Travels Through the Land of Scams and Curry - Part 3

The next installment of the India back-posts.  Check out parts 1 & 2 for more random musings on rickshaws and whatnot.

10.8.14

Jaisalmer: Characters, Camels and Constellations

My trip to Jaisalmer marked my very first time on an Indian sleeper train.  I was traveling in what is known as “sleeper class”.  This does not mean that this is the only class that has beds; rather, it indicates that this is the class that has beds, no AC, and 50 million Indians.  There are other, fancier classes that have beds, AC, and only 20 million Indians, but, as this was a last minute schedule change to make it to the Rajasthani International Folk Festival in Jodhpur, this was the only ticket I could get.  So I prepared myself for 17 hours of train chaos. 

First order of business: security.  As some of you know, I’m a bit fanatical about guarding my possessions while traveling.  I knew that there were metals hooks to which we could attach our suitcases under the lower berths, but I needed some kind of chain in order to do that.  So I purchased a set of bike chains and locks which I then contorted into a security system so elaborate that it would take the skills of a Houdini to break it (and if someone were able to achieve this feat, he would then have to contend with the dragon that lives in my fortress-like backpack. I take no chances.)

Next step: actually finding my train.  When I took the train to Agra it was a very easy process; the board clearly stated the correct track, the train arrived on time, and all was good.  I spent an hour or so on an air-conditioned train eating veggie patties and drinking chai.  The Delhi to Jaisalmer train was a different experience entirely. 

The electronic board stated that the train would be arriving on track 9.  So, like the fool I am, I went to track 9.  A rookie mistake. I waited for about 20 minutes on platform 9, sweating like it was my job, and avoiding the constant stares from every single person on the platform (foreigners are really, really interesting, apparently.)  The departure time for my train came and went.  I started to worry. I approached the gawkers: “Excuse me, are you waiting for the Jaisalmer train?  Train 14659?  Jaisalmer?”  And the general consensus was that no, this was not the track for the Jaisalmer train.  “But, but!” I sputtered uselessly, “The board says track 9!?!?!”  Nope, no dice.  This was not the right track.  I started to panic.  Which track was the train actually arriving on? Had I missed it?!  What would I do?  IT’S THE ONLY FRICKIN’ TRAIN TO JAISALMER!!!!!!

And then I happened to glance over at track 10.

Where my train was just sitting there, calmly, without a care in the world.

Bastard.

And so I barreled my way across the platform, solidly hitting someone in the head with my banjolele case (what, doesn’t everyone carry a banjolele around India?), and jumped onto the train.  I was a disgusting, sweaty mess.  But I found my train.

I had been placed in a section with two other foreigners, a common practice on the Indian Railways.  It was lovely to exchange stories about our travels thus far, although I must confess that most of my stories involved me cursing the entire city of Agra (Fuck you, Agra.  Fuck you.)  The staring was at a merciful minimum because, as I later found out, we were surrounded by blind school children.  Yup.  I’m going straight to hell. 

Traveling in Sleeper Class was a unique experience.  Men selling food, water, and chai wandered the aisles and cows walked the platforms, occasionally sticking a curious nose through the open window.  Of course the unbelievable mass of people crowding us from all sides was a bit much to take.  In the middle of the night some random un-ticketed guy set up a bed on the floor between our berths.  In the morning we were awoken by a new set of teenagers who had taken up residence on the lower berths that we were, you know, sleeping on.  There was seating for 6.  At one point I think we had ballooned to 12.  As the teenagers kept piling onto the berth across from me, the French Canadian who had actually paid for the seat finally said, “Okay guys, that’s enough.  No more people.” The boys looked surprised and announced to each other, “too much crush, too much crush!” and moved away ever so slightly.

Cows - an essential element of any train station

And so I arrived, smelly and exhausted, in Jaisalmer.  My hotel, Mystic Jaisalmer, provided free pick-up from the station which saved me from the never-ending rickshaw haggling process (Fuck you, rickshaw drivers.  Fuck you.)  One shower and a blissful nap later, and I was off to explore the city. 

And what a city.  Intricately carved forts, palaces, and havelis created a beautiful setting for me to get completely lost in (yes, my sense of direction is just as bad as ever.)  As is my habit, I avoided most shops and stalls because I just can’t stand the hawkers: “Yes Madam!  Hello!  Madam!  Yes! You come into my shop!  Yes!  Madam!  Hello!  Yes! Where are you from!  Hello!” And on and on and on.  But I made an exception for Hari Om Jewellers.  It had been recommended by Lonely Planet, which is like the cross that travelers hold up against the endless money vampires.  Also, I heard what sounded like a pleasant conversation coming from inside.  So I went in, and met two amazing travel companions, Maryse and Vincent.

