Me sitting on the "welcome" porch of the village home.

Chennai, India
October 23-27

Friday 10/23/09
This morning as we landed in the fourth largest city of India—a city of 7 million—I was excited and a little apprehensive. I had no idea what India had in store for me. We were told that the white part of the ship would be black by the time we left, and the stewards had coated the high traffic areas of the ship with cardboard and plastic. We were warned not to eat anything uncooked, not to drink the water, eat the ice, or open our mouths in the shower. We were also told not to give money to beggars, especially the children because they will more than likely turn it around to their gangster—a la Oliver Twist and Slum Dog Millionaire. You only feed the industry of begging and encourage parents to send children out into the streets instead of to school by giving them money. Yet the slums and corruption is only a small part of Indian life—the middle class is growing, and the Indian people I’ve met are quick to remind me of the good parts of Indian life. Their funny dialect and friendly smiles are part of what makes their culture theirs.
We entered the city center among bicycle rickshaws and 3 wheeled taxis called auto rickshaws. Indians believe in honking… I don’t think they even notice that they do it. But the horns are too high-pitched to be angry; they sound like clown-car horns. The rickshaws actually have the squeak horn that adorns five-year-olds’ bikes at home, so even if it’s a really angry Indian that thinks he has the right of way, you can’t take him seriously.
India has three temperatures, according to locals—hot, hotter, and hottest. The Indian sun did not disappoint; he made our foreheads glisten and melted the rest of us a little. India, 81% Hindu and 9% Muslim, is a conservative country. Clad in heavy jeans, I found myself lusting after the light, breezy, and loose clothes of the natives. Plus they just look awesome. The women in their bright, long, gauzy saris and the men in loose slouchy pants and button down collared shirts made handsome couples. It seems that all women in India are beautiful, especially the young ones my age. Their features are so striking—high cheekbones, big dark eyes, jet black hair. India loves color; even the street vendors arrange their pyramids of apples in a spectrum of dark to light.
We went to Fort St. George, a military compound that is the center of the Tamil government. Southern India speaks Tamil, northern India speaks Hindi, and those two governments make up the Union or Central government. The Central Government rules India’s 28 states and seven union territories or the Republic of India. It’s a democracy with 3 branches, with a president and a prime minister making up the executive branch. Inside the compound was Saint Mary’s Church, a reflection of British colonization.
After we visited the church we continued along the Marina of the Bay of Bengal beside the second longest beach in the world. (The longest is Florida). We arrived at a nice oriental rug shop with a show room on the first floor and beautiful wood and iron statues on the second. We were given the most fantastic coffee I’ve had in a while—I almost did a little dance around the Indian that gave it to me after I tasted it. It was fascinating to see how an oriental rug is made. The guy was a great salesman… if I wasn’t a broke college kid he would have had me.
Outside a snake charmer got our attention when a cobra popped out of his little basket. We quickly got on the bus and went to the ancient Hindu Kapalushwar Temple. Hinduism is a hard religion to peg; it is much more a way of life than a religion, per se. It has so many options for the worshipper that outsiders tend to get confused. It doesn’t claim one prophet, one dogma, one philosophy, or one god. It has 3 main gods who the big shrines in temples are devoted to—Shiva, god of anger, passion, dance; Vishnu, a popular god and protector; and Ganesh, the elephant god of travel and undertaking of projects. They believe in Brahma, a formless, abstract eternal being without attributes—the “that” behind and beyond reality. They also believe in reincarnation, samsara, the endless cycle of death and rebirth. The soul, atma, is separated from Brahma (Ultimate Reality) and trapped in samsara until it attains Moksha or liberation from samsara and reunion with Brahma. Moksha can be attained by works, knowledge, or passionate devotion.
When following dharma, the path of works, you must fulfill your social and religious obligations like:
· follow your caste occupation,
· marry within your caste,
· and raise a son to do the same.
The caste system is still very prevalent in India, and people of higher castes don’t associate with the lower castes, even though everyone has a vital role in society and depend on each other. The lowest caste (now called OC or other caste; the term “untouchables” is considered politically incorrect) cleans the city, cremates people, and does all the things higher castes see unfit to do.
When following inana, the path of knowledge, to obtain Moksha, one uses self-renunciation, meditation, and yoga. This path is only open to men of the highest castes or Brahman (learned men, priests).
