoulder in case you had to pull over.
It was an exhausting day of intense driving where we were run off the road many times by huge trucks. The traffic in Hyderabad to end the day was the worst we've driven in and may ever drive in.
The long day gave lots of time to think about India. It's time for a round 2 of India Universal Truths.
Laugh and the World Laughs with You....
So while looking over some of my running commentary I realized that while ingeniously funny, It's also somewhat sarcastic and ever so slightly dark, which is not the main impression I mean to leave with you about this place.
The thing you realize about India, rather quickly I might add, is if you are not laughing with her, She's laughing at you. I don't mind playing the fool back in the states from time to time, (ok, most of the time), but out here you've got to be in on the joke or you're going to get left behind.
I also feel a bit too close to all of this right now to have any sort of perspective, so I'm looking forward, when getting home and decompressing, to read Anthony's very good (and thorough) reporting of our trip. As it is, right now, I can barely remember yesterday let alone what we did 2 weeks ago. I think only then will I be able to truely grasp what it is we have accomplished here; what I take with me; and what I leave behind.
We still have a few days left and If I've learned anything about this place it's that anything can happen at any time so I'm sure I'll be back to my ridiculously briliant and, of course, witty banter in no time.
from Hyderabad
Adam
The thing you realize about India, rather quickly I might add, is if you are not laughing with her, She's laughing at you. I don't mind playing the fool back in the states from time to time, (ok, most of the time), but out here you've got to be in on the joke or you're going to get left behind.
I also feel a bit too close to all of this right now to have any sort of perspective, so I'm looking forward, when getting home and decompressing, to read Anthony's very good (and thorough) reporting of our trip. As it is, right now, I can barely remember yesterday let alone what we did 2 weeks ago. I think only then will I be able to truely grasp what it is we have accomplished here; what I take with me; and what I leave behind.
We still have a few days left and If I've learned anything about this place it's that anything can happen at any time so I'm sure I'll be back to my ridiculously briliant and, of course, witty banter in no time.
from Hyderabad
Adam
Monday, January 8, 2007
Day 15: Temples and Bananas
Day 15
We decided to head out in the morning and check out one of the area holy places.
Undavalli is supposed to be a place with caves were monks lived in the 2nd or 3rd century BC. There was supposed to be a large stature of a recligning Shiva there also.
It took some finding with narrow back roads through little villages and up a rocky hill. We found a guy that seemed to understand more of our intent from our sign language and poor pronunciation then most of the locals. It occurred to him that we'd be continuing to stop for directions as we made our way and to help he wrote down the temple name in Telagu for us. We'd roll up to someone, say "Undavalli" which left them dumb founded. Showing them the written name brought instant recognition. This is a good system.
The temple was simple and amazing. We had some trouble getting the gear in as the guard seemed to be saying that we'd need permission from the Archaeological Division on Hyderabad. Knowing India that would take years. We paid a digital video entrance fine and he waved us through.
The temple was little more then a series of shallow caves, hollowed out into sleeping cubby holes with 3 foot square pillars between them. There were multiple levels in the slopping side of the rocky hilltop. The upper level was a little deeper creating a pillared hallway with a small gated room on the side.
There for a small donation, a care taker would tell you about the statue of Shiva taking up most of the room. Shiva was about 25 feet long, 5 foot wide and 4 feet tall. The statue was lying on it's back with angels and other gods around carved out of the wall. Flowers and offering were sprinkled all around. The care taker presented you with a small bowl of bright red powder at the end and you placed a thumb print in the middle of your forehead. It was amazing.
This was our first really spiritual place and aside from the ever present smell of urine, it was very calming. From the archways in the cave entrances you could see for hundreds of kilometers to the neighboring hilltops, past fields of rice, bananas, palm trees and grass. Water buffalo and goats were just dots grazing in the squares of green.
Just off to one side was a small creek where women in bright saris were beating clothes clean on the rocks.
We got some photos and some video work here and decided to head on down to the creek. Maybe we could get Michael washing his sport coat in the water.
Turns out a local sewer pipe runs past and was leaking right were the women were washing clothes. It had the smell and look of instant plague so we decided Michael shouldn't get in the water, no matter how dedicated to his art that we was.
Just then some older men came up the road and posed for some pictures. They were really enthusiastic about it and got super excited when we gave them a polaroid of themselves. They kept motion up the road and insisting that we go with them.
Our learned tactic of saying "next time" didn't work and we follow them with their leader sitting next to Adam in the driver's seat of the rickshaw.
We weren't going to join them in homemade whiskey as we'd been offered before, thankfully. Instead we went to this guys grove of banana trees. It was incredible. None of us had seen banana trees up close and they created a shady world underneath their perfectly spaced leaves.
We decided to try another photo and came up with the idea of Michael trying to reach up and take some bananas. Another local that was watching was carrying his curved blade hand scythe and we got our banana grower to hold it menancingly. Despite the language barrier, our banana guy "got it" quickly and even added a head wrap to his costume for effect. The hardest part was keeping everyone from laughing.
This shoot should be fantastically funny and went on to prove to us that you can't plan anything in India. You just show up ready for something and go with what presents itself.
That proved itself true again in the evening as we went up to the Indrakilla Hill temple on the western edge of the city. Up top we found out you couldn't shoot at the temple. It was packed with devotees, monks and tourists and we naturally got some attention when we set up at the end of the parking lot.
We'd thought that it wouldn't be a total loss as we had a spectacular view of the city and the sunset. We got some shots and Adam captured some video of some monks all in black. I think the monks are in it for life as they had numerous small boys in training with them. They were black robes and avoid cutting their hair and beards. They have white rectangles painted on their forheads with yellow and red spots in the middle. They look quite dramatic. Living a sheltered monastic life they were very taken in by the photo gear.
Right then a whole procession of them came walking down the hill chanting. One of their fellow monks told me to take a picture. They saw the camera and got really, really excited. The whole procession ran down to us and we did a series of group shots with the cityscape as background. I even shot some digital stuff with my small camera. The screen turns around on mine so I let them see themselves as I shot. They were like little kids, yelling and pointing in wonder at themselves on the tiny screen.
Afterwards we got many, many thanks and they lined up and all shook my hand. It was humbling.
Another successful day in India.
Anthony //
We decided to head out in the morning and check out one of the area holy places.
Undavalli is supposed to be a place with caves were monks lived in the 2nd or 3rd century BC. There was supposed to be a large stature of a recligning Shiva there also.
It took some finding with narrow back roads through little villages and up a rocky hill. We found a guy that seemed to understand more of our intent from our sign language and poor pronunciation then most of the locals. It occurred to him that we'd be continuing to stop for directions as we made our way and to help he wrote down the temple name in Telagu for us. We'd roll up to someone, say "Undavalli" which left them dumb founded. Showing them the written name brought instant recognition. This is a good system.
The temple was simple and amazing. We had some trouble getting the gear in as the guard seemed to be saying that we'd need permission from the Archaeological Division on Hyderabad. Knowing India that would take years. We paid a digital video entrance fine and he waved us through.
The temple was little more then a series of shallow caves, hollowed out into sleeping cubby holes with 3 foot square pillars between them. There were multiple levels in the slopping side of the rocky hilltop. The upper level was a little deeper creating a pillared hallway with a small gated room on the side.
There for a small donation, a care taker would tell you about the statue of Shiva taking up most of the room. Shiva was about 25 feet long, 5 foot wide and 4 feet tall. The statue was lying on it's back with angels and other gods around carved out of the wall. Flowers and offering were sprinkled all around. The care taker presented you with a small bowl of bright red powder at the end and you placed a thumb print in the middle of your forehead. It was amazing.
This was our first really spiritual place and aside from the ever present smell of urine, it was very calming. From the archways in the cave entrances you could see for hundreds of kilometers to the neighboring hilltops, past fields of rice, bananas, palm trees and grass. Water buffalo and goats were just dots grazing in the squares of green.
Just off to one side was a small creek where women in bright saris were beating clothes clean on the rocks.
We got some photos and some video work here and decided to head on down to the creek. Maybe we could get Michael washing his sport coat in the water.
Turns out a local sewer pipe runs past and was leaking right were the women were washing clothes. It had the smell and look of instant plague so we decided Michael shouldn't get in the water, no matter how dedicated to his art that we was.
Just then some older men came up the road and posed for some pictures. They were really enthusiastic about it and got super excited when we gave them a polaroid of themselves. They kept motion up the road and insisting that we go with them.
Our learned tactic of saying "next time" didn't work and we follow them with their leader sitting next to Adam in the driver's seat of the rickshaw.
We weren't going to join them in homemade whiskey as we'd been offered before, thankfully. Instead we went to this guys grove of banana trees. It was incredible. None of us had seen banana trees up close and they created a shady world underneath their perfectly spaced leaves.
We decided to try another photo and came up with the idea of Michael trying to reach up and take some bananas. Another local that was watching was carrying his curved blade hand scythe and we got our banana grower to hold it menancingly. Despite the language barrier, our banana guy "got it" quickly and even added a head wrap to his costume for effect. The hardest part was keeping everyone from laughing.
This shoot should be fantastically funny and went on to prove to us that you can't plan anything in India. You just show up ready for something and go with what presents itself.
That proved itself true again in the evening as we went up to the Indrakilla Hill temple on the western edge of the city. Up top we found out you couldn't shoot at the temple. It was packed with devotees, monks and tourists and we naturally got some attention when we set up at the end of the parking lot.
We'd thought that it wouldn't be a total loss as we had a spectacular view of the city and the sunset. We got some shots and Adam captured some video of some monks all in black. I think the monks are in it for life as they had numerous small boys in training with them. They were black robes and avoid cutting their hair and beards. They have white rectangles painted on their forheads with yellow and red spots in the middle. They look quite dramatic. Living a sheltered monastic life they were very taken in by the photo gear.
Right then a whole procession of them came walking down the hill chanting. One of their fellow monks told me to take a picture. They saw the camera and got really, really excited. The whole procession ran down to us and we did a series of group shots with the cityscape as background. I even shot some digital stuff with my small camera. The screen turns around on mine so I let them see themselves as I shot. They were like little kids, yelling and pointing in wonder at themselves on the tiny screen.
Afterwards we got many, many thanks and they lined up and all shook my hand. It was humbling.
Another successful day in India.
Anthony //
Day 14: on to Vijayawada
Day 14
January 7th, Sunday. You get completely disoriented traveling through India like this. We were confused that some stores were closed and didn't realize that it was Sunday for quite a while. I couldn't have told you the date.
We got up early anxious to get a traffic shot accomplished before the rush of the day really got to full swing. Michael and I needed some coffee and braved the restaurant off the lobby in our hotel. It was a popular in the morning as in the evening with the locals so that was a good sign. You just had to try and ignore the dirt everywhere.
There were small round tables, high enough for you to stand and drink a small coffee. Like the India version of the cortado in Spain - a quick, small, strong morning coffee. You had to go to a small desk on one side and pay a guy 5 rupees for a ticket. You then took the ticket to the other side to a guy at a waiter's stand and the coffee. India loves paperwork.
The stand was a large aluminum table with high sides. It was covered with various puddles, goblets, pitchers and such.
You hand him the tickets and he fishes out small dirty espresso-sized glasses from a big plastic tub. He rinses them in a dirty bucket, sets them on the aluminum table and then fills them to overflowing with boiling water. I waits for 45 seconds, dumps the water then adds fresh, tar black coffee.
The pouring of the coffee begins with a back and forth frothing in aluminum pitchers. The froth is achieved by pouring the coffee from the height of a full arms length to the a pitcher held low. This happens a couple of times and then into your cup. Some milk and a spoonful of the froth and you are good to go.
We liked it so much, we had 2. Lack of coffee has been one of the many challenges on this trip. We've been managing so far, but recent coffee availability has made our need even greater. In the beginning you couldn't get coffee or we didn't trust it. Now we can get it usually in our hotel, but never on the road. We purchased a small electric pitcher that boils water. This will be our back up plan if things look grim.
Now caffinated we grabbed Adam and all the photo gear and piled them into the unpainted Rickshaw. The idea was that we'd set up shop in the middle of a traffic circle and get Michael driving around and around it. I didn't think it was possible, but Michael was sure that we'd be in and out before anyone really caught on.
