McLean
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<div class="maketitle">
<h2 class="titleHead">The Journal</h2>
<div class="author" ></div><br />
<div class="date" ><span
class="ecrm-1200">January 26, 2010</span></div>
</div>
<h3 class="likesectionHead"><a
id="x1-1000"></a>Monday Nov 30th 2009</h3>
<!--l. 16--><p class="noindent" >Dehra Dun, pronounced Dehradoon by the locals. I don’t like my hotel, the naffly
named Great Value; I don’t like the road I have to traverse up and down between the
hotel and my various stop-offs: coffee shop; internet cafe; book shop. But I am going
out to the Forest Research Institute today, and that is why I chose Dehra Dun to
hole up for a few days before moving on to New York. This cafe where I write, of
forgettable name, is pleasant, modern, and a refuge from India; I begin to understand
Lutyens.
<!--l. 26--><p class="noindent" >
<h3 class="likesectionHead"><a
id="x1-2000"></a>Saturday Nov 28th 2009</h3>
<!--l. 28--><p class="noindent" >It is nice to be out of Delhi, although we were there only overnight; Delhi’s
characteristic scent of dried faeces, urine and diesel fumes is now two hours back up
the track, for I am on the train to Dehra Dun. S. will be back in the US by now.
The train is rolling across the north India plain, which is greener and more
fertile than I expected . We are passing through sugar cane country, for
which the harvesting has yet to begin. The occasional village of concrete box
architecture
<!--l. 36--><p class="indent" > I cannot imagine why the Indian Government is so keen to stage the
Commonwealth Games next year. Disaster looms. The whole of Delhi is a
construction site, both for the Games and to get new sections of the Metro
commuter rail network finished in time. There will still remain the problem of
Delhi’s foul, acrid air, which no sane athlete would breathe for more than a
minute.
<!--l. 44--><p class="noindent" >
<h3 class="likesectionHead"><a
id="x1-3000"></a>Tuesday Nov 24th 2009</h3>
<!--l. 46--><p class="noindent" >Now it is cool, for we are in the hill country, the Western Ghats of Kerala, staying at
a what is termed a resort, as the guests are in seperate cottages spread down the
hillside. Ours is a 200-plus year old traditional Kerala wooden house, relocated
from our host Simon’s village, which may be not so far away, further west in
the hills. Simon is both a conservationsist and an entrpreneur. He bought
this piece of land of several hundred acres nearly twenty years ago with
the idea of a personal retreat for himself and his family. It was bare land,
with a scattering of large trees. He has established much of it as a coffee
plantation, with a canopy of larger trees, and relocated this cottage here. Then his
friends wanted to come and stay, so another cottage was built, and then it has
morphed into a resort, complete with swimming pool perched on a hillside
terrace.
<!--l. 60--><p class="indent" > Simon employed a lot of local labour while he was establishing the place - he has
planted abut 2000 trees. One was a women who he described as a little backward,
citing her propensity to lop of a planted tree while clearing weeds. She even cut the
back of a fellow workers hand. One day the locals approached him, concerned that
this women had sold her liitle girl. The women was summoned, and it turned out she
had indeed sold her three-year old daughter for 5000 rupees, a little more than a
hundred US dolars. Her explanation was straightforward: I cannot afford to look
after her. You, Simon, employ me for about six months of the year, so what
am I to do for the rest? Simon found she had spent about 350 rupees of
the 5000, so he gave her that much, and sent her to get the child back. He
employed her for the next twelve years, and paid for the child’s education. The
woman has since left the district, and the now grown-up daughter still lives
locally.
<!--l. 75--><p class="indent" > Today they have no torments planned for us, but we have been threatened with a
walk at 4pm. The rather nice English couple, Di and Trevor, are leaving this
morning, so we have the place to ourselves. Simon, the owner, has returned to his
home on the plains, where wife and three children live. It is always quieter
without Simon; he is the only man on the sub-continent who moves quickly.
Yesterday he took us on a tour of the tea factory across the valley. It was set up
with EU money after an enquiry into the high rate of cancer in the district.
It was found that the small-holders, five to twenty-five acres (hectares?)
were using a lot of pesticides for their various crops, mainly tea, coffee and
cardamon, so were constrantly handling sprays. The was a push to get them into
organic farming, with funding from the EU for the organic tea factory. So far
with some success, although there has been backsliding, and the factory
has at times been leased to a plantation whose factory burnt down. Simon
marched us around the factory - he is on the board, so knows everyone - at
speed; as Di pointed out it was rather like being back at school on a factory
visit. But a cup of tea was not forthcoming - they had run out of cooking
gas.
