People who are also beverages cannot drive

dreams of the east fill my mind. not in the jungian dichotomy of east/west, although he brings up some interesting comparisons and ideas in his writings, but a true image of the east as it is now. imagine a world where a bowl of noodles costs less than a dollar. where the streets are cleaned and people scuttle along on their private business in the latest and strangest of fashions. dialects swirl around you as you try to decipher what people are saying to each other and to you. sometimes you smell stinky tofu. want to try some new foods? take a trip down a snack street. organ meat abounds, pig ears and snouts poke playfully out of vendors carts. these things dance into your stomach and romp around a bit before settling gracefully as you down a cup of green tea. burst into an open-air market. there are things to be bought, things to be haggled for. haggle, haggle. there is a strongly commercial character here. communism with chinese characteristics indeed.

50% of your birthparts?

greetings! long time no hear from, i know. but i've been busy, and i'm lazy. a lethal combination, oxymoronic really. the sort of desperate struggle for your core values that defines the modern human in the face of ceaseless homogenization, commercialization and endemic idiocy. when you value the quiet, the good, what must one do in the face of this onslaught? soldier on? buy a new hat? what if you don't like hats? in that case, can you instead replace your organs with mechanical replicants, powered by a machine-hate for the organic? everyone wants to be a cyborg in the modern era. interface with me! will they accept you if you only have 50% or less of your birth-parts? can you feasibly, morally, destroy those who counter you with hate, ignorance or inane questions? this is inane. in this face of my and our rapid degradation, must we destroy ourselves to be born anew? but i digress.

when you wander the streets of beijing, what does one see? faceless cyborgs? radioactive mutant love-porcupines? communists? its hard to say. but this city is thriving, no matter the populace. chinese and waiguo's [foreigners] pour into the space like gloopy denizens of a strange honey-world, battling for living space, jobs and a seat on the subway [chinese people win, usually]. however, the chinese have superior queuing skills, compared to those of india. the mad free-for-all exists, but is slightly less hazardous for one's health. so much is going on, people everywhere, street vendors vending all variety of vendable wares. you can buy pirated books, music, pineapples (pirated? the cyborg clone rearing its head again?), sweet potatos, clothes, guinea pigs, all life's staples. and haggling is on like donkey kong! i think america needs to embrace a haggling lifestyle, in addition to bringing back bartering. 'dont have any money you say!, well just trade me your rendered body fat for the keys to the kingdom!' what an option, what a lifestyle.

language instruction is going well, my mandarin has definitely improved since i've been here. it's such a funny language though, some of the ways you say things are positively hilarious. for instance, i was telling my laoshi (teacher) that i hadn't been to san francisco, but my parents had, albeit before i was born. this is expressed by saying i had not entered (the world) with success. sadly, we are all failures.

