nsweeney.blogr.com - Blog (RSS 2.0)

an unexpected solution

nsweeney — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 13:58:14 +0100

One thing that I will really miss about India is that people are extremely resourceful. Things are always being fixed, recycled, or reused. Unlike in the US, it is always cheaper to fix something than it is to buy something new. There are people who can fix just about anything: pressure cookers, cameras, umbrellas, locks, etc. There are shoe repairmen and bike mechanics on almost every street corner. Along the side of the Meenakshi temple, there are guys who sit by a wheel driven contraption and sharpen knives all day. God knows how many times I have gone down to my tailor’s shop to fix stray rips and holes in my clothes. There is a scrap yard market in Madurai that is a maze of auto parts, bike parts, old tools, and pipes of all sizes.

However, it’s not just specialty repairmen that know how to fix things. One day last March, my friend Kassia and I were in Kolkata, on our way to the airport. There are no auto rickshaws in the center of the city, so we hopped in an old Ambassador taxi. The driver was a thin, wizened old guy who kept to himself. We were driving down a main road and the traffic was so bad that all the drivers had turned off their engines. Suddenly, things were moving again. Our driver started up the car, but nothing happened. Kassia and I looked at each other with a hint of dismay. The driver got out of the car while lots of other cars were whizzing by and opened the hood. He fiddled around for a bit and then got back in the car and tried to start it. It wouldn’t start. He got up and looked inside the hood again but the car still wouldn’t start. Then, the he got out of the car and proceeded to walk over to the median. Kassia and I were wondering if we should catch another taxi. Meanwhile, the driver picked up a brick from the middle of the road, walked over to the hood, and dropped the brick inside. Then, he got back into the car and started the ignition without a problem. Kassia and I looked at each other with a combination of amazement and relief.

Things might break down a lot in India, but at least people know how to fix them. Imagine if people in the US could just lay a brick inside their hood instead of calling AAA.

the adventures of a seventy something ye...

nsweeney — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 20:26:32 +0200

Grandparents are pretty typical fixtures in Indian households. My co-worker Jamuna’s mom came to live with her last year. Jamuna’s husband works out of town during the week, so she really likes having her mom around. Jamuna’s mom is a tiny old Tamil woman with thick white hair that she ties up in a loose bun. She has a very endearing face creased with wrinkles, cheeks that sag a bit, and lips pursed as if she’s getting ready to say something. She speaks to me in Tamil as if I can understand everything, and even though I can’t understand her whispery Tamil, I wobble my head at everything she says. I call her Pati, which is the Tamil word for grandma.

One day, Jamuna was a bit flustered and tired when she came to work. She said that the day before, her mom had accidentally locked herself in the kitchen for five hours. Pati was at home alone. She went in the kitchen to get something and the door slammed shut. Somehow there was no handle on the inside of the door and the door had swelled because of the humidity, so Pati was stuck. She began to bang on the window and yell for the neighbors. Hours later, some of the neighbors finally hear her. They came to the window and tried to figure out what to do. The window was too small and too high to crawl through. The house was locked, so no one could come to the other side of the kitchen door. Luckily, although the door didn’t have a handle, it did have a sort immovable knob. Pati unwound her sari (saris are about 10 feet long), tied it to the knob, and handed the other end to the women at the window. The women pulled hard, and after some time they were able to yank the door open from across the room. Jamuna said her mom was very tired after such an eventful day. I thought the story sounded like an urban legend, Tamil style.

the joys of going solo

nsweeney — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 19:56:49 +0200

India is a very challenging place for a solo woman traveler. Indian women almost never travel alone so foreign women traveling alone are both an oddity and a spectacle. This came as a shock to me at first because when I had traveled alone in the US and Europe, I found it to be refreshing and rewarding. After a year in India, I’ve learned to cope with the staring, the lack of women on the street, and the relentless parade of people who want something from me, be it money or simply to know where I’m from. I’ve figured out ways to make myself feel more comfortable, such as sticking close to women and families, staying on the move, keeping my wits about me, and maintaining my sense of humor. Occasionally, being alone works to my advantage. Last winter, I was walking along the beach in Cochin and I sat by a family and watched the water. The mother and the father kept looking over at me and smiling, so I came over and sat by them. They proceeded to feed me date cake and grapes and ask me all sorts of questions. The twenty-something year old son kept trying to get my phone number but his sisters just made fun of him, and thus I was more amused than threatened. However, despite moments like this I still always feel like I need to be on guard.

For my summer break, I knew I wanted to travel to Southeast Asia, but I didn’t have a traveling companion. After traveling alone in India, I was reluctant to do the same in Laos and Cambodia. I spent weeks agonizing over what I should do, thinking maybe I should try to find a traveling companion or go and visit one of the other Shansi fellows. In the end, I decided that I wanted to go where I wanted to go, even if I had to go alone. Fortunately, my trip to Cambodia and Laos turned out to be one of the most enjoyable and relaxing traveling experiences of my life. In fact, some of my favorite moments on the trip occurred precisely because I was traveling alone.

