Leaving with a Bang

After a few relaxing days in south Goa, I returned to Mumbai to prepare for my departure. But on the fateful day of my flight back to the states, the unthinkable happened. Bombs aflared in Colaba, Mumbai´s tourist heart as terrorists stormed the five star Taj Mahal hotel and other frequented tourist sites. Fortunately I was staying with a friend north of the city at the University of Mumbai and no where near the scene of the crimes. Unlike the madness happening further south, the campus was deserted as classes where canceled, commuters too scared to travel. But panic still reigned in the Savitribhai Phule Ladies hostel as the residents watched the news unfold. It was hard to believe how much damage a handful of crazed fanatics could cause as bombs went off around Colaba and automatic weapons were discharged in Churchgate Station. Close to 200 people were killed during the three days of violence. Thankfully, unlike the September 11th 2001 attacks of which I was also a witness, the terrorists were not as efficient in their mission of destruction. But pain and suffereing they did cause and as the hours of terror dragged on, Mumbai watched with its heart in its mouth. I watched with disappointment, saddened by humanity´s potential for evil and our disposition towards hate. How much easier it is for us to cause harm to ourselves and others than commit an act of good. How acts of evil leave a longer lasting imprint, scarring mercilessly the face of our world. I still would like to think that there's a balance that leaves no bad deed unpunished. But as terrorism grows exponentially, we must think of new ways to combat hate and ignorance. To spread love and peace in places of war and hate.

Public Transportation

Although sometimes onerous, riding in trains is the most efficient and economical way of getting around expansive India. Despite the unpleasant memories on public transport, (ahamm, read previous entry) there are numerous fun filled adventures chasing and finally catching up to old double decker buses. These giant tin cans take on multiple direction traffic with authority, stopping for no one, not even passengers who have to hop on as the bus is moving. On these carnival rides one is thrown any which way the pothole filled roads decide to toss you (for best action ride atop). On train rides that may last for days, you also become involuntarily familiar with the oh so pungent Indian body odor which smells of cumin and sweat. If on the bottom bunk, you may find curious locals sitting on your sleeper upon waking. They sit excessively close and ask extremely personal questions. But if you have the nerve to answer and ask, you´ll receive honest and insightful information about Indian culture and customs. Why else travel if not to get intimate with the country and its people? And sometimes their belongings.

On one particular eventful train ride from Trivandrum to Gokarna, I accidently grabbed my neighbor´s shoe. Groggy and unable to wake up for the 4am stop, I snoozed the alarm. Dazed and confused I woke up as the train was slowing and panicked. I grabbed my belongings and fumbled in the dark for shoes, any shoe. I managed to jump off as the train was pulling away with a slightly tighter left sandal. Once at the darkened and deserted Canacona Station, I worried about getting to my desired beach destination. The one employee informed me that there would be no trains coming in any direction for quite some time and there seem to be no public transportation at that hour. After what seemed like an eternity a backpacker arrived in a rickshaw. I asked him about where we were and how to get to town. He enjoyed his stay in Palolem beach, Goa but apprehensive, I planned to sleep for a few hours and go back to Gokarna. Goan beaches are over packed with drugged up zombies, thought I. But as the sun rose and illuminated the white sand with palms as far as the eye could see, I felt destined to stay. I found a cheap room and spent a relaxing three days lying on the sand, eating fresh fish, doing yoga, getting massages and meeting interesting people. Now there´s a lesson in going with the flow.

Public Masturbation

Sexual perverts run amuck on the streets and trains of India. While taking a digesting stroll after dinner on Mumbai’s University campus, my friend Adey and I noticed a suspicious man, previously hanging around couples, behind us on the darkened path. Disturbed by the lingering presence now steadily following us, we decided to cut our walk short. Joking about the abundant number of weirdoes in Mumbai, we grabbed some precautionary rocks and strolled confidently back to the dorm. Although it did cross my mind and public perverts had masturbated in front of my friends before, I was unprepared by what we found underneath a street lamp. Alight as if on stage, I stood frozen stiff by a grotesque performance. With newspaper in hand and fallace in the other, the seemingly reputable man wearing a pink shirt and khakis took pleasure in jerking off in front of my friend and me. I stared in shock as Adey attacked him with rocks and insults while he cowered and ran into an overgrown field. As incredible and unlikely as this incident might have been, it was not the first or last sexual offence against travelers in the subcontinent.

As I prepared to depart south on my own, I grew anxious over attacks on tourists, in particular the brutal rape and murder of a young girl only months earlier in Goa, where I was headed. Violence against women all over the world is more common than one would like to admit, even in “developed” countries such as the U.S., where a woman is raped every four minutes. Despite never being in any physical harm, my encounter with public masturbators on trains and buses would be numerous. Heart broken and at a lost for words, I tried to comfort a fellow traveler and friend as she was molested while trying to board a public bus. On an overnight train I awoke in the middle of the night to find a man fondling a white woman as she slept. Drowsy but distrustful, I gave him a good slap on the ear and the cretin dared to stare at me incredulously. But in addition to the disbelief and utter disgust, rage did not creep into my heart until I approached a police officer in a station with a complain and the culprit. The protector and abider of law did nothing to help. He wouldn’t even acknowledge my presence and looked disinterestingly away as I gestured and explained how the man next to me followed me into the bathroom and waited until I came out to show me his penis. I didn’t expect an arrest but at the very least a few words of reproach. I had grown naïve over the few months spent out of the country for corrupt police are known to participate in crimes against women. One British girl in Indonesia shuddered as she recounted how a police officer had cupped her breast while she lifted her heavy backpack onto the upper sleeper of an overnight train. And although men all over the world have a hard time controlling their cocks, I’ve met women from New York to Paris who’ve witnessed such unsavory incidents; India surpasses most countries on indecent exposure towards foreign women.

