A Confession of Love: Saying Goodbye to India, 2011

I can't imagine it any other way really. Difficult and relieving. Difficult to leave it all behind. But relieving as soon as I sat in another airport that resembled a shopping mall. Now that I am comfortably at home, I reflect on my time in India and think about the intensity of it all. It was terrible at times. But more, it was wonderful. And I think that is the most important part to remember. I will analyze and breakdown the pain later.

Let me try my hand at one of those stream of consciousness pieces and say it in one fail swoop. An unrealistic expectation considering all of the magic I experienced in India.

I slipped on a monsoon season and fell in love in that place.

I love the silhouettes of drunken Bombay tourists posing for cameras in front of Curlie's sunsets. I love political conversations across cultures and between friends. I love the way curry smells, especially when it's partnered with raw red onions and lime juice. I love an optimist with self-depreciating humor and the uncanny ability to make me feel better. I love a damaged dog with a limp leg, cloudy eyes and flies swarming about her head like Pig-Pen from Charlie Brown. I love a woman with brilliantly dry humor who knows how to use her eyebrows.

I love oxen pulling old farmers on rickety wooden carts. I love chattering bangles stacked up my arm. I love markets brimming with bargains. I love a French woman who talks about how much she loves food. I love a ridiculously long bike ride to say goodbye. I love silly conversations about sex that make some people feel uncomfortable. I love lavish parties in old, beautifully renovated Portuguese houses. I love candles burning during power outages. I love clotheslines in odd places. I love people on the "margins" exposing injustices. I love working for a good cause. I love Indian sweet shops.

I love the cows who lay in the road and the friends who broadside them doing 45 on a scooter in the pitch black of Indian night. I love the sound of cheesy hip hop bouncing off of cheesier pick up lines against the backdrop of supportive laughter. I love sipping Sangria with just the right amount of nutmeg and cinnamon, sitting on a balcony above an empty village. I love tattoos and polished silver on dark skin and black eyeliner on big brown eyes. I love houses and store fronts painted the day-glo shades of socks I wore when I was a kid and was in love with Cindy Lauper and Boy George. I love the sea.

I love having a maid who is my friend and my confidant; a woman who has forever marked my life with a mischievous brand of thoughtfulness. I love the children who yell up to my window from the street only to giggle and scatter when I appear. I love a good film connoisseur with a click in his speech and a vocabulary to contend with. I love rice patty fields protected by sad scarecrows that wake from the rain and shine emerald in the sun. I love a green omelette sandwich. I love a great haircut by an old Goan man who knows a hell of a lot about the Rolling Stones. I love red dirt. I love unique lampshades.

I love a long motorcycle ride on a cloudless night for a cold beer on a hilltop overlooking the sea. I love always wearing flip flops and always having filthy feet. I love learning about this country of 28 countries; each distinct in so many ways. I love smelling like citronella and making it an entire day without a single mosquito bite. I love ordering food off a menu and having no idea what will be served. I love the sweat after intense yoga that won't dry in the humidity. I love working in an office in the jungle. I love the tension between tradition and modernity; new and old colliding. I love crowded round-abouts.

I love eccentric theatre actors. I love churches at the top of crumbling staircases overgrown with vines. I love fresh mango juice. I love a troop of mangy dogs with protective tendencies, especially when the are looking out for me. I love zipping around on a cheap scooter on roads freckled with potholes and puddles. I love my Poncho. I love dark bars on dirty streets. I love the smell of incense dancing with folklore in Hindu temples. I love fearless and frolicking walks on the beach in the middle of the night. I love smiles and headwags.

I love waking at dawn to a thundering rain storm and drifting back to sleep. I love dancing as hard as I can. I love okra and onion pakora with Touborg. I love a dingy room filled with hard working activists. I love a film about Goan history. I love a riverside city bustling with shops and traffic; especially at night. I love patterns on damp and moldy clothing in roadside shops. I love papaya with chili powder. I love getting lost in the middle of the day. I love dark features juxtaposed to yellow cloth in orange doorways. I love snakes.

I loved so much; too much to mention here. But in parting, as I finally empty the last of my bags and remember, I can say this: I love that those who loved me in India gifted me scarves and books and T-shirts to bid me farewell; it means I was myself and they know me well.

Dr. Binayak Sen and the Tigers of Chhattisgarh

My literary state of mind often feels like a sweat lodge; a dear but distant friend calls this "the duende." The words pour from me and take their own path and meaning. Time is abstract. Poetics are more important than pretension. A biased perspective is the only one. Progressions are built on foresight and history. Analogies and parallels stand out like brail on the page. It is emotional. It is conception. But not everyone can see it. And that's perfectly alright.

Yet, in the wise words of Erykah Badu,"Keep in mind I'm an artist... and I'm sensitive about my shit."

Although this piece has been politically corrected for publication, it was originally written this way. And because this is my blog, I can share it however I like.

Tigers are beautiful. War is violent. Exploitation is wrong. The state is cannibalistic. And I sympathize with young people and public servants. I want to share it, as I felt it when I originally wrote it. Without fear of reprisal.

~Tonia

Dr. Binayak Sen and the Tigers of Chhattisgarh

It is not the jungle of West Bengal, although many would claim that is where it started. Nonetheless, they are like the tigers lurking in those jungles, moving dangerously in the shadows and bearing red salutes. They face extinction at the hands of the state. They suffer from illnesses wrought by industry that is destroying their native lands. Many fear them; especially those who seek to exploit them. They have many enemies and they have many comrades. Their instincts and their allegiances afford them survival. But unlike the Tigers of Bengal, it is their politics, not their nature, which drives them to kill.