The day after I landed in Laos, I hopped onto a sawngthaew (a sort of shared taxi in the form of a pick-up truck) and headed off to Don Khon, an island in the middle of the Mekong River. Once I arrived on the island with some other travelers, it was evident that the pace was extremely slow. A series of bungalows lined the riverbank, and people were lying in hammocks on the porches of the bungalows. There was no electricity on the island, and the generators were only switched on from 6-10pm. I forgot to pack a flashlight and I was tired from the heat, so I went to sleep promptly at 10pm and got up and 6am.

When I woke up, I decided to rent a bike and explore the island while it was still cool outside. I biked to a waterfall and sat for a while listening to the rush of the falls. Then, as I was biking back to the main road, I saw a sign that said "Cool off with a lemon mint shake at Mama's restaurant." Sometimes advertising really works. I turned toward the restaurant right away. I think it was about 7:30am. I was definitely the first customer. The restaurant was owned by a family who had simply put some chairs and tables in front of their house for customers. The man came out and took my order. It looked like he and his wife were sort of scrambling around to find the right ingredients. Then, the woman brought me the shake. I tried it and it wasn't quite sweet enough. I asked the man for some sugar. He brought me a sugar jar from one of the other table and gave it to me, then quickly took it away because it was full of ants. Then, the woman brought me the bag of sugar from her kitchen and I doctored up my shake.

Instead of going back to the house, the woman sat across from me and started talking. First she asked me the usual questions - where was I from, how long I had been in Laos etc. Then I told her that I lived in India and we started talking about the differences between Lao and Indian marriages. She asked me if I was traveling alone and when I said yes she said, "that's good." She talked about how she liked going to the nearby city by herself and she complained about how her husband talked too much. She spoke English pretty well. She said that she'd lived on the island all her life. For some reason I then asked her how people give birth on the island. I wanted to know if there was there a doctor or a midwife. She said that she'd given birth to seven children and all her births were easy because she stayed active - always working in the kitchen instead of lying down. I was very intrigued by this woman. It occurred to me that she might not have sat and talked to me if had not been by myself. All of a sudden, I heard the sound of a television and I asked, "Do you have a TV running off of your generator?" She said, "Yes. It is so beautiful. Do you want to see?" I thought for a second and then I said sure.

The next thing I knew, I was watching a Thai historical drama on cable TV with this woman and her whole family at 8am. The woman kept filling me in on the plot. Her daughters sat with their own kids in front of me, all enthralled by the glowing screen. It’s amazing how important TV is, even in some of the most isolated places. I was so amazed by the whole moment that I asked the woman if I could take some pictures of everyone watching TV. She nodded, and I managed to get a great snap of the whole family glued to the screen. Despite the bizarreness of the situation I felt completely welcomed into this family’s home.

Later on in the day, I took a nice walk near the river, completely alone. I didn't see a soul for two hours. The clear water was full of beautiful rocks and there were majestic green hills in the distance. In India, there are people everywhere, so quiet moments like this are rare. I savored my solitude and thought about my early morning adventures. Being alone was refreshing once again.

no, i don't pray to jesus

nsweeney — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 21:20:51 +0100

I’ve never felt much of a connection to religion but if I had to categorize myself, I would say that I’m a cultural Jew. I quit Sunday school in fourth grade, I’ve never had a Bat Mitzvah and I’ve never really been interested in going to synagogue. Nevertheless, I’ve found myself constantly reasserting my Jewish identity ever since I came to India. I teach at a Christian college, and most of the faculty members are Christian. When I first arrived on campus, people were always inviting me to go to church with them. I always politely declined and told them that I was Jewish. Most people responded by saying, “What’s that?” A lot of people I’ve met in India have utterly no awareness that Judaism is a major world religion, even though there used to be a thriving Jewish community in Kerala. I was so perplexed by this at first that I had a hard time explaining what Judaism is. The question that always throws me is “Who is your god?” Okay, my Jewish education was very limited, but as far as I could tell, god was just god, right? Adonoi in Hebrew? Monotheistic religion? This question might be followed by, “Do you have a picture of your god?” or “So you don’t believe in Jesus?” Sometimes I want to yell “Noooo!!” but I have to try to be patient because in some ways, these are perfectly reasonable questions. There are very few Jews in India. At the same time, I couldn’t stand that most people just assumed that since I was American, I had to be a Christian. I even had a long conversation about Judaism with one of my students, but to my dismay she ended the conversation by saying, “But I still think you look like a Christian.” The other frustrating that most people assume that I’m religious. Religion is a pretty huge part of everyday life in India. Saying I’m a cultural Jew wouldn’t make much sense. People are always surprised when I tell them that I don’t pray.

Anyway, all of these conversations inspired me to embark on something of an educational crusade. I decided that I needed to explain what Judaism was to as many people on campus as possible. This is ironic considering how secular I am. I bought both volumes of MAUS and a book about Jewish holidays for the Shansi center. Then, I decided to have a Hanukkah party on campus to set the record straight. Of course, every time I tried to persuade people to come to the party, I had to not only explain what Hanukkah was, but also was Judaism was. You’d be surprised how many times I’ve said these exact words: “Judaism is a major world religion different from Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity.”