Maryse & Vincent, my Jaisalmer travel buddies

Maryse and Vincent are French Canadians (French Canadians were my fate in Rajasthan) who have been traveling around Asia for the past nine months.  They are two of the warmest, most interesting people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting on the road.   After finishing the conversation with the (most likely baked) owner of the shop, Maryse and Vincent invited me to hang with them for a beer, and as we watched the sun set over the golden dwellings of Jaisalmer, our friendship was cemented (this is my fancy way of saying that I thought they were really cool and had decided to stalk them, which I think they were totally okay with.)

Through them I met one of the more colorful characters of the trip, Pradeep.  He and his family own a couple of hotels and a restaurant in town (an amazing restaurant, by the way.) Maryse and Vincent were staying at one of his hotels; while waiting for them that evening Pradeep proceeded to do some sort of numerology based on my name, read my palm, and “feel my aura”.  Sadly, most of what he discovered was not true, unless the past two years have turned me into a conflict-averse, introverted pushover, which I don’t think has been the case.  But despite the lack of physic precision, Pradeep is still a good guy, with a great restaurant and a damn fine camel safari.

Most people who come to Jaisalmer spend at least one night riding camels and camping in the desert, and we were no exception.  That night, over a delicious dinner of Rajasthani specialties (all vegetarian, and all so good.  Anthony Bourdain was right: eating vegetarian in India is just as satisfying as eating meat) we watched traditional musicians and dancers and discussed the Camel Safari.  The plan was a 6am departure, a jeep ride to the desert, village visits, and finally, Camel-palooza. After camel-trekking to a relatively deserted dune we would camp for the night.  Day 2 would feature more trekking, and then a triumphant return to Jaisalmer around 6pm. 36 hours of Camel Safari fun.  The day time portion would just be me, Maryse, and Vincent; we would then join up with another group at the campsite.

All went according to plan.  And yet, because this is India, everything was still chaotic, strange and intense.  First of all, the village visits.  Most guidebooks and travel websites rave about these visits, and it was definitely an experience – an experience in which you watch children living in abject poverty and hate yourself when you refuse their requests for pens, schoolbags, hairclips, water, and of course, rupees.  These kids do not give up. I had a bunch of clips holding up my short-ish hair, and usually when kids asked for one of the clips they would just reach right up to take it, regardless of my response.  (A note about the requests for pens and schoolbags: I later found out that while Indian law mandates that all children attend school, in reality kids from rural areas just don’t have access.  Sometimes the facilities are wrecked; sometimes the teachers only show up once a month to collect paychecks.  Whatever the reason, the Indian government rarely investigates.)  In retrospect, I was naïve idiot.  I had experienced a milder version of this in Cambodia.  I should have come prepared with some gifts to give these children during our exploitative photo ops. Overall, I’m torn by these kinds of tours.  I truly do want to meet these people and find out about their experiences, but the people living in these villages are treated like curiosities by tourists like myself.  And it’s impossible to really understand anything about a village during a 20 minute visit.     

The boys all wanted to have their pictured taken;
the girls were much more shy

And so, filled with conflicting emotions, we mounted our camels. Camels are strange creatures.  They’re lumpy, scraggly, and bouncy, and they always seem to have insouciant smirks on their faces.  Our camels had names like “Mr. India” and “Michel Jackson”, and they made angry Chewbacca noises whenever ordered to stand up.  Some people will tell you that camel riding is painful, and these people are absolutely correct.  Actually, the first day is totally fine, but the second day freezes your muscles into a Munch-like explosion of pain and leaves you with camel sores that last for days.  This might be why most people opt for shorter camel safaris.    

Look at me!  I'm on a camel!
You can tell by my smiling face that this was before the camel sores set in.

The beauty of the Thar Desert was worth all of the sweat, pain, and dehydration.  Much of it is a vast expanse of scrub, dotted with the occasional cow.  There are dunes as well, comprised of sand that feels like an ever-shifting velvet pillow, and that’s where we camped.  That night the moon was just shy of full, and in the clear air it shone torch-like, almost too brilliant to look at.  We didn’t experience true darkness until the moon set, and then the sky was thick with stars.  The guides cooked us a dinner of vegetable curry, dal, and chapati with spicy pickle.  After dinner we all sang, and by that I mean the guides sang virile Rajasthani folk music, using kitchen utensils as improvised drums, and the rest of us sang some random Western music that really had no place in the surroundings.  (You’ll all be happy to know that the Thar Desert has now been exposed to the music of Kurt Weill.  And “I’m a little teapot”.)

The Thar Desert: ridiculously beautiful, brutally hot

After that the guides set up our beds on low platforms, and a strange night of half-sleep began.  It was almost too atmospheric: such a place could only truly exist in another time or on another planet, and it seemed a shame to spend any of that rare visit in unconsciousness.  I spent much of the night alternating between wonderment that I had a chance to experience such a place, and guilty confusion over the random luck that allowed me to visit briefly and then waltz (okay, stagger) back to my comfortable life.  I awoke fully to a pale sky over buttery dunes.  I snaked my feet through the cool sand as the sun made its way up, turning the sky a blend of pink, yellow, and blue.   After a breakfast of fruit, bread, and honey, we said goodbye to our overnight companions and faced our painful camel fate. Many sweaty hours later we arrived back in Jaisalmer, retreated to our respective showers, and prepared for the six hour train ride to Jodhpur.

