Hoodoos

I cut and folded a thick piece of aluminum sheet and had a buddy weld it together for a bash pan on my new motorcycle. Where I was heading I figured I'd probably need it. Next I bent some metal tubes to make crash bars. I machined a fork brace to help prevent high speed wiggles. The handle bars were changed for a more relaxed position. I heated and bent a piece of lexan into a touring windshield. I filled up the old typewriter case with supplies, after mounting it on the back. I squeezed a couple tents, dehydrated food, and my sleeping into a duffle bag, and strapped it to the passenger seat. It doubles as a back rest. The tank bag was filled with some clothes and rain gear and off I rode on my Suzuki V-Strom, DL650.

Highway 99 is a always a blast. It is a windy narrow paved road that follows narrow passes through the mountains from Whistler to the dry interior. At Pavillion I turned off the pavement onto a reasonably smooth, windy dirt road. The scenery was fabulous: high altitude pastures, forests, green valleys, rail fences, little lakes. The road joined the Jesmond Road and became smoother and a bit wider. Motorcycling heaven. Wide open pasture land, sage, dry, rutless smooth dirt and gravel. There were a few corners that were like riding on marbles, though. The next day, after camping in a waterfowl preservation area, I crossed the main highway going north at Williams lake. I took the twisty paved road to Likely and was deterred from going to Barkerville because of snow. Instead I took a short cut to Quesnel along a mud hole filled, creek crossing, nearly overgrown, unused logging road. Some miners pointed me in the right direction.

The next day I picked up my son Kyle in Prince George. We camped near PG the first night, great campsite on a little lake teaming with trout that wouldn't bite. The next day I stayed at PG in a nice budget hotel because of bad thunder storms. Next stop was the Hoodoos, you know, those tall columns of rock left over after erosion ? The scenery changes quite dramatically between Williams lake and the hoodoos in Farwell Canyon. It's like going from typical forested BC to Arizona. The Chilcotin is part of a dry strip that goes past the Dog Creek area through to Lillooet, Kamloops and further south. I picked up a few cactus buds in my bare feet. It got hot. We also saw some pictographs nearby our camp at the old homestead where a few log homes are still standing.

I dropped Kyle back in PG and continued on into the beautiful Robson Valley to visit my old friends and Kyle's Mom in Dunster.
After a few days of helping out in Nancy's garden, bottling Arlene's wine, shoveling April's sheep shit, visiting, swimming, eating Glenda's great food and tasting Andy's brownies, I was ready to ride and beat the rains that were coming.

I cruised down highway 5 and turned off onto highway 24 and took some lovely , twisty side roads to 100 Mile house. I crossed the main highway and took a short cut on dirt roads and was expecting to come out at the Dog Creek road. I went past the Hanging Tree. The road branched and became smaller, branched and turned into a dry weather road through the dead pine plantations. All the way from 100 mile there are dead pines. 1000's of square kilometers of dead pines. Pine beetles are not killed because the cold winters are thing of the past. I checked out all the other road branches as the darkness fell. It was raining. It was nearly hell. All the dead trees, the mud, the rain, the thought of picking up a heavy bike out of a mud hole. I decided to ride past the hanging tree and head to a camp site that was close by, somewhere.
I saw the Hanging Tree and took a photo in the dim light. I checked my GPS and soon found the camp . There was a small group of campers who were a welcome sight. The camp is on a little lake surrounded by live spruce trees. A live oasis in a mostly dead landscape. I had a comfortable warm and dry sleep while it rained through the night. The morning was damp but not raining. I packed up and went back to the car wash in 100 Mile.

I'd had enough back roads and mud for this trip. I headed back down the main highway and cruised along down the 99, too tired to do any blasting. I got 60 miles per gallon coming down from Whistler. I am lucky I came back yesterday. It's been raining all day here today.

see photos at http://s233.photobucket.com/albums/ee38/Ross-Judy/

Goodbye India

I have uploaded a bunch of pictures. Click on the thumbs to see large.
http://s233.photobucket.com/albums/ee38/Ross-Judy/

We are now at OBT bungalow and we are leaving for Delhi this afternoon. We watched a video of a BBC production called "The Lost World of the Raj". It is not lost. We are living in it here at the OBT bungalow. This bungalow is featured in the production. Judy's servant form her time here as a child was interviewed. He is actually still here working as a dog trainer. His first job, at 12 years old was as a punka walla. A punka is a large blanket that is hung from the high ceiling and is pulled back and forth by a rope that is tied to the punka wallas foot...an old fashioned fan. It has been an amazing experience staying here, living amoungst history. Even more amazing is that this is the life Judy was born into.
I am happy to be heading home but sad to be leaving India. We are leaving just in time as it is starting to get hot and it will probably be in the high 30's or 40 in a few weeks. Yesterday we had supper at the Relish, the restaurant at the Resort Hotel Deluxe where we stayed in January. It was fun seeing all the staff there that we became attached to. The CD from Raja Hindustanis movie that we saw 11 years ago here in Mirzapur was put on. I started crying when the song "paradesi paradesi jana nahin" started playing(" foreigner, foreigner, please don't go).
Love from India,
Ross

Fatwa Against Terror

I copied this from the Hinustani Times, Lucknow, Thursday, February 21, 2008.
Ross

