Wed. Feb. 10, 2010

After much frustration I am able to type a new blog. Sunday was our last day in Puri. The guy in charge of cleaning our room would not do so unless JP or I stood in the door and watched him. That is the custom here. I noticed that the guy who swept and mopped the floor was not the guy who cleaned the bathroom. JP explained this was due to the different casts or sub casts of these men. Divisions of labor are strict here. JP advised me not to touch the toilet cleaner as he did very dirty work and I might catch something. I wanted to ask him just who he thought cleaned the toilets at home, but I refrained. I should add here that untouchables hold many high places in the government and are educated. There are also affirmative action programs. Still, someone has to do these dirty jobs and they are the people who have traditionally done it. We took a rickshaw to a shopping area and I noticed the rickshawwalla was wearing a shirt saying "Green Power". He also proudly pointed out a billboard saying "See Orissa with Green Power". Later in the day we had to take an auto rickshaw to a different part of the city. As I have already mentioned, there is stinking water running in some of the streets. As another autorickshaw passed us, he splashed dirty water all over my leg and shoes. I inadvertently gasped. When our driver saw what had happened, he went after the offending driver and pulled him over. Both got out and started shouting. When it escalated to shoving, I jumped out and got between then shouting STOP. I am quite capable of belting out a lot of power when necessary. They were both so shocked, they stopped shouting. I ordered them both back to their respective rickshaws and, after a few halfhearted words, we were on our way. Usually Indians are extremely tolerant when offended, but I think that because I was a Westerner changed the dynamic.

We ate lunch at the Honey Bee Bakery. I had an omelet and pancake. My stomach was so grateful. The owner of this small restaurant was wearing a shirt saying, "Let baigans be baigans". Baigans are eggplants. He explained that there are many protests against the introduction of genetically modified vegetables into India. He added that in his own small farming village, they used to grow many different vegetables. Now they only grow rice, and each year the production lessens. I told him, and a Euopean who had joined the conversation, that many Americans are also very upset by genetically modified foods, but 70% of all corn and soy grown in the US are GMO. The other guy said Europeans refuse to allow GMO's into their countries. As a gardener, this is a very upsetting subject for me. I won't even buy a hybridized seed to plant. I just won't support these companies. Now more and more seed companies are offering heirloom seeds.

As the sun began to set, we started walking down the beach, far away from the crowded part of the beach. One of the upsides of pollution are beautiful sunsets. A young woman carrying a huge basket on her head approached us. She was selling bunches of small bananas. JP told her no, he did not have the energy to carry them all the way back to the hotel. She kept kidding with him that he was "still a little strong, Baba". She was smiling ear to ear as she kept after him. Of course, he bought the bananas. Afterwards, still smiling broadly, she whispered to me, " Two minute, I sell banana to ANY man, two minute". This woman's outlandish behavior was so charming, I doubled over laughing. I have no doubt she is the top banana sales rep in her village.

We kept walking down the beach as night approached. As we got closer to the big hotels, we noticed that their were stalls set up all over the beach and hundreds of food stalls were lined up on the sidewalk. This was the Wildwood New Jersey boardwalk of my youth. Families were strolling along munching this or that. The food really looked wonderful, especially the fried fish and prawns. However, the red color of the breading denoted tons of chili powder, so I did not partake. The fresh green chillies have caused my digestive system to go on strike for about five days, so I have been living on bananas and cake. Now however, it seems some scabs have defied the pickets, and the production lines have started moving again. Indians eat totally within the seasons and, lucky me, it is green chili season.

The next day, Mon., Feb. 8 we took an auto rickshaw to the train station for a 20 hour train ride to Chennai (Madras). Chennai is the fourth largest city in India and is much further south on the Bay of Bengal. We drove down the widest street I have ever seen. It was at least 20 lanes wide, and appeared to be a favorite hangout for Brahma bulls, who were laying all over the road. JP explained this road was built for the one day each year when the three main gods from the Jagganath Temple are paraded on a huge chariot down this street. Hundreds of thousands of Hindus come for this festival, which occurs in the middle of the monsoon season. The Jagganath temple is one of the most sacred in India. It is 200 feet high and was built in 1198. As I am not allowed in, we view it from the top of an ancient looking library: something out of Indiana Jones. Six thousand people are employed caring for this temple and its gods. I watched the young Brahman priests in their white dhotis, cell phones tucked into the waistbands.

I have noticed here in Puri that their are fewer dogs, but the ones here are better fed and not limping. I guess that is because of all the food being sold on the beach and that their is far less congestion. They also seem to have the energy to form packs and defend their territory from other dogs. Luckily, they ignore people.

