We Three Kings

Merry Christmas!

It's been a few days since I have posted so to kick things off again I thought I would touch on the original Christmas story -- baby Jesus, the manger and of course the three kings.

A few days before my trip home I finished a fantastic book, titled In Xanadu, by the British author William Dalrymple. Dalrymple has written a number of incredible books on India but In Xanadu was his first literary effort. It's a travel story about his attempt to retrace Marco Polo's journey from Jerusalem all the way to Xanadu, Kubla Khan's palace in Mongolia. He successfully made the trip during the summer before his final year at Cambridge and published the book at 22. It's fantastic and I highly recommend it but enough background.

In one stretch of his journey through modern day Iran, Dalrymple finds his way to a city that according to Marco Polo once hosted the bodies of the three kings or wise men who came to Jesus in Bethlehem. These wise men, or Magi, made the famous offering of gold, frankincense and myrrh and in the course of their pilgrimage founded the fire-worshiping religion of Zoroastrianism in Persia.

This is where I found myself intrigued. The following are a few passages from Dalrymple. Despite references to several almost forgotten historians hopefully you will be able to follow. Apparently, Marco Polo may have actually been onto something.

"At first sight the legend looks interesting, but wholly mythical...But one or two of the details in the story made me think twice about dismissing it in its entirety. According to Yule, the word 'Magi' used by St. Matthew in his gospel does not actually mean wise men, as I had always assumed. The word is Persian, and so stands out in the Greek of the Gospel as a solitary foreign word. Its meaning is specific. It is the name of the ancient Zoroastrian priestly class. In all the elaboration that has grown up around the story in the Gospel, St Matthew's original meaning has been obscured. In the text the men who follow the star from the east are not the kings. Nor are they numbered or given names: this is all mediaeval legend. The Gospel text simply reads 'Some Magi came to Bethlehem from the East.' St Matthew's original audience would have understood that this meant a visit to Bethlehem of fire-worshiping priests from Persia."

He continues, "As I read Yule's footnotes I remembered depictions of the Magi that I had seen on sarcophagi in the Vatican Museum and in the mosaics of St Apollinare in Nuovo in Ravenna. The Magi are shown wearing trousers, tunics and pointed felt caps--the distinctive dress of the ancient Persians. This in turn reminded me of a story I had read the previous year in Runciman's The First Crusade. In the seventh century, the Persians had defeated the Byzantines and had swept through Palestine burning and pillaging every important building they had come across. Only one structure was spared: the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. According to Runciman, they made this single exception because over the doorway of the church was placed a huge mosaic showing the three Magi worshiping the Christ child. If the specifically Persian origin of the Magi is perhaps obscured today it was clearly understood into the early Middle Ages."

I suppose make of this forgotten piece of history what you will but I found it particularly interesting. Dalrymple is not finished here but I thought I would save the second part of this story for another day.

Old Delhi and Chandni Chowk

For obvious reasons, medieval cities or neighborhoods are hard to find these days. I have wandered through a few, notably the Trastevere neighborhood in Rome, the cities of Sienna and Venice and most recently Old Delhi. These places are defined by impossibly narrow streets and almost non-existent city planning. For the most part, maps are worthless.

While I only had a few hours to get lost in Old Delhi, I was left with a lasting impression. Never had I been to a place with so many people in such tight quarters. When just a block or two away from the main commercial arteries, the architecture is fascinating – looming three and four story havelis with incredibly elaborate entrances that open to magnificent courtyards. I was in India but at moments it seemed I had been transported to a more colorful, Eastern set for Romeo and Juliet.

But as interesting as the buildings and monuments are in India the people always steal the show. Outside of the canopied jungle of medieval streets and alleyways I decided to shoot a quick video of the scene on Chandni Chowk – the 500 year old “main street” of the Mughal city. If you look closely at the end you can see the famous Red Fort in the distance – the ultimate symbol of Mughal power. Enjoy:

Back to the States and Prince (again)

I'm cold, really, really cold. I think the transition from 80 degrees and the Indian sun to 25 and snow in Washington would be tough on anyone. Pulling my bags out of the car in topsiders and no socks last night was inadvisable.

But anyway, I'm home for Christmas for a few weeks and while I'm going to continue to write about India while I'm here (there is more than enough in the vault) I'm also going to sprinkle in a few other topics as well.

When I woke up at five this morning I browsed a few of my favorite blogs and came across an interesting post from the Atlantic's Ta-Nehisi Coates on sexuality and Prince. He writes about sitting down with his son and telling him how to talk with women and that Prince will absorb a significant part of that conversation.

He goes onto to write, "Watching Prince as a kid, we derided him as gay and had no sense as to why all the young girls were into him. But looking at him now, though it much it aggrieves me, it must be said that Prince is, indeed, a sexy motherfucker.

Homophobia doesn't just make you bigot, it ruins your music taste and makes it harder to understand women--perhaps not in that order."

I couldn't agree more. I think back to watching Prince on MTV in the early 90s. The video that sticks out to me is "Diamonds and Pearls" and I remember being utterly confused by him but transfixed by the sound. I'm not saying your homophobic if you don't like or appreciate Prince but give him another listen if you passed him off because of the androgynous look.

For a fantastic video of him performing "If I was your girlfriend" go here.

Sepoys and Squares

I stumbled onto a fantastic website dedicated to the Mysore Wars and came across a Scottish manuscript describing the training and regulations for a company of native infantry (commonly called sepoys) in the service of the East-India Company. I haven’t read too many military manuals but I think you would be hard pressed to find one so colorful.

“If a Battn. (Battalion) is attacked by a large Body of Horse on a plain, it is to form the Square or Oblong, half and face outwards. Should the Horse appear within the distance of 300 Yds the Bttn with a well directed fire of Grape or Case shot will in all probability keep them at bay; if however from superior numbers and the intoxication of Bang they should approach within the distance of 100 yds, the front rank will make ready. If the Cavalry should still persist in advancing to the distance of 60 yds, the front rank will present and the rear rank make ready. It is of the first importance that men should preserve their fire on this occasion. If the Cavalry should however persist in advancing to the distance of 50 yds the front rank will fire.” When the cavalry approaches within 20 yards the square is to remain “steady and fully determined to defend themselves like Gallant soldiers to the last extremity.”

