Shout Out #17

Trip Start Jun 05, 2006

Trip End Ongoing

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Flag of India Chandigarh, India
Sunday, April 1, 2007

Trains, thunder, and lightning are all fabulous. Traveling by train into thunder and lightning was perfect. In Chandigar, the rickshaw ride was less than perfect. Outside the station I waited at a Government Pre-paid Rickshaw booth until the man just waved over a friend who charged 20 rupees more than the one who'd been shouting in my ear for 5 minutes. I went with Shouty. He tried, I'll give him that. He took me to places that vaguely fit my needs and he was genuinely nice, but I knew it would be better to go it alone. I paid him the money, chased him off, and ended up walking quite a distance back to the right part of town. It took one try to get the kind of rate I wanted for the kind of room I wanted. All the other quotes had included my driver's commission.
Chandigarh is India's one fully master planned city. The state of Punjab lost it's capital when Pakistan split from India. The financially strapped government offered a dream commission for any designer, the creation of a new capital on a greenfield site

. A well-connected American team first won the commission. They developed the primary ideas but the death of one of the partners forced the second man to hand the project over. India sent a group of recruiters to Europe to find the candidate to continue the project. Le Corbusier and his brother stepped in. They advanced the American's design of Super-blocks (Yes, super) separated by curvilinear roads into a gridded pattern of Sectors divided by straight roads. (It is possible to walk a straight line in Chandigar, though it's not necessarily the shortest distance between two places) A standard Sector uses arcaded stores fronting the streets, with 3 story residence buildings fronting the quieter tree lined roads behind the stores. Parks and schools are interspersed among the homes. All buildings are concrete or brick. The success of the design is measured in the high prices for the homes. Chandigarh is wealthier than most Indian cities.
There are still men with little stoves selling chai, samosas, or full meals on the arcaded sidewalks, but it feels a little less like India in the city. It's all too organized. Where are the bazaars? And the cows? I need some advice from someone whose not in sales and the nearest cow is 2 super-blo...sectors away. (It can be so easy to romanticize the past) And after being so annoyed by the madness of Delhi, a part of me wanted the rush of struggling for the most basic things.
I slept until 9 AM the next morning

. Nobody had music going, nobody was talking outside my room, nothing woke me up. I didn't mind that part, but it still didn't feel like India. It was drizzling outside when I began my tour of All Things Corbusier. It was pouring by the time my tour became Half of All Things Corbusier: the City Museum, the art gallery, and a glimpse at the Secretariat building. Fortunately, two attorneys took pity on me walking away from the Secretariat building (where'd all the rickshaw's go?) soaked head to toe, and they gave me a lift.
The City Museum told the design and political history of its development. Original plans and sketches prepared by all the design teams were on display in a replica of one of Corbusier's buildings in Europe. The people involved received little pay but it was a dream commission. Aside from the planning work he contributed several building designs, art pieces, and interior furnishings. My favorite drawings depicted human proportions with figures drawn in different poses- the intent being a focus on human scaled projects.
I applied that intent to my dream of an ideal hotel room. There would be a hook on the end of an arching beam where I could hang my backpack at shoulder height. It would provide 360-degree access to all the pockets, zippers, and secret hiding spots I've contrived for money/passport storage. Once packed, it would be easy to slide it over my shoulder and go

. The bed would be over 6 feet long and the mattress would not be some sort of pad placed over a sheet of plywood. A concoction of platforms attached to flexi-arms would sit behind the bed and the arms could be adjusted to the precise position; the place where I could grab my water or change a song on my iPod without looking up from the book I'm reading. Other platforms would be available for journals, extra books, or any other device I would be willing to look at before trying to grab. Electrical outlets would not be on the other side of the room at chest height. I've had to be creative when I wanted to charge my electronics without leaving them dangling just above the floor. The outlets would sit close to the bed, utilizing the platform system. The shower design would stray from the common "Kill 2 Birds with 1 Stone" layout of spraying down on the toilet. They would also hang straight from the ceiling. Hooks and rails would be abundant at various heights throughout the bedroom and bathroom. There would be a chin-up bar in one corner and my radically new system of killing mosquitoes without claiming to have actually killed mosquitoes- The Skeet-Daddle- would sit in another corner. (It's not good Karma in India to kill insects. Three days ago I had to claim the death of easily 20 future mothers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and hopefully, future (or current) presidents and political figures. My karma is now safe with the revolutionary invention of the Skeet-Daddle, or Skeet Skeet Skeet for long)

