An Uneven Number of Elephants

Apropos of nothing, an uneven number of elephants is considered to be lucky when it comes to Indian processions. This has nothing to do with anything but makes a great-sounding title so I’m going to wrestle it in somehow.

The seven of us who remain of our original group (there we go…) are now in the State of Kerala, in the far south of India; a hop, skip and jump from Delhi. (A hop, in this case, consisting of a 3 AM wakeup call, a 2 hour flight to Bangalore, changing planes for another 1 ½ hour flight to Kochin and then a 2 ½ hour drive to the backwaters area. The skip and jump part remain constant for both equations) We’ll be spending the next 3 days on a houseboat traveling through the rivers and backwaters.

This south-western tip of India is completely different from where we just left. This is a lush, green world with a 99% literacy rate, relatively clean streets, a healthy, well-fed populace and nothing (or no-one) burning constantly to gum up your lungs.

We’ve arrived in time for their second monsoon season of the year. A kinder and gentler monsoon than the big honker that ends in September, this one just tends to dump sheets of water in the afternoons and evenings. (Unless I’m in the area, in which case you can expect specials on the weather channel showing bewildered survivors picking through their meager belongings and wondering which god’s dog they might have inadvertently run over.)

There’s a lot to say about Kerala so I’ll be breaking it up for your convenience.

The Omnivores Solution

Nothing is sacred in Kerala.

This has nothing to do with mores and everything to do with the culture. While much of the rest of India is overrun by sacred (read "abandoned") cows, semi-feral pigs and randy little monkeys (Plus one small, nightmarish village ruled by a gigantic sentient land squid), this area is largely Christian which means one thing.

Everything is fair game come dinner time. Beef and pork are what's for dinner as well as anything else that walks, flies, swims or flops about.

Having christians around pretty much obviates the need for animal control officers. Bothered by pesky livestock? Just speak His Holy Name aloud and by the time the coals have ashed over and are glowing nicely, Mr. Bull will find himself brushed off, smothered in a nice honey glaze and escorted on to the next plane of existence by the local parish Rotary Club.

Being sacred won’t save you in Kerala. If you see a cow here it belongs to someone and is lovingly cared for, washed daily, massaged and getting free medical treatment from the local government, as do the people. Most livestock is specially bred and tagged (Lots of those nice, Jersey cows with the big, soft eyes that just stare a hole into the depths of… Where was I?) and has a place to call home. There’s nothing more heartwarming than watching the family cow racing down the driveway, mooing excitedly, to welcome daddy home from the office.

At any rate, there are no cows, pigs or the like wandering about here. Here, they live out their lives as nature and god intended…

Standing around for a year or two and then being eaten.

Jason and the Coconauts

On our way from Kochin (aka- Cochin, Cochi, Kochi or Milwaukee Phil) to the spot near the Arabian Sea where we would board our 3 boat fleet, we learned a lot about the area.

We’re in coconut central here. Everywhere you look there are coconut palms. Lining the city streets, receding into the distance in great forests or driving past you in cabs; you’ll find the ubiquitous coconut. Fortunately, in addition, there is plenty of pineapple and incredibly cheap rum which makes for the constant supply of Pina Colada needed to cope with daily life among the coconuts.

In addition to being their main export product, coconut intrudes into every aspect of life here in Twilight-Zone fashion. It becomes quickly apparent that the coconut thing has gotten completely out of hand. Coconut is in every dish, as exemplified by the sliced coconut in coconut sauce I just had with lunch. In addition to cooking with it, they use it to create mats, rope, houses, animal food, electric generators, radio sets (The Professor from Gilligan’s Island is revered here for his work in developing new uses for the coconut, much as George Washington Carver was in the field of peanuts.) People can’t give them away. Friendly locals come up to us on the street, say “Hello”, ask where we were from and then press coconuts into our arms and hurry off with haunted looks in their eyes. They’re left on neighbors porches, fired by trebuchet upon other villages, dressed up in fake noses and glasses and placed on buses but, still, they’re unable to make a dent in the supply. These things are like zucchini.

Deadly zucchini…

You see, the big problem with coconuts comes when you factor in gravity. Everywhere around us can be heard the staccato “thump” of coconuts impacting the ground. If you’re standing in the wrong place…

You see the lovely Keralan women always carrying open umbrellas when they’re out walking. Ostensibly, these are to protect them from the sun but, when you get close, you notice the metal reinforcement. The government provides helmets for the men but they‘re too cool (i.e. stupid) to use them. The dead and injured are lined up along the street, waiting for the overworked ambulances. Social service agencies are also stressed trying to address the increasing number of coconut-related amnesia cases turning up. There’s nothing more heart-breaking than the look in a cow’s eyes when she realizes her owner doesn’t recognize her.

This tasty and versatile menace has also taken its toll on the local wildlife. As the Christians have accounted for the regional cow and pig population, monkeys have borne the brunt of the coconut assault. Few are left in the wild and are seldom seen anymore other than the occasional lone male moving cautiously through the jungle, gibbering pathetically to itself and spinning around every few steps to look about. He’ll never hear the coconut that has his number.

Tonight, after our boats tied up for the evening and we sat sipping tea and listening to the sounds of the night, the regular thump of the falling coconuts was suddenly broken by a comical “bonk” and a brief simian scream.

After that, all was silence except for the “scritch-scritch” sound of a nearby Christian firing up his hibatchi.




Parade Time in Sunny Chambakkulam!

Dawn breaks in the tiny Keralan riverside town of Chambakkulam as it does nearly every day. The toddy tappers are about their work of siphoning off coconut palm sap to make the local hooch. Shops are opening up; children in their neat school uniforms are walking along the waterways headed for early classes.

But there‘s a subtle change in the village; a certain excitement in the air, almost a carnival atmosphere, for this no ordinary day. The children linger along the embankment, laughing and chatting animatedly. First class can wait today! It’s time for the Walking-Around-of-the-Tourists!

