Back to Bom

I realise, precious readers, you know that I am now writing these posts from Sydney, catching up on the run "back to Bom", as one of Salman Rushdie's characters exclaims...

Bombay was a gorgeous city in many ways, with Colaba reminding me of more of gentrified Potts Point than anywhere in India or Asia. We'd planned intentionally to visit India as our last country so we could "toughen up" before arriving. We'd been bombarded with plenty of OTT anecdotes, all of which finale with the unprepared westerner being swindled, bamboozled, and eventually defeated by the intensity of the experience that is "India". So far, though, I hadn't felt it, though I'd been jostled, ogled, harassed, guilt-ed, frustrated, baffled, and very, very hot, I'd never felt completely overwhelmed. Until we were wondering down a wide avenue near our hotel, around 10 at night. It was a lovely street, with big old trees, big old government buildings and big new hotels. And people were calmly making up their beds for the night on the footpath. Getting settled, arranging their things, tucking in babies, everything you'd expect to do in your bedroom before sleep. These were not crazed, drug-addicted or otherwise unstable people. Not uncivilised or anti-social, or even very poor by Indian standards. But this was their lot. This was their life. And it was easy to forget as I dodged touts and friendlies and souvenir sellers and rickshaw drivers, thinking I was clever and crafty and had this India thing all sewn up. The fact is I am now in my nice house with all my nice things, worrying my nice worries, oh-so-important. And those people, hundreds of thousands, millions of them, make their beds on footpaths, with a life so different to mine it's kinda hard to comprehend, even though really, they're just the same as me.

Ganeshis!

While in Jodhpur, we were lucky enough to get caught up in Ananta Chaturdashi, and because I'm running out of time to update this blog, you can read the Wiki entry on the festival held for the most adored and easily recognisable Hindu God:

"An important festival honours Ganesha for ten days starting with Ganesh Chaturthi. This festival culminates on the day of Ananta Chaturdashi, when images of Ganesha are immersed in the most convenient body of water."

Thankfully, Jodhpur contained such a convenient body, and I spent a few hours perched on a ledge, avoiding bottom-brushing wandering hands and giving in to many, many, many photo requests from young guys bringing their Ganeshas down to be cleansed in the reservoir/lake, and maybe showing off their diving skills at the same time...

Thanks Lonely Planet...

Many backpackers - myself included - have an uneasy relationship with "The Book"... I try to keep ours under wraps, consulting under the table. "I don;t really use it - just for the maps" or "the history section's alright 'cause it's short" is the slightly guilty excuse I often hear (sometimes from my own lips!). Everyone wants to believe they're discovering something for the first time, and if you do happen to, well, just "stumble" upon an LP reviewed restaurant or guesthouse, it's inevitably doubled in price, halved in quality, or generally crap, the result of a "resting on laurels" attitude, an unmanageable growth spurt or simple greed.

These places have been Planeted, and we try to avoid them, along with their self congratulatory guest books and homesick menus of mashed potato, pizza and Israeli salad.

But when the L.P. gives advice on how to handle beggars, I take it. When it advises on an ethical charity group or not-for-profit enterprise, I believe it to be true. And when the section on Jaisalmer suggested that development in the Old Fort was becoming unsustainable and that it might be a wise choice to stay outside the rapidly subsiding sandstone walls, I did exactly that. My faith in the ethics of The Book remains, but the people who have inhabited Jaisalmer's captivating landmark for centuries, and have made a killing from tourism for the last 15 years, are very, very cranky. The number one question became not "where you from", but "where you stay?" - are you an innie or an outie? Do you have THAT book? Do you know they make us unemployed, they want to take our jobs, they tell lies to tourists. There are even placards around the fort, protesting against the guidebook's recommendation. Meanwhile, excessive water use saturates the stone, and walls collapse, most recently killing 10 (but mostly rickshaw drivers, so questionable loss). The local government installs a cosmetic underground sewerage system with narrow pipes, and now the blockages and leaks that were once the responsibility of each household are out of sight, unmaintainable. Yet this is not a problem of government, it seems, or of personal greed. Responsibility is laid squarely at those nasty slanderous writers of the travel bible.

For these isolated but newly wealthy tourism operators, 15 years makes them feel like veterans. Coming from China, I'vw seen exactly how excessive tourism can destroy the soul of a city, but also how government management of infrastructure can turn a humble village into a Disney style gold mine very successfully. I hope neither of these things happens in Jaisalmer, but it certainly won't be up to a guidebook to decide.