Our sunset dune

Preparing for the morning departure

I had a lot of time to kill before the train, and I spent it on the roof of the hotel talking with Ashraf, the owner of Mystic Jaisalmer.  Our conversation gave me a chance to reflect on the strong current of spirituality that seemed to run through the city.  Maybe it’s all that bang lassi (aka, marijuana milk shake), but people in Jaisalmer spend a lot of time talking about energy and fate.  Normally I don’t go in for much of that stuff, but if there’s any place that can make me question my cynicism it’s Jaisalmer.  There’s something about that desert moon that made me want to cancel my ticket and take up meditation.  But the Jodhpur RIFF was waiting, and I’ve always been shit at meditation anyway, so I got on that midnight train.  (Actually, the train was over an hour late, arrived on the wrong track, and the people who had squatted in our berths had dumped copious amounts of trash on the floor, but let’s stick with the romantic image of me gracefully stepping into the car with a last, wistful look at the golden city.  Yeah, let’s definitely go with that.) 

In Jaisalmer I saw the first glimmer of a return trip to India.  My time in Jodhpur would confirm it.

Inside the Jain Temple

Inside the Jain Temple

Inside the Jain Temple

More cows!

Delicious things I ate

The Golden City

My pathetic attempt at photographing the fort

I'm not sure which is more disturbing:
the English wine, or the child beer

Travels Through the Land of Scams and Curry - Part 2

I finally found a place with strong internet: New Jersey.  I may be back in the US, but my circadian rhythms are still moving on India time.  This justifies outdated posts, right?

10.3.2014

The Taj Mahal: Andi vs. The Rickshaw Drivers

Agra is a pit.  There.  I said it.  It is a hideous, rickshaw filled pit.  Perhaps this is Shah Jahan’s curse.  Perhaps, after Jahan’s ingrate son locked him up Agra Fort, thereby denying him the opportunity to visit his completed monument to mournful love, Shah Jahan cursed this city – with great beauty comes great scamming. 

Come for the Taj, stay for the scams

Let’s start with the bathroom scam.  I really don’t enjoy haggling, and I find it especially difficult to manage when nature calls.  This is why, back in 2012, I ended up paying $1 to a group of kids standing in front of the awful bathroom at Angkor Wat. This is also why today, when a saree-d old woman yelled at me before I entered the bathroom at Agra Fort, and gestured to a counter for payment, I didn’t question it.  It was a little weird that the man at the counter just asked for a donation, but whatever.  After giving him my money I turned toward the bathroom and realized that the evil old woman had been standing/blocking the sign that said “FREE SERVICE FOR FOREIGNERS”. I gasped.  I sputtered.  I contemplated asking for my money back (sure, I had only given the equivalent of 20 cents, but it’s the principle of the thing, dammit.)  Instead, I started snapping pictures of the infuriating duo and the sign, over and over again, while laughing bitterly (or perhaps maniacally.)  And when I came out the bathroom, my money was waiting for me.

See that sign?  Now picture an old, saree-clad woman
completely blocking it

Next up, the rickshaw scam.  Okay, I really brought this on myself.  The signs were all there.  I went to a pre-paid rickshaw stand, naively thinking that this would allow me to avoid the sketchier drivers.  Nope.  It just saves the trouble of haggling.  The drivers are still awful, horrible people.  I paid for a ride to the Taj Mahal, and immediately upon entering the rickshaw Ali, the driver, started trying to convince me to hire him for the day.   What can I say?  I had been up since 4am, I was tired, and the prospect of not having to haggle for the rest of the day was so tempting.  Ali even showed me a book of handwritten testimonials, which I am now convinced were written by nefarious drivers who all attended the Number One Indian School of Scamming and graduated with honors. So I agreed. 

As I write this I am beating my head against the table, awed by own stupidity.

The rest of the day was literally rickshaw scam 101.  I wanted to go to the South entrance, having read that the East entrance is really only there as a way to trick tourists into taking unnecessary horse-drawn carriage rides.  Of course, Ali wanted to take me to the East entrance.  But I stood my ground, and he drove me to the South entrance, as requested.  Before I got out he gave me strict instructions not to talk to anybody, make any friends, or eat anything in the area because the restaurant owners had all poisoned their food in order to make tourists sick and then get commissions from the local doctors.  I kid you not. 

Ali was waiting for me when I exited the Taj Mahal, eager to shuttle me to lunch (he had also been joined by a “friend” from the rickshaw stand who wanted to ride with us.  I said absolutely not, but really, that should have been the flashing red sign that said “RUN AWAY FROM ALI.”  Why the hell would a rickshaw driver need a ride?!)  Like the fool I am, I let Ali take me to a restaurant that he assured me was not part of the illicit poisoning scam.  For those of you not familiar with the devious ways of rickshaw drivers, one of their prime sources of income comes from restaurant and shop owners who give the drivers commission when tourists are delivered to their doorsteps, and, ideally, pressured into buying something.  I knew this.  I knew this!  And yet I went to the restaurant, and had the only bad meal during my entire time in India.  It was so god-awful I couldn't eat it.  And it was also way overpriced.

