75%

 

My first night in Mumbai, I woke, startled, at dawn by the echoed sounds of prayer calls. My preconceptions associated those throaty songs with fears and unknowns of the Middle East. I was staying in Agripada, on the 10th floor of an apartment building in a Muslim district, away from the cushioned tourist center of South Mumbai. I got myself out of bed and looked out the window. Orange lights glowed through the thick, hot tropical fog, and the city was beginning to bustle even though the sun had barely broken the horizon. I’ll always remember that anticipatory fear—a feeling that will may be hard to replicate. I thought of snowy New Hampshire: I am a long, long way from home. I felt a little bit like I was looking out over a movie set, out over a fantastical, fictional world. 

My voyage to India from Argentina, via London, had reinforced the notion I was living within the bindings of a storybook. In the back of the British Airways 747, I looked out over the snowcapped mountains of Northern Afghanistan. It was the land of Al Qaida I’d seen only on CNN, the mountainous pass that Hosseini describes crossing in The Kite Runner. The landscape was stunning: snow capped ridges were dark in shadow besides pink triangles of lights on their peaks, lit by the setting sun. A few hours later, at midnight, the plane landed in Mumbai, then taxied along the gate of an airport wall. From my perch in the plane, I could see over the wall and into the Annawadi Slum, an underground world of poverty, police brutality, conflict, and tension that I had been introduced to a few weeks before when I started Katherine Boo’s book Behind the Beautiful Forevers. There it was. Right in front of my eyes. I could even look right inside some of the corrugated metal shacks and see the life going on, as it had for decades before, and as it will for the rest of my life. 

Before I had arrived, what was in books, on television or in movies was all I knew of India. Three months ago, India existed only in my mind and it was only a small, distilled idea. It was ‘the over there’  country with more than a billion people living in crowded un-environmentally friendly cities. In the past weeks, India has become real. I’ve unlocked a box. 

My conscience has swelled with the sights, smells, sounds, stories and feelings of Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, Islamic architecture, slums, the history of the East India Company and the British colonization, the history of the Mughal Empire, Indian traffic rules (or lack there of), new economies, labor pools, and unthinkable jobs and so much more. I’ve tapped into a country that’s as rich in culture, language and history as the entirety of Europe.  As Dr. Anurag Danda, the head of Climate Adaptation for the World Wildlife Fund, India put it to me: “People were amazed and excited when the EU happened, but hold on, we in India did that 50 years earlier. There are changes as big as national differences every 200 miles as you travel by ground across India.” 

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see the vulnerability of Mumbai. Water knocks on three sides of the Manhattan-shaped island city. Every square foot of the city is used for something, and the majority of it is paved over and built up. Then 20 million people are packed in. Building projects—often without proper permits or on environmentally sensitive land—dot the cityscape, growing up, up, up to combat the demand for space and subsequent expensive rent. “Lots of development projects,” I said, nodding at the cranes and walls of glass above me while talking casually to a wise, english-speaking old man on the street. “Development suggests progress,” he replied, “Lots of building.” 

It’s not just large scale high-rise projects that make Bombay’s growth so obviously visible. Outside of the apartment I was staying in, shelters would grow daily on the sidewalks as migrants looking for opportunities in the city would drag traffic dividers from the roadways together to make three walls and cover the walls with a tarp to make a roof. Each day there would be a new conglomeration of people calling the sidewalk home. As you round the blocks, you can walk on a real-life timeline of these shelters. They change from barren walled shelters into homes, with two 5 foot floors, electricity, and re-wired cable television. 

Land in between rail lines is farmed, sidewalks become foundations for temporary homes, and the homeless find shelter within concrete breakwater structures along the coastline.  There’s an amazing resiliency to the urban poor in India. They make lives and homes for themselves in conditions that most in the Western world would give up on. 

There’s a remarkable and innovative use of the lack of space, but there’s more space than there once was. Bombay was originally seven islands. The British reclaimed the land and filled in the bays between the swamps. The lowest lying land (what was once sea) floods each year during the monsoon, sometimes with devastating consequences to the urban poor who live there. Asia’s largest slum, Dharavi, is one of those areas. 

Among the most pressing problems that Mumbai must address—navigating through the corruption of the city and national government—sea level rise doesn’t make the list, The Energy and Resource Institute’s (TERI) associate director, Dr. Anjali Parasnis told me. To her, sea level rise is a problem of plenty, left for rich countries like the Netherlands, United States or Singapore to deal with. If an earthquake or a tidal wave hits, what will Mumbai do, she said, there’s nothing we can do when disaster strikes. 

But I disagree with her point of view, respectfully of course. Sea level rise isn’t like those other disasters. It’s characterized by a slow onset. There are low-cost measures and initiatives that the city can undertake today to save money and protect human lives in the future. Climate adaptation doesn’t mean building a Dutch-style Maeslant Barrier. For example, there’s huge value to knowing what areas are susceptible to flooding and distributing that information to people who live in those areas. 

