Aambrosia

Hell's Gate National Park, Naivasha, Kenya

We're about seventy kilometers west of Nairobi in Lake Naivasha, home to Hell's Gate National Park, staying in a small cottage on the hillside above the lake. The desert land has tufts of stiff grass in sandy soil, low brush, and flowering cacti.

Hell's Gate is one of the few national parks in Kenya in which you can walk instead of having to stay in a jeep. After an early breakfast of beans and chapati (the style of this flat bread is south Indian and is very similar to Keralan porotas) my sister and I set off to walk the ten kilometers through the park.

Not more than a mile into our walk, we heard a low gallop on the plains and turned.

These wild giraffes, along with a herd of zebras, weren't more than a few hundred meters away. We stared, awe-struck. The giraffes' hooves were barely audible; they moved almost soundlessly across the plains.

It was completely amazing. Some time later, after disappearing for a while, they rejoined us and walked along calmly, their heads tilted, considering us.

Cars and jeeps passed on the dirt road -- Kenyans on their Christmas holiday -- and we held handkerchiefs to our faces to keep the dust out. But when the cars passed the road in front of us was quiet.

We walked along under the African sun, eyes squinted, sunglasses put away because you want to see how it really is, these animals covering ground, and we saw more zebras, baboons, warthogs, brush and rock cliffs in the distance, and gazelles (above) so fast and graceful they move like their heartrate never rises.

Cardamoms, Cashews, Cinnamon, Ginger . . .

Reading Salman Rushdie's The Moor's Last Sigh on my two flights from Bangalore to Mumbai and Mumbai to Nairobi, Kenya, I was reminded of what first drew the western world to the shores of India:

From the beginning what the world wanted from Mother India was daylight-clear. They came for the hot stuff [...] not only pepper, but also cardamoms, cashews, cinnamon, ginger, pistachios, cloves; and as well as spice 'n' nuts there were coffee beans, and the mighty tea leaf itself.

I'm still reading Rushdie, but we're now in Kenya, and India feels very far away. Nairobi is much more familiar, in a way, than any Indian city. It's more western, more American: SUV's clog city streets and bars serve bottles of Guinness; there are Christmas songs and rap on the radio; women dress how they want instead of covering up with a sari or burkha; and everyone eats French fries and fried chicken and drinks Coke.

I'm doing a few articles on the food here for some Indian publications, looking at both the local cuisine and the Indian influences (chapati and rice-flour idlis have both made their way to east Africa). Our first meal in Nairobi was classic Kenyan bhajia: fried potatoes and plantains served with a pico de gallo-like salsa.

The main calorie source for the people of east Africa is ugali, a polenta-like bread made from maize or casava flour. Meat is mutton, goat, or chicken, and besides the omnipresent potato only a few vegetables (cabbage, chard, and carrots) can grow well in this arid land. Restaurants often serve little more than ugali, a piece of meat, and cooked cabbage or chard.

Sitar in Bangalore, and India as God

A few nights ago I was invited to a sitar concert by a family friend Roshni and her husband Mohan who live in Bangalore. She works in business consulting (and studies the sitar) and he's with AOL in India but travels frequently to Dulles, Virginia for work. (Roshi is the eldest daughter of A.C. and Jamuna Subbaiah, who own the coffee and pepper estate in Karnataka's Coorg region.)

The sitarist and drummer sat on straw mats on a slightly elevated stage while the audience was on the floor in front of them. The performance, like most sitar concerts, was typically formal: the sitar player lead with a long solo before the drummer joined. They played for almost two hours with just a five-minute intermission; they played passionately, emotionally, often with their eyes closed, sweat pouring off their faces.

The concert in downtown Bangalore was in a quiet courtyard, outdoors, at the center of an old Bangalorean home owned by a well-known sitar teacher. The noises of the city streets were barely audible, thankfully, since there is such commotion, such frantic pace to most everything that happens in India.

With the pace of life here, one can forget that Indians consider this very land, Mother India herself, to be a deity, a God. The concert reminded me: the look on the musicians faces; the rapture of the audience.