The language is rich and inspired. For example, the author describes the smoke produced from musket and cannon fire as “intoxication of bang.” And the last sentence reads like a Hollywood script: “…defend themselves like Gallant soldiers to the last extremity.”

For all of the destruction and terror of war, the scene described above has a certain beauty to it. Splendid, Indian lancers rushing across a plain, foam coming from their horses’ mouths, the gold and silk of their uniforms gleaming in the sun as they close in on the red lines of soldiers in front of them. The ranks of British infantry stone faced, squinting through the smoke of the field, holding their fire as the cavalry comes like a wave. Sepoys and highlanders shoulder to shoulder, bayonets fixed, waiting for their officers' commands.

Four Days in Delhi: Part 2

The tour bus is a time portal to 1978. There is an abundance of fake wood paneling, synthetic carpeting and knobs and buttons that don’t work. Despite my instincts, I refrain from making a judgment about the coming tour based on the vehicle. I have my fingers crossed the guide will be a magical repository of knowledge about the seven cities of Delhi. I’m imagining him as an old, gray-haired Indian storyteller who has traded an audience of hookah-smoking locals for busses of tourists. With the first crack of the intercom my hopes are dashed.

The noise directed at the 20 of us on the bus is technically English but even that description might be kind. I turn my attention away from a guy peeing on the wall just outside the bus to get a good look at our guide. He is middle aged, short, a little plump and seems genuinely irritated he has to narrate our tour. He is wearing a plaid fedora, a bushy mustache, a Cosby sweater, gray slacks and white tennis shoes. His English is suspect but the ancient intercom system makes everything he says almost completely unintelligible. He is well aware no one can hear or understand what he is saying but he simply doesn’t give a damn.

What I’m able to pick out from his mumbling and from the schedule of the tour is that the morning will be spent in New Delhi and the afternoon is reserved for the old city. At first I’m slightly amused by the guide but after ten minutes of driving I find myself disgusted with the prospects for the day. As we head to our first stop, a large but relatively new temple blessed by Gandhi, we drive down an impressive avenue lined with embassies. The narration from the front of the bus is as follows: “US embassy,” pause, “Canadian embassy,” pause, “Malaysian embassy,” pause, “Chinese embassy,” longer pause, “Pakistan embassy,” followed by a guttural throat clearing noise and silence. I turn to Chetan, who is sitting to my right across the aisle, and with a sorrowful headshake say, “riveting stuff.”

The first stop at a completely forgettable temple flies past. I take a few pictures, dodge postcard sellers and return to the bus. As I wait for the rest of the group to return, I notice several motorists weave through traffic, pull over as they come upon the temple, say a few prayers and keep moving. It’s a wonderfully Indian scene.

Back on our motor chariot we head for the Qutub Minar, a nearly 240 foot brick and sandstone minaret built by an Afghan conqueror at the end of the 12th century. The tower was erected as a victory monument in the midst of the ruins of a destroyed Hindu temple complex. It is massive, beautiful and awe inspiring.

Our guide gives us 30 minutes to explore the tower and ruins littered around its base. A comically short amount of time for the site but I duck in and out of crumbling mosques, through Indo-Saracen arches and around intricately carved pillars, repurposed from the Hindu temples once the heart of a destroyed city. The 30 minutes fly by. Back on the bus we head for an unannounced stop.

After 20 minutes of battling rush-hour traffic we pull into a gravel parking lot of a handicrafts emporium. Our disgruntled guide announces we have 45 minutes to shop. I immediately pull out my map of Delhi, pick out a few sites I’m dying to see, announce to Chetan we are leaving the tour and begin my hunt for a rickshaw. As we leave the tour behind, I grab one last glimpse of our guide. He is sitting on a broken down chair outside the Emporium, staring at nothing, irritated as ever.

Four Days in Delhi: Part 1

We are already running late. Our Gurkha driver, Seeray, flies down the highway in our Ford into the center of the city, his face almost completely covered by a winding scarf. It’s winter in Delhi and barely 50 degrees. The car windshield is completely fogged up but we shoot forward, split two rickshaws and scream into the parking lot of the city Tourist Department which also happens to double as the city’s sprawling flower market.

Seeray, a sergeant in the 10th Ghurka Rifles and personal attendant to a Brigadier General, throws the car into park and beckons us forward into the maze of flower peddlers. He is thick and noticeably athletic. While immensely kind to us he is precisely the type of soldier no man wants to meet in the field. He is under strict orders to get us to the tourist office by 7:45 am sharp to ensure we are on time for our 8:00 am bus tour. Failure is not an option.

He moves exceptionally fast through the single-file paths of the market, jumping over flowers, dodging lazy buyers sipping chai and reversing direction when need be to reroute around human roadblocks. He is in front, followed by my impossibly close friend Chetan, – the nephew of the Brigadier General – me and then Chetan’s girlfriend Rosie.

When cutting through the pushy tangle of the flower market proves impossible, Seeray leads us out to the edge of the road in an attempt to circumvent the mess and get us to our destination. As we move down the street, motor bikes and rickshaws fly past inches to our left. I keep edging further out into the street trying to use my body as a shield for Rosie as we push forward. My plan doesn’t work. A motorbike flies past me and a side-view mirror clips her shoulder. She grunts, assures me she’s okay and we keep moving.

Delhi

India is not for the casual tourist. I have heard it called the most difficult place in the world to travel and my experiences have yet to suggest otherwise. But for its challenges I can't imagine any place more rewarding.

Four days in Delhi overwhelmed the senses. There are too many places, anecdotes and pieces of history to put into one or ten posts but an introduction to it all.

Christmas came early this year.

The Tiger of Mysore

When things didn’t work out particularly well for the British in the American War for Independence they turned their attention elsewhere, most notably India. By the 1780s they had extended control over significant portions of the subcontinent but their future subjugation of the country was still very much in doubt.

India was locked in an almost constant state of war between rival states and their European allies – such as the Mughals in the north, The Marathas in the west, the Nizam of Hyderabad in the Deccan and Tipu Sultan of Mysore in the south.

Tipu Sultan was a thorn in Britain’s side. He was young, ambitious, aligned with France and possessed a European trained and equipped army that had already beaten the British in two wars during the 1760s and 80s. The British called him the Tiger of Mysore.