Mumbai seems to have this thrusting growth, an energy of its own. It gives off an essence that it is impossible to tame, plan, direct, or control. It’s a disheartening place in which to be environmentally conscious. Trash fills every nook and cranny; the river is an open sewer. It’s a dense and complicated system that’s described, by many I’ve met all over the country, as a jungle. 

I left the jungle and took a train down the east coast of India to Kochi, a port city in the South Indian state of Kerala.  Water tapers on the edge of the whole place; it has a Venetian aesthetic. Serendipitously, I stumbled into an artist residency there while desperately searching for a bathroom to tend to a stomach virus. Once relieved, I spoke to the young woman working there and I found myself a nice place to stay and paint for the next week. It was a good warmup for spending the next three weeks in Varanasi at Kriti Gallery. 

I vastly enjoyed spending March in Varanasi; it was great to have personal space, build a temporary nest, and make some artwork reflecting on the first two-thirds of my year.  Varanasi, although not a coastal city, has astonishing flood problems during the monsoon season. The river level rises 20 feet at its record height. You can see plastic debris and vegetation along the telephone wires overhead when walking along the riverfront. 

Varanasi is one of the holiest Hindu cities and the oldest continually inhabited city in the world. It’s a cultural marvel, unlike any other place I’ve ever known. I will never think that a place is crowded, loud, dirty, violent or hectic ever again. Herds of buffalo start traffic jams on the dusty streets, where symphonic waves of bikes, motorcycles, cycle-rickshaws, auto-rickshaws, and the occasional car mesh into one. It feels like everybody is dying in Varanasi. The public cremation fires constantly burn along the riverfront. Death isn’t hidden like it is in the rest of the world, and I felt that personally. While resident, a dear friend lost her father and my grandmother’s life ended after 104 well-lived years.

For the past two weeks, I’ve been in Kolkata.  A 76-year-old professor, Dr. Asish Ghosh, who is deemed India’s forefather of environmentalism, has taken an interest in my project and has invited me to do research out of a center he started called the Center for Environment and Development. I’ve explored the Sundarban mangrove forest, the largest of its kind in the world. The Sundarban plays a crucial role in protecting Kolkata—and Dhaka—against cyclones. It’s a buffer, a natural storm wall, that absorbs the power of hundred and fifty km/hr winds and 40 foot waves. 

In the afternoons, I go to the Maidan, the green space in the middle of the city, and play rugby with the Kolkata Jungle Crows. The Crows have started an incredibly admirable foundation to use rugby to give structure and motivation to impoverished kids. In an environment found nowhere else in the city, the very rich and the very poor interact as friends and teammates. The foundation, funded by donors in the U.K., runs camps and clinics every week in villages. It’s been a pleasure taking part in the program, if only briefly. I get the sense that it means a lot to the players to have a Westerner around who really believes that what they’re doing is important. Rugby is an incredible game. A foundation like the Jungle Crows wouldn’t work with many other sports. 

I feel like I’m doing exactly what I proposed I’d set out to do in Kolkata. It’s a good feeling. 

For all the marvel of the past three months in India, it has been an incredibly isolating place. It’s an amazing irony that in one of the most populated countries in the world, I feel most alone. I really enjoy meals alone to a book or writing down reflections and thoughts, but I’ve largely—with the exception of a few coffee or lunch meet-ups—spent the past three months without the comfort of a peer or a friend my age. I have met fantastic people and become good friends with such people two decades or older than me, but that’s different. 

It’s all part of the experience, though. I travel back to my guesthouse from Crows rugby with a big burly 33-year-old Fijian man who moved to Kolkata to work for an NGO with his wife. (Please appreciate the head-turning caused by the sight of a 23-year-old white man and a big, strong islander both clad in dusty rugby apparel as we go on the Kolkata metro during rush hour). We were chatting about my experience and my life before. You’ve had to make a lot of sacrifices for this year, he said. Yeah, but it’s worth it, I thought without hesitation.  

In India, the poverty and destitution have taken an emotional toll. Seeing kids sitting around a fire at night underneath a freeway.  A baby lying on a blanket on a sidewalk with no sign of parental care in sight. A featureless burned man sitting begging, shielded from the sun underneath an umbrella. A man with tumors covering every inch of his body following me home on his bicycle. These are things you can’t un-see, and at times I wish I had company to grab ahold of or to just debrief with. Before shifting gears and moving to Kolkata, I had a rejuvenating visit from my Dad, one of my top fans and friends. 

Last weekend, I had a bout of Delhi belly that I described in a blog post: “my body decided to rearrange interior decorations and put everything inside, outside in the most violent and abrupt means possible.” 

That was life changing. 