. The Skeet-Daddle would be a light of such irresistible insect desire that many other flying insects would be drawn to its glow. Once they came near the light, a noise-dampened vacuum would suck them out of the room into a second container on the other side of the wall. A mass of spiders- of some insatiable breed- would be eagerly awaiting the steady supply of blood sucking pests; the result: my karma's as clean as my room. (I can now appreciate the mockery I received (from a woman best described as a North American gypsy) for having spare light bulbs in my apartment.) Aesthetics are unimportant at this stage. The room would be more like a backpackers resting machine.
That night I took a stroll in search of food and went past a little liquor store. An older Sikh man approached with a big smile. The moment he heard I was American, he pulled me aside for a more intimate discussion. He was with a younger man, his nephew, and the uncle held my hand as we spoke. He wanted my address and phone number in the United States so we could remain in touch. I tried to explain that I'm homeless and unemployed and that I had no address to give him. His nephew took it a little offensively and reassured me that his uncle was a good man. I said I could give him my mother's contact info but she wouldn't know who you were. She'd probably say, "That unemployed bum! All he wants to do is travel. I don't even want to know who you are and how you know him." They finally understood

. He was a retired military pilot, which the masculinity of his handholding could attest to. He said "God bless you" when we parted.
     The next morning was sunny and clear, a perfect day to see the Nek Chand Rock Garden and the remainder of the Le Corbusier buildings. The rock garden is a fantasy world created from recycled junk and stone. Nek Chand, a former road inspector, had created a world with tribes of little people and animal figures set in stone canyons and waterfalls. There were also rooms separated by miniature arches- the fantasy people were much smaller than human scale. Most visitors were local couples wanting a secluded place for romance. Public displays of affection are taboo throughout the country.
     On my way out I passed a gang of school children on a field trip. One said "Hellooo" and reached out to shake my hand. "What is your name sir? Where are you from?" On their way by, all the other kids shook my hand and giggled. I passed the parking lot, headed for the Open Hand sculpture, and I saw the kids piling into a bus. One of them called from a back window, "Goodbye Ash, have a happy life."
     The Open Hand sculpture is a giant abstracted hand perched on a tower. It rotates with the wind- prevailing political trends- and anchors the arrangement of government buildings at the end of the central sectors. It was my last stop, my tour was complete; it was time to leave Chandigarh.
     By the end of my time in Chandigarh, I saw that it was very much Indian in nature. Part of the beauty of India is the massive number of cultural "Divine Dichotomies"; many things that look to be incredibly contradictory...until you can step back and see them in a different skew. It's like a rock

. From the outer perspective, it's a dense mass of compacted earth, unmoving and solid. Under a microscope, that same rock is actually billions of particles bouncing around in a chaotic pattern and is comprised mostly of space. India's dense and spatious, loud and quiet, ordered and disordered, and in each region, it's all of the above in entirely different ways.
The journey started that evening with a bus ride to Ambala 40 kilometers away. From Ambala I'd take an overnight train to Jammu and decide how to get to Srinagar from there. My accommodation for the night was an upper berth in a 2nd class sleeper. With my bag at my feet and my daypack hugged tight to my body (all valuables go in the daypack) I managed to doze off a couple times in the night. Women and daughters sometimes shared a berth, sleeping head to foot or sometimes cuddling, much better than I managed to sleep in my own berth. There were no windows and oftentimes I'd open my eyes when the train made a stop- I could hear voices outside the train. Several men clung to the outside for a free ride. (I remember a time when I jumped a train and dreamed of where it would take me. Then I jumped back off and went to work) The nine hours went quickly and I awoke to the sound of everybody shuffling out. We were in Jammu.
We arrived at 5:30 AM. I walked through the train station with a strange feeling of being out of place

