No Big Deal Productions

Ravel Chandran- 6 weeks sneezing

2009-08-31T20:38:00.000-07:00

Ravel Chandran 8 weeks- getting his nappy changed

2009-08-31T20:21:00.000-07:00

Ravel Chandran- 8 weeks farting and smiling

2009-08-31T19:53:00.000-07:00

Aliso Viejo

2008-10-15T20:56:00.001-07:00

View from our Balcony in Aliso Viejo, CA

To all our friends and family across the US and in India we are sorry for taking so long for getting a new posting up with some pictures. We have been busy moving across continents and California, along with finding a new apartment, starting new jobs and dissertations, going back to school and finding appropriate vehicles for our lifestyle and commutes. Here are a few pictures of our new scooter, apartment, views from our place, etc. Hopefully we will be quicker about getting some more pictures and stories up soon. All our best to everyone in India who we miss, and our family and friends in the US who if we have and haven't seen since our arrival back in the US we look forward to seeing you again, sooner, later or eventually.

Cockpit of our Slighly Used 2002 Bajaj Chetak

Happy Riders

Our living room of our new apt.

View in the Park in Aliso Viejo

Recent Rainbow in the Park

Queen of the Hills

2008-06-15T07:58:00.000-07:00

I have been in Shimla, known as the Queen of the Hills during colonial times, for the past two weeks for an abroad study program to get me back in shape for law school after a one year hiatus. Justine has been hanging out in Kerala for the time being but will join me in Dharamsala where I am heading tomorrow night. It has been great to be up in the moutains at 7000 feet which is a nice break from the heat and humidity of Kerala. The British set up shop here to escape the pre-monsoon heat of the plains where Delhi is located. They certainly left their architectural mark and at times does not really feel like your in India at all but some strange British colonial Disney Main St. fantasy. The picture above is of the Upper Mall where only the British and their servants were originally allowed. It is now full of Indians, pop-corn, softies and cotton candy and has a very outdoor festival or outdoor mall type feel, complete with Colors of Benetton, Reebok, and other among with stores selling everything from shawls to sweaters to Tibetan handicrafts.

Besides the great views you get on the rare occasion when the clouds clear, there are tons of monkeys up here. Both langurs and macaques, the former being everwhere and straggly, and quite agressive, the latter being big, majestic and stoic. The macaques are quite agressive up here and after trying to shoo one away from from my window only to have it run torwards me with is teeth raring and arms raised I have been wary of them. Other than having to be wary of them there are so many that the novelty of having monkeys around wears off quick and it's like seeing a grey squirrel in New England at this point.

Besides classes and hanging out at the local coffee shops a few of us were able to go hiking last weekend about three hours from here. We started at about 9000 feet and hiked to the top of Hattu Peak where there is a local Hindu temple and passed a traditional Gujjar house along the way, complete with heards of water buffalo that they herd and milk. It was quite misty and cloudy so though we didn't get any of the majestic views, but we certainly had a misty mountain ambience. The place is a popular ski spot in the winter and our guide told us lots of Europeans come in to do the hike and ski down with the locals, including himself. Told him I would try to make it back for some Himalaya powder next time.

Being in the state of Himachal Pradesh which borders the state of Punjab there are many Sikhs here and heyhad a religious celebration the other day complete with mock battles, fireball blowing and fire hoop flipping. For those of you who don't know Sikhism is one of the four religions to come out of India, the others being Hinduism, Jainism and Buddhism.

I am off to Dharamsala tomorrow on an overnight 10 hour bus ride, not looking forward to it but at least one of my fellow students passed me an Ambien for the ride. Hope to get another post up from Dharamsala. Hope to see a lot of you on a few weeks when we return to the US.

--Best, Grady

PONDI

2008-04-23T03:43:00.000-07:00

Because The Pants were causing me so much stress at night (the dust and heat and local busses no longer faze me, but those f-ing Pants are something else all together), we decided to take a vacation.

No, we did not go to Lakshwadeep, the tropical paradise calling out to us from the center of the Arabian sea, nor did we travel to Sri Lanka (too much civil war), instead we decided to head for the opposite coast of the Indian sub-continent, to the erstwhile French colonial capital, Pondichery, mostly because we had heard rumors of the availability of fresh baguettes.

We decided to travel by A/C Volvo bus, faster than train, rickshaw, or ox-cart (the other options that we considered briefly and then rejected), but considerably more dangerous. We felt that this danger is surely off set by the images of Hindu Gods that line the dash of busses. No train has such Divine co-pilots.

After a nimbu-pani (sweet lime soda) at a street stall on M.G. Road, we boarded our A/C Volvo bus and found seats numbers 5 and 6. I had been warned about these A/C busses by several friends who told me that these fancy long-distance busses are extremely cold. I thought that my friends were probably exaggerating, but nonetheless dressed in jeans and a long kurta and brought along a shawl and an extra sheet to wrap up in. The bus was, in fact, extremely cold, colder than a male penguin's package in winter. Several of our fellow passengers covered their heads with the complimentary blanket and snored loudly throughout the night.

The Volvo "air-ride" bus made the roads, which usually make my teeth feel loose in their sockets with all the bumping and divetting, feel delightfully smooth. The air-ride cushioned the frequent break-slams applied by the driver to avoid goats, cows, and pedestrians. Once we were off the major roads- flying through the Tamil Nadu country-side in the middle of the night- the ride became so bumpy that had I had sang, I would have sounded like a cowboy yodeling to the far-off moon. At one point, Grady turned to me and said, "I think we might be off-roading in the bus." I heartily agreed.
As if the bumps weren't jarring enough, the driver constantly swerved around other slower traffic making the entire bus lurch from side to side- imagine traveling down highway 128 in a tub of lard and you will get a sense of the experience.

But, we made it to Pondi in good time.

Near five in the morning, a boy walked through the bus calling "Pondi Pondi Pondi." I roused Grady from his white-pill induced sleep and we gathered our belongings and exited the bus into the night air. There were, of course, several rickshaw-walas waiting for the bus to deliver its round of nightly visitors to Pondi. The drivers spoke to us in English, I responded in Malyalam. Then the drivers switched their price negotiations to Tamil and I responded in Hindi. They then switched to broken English and I responded in French (just to mix things up). We ended up getting an enthusiastic driver who careened through the streets of Pondi and delivered us to our hotel, "Andana Inn" (Inn of Blissful Happiness, a large neo-colonial affair) that Grady had booked in advanced.

The staff at Anandha Inn allowed us to check into our room despite the early morning hour. We gave them all the necessary paperwork and took the mirrored elevator to the fourth floor. Our room was a standard middle-class Indian business hotel- but with a new flat screen TV (bonus, except for the fact that the reception in our room didn't work, thus proving the 65% rule, more on this rule later). Before falling fast asleep, we noted with interest that the Inn had provided several mini-bottles of booze in our hotel room. Pondi is famous for its cheap and plentiful, unregulated liquor. Unlike quasi-communist Kerala where liquor is expensive and highly regulated by the government, Pondichery and other parts of the former Territory of Pondichery, including Mahe and elsewhere, have different laws concerning liquor.

When we woke around 10, we went downstairs to try the buffet breakfast included with our room. It was typical south Indian breakfast, iddily, dosa, sambar and vada. The tea was weak, but the coffee was delightfully thick and delicious. We had come to Pondi, in part for a vacation from The Pants, but also to facilitate some work that I wanted to do at the National Archive of India Record Center located in the city. Of course, when I called the National Archive to take permission to use the library and records, they could not provide any directions to the center. I noted from the address that the archive was located on "Jivananda Street" which I promptly found on a map of the old Pondichery city. Of course, this was not the Jivananda Street that I was looking for, in fact, the Archive was located in a far-off burg of the city called Lawspet. After breakfast, we traveled around by rickshaw trying to find the Government office, spinning through back lanes past dirty canals and Tamil style temples.

Coming from Kerala, we quickly noted that people here, in general, are much thinner than Keralites and that the road has more bicycles, ox-carts, cows, motorcycles, and scooters than cars. The standard of living in Pondicherry seemed much lower than in urban Cochin which has recently had a boom of money from NRI's working in the gulf and residents working in IT and at call-centers ("Hi, I am 'Jane' answering all your tech-support and credit card needs"). We passed several Goddess shrines with ferocious expressions, manifestations of the angry dark Goddess Kali whose lolling tongue drips blood, clearly, one pissed-off Mama. In front of most of the doorsteps of houses were chalk rangoli designs, auspicious figures that women draw in the early morning. This is not a custom in Kerala.

