Oh well

So, blog fatigue. What's interesting is that the number of posts per month reflects best not the number of days I was in Bikaner but rather a relatively constant exponential decay. You might think I've found something more interesting to do-- but seeing as I know that something to be running around a track and partying in Delhi, I'm going to say I'm just not cut out to be a writer. But after receiving more feedback from not posting than I ever did, most recently from Caty in San Francisco (with a particular holler out to Laura), I figured the least I could do was mash my fingers on the keyboard and let you all know what's up. Other than a stellar visit from Noah and Shoy (email for details), though, there's not much to tell. I'm gearing up for a Fulbright conference in Calcutta, then returning to Bikaner for a few more weeks of research. What I will do is throw a few more posts up that have been waiting for an appropriately empty afternoon.

The Fierce Urgency of Now

My friends and family got to enjoy an exciting October full of electioneering and all sorts of good old American fun. I missed out, catching only snippets of Palin sound bytes through an intermittent YouTube. But nature ensured that I was not to miss out entirely on the sense of destiny everyone seemed to hum about in the first weeks after the election. After two months of playing the local water probability game, I finally and definitively came down with a nasty gastrointestinal something.

I have been no stranger to the stranger afflictions of the digestive system, but the past month has been a veritable Gotterdammerung. I simply refuse to give in to a recalcitrant duodenum, and so I have come to understand Obama's call to duty far better than I had ever hoped. For, squatting over a whole in the floor of an overcrowded train or hanging off the side of a Goan fishing boat or holding a pucker as I near the end of a 90 minute airport security line, there really is no better expression than the Fierce Urgency of NOW.

Reasons to shave, vol. III

There's a lot of pot in India, and a lot of tourists who make its consumption a priority. It's an odd situation, for while some groups (like wandering sadhus and some farmers) are allowed to freely light up a chillum, marijuana use is otherwise very strictly proscribed, both highly illegal and socially discouraged. So an awkward balance is struck, with the freely growing weed and rich tourists on one side and a strict penal code and unsympathetic embassies on the other.

Pushkar is a holy city for Hindus, but it's also a major stop on the hippy circuit. Banana-nutella pancakes, Enfields, and homespun are as common as Siva lingams and sannyasins. And there isn't a tourist restaurant in town (most of which sport a 'No Indians Allowed' sign in Hindi-- a nice contrast to the radical egalitarianism of the idealists sipping chai inside) that doesn't offer 'special' cookies or lassis.

I've never been one to condemn having a good time, but I'm happy to avoid this side of tourism in India. This country's class-based and image-obsessed culture is extremely sensitive to details of behavior, hygiene, and dress that the 'smile and a handshake' West prefers to write off to individuality. By keeping my hair short, my face clean, my pants pressed, and my shirt collared, I can make a real difference in the way I am perceived and treated. In a place like Pushkar, where the locals are all too used to the interests (and weaknesses) of westerners, that goes a long way towards an enjoyable and hassle-free visit that includes genuine interactions with Indians.

Whistlin down the road

This evening I depart for Delhi for a flight to Kerala, where my Sanskrit teacher Jayanth is getting married. I studied with J for nine weeks in the summer of 2006, and he's stepping outside of his very conservative Brahmin caste to marry a secretary from the school where we met who has subsequently begun working as a lawyer for the High Court of Kerala. I can't pass up this opportunity, but I'm also using the trip as a chance to drop in on friends working in Madurai (Tamil Nadu) and Bangalore (Karnataka). Then a few short days on the beach. It's funny- since I'm already in India, my per diem on this trip will actually be lower than my current living expenses, despite how big a deal it would be if I were planning such an adventure from home.

November

I have been out of Bikaner since October 30, when I went to Delhi for Halloween and the Election. On November 6 I headed to the Pushkar Camel Fair, and then teamed up with a Brit for a quick roadtrip to Udaipur and Mount Abu. Now I'm back in Bikaner for a few days before heading to Kerala for the wedding of my Sanskrit teacher. The next few posts will fill in the missing time.

Hipness, it is what it is

Here are some pics of the election event in Delhi:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/webethere/sets/72157608757535958/

I've been at the Pushkar Camel Fair the last few days and will be back in Bikaner tomorrow evening.

American Lard

It was the catharsis of cheering at Obama's brief shoutout to overseas voters that alleviated the intense emotions of the several dozen expats and journalists who had gathered at a small cafe to watch the election results roll in this morning with the Democrats Abroad. As the electoral vote passed two hundred (assuring an Obama victory once the left coast was in), tears started to appear on elephant-painted cheeks and well-coiffed photographers began composing shots of diverse supporters and miniature flags. But at Obama's personal invocation of the past century and its challenges, even the newscasters put down their microphones to take in the momentous occasion.

