2013, 2014, Cheap Travel in India, Indian bathrooms and showers, Indian Hotels, Rameshwarum, Travel in India, Travel in Tamil Nadu, Unromanticized travel

The Shower Conundrum (or: The Inexplicable Shooting of a Midget)

Early March, 2014, RAMESHWARUM, Tamil Nadu

It had been a grueling 180 kilometer trip in a horn-tooting auto-rickshaw from Tuticorin to Pambam Island and Rameshwaram. When I arrived in late afternoon the temple town’s slippery lanes were teeming  with sober pilgrims to the 12th century Ramanathaswamy Temple. It is a commercialized memorial to Lord Rama’s attempt to rescue his wife Sita from the evil Ravanai.

Sri Lanka lies  just a few miles to the east.

The first four hotels I tried were dingy and  full. The general manager of the last called me back as I was leaving and with an air of magnanimity made an offer: a “suit” for 3,800 rupees, a staggering $61. It was a suite because it had an unlighted ante-room with a conference table. In the bedroom, two emperor-sized beds had been pushed together, creating mattress space but little roll room for at least eight chaste pilgrims. The bathroom was the normal bathroom for a single room.

I went next door to the Rama Palace, a two-story building set in a well-tended compound with much of the trash and garbage thrown over the wall.

Prabakaran, the 22-year-old co-manager and a graduate of a regional college for hotel administrators, showed me room 105. The sheets were short but looked clean, I would have doors both to the lobby and to the driveway and windows that opened. The uneven curtains were undecided whether to be raw or burnt umber, with decorative swirls. The walls were prison green, and just beyond the foot of the bed finger streaks at about four feet fell toward the floor where a midget had been shot. The shelves had an empty Fanta bottle with dead ants, a newspaper page dating to the previous fall and a bent plastic flower. I saw nothing moving.

The bathroom was across the lobby through an unmarked door: the cold-water shower was in the first stall, an old-style squat toilet was in the second, partially blocked by an overturned plastic bucket and a stiff mop.

“The toilet!” Prabakaran said with a flourish.

It all went for 600.

Prabakaran’s co-manager, a handsome but glum one-legged man I immediately thought of as Golm, sneered, though it made no sense. He swung away with his one crutch to the lobby sofa and stretched out facing the wall.

“What happened to your leg,” I asked him later, when he was sitting up.

“Bad man!” He glared.

I was unsure whether he meant me, for asking, or someone who had cut his leg off for some reason. He seemed healed, but maybe the memories were fresh.

The next morning the ancient city and temple called. I found my knees still worked for the squat toilet, then moved to the dim shower stall. I had the tiny bar of hotel soap, my shampoo, my finger-nail brush and my bath puffy in a plastic bag.

I had walked through  the unusually demented traffic of Rameshwarum the evening before in bayou heat but had fallen into bed unwashed except for water from the wall spigot I splashed on my head and feet. I had considered a shower, but the stall was daunting in the twilight, and I was tired. Now, I was sticky.  I needed a long, soaking shower without touching the wall.

I stripped, put my glasses in the pocket of my shorts on the door handle, balanced my puffy atop my purple soap dish, placed my green plastic bottle of Reebonn shampoo for dry and damaged hair in a cleanish spot on the dry and damaged floor and reached for the faucet.

The handle seemed to be missing. I squinted close. Yes, there was no handle.

The shower would not work

The shower would not work

No problem. It had likely fallen off and rolled to a darker corner of the stall or was outside in the larger stall behind one of the plastic buckets or the tipped-over plastic bottles on the shelf or under the wrapper from a bar of soap. Maybe even in the squat room.

I found my glasses, but the handle was gone. I had hopes for the small dark pile of this and that by the old mop. It wasn’t there.

I showered the traditional way, pouring water from the bucket over my head.

“So, the shower?” I said to Prabakaran when he appeared. I hadn’t awakened Golm, who was asleep on the floor. He was the weaker administrator of the two.

Prabakaran frowned, puzzled. Shower?

