Monkeys and scooters and other new things

I discovered captions!

I eventually got tired of sitting in the door and wandered through the cars til I found an unoccupied spot on a bench. Every time I approached the conductor with my ticket in hand he waved me away without so much as a word. I was getting frustrated and extremely curious about what the deal was with this guy, my ticket, this train, the whole railways system, etc. Questions running through my head were to the effect of ‘how can a country this huge and this modern with the kind of global business and production and people it has be unable to properly give me a seat on a damn train?’ It wasn’t until I was kicked out of my third resting spot that the rightful seat owner explained I did not actually have a ticket. I had purchased the right to enter the train and sit in the unreserved car, which he also informed me was so packed I would be unable to stand. I stood in the doorway for a while again, this time somewhat relieved that I was not being somehow prosecuted and there was not some beautiful, cushy, and most importantly, empty seat waiting for me somewhere on the train. With that I wandered through the cars again, careful to hide from the ticket collector lest he banish me to my rightful place, this time somewhat at ease. Not only did I know understand what had happened, but I noticed dozens of other people in the same position and I decided to sit on the corner of someone’s berth as many of them were. I found a girl about my age and asked if I could rest on her bed. At first she said no, but she eventually gave in and after a few hours even let me put my feet up. I slept on and off, compulsively checking that my now two bags (more on that later) were still there and that the time was still moving. Around daybreak the guy sleeping in the berth above us came down to stand at the door and I went up to finally sleep lying down for a bit. The guy who explained my (un)ticket woke me up at my stop and I began the hunt for a power outlet. My phone had been malfunctioning and in my attempt to fix it the battery died, leaving me unable to call (or find the phone numbers of) Ram’s friends Paulani and Pradeep with whom I would be staying. In the end as uncomfortable as it was, the night wasn't a total failure. I arrived in Bengalaru and I felt much more comfortable with trains. Shit, I'll ride a cargo train next time...

I happily bought myself a cold coffee with ice cream in exchange for power use in the station café. As I stared down at my phone with a trance-like intensity it became clear that this phone would not be functioning any longer without some serious work. I searched my brain for where else I might have stored Ram’s phone number and set to work retrieving it from an old chat message on my computer. I used a pay phone (which spits out a little receipt to hand to the attendant) to call Ram and Paulani, verifying the wild address I had written down, filled with Symphonies, numbered highway pillars and long unpronounceable words, leaving my other check-in calls to once I had repaired my phone and could locate phone numbers.

Apparently too dangerous to stay for the colors

It took more than an hour to arrive, but Paulani and Pradeep had a beautiful apartment and I think one look at me and they knew I needed to ‘freshen up’ before we could really chat. They fed me delicious French toast and sent me off on a nap before we headed out for lunch (McDonalds – I have not been able to eat Indian food today, so we decided it would be western food day) and to the Iskcon temple. It was a huge, modern place on the other side of the city, which allowed me to see both a large part of Bengalaru and the newer incarnations of Hindu temples. I made us Tiffany-style Italian pasta for dinner and we all went to bed early, exhausted by the beautiful but traffic-ridden city.

Then next morning I met Janani, Ram’s friend Hari’s cousin who I went to Pondicherry with on my first day in India. She took me along with a few of her friends and sister to see a new Bollywood film Raavan, based on a classic Hindu myth, the Ramayana. Neither of us understands Hindi, but one of her friends gave us a basic translation and I was so entertained by the lively crowd, choreographed dancing and hunky warrier men I didn’t mind much that the plot was improbable and I had no idea what they were saying.

The celebration included lots of food, ceremony and music.

The night on the train and being without a cell phone had left me a bit behind in my planning, so Janani took me back to her house and her mom cooked us food while we used the internet. I was unsettled, hearing reports of rain to the west (where I had planned to go) and that the Mangalore airport was still damaged from the crash the week before, making canceled flights highly probable. To clear my mind, Janani took me shopping to get a Salwar (a long, dress-like shirt and pajama-like pants) and to a friend’s brother’s engagement party. It was an amazing glimpse into some of the tradition surrounding important life events and we rode around the city on Janani’s scooter, which was a revolutionary glimpse into how to survive in an Indian city. We skirted the insane amount of traffic which had handicapped my journeys just one day before, and as my hair blew in the wind I felt free as a bird. When we returned later that night I knew I needed to reroute my travels, so I called up my family while I bought new plane tickets, canceled hotel reservations and arranged for new bus routes.

In the mornings Janani’s mom made me the most delicious khichdi I have ever had – it was rich and buttery and what every morning should be made of. She packed me a lunch for the bus ride and I brought only my stuff for the night – a much, much better way to travel. Janani dropped me off at the bus stop and I felt a bit like a schoolgirl, but on an adventure with a nice business hotel, a temple on the top of a hill and the famous Mysore Palace on the treasure map.

Immediately following the monkey attack...