They are the Naxalites of Chhattisgarh. They number in the thousands. They are not animals, but they oppose captivity with their life. They fight for their vision of a people’s movement, situated in a long history of communist belief systems rooted far beyond the forests that they call home. Yet they have ascribed this war – and a war it is indeed – to the unique circumstances in this heartland of India. Most are tribal people, many are young and too few have access to basic needs; but it is not their insurgency that has denied them their rights. It is the evolution of neoliberal development programs and a history of state neglect that have stripped these native people of their well-being and their land rich with resources. Chhattisgarh is a land marred with natural wealth; and state policies aimed at exploiting them. The state defends its paradigm as an endeavor to end poverty and suffering, to bring employment and economy. Violent resistance has ensued.

In Chhattisgarh, a war rages on. State supported globalization and industrialization have collided with ideals of communalism and indigenous agriculture. Trees and communities are uprooted in the name of progress and economic advancement. Poverty reins in rural areas. Resistance and conspiracy to resist are banned by force and law. Desperate circumstances are a breeding ground for police recruitment. A touted military school is built and maintained with the aim of training tribal youth to fight tribal youth, on battlefields spanning dense forests and unarmed villages. There are no medics wearing crosses on their backs and tending to the wounded. Hospitals are miles away and generally inaccessible.

Since 1981, Dr. Binayak Sen has been working with the people of Chhattisgarh. The doctor does not encourage violence. He has publicly condemned it on more than one occasion. In fact, as an elected official in the People’s Union for Civil Liberties (PUCL), he has urged dialogue and negotiations as methods for conflict resolution between the Government and the Maoists of Chhattisgarh. His vocation is committed to welfare. He has dedicated his life to building peaceful conditions that emulate from communities of healthful people; citizens who are honored with civil liberties. He is a medical doctor who has benefitted public health in countless ways. His models for treatment have been adopted by the state and he has directly served and advised the state for decades. Still, he is an activist who stands steadfast for action to end the violation of rights by the same state and the corporations who depend on it. He has acted as a visionary in the greater discussion about the social determinants of health. The accomplishments and contributions of the modest Dr. Binayak Sen are endless. He is many things, but he is not a criminal.

Dr. Binayak Sen was arrested on May 14, 2007 in Bilaspur, Chhattisgarh. The details of his arrest are confused and debated; yet the charges brought against him are clear. Dr. Sen, after decades of service to the people and the state of Chhattisgarh, stood accused of being a terrorist engaged with sedition and acts of war against the state. The case against him revealed little meaningful evidence and much of it was questionably permissible. Yet, for more than two years, the doctor was held in captivity, including periods of solitary confinement, in a prison in Raipur. All the while, across the globe, activists, laureates, human rights organizations and concerned citizen’s groups agitated for his release. Blogs began. Letters were drafted. Public outcries were heard. Petitions were signed. Networks took hold. Media coverage resulted. As a result of his arrest, not only in India, but throughout the world, public education about the situation in Chhattisgarh was spreading.

In December of 2010, the doctor was found guilty of the charges against him, his bail was revoked and he was sentenced to the astonishing punishment of life imprisonment. Cries of “prisoner of conscience” were heard near and far. The Acts cited to charge the doctor and the creation of paramilitary groups to fight the insurgency in Chhattisgarh garnered international attention as unlawful and abusive. Subsequently, the Supreme Court of India faced global accusations of supporting undemocratic rule of law; a branding with severe consequences in arguably the world’s most burgeoning democracy.

In a recent statement Dr. Binayak Sen humbly remarked, “We must not personalize my arrest but focus on the wider issues for which I was arrested.” And these issues of undemocratic punishment, unlawful military organization and denial of civil liberties are not unique to Chhattisgarh. They are echoed in the Latin American states of Colombia and Guatemala as well as numerous states across Africa, among many others. These are locations where the dangerous nexus of development, corruption, neglect and force have bred movements of insurgent resistance and state paramilitary responses. It is a gross and dangerous oversimplification to ascribe these conflicts to binaries of left and right politics.

Against the backdrop of rising international pressure, on April 15, 2011, the Supreme Court of India granted bail and retracted crimes of sedition against Dr. Binayak Sen, setting him free. Further, in a landmark decision, the Supreme Court has ordered the cessation of Special Police Officers (SPO) in Chhattisgarh; those counterinsurgency militias made up of poor rural youth who hail from the same villages as young Naxalite forces. Citing liberal concepts such as dehumanization and culture of greed, as well as the literary work “Heart of Darkness” by Jospeh Conrad, the court ruled that the government of Chhattisgarh, regarding SPO employment, is in violation of two Articles of the Indian Constitution.

In the spiraling and ferocious violence of insurgent-state conflicts that turn schoolhouses into police bunkers and children into killing machines, there are complexities deeply related to bids for power and resources; all couched in complicated socio-political and economic histories. And it is civilian life, stranded between insurgency and state militia, that suffers most; displacement, starvation, rape, injury and death. It is the innocent victims of both sides of war who need Dr. Binayak Sen, and those like him, urgently. To imprison desperately needed public servants in the name of repressing non-violent resistance to state policies is a crime against humanity, in and of itself. In the words written by Joseph Conrad and quoted by the Supreme Court of India, “The horror! The horror!”

R.E.D.

R.E.D.

War.

Umbrellas at bus stands.

Cars. Toys. Brands. Roses.

Fire.

A landmark before a bend in the road.

Plastic chair with tattered cushion.

A cell phone advertisement.

Scarf hanging in the window.

Fear.

Fabric.

Doors.

Love.

A flag bearing a sickle and a star.

Port wine and pomegranate.

A cross that symbolizes resources.

The soles on the feet of a child; gravel and dreams.

The best kind of onions.

Busses with loud horns like ice creams trucks.

Candy wrappers in empty wastebaskets.

Spices spilled on the counter.

Asia.

My favorite T-shirt that she wears.

Meat under flies.

The Devil.

Beads swinging from slender collars.

British Broadcasting Corporation.

They mix it with bulls and vodka.

Sashes draped on teenagers armed with guns and smiles.

The flowers growing on garbage veiled with dirt.

Romance.

Carpets.

Bricks.

Anger.

Soil torn from mountains by mining machines.

A seething mosquito caught mid-crime.

Bundles of chilies tied off with twine.

