Saturday, May 30, 2009

Elephant Ride, or, Being a Tourist for a Morning


Well, at least it's not boring here. I walked out on my balcony this morning, and this was what I saw: an elephant waiting to take us for a ride around the neighborhood.


Bulbul checks out the elephant in front of our gate.

























This was the absolute best part: Great, the Great Dane who is larger than me and who growls and snaps any time he sees me, finally ran into a creature that was bigger than him. He was so tentative about sniffing the elephant's trunk, and acted agitated for some time after the elephant had left, sniffing the air - of course, the elephant made a rather large deposit right in front of the house before leaving.

Our neighbor fed the elephant sliced lemons.



I was interested in riding, touristy as it is, but wasn't going to go alone. Not a problem, because the kids here were pretty excited. Kati and Bulbul were happy to go along, and we created quite a parade going up and down our street, the mahout using his stick to push power lines away from our heads and neighbor children trailing in our wake.

A going-away present.

Friday, May 29, 2009

LGBT hangout, SEX doctor and cricket


So I'm freelancing a story about hijra, or eunuchs, which are really pretty interesting and you should Google it sometime because I'm not going to write about them here quite yet. They're a difficult bunch to photograph or interview, but, to get them to warm up to me, I've started visiting a support group for gay men and transgendered people. I think a lot of them think I'm actually cruising, no matter how many times I tell them I am a (straight) journalist working on an assignment. This guy to the left in particular seemed really fascinated by me, and wouldn't leave me alone.

Everyone is pretty cool; the only problem is, there are only two hijra who attend. One is really talkative and speaks English well, but refuses to be photographed. The other speaks only Hindi and only occasionally will allow photographs.









I thought this sign was funny.


Selling plums outside the courthouse.



This typist works near the courthouse in New Delhi. Sharing his bench to his right sits a client, waiting for his document to be typed.



He wanted to know why I was taking his photo, and I told him you don't see manual typewriters in the U.S. He seemed puzzled, but then posed here with his typewriter.











These are some statues near the Jhandewalan metro stop.



Sacred cows actually have it pretty tough in New Delhi, sleeping in the medians, eating garbage, walking through the middle of traffic, etc. No one has written a story about this, I don't think, probably because so many people are in the same situation.

Boys walking home after an evening of cricket near my house.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Sturm und Drang at the FRO

I wasn't going to write about this, because it's my equivalent of Mel Gibson's flaying in Braveheart, or one of his other obnoxious public self-flagellations. This experience absolutely IS one that I would wish visited upon my worst enemies, mostly because I'm not in the habit of feigning empathy, but also because I really hate one or two of my enemies.

If you ever plan to visit India, you should read this, a brief account of my four days of torture at the Foreigner's Registration Office, unpopularly referred to as the 'FRO.'

My first contact with that insidious evil started with a phone call. I'd heard that expatriates must register with the FRO within 14 days of their arrival. This puzzled me, because I figure, if someone is willing to go through the months of hell required to obtain a visa for a trip to India, you'd better believe they want to go bad enough to at least make an appearance. So, after some fumbling - I was still learning to use the phones here - the call went through.

Phone call # 1

FRO: Hello?

Me: Yes, Hello, I've just arrived from the U.S. and need to

FRO: Hello?

Me: Yes, Hello. Anyway, I've

FRO: Hello?

Me: Yes! Can you hear me? Hello!

FRO: Hello?


Phone call # 2

Me: Yes, Hello, I would like to register as a foreigner with your office.

FRO: Yes?

Me: And I would like to know what documents I should bring with me in order to register with your office. Because I would like to register with your office.

FRO: Oh, no problem, sir. Bring your passport and four photos.

Me: That's it?

FRO: Yes, that's it.

Me: Ok, thanks, bye.


I should interject here and mention that in order to obtain a cell phone, I had to produce: 1. My passport, 2. My visa, 3. A letter from my landlord (I was staying at a hotel for only two days, but by god they demanded to have a letter from the manager) to prove residency, 4. A passport photo. Just to get a damn cell phone. This in mind, I doubted that registering with the FRO would be as simple as the voice on the phone said (Still, I had no idea how bad it would be). So, I called again five minutes later.

