February 3, 2002.
Dear Family and Friends,
India, Oh India!
Where do I begin? This has been such an incredible adventure.
But to start. English is very commonly used in India, but that has been no great advantage to me. (I am the first person to acknowledge how unsuccessful I am at languages.) Despite their best efforts, I find it very difficult to understand what people are saying. It has much to do with the intonation and cadence (it's almost sing song), but the different usage of words, as well as their order, all make it seem like they are speaking a foreign language with a few English words thrown in.
As an example of how English is used, one night I was sitting up late in the lobby reading and having a tea. The man serving me hovered around a bit anxiously and then asked, "I am knowing when you will be leaving sir?" In other words, "Please tell me when you are going to bed". I am often told "same, same" when shopping or bargaining. Which would be okay, except that is often followed by "but different". Several times when I have asked the price of something, I am told, "Oh, it is very less, sir." Cheap, they mean.
Every statement or question is accompanied by a kind of side to side head waggle. The head waggle can seem to mean "yes". Or "no". Sometimes it means "maybe". It can also mean "I understand", or "I heard you, but I don't understand". I think sometimes it is the equivalent of a shrug, but in any event, no sentence can be uttered without the head waggle.
I have been asked literally hundreds of times, "From which country you are living sir?" I tell them I am from Canada, but overlooking the fact that I am speaking in English, this is often followed by the supplemental question, "Which part, French part or English part?" I have also been asked nearly as often how old I am. There are now thousands of people in India who know I am 49 years old.
Traffic in the major cities is simply unbelievable in its congestion, noise, exhaust pollution, and amazing range of vehicles. Aside from all the pedestrians streaming across the streets, there are pushcarts, bicycles, pedal rickshaws, auto rickshaws (a three wheel cart), carts drawn by horses, donkeys, bullocks, and camels, taxis, private autos, jeeps, trucks, and buses. And cows, always cows, but often goats, pigs, and dogs too. Everything honks, constantly.
Since arriving in India I have travelled by many of the above modes plus train and boat. Most often around cities it has been in auto rickshaws as they are always available. Unfortunately it is the mode I dislike the most. Visibility is lousy, you are low in the traffic so all exhausts blow in your face, they are noisy, they constantly blow their horns making a mechanical/electrical berrreckkkk, berrreckkkk, irritating sound. It is said that if nothing else, India will teach you patience. This is a lesson that has apparently been lost on auto rickshaw drivers.
The auto rickshaw drivers are the only people I have found it difficult to deal with. No doubt the nature of the job, suicide driving, attracts those with high testosterone levels. Although I have had some really nice guys as drivers, as a group, they are very aggressive and unrelenting in trying to pick up a fare. They often tell outright lies ("Your hotel has burnt down", "The police have blocked the street", etc.) in attempts to take you to hotels or shops where they will get a commission for bringing you.
The cow is King, or Queen I should say, in traffic, everything yields to bovines. On the other hand, the pedal rickshaw is at the absolute bottom of the traffic food chain. Literally everything else, including pedestrians, feels emboldened to cut these poor guys off. They are often forced to a stop, and then must labour and heave to get their rickshaw going again. I have come to love riding in them. The seat is up high and visibility is great. Instead of a horn, they have great little ting-a-ling bells which operate off the spokes, and they usually cost about one-half of the auto rickshaws.
I'm riding along, sitting up high, looking around, my driver is weaving through the traffic, the bell is going ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling. Someone shouts out, "From which country you are living, sir?" "Canada", I say, and head waggle. It’s just great.
I have travelled several thousands of miles by train, and generally it has been enjoyable. India rail is the largest employer in the world with 1.6 million employees. The confusion at the stations- passengers, coolies, vendors, etc.- can be quite overwhelming, but it is so re-assuring to find your car, and there, stuck on the side, is a sheet of paper with your name and seat number confirmed.
Classes of travel include 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Class Air Conditioned, 2nd Class, which is non AC, and 3rd Class, non AC and no bunk. I travel 2nd Class Air Conditioned which gives me a seat, and bunk, in a compartment with three others (or alternately, across the aisle, in a small compartment with one other). The only difference between 1st and 2nd Class AC is the 1st Class has a door to their compartment rather than a curtain. For the very large price difference, I have decided to let the others deal with my snoring. (Third Class AC compartments have six persons in them.)