Unrequested by us, the Rickshaws had been washed in the early morning neccessitating just one of the many, many ways we have to give up Rupees in this country. Not only will someone do something that you didn't ask for or want and demand a "tip". They'll also tell you the tip was too little. It happens all the time.
The repressed anger gets worked out as Rickshaw road rage.
We had the perfect traffic circle in mind right near our hotel. It had a median leading to it on one side and allowed for partial cover for out gear. We started to set up the light and people started to crowd. Just parking the rickshaw at this point draws a crowd of cabbies. They have rickshaws in town that are Bajaj, but they are yellow and diesel. Ours is black. For the locals rickshaw jockies it looks to have landed from outer space and provides no end of fascination. They pull up next to us or stick half their body inside ours and all ask the same question, "diesel? petrol?".
We've answered this question so many times that we often resort to a preemptive strike. When a cabbie pulls up next to us we just start saying and pointing down to the rickshaw, "petrol, petrol, Kerla, Cochin." It seems to satisfy most of them. They give a once over, look at us, our stuff and you can see the questions swimming around in their minds. If we follow it up with, "English?" it usually ends the interaction as everyone only speaks Telagu.
The crowd was getting big and cabbies were slowing down in the middle of the driving circle to get a look at what was going on. We were going to cause a major accident. Just wrangling the crowd was hard enough much less trying to shoot Michael who was driving around and around. I had to wait until he was right in the right spot for the strobe to hit him correctly. Someone always choose just then to walk out from the sides, bend over and look right in the lens trying to figure out what it was. People would run across the street, stop ox carts, push in besides me. It was madness.
Meanwhile hundreds of speeding vehicles were zooming past in every direction, all honking at once.
Final the cops showed up and started yelling at the crowd and making threatening gestures. People started yelling back. We were on the verge of riot in the middle of the road. We literally picked everything up, not bother to close it down and pack it, ran across the street into our rickshaws and sped off.
I managed to get about 4 frames off. We'll see if it comes out.
After packing up and checking out of the hotel, we drove straight through to Vijayawada, stopping only to get more Petrol and oil. Vijayawada is a big, ancient town on the banks of the Krishna River. There are lots of ruins, temples and history here so we are hoping to get some photos of the spiritual and quiet side of India that we'd been lacking so far.
Our quide books recommend one hotel, the Quality Inn DV Manor. We missed it on our way into town and drove around for a long time. Eventually we hired another rickshaw and after he attempted to take us to a different hotel, probably where he'd get a kick-back for the business, we made it to our destination.
The logo looks just like the Quality Inn chain in the US. Exactly. It has nothing to do with them though. Trademark laws here are rather soft.
Settled in our 3rd story room we noticed out the window a huge square hole in the road. It looks like they dug it to get to a pipe and left it open for months. The piles of dirt around it had very tall weeds that had taken root some time before.
It seemed like it would be funny to try to get a shot out the window with Michael in the hole and traffic going around him.
We managed to get it set with Adam manning the light at street level and with me on the camera up and out the window. The lack of a clearly visible camera confused people and we only drew limited crowds.
Some begger children (they are omnipresent in the large cities) somehow noticed me hanging out the window. Not getting satisfaction from Adam and Michael, they were attempting to beg from me, three stories up. If not for the caste system, that kind of go-gettedness could take them far.
We got the shot and broke down for an early dinner. The restaurant wasn't open yet so we order from room service. We hadn't eaten all day and it was some of the best Indian food we'd had so far.
January 7th, Sunday. You get completely disoriented traveling through India like this. We were confused that some stores were closed and didn't realize that it was Sunday for quite a while. I couldn't have told you the date.
We got up early anxious to get a traffic shot accomplished before the rush of the day really got to full swing. Michael and I needed some coffee and braved the restaurant off the lobby in our hotel. It was a popular in the morning as in the evening with the locals so that was a good sign. You just had to try and ignore the dirt everywhere.
There were small round tables, high enough for you to stand and drink a small coffee. Like the India version of the cortado in Spain - a quick, small, strong morning coffee. You had to go to a small desk on one side and pay a guy 5 rupees for a ticket. You then took the ticket to the other side to a guy at a waiter's stand and the coffee. India loves paperwork.
The stand was a large aluminum table with high sides. It was covered with various puddles, goblets, pitchers and such.
You hand him the tickets and he fishes out small dirty espresso-sized glasses from a big plastic tub. He rinses them in a dirty bucket, sets them on the aluminum table and then fills them to overflowing with boiling water. I waits for 45 seconds, dumps the water then adds fresh, tar black coffee.
The pouring of the coffee begins with a back and forth frothing in aluminum pitchers. The froth is achieved by pouring the coffee from the height of a full arms length to the a pitcher held low. This happens a couple of times and then into your cup. Some milk and a spoonful of the froth and you are good to go.
We liked it so much, we had 2. Lack of coffee has been one of the many challenges on this trip. We've been managing so far, but recent coffee availability has made our need even greater. In the beginning you couldn't get coffee or we didn't trust it. Now we can get it usually in our hotel, but never on the road. We purchased a small electric pitcher that boils water. This will be our back up plan if things look grim.
Now caffinated we grabbed Adam and all the photo gear and piled them into the unpainted Rickshaw. The idea was that we'd set up shop in the middle of a traffic circle and get Michael driving around and around it. I didn't think it was possible, but Michael was sure that we'd be in and out before anyone really caught on.
Unrequested by us, the Rickshaws had been washed in the early morning neccessitating just one of the many, many ways we have to give up Rupees in this country. Not only will someone do something that you didn't ask for or want and demand a "tip". They'll also tell you the tip was too little. It happens all the time.
The repressed anger gets worked out as Rickshaw road rage.
We had the perfect traffic circle in mind right near our hotel. It had a median leading to it on one side and allowed for partial cover for out gear. We started to set up the light and people started to crowd. Just parking the rickshaw at this point draws a crowd of cabbies. They have rickshaws in town that are Bajaj, but they are yellow and diesel. Ours is black. For the locals rickshaw jockies it looks to have landed from outer space and provides no end of fascination. They pull up next to us or stick half their body inside ours and all ask the same question, "diesel? petrol?".
We've answered this question so many times that we often resort to a preemptive strike. When a cabbie pulls up next to us we just start saying and pointing down to the rickshaw, "petrol, petrol, Kerla, Cochin." It seems to satisfy most of them. They give a once over, look at us, our stuff and you can see the questions swimming around in their minds. If we follow it up with, "English?" it usually ends the interaction as everyone only speaks Telagu.
The crowd was getting big and cabbies were slowing down in the middle of the driving circle to get a look at what was going on. We were going to cause a major accident. Just wrangling the crowd was hard enough much less trying to shoot Michael who was driving around and around. I had to wait until he was right in the right spot for the strobe to hit him correctly. Someone always choose just then to walk out from the sides, bend over and look right in the lens trying to figure out what it was. People would run across the street, stop ox carts, push in besides me. It was madness.
Meanwhile hundreds of speeding vehicles were zooming past in every direction, all honking at once.
Final the cops showed up and started yelling at the crowd and making threatening gestures. People started yelling back. We were on the verge of riot in the middle of the road. We literally picked everything up, not bother to close it down and pack it, ran across the street into our rickshaws and sped off.
I managed to get about 4 frames off. We'll see if it comes out.
After packing up and checking out of the hotel, we drove straight through to Vijayawada, stopping only to get more Petrol and oil. Vijayawada is a big, ancient town on the banks of the Krishna River. There are lots of ruins, temples and history here so we are hoping to get some photos of the spiritual and quiet side of India that we'd been lacking so far.
Our quide books recommend one hotel, the Quality Inn DV Manor. We missed it on our way into town and drove around for a long time. Eventually we hired another rickshaw and after he attempted to take us to a different hotel, probably where he'd get a kick-back for the business, we made it to our destination.
The logo looks just like the Quality Inn chain in the US. Exactly. It has nothing to do with them though. Trademark laws here are rather soft.
Settled in our 3rd story room we noticed out the window a huge square hole in the road. It looks like they dug it to get to a pipe and left it open for months. The piles of dirt around it had very tall weeds that had taken root some time before.
It seemed like it would be funny to try to get a shot out the window with Michael in the hole and traffic going around him.
We managed to get it set with Adam manning the light at street level and with me on the camera up and out the window. The lack of a clearly visible camera confused people and we only drew limited crowds.
Some begger children (they are omnipresent in the large cities) somehow noticed me hanging out the window. Not getting satisfaction from Adam and Michael, they were attempting to beg from me, three stories up. If not for the caste system, that kind of go-gettedness could take them far.
We got the shot and broke down for an early dinner. The restaurant wasn't open yet so we order from room service. We hadn't eaten all day and it was some of the best Indian food we'd had so far.
Day 13: Nellore to Ongale
Day 13
We remembered passing some temple looking stuff on the way into town and decided to get up really early to get the sunrise.
The Hayward's 5000 has turned out to be a poor choice before bed. It makes you feel like you drank a 40 of Olde English. Since OE is one of my brands I work on for Miller, I'd know just how unpleasant that is. This was similar.
Getting up at 5am to drive a rickshaw out to remote India isn't a hangover cure, but it had to do.
We found an large archway leading to a temple city of Padarupalle, just off the highway. The archway was really ornate with golded statues on it. The best is that it was in a remote location with limited gawker potential.
Lights and cameras could draw a crowd on a mountain top. All you have to do is start to set up and people crawl out from under rocks, I swear. You start to feel like what it must be like to be a celebrity. We virtually are anywhere we go here. People crowd around and want to shake you hand and ask you questions. I feel like Brad Pitt. At least people aren't quoting clips from one of my movies to me.
We struggled to figure out just the right set up for the archway and ended up with a panaramic shot of the rickshaw and Michael under one side. The set up took too much time and the new morning golden orb came up and behind a smog bank before we could even get one shot off. Dang.
The clouds and sky were still nice so me managed to get something. Not as nice as the sunrise itself, but dawn nonetheless.
From Nellore we traveled north to Ongale. We have a good system down were we shoot in the morning or afternoon coupled with 3-4 hours of driving. At this clip we'll have loads of stuff photographed and still be making the 150km per day that each major city seems to be spaced apart.
We noticed on the map that there might be a lighthouse near the coast just off the highway. I a suitable looking dirt road we made a turn and headed towards the water. The "road" took us right through a small village and the looks we got were stunning. Stunned might be a better term.
After a kilometer of dirt road our way suddenly turned to asphalt. There was an abanodoned looking cemetary and some cows milling about. We eventually came upon an old Baptist Missionary outpost and then the road turned back to red dirt. The high desert dirt here looks like the prairie west of Austin, Texas.
Our dirt road took us over a canal and into another town. The folks here hadn't seen the likes of us in quite a while. They were stopping in their tracks to watch us past.
We made it to the light house only to discover the compound was locked a big sign said No Photos. We took the hint and back-tracked through the village.
Michael thought it might be nice to get a remote shot there so we stopped and set up shop in front of a makeshift restaurant. There was a thatched roofed porch with a pay phone nearby that looked good and also a hand illustrated sign in front of the restaurant. The text was in Telugu but the picture was of a man getting his leg chewed by a stray dog. We think it was to discourage the locals from throwing scraps to the mutts.
The whole town came out to see what was up. Well the men that is. And the 60 odd children. We ended up giving away some polaroids and making folks happy. It made the shoot really easy. The kids really got into it, hamming it up for the camera. Michael was a natural with getting them all to participate. In the end we made some good friends and I gave a ride to 20 or so of the local urchins hanging from my rickshaw.
The local big-whig tried to invite us to his home for some homemade whiskey. Fearing blindness or getting a case of the "jake-walk" blues (google it), we gracefully promised on our next time through town.
It made for a good afternoon.
From there we took to Ongale as fast as we could.
Ongale is a crowded city and we struggled as usual to find a place. We finally settled on a Hotel Mourya. I mean settled in all forms of the word. Hotel Mourya was the best of the worst. We'd stayed in dirtier.
We usually enter the room quickly size it up, all saying, "this is not so bad." After killing all the things that are moving in various corners, we clean up and get some dinner. Tonight was no exception.
Everyone was dead from the early morning shoot, so they crashed.