“Yes, I said. “No handle.” I motioned as though turning on a shower, indicating with fluttering fingers the water falling in the morning light on my dry and damaged head. I pantomimed finding the handle missing. My disappointment and surprise.

He had known the word “shower” yesterday. He had pointed at it and said “shower.”

He was reluctant, but I led him to the toilet room and pointed into the shower cubicle. The faucet handle was still missing.

He cocked his head and looked at me with suspicion. One day, and I had broken his shower. First minutes on the job, and he had to deal with this!

“Yes,” he said, wagging his head. “Plumber. Plumber come.” That meant the problem was solved. He turned to return to his chair by the front door.

“This hotel?” I asked politely, pointing toward the rooms I could see beyond the atrium balcony upstairs. I would appeal to his professionalism. “Pay 600 rupees. Shower broken!” I opened my arms dramatically as though it had exploded. “Want shower! Shower handle.”

“Plumber, “ he repeated. He frowned. Why was I so obstinate?

No, I said, forgoing the measured language of diplomacy. You don’t need a plumber. Give me a pair of  pliers. That will suffice. I imitated using pliers on the de-handled shower stub and celebrated the flow of water.

He grimaced, wrinkled his nose and moued at my pliers. He didn’t understand. It was too technical.

I had been too fast and overly poetic. I pinched my fingers on the grooved stub where the handle should be and tried to turn it. It wouldn’t turn.  I urged Prabakaran to try. He didn’t want to. I pretended I had a pair of long-handled pliers. I turned the stub. Water fell from the shower head. I made sounds of water.

Prabakaran denied pliers. “Plies?” he said, making a sound like a housefly.

He was getting uncomfortable. He had missed the nuance, but he understood I didn’t like the shower. I had paid 600 rupees, nearly $10, for the room. He had promised a toilet and a shower, and it was becoming clear the shower without water wouldn’t satisfy me. He was unacquainted with pliers, yet he knew my complaint was valid. It was a conundrum.

He made a full pirouette. The solution came to him. I saw it at once in his eyes.

He gestured commandingly and led me to room 107, adjacent to my toilet room. Room 107 was the hotel’s Chief Ministerial room, with two triple-size beds pushed together, a bureau, a tiny TV dating from 1969 and an attached toilet. It was the 1,000 rupee room.

He led me in. The bathroom was unbuffed since the last visitor, with coiled black noodles in the sink drain. The flush toilet’s bottom-cleaning hose was lying on the floor, leaking. The mirror had been sneezed on. There was a small dollop of brown stuff on the floor near the toilet, but the room had a shower with a faucet handle

“Lovely,” I said.

“Use shower,” he said, pointing. A small, soft-looking piece of yellow soap was waiting for me in the soap dish.

I tried the handle. It worked. Water dribbled out through the partially clogged shower head.

“And toilet,” I said, pointing and applauding like Richard Simmons. It needed a brushing, but so did the squat toilet. I tried the bottom-washing hose. It wasn’t good. The water jet was weak, but it would probably work for the brown stuff on the floor. Anyway, I had flip-flops.

“Shower,” he said firmly. He seemed displeased that I might use the deluxe toilet as well as the shower and take advantage of his good nature.

“Yes!” I said. “Good job. Shower toilet. Will use. Plumber come!” I was pleased.

He made the decision. “No problem,” he said.

He resumed his administrator’s chair by the front door. The shower complaint had been resolved in only five minutes. This was how to run a hotel!

Golm, who had gotten up and moved to the couch, didn’t agree. He wiggled unhappily and turned again toward the wall, breathing a long, exasperated sigh.  Later, he removed the bar of hotel soap I had thoughtlessly left in the 1,000 rupee soap dish.