Due to the state department travel warning for Thailand, I’ve changed my itinerary, I’m avoiding Bangkok. Due to the geographical proximity of Dhaka, I inquired about a visa to Bangladesh and was offered a week to quickly visit the country that will produce millions of climate-related refugees. I’ve set up some contacts, and the visit should be a huge value-added addition to my quarter in India. After, I decided to replace Bangkok with Shanghai, the #1 most vulnerable city in the world based off all studies about population and infrastructure there. With only a month-long China visa, I’m going to purchase a round trip ticket through Singapore and maybe I can set up an arrangement in Ho Chi Minh, another delta city in a similar situation to Bangkok. 

So surprised that three reports have come and gone. 

I’m just as excited and thankful as I was on March 15th. I very much look forward to meeting you. Best, David. 

 

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Dr. Asish Ghosh: Harvesting Environmentalism

One overhead fan beats back the thick humid heat of the Kolkata morning that seeps through the open door. The lights stay off to keep the place cool but leave the office feeling cave-like. A cave sounds a touch too primitive to describe the office of the founder of the Society for Environment and Development, a network of professors and professionals—spanning across multiple disciplines—that try to convert climate and sustainability ‘talk’ into some much needed ‘action’ in India. 

So let’s call it a lair. Remnants of a life’s work overflow out of trophy cabinets, off of shelves, and reshape pin boards to into complex geometries. The desk is unconventional for this day and age. A worn mechanical pencil sharpener perches off of the side. There’s no computer next to the topography of paper stacks, but a elegantly arched wooden smoker’s pipe. The sole piece of technology besides the light fixtures is a Samsung phone that rings constantly. Hindi, Bengali, and English regularly spoken through each end of the line.

Behind the desk sits now 76-year old Dr. Asish Kumar Ghosh in an off-yellow, cushioned armchair. The high-backed armchair looks throne-like in contrast to the small stature of the scientist and professor. From his  chair he addresses his audience directly, with a gleam in his eye that’s mirrored by the white of his neatly trimmed monopoly-man mustache that frequently twirls up in a delightful grin. 

Across the room is a painting of flowers. The composition shows a cross section of soil—the greens, whites, and browns in the painting evoke the aesthetic of the West Bengali rice paddies. The design looks like it borrowed equally from the influences of islamic architecture and from a collection of child’s kindergarten paintings. The painting is a relevant symbol, for Dr. Ghosh is in the business of spreading seeds. 

We sat down for what I at intended to be a conversation that turned quickly—and fine by me—into a lecture. Seeds were the topic of conversation for the day. I was happy to have Dr. Ghosh, or Sir as all of his employees and students call him, impart his wisdom onto me. He’s one of India’s pioneer environmentalists and a household name amongst the environmentally conscious nationwide. And there began what reminded me almost exactly of a one-on-one class with a Bowdoin College professor.

Unlike Dr. Ghosh, I do not hold a PhD in Agricultural Science so I apologize for any misuse or bastardization of technical terms—terms which I’m going to try to avoid using anyways. 

Over the past couple of millennium that humans have settled in the Bengal region of South Asia and farmed, 6,000 differentiated varieties of rice have developed. Each of those 6,000 species were selected for their resiliency in a particular sub-ecosystem, altitude, or terrain. Some could withstand droughts, others monsoons, a few grew even in the brackish water in the tidal delta region. And that was just rice in Bengal. Zoom out across India, and you would have found thousands upon thousands of specific sub-species of rice, wheat, and millet with unique properties that farmers had passed on from father to son through the generations. 

The decades after World War Two were marked by hunger, famine, and food crisis in India. In the late 1960s, the Green Revolution swept South Asia and combatted food shortages by farming with ‘miracle crops’ and heavy uses of fertilizer, pesticide, and industrial irrigation techniques. Crop yields soared and brought an India in crisis to food security. India is still an exporter of food today, even with its unwieldy population growth—India’s 1.2 billion people are targeted to reach 1.5 billion people by mid-century. Despite the broad successes of the Green Revolution, it didn’t come without its drawbacks and unintended consequences. 

For example, there is a train line that runs south from Punjab to Gujarat that has been dubbed something akin to ‘The Cancer Express.’ Because of the use of a certain fertilizer in Punjab, there is a high incidence of cancer in those agricultural districts that has been irrefutably linked to that chemical use in farms there. Farmers from Punjab take the train to Gujarat for treatment. The same fertilizer is banned in the United States, but the food grown in India with it is probably still exported stateside.

Additionally, although there is excess food production—storage containers fill up regularly and leave waste outside to rot—the poorest of the poor still go hungry in India. It is cheaper to let the food sit and rot outside of storage units than to distribute it among the neediest of the 37% of Indians who live below the poverty line. 

And finally, as Indian farmers adopted western farming practices, they lost touch with their traditional knowledge, especially about the diversity of their seed stores. With no concept of a need to preserve those seeds, they abandoned their heritage of knowledge of seeds developed over time.

In an attempt to achieve short term food security, Indian agriculture lost long term resiliency and their diversity of subspecies that can withstand a wide spectrum of climate conditions.

