–Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (Victoria Terminus), Mumbai (Bombay) in August 2005

I’m still in the middle of finishing my third year review (though I have started Dark Knight Returns on the sly). However, today’s news has shocked me back three years to the month I spent in Mumbai and traveling through parts of Southern India. I was about to move to Mississippi and start a new life, and thought I’d just do a complete system restart by spending a month in India. I’d always wanted to go to Bombay, primarily because of Salman Rushdie’s novels, and it seemed like the right time to do it. No one else had the time/money/interest to go with me, so I went alone. Alone, except that I blogged it. It was the start of this blog, actually. I’d hidden the category, since this blog had become something else in the meantime, but I’ve pulled it back out today.

I have to get back to editing my review (it’s getting close!). But my thoughts are of fruit juice vendors in Colaba and lazy dogs in the street with the shouts of men hawking their carved Ganeshes in booths outside the Leopold. Even the OMG awful crush of the “Ladies Compartment” on the train from Mumbai to Hyderabad that I caught at the VT. And I will be thinking of the Gateway to India with the (persistent) guides hawking their services alongside the forbidding elegance of the Taj Hotel.

I will be conjuring that Colaba tonight. Maybe it will do some good.

I’ve finally hooked up the DSL modem, so I’m in my kitchen with Sugar (she returned alone) leaning behind me in the chair and Max on the floor beside me. I’m listening to country music, which is much better here than in Boston (love the new Garth single). Netflix is up and running. I’ve got Unlimited Long Distance. NYTimes won’t deliver, but the Kroger has the Sunday edition. I’ve re-started my subscription to the New Yorker. I buy decorating magazines at Books-a-Million. I just had my first sushi in months right here in Columbus, and it was respectable. Good flavor in the spicy tuna. I met someone who has a blues radio show at State, and I found the BedBathandBeyond in Tupelo (Elvis was born only an hour from here–and it’s a big town at35K!). I have also located a diner, which is really mostly a bar, but it has distinctive diner qualities.

So, I’m settling in. Small town life has surprised me much more than coming back to the culture of the South. From 5.8M people in the Boston metro-area to 25,000 in Greater Columbus, I’ve had a bit of whiplash. Not to mention 18M in Bombay (Mumbai–whatever. No one in India called it Mumbai. I know I should call it Mumbai, but I really don’t think they consulted with anyone before changing the name. Nor do I think they bothered to mention it to many people after the fact. Nearly everyone I’ve spoken to about my trip inside or outside of India stares with confusion when I talk about Mumbai.)

India continues to derail me. Ahem. A small town is like an elderly, plump distant cousin, dressed in a green polyester sleeveless dress with a purple belt and a purple and green hat. You can see her puffy soft arms flapping toward you, and while you feel slightly indignant, you know you have to let her love on you.

In Zachary’s diner, while I was eating a delicious pulled-pork sandwhich and reading house magazines (Domino is so good–I bought an orange shag for the den last weekend), I overheard a conversation between two Columbians(?) watching the game and drinking Jameson’s. One man is pursing the other down that well worn path of “who are your people?” This is no idle past time, nor is it something left to those that belong to country clubs or have white-dress debuts. “Where are you from?” is the same first question in the country in India and in the country in Mississippi. It’s a request to fit back into the already formed world-view. Make the connection and suddenly, you know all the people the other person knows and all your people fit together like a puzzle. She’s met your grandmother. He sold a bull to your cousin who had bright red hair. They think they went to ninth grade with your mother. And they have stories to tell you that put you in place. Suddenly you are in community. In communion. It must be like a really good networking session at one of those high-tech conventions. It’s been one of my favorite parts of being back. I love the feeling of being re-woven into my family’s story here.

Anyway, the Columbians are slowly getting tossed as they are getting deeper into this voyage of discovery, “I can’t see your stepmother in my mind.” “I remember your Daddy’s store–I used to go in there all the time.” “I know I remember your sister–I have no idea who you are.” The more sober looking one continues to pursue, insisting this man in front of him doesn’t exist. Then he stops suddenly (a fresh drink in hand) and says, “So, you wantta watchmydog?”

I wonder if that translates.

