Feb. 25, 2014, TIRUNELVELI
Disgust may be a facile response to small, soft, diarrheic piles of human excrement which line Indian streets in lieu of flowers or neatly painted fences, but that is so because the disgust has no certain target.
I walked this morning north along the Thamirabarami River, the narrow, shallow, filthy stream which flows sluggishly north and separates Tirunelveli from Palayamkottai to the east.
Each morning the families who live in adjoining slums walk sleepily to the riverbanks to bathe and brush their teeth and wash clothes by smacking them, soapless, against river rocks and to shit and piss.
Small boys dive into the water, the women with their wash in plastic buckets that once held paint or solvent stand waist-deep in the water and visit, and a man who has just risen uncleaned from his morning squat beside the river road stops a foreign visitor and urges him to take a photo of his “super” young son. A Westerner’s taught avoidance of social objectivity makes it hard to know whether to recall the man’s toilet habits or his pride in his son.
India’s is a disingenuous squalor. It is pervasive, but it is unseen and unaddressed.
I have been displeased in my hotel because the wifi is unreliable and the staff talk loudly in the hallway outside my door and the guest in the next room shouts on his mobile with the door open and the TV volume raised to a scream. Still, I have a shower, bottled water, sheets which may have been washed with soap, and a flush toilet. I live in relative luxury. It feels petty when I walk out to fault those who live as they must.
Those shitting beside the roads and tracks and river have no alternative. A toilet can be found in the deluxe waiting room at the train station, but it costs 40 rupees. Some expensive restaurants have a washroom with a toilet, but the great majority here can’t afford the entrance price. Otherwise, public toilets are not to be found and the out-houses I recall from my childhood haven’t been invented.
The Tirunelveli municipality, as is true of every municipality in India, has provided no toilets (or much of anything else), and in the months I have been wandering through south India, reading The Hindu or the laughably incoherent Indian Express with my morning coffee, I have seen no mention in the papers or on TV of toilets or shit-lined streets or roadside pissers. It’s also fair to note that if toilets were available, porcelain basins in which to defecate, the waste, given the government’s lack of interest, would simply flow out with a flush into the sewage canals and then into the river.
As I picked my way along the broken asphalt of the river road this morning, I made a prissy mental note that aside from the soft brown piles, litter adds to the unsightliness. The city sends out unsupervised workers with barrows, but they miss most streets and most of the trash, and it has become deep over the years—old paper and plastic bags and cigarette packs, a twisted shoe, discarded building materials, a rusted ambulance with flat tires, a radiator hose, or, yesterday, a dead dog with an expression of amused contempt on its maggot-covered face.
I fault the state, but it is countless individuals who routinely throw their trash in the street, and piss there, and spit and shit there. As one who travels nearly as a mute—I have not met a single person in Tamil Nadu who can hold even a simple conversation in English, though English is the country’s lingua franca—I am unable to raise the subject, and I’m doubtful that if I could speak, my questions would even be understood.
During my weeks on the back roads of Tamil Nadu, I’ve developed a deep contempt for my easy scapegoat, Chief Minister (Governor) Selvi J. Jayalalithaa. She is a longtime party hack familiarly called “Jaya” by the papers. Her face on peeling posters is ubiquitous. Her government Web page is a chest-thumping list of her accomplishments in winning elections with no mention of toilets.
I presume, maybe wrongly, that if if I made my way through her sycophantic retinue and gained an audience, she would frown at my discourtesy in raising such a stinky subject and tell me that programs are being instituted quite soon now to be dealing with litter and protocol for public health. My guess is she has a toilet in her mansion.
I hear voices from home saying, “So why go there, if you dislike it so much?” I say that at times to myself. I feel, too, that mere complaint is useless, until I step in a pile.
My impulse is to look away from the mire that is India. Disgust is not easily communicable, as our national inclination to go to war demonstrates. Euphemism is the easy resort of the propagandist.
We turn away from the screams and torn bodies of war or from close observation of predatory financiers and dress up the ugliness with medals, Sousa marches and Chamber of Commerce scrolls, making it all sound rather fine.
India shields itself from the grotesque with ad words like “exotic” or “picturesque” and posters of pretty women in pretty saris. It works. The country draws busloads of uncritical tourists.