After lunch the negotiations began in earnest between Ali and me.  I wanted to go Agra Fort and then finish the day by watching the sunset at this scenic point that overlooks the Taj Mahal.  Ali felt this plan was wrong, all wrong.  Because the traffic was bad.  Really, really bad.  He showed me the road leading up to the sunset view on the map and said, “This road, always backed up, two to three hours.  Not possible.”   “But Ali,” I countered, “this is labeled as the Taj Mahal sunset view on the map.  So how do people get there if the traffic is backed up for three hours?  There must be a way, or it wouldn’t be on the map as the place to go to watch the frickin’ sunset.  Right?”  Ali was non-plussed, and said, “Well, some people do and some people don’t.”  “Great.  Then we’ll be the people who do.”

But before the fort I needed to go to an ATM. At this point there occurred an event so startling, so astonishing, that I fear the earth may have shifted off its axis ever so slightly: Ali offered me a loan.  Yes, dear readers, my rickshaw driver offered to loan me money so that I wouldn’t have to go to an ATM.  Rickshaw drivers are insanely reluctant to even give change, let alone loans. Something didn’t smell right.  And I’m not referring to either my or Ali’s body odor (Agra’s hot as hell, okay?  And I sweat a lot!  Don’t judge me!) So I insisted that Ali take me to an ATM.  Which he did.  And which was out of order.  Again he offered the loan, and got very offended when I wouldn’t take it.  He even tried to convince me that there was a bank strike, and therefore all ATM’s would be out of order as well.  But nope, I wouldn’t budge.  It was an ATM or nothing.  Ali relented, and the next ATM was fully functional because of course there was no bank strike, and so, cash in hand I went to Agra Fort.

The final showdown commenced after I left the fort.  I asked Ali to take me to one of the bazaars.  But he said that instead he would take me to see “special Mughal handicrafts”, which actually means he would take me to see “special place where Ali gets commission”, so I said no thank you, please take me to the bazaar.

“But I can’t drive to that one.  And don’t you want to see the special Mughal handicrafts?”

“No, Ali, I don’t. How about this one?” (I pointed to the guidebook)

“I can’t drive to that one either.  Why don’t you want to go to see the special Mughal handicrafts?”

“Well then let’s go to this one” (I point to yet another shop in the guidebook)

“Why aren’t you listening to me?  Why are you reading that book?  I live here!  You should trust me!  And these are special Mughal handicrafts!”

“Look Ali, I only have one day in Agra, and these are the places I want to go to.  If you can’t drive there then I’ll walk.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll take you to the bazaar.  But first we go to see the special Mughal handicrafts.”

There was a long pause in the rickshaw.

“Ali.  I do not want to see the special Mughal handicrafts. And I am not going to go there.”

That set Ali off.  He was soooooooooo upset that I didn't trust him, wouldn't listen to him, wouldn't accept his loan, made him drive me to that ATM which was really bad for his rickshaw (?!), was following a guidebook instead of his recommendations, and then he kind of kicked me out of his vehicle.  After demanding that I pay him for half the day, of course.  And I’m ashamed to admit that I did pay him, because I wanted out of that situation so very badly.  And only later did I remember that I had already paid at the taxi stand by the train station.  Foolish, foolish Andi.

And that was pretty much the end of my day in Agra.  I couldn't stand the thought of haggling with more rickshaw drivers, and besides, most of them refused to drive me anywhere unless I agreed to hire them for the day.  So I went back to the train station and spent the rest of the afternoon reading, writing, and narrowly avoiding food poisoning. It was not my finest hour.  But after a mere three days in India I had hit the wall, and I needed a break. 

Strangely enough, during my sojourn at the Agra train station India was slightly redeemed.  I had a lovely conversation with a guy who was traveling with his sisters and mother.  We discussed some salient differences between our two countries: he had the mistaken notion that all Americans live like Will Smith; I assumed that all rickshaw drivers were evil, soulless bastards.  He gave me some great insights about my experiences thus far.  For instance, I did not know that touts are just as aggressive with Indians as they are with tourists.  I also did not know that Indians generally hire the tout who follows them the longest, which explains why those drivers won’t fuck off even after I scream at them.  (I exaggerate.  I yelled at a few of them today and they promptly apologized and left me alone.  But they’re still evil, soulless bastards, the lot of them.)