First, you know that suitcase? The one he was asking 900 ru for? Well, #1 British Airlines lost it. Or whatever. I have to find it in NYC today on my way South. #2 When I went back to get it (without my t-shirt!) he asked 1200 ru for it!!!!!!! It’s so hard to bargain down to 700 ru when someone starts at 1200 instead of 900. More of the same bs. Of course, I called him on it, but he thought I was hilarious.

The team came back together again to pack me up (and more coming this a.m.!). I was wrong, I do have a memento of India across my face–my allergy got worse and now the rash is over my face! Yea!

My cell phone has chosen this time to die (though it is long overdue). I”ll try to fix it today, but please bear with me. I can see people calling, but I can’t pick up or return calls… Arghh! I guess you could signal by calling, then I could stop the car and call you back….hmmmm…

Last minute packing this a.m. then in the road (to fix the phone, to pick up Max, to find my bag…).

I really feel great today–it was so nice to sleep in my own bed last night, even just for one night.

Amanda

I’m leaving India tonight at 2:15am. I am very sad to be going. For Bombay, I’ve only begun to begin to know the city. And it’s a great city to know. Really bizarre and rich. I wish I could figure out how to get NDTV and the Times of India in the US. I’m very involved in tracking several news stories right now. Outlawing Dance Hall Girls (not even strippers–they just dance!), Outlawing Plastic Bags (the cause of the monsoon devestation) and the Buildings That Keep Falling Down (3 in the last two days). And for India–I haven’t figured all that out yet. I know I want to come back. And I’ve pretty much planned the trip out.

I understand now (and for the first time) why someone would want to get a tattoo. I feel like something in me changed, and I wish there were an external sign that it had happened. Right now all I have is an allergic rash, weight loss, and a sunburn. Wouldn’t a Ganesh or OM across the forehead be a clearer signal? Alas, with blood-borne diseases and poor hygenic conditions here, it probably won’t happen. But now I understand.

I’ve got to go buy another suitcase for all the stuff I bought. I’m not going to pay more than 700 ru for it (he’s asking 900–I’ve been scoping it out).

I know I have more India stories waiting to bubble up to the top, and I intend to use this format to continue “processing” my trip. Be forewarned.

Now, of course, for those of you interested in the next adventure…to Mississippi!! I’ll be driving cross-(half the) country with my White German Shepherd, Max, starting on Saturday. We’re headed for Columbus, and I start at Mississippi State University on Thursday, the 1st. One week away!

ACP

Readers:

I wasn’t going to publish this, but I’ve been working on it for two days (date this one the 24th). I’m pretty sad about leaving India, and though I’m sure there’s more to tell you (like about the “Italian” restaurant made for the tourists that’s filled with Indians, or my experiments with “drinking the water” because I desperately wanted a “Sweet Lime Beverage”). I’m sure I’ll be posting things as I remember them. So take this for what it is–just me struggling to make my trip make sense.

Gender and India

Before I went to India, I was warned (by every book, person, program, etc.) to dress demurely, cover myself completely, “de-sex” myself effectively, so that men wouldn’t harass me (verbally, physically) as I traveled in India. This was the “Eve-teasing” I referred to in an earlier post. And I’ve had my share of harassment–nothing fatal. Even in the unisex outfits.

But part of the fallout I hadn’t anticipated was being taken advantage of financially by men (and it has been men) in India who are in a position to do so–vendors, hotel clerks, train functionaries, etc. Not Indian men in general (who I have found to be generous and kind). Bullied by these types who can take advantage, I’ve been given bad prices, I’ve gotten the bait and switch with hotel rooms, and I’ve had prices double and triple what was agreed on. In all these situations, I’ve felt my “power” was gone. And they knew it. My sense of entitlement is almost gone. I’m a visitor in this country. I’m a woman. I’m adapting. I’ve prepped myself to be deferential in India–dependent. For my own safety.

[MEN: Imagine you go to a country and you are told not to be masculine--not to do anything overtly manly. That women might degrade you for it or threaten your safety (and you believe this). You shave all your face hair. You wear gender-neutral clothing. You speak softly. Then, try to bargain with a train conductor who wants a 1000 ru bribe so you can sleep that night. You need your arsenal of manly weapons, don't you? Especially in unfamiliar and very challenging situations.]