Climate change changes the weather in sporadic and unpredictable intervals. The environment could be hotter, colder, wetter, drier, or as sea levels rise, saltier. It’s a broad depth of adaptable, resilient crop types that needed in the climate change era in addition to one ‘supercrop.’ 

Dr. Ghosh has seen this agricultural transformation occur in his lifetime. In the late 60s, he was studying for multiple PhDs in Madison, Wisconsin as a Fulbright Scholar. (Before leaving, he needed to take an oath at the US embassy swearing that he wasn’t a communist. In Madison, he was featured on the front page of a newspaper participating in an anti-Vietnam War rally. The picture got back to the embassy and he got in a bit of a pickle.) Although Ghosh was offered plenty of opportunities to stay on in the United States and start a career, he knew he had to return to India, indebted to serve the country and the citizenry of India who’s tax money funded his undergraduate education. And that’s exactly what he did. 

In one of his most recent projects, Ghosh led the Center for Environment and Development to rediscover some of India’s lost seeds that could succeed in the coastal regions of West Bengal where salt water intrusion is ruining agricultural yields.  

One particular region that seeing some of the swiftest environmental changes is the agricultural belt on the fringes of the Sundarban mangrove forest where salty seas are rising to the level of—or even above—farmland. Earthen embankments are the only wall of defense. 

While young technical academics may wiz through technology databases and infiltrate google for answers, Ghosh’s file cabinets contain information not on Google, and he was able to identify the locations of tiny samples of six species of long lost salt-resistant seeds. Some were in the archives of the National Bureau of Plant Genetic Resources and the rest were in villages in the remotest Sundarban islands. Of the six, four were replicated into sufficient quantities by scientists. The most promising could handle soil salinity of up to 7mS/cm, a measure of conductivity. 

Next, Ghosh reintroduced those seeds back to villages. He told me that the village farmers seemed to realize how special these new—but old—seeds were. A song was written about them and they were called the miracle seeds! After each crop cycle, farmers took a bundle of the seeds to store away among their most important possessions. Since the project, the seeds have been protected year after year and the stewardship of these plants was taken on board by the villages themselves.

Dr. Ghosh has made the human-inhabited Sundarban region more resilient. For free. 

“Asish’s job is over.” he said to me. He helped the villages rediscover their traditional expertise then left. He’s hoping to reintroduce these seeds to the whole coastal agricultural belt bordering the Sundarban, that’s 220km of West Bengal coastline.

Ghosh’s new project is to study how climate change and sea level rise will impact human migration out of delta areas in Africa and Asia. “It’s going to be the world’s largest migration of humans,” he told me, “all in predominantly muslim areas.”

Soon, he’s traveling to the Odisha on the middle east coast of India for the delta migrations project, but he told me he’s going to take the seeds with him in his back pocket and try to get it started there too. 

Dr. Ghosh has developed a demeanor with students that he must have adopted during his years in Wisconsin. He spent over two hours lecturing me, with an intermission for Darjeeling tea.  Ghosh clearly shows that he takes an interest in the ambitions of young people. He often remarks on the successes of his old students and boasts about the feats of the most accomplished. 

His students are his other bag of seeds. They seem to be everywhere; a growing force of environmentalists. 

Later on that afternoon, I walked six blocks north to another office building to see one of those students, Dr. Anurag Danda who is now the Head of Climate Change Adaptation & Sundarbans Landscape for the World Wildlife Fund India. 

Dr. Danda wore a patterned short-sleeved shirt that would have been a huge hit among the trendiest canal lanes of Amsterdam. He even spoke english with an accent as if he were native Dutch. But Danda was born and raised in the Indian state of Maharashtra—even though he identifies as a West Bengali now (That’s like an LA person becoming a New York person). His intriguing dialect was adopted while studying in the Netherlands for his PhD. His thesis was on water management and adaptation to climate stresses in the Sundarbans. He literally took lessons from the Dutch and modified them into an in depth analysis of the Indian mangrove delta–but he did that two decades before the rest of us. 

In Kolkata, he told me, there is a lot of climate talk, but little to no action. As an organization without access to big sources of funding, the WWF office mostly directs it’s energy closing the loop between the science, the villages and the politicians. They crosscheck recorded climate patterns and see if they are observed by the villagers themselves, who are for the most part absent minded to the formal academic concepts of ‘climate change.’ But if the villagers say, “oh my, we do see the soil getting drier!” that verifies that changes in the data are mirrored by empirical evidence in the real world. 

In addition to their work in the Sundarban, WWF India’s other climate adaptation project works to improve the health of the Ramganga tributary of the Ganges. 

Politicians will not get interested in climate adaptation projects unless there are hefty price tags and whispers of gigantic sums of money transferred between bank accounts, I was told. Politicians won’t be interested in anything short of large-scale hard infrastructure adaptation projects. But something like a multi-billion dollar flood gate project doesn’t match the geographical nature of the area here. The Sundarban mangrove is Kolkata’s front line, a geo-engineering project by Gaea her wonderful self. 