The twenty-first century will inevitably push the United States and India together. The two largest democracies on earth share an entrepreneurial spirit, strategic interests, and a massive immigrant community that twist together the nations' fates. Yet even in India, a nation that regularly elects ethnic and religious minorities as well as women to its highest ranks, there is a certain awe at the American ability for political self-renewal.

As with much of the world, much of this impression stems from the miracle of regular peaceful revolution. Every four (indeed, two) years, our government is opened to complete change. Yet the opposition doesn't withdraw from society or take to the hills with AK-47's, as they are liable to do even here. No-- what Americans might write off as bureaucratic weight, institutional inertia, or, at worst, conspiratorial class dominance is in fact our greatest asset: the rule of law.

But even in a country aligned against the United States until just the past decade there is the awareness that another, even greater trend is present in the periodic renewal of American democracy. The great names of Indian history tell a story of emerging nationhood, the gradual definition of identity in the face of British imperialism, Cold War socialism, and finally globalisation. The great names of American history-- Reagan, Kennedy, Roosevelt, etc.-- paint a much more complicated picture of generational change and constant rebirth.

The United States, almost uniquely, is a country without history. Or, more precisely, it is a country whose history does not define the present but instead reflects our hopes for the future. New ingredients might be thrown into the melting pot-- we're starting to see more chorizo and pho, plus some collards that were stuck on the rim-- but as you boil it pure fat will still rise to the surface. Our culture is rooted not in traditions of religion, caste, or family, but in the elusive sweetness of the all-American Lard (some might prefer the term Dream) we skim off the top. Hyperbole, perhaps, but it was American Lard that lubricated the peaceful transitions of the past 232 years of elections and American Lard that ran down expatraites' cheeks this morning.

And so we've chosen our 44th president. Forty years ago, in the same place where Obama made his victory speech, battle lines were drawn that would come to define a generation. Today, a new generation was defined just as clearly. But whereas the conflicts that divided the Baby Boomers centered around our culture and identity as Americans, the world that Generation O inherits is one requiring sacrifice and dedication. The financial, environmental, and political challenges facing us ensure that our lives, so far surely among the most privileged ever lived, will not be without struggle, nor without meaning.

I am reminded of a summer visit to the nation's capital, where after a stroll through Arlington National Cemetery my friend Noah and I walked across the Potomac to find a Lincoln Memorial mobbed by tourists, soldiers, and citizens. Yet even when filled with the chatter of schoolgroups and flashes of cellphone cameras, the sepulchral interior maintained the still reverence of the memorials across the river. Indeed, the very diversity who stood and contemplated Lincoln's legacy seemed to live out his words:

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

This will surely be the hardest Thanksgiving to spend away from home.

Roar Lion Roar

I'm still not convinced that making people spend $170,000 on a four year BA is the best way to educate, but HOT DAMN it sure makes a great party.

Thanks to the organizational prowess of the UPenn Alumni Association, Delhi Chapter I spent Halloween at the superposh Taj Hotel in the company of all sorts of Ivy League businessfolk, bluebloods, and brahmins. I came to Delhi for the weekend, intent on getting a dose of western nightlife after two months of early Bikaner nights, then sticking around to watch the election results roll in on CNN.

Four generations

Here, the four generations (counted, of course, through the sons) in Jitu's family. All but the great-grandfather live in the same home.

Tourist stereotypes: Karmic krusaders

Spiritual tattoo? Dreds? Hippie clothing? Glazed-over eyes? Caveman stench?

Why some people think that India, home to one of the most capitalistic, materialistic, class-driven, ambition-friendly, image-obsessed cultures on the planet, is some haven of spirituality where karma comes to get down is absolutely beyond me. Yet think they do- at least as well as they can while perpetually stoned- and at the slightest provocation will deliver a monologue on familiar New Age themes. Actual conversation at the guesthouse:

UNWASHED HIPPIE : Hinduism's all about love, man.
ME: I'm not so sure. Have you read the Bhagavad-Gita?
UNWASHED HIPPIE: No, but I've been meaning to. It basically says we're all one, right?
ME: Not really. It's about duty.
UNWASHED HIPPIE: This world is transient, we're just lost souls seeking liberation.
ME: What does that mean for the here and now?
STONED RAVER: Now and here, man: nowhere!

I'm all for people opening their hearts and minds to new cultures, new ideas, and new ways of life, but this is something else. Trying to relive the individualism and idealism of the revolutionary 1960's in today's world is hedonistic and irresponsible. So go ahead and have your Paulo Coelho-fueled journey of spiritual self-discovery, but at least have the decency to conform to the hygenic standards of the culture at whose expense you're naval-gazing.