Finally, after backtracking, side-tracking, and asking several strangers we made it to the Record Center. A guard at the gate looked at his watch and noted that the time was 2:00, "You are very late!" he reprimanded. I apologized, a bit bewildered, because no one knew we were coming. He graciously let us in despite the tardy hour of our arrival.

We entered the building and walked up the stairs, noting the depressingly dirty paint in the stairwell. Reaching the first floor, we went directly to the office of the research assistant Sri M. He remembered me from my phone calls and faxes, and asked if it would be possible for me to return tomorrow when he could collect some materials for me to examine. This, of course, was an unexpected turn of events. I am generally used to archival workers who take little interest and sometimes actively block the progress of my research. I was a bit doubtful at his interest, given my past experience.

We left the archive and traveled back to the hotel via rip-shaw (our name for rick-shaws when the driver charges too much for a ride). We wandered downtown for lunch into the area between the old French quarter and the newer side of the city. No baguettes- just The Rice Food, but spicy Tamil-style rice food.

The evening found us resting by the poolside- the best feature of our hotel. A spacious pool of crystal water tiled with multi-hued blue, green, and purple tiles, watched over by a statue of Buddha, who might have been somewhat surprised to see half-naked foreigners and Indians alike frolicking in the pool. The hotel also had surprisingly good food, but no tonic water.I was on vacation and I wanted a G&T to go with the post-colonial surroundings, but "So sorry, Madam, we will try to get it tomorrow night." "So sorry Madam, it is too difficult to source just now." "Yes, Madam, we will try tomorrow night." This was also the case with the business center when I wanted to send an email, "So sorry, Madam, it isn't working just now," and our television which only had Tamil channels though we were supposed to get Star-World and HBO.

The following days in Pondi took on a comfortable rhythm. We rented a trusty Honda scooter to take us around the city each day for about 120 rupees ($3/day) and enjoyed the ease of having our own transportation. I spent four mornings and two afternoons at the archive finding several documents that should help with a paper I am writing for an academic journal.

One evening we made a pilgrimage to an important Tamil temple that I have long wanted to visit in a neighboring village. There we did pooja (worship) in the large Vashnivite temple complex. The Brahmin poojaris in the temple were very tolerant of our desire to do pooja there and encouraged us to have darshan (sight) of all the Gods in the large complex.

Wandering downtown in the old section of Pondi I frequently found myself transported to other eras and other places: Was I in France? Or 19th century India?. The streets were remarkably clean. The buildings and walls, freshly painted yellow, blue, and cream and overgrown with bougainvillea wouldn't have been out of place in France or Italy. Every evening the red-capped police of Pondi garrison off the old section of Pondicherry from traffic (an unheard of luxury in the rest of India) so that the populace can take an evening stroll along the Promenade, to take in the sea breeze, eat chaat (a type of snack) and fruit from street venders. We indulged in several types of chaat and delicious fresh chilied mango and sweet pineapple on our nightly promenades. There is a graceful ease about old Pondichery. This ease quickly changes when you cross over the main canal into the newer section of town that is as crowded and bustling as any Indian city. There isn't much to do except watch the ocean, beat the heat with naps and laze by the pool. A much needed respite from the heat and dust of the Kerala summer.

THE PANTS

2008-04-23T03:39:00.000-07:00

Martha, Betina, and Frank: Tourists in Kerala

On Tribal Backpacker Fashion: An Anthropological Essay

Fair reader, I invite you to travel with me to India where I study a tribe whose dress habits and marriage customs are most strange. I give you: The Tribe of Backpacker.

Arriving in India the backpacker meets a strange conundrum.
Upon touching their toes into the soil of Bharata (India), many European tourists find themselves meshed in a sort of madness- they find the surroundings chaotic, hot, and confusing. Unable, generally to speak Hindi or the local language- they constantly worry about getting ripped off, contracting one of those nasty tropical fevers, or some type of water-born fluke or parasite - with good reason.
In order to be accepted into the Tribe of Backpaker, however, they must fawn love for and knowledge of India, they must learn to meditate, drink Kingfisher with relish and how to stand on their heads. But first, before these latter advanced level tribal initiations, they must relinquish their old self through a rite of passage wherein they change their style to meet that of the other members of the constantly shifting tribe.

Their native dress- blue jeans and a T-shirt- from England, Europe, or the US feels too hot for the Indian climate. And yet, the sari is cumbersome and takes expertise to tie as does the dhoti (sarong that men wear). Novice sari wearers find their pleats backwards and their pallu threatening to fall askew. Naïve dhoti tiers find themselves exposed when their dhoti falls down in public. Salwar kameez (a three piece ensemble with loose pants, long tunic and a shawl worn backwards to cover the breasts) is not easy to find in tourist haunts- though widely available at every shop at every corner in every Indian town, elsewhere. At any rate, the Salwar Kameez does not, for some reason, appeal to members of the tribe.

Hefty guidebooks (like the Lonely Planet that most tourists lug from place to place) warn tourists away from shorts and reveling tops- advice that some heed and others blatantly disregard. Our tourist finds herself in the middle of a quandary: This is too revealing and that is too hot. And so, she is faced with that daunting, junior-high-school dance question: What to wear? Of course, the answer comes quickly when our tourist is faced with the various tourist tailors and Kashmiri shops selling cheap cotton clothes. The women salivate over the bargains- the relative value of each item increasing in direct proportion to the bargain that they think they have gotten from the seller. (They haven't gotten a bargain, believe me).

One should note that our tourists do not dress to impress the Indian populace, most of whom dress with particular care. Even the poorest wear clean freshly starched and pressed clothing. But, then, most tourists will have little contact with the daily life of India- floating, instead, from ashram on the beach, to tourist resort in the tea plantations, from Mamangalam to Pondicherry to Madurai to Suchidram to Kochi to Hampi and onto Goa. They dress, then, for their own tribal group- their soul-searching, chakra-balancing, meditation-wielding, pot-smoking, Kingfisher-drinking, goa-trance-dancing, yoga-asana-doing clan. They sport bindi's (a small jewel worn decoratively on the forehead by many women in India) on their foreheads while wearing tank tops. They buy dupattas (shawls) and then cover their shoulders instead of their chests, (some in modesty or maybe to shield from the sun), leaving their breasts exposed in the decolage of their tightly fitting tops. Some women wear jewels denoting their married status on their forehead with short skirts and tank tops- the cultural equivalent of wearing a white wedding dress with combat boots and pasties attached to the front of the dress's missing bodice.

Aum signs are an important symbol of this clan- showing membership in the highest ranks of its esoteric order (of course, I have never seen any Indian person wear this symbol on their clothes- it is reserved for temples), but tourists sport the Aum on scarves, bags, shawls, pants, and shirts. Islamic symbols (for obvious reasons) are avoided as are Christian symbols- Jesus is not hip enough for our tribe. Many favor the elephant headed God, Ganesh,- whose fat belly and elephant-head is so cute and, after all, his name is easier to remember than Hanuman or Subramanium or Sabrimala Ayappa.

Below the waist this year's must have for the fashionable, spiritual, soul-searching tourist are these pants that cause my teeth to grind in the night resulting in lock-jaw every morning when I try to eat my "life-style" museli.

It is rare to spot The Pants outside of tourist haunts like Fort Kochi. I rarely see them in Ernakulam. I hear that you can buy them in Goa and, yes, I did spot them, much to my rising blood pressure in Pondichery. I hear they are for sale in Goa and perhaps in Delhi. Both men and women of the tribe wear The Pants, but they are preferred by the females- perhaps as part of an elaborate courting ritual? I will need more anthropological evidence to understand how their symbolic potency works on the males. Males of the tribe stick to loose fitting linen or cotton pants that tie or fold around the waist- delighting and scandalizing groups of Indian boys who wear the latest imported jeans just-in from China and send text messages of love to their "girl friends" on their $300 cell phones bought for them by their cousin-brother who works in Dubai or Chargah or Rhiad.