In the midst of all of this, a rabbi named Mayer Gruber moved in next door to me. Allow me to reiterate that I’m at a WOMEN’S CHRISTIAN COLLEGE where there are very few men and very few people who know what a Jew is. It’s a funny place for a rabbi to suddenly appear. Of course, I was delighted to have someone around who could understand my sense of humor and say the prayers at the Hanukkah party. I soon found out that Mayer is a Conservative rabbi/professor of Biblical studies who lives in Beer Sheba, Israel. He has always dreamed of going to India, so he got in touch with a friend of a friend of the principal of Lady Doak’s husband, who teaches Biblical studies in Bangalore. Mayer also specializes in women’s studies, particularly in relation to the Bible and the Talmud, so it was strangely appropriate for him to be a women’s college after all. He has spent hours in the library reading about women in India, Muslim women poetesses, and Hindu feminists. He couldn’t have arrived at a better time.

I knew I could depend on Mayer to say the prayers at the party and to refresh my memory about the Hanukkah story. However, I still had a bunch of things to get together. I only had one dreidle but luckily the campus carpenter agreed to make duplicates for me for about three dollars. I called my grandma to get her latke recipe and bought about 8 kilograms of potatoes at the market. I spent a whole afternoon chopping onions, peeling potatoes, and frying latkes with the help of my friends Sharon, Christiana, and Kassia. I was anxious to see how many people would come, but as the afternoon progressed, I got too absorbed in cooking to worry. To my surprise, the party was a big success. When I walked up into the activity center, the room was packed with students, as well as the principal and several professors. I told the story of Hanukkah and explained the traditions. I lit the candles while Mayer said the prayers. Everybody ate latkes and applesauce. Then, the students played dreidle, which was a big hit. Amazingly, I was able to find chocolate coins, so the game was more authentic that I thought it would be. I’m still not sure how many of the students understood what Hanukkah was after the party, but it was definitely a step in the right direction. For sure, I haven’t had anyone ask if I pray to Jesus in quite a while.

sorry i wore a sari

nsweeney — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 19:48:50 +0100

The first time I wore a sari, I was in the middle of my Shansi fellowship orientation in Oberlin, Ohio. There was a group of Lady Doak College students doing a project with students at Oberlin. They did some sort of cultural show, which included yoga, dancing to Tamil pop music, and a demonstration of how to tie a sari. I volunteered to have the sari tied on me, figuring that I might need to wear one some day. It was a mildly embarrassing experience – everyone in the room stared at me while Priya Rajendran (an LDC professor) tucked the sari into the waistband of my jeans and wound it around me, muttering, “Of course you usually tuck it into a skirt, but this will do.” So there I was, in front of an audience, standing awkwardly in a t-shirt and jeans with a sari on top. I tried to take a couple of steps and almost stumbled onto the floor. I managed to slowly amble to the other side of the room where all of the Tamil girls were sitting, chattering away and smiling at me. On of them announced: “Nora, you are looking like Indira Gandhi with your short hair and your sari.” I think I wore the sari for a total of ten minutes and then decided it was time to break free.

Once I moved to India, I began to wear chudidas, which are knee-length tunics with baggy pants and a scarf. Wearing a chudida is basically like wearing nice pajamas. It is a very comfortable garment – the pants even have a drawstring. Chudidas are the typical traditional dress for young, unmarried women. Women usually only wear saris if they are married or on special occasions. So, I didn’t really think about wearing a sari for a while, until I started getting invited to weddings. Suddenly I was getting invitations like this: “Nora, please come to my wedding – but you MUST wear a sari.” I felt like I had to honor such a request. I asked my friend Kassia, who has a lot more fashion sense than me, to go sari shopping with me.

