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! ;-)
vrijdag 25 april 2008
Sizzling through World Heritage.
Since I am in Delhi I visit the internet almost daily. I like to listen to Bach on You tube and chat with friends on MSN Messenger. It is extremely hot in Delhi, around 11-12 am the heat sends us to cooler places till the late afternoon. When I was in Pune, Anke told me she was quite sick, it didn't get any better and she wanted to go home with her parents. So I took the time to travel between Mumbai and Delhi. I saw the palaces in Mandu and Orchha, the 10.000 year old murals in Bhimbetka, the great Stupa of Sanchi and the breathtaking Khajuraho temples, famous for its sculptures, of which some are pornographic (there is even man fucking a horse... great world heritage!). In Bhopal, which is near to both Sanchi and Bhimbetka, and which has an exceptional high Muslim population (40%) in comparison to other Indian cities, I was roaming through the evening of the buzzing Muslim alleys. Carpenters, vegetable sellers, bakeries and lassi stands; bikes, cycles and clothing shops. Although these alleys are very narrow and filled with moving people (like Old Delhi), I felt very comfortable; shopkeepers were not annoying me in inviting me loudly into their shops, even if I'd not show any interest nor give them a glance. I felt less observed. In that same sense I don't feel comfortable in a restaurant where the waiter will literally 'wait'. He stands facing me after serving the meal, interpreting every upward glance as an order... I want to have the feeling I can eat without someone watching my plate and with the freedom to do the pondering stare while chewing on some delicious eatables :-D. Ofcourse, that feeling is partly in my own hands as well. Anyway, in Bhopal I saw Lucky sitting in one of those alleyshops (Indians with long hair attract the attention), we nodded to each other. 2 mosques and 3 bazaars later he was sitting in a 'sugar cane juice stall' and we introduced ourselves. He is lucky, because he survived the loss of his father, a truck driving over him, a drug-rumor-failed arrangement of an arranged marriage, which he restored by marrying an American lady through an e-romance! He is one lucky chap! Tall, good looks, self-confident and dressed in smart clothing. We had a nice talk, he showed me around a bit on his motorbike and we met again. I planned to go to Khajuraho. He informed a friend of his there about my plan and told him to take good care of me. When I got down in Khajuraho after a long bus ride, I was -as usual- ignoring all the commission boys looking through as if they didn't exist. I took my bags and told Masood on the phone that Lucky's friend had arrived, surrounded by the commission boys who were puzzled by my weird Hindi and stubbornness to ignore all their questions and remarks. One of the young boy's name was Lucky, and he ensured it showing the white of his right forearm where a clumsy 'lucky' was written. The circle followed my to the sidewalk where I sat down, still ignoring their most certain acquaintance with Masood. When he arrived I walked towards him with a broad smile. Masood is a Kashmiri from a Pashmina shawl making family in Srinagar. He is one of the many who open shops in the touristic areas to sell their precious goods. I've always known Muslim, and especially Kashmiris as warm and extremely friendly; qualities which make them excellent sellers. He only arrived in Khajuraho 4 months ago but did a great job fighting for his place on the market. In four months he had more friends than any of the other Pashmina sellers. I was actually ignoring his commission boys at the bus stand. He was hospital, he gave me a bed and food without any further questions, and I had the chance to experience the tourist business from within, it gave me a whole new view. I had a great time there, and the boys were ever optimistic, even though circumstances were not always the best... to give an example: it almost hasn't rained in that region for the last three years. After 5 days between tourists, sculptures and shopkeepers, I left for Delhi together with Masood. He went home after a long time. The love marriage his parents forbid him kept away for years. He doesn't like staying home for too long because the matter will surely spoil the atmosphere. We arrived early in the morning in Delhi, drinking a few teas, pestered by mosquitoes and high-priced rickshaw fares. On his way to the airport I got out of the auto and we parted. Since then I saw some monuments I had not seen on my previous trip (Delhi is packed with great monuments), spent three days looking for a returned parcel i badly needed (luckily I found it; it contained the books for my examinations in September) and watched some bad and good theater. I stay with Noopur, a girl I met via Max last time in Delhi. She had birthday a few days ago and it was a small but great party, I met some great people. Some of them study in the National School of Drama, of which I had met teacher that same day whom I knew from the school in Tamil Nadu, where he had kindly attended the family day. So I'm very happy to be in contact with these people, in this way I get an all-round experience of theater in India (long live generalizations!). Noopur herself works in an art gallery, her roommate Nikhil (a Maharashtrian, as Noopur is) is a designer and Shalini, a Malayali from Trivandrum, will take me to a slum today. I am reading 'Shantaram' (http://www.shantaram.com/), that explains the interest partly. In a few days I will leave for this place: yatharthyogashram.org (Don't open on Mozilla Firefox, the text will not show!).