I went out for another late night walk as I like to do. I didn't bring my camera this time for some reason. I'm still regretting it.
The night time is the best time for walking around. There aren't many street lights to speak of and people can't really see you. No mobbing happens as a result. The streets are lit from the open store fronts and headlights from the thousands of vehicles swarming around. You can get right up and close to all the action, petting cows, dodging dogs and hopping over burning trash.
There is always 10 feet of dusting dirt, debry and sleeping animals between the asphalt of the road and the steps over the sewage into stores. Most roads are covered with people with carts selling stuff too. Bikes will be piled with bananas, mangoes, coconuts that they will be chopping the tops off with machetes so you can drink the milk. Guys with carts will have a little fire going on a metal plate and will be roasting corn cobs directly on the embers. This is corn and banana country. People will be crowded around carts cooking all sorts of interesting smelling stuff. Rotis, vadas, naans, chappatis all being made fresh. Nuts being roasted with spices and served hot in a newspaper cone. Men will be squating on the ground or sitting on make shift benches eating rice masala off banana leaves.
The little stores are 3-sided openings, all not much more then 8 feet wide with a small counter streetside. At night they roll down metal grates and over the front. There are little convenience like stores selling basics, matches, cigarettes and drinks. There are also every kind of store imaginable from pharmacies, tire repair shops, mechanics, butchers, cloth, plastic pails, rice or religious stores.
Every so often you come across a store that looks like it landed right there from a mall. Glass front, gleeming lights, wide front full of electronics. It's disconcerting to see these shops next to everything else. It especially weird to go into a clean, modern store having to step over rubble, burning trash and navigate sleeping bulls and chittering monkeys.
We remembered passing some temple looking stuff on the way into town and decided to get up really early to get the sunrise.
The Hayward's 5000 has turned out to be a poor choice before bed. It makes you feel like you drank a 40 of Olde English. Since OE is one of my brands I work on for Miller, I'd know just how unpleasant that is. This was similar.
Getting up at 5am to drive a rickshaw out to remote India isn't a hangover cure, but it had to do.
We found an large archway leading to a temple city of Padarupalle, just off the highway. The archway was really ornate with golded statues on it. The best is that it was in a remote location with limited gawker potential.
Lights and cameras could draw a crowd on a mountain top. All you have to do is start to set up and people crawl out from under rocks, I swear. You start to feel like what it must be like to be a celebrity. We virtually are anywhere we go here. People crowd around and want to shake you hand and ask you questions. I feel like Brad Pitt. At least people aren't quoting clips from one of my movies to me.
We struggled to figure out just the right set up for the archway and ended up with a panaramic shot of the rickshaw and Michael under one side. The set up took too much time and the new morning golden orb came up and behind a smog bank before we could even get one shot off. Dang.
The clouds and sky were still nice so me managed to get something. Not as nice as the sunrise itself, but dawn nonetheless.
From Nellore we traveled north to Ongale. We have a good system down were we shoot in the morning or afternoon coupled with 3-4 hours of driving. At this clip we'll have loads of stuff photographed and still be making the 150km per day that each major city seems to be spaced apart.
We noticed on the map that there might be a lighthouse near the coast just off the highway. I a suitable looking dirt road we made a turn and headed towards the water. The "road" took us right through a small village and the looks we got were stunning. Stunned might be a better term.
After a kilometer of dirt road our way suddenly turned to asphalt. There was an abanodoned looking cemetary and some cows milling about. We eventually came upon an old Baptist Missionary outpost and then the road turned back to red dirt. The high desert dirt here looks like the prairie west of Austin, Texas.
Our dirt road took us over a canal and into another town. The folks here hadn't seen the likes of us in quite a while. They were stopping in their tracks to watch us past.
We made it to the light house only to discover the compound was locked a big sign said No Photos. We took the hint and back-tracked through the village.
Michael thought it might be nice to get a remote shot there so we stopped and set up shop in front of a makeshift restaurant. There was a thatched roofed porch with a pay phone nearby that looked good and also a hand illustrated sign in front of the restaurant. The text was in Telugu but the picture was of a man getting his leg chewed by a stray dog. We think it was to discourage the locals from throwing scraps to the mutts.
The whole town came out to see what was up. Well the men that is. And the 60 odd children. We ended up giving away some polaroids and making folks happy. It made the shoot really easy. The kids really got into it, hamming it up for the camera. Michael was a natural with getting them all to participate. In the end we made some good friends and I gave a ride to 20 or so of the local urchins hanging from my rickshaw.
The local big-whig tried to invite us to his home for some homemade whiskey. Fearing blindness or getting a case of the "jake-walk" blues (google it), we gracefully promised on our next time through town.
It made for a good afternoon.
From there we took to Ongale as fast as we could.
Ongale is a crowded city and we struggled as usual to find a place. We finally settled on a Hotel Mourya. I mean settled in all forms of the word. Hotel Mourya was the best of the worst. We'd stayed in dirtier.
We usually enter the room quickly size it up, all saying, "this is not so bad." After killing all the things that are moving in various corners, we clean up and get some dinner. Tonight was no exception.
Everyone was dead from the early morning shoot, so they crashed.
I went out for another late night walk as I like to do. I didn't bring my camera this time for some reason. I'm still regretting it.
The night time is the best time for walking around. There aren't many street lights to speak of and people can't really see you. No mobbing happens as a result. The streets are lit from the open store fronts and headlights from the thousands of vehicles swarming around. You can get right up and close to all the action, petting cows, dodging dogs and hopping over burning trash.
There is always 10 feet of dusting dirt, debry and sleeping animals between the asphalt of the road and the steps over the sewage into stores. Most roads are covered with people with carts selling stuff too. Bikes will be piled with bananas, mangoes, coconuts that they will be chopping the tops off with machetes so you can drink the milk. Guys with carts will have a little fire going on a metal plate and will be roasting corn cobs directly on the embers. This is corn and banana country. People will be crowded around carts cooking all sorts of interesting smelling stuff. Rotis, vadas, naans, chappatis all being made fresh. Nuts being roasted with spices and served hot in a newspaper cone. Men will be squating on the ground or sitting on make shift benches eating rice masala off banana leaves.
The little stores are 3-sided openings, all not much more then 8 feet wide with a small counter streetside. At night they roll down metal grates and over the front. There are little convenience like stores selling basics, matches, cigarettes and drinks. There are also every kind of store imaginable from pharmacies, tire repair shops, mechanics, butchers, cloth, plastic pails, rice or religious stores.
Every so often you come across a store that looks like it landed right there from a mall. Glass front, gleeming lights, wide front full of electronics. It's disconcerting to see these shops next to everything else. It especially weird to go into a clean, modern store having to step over rubble, burning trash and navigate sleeping bulls and chittering monkeys.
Day 11-12: Chennai and All It's Glory
Day 11:
We set out early to walk around and scout out shooting something around town. Maybe something at the local music and dance school that on our map appeared to be nearby.
Our cabbie from the night before seemingly slept in his cab and was waiting for us. We told him that we were going to walk around and wouldn't be needing him. He looked liked we had slapped his grandmother.
We walked and walked and eventually got a cab to take us to the school. It was farther then we'd thought and we couldn't figure out which street was which since there are no signs anywhere.
The school indeed was there and was wrapping up a recital of traditional song and dance. They let us go inside and watch the end of the performance.
It was the traditional stuff you've seen on TV and would expect to see here. The musicians/singers were Ph.D's in traditional music so we got to see really the finest examples of the regions music.
We had a great idea to get some dance students on a stage showing Michael some moves, but with some asking around found out that it would be impossible.
After leaving, we caught a cab to go back to the hotel. The cabbie didn't speak English and was looking confused. Another cabbie pulled up and his eyes went wide when he saw us. He threw the passengers out of his cab, passing them off to the cabbie that didn't speak English. He wanted to be our cab driver and have the chance to take our Rupees.
The whole way back to the hotel he told us how he spoke good English (he didn't) and how after returning to our hotel, he'd wait for us, all night if need be, to take us to all the tourist places. He promised we'd go to the museums and even the beach.
We told him that we didn't want a cabbie and that we had our own rickshaws. This sounded like a bold-faced lie to him and he insisted he would be our cabbie as long as we were in town.
We firmly told him "no" an asked what it would cost to go to our hotel. He replied, "as you like" and said that after driving us around for 2 days we could decide what to pay him.
We again firmly said no, that we were going to get our cameras and rickshaws and wouldn't be needing a driver. We just wanted the price to our hotel.
Again he tried the, "as you like" trick and we told him to stop and threatened to leap from the moving vehicle.
Dejectedly he said 60 Rs. but insisted that he was a good driver and wanted to be our driver.
Luckily he let us out around the corner from our hotel and we avoided what would have certainly been an all-out cabbie fight to be our guy. People desperately want your money in this town.
We walked up to the hotel our cabbie friend walked over looking hurt that he'd waited all morning for us and we weren't taking his cab. We explained that we had our own rickshaws that he'd seen the night before and he suggested that we'd need a guide and he'd tag along for a couple of days. We again said no, we were fine without him.
We loaded our gear and got ready to head out to the local Snake Park to see what action was there. The area also had numerous other sites including the famous MGR movie studio where many of India's films are shot.
Our cabbie was there again suggesting that he could be our guide. I turned tables on him and told him that I had driven over a 1000 kilometers on my own. Was he suggestiong I wasn't a good driver? This left him speechless. The small twist in logic and his poor English left him unable to navigate a way out.
We were official through with him.
Getting to snake park was difficult. Chennai's roads are the worst anywhere. The traffic is unlike anything you can imagine. I don't care how bad the roads are that you've seen somewhere else - Chennai is worse. Times 2.
The Snake Park was sad. Like a north Florida snake sideshow on it's last leg. We nearly couldn't find anything to shoot.
It just so happens that the cobras are brought out into a small enclosure surrounded with seats protected by glass. A crowd was gathering and we quickly set up the gear. We wanted to get a shot of Michael on the opposite side, looking in at the snake handler.
The cobra came out and the crowd roared. The snake looked as bored as we felt and the show was over before we could get more then a couple shots off.
We didn't make it back to the hotel for hours as navigating the insanity on the roads was more then just a 3-man job. Maybe we should have hired our enthusiastic friend after all.
Regardless, shooting in the city proved to be so much more difficult then the country that we decided to write all of Chennai off. The only reason we stuck it out in this town any longer was because Michael forgot his sport coat in Pondicherry and they were trying to figure out how to get it to us. Eventually Michael had to hire a cab to drive it to Chennai. The cab driver had to find driving a filthy coat 160KM his strangest fare.
Day 12
This our second day in the ugliest city on the planet.
We left town in the afternoon and made it to Nellore as fast as possible. We were lucky enough to get a white taxi car driver who knew of the 3-Star hotel called Dr. Uttanash's 3-Star Hotel. It turned out to be a hotel and restuarant management school and testing ground. It became obvious that everyone was still learning there.
This was another one of those places where the lobby is nice, the rooms okay and the bathrooms gross.
Strangely every drawer in our rooms had moth balls rolling about in them. There was even an individual ball in the sink drain. We surmised it wasn't in fact to stop a moth problem but instead to hide the mildew smell. Hotels in India are moldy.
We chucked all our moth balls and kept our door open to air the room out. We sadly couldn't open our window so had to settle for the stinky hallway air as second best.
Having plenty of light left in the day, we decided to get some video footage of Michael driving the rickshaw up a small, busy, store front lined street. This part of Nellore was the old part of town and stuffed with tiny roads going in every direction. We circled and circled the neighborhood, finally settling on one street.
We set up without much gawking and got some really nice footage of Michael driving up the street. It took a few loops around the block and while Adam was filming I walked around.
There was a printers row nearby and there were amazing looking letterpress shops lining the street. It was so cool.
We were exhausted from the long drive and the afternoon of work, we settled into the hotel bar. It was empty and really, really dark. India likes dark bars and extremely bright restaurants. There were only a few men there as is typical here.
Feeling like the dark would buy us some cover Michael went to retrieve his gear and try and do a bar shot.
By the time we got everything set up the place had filled with businessmen. After a few polaroid test shots the head waiter came over and said that customers were complaining thinking we were taking photographs of them in a bar. Apparantly this is illicit activity for some of them.
