woensdag 9 juli 2008
da family
short post: family arrived, nice, sometimes weird, sometimes difficult. mumbai, goa, gokarna and now back in kerala (near shornur, thrissur district), staying in a lovely place. I feel so comfortable and at home here.
woensdag 25 juni 2008
This is what happened to me: the worst day of my India trip.
Around 5 pm on the 24th of june, 2008, I was walking past the Westside of Jehangir Art Gallery, Fort Area, Mumbai, southwards, on the way to my guest house "Carlton Hotel" in Colaba. I was carrying a shoulder bag and a flower, it was raining softly. I was singing a song while an older Indian man (51 years old, like he later told me), wearing clean shirt and pants, came walking next to me. He was not clean shaven and a little smaller than me. He asked me where I was from, but instead of answering immediately I sang the song loudly, smiling and looking into his eyes. As a foreign tourist, you get this question many times every day, so sometimes it gets really annoying, that was the reason for this reaction. He insisted, and when I finished the song I explained him which song I had sung. He recognised the song, and after answering his question finally, we started a conversation. He asked me if I was from the Flemish part of Belgium, I answered yes. We talked about India and Europe, my studies of Indology and my present education tour in India, about his handicraft Emporium and his plans of moving to London and opening a shop there. His English was very good, but he didn’t talk loud and sometimes unclear. It was raining, so during the conversation we stopped at the nearest bus stop, under a tree. We talked, and during the conversation we moved under the shelter of the bus stop. After 10-15 minutes I told him I was tired and wanted to rest in my hotel. He insisted on a longer conversation, so I suggested to sit somewhere inside and have a tea. So we crossed the street and went into a tea shop. We both ordered Nescafe "acchi banaya" and continued the conversation.
After a few minutes a tall but slim South African Negro (he came from an island nearby South Africa and worked in South Africa) came in. He looked like a tourist and was in his mid 30s; casual clothing, shoulder bag and a copy of Lonely Planet 2007 in his hand. He knew the Indian man already; the first thing he talked about was his wife who had become rather ill and had to stay in the hotel. He said Mumbai was expensive and difficult. He said his room costed 800 IRS and didn’t forget to mention he was a qualified engineer. He told me he was a member of the Zulu tribe. The conversation became more serious. The Indian man asked me to do him a favour. He talked about his shop and his plans for London again. The shop would be located in Notting Hill, near to the street where the film was shot.
But he had a problem. He explained me that, being an Indian, government demands 70% of all the outgoing money. In total he wanted to bring about 250.000 USD out. But there was another possibility. Carrying the money in the form of traveller’s cheques wouldn’t cause him that same problem. Indians are not allowed to exchange money for traveller’s cheques, but foreigners can. He promised me a commission of 20%. Another problem was there. A French guy, who had agreed to help him, had run away with the traveller’s cheque. Therefore he wanted proof that I was not broke. The South African man had done that for him the day before, and after mutual trust had grown, would exchange more for him. I was not sure and asked him to give me some time to think about it and his card to contact him. He was afraid to give his card because he wanted no one to know about it. After asking again, he put his card on the table, I inspected it and put it back on the table. He took it and put it back in his pocket. When he reassured me that I wouldn’t have to give him any money, I agreed to help him.
It was around 5.45 pm. I had to meet someone at the guest house at 6 pm and they agreed to join me. We went out to take a taxi, but it was difficult to find an empty one because of the peak hour. At last we caught one and went to my hotel. They waited in the taxi, I asked around for the beggar lady with child whom I would help with her sweet corn business plan. It was a few minutes past 6 pm; she was not there. I waited a few minutes, went to the toilet in the guest house and went out again to meet the two men in the taxi.
Then we drove past the Indian man’s 18th Century heritage house on the way to the bank. He always insisted on secrecy because of security guards, police men, taxi drivers and people from the neighbourhood. Everything should happen secretly not to have any problems with police, and he kindly asked us not to speak with anyone on the street. He told us about the British passport he had received for 75.000 USD. It would be valuable for 3 years, and if there would be no case or documents against him after those 3 years, the 75.000 USD would be returned, and he would be provided with a life long British citizenship. From Marine drive he pointed at some skyscrapers and said his shop was there, behind the American Embassy. He told us a little about his family and expressed the importance of the family and respect, especially for his parents by saying he would never smoke in front of them.
