The President Came?

The president of India came to Pondicherry University, so naturally, everyone left. When our friend told us the president would be visiting Pondi to give a speech, we got excited. “Wow! Do you think we could meet him? I wonder what he will talk about. What will be the security be like?” we thought. It turns out the answers to such postulations are: “No, no one gets to meet him. He will give a generic speech on the importance of education. And the security will be ridiculous. Blogs will be blocked, the Indian army will be living in the cricket stadium, trees will be knocked down for better visibility (or maybe because the president just doesn’t like the oxygen trees give), and the school will be on lock down. So we leave, just like everyone else. Jonathan brought his laptop to yoga class, so we could find and finalize train tickets to Kanniyakumari, the southernmost tip of India, and Kodaikanal, a city on top of a mountain.

Meshan, Emma, Gabe, Ian, Jonathan, and I headed to Kanniyakumari the Monday before the president came; Jonathan, Gabe, Ian, and I took the train and Meshan and Emma took the bus. Jonathan and Gabe had anxiously awaited the moment we had the chance to take the Indian rail. Jonathan even bought a sappy book on the Indian rail that includes hints of a romance novel. Gabe and I just hoped the train would be all around weird and interesting and have samples of scenes from “Darjeeling Limited,” which ended up to be true. Men come by with huge tins of masala tea at stops, chanting “teateateateateateateatea,” making sure to fit as many “tea”s in as possible into one breath. Other guys served paratha and chapatti in newspaper; the type of curry is a surprise. We were given blankets and a pillow in a brown paper bag; awkward conversations including “you are from???” and advice from strangers on not talking to strangers is the entertainment for the night. You can open up the door between the cars of the train to look out and watch India in fast forward. The train rocked us quietly to sleep, and on our way to Kanniyakumari, we awoke to a very orange sunrise behind mountains, windmills, and more palm trees.

The sun in Kanniyakumari is directed over the city, water, islands, and buildings in the way an artist would put a lamp light over an object before painting it. All day, no matter where we looked, we were graced with gorgeous landscapes. It is difficult to take a bad picture in Kanniyakumari. We took a boat out to one of two islands with a statue and palace-like building that serve as a shrine for Swami Vivekananda, who inspired Gandhi’s nationalism. A large group of boys that apparently comprised a basketball team (although there were too many boys for one team) chanted, hollered, yelled, squealed, and other annoying, loud shrieks while we were waiting for the boat, on the boat, and on the island. Old women shuddered, shoulders hunched as they attempted to plug their fragile, wrinkly ears. The boys did not seem to care. An old man asked me to take a picture of him and me and of him and his wife and apologized for the boys’ behavior. Really, the guys were a little older than us, but they acted like twelve-year-old boys who just found their cousins’ Playboy magazines. We were told that they were trying to show off for us, and to ignore them for the sake of the old ladies’ ears. At the shrine, we admired a huge statue of Vivekananda inside the tall palace-like building. The ceiling, floor, walls, columns, and entire architecture of the building were stunning. The building, which faced the city, was gorgeously stoic. Waves splashed the sides of the small island. Gabe and I attempted to take pictures of the water splashing against the rocks and islands. All of us competed against each other in the game of “who can stand the hothothothothotHOT ground longest” while arguing over what the yoga teacher meant by “you can see the sunrise and sunset in the same place in Kanniyakumari.” (Laura just came in my room and gave me a wonderful concoction of banana, vanilla, cinnamon, and milk. She makes awesome masala tea and lime juice with “bubby water.”) We took the boat back, arguing over if Buddhism or Hinduism came first over shouts from those adult-looking children. Turns out, Hinduism truly is the parent of all religions.