My conversational companion acknowledged that India can be very difficult, but said that I could make the decision to enjoy it.  I could choose to embrace the chaos and frustration and see the hypnotic beauty behind it (I may be taking some liberties here.  He probably never used the phrase “hypnotic beauty”.)  And what else can I do, really? I have 25 days left in this country, and I don’t want to spend my time hating it.  So I guess I needed that conversation.  I guess I needed to talk to someone other than a tout.  This is a huge, diverse country, and it cannot possibly be filled solely with people out to milk the tourists for every penny they’re worth.  And also, at the end of the day, Ali really only scammed me out of $10, which, while still important to me, was probably a lot more important to him. 

Okay, fine.  Let’s talk about the Taj.

Be grateful that I am only subjecting you to a few
of my gajillion Taj pictures

It’s beautiful.  Amazing.  Splendid.  Everything that it is claimed to be.  And yet also surprisingly…gentle.  Something about the delicacy of the glittering marble carvings, and the contrast between the precision of the design and the seductive curves of the lattice work and gem-inlaid floral patterns.  You must love it.  It can’t be helped.  I heard a young Indian boy exclaiming that it was like a dream, and that he never thought he would really see it.  And yes, it was worth getting up at 4am.  In fact, by the time I left at 11am the place was swarming with people, so an early visit was definitely a better idea.  I almost wish I had seen it at sunrise, but that would have entailed staying overnight in Agra, and that is a hell I don’t ever want to experience. 

In other news, I’m slowly fleshing out the profile of my imaginary husband.  Today, for example, he succumbed to food poisoning and therefore could not leave the hotel, but since this is our last day in India he selflessly insisted that I go ahead and see the Taj Mahal.  He’s a real gem, that husband of mine.  By the way, the floor is open if anyone would care to provide further background on my fictional hubby.  Any ideas on a name?  Or profession?  Right now I’m going with future lawyer who, when not waylayed by food-poisoning at the hotel, is at home in the US studying for the bar exam.  But I’m open to other ideas.  Have at it!  Let’s get creative.   

Proof that I was either at the Taj Mahal
or finally learned how to use photoshop

Foreigners have to pay 300% more than
 Indians to see the Taj, but we get these cool booties,
so all is forgiven.

Post-Taj exhaustion

So many people.  Oh so many people.

 

Hey, look!  Another picture of the Taj!

Travels Through the Land of Scams and Curry - Part 1 (Now with random pictures!)

Due to crappy internet connections and general procrastination on my part I have a bunch of unpublished posts detailing my trip to India.  I'll (hopefully) get these up in the next few days. 

10.2.2014

Delhi: a descent into sensory madness

To sleep or not to sleep?  That is the question.  I’m on the Bhopal Shatabdi Express from Delhi to Agra.  This necessitated a 4am wakeup time, but I assume the Taj Mahal will be worth it.  Indeer, the incredibly helpful owner of Hotel Kabli, recommended that I get a cab at 4:45am so that I would have an hour to find my train.  Well, the Bhopal Shatabdi Express leaves from track 1 at New Delhi Railway Station which is basically at the station entrance, so I think the extra hour was really a scam cushion.  Oh the scams.  The many, many scams.  As my cab raced through the streets of early morning Delhi I could not help but imagine all the greasy Indian scam artists emerging bleary-eyed from their abodes murmuring, “Time to scam the tourists.”  Scams in Delhi are like Dunkin Donuts in New York – ubiquitous. 

And yet surprisingly, I survived my first two days in Delhi unscammed.  This is in part because I basically refused to speak to men unless negotiating a rickshaw fare.  And since Delhi is 95% male (gender-selective abortions and female infanticide can really shape a demographic) this means that I basically spent those days in a mental fortress of solitude.  So far, however, silence seems to be the best approach.  Otherwise I would spend the entire day repeating the following:

“No, thank you, I don’t want a rickshaw ride/saree/pashmina/shopping emporium/shoeshine/tour of the Red Fort/tour of the spice market/tour of ANYTHING!  And no, you cannot take my picture, because you are a sketchy young man and I fear you will use it for lewd purposes (***note: I’m not being paranoid; it’s a thing).  Or, I guess you could just wait until I sit down and then scoot in next to me while your friend takes the photo before I can stop him.  Oh well.  No more sitting for me.”

See what I mean?  Better to leave these things unsaid.

So yes, Delhi is rife with men trying to separate you from your money.  My personal favorites are the guys who are waiting at the train station trying to lure you away from the official tourist office and right to one of the travel agencies where you will be charged ten times the actual cost of the ticket, and the scammers will receive a hefty commission.  Common tactics include impersonating a Railway official, demanding to see a person’s ticket, and then informing that person that the train in question has been cancelled, and the only remedy is to follow him to this travel agency where everything will be sorted out.  Riiiiiight…… I am kind of surprised that this works, however.  These guys are sketch-tastic.  Why would I listen to some creepy guy who clearly spends a lot of time hanging out at railway stations? 

To be fair, Delhi is not entirely populated with shady shysters. There was the rickshaw driver who overheard me attempting to negotiate a ride from a grizzled old driver and interrupted to tell me that the old man didn’t speak a word of English, and furthermore I didn’t need to take a rickshaw anyway because I could just take the metro. Very honest.  Very helpful.  Very rare.