buns, buffalos & beards

Buddhist monks like sticky buns. The grounds of the Mahabodhi temple are littered with packaging from the mass-produced sticky bun company, delightedly serving snacks to the thousands of monks praying, reading and performing ritual ablutions while facing the Bodhi tree. The mess is staggering after the monks leave around 4.00 pm, leaving the Mahabodhi caretakers to sweep, dump out the brass pots filled with water and flowers that ring the temple, roll up the carpets and prepare for another day. In all this monk madness, thousands of pilgrims stream through the grounds everyday from all the countries of the Buddhist world; reading Pali scriptures, spinning prayer wheels, throwing coins at colorful Buddhas. This, the holiest of Buddhist sites, is countered by Varanasi, in the state of Uttar Pradesh. On the banks of the Holy Ganga, Shiva's city is a riotous, howling monolith, inhabited by humans for thousands of years. Let's get one thing straight. Shiva is a pothead. The guy loves to smoke his chillum, do his meditation thing, maybe sometimes spring for a bhang lassi with the wife. Thus his city sports the finest of drug wares, offered to you by likely and unlikely suspects all over the ghats (steps down to the river, used for bathing, cricket matches, kite flying, clotheswashing, what have you) and the galis (alley streets that lead to the ghats). Shrugging these fellows (and children) off is an art, accomplished most easily by a serene benignity, a measured and studied neutrality of expression and action that leaves these easily excitable folks distinctly nonplussed. Once you shoulder your way around, through, over packs of these guys, Varanasi opens its arms to you, sweeping you down to the banks of the Ganga, simultaneously serene and chaotic. Early morning baths by the pilgrims, a couple farmers washing their (filthy) buffalos, washer folk beating clothes on a stone, this is the morning tableau. In some of the galis you find yourself caught up in a solemn procession bearing a body swathed in brightly colored cloth down to the main burning ghat. Manikarnika ghat is an incredible vista; the site of several hundred public cremations daily and a true depature from the realm of my normal experience. Dying and being cremated in Varanasi is particularly auspicious, as those who do escape the cycle of reincarnation into moksha (liberation). A truly amazing place. Fast forward to Amritsar, via Agra and Jaipur, skipping over falling ill on the train, subsequent sickness, the Taj and Jaipur jewelry scams. The holiest city of the Sikhs, Amritsar houses the golden temple, a place I found far more amazing than the Taj, by virtue of it being a living expression of the Sikh faith, rather than the cold stone of a lover's tomb. There is housing for pilgrims on the grounds of the temple, and even a dorm for foreigners, filled with all manner of fellow travelers. The temple is situated in the middle of a holy water tank, patrolled by spear-wielding Sikh guards. Pilgrims line up to file through the temple, which itself is inhabited by a range of Sikh holy men, some singing and playing instruments, live music that is broadcast through the grounds of the temple. Additionally, Sikh temples offer a unique feature that relates to the inclusiveness and equality that is intrinsic to the faith; a free dining hall. A whopping 70,000-80,000 meals are served here daily, and the all-veg fare is really tasty. However, I think such a feature would be dangerous for fat Americans, as food is brought to you, buffet style while you sit, and topped up at your desire. If you have a passionate interest in beards, Amritsar is the place to go. Fantastic facial hair, combed and curled, groomed and gushed over, the kind that men (and women) dream of having, the sort of beard that has roots in its owners soul. The place is a beard-lovers wet dream.

More to come soon, I promise.

the fuzziest sweater vest

It's been awhile, so I'm just gonna ramble along. In Kolkata after finally escaping Varkala after five weeks. When you build a nest for yourself someplace, padding it with comfortable friends, food and locale, and settle in for some serious downtime, it becomes quite hard to remotivate yourself to get a move on. Caught up in indolence; my sad life. Kolkata, on the other hand, is a complete 180 from Varkala. Scads of people everywhere, human traffic jams on use-every-inch-of-space back alleyways. Shops selling all the shit you could ever want and never need. Street food! My god, the street food here is amazing. Need a meal? Buy a Bengali curry and rice plate for 30 rupees. Snacktime? Peruse the samosa, momo and sweet carts, or buy a hot kati roll, stuffed with paneer, chicken, egg or mutton. The options are endless, and its hard to go wrong with anything (unless you contract an intestinal parasite...) A study in difference, Kolkata is not the 'Black Hole' of yesteryear. Like the rest of India, a strong 70s theme of mustaches and bellbottoms runs through the populace like a current. Thought you saw a mullet? You did. Sweater vests in a range of colors, men wearing fuzzy pink that would look appropriate on a seven year old girl. People pissing next to the sidewalk, people living next to the Hooghly, take no prisoners traffic ceaselessly honking, swerving at the last second to avoid hitting the peds. All around, this city is awesome. Mind you, I haven't been here during the monsoon, the worst season for Kolkata (although the hot season is a muggy second-best) as streets flood and the city, rich already in decay, creeps a little further into ruin.