1000 € would be enough to prove I was not broke. We drove to a branch of Citibank, but it was closed, and I didn’t have the pin code of my VISA card to take the amount from the ATM. So we drove to a branch of Standard Chartered. The limit for Maestro showed 18.000 on the ATM screen. The Indian had told me the Euro was on 64,15 so I wanted to take 64.150 IRS. I went in and asked to take the amount from my VISA, which worked without any problem. It was exciting, for I am not used to carry such big amounts in my pockets. I came out and joined them in the taxi. They had shifted to another one, because the previous driver refused to wait. We drove a few streets further and stopped. Before getting out I received a call from a friend and explained her I didn’t have the time to talk and would call her back later. We got out. When the taxi driver almost drove off without giving the balance on the given 100 IRS, the Indian man stopped him and got the money. Then he asked us to wait at the next corner and asked us again not to talk to anybody.
The South African and I had a nice chat. I came to know that his father –like mine- is a musician, as are four of his seven brothers. He told me he had been to the Indian’s shop and had seen a handmade Kashmiri carpet there, for sale for 20.000 USD. We both agreed the price was very high, but he was interested to buy something for his two storey house in South Africa. We waited on the corner and continued the friendly chat. I asked him if the Indian was trustworthy and he replied that he wasn’t sure either in the beginning, but now he trusted him. He and his wife had met him in the Jehangir Art Gallery. He had seen him do business with a Norwegian couple and said that this law made it very difficult for Indians to take money out and that it was a pity it had to happen in this way. I talked to a man who was reading a Marathi newspaper and showed my reading skills. When I remembered the request not to talk to anyone, I took distance again. After a while the Indian man turned up again and we joined him, walking on the sidewalk. There he returned the blue envelope he had received from the South African after getting out of the taxi. Then he asked him to wait for him in another bank (American Express? I don’t remember exactly). The South African first asked him if he could stay with me, but the Indian refused. He gave him some money for the taxi and he went off.
I walked on with the Indian. At a certain point he made us turn around to the other direction. I told him he was a bit paranoia, but he said it was a difficult neighbourhood and it was about a lot of money. After walking a few minutes he asked me to hand over the money, for he wanted to show it to his uncle for verification. It was in my purse which also contained my personal documents. He insisted I would take out the documents; he didn’t want to carry their responsibility- you never know. So I took them out and gave him the purse in blind trust, containing 64.150 IRS, some small things, my Belgian ID card and 50 USD I kept for emergencies (at that time I didn’t think about those, I was focused on the other documents; it happened quickly as well). We crossed the street. He gave me 20 IRS and asked me to drink a juice on the corner and to wait there for him. I told him in a joking way I would touch his feet later (show of respect to elders in Indian culture). He asked why and said he was not a guru. I told him that, in a way, he is for me. He laughed, gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder and we split. It was almost 8 pm at that time. I waited on the corner till 10 pm. I felt incredibly stupid, cheated on and very sad. It was the worst day of my travel in India since September, and when I will think about Mumbai in the future, I will immediately remember this incident.
After a few minutes a tall but slim South African Negro (he came from an island nearby South Africa and worked in South Africa) came in. He looked like a tourist and was in his mid 30s; casual clothing, shoulder bag and a copy of Lonely Planet 2007 in his hand. He knew the Indian man already; the first thing he talked about was his wife who had become rather ill and had to stay in the hotel. He said Mumbai was expensive and difficult. He said his room costed 800 IRS and didn’t forget to mention he was a qualified engineer. He told me he was a member of the Zulu tribe. The conversation became more serious. The Indian man asked me to do him a favour. He talked about his shop and his plans for London again. The shop would be located in Notting Hill, near to the street where the film was shot.