Phone call # 3

Me: Yes, Hello, I would like to register as a foreigner with your office.

FRO: Yes?

Me: And I would like to know what documents I should bring with me in order to register with your office. Because I would like to register with your office.

FRO: Oh, no problem, sir. Bring your passport and four photos.

Me: That's it? That's really all I have to bring in?

FRO: Yes, that's it.

Me: Ok, thanks, bye.

An hour later, I show up at the FRO armed with the prescribed documents, plus one of the letters I used to obtain a visa, just in case.

FRO Drone # 3 (with a scornful look): This is all wrong.

The FRO guy said that, besides the ones I already had, I needed an additional eight different documents, including, but not limited to: A letter from my landlord, three applications (each filled out in pen, in block letters, and each original - you can't just fill one out and photocopy it), my boarding pass from the flight over and two other forms of identification. I returned home, over an hour's drive, to retrieve the necessary documents.

And so it went, I retrieving, commissioning or creating the requested documents, and the FRO officials becoming sexually excited at the chance once more to sneer at my little packet and send me home one more time. Each time it was something new; if they didn't ask for completely different documents from the last time, they would find ways to tweak their previous request. For instance, the first couple of days I spent there, they never complained about the fact that I brought in copies of five of the documents the Indian Consulate had required for a visa application - because the requirements, according to their respective Web sites, were exactly the same. And, most maddeningly, the FRO officials would assure me each time before sending me scuttling home that all I needed to do was make just these two or three more changes. I kept returning to discover they were lying.

By day three, I was beginning to recognize people who, like me, were being forced to return time and again, trying desperately to jump through the ever-shifting hoops and accomplish whatever it was they had come here to do. On this day, the drone behind the front desk finally noticed I was using copies of documents from my original visa application. This will never do, he said. I called the appropriate people and had them redraft the original documents, simply cutting and pasting the same text but affixing a more recent date. Went across town to an Internet cafe and printed them off. Returning for visit NUMBER FOUR (!!!!) I triumphantly presented my paperwork. Of course, Drone # 3 rejected it. I presented a list, hand-written by his colleague, that purported to include all of the documents I needed. I met every requirement, I pointed out. But no, he said; "When it says 'Letter from landlord,' it should really say, 'Proof of residency, and that requires three documents: 1. Letter from landlord, 2. Photocopy of landlord's voting certificate and 3. Copy of a recent utility bill.

Foiled again.

FRO: How many times have you come here?

Me (expecting sympathy): Four.

FRO (leaning in and shaking finger for emphasis): And this is due only to YOUR negligency!

I screamed something about it only being due to his incompetency, and went outside, feeling the urge to beat my head against the cinder-block wall in despair.

Next day, I returned with a new friend to serve as a witness to the FRO's sadism. Need I continue? First, when confronted with the exact documents he had requested, Drone # 3 informed me that the address at which I claimed to reside was not in New Delhi.

Me: It's in fucking Dwarka! I think I know where I live! Look, it's the same here on his voting certificate and his phone bill.

FRO: What is this? Why did you bring in a phone bill? We requested a utility bill. When we say 'utility bill' everyone knows that means a current power bill.

Me: I believe my papers are in order. Where do I go from here?


Somehow, that worked. On this particular visit, I ran into a nice woman from the U.K. who had encountered similar difficulty in years past, but for some reason had it easier this time. According to her, needless and senseless bureaucracy in India is a cultural anomaly for which we can blame the British:

"I think the attitude is, the British did it, so it must be good," she said.

The British were infamous for their endless documentation of every possible documentable thing, and have even been blamed for exacerbating inter-caste discrimination by their endless census-taking. This approach has apparently never been re-examined, and the response to complications of any sort seems to be to pile on more paperwork.

Take for example, the Mumbai shootings. According to news reports, some of the shooters used unsecured wifi links to send e-mails back to their handlers, thus facilitating their murderous plans. Oh, and they also used cell phones. The response here? Exactly what I am experiencing. It's now nearly impossible to get wifi access, and the paperwork required for obtaining a SIM card is enormous.