Prabakaran (l) and Golm (caught in a rare smile), co-managers of the Rama Palace in Rameshwarum

Prabakaran (l) and Golm (caught in a rare smile), co-managers of the Rama Palace in Rameshwarum

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2013, 2014, Buckle Canal, Chamber of Commerce, Cheap Travel in India, Chief Minister (Governor) Selvi J. Jayalalithaa., Devyani Khobragade, India and public health, Indian filth, Indifferent Indian government, Kerala travel, Leahy School for the Deaf, Photos from South India, Sen. Patrick Leahy, Tirunelveli, Travel in India, Travel in Tamil Nadu, Tuticorin, Unromanticized travel

Buckle Canal

Buckle Canal, just east of Jeyaraj  Road, Tuticorin

Buckle Canal, just east of Jeyaraj Road, Tuticorin

March 1, 2014, Tuticorin

The middle-aged man stopped his tiny white car beside me this morning as I was walking along the Buckle Canal just east of Jeyaraj Road in Tuticorin.

India had many beautiful places to see, he said. Why was I taking a picture of “ugly?”

“I ask friendly,” he said, grinning.

It was a reasonable question. I had already shot a pretty, distant steeple over a wall (only spotting the man peeing against the wall during editing) and a picturesque, high-wheeled cart. They, except for the pisser, was what he had in mind as suitable subjects. Would I run slideshows of sewage for the family when I got home? Pull up a shot of Buckle Canal and recall its flowerings on the first day of March?

He asked the question clearly and politely, but I’d been sick and was hacking and spitting like everyone else and wasn’t feeling diplomatic.

“Are you asking because you want to know, or do you just want to give me a lecture?” I said.

He laughed and waggled his head. “I am graduate,” he said, meaning he’d been to college and was a man of the world.

I squinted at him. What the hell did that have to do with the price of tea in China?

I didn’t say that; nor did I say that I was taking pictures of things I encountered on walks, in this case in a high-rent neighborhood, because men of the world like himself weren’t doing it.

“Ugly?” I said. “It’s just an average street. Apparently the government thinks it’s OK.”

He laughed. “You coming  German, USA?”

Yup, I said.

“You embarass goverment, good,” he said, “but see universal embarrass  country.”

I commended him. He was the first Indian, I told him, to ask me such a question, and it was a good point. I had sent an e-mail with ugly pictures to the Chief Minister, but hadn’t heard back. If I had a prize, I’d give it to him for seeing ugly.

I walked on, getting a lovely shot of small feeder pipes dribbling eight or 10 more gallons a minute into the canal, which drops its load a mile on into Tuticorin Bay near New Beach.

Feeder pipes, Buckle Canal

Feeder pipes, Buckle Canal

Yes, he surely had a point, and I’d heard it before. My old newspaper in the States took direction from the local Chamber of Commerce, Babbitts to a man or woman. They would use a cholera outbreak as an opportunity to highlight the excellence of local hospitals, or ear-drum-busting war planes as a chance to get funding for the Leahy School for the Deaf. I understood his reservations. Bad news isn’t constructive. Bad news is bad.

But I had walked by the shiny (on the outside) new municipal building here just before I got sick and was so struck by the contrast between it and the street outside that I consciously slowed to clear my throat on its manicured lawn.

I had become tired of namaskaring politicians featured always cutting a ribbon for a crony’s gold mine. Public health, sanitation, water purification, cholera rates, babies’ birth weights and so on are not mentioned publicly here, any more than our slums and poor get covered—i.e. a reporter embedded—by NBC or any of our lickspittle (what a good word!) networks, let alone God’s annointed Times, which waits these days for  confirmation from D.C. that what could be news is fit to print.

Beyond annoyance about how the average person here is mistreated by the government, I was still grinding my teeth over the moralistic support from all sides (Congress, BJP, AAP)  when the New York consular clerk Devyani Khobragade was charged in December with felonies for lying on visa forms about the pay for her live-in maid. Strip searching an innocent Indian diplomat! The Indian government promptly removed the concrete barriers protecting the U.S. Embassy in New Delhi. None of the papers here paid any attention to the maid, who was, after all, just an indentured servant. This was U.S throwing weight! The Fox-equivalent coverage here, which is all coverage, went on for weeks. Poor Devyani. Strip searched. Body cavities. Jailed with criminals!