Eyeballs striped with irritated arteries; thinking and drinking.

Yesterday.

Hearts of fathers who are unable to save them.

Lipstick. Nail Polish. Pumps. Panties.

Blood.

Things aren't what they seem.

July 22, 2011

Things aren’t what they seem.

Today was intense. I suppose yesterday was as well.

I’m immersed in a feature piece that is important; I’m colliding with the lives of others. Odd paths are crossing and something more than meaningful is happening, I can feel it. History. Politics. Well-being. Complicated. Things aren’t what they seem.

Anyway, that’s not the point of my story. This story is about Pushpa.

Like I said. Intense couple of days. And anyone who knows me well knows that my favorite way to manage anxiety – good and bad – is to sweat. So I make a playlist: Raconteurs, Billy Idol, Aesop Rock, Morphine. Tonia Style Yoga.

I’m sweating worse than a whore in church – what kind of feminist says something like that? Strong, forceful workout, almost in the dark.

I don’t know how long she was standing there, she moves quietly unless she’s moving furniture. I should write more about her. Her name is Pushpa, she’s my caretaker – and that’s an understatement. She may certainly be the most influential and endearing person I have met in India.

When I turn and see her there, me sweating like a pig, breathing like a bull and obviously working on something more than asanas, she turns and walks right back out the door.

I continue pushing through my insanity.

About 15 minutes later she returns with one of those flimsy plastic handle bags from the market. She gives me that grin, the one that I have grown so fond of.

In the bag? One cold Touborg can, 1 baggie thick flour mix, two shiny red onions, 1 thin spicy red chili and a handful of green fuzzy okra.

What comes next? Spicy okra and onion pakora, a cold beer, a tousle of drenched hair from a wise friend and Tonia feeling much more able.

Things aren’t what they seem. Because people like Pushpa, change them.

Bombs are...in Bombay

July 15th, 2011

Bombs are...in Bombay

Over the week, as emails and messages have poured in from loved ones and concerned advisors about the bombings in Bombay, the feeling has been a strange but familiar one. It could be described as a hybrid I suppose; ribbons of fortune tied to strands of guilt and frustration. I tend feel this way when a “newsworthy” tragedy rears its unpleasant head, wherever I may be. This is no different. I’m privileged enough to have remarkable experiences in far away lands but a home that registers pretty damn safe in relative terms. Lucky enough to avoid tripping my way into the wrong place at the wrong time – most of the time. And aware enough to know that the majority of suffering is rarely covered on the nightly news or in the morning Post.

In the days after 3 bombs exploded in the bustling metropolis of Mumbai killing dozens and injuring scores, news reports abound. The Wall Street Journal asks, “Will the Mumbai attacks be politicized?” Really WSJ, is that your headline? I’m disappointed. Could these attacks be viewed any other way? Would the mainstream media be calling them “terrorist” attacks if there was not a political agenda – by attackers, politicians and media conglomerates alike? Is there even a question that bombs detonated in any global neighborhood be attached to politics? Bombs are politics.

BBC asks a more appropriate question, “Why does Bombay bleed again and again?” I might argue that Bombay is not bleeding, people are. But I digress into semantics and it is certainly a catchy headline. And more, this well written article intrigues my propensity for debate. Anchored in the history of deadly attacks in Bombay since 1993, the article cites 700 corpses and questions the capacity of the Indian government to protect its citizenry. My thoughts wander to a recent story reported by a community journalist covering the city in Maharashtra. A heart-wrenching story about the destruction of thousands of homes in Bombay slums with hundreds of communities still on the docket for demolition in upcoming months. Potentially hundreds of thousands of people have no recourse in a government sponsored “slum-free” scheme that will leave them homeless and starving. A government unable – or perhaps unwilling - to protect its citizenry indeed. If Bombay is bleeding, slums are festering wounds. And they need treatment with care, not dirty Band-Aids. But I’m hard pressed to find a recent and comprehensive story about the prolonged death of so many slum dwellers in Bombay. But, do we find anything quite as newsworthy as deadly explosions? Bombs are entertainment.

Indian newspapers are running the editorials that we would expect. Essentially asking the question that is shocking to no one: Has the dreaded Pakistan struck again? I find this sentiment alarming at best. Why is it that we – governments and humans – go to such great lengths to find the enemy in other governments and humans but rarely blame systems, structures and institutions that create them? Is it because we need the ability to watch the demise of the enemy on the nightly news or read it with our morning coffee, as if it is proof somehow? We can be fairly certain that whomever ignited those bombs in Bombay this week had a keen eye on the media coverage. All the blood and guts and rubble in the street are a battle won for the culprits. And something tells me that the Indian government will respond with some good old-fashioned broadcasted battle winning of its own. But in the end, no one will win the “war.” Not the “terrorists” nor the “state.” It only takes a peek across the pond or the tracks at Iraq and Afghanistan to see the truth in that. But as long as economy and ideology are propped up by detonations, what more can we expect? Bombs are excuses.

So, as U.S. media and the Obama administration encourage India to strengthen its counter-terrorism and intelligence efforts, I can’t help but sigh. What a waste of time. What a waste of money. What a waste of airwaves. What a waste of human rights. What a waste of manpower. What a waste of better ideas. What a waste of life.

Bombs are a waste of resources.

boys like fish

July 8, 2011

I have emerged from my first stint of tropical illness in India - and I say first because let's be honest, there will be others. Thus, the explanation for my lack of posting. Although I was keeping some interesting scribbles during my illness, there is nothing for the imagination like the delirium of a fever during the monsoon rains. All part of the experience, I say.

This little gem was filmed for the most part last weekend and finished the night my internal lights got dim. Enjoy.

boys like fish

Sluts Unite

June 30, 2011

Breaking News: the “SlutWalk” has made its way to India. In Delhi no less, where a reported 80% of women experience sexual violence in some form. And as I scour the tubes for press and commentary, I find myself shocked, but not surprised, at the continued – and historically familiar – arguments against validity and the dismal awareness of purpose regarding women’s movements of resistance. A global paradigm shift is imperative; and I am relieved to say that the sluts are on the mission. This is my response to a recent editorial in the Hindustan Times.

