Eric and The Embassy

Further to the seemingly drug fuelled excesses of Eric the Dutchman who hit the local papers yesterday morning. Before he was even allowed out of the room where he was locked up in for the night, his antics and pictures were splashed all over the local newspapers.

One version carried pictures of him throwing sand around at the Subzi Warrior Queens, another paper showed his abject condition on both days of his disgrace.

Since the guy hadn't committed any crime nor was he in immediate life threatening danger, there was little the police could do but to convince the guy next door to take him back at least until the diplomatic office opened and Proper Arrangements could be made. Incredibly, the guy agreed and bought him back to the guest house next door. But he is kept under lock and key at night because I hear him banging on the door every morning calling to be allowed out. Then he wanders around complaining that his money is missing, his food is late, pleading for someone to call the police and other nonsense. Surej the owner mutters and swears about the mad bhaindchord and grudgingly accepts his duty to this pagal guest. Seems that if Surej wants rid of the guy then it is up to him to take him to Delhi and deliver him to the doorstep of the Dutch Embassy. At least that's what the other guesthouse owners do as a matter of course.

In the meantime, Surej feeds him, lets him loose in the market every morning and locks him up at night.

Very quickly Eric has become part of the background, Whether he was mad when he got here and didn't take his medication or whether he was sane when he got here and is in some drug induced psychosis is not debated.

It says something about the local attitude towards madness, temporary or otherwise. 

If a similar situation had gone down in New Zealand, Eric would have been tasered before he even got a chance to hug the cop, In the US he probably would have been shot. It also says something about the Indian attitude towards their responsibilities as a host. Every visitor even Eric could be a god in disguise sent to test you, and as a host your responsibility extends to acting in loco parentis until someone can make Proper Arrangements for your visitor.

Rage Against The Machine

Talking to a friend today in the courtyard over coffee, the sounds of another tourist loosing the plot were drifting down from the rooftop restaurant next door. She happily ignored the drama unfolding but my ears were pricked.

Seems the guy had waited too long for his meal and was shouting that we would doom the people who took so long to serve him. His shouts were not as interesting as our conversation and so they just melted into the usual background sound of toots and horns and kids swearing shouting and screaming at each other in the street. After some time his shouts had turned to pleas and then whimpers, so I forgot all about him.

Until I stepped outside to get something from the shop across the road and saw a crowd gathered.

Is it the tourist? I ask Prem ji at the shop. The one who was shouting?

That's him down there. Prem ji nods his head in the direction of the crowd. There is a foreign guy there in wet condition, barefooted and wandering around in some kind of chemically induced condition.

What story?

O the usual took too many drugs or not enough. He is the guy the cops picked up yesterday.

What happened? As I watch the crowd gather around the guy, I see the local reporter turn up. A few more men gather around with video cameras and local boys take out their cell phones, it's beginning to look like the paparazzi out here! The local reporter has a lot of experience with tourists loosing the plot and he rapidly takes charge of the situation.

They took him to the hospital in Ajmer.

As you do.

Then he came back?

Yes, seems he came back and shat in the street outside Old Rajini Temple last night when they were having a bajan program. Prem couldn't sound more bored, we both keep our eyes on the scene as we chat. In fact we are chatting so we can watch the scene.

The guy's descent from bad behaviour into public nuisance follows the usual path. One small incident or tablet or lick of something and like the wafer thin after dinner mint in the Monty Python drama, it's a technicolour outcome.

The reporter is trying to get information out of everyone. The tourist is walking around with his hands in the Namaste position saying "I don't want any trouble", kids are giggling and women are watching from upstairs windows.

The shutters go down on the restaurant next door and the guy's stuff put on the sidewalk across the road. He has been evicted but can't quite believe it and keeps trying to enter the building.

A young German man walks past and asks what happened. Because the German is white and a man the locals tell him to help his friend.

But I don't know him. Says the German. That doesn't mean anything to the locals. The tourist starts hugging the German. I wonder if he is on MDMA. I bet the German wishes he was, he looks rather ill at ease.

As soon as the tourist releases him, the German is gone.

The crowd is getting bigger and consists of young males; I begin to think that if the guy doesn't go then he will be beaten local style and that would be rather unpleasant.