Historically an extremely sexually expressive culture, Indian society became repressive and as baby girls and widows are murdered, the male to female ratio death drops discriminately in favor of the former. Globalized by the liberal western media, Bollywood movies increasingly push the envelope on sensuality. This is by no means an excuse, but the fact is that there are an increasing number of poor, sexually repressed, single Indian men who view westerners as lacking scrupulous erupting their frustrations in front of western women.

Moving Market

After spending a week in Yogyakarta, Java's cultural soul, I was surprisingly looking forward to the crazy zoo that is the subcontinent. Indonesia was shockingly mad, Yogya however, is laid back as far as city go. I spent my days riding around on AC public buses, making day trips to the sights in and around the city, and watching movies at a nearby restaurant. But after the shadow puppets and overpriced Borobudur Temple, I was on a 6 hour train to Jakarta. Once inside business class, I was glad to get my own comfortable enough seat. This class, however, was not equip to pamper businessmen with lap top computers, as the name suggests, but to provide them with a venue for making money. As we passed distant hills, flooded rice paddies and dry cornfields on the outside, vendors of all types of products cornered the passangers on the inside. Drunk from the midday heat, I purchased my lunch from the head of a fullfigured woman selling rice and chicken wrapped in banana leaf out of a wicker basket. After lunch, you could also purchase all kinds of snacks, sweets, fruits, popsicles, hot and cold beverages. Once stuffed, I had the option of purchasing widgets for entertainment: books (comic and religious), newspapers, wooden trains, natural healing oils, fake Dolce and Gabbana bags, shoes, cigarates...For those unable to amuse themselves, a variety of wierdos could do it for you by banging on anything wooden or metal that would make a noise, including the ever popular street instrument of a stick with flattened bottle caps nailed to one of the ends. Making noise is the key phrase here for anyone attempting to sing would skreech like a dying animal, coaxing you to pay money in order to shut them up. Badly made-up transvestites, children, and beggars would stand next to your seat, motionless, until you took out some rupiahs. People selling various items would throw their products on your lap and disappear before you could protest hoping that a few minutes of fondling would induce you to buy it. The train had become not only a moving supermarket but also a moving clinic as some guy attempted to measure my blood pressure. Those baking in their own sweat, for the open window and the ceiling fan provided no relief, could purchase paper fans or freshening towels stolen from Garuda airlines. As we neared Jakarta, the largest city in Indonesia, the poor, maimed and destitute started to make an appearance. Gangs of dirty children would sweep the floor on hands and knees with newspapers and men would spray air freshener, afterward demanding money. There were more helpless than the money in my wallet and it was impossible to ignore thier cries. Unable to sleep from the racket of talentless musians and the vendors' monotone shouting "Nasi!Nasi! Nasi Ayam!," "Minum!" I mainly stared, either at the circus inside the train or out the window, at the men in tow of heavy buffoloes skidding through muddy patches, at cows, goats, people washing, standing, working, children playing. India will be similar, with its sticky stiffling heat, with its dirty public toilets (i.e. the streets) desipating the smell of shit and urine everywhere, a moving blur of noise, smells and sounds confusing the senses.

Mo' Bromo

Taking a night bus dropped me off in Probolingo in the middle of the night. Urged by the lonely planet, I insisted that the driver take me to the bus terminal in order to avoid being ripped off at one of the travel agencies. The bus terminal however, was deserted and after asking minibus drivers about the service to Cemero Lawang, the town overlooking Bromo volcano, I was told that the public bus service would not begin until 7 am, which would leave me waiting for another four hours. Knowing that this might be a possibility, I was ready to wait it out and sleep on the street or inside one of the minibuses until finally, someone who spoke English well offered a solution. Within minutes, I was perched on a motorbike, on the way to one of the travel agencies. There, an agent would call me a "private" minibus that would drive me the hour to my destination. After waiting an hour, I was grateful to nap on the dusty minibus. To my surprise, I was awoken again and again not by the rising sun, but by the multiple stops made to pick up families, workers, and old women carrying vegetable baskets. This "private" minibus I paid four times the regular fare for, was over crowded with people sitting on benches in the isle and surprise surprise, a scam. But my patience impressed me as I calmly moved and reshuffled let people in and out. I arrived exhausted and was mildly impressed by fuming Bromo and in the background, the imposing Semeru volcano, the largest Indonesia looming at 3676 meters. After a quick glance, I buried myself under multiple blankets and took a short but refreshing nap.


The town of Cemero Lawang was deserted, like a wild wild west ghost town. I was surprised to later see the masses of tourist being herded like sheep for sunrise at the volcano viewing point. With ample time on my hands, I decided to walk to the volcano in the afternoon. It only took me one hour to descend and traverse the sandy volcanic valley leading up to moon crater Bromo. Once at the top, one must be as nimble as a goat to walk around the circumference of the volcano without falling into the steaming pit. Perhaps fortunately, I was discouraged from walking around the crater by the appearance of dark clouds. I was unable to escape in time and was drenched and muddy upon return. The next day I would be in one of the many jeeps filing up to the breathtaking but overcrowded panoramic view of three volcanoes being set afire by the rising sun.