Sluts Unite

It does not take a linguistic genius – or a feminist – to recognize that the term “slut” in “SlutWalk” is symbolic, not stereotypical. Reducing this global movement to a singular word in an effort to delegitimize it is precisely the reason these women - and the men who support them - are marching in the first place, be it sporting Bustiers, Board Shorts or Burkas. And if the redefinition of the word slut to signify a woman empowered enough to walk around in whatever she wants without fear of being brutalized is a result, fantastic. But to assume that the international “SlutWalk” phenomenon is only about dressing scantily clad is, quite frankly, as ignorant as a comment made by a police officer that women should not dress like sluts to avoid rape.

Writing an entire article that articulates the prescribed meaning of the word slut is perpetuating the age-old practice of shifting the focus from the perpetrator to the victim. To say nothing of the lack of critical thinking. Further yet, devaluing the work that women are doing by claiming that they are “objectifying” themselves simply represents poor research. It only takes a few clicks of the mouse to find the mantra of the SlutWalk movement: “Because we’ve had enough.” But I suppose that hundreds of thousands of women across the globe have been invalidated by incompetent journalism before. Journalism powered by a patriarchal mindset acting as the beneficiary of the status quo.

As a white woman in India, I certainly recognize the risk in exposing my body. But then again, I am painfully aware of that threat anywhere. I am one of all the women in the world who are in danger on a regular basis simply because she has a vagina. And a vagina is a pre-requisite for being a slut, as well as being treated like one regardless of what you wear. The point here is not that women who “look” like sluts are standing up for themselves or reclaiming rhetoric. Rather, women who are treated like sluts - and judging from this movement there are a lot of us out there - are coming together to speak out about the abuses they endure.

SlutWalk is about speaking truth to power. Announcing to the world that women everywhere are finished with being blamed for the sexual violence that is perpetrated against them. And the term slut is perfectly placed branding. Even if it doesn’t always translate across languages, it is creating dialogue about the presumption that women who are victimized should be taking responsibility for deeply embedded patriarchal violence that most certainly translates across culture. And nationality. And class. And race. And religion. And age. And ability. Not to mention the institutionalized, militarized and state sponsored forms.

It’s true; this movement erupted in the "West." But to rely on the overused argument that white western feminists are imposing their ideals on developing world women and in turn devaluing their concerns is circumventing the issue. Anyone who is versed on the evolution of the feminist movement knows that today’s feminists are hyper-aware of the imposition of ideology. Let us be reminded that the women organizing the events in Mexico City were Mexican women. Just as the women organizing the protest in Delhi are Indian women. They are brave enough to mobilize because they identify with an issue that affects women globally, and this a “genuine problem” indeed.

This movement is about solidarity, not a hierarchy of victimization. Yes, women in India are experiencing a deplorable amount of violence and violation of rights. But the true solutions to those issues are related to a paradigm shift in freedom, not protection. Freedom of mobility. Freedom from fear. Freedom of choice. Freedom from hunger. Freedom from violence. Freedom from exploitation. And yes, that includes freedom to wear whatever the hell we want. The women marching in SlutWalks remind us that women have to fight for those freedoms because we are simply not being protected against losing them; assuming that we had them to begin with.

Let us not forget the painful experience of a woman that led to this global outrage. The condescending, misguided and unsympathetic statement that cheering on the SlutWalkers “because everyone needs a bit of fun, a break from the normal routine, some diversion to liven up their lives,” is frighteningly akin to the justification a man might use to harass a woman on a street corner. And worse, this type of commentary represents the reductionist additude that allows men to rape her.

Cultural Comparisons

As some things are starkly different, others are remarkably the same.

June 28, 2011

A conversation about tampons reveals more than I am willing to admit. A fender bender takes two hours and 28 USD to remedy; a far cry from wasting time lining corporate pockets. Men with perceived power - and presumably women as well, although I have yet to meet one in India - are not interested in what I have to say. But women who can cook are valued beyond price tags. Bargaining is an art form and a commended trait, not a sign of cheapness.

Pudding is the term for dessert in Northern England, and only in Northern England; the reference confuses everyone else. Shiva moments - those instances when coincidence becomes serendipity - are universal. Safe water is important to everyone, but safe is relative. Men with big bellies love to rub them after a meal; in India, they like to pull up their shirts and do it on street corners. Dingy hole in the wall bars nestled in dark alleys are awesome.

Dogs are loyal, cats are tricky. Trash piles up on futbol fields but you wash your own tea cup. Agriculture sustains communities; sharing the yield is the purpose. Papaya is best when it has been sitting out for a day, put in the fridge after cutting and served with hot sauce. Indian style bathroom habits are actually more clean; toilet paper is gross if you think about it, and can't flush it. A smile will save you a headache and laughter will encourage respect, even when the circumstances are dim.

Beer tastes better cold. Women wearing bright colors are beautiful, period. The twang of Indian music mixes well with conversation. A shower is a luxury, even when it's chilly. Celebrations often sponsor dangerous behavior. Mosquitos are the worst at dusk but there are local remedies available if you just ask. Children are curious and generally harmless, but smarter than you think. Fifteen cows in the road is "no problem," just be patient. A good nights sleep is really important and an innocent wink can be taken the wrong way.

With love from India, wearing bangles and muddy feet.

Peace.

Diving into a Stream of Consciousness

June 22, 2011

If you have traveled out of your comfort zone you are familiar with the feeling – or lack of feeling may be a better way to describe it. As if floating in a ruse state, because what is happening is undoubtedly marking the calendar of your life, but it just doesn’t feel like much of anything, like it’s fake somehow. Like you are looking in at your life through a dirty window. Your own peeping Tom. A shifty sort of place that hovers between your normal comfortable life and your proud albeit unstable adventurous life. It’s like survival mode but less intense. Even waking up with a wretched hangover or allergic reaction doesn’t really hurt, even though you know it must.