These, however, are not The Pants.

The Pants are something else all together. I wish I could do an ethnographic history of The Pants. Where were they invented? Who was the first of the tribe to wear them? Do they bring super-natural powers to the wearer? Do they help "focus the charkas" of the wearer? Who was the first tailor to sew The Pants? Were they pleased with their creation or horrified at the massive fashion faux pas they had released on the sub-continent? This information, however, seems lost in the arcane lore of the tribe. Despite extensive oral history collection, none of the members of the tribe seem to remember the roots or origin of The Pants. The mythology and folk-lore of The Pants seems to have disappeared through time and the rigors of travel. Indeed most tribal members are largely un-self-reflexive about The Pants, preferring, in interviews to drink Kingfisher and smoke cigarettes. Thus, I left my quest for the ethnographic history of The Pants and turned, instead to a phenomenological and semeiotic study. Please know that I try, fair reader, to understand their native customs, to have compassion for their barely civilized ways.
The following is a brief description of The Pants from my field journal:

The Pants have a wide elastic waist- something like a knocked-up teenager might sew into her favorite jeans to accommodate her expanding girth. They appear to be fashioned from the cheapest cotton fabric dyed in a huge pallette of colors. The dye, of course, runs badly the first time the dhoti (hereditary washer) smacks them on a rock in the river.
The legs are loose and gathered at the ankles, like the "harem pants" worn by a cheap dancer at a Middle Eastern buffet shimmying between plates of humus and baba ganoush. These features are not too strange for locals whose demure saris and salwar kameez (or for the more radical young woman- short kurta and jeans)- at least the legs of The Pants serve to semi-gracefully hide the figure. The feature of The Pants that makes me uncomfortable, that challenges my cultural relativity, that makes my teeth grind, and my eyes stare when I see them sporting The Pants is- the crotch.

Those of you with dirty minds might ask- are The Pants crotchless?

No, fair reader, The Pants have an ample crotch. In fact, the crotch of The Pants is so long that it hangs loosely between the ankles of the wearer, swinging like a stretched-out Joey-pouch on an elderly mama kangaroo. The crotch of The Pants is so long that it swings idly, like the dangling arm of a mangrove tree, skimming the calves of the tourist. I exaggerate not, fair reader.

This brings us to the function of The Pants. I am sorry to admit that this native dress seems incomprehensible to my mind. I admit, fair reader, that I have been unable, yet, to determine the function of The Pants, I am left only with questions. For instance:

What do they keep in there? Is it a pouch for a pilatha* in case Delhi belly hits them in the street? I am sorry, fair reader, for the excessive scatology. Please know that such language is only used in hopes of scientific progress in understanding the function of The Pants. Maybe the crotch of the pants is where they keep their super-powers or maybe their alien space-craft.

My only hope, fair reader, is that next year another fashion will have scoured the ranks of the Backpacker Tribe- that or I will need a mouth guard. My teeth can't handle the stress.

* A term denoting a large pile of poop in one's pants.

Kochi Traffic

2008-02-17T03:23:00.000-08:00

Lanes are suggestions, as are rules of the road, and the traffic light is purely non-functioning decoration. Sped up for your viewing pleasure.

AJ's Crash Course on Kerala

2008-01-12T02:29:00.000-08:00

Well AJ has made it back to UC Santa Cruz after a whirlwind crash course on Kerala. Besides touring and shopping around Kochi, where we live, we took him to a late night ritual to see Thiruvathirakkali, a folk dance by women that Justine is researching here.

We also were able to travel to the northernmost district of Kerala, Kasaragod, to see the very old and highly ritualistic dance-ritual of Theyyam. We also toured some mid-1600 forts and saw the 9th century Sree Ananthapadmanabhaswamy lake temple.

For his final weekend AJ traveled by bus with Grady into the Western Ghats to the Periyar Wildlife Santuary where a day of hiking granted sites of wild elephants, giant malabar squirrels, black eagles, and lots of flora and fauna.

Through the Global Portal

2007-12-23T05:55:00.000-08:00

William Allan Joseph Lemos, aka AJ, A, Aj'er, Justine's Bro, etc., jumped through the global portal, otherwise known as modern day air travel, and landed on the other side of the world, onto the subcontinent of India, aka Bharatstan, Hindustan, Indiahhh, Incredible India, etc., to join us for some cultural clashes, travels, and, of course rice, curry, chai, bad beer, and humidity. He has settled right in, despite the 13 or so hour time difference, 5-day delay in leaving, and an 8-hour lay-over in Dubai, aka, Shopping Capital of the Middle East. He has handled his cultural adjustment with grace, being an ever so trustful lad, he has: jumped on the bus;

jostled around in rickshaws;
eaten with his hands; and even joined us for a meal served on banana leaves placed on the floor of a temple temple ground in Fort Kochi. This meal took place after Justine, aka, Justinah, Spiral, the Foreigner Who Speaks, Malayalam chatted in the local tongue to find out what was going on when we observed lots of well-dressed Keralites flowing into an area behind the historic Dutch Palace in Fort Kochi, and got us all invited in for a meal.

So far he has seemed to enjoy his time thoroughly, says he loves the food, especially the Kerala rice, had a great time in Fort Kochi, and says he all around loves India so far. We will be off to see our British ex-pat retiree friend David for Xmas, drinks, some type of cooked bird, and of course lots of tea. Then we will be heading to the northern most state of Kasaragod for a Theyyam festival. (See more on Theyyam here, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theyyam.) AJ will get to experience his first India train rides, along with all that comes with them: tea wallahs, beggars, street musicians, overcrowding, and the ever lovely restroom facilities. Below are a few pictures from our trip to the Historic Fort Kochi. Enjoy! Please wish us luck, health, and safety on our travels with the Aj'er.

(More info on the DYFI political party: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Democratic_Youth_Federation_of_India)

Box of Joy

2007-12-15T05:39:00.000-08:00

I spent a good part of the day trying to track our box of joy (a box that my parents sent us for X-Mas). I first went to Palarivottom Post via rickshaw. It was very difficult to find, no one knew where the post office was and there is no sign for it. How convenient. Eventually, I found the post office located behind a building and up a dingy stairway. But the staff had no idea about my box. So a nice lady sent me to Kalloor Post Office- I went via rickshaw and inhaled deseil. There a mean lady sent me to Ellamakarra Post Office- I couldn't find the place, until I figured out it was near an important temple- then another rickshaw driver took me there. He was quite nice and we chatted in Malayalam. Apparently this is the correct post office where the package should have been sent- but they haven't seen it. So they sent me across the city to the Foreign Parcel Office near the YMCA.... This is what happened:
Grady goes with me. We go by bus to MG Road and then by rickshaw to YMCA. The rickshawwalla tries to rip us off, but we argue a bit in Malayalam and then he was ok with the correct payment.
The Foreign Parcel Office has three floors of boxes- many falling apart, stored in leaking, dirty and dingy rooms. The walls are painted blue, but all the paint is water-splattered and dirty. The staff sends us upstairs to the second floor (this means the third floor in America- don't ask). I explain our situation to a woman sitting among stacks and stacks of rotting paper. She tells us to wait for "Sir," i.e. her boss. Every man in a position of power is called "Sir" like a medieval knight. The time is 12:40. This is a dangerous time to be told to wait for a petty bureaucratic official because around this time they go off to lunch and then don't return until 2 or 3 in the afternoon. But no one will tell you to come back later and you will sit there waiting for "Sir" for several hours getting more and more frustrated and angry and then you will yell at "Sir" when he comes and this is not a good way to get "Sir" to help you. Most people here will just tolerate this and won't have any problem just sitting and waiting while some big headed post-master eats and sleeps on the job. Since we are impatient foreigners (who are often rude and go directly to "Sirs" of all sorts and tell them what needs to happen) we ask where "Sir" is and go downstairs to find him.
He is downstairs watching peons rip through boxes confiscating and censoring items right and left. He sees us and asks "What is your problem!" in a rude tone. We tell him that we are trying to find a parcel that was sent to us almost a month ago from the US. He tells us to wait upstairs in his office. We don't go up and this makes him very angry. People generally follow directions differentially here. Something is wrong with the system. Grady, meanwhile, is itching to search through the piles of randomly placed boxes, and thinks he has seen one that looks like it might be from the US.
Eventually "Sir" goes up stairs and we follow him to his office. "Sir" sits down behind his desk and says "Tell me." Since we are dealing with a "Sir" Grady has to do all the talking because all "Sirs" will ignore women who deign to speak to them. So Grady begins to expound on our situation and then "Sir's" cellphone rings and he immediately picks it up. After his chat in Hindi (not Malayalam) Grady starts to speak again. But now "Sir" is lighting a cigarette which he smokes, dropping ash all over his desk and the floor. No one uses ashtrays here because the sweeper will be through in a moment to sweep up the ashes.It is still annoying and toxic and illegal to smoke in public buildings in Kerala AND he isn't paying any attention to our situation. Eventually "Sir" rings a bell and then asks for the book where parcels are logged. A peon (this is a technical term in India and is actually an advertised position- someone who runs around papers and keeps keys and sometimes gets the tea), brings him the log book. The log book is a large, dirty, torn, hardbound notebook into which parcels are hand written. They are logged by date and by name of receiver and sender. There isn't a computer in sight, of course. There is no record of any package in our name our your name clearing customs here in Kochi.
Then "Sir" tells us that there are three reasons why the box may be delayed or confiscated. 1) Electronic devices, 2) Obscenities 3) If the customs slip says the box is worth more than $100 US dollars. In the second case we would not be able to collect the box, but I don't think they have sent us any porn or sex toys- at least I hope you haven't, for several reasons, not the least that it would be extremely creepy to receive such items from our parents. In the first or third case we will have to pay additional customs fees for the box. This is why one should never report high numbers on customs forms. But the box is not on the list of high alert packages or on the regular list, so basically he has no idea where it is. Moral of the story- if you want to send something to India in the mail send it through a private carrier like Fed Ex or DHL they will courier it to your door with no questions asked. Now an ant is biting my foot as I type this. No box and no AJ- (my brother's trip to India is delayed five days due to weather in the US). Hopefully we will get both by X-Mas.

