2016, Cheap Travel in India, Foreign in India, India and public health, Indian Christians, Indian filth, Indian government incompetence, Indian hospitality, Indian sweetness, Indifferent Indian government, Kohlapur, Maharashtra, Sanitation in India, The poor in India, Travel in India, Travel in Maharashtra, Uncategorized, Unromanticized travel, Western tourists in India

Finding Christ in Kananagar

Kananagar, Kolhapur–Kolhapur, sometimes spelled Colapore, is an ancient city ruled until Independence as a princely state. It’s at the southwest edge of  Maharashtra less than a hundred kilometers from the coast, and this January, at least, the weather has been beautiful: sunny mid-80s during the day, low 60s at night.

Indian cities, sadly, are much alike: noisy and filthy, with few amenities such as sidewalks or–laughable–crosswalks for pedestrians.The main roads are clogged with unregulated traffic. The air is foul.

Kolhapur pedestrian in streetPedestrians walk in the street in Indian cities

But enough of that. I prefer the slums. For one thing, they make me feel rich, a new and pleasant feeling. And no traffic. Life spills into the street. Women wash clothes by dipping them in soapy water and banging them on a flat stone. They get water from the common pump and hear what’s going on, and they stare in groups, not unkindly, as I walk by. They bathe their small children outside from a bucket; the old men sit, and the crones. Workers wash in their underwear  with dippers of water over the head, and children in uniforms make their way to and from school in the neighborhoods where school is affordable.

The little kids look at me with big eyes. Cows and goats, listless dogs, an occasional cat, chickens, all go as they wish. A cow pinned me softly with her huge head today against a dumpster.  I smacked her! Again! Holy Cow, hell! She turned away as indifferently as she’d come.

Washing dishes,The age-old squat of the woman at work, Kananagar, Kolhapur

That was this morning. I’d walked back into Kananagar (“nagar” approximates what we would call a ward). It’s poor, ringed with sewage trenches, and the streets are dirt. I was there last week, just walking, taking pictures and talking as I could.

I met Agnes Francis that trip, and her neighbors. She invited me in for a cup of tea. Pictures of Christ looked down in Hindu array. The room otherwise was nearly bare. I took my sandals off at the door, as one does, and sat on one of two plastic chairs. Eight or 10 neighbors casually came in to get a look at a foreigner. Agnes Francis was quiet, and the others liked her. She touched them with kind pats.

Agnes Francis and neighbors, Kananagar, KolhapurAgnes Francis, left, and two neighbors

The neighbors were curious, but they didn’t gawk, nor did they ask questions. My story is that I’m a journalist traveling around India talking to people, writing about what I see and taking pictures. I use it though I’m writing only for myself. It gives me an excuse for wandering into neighborhoods where tourists never go.

I was drawn at first because Indian slums are spectacles, but they have become familiar. They are a refuge from the trafficky outside, and the people are far more pleasant than elsewhere.

I generalize, but here and in the States and Europe, though not in the Middle East, the poor are nicer than the rich. Here, they are a relief. India head-on is not otherwise a polite or hospitable country.

Today, mid-month, I met a gaggle of teenage boys, all with a hoodlum air–unwashed hair, dirty shirt, sunglasses dangling, a Brando sneer, gaudy watch band. They, too, have become familiar, so I said hello and spoke my little spiel, slowly. One of them told a little boy standing nearby in an orange hoody to go get someone, maybe the gang leader.

The hoodsConfronted by teenage hoods, Kananagar, Kolhapur

It was a small, reserved man who appeared. He eyed me, I thought, as though I were fair game. I looked for a wall to back against. He introduced himself: Pastor Suraj B. Kamble.

He took me to his small house, along with the squad of  hoods, all eyeing my American stuff.  I sat on the bed in the front room and soon a pretty teenage girl brought two cups of tea, one for him and one for me, and a plate of new biscuits from the corner grocery stall. He had a bit more English than the boys, but he had to reach into memory to find the words.

He was concerned I am not a Christian but openly shocked that I am an unbeliever. No proof exists of God, he said, but just as we can’t see the wind yet know it’s there, we must acknowledge God’s existence from the evidence of the natural world visible to us. And Christ taking human form to speak as he did was further evidence of divinity.

Kananagar, 1

Pastor Suraj B. Kamble, Kananagar, Kolhapur

But he didn’t proselytize vigorously. He wanted me just to enjoy my tea and cookies. The boys, it emerged, were his–he smiled–disciples. They had become Christians in the last year and stopped fighting each other and making trouble.

The nagar was mixed: Hindus, Muslims, Christians, and one atheist. Everyone got along, he said. No problems.  It was a neighborhood of workers, manual laborers, which is what Agnes Francis told me last week. Day laborers earning $2.50 a day when they can find work. Carrying. Digging. It was difficult at times to make ends meet, Agnes Francis said.

The Indian Express this morning had an article about retirement income. They discovered that Indians currently need about 35,000 rupees a month ($530) for a secure retirement. The workers in Kanan earn about 7,000 rupees a month when they have work, but that’s hit or miss. The money must support the old, too, and the young, and workers wear out early here.

In India, different worlds live next door. Just down the dirt road from Kananagar is GreenField complex–high new apartments behind a guarded gate. The girls walking there all have shoes.