<!--l. 95--><p class="indent" > The next stop was where Ayurvedic medicine is made. Like the tea factory, it is
under the aegis of the local development board, but is also tied into the local
Catholic Church. A wonderful collection of herbs, potions and concoctions, all being
ground up, boiled, infused and who knows what, and then packed and labelled for
sale. Simon did let the Ayurvedic doctor conduct this tour, then the others where
taken for the Ayurvedic massage, and I came back here to sit on the verandah and
drink coffee.
<!--l. 104--><p class="indent" > The day before was a visit to a spice plantation, which was conducted by a very
knowledgable young man. They even had jatropha, source of bio-diesel, but no longer
grown in the district due to marketing problems. I am to put three or four pinches of
nutmeg into my after-dinner cup of tea to ensure a good night’s sleep. Then it was to
the Periyar National Park, home to twenty-six tigers. The forest trees where
spectacular - huge boles with flying butresses, vines as thick as my thigh, and leeches
like you wouldn’t believe. Standing for a moment, they could be seen marching
towards out feet in blood-driven frenzy. We were of course well protected in
canvas sock-puttees, regularly sprayed with a nicotine/pepper powder. A few
monkeys were sighted, various birds, and a pair of sleeping frog-mouths
(a nocturnal bird) on a low branch, apparently rare, and certainly most
unusual.
<!--l. 119--><p class="noindent" >
<h3 class="likesectionHead"><a
id="x1-4000"></a>Friday Nov 20th 2009</h3>
<!--l. 121--><p class="noindent" >The day started with an attempt to ride in a bullock cart, up near the border with
Tamil Nadu. Various people were collected, and after a pause in a Muslim
household, a cart with two bullocks in harness arrived. We had heard about
the emerging sport of bullock cart racing on the drive there, so were not
to surpised to find the cart was like a chariot, with not too much room or
handholds for passengers. The two of us managed to clamber on the back, and we
were not yet alarmed by the rather restive behaviour from up front. The
bullocks lurched forward, then appeared to be trying to bite each other, before
rapidly turning left and charging into a hedge. We rapidly disembarked.
It turns out the driver was known to the bullocks as their racing driver,
prone to urging them on with a sharp point. Drivers were changed, and they
proceeeded happily down the road, minus us. In a field out the back we were
introduced to toddy, in this case fermented coconut palm sap from a flower
head.
<!--l. 137--><p class="indent" > Next was a visit to the astrologer. S. got to light the votive lamp, and received a
detailed and surprisingly accurate history of life to date, such as a count of husbands
and children, and of good fortune. Her children’s prospects were foretold, and a
lifespan given for S.
<!--l. 142--><p class="indent" > I received a less specific report, plainly wrong in declaring that I am from an
aristocratic family, right in that I had chosen to live apart from my family, and
outrageously wrong in claiming that I value my own opinions highly, and that I am
not minded to take the views of others into account. Ridiculous. My life was
described as having times of good and ill-fortune, but the next seven years are to be
properous.
<!--l. 150--><p class="indent" > S. and I are foretold to vacate our earthly bodies in the same year.
<!--l. 153--><p class="noindent" >
<h3 class="likesectionHead"><a
id="x1-5000"></a>Tuesday Nov 17th 2009</h3>
<!--l. 155--><p class="noindent" >It is hot, tropically hot. This morning we were taken for a drive across a one of the
plains that ring southern and eastern India. This particular one is in the north of
Kerala, about two hours drive north of Kochi, Cochin. There was a town called
Palakkad, of half a million people. By the standards of north India it it very
well-ordered and prosperous. By anyone’s standards it is well ordered and prosperous.
To my great delight we saw a jeep with a hammer and sickle flag proudly raised over
the bonnet; there was a Communist Party rally under way in town, with many of the
party faithful (all men) wearing dark blue trimmed in red. Almost uniquely
in India, the Kerala state communist government has actually governed
in the interests of the people for over fifty years. Although Lenin would
have difficuly recognising this as a communist state - hideous billboards for
capitalist consumer goods line the main roads - he would nevertheless be
jealous.
