Who are we?

Madurai, India

There are about a million seconds in 12 days. There are about a billion seconds in 32 years. There are also about a billion people in India. So if I were to have a one-second conversation with each person, then I would not be finished before I turned 64. However, India’s population is growing at a little over 2 percent a year. So by the time I had talked with one billion people the population of this country would have doubled and I would not be half way finished with the job.

In this constant mass of humanity I am only one slightly graying tourist with longish hair and baggy pants that need washing. I am about five pounds lighter than when I left home and I need a shave. I have dirt on my feet from walking barefoot in the temples and my backpack is coming apart at the seams. In the mornings I drink chai tea on the streets and eat masala dosa with my hands for breakfast. I struggle with squat toilets and, unlike most of the people here, I insist on using toilet paper. I spend my days wandering lost in the streets and taking pictures of mundane things.

I am not a doctor; the sick that I encounter stay sick. I am not a movie star and my face is not plastered on walls along with my sexy co-star (Suzanne) and an exploding car. National Geographic has never published my photos and probably never will.

Sure, my mother and my wife think that I am special, but that is my mother’s job and I duped my wife long ago. What I cannot explain is why so many people here treat me like that which I clearly am not. Why would a group of MBA grads seek me out? Why would they care where I came from, what my profession was? Why would they be interested in telling me about their future careers and job prospects? Why would five of them cluster around me as we chatted amiably in the midday sun? Why would they then come running back over to me after initially departing to ask if they could take their picture with me? And most perplexing of all, why would this be anything other than a freak occurrence? As the days have turned into weeks Suzanne and I have posed and smiled, held hands and linked arms in countless impromptu photos. All of these people smiled at us and then instantly blended back in the crowd from which they had come. For only a fleeting instant did we even know their names.

Once upon a time we traveled the width of northern India from Varanasi to Jaiselmere. Hounded and afraid we dodged touts, thieves and anyone proposing spontaneous friendship. We were the lone cockroaches in world of stomping feet. Ducking, weaving and hiding we marveled our way through an India often bent on obstructing us. Loving the thrill and the challenge we came back for more only to find that we understood so little of India. India is different this time and yet the unavoidable pulse is throbbing around us here just as it did five years ago.

Where you go?!

"Where you go?!" This sentence might have been a question were it not fired off with the intensity of a death sentence.
"We're going to the bus station." I tried desperately to look and sound like a self assured tourist and not like a caffeine deprived American only recently returned to India.
"Ya OK." With a broad wave of his arm my new best friend waved for me to get into his rickshaw.
"How much?" I may have been tired but this was not my first time in India. Everyone new to the subcontinent makes a common mistake once. Getting into a rickshaw without first negotiating the price means that a satisfactory settling of accounts will never occur and in the end you will be hounded to your grave for more money.
"Ya OK." Again the arm waved for us to begin the ride.
"How much?"
"200 rupees."
"I'll give you 80."
"NO! This is not possible. Bus very far. 200 rupees ok!"
"80"
"Ya ok fine 150 morning price."
"90"
A small crowd had begun to gather around us now. Indecipherable voices savaged what little calm this process might have ever attained, "Bus very very far, best price 120 rupees."
"My best price is 100." We were now less than 40 cents apart on the price.
"NO! NO! 100 rupees not possible!"
I had nothing left to do but to play my last card. I shrugged my shoulders, turned my back and started to walk away.
From behind heard, "110 OK."
I breathed a sigh of relief. If the deal had fallen through then the process would have needed to begin again a mere two feet away at the next rickshaw.

Having left Chennai I still cannot say with any degree of certainty why they changed the name from Madras. Though the name may have changed I can say with complete certainty that the unbridled intensity of the place is everything I remembered from my time there fifteen years ago. Even the rickshaw ride to the bus station for our departure to Mamalaporum left me feeling utterly exhausted. Why Indians are obsessed with the idea of riding on a hyperactive lawnmower encased in a yellow shell with no protective value is totally beyond my comprehension. Even more inexplicable is why a seemingly sane tourist might willingly enter one of these contraptions and then cling to the preposterous belief he is in Disney Land and being crushed to death between two merging buses only looks like an impending reality. The opaque clouds of diesel smoke will not truly harm his health before his next visit in another fifteen years. With the constant cacophony of horns, desperately protesting brakes, and the never-ending staccato of Hindi music it occurred to this once-sane tourist:
I paid for this.
If I had paid just a little more I could have taken a taxi.
God damn this is fun!
The riot of India is debilitating and priceless

Sleep

The glow from the street light cast Suzanne’s back into gentle shadows. The blue and green flickering light of a neon sign added a magical aurora to the itchy red stars strung in constellations across her back. Instead of hydrogen or helium, these stars found their birth in the never ending supply of mosquitoes, fleas, bedbugs and ants that have become our constant traveling companions. Exhausted from another day of cramped buses and unintelligible music Suzanne lay comatose, completely oblivious to my mind’s pen as I drew the line of Orion’s belt across her midriff. An angry spider bite sat swollen on her shoulder and added a perfect full moon to this canvas of a starry night.

With near perfect stealth a lone mosquito landed on the protective net where Suzanne’s leg pressed flush with the fabric. Gently inserting its proboscis through the weave, a seventh sister grew to life in the Pleiades behind her knee. Stirred by some deep protective instinct she rolled to the side, granting only half a meal to her midnight visitor. I could have woken her, slapping furiously at the attacking insect, but in such a vast cosmos of burning welts what is one more star compared to a perfect slumber? Waking her to the world of persistent scratching would have been endlessly more cruel than adding one more irritation.

Vote for Cheese

At its best politics is a dark art filled with deception and illusions.

I like to think of myself as moderately well informed and yet the full force of this truism struck with the force of a wrecking ball in a cystal shop as Madagascar wound its way towards an election. The language and cultural barrier made the ruckus swarms parading through town total indecipherable. The only explanation for the mini vans with loud speakers came to us as “propaganda.” Throughout the country the president’s smiling face greeted us on posters and tshirts complete with a clip board and red tie.

As events swirled around us we found the army making itself felt along every road with check points and inspections. Riot police sat casually outside the bank waiting with plastic riot shields and body armor. As our overloaded minivan passed through yet another checkpoint and rounded a corner we saw the crumbled remains of a bridge blown to pieces in the last election.

Then, before the votes had all been counted we learned that the president had won “with some irregularities.” The army disappeared and the country slumbered on. It was as if a huricane had passed without causing a ripple on the ocean’s surface.

Then, bringing my astounding ignorance into stark contrast my pizza arrived without the traditional cheese. In Madagascar elections cause shortages of dairy products. The president is a dairy tycon and when it is time for a campaign all his employees stop their normal employment and pursue the political goals of their boss. No cheese is produced.