So I guess the real question is, do I like anything about Delhi?  Well, yes.  The food, of course.  The parathas, the samosas, the chana masala, the chole buture, the kati rolls.  It’s a world of spicy richness, and my only regret is that I can’t eat more.  I love Humayun’s tomb. It’s a serene pocket in a crazy city.  Built by his grieving widow (grieving gets pretty elaborate here in India), the mausoleum is a magnificent floating structure of red sandstone and marble.  I visited there in the late afternoon on my first day in Delhi, and enjoyed the amber sunset while listening to Sufis sing devotional hymns from the nearby shrine.  I love the heady scent of cardamom that that suddenly engulfs me as my rickshaw driver careens through the streets at break-neck speed.  I love the incongruity of men leading goats through clouds of dust, grime, and exhaust on the traffic-clogged streets of Chawri Bazaar.

But I will still be glad to leave Delhi.  These few days allowed me to get a taste, and, like many travelers before me, I find that taste to be particularly potent. I think for now that’s all I need.  I’m ready for the desert.

  

Bangkok Interlude: Monarchs and Mystery

Part of the fascination of travel and expat living is the way everyday events and objects shift ever-so-slightly off center, the way local customs brush up against familiar experience.  Bangkok is very westernized, and I’ve found it quite easy to acclimate here.  But there are of course significantly different currents that run through this city compared to those that run through Taipei or New York.  One striking difference is in the

form of government.  I haven’t spent much time living and/or traveling in constitutional monarchies, and I’ve certainly never been to one whose citizens are quite as devoted to their royal family as Thailand’s.  Of course I couldn’t help but notice the ubiquitous ceremonial photos.  And I arrived with full knowledge that insulting the King can result in jail time.  But I was not aware of the ways the reverence of the monarchy extends to daily life.  Go to see any movie in Bangkok and before the start of the feature (and after the requisite half hour of previews) the whole theatre must stand for the Thai Royal Anthem and a brief montage celebrating the King’s life and good works.  And by “must stand” I mean, it’s against the law not to.  As in, illegal.  Like, jail.  Okay, I jest.  I don’t really think that cops will run into a theater and arrest all the people declining to stand out of sheer laziness or perhaps protest. But the threat still humorously hangs in the air.  During a recent movie attended by 99% foreigners, at the start of the anthem we all kind of looked around sheepishly and stood anyway, I can only assume out of fear of the Thai prison system.  I mean, how good can the curry there be, really?

My favorite Monarchy Moment, however, first occurred during my evening run in Lumphini Park.  Lumphini is a lovely, small park about a 15 minute walk from my hotel (yes, I live in a hotel.  And yes, this makes me as romantically refined as any 1920’s European expat or Wes Anderson character.)  Okay, to be fair, Lumphini is actually the largest park in Bangkok, but I can’t help judging all urban green space on a scale of 1 to Central Park.  Everything else seems quaint.  Anyway, New York biases aside, the park is delightful and frequented by joggers, frenetic aerobics enthusiasts, and monitor lizards (fun fact: the Thai word for monitor lizard is almost identical to a vulgar Thai insult.  And yes, when trying to learn the word for monitor lizard I accidentally used the insult.  Loudly.  In front of children.  Damn you tonal languages!  Why must you frustrate me so?!)

I try to plan my jogs after dark, usually around 7pm, since running in the Bangkok sun turns me into a sweaty hippopotamus.  On this particular run, however, I found myself midway through the park around 6pm.  I was happily sweating up a storm to the dulcet sounds of the Beastie Boys, when I noticed that the guy running in front of me had just come to an abrupt halt.  Not too unusual, running makes people tired. Then I noticed the guys around him had stopped as well.  Kind of strange, but I justified it by assuming they were a well-oiled Muay Thai machine, and that Muay Thai training involved sudden coordinated stops while jogging.  I kept running.  And finally I noticed that everyone had stopped running, and it’s just me jogging through a garden of Thai statues.  My first thought?  It’s another coup!  Which somehow necessitates the immediate cessation of all running activities!  At this point I took off my headphones and was greeted by the strains of the National Anthem.  Suddenly it was all so clear.  We were having a Monarchy Moment!  As a matter of fact, this is a twice daily occurrence: at 8am and 6pm all people in public spaces must stand in respectful silence for the duration of the anthem.  Or they get arrested.  Nah, I’m just kidding.  I think my chances of imprisonment are really, really low.

Other than my occasional flirtations with the Thai justice system, my main fish-out-of-water moment comes every time I try to pass somebody on the right.  They drive on the left here, and I guess that spills over into foot traffic as well, seeing as how I have near collisions at least three times a day.  It occurs as follows: we do a little dance as I try to assert my individuality and pass on the right, the other person looks at me like I have 12 sweaty foreigner heads, and then I meekly move to the left and go about my business. 