The Bhakti path, the way of Moksha by passionate devotion, is the most popular way. You may choose any of the 330 million gods, goddesses, or demigods and passionately worship that particular god (usually Vishnu or Shiva).
It seems to me a crazy religion with lots of cows, bulls, elephants, combination creatures, and gods of four arms and 3 heads. Fascinating, but strange.
The Kapaleeshwar Temple in Chennai is in the old section, and when we got there, as is custom, we left our shoes with the keeper and paid 20 rupee ($.50) to have a picture permit. The temple had many shrines to various gods where among dripping candles and splashing rose water, devotees were marked on their foreheads with a white streak. The main shrine reminded me faintly of Disney world with comical colorful animated figures covering the tall flattened pyramid roof of the temple. At the center of the temple yard, tucked behind the shrine was a cow-pen, which is a sacred animal to Hindus. Walking barefoot on the 300 B.C. floor inside, I was reminded of my senses. I likened my feet, now absorbing the cold worn stone, to my hands when they trailed along the marble of cathedrals in Europe. How different these two places of worship were!
Back out in the loud, dirty, crazy streets, we watched women making beautiful flower garlands of jasmine and marigold to sell at the temple for offerings. Motorbikes carrying entire Indian families—father driving, mother seated side-saddle on the back holding a child, and a little boy sandwiched happily in between—whizzed by, making their comical beep.
That night it was our friend Charis Brassel from Nashville’s 21st birthday, so we went to the Taj Hotel for dinner. We walked into a beautiful courtyard and sat beneath a gazebo to have some great southern Indian food. We had light appetizers: Chennai pancakes with different chutneys (I think peanut and coconut) and chicken coconut with coriander and green curry dish served with naan, the thick crepe bread. I was so full but still had mango ice cream and cake for Charis (chocolate mousse actually). Also had some fabulous coffee again. Great night.
10/24 Sat. Kancheepuram/ Mamallapuram
Known as the “Golden City,” Kancheepuram is a holy site for many Hindus due to its 100 + temples (most inactive historical sites). About an hour and a half from Chennai, this small town is famous in India and the world for its very fine silk. Our Indian friends told us if you are going to buy silks, Kancheepuram is the best.
First we went to the 1200 year old lonely Kalasantha temple, a pantheon of sandstone. As tradition, a bull sat at the entrance of this Shiva temple, worn by time to a rudimentary form. Inside the deserted walls cubby holes were intricately carved for monks’ meditations—the Brahman trying to reach Moksha. I squeezed in one; not very comfortable, but our guide said that was the point. Our only company was the Brahman keeper at the entrance and the occasional bright green parakeet.
I kicked off the converses again at Ekambareswara temple, an impressive and working 10 story temple dedicated to Vishnu. This 16th century place of worship housed the legendary 3,500 year old mango tree, a gem of Hindus and the favorite science wonder of botanists everywhere. It produced mangos until 2 years ago when it mysteriously collapsed. The legend says that Vishnu and Shiva were married under that tree and an important prophet gained enlightenment under it.
The last Kanchi temple, Vaikuntanatha, we reached at the height of the day, and the stone leading to the shrine felt like hot coals to our feet. Also erected in the 16th century, the Vaikuntantha temple is known as the “hall of 96 pillars.” When we arrived men were washing the dust off the pillars with long brushes and soapy water, preparing for a visit from the President.
Next was what I had been looking forward to—silk shopping! The little shop was tucked away from the road on a side street, right next to a pen of chocolate cows with big brown eyes. The silk in the shop felt exactly like a Ferragamo scarf when it melted gracefully over my hands (not that I’ve felt that many). I got 3 scarves, 2 small pashminas, and 3 round silk cushions of brilliant blue, green, and red. The weaving room on the second story contained 4 silk looms and the weaver was working on a red pashmina with red and real gold thread.
Mamallapuram (puram means “place”) held lunch at an exotic Radisson- a traditional Southern Indian buffet that was delicious. We all ate way too much. The salt air of this coastal city hung thick as we got off to see a huge mural of stone carved into a rock face. Called Arjuna’s Penance, this intricately carved scene is the biggest bas-relief in the world. It depicts the wasted body of Arjuna in the yoga pose “tree” in appeal to Shiva for a weapon to destroy his enemies. The mural depicts the 7th day when Shiva comes to grant Arjuna’s request and a huge heavenly host turns up for the event.
