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.

Me and those dreaming eyes of mine

For the two weeks leading up to Pushkar I practiced my Hindi and developed a survey on camel ownership. I hoped to gather quantitative data to support the idea that macroeconomic, environmental, and land ownership changes in Rajasthan were affecting just who was showing up at the Mela and what prices they were asking. By reanalyzing data from similar studies conducted in Pakistan and Sudan, I was able to find about twenty variables on herd condition and owner economics that would confirm the trend away from nomadism that I could describe qualitatively. I carefully designed a survey methodology, practicing with the raikas at the NRCC enough times to feel comfortable with the camel lingo and veterinary inspection. Fulfilling a childhood dream I even had a custom lab coat made so I would stand out from the thousands of western tourists.

And although cries of 'Doctor Sahib' bidding me to attend to this or that camel ailment were certainly a welcome alternative to sales pitches and begging, my introduction as a 'research doctor' invariably rebuilt the cultural wall between me and the camel owners that had been briefly pierced by our mutual concern for the animals. In their eyes, my clipboard and tape measure could mean nothing but rules, taxes, and bribes, no matter my pleading or the number of shared biris. It only took me a few hours to realize my research goals were utterly unattainable.

Which is not to say the scientific end of the visit was a total loss. I got to sit around and drink chai with a lot of camel owners who loved the lab coat so long as I wasn't writing down everything they said. Hanging around the veterinary hospital I saw every sort of camel injury, including a compound fracture from a racing accident (say farewell to Rs.30,000 of prime camel). And, most repulsively, I got to try my hand--literally-- at a pregnancy diagnosis on a purebred Mewari mare (horse).

Here, feeling like a badass having just correctly estimated age by dental erosion:

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.

The Valley of Death

I have spent the past few days following the main herd on its daily wanderings through the 700-hectare NRCC ranch. Ostensibly with the goal of familiarizing myself with 'natural' camel behavior and learning herding techniques from the raikas, I have ended up spending far more time simply wandering through the well-preserved range and enjoying the desert scenery. I am gradually getting used to the Thar, learning the patterns of vegetation growth and where to find the largest groups of miniature antelope.

On Tuesday I hopped an intriguingly barbed-wire fence. Walking in a downwind direction I had no clue what awaited me. Soon I was surrounded by the carcasses of dozens of animals-- cows, camels, dogs, buffalo, everything-- whose decay and reclamation was presided over by massive packs of mangy dogs and enormous congregations of vultures and other large birds. As the stench washed over me and I fingered my walking stick in hopes of never needing to defend myself, I recalled a warning I had ignored several days before.

When an animal dies, dalits (untouchables) are called to remove the corpse. After removing anything of value for later processing, they transport the carcass to a designated spot for disposal. It was this city dumping ground I had strayed into. Surrounded by years of decay, the aroma of death filled my lungs and I focused on getting away safely. It was only later that my thoughts turned to the people whose lives are consumed by such business.

Reasons to shave, vol. II

Thursday morning I caught a seven hour train southwards to Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan. Although my berth was in the highest class (2-tier AC), an uncommon luxury, I was lucky enough to draw the compartment with malfunctioning AC. This would have been no trouble except that the windows in 2AC don't open, and my pants began to resemble Bihar. As I squirmed, a compartment-mate leaned over to tell me his secret for comfort: "It is simple," he whispered out of respect for the lady across the berth, "you must shave your testicles and then coat them thoroughly with talc." I have found this remedy to be quite effective.

After a five hour layover in Jaipur, I caught an overnight train to Bikaner, arriving at 7:30 AM. I was met by Dr. Sumant Vyas, a Senior Scientist in camel reproduction, who will be my facilitator and academic adviser for the next ten months.

Formalities

Tuesday and Wednesday (26-27 of August) were full days of orientation, arranged by the good folks at the United States-India Educational Foundation. Aside from the normal topics- don't drink the water, don't die, don't drink the water, lock your windows, etc.- we were treated to several seminars on relevant issues such as Indian academic culture and the country's recent economic history. Tuesday night we were feted and introduced to the Fulbright community in Delhi; I was overjoyed at my reintroduction to Kingfisher beer and as a result enjoyed a very good night of sleep.

Here, a photo of those Fulbrighters in attendance at the India gate.

Reasons to shave, vol. I

My last week in the U.S. was spent showing my friend Shoy around Seattle before heading to San Francisco for a last hedonistic bite of America. I came back early on Saturday the 23rd to finish packing before a Sunday flight to Chicago. The other passengers were almost exclusively Washington Army National Guard troops heading to Iraq; needless to say, their year in the desert promises to be even more exciting than mine. My clean-shaven mug, apparently rare in these days of sexy stubble, meant I fit right in, and the unknowing flight attendants extended to me the attention they lavished on the soldiers.

There was a short delay in Chicago before our sunset departure, and 14 hours later we were on final to Delhi. Indira Gandhi International Airport has always been one of my favorites; in between the two main runways there lies the enormous burned-out hulk of an abandoned plane. Stepping off the airway, I was greeted with a 35C blast of humidity. Bharat mein aapka swagat hai.