. Delhi was so hard, Chandigarh was easy, and now I'm halfway to war-torn Srinagar, and I don't know what it'll take to make it the remainder of the way. I was sleepy and wasn't even sure I wanted to go that day. It would've been easy to find a room, catch up on sleep, learn about the buses, and go the next day.
Outside the train station there were a couple bus stands. One said Srinagar but nobody was working behind the desk. A bearded man with a scratchy voice told me the road to Srinagar was closed.
"Too much snow?"
"No, rock slide."
"Can I get a room somewhere?"
"Oh, yes. Take the small bus from down there. It will take you to a good place...many rooms. Cheapest, AND best!"
I spotted the bus, and the guy in the door trying to scare up some passengers. He waived eagerly, I walked slowly, and as I stepped on the bus, the driver revved up the engine and moved forward until I sat down. Then he rolled back into place. It was a game they played to help people make up their mind. Everybody getting on board had to chase the bus, then wait. It dropped me off near the main bus station in town. There were several hotels and guesthouses to choose from but I decided to first check on the road closure

.
     The states in India all have largely different cultures. Punjab is largely Sikh. Men wrap their uncut hair in a specific type of turban. Their beards are long and often tied down under their chin. Kashmir and Jammu is predominantly Muslim. The men wear fehrans- long wool shawls- and their haircuts vary to a much greater degree. Most men had short hair with mustaches; some men had short hair with long beards, shaving only above the lip. Many women were hidden behind the traditional Muslim burkhas.
     A man in a fehran approached me with the standard questions and was curious about where I was going. I asked about the road to Srinagar. He thought it was closed but he took the time to ask a man nearby. "You can take a bus to Ramblan. From there you'll have to walk a couple kilometers to catch a bus on the other side of the slide." The man in the fehran went with me to look into buying a ticket. He pointed me in the direction of a writhing mass of men, 50 deep, scrambling to get a ticket. It was a battle I would only fight in certain times of day in specific situations of need. 6:30 AM was not an acceptable time of day for such a struggle.
     I didn't know the difference between the various bus operations but I saw a different, empty window, selling tickets to Ramblan as well. The ticket was only a couple dollars and it was a privately run bus

. The giant line of men was waiting for public bus tickets.
     My friend joined me at breakfast but refused any food or money for his help, he just wanted to talk. He drove a rickshaw in Armritsar, Punjab and said that he was uneducated. He saw his lack of education as the source for not having a good life. His father, a tailor, has a good life and his brother working in Dubai has a good life (though I've heard of many human rights issues with the treatment of Indian labor in Dubai) but his life is no good because of no education. He told me his wife makes little money as a teacher and kept stressing his lack of education.
     He's about my age and the fact I'm unmarried often astounds people unfamiliar with westerners. (It often surprises westerners too. Particularly grandmothers who think this traveling business is crazy and that it would be best to come home and find a good girl.)
     When my food vanished and the bus was about to go, he went with me, helped me load my bag, and chased a man out of my seat. I tried to tell him it was alright, I could take care of myself but I've since learned that generosity is a common trait throughout all the places in India I've been. In his eyes, I was a lonely foreigner and it was his honor to help.
     I took my place in the cramped seat