Zia Haq
New Delhi, February 20

DARUL ULOOM of Deoband, one of Islam's most influential schools of thought to which even Afghanistan's Taliban owe academic allegiance, will for the first time declare acts of terrorism to be against the religion, a top cleric told HT on Tuesday.
The declaration will come on February 25 at the end of a day-long anti-terrorism seminar in Deaoband, which will be attended by representatives of nearly 6000 madrasas from across the country including those from other Muslim sects such as the Barelvi school and foreign delegates.” A declaration will be issued to the effect that all acts of terrorism are patently anti-Islamic in light of the Chapter 5 of the Quran (Al-Maidah) which clearly prohibits killing of innocent people,” said cleric and vice-rector of Darul Uloom, Maulana Abdul Khaleque Madrasi.
The Islamic seminary founded in 1866 has always been in the news for its far reaching “fatwas”. The latest proclamation prepared by the seminary, which HT has access to, states “All acts of terrorism are anti-Islamic.” The declaration will include a hidayat I(advice), asking all “Muslims to stay away from terrorists and terror organizations. Asked whether suicide bombings were included in its definition of “terror acts”, he said ... “all forms of forms of violence used to kill innocent individual”.
Mohammed Mukadam, the chairman of the Association of UK Muslim Schools said: “The emerging view is that killing of innocents is not compatible with Islam and this is the basis for the declaration.”
The Darul Uloom has been in talks with Islamic scholars across the world to arrive at a consensus on issues like terrorism and whether such tools of violence are just, a seminary official said.

Concert

Feb. 22, 2008

Last night we went to a classical music and dance concert arranged through the hotel. We set off in an auto rickshaw driven by one of the hotel staff members, Rostom, a paan consumer of major proportions. It was a crazy mad drive in the dark full of lurching and sudden stopping and vigourous bouncing off our seats as we dropped into and out of pot holes. And of course the constant honking of horns. We were caught in a major traffic snarl and were motionless for what seemed like ages. We finally arrived after going down narrow lanes, squeezing past cycle rickshaws, bikes and pedestrians, at a hall next to the Elvis Guest House.

It was a small hall with a raised stage area at one end, a cotton padded area down two sides with cushions for sitting against plus a couple of carpets. The whitewashed walls on three sides were painted with line drawings of dancers, instruments and a Saraswati (the Goddess of music and learning). On one wall hung 7 or 8 sitars and a couple of violins in plastic bags and a large bin of wooden flutes sat under the sitars.

When we arrived there were three young women and two young men sitting against one wall. A friendly young Indian man welcome us and sat on the stage singing scales now and then. From a door on one side of the hall could be heard the sound of dishes being washed, children's voices and the occasional deep low of a cow. More young travellers arrived all greeted by the man on the stage. Another young man arrived, took one of the sitars from the wall, removed the plastic bag and sat on the stage tuning it. The first chap was the tabla player and he set to tuning his drums.

As the musicians were preparing their instruments three fellows came in with a young woman who had been sitting in the entrance when we arrived. They all sat in a corner, the three men surrounded her, one holding a stringed instrument that I'd not seen before. They were giving her the total hard-sell treatment. The instrument looked a bit tacky and new to me. She looked polite, but tired and overwhelmed. The concert was about to start with the lights down and the stage lights up and explanations of the music beginning and still the fellows were hounding the girl. All four finally left through the side door. Shortly after the concert began the girl came back and sat to listen to the concert with no instrument in hand.

The players were very good, the concert was not too long, it was lively and rhythmical and never dragged.

Then the dancer appeared. He was slim and totally effeminate, dressed in a calf-length robe completely covered with purple sequins, belted with a gold mesh sash, an ornate necklace around his throat hanging to his chest, white jodhpurs, tight on the calves and full on the thighs, multi-belled anklets from bare foot to eight inches up. He had black kohl and white eye shadow accentuating his marvelously expressive eyes, rouged cheeks and plum lipstick on his full lips, lips that could pout seductively or break into a huge smile. The movements that he could make with his arms, hands and fingers, each muscle under complete control, the rhythmic stomping of his feet in 16 beat time in total sync with the tabla, the sinuous and sensuous movement of his hips, spine and neck was all put together with incredibly intricate and elaborate eye movements and facial expressions plus hand and finger gestures into a terrifically entertaining dance. This form of North Indian dance is called Katak. Between each dance section he would give an explanation of the rhythms and time using the vocal syllables often heard in a tabla concert. “Ta, tika ta,ta, tika, ta, ta...” A young woman here at the hotel is studying Katak dance and had one lesson with him. He has been studying Katak dance since the age of four. I believe women were discouraged from dancing so men played the part of women, as was done in early Shakespearean performances. This dancer was an absolute diva, a real drag queen, and did one dance that I'm sure he choreographed himself, of a woman doing her long hair, putting on her makeup, looking in the mirror, putting on her shawl and going to fetch water and carry it on her head. A great performance and so entertaining.
Judy Norbury

Khamaria

Judy and I have been at Geoffrey and Kusam's sanctuary, their luxurious bungalow in the country. It feels like a well deserved holiday from the rigours of dealing with a mostly unaccessible India. Not only that but dealing with all the cheating and lying that we encountered on our travels. While I am ranting, I have to mention all the shit, open sewers, piles of plastic, and blood red splotches of paan, (adulterated chewing tobacco that is enddemic here.) That is why we feel so fortunate to be invited back here. It is very nice to be served by a well trained dedicated staff of servants. The sitting room, screened porch, is rather cool in the morning but warms up fast as the sun streams in. By mid morning while we were all sitting outside near the garden, it warmed up enough that I thought it would be nice to go for one more ride before having a driver deliver the bike back to Amrit, 18 kms away in Mirzapur.

