Bombay to Burgh

Forgive typos – spellcheck will cause this machine to hang up and/or crash… 

So, what I’ve found about blogging is this: Often I attempt to justify putting this off in favor of actualyl going out and having new experiences, thus racking up even more to write about and getting deeper into the memory hole.  So, before I leave for the CRY project in Ashti, Maharashtra (which entails a 10-hour train ride followed by a 45-minute jeep ride to the small village, and the threat of chronic nerve damage for me as I white-knuckle a pen and attempt to document stuff for this blog on pad) I want to make sure I’ve got all my ducks or in this case, vicious-looking Mumbai crows, in a row

As a warm_up< here are some capsule items pertaining to what I really have come to appreciate about this place – by no means an exhaustive list:

• In general, the steps on the stairways here are a bit shorter in height.  This is also helpful for firangs with a 28-inch inseam.
• The loud, sharp kissing sound that men in the street make when trying to get someone’s attention or to get them to move out of the way.
• Patriotic/sentimental messages on English signs marred by a slight grammatical error: ex. “If we do not take responsibility then we will not grow inch.”
• The affinity for abbreviations and acronyms, CRY for example.  Also, ones that are maybe a little bit funny sounding when pronounced, but shorter than the expanded form.
• That the hotel in which I am staying, Hotel Manama, is named for Manama the capital of Bahrain.  My brother is now staying in Bahrain, in Manama – this is a coincidence of metaphysical propotions to me.
• Rapidly opening and closing one’s fingers against the thumb to signify “wait five minutes”.
• Frequent use of the expression “Tom, Dick and Harry…”
• The incredible sense of balance exhibited by those Mumbaites who tote all manner of heavy items on their heads (laundry, cookware, etc…)
• How the ladies ride on their men’s motorcycles side-saddle, fearlessly trundling through traffic jams that defy logic.
• The concept of “joota”, for which there is no clear English equivalent other than, “I drank from this cup so it is likely to have my spit on it, therefore it is not advised nor proper etiquette that you drink from same cup.”

Speaking of motorcycles – they are really, really popular here.  I’ve nearly been hit on more than one occasion by these guys, who make full use out of the maneuverability afforded by the little Hondas and other Asian-brand cycles (as they are called locally – more British english) to cut corners and move along through intersections choked with busses, cars, txis and autorickshaws.  My chance of finding Harley Davidson souvenirs for my biker friends back home is probaly slim to none, as I doubt if there is a hog in this entire country.  Even the films Dhoom and Dhoom 2 galvanized the urban fascination with these crotch-rocket types a la the Huyabusa though many of the cycles I see on the streets look like they may have been rescued from the back of a garage in Lawrenceville.

After my extended blog session on Monday, I made my way to the Mumbai office of Child Rights and You, which was about a 25-minute taxi ride spent with a friendly Muslim driver who smoked only slightly more than I used to.  On the way, we went over the Chay Jay (phonetic, as I have no idea how to spell this) flyover, and then back into the city streets, past the imposingly fortified Arthur Road jail.  Tejas’ friend A. later told me that if you got sent there, it was over – all varieties of criminals were placed thereto await trial, and the joint had the guards with Kalashnikovs stationed about to drive this point home.  It kind of reminded me of the scene in Ishtar, when the hotel was being buttressed with razor wire and those I-beam roadblock things that look like huge toy jacks when martial law was imposed.  Ok, so let that be the first and last time I reference Ishtar, though I think about that movie from time to time based on some other stuff I see here.  I got to the CRY office very early: My meeting was slated for 2 p.m. and it was now only about 12:30, but fortunately, M. in the office was free to receive me and showed me to the CRY shop next door, where I dropped some Rs. on gifts for people here and home.  There was a nice variety of merchandise available, most of it produced by artisans in communities where CRY actively supports other NGO-run projects.  I bought a 3-D wooden cow puzzle for myself, a pretty wire-hewn bell and candlestick as a Diwali gift for a friend, and a few books as well, one of which is a collection of poetry chosen by prominent Indians and published for CRY’s benefit (will link once I get to a fully functional terminal and the tingling in my keyboard-impaired left-hand little finger caused by this cursed shoulder bag subsides).  All in all, they had some nice things that were it not for shipping being prohibitively expensive, would be nice to have for sale in the U.S.  I did offer my services as a CRY “mule” to bring some items on the way back, but we’ll see if I can bring enough in an extra checked suitcase or two to make this worthwhile.