(me at one of the resturants withing the walls of the fort... it may or may not have been in the LP)

Urchins

The poverty in India is simply a different concept to anything I've experienced. These kids live by the train tracks, collecting bottles and rubbish that can be recycled. They sort amongst the shit and piss that accumulates from the trains (it seems everyone wants to go when the train is stationary), deal with rats and dogs, and carry bundles much bigger than themselves up and down, day and night. The railway staff treat them with disdain, but their roll is well accepted - they keep the station clean and tidy. And they still play and giggle as they work.

Although the rules say don't give to kids, this girl got an apple from me (don't tell Blake!), which she demolished in a matter of seconds. The tiny core which went over the side of the platform like everything else, was then her evidence to the other urchins wandering the station, with much extravagant relating of size of apple, and disbelieving responses, and cheeky grins back at me, watching the show from my bench.

And a Note to Travellers - When you get to the station at 5am and the nice lady announces the train is an hour late, don't think, oh well, I'll wait an hour and sleep on the train, because you'll be a very cranky person 4 and a half hours later when you're STILL WAITING!

Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum

1. You must answer accordingly to my question. Don’t turn them away.

2. Don’t try to hide the facts by making pretexts this and that, you are strictly prohibited to contest me.

3. Don’t be a fool for you are a chap who dare to thwart the revolution.

4. You must immediately answer my questions without wasting time to reflect.

5. Don’t tell me either about your immoralities or the essence of the revolution.

6. While getting lashes or electrification you must not cry at all.

7. Do nothing, sit still and wait for my orders. If there is no order, keep quiet. When I ask you to do something, you must do it right away without protesting.

8. Don’t make pretext about Kampuchea Krom in order to hide your secret or traitor.

9. If you don’t follow all the above rules, you shall get many many lashes of electric wire.

10. If you disobey any point of my regulations you shall get either ten lashes or five shocks of electric discharge.

From '75-'79, at least 17 000 people were tortured and killed in Security Prison S-21, a former high school which now stands as witness to some of the atrocities committed by the Khmer Rouge during Pol Pot's genocidal rule over Cam. The story goes that Vietnamese photographers followed the stench of rotting bodies to discover what remained of the last prisoners of S-21, killed by their fleeing captors. The photographs taken that day are now the most shocking component of the museum's "exhibits", mounted in the same bare rooms that formed the prison's torture chambers: the bare iron bed frames, shackles and blunt shovels used on prisoners remain to this day, a simple and brutal display of the unspeakable acts that took place here.

Other spaces revealed wall after wall of documentary photographs of prisoners, piles of clothes never to be worn again (prisoners were stripped and often remained naked til their deaths), and plenty of the restraints worn even while sleeping by the men, women and children from all over the country who ended up here. Many of those tortured into confessions of espionage and treason were actually Khmer Rouge soldiers and their families, though "inmates" were drawn from all over the country. Again, it's claimed that S-21 was a clearing house for those Pol Pot believed were capable of raising a coup against him. It seems that as the regime became more and more extreme, no one was safe from suspicion. Children brought to the prison were sometimes recruited as guards, and one man escaped death to become an official illustrator of the torture techniques used at Tuol Sleng.

Though the sights within these rooms struck most visitors dumb (and one despicably dumb American asked her guide how they got the bones so neat - did they execute the people standing up? No, they moved the remains after they were dead, you idiot), the sun continued to shine though the corridors of the old school, the grass was green and palm trees swayed around the gallows erected in the grounds. It seems only yesterday that these events occurred, and yet a million miles away from present day Phnom Penh. The sheer youthfulness of the population creates a feeling of optimism - seize the day kinda stuff... I feel an uneasy but immense respect for the Cambodian people who live in the shadow of this legacy but move forward with a confident smile.

passing the time...

by throwing playing cards, then rocks, then the family cat, at the trucks and busses that roar through you small town...

Monk Chat

No, I'm not about to commit mass suicide or declare my undying love to a charismatic cult leader. I'm at a meditation retreat outside of Chiang Mai. It's run as part of the "Monk Chat" program, a very clever initiative by one Phra Saneh Dhammavaro, who thought westerners should have some forum to ask all their stupid questions (why orange robes do you get to eat/drink alcohol/have sex are you bored to do think westerners are stupid etc etc). One of the questions he was often asked apparently, was "why don't you let us study meditation?" and voila, an introductory retreat for tourists was created (also thanks to a 10 million baht donation for the retreat centre itself).