This physical land itself -- whether trodden upon by Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Christians, the almost-disappeared Jews of Cochin, or the secular, urban, and westernized Indians of the 21st century -- has its own intrinsic spirituality. One feels it being here, as Indian novelist Tusli Badranath recently wrote,

The fact is that our lives are steeped in the spirituality of the land, whether we believe in God or not.

And another Indian writer, Raja Rao, puts it this way:

In India we occupy a horizontal geographical space and a vertical spiritual place.

Green Hills of Africa

I will be in east Africa for the next month to travel and research what types of Indian food have made their way across the Indian Ocean to Kenya, Tanzania, and Uganda. I'll post updates and photos when I can from Africa. Thanks for reading, and best wishes for 2009.

What People Are Talking About Today

BANGALORE - City residents express concern over the problem with garbage disposal and open sewers. One man said recently, “Storm water drains are clogged and sewage overflows onto the road. People use parks here as public toilets. We need solutions immediately.” Around the city garbage piles up everywhere, even near hospitals and in front of schools.

Poverty in India is as real and visible as ever. From the train coming into Bangalore, slums go on for miles bordering the train tracks. My food research allows me the privilege of learning about Indian cuisine from people who have plenty to eat; many Indians do not have this luxury. The poor are lucky to have a few chapattis to dip in salt water for their one or two daily meals.

A Times of India article from October noted the following statistics:

• Four in every ten Indian children are malnourished.

• India ranks 128 out of 177 countries in the UN’s Human Development Index. This index goes beyond GDP and calculates human development by taking into account life expectancy, literacy, and standard of living.

• One-third of the world’s poor—over 450 million people with less than $1.25 per day, the new poverty threshold—live in India.

Some good news: There has been progress recently on social security as well as better trials for victims of rape.

The social security bill titled “The Unorganized Workers Social Security Bill, 2008” would provide life and disability coverage, health care, and old-age protection to 94 percent of India’s hundreds of millions of unorganized workers.

Also, the Times reports from New Delhi that the Code of Criminal Procedure Code is amending the laws concerning trials for rape victims. These new measures would insure that trials are completed within two months; that cases would be heard by female judges “as far as is practicable”; and that rape victims would have a support person—family member or social worker—there at the time of questioning. While these measures mark significant progress, there's still a long way to go in providing Indian women with the same rights as their male counterparts.

"Do YOU Have Tape?"

I just went to the post office in Bangalore to send some gifts back to the States. I had two small boxes packed up, the addresses clearly written in bold capital letters. One had cashmere yarn, pillowcases, and pashmina shawls; the other two beautiful hand-woven carpets.

The woman behind the counter seemed put off that she had to deal with international parcels. She grunted the prices to send each by air and by sea. 

On each parcel, she carelessly slapped on a printed sticker with the address and amount I’d paid, and a tracking bar code. I looked at the boxes as I was handing her the money and the four stickers, two on each, were already half peeled off. I asked her if she had any tape.

She looked at me and said, “Do YOU have any tape?”

“Why would I bring tape to a post office?”

"Well I don't have any."

She tossed the boxes on the floor behind her. I stared at her, not really believing what she had just said. Pissed off, I left and walked along M.G. Road. I asked at a number of stores if they sold tape but none carried it. These stores sold other useful things like inflatable teddy bears and plastic snakes.

I found a travel agent, and they kindly gave me a whole six inches of tape. I walked back to the post office and went behind the counter holding up the tape to show her why I was there. She ignored me. I used a safety pin puncture holes and tear it into four pieces and did my best to secure the four stickers. The tape was poor quality but better than nothing.

It’s hard to have much confidence that those gifts will ever make it from Bangalore, India to Massachusetts and not just because of the poor-quality tape: the Times of India reported yesterday that India’s postal workers are going on strike.

Jews of Kerala

Yesterday morning before leaving Fort Cochin my sister and I visited the synagogue in Cochin’s historic Jewish neighborhood. It is said to be the oldest synagogue in all of the British commonwealth.

Jews came to India after the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 C.E. Fleeing Palestine, a group landed at Shingly, which the Jews called Cranganore, a small port town on India’s southwest coast. Writes one historian,

They [the Jews] made their home on the southwest coast of India as early as the first century, if not earlier. The Jews then were the first aliens to settle in India, and it was as a result of the generosity and tolerance shown to the Jews by successive Hindu rulers of southern India that India was first recognized as a land of tolerance of all religions.