<!--l. 170--><p class="indent" > The contrasts are ubiquitous. Our host had to close down the transport company
owned by the three brothers when a rule was brought in that limited the number of
bus licences owned by an individual to four, so the roads are now clogged by
owner-operator buses and trucks of dubious mechanical quality. There are paddy
fields with lines of women planting rice; in the background subdivisions
are advertised. The education system is such that a shortage of domestic
staff is starting to concern hotel and guest house operators. I can hear a
washing machine in the background - LG and Whirlpool brands are in the
showrooms in town - but the estate labourers carry mattocks and are dressed in
dhotis.
<!--l. 182--><p class="indent" > Over lunch it emerged that the Kerala Communist Party is in power now, is not
doing too well, and has not ruled continuously, nor are they Ghandi ascetics. Large
houses, big cars, the usual trappings of the elite. Still, if they have ruled in both their
own interests and those of the governed then they can stand tall compared to
elsewhere.
<!--l. 188--><p class="indent" > While Hindu temples and shrines - our drive this morning was to a “Brahmin
Village” where the towers used in festivals are to be seen - seem to be more common,
mosques and churches are everywhere. iI saw a shrine dedicated to “Mamma
Theresa”, no doubt to be Saint in due course, so the cult of Christopher Hitchens’
“vicious Albanian dwarf” is already under way. A building signed “Christian Syrian
Bank” adds to the melange.
<!--l. 196--><p class="indent" > I should add that since Wednesday we have visited Khajuraho, with the erotic
friezes, and Agra to see the Taj Mahal. And Panna National Park, where we were
driven aound by a very knowledgable guide in light rain, although he was not sure if
there were two or three tigers in the park. And also visited Orcha, with a
palace and temple, up in the hills on the edge of a National Park, a pleasant
spot.
<!--l. 203--><p class="indent" > En route we stayed over night at the Raj Niwal Palace in Dholpur. We were the
only guests, arriving late to step into a remnant of the British Raj. I do not yet have
the words to descibe what we saw, except that the private zoo was in ruins,
and we were told that is difficult to get permission to run a zoo nowadays.
The palace is owned by the Chief Minister of Rajastan, who had the palace
resored a few years ago, no doubt ably assisted by the state coffers. I have no
doubt the permit to keep wild animals would be forthcoming if she requested
it.
<!--l. 214--><p class="noindent" >
<h3 class="likesectionHead"><a
id="x1-6000"></a>Wednesday Nov 11th 2009</h3>
<!--l. 216--><p class="noindent" >Kashi, Benares, Varanasi. The name changes, but it is has been a pilgrimage place for
thousands of years, and like all pilgrimages has its share of religious rite, theatre,
hokum, and above all commercial opportunity. The theatre was the show put on each
evening by seven young Brahmins who stood on stages between the Ghats and
the river and waved burning things around for an hour or so. Loud music,
chanting and clapping from the devotees, a handful of tourists engaged in
thier various poses of either dedicated, intrusive photographer, or of pious
engagement, but mostly just slightly detached tourist. Good show, though. The
burning ghats I approved of - it seemed a good way to say farewell and to
hygenically tidy up the remains. Also, in the evening light, a very spectacular
sight.
<!--l. 229--><p class="indent" > Sarnath, the site of Buddha’s first sermon, was an unexpected revelation. The
place was excavated by British archaologists early in the 20th century, so the temple,
dating from the first century BC, but rebuilt several times, is now an open site
where the layout is revealed by low remnant brick structures spread over
an acre or two. Nearby is the stupa, the only structure too large for the
Moghul’s to destroy. Neen trees are scattered around, providing pleasant
shade, complete with a circle of Buddhist acolytes intent on their teacher.
The high point was a column of Japanese tourists being led around the
stupa by two monks, all dutifully chanting. It was a hot day; we watched
them perform two sweaty circuits before retreating to the shade. I assume
they were doing penance on behalf of all we intrusive tourists, and was duly
grateful.
<!--l. 243--><p class="indent" > The museum attached to Sarnath contains the famous four lions that stood
atop Ashoka’s stupa, the fragments of which are also at the site. And many
representations of Buddha and other figures from both Buddhist and Hindu
tradition, cut from fine sandstone in a semi bas relief style so the figures appear to be
emerging from the stone. A particular one, the chief piece besides Ashoka’s
lions, is of the Buddha preaching, in the lotus position, with a leg lowered a
little. Such dregs of spirituality that remain to me were strangely moved. I
mock others who descibe India as a very spiritual place. Round one to the
Buddha.