The most vulnerable, all 4.5 million of them, live on inhabited mangrove islands just inland of the protected nature reserve. The adaptation investment that is needed is not a Bay of Bengal Wide concrete wall, but reinforcements of the hundreds of kilometers of earthen embankments which hold back not only the freshwater flowing south in the rivers but also the saltwater of the high tides that the Bay brings. Behind the embankments are villages, agricultural land, and 4.5 million lives. 

On May 29th, 2009 Cyclone Aila destroyed 900km of such embankments as 125 kilometer an hour winds and 40 foot waves barraged unapologetically through. Salt water flowed out onto so much agricultural land and ruined the soil to such a degree that growing rice in 2010 was impossible. (The next season Ghosh came down with his salt resistant seeds). 

The Sundarban dikes are earthen soil embankments, significantly less high-tech than the concrete dikes that stitch the Netherlands landscape together. The Dutch have doubts about the longevity and efficiency of their professionally engineered dikes. And here in India with the bonus threats of earthquakes and cyclones, villages rely on farmer-constructed earthen walls. The thoughts give me flashbacks to being back on the beach as a kid, no matter how much sand I’d add to my sand castle’s walls, the rising tide and rolling waves would always win. Just, the stakes are a bit higher.

After Aila, many of the dikes were left unrepaired. There was a question of ownership and a good reason for confusion.

Ashoka was a king who ruled the Indian subcontinent before Christ. In his time the Zamindari system started. A landlord would build an embankment around an island and lease out the land for economic extraction—farming, honey collection, fishing—as long as taxes were paid to the landlord. It was in the Zamindar’s private interest to maintain the structure of the embankments. A similar system existed until 1947, India’s independence. 

Since then, the upkeep of the Sundarban dikes has been passed around from department to bureaucratic department. The department of agriculture developed an adequate maintenance system, but then an amendment to the constitution gave the duties to another bureau so the office with the good system no longer has the funding. It’s like trying to solve a puzzle where the pieces are tossed between three scrambled up boxes. And each box is locked. A Bengal tiger swallowed the keys. 

So who is responsible to rebuild? The tide people are waiting, expecting the government to show up.

At the same time that it is unfair to place the burden on impecunious people who lost a year’s supply of crop yield, homes, livelihoods and loved ones to strap up and re-build, it’s those very people who have chosen to live in a volatile landscape. Maybe it’s the premium people need to pay for living on vulnerable areas of the coast. 

And I think paying a premium is exactly right for those who own vacation homes on Cape Cod or Long Island in precarious landscapes, but for people such as these who have been forced to come to the Sundarbans to find refuge from religious, political, or social persecution—because they have no where else to go—the question of who pays becomes a little bit more twisted. 

It’s easy to say: the cost of living here is too high and all ‘tide people,’ as they’re referred to in Amitav Ghosh’s novel about the Sundarban’s The Hungry Tide, must move to the interior of the country. But there is another, often overlooked human element involved—the deep attachment and association to what people call to home. In the Sundarban, the people have just as many roots into the mud as the mangroves themselves, and no matter how hard the waves crash, they want to stay. 

This passage from The Hungry Tide puts it well: 

“Once we lived in Bangladesh, in Khulna jill: we’re tide country people, from the Sundarban’s edge. When the war broke out, our village was burned to ash; we crossed the border, there was nowhere else to go. We were met by the police and taken away; in buses they drove us to a settlement camp. We’d never seen such a place, such a dry emptiness; the earth was so red it seemed to be stained with blood. For those who lived there, that dust was as good as gold; they loved it just as we love our tide country mud. But no matter how we tried, we couldn’t settle there: rivers ran in our heads, the tides were in our blood.” p.175

This fictional paragraph was verified by an economic experiment. Dr. Ghosh told me that a micro-finance, small loans bank, similar to Grameen Bank, offered to give families a significant amount of money—more money than the many of the village woman the loan was offered to had ever held in their entire lives—to move inland. In a notable quantity of cases, the loan was declined. They wanted to stay. 

In a place where natural disasters are seen as an act of god rather than an effect of a climate system,  a place where Bon Bibi, the forest goddess, is worshiped for luck and fortune, there may be more involved than climate scientists in Europe think. It’s not just about packing home and moving. They may go down with the ship.

I asked Dr. Danda about whose duty it is to pay for the costs of climate change. He is optimistic that climate change is an opportunity for nations to work together. Climate change in Danda’s view is the first time all nations can work together against an outside adversary.

“We’ve never been attacked by extra-terrestrials,” he said, then began to pipe up, “but climate change is by and large a threat to humanity itself.” It’s a reason for nations to cooperate; a call to arms to fight for the common good of mankind. 

So, in Danda’s mind, the payment question comes from the very top. But he also thinks it comes from the very bottom, from the personal and household level. It’s in the private interest of individuals and households to pay for their own defenses. Choose to build in a risky location you should have to pay for it.