We gave him a test polaroid were you can really only see Michael and his beer with the background all black. We told him to show it around and assure people that we were only shooting ourselves. It worked.
That night I went for a long walk and found a distant internet cafe. By the time they closed and I was headed back to the hotel, all the other shops were closed. I thought I knew the way back, but everything looked different all closed up and dark. We'd driven so many of the streets that day that the few things I recognized, I could be sure I didn't from driving, not because the hotel was nearby.
Hours of walking later, I was in an area that I didn't recognize in anyway. It was really, really late and my larger and larger walking circles had made me more lost then I'd ever been before.
I sat down on the steps of a building to savor the feeling of being in a completely foreign land, unable to speak the language with no sense of where I was. To top it off I didn't remember the name of the hotel. It was a strange feeling.
After walking some more, I found a kindly looking old man with speckles. I told him I was looking for my hotel. He asked if I needed a hotel and I said I had one, just didn't know where it was.
Suddenly I remembered it had 3-Stars in it's name and it rung a bell with him. He said it was down the stree and take the first right. Eventually I would find it.
I thanked him and set off.
Not 100 yards later and he pulled up on a motorcycle. He just shook his head, smiled and said to get on. I happily did and he took me the 20 blocks to the hotel and in the back way. I'd wandered completely the wrong direction from where I thought I was and was only getting farther and farther away.
I thanked him profusely and tried to offer him some money. He flatly refused and told me to be careful. I would from now on, I promised.
We set out early to walk around and scout out shooting something around town. Maybe something at the local music and dance school that on our map appeared to be nearby.
Our cabbie from the night before seemingly slept in his cab and was waiting for us. We told him that we were going to walk around and wouldn't be needing him. He looked liked we had slapped his grandmother.
We walked and walked and eventually got a cab to take us to the school. It was farther then we'd thought and we couldn't figure out which street was which since there are no signs anywhere.
The school indeed was there and was wrapping up a recital of traditional song and dance. They let us go inside and watch the end of the performance.
It was the traditional stuff you've seen on TV and would expect to see here. The musicians/singers were Ph.D's in traditional music so we got to see really the finest examples of the regions music.
We had a great idea to get some dance students on a stage showing Michael some moves, but with some asking around found out that it would be impossible.
After leaving, we caught a cab to go back to the hotel. The cabbie didn't speak English and was looking confused. Another cabbie pulled up and his eyes went wide when he saw us. He threw the passengers out of his cab, passing them off to the cabbie that didn't speak English. He wanted to be our cab driver and have the chance to take our Rupees.
The whole way back to the hotel he told us how he spoke good English (he didn't) and how after returning to our hotel, he'd wait for us, all night if need be, to take us to all the tourist places. He promised we'd go to the museums and even the beach.
We told him that we didn't want a cabbie and that we had our own rickshaws. This sounded like a bold-faced lie to him and he insisted he would be our cabbie as long as we were in town.
We firmly told him "no" an asked what it would cost to go to our hotel. He replied, "as you like" and said that after driving us around for 2 days we could decide what to pay him.
We again firmly said no, that we were going to get our cameras and rickshaws and wouldn't be needing a driver. We just wanted the price to our hotel.
Again he tried the, "as you like" trick and we told him to stop and threatened to leap from the moving vehicle.
Dejectedly he said 60 Rs. but insisted that he was a good driver and wanted to be our driver.
Luckily he let us out around the corner from our hotel and we avoided what would have certainly been an all-out cabbie fight to be our guy. People desperately want your money in this town.
We walked up to the hotel our cabbie friend walked over looking hurt that he'd waited all morning for us and we weren't taking his cab. We explained that we had our own rickshaws that he'd seen the night before and he suggested that we'd need a guide and he'd tag along for a couple of days. We again said no, we were fine without him.
We loaded our gear and got ready to head out to the local Snake Park to see what action was there. The area also had numerous other sites including the famous MGR movie studio where many of India's films are shot.
Our cabbie was there again suggesting that he could be our guide. I turned tables on him and told him that I had driven over a 1000 kilometers on my own. Was he suggestiong I wasn't a good driver? This left him speechless. The small twist in logic and his poor English left him unable to navigate a way out.
We were official through with him.
Getting to snake park was difficult. Chennai's roads are the worst anywhere. The traffic is unlike anything you can imagine. I don't care how bad the roads are that you've seen somewhere else - Chennai is worse. Times 2.
The Snake Park was sad. Like a north Florida snake sideshow on it's last leg. We nearly couldn't find anything to shoot.
It just so happens that the cobras are brought out into a small enclosure surrounded with seats protected by glass. A crowd was gathering and we quickly set up the gear. We wanted to get a shot of Michael on the opposite side, looking in at the snake handler.
The cobra came out and the crowd roared. The snake looked as bored as we felt and the show was over before we could get more then a couple shots off.
We didn't make it back to the hotel for hours as navigating the insanity on the roads was more then just a 3-man job. Maybe we should have hired our enthusiastic friend after all.
Regardless, shooting in the city proved to be so much more difficult then the country that we decided to write all of Chennai off. The only reason we stuck it out in this town any longer was because Michael forgot his sport coat in Pondicherry and they were trying to figure out how to get it to us. Eventually Michael had to hire a cab to drive it to Chennai. The cab driver had to find driving a filthy coat 160KM his strangest fare.
Day 12
This our second day in the ugliest city on the planet.
We left town in the afternoon and made it to Nellore as fast as possible. We were lucky enough to get a white taxi car driver who knew of the 3-Star hotel called Dr. Uttanash's 3-Star Hotel. It turned out to be a hotel and restuarant management school and testing ground. It became obvious that everyone was still learning there.
This was another one of those places where the lobby is nice, the rooms okay and the bathrooms gross.
Strangely every drawer in our rooms had moth balls rolling about in them. There was even an individual ball in the sink drain. We surmised it wasn't in fact to stop a moth problem but instead to hide the mildew smell. Hotels in India are moldy.
We chucked all our moth balls and kept our door open to air the room out. We sadly couldn't open our window so had to settle for the stinky hallway air as second best.
Having plenty of light left in the day, we decided to get some video footage of Michael driving the rickshaw up a small, busy, store front lined street. This part of Nellore was the old part of town and stuffed with tiny roads going in every direction. We circled and circled the neighborhood, finally settling on one street.
We set up without much gawking and got some really nice footage of Michael driving up the street. It took a few loops around the block and while Adam was filming I walked around.
There was a printers row nearby and there were amazing looking letterpress shops lining the street. It was so cool.
We were exhausted from the long drive and the afternoon of work, we settled into the hotel bar. It was empty and really, really dark. India likes dark bars and extremely bright restaurants. There were only a few men there as is typical here.
Feeling like the dark would buy us some cover Michael went to retrieve his gear and try and do a bar shot.
By the time we got everything set up the place had filled with businessmen. After a few polaroid test shots the head waiter came over and said that customers were complaining thinking we were taking photographs of them in a bar. Apparantly this is illicit activity for some of them.
We gave him a test polaroid were you can really only see Michael and his beer with the background all black. We told him to show it around and assure people that we were only shooting ourselves. It worked.
That night I went for a long walk and found a distant internet cafe. By the time they closed and I was headed back to the hotel, all the other shops were closed. I thought I knew the way back, but everything looked different all closed up and dark. We'd driven so many of the streets that day that the few things I recognized, I could be sure I didn't from driving, not because the hotel was nearby.
Hours of walking later, I was in an area that I didn't recognize in anyway. It was really, really late and my larger and larger walking circles had made me more lost then I'd ever been before.
I sat down on the steps of a building to savor the feeling of being in a completely foreign land, unable to speak the language with no sense of where I was. To top it off I didn't remember the name of the hotel. It was a strange feeling.
After walking some more, I found a kindly looking old man with speckles. I told him I was looking for my hotel. He asked if I needed a hotel and I said I had one, just didn't know where it was.
Suddenly I remembered it had 3-Stars in it's name and it rung a bell with him. He said it was down the stree and take the first right. Eventually I would find it.
I thanked him and set off.
Not 100 yards later and he pulled up on a motorcycle. He just shook his head, smiled and said to get on. I happily did and he took me the 20 blocks to the hotel and in the back way. I'd wandered completely the wrong direction from where I thought I was and was only getting farther and farther away.
I thanked him profusely and tried to offer him some money. He flatly refused and told me to be careful. I would from now on, I promised.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
Day 10: Pondicherry to Chennai
Day 10
The hard part about staying in any part of India that comes close to resembling home or Western standards of hygience is that it gives you something to compare the rest of India to. Pondicherry, like all of Tamil Nadu so far, is disgusting. Once you leave the 3 blocks of "vintage" stuff, it is rank. The smells have been the worst in India.
The city is dense and poor. Even by India standards.
We got up early and wanted to get some shots on the beach at sunrise.
The fishing boats out in the Indian Ocean looked amazing at dawn. The beach had the first trash cans I've seen in this country. They are 3 foot tall white rabbits holding cans. They'd turn out to be a theme throughout Tamil Nadu and Andra Pradesh. What they do with the trash once it is in a trash can, I don't know. There is no trash service or trash dumps here. All trash in everywhere. On fire. I guess they burn it somewhere outside of the bunnies.
The beach is actually just big jagged black rocks. Even at dawn there was a good many people out. Many seemed to not have an "in" to go to, so the beach was as good as anywhere to be.
The cameras and lights were magnets as always. It was a little easier for this scene as the ocean was the backdrop. It meant less crowd rangling.
The second set up was for a shot with a sign. It was an iconic representation of a "no swimming" sign. I guess because you can catch the plague.
Micheal found some cheap water wings and a inflatable swim ring that we thought would be funny. This began the one of the more uncomfortable shots of the trip as we had Michael strip down to his undies and socks with the swimming paraphenalia. His boxers weren't made for this kind of action and the horse kept leaving the barn, if you know what I mean. The guide books mentioned that shorts might be considered offensive in some parts. I couldn't imagine what this would be considered - corporal punishable?
We lived.
I tried to hit the post office later in the morning to mail back a package of loot. In order to mail something you have to package it up. India doesn't have packaging stores. At least not where we were. They didn't even know what we were talking about. It took an hour, asking many people, to find a place that we could get our stuff sewn up into a cotton bundle.
Unfortunately the store, dubbed "Mother's Package Store" for al the nonEnglish speakers was closed until 10am.
Around the corner was a big Hindu temple, nestled amid a sea of stalls selling religious stuff, flowers and trinkettes, all packed into a narrow street.
In front of the temple was an elephant. A real, live, painted up in hindu style and adorned with brass bells, Indian elephant.
If you bought a mini banana or bunch of grass and gave it to the elephant, it would raise it's trunk, touching you on the head and "blessing" you. Naturally I did just that. It was amazing.
Mother's opened and we were asked to sit down out front and watch as our packages were bundled. The shop keeper assured us that our bundler was the fastest around. 35 minutes later we left for the post office with packages in hand.
The post office can only be discribed as contained anarchy. It is indicative of India - bureaucratic, ineffecient and dirty. There were 4 tellers at there posts with no signage as to what teller was responsible for what. They all had different assignments which you had to gather from the people yelling at them at moment. Lines existed but they were of a nebulous quality. The post office was shallow, so the distance from the tellers to the outer wall was about four feet. This doesne't allow for many of the 40 or so people trying to vye for the attention of any of the given tellers. Everyone somewhat started lining from each teller towards the right, diagonalish. This was hard since within 3 people you were infront of the next teller to the right, and there associate mob of customers. The layers of "lines" continued to the right until the far wall. About 30 feet. Where all heck broke loose. The last foot of free space was devoted to arguing and shoving.
To hold your place in line you had to press yourself against the four to six individuals surrounding you and try not to lose your place.
This was like nightmare Soviet bread line.
Michael gave up about half an hour into the shoving and waiting. I wasn't going down that easily.
Another 15 minutes later I realized that I was in the travel visa "line" but was easily able to "transition" to the line next to me without really losing any ground.
Finally I made it to the front. My joy was hard to contain. The to find a packaging store, the elephant blessing and getting my souvenirs sewn up in a pillow case was finally going to culminate in a successful posting.
