Shout Out #23

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  Pushkar, India
Monday, July 30, 2007

Shout Out #23
"That guy went crazy." Sitting next to an Indian man in his early 20's, a different young Indian man had just been chased off the bus by the driver. He was chased off because he wasn't going on the bus. He had followed me across the street and onto the bus because he liked my earrings and thought I was handsome, and I made the mistake of saying hello. Before leaving he tried to kiss me then asked if I'd kiss him goodbye. "Yeah he did", I replied. "I've never had that happen before."
"He's coming back."
"Man! What does he want?" I closed the window curtains but wasn't fast enough. He knocked on the window and offered to bring me some juice. "No thanks, I'm happy with my water."
"That guy went crazy."
"Yeah he did." The bus pulled into the traffic- liberation from any future juice, chai, or affection offerings

01

. Just as we hit the highway he started asking questions. "Relationships in America are all about sex aren't they?"
"Not really, they're just different than here."
"Do you like men or women?"
(Oh man, what is this going to be about?) "I like women, and you?"
"I like both." I'd figured close to half as much. A pattern was starting to emerge. People in sales would warn me about other salesmen, thieves offered advice on handling money, and this guy spoke about the other one going crazy. After a period of silence- me watching the passing roadside- he asked, "Are you a virgin?"
(Did I hear that correctly? Was it his accent? What other words sound like virgin? Urchin? But then he would've said 'an' rather than 'a' and what would that mean anyhow?) "What did you say?"
"Are you a virgin?"
(I could tell him I'm a born again virgin just to see how it would go over. I'm not sure I like where this is headed.) "No I'm not. Why are you asking?"
"Have you ever been with a man?"
(Wow. He's not holding back any.) "No. I'm not gay."
"You should try...with me."
"No thanks. I'm not gay." (What's going on today?)
"Just try it. How do you know you won't like it?"
"I'm not at all interested

02

. It's not going to happen."
"You can be on top." (Oh, well in that case...) Up to that point I was being nice. With a scowl I turned to the window and directed my attention on anything outside the bus. A few minutes later I felt his feet creep over to mine and he touched my side with his hand. (What's his problem?! Who's going to be the next one to go crazy?) I kicked his feet, jerked away, poured anger through my eyes, and we didn't talk for the remainder of the two-hour ride.
In Pushkar I found a hotel with a pool, a little grassy terrace overlooking the city, and a room for 100 rupees (about $2.50). The manager introduced me to an Australian man as he showed me around, hoping the Australian would have friendly words about the accommodation. "Hello mate...from England?"
"No I'm American."
"Uh oh! We've got the CIA with us now!"
"I'm not one of those Americans."
"That's what they all say."
"Yeah alright. I'm Ash, what's your name?"
"Saddam!...or, uh..."
(Osama maybe?) "Alright, I'm going to check in."
Pushkar is a very touristy spot. Meaning 'born due to flower', it's a Hindu pilgrimage town famous for having one of the only Brahma temples in the world. Most of the foreign tourists come for the bhang lassi's (as was the Aussie's motive) and the quiet atmosphere. I roamed the streets in the late afternoon, had dinner when the sun was setting, and ventured towards my room after dark

03

. Music caught my ears before I made it all the way back. A group of Indian men were dancing in a circle- all were dressed in white with red turbans. The crowd of people stood in the mobile floodlights and listened to the musicians playing horns and drums. When the parade started moving again a group of kids told me it was a wedding and asked if I wanted to join the celebration. Indian weddings are quite a sight. The groom, sitting on a proud horse, follows a team of men carrying a series of bright lights joined by a string of smaller lights. At the front of the procession, a mobile gas powered generator raucously chugs along. The hired musicians have to play loudly to overcome the sound of the generator- the source of the power for the big speakers and lights. Between the generator cart and the groom, all the men (and sometimes women depending on how contemporary the celebrants) dance inside the string of lights being held by the sweaty team of men. The bride wasn't involved in the celebrations I saw.
The kids excitedly pushed me into the center of the lights and encouraged me to dance. Once I started they joined in. Soon we were all jumping around, waving our hands in the air (without caring), and generally getting crazy. We were the only dancers at this point, most of the crowd enjoying the show of a foreigner in the mix. Two men dressed in white with red turbans walked by. The first stopped and offered his hand. I shook, he squeezed. He continued to squeeze, looking at me with a straight face. I squeezed back and we had a mini hand-crushing battle until he rotated a bone in my hand and finally prevailed. He walked off without saying a word though it was obvious he was just having fun. His friend smiled, shook my hand, and walked off as well.
A few of the kids started dancing too close for my western standards of comfort

