Tag: philosophy

I say another little prayer from my prime position laying down in the back seat with my eyes closed. It is raining and the same crazy driver who overtook on blind corners on the cliff side on the way up was to drive me back down. The special requests for a safe rather than speedy journey were finally listened to and the driver was easy on me.

At the airport my reward: coookiiiiies!!! Australian cookies!

Two cookies and a small cup of chai tea – 25 rupees (about 50 cents). Yes please! An hour later I am on the plane. Out the window I looked down at earth’s surface. Coimbatore is a small city by Indian standards yet the buildings, cars and smog cover every inch of its surface for as far as my eyes can see. It is ugly.

Humanity has hit puberty and is causing a horrible case of acne to break out on our poor earth’s skin. Our sun may be half way through its life but the lifespan of our earth has only just begun. From an innocent childhood where lifeforms lived at one with it, humanity has (particularly in the last 200-years) propelled it into adolescence. Our hormones are going wild, we are rejecting our parent’s wisdom, and using and abusing all we have been provided. From our egocentric position we put ourselves on a pedestal, expecting our universe to revolve around the big important “I”. Our egos are out of control.

Adolescence doesn’t last forever, but the consequences of these abusive years can have long-lasting effects on our minds and bodies. What does the future hold for humanity? Will we grow out of it and make it to earth in it’s twenties? I look out the window again as we land in yet another over-populated Indian city, and I wonder if we do make it through adolescence, will our acne clear up? What will earth’s new skin look like? I doubt it will return to the smooth baby skin of green forests but if we stop abusing our body, if we find ways to live without polluting it, might we use our collective conscious to revitalize our ecosystem like the Ayurveda retreat revitalized me? Can earth and humanity live in a state of connected mind, body and soul? How might humanity, as we move into adulthood, minimize the harm these days of innocent arrogance might cause?

With my mind in la-la philosophy land I step out onto the streets of Delhi. I have organised a friend’s driver-friend’s friend to pick me up, show me Delhi and drive me to Agra to see the Taj Mahal for 4000Rs (around $80). When a large older man in a blue uniform picks me up I think there’s been a mistake. He takes my bags. I farewell a new British friend from the plane, wish him luck figuring out where he’s going (he’s lost his phone) and get in the tiny dirty-white car.

“Can we go to the international airport please? I want to leave my bags there,” I request. Somehow I get talked into leaving them in this car so we can first do some siteseeing and that Mohan, my friend’s actual driver-friend, can take me from Agra to Jaipur and back to Delhi so to save me taking trains.

“You can see many things on the way – monkey temple and…” This option had it’s appeal of comfort and lack of hassle but I wasn’t sure. Travelling by train is the India thing…

“The only thing I really want to do in Delhi is see the museum at the place where Gandhi was shot,” I request.

“Ok, but first this monument and that monument and…” said the driver, rattling off a list of places he would take me to.

I reluctantly agree and pray he will still be in the car park with my bags when I return.

At the first random monument I find myself attacked by papparazi and fans – people wanting photos of and with the blonde white girl. I have more photos taken with children, adults and couples in this place than I did in two-years in japan. And that’s saying a lot.

I escape as fast as I can. Lucky my driver and bags are still there.

“Straight to the Gandhi museum please.” I order. Time is getting on and it is hot. Buildings are ok and the papparazzi thing kinda funny, but my friends told me they spent hours in the Gandhi museum: cheap books, inspiring pictures and ideas.

“Ok, but first I want to take you to…”

“No!” I exclaim. “Gandhi closes at 6.”

Eventually he agrees. Unfortunately his car isn’t happy with this plan. Ten minutes later smoke is coming from the bonnet. Air conditioning is turned off. Windows open.

“Oh no, oh no!” he says. Oh yes. I imagine the car blowing up, with me inside. The traffic stops. Ignition off.

As the traffic starts moving he runs beside the car. I offer to help but when my offer is declined I snap photos and laugh to myself. I clap when we start. He gets in. A hundred meters on we conk out again. Horns go crazy from the surrounding cars. Emergency lights on. Now I imagine being attacked by angry drivers, like in Shantaram. Thank God this isn’t Bombay.

The driver manages to get the smoking shitbox to the side of the road. A very cute (and very cocky) cop wanders over to save the damsel in distress. He introduces me to his crew and brings me a large cold bottle of water.

Time ticks on and eventually he excuses himself to get “back to his duties” and I lay down across the backseat of the car.

My mind is racing: this is not good. Not good at all. This car is supposed to drive me four hours to Agra, at 230am… And to make things worse I have zero cash because my bank card has been declared stolen (not by me) and is not working even though I told the bank I’m in India, and called them to assure them these withdrawals were mine. AND I still have all my bags in this car – more than half which are pre-prepared to be left at the airport allowing me freedom to jump on buses and trains and see sites as I please. Now I am trapped. Hostage.

I take out my envelope of contacts. A travel agency another friend recommended. Another friend’s friends who was an events organiser for an internation conference. Surely these contacts would be less dodgy than this dude with a stuffed up car. But I don’t have a phone. I consider asking the cop for his but before I do the driver is back and I’m loaded into his friend’s identical-looking car and told they will take me to a hotel in Delhi.

“I will bring a different car tomorrow,” he assures me.

“Can we first go to a bank and get rid of these bags?” I ask. Desperately wishing I hadn’t got myself into this mess I decide to go with it but only until I get to Agra. Then I’ll split – I’ll just suck it up and carry my bags.If I abandon this plan now there’s no way I can see all I want to see and be back for my flight in two days time.