The next day, we wondered over to a bright, white church. When we looked up, a boy was dangerously climbing the side of the church. It made my palms sweaty just looking at him. When we entered into the church, some rope dropped from somewhere above, and I thought it might have been the boy. My heart leaped, and then I explained what I just thought. Ian said that was my version of “rope-snake,” an example our philosophy professor keeps using where you mistake a rope for a snake, except I mistook a rope for a boy. Inside, the church was decorated with neon oranges and purples. Melted candles caked a metal archway. An older woman cleaning the leaves and dust (which is amazingly abundant in India; actually my friend Savera is allergic to dust, which we did not think could be humanly possible for an Indian—maybe she’s a walking paradox) told us to go around the back and up the stairs. We followed her orders, walking on more hothothotHOT pebbles up the stairs to a spectacular view of the colorful city, water, islands, and fishing boats, and fishermen attempting to get out beyond the waves. We wondered down to the boats, taking pictures, and staring out into where the three seas: Bay of Bengal, the Indian Ocean, and the Arabian Sea meet. The waves crash into each other; they seem confused. We walked to the end of a rocky pier, watching fishermen, now that they had gone past the waves, attempt to sail, give up and put their motors on and go back to land. Jonathan had purchased 10 rupee children’s sunglasses that made him look like an evil villain on vacation.
We went to the Mahatma Gandhi museum, which was shaped like a mushroom. It looked as if someone had pumped air into a normal building. An old man with a long mustache, as in horizontally long not bushy, greeted us with his gurgle-y, old man voice. We got to the center of the museum, which was a white room with a high ceiling, and the old man took his time, stared at the ground, closed his eyes, and said “Mahatma Gandhi.” I don’t really know what else he said after that because I couldn’t understand his accent and gurgle-y voice except for when he said, “Mahatma Gandhi shot three times,” “Camera, camera, camera, camera,” and “tsunami watcher.” This unexpected tour guide, although he was scamming us for some rupees, was the most entertaining, unhelpful tour guide I’ve encountered.
Ian left to go to a Buddhist monastery in Kerala to meditate and Jonathan, Gabe, and I made our way to Nagarcoil to catch our train to Kodaikanal. Meshan and Emma stayed another day and then headed to Madurai. Jonathan, Gabe, and I stopped at a bakery to for some snacks and to try an orange, pulpy soda. While nibbling on greasy pastries on the way to the train, we came across a small army of statues, all of a small boy peeing.
We arrived at Kodaikanal at an ungodly hour, and thankfully, a taxi was available to take us up the mountain, and thankfully, the desk attendant woke up to give us our room. We slept like sardines in a bed, and Gabe and I woke up to Jonathan cheering about free breakfast and a dead moth. We went to breakfast; because the hotel is situated on a mountain, we had to walk about stairs that spiraled around the rooms, walked over a bridge, and to the dining room that had windows as walls. We felt like we were living in a mountain tree house. Breakfast was delicious, especially the poori and cornflakes with hot milk. We walked down the mountain a bit and all morning, we played with the hotel puppy, played badminton, and watched hotel employees garden as they handed us apple-pear-like fruits that we accepted knowing quite well they would make us sick. We went into the city to indulge in Thai momos, and of course the joke ensued, “Gotta have mo’ momos.” Next door to the Thai place, we got hot chocolate and coffee in a small, cottage-y place, where the barista played fun Spanish music that Jonathan half-translated for us. We spent the rest of the day walking around the lake, taking pictures, telling stories, making each other laugh, and listening to Bob Dylan. We played ping-pong that night and an Indian game Jonathan had learned called carrom.
The next day, we took a taxi further up the mountain. We were surrounded by pine trees, and crowds still flooded each stop but died down once we got into a “protected” part of the forest. At each stop, we gawked at mountains, green valleys, and trees upon trees. We hiked down a bit, and came across a stream that spilled out and dropped down the mountain. On our exploration, Gabe whistled the “Lord of the Rings” soundtrack. The taxi driver not only took pictures of us, he directed us on how to pose. He made us walk toward him on a road slowly and fiercely. He had us hold pieces of nature, like bark and sticks. Serious poses, angled shots, and just an array of super cool!!!!! pictures now flood our cameras. We listened to a series of good hits resembling the Talking Heads.