“If your house is on fire? Who’s job is it to get the fire out? It’s the same as any other disaster. Sea level rise is just complicated because it is slow onset. Well, slow onset that becomes like a fast onset disaster very quickly.”

At the end of the conversation, Dr. Danda told me he fears for the world his granddaughters are going to be born into. But he doesn’t have a doomsday attitude. He seems to be exactly the right type of bright minded person needed to be head of Climate Adaptation in India. He’s currently stocking up on more tools at the Dutch armory as he is working at TU Delft in the Netherlands for his second PhD now.  

Rock bottom

In South Asian cities, where addresses are based off of proximity to landmarks rather than numbered locations on uniquely named streets, a quarter-million-dollar education will not help you find the means to explain where you are intending to go to illiterate cab drivers.

I have empirical evidence. 

One guy drove me into the completely wrong corner of the city. At the get go, he was so sure of himself and confident of where he was going. But I knew something was awry because we hadn’t traveled east at all off of the main road. He took me directly south, maybe even southwest. I knew from comparing the route of the car to my memory of looking at the map the night before, that we needed to be in the other corner of the city. 

I didn’t mention anything, because maybe I had absentmindedly missed a turn. Sometimes these cabbies have tricks up their sleeves, too. This guy seemed superbly confident. He was my age and at every red light would pull his whole body out of the window to comb his hair in the driver’s-side rearview. He stopped at two water pumps during our 15 minute journey, once to fill up his water bottles and chat with his friends, and a second time just to chat with his friends. 

He pulled over on the side of the road, turned around, leaning his arm around the back of the front seat and grinned at me like a puppy who had just successfully fetched a bone. And said, neither to my surprise nor dismay, “The Park!

Addresses work as place name (David’s guesthouse), place site (neighborhood, housing community, or landmark such as Jodhpur Park, a community of houses, or Jama Maslij, which means the big mosque), then finally a more general locality or ward in the city. The address where I was trying to go was Sharani Lodge, Hindustan Park, Kalighat. I had the help of 10 other cab drivers and pedestrian onlookers surrounding my cab as I negotiated destination and determined the price. The cabby selectively heard park and drove me to a park he knew of. 

As he leaned over the seats expecting to get paid, I informed him we were not where I had asked to go and gave him the phone with the manager of the guest house I was moving into. The journey continued for another 10 minutes as we laterally crossed town. We arrived and he demanded that his pay– our set price agreed upon when we started–to be doubled.

I politely refused and crafted a series of under-appreciated arguments of why he was rude, arrogant, and inconsiderate to ask for more money. Point a. I had asked to travel on the meter before I got in the cab, but he refused and insisted on a fixed price. Had he granted my wishes in the beginning, his wish to be paid more would have been granted in the end. He didn’t understand my logic. Point b. I asked him who got lost? That got him thinking.  I had paid him the price we agreed, but he still wanted more and got out of the cab and into my face as I was walking into the guesthouse. Point c: I posed a hypothetical scenario: lets say you order a chai. The chai wallah drops the chai at your feet by accident. No chai. The chai wallah gives you another chai and you enjoy it, happily. How many chai do you pay for? One, he said to my delight, but failed to connect the hypothetical to the real. He was very, very angry at me for not compensating him for his mistakes. 

Due the the geographical pinpoint nature of the addressing system here, I’ve been having a lot of trouble getting to my guesthouse in just one go. Today I needed to take three different taxis to get home. It’s amusing thinking about now, but in the moment it’s as if someone is chiseling away at your nerves, your loneliness, and your insecurity. Lost in Kolkata. It sounds like a reality TV show. This game is not for the faint of heart. 

But, the Kolkata taxi game has an element of what I know as the ‘Mario-Cart effect.’ Mario Cart is a Nintendo 64 video game that has retained its popularity ever since it captured way too much of the idle time of way too many kids in the western world in the late 1990s. When you are losing really badly in Mario Cart, you start getting great power ups that help you get back in the lead, such as lightning that makes all other vehicles miniature so you can squash them! Although in Kolkata, the squashing happens without magic lightning. I cringe when I hear screeching breaks and gasp to catch my breath when the screech absorbs back into regular traffic sounds rather than crescendos into an ugly a crunch. Today I saw a lady on a moped get hit by a car. I’ve also drawn invisible lines between lamed and amputee beggars and hurtling buses that thrust across intersections with neglectful speed. 

When you are close to the breaking point in the Kolkata taxi game, the drivers seem to know it and do their best work with you to get you where you need to go without ripping you off. My spark-notes tip: older taxi drivers. They more often than not resort to using the meter without being asked, so there’s no ambivalence or bargaining required. They know more about the city and where you might want to be going and they don’t drive too fast in these rickety machines that are literally sometimes held together by cardboard, rubber bands, and duct tape.