Sheets, blankets, and sometimes a towel, are provided, as well as a constant flow of food and drinks. The tea is always good; the food has been variable. The train is quite bouncy and sways a lot, and visibility out the darkened windows is not the best. The engineers, having learned from taxi and auto rickshaw drivers, blow the horn almost constantly, so it is an advantage to being a distance behind the engine. At the stops coolies and vendors jump on looking for people leaving or to sell food. Others start wiping the floor in hopes of a tip.
Anyway, I should give you a bit of the specifics of my trip since I last wrote. I am sorry this is going to be such a long letter, but India cannot be covered in a short message. Two weeks ago I left Delhi on an overnight train to Varanasi, the most sacred Hindu site in the world. Everyday some 60,000 people arrive in Varanasi to perform puja (make an offering) to The Great Mother, Ganga, (i.e., the River Ganges) and to wash themselves in Her waters. Going to Varanasi is, for a Hindu, the equivalent of a Muslim going to Mecca. Every Hindu dreams of doing it once in their lifetime as it is believed this will ensure them of a good reincarnation next time since bathing in Ganga washes all their sins away. In addition, should they be lucky enough to die there, their soul is set free of the eternal cycle of birth, death, and reincarnation. Pretty strong motivation.
Steps (called ghats) have been built down to the water's edge, some two dozen or so along a seven kilometre stretch of the river. Every day, particularly at sun up and sun down, people arrive. They give prayers, make offerings, and bathe in the river, brush their teeth (scouring out any hidden sin, I guess), and drink the water. I cannot attest to the intended effectiveness of the ritual, but certainly some miracle is working. On that same seven kilometres, 30 major sewer outfalls spill into the river. The water in that area is totally septic (no absorbed oxygen). Testing reveals faecal coliform count of 1.5 million parts per 100ml. I think our beaches at home are closed if the count gets to 200 parts per 100ml.
It is a sight not to be missed and is best viewed from the river, and, as I said, in the early morning or evening. Row boats can be hired to cruise down the river in front of the ghats. Other boats pull along side trying to sell offerings to Ganga, leaves shaped like little boats in which candles are placed. I try to avoid all this kind of coercion but what I do understand of their sales pitch is "Ganga", mentioned several times, which I take to mean that if I don't buy one, my next reincarnation could be as a pig, at best. So, I light my little candle and it bobs down the river with the rest of them.
In the evening, formal Hindu services are performed at the main ghat, Dashwasmedh Ghat. It was quite fascinating. Five priests dressed in burgundy coloured robes performed a choreographed routine involving a lit torch and a multi-candle candleholder. Another priest led singing/chanting while drums and bells were played. I enjoyed it a lot.
Another main ghat, Manikarnika, is where the other main Varanasi activity takes place, the funeral pyres. In the evening I was there, there were ten pyres burning and several other corpses were lined up in a queue waiting to be dealt with. The corpses are wrapped in beautiful silk cloth and covered with flowers. They are carried on bamboo stretchers to the ghat by lower caste people who are hired for that purpose. The corpse is submerged in the Ganges then placed on a pile of wood already stacked up. The flowers and some of the fabrics are removed, what appears to be offerings of food are poured over, and then the pyre lit by reeds, which, I am told, were lit from a sacred fire. The whole thing, while quite a pageant, seems pretty perfunctory. Other people stroll by, cows wander in and out, children fly kites. Not a tear to be seen.
While in Varanasi I also visited the Golden Temple, the holiest of all Hindu sites. It’s hidden in a rabbit warren of tiny alleys, through door ways, and would be almost impossible to find on one’s own. As I was trying to find the temple, a boy about ten came up and offered to lead the way. He insisted he was not looking for money, "I am not a guide, I am a schoolboy". And, "money is not honey". He was true to his word and led me directly to the Temple on a very narrow alley. It was surrounded by police. Infidels like me are not allowed in, so the boy took me up some stairs to a small shop across the street where I could at least view the 1,500 pounds of gold used to gild the dome.
In the end I, of course, offered “my non-guide” some money. To my surprise he refused it. A few minutes later, as I was bouncing along on my pedal rickshaw, he jumped on and told me his mother had told him he should have taken the money. I gave him all my change and was glad to do so.
On another occasion when I was shopping along those very narrow alleys (they are barely four feet wide in some spots), I felt my shoulder bag being tugged. I instinctively grabbed it tighter and was yanked along with my bag. When I looked around to see, a big cow had hooked the shoulder strap on its horn, as it casually wandered through, and she was now taking me with her.