maandag 31 maart 2008
chachacha, what has all happened over the last month? For the moment I am staying in Mumbai at Viveks nephews place, he is an young upcoming actor here. Mathis and Jeroen left 3 days ago, it hurt. We had a lot of fun together for 25 days, and now I was "alone" again. We left from Mumbai, visited Goa, Hampi, Bangalore, Mysore, I showed them where I had been in Kerala, we went to the amazingly beautiful hill station of Ooty, visited the school in Kanchipuram, went to Mahabalipuram, Chennai, back to Mumbai and Ellora, and they returned to Belgium! We saw mountain and sea, old stones and buzzing cities, rain, sun, hot and cold, a variety of indians, tourists and albinos, we played poker, drank, joked and laughed. It was great. Although we were three we never really had problems between each other.
In a day or so I will be heading for Puna to visit the city, a Hindi teacher there and the famous Osho Ashram! After that I will meet Anke somewhere in Rajasthan or in Delhi and from there we will probably go to Kashmir. Then I will be very grateful to be able to settle for about two months to study Hindi. Options are Puna, Varanasi, somewhere in the mountains,... My parents, sister and Sarah, an Italian exchange student living in my family for a year will come in the end of June and we will travel around together till the end of July.
The last days I spent strolling around in the wide streets of the touristic south of Mumbai, it is filled with tall buildings, some are beautiful and others less. Then even more time I spent in cinema halls, watching Bolly and Holly. I saw an "experimental" play in English and played Football on Vineet's PS2,... isn't that something?
I feel allright, somewhat homesick again, still fattening, but especially looking forward to the two months I will be spending to study Hindi. I look forward to have a home, even if it is only temporarily.
woensdag 27 februari 2008
Going out - going in
I was in Sri Lanka for the last 4 days. It was great. I have a 1-year visa for India, but it says: "a single stay should not exceed 90 days". That means I need a stamp as a proof that I was out of India every 3 months. Annoying but interesting to see another country - even though India is so huge and diverse. So I could as well arrive and take the very first flight back, but I didn't do that. I went there only for 4 days because I'm in the school.
But it was great! Clean streets, friendly people(they are mostly Buddhist, I think religion does make a big difference to attitude and mentality), less noise, less people, nice bakeries, very beautiful nature, fresh fruits, less taboo on sex, beautiful(ly) dressed girls,...
I give you a few stories:
One night I was walking round the lake in Kandy and a boy(maybe my age or younger) asked me friendly if he could suck my cock. I told him honestly that I was not interested but he kept asking in a soft voice, looking down(or at my "cock") like a school boy, holding his bagpack round his shoulders with both hands. I started walking of and he called me back. Then I started explaining him ,rationally and scrupleless , why I thought he shouldn't express his frustration(?) in this way or why this is a bad way of making money(is it?), and even before I could end my lection his disinterested face turned away and said: "ok, ok". So I went home. Oh my god, I have much more interesting stories but no patience to write them down. Maybe I should start writing a short text every day...