And of course, I continue to be stymied by the hunt for good bras and deodorant.  But that may be a battle I never win.   

Stay tuned for overly enthusiastic descriptions of the food!

Broken Concrete

Teaching middle and high school kids allows one a rare backward glimpse into one of the defining moments of youth: first love. In a way it's like observing animals at the zoo; every now and then I have a vague idea of what they must be going through, but for the most part I'm just fascinated by the irrational tumult.


There is a sudden shift that occurs for every adolescent. One day she's perplexed over the meaning of a sonnet (Why is Shakespeare insulting his girlfriend? Does she really have wires for hair? And gross, reeking breath?  Ew.  I don't get it.) The next she's contemplating the slow maddening that can only be explained by the crushing weight of love. Some students treasure discretion: the adorable couple that you know are just thrilled to see each other at the start of each SAT class, and yet never sit together. Others wear their hearts on their sleeves: the boy who refers to the "tragedy" of being "friend-zoned" with tears in his eyes and a catch in his voice.

One of my students recently insisted that I had no understanding of what it truly meant to "lose your mind". He then proceeded to describe at length the obsessive pain that accompanies unrequited love. I laughed and assured him that he would get over it as soon as he met someone new. As I uttered those words I wanted to jump up and catch them before they reached his ears. Of course I understood this feeling. I too have lost my mind in such a way, and certainly more than once. The first occasion required five years of recovery. I gently told him that yes, I understood.  I had been there.  And then I mentioned the whole five years thing which, in retrospect, may have been a misstep, but I was frankly unprepared for the conversation, and anyway this kid is so dramatic I estimate at least a good seven years before he lets this girl go.

From my brief time here it seems that the Taiwanese are more willing to express the agony of heart-break than their American counterparts. This would at least explain Taiwanese music videos featuring beautiful young people dying from rare, vague cancers that only manifest as nosebleeds.  I think I first noticed this tendency (for heart-break, not nosebleeds) when I visited the Museum of Broken Relationships, a traveling exhibit that gives people an opportunity to celebrate love lost. (A reasonable, worthy endeavor if you think about it: the vast majority of relationships end in separation. Should these relationships be valued less because of it? Do we not learn from these experiences and encounters? Do they not change us?) The exhibit, while originally Croatian, includes donated pieces from every city it visits.  Each item represents a failed love, and each is accompanied by a brief description written by the owner of the donation. Many of these descriptions expressed pain, grief, or remorse.  Some expressed anger.  But only the Taiwanese descriptions read as individual pieces of poetry. Each was a slice of exquisite pain that put all other countries to shame. The horror and beauty of first love was present throughout, regardless of just how "first" the love really was.

The romance of every city is unique, and I've fallen in love with individual locales in different ways. Vienna was, of course, a waltz. A beautiful, thrilling gingerbread metropolis that twirled me into its arms. Berlin was a fever dream of art and creativity. And New York? New York is the recalcitrant lover who breaks your heart again and again, but to whom you will always return. All the while knowing, dammit, that New York doesn't love you.

I'm still trying to identify, characterize, and clarify my relationship to Taipei. Do I love it for its sweetness? Certainly not for its sweatiness. Perhaps these kinds of connections only become apparent with time. I do not feel the same desperate whirl of passion that other cities have evoked. It's a calmer love, sedate though certainly not mature. It's taste is bittersweet.

Sometimes I feel as though I'm viewing life through three sets eyes: the young girl I was, the adult I am now, and the older woman I hope someday to be. These are not days of incoherent passion, but they are certainly days of vitality. I'm already sifting through memories in anticipation of departure, and, as always, that makes the present more poignant and special. This is a brief snapshot of the time Taiwan and I have recently spent together.

Wisdom from Taipei's most acclaimed self-help guru

You are not good enough, you are not smart enough, and gosh darn it, people don't like you. But they will after you read my post over at PimpKnowledge:

http://www.pimpknowledge.com/brand-yourself-in-3-easy-steps/

Would you like a side of rice with your rant?

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the prevailing attitude towards artists, their contributions to society, and how much that contribution is worth.  This is an issue that all artists deal with once they step out of the university mill and declare themselves "professional".  Not all genres approach this transition in the same way. In the classical music world there is, for example, a sharp institutional delineation between "instrumentalists" and "vocalists":  after a certain amount of dues-paying a professional instrumentalist expects to be paid a respectful amount for all  services rendered; after a certain amount of dues-paying a professional singer is expected to be absolutely thrilled at the prospect of performing for free, or even, I shit you not, paying the organization for the privilege of performing at all.  Hell, this isn't really restricted to the classical world; less than a year ago I was "given the opportunity" to sing at a nearby cafe for free, and then, when a local accordion player agreed to perform with me, the owner of the cafe told me I should be really, really grateful, because that accordion player "usually gets paid".  No shit, Sherlock.  So do I.  Or at the very least I should get free drinks.

