India Incredible India

April 20, 2010, 6:10 pm
Filed under: India

Put aside that novel as we’ve decided to include some snippets to wrap up India, our own version of the Incredible India (spelt out) advertisement campaign some of you may have seen to highlight the uniqueness, complexity and of course allure of the great mad sub-continent.

TRAIN TICKET. Eight years had passed since our previous adventures in India. Slumdog Millionaire, White Tiger, Sachin Tendukar, Life of Pi and ANZ call centre calls had brought India closer to a broad amount of Australians in recent years, wanted or unwanted. According to the press and pie charts in financial papers, the country has been steadily climbing the ladder to modernity. Apparently there are now more millionaires in India than Swedes in Sweden… or something like that. Either way we are intrigued in whether or not we would be able to judge any evidence of the changes ourselves. And of course, there are noticeably more real “Rupees” in circulation, slightly fewer Hero bicycles yet more snazzy Chevrolet cars on the streets. We witnessed local travellers check their email effortlessly- wireless on a MacBook on an Indian train. Glossy lifestyle magazines promote designer jeans worth more than a combined monthly travel budget of the two pigeons. Now of course, there should be more in-depth analytical indicators to measure India’s rise in wealth but the main obvious thing, though that stands out, is that a relative minority enjoys this rise. Lot’s of people still do get by with minimal belongings and income. Caste and class will continue to hinder the world’s so-called largest democracy to obtain a somewhat sustainable, balanced growth. Ring roads, glitzy airports and brand chains just won’t do as real achievements for the future ahead. However, to bring the subject back on a more personal and lighter experience of change for the good we can compare our last trip’s train ticket experience which took a good two days’ fierce queuing (we actually witnessed a proper fist fight) at some random train station ticket counter, this time we booked and printed our precious train tickets in matter of minutes- online. No queues, no touts, no sore feet and no hassle. And it works too. This might not strike you as a very amazing improvement of Indian life but for those of you who in the past have had travelled on Indian trains, you now will nod in silent surprise and understanding.

train table not online, yet

NO WHEELBARROW. Along with the office chair (in our case office floor) based duties at Vanastree, we were also delegated with more hands-on, earthy tasks back on the farm. One of the garden beds didn’t look too healthy and provided nobody-humans or cows or pests with anything chewable. The pressure was on to turn this brown and crackly patch into a green oasis. As Sunita would be soon forced to sell off one of her cows due to lack of animal feed, which for all us including the cow would have had equally serious consequences. Fewer udders would have meant less milk to share among the neighbours, the farm hand’s family and us. In other words, less chai or coffee for everybody!!! So come our first weekend off office work we were ready to set out our plan of bed regeneration in action. We figured the soil needed some tlc, as the existing soil had all nutrition washed out. A rough weeding session and some airing of the hard soil was to be followed by adding a new thick layer of topsoil and potent and generous layering of manure. Then turning over all the new layers with a shovel and some watering. Easy peasy. As we got ready to move the new topsoil from it’s current position 300m away, uphill to the garden, we enquired about the wheelbarrow’s whereabouts. “Wheelbarrow?” “Oh no I don’t think we ever had any of those!” Right. “But we got those rubber baskets instead” Right. Not entirely surprised about the lack of an extremely helpful farming tool, at least in Western minds, yet a little disheartened in knowing we would have carry the soil and all the manure in small portions in a rubber car tyre basket to the garden. We ended up carrying about 50 basketfuls of soil and 20 basketfuls of manure at 15 kg each, Indian style on our heads…. In case you haven’t tried this yourself, it actually is quite comfortable; we even try with no hands… at least with the soil loads.

this is not a wheelbarrow

BUREAUCRATIC CHECK IN’S: Forgive us if we keep repeating this fact: Indian life seems to thrive in chaos and madness. Nothing wrong with this, really, after all it makes India such an addictive destination to visit. Yet, not all dealings are disorderly. There is a distinct flavour of bureaucracy in all things official. In our instance it is mostly experienced when checking in at a hotel. No matter what standard it is, from a $1.50 a night broom cupboard without a bed to a tree house in a delightful national park setting, one is faced with a taste of India’s love for forms. With “please fill out, madam, sir!” we are handed a number of sheets filled with multitudes of boxes and lines to be completed in triplicate. Mostly there is no limit to the degree of unnecessary enquiries: Mother’s maiden name, father’s profession, the last three visited destinations, or why do all Australians hate Indians. Despite the pain answering it all, especially after a sixteen-hour local bus journey including garage stop, we try to keep upbeat about it all. After all, with a bit of creative answering, there is plenty of fun to be had.