Now I get told there is no left luggage facilities at the international airport because they are building a new airport, or something like that. I try various numbers in my guidebook to confirm this notion, but alas none of the numbers seem to work. Damn it!

I do get to a bank but my card still doesn’t work. I withdraw on credit card and hope the interest charges this will cause aren’t too huge. At least I have cash.

When I make it to the hotel my plans for dinner and internet fly out the window. I’m exhausted.

 

After a cold shower (not by choice) I take solace in the “Australian Network” with an ABC program on the muslim berka conflicts followed by an episode of my mum’s favourite tv show: Packed to the Rafters. The Australian accent sounded like music to my ears.

India is curing what my mentor used to call, my “incurable optimism.” I’m not it’s a good thing, it’s definitely a more depressing state of mind. But hey, the truth hurts. And I’d rather live and be aware of the truth, no matter how painful it may be, than live a lie or an illusion.

In Mumbai I picked up a book someone (sorry, I can’t remember who) recommended: Holy Cow! An Indian Adventure by Sarah Macdonald. And it is a god-send, assuring me that the horrors and the emotional rollercoaster I have been experiencing are nothing to write home about.

India is changing me in ways I least expected. I thought I’d become more passionate about poverty and yet instead I find myself more accepting of it. Just like when I was in Paris and eventually had to accept that it is better not to smile at people on trains, here I have no choice but to accept my social location as wealthy westerner and play out my role. I try as hard as I can not to look people in the eye as apparently only women who are prostitutes do that. I try not to cry when children with bits missing – ears, eyes, limbs, you name it – ask me for money.

I like Sarah Macdonald’s description of the shock:

‘A ghostly torso or a gaunt face with an expression straight from ‘The Scream’ rises up from the milky depths. Long, skinny Addams Family fingers rap on the window – death knocks from beggars. I shrink from the beings as if they’re lepers and then realise many actually are. Still freaked from seeing bits of people through the airport fence, I’m now scared by seeing people without bits.’ (p. 17.) 

Walking out of the airport was scary. The rest of the city was even scarier.

I guess it is normal to hate this place. It is normal to get completely ripped off. It is normal to be frightened and frustrated and freaked out. It is normal for your heart to break on sight of the shocking poverty. And it is normal to see it and then appreciate your own wealth. I may say to myself (and often write on this blog) that “money doesn’t matter to me” but I tell you one thing – I am glad I have it. 

I hate that life is so unfair. How is it that billions of people in our world live such harsh lives? Why am I so lucky to live my life doing the things I love doing, and never having to worry about a roof over my head? And how is it that I am stuck witnessing it, wanting to change it, but feeling helpless to do anything about it?

I feel as if I am surrounded by lose-lose situations. My friend tells me that if I give money to these children I am only feeding the mob behind it. My pity, or generosity or however you choose to see it, is only working to chop more bits off more children. The only alternative is to ignore them and feel the stare from hell burn my soul. Yeah I love India. Not.

Like many things in this world, you are damned if you do, damned if you don’t. How the heck did it get to this state? What was India like before the British? Before the Persians? Does this poverty have anything to do with me and the global capitalist system? Or is it a consequence of their religion, of the caste system that has allegedly, but obviously has not, been outlawed.

In reflection, I can see that I have slipped into a habit of possibly unnecessary self-criticism. I have been blaming the world’s problems – war, environment, poverty – on the present actions of the Capitalistic West and on our ancestors, who set up such a structurally violent system. But seeing the complex reality in India, where rich and poor live side-by-side, my convictions are weakening.

Capitalism may be completely unjust, but it seems to be a better product than anything else on the market. All human societies have had their problems: the hunters and gatherers wiped out species in periods as short as days, the Mayans sacrificed humans to appease their conception of god, and the Hindu caste system is evil and still living. Let’s face it: humanity has been f’d up for a long time. The west may be the present hegemonic force but to demonise it and suggest other civilizations have better systems may be a pointless idealistic pursuit.

Now I don’t know what I make of any of it. I don’t know how the rich and poor are connected. I don’t know how over-population can be stopped. I don’t know how the cycle of poor getting poorer and rich getting richer can be reversed. Again, Sarah’s description provides me some solace:

‘It’s rich and poor, spiritual and material, cruel and kind, angry but peaceful, ugly and beautiful, and smart but stupid. It’s all the extremes. India defies understanding, and for once, for me, that’s okay. In Australia, in my small pocket of my own isolated country, I felt like I understood my world and myself, but now, I’m actually embracing not knowing and I’m questioning much of what I thought I did know.’ (Holy Cow p. 123.)

At least I’m not the only one who comes to India and finds her understanding of the world turned upside down. One thing I do know is that the images and experience of these few days in Bombay – of people lacking limbs, and boys lacking ears, and even younger children knocking on the car window pleading for money – are permanently embossed in my mind. I’m sure they will continue to affect my thoughts, studies, and actions, in ways I can’t begin imagine. It is one thing to analyse and look for solutions to over-population and extreme-poverty on paper, but in reality, well… it just seems so utterly hopeless.

Optimism is being drained from my blood, and fast. 

That being said I suppose there has to be hope. All our values are cultural and conditioned to the lifestyle and way of thinking we grow up with. But we are adaptable. We can change. We just need a model that works. Then we can transition to it. But is their a model that works? Surely we can find one, can’t we? All civilizations can be looked through the lens of violence, or through a lens of peace and progression. Our environment and our awareness and understanding of ourselves and our environment, is constantly expanding. As it does we, like all animals in changing environments, are able to adjust and evolve, to recreate ourselves, our identities and our lives. I guess that note of hope means India hasn’t quite cured my incurable optimism. At least not yet 🙂