Then… BAM. A JOLT. Something stark happens and it tosses you out of the haze and then drops you like a load of bricks into your circumstances. Thankfully all the while, because here is when you start noticing the details that cling together to create your experience.

The thick scent of burning rubbish mingling with the salty smell of the sea reminds me of what beef jerky tastes like. This morning as I brushed my teeth, I watched the neighborhood kids take turns pulling buckets of water from the well. I rinsed my toothbrush in running tap water and put it back in its shell. A debate immediately arises when the sound of hard fruit clunks against the roof tiles and disturbs the conversation. “Coconut.” “No, no. Mango.” I am picking up the India head-wag without trying. At first it was against my will, but last night I got a compliment, “You have a cute way of doing that thing, man.”

Bollywood is not alone in the breadth of Indian film culture. Regional languages and cinematic innovations have followed, launching Tollywood, Rollywood, Malluwood and others. I work with film fanatics. During the tourist season, Goa hosts massive parties where thousands of people can be found dancing until dawn on a secluded beach or remote hilltop with an immodest sound system. The ex-pat community is far less accepting than the local Goans. Kingfischer Strong is my evening cocktail of choice although the local port wine that comes in a handy plastic bottle is growing on me.

The Indian Press is like the US media on tabloid steroids. Imagine FOX News with more flashy video effects and stunning Bombay elites adorned with jewels as newscasters. The electricity goes out so often that the first thing I do when I get home in the evening is sling my headlamp around my neck. The rats are bigger than cats and they are quite bold. The have no problem to sit and stare at me from behind a twitchy nose; scrappy paws resting on fat bellies. My maid – what a strange experience to have a maid – is an amazing vegetarian cook. Sautéed Okra with red chili. Curried chickpeas. Garlic potato, plump peas and shredded cabbage simmered in ripe tomatoes. Rich traditional dal with a hint of coconut sweetness. Lentils stewed in ginger and onions. Fluffy basmati rice and hand made roti, warm and moist with oil.

My office days are filled with laughter. A witty British accent. A soft spoken newlywed with henna hands and shiny bangles. A pleasant French researcher who is always smiling. A pair of cultured female editors with dark eyes, stylish clothes, intelligent commentary and a passion for film. A jovial long haired urban fellow with a twinkle in his eye that I can’t pin down; its either mischievous or joyous, but perhaps its both. A quiet but assertive young woman fresh from university with smooth dark skin and a talent for bargaining. A volunteer from Jordan with a lengthy history in acting, an endearing brand of ditsy-ness and an adventurous spirit. A film critic from Bangalore with a bulky mustache, tousled hair and square glasses; he reminds me of a sophisticated Bollywood version of Burt Reynolds. A shy former “office boy” turned web programmer who is too humble for his talent and makes the best chai of anyone in the office, hands down. We are not exactly a motley crew but as I find myself spending more and more time with them outside of the office, I am certainly becoming part of a quirky crew indeed.

The Woman from Fort Aguada: A Short Story

June 20th, 2011

This story is not meant to be factual, although I have based it on historical and local research. This comes only days since I took a long drive up the coast to relieve myself from the sadness of previous days events; bribing a police officer and witnessing a brutal beating. What I found on that drive has inspired this piece. Fort Aguada is a real place and the images you see are mine. The women in my story are real women, and I feel I know them well. But I write this story as it flourishes in my imagination and here inlays the fiction. Because I have found in my life, that I heal best when the stories come.

The Woman from Fort Aguada

Just after the turn of 17^th century, the Portuguese built a fort of bricks and mortar on the rocky Sinquerim beach peering out at the Arabian Sea. The fort was named Aguada after the fresh water spring that gurgled from deep beneath the ground. Fort Aguada served not only to protect the colony from Dutch invasion but also to guide ships into the port at the mouth of the Mandovi River where they were vulnerable to attacks by the Maratha tribes of the north. A lighthouse was erected high on a hilltop and its beam projected out across the bay and onto the peninsula beyond.

On the eve of her twenty-ninth birthday a British woman lounged on a cushion in her modest home near Candolim. She had been living in Goa for several years and found herself entranced by the coconut palms, the pleasant greetings and the movement of the seasons. She wore a silk robe from the import shop she had recently opened in the urban center. A sudden breeze off the sea blew in through the window and the curtains trembled like a flag on the wind. The monsoons were coming. Her boyfriend lay sleeping in the bedroom. And a knock came at the door.

António de Oliveira Salazar came from a humble family, born at the dawn of the twentieth century. He studied Seminary and Law and rose to power in Portuguese politics during the onslaught of World War II. His fascist colonial policies echoed in the lives of Indians on the distant shores of Goa; a small but immensely beautiful land that he was reluctant to visit. When India gained its independence from Britian in 1947, Salazar refused to relieve Goans of their Portuguese statehood and a battle for freedom ensued. Salazar ordered all political prisoners to be held in the depths of Fort Aguada, where iron bars met the deadly undertows of the sea.

She refused to pay on principle although she had more than enough stowed away in a suitcase under the bed. The police had been searching the house for more than an hour when an officer in plain clothes came in through the front door holding a small black plastic bag. He said he found the hash in the garden. She loved her garden; it was brimming with blooms and mangoes this time of year. Smoking hash was out of the question; she had suffered from asthma since she was a small girl growing up in Oxford. As they wrestled her boyfriend into the back of the jeep she was calm and spoke softly to him, “We haven’t done anything wrong my dear. It will only take a moment to sort it out.”

When Indian Hotels Co. bought the 88 acres of coastal property they agreed to maintain the historical Fort Aguada. The lawyers negotiated a reduced price instead of handing over the bundles of cash it would require to have the prison relocated. They built beautiful seaside bungalows and plush spas overlooking the ruins. They allowed the peddlers to push their goods at the entrance of the historical site and offered four guided tours daily. They warned the guides that mentioning the foreign prisoners held on drug charges in the bowels of the fort could cost them their jobs. The only signs of life at Fort Aguada historical site are the deep green mosses that creep up the walls and across lawns, the mangled overgrowth in the bottomless moat and the tourists bustling about.