I didn't ride yesterday as I twisted my old worn out knee the day before that. Three days ago ,Judy was given a ride out here by Amrit's micro van and the driver, Minoj. I rode the bike, the 125 Yamaha 4 stroke single. The next day I went back to Mirzapur to do some business with Amrit. I was having fun following behind 2 other bikers who knew the road. We were whipping along the mostly open road at about 70 clicks per hour. I was following behind guys who knew the road. Near the bridge that goes over the Ganga, they turned off. The highway improved and I headed to the bridge. A speed bump jumped out at me. I hit my brakes. At one point the front wheel locked at about 50. The bike started to go down. My dirt riding experience kicked in even though It was smooth pavement. I slapped my right foot down to keep the bike up. It worked. I bounced over the speed bump. I now headed up the bridge slope in screaming pain. I thought my loose knee joint came out of place. I kicked my leg to get it back into joint but the pain stayed. I concentrated on riding carefully but kept riding. I thought “I might need to see a doctor”. I tested my knee for proper operation and it was o/k. But because of the pain I knew there would be some swelling. As the acute pain subsided I decided to check my e-mail and then get some ice at Amrit's. A bit of denial I guess. Should have gone for the ice first.

I have been taking R55 Homeopathic remedy for the swelling, but after a night where Judy and I both were kept awake by pain, (Judy's shoulder still hurts a bit), I decided to get something a bit stronger than homeopathic. Judy, Kusam and I went off the next morning to see Dr. Rajan, a close friend of Kusam and Geoffrey. What a sight we were; the 3 of us piling out of the little car; Judy in her wheelchair; Kusam sniveling with a cold and walking with one crutch because of previous knee problems, and me limping with Judy's father's cane.

The pills and two days rest has my knee well enough that today seemed like a good day for a ride. On my way here, before I hurt my knee, I stopped at a little stand for a cup of chai. The friendly server mentioned a pond and pointed behind the village. That's where I headed. I ended up finding a beautiful agricultural area with lots of small lush vegetable plots near a larger town. I road along the narrow paved road which turned bumpy. I went uphill into the town. I stopped at a plumbing shop to get a screw for the bathroom towel rack. A friendly well dressed man man spoke English and invited me to his carpet factory behind the shop. I was pleasantly surprised to find myself in a very fine carpet manufacturing compound. I got a nice little tour and met his father who is my age. The work is fabulous. Silk and wool hand tied carpets of excellent quality. He had about 12 bays, that I saw, with about 3 people working on each carpet. A 3 by 4 meter rug takes about 2 months. About $2300 at the door here.

On the way I passed a village that had load chanting type music. On the way back I turned down a narrow dirt trail that led around a pond to a temple. Loud speakers mounted on top and placed around some awnings rattled out music at full blast. I parked the bike and walked over . I was invited an and did some video recording of a four piece band playing , I presume, religious songs in front of a small Hanuman shrine. I sat down and was served a couple small sweets. I knew everybody was wondering where I was and the bike would be late for its delivery if I didn't go back soon. It felt so nice to be riding in the warm air down through such lush farms and villages. Even with the occasional mishap riding bikes, I still love doing these little morning jaunts. Off to Varanasi in a borrowed car tomorrow.

The Bad Man

Last night during Anand’s visit as he lay stretched out on his side on the wicker settee, I read my story “High-Rise” to him. He was very pleased with it, also with the aliases I had chosen. I said “Bapuji isn’t really a bad man, is he?” He replied, “Oh yes, he is a very bad man. He is a criminal who spent time in jail some years ago. He has committed a murder.” And he proceeded to tell us this tale.

Fifteen years back Bapuji had an argument with a kerosene customer. This man was purchasing kerosene for a university and was getting a small kick-back but wanted more. When Bapuji refused, the buyer threatened to turn him in to the authorities. As Babuji told the story he became angry and hit the man on the head with a metal rod, whereupon he died. He dragged the body into his shop on the ground floor and with his unknowing family upstairs where they make their home, he cut up the body and put it into a bag.

Anand received a telephone call from Bapuji. “Can I borrow your Maruti. I have relatives coming and I need to fetch them.” Anand replied, “Sorry, we need it now for school business and tomorrow also I have appointments. It will not be possible.”

Bapuji then called another fellow, a friend of Anand’s. The chap agreed and arrived at the money lender’s. He was instructed by Bapuji to walk up to the local shop and buy cigarettes and tobacco, he came back with the purchase and off they went. It appeared to fellow that they were going in the wrong direction from where the relatives were meant to be arriving. “No, it’s fine. First we get petrol.” After the fill-up the car started heading toward Allahabad. The car lender again expressed concern. Bapuji said “You must be quiet and tell no one but there is a dead body in the dicky (trunk) of your car.” The poor fellow was terrified.