RIGHT-LEFT-LEFT-RIGHT-WRONG!: Indians like many folk around the world use their left hand, which is considered a no go zone for other hand business (such as eating) for their daily ablutions and it does take a little while to get used to, but once you’ve got the swing of it with a slosh of water you’re back in business. However, living with Sunita (our host of Vanastree) we were introduced to the subtleties of appropriate table manners that are quite different to other taboos involving left-handers around the world. Our first meal together had some light shed on the fact that in this part of the world there is even a more deadlier sin to commit when touching another fellow human being’s food with your left hand- your disgusting saliva-covered right hand. It is customary to serve yourself and others with your left, pass food with your left and keep that nasty germ-laden food-eating hand to yourself. Cutlery makes life so much easier!

XEROX SHRINE: Our main task during the stay with Vanastree was to improve the NGO’s communication materials, mostly in anticipation of the organisation’s big-ticket fundraiser/awareness festival, the Malnad Mela, held annually in Bangalore. This task theoretically didn’t promise to create too much hassle as it was going to take just a little to “improve” existing items. The use of ill-fitting clipart was rather liberal and equally disturbing was the existing choices and selections of colour and fonts that didn’t agree with my (and hopefully most other humans’) idea of effective communication. Yet, in practice, our work stint did turn in to a hardcore, time pressed and sometimes nerve wrecking exercise. Don’t get us wrong; it was enjoyable refocusing our backpacked trained brain cells in an alternate way, other than to read timetables, menus or hieroglyphic museum plaques. Things work differently in India; I believe nobody needs to be preached about that fact. In our case- design and general work procedures definitely didn’t quite match ones we had experienced before in our careers. Text alterations for a brochure arrived in our inboxes before we even had seen the original content. Suggested poster concepts were crippled under the heavy burden of class, cast, religious and urban/rural complexities. Printing budgets changed faster than the Liberal Party’s leadership, and the request for accurate package sizes in order to create correct sized labels raised eyebrows. However, we got there in the end, days turned into nights and nights into days as sometimes sweat and/or tear drops hit the keyboard. By the time the festival was upon us, we had proudly produced 40 plus task items. Some were small, others epic. Invitations, posters, brochures, charts, booklets, signage etc. were ready just in time for the start of the festival. The effort seemed in the end to prove worthwhile. Nearly every single product was sold out to eager customers on the first day! However, one thing nearly didn’t make it. The label designs weren’t ready, erhm there were difficulties in getting the content, until half an hour before the local printer locked his doors. Doing it the next day wasn’t an option so I was understandably nervous that the outdated digital printer wasn’t going to cope with the task drama-less. But I was wrong. Everything worked out just fine. Not a single paper jam jeopardised the process; the registration was really spot on and the colour consistency was admirable. The reason must have been that, before turning on the printer, the owner of the printing shop had performed a small puja ceremony. Incense was waived around the machine, a soft prayer murmured and a tender kiss placed on the paper drawers. Things work differently in India.

putting in late hours, in my favourite lungi

DAY IN THE OFFICE: Sunita, our boss assured us that there would only be eight attendees, instead, thirty women from surrounding villages came to the Vanastree office like a flock of seagulls. Not in search of hot chips, rather to hone in on their pickling expertise and share a day of fun away from their men folk. I had no idea pickles could take so many forms, but as the ladies cut turmeric, garlic, ginger, chilli and strange unripe fruit, the colours in the pickle jars were manifesting into that little glob of obligatory pickle placed on your plate in the Western Ghats in the ten-to-one plate position as a taste explosion for the meal of rice and curry. Of course that meant we had to taste everyone’s pickle recipe (think of a salty raw garlic, chilli and ginger combo) and lunch as a sample is placed on your plate; there are more ways to make dosas (a fermented rice flour pancake) than Indian gods. In terms of trying to do any work on that day above the chatting, singing and obligatory pickle sampling… well let’s say that not too much got done on that day from our side of things.

kat working hard, if you can find her

HOLY HOLI: Holi is truly a colourful affair. It is one of the two hundred and seventy three festivals celebrated somewhere by someone on any day in India. Theoretically an innocent celebration to announce spring’s arrival, in reality it is a mad day of anarchy. Gangs of kids and kids at heart, armed with vivid coloured powder, which is either mixed with water and bottled or just left dry, roam the streets in search of clean, to be bombarded by victims. Needless to say, tourists rank as highly prized objects. We arrived in Hampi, in peace, from a rather uneventful night’s train journey from Bangalore. Despite the wee morning hours, Holi was already well under way. Signs of colour splashes were appearing on skins, fur and walls. We sensed that we would only have two options on how to spend the day ahead. A) staying indoors, lock the door and shift the bed frame against it; or B) dress in our not nice clothing (not hard after being on the road for so long), get out and embrace it all. We didn’t chicken out and before we knew it we were among the throng of technicoloured locals and tourists, dancing to frenzied drumming, tossing and inhaling clouds of colour. Indian party time all right! We retreated after some time back to the hostel but spent the rest of the day and the following ones, scrubbing colour from rarely visited body parts.