I was way premature in my happiness.
To mail something internationaly you must fill out a form in duplicate. I steadfastly held my ground near the front, shoving and pushing, all the while managing to right the address, return address and fill out forms in duplicate.
Weighed with fee and forms ready, my tired postal worker decided to take a walk and chat with his coworkers for awhile.
This gave me time to really look about the place. There were cabinets stacks to over flowing, in some cases completely overfollowing on to the floor, with paperwork. India lives for paperwork. There were books and ledgers full of paper, crammed to the ceiling in every nook and on top of every cabinet. All covered with dust. India is drowning itself in bureaucratic nonsense.
My teller returned only to tell me that my forms must be pasted onto my pillowcase package for delivery. I asked him where I could get some paste and he looked at me like I road the short bus to the post office.
He didn't know or care. Probably at a paste store, if such a thing existed. All he knew is that it had to be that way and it wasn't going to happen right there holding up his line. "Next!"
I went back to the hotel, 1 hour older with my package under my arm. I still haven't successfully mailed it.
We decided to ditch Pondicherry and head for Chennai.
Entering Chennai was like driving into the pit of hell - at rush hour.
The air tasted like a moving bus full of monkeys on fire with your mouth on the tail pipe.
It doesn't get any harder then ending an exhausting, full day by risking your life and the lives of your teammates every 3 seconds in an auto rickshaw. Our nerves were completely frayed as we desperately tried to find a recognizable street sign.
India abhorrs street markers in favor instead of Bollywood movie billboards or advertising for jewelry. Road indictors of any kind aren't available. If they are in fact present, they are hidden in Tamil only.
Billboard and store signage is in English. Only the rich, which don't talk to rickshaw drivers like ourselves, understand English. Instructional signage is in the local language only, which makes perfect sense since only your cab driver needs to be able to read it.
This reality explains easily why we found ourselves going the wrong way on a crowded 4-lane city road. Even if it was the "wrong" way, as it was, but only during rush hour we discovered, everyone else here does it. The traffic cop at the intersection we stopped at didn't like it one bit. He started yelling at us in Tamil which probably would have scared the average auto rickshaw drivers.
As it was we only smiled and tried a diversion tactic by asking for the Grand Orient Hotel. He wasn't getting tricked so easily and started asking for our license and paperwork.
Switching gears we acknowledged our mistake and asked if there was a fine. This was where we were eventually heading it turned out and saved all parties involved a lot of hand gesturing and yelling. The cop appreciated this and after he heard us mention we were breaking laws in India for charity, dropped our fine down to 400 Rs. or about $8.
He took the first 200 Rs. and seemingly started to feel bad about fining the charity workers and didn't ask for the other half. He instead motioned us to go through the intersection as our hotel was just off to the left. He stopped many lanes of traffic and walked us through the intersection. Part way down the street we realized there was no side entrance to the Grand Orient and made a u-turn. Back at the intersection the cop came back and walked us up the wrong side of street to the front of the hotel. We had to make our way slowly since the street was pack with cars going the other way.
The irony of it all wasn't lost on him since we'd been fined for going the wrong way and now he was directing us to do the same.
At the front of the hotel, the resident auto rickshaw driver called our cop to task for letting us go the wrong way up the street. Our cop fined us another 200 Rs. for again breaking the rules. This makes about as much sense as it sounds.
Cop paid and gone, we started to unload as Michael booked us a room. My patience was shot and when the resident auto rickshaw taxi driver tried to make nice, I let him have all of my frustration. I pointed out that if he was so friendly and wanting to be pals with fellow rickshaw drivers, as he was saying, he wouldn't have had us fined again be the police.
He was outraged that I would suggest he was anything but honest and tried to get the bellhop to vouch for his character. The bellhop just rolled his eyes and walked away.
Despite directly asking him, this guy wouldn't go away until I acknowledged that I'd made a mistake and he was a brilliant fellow with a heart of gold. Anything to get inside and get some rest.
Later in the evening Michael and I decided we wanted to walk to a bar and have a couple of King Fischers. Our cabbie friend was waiting outside and gave me a hug, remembering our names and offering to take us anywhere we wanted.
What the heck we thought and gave him instructions to take us to a local bar. Nothing gross and nothing with loud techno and tourists at.
We ended up nearby at a all male bar with blasting techno and blue lights. The beer was cold and they served a bowl of hot beans as a bar snack on every table. We'd learn over time that this is typical of most bars.
Our cabby sat with us and had a Pepsi. The conversation was nonexistant even if we could have heard and the music was terrible so after one beer we split. The cabbie said that the next day he would be our personal guide taking us to all the tourist spots including the museums and the beach. He wouldn't hear about us not needing a guide as we were driving and going to go take photos. We switched to saying, "yes sure," as most guide books tell you to do and then planning on avoiding him the next day.
Anthony //
The hard part about staying in any part of India that comes close to resembling home or Western standards of hygience is that it gives you something to compare the rest of India to. Pondicherry, like all of Tamil Nadu so far, is disgusting. Once you leave the 3 blocks of "vintage" stuff, it is rank. The smells have been the worst in India.
The city is dense and poor. Even by India standards.
We got up early and wanted to get some shots on the beach at sunrise.
The fishing boats out in the Indian Ocean looked amazing at dawn. The beach had the first trash cans I've seen in this country. They are 3 foot tall white rabbits holding cans. They'd turn out to be a theme throughout Tamil Nadu and Andra Pradesh. What they do with the trash once it is in a trash can, I don't know. There is no trash service or trash dumps here. All trash in everywhere. On fire. I guess they burn it somewhere outside of the bunnies.
The beach is actually just big jagged black rocks. Even at dawn there was a good many people out. Many seemed to not have an "in" to go to, so the beach was as good as anywhere to be.
The cameras and lights were magnets as always. It was a little easier for this scene as the ocean was the backdrop. It meant less crowd rangling.
The second set up was for a shot with a sign. It was an iconic representation of a "no swimming" sign. I guess because you can catch the plague.
Micheal found some cheap water wings and a inflatable swim ring that we thought would be funny. This began the one of the more uncomfortable shots of the trip as we had Michael strip down to his undies and socks with the swimming paraphenalia. His boxers weren't made for this kind of action and the horse kept leaving the barn, if you know what I mean. The guide books mentioned that shorts might be considered offensive in some parts. I couldn't imagine what this would be considered - corporal punishable?
We lived.
I tried to hit the post office later in the morning to mail back a package of loot. In order to mail something you have to package it up. India doesn't have packaging stores. At least not where we were. They didn't even know what we were talking about. It took an hour, asking many people, to find a place that we could get our stuff sewn up into a cotton bundle.
Unfortunately the store, dubbed "Mother's Package Store" for al the nonEnglish speakers was closed until 10am.
Around the corner was a big Hindu temple, nestled amid a sea of stalls selling religious stuff, flowers and trinkettes, all packed into a narrow street.
In front of the temple was an elephant. A real, live, painted up in hindu style and adorned with brass bells, Indian elephant.
If you bought a mini banana or bunch of grass and gave it to the elephant, it would raise it's trunk, touching you on the head and "blessing" you. Naturally I did just that. It was amazing.
Mother's opened and we were asked to sit down out front and watch as our packages were bundled. The shop keeper assured us that our bundler was the fastest around. 35 minutes later we left for the post office with packages in hand.
The post office can only be discribed as contained anarchy. It is indicative of India - bureaucratic, ineffecient and dirty. There were 4 tellers at there posts with no signage as to what teller was responsible for what. They all had different assignments which you had to gather from the people yelling at them at moment. Lines existed but they were of a nebulous quality. The post office was shallow, so the distance from the tellers to the outer wall was about four feet. This doesne't allow for many of the 40 or so people trying to vye for the attention of any of the given tellers. Everyone somewhat started lining from each teller towards the right, diagonalish. This was hard since within 3 people you were infront of the next teller to the right, and there associate mob of customers. The layers of "lines" continued to the right until the far wall. About 30 feet. Where all heck broke loose. The last foot of free space was devoted to arguing and shoving.
To hold your place in line you had to press yourself against the four to six individuals surrounding you and try not to lose your place.
This was like nightmare Soviet bread line.
Michael gave up about half an hour into the shoving and waiting. I wasn't going down that easily.
Another 15 minutes later I realized that I was in the travel visa "line" but was easily able to "transition" to the line next to me without really losing any ground.
Finally I made it to the front. My joy was hard to contain. The to find a packaging store, the elephant blessing and getting my souvenirs sewn up in a pillow case was finally going to culminate in a successful posting.
I was way premature in my happiness.
To mail something internationaly you must fill out a form in duplicate. I steadfastly held my ground near the front, shoving and pushing, all the while managing to right the address, return address and fill out forms in duplicate.
Weighed with fee and forms ready, my tired postal worker decided to take a walk and chat with his coworkers for awhile.
This gave me time to really look about the place. There were cabinets stacks to over flowing, in some cases completely overfollowing on to the floor, with paperwork. India lives for paperwork. There were books and ledgers full of paper, crammed to the ceiling in every nook and on top of every cabinet. All covered with dust. India is drowning itself in bureaucratic nonsense.
My teller returned only to tell me that my forms must be pasted onto my pillowcase package for delivery. I asked him where I could get some paste and he looked at me like I road the short bus to the post office.
He didn't know or care. Probably at a paste store, if such a thing existed. All he knew is that it had to be that way and it wasn't going to happen right there holding up his line. "Next!"
I went back to the hotel, 1 hour older with my package under my arm. I still haven't successfully mailed it.
We decided to ditch Pondicherry and head for Chennai.
Entering Chennai was like driving into the pit of hell - at rush hour.
The air tasted like a moving bus full of monkeys on fire with your mouth on the tail pipe.
It doesn't get any harder then ending an exhausting, full day by risking your life and the lives of your teammates every 3 seconds in an auto rickshaw. Our nerves were completely frayed as we desperately tried to find a recognizable street sign.
India abhorrs street markers in favor instead of Bollywood movie billboards or advertising for jewelry. Road indictors of any kind aren't available. If they are in fact present, they are hidden in Tamil only.
Billboard and store signage is in English. Only the rich, which don't talk to rickshaw drivers like ourselves, understand English. Instructional signage is in the local language only, which makes perfect sense since only your cab driver needs to be able to read it.
This reality explains easily why we found ourselves going the wrong way on a crowded 4-lane city road. Even if it was the "wrong" way, as it was, but only during rush hour we discovered, everyone else here does it. The traffic cop at the intersection we stopped at didn't like it one bit. He started yelling at us in Tamil which probably would have scared the average auto rickshaw drivers.
As it was we only smiled and tried a diversion tactic by asking for the Grand Orient Hotel. He wasn't getting tricked so easily and started asking for our license and paperwork.
Switching gears we acknowledged our mistake and asked if there was a fine. This was where we were eventually heading it turned out and saved all parties involved a lot of hand gesturing and yelling. The cop appreciated this and after he heard us mention we were breaking laws in India for charity, dropped our fine down to 400 Rs. or about $8.
He took the first 200 Rs. and seemingly started to feel bad about fining the charity workers and didn't ask for the other half. He instead motioned us to go through the intersection as our hotel was just off to the left. He stopped many lanes of traffic and walked us through the intersection. Part way down the street we realized there was no side entrance to the Grand Orient and made a u-turn. Back at the intersection the cop came back and walked us up the wrong side of street to the front of the hotel. We had to make our way slowly since the street was pack with cars going the other way.
The irony of it all wasn't lost on him since we'd been fined for going the wrong way and now he was directing us to do the same.
At the front of the hotel, the resident auto rickshaw driver called our cop to task for letting us go the wrong way up the street. Our cop fined us another 200 Rs. for again breaking the rules. This makes about as much sense as it sounds.
Cop paid and gone, we started to unload as Michael booked us a room. My patience was shot and when the resident auto rickshaw taxi driver tried to make nice, I let him have all of my frustration. I pointed out that if he was so friendly and wanting to be pals with fellow rickshaw drivers, as he was saying, he wouldn't have had us fined again be the police.
He was outraged that I would suggest he was anything but honest and tried to get the bellhop to vouch for his character. The bellhop just rolled his eyes and walked away.