Almost on cue, a houseboat pulls up to the bank and seven Americans totter onto land, blinking myopically in the carbon-arc light of the morning sun. They immediately begin snapping pictures of everything; children, trees, the river and each other. The children jump up and down with delight at the appearance of the tourists. Dressed in their nearly colorless beige tropical wear from Travelsmith, they pose an exotic contrast to the colorful, light clothing of the locals. Swaddled in layers of special microfiber guaranteed to wick moisture away, shod in sturdy walking shoes and carrying plenty of water, the tourists immediately begin to sweat buckets from beneath their expedition hats.

Trailing behind, giggling and punching each other, the children tag along to watch the fun as the tourists fall in behind their guide for one more “Learning and Discovery” death march. The mothers and shopkeepers exchange knowing smiles. Everyone’s in on the fun!

Bastards…

Our guide leads the way along the water, pointing out the sights as he goes. By this point, we’ve already established our dysfunctional dynamic; a clumsy, Balkan folk dance sort of thing in which he’s not really sure what we’re interested in seeing and we are trying desperately, in good, western-liberal fashion, to express interest and appreciation in all facets of the local culture. As we’re in the aptly named Backwaters, there’s not a lot to point at other than the natural beauty and the delightful people but that point passed days ago. Now the cultural interchange has devolved into the following:

“Now on the right you see cashew tree. You know cashew tree? Tree that has cashews? Cashew tree.” he intones, followed by a chorus of appreciative “ahs” and the clicking of cameras. This will be repeated at least twenty times on the walk till we will be able to identify a cashew tree at the drop of a hat. This should prove useful some day, I’m sure, however my attention is increasingly focused on the skyrocketing heat. In an area with temps in the high 90’s and humidity levels around 112%, meaning it’s actually drier to be underwater, the sun is grilling me with an intensity I don’t actually remember encountering in a long, relatively sweaty life. It’s not 9:30 yet; I’m standing in the shade and yet I’ve already sweat so much that my pants are looser.

“Here on the left is store”, he continues, pointing at what is unmistakably a store, readily identifiable by the general “store-ishness” of the place, the advertising posters and the man behind the counter selling things to people. “You know store? The people come here and buy things from the store? Store.” he concludes, succinctly. We try to avoid each other’s glances and continue to snap the obligatory pictures, planning how we will present them, when we get home, to Kathy and Bob (or whichever unfortunates are dragooned into reliving our adventures with us) “We saw these in a small shop in a tiny Keralan town” we’ll tell them as Bob smiles frozenly and eyes the room for possible exits, “The native people use them to clean their homes with. They’re called brooms,” we’ll say, nodding sagely.

This is the point where I realize I’m beginning to lose it. Sweat’s running off me so fast that alarmed mothers have begun to pull their children away in fear. Noting that the group has gotten ahead of me, I sluice the sweat from my half blinded eyes and pick up the pace.

“…pepper plants and green beans”, I arrive in time to learn. “And back there is cashew tree. You know cashew tree?” I can hear one desultory camera click response and peel away from the herd once more. As consciousness toys with me, I look around for Staci. I want to tell her to go on without me and save herself but she seems to already be about 60 feet ahead, under a sheltering tree. I notice that even Staci, who doesn’t generally perspire (I only remember two prior incidents; one involving climbing a mountain in Belize during the rainy season when she complained of “feeling a bit sticky.”) is sweating so hard she’s actually out of breath.

Moving determinedly through the tour group, I’m able to drop back into the guide's patter, now tinged a bit with desperation as he’s run out of things to show. “… mud puddle, you know? Er… mud.” Then, suddenly, as a life line is thrown to him, he cries brightly, “And, on the right, two-wheel bicycle! You see bicycle?”

I try desperately to reach Staci, thinking that if I can only get to her, I could possibly push her out of the way and take her spot in the shade. At that point, however, the high point of our walkabout looms up ahead of us like some great, looming thing.

(In Kerala, even statues carry sunbrellas)

“Here is old, 17th century Portuguese Church.” we learn. “You know old church? The Portuguese build it? In the 17th century?” he adds helpfully. “Church. We can go in. Please remove shoes and watch your head”

Bv this time I’m pretty much beyond the pale and am staggering about the church grounds blindly. Broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses forgotten, I’m not even snapping pictures anymore, though there are a number of arches begging to have the usual shot’s framed by them. “Sky up, ground down,” I chant to myself through cracked lips, trying to maintain my tenuous hold on consciousness. I notice that I’ve stopped sweating and vague medical alerts start flashing in my dim awareness. I don’t have time to consider them, however, as this is the point where a number of my dead loved ones turn up and start the obligatory exhortations for me to “go towards the light”. This is a pointless exercise, though, as every direction leads to the light (and more heat!)

Kicking off my shoes, I pad through the airless recesses of the old church, exchanging sympathetic shrugs with the crucified figure on the altarpiece as I look for cool shade, a breeze or some overlooked holy water. Staci’s in a pew, trying desperately to maintain. I notice that the spirits of my grandparents have now joined the tour group and are nodding with polite interest as the guide drones on. Uncle Dom is dispatched to herd them back as my father and Uncle Ray continue to drift after me shaking their heads ruefully.

Trailed by my incorporeal posse, I’m now standing in the doorway of a classroom at the church-run school, listening to the kids recite for us. I sway over to the next classroom door and am greeted by another 20 curious faces peering up. “Hello“, they chorus at me. “Ah-ha-ha-ha!”, I inform them, with a ghastly grin, as I spin back towards the Church.

At this point, I notice that even my dead relatives are sweating profusely. They’ve given up on me as a bad job and, groping around unsuccessfully in the glare for whatever passageway leads back to their ethereal plane of existence, are looking worried. My Grandmother tries to catch my attention but I turn and toddler-run towards the river. They’re on their own. We have 3 cats and our house is crowded enough..

Rejoining my travel companions, I notice that we’ve all attained a bright, cherry red color and steam is whistling cheerfully from our carapaces, signaling doneness. I’m longing for some nice SPF 40 lemon butter when we suddenly arrive back at the boat and safety; our 45 minute adventure over.

