Ranting in Rajasthan

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I'm sitting in a grotto on a tiny medieval lane in Jodhpur. I suppose the 3 computers flickering in a row qualify this as an cybercafe. I've had some of the most incredible experiences in the last two weeks but I can't seem to call any to mind over the racket of voices, horns, drums and general racket outside. It's Ramnavani today, the festival celebrating Ram's birthday. The streets are filled with floats, cars, camels, oxen and loads of folks dressed up as Sita, Ram and every conceivable character from the Ramayana.

Maybe it's the heat or maybe it's the moon, but the choppy drone of the Hindi baritone on the phone beside me is only slightly more tolerable than nails on a chalkboard. Rajasthan has destroyed what little tolerance I once had for carriers of the Y chromosome. Were it not for the fact that some of my dearest friends are men, I'd say I hate them all today. Every last crotch-groping, leering one of them.

Women are phantoms here. Most married women cover their faces in public, even if they've just come to the window to water a plant. Guys, however, piss openly wherever they choose presenting their little partners for all to see. When they're not scratching or adjusting themselves, their hands rest securely on their precious family jewels like the damned things are about to run away. Fellas, it was there last night. It was there when you woke up. If it were gone, you'd know! GAWD!

Everyone told me the north would be tough as a woman alone and, honestly, it's been a breeze so far. I've avoided big cities, heading for Udaipur, Pushkar, Bundi and Jodhpur. I haven't been groped, fondled or robbed. I've been offered favors for bribes in Jodhpur and every drug under the sun in Pushkar and I just keep moving. The stares, the calls, the obsequious men offering to help me all fade into the background as I walk around pretending to be in my own world (excellent training from my adolescence in New York) But yesterday I nearly lost it. When affronted in any form, I'm quick to fight back annihilating my aggressor. It's fun. I prefer tacit retaliation, but subtlety doesn't get you much here and it sure as hell is lost on Indian men.

I went to the post office to mail a small parcel wearing a long skirt and a t-shirt. I mention this because I'm usually shrouded from head to toe in my salwar kanmeez hiding my head from the sun and my breasts and butt from the revolting slow once over
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I've already administered my parcel the ceremonial Indian bureaucratic rites of shipping which include wrapping the well-taped box in muslin, stitching the seams with dental floss and melting red wax seals over the seams at 3 inch intervals. All it's missing now is a sprinkle of holy water. In large black block letters I write my New York address and use Kiran's address in case of return.

Immediately, the potbellied bureaucrat with beads of sweat on his upper lip commences his interrogation. My return address is in Bombay so I must be Indian. I don't even bother trying to explain the phenomenon of friendship. He just gives me the aforementioned revolting once over and tells me I must like Indian men. Yuk! Then he intricately adjusts himself several times (oh, must you?) and demands payment in US Dollars because I'm shipping to the United States. Everyone demands dollars if I tell them I'm American, so I usually don't. Canada's usually a safe cover.

I tell him slowly, loudly and emphatically that I'm paying in rupees, shoot him a glare that my friends call frightening, and watch him waddle off to get my customs form. After filling out the form in perfect black block print letters without touching the lines, he makes 3 copies and ushers me 8 meters to the scale and cashier. Easy. They'll push you around here. I'm just learning how hard to push back.

"May I offer you a piece of advice, mardam?" he asks walking me to the lobby.

I gaze past him and cock my head in a half Indian head bobble, which sort of means maybe-yes-maybe-ok.

"There is a man every night who sorts the parcels, airmail here seamail there. Airmail. Seamail. And he is poor man and has a family. If you give him maybe a little money he will put your seamail package in the airmail bag and your mama has the parcel in 25 days. Just 200 rupees. You want I ask him?"