Road Kill

I thought I would leave bad luck behind in Gili Menu but it stubbornly followed me to Bali. Still with some minor pain from my fall, I incurred more pain while traveling by ferry to Padangbai. Determined to enjoy my holiday at any cost, I made my way to the popular Kuta Beach area. There I spent a couple of fun days enjoying the familiar ocean city life with its myriad of restaurants, trendy shops, vibrant night life, and shirtless hotties. In search of culture and art, I made my way north to Ubud where my nagging wound continued to bleed. Determined to see some sights, I rented a motor bike to visit some temples and drive around the capital of Denpasar looking for the Citibank. Early on in the day trip, while lost and confused, I dropped the motorbike on my leg as I was turning, coincidently the already wounded leg. I must have been a pitiful sight as I laid on the street, tourist road kill. A group of men came over to lift the bike off me and I sat on the sidewalk, incredulous and embarrassed. After a few minutes of nodding off the concerned locals, I continued on to the next temples for my leg was only bleeding and hurting a little more than usual. After lunch I returned to my room to changed the dressing and continued on to Denpasar and Tanah Lot. On the way to the splashing but difficult to find sea Temple, I fortunately met and followed two band boys from Jakarta who were as lost as I but could at least understand the directions provided by the locals. We reached the overcrowded but must see tourist attraction in time for sunset and I was amused by the Indonesian tourists who were playfully running away from the ten foot waves as they crashed into the carved rock. Tired and with a sore leg, I rushed home to shower and rest.
The next morning I awoke with throbbing pain and unable to walk. I would spend the next few days mostly laying in bed with my leg up, laboriously getting up to go to the bathroom. The helpful man that worked at the Guest House willingly fetched me something to eat as I displayed my bleeding and now swollen wound. My neighbors provided some light conversation and consoling words. Once I was well enough to stand, I looked forward to going to the post office and out to eat. I attended some very expressive Balinese dance performances and fell in love with the entrancing chanting of the Kecak performers. Despite my bad luck, I loved the gallery filled streets of Ubud and its ubiquitous shops and restaurants, some even selling organic products and wheat grass juice. Even the Balinese macaques that attacked and scratched me during my visit to the monkey forest put by a slight damper to my visit to the Indiana Jones like temple. But wishing to start anew and forget about my haunting accidents, I traveled from Ubud to the quiet tourist town of Lovina where I spent most of my time by the beach at the Warung Rasta chatting with other backpackers and drinking by the bond fire. On a morning trip to see the towns premiere tourist attraction, I was disturbed by the noisy boats filled with tourists that relentlessly chased the numerous dolphins who make Lovina beach their home. Unable to swim or dive due to my healing gash, I became bored quite easily of the quite beach town and boarded an overnight bus in search of the raved about Bromo volcano.

Trouble in Paradise

While exploring one of the many abandoned resorts of the Gili, the furniture and menus lingering like earthbound spirits, I absent-mindedly jumped on a wooden step only to have it give way beneath me. Hitting my shin on a concrete wall, I nicked off a seizable piece of meat and panicked as I saw fat and tissue barely hanging on to my shin bone. The blood came rushing out and I instinctively applied pressure soiling red the white cloth I always carry to use as a head scarf while visiting mosques. Crying from the pain shooting up my leg, I hobbled to the neighboring hotel, where the nervous receptionist called a mule carriage, the only mode of transportation on Gili Menu. After what seemed like an eternity, I was rocked uncomfortably to the island clinic behind a moody mule. Although sparkling new, the clinic seemed to be not in use as dusk collected on the examination table. Generally weary of doctors and believing in the healing powers of traditional medicine, Indonesians, specially those outside the cities, tend not to frequent hospitals. I'm not even sure that the woman who came to clean my wound from a nearby home is a registered nurse. To the amusement of a crowd of curious kids that had gathered around me, I squirmed and screamed as the "nurse" poured antiseptics onto the gash on my leg. Only one child, with his emotive expressions of sympathy, aided in calming me by repeating "slowly, slowly" and making noises through clenched teeth. I spent that evening and the following day sulking and wandering not too far from my loft. I was only made a little cheerful by an invitation to break fast with the Muslim family who owned the Balenta restaurant and bar and my imminent departure from accursed Island.

...and more ships

While violently wrapping my way around volcanic mountains, I discovered how similar the landscape of Flores, with its Banana and Cacao fields, is to my native land. Savoring passion, cashew, papaya, and guanabana fruit and seeing naked kids swimming in rivers brought back memories of a carefree childhood in the Dominican Republic. It is hard to believe, taking in the familiar sights, smells and flavors, that I am in a new faraway land. Along with the flora, the natural wonders of rushing waterfalls, steaming hot rivers, and the breathtaking beauty of the tricolor lakes of Kelimutu made for an exciting trip to the interior of Flores. Regrettably, one must be weary of alcoholics and the Moni Mafia in the small town at the base of the volcano cradling the three crater lakes. My trip was cut short by unpleasant mafiosos trying to scam me into expensive incomplete day trips and the town's drunk continued stalking and harassing of other backpackers. The aforementioned annoyances and rumors of theft ruined the otherwise relaxed and quite charm of tiny Moni.
Once back in Labuan Bajo, I expectantly boarded a sailboat with eight strangers, all European, in order to spend three nights and four days westwardly crossing the Flores sea to Lombok. Despite mild sea sickness, the trip was surprisingly entertaining. On the itinerary: a visit to Komodo National Park, multiple island stopovers for snorkeling and trekking to a waterfall (our only fresh water shower of the trip, spoiled only by the swim back to the boat). Otherwise the daytime hours were spent reading, sunbathing, chatting, relaxing and at night, we were entertained by gazing at the stars, the screeching of island bats, and the green plankton that made a light show of the ocean. Despite limited resources, the food was filling and deliciously prepared by the friendly Indonesian men who tended to our every need. Upon arriving in the port of Labuan Lombok, I said goodbye to my shipmates and made my way to the Gili Islands on the west side of Lombok. In Gili Menu I would spend an undisturbed three days laying on beach bungalows watching the setting sun, reading and eating. Some light walking and snorkeling, as well as one dive in which I saw huge green turtles helped to pass the sunny days. I slept safely in an open air loft and enjoyed the pleasant company of the youths who ran the Balenta, our home, restaurant and bar. On the fourth day, however, my island paradise would become a nightmare as I came crashing down, literally.