I decided to get a driver for the afternoon, since I didn’t have a whole lot of time, and he took me up to the top of Chamundi hill. As I went into the temple, practicing all of the rituals I had picked up along the way, people watched and pointed and smiled and asked for pictures. I obliged, but to get some solice walked around the back to a smaller temple, which I had all to myself. I stopped for a juice box along the way, still whistful about the cold stone temples with the deep smell of insence. I enjoyed the mango juice as I walked back into the crowd until I was suddenly grabbed on both shoulders. I immediately stopped, screaming and grabbing my purse out of instinct, until I realized it was two monkeys. They grabbed at my delicious, cold and refreshing mango juice but I didn’t let their grubby little paws take my thirty cents of joy away. I stood frozen in the spot until a man pulled the monkeys off of my shoulders, only for an even bigger one to pounce on me again a few steps away. By this time the juice was all over me and I could see people taking pictures as I scowled at them and asked for help. Those monkey teeth sure look like things I want to keep away from my flesh.

The Mysore Palace at night

I escaped back to the driver and we went to a giant nandi (my favorite!) and the pilgrams steps and waited for the sun to set, or as long as he would let me, citing danger at dusk. I asked him to drive me through the market and to a large palace converted into a hotel for dinner. I had my first fancy dinner, stuffed potato curry and a yogurt cucumber salad, and feeling like a princess I headed to bed so I could get up early to see the big palace and head back to Bengalaru to catch my flight to Mumbai. I still had a few tasks to accomplish: mail the great number of gifts I had accumulated (now filling a whole nother bag) and to get a new cell phone before the moment was finally upon me – I would meet Amara in just a few hours and I was so excited not just to have a travel companion, but to see my baby sister! And in India…who would have thought.

Tea!

I had mapped out a few places to go while hiding out from the cockroaches in Kanyakamuri, even going so far as to write down my rough schedule – on paper! – with phone numbers for hostels and departure times for transportation between cities. Jay’s dad and brother in law went through the schedule with me, helping to shape it into something more manageable and focused. They dropped me off at the same bus stop they had picked me up from four days earlier, this time parting ways as they drove off for the funeral of a family member and I for the mountains and rivers of the north. The first leg of the trip was uneventful, not even any rain until my feet touched down in Kollam. I set them towards the ferry stand, just across the street, to catch a boat through Kerala’s famous backwaters to the city of Alappuzha. I had heard all sorts of conflicting tales of the ferry running (tourist office), not running (hostel owner via a tourist) and running every other day (Lonely Planet). I inquired about this mysterious boat to the group of tan-shirted men draped around the benches at the ferry stand and learned that all three realities were in fact true for their respective owners. The ferry ran any time there were more than ten passengers lined up to ride it. And as big as I may be, I am but one. I waited for a couple hours, gazing at the river and the travelers hopping on and off of boats large and small, hoping just one family of four, one couple and perhaps an old man might be desiring a leisurely cruise through the backwaters with me. 

However, none of my imaginary tourists appeared, so instead I caught the seven am commuter boat (at less than one tenth the cost no less) after a night in Alappuzha in a forest-themed hostel with six baby puppies where I almost burnt down my hut with a coil of incense. Eek. Survival was on my side though, and I even had time to wander through the city a bit, see a guy building coffins and buy a few things for my forest excursion: mosquito repellent, a book, allergy medicine, bandaids, bananas and an apple. [In case you were wondering, all of that totaled to $4.] I was off bright and early, counting my blessings as I attempted to wipe the soot off the green wall where the coil had extinguished itself. As excited as I was to be on a boat, and on my way to the mountains of tea, the river lulled me to sleep within a few minutes and I scarcely remember anything until I woke up on the bus in the hills. It was amazing: lush green, raging waterfalls and pineapples growing in the ground. We climbed higher and higher and I tried harder and harder to capture photos this strange land of things I had never seen before. But as the sights grew more awe inspiring, not once failing to improve with each hairpin turn we rounded, I settled in and waited. The journey is most often my favorite part, to the extreme that I almost dread arrivals, with all of their bag-carrying, reorientation and self-propelled movement. This one I enjoyed the bus ride, but with a reserved room in the forest and a renewed energy from my last four days, I was excited to arrive. 

I was not disappointed either – the mountains at the top were covered in the most beautiful of greenery I had yet to see. Tea bushes were carefully shaped into clouds, the little alleys between them filled with brightly-colored leaf plucking women, smooth boulders and tall thin silver oaks all draped in a thin mist. The air, heavy with the scent of fresh tea leaves, eucalyptus and rain drops, seemed to heal my every malady. It was utterly unworldly. You must go there – and do not listen if they say June is not the time. It was calm and cool and the sun shone through the clouds whenever I left cover. 