Future British expansion in India meant inevitable conflict with Tipu. Sighting his close ties with France, the British East-India Company convinced parliament to launch a decisive campaign against Mysore in 1789. The final push against Tipu would result in two wars – both resulting in British victories – but the conflicts were hotly contested and featured an incredible cast of characters. Lord Cornwallis, the general that surrendered to Washington at Yorktown, and the future Duke of Wellington, who would later defeat Napoleon at Waterloo, both commanded on the British side.

Since my first visit to India in 2008 and a trip to the Tiger of Mysore’s island fortress, Seringapatam, I have been fascinated with this relatively forgotten moment in history. War elephants, Scottish highlanders rushing over Indian fortress walls, and a sultan called Tiger – this struggle had it all.

Village Market

Last weekend I spent two amazing days at a coconut farm five hours outside of Bangalore. There were trips to temples (a post is on its way), beers around the campfire and the village India I had only read about in books.

The countryside, the farm and the villages were beautiful. But, just when I thought the weekend had come to an end, there was one last stop at a local market to top it off.

I couldn’t help but pull out my camera and begin snapping away. I have found that a smile and a thumbs up are a common language not to be underestimated. For a half hour I moved through onion, lentil, ginger, banana and spice tents. I dipped around fashion stands, candy stalls and rope vendors.

After each photo I would spin the camera around and let my subjects see their portraits. I patted backs and laughed with the locals. It was the kind of morning I won’t soon forget.

School is out

For what seems like the 10th time this month, the local kids have school off for a minor holiday or religious festival. It feels like the kids here are never in school. I asked a coworker about this curious trend and got a bit more than I was expecting.

In short, the kids get a hell of a lot of time off – much of it for seemingly ridiculous reasons. There is no better example of this than the month kids got off from school in 2000 due to the kidnapping of the state’s most beloved film star, Rajkumar. Yes, you read correctly. I didn’t believe it either but the facts don’t lie.

I’m going to grossly oversimplify this story but in 2000 a gang leader, named Veerappan, kidnapped the 71 year old Rajkumar and held him in captivity for 108 days while demanding the release of several gang members. Rajkumar was freed but events surrounding the kidnapping remain murky.

What is not up for discussion is that business in Bangalore came to a near standstill during the saga. The kidnapping was a political and social crisis and a month of closed schools should tell you all you need to know. To read more about this kind of bizarre moment in history read here.

But anyway, this story left me thinking. What would have to happen in the U.S. to cause schools to close for a month? After 9/11 we had maybe a day or two off. Barring some kind of natural disaster, I just can’t imagine schools being closed for that long. In fact, is there any pop culture figure whose death could trigger even one day off?

Chuck Norris or Rajinikanth

There are few Americans unaware of the cult of Chuck Norris. I’m sure you have heard or read the jokes. For example, Chuck Norris’ tears cure cancer, too bad he’s never cried. Or, there is no chin behind Chuck Norris' beard. There is only another fist. Classic stuff, but what you probably aren’t aware of is that India has its very own Chuck Norris – the Tamil film star Rajinikanth.

He's India’s highest paid actor and has a cult-like following here unlike anything I have ever seen before. He also has his own set of Chuck Norris-esque jokes and I’m bombarded with them on a daily basis. A few examples:

Rajinikanth’s calendar goes straight from March 31st to April 2nd, no one fools Rajinikanth.

Once a cobra bit Rajinikanth’s leg. After five days of excruciating pain, the cobra died.

Rajinikanth doesn’t wear a watch. He decides what time it is.

Yeah, it’s pretty much the same stuff but for more read here.

Anyway, not everyone here is sold on Rajinikanth’s talents. I give you my coworker Anand -- great interview buddy.

Tuesday Afternoon

It’s Tuesday afternoon at the office and I’m quietly writing web content. Suddenly, what sounds like the Alabama A&M marching band comes rumbling down the street. Fifteen drummers lay down a beat in front of an idol from a local temple. As you can imagine, work comes to an abrupt halt. I would love to tell you it was some kind of special festival or holiday but it’s just India.

Luckily, I had my video camera with me. Enjoy.

Coworker Deepak: Well, they are taking this god on procession. They take around the neighborhood, dip it in water. This one they won’t dip in water. They will put it back in the temple.

Me: Which god is this?

Deepak: (pause) I have no idea.

Me: Well, it’s an important one.

"Whites on Brown Fields"

At least once a day I do something that an Indian bystander or friend finds to be absolutely puzzling. I often get laughs and a chorus of shaking heads for the things I take pictures of, the places I choose to eat or, quite frequently, for walking when I’m offered a ride.

My friends wouldn’t be caught dead eating from some of the street vendors I frequent. When I explain that I go to the street corner kabob guy partly for the experience, I’m usually met with uncontrollable laughter.

I’m constantly amused with Indian habits but wow do people here love laughing at me. Frankly, they love laughing at the “stupid” things white foreigners do. So in that vein, I noticed an article in today’s Times of India. I give you, “Whites on brown fields,” a slightly mocking look at the new trend in bohemian vacation – volunteering to work on organic Indian farms.

The title of the piece is pure gold but the reaction I got from a few Indians about the substance of the article is even better. I will paraphrase for them. “What idiots, who spends their vacation plowing fields?”

Choice quotes from the piece include:

“Foreigners are all over Indian fields, turning the landscape a lighter shade of brown, and deepening into a darker tint of pink themselves.”

OR

“Consider it a free vacation if you count replenishing the soil, sowing, ploughing, threshing, composting, thatching, milking and so on as holiday sport.”

Now, I don’t want to misrepresent the piece. The majority of it is about the rewards foreigners are getting from the experience but you can’t help but think most Indians see this trend as bit of a novelty. I’m not going to disagree with them, but I do understand the appeal of the farm.

Now, anyone who has spent five minutes with me knows I’m about the polar opposite of the bohemian/hippie type but I think there is a certain romance about a simpler life in the fields. I don’t know if I could spend a year there, or if I could handle tevas and female armpit hair, but the sun on my face, calluses on my hands and a good book instead of the TV doesn’t sound so bad.

Anyway, for more on white people doing stupid things in Indian fields, read here.

Kenny Jones

Bangalore has one English language radio station and one fantastic American DJ.