Ships, ships...

Once at the Pelni Port, I was unprepared for the madness that was awaiting me. People were congregated everywhere, perhaps waiting for or seeing off loved ones and in order to get to the ship, I had to elbow and kick my way through the crowd. Once in view of the spectacular ship, I was paralyzed by the sheer size and beauty of the vessel. I was pleasantly surprise to see that it was a legit ship that could easily stay afloat for the near 20 hour journey but as I scanned the facade, old fears returned. The ship was dreadfully overcrowded and almost as prominent as the white paint, was the tanned skin of Indonesian seafarers. The number of people wanting passage seemed endless as a huge herd was fighting its way up the narrow ramp, not even allowing passengers off. Scared to tackle the ramp myself, I waited for direction from my equally stunned friend Jorge. Luckily for us, he had an expired police card from his old days as a volunteer so he flashed it at an officer and we climbed up a less crowded ramp. Once on, we stepped over people lining the floors of the hallways and sitting even on the steps. We climbed up, literally for there were no steps and I had to be hoisted up with the help of onlookers, to the top deck and sat waiting in awe. Slowly the touris banded together and six of us sat together, sharing travel stories, listening to Peter play the saxophone. We slept badly, huddled on the floor with the ship's engine buzzing through our bodies and were awakened by the ships loud horn which signaled our arrival in Labuan Bajo. Although on my feet, It felt as if I were in a dream, entering an archipelago of lush green islands being set ablaze by the rising sun. It was like a scene from Jurassic Park and later, once meeting the Komodo dragons of the island, one would see that the movie may not be too far from reality. The ancient monitor lizard can reach up to 3 meters, their saliva containing so much bacteria that it can kill an animal as large as a buffalo. Why the massive beasts with ferocious teeth and fiery tongues exist only in Rinca and Komodo island is a mystery but after seeing Flores' main attraction, I along with my newly made friends, headed for the island paradise of Seraya.


Once in Seraya Island, we spent our days laying on the white sandy beaches, snorkeling in the pristine blue waters, eating coconuts, and climbing the two large hills to get a panoramic view of Seraya and the surrounding islands. With only 15 bungalows, it was not hard to feel as if I was in a deserted island waiting to be rescued. After dinner with my island family, for there were only about 10 of us who ate dinner on one large table, I watched the infinite sky and saw many shooting stars and even a comet being disintegrated by the earth's atmosphere, its fiery tail fizzling out against a dark screen. The sea was also set ablaze with many green plankton swimming up to shore at night and during the day, by the diversity of the marine life and the colorful corals. Leaving Seraya was one of the hardest thing I've had to do this trip and I have still not found a place that can matched its untouched beauty.

Hello Mister

Upon returning to Makassar from tribal adventures in Tana Toraja, I checked into the dodgiest hotel ever (probably a bit of an over statement but this place wasn't very nice at all). It was however, very late and I asked the driver to take me to the cheapest hotel suggested by the Lonely Planet. The next morning, I left the no name hotel to find a travel agent that would book me the fastest ship outta there and into Flores. The earliest Pelni ship south would leave in four days and after checking multiple agents, because you never know whose telling the truth in Indonesia, I paid the price. Unable to bear another night sleeping with the roaches, I went looking for another cheap but bearable hotel in which to spend the subsequent three nights. Once in Chinatown, I wandered into hotels checking the rooms and asking for prices and although it was the middle of the day, the hotels were poorly lit. In one such cave like place, I even remarked about the oddity that the rooms rates were by the hour. Upon exiting such establishment, I was dumbfounded to see that one of the "rooms" wasn't a room at all but more like a living room with red lights for entertaining guess. Concerned mainly with finding a cheap decent place to spend the night, I naively ignored the lack of integrity of the hotels I had just visited. After settling into The New Legend Guest House, I was reminded by a newly made Spanish friend of the rampant prostitution that is synonymous with many parts of Asia. As I passed "Karaoke" bars called Sexy Lady and the like, I could not help but feel wounded by one of the many ways in which women are exploited and oppressed. But from prostitution I walked into poverty when Jorge and I discovered hidden ally ways off the main port road. There we were greeted by the surprised but amused round faces of many women and children jubilantly screaming "Hello Mister." Although living in tin shacks, these people were extremely friendly and welcoming and despite living in poverty and neglect, they wanted nothing from us and were content with our just being there. It was in the home of one such caring soul that I found myself but a few days later.
As I walked the streets of Makassar I was stopped on the street by a petite Indonesian woman who wanted to introduce herself while her husband and child waited on their motor bike a few feet away. She wanted to share her culture, her home and family with me so she invited me to dine with her parents. After meeting an interminable number of cousins, brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews (for Indonesian families are very big), I was offered a lot more delicious food than I could stomach. After pictures with the family I was taken to a park where Dolphin and her hippie friends hangout making music, art and small talk. In this park, a bohemian rastaman lives in a tree house and many others play the drums, guitars, paint murals, take photographs. We sang Bob Marley songs, "Besame Mucho," and "Para Bailar La Bamba" (two Indonesian favorites). In Dolphin's humble home we ate runny egg noodle soup and stayed up late talking about life in America and Indo. In the morning, it was hard to say goodbye (literally as Dolphin continued to introduced me to friends) but the call of the sea is strong and I had to sail south.