I spent the day with the mother of a friend (Himani) of a friend (Rajeev) and she showed me the school for children of plantation workers, a tea factory, a plantation owner’s clubhouse, a paper and fabric project employing artisans with mental and physical disabilities, and a great little biryani restaurant. At that point I headed out to the hills in a rickshaw, with a driver who showed me honey bees, elephants, a hydroelectricity dam, how to make tea and an echo valley with no echo left. I ran into a family from my hotel, who I brought along for a bit, and we ended up having dinner and drinks. I spent an evening talking with them, the parents both teachers in Delhi and the son a musician in Mumbai, a great new dimension after the evening before with a German and an American. We had all swapped stories, the girls of fortune tellers, gem markets, five star resorts and taxi rides through the desert, mine of ancient temples, homemade delicacies, dusty buses and cultural exchange. I think we both promised to ourselves to try a bit of the other side, although I knew I would wait for Amara as bazaars are best explored with company and nice hotels with shared pocketbooks.

The thirty eight hours of breathlessness gave way to twenty nine hours of motion. Another early morning in a rickshaw, driving to the bus, driving to the train and riding to the city where I should eventually find myself on a plane after a few days. As I arrived in hot hot Kochi, I sat thinking about the cool cool mountains, with the long nights of frogs chirping and rain dropping. I gazed at the humanity and missed the trees a bit – so much I almost missed my train as I had brought myself to the wrong station. I hurried through the city to the correct point of departure and found myself unable to locate my seat. The ticket was in some pretty little language I could not read, and even Ram (who bought me the ticket) wasn’t sure where I was to go. I eventually just hopped on between two cars, hoping to find someone to help. I sat, like Huckleberry Finn, at the open train door and continued to muse about adventures, wanders and rambles, patiently awaiting the ticket collector to point me on my way.

Home away from home

I wandered through a small parade, an all-women police department, a steady stream of uniformed children on their way to school and the usual din of rickshaws, motorbikes and farm animals to the bus stand a kilometer or so outside of town. I had misjudged the distance and the heat, but it was good to stretch my legs after so much time in the car over the past few days. I stopped and bought a banana and a bottle of water for the trip (that I will be careful not to drink until we are close to the destination – I have developed an untested but well-founded fear of having to go to the bathroom while on a bus – I just cannot image what I would do in such a case. What do you do? Think about it….) and sat down for a minute before querying the stationmaster about the bus to Triv. Triv, as in Thiruvananthapuram. The bus left within moments and drove back along the whole path I had just walked...ooh the joys of not knowing where you are.

I called Jay’s father Peethambaran when I changed buses a few hours later, so he knew when to expect me. I was both excited and nervous to stay in an Indian house, not knowing what to expect and being somewhat fatigued from travel, language and food on the road. Jay and I studied together in St Gallen; in three words I suppose i would call him a well-read conversationalist. We had debated many things over beers and incomplete powerpoints, including the attraction (or lack thereof) of travel, the merit (or lack thereof) of religion and our successes (or lack thereof) in entrepreneurship. I looked forward to meeting his family but could not picture what they might be like.  Well, picturing another’s family is something like guessing what a river looks like upstream, so I really didn’t try too hard. But after being away from home for so long, anything resembling a home-cooked meal sounded amazing and you can imagine how I was feeling about a bed that was not rented to strangers and cockroaches on a regular basis.

Jay’s father and brother-in-law Hari picked me up from the bus stand and brought me back to their house, which was located right in the heart of town but was somehow quiet and calm. Jay’s sister (Reshmi) and nephew (Dev) and mom (who everyone calls Amma) greeted me at the door and were all instantly welcoming. We started talking and I realized I would be comfortable here for as long as I needed to rest before my next trip, which was a huge relief. I had planned to leave the next morning but in the back of my head knew I needed a bit more time to recover (go go go can only go go for so long) if Jay’s family would let me. They more than just let me, they encouraged me to stay.  And supplied ample meals of delicious homemade food, friendly visits from cousins and aunts and grandparents (all bearing delicious homemade sweets), trips to the local beaches, palaces, gardens and temples, hours to myself and their internet connection, and long conversations about the important parts of life. They helped me improved my eating-with-hand technique, told me that Jay was quiet a kid (yes, the conversationalist...), a young cousin taught me some letters in Malayalam, aunts showed me hand-painted and hand-embroidered sarees, I watched a video of a granddaugher’s wedding, and heard stories and explanations of all different aspects of South Indian culture and cuisine. I really was able to get a sense for not just how things are, but why they are that way.  It was a totally different experience from watching life passing by while riding through on a bus or looking out the hotel window. And I was reminded that everywhere you go, even in a country so different on the street level once you step inside the house you are at home. Many unspoken traditions and formalities that we have in my family (and in most families I know) are explicitly prescribed, which makes everything seem to make so much more sense. Here family are neighbors, at home my neighbors are family. We all eat our meals together and drink tea and coffee day and night. Kids are naturally prone to be either incredibly dedicated to school or incredibly dedicated to playing. We hope to marry before we get old and to find a job that pays more than the last. Parents live for the children and children try to advance the family. In all of this I began to realize what a traditional household I had been brought up in – sure my parents are truly freethinking and would probably be shocked that I just called them traditional – but the values are the same even if they have never been spoken aloud. There is perhaps less tenacity and faith in my world, perhaps more environment and individual, and I'm sure a thousand other differences, but they just didn't seem to matter that much. Actually, I can't even think of any...