But he had a problem. He explained me that, being an Indian, government demands 70% of all the outgoing money. In total he wanted to bring about 250.000 USD out. But there was another possibility. Carrying the money in the form of traveller’s cheques wouldn’t cause him that same problem. Indians are not allowed to exchange money for traveller’s cheques, but foreigners can. He promised me a commission of 20%. Another problem was there. A French guy, who had agreed to help him, had run away with the traveller’s cheque. Therefore he wanted proof that I was not broke. The South African man had done that for him the day before, and after mutual trust had grown, would exchange more for him. I was not sure and asked him to give me some time to think about it and his card to contact him. He was afraid to give his card because he wanted no one to know about it. After asking again, he put his card on the table, I inspected it and put it back on the table. He took it and put it back in his pocket. When he reassured me that I wouldn’t have to give him any money, I agreed to help him.
It was around 5.45 pm. I had to meet someone at the guest house at 6 pm and they agreed to join me. We went out to take a taxi, but it was difficult to find an empty one because of the peak hour. At last we caught one and went to my hotel. They waited in the taxi, I asked around for the beggar lady with child whom I would help with her sweet corn business plan. It was a few minutes past 6 pm; she was not there. I waited a few minutes, went to the toilet in the guest house and went out again to meet the two men in the taxi.
Then we drove past the Indian man’s 18th Century heritage house on the way to the bank. He always insisted on secrecy because of security guards, police men, taxi drivers and people from the neighbourhood. Everything should happen secretly not to have any problems with police, and he kindly asked us not to speak with anyone on the street. He told us about the British passport he had received for 75.000 USD. It would be valuable for 3 years, and if there would be no case or documents against him after those 3 years, the 75.000 USD would be returned, and he would be provided with a life long British citizenship. From Marine drive he pointed at some skyscrapers and said his shop was there, behind the American Embassy. He told us a little about his family and expressed the importance of the family and respect, especially for his parents by saying he would never smoke in front of them.
1000 € would be enough to prove I was not broke. We drove to a branch of Citibank, but it was closed, and I didn’t have the pin code of my VISA card to take the amount from the ATM. So we drove to a branch of Standard Chartered. The limit for Maestro showed 18.000 on the ATM screen. The Indian had told me the Euro was on 64,15 so I wanted to take 64.150 IRS. I went in and asked to take the amount from my VISA, which worked without any problem. It was exciting, for I am not used to carry such big amounts in my pockets. I came out and joined them in the taxi. They had shifted to another one, because the previous driver refused to wait. We drove a few streets further and stopped. Before getting out I received a call from a friend and explained her I didn’t have the time to talk and would call her back later. We got out. When the taxi driver almost drove off without giving the balance on the given 100 IRS, the Indian man stopped him and got the money. Then he asked us to wait at the next corner and asked us again not to talk to anybody.
The South African and I had a nice chat. I came to know that his father –like mine- is a musician, as are four of his seven brothers. He told me he had been to the Indian’s shop and had seen a handmade Kashmiri carpet there, for sale for 20.000 USD. We both agreed the price was very high, but he was interested to buy something for his two storey house in South Africa. We waited on the corner and continued the friendly chat. I asked him if the Indian was trustworthy and he replied that he wasn’t sure either in the beginning, but now he trusted him. He and his wife had met him in the Jehangir Art Gallery. He had seen him do business with a Norwegian couple and said that this law made it very difficult for Indians to take money out and that it was a pity it had to happen in this way. I talked to a man who was reading a Marathi newspaper and showed my reading skills. When I remembered the request not to talk to anyone, I took distance again. After a while the Indian man turned up again and we joined him, walking on the sidewalk. There he returned the blue envelope he had received from the South African after getting out of the taxi. Then he asked him to wait for him in another bank (American Express? I don’t remember exactly). The South African first asked him if he could stay with me, but the Indian refused. He gave him some money for the taxi and he went off.