Terrorists may someday once again rain lead hell from Mumbai's Taj Hotel, but, by god, when they do, the cell phone companies and the FRO will have files on them that are thicker than Terri Schaivo's parents' skulls. And if that's not a deterrent, I don't know what is.

Monday, May 25, 2009

Malana

I'm trying to plan a trip to Malana, a quirky village in northern India where the residents speak their own language and consider everyone who is not a resident to be untouchable. Not just of a lower caste, but untouchable! They fine you 1,000 rupees if you touch one of them.

I used to figure I could handle many situations, but this one sounds crazy. It's so remote you can't find it on Google maps. You have to hike in (after a 20-hour bus ride, followed by shorter cab ride), and some people go on yaks! Things sounded OK until I started trying to arrange for accommodations, querying a thread on the IndiaMike.com travel Web site. Take a look at the exchange so far:

Quote:
Originally Posted by Joelelliott
So there really are no decent places to stay in Malana? I have to write an article about it, so I'm looking to work, not necessarily to rough it.

Kullukid:

Doesn't sound like the place for you!!!
I've stayed in rooms that are 50 Rs in India & the 2 or 3 G/H's in Malana are 100 times worse. Find the dingiest dirtiest G/H you can in Delhi & see how you like it, if you don't you definitely won't want to stay in Malana.
I was with an Israeli guy & the rooms were so dirty that we sat outside all night rather than go in the rooms. While we were sat there a rat the size of a cat strolled behind our chairs without batting an eyelid!!!!
....not trying to put you off by the way! If you do go please post a link to your article here.

It's possible to get a taxi from Jari to the top of the Dam project then it's a three hour climb up up up! no down or flat bit's! but you could come back down the same day if you set off very early in the morn, however the locals are not very talkative until they've seen your face around for a while.
Good Luck! KK


Click here for more of a description of the place.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Kite flying in a Muslim quarter




As the sun set, more and more kites appeared in the sky.



First beef I've seen since arrival. First thing I do when I return to the States is, buy a cheeseburger and a big, frosty glass of red at Mainely Brews.





This is Humayun's Tomb, in Nizamuddin.



















Latticed window from inside the tomb.






















Stone workers preparing pieces for restoration of the tomb.
























Playing cricket in the narrow streets. This passage was about as wide as it got.
















And while the boys played cricket and flew kites, the men played caroms.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Celebrating life


Here are more photos from the naming ceremony last night. Above is the mother (I think her name is Shweta) of the child dancing with a friend. She said the girl below, her niece, was "naughty."





More dancing ...


Dancing in the window - their shoes outside on the porch are reflected in the lower pane of glass.


















With the baby ...

















































This little boy came over and hunkered down in front of us to eat his food. I think he was too short to get up on a chair. When he saw me taking his picture, he burst out crying. I felt terrible.

Naming the baby





I found an apartment. Great place with a cool landlord. While seeing it, he invited me to stay to see a Hindu ceremony celebrating the birth of his son. It involved much singing and some dancing. Everyone seemed so happy; it was beautiful.



This is the mother of the child. They named him 'Naman.'













Below is a little kid who was dancing outside next to the speaker.







Dancing is thirsty work.























This woman (I think she is the baby's aunt) seemed so happy.


















I have many more photos. Let me know if I should upload more.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Hello, Slumdog Millionaire!



I saw these kids outside TGI Friday's (I know, lame, but I've been eating Indian food since I arrived, and the spices are tearing me in half) selling crayoned pictures they had drawn to sell to sympathetic tourists in the market near where I am staying.

When I walked out, I thought I'd buy one of their pictures.


But when one named his price, 20 rupees - about 41 cents, U.S. - someone came out of the bar to tell me, "You are not helping them, sir. They receive none of the money. It's a racket, sir. You are funding a racket."

What are you supposed to do?

I bought his picture for 20 rupees. Here it is, grease stain and all:

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Great wiring job




I guess if you want power here, you just go to Home Depot, buy some cable, and connect your own house to the nearest power pole. Click on the photo for a better view.

I'm pretty sure I need to get a polarizing filter for my camera to reduce that glare.