Pics from Around Kochi

2007-11-27T20:38:00.000-08:00

Just thought we would take some snaps from around Kochi. So here are a few in no particular order. Remember to click on the pic of you want to see a bigger version.

RIDING THE BUS- KERALA STYLE

2007-11-12T17:21:00.000-08:00

If you don't have a car or a motorcycle in India you still have several options for transportation. You can walk up and down, in and around, the pseudo-sidewalks watching out for holes, trash, people, dogs and other animals. If you don't know the place where you are trying to go, your best bet is to hale a three wheeled motorized riskshaw. Don't pay the driver more than 10 rupees unless you are going more than 1 or 2 kilometers- even if he argues. You might also hire a car with a driver. This is the most luxurious and comfortable way to travel. You arrive at your destination sweat free and clean. Grady and I seldom hire a car, as it is a bit too expensive for everyday use. This means that we get to ride the bus each morning.

Riding the bus in Kerala is a feat of acrobatics, yoga, gymnastics, and martial arts all rolled into one. One needs acrobatic skill to hold onto the metals bars that line the ceiling of the bus while ones' body swings like a hangman off the fulcrum of ones' wrist. Mad yogic skills are needed to project ones' mind beyond the discomfort of being crammed into a rapidly moving vehicle with what feels like thousands of other bodes. Martial arts are needed to sharply elbow any roving hands, and gymnastic skills will serve you in your attempt to get on and off the bus.

The word "bus" conjures certain images in ones' mind; the reclining chairs of the greyhound fleet or a city bus with plastic seats and organized stops. Here busses are metal shells that grind and groan to a start and stop- large metal beasts driven by male mahouts who cajole, coax, and beat the gears into submission. There are no windows and no door. Only open spaces where windows and doors ought to be. In the event of rain, canvas curtains are draw across the windows making the interior dank and dark. The floor of the bus is made of thin plywood with metal rivets.

There are three important people on the bus: the driver, the conductor and the ticket man. Don't confuse them. The driver sits in the front separated from the passengers by a metal cage. He is usually barefoot, though sometimes wears sandals. Usually he wears a dhoti (sarong) tied up above his knees. He also wears the army-green shirt of the transportation union. Do not speak to the driver. You want all his concentration focused on moving the bus, which he does with breakneck speed around corners, never stopping for pedestrians or smaller vehicles. If you are walking on the street and need to cross, never think that a bus will slow for you even if you are in one of the few crosswalks or if there is a red light. Buses rule the roads.

The next important man on the bus is the conductor. His job is to get people on and off the bus as quickly as possible, to ring a small bell that tells the driver when to stop and start, and to yell the names of the towns where the bus is traveling. He yells the names in a form of incomprehensible Malayalam. This sounds something like a barking seal. For instance, the name of the town Aluva (pronounced A-LU-Wa) becomes ALA ALA ALA ALA, or the name of the junction Palarivottom (Pa-la-DI-va-tom) becomes PALAVO. It is better to just read the sign at the front of the bus- but to do so you will need to read Malayalam script. I can, Grady can't. (I have been trying to teach him to at least recognize the first letter of the places that he wants to go- Kakanaad in the morning and Ernaukulum in the afternoon). To get people on and off the bus, the conductor yells at them "getta getta getta" or "balle balle balle" and hits the side of the bus with his hand rapidly- smack smack smack. If you are the last person to get on the bus, beware! As soon as your foot touches the metal step, the conductor will ring the bell and the bus will lurch into motion. Grab any piece of metal near to you and hold on tight. Make sure your knees are relaxed or you will pitch forward when the buss screeches to a halt in just a few moments. When one bus overtakes another, thus stealing the passengers from the slower bus, the conductors have huge arguments out the windows and then procede to drag race down the street.

Ladies board and sit at the front of the bus and men the back. Do not sit in the wrong section or you will be stared at, and then told to move. Even if the back of the bus is empty, do not sit there if you are a lady, instead cram into the front of the bus, never stepping over the invisible line that separates the ladies' section from the men's. After dark men sit wherever they please as there are very few women on the bus, and those few have a male chaperone. Always bring a male chaperone after dark. After dark, everyone on the bus (hopefully not the driver, but usually him too) is slightly drunk and very feisty.

The last important person on the bus is the ticket man. When you get on the bus be sure that you have your money out and ready or you will be forced to search through your wallet for coins and you may have to let go of your metal bar. This is bad because you will have to manage your balance as the bus heaves through the potholes and screams around smaller traffic- you will probably fall down. When the conductor approaches you give him your money and state, preferably in Malayalam, where you are going- he won't understand if your accent isn't correct. If you know where you are going, just give him the correct change. He will hand you a small piece of colored paper- don't loose this as he will charge you again if you do. It is 3 rupees for the first few kilometers and then another 1 rupee for additional kilometers.
Make sure you get off the bus quickly. The bus will usually start before you are entirely off. Ahh the bus!

My morning bus ride is usually about 45 minutes and very crowded. In the afternoon when I usually come home after dance class and the morning commute is over the same ride only takes about 20 minutes. In the afternoon, I always get a seat. In the morning, I rarely do.

After my lovely bus ride I get down on the bustling MG road and walk from there to my Mohiniyattam dance teachers' house that has a dance studio on the top floor. This teacher, Sandia, is very wealthy. Her house is four stories and has marble floors throughout and very nice furnishings. The studio on the top floor is Kerala style architecture. The floor is made out of a type of clay and the walls are slated, carved wood that allows the breeze to come through. The roof is corrugated tin and sounds lovely when it rains. In the dance studio is a beautiful statue of Shiva, the God of the Cosmic Dance, and a huge brass lamp. I usually change into a dance sari and then we start the lesson. I really like this teacher. She is very cheerful and helpful. We speak in both English and Malayalam during my lessons. The dance classes consist of me practicing various steps and movement while she chants the rhythmic patterns of the dances. In the morning I am sometimes joined by other students, but I also have private lessons. In the afternoons I generally meet with dancers and scholars, conduct interviews and make time for writing.