04

. I exited the parade of lights and they followed me behind the musicians and the blaring speakers. They wanted me to go drinking with them. "No thanks. I don't drink."
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
After the morning's bus ride and seeing how they were dancing, I opted to take the Guatemala approach to the question. "Yes I have a girlfriend."
"She is in your room?"
"No, she's in America not India."
"You are traveling alone?"
"Yeah."
Pointing to the guy who'd tried to dance particularly close, "You can make him your girlfriend."
"No. I like actual girls. I think I'll go to my room now." Another guy asked if I'd heard about a couple of well-known Indian scientists associated with NASA- looking shocked when I said no. "You don't know who I'm talking about?" This guy spoke better English and he didn't ask me to go home with him so I stayed to talk. A little boy and an older man came up to watch. They spoke very little English. The boy tried to contribute whenever he could. If we said football or the name of a sport he'd say cricket, curious who my favorite American cricketeer was. He looked a little puzzled when I said we don't play cricket. When I left, I shook everyone's hand. The quiet older man gave me such a warm smile I was happy I stayed to talk even though I really wanted to get back to my hotel.
That night I was finally struck by the infamous stomach troubles of India. After eating on the streets in Delhi, Kashmir, and Jaipur with no problems at all, I got sick from a freshly prepared dinner in Pushkar

05

. Thankfully it was only 24-hour affair.
In the morning I met an Israeli man named Elad. He was staying at the same hotel and was also scheduled for the next Vipassana meditation course in Jaipur. He lived in New York for a spell and fell in love with American football. He even told me of the Broncos' dominant offense during Elway's final years- the glory days for any Bronco fan. We were both combating stomach problems. Apparently quite a few other tourists were too. The summer temperatures were starting to rise and I think the food was spoiling quickly. He was leaving Pushkar but Elad later became a good travel friend.

"I like foreign boys. Gypsy boys are no good."
"Oh yeah?"
"You look like a movie star."
"I bet you say that to all the foreign boys."
"You should come to my camp and see my dancing."
"You're a dancer?"
"Yes but there are too many gypsy girls dancing. It's hard to make enough money."
"How much will it cost to see you dance?"
"You are my friend, don't worry about it."
The gypsies all come from Jaisalmer, much further into the desert. It's one of the most inhospitable climates in the world with common temperatures above 115 degrees F (46 Celsius). Considering such a climate, beyond economic reasons I can understand why many of the people move to Pushkar

06

. Sunita said she has no house, no blanket, a drunken father, and many mouths to feed. It was all true- truly told as a sob story...because we were friends. As we spoke I said hello to a few other gypsy girls walking by. She told me not to talk to them. "Gypsy girls are no good."
"So you are no good?"
"Other gypsy girls are no good," she corrected.
The three of us left- Me, Sunita, and her quiet sidekick Gita- nobody didn't notice us walking through town. The locals all had different expressions for the gypsy girls, especially gypsy girls with a foreign boy and his movie star good looks. Everything that was supposed to make the situation wrong somehow made it right. Two boys we passed tried to wave a warning to me. I clearly understood- "Gypsy girls are no good." (How can express that I know she's trying to take me for my money?) I relied on Indian mannerisms- a shrug. palm's up, adding the standard head wobble.
Five minutes out of town we ducked behind a wall next to a small temple; a collection of tents pitched in the sand behind the divider. Depending on the number of kids tucked away, I'd estimate 30 or 40 people lived in the camp. There's a good chance Sunita showed me her tent while I was playing games with some of the boys running around

07

. I can't say for certain. It was too much fun picking up the little kids and tossing them around. They may have even formed a line to be the next kid thrown- again, one of the only lines I'd witness in India. One boy pointed for me to pick up his little sister. She instantly cowered away with a terrified look on her face. I knelt and tried to show that I wouldn't throw her but she never seemed to trust me. Sunita wasn't enjoying my roughhousing with the kids. She led us back to the other side of the wall onto the shaded porch of a nearby building. I followed carrying two boys under my arms.
A small group gathered with us on the porch- Gita's mom and a bunch of children. Sunita had two sisters; Gita had three siblings and a baby of her own. Gita's mother was quick to inform me of her situation. They're very poor, her husband used to get drunk and hit her- he's now elsewhere. She then pointed to her very pregnant figure as she lit a bidi and put in a dip of chewing tobacco. The gypsy girls chew with more skill than a veteran baseball coach.
With a matchstick and ash stored in a little tin, Sunita re-darkened her eyes and added three dots to her chin. A small black zigzag already ran between her eyebrows. She put on a neckband, a forehead decoration with dangling trinkets, a lightweight shawl, and a heavy black skirt with a matching black top- both adorned with colorful stitching

