Originally Written : May 28, 2010

Dehli is a wild city. I spent the majority of the day roaming the Delhi streets and frankly, I am exhausted. A quick recap:

Visited several Mogul-era ruins and temples. It is amazing how well preserved some of those structures remain in such a densely populated and active city.

Wandered through a series of neighborhoods near Malviya Nagar. I was blown away that I could walk down an extremely poverty-stricken squatter community and one street over I could see luxury bungalows belonging to diplomats and politicians.

Haggled with a few witty shopkeepers on Janpath road near Connaught Place. Needless to say, I came out on top and left with a few memorable souvenirs.

Took the metro into Old Dehli. This was my first real “culture shock” in India. When I surfaced from the metro stop, I was thrown right into the heart of Old Dehli, a beautifully congested part of the city that is harsh and unforgiving. The streets were tightly packed and the buildings showed several layers development and infrastructure. The old part of the city is so drastically different than the new, I actually felt quite uncomfortable. I also visited Jama Masjid, an old mosque in Old Dehli. I made two mistakes: 1. I wore shorts; 2. I went on a Friday, so the muslims who were there praying did not appreciate a foreigner inside.

Spent several hours at the Lotus Temple. Although a bit of a formal gimmick, the space inside and procession were absolutely beautiful. I could have stayed here all day. It was also nice that the thick marble façade made the interior a cool retreat from the 100+ degree heat outside. The temple was not only stunning in its quality of construction and light, but it also felt perfectly serene and holistically peaceful.

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Patterns and Texture

Originally Written : May 27, 2010


I never would have guessed Indian-inspired masala and lamb pizza would be so tasty. Fortunately, I met Matan in the Mumbai airport who convinced me to try it. Matan, an Israeli about my age, had recently finished his service with the Israeli military and is backpacking through India for several months before starting school in the Fall.

Early yesterday, I left Puthappally for the Cochin Airport with the hopes of being in Delhi by dinner time. Unfortunately, fate did not concur with my plan. At the same time I left Cochin on a plane for Mumbai, where I had a stopover before continuing on to Delhi, the Indian President, Pratibha Devisingh Patil, decided to fly to China for a conference. In doing so, her trip, classified as “VIP Movement” shut down the entire Delhi airport for several hours. To further exacerbate the situation, two Indian Airlines planes nearly collided at Mumbai International Airport while one was landing and one was taking off on the same runway. As a result of the two incidents, I was left stranded in Mumbai airport for eight hours with nothing to do but get to know my new friend Matan. For several hours we were fascinated by stories and questions of the other’s culture and life. We argued about politics, talked about our favorite Family Guy episodes, and shared photographs that we had taken in our travels. My conversation with Matan did not stop for one moment during those eight hours and I boarded my plane to Delhi surprised and excited that, even though I grew up in the United States, I could relate so well to someone from Israel.

By 1am I had finally arrived in Delhi, exhausted and sleepy. I had been outside of the airport for more than a few seconds before I felt the intensity of the Delhi heat. The temperature often rises above 100 degrees Fahrenheit and the air is extremely dry in the summer. I can only imagine that this is what it must feel like to literally be baked alive in an oven. I grabbed a taxi from the airport to my cousin Bikku’s place in a well-known neighborhood behind the main market. However, with absolutely no knowledge of Hindi, I attempted to explain to the taxi driver where I wanted to go with the limited phrases that I memorized before leaving Kerala.

“Malviya Nagar, market ke pechey,” I say.

“Ok,” is his only response.

“Great,” I think to myself, “he understood.”

About 2am I finally reach Bikku’s place, grateful for a cool place to lay down and rest. I fell asleep immediately, despite the dreadful heat.