While in Varanasi I also went a few kilometres out of the city to Sarnath, one of the holiest Buddhist sites, where Lord Buddha gave his first sermon some 2,500 years ago. Many Koreans, Japanese, and Chinese make a pilgrimage here. It was very peaceful and I'm glad I went. From the foregoing you will know Varanasi was a highlight for me.
After Varanasi, a long 40 hour, two nights, train ride took me to Madras/Chennai. I was in Chennai for only two days, enjoying it very much. It is much more modern than the other cities I have been in, wide streets, skyscrapers, very few animals in the street. It is very clean relative to the others and has regular garbage pickup and no open sewers that I could see. Huge billboards dominate the city.
From Chennai I caught a train to the smaller city of Mysore, and this was a real change for me. Wild traffic and chaos have been left behind. Mysore is small enough to walk around in easily. It is the centre of incense stick manufacturing. For me the highlight was the vegetable/fruit/flower market. It is just fabulous to wander around the market with all the produce, the smell of flowers, incense, and oil shops mixed with the smells from the spice stalls.
Luckily I arrived in Mysore on Sunday as that is the day the lights at the Mysore Palace are turned on for one hour in the evening, 7:00 to 8:00PM. Over 100,000 lights outline the castle and the surrounding temples and walls, a beautiful sight.
An over night bus ride, the bounciest, roughest I’ve ever had, took me from Mysore to Cochin, a major West Coast port. The city consists of several areas spread around various islands and the mainland. I stayed in Fort Cochin, just a block away from the church where Vasco de Gama was buried. He arrived in Cochin in 1502 and died there in 1524. His body was later moved back to Portugal. Christianity has had a presence here for hundreds of years, even before de Gama arrived.
There is also a small remaining Jewish community. I had a very interesting talk with one of the remaining 11 members. He told me he expects the community to die out soon as all those remaining are old, many having emigrated to Israel. The area called Jew Town is filled with antique shops dealing in the most incredible array of Indian artefacts. Many of them are huge, columns, doorways, even partial buildings. I spent many hours wandering around but bought nothing.
As I was leaving my room to check out or my very small, basic, (read grotty) guest house, I got talking to a young Canadian who was in the next room. He was from Vancouver and as we chatted I asked him his name. He was Russ Aydin, Curt and Leslie's son. Curt and I are good friends from my wine groups. Quite a coincidence. Russ is on a one year trip through India and S.E. Asia, not due back to Vancouver until June, I believe. Stuart you should call Curt and Leslie and tell them Russ is well and looks great. I'm sure he tells them that anyway.
From Cochin I travelled by bus to Alleppey, the northern end of the backwater cruise to Kollam. Seventeen of us boarded a Government tour boat large enough for over 100. It took eight and one-half hours to make it to Kollam, surely one of my other highlights. We chugged through water hyacinth clogged canals, across lakes, and into inlets from the ocean passing by hundreds of Chinese fishing nets (a huge cantilevered system used to lift nets in and out of the water). We stopped for lunch at a tiny little restaurant to be served on banana leaves.
I arrived here in Varkala yesterday and have checked in to the nicest hotel I have had so far, the Taj Garden Hotel. I am treating myself after 25 days of more or less constant travel (and some pretty dodgy accommodation). I have a room with a panoramic view of the Arabian Sea, there's a pool, massage centre, and very good restaurant. The weather has been quite overcast the past couple of days (including a steady rain while on the cruise), but in all, things are great.
I will be leaving India in a couple of days for Sri Lanka, but before I end this long missile, I do have to reflect on my trip.
I started this letter, India, Oh India. I can't recall where that expression comes from, but it somehow sums up my feelings about this incredible country. Poverty and misery, but also beauty and hope.
It has been over three weeks since my trip through India began, and it seems like months. Admittedly, I have only visited a small part of India, but what an experience. Had I left India immediately after I sent my last letter on my travels, the memory I would have had would have been of the chaos, noise, squalor and poverty.
Two weeks later, the memories I will have forever are of the resilient, helpful, delightful, happy people. I have met so many who have given me directions (admittedly, often wrong), offered assistance, made suggestions, asked questions, and all the while smiling so infectiously that you can't help but laugh. Even yet, I can not quite get over how quick people are to help, to smile, to laugh.
Goodbye for now. I hope you are all well.
Merv.