An Indian anecdote: Seller A, who runs a small factory for incense and oil production, tells you that Seller B's product is substandard and watered down, available to you at a cheaper price because it is cheaper and of less quality. Seller B, who plies his wares in the central market, assures you that Seller A is full of shit, and his product is of the highest quality, but he chooses to sell to people at a more equitable price. Truly a man for the people. Seller C, a seemingly wealthier merchant, serves you chai and offers you the same goods as Sellers A & B for even more money than Seller A, while telling you the facts of life (in relation to oil sellers). This same process occurs in the trading of all merchandise (maybe not food, generally cheap across the board); silks, cottons, drugs, trinkets and jewelry. Who can you trust in this maelstrom?

why is it so?

Life here is a luxury. Far more relaxed than the other parts of India I've traveled in, life just goes at a slower pace here. The tourist scene, while sometimes obnoxious, is more subdued than in Goa, India's other tropical paradise. Amazing Keralan dishes that have a profusion of coconut and fresh caught fish have provided the majority of my diet here. Everyone you meet in India, foreign or Indian, tells you how beautiful Kerala is, and its true, there is lush verdant greenery everywhere. But palm trees can only go so far. The mental image of a thing somehow doesn't correspond with reality. It is beautiful, true, but perhaps its more the feel of a place that gives it its beauty. There is consensus, such a thing is beautiful, but why is it so? Standards of human beauty have changed throughout history; have standards of landscape beauty correspondingly changed as well? Or is there something intrinsic that speaks to us about the beauty of certain places? People go mad for sunsets and sunrises (if they wake up in time), but why? Is it through depiction of a thing as beautiful, or because of some inner knowing that a thing has beauty?

thin veneer

there was a bar. people there, foreigners and indians alike. drinks, laughter, companionship; these things were natural and welcome. two small dogs playfully chewed on hands, feet, bags, bangles, all were welcome into their maws. beers, wrapped in newspaper, the ultimate stealth covering, surrounded our table. multiple tongues flowing, english spoken with a score of accents over Richard D. James. suddenly there is no music. lights are turned off, indians hunker down. they know.

confusion reigns among the westerners. 'are we getting kicked out?' 'shit, i'm not done with my beer.' nothing seems to be happening. sitting in the dark, giggling, there is no tangible reason for the darkness. i mean, its only 12.30! the police are coming, we're told. we wait for the moment to blow over. i joke about feeling like i'm back in college. not quite.

suddenly, four khaki cops are there. striding around, imperious. they hold the traditional indian police stick, a seemingly quaint convention from the past. things escalate rapidly. there is shouting at the owners, the workers. indians we are hanging out with are grabbed, shouted at and then slapped, hard, in the face. we start yelling, 'stop, those are our friends!' an indian is released from police cluthches, another grabbed and pulled by his lapels. they don't look the police in the face. they are questioned, and respond or not, the only answer is being slapped in the face. we are told to disperse. the workers tell us to get out of there, that its ok. we protest, 'this is fucking bullshit man, they can't just hit you like this.' 'its ok, just go.' many leave. a few of us cluster together, watching as the cops leave with one man, press marching him down the cliff road. we decide to follow; as western tourists, we have somewhat of a free pass with the police, it becomes a far more serious encroachment if they hit us. because we don't have dark skin.

we follow, but they are moving too fast. they don't stop when we yell at them. disappearing into the darkness we chase after. at this point, its too late. we find them, and they've beaten the shit out of this guy with their quaint sticks, no longer so innocent when covered in human blood. the worker from the bar is surrounded by his blood, his arm looks broken. he is in bad shape, but manages to escape when we finally get close enough. the police run off, unwilling to face such a large group, now inflamed with anger. they pretend to chase off after another 'rule-breaker'.

returning to the bar. an indian tells me, 'the police are mad because there are so few tourists. when there aren't many tourists we can't afford to pay baksheesh (bribe money) to them.'

fucking horrible.