<!--l. 255--><p class="noindent" >
<h3 class="likesectionHead"><a
id="x1-7000"></a>Friday Nov 6th 2009</h3>
<!--l. 257--><p class="noindent" >Today is - was - my mother’s birthday. These dates serve to remind of what is past
and what is lost. Besides the excitement of having met up with S. again
(which I have), there is a one-day cricket game on the TV between NZ and
Pakistan, being played in Abu Dhabi. We were out earlier having a drink and
meal in a western-style bar-restaurant, and are now back in our somewhat
minimalist room with Kindle (S’s), Babykins (i.e. my netbook) and me. NZ
got 303, and Pakistan are 20-0 in the seventh over. I may have to continue
watching.
<!--l. 266--><p class="indent" > I was very pleased to hear S’s voice in the corridor outside, given that the
itinerary had sent me to the wrong homestay place; the Master bed and breakfast
people were even nicer than the Lonely Planet Guide said, and patiently contacted
the tour operators, found the right destanation, and got a taxi for me to
the Sun Guest House. It was quite a relief when S. showed up a few hours
later.
<!--l. 273--><p class="indent" > We both have residual colds and threatened chest infections. So nice to
share.
<!--l. 277--><p class="noindent" >
<h3 class="likesectionHead"><a
id="x1-8000"></a>Thursday Nov 5th 2009</h3>
<!--l. 279--><p class="noindent" >It turns out Babykins was right - yesterday was Wednesday - and I was
wrong. Never go up against technology without your mother present. The
evening is much as yesterday. The only natural history moments have been
seeing two what I take to be mongooses running around on neighbouring
parapets; rat-sized, with tails in the air. And two kites might have been
nesting in the nearest mobile phone tower, but I think it is just their overnight
roosting spot on a shelf near the top of the tower; one of them is guarding it
now.
<!--l. 288--><p class="indent" > I have been moved back to the little room I had on arrival, prior to departure
tomorrow. I have been trying to organise getting dinner for the last hour or so, but
the cook remains obstinately asleep. Looked over more of my attempted novel today,
reading it from the back; the rough spots continue to be in the middle, but will be
expanded and smoothed in due course.
<!--l. 295--><p class="indent" > A nearly forgotten detail - no-one is smoking out on the streets; no doubt I have
seen one or two, but the overall observation is true; quite remarkable. And there
are gecko’s running about on the terrace where I await my Chicken Masala
dinner.
<!--l. 301--><p class="noindent" >
<h3 class="likesectionHead"><a
id="x1-9000"></a>Thursday Nov 5th 2009</h3>
<!--l. 303--><p class="noindent" >Well, it might be Wednesday, or at least the Babykins thinks it is (Babykins
is the netbook I am using, named obviously for its size.) I shall have to
sneak a look at the papers downstairs in reception. It is a fine evening here
in Delhi, no breeze to notice, shirtsleeve cool. There are at least two kites
within sight perched on rooftop railings, which I imagine due to the lack
of wind; usually they are gliding the currents. At least the crow is not in
the cupola atop the outside stairs; its cawing made my life a misery the
other day when I was trying to be brave and pretend I did not have a dire
cold, a raging sore throat and a sense of impending doom. These symptoms
have been somewhat alleviated by self-medication with Amoxicillin; but not
entirely.
<!--l. 316--><p class="indent" > One of the kites has moved closer, to perch on a water tank next door,
causing much fluttering of the pigeons. On reflection it might be that rooftop
dining and the approach of the evening meal may by drawing them closer,
down out of the skies. Which are blue overhead, for the first time since my
arrival. The horizons are still a milky haze, relecting the pollution level; but
not that brown haze as I first noticed with horror on visiting Europe in
1970.
<!--l. 324--><p class="indent" > I managed a stroll down through the local market this morning, and decided
Delhi was not quite as grim as my first impression, jet-lagged and cold-ridden as I
was. Even all the dirt and rubbish had been tidied into heaps, in preparation for the
dust-cart no doubt. Always though the mystery of what are all these people doing.
The relatively few women were easy to categorise; almost universally at small food
stalls. The man in the silk shirt and extended stomach was like me, idly wandering
around with nothing else to do. The other ten thousand I saw remain unaccounted
for.
<!--l. 334--><p class="indent" > It has taken me a while to notice it, that besides the three mobile phone
base-stations in sight, there are no TV arials, and no satellite dishes; this is odd.
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2010-01-27T07:41:59+13:00
2010-01-27
Blog
McLean
8
Notes from a trip to India, November 2009
India Journal
2010-02-02T12:22:14+13:00