I wrestled my scooter into a sliver of space between two buses and wiped the sweat from my face with the sleeve of my shirt. The entrance was buzzing with tourists, although I was the only white person in site other than an overweight man in thick glasses wheezing as he sat slumped on a rock nearby. I pushed the play button on my Ipod and began to walk down the red dirt path towards the stairs to the tower. I was stopped twice on the way by groups of men asking if they could have their photograph taken with me. I refused politely the first time and the second time allowed my disdain a moment of glory.

I passed a series of iron bar doors on the way up the steps but couldn’t see down the corridors into the darkness beyond their guard. From the top the view of the sea and the city of Panjim on the far shore was breathtaking. But I felt most taken by the red door to lighthouse adorning a poorly painted sign that read, “Entry Prohibited.”

Judging from the fingernail scratches on the wall, it has been ten years and 4 days since they walked her down the stairs into her cell. She is only a shadow of the woman she once was. Her teeth are a rotten yellow and even missing. Her skin hangs from her bones, kept in place only by the ration of rice and roaches that have sustained her all these years. Her mother sobs from her gut as she walks through the gate. She can feel the weight of her frailty with the embrace of her family. She muscles a brave smile and assures them she is fine. Her thoughts wonder to a decade ago as she sat in the Mapusa police station and listened to the Commander as he revealed the charges against her. “Ten years in Fort Aguada,” he said. As they drove down the winding road away from the prison she stared off across the lush landscape. It had been a day like this when the knock came at the door. It was one of those blessed clear days when the monsoons are just beginning. As they began down the hill she saw a woman standing on the edge of the cliffs just off the road. She asked the driver to stop.

I had been standing there for quite some time. A few minutes ago a man with sacks in his arms had wandered past. I expressed to him how beautiful the view was and asked him if it was a monastery far below where the rocks met the sea. He smiled sheepishly and said, “No, no. Prison.” He motioned ahead up the road and then he meandered on his way. It was such a stunning sight to be spoiled by captivity. But I was curious and so I turned off the camera and began to prepare myself to continue on. I could see the lighthouse from where I was standing on the edge of the cliffs.

When she came up behind me I was startled. She moved quietly like a ghost. She whispered a soft hello and then stood very still and gazed out. I was frozen in her presence. She seemed ill and worn and tired, but she looked like me somehow.

Before she turned and walked painfully away she said, “If you count down five windows from the end, there dwells the spirit of a freedom fighter. He came to me in my dreams and taught me how to live.”

"Amreeka" – An American’s Film Club Experience in Goa

June 15th, 2011

Last night I attended my first film screening for a local and seemingly thriving film club in Goa. The film of the night was “Amreeka;” the story of the personal struggles faced by a Palestinian woman and her son who immigrate to the United States. It is important to note that this is not a story about refugees, despite the abhorrent truth that Palestinians are virtually refugees in their own homes. In “Amreeka,” the characters are most certainly agents in their circumstances.

The film has an extremely narrow geographical focus in a distant and rather undefined suburb of Chicago. More narrow however, is the film’s spotlight on Arab-American relations. It is the stereotypical type caste of racist Muslim hating U.S. citizens and the plight of an Arab family who clings to their customs and traditions. But of course the film does not miss the opportunity to grant small parts to characters who dispel the stereotypes – as if the plotline required the token gesture. Don’t get me wrong, the story is compelling; anyone who has displaced him or herself can identify. Homesickness. Self-doubt. Culture shock. Confusion.

Humorous mishaps in adaptation.

The film is filled with fairly subtle and generally funny US cultural references. For instance, that there is an unspoken hierarchy in fast food restaurants; Wendy’s is more acceptable than White Castle. Or the hilarious herbal weight loss craze that feeds infomercials and pyramid schemes and inevitably “fat” people. Or the quintessential line of the high school dropout about getting a GED. And for the most part, I was one of few in the room to giggle at those references. But when the film was done and the discussion began, there was no lack of conviction about who an “American” is or what “America” is like.

The room was tight, with more than 20 people sitting on chairs and couches and cushions on the floor. I was the only American. And I do not make the mistake of overlooking America as inclusive of Central and South America as many of my peers did this evening. In fact, in my observation of the heated post-film conversation, “America” and “American” are casually perceived as monolithic entities to describe the United States and those – presumably white – people who hold the USA as their nationality. I regret that Latin Americans were simply not represented, mentioned nor considered, even in the context of a an argument about immigration.

I am the first to criticize US politics and hegemony. I am not shy to speak up about racism, discrimination, sexism and consumer culture. But, the United States is a vastly diverse country. A benign suburb of Chicago says nothing about Southern California beach life, New Orleans Cajun history, Rocky Mountain ski towns, vast Montana ranch land, Seattle sub-cultures, idiosyncratic New Jersey, the native South West, Mid-Western farm country or the colonial North East. And the people are as varied as the landscape.

As it seems, it is not – or perhaps no longer – only a western neo-colonial trait to categorize people in a flailing attempt to define them. And it wasn’t only Americans that were pigeonholed. One of my co-workers was branded as something quite precise because he is from Bangalore– although I have no idea what that means.

My point is this: If all Americans are like the assholes depicted in the film and the States are simply a scene of strip malls and chain restaurants, then all Muslims are terrorists and the Middle East is barren desert. Such limited thinking is a ridiculous waste of time.

What will it take to shift the paradigm away from us vs. them ideology? Is it possible to understand the self without pejoratively defining the other? Why do we insist on limiting our perceptions? Are we that lazy? Is global citizenship as a unifying worldview simply unattainable because nationalism is unabatedly tied to international systems of identity?

Failed. State. System.

I didn’t pose any of these questions last night; I simply felt humbly outnumbered and timid about a potential debate. So unlike me. Perhaps it’s best, I would hate to re-enforce the “pushy American” type caste. Yet, much to my chagrin, I may have promoted the “stupid American” one. I suppose we will see what the film is next week.