mountains of the stuff. innocent at this stage

BANANA FIGS: Sounds intriguing doesn’t it? Well each of us got to experience a farm stay with one of the women who made Vanastree such an integral organisation for women’s empowerment in the Western Ghats. Manorama “Panorama” was a local farmer, amazing cook, seed leader and our Indian pillar as she looked after us with her family about 30 km from the nearest town. Apart from the usual farm chores such as gathering betel nut, drinking copious amounts of Nescafe, eating all the time and watching the local soapie at nine-thirty every night, there was serious work to be done. Manorama with support from her family runs her own cottage industry product from semi-wild bananas: banana figs. Our job included peeling bananas, placing on trays and cutting into pieces as well as eating the yellow things. Delicious!

Manorama bending bananas

LEGGED: Positions of the “below the hip” body parts have a strong legacy in Indian culture and heritage. Think of the cross-legged protest of Ghandi and Melbourne taxi drivers, imaginative and apparently blissful positions of Karma Sutra activities. The shame of lbw, which for no cricket followers equals “leg before wicket”, or the serene positions when seeking spiritual enlightenment during mediation. While visiting the great sub-continent one must be flexible and enduring. After three months of having the knees pressed into my chin on gruelling bus journeys, sitting cross-legged on the floor for eating, working and sometimes sleeping I (Matthias) started to repeatedly talk about the benefits of a chair. It is true that the pleasures in life are sometimes the simple four-legged variety.

EGGS: Got to love them as symbols of fertility, Easter and of course thinking about them is a sure sign of some major deficiency when your diet is just plain too healthy. Apart from our only indulgence of freshly ground coffee with creamy milk warm from the cows, our intake of food consisted of rice, vegetables, rice, vegetables, rice and more rice. The recommended daily intake of all things oily, sugary, chocolately and the sniff of protein shaped other than a lentil, had us dreaming of the little energy pockets: eggs- yep straight from the chook’s bum are all we wanted as three month’s of amazingly good organic pure vegetarian food… was well… too good for us!

India Post: Want a good way to get your kicks in spending $60 in India? Try sending an Indian god to Australia via surface mail. I (Kat) thought that the next sardine-packed bus would be detrimental in keeping a several headed papier mache god intact, so insisted that a hasty send off would be the most sensible thing to do. However, after refreshing myself with the guidebook’s comprehension of the India postal system, I, armed with god, a box and nerves of steel whilst ignoring the cries from rows of tailors to sew up the parcel (as I NEEDED to show the contents- according to the LP), embraced the Indian queue in the Mysore Main Post Office. Forty-five minutes later after much elbow and armpit to cheek action I finally made it to the front and showed my parcel’s contents and was promptly told, “Madam, you must parcel stitch up” and sent out the door. An hour later, armed with a neatly stitched and white-clothed parcel, I rejoined the queue that had become a rugby scrum with only one counter open. “Where is custom form, madam you need to fill this out?” Well, you would assume as part of customer service this might have been given to me the last time India Post and I met at the front of the queue, but no, the postal clerk apparently having no recollection of seeing me earlier enquiringly asked. So, after receiving the form (in duplicate) she raised her eyebrow and looked quizzically at me. “Um excuse me Madam, wonderful postal clerk, uhm, you see I don’t have a pen and it is most unfortunate and I… well…” I stammered. “You can buy pens outside the post office” was the reply. Ok, I told myself as I took a deep breath as I spied three pens on her desk. After much coaxing I was able to fill out my forms and believe it or not the Indian god was on the way, which incidentally arrived at my parents’ place intact.

ONE MENU POLICY: China and India, to us have things very much in common. Both being massively populous, each thinking their own nation is the greatest country on earth, setting their eyes on Nepal and needing seriously to improve their driving skills. However, another common phenomenon occurs when patrons (no matter how large the group) would gather at a restaurant table, each diner eager to read through the mouth watering delicacies on offer, yet the waiters in both countries have the tendency to only ever hand over one prized copy of the menu per table. This seems strange as everyone can see piles of menus gathering dust in the corner.