On the day of the wedding, I returned from to Madurai from Mysore early in the morning. It was a Sunday, so no one was around to help me to tie my sari. My friend Divya promised to help me put my sari on at the wedding hall. So, I walked into the bride’s dressing room with my chudida on, carrying my sari in a plastic bag. Of course the first thing Shirin (the bride) said when she saw me was not “Hi Nora, how are you?” but “Hi Nora, where is your sari? I asked you to wear a sari.” I wondered how this could possibly impact Shirin’s wedding day when she must have had a lot of other things on her mind. For some reason, if was important to her that I wear a sari. So I proceeded to undress in this room full of Tamil girls. First I attempted to put the blouse on backwards by accident, and then when I got in on, I realized it was much to tight at the base. Indian corset, anyone? I hadn’t had time to make sure that it fit right before the wedding because I had been out of town. Once I had my blouse and my skirt on, I stood in the middle of the room and everyone watched while Divya tied the sari on me. I am often a spectacle in India but not usually on this intimate of a scale. The sari tying wasn’t going smoothly either. Divya kept tugging at the drawstring of the skirt and tying a knot but it wasn’t ever tight enough. Frustrated, Divya exclaimed, “It is because your hips are too narrow, that is why the string won’t get tight enough.” Hmm…how did I go from fulfilling someone’s request to getting my femininity assaulted? Without intending to be mean or critical, Indian women are pretty blunt when they comment on people’s appearances. One time, Divya saw an picture of me from when I was in college. I looked slightly boyish - my hair was shorter and I was wearing a t-shirt. Divya looked at me, looked at the picture, paused, and then looked back at me and said, “You are more beautiful now that you are in India.” I guess it was a compliment. I think she meant that I look more like a girl now, which is true. I usually think this sort of remark is pretty entertaining, but after the narrow hips comment, I was cringing. Another student friend of mine, Priya, pitched in to help Divya tie the knot, explaining to me,”If we don’t get this tight enough, sari will fall off.” This whole thing was beginning to seem like a bad idea to me. Divya kept saying, “Why did you get a cotton sari, they are so hard to tie.” Finally, after lots of sighs and grumbling and pinning, Divya tied my sari. Everyone in the room marveled at me, the foreigner in the sari. Soon after the initial positive response, Divya said, “Don’t you have a gold chain?” I said no, and sensed a momentary vibe of disappointment around the room. Apparently matching bangles and earrings weren’t enough. I was bare without a chain. Feeling pretty annoyed at this point, I muttered something about how they should all be happy I agreed to wear a sari at all. Meanwhile, I felt as if I was taking attention away from the bride, who was almost ready in the adjoining room. One of the other girls glanced my way and noticed that that the left side of my blouse wasn’t quite covered up with the sari, and said, “You have to be careful with this part, don’t let it slide over.” It’s acceptable for the back of your midriff to show, but showing the front of your blouse is a little too much like exposing your breasts. This is why girls conventionally when scarves draped over their chests when they are wearing chudidas. Somehow the extra layer makes a difference. Anyway, some more pins alleviated the problem of possible exposure.

Everyone began to leave the room to watch the wedding ceremony. Time to walk in the sari, I thought. One of the girls sensed my reluctance to walk and gathered up the front pleats of my sari, handed them to me, and said, “Okay, go.” I sat down as soon as I could. Every time I had to get up and move around, I felt like the whole thing was going to fall off. My sari was thoroughly pinned, but I’m pretty sure it become looser the longer I wore it. I didn’t even have anyone take a picture of me because I felt so uncomfortable. I was, of course, coaxed into getting my picture taken with the bride and all of her friends on the stage. When girls asked me what I thought of wearing a sari, I told them flat out that I thought it was really uncomfortable. I felt exposed, confined, immobile, and just plain awkward. The ironic thing was, most of the girls I talked to felt just as awkward in saris. So why were they getting such a big kick out of me wearing one? I’m still not sure of the answer, but seeing western women wear saris in something of an obsession, especially among Tamil women. All I knew was, this was not something I would be doing often. However, I am glad that I did it, because it gave me a lot of insight into how this garment impacts the level of freedom women have in Indian society. Wearing a sari limits your mobility – you have to move slowly and carefully. On the other hand, I see women who wear saris everyday and seem totally at ease. I’ve adjusted to a lot of things in India, but I’m still not interested in getting used to wearing a sari.

During Shirin’s wedding, I imagined having to wear my sari again at Divya’s wedding. I was planning to film Divya’s wedding. Suddenly I had a nightmarish vision of me in a sari, saddled with all of my video equipment, tripping over my tripod and breaking my video camera. Sari + video camera = disaster. As soon as I got home, I quickly unhinged myself and changed into a t-shirt and jeans. The next day, I talked to Divya and explained to her that I couldn’t possibly operate my video camera in a sari and that I would be happy to buy a new chudida to wear at her wedding. I breathed a sigh of relief when Divya said, “Nora, my only wish is that you come to my marriage.”