Today I met with a modern dancer here in Cochin who is making beautiful new works that go beyond "fusion" towards a deeply spiritual blend of classical and modern dance techniques. She is interested in the inner landscape of dance techniques and uses yoga philosophy to work through movement as a spiritual practice. She trained in the Netherlands. I will join her classes next weekend and hope to work on a new solo piece of choreography in collaboration with her.
So these are the things that fill my days, getting off and on the bus without getting run over, dancing, writing, and doing yoga. After a long search for a yoga teacher, (this is another wild story that I will write in the next installment), I have decided that I will start my own yoga classes for women here in our apartment building. I realized that studying yoga with a teacher really wasn't my goal, I just wanted the community that goes with yoga practice. So instead of trying to find classes, I will create that community here. I plan to start a yoga club for women here in our 14 story apartment building. We'll see how that goes.

I am now at home and it is about 6:30 pm. I am waiting for Grady to get home from his day at the office and his lovely bus ride home.

GRADY'S MORNING COMMUTE

2007-11-03T23:59:00.000-07:00

So for about two weeks now I have been riding my bike (no, not the one above thankfully, though I did take the photo along the way to work) to the office I work at about 6km away. I try to avoid the congested main roads for about half the commute where it is feasible, so as to avoid breathing too much unrestricted diesel exhaust and road dust. Generally I move about as fast as traffic and I can easily weave around most traffic jams given the maneuverability of my bike and the fact I have one of the few bikes with gears around. It is no holds barred on the Indian roads as traffic lights, lines, and laws mean little if anything. I took some pictures along my morning commute to give you a sense of some of the scenery I pass daily. Hope you enjoy!

Down the Stairs and Off to Work

Our Almost Ivory Tower above the Cacophony of the City.

Our Always Friendly Building Security Guards

The Often Full, Sometimes Overflowing, Ever Stinky Drainage Canal

Beware the Potholes of Stains and Punctures

Buses, Best to Be Wary

A Diversity of Traffic

A Local Hindu Temple

1 of 3 Popular Kerala Religions

Wide Trucks, Narrow Roads = Jammed

Veggie Truck

Crossing National Hwy 47

St. George's Church
2 if 3 Favorite Kerala Religions

Local Timber Mill

Beware the Wanderin' Cows

My Local Lunch Favorite-
Mmm Rice and Sambhar

Long Hauler

Last but not Least a Local Mosque
3 of 3 Popular Kerala Religions

Ahh, Second Breakfast, Young Tender Coconut
12 Rupees

The Building Where I Work

From Left to Right
Kurian, Resmi, and Sandhya
Fragomen India Staff

Anjou and Sumi
Fragomen India Staff
(Not to be missed, Saju James the Managing Director
was away on travel this week)

QUICK AFTERNOON SHOWER

2007-10-28T03:04:00.000-07:00

TRIP TO SHORANUR

2007-10-20T22:46:00.001-07:00

Justine and I went on a trip to Shoranur recently to see a concert of some regional women's folk dance called Kuratiyattam. It was really hot and I was getting over some kind of stomach bug which did not help me enjoy the performance. Luckily, we had permission from Kerala Kalamandalam to tape the performance for Justine’s ongoing research. Justine and I also watched some Mohiniyattam classes and were allowed to take a few pictures. I was feeling exhausted and my stomach was in dire straights so we left a bit early and headed to our friend David Smith’s luxurious house on the river for some R & R.

At David’s we were treated to gin and tonics and cashews on the veranda looking out on the river. A very English dinner of potato salad, boiled eggs, Russian salad and a side of mayonnaise. Quite a nice break from South Indian fare, actually.

The next day David, Raju, Raju’s youngest son, 5 year old Chootu, Justine, and I went on a drive on a rural road to go to a waterfall out in government forest land. The village we parked the car in was very small. Everyone was amazed at the foreigners stepping out of the car.

To get to the waterfall we walked on a beautiful stonewall lined path with rubber tree plantations on either side. I was imaginint what a great mountain bike area this would be. On our way we met up with a couple of local boys and a man who were happy to accompany us. Raju, a native Keralite, chatted with them in Malayalam. The waterfall was small, but a scenic spot overlooking the valley and distant hills. We were able to splash around in the falls and cool off. Unfortunately, this is a man-only type activity and Justine couldn't swim. Instead she lounged in the shade taking in the surroundings and enjoying the hot coffee and sweets David had packed along.

After splashing around in the falls the local boys and man offered to take us to a cave nearby on top of the hill. Raju and I agreed to go along. It was a steep 30 minute hike through some heavily forested area and some thick rubber plantations. We passed signs of a wild boar who had been rooting around for bugs and roots and a forest department campsite.

The cave was very dark and dank. Raju was very impressed, but since we had no light other than the flash on my camera our spelunking was quite limited. We then hiked back down and to the falls. We enjoyed the surroundings for another half hour and then headed back down to the car.

It was back to David’s for lunch and a nap. The late afternoon was passed playing with Raju’s two boys among the swarms if dragon flies and kingfisher birds.
We spent another night there and then the next morning got a ride from David and Raju to Thrissur where we caught the train back to Ernakulum.

YOGI TEA- LUKEWARM AND MILKY

2007-10-15T07:26:00.000-07:00

India may conjure certain Orientalist-style images in your mind. Naked yogis covered in ashes meditating on the banks of the Ganges, women in saris chanting mantras in front of temples dedicated to Krishna, Parvati and Bhagavati lit up with butter lamps, Tantric monks committing stoic acts of asceticism and colorful village festivals. All this is here in India, but these spiritualist visions are warped into a patently post-modern, futuristic reality....

Really, I am living inside a science fiction movie- strange half-finished and abandoned post-apocalyptic architecture dwarfs me, the screams of millions of neon and printed signs in Malayalam, Tamil, Hindi and English compete with temple firecrackers, mosque calls to prayer, bus horns, car horns, motorcycle horns, bike bells- a cacophony of sound, taste, sight. Pleasing smells of jasmine, gardenia, and sandalwood are beat back by the smell of pee, poo, and dead chickens. Senses overload and overlap in a distorted psychedelic dance- ebbing and flowing chaos into order, pleasure into pain. Am I tasting the dance? Does the meal really sound beautiful? Am I actually seeing the music? Synesthesia, the blending of senses seems the only option to sensory overload, or perhaps meditation can stop the impending sensory crash I feel is inevitable here?

Armed with a list of yoga studios naively downloaded from the Internet, I began calling various yoga schools in the metro-Kochi area. Of course, because I am living in an Indian version of the film Mad Max, only three of the fifteen telephone numbers listed work and of those numbers just one of the listings is actually holding classes. Back on the Internet I find, what appears to be a gorgeous yoga studio out in Fort Cochin, the relaxed-vibe-tourist-peninsula area about an hour by bus from where Grady and I live. So on Saturday, after one of my grueling dance class, Grady and I work our way on to a local bus and journey over to Fort Kochi. Of course, we didn't really know where we were going and didn't bother to bring a map or and address (we are so nonchalant here), so we wandered around a bit aimlessly and then talked a rickshaw-wala into taking us to see the yoga guru. Eventually we found his yoga studio on the ocean and after various calls to various people's mobiles we got an appointment with the "master," a half-Indian-Jewish, half-Indian-Catholic, Buddha T-shirt, black dhoti (sarong) wearing yogi with long matted hair and a huge beard. We expect all these wild accoutrements from yoga masters in India...

But then, he pulled out his guitar and started playing all these hippie songs from my childhood- like "The Earth is our Mother, We must take care of her" and "Fly Like and Eagle." From having corrupted mudras parroted at me in the wilderness last summer to having wilderness songs sung to us by a half-crazed yogi in Kerala, Kipling's quip,
("OH, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat)
seems more a fulfilled prophecy than a simple poem.

At the least, it is a long strange trip we are on, made stranger by the convoluted pathways of cultural hybridization. I haven't made it back over to Fort Cochin to see Shree Abraham, something about his guitar wielding, dreadlocked, snaggle-toothed style didn't appeal. Or maybe I just feel bitter at having the secret parts of my childhood pulled from the void, as if my memories somehow escaped through the portable hole in my father's medicine bag and were funneled through a wrong worm-tunnel in the void.

So I was on to my next potential yoga contact, the only one from the original list that seemed at all hopeful- City Lights Gym where the master said they had ladies-only classes. Since society is extremely sexually segregated here, ladies-only classes is appealing.

