March 25th, 2008 §
Herald Blog – Notes from an Itinerant Artist – Kate E. Deeming
25 March 08
I ADMIT IT, I’M FLAKY
81 days down, 3 to go. My last moments in India and I am losing my skin. Ok. We all have the proverbial flake (some of us ARE proverbially flaky) – so this is no revelation – mine, however is cascading from my appendages in great big sheets and as per usual in my symbolic range of existence the METAPHOR IS NOT LOST.
After three months I am emerging from my chrysalis, stepping from my snake carcass, coming into my WHOA-MAN potential.
Now some of you cynics might like to “point out” that the departing skin is the result of my poor preparation whilst coasting through the LUSCIOUS backwaters near Alleppey in Kerala. That – caught up in the romantic potential, in a remote tropical location, on a private houseboat with my adored, me and the dragonflies not to mention the local fishermen on their wee boats blah de blah de blah- led to my demise. You might say my enthusiasm which led to my subsequent lack of sun protection – and further fry-age is a greater lesson indeed. That perhaps my adoption of the Glaswegian “joie de vivre” in regards to skin exposure and sister sun indicates a need for vitamin D supplements and a visit to a good mental health professional. AND whilst I can empathize with these observations, as I AM the one in pain, I see no reason to labour further what has already passed. Carpe diem. Ta da! Embrace the peeling.
The greater question THEREFORE is not what is LOST but what lies beneath (not the Robert Zemeckis film thank you), in other words what is EMERGING. Lucky me I am also caught in the midst of not one, not two, but FOUR special holidays. Hindu Holi (celebration of Spring), Muslim Mawlid (The Prophet’s Birthday), Christian Easter (JC rises from the dead), AND Jewish Purim (A day for miracles). Ok. You see where I am going with this. It’s a time for BIRTHING!
In every corner of this vast country individuals have been taking time to celebrate life, to remember there are miracles around every corner and to be thankful.
Whilst some friends caroused on the streets of Delhi as layers of pigment were launched at one another for Holi, and others made special cakes in remembrance for Purim and Mawlid, I attended what I would like to term “A Very Babara Mandrell Easter” at the Santa Cruz Basilica in Fort Cochin. As a former Catholic I do love the pageantry of Catholicism. Here various altars are resplendent Indian style with fairy lights and blossoms abundant; as the music system pumps Christian Country music styled melodies through a rather complex and effective (i.e. LOUD) sound system the packed in congregation makes prayers for forgiveness and in thanks.
It is a fitting way to end my Indian adventure in all its chaos, colour and acceptance.
Friday I continue to Tokyo. What will happen? How will it unfold? I have no idea. But I am RAWTHER excited!
March 19th, 2008 §
Herald Blog – Notes from an Itinerant Artist – Kate E. Deeming- Blog 6
18 March 2008
Sitting as I was staring at the green faced man, with the tropical landscape surrounding me in all it’s dense lushness, a comfortable tap of rain resonating on the tarp overhead, matched by the Maddalam drum beat and I resonate alongside. Not the green man in the dress making magical contortions with his body, not the surround of banana and coconut trees, not the late hour gives me pause.
Ok maybe it does gives me a SMALL pause. I am sitting in the middle of god-knows-where outside of Thiruvananthapuram witnessing one of the many Temple Festivals that happen this time of year. In this particular instance I watch Kathakali – a 400 year old dance drama form traditionally performed by men where they honestly, HONESTLY, do not look human. Faces painted into the most beautifully fantastic designs, with skirts that jut out just enough to make them appear as though they are floating. So as they move in very stylized fashion, and mostly in the face, and as you perch on the edge of a seat alongside a couple hundred other locals fighting the urge to sleep (lulled on by the drums) as it is 2am it is not DIFFICULT to imagine that you are hallucinating.
These men perform from 9pm to 6am during this season. In any place in Kerala given the right contacts you will find yourself in auto, taxi or on foot weaving down unlit roads, alleys and then BANG – Festival. Neon lights, chai stands and stages for performance.
Around me Indians are crashed out on the sand, others sit in anticipation and interest as each bend of the story unfolds. I cannot understand what they say, I do not know the stories or language revealed by the musicians behind, my imagination goes in other directions…this IS reality programming.
Are we so obsessed with this IDEA of what IS that we manufacture that aspiration? That magical hope that things will be “perfect” when we arrive; we will not age, we will not want? In the meantime strange and beautiful things happen, people surprise us and we find compassion in the contradiction of humanity. Hopefully.
I am comforted by these thoughts but I am also exhausted by the late hour. Newly aware of the increasing sleeping Indians at my feet I inquire after where to get any type of transport back to my hotel. The organizers inform me that nothing is available from the Festival till after 430 am. Just then a man walks up to his motorbike a few metres away. Without further thought I rush up to him to inquire where he is going. A local he offers to take me back to my hotel which is 20 km away. Soon I am perched on the back of his motorbike evening stars above while dreams of floating green men bubble in my head.