The city taxi fleet is comprised of HM Ambassadors, an iconic Indian car. They are just as common, probably more abundant than, yellow cabs in New York. They look more yellow in contrast to the backdrop of rotting colonial buildings, tangles of black telephone and electrical wires, and plenty of dirt and grit. They are all outdated and give you a feeling that you’ve traveled back to 1985. Admittedly, I wouldn’t know what 1985 looked like, being -5 at the time. But I’ve heard repeatedly that there are cities like this–Havana, Cairo, Montevideo–that seem to be stuck in a time warp.

As a result, wifi connectivity is more difficult than you might expect to come by. I spent the morning this morning at Vodafone. I was told that I could get outfitted with a zip drive that held a simcard with data capability and give me internet access on the fly with my laptop. Easy. 

Not easy. It’s notoriously difficult to get a sim card in India without a resident reference or a ready supplied sim card through your job, school or business. I did my homework and came into Vodafone with references, passport copies, photographs, and all the relevant documentation in hand. I waited for 45 minutes as they fumbled over my forms, clearly confused by the logical organization of United States addresses. So how far is 38 Occom from the Big Mosque? 

I signed the document, but then the whole process was denied because my signature did not match the signature on my passport. My passport was issued in 2007. That was 7 years ago. I had never worked a job in my life, I never had signed for anything in my life. I wrote my name down next to my blemish and acne filled pubescent face and called it at day, probably ecstatic to get out of the passport issuing office and get myself a cheeseburger.

Little did I know then that I should have tried harder to come up with the definitive signature I’d use for the rest of my life because one day, about 6 years and 11 months from now, some guy in a Vodafone store in South Kolkata, India won’t grant you a little microchip so you can briefly time travel back to the future and write some emails. Do you follow? 

I asked for the manager of the store and pitched a—this time more appreciated—argument about how ruthlessly illogical their reason was. I asked a lady browsing in the store if there was any resemblance between the (2007) picture on my passport and the (2013) picture on my India Visa. She said, no not at all. Right. I’ve grown up and my face has changed. My hands have probably changed too, and as a result I can’t write the same way that I wrote when I was a 17 year old. In fact, I am probably not the same person who wrote that awful scribble on the page, 7 years and 33% of my life ago. 

For the economists reading this, I figured I’d get more utility out of being mad and starting an argument (I was convinced of their illogical stupidity and was determined to tell them how I felt) than I would from peacefully and calming resolving the issue so I left the store and got in the first of a sequence of three cabs back to my temporary home.

I tried to take the Buddhist approach: worldly desires lead to suffering. So avoid worldy desires. But honestly, Buddha lived in a very different time. I sort of envy him for that; I think he had an easier platform to start from.

I needed to book a plane ticket and organize the immediate months of my life and nowadays that all takes place in the arena of abstract space on the web. The internet is an integral part of our lives now. In fact our lives exist on it. Until you take a trip to Kolkata, you have no idea how marvelously convenient Starbucks and wifi connections in cafes are. 

I regrouped and headed into the city center for another stab at it. I serendipitously ran into two wonderful Canadian girls who brightened my day over lunch. Unfortunately they are leaving for Thailand tomorrow. 

I solved the problem after lunch. I found a roundabout way to put the data capabilities for internet on my phone sim card then only had to buy the hardware of the zip drive to connect all the pieces. I just have to take the sim card out of my phone and put it in my computer when I want the internet. 


I wrote a long and thoughtful post about my train trip from Varanasi to Kolkata and the discomfort of being confronted face to face with poverty and begging in India. It was written out on the blog when I was offline and it, to my devastation, nothing saved and the window deleted, so I love everything. 

That was one event in a long strains that could have been featured in a chapter of a Lemony Snicket, Series of Unfortunate Events books. This was after I had my body whooped by a bout of severe Delhi Belly, had slept for 36 hours, listened to one street dog probably kill another street dog suffering while suffering on the toilet, and couldn’t stop thinking about how many days I’d rot in this cheap hotel room in Kolkata before anyone found my dehydrated corpse. It was bad, really bad. The low point of the year. Rock bottom.

In the days before, I was doing well. I was happy to have moved on from Varanasi as much as I enjoyed my time at Kriti Gallery. I was connecting with Dr. Asish Kumar Ghosh, who is a 76 year old professor and one of India’s preeminent environmentalists at his home which doubles as India’s Center for the Environment and Development. He’s a yoda like figure—in mindset and stature. More to follow on him later, he’s well worthy of a full post.

I had gotten involved with the Kolkata Jungle Crows Rugby Team which takes a huge percentage of impoverished kids and gives them important motivation and structure in their lives. The crows also have a foundation which introduces rugby to rural villages and holds training camps. They traveled to a village on the fringes of the Sundarban on Saturday, a place right in line with my project research and I was crushed to have missed that. I also spent hours and energies getting my Bangladesh visa issued. That afternoon to celebrate, my body decided to rearrange interior decorations and put everything inside, outside in the most violent and abrupt means possible. 