08

. In the desert heat she must have been scorching. A group of men appeared with two instruments- a drum and a flute (maybe a poongi, murla, or pawri). The flute was played using cyclical breathing.
They struck up a tune and Sunita put on a show. The girl could dance! With no expertise in Indian dance and little understanding of Rajput culture I can't give a professional analysis. I can say her hips moved in ways that defied anatomical boundaries and her steps were precise. I was impressed! The flute players were both phenomenal. One man started, then handed it over to another man who showed up mid-show- the second player being the superior musician. Watching his cheeks swell then collapse with every cycle of his breathing fascinated me. Sunita then pulled me up to dance with her. In my world I'm confident in my dance skills, in theirs I've never felt more awkward. My body couldn't come close to finding time with the tunes. Her younger sister- about 12-years old, clearly going to be more beautiful- tried to match her steps in the background. After the performance I showed Sunita a video I made with my camera and pointed out her sister in the shadows. She took no pleasure in her sister's adoration, only wanting to watch herself.
They may not have much but the gypsies can get down. In that they have a lot. At first I was surprised when Sunita wouldn't accept the money I offered

09

. Then she told me not to pay in front of the camp and I understood clearly. She wanted to keep an extra percentage for herself. Walking back to town she only spoke of money...because we were friends. I stopped responding and we walked separately. At the turn-off to my hotel, I paid graciously- happy having experienced the dance and happy to be free of the gypsy woman.

"I'll play a happy morning song." It was the kind of morning where I wanted little more than being left alone. When he approached with his daughter and his instrument I waived them away. The offer of a happy morning song changed my mind- the best sales pitch I'd heard in India. He played the ravanhatta, an instrument typically made from a half coconut shell covered with a membrane attached to a bamboo stick. Various strings- horsehair and metal- are strung from the stick to the shell and played with a horsehair bow. He played a melody for a minute or two then began to sing. After a few lines his 10-year old daughter would then sing in response. Most of their songs are a traditional folk call and response style. It was a happy morning song, an incredible one at that.
He showed me photos of his family and his camp taken by an American tourist then handed me a sheet of paper saying he sells instruments and gives music lessons

10

. Instead, I bought a CD of their songs recorded by a Swiss friend of theirs. His name was Hemaram, his daughter was Rajuli. He's from a poor caste, born into a long line of musicians. His wife is also from a family of poor musicians. Most of their income stems from tourists. When the tourists leave in the summer they sometimes have to take construction jobs. Men earn 60 rupees a day; women earn 40 (about $1.50 and $1). Rajuli invited me to see their camp that afternoon. Not in the mood, I asked if I could go the next day. When she started to say she might not be around the next day, Hemaram stopped her and said tomorrow would be fine. They played one more song and we said goodbye.
As I walked away a man dressed as a religious person approached and tried to put flowers in my hand. I was at a ghat with a great view across Pushkar Lake. Many pilgrims come to the ghats to bath in the lake's sacred waters. Enterprising individuals started capitalizing on the religious aspect of the area by performing pujas on naive tourists for a donation. The man with the flowers wanted me to donate to his puja fund. I knew what he was about and I knew that my money (aside from my hidden 500 rupees) was gone. I decided to go along with it just to see what the other tourists had been talking about. He walked me down the steps to the edge of the lake and had me repeat some phrases. Then, as part of the ritual, he asked me to say how much I would donate. Showing my wallet, "I have no money." It didn't go well. (Am I to believe that blessings are free?)
"How much money will you bring back?"
"I don't make promises for the future."
"Yes but how much."
"I'm not going to tell you that I'll bring you back money."
"Yes, but how much will you bring back to me later."
"I'm not going to bring you money. How about this, I will bless you and we can call it even?"
"Are you serious? You are not going to bring me any money?" He acted stunned, like the possibility of somebody not paying for his blessing never even occurred to him. The effort of getting away negated any satisfaction for my curiosity. Leaving the ghat I passed a few gypsy girls I knew. They told me to avoid the phony religious man, "He's no good." Then they wanted me to take them all to lunch.
Across the bridge a man called to me. He had a beard and dreadlocks and sat under a tree with friends. I stopped to see what he wanted. I said I was Guatemalan. Not knowing the country he said, "Guatemala! Good country." Before we spoke of what he wanted, an Irish girl walked by and he stopped her too. Hesitantly, she came and sat with us. I doubt she would have stopped had I not been there. She said she was from Ireland but the man never understood her accent. He didn't know about Ayrelinn. Somehow in their conversation (I was now a spectator) he mentioned the word 'linga'. She knew about linga but he misunderstood what she was saying. Jokingly he pointed with both hands to his groin and asked, "You have linga?" One of his friends started laughing like it was the best moment he's experienced. His body shook while he laughed too hard to make a sound. The two chillums on the blanket explained a lot.
The men were naga babas...naked holy men whose nudity is an expression of ascetic detachment. They're sometimes known for smoking large amounts of marijuana. Although clothed that day, he pulled out a photo album for the Irish lass. The first picture was a full frontal display, his member impaled or entangled in a long metal bar. "Why are you showing me this? I don't need to see your wee-wee." I thought his friend was going to lose it when the Irish girl got on his case. He was laughing so hard I began to laugh at him. The whole scene was amusing. He continued with the photo album though the first picture was the only nude shot. I'd seen my fill and got up to leave. The girl took the opportunity to excuse herself as well. It was my first encounter with the babas. She explained their focus on the removal of sexual desire through various extreme practices...hence the impaled 'wee wee'.
A temple on a hill near my guesthouse had a great view of the town at sunset. Two girls went up in the evening to open the doors. It was their family's temple. I'd noticed handprints in paint on a water well in town. The temple also had handprints on the wall next to the entry. I asked the girls about the meaning. They symbolize the gods and when I see them it is a blessing. India has some very civil habits. The offering of blessed water is common everywhere. The poorest, dirtiest areas still have water wells for the people. The small gesture of seeing the texture of a hand enriched the experiencing of taking water or entering a temple. It was an open invitation- a symbolic salute.