This is how it works. This is how everything gets done here and it sucks. There's no reward for following the rules but there's immediate gratification if you break them. Just as little infants are trained to hold out their hand at the sight of white skin, so entrenched is the culture of bribery. I let the situation play out in my head for a moment, knowing fully well my answer is "no." I wonder how many 6-month backpackers shipping their stuff home have given him a little 'baksheesh' to get their parcels on the plane instead of the boat. And they think they're just getting over a little, but they're feeding a much bigger monster. But why should they care? Why should I, for that matter? But I do. I'm not feeding the monster, but I'm having fun making the fat man wait.

Corruption and Indian development have been on my mind since Bangalore. After several exhaustive debates on the topic in Bombay, Kiran took me to see the latest Bollywood hit "Rang de Basanti", which uses a fictitious storyline to expose much of the high-level corruption that cripples India despite it's economic and political strides forward. The story of Indian revolutionaries Bhagat Singh, Chandrashekhar Azad and their contemporaries fighting against the British Raj is juxtaposed with that of young nationalists fighting against corruption within the present day Indian government. Of course, it has all the requisite elements of Bollywood musical theatre but doesn't end on as happy and saccharine a note as usual. It leaves you quiet and aching a bit.

And of all the times for such a major film handling such a hot topic to hit the theatres, this one coincides with nuclear negotiations with the United States and pans for a huge eastern oil pipeline.

Twenty years ago, economists predicted that India was rising to become a major world player and would soon shed its third world status. Nobody believed them, not even here. Now, the same economists are predicting India's entry into the big leagues within 8-12 years. The ambition is palpable here. But this is still a country that lives 70-80% in villages, where the police are as dangerous as the criminals and the politicians are overtly corrupt (they don't kids it as well as some other countries do.)

And then there's the issue of India's expansive sense of time. Five minutes in India is half an hour to the rest of the world. Everything is always delayed. Milli is a buyer for an Israeli-owned American home furnishings company with a showroom in LA. She's in Jodhpur for 2 months overseeing the production of furniture and soft goods here. She was supposed to approve and send 200 pieces of her 400 piece silk sari cushion order last night. And after 90 minutes of rajasthani circus antics, 95 pieces were ready to go. The rest were damaged or hadn't been made. Today's a bank holiday and a Muslim festival. there's always a holiday, festival, death in the family, paper cut, you name it....There's always a delay.

Ask any major export manufacturer, which I did, and you'll get another story. Ganesh handicrafts and Maharani textiles are two of the biggest players in the Jodhpur export market. Both owners swear that they manufacture quality products in a timely fashion. Delays? what delays? They factor in 2% quality control on top of every production run and the buyers are always satisfied. That's why they keep coming back.

Actually, the buyers say they come back because it's easier, but only slightly cheaper, to buy materials and manufacture here. At the end of the say, they can slip the tailor an extra 100-200 rupees and get in one day what would normally take 3 or 4.

I asked Millie why she doesn't buy the textiles here and have them manufactured in LA, given the time and money she's spending here. Seems that's the very negotiation she's having with her boss.

Right. The fat bureaucrat is still standing on the landing waiting for my answer. I say no. Simply no. I want to give him an earful--sit him down and make him understand. But I just say no.

He smiles, raises his eyebrows (yuk!) and tries to take my hand to shake it. I pull away and calmly and clearly say "do. not. touch. me."

Kiran calls to check up on me and gets an earful of my male bashing while laughing quite loudly. I just yell louder. Somehow, I wind up laughing too. Somehow, no matter how shitty my day is, something here makes me smile. Maybe it's a little buck naked kid running across the road, a cow who catches her horn on the hem of my skirt, or a camel with that stupid proud look on its face, something makes me laugh and something makes me scream. It's usually all in the same moment.

I'm not ending this on a note of peace by any means. With the exception of those on this mailing list, I still hate men today. I hope Millie is taking a bubble bath somewhere.

The sleazy Internet cafe guy is reading over my shoulder smelling my hair. YUK!
I love India, for all these crazy mixed-up moments, but I'm in no mood to tolerate...anything.

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