Next, my friends of the KSJ gave me a small Buddha statue and the mission to have it blessed in a Buddhist temple or monastery on my travel before I left. So I took it to a small monastery where a young Burmese monk told me to clean it properly and come back in the morning. So I looked for the right cleaning material and restoration material... it was difficult. I was in fancy stores, jewellers and glass-mirror shops... but nothing. In a Muslim jewelery shop the shopkeepers were sorry they couldn't help me because of the Buddha statue (they never make images of their gods), but a rickshaw driver there wanted to take me to an antiquary shop. I gave in and we went off. The first shop couldn't help, but the second, a beautiful, large shop with all kinds of nice items, didn't have any costumers(it was Sunday). I explained them what I was looking for and they all started helping me repainting the statue in gold and finding solutions for the missing colored little mirror pieces. They were all Buddhist except one christian who preferred Buddhism. They didn't charge me anything (obviously, because the statue was Buddha). Anyway, it was a great experience, and I have much more to tell but not the patience nor time to write them down properly. Excuse me for this half and careless work... it will be made up, but when? And where? Now you at least have something to read for now, and it's not to long so there is a possibility you read everything till the end... right?(stop staring, yes you, the ones who skipped the middle! ;-D. Family, friends, people: my stay in Sri Lanka was great, I feel very happy! :-)
But it was great! Clean streets, friendly people(they are mostly Buddhist, I think religion does make a big difference to attitude and mentality), less noise, less people, nice bakeries, very beautiful nature, fresh fruits, less taboo on sex, beautiful(ly) dressed girls,...
I give you a few stories:
One night I was walking round the lake in Kandy and a boy(maybe my age or younger) asked me friendly if he could suck my cock. I told him honestly that I was not interested but he kept asking in a soft voice, looking down(or at my "cock") like a school boy, holding his bagpack round his shoulders with both hands. I started walking of and he called me back. Then I started explaining him ,rationally and scrupleless , why I thought he shouldn't express his frustration(?) in this way or why this is a bad way of making money(is it?), and even before I could end my lection his disinterested face turned away and said: "ok, ok". So I went home. Oh my god, I have much more interesting stories but no patience to write them down. Maybe I should start writing a short text every day...
Next, my friends of the KSJ gave me a small Buddha statue and the mission to have it blessed in a Buddhist temple or monastery on my travel before I left. So I took it to a small monastery where a young Burmese monk told me to clean it properly and come back in the morning. So I looked for the right cleaning material and restoration material... it was difficult. I was in fancy stores, jewellers and glass-mirror shops... but nothing. In a Muslim jewelery shop the shopkeepers were sorry they couldn't help me because of the Buddha statue (they never make images of their gods), but a rickshaw driver there wanted to take me to an antiquary shop. I gave in and we went off. The first shop couldn't help, but the second, a beautiful, large shop with all kinds of nice items, didn't have any costumers(it was Sunday). I explained them what I was looking for and they all started helping me repainting the statue in gold and finding solutions for the missing colored little mirror pieces. They were all Buddhist except one christian who preferred Buddhism. They didn't charge me anything (obviously, because the statue was Buddha). Anyway, it was a great experience, and I have much more to tell but not the patience nor time to write them down properly. Excuse me for this half and careless work... it will be made up, but when? And where? Now you at least have something to read for now, and it's not to long so there is a possibility you read everything till the end... right?(stop staring, yes you, the ones who skipped the middle! ;-D. Family, friends, people: my stay in Sri Lanka was great, I feel very happy! :-)
zondag 3 februari 2008
maandag 28 januari 2008
Happy New Year etc.
Hi friends etc.
let me tell you some more about this new place i arrive at 8 days ago. and, before i forget: tomorrow is my birthday.
This school (http://www.kattaikkuttu.org/youthts.html) is founded by a dutch lady, Hanne De Bruin, who studied Indology in Leiden. The gurukulam ("guru-family") I studied Kutiyattam at in Kerala, nl. Natana Kairali, (http://web.mac.com/ludwigpesch/Natanakairali_new/Welcome.html) is mainly focused on a solid long term training and artistic-stylistic perfection. In the school where I am volunteering now, the social aspect of the training takes a much more important place. They have daily training in the art form which is implemented in the regular school system. the children have maths, science, language etc. classes from 7.30 to 1 am, in the afternoon they have kattaikkuttu, drumming, harmonium classes. Whereas the Chakyars (kutiyattam performer caste) are Brahmans connected to the temple (some temples have theater halls inside, "kuthambalam"), and perform a highly stylized and century old theater-dance, the kattaikuttu tradition is also closely connected to religion but the performers are low caste. The form is much more folky and seems to attract more audience.