Bapuji continued to drive all the way to Allahabad looking unsuccessfully for a secluded spot to get rid of the body. Turnng around and heading back towards Mirzapur a spot by a field with no observers was found. “We will stop here.” Bapuji and his unfortunate companion threw the bag over the edge of the road where there was somewhat of a drop to the field below. Two farm labourers resting, unseen from the road observed the drop and wrote the car license plate number in the mud.

Bapuji returned to his house and warned the car man again to keep silent. Shaking, the chap drove to the petrol station, washed the bloody boot, returned the car, (which actually belonged to his older brother), to the garage, locked the door and immediately packed his bag and left to visit his uncle in Shrinigar, Kashmir.

The observant farm workers reported the incident to the local police, but as the car was from another district it took several days for the man’s brother to receive a call from the police.

“Do you own this car?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last drive it?”
“I don’t drive it. I haven’t a driver’s license and at the moment I don’t employ a driver.”
“Who else drives your car?”
“My brother uses it but at the moment he is in Shrinigar.”

The police then told him about the murder.

The man phoned his younger brother and was told the whole story. The young man came back to Mirzapur and went to the police. The police went to Bapuji’s establishment and asked him about the murder. He said, yes, he had become angry, hit the man and he died but he hadn’t intended to kill him and he was sorry that he’d died. He offered the police one lakh (100,000 rupees) to not beat him but the police commenced to beat Bapuji as they paraded him through all the streets of Mirzapur to punish him in front of all the townspeople.

There was a trial but according to Anand Indian law insists on eyewitnesses in addition to a confession and the eyewitnesses professed not to recognize Bapuji in the court line-up due to their fear of reprisal. Bapuji also changed his story and said the confession was extracted due to the beating of the police and that he was an innocent man. The case was closed. Bapuji spent a total of six months in prison as did the man with the car.

I look out on the walls of the Mirzapur jail from the sunroom where I write. Bapuji did fine in prison. His wife brought him all his meals as she lives almost next door to the prison. With money in Indian jails you can have all the comforts of home.
The Gods were watching over Anand the night he was asked to lend his car. About Bapuji he says, “On the outside we say hello we smile and are friendly but on the inside I am alert and cautious. We must keep it that way. We are neighbours.”

The High-Rise

In conversations with ordinary working class Indians such as our friends, train companions, taxi drivers and others, we hear complaints about the corruption that runs throughout all levels of this society. In our daily newspaper, The Times of India-Allahabad, there are stories regularly of corruption within parts of the government, the medical profession, the police, certain film stars, the education system, etc.

Down the lane from our apartment, the apartment that is upstairs from Anand’s battery and inverter business (a good business to be in, in this town of frequent power cuts) and the adjoining nursery school, at the corner of the small road that connects with the larger road, is a room, a business, run by Bapuji. Across the lane from this corner room is a pile of about 15 red steel 45 gallon drums.

Bapuji is a money lender, a loan shark, and a black market kerosene dealer. He is about 60 with a round smiling face. On his face is a slightly bemused expression. His head is covered in a small white cloth wrap, a sort of turban and he is dressed in a blue checked lungi (a sarong, a common garment for men) and a white shirt. He sits with his tin box full of money which he was only too happy to open and show and pose for a photograph. His clients are the poor to which he makes loans at exorbitant interest rates. Somewhat in the shadows sits Pupay, tall, with a long, handsome, somewhat arrogant face, slightly sinister. He is armed, so says Anand, and is Bapuji’s body guard and debt collector.

Kerosene is rationed to 3 litres per month and can be purchased only with a ration card. Bapuji has 3000 legitimate customers and has had printed 3000 fake ration cards so he can buy double the amount of kerosene. He buys it for 11 rupees per litre, the government rate, and sells it for 20 to 25 rupees per litre. The inspectors know he does this and they receive their cut. The Supply Officer knows about it and receives his cut. The Supply Commissioner knows and receives his portion. The State Secretaries know and skim off their bit., then the Supply Minister and finally the Chief Minister. Bapuji’s main kerosene customers are truck drivers who illegally mix the kerosene with diesel, 50-50. Diesel sells for 35 rupees per litre so they are saving 5 rupees per litre.

Next to our building, on this lane of mostly family apartments, stands an unfinished gray concrete building, five stories high, if you count the open-air roofed top level. Compared to the other buildings on this lane, it is a high-rise. This structure was built by Bapuji, it seems, as a place to use up some of his ill-gotten gains. It has stood there for the past four or five years as an empty, incomplete monument to small-time corruption.

Khajuraho

The temples, carvings, palaces and paintings we visited on our two week journey south were spectacular and amazing but the hard sell methods of the touts selling maps, postcards, books, jewelry, clothes, Kashmiri crafts, taxi rides, rickshaw rides, brass ware, and on and on was a real drawback to wonders of the historical monuments. My stories will deal people, places and events other than what you see in the guidebooks.

In Khajuraho we settled for the first hotel with the right sized bathroom door.