I go to the guy and say in the tone of some emergency service person

Look at me. You have to leave now. You are not safe here. Do you understand?

He tries to hug me. His pupils tell a story written in some dim laboratory, the lights are on but no one is at home today.

Eventually the cops turn up. Since the tourist hasn't committed a crime and has already escaped from the loony bin in Ajmer, they don't know what to do with him.

There is a lot of talking with the reporter acting as translator, counsellor and questioner. He directs the cops as they grin shamefacedly, more embarrassed for the tourist than the tourist himself. The tourist starts hugging the head cop much to the amusement of the police and the crowd.

Eventually the tourist is fire lifted into the back of the Police jeep, he resists like a Ghandian protestor.

The owner of the guesthouse is livid. This is the second time the cops have had to come and take a tourist from his place. It causes him loss of business as well as headaches with the cops, but how are you supposed to tell who is going to loose the plot and who isn't? He says, with a lot more swearwords.

What will happen to him now? I ask another local guesthouse owner.

They will ring his embassy, they will ring the family and they have to come and take him home.

One time it was an Israeli girl and her mother hired a private plane to come and get her.

It's a well-rehearsed drill for the local hospitality people during the season of the Ship of Fools.

Barefoot along the Road of Life

I love to look at the foot of a baby and think about where these feet will take the newborn. There is something precious and hopeful about the barefooted beauty of a baby who is months away from taking it's first steps onto the Road of Life.

Having been a barefooted traveller along the road for many years now, I love and appreciate my feet. They have often been my sole mode of transport, taken me places where I didn't think I could go and only ever complained when I tried to force them into shoes.

Roaming around in warm climes is one way to treat reveal your barefooted beauty to the world. Let those toes peep and shine and liberate your best friends on the road from their prison but please darlings do it in style.

Once my daughter was late for some event or another and was scrummaging through the house for a pair of shoes to wear, keeping another woman waiting.

"For God's sakes darling," said the woman and mad poet. "Just paint your toenails and wear your barefeet!"

I like that kind of attitude as much as I like having my feet connected to Papatuanuku (Mother Earth). If you are going to do anything in life then do it with style, I say.

A weekly pedicure is both necessary for looking fabulously barefooted and there is absolutely no excuse for having cracked heels. Cracked heels are the bane of many a barefooted warrior queen and sandal wearer. In India there is an entire section of the cosmetics industry devoted to cracked heels.

You can buy this nifty little tube of cream, you can scrape your heels until they bleed with varying versions of a steel horse rasp that collects dead skin cells and rusts in the bathroom; you can wobble and limp on your cracked and bleeding heels through the change of seasons and winter or you can just get down and dirty with one of these nifty little things.

Called a Kalu, it has been used for centuries in India, costs less than a bar of soap and lives until you drop it or the rough underside wears thin. Its soft on the skin and works better than anything I have tried!

All Rebel RockersAll Rebel RockersAll Rebel RockersAll Rebel Rockers

Making Proper Arrangements

If I had one rupee for every tourist I have heard making plans to go to the Khumba Mela, I would be able to give quite a tidy sum to the families of this tragedy in India.

In this story twenty five thousand people had gathered at a temple in rural Uttar Pradesh for a festival and a free lunch, which is a bit like the tourists gawping at a Khumba Mela.

In any case, as one paper reports, half of the people were there "without proper arrangements" which is also a bit like the tourists who are wandering off in the direction of Haridwar with no idea or arrangement in mind.

While officials in the UP case are denying that the deaths which currently amount to 63 are the result of a stampede, you only have to put stampede and India into a Google search and see how many hits you get!

The story now coming out is that a temporary shelter collapsed onto the pilgrims who were gathered to eat, but that people were injured in the rush the panic that ensued.

It's a risky business being in a crowd of highly excitable, often uneducated Indians. During the 2004 Khumba Mela in Ujjain, I also had some vague I idea that I would watch the whole thing from the sidelines, as in the case of the tourists now heading to the Khumb. I was in attendance with my Guru ji, the wild and crazy Naga Baba Chandon Giri and his brotherhood of Baba's under the Nerenjni Akhara. These are the guys who lead the march down the river in the bathing rituals. 