While waiting for water bottles to arrive, I try to tell Staci that I’m not leaving the boat again till the sun dies but my tongue, as well as part of one leg and miscellaneous debris from the walk, is stuck to the roof of my mouth. Looking at each other silently, our eyes say it all as they drift to the single chair in front of the single fan and then back to each other.,,

The children smile brightly and the watching villagers place their bets…

Things I've Learned

I pick things up quickly, Being a veritable font of knowledge is a responsibility I take seriously and so I make at least a halfhearted attempt to pay attention to things going on, whether or not they concern me. I never know what tidbit of esoteric wisdom is going to raise up its head at just the moment you need it to cure a snakebite or win a bar bet. I figure it’s best to pass them all along to you, just in case.

On this trip, a lot of information is tossed about, whether on busses, tours, guidebooks or the interesting hallucinations I get with fever. No reason to differentiate between them; it’s like choosing one’s favorite child (The youngest…) Here they are, in no particular order.


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The Taj Mahal is located on the Yamuna River in Agra. Yamuna is named after the sister of Yama, the Hindu god of death whose task it is to escort the souls of the newly deceased into the afterlife.

This would be a tough job in any case as the souls often just don’t want to go, refuse to kick in for the cab or want to stop off for “just one more” on the way and often stick Yama with the bar tab. (Yama has trouble asserting himself, even though he’s the god of death, go figure…)

Making things tougher is the fact that Yama’s mother is constantly pestering him to find “someone nice” for his older sister. Yama tries to explain to his mother that everyone he meets is either dead or gay and thus not a great choice for Yamuna who, in her third incarnation, has the body of a woman and the head of a river catfish (and not a particularly attractive river catfish) Plus, she tends to cry a lot for no apparent reason, which makes her seem kind of desperate and needy, which most incorporeal spirits are just not up for at this point in their careers. (In her fourth incarnation, Yamuna has a regular head but heavy, poorly toned upper arms that she’s real self-conscious about.)

The Vedas tell the tale of the time when Yama comes to collect the soul of Arun, a nice, Brahman boy from a good family who has just died. Yama offers him the gift of immortality and a magic cow that can whistle the entire score from “The Fantasticks” if Arun will marry his sister. However, Arun has seen statues of Yamuna in the temple and decides to take his chances with eternal nothingness, thanks very much. In his rage, Yama turns Arun into a neem tree. Arun still figures he’s come out ahead on the deal. This, then, is the origin of the tale of how the camel lost its appendix (Translation in question…)

Death also has a younger brother, Billy, who is often portrayed in carvings and sacred books as a small, stocky figure in a horizontally striped dhoti. Billy is usually seen standing at the left hand of Lord Yama, repeatedly whispering the “three sacred questions” into his ear.

1. “Whatcha doing?”
2. “Can I hang around with you guys?’
3. “Now whatcha doing?
   

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Lord Ganesh is the son of Shiva and Parvati and the great favorite among Indian deities. Krishna and Kali claim this doesn’t bother them but, deep down inside, you know they’re hurting cause they really try…

When Lord Ganesh is very young, Shiva, in a fit of pique, cuts off his head. Realizing that Parvati will be home any minute and will not be at all pleased, Shiva hits on a desperate scheme. He takes a head from an elephant that happens to be passing by (apparently on the worst day of its life…) and sticks it on his son’s body. Apparently this works, as there is nothing in the Upanishads about child protective services being called in or Parvati being any the wiser. Shiva and Norton make it to the Raccoon Lodge meeting after all and Ganesh grows into the great elephant-headed god of happiness and, strangely enough, luck. This, in the Hindu mythos, apparently passes for irony.

Popularized in the epic poem from the Maurya period, “Everybody Loves Ganesh” is second in popularity among the religious faithful only to the episode of “The Mahabarata” in which Rob is bringing Lord Krishna and his wife Lakshmi  home for dinner but Laura realizes she is all out of Puja. Hilarity ensues.

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Jungle Book Now

(Written at Ranthambore Tiger Preserve in Rajasthan while waiting for the fever to go away...Apologies to Kipling)


Bagheera the Panther lay on his side in a sunny spot beneath the jungle canopy. Yawning lazily, he arched and stretched his body out against the ground, looking at his claws critically as he unsheathed and retracted them one by one. Satisfied, he made a deft swipe at a lianna vine, slicing it in two with barely a movement, before rolling over on his back to scratch his tightly muscled shoulder against the rocky ground. Looking over through half-closed eyes at Father Wolf, who sat on his haunches nearby sniffing at the air occasionally to stay aware of any threat, he growled softly, “And what dost thou hear from our man cub Mowgli? Long has it been since he stood with his brothers at the council rock. How does he fare since he went down to the village of men?”

Father Wolf looked into the distance and paused a moment before replying. “I am concerned that I have not had word from him. His pack brothers see him at times in the village of men and we know that he is unharmed but still I find myself worrying.” Baloo, the great bear, sidled up at that moment and dropped heavily onto the ground between them. “Don’t worry about the man cub, my brothers, we taught him all that we know. He will not forget the lessons.”

From a darkened cave mouth several meters away, a reedy, nasal voice called out wretchedly, “What, my big shot man cub you speak of? He never calls. He never writes. Feh! I could curl up and die, what would he care?”

Bagheera and Baloo glanced at each other uncomfortably and then up at the trees, Nakhri the Kite circling overhead or anything other than Father Wolf, who hung his head for a moment before calling out, “Sylvia, why don’t you come out and sit in the sun? It will warm you.” “Don’t worry about me, “ came the grating reply, “I’m fine. I’ll just sit in the cave all by myself.”

After an uncomfortable moment, Baloo broke the spell by rising up. “Well,” he rumbled, “If you gents will excuse me, bear in the woods and all… I’ll be back.” The great bear padded off behind the shelter of a nearby banyan tree, the latest issue of “Ursa Minors- Triple-X!!!” tucked under an arm.