I witnessed a one-night performance on the village main junction which started after the deity had passed all the houses on a bullock chart, preceded by drummers and blowers and a handful of drunk men. The inhabitants gave offerings when the deity passed by. Terrified babies started crying when given to the ceremony masters on the chariot and lifted up to see the god, adorned with garlands and balloons. A short pose under the strong spotlight and eyes of all present downstairs, for the photographer in front of the oxes. Young men would climb up the chart an pose, young married couples would give each other a garland and donate a golden neckless to the deity(or ceremony masters...?) and grey-haired women with backs bent like hooks would be led out of their houses to great the god with all sincerity old age can offer. Around 10 pm, the performance starts. It goes on non-stop till 6 am, telling a Mahabharata story(Indian epic), with many repetitive dance steps and melodies, musicians who sit at the back of the stage for 8 hours in exactly the same position. 2 light bulbs hung from a wooden frame light the scene. A smart butter-besmeared piece of newspaper next to the bulbs catches the flies and mots swingingly. Next to the stage is a tiny temple and all the villagers sit -some sleeping on the sand, others watching the character's fate anxiously or laughing with the clowns silly jokes- round the stage in a big circle. I am very tired and fall asleep all the time, sitting in an uncomfortable position(westerners are not used to sit on the floor, are they?). From time to time a drunk guy or an old lady walks up the stage and gives the present actor some money after praising him. The actor bows thankfully, gives the money to his companions at the back and proceeds the play.
This involvement of the society was never there in the kutiyattam i saw. Not even in the temple performances, which seem to have been packed 30 years ago. Has it become to boring? Is it to difficult to understand or did it become property of intellectuals? Does the uprising of television play a big role? What about religious life? Kerala is much more conservative than Tamil Nadu, but there I was in a mid-range and rich city, here the performance took place in a poor village on some distance from the city. brrrrrrrrrrr time to go
tood'loo (to the loo?)
hughug kisskiss have a great time!
let me tell you some more about this new place i arrive at 8 days ago. and, before i forget: tomorrow is my birthday.
This school (http://www.kattaikkuttu.org/youthts.html) is founded by a dutch lady, Hanne De Bruin, who studied Indology in Leiden. The gurukulam ("guru-family") I studied Kutiyattam at in Kerala, nl. Natana Kairali, (http://web.mac.com/ludwigpesch/Natanakairali_new/Welcome.html) is mainly focused on a solid long term training and artistic-stylistic perfection. In the school where I am volunteering now, the social aspect of the training takes a much more important place. They have daily training in the art form which is implemented in the regular school system. the children have maths, science, language etc. classes from 7.30 to 1 am, in the afternoon they have kattaikkuttu, drumming, harmonium classes. Whereas the Chakyars (kutiyattam performer caste) are Brahmans connected to the temple (some temples have theater halls inside, "kuthambalam"), and perform a highly stylized and century old theater-dance, the kattaikuttu tradition is also closely connected to religion but the performers are low caste. The form is much more folky and seems to attract more audience.
I witnessed a one-night performance on the village main junction which started after the deity had passed all the houses on a bullock chart, preceded by drummers and blowers and a handful of drunk men. The inhabitants gave offerings when the deity passed by. Terrified babies started crying when given to the ceremony masters on the chariot and lifted up to see the god, adorned with garlands and balloons. A short pose under the strong spotlight and eyes of all present downstairs, for the photographer in front of the oxes. Young men would climb up the chart an pose, young married couples would give each other a garland and donate a golden neckless to the deity(or ceremony masters...?) and grey-haired women with backs bent like hooks would be led out of their houses to great the god with all sincerity old age can offer. Around 10 pm, the performance starts. It goes on non-stop till 6 am, telling a Mahabharata story(Indian epic), with many repetitive dance steps and melodies, musicians who sit at the back of the stage for 8 hours in exactly the same position. 2 light bulbs hung from a wooden frame light the scene. A smart butter-besmeared piece of newspaper next to the bulbs catches the flies and mots swingingly. Next to the stage is a tiny temple and all the villagers sit -some sleeping on the sand, others watching the character's fate anxiously or laughing with the clowns silly jokes- round the stage in a big circle. I am very tired and fall asleep all the time, sitting in an uncomfortable position(westerners are not used to sit on the floor, are they?). From time to time a drunk guy or an old lady walks up the stage and gives the present actor some money after praising him. The actor bows thankfully, gives the money to his companions at the back and proceeds the play.