Despite directly asking him, this guy wouldn't go away until I acknowledged that I'd made a mistake and he was a brilliant fellow with a heart of gold. Anything to get inside and get some rest.
Later in the evening Michael and I decided we wanted to walk to a bar and have a couple of King Fischers. Our cabbie friend was waiting outside and gave me a hug, remembering our names and offering to take us anywhere we wanted.
What the heck we thought and gave him instructions to take us to a local bar. Nothing gross and nothing with loud techno and tourists at.
We ended up nearby at a all male bar with blasting techno and blue lights. The beer was cold and they served a bowl of hot beans as a bar snack on every table. We'd learn over time that this is typical of most bars.
Our cabby sat with us and had a Pepsi. The conversation was nonexistant even if we could have heard and the music was terrible so after one beer we split. The cabbie said that the next day he would be our personal guide taking us to all the tourist spots including the museums and the beach. He wouldn't hear about us not needing a guide as we were driving and going to go take photos. We switched to saying, "yes sure," as most guide books tell you to do and then planning on avoiding him the next day.
Anthony //
Day 09: Pondicherry
Day 09
Villupuram looked better by daylight. But just barely. The night before turned out to be a shopping holiday because of the New Year and explained the thousands upon thousands of people milling about everywhere.
Just infront of our hotel, actually in the entrance, was a Hindu shrine of some sort. The kind you see everywhere in Hindu country. The flowers decorating it and the freshly put out trash were too much of an attractant to the local monkey population. Monkeys were fighting over and picking through the trash right infront of our rickshaws. Bizarre.
We thought we might be able to try some early morning photography just down the block. Michael and I had scouted out a location looking for some coffee.
We envisioned him reading a newspaper, out in the street just in front of a corner shop. Seemed simple enough.
We hauled one rickshaw over, loaded with all the gear and set up.
Lights and cameras in India are like throwing chum to the sharks. We were mobbed. It was impossible to try and direct hundreds of guys all wanted to have there photo taken. Harder still to explain what we were even doing there. About 2% if the locals speak 20 words of English. This doesn't give you much of basis for communicating.
We'd been going with the story that we were from Canada which was working for us for a bit. Today the story back-fired a bit when it turned out the people we were talking to were from the local paper and news service. Seems like we will be in the news all over Tamil Nadu.
When the crowd reached near riot the stage, the cops showed up. They are used to dealing with the surly locals so commenced to yelling at us. We had created, unwittingly, a traffic jam. We were informed that in the future the help of the police would be required for such activities and for a nominal charge they could beat the locals heads and achieve some sense of order.
We broke set quick and set our sights towards Pondicherry. It was only about 35KM away and we knew we could make it easily and put this unpleasantness behind us.
There was some hope that is would be a good place to rest for a couple days in European style. Most of our collection of guide books describe Pondicherry as having a quaint French colonial feel.
I guess we could see a little of that. Almost none though. Yes, the coast had a couple of old buildings that could be Frenchish, but it was hard to see. They were trying hard and replacing some Indian styled fencing at the local park with some fence that in a way look Euroish.
We decided to stay at the Promenade right on the beach, which is one of the hottest spots in Pondicherry. Like much of upscale India it was right out of the pages of Wallpaper magazine until you went to the bathrooms or started to look closely at the details. People seem to mop in the nice hotels but miss the corners where grim just builds and builds.
It dangerous to get lulled into a feeling of safety around Westernized hotel surroundings. The sumptuous buffet tempted us for all our meals but turned out to be the only time any of us felt ill. Micheal and I both didn't feel quite right after both dinner and breakfast the next day.
We've decided that upscale India is all smoke and mirrors. The fanciest store or hotel still requires hopping over an open sewer to get to. Fact.
Villupuram looked better by daylight. But just barely. The night before turned out to be a shopping holiday because of the New Year and explained the thousands upon thousands of people milling about everywhere.
Just infront of our hotel, actually in the entrance, was a Hindu shrine of some sort. The kind you see everywhere in Hindu country. The flowers decorating it and the freshly put out trash were too much of an attractant to the local monkey population. Monkeys were fighting over and picking through the trash right infront of our rickshaws. Bizarre.
We thought we might be able to try some early morning photography just down the block. Michael and I had scouted out a location looking for some coffee.
We envisioned him reading a newspaper, out in the street just in front of a corner shop. Seemed simple enough.
We hauled one rickshaw over, loaded with all the gear and set up.
Lights and cameras in India are like throwing chum to the sharks. We were mobbed. It was impossible to try and direct hundreds of guys all wanted to have there photo taken. Harder still to explain what we were even doing there. About 2% if the locals speak 20 words of English. This doesn't give you much of basis for communicating.
We'd been going with the story that we were from Canada which was working for us for a bit. Today the story back-fired a bit when it turned out the people we were talking to were from the local paper and news service. Seems like we will be in the news all over Tamil Nadu.
When the crowd reached near riot the stage, the cops showed up. They are used to dealing with the surly locals so commenced to yelling at us. We had created, unwittingly, a traffic jam. We were informed that in the future the help of the police would be required for such activities and for a nominal charge they could beat the locals heads and achieve some sense of order.
We broke set quick and set our sights towards Pondicherry. It was only about 35KM away and we knew we could make it easily and put this unpleasantness behind us.
There was some hope that is would be a good place to rest for a couple days in European style. Most of our collection of guide books describe Pondicherry as having a quaint French colonial feel.
I guess we could see a little of that. Almost none though. Yes, the coast had a couple of old buildings that could be Frenchish, but it was hard to see. They were trying hard and replacing some Indian styled fencing at the local park with some fence that in a way look Euroish.
We decided to stay at the Promenade right on the beach, which is one of the hottest spots in Pondicherry. Like much of upscale India it was right out of the pages of Wallpaper magazine until you went to the bathrooms or started to look closely at the details. People seem to mop in the nice hotels but miss the corners where grim just builds and builds.
It dangerous to get lulled into a feeling of safety around Westernized hotel surroundings. The sumptuous buffet tempted us for all our meals but turned out to be the only time any of us felt ill. Micheal and I both didn't feel quite right after both dinner and breakfast the next day.
We've decided that upscale India is all smoke and mirrors. The fanciest store or hotel still requires hopping over an open sewer to get to. Fact.
Day 08: Trichy & Villupuram
Day 08
We got the heck out of Dindigul and high tailed it for Trichy, which is short for a very, very long India version of the town's name, Tiruchchirappalli. Names in India are all shortened or given odd acronyms.
We found a restaurant to eat lunch at and took turns guarding the stuff and eating. The resturant had a air conditioned room off the main dining room which they automatically shuttled us into.
This was our introduction to eating off of bananas leaves and the concept of "meals". The "Meals" is an all inclusive entree with loads of cups around a large platter. In the middle of the platter they pile high with rice. You then mix whatever sauces you want with your rice, eating with your right hand. It was fun and really tasty. It would become our standard to order.
Outside we decided to try and get a shot of Michael navigating a busy street. We had to cross the road to get to our autos and it seem quintessentially Indian.
Besides nearly getting Michael hit by a bus, the set up also attracted quite a crowd. In the crowd was what can only be described as a eunuch. I've never seen a eunuch, but this person seemed like what you'd imagine one would look like. They are spiritual people here and ours was babbling in the eeirest high and then low pitched voice. He/she would point to the bright sun which I could only glance at for miliseconds. Then he/she would stare directly at it for 2 minutes none stop! Adam got the whole thing on film. For the performance the eunuch only wanted some water, which Adam happily indulged him/her in.
Much to our dismay this place seemed a lot like the Dindigul side of Tamil Nadu - dirty and sad.
After much driving, which at the end of the day is the worst possible way to maintain your living status, we found someone we hoped would be able to help us.
We pulled over at a small shop on the opposite side of town from the highway after unsuccessfully trying to randomly find a hotel and talked with a cabbie there.
As we are discovering, most advertising signage, which is omnipresent, is in English. No one speaks English. At least not in the circles we run. These autorickshaws attract the lowest common denominator. The are the bluest of collar vehicles that we've found, just above no collar, which would be a pedirickshaw or ox cart. We gain instant enthusiasm and interest from the locals when we pull up, but no one can help us.
We found a older guy on a bike that spoke some manageable broken English and plied his position as "helper" by stating adnauseum that he had a daughter in California and the USA was great.
He wasn't so.
We were convinced, as we had no our recourse, to load him in my rickshaw and he would take us to a place he knew of. On the way he told us about the bank he worked at that he insisted we'd visit him at in the morning. He wanted a time.
We have learned and somewhat perfected the promise of future activities that no one expects will happen. This in mind, we said, "yes, we'll see you at 8am."
He promised breakfast at his house, as 8am is his break and a day of sight-seeing. We tried to explain that we were leaving the next day but he wasn't having it.
Bad turned to worse when he turned us down a dark alley and into a dank courtyard. It seems that his "bank" was ajoined to a filthy lodge. He had a buddy that was going to show us around and take some money from us. We knew instinctually that there was no way in hell that we were going to stay in this place.
Our guy was way insistant. Seriously instant. The kind of jabbering, constant insistant that you can't break into with normal levels of protest. Such that on the way to the "lodge", at a frantically busy intersection, he went so far has to smack my throttle arm and yell, "go" when he deemed I'd been overly cautious waiting out traffic.
We agreed to look at a room and proceeded into the bowels of the hotel. It was obviously for the truckers that frequent the major roads in India. It looked and smelled like a porta-potty at Lollapalooza. Betel spit was everywhere. The room was disgusting with bugs on the walls and years of grim everywhere. There was no way we were going to stay, much less remain in place in a hole like this.
The problem remained of our insistant friend. He'd abandoned his bike on the outskirts of town to ride along and shove me to this "lodge".
He was forcefully insisting that we book the room, NOW. We said that we might look around at other places first, which he understood to mean we were hungry.
See we've figured out that very familiar English words appear all over India but they take on different meanings depending on what native language is about.
For instance in Kerla, "hotel" means hotel. In Tamil Nadu it means restaurant. If you want a hotel, you find a "lodge". Also "meals" is rice or a whole set up meal with sauces, dips and assorted veggies stuff.
"Coolie" means cold, when a beverage is the topic. But only in Kerla. In Tamil Nadu we have no idea what to ask for to get something cold.
"Auto" is autorickshaw and "car" is car.
"Petrol" is the fuel we use but "gas" is something all-together different. I'm not sure how.
Back to our lodging problem. We convinced our friend that his hotel was fine and that what we were going to do was drive about and take some photos. Thereby we'd need all our luggage and would be returning in the near future to secure our spoke in said hell hole.
He bought it. So much for broken communication. The ability to sign your way through a lie is amazing.
We took him back to the outskirts of town to his bike. He was repeating the whole time that he would get his bike and we'd follow him to get a drink, or some such nonsense.
When we got to his bike he hopped out and I yelled back to Adam to "GO!" We peeled out and did a u-turn back towards town and Adam stalled out.
We thought we'd lost him.
Somehow we escaped and found someone else to take us to a hotel that we reasonable. You'd be surprised what you learn to tolerate when you have to.
Unpacking the autorickshaws, Adam noticed Michael drinking some water from a bottle. He asked him where he got the bottle. Michael it was under the seat and we both laughed as that had been the eunuch's water. Michael was aghast.
After getting settled we ventured out to find a bar. There was a neon sign for a bar not too far way that we locked bearings on. Adam wanted to run to a store to get something first and said that he join us soon. When we got to the place with sign there was a long, long, enclosed hallway down to a where the bar was supposed to be. Not like an enclosed hallway in a hotel or something, but like the entrance to an abandoned moped parking structure - dark, crumbily, oily and frightening. It kept going back and getting darker. It looked like where you'd meet if you were running guns to the Afghani underground.
Michael and I went in the "bar" and looked around. I'm not sure how to describe it. If you seen the seediest tire repair shop on the SW side of Chicago in an all Mexican neighborhood, you'd start to get the idea. Barely. There was about 80 guys, somehow baring the incredible heat and stink, gathered around tables looking up at the lone source of light - a TV. Some Bollywood tripe was blasting away. There was counter right by the door where a waiter was grabbing fistfuls of fly-covered bar snacks and putting them in bowls.