Sticky Rice

Cost effectiveness has brought me to Makassar, Sulawesi where flights from Kuala Lumpur are cheaper than the nearby capital of Jakarta. After arriving in the new airport, I got my first true lucky break. A private taxi, empty after having dropped off some tourists, was to take me into the interior to Rantepao for only $2 more than the over night bus. This saved me the hassle of getting from the airport to the bus terminal on to a long grueling ride up winding roads and then off to find my hotel. I arrived at Hotel Pison before dawn and after ringing the bell for ten minutes, a sleepy doorman showed me to my room. I was in Rantepao to explore the Tana Toraja region and its people. In the villages of Toraja, death becomes celebration as funerals may take up to a week. The Toraja people believe that if not buried with the proper ado, the spirits of their family members will haunt them and bring bad luck. After someone's death, the body remains in the family house from months to years until enough funds are collected to have elaborate funeral processions, bull fights, and animal sacrifices. Upon arriving at the funerary compound in the village of Talung Lipu, I entered the main gate to see a small muddy courtyard, already soiled with blood, surrounded by small houses, the main gate and the main house at the opposite long ends. I watched a truck bring in an ornate coffin and dozens of men lift it onto bamboo trunks to be pushed up two stories onto a boat shaped vestibule, where it would preside over the rituals. A line of shouting dancers would makes it way around, bringing with them buffaloes, a deer and squealing pigs. The family members, all dressed in black, were to follow and accompanied by the sound of bamboo hitting a wooden boat, they brought offerings to the deceased. While talking to other tourists about the peculiar celebrations, I was caught off guard by the sacrifice of a large buffalo. Too astonish to bring out my camera in time, I saw a youth lead the unsuspecting buffalo to the muddy courtyard and cut its throat with a hooked blade. Blood splashed everywhere and the buffalo jumped wildly a few times before collapsing in defeat, trembling in despair, the life fled from its eyes as it calmly laid to rest. A group then proceeded to skin it in front of the crowd to the incessant screaming of pigs who no doubt would be next. In Torajan culture, Buffaloes, specially albino buffaloes, are believe to be sacred and a symbol of wealth that must accompany the deceased to the afterlife. After the excitement of the sacrifice, things seemed to lagged and so I decided to return to my hotel and rest.
The following day I rented a motor bike in order to explore the sites of interests around the area. After the elaborate ceremonies, the bodies are buried in caves or on the faces of cliffs in places such as Londa, Lemo or Ke'te Kesu; wooden effigies of the dead marking the graves. Babies are buried in trees for life having escaped them too prematurely, they will continue to grow in death with the trees of Kambira. While driving to these sites, I was taken aback by the Torajan country side. Time seemed to stand still as I passed endless steps of green rice fields and distant mountains reaching up to meet the bluest sky. Locals collecting the season's harvest would stare as I drove by, sometimes smiling as their children waved hello. I stopped to chat in my limited Bahasa with a man herding his buffalo in one of the fields and watched a small child fly a kite. While walking back to my bike through the narrow paths between rice patches, I slipped and in went one foot. Struggling to get my foot out of the thick mud, I pulled too hard and in went the other foot on the other side. Thunderous laughing came from the boy who had stopped flying his kite to revel in my ridicule. I walked to the nearby stream feeding the rice to wash off my muddy shame. After waving goodbye one last time, I made my way through the fields back to my bike half laughing but careful not to repeat the embarrassing and messy episode.

Insurmountable Sumatra

By boldly approaching mere strangers, I made my first friends in Medan, Indonesia's third largest city. Flustered after the trip from hell, see previous blog entry, I asked two girls eating at a restaurant about cheap accommodations. The Women were most helpful and one of them even led me to a nearby guest house. After checking into the Blue Angel, I joined the new acquaintances for dinner and as sole female travelers, we shared stories and bonded over the difficulties of traveling alone. I also picked up some insightful information about traveling in Sumatra, an island almost the size of France, as well as a traveling partner. Kate and I would make our way to Lake Toba, four hours south of Medan. The following day, a private seven person taxi took us on a wild, opposite lane changing ride as the road raged driver dared other cars and buses on a seemingly never ending game of chicken. Concerned for our safety and for the car sick woman sitting on the back seat, we asked numerous times for the driver to slow down but to no avail. Dizzy but in awe, we scaled the winding road that snaked around the volcano to see the still blue waters at its mouth. Danau Toba, is the largest lake in southeast Asia. At the Lake's center, floats Samosir island, where the Batak people welcome backpackers in Tuk-Tuk with their smiling round faces, tantalizing Tuak, palm tree liquor, and their extremity coordinating dances. Once at our desired destination, we spent a relaxed four days swimming in the sulfuric water, breathless from the panoramic vistas. In Tuk-Tuk, I made more friend to share Bintang beers with and even learned to drive a motor bike as the local children laughed at the staling engine. It was with a heavy heart that I parted ways not only with my new friends but with enormous Lake Toba. But on to new destinations I went where fury orange friends awaited me in Bukit Lawang.

From curious orangutans to the relaxing shores of Pulau Weh, a tiny island where hilly beach bungalows sigh for the return of the convivial tourists that were driven off by the 2004 tsunami and political unrest, Sumatra has much to offer. But given its sheer size, my time limitations, and the many other exotic corners of Indonesia waiting to be explored by yours truly, I must say adieu to north Sumatra after only two weeks. So goodbye insurmountable Sumatra or perhaps until next time.