So I had in a way, made proper arrangements. I was safely tucked away behind the temporary walls of the fierce Naga Baba. But when it came time for the procession to begin, my idea of watching from the sideline proved to be a bloody silly idea. There was no sideline in any case.

As I watched the procession swell into its own majestic version of itself, the scene was something out of a storybook!  The Naga's in front naked and smeared with holy ash leaping and jumping and totally primal were shouting Om Namah Shiva like a war cry. Behind the Naga ranks of orange robed sannyasi and a brass band, behind the rank and file huge wooden wheeled carriages pulled by swarthy Naga carried Holy Men who were being fanned by young boys, behind that the rank and file of the followers of the most fierce sadhu in India which must have numbered two thousand.

Since Nerenjini is the oldest brotherhood of sadhu in India, they usually lead the march in this kind of glorious procession, like gods going off to war. 

The whole world for one glorious minute was the sound of total worship of the God Shiva and then the gates swung open.

What I saw in that instant was that there was no bloody sideline to watch from, the sideline had disappeared under a tsunami of people and faces all waiting to catch sight of the Naga in their primal glory.

There was not one inch of space between earth and sky that was not occupied by people. At the moment I was about to turn and flee back into the bowels of the camp, my arm was very firmly grabbed by my Guru ji and we were swept into the army of naked Naga as they surged out of the gates.

At this point in any festival, you loose any individual will, you become a fish in the stream of life, or a piece of seaweed in ocean pulled this way according to the will of the tide.

Three times in the push and surge of the procession, my feet were lifted clear off the ground from the crush of human bodies. Three times I was hauled out of the procession by cops guarding the sideline and three times hauled back in by a Naga, twice I was groped and at all times I only prayed for a heart attack that would kill me instantly before I fell to the ground and was stampeded to death.

I have never been so scared in all my life! In the crazy kind of way that the gods have of keeping me just this side of safety and sanity, I was in the best and most protected place to be. 

I watch these tourists head off to Haridwar as innocent as the villagers in UP, with nothing but hope and faith and a tola or two hashish and shake my head. I want to shout, "It's not a bloody rock concert! You have to make Proper Arrangements!"

Painting the Town Magenta

It's difficult to write about Holi in India without sounding like a grumpy old grandma, which of course I am at times anyway but still....perhaps I am just jealous because the only time that dancing in the street is allowed in Pushkar (without repatriation being involved) is during the Holi festival. But you would have to be Mad to go!
Holi is one of those things that everyone who knows anything about India knows. Its right up there with the Taj Mahal and the Diwali Festival of lights and like most spectacles in India, it makes for a colorful sight. The basic premise of Holi is that it is a celebration of good over evil, a spring festival and a time for strengthening bonds and brotherhood.

What happens is that in the morning kids are racing around with water pistols full of paint colored water or packets of the toxic mix. The older boys are inside getting out of it on bhang or (shhh!) alcohol and then they also take to the streets. Women are not to be seen except at their doorways supervising the young-uns, making sure they don't get stampeded by any of the rushing gangs of out of control youths that run the streets like bulls.
In Pushkar they dance on the streets in the main market and tourists fresh from their dance floor moves in Goa turn up to show their exotic style to the locals. One of the things about being a tourist is that you can join in on local festivals with all the enthusiasm of a child and forget that you are a grown up.

But is it safe? Says one young woman
My guide book says no, says another one.
The guide book was right, no Indian female over the age of 14 is outside during the running of the Holi Bulls. Lucky for the local boys, the tourists girls are blissfully unaware of their radical stance. After all in our countries men and women dance in the same space, don't they?
Apart from the toxic nature of the dyes that are used, you look like a Holi freak for weeks afterwards since the dyes stay on your skin as long as they take to course through your bloodstream. You look like yesterdays news in other words.

The other thing one needs to consider is the fact that the local boys have been working themselves up for weeks for this dance fest-ravganza by performing mad stick dances for five nights in a row. So they are primed in more ways than one, also consider the top Indian erotic Image of all time, the wet clothes scene and then throw in some foreign booty and see what happens next!