We then went to the Five Rathas, large carvings in a sand pit of the heroes of Mahabharata, a famous Indian epic. I didn’t hear much of the history because I was so distracted by the flood of young girls in peach saris that had also come to the sight. They were training to be teachers and loved talking to us but, like all 13 year olds, got very giggly quickly. Also their English was broken so I didn’t get very far in a conversation with any of them. The flowing salmon color on their black skin was stunning and the group had a cheerleader effect-they all looked gorgeous in a group. The really funny thing that we were beginning to notice in India is that we, especially in the small cities of India, were as much as interesting novelty to the Indians as they were to us. We had families take pictures in front of us and people snap them with their camera phones when we walked by. I liked it though—made me feel better about asking if I could take a picture of them too!
We were worn out by our day of touring, but before we left Mamallapuram we had to see one more temple and the most famous of the day, the Shore Temple. The Shore temple, reached after a long grassy promenade, was the gateway temple that everyone leaving the area and coming in (even the king) stopped to ask safe passage from Vishnu and Ganesh. Cows of sandstone, worn faceless by the salty breeze and constant beating of the elements, outlined the temple. The big tsunami that devastated the eastern coast of India five years ago hit this temple hard and it took a lot of damage. Also taking in the sight was another group of young student teachers, this time clad in bright blues and hot pinks. They clustered around us with the same shyness and giggles, even the boys!
10/25 Sunday
Leigh Anne met some Indian girls our age at the Welcome Reception the 1st night that she liked a lot. Yoga and Lucky are both studying to be dentists and offered to take her out for shopping and lunch. She took me along, and it ended up being the coolest day! Lucky’s driver, Kennedy, and her hot older brother, Kanna, came to pick us up at the ship gate in their tiny little black car at 10 this morning and took us to their home. The live close to the beach in a nice neighborhood. Lucky’s granddad was a very famous Tamil poet and her father was a Bollywood director. We took our shoes off before going in to meet all of her family—Kanna and Sharan, her older and younger brothers, her mother, her uncles, and her aunt that made breakfast for us. They sat us at the table and watched us try the traditional breakfast foods they made. Trying to eat daintily with our fingers wasn’t easy! There was a white sticky lump of rice and dan that you dip in a chutney (kinda tasted like a sweet salsa), this orange lump that was sweet, and thin sweet crepes (or whatever they’re called in India). Her aunt kept on bringing more and more food and we were stuffed before we realized—curse the expanding nature of rice! Kanna sat down and ate some with us, accompanied by an Indian People magazine.
After washing our fingers in the sink right next to the dining room table, we went back to Lucky’s room. Lucky is called Satiya by everyone but her family, but she wanted us to call her Lucky. Kanna told us on the ride to the house that the hospital had a power outage when their mom was in labor with her and the power came on just in time, hence her nickname. Lucky gave Leigh Anne and I some necklaces from her closet and her mom gave us a little gold figurine of one of the gods, both of which we will cherish forever. Lucky’s favorite god is Ganesh, the one with the elephant head and man’s body. We gave her a random mixed cd that we burned for her; Leigh Ann put some big band swing and good 90s; I gave her a little Girl Talk, MGMT, Band of Horses, Avett Brothers, Santigold, and Old Crow Medicine Show. No idea how that’s going to be received. Definitely a RANDOM mix.
Next off for a little Indian shopping! Lucky’s driver Kennedy dropped us at Spencers, a popular local shopping mall, where we met the other friend, Yoga. Yoga is petite, sweet, and beautiful like Lucky. All Indians really do do the bobble-head thing when they mean “ok” or “good” or “sure”—that’s not a cliché—and Lucky and Yoga are no exceptions! They were so cute. We walked around in the mall, and I got some cool gold and red flats and some really full Aladdin pants—red with gold specks. Not going to wear both together, don’t worry. Yoga’s a good bargainer and got the shoes for $12 and pants $5. Also got a few bangles and some cool Tamil party music. Still stuffed, but they said we had to try Pani Poori, a snack. This little vendor in the mall looked like it had food poisoning written all over it, but we couldn’t say no. These very thin hollow crispy rice balls were punched at the top and dipped in either hot or sweet sauce and served in a small bowl. You put the whole thing in your mouth and usually eat about 5. It was good, but I was still so full from breakfast! The people in southern India are like the people in the South; now I know how the Australians that visited us felt! Walked around some more, got a cookie and this dessert called Shree Mithal made of condensed milk that had curdled in the center, making a spongy, tofu like texture that you eat cold and with a spoon.