Even so, bathing in sewage has an effect on real people. Misery deserves notice.
It’s 4 p.m., Feb. 17, and the Tenkasi swelter, Florida in August, is beginning to slip away. I’m at the built-in desk in my room at the Krishna Tourist Home with the lights off and the ceiling fan at its highest speed, scratching.
I’m being bitten, usually by small black things, flea-size, but “soft,” an entomologist might say, and tiny brown ants which are country cousins of those at Kappil. Other things too, I think. My feet begin to burn. I look down. There’s nothing on them! Am I going mad?
It’s much worse at night, even slathered with repellant—a polite American repellant which makes suburban gestures Indian bugs find amusing.
I want something which kills them when they peek over the window sill or crawl up out of the mattress, or in under the door, wherever they come from. BLAM! SPLAT!
As it is, I wake up bleary after a night of scratching lying in pools of my blood…
It’s not my dirt that draws them, I think. I’ve been taking three and four showers a day.
I believe it’s the hotel’s ambience.
Immediately below my window is a blackened concrete space between this building and the next. It seems to be the back door to the hotel’s kitchen or maybe it’s a foundry. I don’t know what it is. I see a heavily-stained iron cauldron and an elephant-sized cistern.
A dark-skinned man with a moustache just emerged, saw me peering down from behind my safety grate and gave me a happy wave. I’ve seen him in the morning, washing up and spitting. Whoever he is, he’s my closest neighbor and far from the worst I’ve had. I don’t like his throat-clearing hacking, but he’s usually quiet and keeps his radio low.
Twice a night, from beyond the courtyard, someone, a punk drummer who’s found what he was looking for, bangs a hammer on resonant metal, as though dislodging crumbs or unmelted metal chunks, loud enough to unman a meditator. It usually accompanies the evening call to prayer. For four or five minutes. Twice.
Men sit in the lobby downstairs reading the newspaper. They don’t talk. They don’t look up.
My bathroom “closet” (that’s the term used here as well for the booth at the cyber cafe) is a long, dark rectangle with a drain in the floor I had to scrape open. The hotel has provided a plastic stool and tub, both blue, with scratches, which have inspired me to alter my shower habit of many years and sit on the stool with my feet in the plastic tub humming old jazz tunes while the water drizzles down.
I need to soak the dirt off my feet, of course, but the foot-soak-sitting-shower has inspired me to breathe deeply, nearly ritualistically, and I feel cleaner inside.
Note: Am I acquiring Eastern habits that will be annoying to easy-going Midwesterners?
And I use the tub for clothes. I haven’t sent anything out for months. Clothes given to the hotel man and by him to some hidden laundry come back beautifully folded and clean-smelling but beaten thin. Doing it myself saves money, is an easy demonstration of sturdy self-reliance, and keeps me independent of the unreliable laundries, which miss deadlines too damn often, freeing me to flee at any moment with all my clothes.
I use a one-rupee packet of Tide. That’s kept my T-shirts and shorts sunshine fresh. I let the clothes soak for a half-hour or so, slosh them for a minute, rinse them two or three times, wring them out well and, in this hotel, hang them on my curtain rod above the courtyard with its deep, wide, dark, mostly-covered cistern. They dry in a few hours. If they are picking up courtyard accents, I haven’t noticed it. But I wouldn’t. A half hour outside, and the shirt is dripping sweat.
Within, on a two-inch pedestral beyond the shower, is a serviceable Western toilet with a handy bottom-cleaner hose nearby instead of toilet paper. That’s as awkward initially as eating with your hand, your right hand, always, because you clean yourself on the toilet with the hose and your left hand, or, if you are without a hose, with water from a plastic cup splashed around with your left hand.
(At such moments, my background at the Kinsey Institute combines with these toilet insights and I understand the widespread condemnation of oral sex and finger food by traditionalists, some even in our own bottom-splashing hinterlands.)
With practice, however, I’ve concluded the hose approach is superior to ours. Paper! Disgusting!
Eating with the right hand only, though, is difficult to remember, like calling that bozo in City Hall Mr. Mayor.