Yesterday after arriving from Goa on an overnight train (that I had to bribe the conductor to get a bed on), I arrive at the YWCA. My foot looks infected, I’m bruised, my neck only turns one direction and I’m sunburned. The YWCA is a fantastic almost luxurious place to stay. They feed you breakfast and dinner, and you get to meet other travelers. The clerk says he only has a double and its 800 ru. Which is a hellovalot of money for a split (with another girl). I agree on the room and price, however, and since it’s too early to check in, I go off and when I return to the hotel I find they’ve put me in a room with THREE other girls for the price I paid. A double is more, now. But I am not a quad-girl.

Explaining I had paid for a double, we went around and around. It seemed like yet another bait and switch, and it was one too many. I had a complete meltdown. I almost feel sorry for them. I meditated. I did deep breathing. But we did not come to consensus. They forced me to stay last night (wouldn’t refund my money) and isolated me in a double by myself. Which is what I wanted anyway–but it was horrible. Pyrrhic victory.

So…I spent a long afternoon pulling the pieces of myself back together. I got the sand off me in a very long very hot shower (the bathroom alone was worth 800 ru). Got some antibiotic cream on my foot. I found my iPOD at the bottom of my luggage. I put on my M.I.A. album LOUD (t-q msp) and danced around the room. Emboldened after about 4 hours, I decided to go out and be myself for an hour.

I put on a shirt I bought at the beach (b/c all I had were granny clothes), rolled my travel pants up (I don’t have a lot of options here), made my hair long and poofy, and set out with my iPOD blaring (risking it getting stolen, I know). With the iPOD, I didn’t have to hear the cat calls. I was able to walk down the street as though I were in NYC. Looking for what I wanted, not having to make eye contact with every single man who wanted attention. I found a laundry and dropped all the sandy stuff off. I could hear the hissing, but it was muted. I got my good city-stare on. I only talked to the people I wanted to talk to–and they took me SERIOUSLY. They told me what I wanted to know. Immediately. They even laughed at my jokes. I easily ignored everyone else–I couldn’t hear them!

Next I tried to buy some stuff. Between the iPOD and the tiny beach shirt (did I mention it has an evil eye across the front?) I bargained all of them down–leaving the table if I didn’t like the price and ignoring their pleas to return. I haggled–loudly. I laughed at their prices and offered half what they were asking and got it. I even got money off in a “price fixed” shop. Triumphantly ignored all the leering salesmen. And they were HAPPY if I stopped. Thrilled to be bargaining with me.

Obviously this had to do with me, and my change in my attitude. And that was based on feeling like myself. I felt triumphantly like myself. It was such a relief not to have the weight of upholding the reputation of non-Indian women anymore. Or for that hour.

The best reaction came from a very old woman. I could tell she totally got the evil eye/sexy shirt thing. She looked me in the face and gave me the best, knowing laugh.

I believe that the idea is that these men are afraid of women’s sexuality and power. Right? Women have to cover themselves so not to arouse the man’s passion. And that’s supposed to be okay. But for me, any sense of myself has part to do with my appearance. When all of that is suppressed, I think it would be difficult for anyone to act with power.

I got some great deals. But I bought a big skirt and a demure-ish top to wear today. The skirt is so hard to get around in–I’m trying to project confidence, but I’m hobbled! I could tell the difference. Back to scorn. Back to whistles. And back to no one understanding English. It’s okay, though. I have yesterday. Talking to the clerk again, I held my ground and I didn’t apologize. I have to stay for two more nights at the YWCA, so that was tough–but good for me to get a backbone, as Gran would say.

So we live to fight another day. And I had lots of fun today with buses and found this great organization called W.I.T. “women’s india trust” (www.wit.org.in) that had all these fabulous things to buy for people. And the proceeds go to the organization, which helps “less fortunate women secure a better future.” Their factory was destroyed by the floods, so they are in a bit of a crisis. Anyway, I spent a lot of money there. And that was because the bus attendant pushed me off at the wrong stop. Lemonade!

See you soon!
ACP

Caveat: My “experiment” was conducted in the most touristy part of Bombay–Colaba. So it wasn’t as crazy as it may sound on first hearing. I see tourist girls with fairly similar tops occassionally.