“The room is clean, nicely painted in shades of yellow and blue-green. The windows at the back look out on a minor garbage dump and behind that is a street with a couple of shops and homes and children playing cricket, riding bikes, running back and forth, singing, pumping water—there is a pump at the side of the road—running errands etc.. There is a small temple to the right of the dump and the dump is home to a family of wild pigs. They are black with stiff bristles standing up straight all along their back and they are very itchy creatures spending a lot of time scratching and rubbing their bodies on the edge of a stone wall. They are mostly sows, some with full milk dugs and the only boar I have seen is a young one. Sharing this place with the pigs are cows, goats and dogs. The dogs are very respectful of the pigs. Scared, I think. It’s easy to be entertained by just looking out the window.”

One evening, still in Khajuraho, we were having chai and ghulab jamens at a street stall and a young man came and sat with us and started a conversation, probably with the ubiquitous “What country are you from?” We of course wondered what his line would be and what he wanted us to buy. He’d had some university training in Delhi, so he said. He apologetically questioned my disability and it turned out that he has a niece, 16, who‘d had polio as a baby, can walk holding on to the wall or furniture, has crutches but won’t use them. He takes her to school on his bike. He asked if I would come to visit her and encourage her to practice her walking so she can become stronger. We of course said yes and made arrangements to meet the next day at the gate of the Jain temples, near his home.

After our tour of the Jain temples we met Vijay as arranged and walked down a path strewn with plastic bags and other trash. On one side was a hostel for Jain pilgrims to stay and on the other side a dry empty field. Khajuraho has had no rain for three years. The monsoon has passed it by. It’s a big concern for the people of the area, understandably.

We came to Vijay’s compound, first past some tethered water buffalo and past some small mud and brick homes for cows and a couple of very small homes for people. We were led to a cheerily painted light blue house with two darker blue steel doors. His sister, Gita, was tall like her brother with a lovely keen intelligent face. We went inside the tidy room. One doorway led to a small kitchen, the small clay stove in one corner. Two other doorways led to other rooms. Inside the house we met Oma another sister and two boys of Oma’s and two of Gita’s. From behind a curtained door shyly appeared Pretty, Vijay’s niece and Gita’s daughter. She was short and stood holding on to the doorway. A chair was brought for her. She was very pretty, suiting her name.

We all had a spirited conversation and it was my job to encourage her to try to walk more and get out of the house more. We asked to see her crutches. They were never used as evidenced by the layer of dust coating the arm supports. It was obvious that they were too long for her. Ross asked for a tool and he and another fellow made them 3 or 4 inches shorter.

The two sisters were fascinated by me—felt my legs and feet, pushed up my sleeves and looked at my arms, Vijay said Oma was a doctor. I of course believed her and then there was great laughter when Vijay said it was a joke. I did my duty and tried to tell Pretty useful or helpful things about being a disabled person, etc., etc., she could speak a little English and Vijay translated, but just being there was the important thing, not my so-called words of wisdom.

We were invited to stay for lunch. I went into the kitchen to watch Gita at her little stove. She chopped vegetables with a curved knife shaped like a small sickle, sharpened, I think, on both sides. Being curved it can cut in the curved bowls and cooking pots by rocking it back and forth. The kitchen had a doorway to the outside. On the left was a loo, on the right was a washing area and beyond was a field growing mustard and wheat. Lunch was tomato subje, papas, dal and chapattis. Sweets were also included in the meal and Vijay said he was getting them also only because we were there. He was served by his two sisters like a little king.

After lunch we were treated to a musical performance. Pretty’s younger brother sang a Bollywood song miming a microphone. He then found a silver shampoo bottle and used that for his mic. Three or four songs were sung, some joined by Pretty and Oma singing and clapping time. Lots of laughter and fun.

I was then presented with the gift of a beautiful dress with gorgeous silver and gold embroidery made by Pretty. The sisters tried to squeeze me into it in vain but I said it would fit my daughter and Pretty was thrilled. Vijay folded it carefully and wrapped it in newspaper and wrote on it “To Eliza from Pretty”.

Photos were taken and addresses and Oma entreated us to come to her house the next day for lunch. We were not sure of our plans for the following day and could only say “Shahaad.” Perhaps. Fond goodbyes were said and we left.

It turned out that we were to stay another day and so we called Vijay that night and said we would be happy to take up Oma’s offer for lunch the next day. We found our way back to the sisters compound and squeezed into Oma’s tiny one room home, perhaps 12’x7’. Vijay wasn’t there. A small television was being watched by one of Oma’s boys. A plastic chair was brought for Ross and we showed our photo album to Gita and Oma. And then there was Pretty at the door having come on her crutches! She came in and sat on a chair brought by a cousin and I showed her our pictures. She appeared more confident with her English speaking skills, spoke more and understood more. Everyone was teaching me Hindi.

Lunch was served similar to the day before. Tasty.

We brought our gifts of dates and cashews for the sisters and stickers, notebooks, pens and key lanyards for the kids.

Vijay arrived on his bicycle after lunch and was very happy with the BC Hydro lanyard that lights up blue that we gave to him.

I was presented with a rose given to me by a cousin-brother, (In Hindi the word for brother and sister is the same as for girl cousin and boy cousin) and we went to see the field and garden. Gita’s husband is a taxi driver and his parents provided the field. You can see from their houses who has the greater income. Oma’s husband is a farm labourer.

Our visits with this family meant much more to me that the temple wonders of Khajuraho, amazing as they were.