Suddenly, a great commotion woke the jungle folk as a roaring sound tore through the leafy expanses. Sounding like the trumpeting of distant elephants, it drove the easily panicked monkey people before it. They leapt through the trees chattering in fear. The green parrot folk and Khasri the Boar ran before it. Above the leafy canopy, Nakhri the Kite widened his circles as he rose up higher in the sky.

“Look, people, here is the jungle before you!” came a loud voice, strange and yet familiar at the same moment. “Here is the dangerous panther and the sly wolf! Keep thy hands in the jeep lest they be bitten right off. See the wild beasts even as I have promised thee.”

“Mowgli?” mouthed Father Wolf and Bagheera silently glancing at each other.

“And there, behind the banyan tree, is the great bear. Who knows what dangerous business he is about. Please stay in the jeep lest he come at you!”

“Hey,” came an aggrieved roar from behind the tree as Baloo stumbled out, guiltily hiding the magazine behind his back. “Bear in the woods! How about a little privacy?”

“Oh, my friends, thy jungle adventure is not over” the voice continued, now clearly belonging to an oddly dressed Mowgli who stood in front of a great machine from the village of men. It was packed with people of a kind not recognizable to the jungle folk. They looked all about them, pointing and chittering, much like the monkey people. “For there, upon the hill can you see Shere Khan, the dangerous tiger. Great and powerful killer, he rules all in the jungle!” The people shivered in delighted terror.

Bagheera and Baloo looked at each other in confusion and then up at the hill where the old, toothless Shere Khan was silhouetted against the clearing, growling asthmatically and waving an arthritic paw at the empty air. “Growl…” he coughed, “Growl, I said. Beware lest I leap upon and devour thee for I am the great Shere Khan! Now, get the hell off my lawn!” Exhausted, he plopped to his belly..

“Stay in the jeep, O my brothers, for only I may come near the great tiger unharmed” Mowgli called over his shoulder as he approached the bemused beasts before him. “Nice work, Khan” he whispered under his breath as he dumped the contents of several happy meals furtively from his bag before the starving old cat. “Same time tomorrow. If you’re very scary, there may be McNuggets in thy future. Hey, Pops. Baloo , Bagheera, I trust that they are hanging well for all of thee?”

“Is that my man cub out there?’ came a wheedling voice from the cave mouth. Mowgli looked up alarmed and waved a single finger, imploringly, before his face.

“Mowgli“, cried Baloo, “why do you bring people from the city of man into the jungle? It is forbidden!”

“Relax, Yogi” laughed Mowgli, “much have I learned since going down to the city of men. For instance, I can make a fat fortune off the eco-tourists. Now play along and you can all be getting some nice, regular kibble.” Looking back over his shoulder at the jeep, he called out theatrically, “Stand thee back, oh my brothers, for is it not written that the company is not responsible for any injuries incurred should thy feet stray from the vehicle provided? Jason, get back in your seat!” he called to a small, blonde haired man cub who was sitting on the mortified Shere Khan’s back, pulling at his whiskers and yelling “Horsey, horsey!!!”

Father Wolf growled urgently at his son, “Mowgli! This is not right. These humans should not be here. They must be driven from the jungle!” “Yes” chorused Bagheera and Baloo, “Drive them from the jungle!”

Mowgli paused a moment, hanging his head. “You are right of course…” Then he turned back, to the jeep and called out brightly, “Okay, everybody back in your seats. It’s time to drive back to camp for the buffet lunch, which is included today. Try the chicken, oh my brothers!” Piling into the machine from the village of men, the roaring slowly receded as Mowgli and the man machine drove out of sight.

Baloo, Bagheera and Father Wolf sat in stunned silence for several moments before finally speaking. ”This is not my man cub. A madness has come upon him” hissed Father Wolf. “It can not be allowed to continue like this” Bagheera said quietly as he looked over at the wretched figure of Shere Khan, who was tucking shamefacedly into his third Quarter-Pounder. “What?” he whined, defensively, “A tiger has to eat. Plus,” he added miserably, “I only need one more Transformer action figure and then shall I have the complete set…” His voice trailed off as he hung his toothless head and slunk off into the gloom of the jungle, listlessly gumming through the last of the fries.

Father Wolf and Bagheera turned again towards Baloo.

“But what can be done, my brothers,” protested Baloo helplessly. “Is this not Mowgli, our own little brother who we ourselves sent down to learn the ways of men? What can be done?”

“Let him face judgment at the council stone!” cried the young wolves from the safety of the clearing perimeter.

“Let us fling poop at him!” called the Monkey King, knuckling quickly forward, excited at the chance of being included in the proceedings.

Hahrdri the Hyena slunk forward. “He has trespassed against the law. Let him be killed and laid upon the council stone like transgressors before him!” he chuckled before circling back the way he came.

“And then we fling poop at him?", the Monkey King suggested hopefully, though pretty much sensing the moment had passed. The Monkey King is pretty messed up and the jungle folk don’t hang with him much. Not even Ghitra the Vulture who’s no picnic herself, I can tell you.

Bagheera gave Baloo a hard look. “My brother thou knowest what must be done!” Baloo paused a moment before finally dropping his chin and nodding sadly. “Yes, I know. I will go speak with Kaa.”



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In the village of men, Mowgli sat contentedly at a table next to his home. Above him Nakhri the Kite circled ceaselessly. (Yes, still. It‘s sort of his thing.) In the bushes Timmy the Mongoose laughed idiotically at nothing in particular as Morris Rosen the CPA snapped his briefcase closed, winked approvingly at Mowgli and sauntered off down the driveway. Poolside, Phyllis the Trophy Wife lay in a chaise lounge snoring prettily beside a half-empty pitcher of melon margaritas. Close by, Senor Pepe the Chihuahua shivered miserably in the heat of the mid-day sun.

Mowgli had just nestled back into the cabana chair with a fresh mojito when a shadow fell across him. Looking up, he found himself surrounded by all the beasts of the Jungle Council. Hahrdri and Ghitra loomed over him, grinning unpleasantly. Nakhri circled pretty low for a change and waved. The Wolf brethren paced back and forth on all sides. Mowgli looked quickly about and was calculating the distance to the patio door when Father Wolf, Baghera and Baloo moved into the open space before him, cutting off any route of escape.