Paper Wars and Fancy Footwork

More on the muddle of paperwork and independent bureaucratic interpretation of the New Tourist Visa Rules to India.
Part of the conditions attached to my return to India was that I was required to register with the FRRO within 14 days of my arrival in India. Flipping myself onto the local bus in Delhi that day, I hoped like hell that I could complete the registration process in Rajasthan rather than have to return to Delhi and waste up to three days being there.
Acting on the advice of another long term resident of Pushkar I went to the local CID with all the paperwork I had downloaded from the internet complete. I took a car rather than the local bus because I thought that might impress them a little bit and anyway I didn't know where the cop shop was. I figure that the Bollywood Bhainchord Driver would know and sure enough he drove me straight there.
(Cost 300INR)

The cops at first tell me there is no need for me to register as it says so on my visa.
I tell them the rules have changed and show them the stamps I spent three days and two weeks getting in Sri Lanka.
Not to be outdone, they go off and come back with more paper.
Photocopy each of these forms seven times and seven times write in hand all details. Also who is the owner of your guest house and let me speak to him.
Now the owner has to file a legal form at the court promising to take full responsibility for me should I start dancing naked in the street or otherwise disturb the well ordered insanity around here.
And I need seven passport photos.
But I have that! I wave my little brown envelope in his face. Actually not a bad shot now the Joan Jett haircut has grown out, so I was happy to pass them over. I didn't want any sour version of my face percolating on his desk overnight!
Back to fill out forms until my pen runs out of ink.
Wakir Sahib spends the morning walking around the town getting his ID verified so that he can verify mine.
COST 300INR
I go back at the assigned time, (300INR) totally convinced that my form filling has been an absolute waste of time.
The seven pieces of paper I give the cop turns into twenty one more pieces of paper.
Each is stamped, a photo of myself attached with glue, then stapled. finally my details are prescribed in the Great Book of Time.
Fifteen minutes and a manila folder on me bigger than the last time I ever visited a doctor.
I am impressed at the handcrafted machinery of this process.
Am I free to go? No
You have to see The Big Boss.
I go to see The Big Boss.
He asks my country, never heard of it. He asks if I have had any problems dealing with his office.
He signs papers after scrutinizing my face.
I think, in a way it's nice that after all these years India has finally wanted to Look MY Face.
All the papers disappear into the system with a wave of his magic pen.
I am free to go.
But that's it? No stamp, no receipt, no proof for me that I registered. (A medal perhaps?)
We don't have the authority to stamp your passport, we can only take your registration.
Yes but yes but yes but..
What if the computer says No on my way out of India?
Seems you just have to take your chances.
I heard last night visa the haldi vine that the fine for not registering is Thirty USD which is a lot less than I ended up paying.

Hanuman Power

I was walking down the road to Gopal's this morning when a skidding sound alerted me to another drama. A motorbike carrying a pillion passenger, swerving to avoid a dog had tipped over on it's side and the pillion passenger landed head and shoulder first on the road. When he didn't instantly jump to his feet, people rushed to help from all sides.
Thinking about my first aid training of not moving the victim until his injuries were ascertained, I make ineffectual clucking sounds as a team of men lift him unceremoniously from the middle of the road and lug him to the roadside. His pulse is very weak and he is exhibiting signs of shock.
He is in shock, I tell a bystander, He nods. I don't know if he understands but probably not so I address the victim. Yes, he knows what happened, Yes he is conscious and not likely to go under, his pupils tell the story.

I think about what to do. I think about the flower essences I carry in an atomizer in my bag and wonder if the locals will think I am a witch if I give him a magic squirt. I wonder about the ethics of this. Meantime while I dither with a complete lack of faith in his companions to help him, one old sadhu wanders over from the nearby Hanuman tower.
He counters my call for something sweet and tells me very firmly that all the boy needs is a simple glass of water and the mantra Sita Ram, Jai Sri Ram repeated a couple of times.
As mad as this sounds, I could hardly argue the old man down. There was his age and having to show respect for that and his accumulated wisdom, then there was the gender thing, and the know it all foreigner thing and then anyway I was glad to be relieved of the responsibility.
Anyway hadn't I also appealed to Hanuman to rescue me from the land of Ravana and hadn't he just?
Jai Sri Ram!
Onto Gopal's for fresh cow milk and pistachio cookies for breakfast!