Now… I can’t believe it.. it’s time for a late lunch. AH! We went to this local restaurant, Sea Shell, and LA and I split mushroom masala with rice and naan. Ok, don’t know where the room came from in my hollow leg for that. Shopped a bit more after lunch and got dropped back at the ship around 430 to rest and recoup before going out!
Kanna picked us up at 9 at the gate and Giri, the interport student from Chennai came along too. But Kanna was so nice and, thank goodness, rolled with it and let him come. They are in the same caste and live two streets down from each other but didn’t know each other! Giri goes to Loyola college, the same as the younger brother Sharan, but it’s a big school so they didn’t know each other. But they were facebook friends! Ah the overwhelming connecting power of the FB. We met Lucky, her cousins, Sharan, and their friends at Pasha, a small but fancy club that I’m told, is frequented by Bollywood actors. We actually saw one, but they said he was like D-list. Had a King Fisher Indian beer and had a really good time dancing. After the club closed at 1130 (Sunday night), we really wanted coffee so we drove out to the Chennai airport! Ok, but it was sooo worth it. Coffee = incredible here. The rickshaws had gone home for the night when we got back, so it was nice to have Giri to walk back with to the ship. Pooh and Giri, the Chennai students, are staying on board until we depart Chennai.

Mon 10/26 Village visit
Today might have been the best day of my trip thus far. First of all, there was an omelet station at breakfast this morning and I halved on with one of my friends. Then, with nobody really knowing what to expect, we got on our small bus and headed out. The group size was about 20; so much nicer than the huge groups of 40. Everybody’s still at the Taj Mahal so all of our trips have been small and wonderful. About 2 hours later we walked through this tiny town to a big temple that was out of proportion to its small host. Like a ghost town almost. Random cows, goats, monkeys, and chickens roaming free. The cows and dogs here are best buddies; they run around together everywhere.
Then about 30 minutes down the road ini Thirudorur Village, we gathered around the large square reservoir, the main source of water for the village. I’ve seen these square reservoirs in all the towns I’ve been in, usually in front of a temple. The people used to absolve themselves and bathe before entering the temple, but that’s not really done anymore. Now they are developing main line off the reservoir so the government can set up sanitation programs and underground infrastructure.
Down the dirt road and past colorful and worn looking concrete houses, I looked to my left and saw a striking juxtaposition- a towering and huge power line shouldering a squat thatched roof hut. Past meets future in front of my face. We were given a traditional welcome by the “Mother Teresa” of the village; a women that volunteers all her time to feed children, welcome visitors, and check up on everyone. She held in her hand a copper pan. A tin red sauce coated the bottom, and a leaf with three white cubes skimmed the surface. She lit the cubes and chanted blessing and welcome for us. We then received dots on our foreheads and under our chins with oil and red powder.
Our guide stopped in front of a huge campaign poster the size of a billboard for the next local election. It looked as bizarre and out of place as the power tower in the little rural village. Candidates come to the villages and paint their symbols on village walls. Clock graffiti was everywhere—that’s one candidate’s version of Obama’s field and sunrise logo.
We went inside a tiled roof house with the traditional side sitting porch. The porch is raised and close to the roof so travelers could sit and rest a while or stay the night and take advantage of the hospitality so warmly offered. That doesn’t happen so much anymore because people feel it’s dangerous and don’t trust strangers as much. A pity—such a charming idea. Travel by day, crash on a friendly porch at night and chat over chai for hours in the cool shade of a neem tree. The small house had one common shade of brilliant turquoise throughout, though time had taken an artistic scratch and rub in a few places. They had a small shrine room and bedrooms that all opened onto the main living and kitchen. Tiny short people too—had to stoop inside and duck through doorways. The backyard was the kitchen—big pots, grinder (like a mortar and pestle), and fire sticks. They gave us some wonderful chai tea, and we all said “robo nadrie” meaning many thanks for letting us into their home. Outside were chalk designs—a sign of welcome and happiness inside the home. These designs are done new every day unless the family was mourning a death. A girl showed us how she did it—with a ground mix of chalk and rice, she pinched a bit to make dots and drew. She asked for a volunteer and I drew a crazy lopsided thing… fun though.