Kenny Jones and Radio Indigo are keeping me sane. When India’s eccentricities and messiness sometimes loose their charm I have my rides to work with Kenny to cleanse the pallet.(Photo from the Hindu)

Most days, I ride into work with a friend, Krithika, and we spend much of those rides laughing at Kenny, or at the absurdity that is Bangalore during rush hour.

Kenny Jones is a former PE teacher from Orlando turned Indian DJ and he has revolutionized Bangalore radio. With his sidekick, Sriram, Kenny has given Bangalore a level of interaction on the airwaves Americans apparently take for granted.

Hearing local folks call in and interact with Kenny is priceless. Most callers are generally pretty awkward on-air and fall over their words when given the opportunity to speak with him. The calls are gold. His signature line, “love, ya,” is apparently a crowd pleaser but I could hug the guy for simply being American and giving me a taste of home.

For a little more on Kenny, American’s unofficial ambassador to Bangalore, check out a great profile on him in the Hindu.

And finally, I owe Krithika a big thank you. She has gotten way more America than she bargained for when she agreed to carpool with me. She is a trooper and done her best not to completely tune me out when I go on about the Redskins, missing Jessie or craving a juicy burger. So, thanks, you certainly earned it.

Rickshaws and Rainstorms

The lightest drizzle can turn Bangalore’s streets into streams. A hard rain puts half the city underwater.

I woke up this morning to the drumming of a downpour on corrugated tin. With a groan, I began imagining -- with well-deserved dread -- the commute to work. Not only would Bangalore’s incredibly poor drainage system turn many intersections into small ponds but the rain would provide my nemesis, the rickshaw drivers, with a horrendous leg up in my morning negotiations for a decent fare.

With my computer wrapped in a plastic bag and tucked inside my backpack, I ventured out into the deluge. A wet three blocks later, I arrived at my go-to rickshaw stand. Of course, along the walk, I had tried waving down 10 autos, but they were all taken. The prospects for getting ripped off were looking pretty good.

The rickshaw stand which usually hosts a dozen or so lazy drivers, was abandoned except for one beat up, muddy auto. The driver looked up at me over his newspaper and gave the customary head shake which says, “Where do you want to go?”

A metered fare to work typically costs about 150 rupees or a little more than three dollars. That’s expensive for India but my office is 45 minutes and 15 kilometers away. Navigating India’s Byzantine bus system simply isn’t in the cards, so I opt for the autos when I can’t get a ride.

Sticking my head into the rickshaw I delivered my destination, “Jakkur village, new airport road.” I waited with baited breath for the response. I’m typically quoted fares for the trip that are 4 or 5 times what they should be. Considering the rain, demand for autos and the distance, I was expecting a response of 400 rupees. If I was lucky, I might be able to talk him down to 200.

The neatly choreographed negotiations never materialized. I’m not sure if the driver felt bad for me or if he is just one hell of an honest guy, but he nodded, switched on the meter and waived me inside.

Past wild dogs and through streams we pushed forward – the underpowered rickshaw struggling in the rain, Gunga Din and I moaning with every pothole.

The Not News

There is nothing new about this critique. In fact, it’s worn out, but wow, the news is just terrible these days. And, as bad as the news is, the audience is worse.

I suppose this is a bit of a chicken and egg dilemma but someone is driving the quality of content into the ground. Furthermore, the news items that don’t matter, that frankly shouldn’t be news items, are being given incredible prominence.

It’s possible news organizations and rags started this trend, but unfortunately, I think audiences are driving content these days. Online tracking of most viewed articles is surely a great tool to increase revenue but it’s just killing the quality of news sources. Newspapers are giving the people what they want and what they want is crap. There really is no debate; the decline into global idiocracy is well underway.

Case and point, my CNN news feed on my igoogle page and The Times of India’s list of most popular stories.

This morning CNN’s top stories were: “Blackout brings Giants-Cowboys game to brief halt,” “Iran developing long-range radar, upgraded missile defense,” and “Haiti cholera death toll passes 900.”


Holy smokes, a brief blackout during a football game makes the top three list, much less beats out the staggering news of a cholera epidemic in Haiti! Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.

Now, the top stories from The Times of India. I’m not even going to bother typing the titles out. I’m too busy knocking over chairs and shaking my head. Just look for yourself.

Chris Cooley in Bangalore?

Half dead from an over zealous workout, I walked towards the water fountain and found myself staring at a very familiar face. Coming full sprint right at me was Chris Cooley, in poster form, curly hair and all.

I spun around to share my joy at having a Washington Redskin “in the gym” and quickly realized there wasn’t another soul around who would have any idea who he is. That realization led directly to some obvious questions.

1. How does a poster of Chris Cooley in a Reebok football shirt end up in a gym in Bangalore India?
2. And, if people have no idea who he is, who exactly do they think is in the giant poster?

On a side note, and much to my chagrin, no one in India knows the first thing about American football. It’s been such a desert of football talk for me that one evening I ran into a Nigerian guy wearing a Roy Williams Cowboys jersey (31 – the former safety) and I gave him a hug. Appalling, I know.

But back to the questions. My gym, Fitness First, is a British-based outfit that apparently has some kind of partnership with British-based Reebok. My guess is that a Fitness First marketing exec saw the poster of Cooley, thought he was in fact a burley soccer player wearing a European football shirt, and figured he might as well become a wall decoration in India.

Perhaps of more interest is who exactly Indians think is in the poster. I asked my trainer, Vivin, if he had any idea and with a shrug, gave me an earnest, “no.” He thought it was just some fitness model.

Now, Chris Cooley is without a doubt one of my favorite athletes, but I think even he would laugh a little bit at being called a model. Just look at the poster. In classic Cooley form, he looks half asleep and a little goofy. But the bottom line is this, Chris Cooley can add Indian fitness model to his impressive list of accomplishments – probably right behind pro bowl tight end. (Below, Vivin and Captain Chaos)

India and Electricity

For the past two weeks, my office has lost power for at least an hour or two almost everyday. As I have been informed, this is common and I better get used to it. While corporations have their own back up units and batteries, my NGO does not. When the power goes, so does productivity, a problem the Indian government is working furiously to fix.

These brownouts piqued my curiosity and I started to wonder exactly how large a challenge India is facing to meet growing energy demand and how exactly the country plans on meeting it.