Stretching alongside the hotel and back toward the river is a 30-yard strip of garbage which is a convenient urinal for every man without a toilet within reach, which means most men here.
Krishna Home, as it’s known locally, is buggy and stained, yet despite such blemishes—the smell, the heat, the black cauldrons, the bugs, the peeing public, the rubbery, green lizard four inches long which dropped last night from the ceiling onto the desk just beside my left hand—this hotel is the best I’ve stayed in on this trip.
And cheap. I’ll have spent 6 days here for $53.
Krishna must be experienced in context. It’s relatively clean, the staff are alert, and though no one speaks English, I really haven’t had much to say.
Some hotel restaurants here are dark and unhelpful. The Krishna’s is dark and friendly. The waiter, with just a half menu of English words, having seen me struggle with some entrees, has made thoughtful recommendations.
The restaurant is more expensive than it should be in a town this small, but this is a respectable hotel, and the restaurant, though it has uncovered formica tables and unhappy lights, is as well. My fellow diners are all unwealthy middle-class Indians. They don’t speak with each other, and they’re made a bit uneasy by surroundings more formal than at home, but they’re decorous. The restaurant staff are nice to them and have been helpful to me, trying to understand what I want.
They have labored, for instance, to serve coffee I can drink. Initially, they brought me a large cup of hot milk with about three tablespoons of coffee in a stainless-steel bowl. It was an odd presentation. They thought it odd, I suppose, that I wanted so much milk, but they served it politely.
Then the elderly bus-boy took charge. He understood what I wanted and brought a big cup of coffee and a big cup of milk. I applauded him. He was happy. I was happy.
Yesterday, after several days of coffee ease while reading The Hindu, the bus-boy was reminded of his station, and the waiters took charge again. They brought a big cup of hot water, a big cup of milk and the tiny stainless-steel bowl with its swallow of coffee.
What the hell! I put the coffee in the water, added milk, and it wasn’t bad.
It may be that their coffee is as hashish is to dope—a refined and enhanced brew.
Note: I must be more trusting and open.
But I’ve been content here, bottom line, as the salesman says, because Krishna Home is a good hotel. It approximates a home, shabby in this case, but warm, with many servants, and it tries to provide what I want. Otherwise, they leave me alone.
It’s been a good place for writing and for reading, and whenever I step out, the man at the desk is polite and the guard outside, a wildly combed army veteran, snaps to attention and salutes. He does that for everyone, but for a moment I’m back in NATO’s CENTAG and I return the salute. The years disappear. Paris beckons.
Unusual odors waft in with the evening breeze here. I prefer them to the canned corporate smell of home.
And outside, Tenkasi has been interesting to me, and nice. I’ve walked miles looking into the doorways of tiny side-by-side huts in the early morning, a room occupied by a family. Down alleys and lanes that lead on to more and more, with women at the water pumps filling jugs and bright saris and houses of pink and blue and orange and cows in the street and rangoli house-blessing symbols drawn with rice powder.
Saturday morning, on the east side, I turned down the lane of Ajis Saif. He stopped washing his motorcycle to welcome me to Tenkasi. He insisted I sit down and have a cup of tea, and he introduced his children. He said, I believe, that he wanted my memories to be sweet.
Last night I stopped a man who looked like my late Uncle Bruce and asked for help. He led me to a pharmacy and then insisted on paying for my aspirin and Apollo Soft Tissues. “It is nothing,” he said, and exited stage right cleanly.
This morning, at my cyber shop, Raj Net, the young lady clerk came back to my tiny closet to say hello again with a big smile and ask if I have children and to invite me to her place in Tirunelveli. She had virtually no English, so I may have misunderstood that an attractive 20-year-old was hitting on me, but anyway the phone rang up front and I didn’t see her again. “Women of Tenkasi!” I wrote in my notebook with a smiley face. Such notes become cryptic after a day or two.
It’s been over 90 every day with a heavy sun, the bugs in my room are daunting, the garbage stinks, the sewers are open, the streets are bordered by dust and rubble, I haven’t had a conversation since Varkala, and the traffic is as dangerous here as anywhere I’ve been except Endeva, near Kappil, but I felt sad this afternoon when I decided to move on. Tenkasi has good vibes.