the ride of my life

nsweeney — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 19:06:25 +0100

On the train ride from Vishakhapatnam to Bhubaneswar, Ellis and I attempted to ride in second class. We didn't really know what we were getting ourselves into. Second class is the cheapest type of train travel. I think it cost us about two dollars each for an 8 hour train ride. What we didn't know was that there's no quota for second class, so the cars are always unbelievably crowded. As soon as we climbed into the car, we could not physically get past the doorway. Other people somehow shoved their way past us, but I had my big backpack, so squeezing past the crowd wasn't an option. I must have looked shocked and confused, because a guy standing next to me in the doorway told Ellis and I not to go further into the car because there was no space. He then invited us to sit next to the door with him. His name was Rao and he proved to be a great companion for the next several hours. He and Ellis sat in the doorway with their legs hanging out of the train while I sat on my bag across from the sink. So things didn't seem too bad, but I was already pushed to my limits from lack of space and mobility. There was more to come. The sink I was sitting across from was broken - the pipe that led from the drain to the outside was dislodged. This wouldn't have been such a big deal, but it was morning, so it seemed like everyone on the train car was lining up to brush their teeth. Every time someone came up to brush their teeth, a mixture of toothpaste, spit and water came flying onto my feet, directly from the drain. Essentially people were spitting on my feet for about an hour. I never wear shoes in India - I always wear sandals. I tried to turn around to dodge the spit, but the inches of space I had available didn't make much of a difference. The only thing that kept me from having a panic attack was feeling the constant breeze from the doorway and watching the lush, hilly, misty landscape of eastern Andhra Pradesh go by. After the sink traffic waned, I found a semi-comfortable way to sit on my backpack and I actually began to enjoy myself. At one point, Rao bought us all tea and we just sat looking out the doorway drinking our tea as we rushed by the green hills. Rao asked us all kinds of questions about what we were doing in India. He also told us that he was a teacher of general knowledge (quite a job description!) and that he was about to get married. We also took some pictures of each other by holding my camera outdside the camera and looking back. A couple of hours later, one man offered us his seats as he got off the train. We actually had some room to breath for a while. Our compartment was full of people with amazing faces, so I began to take pictures. People were extremely friendly, and it definitely helped that Rao had sort of adopted us for the ride. Lack of space was still an issue. There were people packed into the luggage compartments above us, and more people stuffed themselves onto the train at every stop. Every space that opened up got filled minutes later. Even if there was no space, people created it for themselves. Our bench seemed packed with five people, but a woman shoved herself on the end of without hesitation. Ellis could barely move his shoulders. Also, the second class seats are made of rock hard wooden planks, so our butts were sore within a couple of hours. Towards the end of the ride, the excitement of talking to people and watching the landscape wore off and I couldn't wait to get off the train. Still, considering the distress I felt at the very beginning of the ride, it was amazing how rewarding the experience had been overall.

creatures i have encountered in my apart...

nsweeney — Mon, 15 Oct 2007 18:55:15 +0200

Mosquitoes, ants, very loud crickets, geckoes, a mouse, a small cockroach, flies, spiders, and millipedes (to be continued).

in the land of superstar

nsweeney — Thu, 11 Oct 2007 18:55:20 +0200

The first time I saw a Tamil movie, I was bored and disappointed. I was in my intensive Tamil class in Madison, Wisconsin, and it was Friday afternoon. I was ready to go swimming in the lake, but instead I was about to watch a three-hour movie. The film was too long, the picture quality wasn’t very good, the editing was choppy, the script seemed corny, and the female characters were whiney and unappealing. I watched several more Tamil films that summer, and I usually had a similar reaction. Sometimes I just got up and left in the middle of the film because I couldn’t stand sitting through the entire thing. I enjoyed the dance scenes and some of the songs, but overall, the films were tedious. My Tamil teacher integrated cinema into his class regularly and he even used film songs to teach certain grammatical constructions. So, like it or not, I had Tamil film songs stuck in my head all the time. Little did I know how important it was for me to have watched these films before coming to Madurai.

Cinema is an incredibly significant part of the culture in Tamil Nadu. When I walk on the street, I see film posters pasted all over the walls and I hear film songs coming from speakers, radios, and buses. On television, there are about ten channels that only air Tamil music videos and about five or six more that only play Tamil films. Whenever Tamilians meet me, they are bound to ask if I’ve seen any Tamil movies or if I know any Tamil songs. My previous knowledge of Tamil film has helped me interact with all kinds of people.

Many people in Tamil Nadu are avid star worshippers. There are serious fan clubs dedicated to major stars, especially MGR and Rajni Kanth. People from these fan clubs go to see their star’s films up to ten or more times. Allow me to remind you that these movies are all three hours long. In the past, these fan clubs have also served as popular wings of political parties, since movie stars often become involved in politics. MGR, the beloved film star of the 1960’s and ‘70’s, was also the chief minister of Tamil Nadu. His face is everywhere in Madurai – painted on the back of auto-rickshaws, pasted on the side of buildings downtown, or hanging on the wall at barber shops.

Rajni Khan is better known as Superstar. That alone explains a lot. His face is everywhere also. I’ve even seen pictures of him cut and pasted onto advertisements for products that I don’t think he endorses. My Tamil teacher is Wisconsin was a big Superstar fan. It’s taken me a while to understand the appeal. First of all, he’s got a cleft in his chin, a huge moustache, a poofy Elvis style wig, and a small potbelly. He definitely does not look like a conventional super star. To top it off, he’s gimmicky, corny, silly and ridiculous, and he’s not a very good dancer. However, he is enormously popular. Apparently, he is the second highest paid actor in Asia, second only to Jackie Chan. I began to understand his popularity when I learned that he grew up very poor. He used to work as bus conductor and a day laborer before he became an actor. Apparently he also played an auto-rickshaw driver in one of his films. Talk about a popular hero. I have to admit, while I was watching Superstar’s latest film, Sivagi, I found him charming and hilarious. I also think it’s great that he looks nothing like Brad Pitt.

On my blog, I’ve included links to several Tamil music videos. Four of them are from Superstar films. Several others are from a film called Sivakasi, which stars Vijay, a young, slick, up and coming star. He is much more handsome and polished than Rajni Kanth – and he’s far better dancer. He always plays a righteous thug. In his films, beautiful women tend to fall in love with him right after he beats up a bunch of people. The last clip is from a film called Paruthi Verren, which is the closest I’ve seen to an “art film” in Tamil Nadu. It’s set in a village outside Madurai, so the music is much is more influenced by local folk music than slick pop tunes.