Fame

Very belatedly, here is the article that appeared in the Rajasthan Patrika the day of my arrival. The title: American Student in Bikaner Will Do Research.

Hot dog:

Tourist stereotypes: introduction

When I first visited India two years ago I was disgusted by most tourists. It seemed to me like everyone who came here was intent on reliving some 1960's journey of spiritual self-discovery, while in fact their Lonely Planet led them to trendy exotic placenames where Indian entrepreneurs, seeing the dependable signs of white skin, poorhouse clothing, and dubious hygiene, sold them bhang lassis made with filtered water that cost three times more than an average Indian family made in a day.

Needless to say, this is a very harsh and over-generalized view that has since softened. Still, there are very distressing aspects of tourism particular to this country. There really are a lot of people who come to India for material renunciation, temporarily forgetting the price of their airfare. Many come espousing New Age spirituality's roots in Hinduism or seeking a yoga ashram, only to reveal that they've never read the Bhagavad Gita and couldn't pick Vishnu out of a crowd (he's the blue one). The carefree egalitarianism of hippies- or even of the most conservative Westerners- is fundamentally at odds with the rigid class system of India, the consequences of which go over the heads of all but the most observant visitors. As I spend more time here, I am beginning to see an even more sinister side to tourism: that most hotels are run my the mafia. No joke.

But my daily exposure to tourists at the NRCC and at the guesthouse have begun to steel me to their faults (just like shacking up with a hipster made me finally accept that I, too, am a hipster deep down inside) and I've even begun to take a perverse joy in hearing their predictable rants and formulaic pontifications. So please allow me to share the enjoyment only a hater can get from the idiocy of his fellow humans in this new series, Tourist stereotypes.

Eve-teasing

A visit to India of any duration will introduce the westerner, well accustomed to a culture of transparency and straightforwardness, to the mess of social and economic complexity wrapped in red tape that constitutes the Indian way of doing things. The endless difficulties in getting anything done, the futility of individual aspirations and action, and the constant noise and hassle of this overcrowded country result in what V.S. Naipaul calls 'subcontinental patience': a temperament, perhaps the inspiration for the idea of reincarnation, geared towards accepting the chaos around you and doing your best to stay afloat. For me, with my water wings of western ambition, this environment entails little but frustration. Once in a while, the ogling crowd will just be a little too large or the tuk tuk wallah a little too bellicose or the search for the simplest provision too hopeless and I find myself entering a murderous rage, swearing to myself that I will throttle the next idiot who grabs my arm and asks me what my good name is.

Despite my less than pugilistic nature I have been secretly yearning for an appropriate excuse to take out this pent-up anger on a deserving victim, and last week the gods were kind enough to oblige me. Returning from the Dusshera celebrations (to be covered shortly) with two young western women, we were overtaken by a crowd of repressed youth emboldened by the darkness. While I am accustomed to the occasional slap or poke as some kid tries to get my attention, my Y chromosome had blinded me to the disgusting forms this practice takes on when the target is a woman. I realized the boys were trying to grope my companions, and as one rapscallion with a jaunty hairdo and scraggly goatee shoved his hand between one girl's legs my rage overtook me.

After grabbing him by the back of his neck, I kicked out his legs and forced him to the ground. But his friend came to help, and so I channeled two months of no NFL and clotheslined him. I used the boys' ears to arrange them face down and kneeled on their backs. Luckily, the crowd was composed entirely of pubescent boys whose social awkwardness precluded any understanding of their power were they to unite. I knew the police would be of no help (they would probably book me for assault), so I took a more effective route.

After the two women were in a tuk-tuk, I made the ruffians (still face down, now crying) get out their cell phones and call their mothers. Both arrived from elsewhere in the crowd within a few minutes. Careful to turn the side of my face where I had cut myself during the tackle towards them so they wouldn't join in the fray, I explained through a bystander what had happened.

To my sister and other postcolonialists who are aghast at the idea of an over sized white man beating up two Indian boys: violence is a common sight on the streets here and is seen as an OK way to resolve disputes. What isn't OK is the way Indian men treat western women. In any case, my behavior was justified by the mothers' reactions. After the boys stood up, the women took off their left shoes and started beating their sons far more savagely than I had. The crowd laughed and I walked home, telling Jitu that I had tripped over a brick in the road.

Womens

I have now been living at Vinayak guest house for more than six weeks-- and I have yet to learn the name of Jitu's wife.

This is conservative Bikaner's modern interpretation of the timeless Rajasthani (and Mughal) custom of purdah. The Maharajas of the Rajput states would acquire vast harems, and after marriage the young wives moved into a separate wing of the palace where, guarded by eunuchs and served by girls, they spent the rest of their lives until ritually burning themselves on the funeral pyre of their husband (sati). Less prominent members of the community would merely keep their women housebound, and completely covered in the case of male visitors.