So for two days, I imagined myself in blissful silence, punctuated only by meaningful discussions on the dharma, and regular insights born from my meditation practice. What I didn't count on was a college group from Nebraska, USA. These girls were in Thailand for 3 weeks, studying "y'know, like, the culture, and the religion, and like the prostitution and stuff, cause, like, that's really interesting to us..." They'd spent their time so far clubbing, shopping, getting massages and chatting up tuk-tuk drivers. Very cultural, but they were off to Koh Samui next, so at least they'd get to see some sex tourism. These girls didn't really get the polite, subtle lessons in "Thai Culture" presented, such as not touching a monk, not pointing your feet at an image of the Buddha, or keeping quiet around temples and places of meditation. But their presence through an interesting light on the whole experience, including their distain for the brand new, clean-as-a-whistle compound that was the meditation centre - possibly the cleanest accomadation I've experienced in Thailand.

The mediation itself was great, with decent periods of led sitting and walking mindfulness meditation or vipassana, where concentration of the mind on the physical or "true" present allows the practitioner to release themselves from the running commentary and jumping "monkey mind" of thought and distracted emotion. Instead, you simply focus on the rising and falling of your breathing, or the movement of each foot as you walk.

Concentrating very hard on the exact feeling of breathe entering and leaving my nostrils allowed me some success when sitting (and hearing, and thinking, and feeling pain, and getting distracted a lot), but in typical Ros fashion of making things harder for myself, I found I had to add extra steps into the "lifting-moving-placing" rhythm of the walking. Was this cheating, I asked one of the Prhas? No, was the answer, in fact the Monks used the same six step breakdown I'd constructed to keep the thoughts out of my head - they'd just assumed it would be too tricky for us Farang to grasp. Ha! I need all the help I can get crowding out the voices inside this head.

Special Massage

I saw more blind people on the street during our time in Chiang Mai then I've ever seen before. Mostly in troupes of two or three, busking for change with varying degrees of skill. I feel a little weird about giving money to people on the street, and we'd heard good things about massage by the blind. It can be a viable career for someone who' visually impaired for obvious reason, and in Thailand they are renowned for giving extra-sensitive, skillful massage - in a country where competition's pretty damn stiff in that regard. So off we went to the Chiang Mai "Massage by the Blind" Centre, hoping to inject a little tourist cash where it seemed sorely needed.

Note to Travellers: Just because the person giving you a massage is blind, doesn't mean they are, actually, trained in massage. Despite the fact that they may be in attendance at the Chiang Mai Massage By the Blind Centre. Despite the fact that they are a mature and seemingly experienced woman.

And just because the massage is done in a grotty old faux-leather armchair, with a bit of ancient, dried up Nivea cream to smooth things over, doesn't mean that the elderly lady wont fleece you out of 100 Baht. Despite the fact that she cackles and gossips in Thai throughout the experience. Despite the fact she yanks on you toes repeatedly, and with obviously glee, but no discernible therapeutic motivation.

It was a bizarre experience as it dawned on me that this was certainly not a massage, but a hilarious joke for this crazy old lady, having a lot of fun at my expense. Hope she spent the money on some new massage oil.

Ai ai ai ai - but I've got nothing to wear?

I noticed in KL how quickly my attitudes to dress were changing. After a couple of days, full length tunic-and-skirt outfits, complete with veil, were the norm, and I was trying to adopt similar standards. Even a business suit on a woman was starting to look provocative (although no one else seemed to mind - I'd often see a group of women strolling to work together, one in "western" dress, one in a sari, a couple in brightly coloured, but full coverage get-ups, and perhaps one in full burqa).

It seemed to make sense to cover up - no worries about sunburn, no sideways looks from dodgy geezers, quite civilised really.

And then we entered "Amazing Thailand".

Hat Yai is the first major city you hit on the rail line from the border with Malaysia, and we'd arrived just in time for Songkran - Thai New Year celebrations.

Traditionally, the celebrations revolve around paying respect to your elders, who annoint your neck or hands with water. Devotees also head down to the local Wat (temple), to clean images of the Buddha and recieve a blessing, marked in white pigment by the monk in residence.

The highlight of festivities for Hat Yai, however, seemed to be a parade featuring floats from all the nightspots in town, complete with soaking wet, gyrating Thai girls - in cages, on poles, or just generally bopping about in tiny denim hotpants. The most popular float theme song?

"Ai ai ai ai!
But I've got nothing to wear!"
Followed by a deep pumping base riff that allowed the gilrs to swing their hips around with gusto

And the costume? Just a wet towel...

Well, they couldn't find any clothes, could they, poor things...

The entire town, and if fact, the country, seems to go nuts over the long weekend, kids get the run of the city and old people stay safely indoors. Posses drive around in pick-up trucks, drenching passers by. The talc sales in Thailand must peak over Songkran, as anyone on the street is fair game to be smeared with thick white talc and water paste.

Bloody good fun, as long as your prepared to get wet. And of course, we were.

xox