If you ever watch a Tamil movie, remember that Tamil movies include just about every genre possible: action, romance, comedy, drama and musical. This is part of why they are all three hours. I once asked my Tamil teacher why Tamil movies had to be so long. He looked at me incredulously and said, “It’s so you get your money’s worth.”

a long ride

nsweeney — Thu, 11 Oct 2007 17:59:25 +0200

It's Saturday at 4am. I'm on a bus with about 60 Tamil girls. All of them live in the dorms at Lady Doak College, so they are not allowed to leave campus often. This is a special occasion. We are going to Kodaikkanal, a cool, hilly town in the Western Ghats, near the border of Kerala. However, the main thing is, we are leaving campus. There's a catch: we have to be back by 10pm. Kodaikkanal is four hours away. None of the girls seem phased by the long day ahead. I've noticed that many of the them have abandoned their traditional garb for jeans and t-shirts. I feel a little silly in my chudida - the westerner in traditional indian clothing. As soon as the bus starts, the driver blasts the soundtrack from Sivagi, the new Ranji Kanth movie. All the girls are cheering and dancing in the back of the bus. The bus is totally full. I am sitting next to the window in the front, squeezed in between one girl to my right another in front of me. There is a speaker directly above my head. Part of me is saying, "Why did I decide to go on this field trip?" Another part of me responds, "It cost less than $4 to go four hours away to a beautiful place that is 73 degrees instead of 95 degrees." And, despite the intense noise and lack of space, it was fun. I think between the way there and the way back, I saw parts of about five different Tamil movies. We would get through an hour of one film and then it would freeze up. I think I overdosed on Tamil pop culture that day. Kodaikkanal was incredibly beautiful though - green, lush, cool, mountainous - basically everything Madurai is not. After seeing many scenic overlooks, we went bike riding around a lake in the middle of the town. The bike I rode was clunky and had thick tires and breaks that barely worked. It was worth the 10 rupee (25 cent) rental fee - it still got me around the lake several times. At the end of the day I sort of felt like I had gone to an Indian version of summer camp.

mamallapuram part 2: midnight taxi ride

nsweeney — Sun, 07 Oct 2007 21:37:19 +0200

When we got back to the hotel, Sophia still felt terrible, and she wanted to go to a larger hospital. It turned out that the nearest hospital was in Chennai, which was an hour and a half away. By this time, it was almost 11pm. So, after about an hour of planning and packing, we got in a cab and drove to Chennai. While we were in the cab, in started pouring rain outside. Chennai looked pretty grimy on a dark rainy night. Luckily Sophia’s study abroad director arranged for a doctor to wait for us at the hospital, so Sophia was admitted immediately. Kassia, Ellis and I spent several hours talking deliriously while we waited to make sure that Sophia was settled. Then we found an auto-rickshaw to take us to a nearby hotel. The rickshaw drivers in Chennai are very shrewd. It was pouring rain and we obviously needed to get somewhere, so we were in no position to bargain for a cheaper taxi fare. Once we got in the auto, it didn’t even seem like the driver knew where he was going. So there we were – in an unfamiliar city of 6 million plus people in the back of a rickshaw at 3am. And it was still raining. We did get to the hotel safely though, and we were able to sleep for a couple of hours before Sophia was discharged at 7am. Kassia went to pick her up and we checked her into a room at the hotel so that she could sleep.

Anyone traveling in India has to allow for a lot of flexibility. People get sick, trains are late, bus drivers go on strike – anything can happen. If you accept these things, you’ll be a much happier traveler. Even though this whole shift in the trip had been an ordeal, there were some perks. Our train was actually scheduled to leave Chennai, so even though we planned to leave from a small town nearby, we didn’t have to get new tickets. Once Sophia had been properly cared for, we had the whole day to explore Chennai. The city was full of puddles from the night before, but the sun was out, so it seemed less ominous. We went to a food market situated in some muddy alleyways a few blocks from the hotel. It was full of vegetable vendors yelling, people pushing through the alleyways to buy their goods, and chickens in cages waiting for you know what. Suddenly, my obsession for markets kicked in, and I realized that I was really happy to be in Chennai. It was really hot and humid though, so next we walked to Spencer’s Plaza, which is basically the Indian version of a mall. I have never been so happy to be in a mall in my life. It was air-conditioned, there was a nice English bookstore, and the food and the food court was really good. I had a veggie burger (not readily available in Madurai) and pineapple juice. What more could you want?

Needing some more time to relax in a cool place, we decided to see the new Rajni Khanth (Superstar) movie in the theater. The theater was pretty grimy. The bathroom was one of the dirtiest I’ve seen in India and the theater had a strange stale smell. Ellis said that he saw some rats scurrying around on the floor. The seats were all falling apart. I kept almost falling out of my seat because the cushion was detached from the frame. We had fun anyway. The theater was packed with people. The movie was completely ridiculous, but entertaining on the whole. It was a good way to top off an unexpectedly adventurous weekend.