I woke this morning at about 5am, still groggy but very excited, to jump in another taxi which took me to Agra, the home of the Taj Mahal. It is often said that the Taj Mahal is like the Grand Canyon; you see pictures of it your entire life but can never appreciate it’s beauty or power until you see it in person. Four hours later, I arrived in Agra and my driver Ramesh gave me one warning before I left to go exploring—“keep drinking water by the liter, this heat is very dangerous.” It did not take me more than a few seconds to understand why he had offered the advice; the temperature today was almost 120 degrees Fahrenheit and I was nearly knocked off my feet by the overwhelming wave of heat that hit me. A thick, white haze of heat and pollution blanketed the sky like a thick smoke so densely that I could stare directly at the sun without hurting my eyes. Determined, I set out for the Taj Mahal, passing many “tour guides” trying to scam visitors with a few historical facts in exchange for a hefty compensation. I finally entered the site and immediately began documenting the amazing Moghul architecture and siting strategies. The procession and entrance were grandiose and set a fantastic stage for revealing the Taj as I proceeded.

As I had imagined, the pure white shined in the summer sun and at times felt almost blinding. I explored the mausoleum and the adjacent mosques and was intrigued by the textures, patterns, and materiality that spoke so powerfully. The deep red sandstone of the mosques and surrounding buildings, inlaid with perfectly carved patterns, provided a beautiful contrast to the purity of the Taj itself. The interior spaces provided a surprisingly cool retreat from the heat and I spent several minutes inside rehydrating and reflecting on the experience. After a few hours of exploring the site and thoroughly exhausting every photographic opportunity, I decided to head towards Agra Fort, stopping in a few shops along the way.

Shopping in India is quite the experience in itself. I get the sense that every individual in India shares the common goal of trying to take advantage of me, willing to charge me several hundreds or even thousands of rupees more because I am a foreigner. I quickly learned to bargain with the dealers until I came to a price I was happy with. Ironically, I still left each shop feeling like I had just been duped. Regardless, I purchased a few souvenirs and continued onto Agra Fort where I spent another few hours exploring and trying to stay cool. At about 1pm I had been thoroughly cooked and decided that it was time to get out of the sun before I suffered from any serious heat exhaustion or spent any more money on useless trinkets.

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A Backwater Paradise

Originally Written : May 24, 2010

Today I find myself 60 km outside of Cochin in the small villagetown of Puthuppally. A few kilometers from the town of Kottayam, Puthupally is home to families and farmers who have lived here for many, many generations and have remained quite true to their unique way of life.  Although a bit more primitive than the larger cities, the town boasts its share of commodities, including a cell phone store, bakeries, and even two large churches, built by competing Christian factions.  Although considered a rural town, the density of houses and shops along the road is almost overwhelming. Driving from the city of Cochin to Puthappally, I did not see a single stretch of undeveloped land along the road; it is like driving along an endlessly continuous strip mall of storefronts and homes.

Watch the passing urban landscape



Still used in modern construction, the traditional Kerala-style house is built of wood and concrete with a distinctive clay-tiled, pitched roof, which bodes similarity to ancient Chinese forms. Many Indian historians and local stories suggest that much of the Indian’s early technology, construction techniques, and daily traditions were brought by the Chinese several hundred years ago. The easily identifiable Kerala-style house serves several pragmatic functions which are still relevant today. The core of the house was always an enclosed storeroom constructed of coconut wood for storage of grains and food, both for the family and for the livestock.  The room was insulated by a crawl space below and an attic above, allowing air to move freely so that the grains did not go bad. The other living spaces then surrounded this store room, always adjacent to the outside and at least one outdoor porch or terrace.  There is very small delineation between indoors and outdoors, allowing occupants and ventilation to move in and out freely. The clay-tiled roof serves as a thermal mass and the distinct pitches on either end encourage air to move through the attic, pulling warm out of the house.