Travel Turmoil

On August 7th I boarded an Air Egypt flight out of Mumbai; destination Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. After arriving, I was comforted by the fact that I would be spending the night in a fancy Malaysian airport. As I searched for my Penang flight leaving the next morning, I was a bit disconcerted. No where on the screens did I see my flight number. After asking the information desk, I was told to go a different terminal 15 minutes away, where the budget airline AirAsia.com chartered their flights. Hot Malaysian air hitting my face, I stared out the taxi window excited. But oh was the terminal really meant for budget travel. The small terminal was packed with people sitting outside on the concrete or laying on metal benches. Why did they not sit inside the AC terminal where there were chairs?, I wondered. But the people claiming an outside spot, I later found out, were the smart experienced budget travelers. Once inside the terminal, I settled in a corner on the floor with my blanket and book. Immersed in my reading, I was startled by an airport official escorting people out. Apparently, the terminal closes for a few hours in the middle of the night, to prevent budget travelers like my self, from squatting in the airport. For the first time in my life, I felt close to being homeless. All the benches outside were taken and so I sat on the concrete, leaning against the wall, internalizing the absurdity of the situation, half laughing, half crying. After four hours I was allowed back into the airport to wait another 3 hours for my flight. Finally on the one hour flight, I thought the rest of my trip would go smoothly. But boy was I wrong. Once in Penang, no one seemed to have any idea about the ferry going to Belawan, near Medan, Indonesia. So I hopped on a public bus to the main port in hopes of finding a boat to my final destination. After an hour bus tour of Penang, an island off the west coast of Malaysia, I ran to the ferry ticket office only to find out that I had just missed the boat by half an hour. I was incredulous, pissed off, defeated. Was God testing my resolve? Why hadn’t I taken the direct flight to Medan? Dazed and confused I walked the streets of, isn't it ironic? Little India, in search of accommodations/cheap flights. After visiting a few travels agency, I realized that flying to Medan would be the cheapest, quickest option so I was scheduled on an evening flight. Back at the bus stop I waited for nearly an hour only to see the bus turn the street before reaching my stop. Angry and with tears flooding my eyes, I ran a few blocks anticipating the bus route to barely catch it with loud banging on it as it pulled away. Once at the airport, I waited for another four hours, almost passing out from fatigue and no longer proud of my sense of adventure. Thinking shit could not hit the fan any worse, it splash me in the face with a flight delay. So after some deep breathing and stretching, I was on to my final destination: Indonesia. Once in the Medan airport, I smiled as I was taken to the money changer outside because the visa office machine would not take my wrinkled up dollars. Hit me with your worse Indonesia, I thought, for Malaysia had just spanked me in public. After the short inconvenience, I was on the streets of Medan asking other backpackers about cheap accommodations. Saved by the Blue Angel, for that was the name of the Guest House, I showered and finally slept.

Indian Inequalities

While visiting Bandra last week, I was disgusted by the extreme inequalities in Mumbai, India. Its incredible how someone can trample on, spit on, or ignore the extreme suffering of not only a another human being but a fellow country man. How can the filthy rich, oh and I mean filthy, sit in their Malabar Hill mansions, Bollywood worthy Bandra condos, or their exclusively owned gated communities of Hari Andani, without feeling the least bit of remorse? In order to live with such disregard, one must dehumanize or make the poor and helpless invisible. But how can the haves not see entire families of four or more lining the sidewalks; sleeping huddle together with their children in the middle so as to shelter them from the night breeze? The desperate cries of a destitute baby are so weaken by hunger that they do not reach them, sitting high up in their penthouses. They avoid walking a few blocks to their neighborhood train stations, for with personal drivers and AC cars with tinted windows, why would they take public transportation. But as they drive by Bandra Station, how can they ignore the crippled, old and young alike who are starving, begging for their next meal while rolling in agony in their own feces? But even when a few, skinny and dirty, wander to their doorsteps, escaping the eye of a snoozing security guard, they look blankly past them or shoo them off as you would a dog. The lack of apathy here scares me to death. How can someone look at human suffering in the face of a swollen bellied child while eating a sandwich and sneer, moved by disgust rather than compassion. These Indian inequalities are the most shocking in big cities such as Mumbai, where millions of dollars apart, people co-exist within a few blocks radius; some sleeping on down pillows and comforters while others on the cold concrete. I will not deny that inequality exists all over the world, in our own countries, but not like this. I consider myself to be well traveled, over 20 countries in all, but never have I seen such pronounced decadence and despair. I can not help but to feel alarmed. What kind of a world do we live in that allows over 1/4 of the population in India to live on less than $1 a day while rent in a Bandra condo starts at $1000 per month? And we participate in this debauchery, acquiring more and more material possessions; our greed insatiable. I dare you to challenge this unjust social order because living in extremes benefits no one and in the words of MLK, an injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