I was so relieved to see Madurai when I got back. It is amazing how quickly a place can seem like home, especially when you can compare it to other places. I went back to my apartment, took a shower, and slept. I needed to re-charge before more surprise midnight rides.

mamallapuram part 1

nsweeney — Sun, 07 Oct 2007 21:31:47 +0200

My trip to Mamallapuram was much more eventful than I had anticipated. Ellis, Kassia, Sophia and I arrived at 6:30am, ate idlies and drank coffee, and headed to the beach. Mamallapuram is famous for being the site of a historic a Hindu temple complex called the Five Rathas. There is also a large temple called the Shore temple right near the beach. It was my first time seeing the ocean in India. The waves were huge, but I walked right into the water anyway. People don’t really wear bathing suits on the beach here – they just wear whatever they wear normally wear. Within minutes, my chudida pants were salty, sandy and soaked. The water was so nice and warm though, and it was refreshing to look out at the open sea after being in a congested city.

It was strange to be in a touristy place after living in a city with very few tourists. Hawkers and shopkeepers hounded us constantly, saying things like – “Hello madam, please come. Postcards! Postcards, postcards. Only ten rupees.” Then we would say “vendam,” which means “I don’t want/need” in Tamil and the hawkers would look slightly surprised, especially once they saw that Kassia, Sophia and I were wearing Indian clothing. One hawker on the beach encountered us, paused, and then said in an amused tone, “Indian dress, Tamil talk,” and chuckled to himself. That was the most original line I’ve heard yet.

The temples were very beautiful but there was something slightly disappointing about seeing places that existed solely to be tourist attractions. I missed being in a city bustling with people going about their everyday lives. It was also unbearably hot and sunny that day, which never helps. After we saw the temples, we got some lunch and took a nap at the hotel. That was when the trip took a slight detour.

When we woke up, Sophia felt sick. Kassia, Ellis, and I initially thought she was dehydrated, so we made sure that she drank a lot of water, got her some juice and some oral re-hydration powder. We sat with her for a while and then we let her rest. Nausea seems like one of those things that people just have to let pass.

We went for a walk on the Indian tourist side of the beach. The beaches were strangely divided into what seemed to be the Indian side and the foreigner’s side. The Indian tourist side was naturally more exciting. There were tons of families eating ice cream, walking in the water, and generally having a great time.

When we got back to the hotel, Sophia still wasn’t feeling better, so Kassia took her to the town’s tiny hospital. It was late in the day by that point, so the doctor wasn’t there. The nurses gave Sophia a check up and some medicine. We let Sophia rest some more while we got dinner. We went to restaurant on the beach where we at delicious grilled fish and eavesdropped on Italian tourists.

by train at night, by bus at dawn

nsweeney — Thu, 04 Oct 2007 15:10:58 +0200

This past weekend, I took the night train to Mamallapuram with Ellis and our friends Kassia and Sophia. It was my first train ride in India, and I was anticipating a restless night's sleep. However, being on the train was surprisingly pleasant. I never really slept soundly, but I relaxed comfortably on one of the top bunks in our sleeper car. There was plenty of air from the windows and the fans, and the noise of the train chugging along provided constant white noise. After about 9pm, the main lights were turned off, and ambient blue night lights were turned on. When we finally arrived at our destination, a small town called Chenglputtu, it was still dark. Groggy and exhausted, we walked several blocks in search of the bus station. The bus station was full of stray dogs and cows rummaging through the trash and fruit peels from the previous day. Things get started early in South India, so even though it was about 5am, people were already milling about, drinking coffee while they waited for buses. We got some coffee as well. The coffee here is about 20% coffee 80% milk and sugar, and it hits the spot on many occasions. It was difficult to get a straight answer about which bus we should take, but we finally found someone else who was going to Mamallapuram.

On the bus, there was a mournful Tamil song playing on the radio. Tamil music is ubiquitous whenever you go places in Tamil Nadu. You might hear it blasting from huge speakers on the street, from the inside of auto-rickshaws, or playing in bootleg DVD shops. In any case, the music becomes a soundtrack for whatever you happen to be doing at the time. While I was riding on the bus, the music seemed to be an essential part of the moment. The bus stopped for about 15 minutes because of a road block, but I didn't mind because I was listening to the radio and watching the town around me wake up. When the bus finally started moving, the sun began to rise. I savored the landscape as we drove by - Tamil Nadu is mostly flat, full of farms and palm trees, but there are occasional hills that add a little more drama to the scenery. It's beautiful, especially if you see it at dawn. Gradually, stop by stop, the bus began to fill up with people. Soon Kassia and I had an adorable baby sitting in front of us. When we arrived in Mamallapuram, the bus was packed, but not as chaotic as city buses that we were used to. We got off the bus at 6:30am, refreshed and ready for the next thing.