For the past few days, I have enjoyed the pace of life here, where there is not much that can dictate a sense of urgency or concern. One day, my uncle even told me, “There are no rules in Puthappally. Here, you do what you want when you want.” Each day, I wake up easily before the sun rises, energized by the simplicity and novelty of the place. I’ve spent much of my time wandering close to the waters, exploring the farms, and taking the opportunity to thoroughly relax. Yesterday, I visited an old palace, built by a once wealthy Maharaja of Kerala which sat atop a large hill. The palace had an impressive procession and landscaping that added to the dramatic siting of the palace itself. The palace further emphasized my observation that procession, symbol, and landscaping are very important to the Indian way of life.


Tonight I am sitting on the front porch, enjoying the luxury of a cool glass of mango juice and wifi as I watch an Indian summer sunset.  I do not know if I can bring myself to leave this place in a few short weeks.

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Acclimation

Originally Written : May 21, 2010

I spent much of the day exploring the shopping and residential districts of Cochin.  Although extremely dense and diverse, Cochin is home to a population of people who can all be easily characterized by a jovial, yet reserved, attitude, friendly nature, excessive curiosity into other people’s business, and fact-paced speech of their native tongue, Malayalam.  People from Kerala, often referred to as Malayalys, all speak Malayalam, one of the four main languages of South India.

For clarification, India is home to 22 officially recognized languages and over 1000 different dialects.  In general, each state has adopted its own language and although Hindi is known by a majority of North Indians, it does not serve as the national language because South Indian languages hold very little resemblance to the Hindi language.  Although India gained its independence more than 60 years ago, English has still persisted as a common national language, being taught in all schools and universities.   Consequently, travel for a foreigner in India is often quite easy considering the prospect of English-speaking Indians in almost any region of the country.  Kerala was the first state in India to obtain 100% literacy and is most widely known around the world as “God’s Own Country” because of its pristine landscapes and epic vistas.

As I wandered down Mahatma Gandhi Road (often the main avenue in most major cities in India and almost exclusively referred to as MG Road), I was again taken-aback by the shear amount of signage, storefronts, people, and vehicles inhabiting the streetscape.  The sheer density and diversity of stores and actions was much different than what I was used to.  As I perused the various clothing stores, coffee shops and photo labs, I tested my Malayalam abilities, often asking for the wrong item or misunderstanding the price.  Although I understand the language very well when someone is speaking to me, I often find it very difficult to formulate coherent sentences of my own.  Thankfully, I have the luxury of reverting to English when all else fails.

After a bit more window shopping and tasting of some street-side samosas, I decided to pick up a cell phone.  Referred to as a mobile (accent on the second syllable) in India, cell phones are as common as curry.  Everyone, even beggars on the street, have mobile phones and many Indians even carry several at a time.  Thousands of cutting-edge phones are available at extremely cheap prices and all are loaded with pre-paid minutes, so there is no need for a contract.  As a result, service is supposedly very good and is even available in the most remote areas of the mountains and jungles.  After a quick phone call home to the states, I head back to my grandfather’s house for some lunch and tea.

My grandfather’s house, like all architecture In India, is completely constructed of concrete and masonry blocks.  Indians have been using masonry and stone to construct their homes and other structures for thousands of years because of its availability and thermal massing qualities.  Most buildings can maintain relatively cool temperatures inside even when the temperatures outside begin to exceed 100 degrees Fahrenheit.  Most buildings, except for most recently constructed ones, are all naturally ventilated with very little delineation between inside and out.  Circulation is often outside and most buildings are highly articulated with apertures and windows to allow in fresh air and encourage ventilation.  Consequently, almost every building suffers from humidity and moisture problems.

The humidity is not the only problem, however, when it comes time to sleep.  Cochin seems to be a city that never sleeps and there is noise of traffic, horns, and dogs throughout the night.  I am finding it difficult to rest but then again, I may just be suffering from the jetlag.  Tomorrow I head for Kottayam, a much more rural region of Kerala where perhaps I may find a bit more serenity. 

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Arrival of the Senses

Originally Written : May 20, 2010

“What happened to Tuesday?” 

“That’s how it works, we’ve traveled half way across the world,” my mother replies.