To digress, (and also vent at the frustration of living in a sexually segregated society), Grady had plans to meet a friend from work (male) at this four-star hotel the other Friday night. Since it was Friday night and I didn’t' feel like sitting at home cooking sambar or dosas, I decided I wanted to go along. So I went along with Grady, figuring that since it was such a nice hotel that it would be fine for me to go in the bar. I wore very modest clothes- salwar kameez with a duppatta (long scarf worn backwards to cover one's breasts). There were no women in the bar which was full of businessmen variously talking on their cell-phones, smoking, eating peanuts, watching the fish tank and drinking whisky. When we walked in you would have thought that I was wearing pasties and a g-string, what with all the gawking and staring I got. I decided to sit in the lobby while Grady drank beer with his friend. Drinking is not a social activity here. Men slug whisky and get very drunk. Grady's friend from work was very disappointed in their drinking efforts. While I thought they did quite well, drinking four large sized beers between the two of them, his friend was aghast when Grady said he had to go- "Drinking is now over?" he asked with a very doubtful expression on his face. "But we haven't started the hot drinks." Hot drinks, of course, means whisky- lots of whisky. Luckily, Grady had me as an excuse and we left the hotel without Grady getting plastered.

Excuse my ramblings on sexual segregation.

So, I decided to check out City Lights Gym, located only two bus stops away from our flat. I grabbed a bus to Edapally, (Rps. 3), and got down at a junction. Chatted with a rickshaw-walla in Malayalam and eventually convinced one to take me to the City Lights Gym located down a back lane, near a temple. City Lights Gym, in addition to being a yoga studio, I found out, is also home to the Edapally Arm Wrestling Club- who would have guessed? Outside the small yoga area were several special arm wrestling benches with pads and hand holds for those strainingly engaged in that most manly art of arm wrestling. I met with the yoga teacher there, an elderly gentleman there who launched into a lecture on REAL YOGA. He told me, without ever witnessing me blow a single pranayam through my nose or bow into a single asana, that all my training was incorrect, that yoga has no spiritual basis, the science of yoga is based on functional anatomy and physiology ONLY! Interesting to find a rebellion from the spiritualization of yoga here in India- I guess, according to this gentleman, yoga really does just give you a nice butt and really isn't about enlightenment after all. I decided this was not the place for me…. But not to despair, while waiting in line at the local bank I found a flier in Malayalam that had details on another yoga class. I decoded the Malayalam and found that the flier had a mobile number. I called, it rang, and I connected to a very sane sounding fellow. I had details on another yoga class.

This class I found without much hassle, located next to a shrine to the Edavzha Guru, Guru Narayana. I went upstairs and met with the yoga teacher who told me that this class was not for me. He told me that these were very beginning students who would only be practicing shivasana (corpse pose) for twenty minutes and then lifting one leg at a time to the ceiling for five minutes each. He was very concerned that I was an advanced student who knew how to practice headstand and that it would be a very basic class for me. I tried to convince him that I could still learn something from the class and that I mostly just wanted to join the community of practicioners. He was unmoved and told me I should come to a 5AM class. I would have gone, but the class he suggested is about an hour from my house which would have me leaving by 4AM- this isn't too bad, Kundalini yoga practitioners (myself included) often start their sadhana (daily practice) at 3:45AM, the problem is transportation at that time in the morning. So, yet another yoga class I can't attend.

My next attempt at finding a yoga class was at a studio, (studio isn't really the correct word yoga places are just rooms here like any other room), with a large sign advertising near Grady's work. Unfortunately, the yoga master here had moved down south to Varkala to take advantage of the international tourist scene that flourishes there. So no classes for me in Kakanad.

Yesterday, coming out of the disappointing "really big" grocery store, (not really big by US standards, smaller than Mendosas in Mendocino and also just the same as an regular grocery store here, just with more of the same foods such as sambar, dosa, and iddily), I saw another sign for yoga classes. Just now, I called the numbers listed on the sign. One number didn't work. At the other number, I got a fellow who gave me another number that also didn't work.

Eat your heart out Mad Max, Blade Runner, THEM!, Cat-Women From the Moon, you don't have anything on my apocalyptic yoga quest in sci-fi post-futuristic India.
Maybe, Kipling's poem-cum-prophecy is correct and East and West have met and the result is the unending global-warming/capitalism fueled rains. Is this Kiplings "God’s great Judgment Seat?"

But this is just so depressing.
I think I will stick to Yogi Bhajan and the guru within and simply sing:
May the long time sunshine upon you,
All love surround you,
And the pure light within you guide your way on.
Sat Nam.

BACK IN KERALA

2007-10-02T00:15:00.001-07:00

Once again, we have spent another month of our lives in Kerala. Though touted as 'God's Own Country' by Kerala's State Tourism Board, living and working here is always heavenly. Kerala is a friendly place, with a top-notch health care and education system, (due to its democratically elected communist government after Indian independence), but Kerala is also very crowded. It is the 3rd most densely populated state in India, and has many infrastructure, health, and sanitary problems.
We have found an apartment in Ernakulum, in the Pallarivottom section of town. Our apartment is in one of the new modern high rises that now dominate the urban landscape in Kochi. The building is named "Oriental Gardens," but sadly has no garden. And while it has a very nice pool for swimming, the pool has no water.
Due to the outbreaks of Chicayunga and dengue fever, and most recently, a return of malaria, we sleep in our trusty Tropa-Screen II mosquito netting in the evenings. Our apartment has an interesting layout you can see in the picture with space-age capsule elevators, very cool. Unlike some of the newer apartment buildings we visited on out search, (and we visited quite a few), this one is actually inhabited by local families. It seems that many of the newer apartment buildings here are bought up by NRIs (non-resident Indians) as vacation homes or investments and are empty.

We recently made a trip to see our friends Shaheem and Shefik in our old haunt of Cheruthuruthi, where we lived while Justine was on a Fulbright Grant from 2003-04. Shaheem is the entrepreneur of English Academies where he claims to teach you to how 'Speak English the Western Way.' He is also dabbling in motivational speaking, and gave us a performance at his home (see picture at left). Shaheem and Shefik live in a traditional house along some paddy fields. Until recently, their father ran an Ayurvedic (traditional medicine) pharmacy and grew many Ayurvedic medicines on their property. Unfortunately, their father recently passed away and they have been forced to sell much of the land to make ends meet, as they cannot continue the business since neither is a licensed Ayurvedic doctor. I have included a few pictures of Shaheem's house complete with decaying coconuts scattered about and the paddy fields, which were once part of their property.

Shaheem and Shefik's Kerala House

Paddy Fields

The Many Scattered Decaying Coconuts of Kerala

On our trip to Cheruturuthi we also visited out British expat friend David. He has retired to live in Kerala and has set up quite a place on the Bharta Puza River (picture) along some patty fields. We spent a night catching up with him and having shandies, beer and 7-up (actually one of the best ways to drink the god-awful beer here), on his veranda over looking paddy fields and the river.
The both of us also completed our registration procedure at the Foreign Registry Office at the local police office in Kochi. Here they make you wait for hours at a time in a small waiting room where a guard stands by complete with rifle and bayonet- as if the British could arrive at any moment. We waited until called in to see the beaurocrat who didn't really want us to register in Kochi. The proceeded to try to tell Justine that she could and should do her research in Thrissur. We stated our case about Justine doing research independently from Kalamandalam. Basically, we were not about to let a local bureaucrat dictate Justine's dissertation research- much arguing ensued and Justine lost her temper a bit (a big no-no for women here). Eventually we were able to see a higher-up who approved us living in a separate district form Justine's affiliating institution. We then went back to tell the other bureaucrat about his superior's decision. Then of course, he told us we would need a formal lease agreement before being allowed to register, just to make things a bit more difficult. All-in-all it eventually worked out and we are now officially legal foreign residents of India once again.
Waiting Room

Check back soon we continue to post news, stories, and personal reflections on our times and travels in Kerala and India. Here's one last picture of a sunset view from our apartment on the 9th floor of Oriental Gardens.