I walked on with the Indian. At a certain point he made us turn around to the other direction. I told him he was a bit paranoia, but he said it was a difficult neighbourhood and it was about a lot of money. After walking a few minutes he asked me to hand over the money, for he wanted to show it to his uncle for verification. It was in my purse which also contained my personal documents. He insisted I would take out the documents; he didn’t want to carry their responsibility- you never know. So I took them out and gave him the purse in blind trust, containing 64.150 IRS, some small things, my Belgian ID card and 50 USD I kept for emergencies (at that time I didn’t think about those, I was focused on the other documents; it happened quickly as well). We crossed the street. He gave me 20 IRS and asked me to drink a juice on the corner and to wait there for him. I told him in a joking way I would touch his feet later (show of respect to elders in Indian culture). He asked why and said he was not a guru. I told him that, in a way, he is for me. He laughed, gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder and we split. It was almost 8 pm at that time. I waited on the corner till 10 pm. I felt incredibly stupid, cheated on and very sad. It was the worst day of my travel in India since September, and when I will think about Mumbai in the future, I will immediately remember this incident.
donderdag 12 juni 2008
maandag 9 juni 2008
Me and my friend Ewa.
Since we met in august 2006 on the "Summer school of spoken Sanskrit", Ewa and me had a relation (partly long distance) for about 6 months. We kept in contact and met eachother in Kerala, travelled to Delhi together (see corresponding posts in september-october-november). She is Polish, from Warsaw.
Now she had vacation from her dance courses (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bharatanatyam) in Kalamandalam, the now "Deemed University" for traditional arts, and we decided to travel to the high north together. I left the ashram and met her in Delhi. The following days we visited Chandigarh (city designed by Le Corbusier with an intriguing history), Dharamsala (abode of the Dalai Lama), we proceeded to Jammu and Srinagar, Kashmir. Out of a lack of time she left for Delhi and I proceeded to Ladakh. After a fabulous time there I am in Vashisht, Manali now. In Between I visited a Tibetan youth camp with an English-Israeli friend Alex for a few days, where we used our youth group experience.
There are interesting stories about my time in Srinagar and Ladakh, they might come later. Now it is time to chill in Manali.
Cheers dears xxx
Now she had vacation from her dance courses (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bharatanatyam) in Kalamandalam, the now "Deemed University" for traditional arts, and we decided to travel to the high north together. I left the ashram and met her in Delhi. The following days we visited Chandigarh (city designed by Le Corbusier with an intriguing history), Dharamsala (abode of the Dalai Lama), we proceeded to Jammu and Srinagar, Kashmir. Out of a lack of time she left for Delhi and I proceeded to Ladakh. After a fabulous time there I am in Vashisht, Manali now. In Between I visited a Tibetan youth camp with an English-Israeli friend Alex for a few days, where we used our youth group experience.
There are interesting stories about my time in Srinagar and Ladakh, they might come later. Now it is time to chill in Manali.
Cheers dears xxx
A baba on a motorbike.
Radhebaba is a special guy. He is a baba, which means he has renounced the world and lives as an ascetic, but at the same time he does great effort to do ecological agriculture in his home village in Moradabad district, an untouristic and uneducated region in Uttar Pradesh. In his twenties he decided to renounce the world and he stayed in Pushkar, Rajasthan for a long time, dealing with tourists/travelers teaching them Yoga. About the hinduistic Maya-concept (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maya_%28illusion%29), he says that he doesn't claim to see through the illusion (as some other ascetics would claim), but accepts himself and everything we see in the world as a part of it. But he doesn't sit back and watches the illusion revolving all the time! He decided to go back to his birthplace to create consciousness about ecological agriculture, and there is a plan of building a small school in an attempt to give an impulse to education in the region. There are schools, but the pupils are not taught to think independently, and a lot of what they learn is "parrot work". The ashram school would be a place where not only books, but also handicrafts are taught.