Of course, I am complicit in the de-valuing of my work.  I agreed to play at that cafe for free.  In fact, I don't think I even asked about payment.  I was in a foreign city, I didn't know the local music community's norms, and dammit, I really love to sing.  Which brings me to my next point: just because we love doing something doesn't mean it's not a job.  The recent essay by Miya Tokumitsu addressing just this subject had a big impact on me.  (Her piece is actually much, much more expansive, and discusses the class-issues inherent in even being able to say, "I do what I love".  Go read it!)  People assume that art is a "calling" heard by the chosen few, and such otherworldly creatures shouldn't really care about mundane things like money, right?  I mean, we just sit around in Parisian garrets all day drinking wine and contemplating the universe, don't we?  Actually, most artists work shitty day jobs (something's gotta pay for all that wine!) and then, at night, in their few precious hours of free time, laboriously practice the craft they've devoted themselves to, all the while knowing that the chances of ever receiving a living wage off of this art are unbelievably slim.  And you know what?  I, personally, have made my peace with that.  I don't need to make my living off of music and theater.  I'd like to, but I can still find great satisfaction in my work even with the knowledge that I will have to get up and teach kids about the SAT the next day.  So no, I don't expect huge sums for my work.  But dammit, I expect you to pay me something.

This is the mental point I had reached in my rant a few days ago: as artists, no, as PEOPLE DOING JOBS, we deserve respect, and that respect is best demonstrated by some remuneration for our work, no matter how small.  Give us a small cut of the door.  Buy us pizza and beer.  Hell, give us starbucks discount cards (totally kidding, do not ever, ever do that).  But at least acknowledge that we have provided a unique and worthwhile service.  Yup.  That's where I was, curled up in the warm, fluffy blanket of self-righteousness, when I read this:

A Plea about Arts Piracy in the Theater

Oh shit.

This excellent post by playwright Mike Lew details his experience trying to get theaters and performing groups to pay the licensing fees required in order to perform his published works.  Many theaters are reluctant to pay these fees because, of course, they have no money.  Nobody in the arts has money.  That's why we drink such cheap wine.  And then a huge, crushing wave of self-loathing hit me and I realized just how much music I perform that is most definitely NOT in the public domain, none of which I have ever requested the rights for.  And let's not even approach the issue of illegal downloading, because then I'll just crawl under the table and demand that you look away from my hideousness.  I, the morally superior artist, am most definitely part of the problem.

I believe that the world-wide artistic community is cannibalizing itself: no one values our work, so no one pays us, so we in turn steal the work of others, which just increases the perception that art is this "super awesome thing that should be free for everybody!"  Just like the internet!  And syphilis!  And look, I have absolutely no idea where we go from here.  I clearly can't even figure out how to negotiate payment in alcohol, let alone cash.  I can't tell you how we can foster respect for creativity within our own community, let alone in the world at large.  I can tell you that I have worked with some exceptionally honest and considerate artists and presenters who, while they can't pay much, will always pay something.  I can also tell you that I will gladly work for free anytime a dear friend asks me to, and yes, I will be absolutely thrilled at the prospect of again collaborating with the kind, talented people I am lucky enough to know and love.  Yes, I know that's a contradiction, but it's one I can accept.  I also see nothing wrong with working for free when nobody is being paid.  If everyone is donating his or her time, and I believe in the project, why the hell not?  Maybe my line in the sand is working for free when other people involved in the process are getting paid.  But I must say that lines in the sand tend to be very fluid in this business.

Or perhaps what we artists all need to do is take the advice recently offered in this NY Times article by Julie Satow and brand ourselves within an inch of our lives.  We can turn our creations, identities, and even our apartments into commodities to be bought and sold with little regard for anything beyond the potential hipster cachet.  Because we said we want to be paid, right?  So, we should pursue that goal by any means necessary, right?  Oh wait.  No.  That is exactly what we should not do, because we're people, not products, and I'm pretty sure that one of the purposes of art is to draw attention to that distinction.  At least, that's my opinion on it today.  Tomorrow I may read a really influential blog post, change my mind completely, and look for ways to make everything I do palatable and profitable.  Like I said, those lines are fluid around here.  In the meantime, I have some research to do: how do I get performance rights?  And what are my (legal and moral) options if I can't get them?  I'm not entirely sure how to make this change, but I know it must happen.

There was going to be food in this post, and some thoughts on the beauty of simple dishes prepared well, and it was all somehow going to be connected to the idea of appreciating things that may appear to be easily attained or accomplished but in fact require great skill.  But I got side tracked, carried away if you will.  All of this ranting has filled me with even more questions, which I guess is actually a good outcome.  That other post will be written, and hopefully that connection can still be made.  Of course, right now there's only one truly important question that needs answering: do I have to give back that Rodney Yee yoga video I got from Pirate Bay last week?

Damn these moral quandaries.




*****Note: I rarely link to the work of others on this blog, and while I did research the appropriate ways to do so, I admit I might have gotten it wrong.  If that's the case, please let me know, either in the comments section or via email.