TITANICALLY TITANIC- 2003/2004

2007-08-03T13:44:00.000-07:00

Each morning while I was on Fulbright, I arrived at Kerala Kalamandalam around 5AM, when daylight was just dawning and coconut palms were swaying in the half-light. I would enter the Koothambalam, a huge performance space, and take my place among the vast number of girls dressed in green and orange saris for exercises. From my vantage, at the back of the Koothambalam, the students looked like a field of orange and green tropical flowers opening in to the morning light. During the first few months, my dance uniform (a half-length sari)
was never tied correctly. Usually my friends would take pity on me and would patiently refold my pleats and re-pin the pallu (the end that goes over one's left shoulder).

With my sari tied properly, I would then join the students in the Koothamabalam and begin the arduous morning exercise routine- a combination of calisthenics, yoga contortions, and subtle isolations. We performed deep lunges and knee bends, hand mudras, arm and shoulder movements, and balances, alternating between vigorous and aerobic repetitive movement done in unison with the whole group and hand exercises done individually. After we finished the exercises, we would perform the Namaskaram, a sequence of movements to pay respect to the earth.

During my first week at Kalamandalam, after the morning exercises, some girls invited me back to their room for some breakfast. We sat in a dark, slightly musty room on a communal wooden bed that also served as a table. We drank milky-sweet chai tea and ate idilis (a food made from fermented rice). The girls put red sindur in my hair, a declaration of my married status, put a bindi on my forehead, and comforted me about my childlessness.

One young woman asked me, “What is your favorite movie?” I thought for a bit and responded
that I did not really have a favorite movie, though I do have a distinct fondness for the Merchant-Ivory production "A Room with a View." The students had never heard of the film.
I returned the question to the students, “What is your favorite film?”
Nearly in unison, they all responded, “Titanic!”
James Cameron’s Oscar winning film was produced in 1997, so in 2003 the film’s popularity was a bit surprising.
“Please sing an American song for us!,” the girls asked.
I conceded and sang a verse from “You are My Sunshine.”
The girls chatted a bit in Malayalam, “Was it a folk song?”
I said that it was.
“We didn’t like it very much,” said one, “sing another song.”
My repertoire of songs is limited, and I was beginning to feel agitated. The climate was very hot and I was dripping with sweat leftover from dance class. I missed my husband, who had not yet arrived in Kerala and what I really wanted was a shower and a nap.
“Sing The Titanic Song!” cried one of the girls.
“The Titanic Song?” I asked incredulously.
“Celine Dion!” they replied, demonstrating more knowledge than I have about “American” pop-culture. I had no idea what "The Titanic Song" even sounded like. I had seen Titanic several years back in a movie theater in Mendocino, California with my family. It was an epic film, pure Hollywood eye-candy. But the soundtrack? The title song? I didn’t have a clue…. I was going to get one.

Five Keralite girls all burst into song around me, giggling and slightly swaying with Bollywood-style hip movements. The melody of the song had been influenced by their Carnatic and Sopana vocal music training, and the English was a bit garbled, but there was no doubt about it, in rural Kerala Titanic had made a titanic impact. I found myself in doubt, I came to rural India to experience some kind of Indian-ness - and I get… Titanic?

Some of my best friends and informants in Kerala are a pair of brothers named Shaheem and Shafiq. The brothers live walking distance from the Kalamandalam School where their family owns an Ayurvedic pharmacy. Their father is reputed to be the first Muslim Ayurvedic doctor in Kerala. Both brothers are unmarried because neither has been able to obtain enough money to build a new “Middle Eastern-style” house near the main road; a crucial bargaining chip on the Kerala marriage market.

Shaheem, the younger brother, is, as he has told me on numerous occasions, "crazy for everything Western." He dresses in "executive-style" (heavy wool trousers, long sleeve button-up polyester shirts and leather dress shoes) despite the hot humid weather of Kerala. His brother Shafiq, has little interest in the West, is a devout Muslim and always dresses in Kerala-style traditional dhotis. Shafiq practices medicine under their father but because of excessive fees, has not been able to pursue official certification as an Ayurvedic doctor. The polar attitudes of these two brothers represent two ways of dealing with the crises of globalization and westernization: cautious resistance and bold embrace.

During my 2003-2004 research, Shaheem was studying English with my husband Grady, and he often acted as a translator for us. I posed the question to Shaheem and Shafiq:
“What is your favorite movie?”
They responded without hestitation, “Titanic, of course!”
As if there were any other answer!
I queried Shaheem, “What about Malayalam films?”
The Malayalam film industry churns out hundreds of films each year.
“We love Malayalam films,” the brothers told me. “But really, our favorite film, above all else, is Titanic.” This was not the answer I expected from two young men who live in rural Kerala. Maybe it was a passing phase?

I returned to Kerala in the summer of 2005 to formally study in a Malayalam language intensive and continue my training in Mohiniyattam. I was based in the capital of Kerala- the booming metropolis of Tiruvananathapuram. Titanic was still floating. My host “uncle,” a senior manager at the Kerala State Bank told me that it was his favorite movie, as did my Malayalam language teachers, my dance teachers and all my friends. In fact, everyone who I asked seemed to still love Titanic, perhaps even more than when I had last conducted fieldwork in Kerala.

Returning to Cheruthuruthy (a ruraltown near the Kalamandalam school), I met with Shaheem whose love of Titanic remained unfaltering.

“Actually” he told me, “ I have seen Titanic over thirty-five times! I just love Titanic. All people here love Titanic; grandmothers, young women, boys, girls, and men.”

Shaheem now runs an English Academy in Cheruthuruthy. I was lucky enough to be a guest teacher in the Academy for a few days last summer. I initiated a conversation about films. The conversation topic was deliberate, (I am an anthropologist, after all), and I wanted more evidence that Titanic was as important as I suspected.

During the course of two days I spoke with over one-hundred students from the ages of fifteen to fifty; men and women, boys and girls, Muslims, Hindus and Christians. Almost every student with whom I spoke identified Titanic as his or her favorite movie. Later, watching television with Shaheem, he turned the channel to a public access station so we could see his advertisement for “Speak Up! Speak Out! Academy of English.” Much to my glee, advertisement after advertisement had “The Titanic Song” playing in the background.

So why does the Titanic have such a lasting and intense resonance with Keralites? Of course, the movie must have a variety of meanings for each viewer, yet the seemingly uniform love of the movie, (as opposed to any other American, Mollywood, Tallywood, or Bollywood film), demands some sort of explanation. Certainly the entirety of the film is epic, in the tradition of Bollywood films, yet I do not believe that this, alone, accounts for the popularity of Titanic in Kerala.

It is tempting to interpret the widespread love of Titanic as cultural imperialism in its most blatant form. Through this lens, the culture industry of the West is engaged in ideological imperialism resulting in worldwide cultural homogenization. Yet, it must be taken into consideration that people in Kerala really enjoy Titanic. Keralites with whom I spoke about the movie never saw it as a negative import of Westernization. This imperialist designation is generally reserved for Kerala's large Coca Cola plant that appropriates ground water resources and pollutes the land, affecting tribals, dalits, and small farmers nearby the factory in the Palakhad region.

So why is Titanic so popular in Kerala? And has its popularity waned since I was there in 2005? My husband and I are headed back to Kerala this August (2007) for another year to find out and I suspect that Titanic hasn't sunk in Kerala just yet.

POORAM- 2003/2004

2007-08-02T13:41:00.000-07:00

It's Pooram season! Pooram means "festival" in central Kerala, and festival here means elephants. Lots of elephants wearing gold head ornaments, and estatic dancers holding fans and umbrellas riding on top of the elephants as they are paraded around, in, and through, throngs of people. We are proud sponsors of our local Pooram festival. There are several Pooram festivals throughout central Kerala, each features a different styles of dancers, but elephants are present at all Pooram festivities. The Cheruthuruthy Pooram includes five groups of dancers, musicians, and elephants, each originating in different villages.

Early in the morning of the Pooram festival day, our villages' hired elephants parade past our house, accompanied by a cacophony of pounding chenda drums. The elephants for Pooram must have both tusks and must have the temperment to cooperate with humans. Keralites say that the pounding chenda drums and the whining brass horns sooth the elephants who "dance" to the music.

Hailed by local firends, we join the crush of the parade, avoiding the elephants' plodding feet. We march slowly to the Bhagavaty Goddess temple, surrounded by dancers, umbrella holders and exuberant young men. At the temple the elephant brigades from several villages gather and thousands of people crowd around the temple. In all, 27 elephants plod through the central plaza, and line-up in front of the temple.