Recovering quickly for a kid who’d been raised by wolves, he smiled winningly. “Oh, my brothers! How nice to see you! For did I not just tell Phyllis that we needed to have you all down for a visit. Did I not just say that, my wife?” Phyllis, however, being pretty quick on the uptake herself, was already back in the house packing up anything valuable of a portable nature and planning out various possible futures that didn’t include a house full of jungle.

“Thou hast transgressed against jungle law, man cub.” Baloo rumbled sadly. “I take no pleasure in what must follow but it is upon your own head”

“What do you mean..” started Mowgli, who then faltered as he followed Baloo’s glance rise up and behind him. Mowgli turned slowly around and froze.

There, looking down at him, was a great, yellow-scaled head with dead eyes the size of fists and a  crimson forked tongue that darted about tasting the air. It moved side to side rhythmically, hypnotically.

“Kaa the Snake”, Mowgli whispered.

Kaa closed his eyes and bowed briefly in a mocking salute. “Yesssss, man cub. Thou rememberssst me. Know, then, that I am now Kaa the Attorney; having taken sssome night courssesss at open universsssity. I believe thou knowssst my new paralegal?”

The Monkey King scampered forward, chattering self-importantly. In his arms he carried a briefcase and several stacks of papers, all liberally poop-stained, which he lay between Kaa and Mowgli before retreating several feet and glancing about, anxiously, at the other animals for any sign of approval.

“My clientssss have retained me to assssure that their interesstsss are being obssserved. Now, man cub, let usss ssspeak of licensssing agreementsss and marketing rightssss.”

Mowgli opened his mouth to scream but was drowned out by the sounds of the beasts as they all began shouting as one. A flight of green parrots broke noisily from the trees as the Monkey King began hooting excitedly. Hahrdri and Timmy joined in loud, mirthless laughter. Above them all, Nakhri the Kite flew lower in a tightening spiral as the ring of beasts pressed in upon Mowgli.

Watching impassively from poolside, Senor Pepe shivered miserably in the heat of the mid-day sun.

He said- She said

Dennis- The following comes from Staci’s travel journal which is much more informative than the drivel I’ve been dishing out. She likes to keep her writing private but she’s in the spa right now and can’t do much about it. I think she really captures details and the feel of a place well, while I go for arcane sub-references and high-toned doody jokes.

Of course, there’s no reason not to have both so I’ll add my comments throughout in lovely Blue Cambria Italic 14 point. Enjoy…

It’s Friday already. A whole week of “new discoveries” has taken place and in some ways it feels like several lifetimes have also gone by. (That should read "incarnations. Think "cultural relativism.") I’m sitting out side our tent in Pushkar, India. It’s in the mid 90’s in the shade and pretty much unbearable in the sun. However it’s a dry heat… so I guess that makes it okay. (No, no it doesn’t) The flies are landing faster than I can swat them away…. Other than that, there really are not many bugs… although the ants are very scary looking – they have very long legs and move extremely fast. (Evolution would pretty much favor long legs and speed when you're dragging "Mr. Happy" through burning sand all day.) 
We’ve been to the Pushkar festival 2009 a couple of times now. The people are all very friendly and of course there are the hawkers who either want you to pay them for taking their picture or they want to sell you something. Watch out if they say “Please, just 20 for this.” They don’t mean rupees. (They mean camels and small change is tricky to handle… I have a pocketful of Canadian sheep that no-one will accept.) It’s dusty, hot, noisy, claustrophobic and at the same time colorful and exotic.. the music is strangely hypnotic and the smells are a mix of ? & ?.

We stayed in a special tent village that is only put up for 2 weeks every year. Our tent had an attached bathroom with running water and a western toilet.. It was actually very comfortable.

Our trip leader Vishal arranged for a priest to perform a special ceremony along the sacred Pushkar lake (that was dry). There were seven items that had special significance (rose petals, seeds, rice, dye, …. And a coconut that we held toward our chest and touched to our head. (?!?!) At the end the priest tied a colorful string around our wrist which was to aid in bringing good karma and protection. At one point the priest said a prayer and when we opened our eyes, it was dark. (And our wallets were gone…) I looked down toward the other end of the bathing ghat and there were hundreds of oil lamps and candles lit along the steps - just beautiful!.

While at the festival observing some of the various exhibits and shows, we were asked to take part in the turban wrapping contest. (Nothing like being in the right place at the right time. Also, I apparently resemble a Maharajah in some inexplicable manner. I hear this a lot here. At least it’s less annoying than hearing that I look like Celine Dionne’s creepy husband, which I get in Vegas…) I guess it’s only fair that the locals get a good laugh at our expense. The goal of the contest was for the women to tie the turban on the man and whomever was fastest won. Denny and I came in second. It probably would have been first, except that I forgot I needed to tie a ribbon around Dennis’s wrist. (We definitely would have been first. Plus we were a real crowd favorite. Staci started out the practice session by wrapping the material around my neck which the Indian women just loved. She finished the turban way ahead of the pack and had applied the dye to my forehead. All she had to do was tie the ceremonial knot doodad on my wrist and …. Well, no sense crying over spilled ghee. Still, we brought home the Silver for the USA and that’s nothing to sneeze at.) We were awarded a trophy that commemorated the achievement. The date on the trophy showed the year as 20009. There were many photographers there taking our picture. Denny and I were doing the American thing and smiling broadly. Then very sternly, one of the photographers motioned to me and said “No! Serious” so I stopped smiling (I guess the women are supposed to show honor to their husbands by taking everything a bit serious… at least that’s what we were told it’s supposed to be like during their wedding ceremonies.  If they smile, then the groom's mother might feel that she’s being replaced.). While making our way back to the stands everyone was shaking Denny’s hand and congratulating him on his success. Walking several paces behind I couldn’t help but feel that it was a bit unfair that he was getting all the attention. After all, I was the one who masterfully tied the turban on top of his big pumpkin head! (It’s apparent that Staci doesn’t appreciate the work, concentration and planning involved in sitting perfectly still. Plus my big, pumpkin cranium required fewer turns than those of the sad microcephalics smiling and waving uncertainly from the loser’s circle.) Even later in the day at other events, people recognized Denny from the contest and continued to congratulate him. The following day, our picture ended up in the newspapers and on TV.