The Train to Satna

We woke to the alarm at 4:15 am and happily there was power to get ready by.
When we were set to go Ross woke up Kalendar to help
with the chair and our bags. Shook hands with the chowkidar and Kalendar saying
"Pir mélange." "See you later" and started down the dark mostly
deserted street--Ratan Ganj--to the Mirzapur railway station.
All the shops had their metel fronts closed and locked except for one small
paan and snack shop where the shopkeeper was flapping his rag duster
on the displays. A few dogs or cats eyes reflected back to me in the
light of my headlamp which I had switched on as the power had quit.
The forms of the occasional sleeping dogs by the side of the road
ignored us as we walked by. Two or three rickshaws passed us ringing
their bells, likely on their way to the station as well but
apart from
them and us and the occasional motorbike the street was deserted.
The station temporarily housed the usual covered bundles of sleeping
forms waiting for their trains that are seen at every train station
especially early in the mornings. A tabbycat dashed across the track
and in a moment hopped up onto the platform carrying a rat--easy
pickings on the rails. We've often watched the rats forraging on the tracks.
We carried on down the platform to cross at the ramped area as our
train left from platform 3. The train was on time and a railway
policeman helped us in getting them to open the door to our car.
He banged loudly with his lathi and shouted. A
woman and child was sleeping in the space behind the door. As it was
5:30 all were asleep. Ross found our berths and we settled in
surrounded by snores and the even breathing of the sleeping
passengers.We seem to always find ourselves on the slow trains
that stop at every little station and just put along. There was a faster train but
as we booked our tickets only 3 days ahead there was a long wait list.
"Ross and I are sitting on the side seats--still made up as a bench.
Very comfortable. We are stopped and watching an enormously long train
entirely full of red onions. It goes on and on. Of course there are
millions of Indians and they all eat onions. We are surrounded by
mostly old ladies, some curled up under blankets, some sitting up
eating snacks--pakoras--that a train seller has brought
around. Since we boarded the train there has been a non-stop
parade of sellers, the majority chai sellers in their high pitched nasel
voices. "Chai, chaiye", "Eh, pakori, pakori. Eh, pakori, pakori."
A toughened, dirty foot with cracked skin
around the toes and one toe adorned with a toe ring pokes out from
under the blanket across the aisle from me and the old lady opposite
from her has a big pouty bottom lip as if she has been put out for her
entire life. The smell of pakoras as the seller walks by, plus the
omelette toast mixes occasionally with the smell of shit coming up
from the tracks when we are stopped, and we seem to be stopped almost
as much as we are moving.
We are sitting beside another loaded passenger train and I see a woman
in full niquab--all covered in black with only an eye slit open. Her
hands are decorated with henna mendhi and one wrist is is adorned in a
six inch band of sparkling blue, purple and pink glass bangles and the
sleeves and front of her black dress cover are embroidered in gold leaf
designs. Their train moves away. Our train remains. Crows are hopping
about the track that is strewn with small plastic chai cups, plastic
bags, newspaper, biscuit wrappers and turd piles.

I watch a woman, perhaps 65, applying a scented green oil to her hair.
One small handful is scrubbed vigorously throughout her somewhat
sparse hair, then another handful and another vigorous scrubbing. She
then combs it and puts it into a tiny bun at the back of her
head. It shines. She rubs the remaining oil onto her face and arms.
The pouty lady actually has a nice smile. There are two couples across
from us and the other old lady (The bare foot lady) is massaging her
husband's calves and feet as they sit in the sun coming through the
open barred window. The husband of the pouty lady is lying down
on the other bench with his feet at the window warming them in the sun. The
foot massage gentleman is now cleaning his ears with a safely pin.
Ross is asleep stretched out on the bench in front of me. It's a cosy
scene.

Our lunch that we ordered has arrived. Chana dal, dal fry, rice,
chappatti and pickle. And there goes another train of red
onions, this time 40 cars. And now we move again.
We bought some mumfali-peanuts, from a one-armed seller and they came
with a little folded newspaper packet of what we assumed was salt.
Instead it turned out to be sulphur! Ross tasted it and I smelled it.
Smelled like matches.
And the Satna station appears.

Village Wedding Day

We left the Hotel Resort Deluxe in our hired car at 7:10 am, Sunday, January 6. In addition to Ross and I, there was Kalendar, in charge of room service and housekeeping at the hotel, Manoj, the driver and Manu, a friend of Kalendar’s. We left Mirzapur for a village near a small town called Manda. We had been invited as Kalendar’s guests to the wedding of his wife’s brother, Kasim. Incidently, Kalendar means calendar in Hindi and is as unusual a name here in India as it would be in Canada.

After driving for an hour and a half through some rolling countryside, open fields and villages and perhaps two or three small towns we arrived at the end of a brick road with a few cottage compounds spread about at some distance from each other.

“We are sitting in a compound made of piled-up stones. There are two very small mud huts connected together and all around us are many women and children from babies to teenagers to old ladies and just a few men. We are the center of attention. A young girl sits behind me on a platform and in her limited English and my limited Hindi, I learn that she is in class 8 and she tells me the relationship of some of the people around me—her father, sisters, brother.”