We heard clopping and commotion behind us and saw oxen-pulled trailers or bullock carts arrive for us. They took us to the rice patty. I was furiously taking pictures and didn’t zip my purse… it flipped over and my shore pass, the very important travel document the port agents require us to have in India, flew into the massive well. Sounds like me, doesn’t it? A tiny little Indian man looked at me and said, “Important?” “Yes!” I replied as I sadly nodded my head. If we lose this it’s possible to get another but we were under the impression that a heavy fine and lots of disgruntled huffs were imparted by officials as a result. Without hesitation the little man began climbing down the small ledges that jutted out in a spiral, working his way down to the water. A long stick was thrown to him, and he fished the document out to my delight and the entertainment of all. I happily stuffed and zipped everything back in my purse and sloshed after our group to the far end of the paddy, where the planting was taking place. Men would pluck the green sprigs from the watery mud, bundle them, and leave them for the women. Bending in a constant position from the waist with saris rolled and tucked, the women would separate the sprigs of green and stick them back in the watery mud. This process gives the rice more room and it grows bigger and produces more abundantly. We then were given an opportunity to plant alongside the women, and I rolled up my pants and sloshed ankle-deep in the mud. I was handed a bundle by the women and watched rows being formed before I began making my own. It was easy work, if tedious; the rice slid smoothly past water into mud and found its new happy home.
After we washed the mud from our hands and feet, we thanked the workers with “robo nandrie” again (or “many thanks” in Tamil). We hopped back on our rural chariots and rolled off to the coconut grove, where a man with a machete gave us the purest and healthiest drink in India—the juice of the coconut. I also ate some its white flesh, which tasted like a chewy slimy version of the coconut I’m used to. We watched him climb a tree and retrieve the fruit, and then we tried. I only got like 2 feet off the ground, but some of the guys were about 7 feet.
It was now time for lunch and we thanked the village for hosting us. Before our next stop, we popped in at a school (one of the guides was a teacher and wanted to introduce his students to us). Clad in blue pinstripe dresses with a crisp white bib that was v-necked over the dress, the uniform was classy and complimented the rick black skin tone of the girls. They wore 2 long braids in a loop that were secured at the top with white bows that they said their mothers arranged for them. The girls were on one side of the room, and the boys were on another. They showed me their economics, accounting, and English books and reminded me of the giggly teenagers we had encountered the other day. Very sweet and extremely interested in us. As our guide talked, I wrote notes to all the girls on the front row and whispered and giggled with them. They all wanted to shake my hand and one ran up to me and gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Sweet.
Lunch was at the Dakshinachitra Cultural heritage village—traditional southern Indian cuisine. This center was established to bring all aspects of rural village life together to preserve and educate. The lay out was the same as a village might have been, and we were taken around to see silk weaving, glass blowing, rice grinding, basket making, and pottery throwing. I threw a pot, but I botched it the first time and the tiny Indian helped me with the second. The villagers are all so small here! Everyone’s about 5 feet. There was a small market at the center and my guide helped me bargain for 2 silk hangings and some bangles. Got a good deal, I think. I loved seeing the vastly different side of rural life in India and enjoyed the trip.
Tuesday 10/27
Last day in India. Leigh Anne and I hopped on an auto rickshaw and set off for the markets. We told our driver, Manthu, we wanted to buy some jewelry, and he said no problem, I take you to nice place. He then showed us his laminated letter of thanks and approval from a previous Semester at Sea student and his ring of honesty from the government. The oriental rug place he took us was deserted and very nice, but the jewelry price point was a little bit more than what we wanted. He then took us to the street markets, which were too cheap. So we hopped back in our rickety motorized 3 wheeler and met our Indian friends at Mocha, a popular coffee place, for a last wonderful conversation and chai tea.
Kanna took us back to the port gate, and we waved goodbye for the last time. Goodbye to a place of distinct personality and quirky spunk. A place of dirt and grime, of foul sewage smells and white fragrant jasmine temple flowers. Of traditional dance with flexed hands and feet and extreme facial expressions. Of crazy driving and sometimes crazier ethics. Of huge elaborate wedding and spicy wonderful food. Goodbye to the land of Bollywood, red dots of adornment, and sacred cows. Of prevalent castes and welcoming hospitality. Of cheating and petty crime and warm, good-natured hearts. Goodbye to India, an exotic place where I was challenged, over stimulated, amazed. I loved my affair with you.

Girls going out.