This involvement of the society was never there in the kutiyattam i saw. Not even in the temple performances, which seem to have been packed 30 years ago. Has it become to boring? Is it to difficult to understand or did it become property of intellectuals? Does the uprising of television play a big role? What about religious life? Kerala is much more conservative than Tamil Nadu, but there I was in a mid-range and rich city, here the performance took place in a poor village on some distance from the city. brrrrrrrrrrr time to go
tood'loo (to the loo?)
hughug kisskiss have a great time!
Outline
Time to give a general overview of the structure of my 10-month travel here:
1st chapter: Kutiyattam in Kerala
15- end of September:
looking for kutiyattam teacher in Trivandrum, Kalamandalam, Muzhikulam, Irinjalakuda
end of September till beginning of November:
kutiyattam lessons in Irinjalakuda, incl. 5-day kutiyattam festival in Trivandrum.
beginning-end of November:
Diwali at my friend Vivek's house in Delhi + visiting Delhi
end of November till beginning of December:
12-day visit to Nepal for my visa, Kathmandu, incl. a 4-day hike round Kathmandu.
beginning of December-mid of December:
a great time with Max in Delhi and visit to his Guruji in Hindi in a mountain village in Uttaranchal.
mid of December- round 20th of January:
more kutiyattam classes!12-day kutiyattam festival in the institution where i study. joy! and from the last days of December also yoga. total 37 kutiyattam classes and 20 yoga classes.
2nd chapter: Youth theater school in Tamil Nadu
round 20th of January - beginning of March:
voluntary work near Kanchipuram in the Kattaikkuttu Sangam.
March 3- March 28:
Brother Mathis visits me and we do a tour! yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!
March 28- April 5:
go back to Kanchipuram?
chapter 3: the north and Hindi
April 5- round April 20...:
Anke, a friend from Ghent and i will travel for about 2 weeks
end of April - end of June:
Intensive Hindi studies somewhere in the north...
Appendix: A Cherry on the cake:
end of June- end of July:
My parents, my sister Anna an Sarah, an exchange student who lives with my family for this year visit me and we make a tour! wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
30th of july: i step into the plane in mumbai and look forward to a nice belgian beer, fries with yoppie sauce, a bar of chocolate and a croissant with cheese when i land... and oh yes off course, i will also look forward to see friends and family again... how could i forget hihihihi.....
1st chapter: Kutiyattam in Kerala
15- end of September:
looking for kutiyattam teacher in Trivandrum, Kalamandalam, Muzhikulam, Irinjalakuda
end of September till beginning of November:
kutiyattam lessons in Irinjalakuda, incl. 5-day kutiyattam festival in Trivandrum.
beginning-end of November:
Diwali at my friend Vivek's house in Delhi + visiting Delhi
end of November till beginning of December:
12-day visit to Nepal for my visa, Kathmandu, incl. a 4-day hike round Kathmandu.
beginning of December-mid of December:
a great time with Max in Delhi and visit to his Guruji in Hindi in a mountain village in Uttaranchal.
mid of December- round 20th of January:
more kutiyattam classes!12-day kutiyattam festival in the institution where i study. joy! and from the last days of December also yoga. total 37 kutiyattam classes and 20 yoga classes.
2nd chapter: Youth theater school in Tamil Nadu
round 20th of January - beginning of March:
voluntary work near Kanchipuram in the Kattaikkuttu Sangam.
March 3- March 28:
Brother Mathis visits me and we do a tour! yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!
March 28- April 5:
go back to Kanchipuram?
chapter 3: the north and Hindi
April 5- round April 20...:
Anke, a friend from Ghent and i will travel for about 2 weeks
end of April - end of June:
Intensive Hindi studies somewhere in the north...
Appendix: A Cherry on the cake:
end of June- end of July:
My parents, my sister Anna an Sarah, an exchange student who lives with my family for this year visit me and we make a tour! wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
30th of july: i step into the plane in mumbai and look forward to a nice belgian beer, fries with yoppie sauce, a bar of chocolate and a croissant with cheese when i land... and oh yes off course, i will also look forward to see friends and family again... how could i forget hihihihi.....
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