The numbers, I discovered, are stunning. Today, India has about 165,000 MW of installed generating capacity, of which, more than half comes from coal-fired units. India plans to increase that capacity to 200,000 MW by 2012, a target the government is sure to miss.

Unfortunately, India’s demand for power is projected to reach 400,000 MW by 2020. If there is an acute power shortage now, I’m having a very hard time believing the situation can be remedied in the next 10 years.

While the government has laid out ambitious plans to meet growing demand with a diverse portfolio of energy sources, including massive investments in renewables, nuclear energy and natural gas, India’s carbon emissions will undoubtedly grow – most likely at a stunning rate. To be sure, king coal, and the cheap electricity it provides, isn't going anywhere. (Below, Indian coal miners)


The bleak reality is that India doesn’t have much of a choice. Carbon emissions simply have to be a secondary consideration as the country looks to provide the fuel it needs to maintain 8% GDP growth and bring tens of millions of rural Indians out of crushing poverty.

Consider this, according to India’s 2001 census, roughly 72% of the population lives in rural villages. Only 80% of those villages are connected to the grid and only 52.5% of rural households have access to electricity.

If India’s energy challenges are at all representative of those faced across the developing world, the global effort to tackle climate change and reduce greenhouse-gas emissions will likely be far more difficult than any of us would like to admit – especially those on the left.

The Obamas in India

The President’s visit to India has received an unbelievable amount of media attention here. The Indian press is treating the President’s visit sort of like how CNN and Fox cover animals in distress.

Not surprisingly, the President and First Lady have charmed the nation but the one issue that is understandably a sticking point for many Indians is our support of the Pakistani government.

After three wars and countless border disputes, most Indians cannot imagine Pakistan as anything but their enemy. The terrorist attack in Mumbai two years ago is still a fresh wound for many Indians that generates the same kind of emotions Americans feel when they speak of 9/11.

The President is trying to walk a very fine line as he explains America’s stance towards Pakistan. When asked directly by an Indian college student why he hasn’t condemned Pakistan as a terrorist state, his answer was thoughtful and, in my opinion, on mark.

His point was this. One has to look at Pakistan with nuance. While there is extremism in the country which is festering like a cancer, the Pakistani government has awakened to that danger and is taking steps to address it. We can’t ignore the fact that no country has suffered as much from terrorist attacks as Pakistan. Furthermore, he acknowledged that progress has not been as quick as one might hope, but cooperation with the Pakistani government is in both the U.S. and India’s best interest.

That is a tough pill to swallow for many Indians who firmly believe the Pakistani government supports and sponsors terrorist elements. Of course, history would suggest their assertion carries merit, but a strong Pakistani government that can, and is willing to, weed out extremism is integral to peace in the region.

Indians have been vocal in their response to the President’s remarks on terrorism and Pakistan and I thought it might be interesting for Americans to see some of the letters that have run in The Hindu, one of India’s leading papers.

From The Hindu:

Mr. Obama seems more interested in creating jobs for his countrymen. Time and again, he has avoided calling Pakistan a terrorist country, a fact which is known to the whole world. It is time India stopped looking at the U.S. for support in resolving the Kashmir issue.

M.C. Vijai Shanker,
Chennai

Some sections of the media have rushed to judge Mr. Obama's speech on his arrival on the basis of what he left unsaid. That he visited the Taj Mahal Hotel — a target of the terror attack on 26/11 — is a profound statement on the U.S.' stand on terrorism. We need to be patient and more charitable in our judgment.

Jacob George,
Changanacherry

President Obama's remark that Mumbai is a symbol of the incredible energy and optimism that defines India is indeed a great tribute to the people of the city. Mr. Obama's diplomacy, of not naming Pakistan (itself a victim of many terror strikes), for the 26/11 attack in his address at the Taj Mahal hotel is commendable. India certainly doesn't want any third party to interfere in its affairs with Pakistan or any other nation.

S. Ramakrishnasayee,
Ranipet

Mr. Obama need not condemn Pakistan directly for its involvement in the 26/11 attack. It is for us to bring pressure on the U.S. to stop Pakistan from using its funds to encourage cross-border terror. The lip sympathy extended by Mr. Obama to India on terrorism will remain a mere formality if we fail to get an assurance from him that Pakistan will be reined in.

V.S. Ganeshan,
Bangalore

The World's Most Expensive Home

India is a country of contrasts. After my first trip to Bangalore I tried my best to paint a picture of 21st century India by describing the ride into the heart of the city from the brand new international airport.

I would talk about the shiny new terminals, marble floors, wonderful new highway but also about passing bullock carts and cows in the middle of the road and seeing entire families of five on top of one motorbike. I would try and describe the physical transformation of the city as well. You might pass a two hundred year old bazaar or temple but then turn a corner to see a brand new 40 story apartment building with a helicopter landing pad on top.

Well, India's evolution is continuing and as the economy liberalizes and grows the gap between the haves and have-nots is becoming painfully obvious. There is no better example of this than the construction of the world's most expensive home in Mumbai.

The home is a 27 story building that casts a looming shadow over some of India's poorest neighborhoods. The one billion dollar edifice can actually be seen from Dharavi, Mumbai's infamous slum containing well over a million people.

A feature on the building in the Times of India does a wonderful job of capturing the grandeur and controversy surrounding the project. A short excerpt from the piece:

"The newest and most exclusive residential tower for this city's superrich is a cantilevered sheath of steel and glass soaring 27 floors into the sky. The parking garage fills six levels. Three helipads are on the roof. There are terraces upon terraces, airborne swimming pools and hanging gardens in a Blade Runner-meets-Babylon edifice overlooking India's most dynamic city.

There are nine elevators, a spa, a 50-seat theater and a grand ballroom. Hundreds of servants and staff are expected to work inside. And now, finally, after several years of planning and construction, the residents are about to move in...All five of them."

Yeah, the feature is worth a read. Enjoy.

Archie and Elephants

When I was younger my parents took me out west several times to Colorado and Wyoming. On those trips we did some pretty touristy stuff -- such as whitewater rafting and horseback riding -- but those experiences have easily become some of my fondest memories.