hello, goodbye

As I sit in a Colaba hotel in Mumbai, the honking of cars and other nuisances of city life screaming four stories below, I can’t help but think of my friends at the RDC with nostalgia. I never thought I would miss cows, cow shit, more cows, goats, buffalo, bullocks, no toilet, no electricity, no internet, mosquitoes, oh wait they’re still buzzing, oh lets not forget all the random people transfixed, staring while we carried on the minutiae of our daily lives, taking pictures with their cameras phones, holding one of my dreadlocks up with amazement and wondering where these strange folk had come from. These mild inconveniences, however, came coupled with a rural family that will be greatly missed. Despite the language barrier, we communicated in the language of love and compassion, of understanding for our fellow man. Worlds apart, we became friends, more than friends for they made sure we were fed and taken care of and we in turn, always greeted them with a jubilant “good morning” and tried to show our appreciation. As we said our goodbyes, Kaku, head woman in charge of the kitchen, warned me not to cry as her stern look gave way to watery eyes. Archana, head woman in charge of the kitchen too, cried with me as I hugged them multiple times. Captain and Gule, head men not in charge, hehehe, were a little emotional if not shocked by my sudden hug (oh screw it; I said to myself, I know it’s inappropriate but I’ll miss the hell out of them too). Oh and little Ashok with his incomprehensible amount of energy, for he is a small boy for his age, screaming “titi, breakfast.”
Once in the car it was easier to let go, the steel box acting as a barrier between this rural world we were departing and mobility, detachment. Taking in my last glimpses of sugar cane fields, saried woman with heavy loads of wash, burning wood, water, and what have you, cows, cow shit, goats, buffalo, bullocks, I felt guilty that the pain in my chest had subsided considerably. These people had forever changed my life but how much more greatly had I changed theirs? I will continue on to bigger and greener pastures and they will remain in their post, perhaps wondering what happened to that crazy dreadlocked dancing fool. But perhaps I underestimate the impact they’ve had on my life. Perhaps the traffic below is stifling the cries of a melancholic heart.

The Plight of Dalit Women

Thrice discriminated, first they are victimized by class, followed closely by caste and most oppressively by gender; Dalit women faced an array of atrocities. Troubled by the daily difficulties that threaten their livelihoods, feeding their families, violence and rape to name a few, Dalit women overlook their emancipation. Given that gender and caste discrimination is in inherent in Indian society, ensuing from thousands of years of oppression, many women internalize their inferior position and accept it as a way of life. Even once raped, many lower caste women refused to come forward, only about 30% of cases are reported. The main reason for the silence is fear of losing one’s honor and disgracing the family name. Yet is it often in order to soil the family name that the women are raped. Upper caste men who fear their husbands or fathers wait till the men have left the home in order to attack. Many women are also sexually harassed by their employers. Those women who do come forward are often outcasted and further victimized by their communities. The justice system is also hesitant in believing that an upper caste man would pollute himself by raping a lower caste woman but cases of rape and sexual abuse are rampant. Three Dalit women are raped daily and coincidently, three village women that were ganged raped by the police, recently showed up at RDC to request Adv. Eknath Awad’s assistance in filing a case. But who can these women turn to if their own local justice bodies are committing atrocities against them? Who can they trust if their value is diminished as soon as they are born female? Their fathers, husbands, and sons discount their opinions and families abort or even murder baby girls. Why should the family honor rest solely on the chastity of women? These are only but a few questions that must muddle the mind of Dalit women and that I too struggle to comprehend. But in our struggle we must be made aware of the crucial role women play in uplifting entire communities, not only as bread winners, but by serving as role models and providing education to future generations.

Rural Visiting

So we’ve been visiting the different districts in the Marathwada region of Maharashtra in order to better understand the plight of poor landless Dalits in one of the poorest region in India. Despite the fact that nearly 30% of the population in this region live on less than $0.40 a day, these people greeted us with tremendous warmth. The villagers greeted us with multiple gifts of flower necklaces, scarves and coconuts. They crowded our car wherever we went, sang convivial songs and offered tea and meals whenever possible. They seemed ecstatic that foreigners would take the time to visit their removed villages. We swayed and bumped our heads as we drove for hours on half finished or dirt roads that were full of pot holes and blocked by rocks and the ubiquitous buffalo. During one of our village visits, I was moved to tears by the numerous school children who ran breathlessly smiling and waving after our car in their blue uniforms. In spite of being sick with food poisoning, I was revived by my interactions with the village folk and with lifted spirits, forgot about the pain in my stomach. In an interview with the local media, I shouted Jaibhim and zindebad in solidarity with Dr. B. R. Ambedkar and spoke of the social disease that is plaguing India. It is not permissible that the majority of the population be oppressed by the powerful few. Women and Dalits must not only be allowed but encouraged to thrive. They should not have to sleep on the dirt, barely sheltered by hay huts, constrained to the outskirts of villages, removed from water supplies and barred from community centers and shops. They should not have to worry that while tilling their land, they may be hacked to pieces or raped. But despite the constant harassment of the upper-caste and the police, Dalits endure with optimism. Their fighting spirit and kindness has refueled my passion and further inspired me to join in the struggle to end caste as well as gender discrimination in India.

Dalits Dancing

Training week was extremely enlightening. Not only was the setting conducive to personal, as well as spiritual growth (we were nestled by the Sahayadri mountains near Pune) but also very informative. We discussed some hard facts and had numerous guess speakers discussing topics ranging from tribal communities in India to Indian prisons. Comparisons were made between minorities in the U.S. and Dalits in India as well as the Black Panther movement and the Dalit Panther Movement. Prior to arriving in India, one of my tasks was to compile a presentation on atrocities committed against the Dalit, mainly statistics and graphs, but it wasn’t until I met the so called “untouchables” that the numbers became faces. These individuals were astonishingly intelligent (many of them holding masters and PhDs) and provided endless stimulating conversations. Their fervor for fighting for what is rightly owed to them as members of the human community is inspiring. Ensuring the basic rights of Dalits is not a burden for them, but a duty. One they accept with pride and vigor. The Indian participants were also excited that foreigners had taken an interest in their plight. Many people outside the country are not aware of the pervasiveness of untouchability in India and many upper-caste Indians, whether in the country or abroad act as if it is fictional.

