Sunday, March 15

Ooty to Calicut.

My knuckles are about eight shades whiter than my sunburned wrists. We spent three hours on horseback in the high-altitude sun of Ooty yesterday, but that is of no importance now. Now, we are careening down a steep slope of hairpin turns on a bus that seems to be driven by one of this country's many deities rather than the man at the wheel.

The ride began at about 2240 meters above sea level and we were unlucky to find seats in the rear of the bus. We knew the first portion of this journey would be a few hours winding through the same tea plantations and national forest that welcomed us here. As the bus engine groaned and clunked to life, we looked at each other and questioned what was coming.

The first hour of the journey passed as expected. A little concern arose when the bus braked and something moved and banged under my feet resting on the rear wheels. But my place next to the window allowed fresh, dusty, engine-stained air to flow freely and saved my motion sensitive stomach from catastrophe. The woman behind me wasn't so lucky, and she left her breakfast on the steps of the bus at the first rest stop.

A half hour passed and we came upon a stopped, broken bus and forty waving people. We pulled into the oncoming lane of a blind corner and waited for them to board - a precarious position, no doubt. But people move quickly here and we were off within minutes, standing, sitting and hanging on for dear life.

The bus cleared at the two-hour stop. We moved to the open front seat and were happy to further protect our bellies. With three hours to go, we did not know what road was ahead. This is where we turned to the West and the coast and everything new again.

Three hours passed the same as the first. Tea plantations tended to by brightly colored women sprawled across the steep slopes through which we traveled. Cows and dogs and goats and people littered the road, sadly decorated with plastic bottles, newspapers and melon rinds. Bustling mountain towns provided stops for coming and going and a changing population on our bus. The sun fell low and illuminated graying clouds the best it could. We wondered why there was no ocean in sight when darkness grew bold.

Now, our estimated time of arrival in Calicut has passed. The sky is black and moisture has begun to condense and fall from the sky. From our front seat vantage, the windshield quickly becomes spattered and I wonder how the bus driver can see the cows and dogs and goats and people that continue to litter the road. He stealthily weaves through them and chatters with the ticket collector and I wish for him to stop chattering and focus on driving.

The road curls steeply and sharply down the Western Ghats toward the ocean. In the bus, we are bigger than the turns and the black and white striped barriers come too close and too fast. I think the bus will not clear the barriers - I see where other vehicles have not - and as my hand grips the arm rest mightily, my body leaves the seat. I am ready to throw my weight to the uphill side of the bus so that we do not plummet over the edge and tumble thousands of feet to our end. As the dark and wet and danger begin to overtake my sensibility, the driver chatters happily with his mate and steers us through the maze that is an Indian road.

Dan and I love each other and say so now because it seems quite possible we won't have another chance. I think of family and dear friends and hope they are dry and safe and know I love them too. When I think I can't take any more, the road becomes wetter, the turns come more quickly and the driver decides to pass the government truck in front of us. I have just seen a 'No Passing' sign and wonder how he missed it! And, who in their right mind would even consider passing at a moment like this?! This man is cheerful and mad and steering us through impossibility all in a day's work.

I can't keep my eyes open and the end of this journey is now two hours overdue. I must have read the time wrong and my lids gratefully shut so that I don't have to witness the last forty-five minutes of madness. When this vessel finally releases us into the wet night air of Calicut, I feel relief, understated. My body feels tense and weak and ready to stand on solid ground, which is slightly cleaner here in the state of Kerala. We have two hours before the train and will feel full and ready to rest when it whisks us away into the night and toward the North.

Saturday, March 7

Opposite color.

Tonight, there is no better feeling than the gentle rustle of a bedsheet against bare skin. I lay awake in the first warm darkness and a fan whirs overhead. We have slept most of the day and part of the night. In the pre-dawn hours, we are both alert and wondering what the light will bring.

We hear a knock at the door - room service. Would we like coffee/tea/breakfast to go with the paper that has slipped under the door? The man appeared as if anticipating the flip of a switch inside our room – and I wonder how long he has been ready to provide this service. It is early. The sun is just beginning to illuminate the cool gray concrete of the wall outside our window.

An army of rickshaw drivers greets us as we step outside the protective walls of our lodge. With so many pairs of deep brown eyes pleading for our business, how do we choose? It is morning cool and we will walk.

Through a maze of motion, we soon realize that caution will not serve. Bicycles weave through mule carts weave through motorbikes weave through rickshaws weave through buses – a tightly knit fabric. People fill spaces without hesitation. As we step off the curb, I remember playing ‘Frogger’ as a child and quietly smile.

The onslaught of sound is deafening – horns blaring, motors chugging, men chattering – all of it echoing the assault of cacophonous smells. The sweetness of jasmine. The pungency of urine. The earthiness of sandalwood. The acrid waft of burning plastic. As my darting gaze tries to match sight with smell with sound, I see the silhouette of a cow through the haze of smoldering trash. It’s like a barnyard fell into a town fell into a landfill fell into a city. Though there appear to be no rules, there are no collisions. Every space is full, everyone is present.

For some reason, we have decided to visit the zoo. I find this funny, for I always go to the zoo when I travel, but never where I live. Also, most zoos are similar - and I usually end up feeling quite sad for the animals. This morning, I welcome the tranquil shade that greets us beyond the gate and feel soothed.

I recognize the faint discomfort of looming eyes immediately. It began out on the street, but there was way too much happening to mind. There are a lot of people in this country – and so far, it seems there are mostly men. No less than three at a time and sometimes eight or nine – standing, walking, eating, selling, riding, watching. Here, they are watching the animals and they are watching me.

It is subtle at first. As the sun rises higher in the midday sky, so does their audacity. Eyes follow me from a distance; keep watch as I approach; stare from inches away. When my gaze meets theirs, I am the first to smile or turn away. They have no sense of discomfort, nor curiosity. I have both. There is merely a stare. Sometimes a simple word – hello. And then there are children.

Before we know it, we are surrounded by children and they are curious and smiling and saying hello, where are you from? Can we take a picture? They are pressing small bodies onto the bench beside us, lining up behind us, and sprawling on the ground in front of us. Their teacher holds the camera. I am under the impression we will be talked about more than the giraffe or the hippopotamus and wonder what they will say – what they are saying as I sit here and smile. It is innocent and fun and exciting and when they move on to the chimpanzee, this charge dissipates from the air as quickly as it came .

I miss their enthusiasm immediately. For a moment, it mirrored my own and I felt at ease. It is my first day in a new place and while I don’t appear any different to these animals, I appear very different to these people. The next group to approach is more reserved. The men speak to us in English; the women smile demurely from a distance. After we tell them where we are from and learn that they are managers on a company outing, we begin to move on. Then, there is a space on the bench among the women and I am invited to sit down. Everyone crowds around and as Dan lines up the shot, I hear giggles behind me. ‘Opposite color,’ they observe. I turn and laugh and nod my head yes, opposite color.