We questioned what we were doing not only in this place but also in the country and silently contemplated the fact that if anyone wanted they could make us "disappear" there and then.
Saying something noncommittal to the waiter, we gracefully ran out of there and made for the street.
Roadside there was no Adam in sight and no other bar. We needed a bar. We discussed our option and agreed that we should buy some beer from the gun-runners bar and go back to the hotel. We did just that.
Adam actually found us in the bar and had a fun time walking the hallway trying to figure out if this was the kind of place we'd have gone to. Turns out it was.
Anthony //
We got the heck out of Dindigul and high tailed it for Trichy, which is short for a very, very long India version of the town's name, Tiruchchirappalli. Names in India are all shortened or given odd acronyms.
We found a restaurant to eat lunch at and took turns guarding the stuff and eating. The resturant had a air conditioned room off the main dining room which they automatically shuttled us into.
This was our introduction to eating off of bananas leaves and the concept of "meals". The "Meals" is an all inclusive entree with loads of cups around a large platter. In the middle of the platter they pile high with rice. You then mix whatever sauces you want with your rice, eating with your right hand. It was fun and really tasty. It would become our standard to order.
Outside we decided to try and get a shot of Michael navigating a busy street. We had to cross the road to get to our autos and it seem quintessentially Indian.
Besides nearly getting Michael hit by a bus, the set up also attracted quite a crowd. In the crowd was what can only be described as a eunuch. I've never seen a eunuch, but this person seemed like what you'd imagine one would look like. They are spiritual people here and ours was babbling in the eeirest high and then low pitched voice. He/she would point to the bright sun which I could only glance at for miliseconds. Then he/she would stare directly at it for 2 minutes none stop! Adam got the whole thing on film. For the performance the eunuch only wanted some water, which Adam happily indulged him/her in.
Much to our dismay this place seemed a lot like the Dindigul side of Tamil Nadu - dirty and sad.
After much driving, which at the end of the day is the worst possible way to maintain your living status, we found someone we hoped would be able to help us.
We pulled over at a small shop on the opposite side of town from the highway after unsuccessfully trying to randomly find a hotel and talked with a cabbie there.
As we are discovering, most advertising signage, which is omnipresent, is in English. No one speaks English. At least not in the circles we run. These autorickshaws attract the lowest common denominator. The are the bluest of collar vehicles that we've found, just above no collar, which would be a pedirickshaw or ox cart. We gain instant enthusiasm and interest from the locals when we pull up, but no one can help us.
We found a older guy on a bike that spoke some manageable broken English and plied his position as "helper" by stating adnauseum that he had a daughter in California and the USA was great.
He wasn't so.
We were convinced, as we had no our recourse, to load him in my rickshaw and he would take us to a place he knew of. On the way he told us about the bank he worked at that he insisted we'd visit him at in the morning. He wanted a time.
We have learned and somewhat perfected the promise of future activities that no one expects will happen. This in mind, we said, "yes, we'll see you at 8am."
He promised breakfast at his house, as 8am is his break and a day of sight-seeing. We tried to explain that we were leaving the next day but he wasn't having it.
Bad turned to worse when he turned us down a dark alley and into a dank courtyard. It seems that his "bank" was ajoined to a filthy lodge. He had a buddy that was going to show us around and take some money from us. We knew instinctually that there was no way in hell that we were going to stay in this place.
Our guy was way insistant. Seriously instant. The kind of jabbering, constant insistant that you can't break into with normal levels of protest. Such that on the way to the "lodge", at a frantically busy intersection, he went so far has to smack my throttle arm and yell, "go" when he deemed I'd been overly cautious waiting out traffic.
We agreed to look at a room and proceeded into the bowels of the hotel. It was obviously for the truckers that frequent the major roads in India. It looked and smelled like a porta-potty at Lollapalooza. Betel spit was everywhere. The room was disgusting with bugs on the walls and years of grim everywhere. There was no way we were going to stay, much less remain in place in a hole like this.
The problem remained of our insistant friend. He'd abandoned his bike on the outskirts of town to ride along and shove me to this "lodge".
He was forcefully insisting that we book the room, NOW. We said that we might look around at other places first, which he understood to mean we were hungry.
See we've figured out that very familiar English words appear all over India but they take on different meanings depending on what native language is about.
For instance in Kerla, "hotel" means hotel. In Tamil Nadu it means restaurant. If you want a hotel, you find a "lodge". Also "meals" is rice or a whole set up meal with sauces, dips and assorted veggies stuff.
"Coolie" means cold, when a beverage is the topic. But only in Kerla. In Tamil Nadu we have no idea what to ask for to get something cold.
"Auto" is autorickshaw and "car" is car.
"Petrol" is the fuel we use but "gas" is something all-together different. I'm not sure how.
Back to our lodging problem. We convinced our friend that his hotel was fine and that what we were going to do was drive about and take some photos. Thereby we'd need all our luggage and would be returning in the near future to secure our spoke in said hell hole.
He bought it. So much for broken communication. The ability to sign your way through a lie is amazing.
We took him back to the outskirts of town to his bike. He was repeating the whole time that he would get his bike and we'd follow him to get a drink, or some such nonsense.
When we got to his bike he hopped out and I yelled back to Adam to "GO!" We peeled out and did a u-turn back towards town and Adam stalled out.
We thought we'd lost him.
Somehow we escaped and found someone else to take us to a hotel that we reasonable. You'd be surprised what you learn to tolerate when you have to.
Unpacking the autorickshaws, Adam noticed Michael drinking some water from a bottle. He asked him where he got the bottle. Michael it was under the seat and we both laughed as that had been the eunuch's water. Michael was aghast.
After getting settled we ventured out to find a bar. There was a neon sign for a bar not too far way that we locked bearings on. Adam wanted to run to a store to get something first and said that he join us soon. When we got to the place with sign there was a long, long, enclosed hallway down to a where the bar was supposed to be. Not like an enclosed hallway in a hotel or something, but like the entrance to an abandoned moped parking structure - dark, crumbily, oily and frightening. It kept going back and getting darker. It looked like where you'd meet if you were running guns to the Afghani underground.
Michael and I went in the "bar" and looked around. I'm not sure how to describe it. If you seen the seediest tire repair shop on the SW side of Chicago in an all Mexican neighborhood, you'd start to get the idea. Barely. There was about 80 guys, somehow baring the incredible heat and stink, gathered around tables looking up at the lone source of light - a TV. Some Bollywood tripe was blasting away. There was counter right by the door where a waiter was grabbing fistfuls of fly-covered bar snacks and putting them in bowls.
We questioned what we were doing not only in this place but also in the country and silently contemplated the fact that if anyone wanted they could make us "disappear" there and then.
Saying something noncommittal to the waiter, we gracefully ran out of there and made for the street.
Roadside there was no Adam in sight and no other bar. We needed a bar. We discussed our option and agreed that we should buy some beer from the gun-runners bar and go back to the hotel. We did just that.
Adam actually found us in the bar and had a fun time walking the hallway trying to figure out if this was the kind of place we'd have gone to. Turns out it was.
Anthony //
..Correction...
The mouse pad graphic is not in fact a U.S. Air Force F-16 fighter jet getting hit by two heat seeking(?) missiles after all.
It appears to be a U.S. Air force F-16 fighter jet blowing an unmarked enemy MiG fighter jet out of the sky with it's own heat seeking(?) missiles.
now I feel better...
Selah...
from Vijayawada
Adam
It appears to be a U.S. Air force F-16 fighter jet blowing an unmarked enemy MiG fighter jet out of the sky with it's own heat seeking(?) missiles.
now I feel better...
Selah...
from Vijayawada
Adam
Gasoline Alley
So with approximately 5 days left before we have to hit an airport to make it back to Delhi in time to get home we find ourselves in a 'Quality' Inn in a city named Vijayawda.
now although the hotel is very comfortable I find it hard to believe it is in anyway affiliated with the Quality Inn hoteliers from back in the states. Although apparently someone thinks those are highly acclaimed western hotels so they've adapted the now dated, although somewhat familiar, broken rising sun logo.
meanwhile...
There is nothing quite like pulling up to what is considered a respected hotel here and handing the bell-hop a 5 liter plastic jug of gasoline and asking him to find a safe place for it.
In less favorable accomodations we have had our spare gas cans stolen from the rickshaws overnight.
In fact on one such occasion in a brazen act of sheer cunning we had one security crew aparently pull the main tank lines and drain the gasoline right down to the reserve tanks while we were taking a nap after coming back from an early morning shoot. This, in bright daylight right in front of the hotel! Needless to say we left the hotel thinking we both had full tanks only to find both rickshaws quitting at exactly the same time. Luckilly the reserve tanks got us to a petrol station with less than .5 liters to spare.
So It looks like from here on out we're sleeping with our spare tank of gas. Perhaps the fumes from the petrol plus the nerve gas vapors will finally put an end to those mysterious welts we keep waking up with in the mornings.
until something else comes to mind...
from Vijayawada
Adam
I just noticed by the way... the mouse pad I'm currently using has an airbrushed graphic of an U.S. Airforce F-16 fighter jet about to get hit by 2 heat seeking(?) missiles...
curious, that.
now although the hotel is very comfortable I find it hard to believe it is in anyway affiliated with the Quality Inn hoteliers from back in the states. Although apparently someone thinks those are highly acclaimed western hotels so they've adapted the now dated, although somewhat familiar, broken rising sun logo.
meanwhile...
There is nothing quite like pulling up to what is considered a respected hotel here and handing the bell-hop a 5 liter plastic jug of gasoline and asking him to find a safe place for it.
In less favorable accomodations we have had our spare gas cans stolen from the rickshaws overnight.
In fact on one such occasion in a brazen act of sheer cunning we had one security crew aparently pull the main tank lines and drain the gasoline right down to the reserve tanks while we were taking a nap after coming back from an early morning shoot. This, in bright daylight right in front of the hotel! Needless to say we left the hotel thinking we both had full tanks only to find both rickshaws quitting at exactly the same time. Luckilly the reserve tanks got us to a petrol station with less than .5 liters to spare.
So It looks like from here on out we're sleeping with our spare tank of gas. Perhaps the fumes from the petrol plus the nerve gas vapors will finally put an end to those mysterious welts we keep waking up with in the mornings.
until something else comes to mind...
from Vijayawada
Adam
I just noticed by the way... the mouse pad I'm currently using has an airbrushed graphic of an U.S. Airforce F-16 fighter jet about to get hit by 2 heat seeking(?) missiles...
curious, that.
The Greatest Love...
for those who are wondering what it must be like to drive an auto-rickshaw through the major cities in India, here is a helpful visualization:
imagine stripping down naked and strapping yourself to the outside of the space shuttle. Next imagine that space shuttle launching into the furthest reaches of space and hurtling itself through an asteroid field. Now imagine someone crawling onto the outside of said ship and jabbing your eyes with two hot, metal pokers. Further, imagine someone pouring gasoline into your new, somewhat charred, eye cavities and lighting them on fire. And Finlay picture this all happening while someone is piping in Whitney Houston's 'The Greatest Love of All' through a pair of headphones the whole time and your about half way there.
from Vijayawada
Adam
imagine stripping down naked and strapping yourself to the outside of the space shuttle. Next imagine that space shuttle launching into the furthest reaches of space and hurtling itself through an asteroid field. Now imagine someone crawling onto the outside of said ship and jabbing your eyes with two hot, metal pokers. Further, imagine someone pouring gasoline into your new, somewhat charred, eye cavities and lighting them on fire. And Finlay picture this all happening while someone is piping in Whitney Houston's 'The Greatest Love of All' through a pair of headphones the whole time and your about half way there.
from Vijayawada
Adam
Saturday, January 6, 2007
*quick note
Here's where we've been so far in 2007.
1/1 - Dindigul to Villupuram
1/2 - Villupuram to Pondicherry
1/3 - Pondicherry to Chennai
1/4 - stay in Chennai
1/5 - Chennai to Nellore
1/6 - Nellore to Ongale
On to Hyderabad in a few days where we'll attempt to leave the auto rickshaws and get to Delhi for the 15th.
More details from our adventures soon. Thanks for following!