On one riding adventure my Mom got stuck with an impossibly stubborn horse named Archie. He grazed when he wanted, fell out of line when he wanted and took off at a gallop when he wanted. At one point he jetted off through a group of low-lying pine branches with my Mom hanging on for dear life screaming bloody murder. She escaped his joyride unscathed but she did lose an earring in the process. Only my Mom would wear earrings to go horseback riding, but that's neither here nor there. For a good ten minutes I watched our grizzled cowboy guide fumble around in the mud in his cowboy hat and black poncho looking for the earring. It's was the kind of absurd scenario you can never forget.

But what I'm getting at is this, or what I learned from those experiences is, don't be afraid to do the touristy stuff. With that lesson in mind I decided that I had to ride an elephant while I was in Thailand.


After a few days in Chiang Mai, Thailand, Jessie and I hopped in a van with two other Americans and headed into a seemingly untouched valley to spend a day with elephants. Everything about the experience was spectacular.

The power, strength, size and gentleness of these creatures was astonishing. If you ever get the chance to ride them, don't bat an eyelash. A short video from our day (turn the volume up):

An Indian Wedding

For all of the fathers out there that complain about the cost of their daughter’s weddings just count your blessings you don’t live in India.

Indian weddings are spectacular. No expense is spared, and it’s common for many families to take out loans to host proper celebrations. A typical wedding seems to be something out of a novel or fairytale – they stretch over several days and will include hundreds of people that travel from all over the country or world for the celebration.

In July of 2011 two of my friends are getting married in Bangalore. He is French and she is the eldest daughter of a very prominent local family. By all indications their wedding is going to be the super bowl of ceremonies.

This past weekend I accompanied them to see the site her father has chosen for the event. Let me begin by saying I had read about the place in guidebooks.

The wedding is taking place at the Bangalore Palace – a replica of England’s Windsor Castle built over several decades in the late 1800s upon 454 acres of manicured grounds.


We arrived in the early evening and the castle was lit up like it was the backdrop of a climatic scene in a Hollywood love story. It’s a moving place and will surely make for an incredible setting for the wedding. It’s also worth mentioning there probably wasn’t another site in the city large enough – they are expecting at least 2,000 people.

Frankly, I can’t wait. This should be the event of the year and there are rumors that the bride and groom will be arriving on elephants. I have got my fingers crossed.

Ruffled Shirts and Drum Machines

I have always wanted to go as Prince for Halloween. With a few Halloween parties popping up in Bangalore this year, I toyed with the idea of making it happen, but alas, no one would get it (talk about awkward).

While this might not be the year of the Prince costume, I'm going to devote a post to him.

Prince was and is the Scarlet Pimpernel of music.

I have an odd fascination with Prince -- the music, the showmanship, the costumes, everything. He has always been spectacularly bizarre, but incredibly entertaining.

I know there are a lot of people out there that just don't get him, that probably don't get me liking him, but I think you need to watch and listen again.

Back in 1985 (the year I was born) there was no one hotter. The music was out of this world, the androgynous look was so weird it worked and the guy could dance.

For a simple change of pace -- yes, I realize this has nothing to do with India -- I give you Prince, "I would die 4 for you," live 1985. Enjoy.

Bangalore and Buffalo

I have always found it pretty funny how easily you can get a rise out of folks in the U.S. if you bring up outsourcing and Indian accents on the end of customer support lines (Mom). But to my surprise, you get the same kind of excited responses when you bring up the subject here.

Few Bangaloreans are aware President Obama is winding down the war in Iraq or that he passed healthcare reform, but they all are well aware of his position on reforming American corporate tax structure.

You might recall the line, “our current corporate tax system encourages paying lower taxes if you create a job in Bangalore, India, than if you create one in Buffalo, New York.'' It’s catchy but it has created a firestorm in India.

The President is making an official visit to Delhi on November 5 and as far as Bangalore is concerned the only state issue worth addressing is his stance on outsourcing. This is a position reflected by taxi drivers, waiters, corporate stiffs and seemingly every newspaper.

I suppose this isn’t that surprising considering outsourcing has become almost as synonymous with India as yoga. In fact, outsourcing has provided much, if not the majority, of the fuel for Bangalore’s meteoric rise over the past decade.

IT firms and call centers seem to be on every block and a trip to the outskirts of the city puts the industry’s contribution in perspective. What were once village farms five years ago are now massive IT parks that are the shiny, new homes of tens of thousands of Indian workers.

This outsourcing fiasco – and yes, I am going to call it that – is a wonderful example of the power of words. I’m a card carrying member of the Obama cult but prez you should have known better.

Considering U.S. aims in Pakistan and Afghanistan, and global issues high on the President’s agenda -- such as climate change, the relationship between the U.S. and India has never been more important. The Buffalo/ Bangalore comment should have never happened.

I find it rather depressing that hours of the President’s visit are going to be spent discussing Dell call centers when Muslim extremism in Pakistan, the Kashmir issue and U.S. India cooperation on renewable energy development await well-deserved attention.

Youngistaan

I think everyone would agree using polar bears to sell Coke was a great idea. Having Cindy Crawford take down a cold Pepsi wasn’t half bad either. I would even say Dr. Pepper’s “doctor” commercials, featuring Dr. J and Dr. Love, were solid when they first aired. But, there is a Pepsi commercial here that is simply driving me crazy.

Some ad exec came up with the brilliant idea to invent a country for Pepsi drinkers. In this land, the young and hip chill and drink Pepsi to their heart’s delight. What is the name of this place you ask? It’s Youngistaan; which literally translates to land of the young or young land.


I have a couple problems with Youngistaan.

To begin, this is certainly not the work of Don Draper. Youngistaan is the epitome of our slide into idiocracy. Why do advertisers suddenly feel compelled to event words and now countries to sell their products? Take for example recent beer slogans, “The coldest tasting beer” and “drinkability.” Holy hell Bud Light, “drinkability,” is that really the best you can do?

Youngistaan is drinkability bad. Let’s say nothing about the taste of our beverage but simply attach our label to youth and invent a country while we're at it. For all I know, this ad campaign has been massively successful in India, but if it has, it certainly doesn’t reflect well on India’s consumers.

While I could certainly continue on this critique I want to bring up another point. In an increasingly flat world I think companies have to be aware that their ads designed for one country, or a select demographic, will easily percolate into other markets.