The first synagogue in Cranganore had two original silver shofars, a trumpet made from a ram’s horn, rescued from the Second Temple. When the Portuguese attacked and destroyed Cranganore in 1524, the Jews came to Cochin, and the construction of the Cochin synagogue next to Maharaja’s Palace (the palace of Keralan king, who welcomed the Jewish refugees) was finished in 1568.

The synagogue is small, antique, and decorative. They do not allow photography. Old wooden benches line the walls. Its floor is comprised of over 1,000 hand-painted, blue-and-white, willow-pattern Chinese tiles. All are different. Gold bars encase the pulpit in the center of the room. More than twenty small chandeliers imported from Belgium hang from the ceiling; the silver oil lamps were made hundreds of years ago in Cochin.

To the right of the bimah, where the Torah is kept, is a marble slab with the first two words, in Hebrew, of each of the Ten Commandments; to the left is an identical slab with daily prayers.

Today, there are less than 100 Jews still in Kerala. Other Indian Jews have settled in Delhi, Mumbai, Pune, Calcutta, and Gujarat, but they number less than 5,000.

Journey to Kerala

This is a long story. The day we left Honey Valley earlier this week was one of the most outrageous travel days I’ve ever had. I woke early to work, and after packing up the three of us hiked out of Honey Valley following the same jeep track we trekked up two days ago. We arrived at Kabbinakad junction after nine and waited there for the bus.

Women in bright saris and men in dhotis stood barefoot on the side of the dusty road also waiting for the bus. When the small sundries shop opened—biscuits, toothpaste, coriander powder—the men flocked over to get a pinch of betel nut to pack their cheeks. They smoked hand-rolled cigarettes and spit the red betel juice into the dusty road. The bus arrived after about forty-five minutes, and we fought our way on. Old Indian ladies will elbow you in the ribs if you’re not careful.

The bus was actually calmer and less crowded than on the way to Honey Valley two days ago, and an hour later we arrived in Virajpet. Ready for breakfast, we ducked off of Virajpet’s loud and crowded main street and into a restaurant, washed up, and sat down to paranthas—flat bread, like tortillas, finished with a little melted butter or oil—which  are called porotas in Kerala, with a yellow-lentil dal and freshly roasted and brewed Kodagu coffee.

Rejuvenated, we spent an hour at an Internet café and then went to find a jeep to take us to the Keralan border. We’d heard horror stories about the road from Virajpet to Kerala, but it’s the only way to get to Kerala from the Coorg region. The road is so bad that it’s now off-limits to most vehicles; only jeeps and the necessary construction trucks are allowed.

We bargained a fair price for the 27 kilometer ride and piled into the jeep. Four men sat across the front seat and four of us and the luggage packed into the back. (The jeeps are old, British-style Mahindras with sideways bench seating in the back.)  

The road was not a road. It was red dirt filled with rocks and boulders. It winds through the hills from Virajpet, in the hills, to Kerala, at sea level. Monkeys swing through the trees and laugh at how pathetic your jeep is. We went about fifteen kilometers in over an hour. The jeep rattled and we all held on to the metal bars on the jeep’s interior roof to keep from hitting our heads.

When the driver finally stopped before a bridge, the three of us tumbled out the back, giving each other looks, stunned and thankful. We were all covered in dust. The men who had ridden up front without any luggage walked over to piss on the side of the road. We all walked across the bridge into Kerala.

The vendors over the Keralan border tried to sell us some kind of fermented coconut liquor. There was no cold beer, so we opted for the only cold drink they had, a locally made cream soda that tasted like Coke mixed with coconut water. It was pretty good. We waited there for the next bus. It arrived, grinding gears, the driver slamming to a halt. We got on and he gunned the gas before we had time to sit, all of us falling over each other in the aisle. This driver was insane. He drove faster than anyone I’ve seen in India.