Kasim, the groom, (looks to be about 20 but I later learn that he is 27), is brought out and stands before me looking completely unprepared for marriage—bewildered and a little in shock. This is a Muslim family so the wedding season seems not to apply as in Hindu weddings. Kasim is wrapped in a purple shawl. I see a sparkly bell tied to his wrist but so far he doesn’t look adorned for a wedding. I’ve been told the wedding is at 12:00 so there is plenty of time to prepare as it’s only 9:40.

“Small girls holding babies stand around me staring. There is a large stack of firewood over against the stone wall and a woman (Kalendar’s sister) has just picked up three pieces and taken them to a corner where there is a small cooking fire over which are a few bricks on which a pot is cooking. She adds the wood to the fire. Over the cooking fire is a roof made of straw and a bundle of animal fodder is stored up on this roof. We are brought chai, some small fried dough balls that are traditional wedding food, biscuits and fruit.”

Ross goes off with Kalendar who has left to bathe at the village well. During his bath Ross takes a long hike with another fellow all around the countryside consisting of jungle, fields, rocky outcroppings and cactus. Amrit. the owner of the car calls the driver from Mirzapur and everyone is worried. “Where is Ross? Where is Ross?”

I remain in the women’s area. A goat walks through the compound and a woman gives it a kick and chases it off. “Hut! Hut!” It scampers off. An old woman sits on the charpoy in front of me—Kalendar’s wife’s grandmother. She wears a turquoise cotton sari over her black cardigan. Beside her sit three children—one about 5, one perhaps 7 and the baby, Kalendar’s niece, 8 months old. I am now surrounded by chattering children. Three new women arrive to take part in the celebration and stand staring. Often women gesture to my legs and I say polio and they all nod. “Acha, acha.”

The girls take me out of the compound for a walk down the brick road past our car and the four waiting jeeps that have been hired for the wedding. We meet up with Ross who has returned from his hike. I have to say to the girls, “Diree, diree, jaldi nahine!” Slowly, slowly, not fast, as they attempt to race with me along the path. Then they all tell each other, “Diree, diree, diree!”

We assemble back at the compound where Kasim is washing himself all over with soap and double shampoo and everyone is sitting and standing around watching him, friends, family and neighbours. As Kasim washes, Kalendar stands up on a raised area changing discreetly into new underwear (called innerwear) all behind a new lungi, and then a pressed white shirt and pressed trousers. Now Kasim is doing the same, new underwear under a new lungi, new shirt and socks. He drops his lungi and puts on new trousers and suit jacket. All watch intently as he dresses. He sits on the charpoy and his uncle wraps his head in a turban made of starched white cotton. It takes two tries and a lot of fiddling to get it perfect. Uncle puts two garlands of roses and white flowers around Kasim’s neck.. The groom then leaves in the car with Kalendar, Ross, another friend and the driver to go to the mosque for prayers.

The uncle unpacks many floral decorations, lays them out onto the charpoy and sprinkles them with drops of water. Again I am crowded around with many women and children, having shown my photos once more.

The groom returns from his prayers and the charpoy is now placed near the entrance to the compound. He sits and over his back is placed a cape made entirely of roses. He is then covered with a headdress made of roses, white flowers and a tinsel crown. This has covered him completely, face and all and I think he must be suffocating under it. All the women family members group around him and one by one they come up to him with their hands gesturing from the top of head down several times in blessing. Kalendar now picks him up and carries him to the waiting car. Actually the car we hired to come to the village. Luckily he is a small man. Kalendar isn’t tall but he is more beefy.

After some time we are told to go to the car in which was sitting the groom covered in his rose cape and tinsel rose headdress. We sit in the back with Kalendar’s wife and two small daughters, 2 and 5, groom and driver in front. Behind us were the 4 jeeps with all the family members. We set off beyond the end of the brick road across the open land where there was no road and barely a path. We didn’t have a jeep so it was quite a procedure to make our way through the rocks but we finally came to a paved single lane road, the jeeps having passed us well before and were waiting.

For 15 kilometres we drove on that road through a very dry area, almost desert like. We shared oranges and cashews with all in the car. When we came to the bride’s village we came to a vehicle that had stacks of speakers and a generator. On the side was a sexy dancing couple—INDIA DJ—written in large colourful lettering. There seemed to be some confusion as to where we were to go. We turned around as did the DJ truck, but I think it was so we could make a grand entrance into the village. Ross and I got out, the DJ truck turned on its blasting speakers with distorted Indian disco dance music and the groom car followed.

Ross and I dropped down into a field for a pee, unseen, and then we caught up with the parade—the DJ truck, behind which was a huge crowd of wildly dancing young men and boys, the groom’s car and then the 4 jeeps. When Ross joined in with the dancing they all roared with approval. After dancing along the paved road awhile we turned off onto a path which the DJ truck could just barely fit onto. The boys were dancing all the way and my ears and body were throbbing to the booming bass.

Ahead through the fields we could see a yellow marriage tent set up with sunflower designs painted on the fabric walls. The car with the groom, the jeeps and the DJ truck pulled up to the tent. We were escorted into the tent where there were men sitting and children playing. Ross was asked to sit on the one table until the groom arrived. Then a chair was brought for him and the groom was again carried to the place of honour on the cloth-covered table. Some wedding appetizers were served to all consisting of a fried pastry, a ghulab jamen and two other sweets, one pink and one white. I ate the pastry and half the ghulam jhamen and gave the rest to Kalendar’s friend, Manu.