Anyway since Denny is the one weaving the entertaining stories from our experiences, (That’s not how she actually describes it to me but thanks, baby!) I will simply capture what was.

We left O’Hare on Friday afternoon and arrived in Delhi that Saturday night around midnight. When we arrived in India, it seemed like Denny and I were off to a pretty rocky start. We waited in the wrong line for our Health screening. It took a local to point out that we were in the line for Indians only. No wonder we were the only non-Indian’s standing in the line… (Oh, it's easy to be a Monday morning quarterback...) Once we got through the Health screening, we discovered that we had missed filling out several portions of the customs form causing us to hold up the customs line. (They're ridiculously fussy about plutonium...)
Finally we moved on to collect our luggage and meet our trip leader, Vishal.

There were only three of us that night. It turned out that the other members of our group had arrived earlier and were all snug in their beds. Vishal led us outside where our senses were immediately hit with a noticeable contrast to the cooler, cleaner air inside the terminal. We went from a rather bright, organized, spacious area to a chaotic night scene. It was loud, with people shouting and horns blowing and there was a wall of smoke mixed with strong, pungent odors. We boarded a small bus and were taken to our hotel. The road we traveled was dusty and bumpy and everyone was blowing their horns constantly. It appeared that lane usage, and which side of the road to drive on, were optional just as were any rules associated with parking cars (they were parked in the middle of the road in some cases) . The different horn toots all had specific meanings; short toots means “Hi, just passing by”, a varied horn blow (something our American horns are not equipped to do) means “Get out of my way, I’m in a hurry!“ and the long horn blow means “Okay now you’ve really done it, I’m angry!“ Our driver was a master at weaving through the chaos. We later learned that three things are needed for driving in India; a good horn, good breaks and good luck!   It was dark, but I could still make out that there were a lot of makeshift hovels that looked like garbage heaps with holes cut into them. Later I found out that these were shanty towns. There was a lot of construction taking place (a new subway was being built that our guide was very proud of). We passed a larger building that still had their lights up from the Diwali festival. (There's always some dipwad that leaves his Diwali lights up long after the season has passed. Am I right, guys?)

We finally arrived at our hotel which was a startling contrast to all the scenes we saw on the drive in. It was a very large new hotel connected to a brand new indoor shopping mall. Our room was like a small apartment, complete with kitchen area, 2 flat screen TV’s, large shower and remote controls for everything including the lights. I’m not sure what we were expecting, but we certainly were not expecting such a nice stay for our first night.

On Sunday, Somnath and his wife met us at the hotel for short visit (Somnath is one of my co-workers who works in Gurgaon, but lives in Dehli). They presented us with a bouquet of roses and a carved wooden Ganesh (which Denny just loves). (True. I love me some Lord Ganesha… Don’t know what it is. Everybody loves him here. He’s like a combo of God and Spuds McKenzie. I've since ensconced him in a place of honor at home.) We visited for a bit and then we showed them our hotel room and the pool area. Once it was time for us to meet with the rest of our travel group, they left. It was so nice of them to come visit us and welcome us to India. (An adorable couple. He’s got this look on his face like he just won the arranged marriage lotto which, meeting his wife, you realize he did.)

We met the rest of our group and Vishal gave us a briefing of what was in store for the next 2 weeks.
Monday, Oct 25, 2009

We saw Qutb Minar. Vishal provided us with a bit of a history lesson about the Place and then we walked around. He showed us where the faces of carvings had been defaced by Muslims. There is also a tower made of iron that has lasted more than 1000 years without rusting. They’re only now discovering how it was done. (No, not rustoleum)

I was surprised to see green parrots all over the place! They were just beautiful.

There were many arrow arches which Vishal explained were pointing to Mecca. He also pointed out some interesting Neem trees that the twigs were used for brushing teeth and other medicinal needs (his mother used to use the tree twigs when he was a little boy for treatment of pimples, storing clothes in the car trunk, etc.).

After we were finished exploring the ruins, Vishal took us to see a demonstration of craftsmen making silk carpets at a shop called Cottage Industries Carpet. The demonstration was wonderful. The man who gave the demonstration was sad that the younger generation does not have the desire to learn the trade. This art had been done the same way for generations. There were several families who created their own patterns and made the rugs from silk, using dyes they created themselves. Every carpet was hand made.. some taking as long as a couple of years to complete. They were all unique, no two alike. We were suckered in and ended up buying a small one that will probably be displayed on our living room wall. (When we opened our eyes, our wallets were gone! Again!)


In the late afternoon, Vishal took us to see a Sikh Temple. Such an interesting experience. (See "Sikh Temple posting from 10/27/09) I had seen these people before and for some reason always feared them. Probably because of the serious look and weapons they carry. (That’ll usually do it. That’s why we live in the northern suburbs, dear…) Before we got into the Temple, we had to put scarves on our heads and take our shoes and socks off. They were running a soup kitchen for anyone and everyone who needed something to eat to come in – no questions asked and no pressure. They had a place in the back where they kept their Holy book. A group of women were chanting/singing and there was a guy waving a large feather over the book. All of these people were volunteers and the book is never left alone during the day. At night they put a blanket over it and put it into another room – kind of like tucking it into bed.

That evening we had dinner at a typical middle class Indian families’ home.  Arun and Deepankar, along with their teenage daughter and young servant fed us a wonderful dinner. Deepankar is an interior decorator and they both did business with exports. They work with local artists and sell to World Market in the States. Their home was a modest 3 bedroom, 1 story house. When we walked into the house we entered directly into the main room which was painted with a deep orange color. It was a combination living/dining room. The master bedroom was off to the left and was painted a deep blue. Just outside the barred windows was a little garden that Deepankar continued into the room by paining a mural of a tree branch along the wall. The spare bedroom was painted a deep red and was used as a combination family room/office with an alter for blessings. We talked about work, religion, weddings, family, Buddha (they were a Buddhist family).