I’m on the sixth floor of the “luxurious” Raj Hotel in Tuticorin. I just threw open the sash to get a breath of fresh air and promptly closed it. The Canal, 400 meters north, was blowing my way.

Negative?

Nah. Thousands of people live beside Buckle and thousands more move along it every day on city streets. This is the home neighborhood for that pretty teenager passing on her bike, a handkerchief held to her nose, that little boy, the store clerk who went out her way to be nice and the beggar who touched me softly as I walked by. My questioner probably would consider him ugly. “We having many pretty girl. Super!  Why you photo ugly man?”

Grocery clerk, Tuticorin

Grocery clerk, Tuticorin

After I published a reasonable notebook entry in Tirunelveli called “Shit,” I heard from an Indian who told me I shouldn’t have taken a picture of the excrement lining a public street, or the man peeing just off another street, or the garbage lining another street.

I respond that if a friend comes back from India with no photos of sewage and garbage, they haven’t strayed from Potemkin India. Chastise them. Take their progressive card.

The next time you see an Indian diplomat or high official blathering about Ghandi or making any claim at all to the moral high ground about anything, remember that they are doing nothing about Buckle and its millions of counterparts. Only a tiny number of people here, the Devyanis’ ilk, live outside the stench zone.

Sewage is India’s apple pie.

Tuticorin begga

Tuticorin beggar

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2013, 2014, Cheap Travel in India, Kerala travel, Photos from South India, Tenkasi, Tirunelveli, Travel in India, Travel in Tamil Nadu, Uncategorized, Unromanticized travel, Varkala

South Indian images, 2014

Varkala paddy at sunrise

Varkala paddy at sunrise; Photo, John Briggs

Yes?

Tirunelveli, Feb. 2014; Photo,  John Briggs

Tenkasi street

Tenkasi street; Photo,  John Briggs

Near the train station, Tiruneveli, Feb. 2014

Near the train station, Tirunelveli, Feb. 2014; Photo,  John Briggs

 

Near Vakala, Feb. 2014; Photo, John Briggs

Near Vakala, Feb. 2014; Photo, John Briggs

 

Tiruneveli street

Tirunelveli Street; Photo, John Briggs

Tenkasi, Feb. 2014

Tenkasi, Feb. 2014; Photo, John Briggs

Tenkasi girl

Tenkasi, Feb. 2014; Photo, John Briggs

Tenkasi

Tenkasi, Feb. 2014; Photo, John Briggs

Magenta woman, Tenkasi

Magenta woman, Tenkasi; Photo, John Briggs

Fishmerman near Varkala

Fishmerman near Varkala; Photo, John Briggs

Conclave in Ft. Kochi

Conclave in Ft. Kochi; Photo, John Briggs

Tiruneveli ditch-digger

Tirunelveli construction worker; Photo, John Briggs

Waiting for a bus

Waiting for a bus, Tirunelveli; Photo, John Briggs

Wary
Stranger, Tirunelveli, Feb. 2014; Photo, John Briggs

Tenkasi leaf bundler

Tenkasi leaf bundler; Photo, John Briggs

River neighborhood, Tiruneveli

River neighborhood, Tirunelveli; Photo, John Briggs

Tiruneveli fish marketTirunelveli fish market; Photo, John Briggs

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2013, 2014, Cheap Travel in India, Chief Minister (Governor) Selvi J. Jayalalithaa., Indifferent Indian government, Lack of toilets, Tirunelveli, Travel in India, Travel in Tamil Nadu, Unromanticized travel

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.

Thousands in Tiruneveli use the polluted Thamirabarmai River as their toilet and washroom

Thousands in Tirunelveli use the polluted Thamirabarmai River as their toilet and washroom

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.

Road shit

Road shit

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.

Pissing by a busy street, Tiruneveli

Pissing by a busy street, Tirunelveli

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.

A public road, Tireuneveli

A public road, Tirunelveli

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.

 Tiruneveli

Tirunelveli

Shit

Aside