GOD FOR A DAY: Imagine sitting in the limelight and giving your boss an earful about your paltry pay, long hours and inflexible routine… Well if you’re able to get yourself in a deep trance- with wine, women and song omitted- for a good twenty-four hours beforehand you might be on the way acting as a Hindi god as part of a Theyyam ritual in northern Kerala. With its origins obscure although hinted at Voodoo and pagan practices, Theyyam is a once in a lifetime experience for participants and spectators alike. Watching the ritual being performed is not only eye opening throughout the night but also culminating into the final show in the early hours of the morning. We jumped into an awaiting Ambassador only to be driven through rural back roads to the performance, which is held on a landowner’s property. Ranging from a simple temple like house with an earthen courtyard nestled amongst banana trees, to an extravagant purpose-built performance hall with fireworks and tacky lighting. The performers, or Theyyam are already at the venue either busily making costumes or applying intricate designs on their faces as they transform into the various forms of the big ticket gods Vishnu or Shiva. Interestingly the background of the performers is the lowest of low caste and their normal day job is as a landless day labourer picking paddy or bananas for the fat cat landlord. Yet, come once a year, they are paid dearly to perform as Hindu gods. Blessing, dancing and acting as a medium for the landlord and his family for a godly pep talk: one-on-one. We became addicted to Theyyam and after four times of getting up at the ungodly hour of four, we can truly say we witnessed something special. One performance involved a god reincarnate of Shiva being dressed to the nines in a banana leaf skirt and woven hoop held under his outstretched arms. He was able to get into a trance-like state to undertake a lively performance. Apart from berating the landlord- that you can do as a god- even to make the landlord beg and act like a dog much to the amusement of the audience. This Shiva god’s finale was for around thirty times to stage dive onto a large pile of coals, each time sliding facedown on top of the smouldering fire whilst being pulled off by his consorts with a banana twine rope fastened at his waist. This is one act you would really have to trust your mates with. Afterwards, a little dishevelled and singed at the eyebrows he sat on a pedestal and gave advice or future predictions to the landlord and his anxious family. And you thought the Tokyo Shock Boys were something to see…

like a christmas ornament, singed at the edges

INDIAN PAINT: We purchased a bucket load of Indian house acrylic paint from a couple of hardware stores- not an easy task- in Goa on our last few days in the country. Apart from getting a yellow, which in reality was fluorescent green, we had a lot of fun in using the paint undertaking a community art project with an NGO partner of Vanastree. SWISH is a commercial laundry located in the grottiest industrial estate a far cry from the golden sands and dance parties Goa is renowned for. The laundry is run by some social workers that are trying to give trafficked women an alternative source of income from prostitution in Goa’s slum red light district. Not an easy task it is as some of the young women are emotionally scarred and have pending court cases after being rescued from seedy brothels. We were lucky to have the support and of course artistic talent of the girls (and some boys) with the drive of the staff to brighten an outside enclosed space that is often used for impromptu meetings. The girls and boys all got to leave a coloured handprint to form leaves of a tree. Others assisted in applying Indian mendhi (henna tattoo) or other traditional patterns on solid colours to represent the laundry’s soap bubbles and the diversity of the group as the girls came from different states of India and as far away as Nepal. For them this project was most rewarding as some had not even held a paintbrush or had the chance to go to school as they were sold at a young age. It wasn’t the easiest for us to paint, as we had to improvise with some tools such as banana leaves as paint palettes, while sweltering under a hot tin roof in 40 degrees. However, we had a lot of fun sipping chai, chatting and of course admiring the evolving art masterpiece! We are only praying that the quality of paint will hold up through the monsoon.

our own Indian chaos

SEAT RESERVED: Public buses in India rely not only on the goodwill of fellow passengers, but also the unspoken law of ways to secure a seat rather than having to endure the death defying, bumpy, dusty 9-hour journey standing upright. Indians are much obliging in assisting a stranger by catching hurled luggage through passenger windows of a moving bus as it enters the bus station. Another interesting method is the responsibility given to the neighbouring passenger in guarding the neatly placed handkerchief as the owner needs to relieve himself (never a her)/buy chai/expulse betel nut juices/bargain for snack food at the next bus stop. Our all-time favourite was at a junction station off the main drag where a small population had gathered around our bus in the hope of actually getting on let alone securing a seat. For the more agile women and men out there, the challenge was to throw oneself through the driver’s side window, push the driver forward to climb behind his back even though the bus hadn’t come to a complete stop; the ultimate prize of course was a seat adjacent to the driver with the hope of a working fan overhead.