Today, the gender egalitarianism of urbanized nomads catalyses trends towards westernization and liberalization, and the lives of women are rapidly improving. Tight jeans and western tees are a rare but unsurprising sight, and among youth female literacy approaches male. But the most resilient customs have nothing to do with outward signs and everything to do with male attitudes.

These are most evident with respect towards western women. There is absolutely no reason for Indian men to think western women are anything but complete whores: movies and TV depict easy flirtation and open sex (see a related observation by my friend Sloan, in Rwanda); most tourists make little effort to conform to public morality (for example, anything but the most fleeting embrace is considered part of sex, and wearing short sleeves is like wearing a short skirt); and I have yet to find an internet cafe whose computers weren't clogged with the nastiest kinds of porn. Next to Indian women, who like the men must stay chaste (and repressed) until marriage at 20-30, 'phoren' ladies are slatterns who will give it up if you just grab 'em in the right way.

So, despite changes, men still like their wives and sisters well-esconsed, even while 'Eve-teasing' any westerner they can and shamelessly exploiting unionized prostitutes.

Lunar cycles

It was a rare night in New York that I looked up and noticed the moon, its brilliance usually surpassed by streetlights or obscured by skyscrapers. Occasionally, I would find its gossamer glow adorning my dorm room when I came home late from a party. In those moments I would feel a close warmth (not just from the whiskey), knowing that untold generations of humans had gazed upon and enjoyed the same spectacle.

I am lucky to have come to a place where the moon's phases are as important as the work week. When I arrived, Ramadan was just beginning and lasted until the new moon at the start of October. That day also marked the beginning of Nauratri, which ended in Deshera nine days later. The subsequent full moon (two days ago) held a ceremony in which a watermelon was left outside all night and consumed in the morning. And the approaching new moon means Diwali.

Flirting with camels

I often give tours of the NRCC to visitors staying at the guesthouse, which gives me a chance to practice my camelology spiel as well as remember what it's like to talk to native English speakers. The other day I stumbled on a particularly apt analogy for how to interact with camels.

Camels are smart and curious, but they are also arrogant and sly. Getting one to like you is a lot like picking up a girl at a bar. It starts with eye contact, the briefest acknowledgement of mutual interest. But you can't stare- that's creepy. Indeed, not looking can be even more effective than looking. Before you even think of getting closer, you've got to completely confident of your success. Subtle clues of body language indicate whether approach is possible.

But, just like last call, in the end one of you has got to get up and walk over to the other, and luckily for tourists camels aren't nearly as picky as women.

Crazy coincidence

Last week I got to spend an evening with a college friend- by total coincidence, he phoned a mutual friend the night before he passed through Bikaner. It's a small world.

Where the time is

In case you were wondering where I get the time to write these posts, the simple answer is I have no life.

I enjoy my research and colleagues at the NRCC immensely, and they have done a wonderful job making me feel welcome. But my interactions with most scientists and staff remains formal. Jitu and I get along fantastically, but he is a very busy person and we don't really get the chance to relax. And when I hang out with other Indians, the language barrier is still too large to allow for the fun and jokes that make for good times. For some social release I can turn to the tourists who pass through the guesthouse, but they're usually only around for a day or two.

So there's no real way for me to just waste time chilling. It's something I'm going to miss, for sure, but it also means I'm staying plenty busy with research and writing.

Visit to Sri Kolayat

This past Sunday the remnants of a cold and the joy of my new bike conspired to keep me from doing anything remotely constructive. Knowing a long drive in the desert was in order, I headed along the Jaisalmer highway to check out the nearest natural lake, Sri Kolayat.

Like Pushkar, the lake is full of lotuses and surrounded by temples and bathing stairways or ghats. Unlike Pushkar, there was no trace of any tourist infrastructure- hardly a visitor at all. The drive back was punctuated only by a policeman who insisted I 'pay a fine now' (Indian for bribe) as my registration had not yet arrived. After flourishing my impressive pile of stamped and embossed paperwork to no avail (normally even a whiff of letterhead is enough to open doors), I took down his name and ID before telling him to fuck off in the coarsest Marwari I could muster. In the end, no problem.

Accidents

It was with a certain degree of concern that I learned from Jitu that the type of motorcycle accident I had just fallen victim to would occur on a quite regular basis.

I had been driving straight, at constant speed, when some idiot turned into me. My rear tire scooted a few inches and caught, and I kept my balance and continued driving. The other guy waved and smiled.

Apparently, there are simply too many motorbikes on the road, and people 'nudge' each other all the time. Not a matter for concern, supposedly. I guess so, seeing as the exact same thing happened again yesterday.