After sweets we were told it was time to eat and we were taken to another table. A chair was brought for Ross but Manu and Manoj, the driver sat cross-legged on the table opposite us. There was lovely puffy and chewy thick naan bread baked in a tandoori oven, mutton curry, (probably goat), rice pilou, what they call green salad which is sliced carrots, tomatoes, onions, white radish, cilantro or some sort of parsley and lemon and a sweet rice dessert. There was also fried fish and chicken.

All the time we were eating Kasim just sat there under the weight of his floral decoration. Friends came and chatted with him and then came the Imam to do the ceremony. This all took place without the bride! After we finished eating we visited the women’s area hoping to see the bride. There were many women eating but no bride. I believe she was hidden away in the house—perhaps under her own decorations. (Kalendar told us she came out at 6:00 but we had left by that time, much to his disappointment.) We didn’t see the bride but we did see the marriage certificate and were told they were now married. Kasim now had his flowers removed.

We were expected to eat again about half an hour after the first meal but we couldn’t eat more than a few carrots. The food was prepared in numerous enormous cooking pots on fires outside under some trees by specially hired wedding cooks.

It was now about 4:00 and the owner of the car was continually calling saying we should be on our way back to Mirzapur. As much as we were sorry to leave, it had been a long day and so very full. I was ready to return.

Gudwara Visit

Our friend dear Sikh friend, Kusum called on Friday morning to say that she was attending an event at the local Gudwara (Sikh Temple) just down the road. She had brought hot porridge for me and Ross went to fetch it from Nuncu, the driver. She said she had no time to visit as her cousin was arriving, but happy surprise, she came, curious to see our room and to say hello. She told us that it was the 10th Guru’s birthday. The night before from our hotel balcony we could see the Gudwara all lit up with coloured lights. She encouraged us to visit the Gudwara in the afternoon as they were serving lunch to the community and would be very pleased if we came shared their food. So after doing some internet we walked the short distance to the Gudwara. There were many people in the lane outside the entrance, some obviously Sikh and some maybe or maybe not. We were shy about just walking into the compound but one young man said, “Yes, yes, go in.” Up the path we walked and into the gate. Ross took off his shoes as others were doing and put them on a shelf. A young woman came up to us; I know we looked confused as to where to go and what to do. “You must cover your heads with a handkerchief.” I had a scarf, Ross had nothing but someone produced a somewhat grubby, once white handkerchief and tied it around his head. Our friend said if we could, we should go upstairs.

I got on Ross’s back and some young men carried the chair up the rough gray concrete stairs. At the top the girl instructed me to remove my shoes and we followed our new friend along the walkway at the edge of the open courtyard to a room packed full with women on one side, men on the other and children everywhere, about two or three hundred, the air hot with bodies. The girl made a way for us through the women’s side to the edge of the men’s side. At the front of the room on the left side were three Sardhars (Sikhs). One was singing devotional songs, one was playing harmonium and one tabla. In the center was a raised alter, brightly lit and decorated with strings of marigold garlands and other holy items. As I don’t know a lot about the Sikh religion so I cannot say what was on the alter but there was another Sardar, I assume he was a priest, waving a tassley fan back and forth. Our friend encouraged Ross to go up to the alter as others were doing. He bowed down with his head to the floor, arms outstretched, following the example of the person in front of him. He came back to our spot and we listened to the music until it finished. A man came up to the front and made some speeches and after listening politely for a time we decided to leave the room.

Our friend had taken us under her wing and came along with us back downstairs. She asked if we wanted to stay for lunch. (That, of course, had been our main purpose in coming!) We went into a large room where women and children were sitting around the edges of the room and in three or so rows, sitting on narrow burlap floor coverings laid out on the floor. The girl assured us that it was fine for Ross to be there. We settled into a corner and now our friend was joined by one of her friends. They asked what ever we were doing in Mirzapur as there was nothing to do. I told my story. They said that for them Mirzapur was like a prison. Our friend, the older girl, said she would like to go to university in another city but her father wouldn’t let her travel away. They were amazed that my daughters weren’t married. “Aren’t you going to make them?” “There is no way I can make my daughters do anything. That is their choice.” They were thrilled by that. “Oh, please can you adopt us and take us back to Canada with you?” They were bright fun girls with terrific senses of humour. They were in grades 12 and 10, or as it is said here, Class 12 & 10.

Some young serving boys came into the ladies lunch room and handed out tali trays with formed depressions for food made from pressed leaves held together with tiny bits of stick like toothpicks. Other boys and men came with stainless steel buckets and ladled out dal, subje, salad and halva and another passed out chapattis. It was a great meal and they kept coming round to give more and more. We finished our meal and left immediately as there was another group ready to come for their meal.

We said our farewells to the girls and went to find our shoes. They had closed the gate and were only letting in a few at a time. A large crowd had formed outside the iron gate, many who were very poor, disabled or a bit mad or perhaps drunk. One fellow tried to bow down to my feet, the second time this has happened in Mirzapur and I think both times they were intoxicated. Ross left his borrowed handkerchief tied to the wire of lights along to walkway as we left the compound and headed back down the road to our hotel—Hotel Resort Deluxe.