Peace and Love. For Everyone.

An Indian Graffiti Haiku

June 15th, 2011

color focused strokes on walls

signify ideas

a time zone storyteller

A Humbled and Fumbling Filmmaker

June 14^th, 2011

I have always been the type of person to step off a cliff. I take risks. I strive for dreams even when they may seem unrealistic. I’m proud of that. Like the old sayings go, I practice what I preach and I walk the walk. But with that comes the days of self-doubting internal dialogue: “Really Tonia, who the hell do you think you are?”

Today is one of those days.

Engaging with the medium of film has been an empowering albeit self-effacing experience thus far. I find myself incredibly inspired by the possibilities of employing my intellectual and creative self in tandem. But like any art form, I often stumble on my expectations. I suppose that struggle can be ascribed to any attempt at success.

And there is that word. Success.

A concept both irritating and motivating and utterly powered by fear of failure.

And there is that word. Failure.

I am settled and comfortable in India now. I have the details ironed out. So it is time to whole-heartedly pursue the work I am here to do. It is time to put my skills, or lack of them, to work on the projects I aim to complete. As I zipped home from work on my trusty scooter named “Simba” today, I passed two men laughing as they wrestled a bicycle piled with sacks of produce through puddles and cows and traffic. It was a perfect scene to shoot. But I was suddenly paralyzed and didn’t take the camera out of my bag. I can’t be sure if I was worried I would offend them or if I was scared that I would not capture the magic of it all. Either way, it is an opportunity missed, no matter how small.

Like the sacks on that bicycle, I feel the weight of success and failure on my back. I am shy to say that I pray I can leave the bags in the market – because we all know that is where success and failure belong – and get on this bicycle and ride.

Market Madness: Bazaar Beauty

June 13th, 2011

A trip to the market in the "developing" world is always the signal of my acclimation. I adore the market. I get lost in the hustle and linger in the diversity. The colors. The smells. The chatter. The booths filled with worthless luxuries employ salesmen coaxing customers. The stands bursting with necessities are surrounded by negotiators. Everything is eye candy supported by local economy.

Sellers sorting money sit on stools behind fruit stacked in perfect pyramids. Grains in round bins shipped in burlap sacks rest under shiny silver scales. Stray dogs snack on scraps from food vendors. Fabric shops display perfectly aligned patterns. Teak wood furniture is spread out on asphalt while blue tarps stand by for rain. Crunchy snacks and sweets fill plastic canisters like candy shops. Cheap bags hang in layers too high to reach. An ungodly abundance of women's clothing, raincoats and shoes. Shop 19 is a hardware store, they don't have what I am looking for.

When the downpour begins I slip under an awning in one of many market caverns. Everything stops momentarily, as if there is a pause button. Then the engine begins again, sheltered under rainbow umbrellas.

Mapusa Market, Goa, India

Good Morning Goa

Weekend Video Post- June 11th & 12th

As I will be filming Friday through Sunday while in India, I have decided to create a short video blog as an entire weekend post. It will be a bit like icing on the week. Here is my first weekend in Goa.

With love, as always - T

P.S. The videos I will upload to this site are fairly low resolution because, I guess Google isn't a big enough conglomerate to offer more space. So, I will place a link at the bottom of the post for the high resolution video on YouTube.

YouTube Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ou27Jkk3vi4

June 11th Weekend Video Blog Post- Good Morning Goa

Please stand by for an upcoming video post...pending a reliable internet connection.

Baba Ramdev - Peace Flag or Python?

June 8th, 2011 - A Yogi in Politics

Below a TV screen perched high in the corner at Mumbai Intl. airport Gate 34 a crowd stood, necks strained, watching a news broadcast intently. Most of the men stood with their arms crossed looking very gruff. Two women in bright and shimmering saris chattered loudly; seemingly they were having a disagreement but then began giggling with a bit of mischief. The screen was filled with Hindi script that I could not read but the images were clear. An extremely dynamic yogi is causing trouble in Indian politics.

His name is Baba Ramdev and I have taken a small obsession with him. It is similar to the feeling one would have about Sara Palin - a fascination for a person so sick with power and arrogance that they are bound to make stupid mistakes. Yet, his very existence has challenged my world view. He is a tele-yoga guru, with an equivalent Indian following of the infamous Jim Bakker or Ted Haggard...or am I thinking of Jimmy Swaggart? I joke. But Baba Ramdev unquestionably reminds me of televised so-called spiritual leaders with a massive devotee following. I imagine those who benefit on the working person's income and experience remarkable success at the expense of honesty and moral turpitude. And to do it in the name of some divine purpose or knowledge makes me rigid. But I digress.

I experience yoga as a practice devoid of the power struggle or even further, a remarkable way to find humility and purge the filthy film that power can leave on the soul. So, as I watch and learn about Baba Ramdev, my analytical self begins a conversation with my spirit. He has interesting politics. He has taught tens of thousands to follow a breathing exercise each morning and there is no shortage of testimony about the benefits. He owns a massive albeit immaculate compound that includes an ayurvetic medicine factory and apartment complexes that will hold as many as 10,000 practitioners. He was raised by poor illiterate parents in a small village and seems to be representing the voice of many in India. He has launched his political career on the anti-corruption platform.

On the other hand, he is teaching his followers that yoga alone can treat cancer and HIV/AIDS; but more astonishingly, that yoga can "cure" homosexuality. Sound familiar? He owns an island, personally. He has encouraged violent protests. He adheres to a strict nationalism that argues English should not be spoken. He claims that India should have a higher GDP than Great Brittian-which may be true - but he reveals that his measurements for success adhere to western standards of wealth. His hypocrisy is rich.