Drums and horns blare while dancers frenetically spin and stamp in the dust. Women in white and gold saris gather together in groups under the shade trees while boys and young men swagger through the central plaza laughing and boasting with their friends.

This Porram festival concludes in the running of the bulls. Not real bulls, but papermache effigies, which are run, violently, through the crowded temple grounds. This is q uite a scene and not reccomended for anyone weak of heart or lungs.

From 2003-2004 Grady Gauthier and Justine Lemos attented several Pooram festivals in Thrissur District, Kerala, including their own villages' Pooram near Cheruthuruthy.

INSIDE ARTS ARTICLE- 2004

2007-08-02T12:01:00.000-07:00

Please click on a page to enlarge.

THE AMBASSADOR

2007-08-02T10:10:00.000-07:00

Last weekend my friends Rajesh, Bindu, and Prima met me at my house in India's most trusted travel vehicle, the Ambassador. According to The Ambassador website, The Ambassador was the first car manufactured in India, and "has been ruling the Indian roads ever since its inception in 1948." In style, the Ambassador hasn't changed much since 1948.

Our driver, Raju, was extremely to the road, except when he was answering his mobile, rolling paan (a beetle nut chew), or talking over his shoulder to the people in the backseat. Much to my dismay, throughout the first half of the trip, the roads were quite good. The problem with good roads in Kerala is that when pavement is smooth there is nothing to slow the driver. Better road quality lends itself to Malayalee maneuvers such as, the pass on blind curve with horn-blaring, the run small farm animals off the road with horn blasts, and surprise the villagers with horn toots. In Kerala, the horn is a safety device par excellance, a communication beacon, and sometimes a musical instrument. Drivers use their horns with a frequency unknown in the western world.

We traveled to the small village of Attingal just north of Trivandrum where my friend, Dr. Bindu, lives in a refurbished 200 year-old home. The home has a red tile roof, wooden construction, carved pillars and tile floors. Sadly, much of the old-style Kerala architecture has been demolished or turned into tourist resorts.

From Attingal, Raju drove us in The Ambassador to the beach resort, Varkala. The back-roads were in very bad repair. This meant slower driving, but motion sickness. The trusty Ambassador climbed slowly (shocks creaking and groaning) in and out of the potholes, once again proving that it "rules the Indian roads." Throughout this portion of the journey, Raju ground the gears of the Ambassador and spit large gobs of red paan juice furiously out the window. Sitting in the backseat, Raju's red spittle occasionally sprayed me in the face. The Ambassador's window was jammed down and I suffered the consequences.

When we reached Varkala- a village on the sea fast becoming a tourist destination, we visited a large Hindu temple. Usually only Hindus are allowed inside, but for some reason, (probably my well-folded sari), I was allowed in to do pooja (prayer) and have darshan (a look at the God) of the enshrined Krishna statue. Kerala drums and instruments played continuously for Krishna's enjoyment. Outside the main shrine were several smaller shrines to the Kerala Nagas, (snake Gods). At one shrine we paid a small amount of money to have a priestess sing to the snake Gods. At a Nagaraja (Snake King) shrine under a special type of tree hundreds of plastic dolls hung in a sort of . At this shrine women come and offer dolls in hopes of getting pregnant.

On the Varkala beach one can pay a preist to propigate your ancestors with coconut offerings and Sanskritic prayers. I declined. Actually the Varkala beach was almost non-existent. Usually in the monsoon season the sea will rise up over some of the beach, however this year the sea has risen so much the beach is nearly gone!

From Varkala beach we visited the Sivagiri Mut Ashram. This is the ashram of the great Kerala caste reformer who preached that there should be "One caste, one creed, one religion, one God for all humanity." This saint, Sri Narayana, is very popular with lower caste people in Kerala. His shriine was very tranquil and well kept.

Next we enjoyed some backwater boating. Basically we went through the backwater canals scaring birds, burning diesel, polluting the backwaters, and disturbing villagers who were fishing and washing their cows. Actually dispite the drawbacks (namely the stinky two-stroke engine) it was a very pleasant trip thorugh the backwaters. Finally we took our meal at a hotel. Rrestaurant's here are called hotels- emphasis on ho, mind you. Of course we had Kerala meals- sambar and rice! What else.

GOD'S OWN COUNTRY - 2003/2004

2007-08-01T13:31:00.000-07:00

With all the news from abroad about trouble between Islamic extremists and the Western world you might think that as two Americans living in rural India next door to a mosque we might have some apprehension about our surrounds. Nothing could be further from the truth. On a Fulbright grant to research dance in India, my husband and I lived in the South Indian State of Kerala for ten months. Our lesson in religious tolerance came when my husband and I decided that we had been staying in a hotel long enough. It was time to find more stable housing. Our first mistake was enlisting the hotel owner in helping us find a house.

Of course, he didn't want us to move out of the hotel, so he
showed us run-down traditional style houses without windows or indoor plumbing. While these houses had a certain rustic appeal, I did not want to end up sharing my bed with a cobra that might have found its way inside through the open windows. We elected to remain at the hotel.

Our housing search continued until a friend in the Kalamandalam school administration made some inquires for us and succeeded in finding a recently built house that was vacant. The family who built the house was living and working in the Middle Eastern gulf, as do so many Keralite families. We visited the house and it was more than we had hoped for- running water, a washing machine, a stove, and even a television!
It was also next door to a Mosque.
We decided we would move in as soon as possible, and that we would try to make friends with our Muslim neighbors. And so we rented our home from a local Muslim family, in a Muslim neighborhood, next door to a Mosque, across the street from a Muslim school. Throughout our stay we had uniformly excellent relations with our Muslim neighbors. Certainly, during the Islamic holy month of Ramadan, the calls to prayer that regularly echoed out from the mosque loudspeakers increased in length and frequency. But aside from prayer-calls waking us up in the night, we experienced no problems as Americans living among Muslims.

There is a delightful acceptance of religious diversity in Kerala; Hindus, Muslims, and Christians all live side by side as friends and companions in the Keralite culture. From our outside perspective, Kerala seemed to be a land of peaceful religious tolerance. Muslims participate in Hindu festivals, and Christians study traditional Hindu dance. At night, firework
explosions from the Hindu temples blend with evening prayers sing out from the mosques.
Religious motifs decorate the dashboards of all the buses in Kerala. Hindu buses carry small statues of Hindu Gods, Christian buses have large pictures of Jesus, and Muslim buses carry pictures of Mecca. Every time I got on a local bus, I prayed that the religious icons would impart some Divine grace (or at least good luck) to the drivers. In Kerala, the rules of the road are very wild – it is the survival of the biggest and fastest, bus drivers careen
at breakneck-speed around blind curves and past cars – barely missing oncoming traffic. Our favorite buses were the religiously pluralistic busses. These busses feature lighted displays of a Christian cross, Mecca, and the Hindu God Vishnu, side by side on the dashboard panel.

We have found friends here who are Christian, Hindu and Muslim. Naturally people assume that we are Christian. Usually, I do not bother to contradict them. As long as people can identify us as belonging to one of the three major religions found here, we can move on to the more important questions about why my husband Grady has long hair, why we don't have any children and what we eat. It inevitably comes out that Grady does a lot of the cooking and that we share most of the housework. This causes a lot of giggles from both men and women.

Last weekend we were invited to our Muslim friend Shaheem's home for lunch out in the middle of a sea of green rice paddies. We were fed a colossal amount of traditional Keralalite foods on a banana leaf. After we were properly stuffed full of food we went on a visit to their closest neighbors. The neighbors, who have an old style traditional Keralalite home, are Brahmins (the highest caste of Hindus). They are great friends with Shaheem and his Muslim family. It was so wonderful to experience the easy friendship that we felt between Shaheem and his Hindu neighbors as Hindus and Muslims have a history of strife in India. Shaheem's best friend is a Christian. There is a gentle acceptance of religious diversity here, and acceptance that is inspiring. The beautiful weather, lush vegetation, tranquil beaches, stunning mountains of Kerala all make it an attractive place to stay, but it is the people, their gentle warmth, and religious tolerance that make Kerala, as the locals are fond of saying, "God's own country."

A version of this article was published in the book "Beyond Boundaries" a USEFI/ Fulbright publication, 2007.