With that in mind, I have to wonder what Bible Belt, rural or redneck America would think of Youngistaan. When Americans think about “stans” we think of Afghanistan and Pakistan – which together are commonly referred to as Jihadistan. Maybe I’m too sensitive about this or I’m reading too much into it, but I can’t help but think Pepsi could have used better word choice.

What I’m getting to is this. After watching these commercials and seeing the Youngistaan slogan literally hundreds of times, I don’t associate Pepsi with hip and youthful culture. Instead, I think about the Taliban setting up IEDs in Afghanistan or indoctrinating a new group of recruits at madrassas in Waziristan.

So, I want to hear from you. What do you think of Youngistaan? How do you think red-state America would react?

Banjo

In India there is Goa and then the rest of the country. That is to say, while modesty seems to be the rule in Bangalore, Goa’s beaches are excess in every conceivable manner. Goa was, up until the 1960s, a Portuguese colony and is probably best described as a slice of Brazil glued onto India’s western coast. But this post is not about one of Goa’s endless nights, this post is about one of Goa’s stray dogs.

Two years ago, on my first trip to India, Chetan Chandra – a brother from another mother – and I spent five days in Goa. We had a fantastic time, stayed in a hotel built on the ramparts of a 16th Century Portuguese Fort and did more riverboat gambling than I need to recount here, but an hour with a stray made the trip.

One afternoon after lunch we decided to walk back to our hotel. We had taken a taxi to the happening stretch of the beach and I don’t think either one of us had realized just how far we had gone.

As we stood outside our restaurant and gazed in the direction of the hotel, we could see a tanker washed up on the beach in the distance and figured it was a maybe a mile or two away. It was our landmark and goal.

As we started the trek, the beach began to slowly empty out and before we knew it, we were alone – except for the company of a few fishermen mending their nets and wandering packs of stray dogs. These dogs were aggressive and would at times move towards us and circle. Trying to keep our calm, we simply kept walking.

After an hour something was very wrong. The ship, that didn’t seem that far away when we started, wasn’t getting all that much closer. We found ourselves caught in an Indo-Portuguese no man’s land inhabited by rabies infested packs of dogs. Just great.

But then he appeared. Our mutt was brown and white, with alert ears and a concerned face. For the next few miles he was our guide. We named him Banjo – it just fit – and he led us forward fearlessly. He tended to stay 20 yards ahead and only slowed down to make sure we were still following. When packs of strays would approach, he would grit his teeth, growl and ward them off. He was simply incredible.

Miles later, as we finally reached the tanker, he was suddenly gone as quickly as he had come. He had drifted behind us to ward off one last pack and, I suppose, sensing we were out of danger, let us go.

This post, at Chetan’s request, is a long overdue thank you note. Banjo, you were one of a kind. I wish you nothing but bacon bits and dozens of pups.

Happy Valley

Give me some cold, cheap beer and I’m happy. Add gambling and the most spectacular horse racing venue I have ever seen and I’m ecstatic.

Four weeks ago, while in Hong Kong, my girlfriend and I spent an afternoon at Happy Valley, the city’s out of this world track.

Happy Valley Racecourse was originally built in 1845 on Hong Kong Island to amuse the city’s growing population of British sportsmen. When it was constructed the facility was isolated and surrounded by rice paddies, but today, after numerous renovations, the track lies in the middle of towering skyscrapers. Frankly, I had never seen anything like it.

We arrived at happy Valley for race six of ten of the day and promptly got a tutorial on the ins and outs of betting at the track. After having much of what was explained to me pass in one ear and out the other, I decided to place a ten Hong Kong dollar bet that horse six, a bit of an underdog, would win the race. My reasoning – six is my lucky number. I was born on March six, my Mom on May six and my grandfather wore number six when he played football at Alabama.

A pitcher of Carlsberg later, Jessie and I moved towards the fence and watched as the horses thundered out the gate. By the first turn, and much to my surprise, my horse was in the top three. By the second turn, he had moved into second and at about that point I lost all composure. The next thirty or so seconds were a blur. I vaguely remember waving my ticket in the air, jumping up and down and screaming, “come on you son of bitch,” over and over and over. Jessie was mortified, I was rabid.

But wouldn’t you know it, my horse won. As I ran around in a victory lap, Jessie just shook her head and I’m sure pretended not to know me. It was glorious. At 14 to 1 odds, my bet paid for the rest of the afternoon’s beer and gambling.

Oh happy Valley, you truly are so happy.

(Disclaimer -- These photos are Jessie's. I think she ended up liking the races more than I did. In fact, she picked two winners later in the day.)

Corporal J. Sullivan

(British soldiers in India, early 20th century)

26th of May, 1906, Bangalore, India – After four weeks of struggle, Corporal J. Sullivan of H Company, 1st Battalion, Essex Regiment, closes his eyes, squeezes the hand of the nurse who has been wiping the sweat from his forehead and finally succumbs to Enteric Fever. He is 25, a veteran of campaigns in Burma and Natal, South Africa and impossibly far from home and the people he loves.

Outside the hospital a half dozen of his friends smoke the day’s last cigarettes and wait for the news they know is coming. Some of them comb their hair to pass the time, others twist mustaches and all of them wear thousand-yard stares as they contemplate the inevitable.

The doctor finally walks towards them, delivers the news and they comfort each other as soldiers do. No one cries; they are used to death, but after a long silence they all agree to write letters home to Sullivan’s young wife and his mother, and pitch-in to purchase him a proper Granite tombstone.

Corporal J. Sullivan will be one of dozens of soldiers from the 1st Essex laid to rest between April and August of 1906 in the new, tree-lined Protestant cemetery along Hosur Road in Bangalore. After surviving skirmishes and battles, bullets and shells, these men, like so many soldiers before them, fell to tainted drinking water.

I stumbled onto this cemetery about a week ago and was overwhelmed by the scene. This solemn monument to British history in Bangalore has been repurposed for the needs of new India. In between, or at the base of, forgotten British headstones are new crosses and graves of Bangalore’s Christian Indian population. The cemetery is unkempt but still beautiful.

After my first accidental visit, I promised myself I would return with a camera and notepad and try to give this seemingly forgotten place a little bit of new life.

I returned a few days ago at dusk and picked out J. Sullivan’s grave. As I sat and scribbled down his name, and the names of a few other men, four rickshaw drivers walked behind me, smoking hash as they ended their day, and stared inquisitively in my direction. I’m sure they were thinking, “What the hell is this guy doing?”