When me and Nimrod, a French-Israeli friend, arrived to Moradabad from Delhi by train in april, I noticed that my backpack was gone. In light panic I ran up and down the compartment 5 times, sniffling under and peeking over the train berths, filled with good Indian families. Nothing ofcourse, the bag had long gone. It was put above my head (for those of you who know the famous Indian SL, sleeper class) on the upper berth. I read and slept a bit during the ride. Nimrod had fallen asleep on the facing upper berth. A man was sleeping on that bench when I saw the backpack was not there. He hadn't seen anything. But another man had been lying there before. Anyhow, no one had seen anything. Answering a man who told me I should have watched the bag more carefully Nimrod told him agitated that no Indian loses his bag in such way(?), even if they put it up there. It was gone. Without to much hope we started explaining someone who asked what had happened, in front of the railway police station. In a matter of seconds 10 people had gathered around us. I didn't like that and went into the police office and told the sitting officer in Hindi that my bag was stolen. He asked me to sit (the ever Indian gesture which drives me insane in these situations), and when I -standing- continued explaining what had happened, a bunch of journalists(?) came in. With a notepad in my face, a camera and video camera in near proximity, and a police officer who started laughing, I freaked out. How could the man, who is always there for the people, start laughing with my problem in stead of taking it seriously? In full anger I shouted at him and ran out through the flock of horny news folk. One of them caught my anger in his little snapping box, the bastard. I ridiculed him; I took a chair and invited him to sit. Then I went off to the station master where I found solace. People took me serious, gave me a double folded paper with the thin blue stencil in between and I could start writing my own(!!!) report. I described the bag and summed up what it contained: a digital camera, flight tickets and a bunch of books. Luckily I had all the important documents and money with me in a smaller bag!!! My clear writing kind of knew that the bag wouldn't come back, but was followed by their curious eyes. Especially the list of contents impressed them, but the most asked question was if there was a lot of money in the bag. Luckily I don't carry backpacks stuffed with dollars when I am traveling...
We took the connecting train to our destination, helped by a great chap and some police officers who showed us a seat in the train (we didn't have the time to buy a ticket). Free ride thanks to the stolen bag... joy(yes, ironically meant). When we arrived it was dusk. Radhebaba, in white cloth on black Hero-Honda 'Pulsar' motorbike, told us there are bag stealing gangs operative on the Delhi-Varanasi line.
Unfortunately, there was not much work on the fields in that period, so days consisted mostly of sitting in the small brick building, receiving high guests, red glowing sapphirs in their crown revolving in mist... In the evening the nice old men of the village come to enjoy the milky sky. With these old men I felt completely comfortable. Harmless, without hidden agenda towards me, wondering why there is no roti (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roti) or mango in my country and laughing together about my Hindi. We regularly hopped on the motorbike to go to town, I even learned some driving. In town, even places to 60 km or more away from the ashram, people remebered the small article about the Belgian writer whose bag got stolen on the train, published in two newspapers. I had written many books, including "Lonely Planet 2007" and came here to study about Indian culture and handicrafts, which would be the theme of my next book. Even two weeks later this remained one of the first questions when Radhe and me would sit in one or another shop, sipping chai with the shopowner and random visitors, from clay tumblers which are to be thrown to pieces when empty, carefully aimed from the shop through the open street, between the wheels of motorbikes and cyclerikshaws, children's bare running feet and a cow enjoying another piece of juicy cardboard in peaceful satisfaction. The bigger splinters are crumbled to dust by the passing vehicles.
It's about time Radhe pays a visit to Belgium. Bruno is a few years older than me, also comes from Tienen and has completed his MA of Indology in Ghent. Radhe and Bruno have built up the whole ashram together (yatharthyogashram.org). Radhe has been applying for a passport for 2.5 years now refusing to give more money than officially asked for. It tells us a lot about the omnipresent delay and corruption in Indian administration.