March 11th, 2008 §
HERALD BLOG– Notes from an Itinerant Artist Kate E. Deeming
11 March 2008
‘The Seven Rupee Alarm”
It was a “seven rupee alarm” – that moment when – standing over a wee Indian Internet attendant – he cowering at the blast of expletive trailing like comets from your loins – which he understands not in English but from the rattling of chai glasses perched precariously on the sill – that perhaps you realize you need a ‘break’ from your ‘break’.
That perhaps your lackadaisical attitude towards sharing squat toilets with 50 male textile workers; living in the immediate vicinity of convicted murderers; standing day in and day out in cement cube with cold bucket of water in an attempt to scrub the ground in dirt from your dust tattooed heels; and having a three year old holding her six month sister on her hip pulling at your shirt bottom requesting change on the side of the road – the insistence of her little finger on your thigh deeper and deeper into the expanse of your heart that perhaps these things are not so free and easy.
That seven rupee alarm indicating the crossover from adventure to personal chaos – when one’s break becomes a breaking.
I exit the internet café rattled but still in a huff with the ‘cheated’ seven rupees in pocket. Two goats dressed in children’s clothing balance on top of a silver Toyota. Other than that the back street is remarkable inactive. No auto rickshaw drivers demanding my custom; no children shouting ‘hallo HA-LO H-ow a-re y-ou’ in stilted English; the merchants are content in their own business for once.
I pick my way carefully over the unpaved road to purchase water from a roadside seller, being careful to not trip over the edge of my sari.
The shop is more of a stand then a shop- selling a handful of things –Indian sweets, tobacco products and bottled water.
The wife of the owner shadows behind him as we make the transaction. Both she and her husband are typically small –maybe 5 foot – I tower over them easily. She smiles at me, I smile back. ‘Indian Lady’ she says in English indicating my garment and bangles. I say ‘Namaste’ in thanks and goodbye bowing as I start to go. She holds gently onto my arm, looking at my badly folded aspect of my garment and pointing at her own –perfectly straight and pressed. Despite my wearing the sari several times I cannot manage to get the six meters of fabric to lay right. So every time I make an attempt to wear the sari I do it poorly.
Still holding gently onto my arm, she touches her own sari and then my own in an offering to fix it. Soon she has unwrapped my bad folds and is gently and seamlessly manipulating the garment like a spindle. Stepping back to observe her work “Indian Lady” she says again smiling at me. The folds are perfect, the garment elegant.
I wish her and her husband Namaste to continue home. One dressed goat remains on the Toyota napping while the other looks up in anticipation from the below.
I drop seven rupees on the side of the path.
March 5th, 2008 §
HERALD BLOG-5 March 2010
The intention was to do charity work at the SOS Children’s Home in Jaipur – but as per normal in India- after 48 hours of travel from the south – including jumping onto a moving train- those plans fell through. And now I am living across the street from an “open-air” Rajasthani jail full of murderers.
Hey ho so life goes. You’re always on that knife’s edge of existence. The MAN can try and convince you that’s just THE WAY THINGS ARE. But obviously HE has never given much thought to Las Vegas. My Nana’s family funded the American Revolutionary War in 1776 and yet my family had to live on green stamps when I was a kid. Tickety boo. Life.
And when was the last time you heard of a murder OUTSIDE a jail??? Forsooth murders happen at supermarkets and secondary schools.
And plus everyone in Sanganer knew me. Not just because of my perky personality and keen dress sense but also (it seemed) because I was the only white woman for miles.
Trekking from the luxurious textile factory where I slumbered in search of my breakfast, lunch and dinner – the dusty stretch of road expanding in every direction – sand and dust working, grinding into my every pore and thread- and the illusion is you are in the middle of no where. The dust forms a shield over your eyes as the camels laze by. Cycle rickshaws containing mattresses, industrial piping and small children pass parade-fashion. But after some time the landscape unfolds like a pop up book. Everything you need is at your doorstep; you learn to recognize the signs like the Narnia door. Laundry stands. Sweets. Ice Cream carts. Curry houses. Chai stalls. Perfect papayas. Orgasmic mangoes. Plumbing, automotive and joinery supplies. Temples to Shiva for creativity, Laxmi for money, and Ganesh for blessings. A cacophony of offerings for every season and reason.
And then there’s the jail. From the roof of the factory I observe a sandy stretch of land, wee huts scattered throughout, a swing set and a great wall enclosing it all. The inmates leave everyday for work, returning at the end of the day to be with their families. There is no way for me to differentiate between who is a ‘prisoner’ and who not. Unlike my shining complexion radiating like a beacon, these men have no defining characteristic that I can perceive. I can only assume I walk by them everyday and therefore are like every other resident of Sanganer- they show the same curiosity, the same interest to speak English, the same desire to know me. And so I float and struggle in equal measure as I am challenged to do the everyday at once easy and difficult, battling environment and ideas.