During our travels, we stopped at a Snake Charmers village. (See 11/21/09 posting and video) It was a small village of about 30 people. Their homes were made from the mud and straw. They had several half size walls made of mud which created a yard for every hut and a walk-way for general use. It reminded me of when we used to put sticks in straight lines to create the outline of our play houses when we were little.

When we entered the village everyone came out to greet us. They all had big smiles and of course wanted their pictures taken so they could see themselves in the play-back.

We were led through the narrow passageways to where there was an opening in the yard. Apparently this was the village activity center. I was surprised (although I shouldn’t have been) to see Denny sitting cross legged on a small rug along with the head of the snake charmer village and blowing the snake charmers flute. (Christ, Staci, try and clarify that better! Sounds awful! I bonded with this guy while we were singing tunes back and forth. They apparently got a kick out of me doing jazz riffs on their melody. I think they were all goofed up on hash or something. Snake charmers and carnival folk take to me for some reason.)

Everyone gathered around and sat down on the ground for the show. The snake charmer took the flute and played music while a young girl did a special dance. After, the music continued and the snake charmer took the covers off of two baskets that were near him. Out of the baskets rose two shiny cobra’s (I wondered if they rubbed them down with something, they looked so polished!). When the snake charmer gave the signal, Denny attempted to pet the cobra. (If you know what I mean… heh, heh…) He got close, but the cobra seemed a bit agitated so they ended the show (Way to go Denny). (Not my fault the cobras freaked out. They’re used to these tiny guys and here’s this huge maharajah looming over them. Probably figured they were suddenly on the other end of the food chain)

Near Jaipur, we walked through a small village town that had narrow dirt passageways with what looked like a series of small cement garages that were all the same size (picture one of those 'U-Store It' storage places). They all had their aluminum overhead doors open and part of their goods were set just in front of the shops ready to sell. For many, their small homes were attached to the backs of these small stores. They were selling all manner of fruit, vegetables, shoes, purses, crafts, etc. Some were providing various services; barber shops, tire repair, blacksmiths, etc. Just about everything every ordinary town in the US would need to have, but on a more basic level and situated much closer together (no parking lots or even sidewalks). As we walked through the town, we shared the narrow walkways with the locals, which included cows, dogs and pigs. It seemed like it was a really crowded town because it was difficult to squeeze by everything. It turned out that the crowd had formed around us and we were all moving through the town as one big glob. Although everyone was very friendly and there were lots of smiles and “Hello” with an occasional “You buy?” (It seems that they’ve all learned the same phrases… and once the “Hello” was said - that was it. Which now that I think about it, is more than I know of their language) at times it seemed a bit claustrophobic and intimidating; especially when a pack of dogs started barking at us angrily… they’re usually so laid back like everything else seems to be.

It occurred to me that these villages probably operate as one large extended family and that they probably had the option of trading goods and services, rather than paying cash for them. I could now better understand all that I had heard about the Indian wedding ceremonies. If the entire town is an extended family, then it makes sense that everyone in the village attends the weddings and they last for days with great fanfare over the event.

As we continued our travels through the countryside, the interactions of men and women seemed to play out the same over and over again. Whether in a field or in a town, there would be groups of women standing, sitting or doing things together and there would be groups of men also standing, sitting or doing things together. In both groups, it was common to see men with arms around each others shoulders or holding hands. The same was true for the women. Rarely did I see the women and men doing things together.

Reminder to self - Some of the common sights and interesting stuff we saw and learned during the trip:

• Cows and pigs wandering around, eating garbage, standing in the middle of the streets with traffic going around them (if the cow no longer gives milk or can't work - they won’t kill them, they just set them free and let them wander the streets.) (In the US, we only do that with people…)

• Busses overflowing with people inside, on top, hanging off the back, out the windows or where ever they find something to hang on to.

• Very colorful clothes. While staying at one of the hotels I sent some clothes out to be washed. My white top came back a few shades darker than when it left me. I now know why the Indian’s prefer such colorful clothes.
• The countryside is dotted with tall narrow chimney’s that are use for making clay pots and bricks for building the homes.
• Nomads herding their flocks (sheep, goats, camels, cows..) (Cats…)
• Men stopping to pee - anywhere. Outside urinals. (Wonderfully freeing. See earlier post)
• Farmers walking flocks of camels from the Pushkar fair to their farms… sometimes for hundreds of days.
• The US has 360 million people living in it. India has over a billion and is not as large as the US.
• Jaipur has 5 million people, but is not nearly as large as Delhi. Jaipur is the fastest growing city with much development going on everywhere.
• It is not mandatory for kids to go to school. However school is free. The government is incentivizing parents to send their kids to school by supplying them with jumpers, sweaters, 2 meals a day and books. The literacy rate is growing from 30% to 55% within the last few years. Girls can attend High School free of charge.  The sad thing is that in some cases, parents won't send their kids (especially girls) to school because they think either they won't need it for their future or they think the kids could make money by begging instead.
• In the villages, there is one well for many houses
• There are 1652 languages spoken in India. The government wants there to be two official languages which is why all signs are written only in Hindi and English.
• Indians never kill their sheep, because they need them for the wool. (Lincoln had a secretary named Kennedy. Kennedy had a secretary named Lincoln…)
• The Muslims don’t eat pork and the Indians don’t eat beef. So the McDonalds has signs outside that say “No Beef or Pork products sold here” (Hand to Gods, I tried the “Veggie-McMuffin” and the “Paneer-Salsa wrap.” They were out of the “McCup o’ Corn”)
• 