When me and Nimrod, a French-Israeli friend, arrived to Moradabad from Delhi by train in april, I noticed that my backpack was gone. In light panic I ran up and down the compartment 5 times, sniffling under and peeking over the train berths, filled with good Indian families. Nothing ofcourse, the bag had long gone. It was put above my head (for those of you who know the famous Indian SL, sleeper class) on the upper berth. I read and slept a bit during the ride. Nimrod had fallen asleep on the facing upper berth. A man was sleeping on that bench when I saw the backpack was not there. He hadn't seen anything. But another man had been lying there before. Anyhow, no one had seen anything. Answering a man who told me I should have watched the bag more carefully Nimrod told him agitated that no Indian loses his bag in such way(?), even if they put it up there. It was gone. Without to much hope we started explaining someone who asked what had happened, in front of the railway police station. In a matter of seconds 10 people had gathered around us. I didn't like that and went into the police office and told the sitting officer in Hindi that my bag was stolen. He asked me to sit (the ever Indian gesture which drives me insane in these situations), and when I -standing- continued explaining what had happened, a bunch of journalists(?) came in. With a notepad in my face, a camera and video camera in near proximity, and a police officer who started laughing, I freaked out. How could the man, who is always there for the people, start laughing with my problem in stead of taking it seriously? In full anger I shouted at him and ran out through the flock of horny news folk. One of them caught my anger in his little snapping box, the bastard. I ridiculed him; I took a chair and invited him to sit. Then I went off to the station master where I found solace. People took me serious, gave me a double folded paper with the thin blue stencil in between and I could start writing my own(!!!) report. I described the bag and summed up what it contained: a digital camera, flight tickets and a bunch of books. Luckily I had all the important documents and money with me in a smaller bag!!! My clear writing kind of knew that the bag wouldn't come back, but was followed by their curious eyes. Especially the list of contents impressed them, but the most asked question was if there was a lot of money in the bag. Luckily I don't carry backpacks stuffed with dollars when I am traveling...
We took the connecting train to our destination, helped by a great chap and some police officers who showed us a seat in the train (we didn't have the time to buy a ticket). Free ride thanks to the stolen bag... joy(yes, ironically meant). When we arrived it was dusk. Radhebaba, in white cloth on black Hero-Honda 'Pulsar' motorbike, told us there are bag stealing gangs operative on the Delhi-Varanasi line.
Unfortunately, there was not much work on the fields in that period, so days consisted mostly of sitting in the small brick building, receiving high guests, red glowing sapphirs in their crown revolving in mist... In the evening the nice old men of the village come to enjoy the milky sky. With these old men I felt completely comfortable. Harmless, without hidden agenda towards me, wondering why there is no roti (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roti) or mango in my country and laughing together about my Hindi. We regularly hopped on the motorbike to go to town, I even learned some driving. In town, even places to 60 km or more away from the ashram, people remebered the small article about the Belgian writer whose bag got stolen on the train, published in two newspapers. I had written many books, including "Lonely Planet 2007" and came here to study about Indian culture and handicrafts, which would be the theme of my next book. Even two weeks later this remained one of the first questions when Radhe and me would sit in one or another shop, sipping chai with the shopowner and random visitors, from clay tumblers which are to be thrown to pieces when empty, carefully aimed from the shop through the open street, between the wheels of motorbikes and cyclerikshaws, children's bare running feet and a cow enjoying another piece of juicy cardboard in peaceful satisfaction. The bigger splinters are crumbled to dust by the passing vehicles.
It's about time Radhe pays a visit to Belgium. Bruno is a few years older than me, also comes from Tienen and has completed his MA of Indology in Ghent. Radhe and Bruno have built up the whole ashram together (yatharthyogashram.org). Radhe has been applying for a passport for 2.5 years now refusing to give more money than officially asked for. It tells us a lot about the omnipresent delay and corruption in Indian administration.
PICSSSSSSSSSSS
Go and have a look at the new pics(although unselected and only of a part of the trip)...
jaldii jaldii!! quickly quickly!!!
jaldii jaldii!! quickly quickly!!!
woensdag 21 mei 2008
New number
Hello!!!
since a few weeks I have a new number: 00919917138897
I'm in Kashmir for the moment, there's no network for IDEA (the phone company), so you'll have to wait until I came out of Ladakh(about 2 max 3 weeks) before you can reach me on this number. Looking forward to hear you! ;-)
Abonneren op:
Posts (Atom)