Having left New York on a Monday, I was dumfounded when I realize that I had reached India on a Wednesday.  Laying in an air conditioned, yet muggishly humid, bedroom of a small house in Cochin, I found myself backtracking the last several hours to find out how I could have forgotten an entire day. It turns out that the combination of a late Monday night departure, a few time zones crossed, and an early Wednesday morning arrival had attributed to my time loss and I accepted that I now had one less day in India than expected. 

My trip to India began at New York’s JFK airport where I spent a few hours suppressing my feelings of anxious excitement and fear.  The last time I visited India was more than ten years ago, and I had constantly been hearing from those whom had recently visited that it was drastically different.  Although very excited to revisit old favorite places and explore new ones, I wasn’t sure that I would feel comfortable in what I knew would be a wildly foreign atmosphere.  Apprehensions aside, I boarded a Qatar Airlines flight bound for Doha.

13 hours later I landed in Doha with a tummy ache and dry contact lenses in my eyes; I made the mistakes of having Popeye’s chicken before departure and forgetting my toiletry bag at home, which contained my contact lens case and glasses.  As I stepped off the plane I was met with a warmth—a hot breeze that felt surprisingly refreshing—and so I did not mind waiting on the tarmac until a vehicle came to transport us to the terminal.  The second I boarded the transport, a smell triggered a wild rush of memories from my last experience in India.  For some reason, vehicles abroad have a very distinct smell, different than those in the US.  Needless to say, I became very excited as more memories of my previous time in India revealed themselves. 

A few hours later, I was aboard another flight bound for Cochin, one of the largest cities in Kerala, the most southern state of India.  After touching down at Cochin International Airport, the feelings of excitement and fear returned, amplified by the realization that I had arrived and there was no choice to turn around now.  What felt like a few hours later, I had cleared customs, had arranged myself a pre-paid taxi, and was headed towards the heart of the city where I would be staying. 

My first impressions of Cochin came by night from the backseat of a cab driven by what I thought to be a drunk, mad man.  It turns out, everyone in India drives like they are being chased by police and the only one on the road who matters is themselves.  With fists clenched tightly to my seat as the driver swerved between rickshaws and trucks, referred to as Lorries, I began to take notice of the passing landscape.  Cochin is a concoction of signage and lights, advertisements and billboards plastered in every conceivable manner on every conceivable surface.  I am blinded by the lights of oncoming cars as I hear a truck honking behind us and the smell of manure waft in as we pass a herd of cows on the road.  There was clearly no lack of stimuli or excitement here and I was immediately overwhelmed.

For about an hour, I watched the changing scenery of signs, stores, and houses.  Finally, around 3am I saw a familiar and comforting sight—my grandfather’s house nestled in the heart of the city.  I had arrived.

Cultural Questions

Several weeks after my arrival in India, I have finally found a reliable enough internet connection and sufficient bandwidth to begin this online documentation.  Although without internet access, I have been recording my experiences here and hope that through this blog you may share in my experiences and lessons.

Since I landed in Cochin International Airport on May 19, I been flooded with monumental questions about India's culture that, too often, I have found do not have clear answers.  India has proven its ability to continuously shock me each day in its rich, bold infusion of culture in everyday life. However, more and more I see an imitation, or what many Indians refer to as "ape-ing," of Western ideas and traditions that are serving to dilute the robust fabric of the Indian subcontinent. Much of these concerns have come from my conversations with individuals in India, both young and old. Men have begun wearing ties to work, even though the climate would strictly dictate such excessive clothing as frivolous. Developers have now begun stripping the land of beautiful coconut tree groves to build suburban-style "cookie-cutter" developments.  Newly constructed buildings are sealed and air-conditioned with no access to nature in regions where natural ventilation strategies and an open, breathing building style has allowed people to live there, very comfortably, for hundreds, even thousands of years.  And why have these changes begun? I hope to shed some light on that question while I am here.