JP only had big bills left and needed smaller change for tips, etc. so, naturally, he went to a big bank for change. But no, this bank would not make change. Interesting. We decided to take a public bus from Puri to the train station in Bhubaneshwar. What a riot. It was an old wreck of a bus that sounded as if it was on its last legs. Naturally, it was stuffed with people, sitting, standing, hanging out the door. Picture Romancing The Stone. In the front windshield was a three gallon can holding a huge marigold plant adorning a picture of the driver's favorite god. The seats were so narrow, JP and I were crammed together and could not move. Somehow, however, a Moslem couple sat comfortably with their four small children. Indians have some miraculous way of folding themselves into tiny little packages. Heck with angels, how many Indians could fit on the head of a pin ? Unbelievably, the bus stopped here and there to pick up more people. After about 2 hours, it stopped in the middle of nowhere. We sat their for a few minutes and my woman's intuition kicked in. I asked JP to find out how much longer it was to the railroad station. Sure enough, this was the stop. Then we had to take an autorickshaw the rest of the way. Poor JP fell as he got off the bus to find the driver, but was instantly helped by several men. I have noticed that the second someone needs help, Indians instantly appear out of nowhere. We finally got an auto rickshaw and, with all our luggage stuffed into the tiny back, were off to the train station. God bless the coolies. They always know what is going on and to which platform to take us. The Bhubaneshwar station is very peaceful by comparison to others we have seen, and I am quite content to sit alone while JP tries to find out if our train is on time. A 23 year old man, who was traveling with his parents, came by and we started talking. He asked me many questions about this and that. I asked him if he would like to have a "love match". He is shocked by the question and stated,"Of course not. My job is to study and work hard. It is my parents job to find me the right wife. They are the ones with the experience". This is always the answer I get when I ask kids this question. Indian kids trust their parents implicitly. He gives me his email address and asks for mine. He wants to email weekly. I tell him I am very busy at home and suggest monthly.

Finally the train arrives and the coolie carries our bags to the correct places. I am in a compartment with three men. JP is down the hall. Both of us have upper berths. Thankfully, one of the guys in my compartment agrees to switch his lower birth for my higher one. JP is not so lucky and has to climb. About five months ago I fell and badly damaged my right shoulder. My doctor thought it would be OK, but he was wrong. It has only gotten worse. So, no way would I have been able to climb to the upper birth. We are both really worried about this as the only tickets we could get for our other train travels were almost all upper births.

Their was not doubt our train was travelling through South India. Fewer small thatched roofed villages, larger areas of agriculture. I felt I was passing through Kent Co., MD, except there were no huge tractors. I did not recognize many of the crops but did recognize the bushy cashew trees. We passed a huge river the size of the Chesapeake Bay at Kent Island. One of the guys told me it was the Godavari River. Of course, there were water buffalo and people bathing in the river and clothes drying on the ground next to the river. The water buffalo were completely submerged up to their noses. A family across from me had a darling little boy about the same age as my grandson, Gabriel. He was sitting with his mother on the lower birth, but kept calling out for Baba and Didi, which is the title you call an older sister. I again noticed how quietly Indian parents talk to their children, even when scolding. By the way, every morning, after bathing, parents line their children's eyes with kajal, soot mixed with ghee, then put a black mark onto the child's face. This is to protect the child from demons who might be jealous of the child's beauty.

The funniest part of the trip was when I pulled out my cryptogram book. The three Indian guys watched me and were hooked in about 5 minutes. I showed them a few tricks to decoding the quotes and handed them the book. The train was moving too much for me not to get a headache. I could not believe how quickly these guys were figuring out the codes. Remember, English is not their mother tongue. One or the other of them had the book throughout the whole 20 hour trip. I told them some smart Indian should publish Hindi cryptograms using quotes from the Upanishads or Tagore. They could start with just a few copied pages of crptograms and give free classes.

When we got to the Chennai station, we walked to the parking area for auto rickshaws. They were completely packed together and our driver had to push the other rickshaws out of the way an inch at a time to get his out. It was like a big Rubik's Cube. I am now sitting in our very nice room at the hotel, typing on the little Acer Aspire JP brought with him. This is a great room with fan and air conditioning. It also has two cool features I have never seen before. Next to the Western toilet is a spray hose for those not wanting to use toilet paper. What a great idea. Also, when you take the key out of its holder to leave the room, all electricity is automatically turned off. Another fantastic idea. The TV is very large and hangs on the wall. For the most part, the people here are darker than in the North. Most women wear a bouquet of fresh flowers at the beginning of their long braids. Jasmin is always included in the bouquet. We ate lunch at the Ratna Cafe near our hotel. I had plain dosa and sambar served on a banana leaf. Dosa is a thin crepe made from rice and bean flour, about a foot in diameter. Sambar is a spicy soup. It is always served with coconut chutney. I noticed again how much South Indians enjoy their food with elbows on the table, hunched over the plate, shovelling it in with their whole hands. I joyfully join them.

Tomorrow we leave for an 8 hour train trip to Madurai which is south of here.

Peace,

Nadine