But after a little research, a few small pieces of Sullivan’s story materialized. While his grave made no mention of his cause of death, clues from surrounding markers put things in focus. At first, I thought he may have died, with dozens of his comrades, during a small campaign in India. But, Bangalore in 1906 was a place for R&R and polo games. An online history of the Essex Regiment confirmed that the 1st Battalion did not see action that year.

One grave in Sullivan’s row gave me my best clue. At the base of Driver Edward Collin’s tombstone, of C Battery, Royal Horse Artillery, was the phrase “From Enteric Fever.”

Enteric Fever is in fact Typhoid Fever, which remains to this day a killer in India. Typhoid Fever is picked up from contaminated drinking water and kills its hosts with 104 degree Fahrenheit fevers, unrelenting diarrhea and eventual fatal dehydration. It is a slow and awful way to die.

Bangalore in 1906 was hit with a rash of Typhoid cases. If the mortality rate spiked in the British army, one can only imagine the suffering laid on the local Indian population.

This, unfortunately, is as far as I got. The scene I described at the beginning of the post is fiction but I don’t believe too far from the truth.

(Sullivan's cemetery today)

Team America

“But come on, I just need a half liter of gasoline to get the bbq going, we’re trying to make burgers.” I can’t even believe these words have come out of my mouth. The Indian gas station attendant smiles, wobbles his head and pushes the empty, plastic bottle of coke back at me.

His manager walks in, assesses the situation and says, “You need a metal bottle, which you can have for 300 rupees.” Damien, my French counterpart, quickly responds, “Do you have any smaller bottles?” The manger nods, and 150 rupees later I’m walking out of a Shell station with a half liter of gasoline that will be my “lighter fluid” for the stubborn charcoal that has been preventing me from having my first cheeseburger in an impossibly long time.

For the three weeks I have been in India I have tortured anyone who cares to listen with an exhaustive description of a true American burger. Luckily for me, I have become friends with a group of Indians and ex-pats that have a taste for beef.

While I will never be able to repay the people who have done so, so much to welcome me here, I figured firing up the grill and making a few burgers might be a start.

So there I am, standing in front of the grill, eyeing the two plates of patties that are covered in salt, pepper, Worchestire and bbq sauce, as Al Green’s “Love and Happiness,” blares over a speaker to my right. For a half a second I close my eyes, take a swig of my beer, breath in the smell of smoking charcoal and disappear home.

Damien’s laugh snaps me back to reality. He is pouring gasoline into the top of the metal bottle and in his thick French accent says, “Oh zis is going to be so Team Americaaa, no?” His arm flicks forward and the gasoline falls onto a few red embers buried in the charcoal. A miniature fireball erupts from the grill and we both let out a “wooohhhh” as Al Green whales through a broken heart. I turn to Damien and say, “America, fuck yeah!”

The Paper Route

Waking up at 5:45 in the morning to go the gym is a terrible idea. That said, I’m doing it. I have found these early mornings bearable – in large part – because of the walk there. Shaking off the stiffness of sleep in the cool and relatively clear, morning air, when most of Bangalore hasn’t yet woken up, is remarkably refreshing.

When I step out, the streets nearest to the apartment are almost completely deserted except for the neighborhood’s exceptionally faithful Muslims who have already prayed at the Mosque. They tend to wear all white, don prayer caps and have red, hennaed beards. Of that group, a select few also wear Kohl, which seems to be devotional black eyeliner. If I have taken a keen interest in their garb, I can only imagine what they think of my t-shirts, white tennis shorts, black mid-calf socks and white Adidas running shoes.

Once onto Brigade Road and past the Johnson Market, the sidewalks are generally clear except for a few sleeping beggars and stray dogs. While I had walked Brigade Road dozens of times before I started my early morning trips to the gym, I didn’t actually “see” the street until the chaos of the day’s traffic was pealed away.

Even though I’m half asleep, I find myself chuckling at wonderfully Indian signs, Jerry-rigged patches of sidewalk (usually precariously placed granite slabs covering holes) and almost unimaginable tangles of wires. Or, I shake my head in disbelief as a single rickshaw will speed by, driver honking his horn at no one but simply out of habit.

My favorite part of the walk comes just a few blocks before the gym. Outside of a Times of India newsstand, paper boys and paper men work furiously to stack and tie bundles of the day’s paper for delivery (everything in India seems to happen a little later). Perhaps it’s because I can’t see a newspaper without thinking of my father, but this moment always stops me in my tracks. It has been repeated in hundreds of thousands of villages, towns and cities the world over, every day, for time immemorial. Some things should never change.

The Meter Please

After lunch yesterday I decided to leave the dust and crowds of Commercial Street and retreat to the apartment. Satisfied from my doughnut and sauce experiment, I ducked out of the restaurant and bee-lined it for a group of idle rickshaws.

Every rickshaw in Bangalore has a meter but finding a driver willing to use his can be a challenge. Most drivers ask where I want to go, give me a good look up and down, and quote me a price for the trip that is at least five times what the metered rate would be.

I have developed a suite of techniques for identifying honest drivers and if needed, persuading the cheats to turn the meter on. Yesterday I was sure I spotted the right man for the job from a half a block away.

This driver had a traffic cop lounging in his back seat for a moment’s respite from the sun. I strolled over, asked if he was working and he immediately shot back, “where do you want to go?” It didn’t come out quite like that but bear with me.

I responded, “Richmond Town—the Johnson Market.” Without batting an eyelash, he responded, “100 rupees.” I was almost surprised by his response but I have been in India just long enough to know better.

The two and half kilometer trip over to Commercial Street from my place had cost me 24 rupees, or just over 50 cents. I laughed, peered past the driver and made eye contact with the cop. Speaking to the driver but looking at the cop, I said, “we both know it costs 25 rupees to get over there; use the meter and you have my fare.”

All I got was a shrug from the cop and an accented reply of “100 rupees from the driver.” It’s common knowledge here that the vast majority of cops are corrupt but I will give this guy the benefit of the doubt and just call him lazy. Anyway, shaking my head, I walked off, flagged down another driver and began the process anew.

My new driver was a straight shooter, a meter guy, and 15 minutes later, after we pulled up to the apartment, I gave him his 25 rupees and handed him another 20 more.