. My shoulders overlapped with the shoulders of the man next to me. My knees only fit in front of me if I sat perfectly upright. In 10 minutes without any appearance of the bus leaving, the two cups of chai started moving through me. I had to pee. Getting out of the seat took effort. I walked behind the bus towards a wall, looking out for a spot with some semblance of seclusion. I found a place and as I took note of my only spectators, fellow pee-rs, I stepped right in a big stinking pile of human shit. It was disgusting, gooey, sickening...and it didn't bother me too much. I had reached a point, a basic understanding, that the enjoyment of India comes from the way in which over 1 billion people (almost 4 times the population of the U.S.) get by in a country roughly 1/3 the size of the United States. You either accept what works or you go mad. I had forgotten about what works. It's unimportant who's watching you, it's important that you watch every step you take...especially near the wall behind the buses in every bus station.
I insinuated myself into my seat just as the driver tore off, horn blasting. The man next to me was a touch taller, forcing him to sit with his knees turned to one side or the other. He chose to point them at me. I proceeded to doze off and my head kept falling onto his shoulder. It wasn't comfortable, it worked.
The ride to Ramblan was long. Gypsies, Muslim families, and wandering holy men got on and off at the many stops we made along the drive. Ramblan was a transit town. The center was full of honking buses and people on the move. Having no clue and little desire to get a clue about hiking past the slide, I pulled on my bag and walked toward some guesthouses. Just then, my seat-buddy tapped me on the shoulder and waved me in his direction. I tried to explain my intentions but he spoke little English and was quite enthusiastic

. We met his cousin in a restaurant and he explained that the road was just opened; we could catch a bus in an hour.
     The bus only took us partially there. It cruised past the slide on a steep drop-off below. I later learned that the road had been blocked for 10 days and emergency evacuation flights had been made for people stuck in the mountains. We were dropped off in another transit town.
     The cousin and I had chai while my friend went in search for the next bus. (I wonder if the bus operators have a stake in the chai stands in the transit towns?) A half hour later he ran up and told us to get ready, then he ran off. A bus soon pulled up to the stop creating a flood of people shoving to get a place. The cousin was shoved a couple meters to the side. I didn't know how he did it, but our friend had a 3-person seat waiting for us. He anxiously waived us to the back, so we pushed our way past everybody who had pushed past us. When we sat down, they told me that he had arranged the whole bus ride. It was close to 5 PM and none of the drivers were planning to go.
     Each leg of the trip wound further and further into the Himalayas. It was a beautiful ride when I had the patience to enjoy the view. The beauty was lost to night and the view shifted to the back of a man's head. As we got closer to Srinagar, the number of military checkpoints increased. The city is in the far northeast corner of Kashmir, close to Pakistan. At each checkpoint several soldiers sat in bunkers with rifles trained on the road. One soldier stood by a gate and spoke with all the drivers passing through; sometimes they just waived cars along, sometimes they wanted to talk.
     I started watching the kilometer markers.

15...13...10...9...8...7... Seven kilometers out of town the driver pulled off into an empty lot, that was as far as he planned to go. An uproar burst from the passengers and a five minute argument ensued. When the argument quieted, a man walked through and collected an extra five rupees from all of the passengers. We had all been held for ransom.
     We made it two kilometers closer...6...5...and we were turned back at a checkpoint. I grew a little concerned. A seven-kilometer walk at 9 PM in an area ready for battle wasn't encouraging. I assumed it was a simple diversion only because nobody seemed disturbed. We apparently had to take an alternate route into town.
     My friends were dropped off on the outskirts of town and I expressed my gratitude for all of their help. They wobbled their heads. A week later, a New Zealander told me his friend had taken that road once and said it was the scariest road he's ever traveled. I can't say that it was all that frightening but I certainly had no idea what was going on. First the roads were closed, then I could go but I'd have to walk, then they were open and we could take two buses, then it was three, then we were held for ransom, then turned back, and then I'm in Srinagar. Without the help of my friends, the journey could have been quite scary.
     It took 27 hours to get to Srinagar from Chandigarh. I paid whatever the rickshaw driver asked for taking me to Residence Road. The two hotels I saw were both out of my budget and both were perfect. I filled out all the lengthy check-in paperwork over room service and basked in the hot shower. I was in Kashmir.