Fortunately that ride was only twenty minutes. We arrived at a small city called Iritty and had to change to the local Kannur bus. We got our packs up on the rack above the seats; we all got seats instead of standing room, and Fletcher, who’s tall, even got an aisle seat so he could stretch his legs. Things were looking good. It was a fairly smooth two hours. It was hot and dusty, but there was a nice breeze going through the bus. When we passed schools the students were lining up outside to be dismissed for the day. Kerala can have a nice calm to it.

We reached Kannur and as we pulled into the station our bus was broadsided by another bus. I saw the whole thing happen: the other driver got angry because our driver had cut him off; he threw up his hands and didn’t break and purposefully clipped our bus. When it happened we were all standing up ready to get off. We got banged around a little, gathered ourselves, and disembarked. A crowd of people swarmed over and surrounded the two drivers who were about to go at it fist to fist. We looked over at the ensuing mess, looked at each other, shrugged, and went to find some tea.

We had chai at a stall near the bus stand and planned our next move: an auto rickshaw to a hotel on the coast. It  was late afternoon, it had already been a long day, and our minds were working very simply: Shower. Clean T-shirt. Cold beer. Some dinner. But those things were all far from happening.

We found a hotel but it was a little pricey and overlooked a rocky beach where you couldn’t swim. But to me the hotel was nice, comfortable and clean, and they were playing American hip-hop at the nearby beach-side restaurant. I was ready to throw down every penny I had, but Fletcher said he’d read about some secluded places on the coast about 8 km. from Kannur. He said to wait there, that he’d go take a rickshaw to check it out and would call us if he found anything.

Mattea and I sat at one of the restaurant tables and watched the sunset: a ball of neon orange sun falling from a light blue sky into the ocean. My sister and I were sweaty, smelly, hungry, exhausted, but we were together in Kannur, India watching the sunset over the Arabian sea. It could’ve been worse.

Fletcher called. He said he’d found a cheaper guesthouse with meals included and access to a secluded beach. He gave us the name, KK Heritage, but said few drivers would know of it so ask for Costa Malabare, a nearby hotel. My sister and I gathered on packs and left to find an auto rickshaw. We were a few kilometers outside of Kannur and had to walk back most of the way to the city before we found a ride. We were not in the mood to walk. It was getting dark. We told the driver the name and repeated to make sure he understood. We said that it was on the beach and 8 km. from Kannur. 

He drove directly back into Kannur, through the loud city streets filled with smog during evening rush hour, in the opposite direction of where we thought we should be going, and stopped in front of a small shopping complex filled mostly with jewelry stores. It was called “Malabar’s.” We told him that wasn’t Costa Malabare at all. Hotel, we said. 8 kilometers from Kannur. There was a security guard outside. We told him where we wanted to go, and he explained to our driver.

Five minutes later we were stopped at a light, and he started asking another auto rickshaw driver for directions. The light changed, he drove one hundred meters and pulled into a gas station. There was a long line for gas. At the gas station he started asking more people for directions. Many men came over, surrounded our rickshaw, wondering what the fuss was about.

My sister had her head in her hands. It was dark and loud and we were very far from where we wanted to be. We wondered if we should just get another rickshaw. I called the Costa Malabare hotel, and asked the receptionist to explain to our driver how to get there. The receptionist kept telling me that they were full for the night. I said that that was fine, that I had a reservation at a nearby hotel and just needed directions to the area.

No, he said, we’re all full. I just need to know how to get there, I told him again; I don't need a room. Just please tell this driver how to get to your hotel. I gave the phone to the driver and he talked for five minutes. 

When we stopped with other vehicles at a train track crossing, he again started asking other rickshaws drivers for directions. It had already been over an hour. My sister and I were both nearing breakdown. The guy had no idea where we wanted to go.

Indian men will never tell you that they don’t know when they don't know. They'll make something up. After the train passed he drove on and we sat mute in the back as he drove farther away from the city.

It was dark and there were very few lights or people or other vehicles on the road we were on. It was strangely quiet and remote. The rickshaw barely made it up a short, steep hill; the road was all potholed. Maybe ten minutes later we arrived at a small town. He got out to ask again for directions. We had no idea where we were.