Baba Ramdev is many days into a political fast. When I think of hunger strikes I think of the self-sacrificing and non-violent work of Gandhi and feel a deep sense of respect. But this particular yogi in politics has called for the hanging and corpse burning of corrupt politicians from his widely broadcast hunger bed. I wonder, is Baba Ramdev corrupting the peaceful movements that yoga is meant to represent? Is he bastardizing a practice that is meant to heal and unite? Is he symbolic of the unique abuse of power that interacts with faith?

Baba Ramdev is undoubtedly an extremely right winged spiritual leader with charisma strong enough to over-power the logic of thousands. In my opinion, he is bastardizing yoga like his peers in the west have done with Christianity. These are lessons we as a global society should have learned by now. My humble prediction is that he is very dangerous. His lopsided smile irritates my intuition.

One day in Baga

June 8th - A simple photo post.

Morning yoga and chai.

A quiet lunch and a peek of sunshine.

A conversation in the darkness on Baga bridge.

PeAcE

June 7th – Character Profile #1 - Arun, a Nepalese Caretaker

Since arriving in Goa, one particular person has cared for me most. He carried my 35 lb backpack on his head down a long driveway and up a scarred red stone staircase. He made me a bed in a dark room - where the roof did not leak - so that I could sleep all day after my long journey. He cooked dal (savory lentil stew) and rice for me that first night and only woke me when it was ready. He brings me the most delicious chai -like steaming chocolate milk with cinnamon - first thing in the morning.

He speaks very little English. I speak less Hindi. He says, “welcome” shyly when I say “thank you.” He expresses pleasure by saying “very fine,” and when he says “so bad,” he actually means “oops.” I learned that the hard way. He is an unbelievable cook and says, “like spicy?” as he chuckles over a three burner hot plate. If I understood him correctly, he’ll be returning to Nepal to be with his family tomorrow. I will be sad to see him go.

Together we watch a rival cricket match between India and West Indies. He is clearly irritated but smiles wryly when I startle at his spouts amid sips of Indian rum and local port wine. We sit on the floor facing one another and eat a brilliantly spicy meal from a communal pot. My fingers are stained with yellow curry. I love eating with my hands. I should be more diligent about washing them. Arun refuses to let me do the dishes.

Greeted by the Monsoon

June 6^th, 2011

As I lay in bed last night, uncomfortable in the heat, bothered by the things that crawl and aware of every sound for fear of burglars, I thought of the times I had felt this way. “You have been here before, Tonia. It will take a few days to find yourself at ease. Yes, this is a strange place, so far removed from the comfort of your own home, but you adapt. You always do. Listen to the rain. Go to sleep.”

When I arrived in Goa just after dawn yesterday, I watched as the ship yards, makeshift temples, stray dogs and Sanskrit marketing Western products passed. It rained hard on the drive from the airport and my pleasant driver wagged his head and smiled at me in the rearview, “monsoons,” he said.

My arrival at the office where I will be working was the succumbing point. Here I am, in the lush tropical coastline of India. I don’t look like those around me. I don’t understand the language. I don’t know where to find a market. I don’t have a sense of direction. I don’t know who I am here. But that means that I can be anyone.

A history washed away by the pouring rain.

Mumbai Blvd.

June 5^th, 2011

I layed down on the old hard bed diagonally, head at the foot, my thin scarf as cover and my shirt balled up under my head. I did not move for 7 hours. Exhaustion. When my eyes drifted open just before 3 am I forgot where I was. A terrifying and exhilarating feeling that often accompanies this brand of travel. This small dingy room on a dark and muddy Mumbai street is made for kidnapping scenes in Bollywood films. I revel in the reality of it all and peek through the curtains at a boulevard rich with culture and pinned down by poverty.

The drive to my humble accommodation is similar to the first taxi ride in any other-than-west city. Honking horns replace rules of the road - and often courtesy - while no one takes offense.Personal space greatly decreased; body and other odor greatly increased . Rebar poles jet from unfinished cement buildings: developing world strip malls. Mud, broken concrete and presumably shit slop around between the gutter and the unruly street. Modernity smashes against tradition as billboards feature deities drinking Coke.

Welcome to Mumbai Boulevard, Bombay, India.

Messages from Behind the Glass

June 2, 2011

Today I depart for the land of Krishna, silk and spices. This feeling I have is both familiar and foreign. It always happens so fast.

“It’s just like the present to be showing up like this.” ~ Bon Iver

It is difficult to stay in the moment and not drift off into a place where unresolved feelings and nostalgic memories lie. As if the symbol of a journey is a stocktaking of the past. I hope I have left nothing soul-precious behind that will have vanished when I return.

From the window of this comfortable rail car the waves lap the shore. I am parting with the Pacific Ocean for the Arabian Sea. It makes me feel connected somehow; the currents that pull at these Southern California beaches are pressing the sand on the steaming Indian coastline. And I am a message in a bottle.

June 3^rd or perhaps June 4^th – I cannot be entirely sure as I sit soaked in recycled air and stripped of time zones.

I have been listening to and reading Arundhati Roy as I make my way towards her homeland. I so desperately seek the knowledge that guidebooks cannot provide, the type of insight that will never be shrink-wrapped for sale. The type of thinker, writer, speaker, creator that dares us to take the path less traveled. Her masterful attention to the abuse of people and power is painfully poetic. Her descriptions of grief rest peacefully where interconnections brush the individual soul yet staunchly poised at the blunt intersection of the state. Her critique is both mighty and gentle – the way that true strength should be. I beg you to read her, listen to her, revel in her ability to speak truth to power with the utmost eloquence. I aspire.

As I touch down in the Middle East, I think of the Arab Spring. Inspired by Roy’s imagery I say this:

If I sit still enough as I peer out at Bahrain from my window seat, I can see the revolution breathing on the glass.

Post Script: BIA internet is too slow to upload photos, so it will have to wait.

PeAcE.

A Summer in India

My goal for this travel blog will be to post a single photograph and descriptive entry for each day. I will try to keep them short and reliable but not predictable. If I do what I am setting out to do, this travel blog will be like a one of those tear off calendars on your desk. 78 Days. One Woman. Countless Experiences.