Our eyes weary from seeing so many beautiful landscapes, we went to a restaurant called “Potluck,” where we indulged in hot chocolate with chili powder and pancakes with tasty organic honey. If we could thank the bees that made the honey, we would. Someone had planted a marijuana plant in the pot of flowers hanging off the side of the patio of the restaurant. Silly.
The next day, we ate another filling, tasty breakfast in the hotel that smelled of pine in the fall-y air. We were very merry. Our silliness, as always, brightened our souls, and kept us appreciative of our time in India. We discussed if we should take a taxi and stay a while, or catch the bus back to the train station over another cup of hot chocolate. We decided to take the bus, to save some money and in realizing all good things must come to an end. What I’ve learned is that good things surprise you, last forever, come and go, and are just around the corner if I am looking for them.
We caught the bus early, and squeezed into a three-seater—Jonathan on my left and Gabe on my right near the window. The bus left in a hurry and hurried, hurried, hurried down the mountain and acted as if all of the winding roads were actually just straight-aways. Signs lined the roads with images of skulls and crossbones, screaming “CAREFUL! DEATH ZONE” and “GO SLOW!!” I think the bus driver was a) blind to signs, b) the best and most confident bus driver in the world, or c) had no sense of how fast the bus was going and does not understand physics. The view was distractingly stunning. Tree-filled mountains surrounded us, and valleys were just below us and could be seen out the windows just past the road. It was best to ponder and imagine the nature of our surroundings instead of the fact that no walls on the roads to protect our falling existed. (Right now I am in Café des Arts in the French Quarter, aka “White Town,” where at least four other girls look too much like me. It’s getting to the point where it’s awkward that we are not pointing out the fact that we all look alike. If you couldn’t tell by now, I start my blog posts in some places and end them in other places.) I started out the bus ride reading my Indian version of National Geographic, only to put it down, recognizing the fact that my surroundings were more beautiful than the pictures in my magazine. As the bus threw us side to side, the opposite wheels lifting as we wound down, Jonathan informed us that a bus had recently plummeted off a mountain near Mumbai. Thanks Jonathan. His eyes were closed as he let his head bob to the movement of the bus while Gabe and I nervously laughed our way down the mountains. I let the boys examine my sweaty hands every once in a while. We concluded that we were all really okay with death. We are so blessed to even be here, and be in the mountains and riding down these beautiful roads. If we were to die by falling off the mountain, it would be a good, peaceful way to go. But alas, we have made it back alive! About a quarter of the way into the ride, the woman in front of us threw up out the side of the bus. One loogy curved around and through our window and landed its gooey-ness on Gabe’s neck. While I laughed to the point where tears fell down my face and Jonathan had a disgusted look plastered on his face, Gabe only shrugged and said, “Well, you know, that happens—people get car sick and throw up. It’s no problem.” I closed the window for him, protecting us from any more curve-balls. But a couple of hours later, when the worst of the windy-ness had ended, a woman two seats ahead of us threw up, and her vomit curved in through the window in front of us, where the previous woman and her children had been throwing up skillfully throughout the ride. The puke sprayed the faces of the first woman and her children as well as Gabe, Jonathan, and my faces. As we wiped the bile off our faces with our T-shirts, we all shrugged, following Gabe’s example and also in our attitude of “it’s no problem.” The woman that had graced us with the inside of her stomach turned over her shoulder and peaked at us in a blank stare while wiping the corners of her mouth.
In waking up early to catch our stop on the train ride back, Gabe reminded us how nice it will be to take a shower. I said, “Yes of course to get the vomit off of us.” Both of the boys said, “What vomit?” They had repressed any memory of the puke incidences, but were quickly reminded. They also forgot that night at dinner at our favorite restaurant, Palki, when I was telling the story to Emma and Ian. Gabe said that before coming to India, he was a wrinkled shirt, the wrinkles being petty complaints, and India has been ironing out these wrinkles. A conclusive metaphor for how I feel about changes in my attitude.