new territory

nsweeney — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 21:31:36 +0200

Today I walked around with some of my photojournalism students while they took pictures. They were very timid with the camera at first. I told them to capture people involved in some sort of physical activity. None of them seemed to offer any destinations, so I led them to a small construction site on campus, full of piles of gravel, dust, and rusty poles sticking out of the ground, but also plenty of places to stand safely. My students approached the site reluctantly, but I sort of gently forced them to follow me and I started passing the camera around. There was one man hammering something, but the rest of the workers were taking sprawled out around the site, taking their afternoon naps. We began walking again and I pointed out the a large wagon full of tar, which I had taken pictures of the day before. I showed the girls how you could see the reflection of the sky in the pool of dripping tar. Some of the students were a bit repulsed by the tar oozing from the edges of the wagon, but a few seemed interested. Next I pointed them towards the college carpenter splitting wood with an ax. I told the girls to walk right up to him and take pictures from different angles. While this was going on, the men from the construction site returned from the naps and began working with the tar. We went back to the tar wagon and I told the girls to take pictures of the men pouring the tar and cranking the engine of the steam-roller. Suddenly, something clicked and I didn't have to instruct the students anymore. Then seemed genuinely engaged by what was going on in front of them. Better yet, they seemed to be having fun. I was excited by this moment because I was able to push the students to do something outside of their everyday experience. I have always been interested in industrial sites and machines, but I don't think the average girl in Madurai spends time exploring these things. Most girls I have met are extremely feminine, except for the few athletic girls who wear their sports jersies and jeans around campus. Also, most of them would not take pictures of random men working on construction sites. College age girls in Madurai rarely even interact with boys their own age. However, the workers on the site were extremely laid back and seemed mildly amused by the whole project. Once I get throught the necessary bureaucratic hoops, I cannot wait to take my students off-campus and watch them navigate the streets with their cameras in hand.

bootleg video bazaar

nsweeney — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 20:48:15 +0200

Yesterday Ellis's friend Ajeet took us to a street in downtown Madurai that could most accurately be described as a bootleg video bazaar. As we walked past the tiny stores selling everything from men's shirt fabric to video games to tamil movies, I noticed that my friend Kassia and I were probably some of the only women on the street. Ajeet took us to the small DVD shop where he is a regular customer. He chatted with the vendors and showed us where to find the English movies. Some of these DVDs had up to twelve movies on one disc. Of course, usually about three of twelve would be worth buying, but when the whole disc was about 4 dollars, who could complain? At once Ellis, Kassia and I plunged into the bins of movies. We were crammed in a pretty small space, elbow to elbow with young Tamil guys searching for video games and Tamil films. I have observed time and time again how people can fit A LOT OF STUFF in a store the size of a tiny closet. Ellis found a DVD including all 9 Star Wars movies for less than a dollar. I came across a strange mix of terrible blockbusters and art films. I bought Volver, Rope, Rear Window, and the Last King of Scotland after sifting through multiple copies of The Rock, The Mummy, and things like "The Nicholas Cage Collection" which included every bad movie Nic Cage has been in in the last 5 years. The shopkeeper checked all of our DVDs on his DVD player and they were surprisingly clear. I left the street knowing I would return soon. I am enjoying myself immensely, but one thing I often crave from home is a good movie.

first weeks

nsweeney — Sat, 22 Sep 2007 17:40:00 +0200

I'm here in Madurai and things are going well so far. Everything is an adventure, even doing something as simple as walking down the street. Basically there are no sidewalks (and no traffic rules). Pedestrians, bicycles, scooters, motorcycles, auto-rickshaws (tiny yellow taxi cars that look like little pods), ox-drawn carts, cars, trucks, buses, and random cows all occupy the same space. People honk their horns constantly - usually in order to pass someone, but sometimes just for the hell of it. A lot of cars even have little signs that say "sound horn" on the back.

Being here is like experiencing sensory overload all of the time. The noises, the smells, the colors, the heat and the crowds here are more intense than in any place in America. There is always something interesting to look at. I took a picture of a guy driving an ox-cart and sitting on huge bags of rice. A couple of days ago, I saw a guy riding an elephant down a really busy street, right in the middle of a bunch of traffic. I've seen up to five people riding on one scooter (the little baby is always in the front). I think by the end of this fellowship I won't be surprised by anything.

I'm teaching at a small women's Christian college. Most of the
faculty is Christian, but 3/4 of the students are Hindu. The place
is a little bit like a convent, since the students can only leave at
certain times and seem to be restricted in a lot of ways. Luckily
none of the rules apply to me. It is a very peaceful campus though. When I return, I'm always thankful for the calm mix of sounds in my apartment - frogs, birds, and the drone of the fan. All of the women I've met have been great. The students are really inquisitive. They are always trying to figure me out..."Why are you not married? Why did you come to India? How many brothers and sisters do you have?" The list goes on...

If all goes well, I'll be teaching photography and filmmaking. I'll
also teach art classes out of the International Center (a place
established by Shansi where students can check out English books and movies). I'm also continuing to study Tamil. People just beam when I say like one sentence in Tamil.

So, things are going well. I still have A LOT to get used to, but
these things take time. Sometimes it's so hot that all I can do is
take a nap. Usually whenever I feel overwhelmed, I'm soon pleasantly surprised by something - like the amazing spicy popcorn at the Tamil movie theater.