Hemaram, his wife, and their 11 children slept in a tent the size of a Volkswagen Bug. The tent sat in the middle of a sandy piece of land; sand often blew through the rips in the awning. All I could think about was how/if they ever had the privacy to go about creating the 12th (already on its way) and why in the world they have 11 to begin with. The visit to their home was interesting but it quickly became a plea for help. I did what I could but my independent humanitarian crusade was coming to a close. Without becoming further established in a non-profit endeavor I've decided to help existing organizations I've seen or researched.

The Brahma temple was packed. Pushkar is one of the five main pilgrimage towns and the temple is one of the only Brahma temples in the world. Pilgrims from all over India climbed up the stairs to make their offering. I'd been in town for over a week and still hadn't gone in. My days mostly consisted of sleeping in, eating, avoiding the mid-day heat, swimming, eating, walking, writing, reading until late at night, and sleeping in. Now that I was at the temple I had no idea what to do. I knew to leave my shoes at the base of the stairs. The shoe attendant then gave me a handful of flowers. All temples have a bell at the entry. Once I lumbered up the stairs behind a group of elderly women in saris, I rang the bell...my entry into the sacred from the profane. I stood bewildered- watching everyone say a few prayers, walk to an altar and hand a priest their flowers. The priest handed back different flowers and prasad, holy food. Playing along, I took my flowers to the priest. He handed back flowers with no Prasad. (What, no holy food for me? I don't understand it- flowers for flowers?) Seeing my confusion, two girls approached. One asked if I knew what was going on. "Why don't you have any Prasad?"
"I don't know. I gave him flowers and he just gave me flowers back."
"You must keep them. They bring you good luck." I never learned about the lack of holy food. "Where are you from? Are you traveling alone?"
"For the most part I've been alone."
Flirtatiously, "Perhaps that's why you don't know what's going on."
Flirtatiously, "Maybe it is." We then said our goodbyes. I walked clockwise around the central structure, then back down the stairs. It looked like a good Brahma temple to me.

The baby was crying inside the house. Outside the house, a few hundred feet up the road, a goat was nervously bleating. He would let out a little sound, pace around in circles, look down the street, and call out again. The sound of the goat and baby were almost indistinguishable. On hearing the baby crying, the goat thought one of his comrades was being tortured. I was cracking up. With so many beasts roaming the streets, animal encounters can be entertaining and varied.
Further away, on the main road between Pushkar and the next city, I was walking toward my room. As I passed a cow he lowered his head and tried to clear me out of the way- his horn poised to catch my groin, I jumped up and back. I then grabbed the horn and pushed his head down and away. A man walking behind me started laughing. He asked if it stepped on my foot. Thank Brahma it didn't, my open toes would've been crushed. Maybe it was a message. The meditation session began the following day and it was time to leave town.

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