I took some pictures. They took some pictures, and then Pastor and the boys walked me to their church on the southern edge of the cluster of houses, fronted by an open sewage ditch. It was a small, bare and airless room at the end of a much-divided pole barn, rented from a Christian “aunty” we met as we walked to it. He has 40 to 50 parishioners and is raising money to cut a garage-door opening in the end wall for comfort.

I waved goodbye, they waved, and I headed on the lane west toward GreenField, jumping two sewage trenches on the way.

Kananagar, 2

The hoods, Pastor Kamble and me, Kananagar, Kolhapur

Standard
Cheap Travel in India, Travel in India, Uncategorized, Western tourists in India

Colorful Bombay

Up by Crawford Market in Bombay, I saw a brief cultural dance that would fit neatly in a Kipling story.

Crawford Market, Bombay

 

A white-haired couple from somewhere north of Pennsylvania, plump and pleasant looking, was walking tentatively, bravely alone. They walked through jumbles of porters with boxes stacked high on their head like  bearers in a Tarzan movie and in the slow flow of heavy wooden handcarts pushed and pulled by one or two or three men. The loaded carts are hard to start, hard to stop and hard to steer. And the streets there funnel the engine-roaring, horn blaring trucks of retailers loading up on fish and fruit and vegetables, and taxis swarm. Hovering, little roosts of thieves, crowlike, watch with sharp eyes.

The couple had passed me when I stopped to buy three bananas, and I noticed that the man had a large Canon camera swinging from a shoulder strap, its long lens swinging this way and that as he walked. He and his wife were both in khaiki shorts and bush shirts, as if looking for leopards, and the man was wearing a canvas expeditionary hat of the sort sold in New Yorker side-panels.

Just outside the market, they mistimed traffic on a side-street and nearly got hit by a truck. You can cross through the flow if the truck or bus or cycle, the tuk-tuks,  have time to swerve, but you must walk in a straight line, balletically, fending off speeders with a fluttering bull-fighter hand, and at a predictable speed.The traffic streams around you. It’s a lovely, enlivening system. Stopping suddenly or changing course screws it up.

They lost their nerve, understandably, and stopped. The truck driver slammed on his brakes, shouting Mumbaikar imprecations, and created an even bigger obstacle. Somehow, in the blare of horns, the oblivious couple, unimpressed by the virtuosity that left them unsquashed, staggered on to the other side. They neglected to thank the truck driver for his reckless virtue (though, of course, the paperwork for killing a pedestrian is formidable, and the required bribes would go on forever).

“Are you with them?”

A young professional man of some sort was speaking to me, tilting his head toward the old couple.

I wasn’t, I said.

“That camera,” he said. “I worry that thieves will take it. The market is full of thieves.”

Some thieves in India rob from scooters, whizzing by and snatching gold chains, shoulder bags and large-lensed Canon cameras swinging casually from the left shoulder on a broad strap that would move from the leopard-hunter’s shoulder to the thief’s in a trice, whoosh, never to be seen again; others are runners, or a hand from between vegetable stalls, or a team: one hits the opposite shoulder, and when the head turns, the partner grabs the chain, or bag; the camera. The market is crowded.

Crawford Market (2), Bombay

“I am trying to tell him,” the professional man said. “But he thinks I am selling him something.”

I told the man I’d do my best and followed the couple onto the vegetable wholesale floor, a busy place.

They were uneasy. The guidebook had said “busy” and “colorful,” but it hadn’t mentioned the porter suddenly blowing his nose between two fingers right in front of them, or the sidepusher on a loaded handcart shoving them aside with a quick arm—“He hit me! That man hit me!”—to save them from getting run over, again, and who is this little man now in front of them, appearing from nowhere, holding up a badge of some kind and chattering in Indian English about “veddydangerous.”

“No, no, no, my dear,” the little man said to the camera man, “I am not guiding. I am working with market. Your camera,” he motioned at it, “not so good here.”

The man understood. His lip curled. “He’s saying we can’t take pictures,” he said disgustedly to his wife. “We have to pay something.”

The small man fluttered unimpressively. He was not selling, he said too quickly now to be understood, but the camera could be stolen, “taken, you see. Not everyone here is so pleasant,” he said, more to me now, standing sympathetically beside him, than to them. They had figured him out and were ignoring him, unless he made them buy a ticket.

I tried. I had the advantage of looking familiar to them, though it might be like Midnight Express, with me working some fiendish scheme to steal their passports. I planned a suave intervention, but abandoned that and gave them both a mighty shove, “Jesus Christ!” grabbing the woman to keep her from falling. She nearly screamed. They hadn’t seen the heavy cart bearing down on them, nor had I until the last moment, and they were unsure even as it passed us by, a ton or two, inches away, that it was serious. Surely there were rules!

“This man works for the market,” I said. “He, and the man outside, were trying to warn you that your camera will be stolen if you carry it like that. You’ve made yourself a target.”

“A target!” the woman said.

The man snorted. “No problem so far,” he said in an executive voice, and turned away, toward the oranges and Kashmiri apples, stacked high in American-looking cartons (brought in on the long handcarts).

“He said ‘target,’ you’re a ‘target!’” the woman said to White Hunter.

I watched them walk on, their pale legs incongruously soft amid the hundreds of muscular worker legs around them. They walked against the flow, forcing the porters to dodge them. Behind them, wringing his hands and gesturing to other market workers, the little man followed at a distance, watching on their behalf.

Standard