Anthony //
1/1 - Dindigul to Villupuram
1/2 - Villupuram to Pondicherry
1/3 - Pondicherry to Chennai
1/4 - stay in Chennai
1/5 - Chennai to Nellore
1/6 - Nellore to Ongale
On to Hyderabad in a few days where we'll attempt to leave the auto rickshaws and get to Delhi for the 15th.
More details from our adventures soon. Thanks for following!
Anthony //
Friday, January 5, 2007
Bright Lights, Big ugh...
after travelling here for the better part of 2 weeks I think we have come to the overall conclusion that the bigger cities are to be avoided at all costs. All of the bigger cities we have been to are pretty much the equivalent of times square circa 1982...In other words, hell on earth. outside of the big cities however we have found remarkable places each with their own character that regardless of the ups and downs has given back more to us that it has taken- for this we are extremely grateful. The town of Nellore that we have found ourselves in currently has proven to be such a place and we may in fact wind up here an extra day as the opportunities for photographs and filming may prove to be too rich to ignore.
Although it appears some teams may have already made their way to darjeeling at this point, and although I know if we simply gunned it on the major highways we could make it there ourselves I think our experiences here in India will far surpass those who have simply seen the country blurring past them on the interstate.
-from nellore
Adam
Although it appears some teams may have already made their way to darjeeling at this point, and although I know if we simply gunned it on the major highways we could make it there ourselves I think our experiences here in India will far surpass those who have simply seen the country blurring past them on the interstate.
-from nellore
Adam
Chanel No.5
there are 3 distinct odors so far in India:
one is of a city on fire.
one is of a city made of sandlewood on fire.
one is of a city built on the raw sewage and dead bodies of all those who have come before... on fire.
-from nellore
Adam
one is of a city on fire.
one is of a city made of sandlewood on fire.
one is of a city built on the raw sewage and dead bodies of all those who have come before... on fire.
-from nellore
Adam
Beyond Thunderdome
there are no laws in India. There is only luck and the good will of men.
-from nellore
Adam
-from nellore
Adam
Unpleasant Ways to Die: part II
I heard there are organisms in the rivers that can crawl up your pee hole. that sounds fairly unpleasant
-from nellore
Adam
-from nellore
Adam
Thursday, January 4, 2007
Unpleasant Ways to Die
just a sampling....
gored by bull
gored by ox
gored by goat
gored by 1/2 ton truck carrying 20 tons of bamboo
fall into sidewalk sewer
fall into sidewalk garbage
fall into sidewalk sewer full of garbage
pecked to death by feral roosters
mauled to death by feral dogs
buried up to neck in monkey shit by feral monkeys
snakebite
spiderbite
overbite.. you'd be surprised
nerve gas *(see post from 1/2/2007)
gored by elephant
thrown by elephant
trampled by elephant
mauled by elephant
eaten by elephant
dragged by elephant
suffocated by elephant
pretty much any death by elephant would prove to be unpleasant...
dissentary
malaria
polio
typhoid
rabies
japanese encephylitus
oh yeah- and getting peed on by a eunich
...more to come I'm sure
Adam
gored by bull
gored by ox
gored by goat
gored by 1/2 ton truck carrying 20 tons of bamboo
fall into sidewalk sewer
fall into sidewalk garbage
fall into sidewalk sewer full of garbage
pecked to death by feral roosters
mauled to death by feral dogs
buried up to neck in monkey shit by feral monkeys
snakebite
spiderbite
overbite.. you'd be surprised
nerve gas *(see post from 1/2/2007)
gored by elephant
thrown by elephant
trampled by elephant
mauled by elephant
eaten by elephant
dragged by elephant
suffocated by elephant
pretty much any death by elephant would prove to be unpleasant...
dissentary
malaria
polio
typhoid
rabies
japanese encephylitus
oh yeah- and getting peed on by a eunich
...more to come I'm sure
Adam
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
*quick update
Were in Pondicherry for the night and happy to be resting. It is a tourist town and we decided to take a break from the India we've been experience so far and stay in a westernized, fancy place. It is so nice. We are right across from the ocean.
More soon.
Team Good Korma.
More soon.
Team Good Korma.
Day 07: Dindigul
Day 07:
Getting down the mountain from Munnar was some of the worst road yet. Some of it was under contruction and really little more then small patches of dirt between holes. A few places were being asphalted but had been abandoned mid work for the holiday. Roads here are built by hand. They are tore up and evened out by hand. Trucks dump rocks which are carried about in baskets on peoples heads. The rocks are spread out and dirt is packed around them, also carried in baskets on heads. The final step involves a large square, aluminum cannister, like a 5 gallon container of olive oil. Instead of olive oil it has hot tar in it. They pore it threw a series of perforations and generally just glop it all about. Viola! A road is born.
Just out of the mountains we entered a whole new type of terrain. The road was pristine and wound threw a national wildlife sanctuary. We saw our first troops of monkeys in the road and even saw a wild elephant cross our path.
The good road and the broken in engine meant we could start making some good time.
This also meant that we could spend New Year's in a bigger town - Dindigul.
We tore up some pavement and managed to get to Dindigul as the sun was going down. We drove and drove and couldn't find a single place to stay that didn't look frightening. Your average place has a bare florescent bulb, stained mattresses and red, blood-like betel spit all over the walls. We hoped for something above average.
Asking another rickshaw driver is the key we've discovered. The one we asked took us to Dindigul's 1 and only 3-Star Hotel. And they just so happened to be having the best New Year's Eve party in town we were told. This was looking good.
The quasi-new hotel was smack in the middle of the sprawling industrial city which appeared to manufacture filth. This was one of the dirtiest parts of India yet just when we thought it couldn't get worse.
We were still excited about the evening's potential, not just because we had such a nightmarish time trying to find it, but also because this was going to be a real, Indian-style party. We had visions of dancing, champagne toasts and a big countdown to the New Year for the Indian continent. We rested, showered and waited for the festivities to begin.
We'd been told that there was a big buffet tonight so we weren't surprised to find one being set up in the courtyard out back. The roof to the lower level made for an impromptu patio after we climbed out our windows. The gaggle of bus boys (there are always 10 loacls to do what in the States would take 2 - or 5 if you're union) were hanging about and practicing dances moves seemingly learned from Bollywood flicks. This party was going to be amazing!
8 o'clock was the start, so we came down a fashionable 15 minutes late. The hundreds and hundreds of people were still arriving. Something was wrong though. Dindigul's who's-who of small business men were there with all their kids and family in tow. Their entire family - kids, moms, grandmothers - everyone. This had the look of a real family affair.
This was when we found out that there would be no alcohol allowed tonight. For one night only. Family = no alcohol.
To make up for this disappointment the hotel had a few dozen balloons blowing around the lobby, gather in corners like dust bunnies. It didn't help.
Everyone was munching on paper cones of popcorn and excited entering the main room.
Just outside was a table were pilled with silverware. They were selling the utensils for the dinner. See, everyone eats with thier hands in India. The right hand that is. If you wanted silverware you had to purchase it since, in their estimation, you'd probably make off with it after dinner. Conventiently the utensils were sold individually which was great if you brought your own fork and in your haste to get to the action, forgot your butter knife. You didn't have to purchase a whole set. Having a week's worth of India under my belt, ahem, I knew that I'd only be needing a spoon. Spoon's and forks were 15 Rs. (30 cents) and knives were 10 Rs.
Silver in hand, we presented out tickets and entered the party.
Immediately inside the door was a styrofoam, handmade nativity scene painted in day-glo colors. I'm assuming so that if a errant rickshaw came careening through the lobby, the bright paint would save styrofoam baby Jesus.
The first room was the game room. Hundreds fo people were gathered around what I can only describe as the saddest, "church youth group fundraiser" like games, I'd ever seen.
There was a card table where Dindigul's slick young men were cheering and goading each other to beat the ring toss. The goal was to throw a plastic ring 10 feet onto a card table covered in mini tubes of toothpaste. These served as the targets and prizes.
A local TV station was filming the action and turned their cameras on me, clearly misinterpretting the meaning behind the look of amazement I wore.
Another game was called "coin in bucket". It was just that - a bucket of water. You dropped a coin in one of the shower buckets every room had and if it lands in the center, you win - you guessed it - toothpaste.
(more soon)
Anthony //
Getting down the mountain from Munnar was some of the worst road yet. Some of it was under contruction and really little more then small patches of dirt between holes. A few places were being asphalted but had been abandoned mid work for the holiday. Roads here are built by hand. They are tore up and evened out by hand. Trucks dump rocks which are carried about in baskets on peoples heads. The rocks are spread out and dirt is packed around them, also carried in baskets on heads. The final step involves a large square, aluminum cannister, like a 5 gallon container of olive oil. Instead of olive oil it has hot tar in it. They pore it threw a series of perforations and generally just glop it all about. Viola! A road is born.
Just out of the mountains we entered a whole new type of terrain. The road was pristine and wound threw a national wildlife sanctuary. We saw our first troops of monkeys in the road and even saw a wild elephant cross our path.
The good road and the broken in engine meant we could start making some good time.
This also meant that we could spend New Year's in a bigger town - Dindigul.
We tore up some pavement and managed to get to Dindigul as the sun was going down. We drove and drove and couldn't find a single place to stay that didn't look frightening. Your average place has a bare florescent bulb, stained mattresses and red, blood-like betel spit all over the walls. We hoped for something above average.
Asking another rickshaw driver is the key we've discovered. The one we asked took us to Dindigul's 1 and only 3-Star Hotel. And they just so happened to be having the best New Year's Eve party in town we were told. This was looking good.
The quasi-new hotel was smack in the middle of the sprawling industrial city which appeared to manufacture filth. This was one of the dirtiest parts of India yet just when we thought it couldn't get worse.
We were still excited about the evening's potential, not just because we had such a nightmarish time trying to find it, but also because this was going to be a real, Indian-style party. We had visions of dancing, champagne toasts and a big countdown to the New Year for the Indian continent. We rested, showered and waited for the festivities to begin.
We'd been told that there was a big buffet tonight so we weren't surprised to find one being set up in the courtyard out back. The roof to the lower level made for an impromptu patio after we climbed out our windows. The gaggle of bus boys (there are always 10 loacls to do what in the States would take 2 - or 5 if you're union) were hanging about and practicing dances moves seemingly learned from Bollywood flicks. This party was going to be amazing!
8 o'clock was the start, so we came down a fashionable 15 minutes late. The hundreds and hundreds of people were still arriving. Something was wrong though. Dindigul's who's-who of small business men were there with all their kids and family in tow. Their entire family - kids, moms, grandmothers - everyone. This had the look of a real family affair.
This was when we found out that there would be no alcohol allowed tonight. For one night only. Family = no alcohol.
To make up for this disappointment the hotel had a few dozen balloons blowing around the lobby, gather in corners like dust bunnies. It didn't help.
Everyone was munching on paper cones of popcorn and excited entering the main room.
Just outside was a table were pilled with silverware. They were selling the utensils for the dinner. See, everyone eats with thier hands in India. The right hand that is. If you wanted silverware you had to purchase it since, in their estimation, you'd probably make off with it after dinner. Conventiently the utensils were sold individually which was great if you brought your own fork and in your haste to get to the action, forgot your butter knife. You didn't have to purchase a whole set. Having a week's worth of India under my belt, ahem, I knew that I'd only be needing a spoon. Spoon's and forks were 15 Rs. (30 cents) and knives were 10 Rs.
Silver in hand, we presented out tickets and entered the party.
Immediately inside the door was a styrofoam, handmade nativity scene painted in day-glo colors. I'm assuming so that if a errant rickshaw came careening through the lobby, the bright paint would save styrofoam baby Jesus.
The first room was the game room. Hundreds fo people were gathered around what I can only describe as the saddest, "church youth group fundraiser" like games, I'd ever seen.
There was a card table where Dindigul's slick young men were cheering and goading each other to beat the ring toss. The goal was to throw a plastic ring 10 feet onto a card table covered in mini tubes of toothpaste. These served as the targets and prizes.
A local TV station was filming the action and turned their cameras on me, clearly misinterpretting the meaning behind the look of amazement I wore.
Another game was called "coin in bucket". It was just that - a bucket of water. You dropped a coin in one of the shower buckets every room had and if it lands in the center, you win - you guessed it - toothpaste.
(more soon)
Anthony //
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