Aside from conversations on Dalits and Women’s rights, we allotted time for cultural exchanges and FUN. We played charades and did the limbo and enjoyed various performances and DANCE parties. Indians are a vibrant and energetic people. This is evident through their dances and in the ways in which they express themselves; hands a-flaring, heads a-shaking, pitches rising. I look forward to learning more about Indian culture.

bird shit, slums, and the like

Finally writing from the subcontinent after an eventful week. While on the flight, one of the young leaders from the group had a seizure. Unaware of any medical conditions, myself and the One World director feared for his life. Panic made me dizzy as I put my head between my legs in order to avoid fainting. The occasion also made me do something I rarely do: pray. As an increasing number of inquisitive Indians gathered around the isle, some claiming to be doctors, I prayed for his wellbeing and our safe landing. Thankfully, he came to after puking and his untroubled attitude reassured us that he would be ok, at least for the moment (we would later see a doctor as a precautionary measure). But the incident would not have any ominous consequences, as we have spent a wonderful week so far. After a warm welcome by our Indian hosts, we made our way through pulsing Mumbai. A myriad of memories came rushing back as my senses were inundated by the sore sights, sounds and smells of India. The incessant honking left a ringing in my ears and the foul stench of latrines trounced the fainter smell of sweat and curry. Passing the great number of homeless sleeping on the concrete below a Virgin Mobile bill board and luxury cars passing rickshaws really highlighted the despair amidst development of this oversized city. Overwhelmed, we arrived at Summer Land Guest House in East Dadar well after midnight and fell asleep to the loud buzzing of the AC.

On the second day of my arrival, I got shitted on by a bird, an auspicious sign according to one of the young leaders. So with my lucky brand, I along with 7 of the 8 young leaders and the One World director, walked around to the bewildered stares of the locals. After breakfast, currency exchange, and some waiting and walking, we headed to the slums of Mumbai. Most of the people in these slumps are barefoot, hungry untouchables. Their skins toasted a dark almond brown by arduous work, smoke and sun. The undersized children with their hopeful eyes and dirty cheeks followed us around with smiling faces as we visited the homes of pottery makers. They spat back the few English words we had taught them and giggled confused by our responses. I am constantly amazed by the undying fervor of the human spirit. Despite all odds and atrocities, these people persist. I am truly looking forward to improving the lives of the Dalits and hope that I can make a change, albeit small.

Human Rights violations and the gravity of abuses against the Dalit

The Dalit are limited by their caste and suffer from an array of social injustices, discrimination, and poverty. Below is some general information on the Indian Caste system, as well as some statistics compiled by CRY (Child Relief and You).

-The Caste system has existed for over 3,000 years in India. Society is divided into four main hierarchical caste groups: Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, and Shudras. The ‘ati-shudras’ or Dalits, fall outside this hierarchy and are treated as untouchables.

-Although the practice of untouchability was outlawed in the 1950 Indian Constitution, Dalit communities suffer from an array of injustices and atrocities. They are denied access to common property such as water and land and opportunities in education and employment. In a 2001 census, Dalits composed 16% of the total Indian population (160 million).

-Public health workers refuse to visit Dalit homes, Dalits are prevented from entering police stations, children must sit separately while eating at schools, they are denied access to water for fear of contamination and the list goes on…

-One million Dalits are manual scavengers who clean public latrines and dispose of dead animals.

-80% of Dalits live in rural areas yet 86% of them are landless. Although illegal, 40 million people, most of them Dalits, are bonded workers.

-Nearly 90% of all poor Indians are Dalits and 95% of them are illiterate.

-3 Dalit women are raped every day. “Dalit woman gang-raped, paraded naked.”

-11 Dalits are beaten every day. “Dalit boy beaten to death for plucking flowers.”

-Every day 2 Dalits are murdered and 2 households are burnt. “7 Dalits burnt alive in caste clash.”

-Of the 68,160 complaints flied against the police in 2000 for crimes committed against Dalits, 62% were dismissed. “Police egged on mob to lynch Dalits.”

Please refer to the following article for more information:

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2003/06/0602_030602_untouchables.html

hello, hello

Dear friends and random internet surfers, welcome to my travel blog. I hope to indulge and stimulate your senses as you live vicariously through my exhilarating experiences. As of June 1^st I will be world bound: first stop, Mumbai. While anxiously awaiting my departure, I’ve busied myself with menial but sometimes amusing tasks for over the last few weeks. But in a little over a week I will be landing into the largest city in India with my One World Crew. We will be arriving in Mumbai late night, the best time to arrive in a multi-million Indian metropolis. At night, a slight breeze cracks the oppressive Indian heat, you actually see the pavement, and cows are not inopportunely obstructing traffic. This time around however, I will not be deceived by the seemingly tranquil Mumbai air. When morning breaks, I will be awakened by the screeching of the city. As a heard of do-goers, we will weave and wind through its millions of people, vehicles, and public animals as we make our way to the more calm city of Pune. There we will commence our three day training before starting our international service projects in Telgaon village, Beed district. I will be the Group Leader for One World India 2008 as I, along with eight very world conscious side kicks work to alleviate the social strain placed on the Dalit community, India’s scapegoat. Thanks to the One World Foundation, this very lucky group will be working with the Rural Development Centre (RDC) to empower the Dalit community so that they may battle the oppression of upper-caste people and the landlords in their villages. Please refer to the One World website for some intellectual nourishment:

The mission of the One World Foundation is to encourage young people from minority and indigenous communities to become actively engaged in the human rights and development arenas.

http://www.theoneworldfoundation.org/

RDC: Inspired by the civil rights movement of the United States, the Rural Development Centre (RDC) was established in 1985 by Mr. Eknath Awad, as a way to educate Dalit youth of their rights as members of the human community. Through education, we can mobilize the rural poor to fight for equality, as well as sensitize institutions who perceive them as subhuman.