The afternoon was spent in meeting with M. as well as two other CRY staffers who provided overviews on a variety of topics.  One thing that struck me were the efforts in selling to a charity-accustomed public CRY’s advocacy model – i.e., informing and promoting awareness and dialogue about child rights issues among those affected, erstwhile donors and supporters, and policy makers/government.  Often times we are asked at CRY Pittsburgh if it’s possible to sponsor a child or a project directly, which is simply not how CRY’s philosophy works.  Under such a sponsorship arrangement (of the stripe we’ve all seen advertised on late-night or daytime television), the child’s identity is conventionally revealed to the donor, and some correspondence is encouraged.  This arrangement presumes that simply because one supports a child through donation, s/he is entitled to know the child’s identity, and is free to cut off funding and support when s/he desires.  By functioning as an enabler, rather than an interventionist, (i.e. promoting local NGO partners that operate on the plane of child rights issues, rather than coming into a community and prescribing solutions that may not suit the area’s needs) and demanding accountability where due from government and policy makers, CRY takes its role beyond the idea of ‘charity’.  Another strategy that CRY employs - fascinating to me, since children are not normally regarded in society in general as autonomous beings that have the ability to control the variables and conditions of their socialization structure – is reaching out to the children themselves through CRY clubs, which children in participating schools may join after one year of child rights instruction.  The clubs highlight among children their own entitlements and rights, as well as where the rights of other less-fortunate children are being infringed and/or outright ignored.  Among these means of getting the kids to consider and question: Critical thinking and analysis of archetypes and stories.  A Hans Christian Andersen story, The Children’s Prattle, was offered as an example of a piece that could encourage classroom dialogue on social stratification.  These individual topics under CRY’s rubric are all the more intriguing to me, and I’ll no doubt be taking in even more over the next weekend, when things really pick up.  Also notable is the confirmation of a CRY project visit in New Delhi later this month.  Incidentally, I can’t beleive it hasn’t been a month already here, what with the hypercompressed pace of things…
After a lunch of potato and achhar (spicy pickle) and the chhappatis that are inflated and fried just short of being crisp (forget what these are called), we continued our meetings until nealry 6, when I was to meet with A., best friend of my friend and compadre in CRY, Tejas.  His office was at the end of a convluted taxi ride through the congested rush hour streets.  Before catching the cab I took a few snaps of a roadside shrine that abutted an apartment building where people leaned over their porch railings and laundry of every conceivable hue hung to dry in the breeze.  A. greeted me outside his office and we set off again in a taxi to another location where we’d have to pick up an autorickshaw.  Taxis are permitted only in certain areas; most of the suburbs are in autorickshaw territory, it seems.  On the way we talked about CRY and the pace of life in Mumbai – he agreed with my impression that everyone seemes to be working constantly here, sometimes morning till late night every day, and he filled me in about some of the time-sink that is his daily commute (sometimes four hours total on the suburban train from Borivali to his office).  We also talked music, specifically the disproportionate and persistent popularity of Bryan Adams throughout the subcontinent.  His parents were diplomats, and I think he learned early he could sell himself to a loyal fan base of folks in Asia and the Middle East who craved western sounds.  Too bad Black Flag didn’t have the same idea…It was on a gridlocked flyover that our autorickshaw sputtered and died; the driver got out and pushed it to the curb leaving me to wait while A. hailed another.  The traffic, again, was totally unbelievable…amazing.  Mumbai drivers are like surgeons in the sense that they can navigate through the smallest available space with the minimum distance bewteen their car and another cycle, pedstrain, buss, wahetver, and never have so much as a gentle sideswipe.  I did see my first accident yesterday, however, right in front of the hotel.  Just a mild rear-end between two Marutis. 

I was treated to a wonderful dinner of rich, ghee-soaked pav bhaji at Tejas’ parents place, plus the company of A., who lives neacross the way in the same building, and the rest of Tejas’ family.  People seem to have more of a family-homestead approach to dwelling places here, too – Tejas’ dad told me that the apartment next door housed four generations of the family under one roof (great-grandfather, grandfather, father, and son, age ranging from nearly 90 to 4 or 5 years…).  We heard (and saw) fireworks bursting in the distance during our meal, and I talked with Tejas’ niece about favorite filmstars – great way to break the ice with the kids, I have found.  She likes Preity Zinta, who is OK in my book.  After dinner, A. took me back to the suburban station on his motorcycle _ which was my first_ever ride on a cycle, period.  I found myself wishing I’d taken a movie with my camera as we went through the busy streets loaded with Diwali lantern vendors and teeming with late-night activity, as per usual here, everywhere.  After having kulfi (rich, Indian ice cream) at a roadside stand, he showed me to the terminal and we parted ways, me bound back for Churchgate on a nearly empty car.

I HAVE YET TO EVEN BROACH MY Tuesday and this computer’s malfunctioning shift key is causing much vexation…i’ll catch up later with some reports and ruminations from the INDIA GATE walking trip i took yesteday, my afternoon wandering about the Ram Jagjivani hospital, and more on a very special first Diwali.  Until then, here is an excerpt from an email I sent to a friend about the goings on of the last couple  of nights…would that my blog entry tomorrow about today’s activities be just about blogging here at this hot little cybercafe that I have monopolized for the past two hours…

mumbai is absolutely incredible, man…far beyond my expectations.  the “guide” who hassles me outside my hotel (today he wanted Rs. 150 against any service that I may reuire from him for the remainder of my stay gets a bit tiresome to deal with but other than that it’s been 100% awesome. 

as for the rest of the time here, I rode a fast train to Bandra last evening – it was packed-crowded (ed.- must elaborate upon later: q – How is ridership on Mumbai suburban trains during rush hour like show audiences in the late 1990s U.S. hardcore scene? a - Normally there is no band playing, but other than that, pretty similar.), like total inability to answer the cell phone in your pocket crowded (the guy next to me may have felt it vibrate in my pocket).  i attempted to jump off the train as it was slowing (actually, was more or less forced out) and nearly took out a queue of passengers on the platform, as i had not sufficiently estimated my own momentmum.  whoops! 

i attended my first diwali party 3 nights ago and was invite for a diwali dinner at my friend J.’s place last evening, where her family presented me with a beautiful oil lamp…it was really special.  this whole trip has been really something else, man…really something else…