That was enough. We grabbed our bags from the back and started walking away. The driver got back in his rickshaw and gunned the gas, driving directly at us. We jumped out of the way. We were incredulous. Had this guy just tried to hit us with his rickshaw? He got in my face and we were yelling at each other. I said things my mother wouldn't approve of. He wanted us to pay him for the ride, and I told him that he’d taken an hour and a half to bring us to the middle of nowhere and no way in hell we were going to pay him.

The street had been quiet, but suddenly we were surrounded by a group of people, all men and boys. The driver and I were still face to face, when another man pushed us apart and asked me if he could help. His name was Vineeth. He paid our driver because I wouldn’t and offered to take us where we needed to go. He said he knew Costa Malabare and KK Heritage. Ten minutes later, he pulled up in front of the hotel. My sister and I thanked him profusely and paid him what he'd paid our driver and more for taking us the last few kilometers.

India can bring you to your knees. Mattea and I were both utterly shaken by the whole experience. I’m sure that her version of the story would be somewhat different, but I know that either of us would’ve been willing to do just about anything to just get away from those streets and to our hotel, to a cold shower and some dinner. But we never knew where we were and each passing minute in that rickshaw seemed to bring us farther into land we didn’t know, where they spoke a language we didn’t understand. 

But we got there, had our showers and vegetable coconut curry and cold beer for dinner and twelve hours of sleep under a fan and mosquito net. The next morning we walked on the secluded, stunning beach and swam and tossed a Frisbee on the white sand and in the surf.

Back at our bungalow we had a late morning breakfast of coffee, and bananas cooked with ghee and fresh sugar cane served alongside an airy bread made from rice flour and dried coconut. India can bring you to your knees, but it lets you get up again.

Shoe Flinging at Pakistan

In today's India Express, there's an editorial reacting to the "amusing" shoe-flinging incident at President Bush's recent Baghdad press conference. The IE editorial board compares the resentment felt by the Iraqi journalist to a similar feeling expressed in Bangladesh where "pro-India" is an insult; India still exerts its influence in this country that was not long ago part of Pakistan. (Bangladesh, formerly East Pakistan, became an independent country after the 1971 war between India and Pakistan.)

The article reaches to connect the current escalating tensions with Pakistan since the Mumbai attacks to the years of anti-Pakistan rhetoric in Indian politics and attempts to do so using the example of the war in Iraq.

About the ongoing occupation of Iraq by the American military -- the obvious source of the journalist's anger -- the article states, "Sending in soldiers and bombs to sort out a place is among the easiest options to okay." It goes on to say that it's not acceptable for Iraqis to continue to blame their country's problems on the American military occupation.

The author expresses sympathy for the terrible upheaval Iraq has seen since the 2003 invasion, but doesn't back that sympathy up, saying that if Iraqis couldn't deal with Saddam Hussein's regime, that if they needed help in overthrowing Saddam, then they should at least take more responsibility now in rebuilding their country.

Thus far, the article insists, the Iraqi people have not exercised the "will" to initiate this rebuilding. Is this fair? A people brutalized under Saddam's regime, who are now forced to live under military occupation and rampant terrorism,  lack the "will" to create change?

In India politics these days it seems to always be about Pakistan. While politicians want to look elsewhere (to the north), there's plenty of political corruption, religious-motivated hostility, terrorism, and poverty right here at home. Rather than working towards a more just, tolerant, safer, and healthier India, so much political energy goes towards blaming Pakistan. At least the IE is honest about that:

India has a huge Pak-fueled problem, but the space for it was provided by the fault lines in our own system, which we are still so reluctant to address. Our abuse and distrust of Pakistan is distinctly less than our akin feelings for our domestic opponents, whether in politics or caste or faith.

All New Posts and Photos: Dec. 7 - 15

Finally with some reliable Internet in Cochin, Kerala's capital city along India's west coast, I've uploaded a week's worth of stories and photos from Bangalore, Mysore, and the Coorg region. Please scroll down to see and feel free to leave comments.

This British-influenced Coorg dessert is bananas pan-fried in a little ghee, sprinkled with coarse sugar, and mixed with dates, almonds, and raisins. In a bowl stir all ingredients and heat for a short time in the microwave to soften the raisins and dates. Chocolate sauce optional but highly recommended.