• Instead of using speed bumps, in most places they use two signs placed in the middle of the road. One is slightly ahead of the other and the idea is that you have to slow down in order to serpentine through them. Not real sophisticated, but very effective and I would think much less expensive.
• The light switches operate the exact opposite of ours, down is on and up is off.
• All the toilets have a hose and sprayer next to them. I’m still trying to figure out what they are used for. (I’m still trying to avoid explaining to her what they’re used for. When Delhi-Belly hits, she’ll figure it out on her own. I have…)
• Each Hindu family has a priest assigned to them. When a member of their family passes away, it is the priest who records the death in a special book before the ashes are let go in the Ganges river. This book has been handed down through the generations. Our trip leader explained that when his father died, he went to the Ganges to release his fathers ashes. When he got there, he gave them his family name and they directed him to the priest who was assigned to his family. The priest opened the book to record the passing of his father and Vishal could see his father’s signature from when he had visited to release his father’s ashes as well as his own name from where his father recorded his birth. He could also see the signatures that came before his grandfather for several generations back (hundreds of years).
• As we drove through the small villages, we saw many strange looking vehicles. It looked like they just took a motor and set it on a platform and then connected it to a wagon of some sort. They call these vehicles “Gugaards” and they are everywhere. (Actually, they’re small electric generators that were originally used to power the water pumps out in their fields. They had to take them there by camel or cart in the morning and bring them back so they wouldn’t be stolen. Some genius figured out that he could build a cart around them so they could power their own way to and from the fields. From there it was a short jump to making their own trucks and such. They use these for everything. Thy don’t require a license and, as the government’s been unable to stop them, they just officially refuse to acknowledge they exist at all and won’t discuss them with foreigners. ) Our trip leader told us that he read a newspaper article about the summit that was taking place in Dehli. In it, it said that President Bush had heard that they had a secret weapon that helped them in dealing with the Taliban and they were called “Gugaards”. When President Bush heard this, he said he wanted to know what this Gugarrd is - please send them to me so we can also have this advantage. The Indians, never wanting to say “No” simply said, “President Bush, we can’t send you our Gugaards. (Indian humor. Go figure.) It turns out that a Gugaard is there way of saying they “Jury-rigged” something .

Pushkar Camel Fair

The Holy city of Pushkar is situated on a sacred lake flanked by 2 mountains crowned with temples. Every year at around this time, the population swells from about 17,000 to a quarter-million for the Pushkar festival. People come to sell camels, horses and cattle, and to bathe in the sacred lake.
This year, though, in a triumph of bureaucratic scheduling, the lake was drained before the festival for “improvements“. We arrived in the afternoon to a cacaphony of sounds. There were horns blowing, music playing, sacred chanting and, rising above it all, the bawling “squonks!” of 17,000 peeved camels. (Which roughly translates from Camelese as “Hey! WTF? Where’s the water?! We were told there would be water! Hello?”)


Staci and I stayed in a tent on the outskirt of town that was pretty ritzy by Pushkar standards. We even had a private bathroom tent out back with cold running water and several hours of electricity daily. From here we could make our way into town by camel cart (Note: If you’re sitting in a camel cart, always try for the back seat. Up front is a little too close to the after-burners and your average camel is one gassy customer. Smoking is not advised.)


As for the fair itself, where to begin? I suppose “In the Beginning there was Dust. It pretty much stayed that way”. The air was packed with dust from the sandy desert and the smoke from thousands of camp and cooking fires fueled by camel dung. Constantly renewable, camel dung is true green energy. (Actually, greenish brown… sometimes with yellow streaks,,,) We found ourselves worrying about what would happen when the air reached saturation point on the dirt humidity scale. Would a fresh strata drop from the sky with a thud?

The market and bazaar was filled with people selling everything you could imagine plus quite a few things that you can’t. (Not in your wildest dreams; trust me.) You could buy fruit, vegetables, cooked breads, soups, clothing, jewelry, and every type of tourist tschotchke that has ever been foisted on confused travelers since the dawn of time. We were surrounded by children and young men hawking their wares .“Miss, miss, you look; you buy? Very nice. My family made this” This has to be a very busy family as literally millions of these things can be found anyplace where we out-of-towners congregate. “Sar, Sar! You look! You buy? Very nice. Carved from my own pelvis; special price for you!”.

A quick note about beggars and hawkers: Staci and I have traveled through a number of the worlds prettier plague spots and have come to know hawkers and beggars in all their various forms. Indians are, without a doubt, the most pleasant of the bunch. They will follow you incessantly, if you’ve made the mistake of glancing in their direction, as that means that you’ve opened the negotiations. Still I’ve not seen one get mean or unpleasant (Unlike Arabs, the Desert French, who will follow you sullenly through the bazaar shouting angrily, “Hey! Buy my worthless crap made in China. Who are you to refuse, infidel dog.”)
The beggars take pathetic to a whole new level that pathetic didn’t need to see. It was like high tide at Fatima as throngs of the halt, lame and really, really creepy surged after us. We saw a number of people dragging themselves around on their hands and waists with perhaps a shrunken useless limb dragging behind. Grinning amputees waved their scarred stumps at us coyly as they rubbed thumb and forefinger together in the universal sign for “Got baksheesh, sailor?” Even the gypsy children flashed winning smiles as their tiny, clever hands darted in and out of my pockets. One neat trick they’ve learned is training their babies to cry pathetically, on cue, the moment a tourist walks by only to switch off as soon as the he’s passed. At least I’m hoping it training. I’d hate to think the moms are just pinching them.

I would expect anger and resentment from those who seem to have so little when confronted with us, who seem to have so much. Still the entire time we’ve been here, we’ve been greeted welcomed, waved at and chased with unbound delight. Staci has had many people walk up and ask to have their picture taken with her. Teens and young men especially love having pictures taken with us on their cell phones and cameras. I’m trying to imagine what stories are being told about the scores of pictures making the rounds of small, skinny people locked in an embrace with this big, bald white guy. More than that, the poor who don’t have cameras and cell phones, dearly love having their pictures taken with us and then looking at them in the camera display. This just cracks them up to no end. They seem to really, really like us.

They must be up to something.