Here are some of the themes that I talked about in the post that was lost:

Although Varanasi is 1/10th of the size of Mumbai, Delhi, or Kolkata, the station is the most hectic of all I’ve seen. It’s a pilgrimage city and the train is the common man’s vehicle so that made sense. But people were everywhere. It was like being at an urban park on a Sunday afternoon, but it was a tuesday night. There were groups sitting around on every free square foot of the platforms floor. You had to tiptoe within bodies to get around. Although trains were coming and going from the 6 platforms, there was an atmosphere of stagnancy. 

I was thankful that I had taken long distance trains before, being in the heartland of India in Uttar Pradesh there were no english signs or call-markers that predicted where certain carriages would show up. The trains are devilishly long so I aim to be in the general location of where the carriage will arrive. Here in Varanasi there was no marker so I plopped down right in the middle of the station and watched time pass around me. 

I remember watching a fly dance around. It landed on my arm, then I followed it onto a shoeless sweeper lady, at the bottom rung of the caste system, then onto a handsome elderly couple that were sitting facing each other, creating an intimate moment among the chaos, not saying a word while sharing a bag a grapes that was resting upon their basically empty and airy suitcase. I felt at peace just sitting on the track watching the world unravel as it should.

My personal reality came rushing back as as stubbed hand was forced in front of my nose.

Situations such as these are some of the hardest I’ve had to navigate in India. As someone who has grown up in the world and been granted everything, I feel that I’m not allowed to say, act, or do anything to move beggars, who were born into opposite luck, away from me.

I also think that giving one individual money is more of a neglect of the real problems and causes of poverty. It reinforces a mentality that they can live another day off begging rather than trying to make structural and systemic changes to improve the lives poor people lead in general. Also, if I gave one person 10 rupees, then I should give 10 rupees to every person who begs, theres a point where I myself run out and need to beg myself. Over the past two days I read Nobel Peace Prize winner Professor Younes’s autobiography, A Banker for the Poor about his work starting Grameen Bank to give micro loans to incredibly impoverished women in Bangladesh with great interest. 

There was one point at the Agra Train Station, where a legless kid my age stood in front of me for five full minutes looking piercingly right into me. I alternated between looking at him (I couldn’t stare at him too long without feeling condescending) and looking around the station away from him (I didn’t want to seem like I was ignoring his existence). I refused to move or walk away, because this kid was just one example of many millions of lives that exist and it’s something that needs to be confronted rather than run away from. My Dad was standing there a notch behind me and can attest to the difficulty of finding the best way to act. 

Some of the sights of deformations and poverty, especially some of the first times I witnessed such things in Mumbai outside the Haji Ali Mosque, or the deformed man who followed me back to my hotel on bike in Kochi have stuck with me since I witnessed them and sometimes even follow me into my dreams.

After the lady with the stubbed and burned hand walked away, I continued to sit. I felt a presence in the corner of my eye. I looked to my right and jumped as nose to nose, a bull walks right by me. Even in one of the most crowded places in the world, there’s room for the sacred cow.

The 16 hour train ride was great. The first four hours were spent in the right berth, but on the wrong carriage. I found my correct bed and the conductor came along and—in his broken english—spoke uncomfortably loudly to be very, very careful with my belongings, seemingly bringing more attention to the presence of an outsider, than I had brought upon myself.

The full moon shone bright through the window of the train, a comforting beacon of light as I whisked through the unknown darkness of rural India. I woke up at sunrise to the familiar sights of West Bangal—water, palm trees, and rice paddies punctuated by statue-like laborers outlined in the mist of the morning. 

The India Post

My first week in India, I walked around Mumbai for two hours trying to find milk. From that point forward, I understood that every routine deemed a ‘task’ should be more appropriately redefined a ‘project.’

Yesterday I mailed 30 drawings and six paintings. Origin: Varanasi. Destination: New Hampshire.

I left Kriti Gallery at three thirty in the afternoon with the goal of being back by nightfall. I knew that was ambitious; but I’m a go-getter.

Benares is a place where buffalo herds start traffic jams, whole families ride on the same Honda Hero motorcycle (I’ve seen 5 humans on one), and corpses proceed towards the river on bamboo stretchers from all corners of the city. There’s a tension between life an death that vibrates through the landscape. Everyday is a celebration of existence. Wedding parades, religious drumming, incessant honking (I am not exaggerating when I say that one in ten people doesn’t take their hand off their horn) as if their horn has almighty power to clear the gridlocked traffic provide the city’s soundtrack. Meanwhile, the burning ghats are ablaze around the clock throughout the year.

Varanasi brings the bi-polar out in me. Some days I’m enamored by the wealth of sensations; other days the place destroys me and daydream about getting my teeth pulled out to get myself into a more pleasant state of mind.

Thankfully I was in a good mood when I set off for my shipping tasks; here’s what unfolded:

I left with three cardboard packing tubes and a roll of canvas. I cradled them awkwardly as I crossed the waves of bikes, motorcycles, rickshaws, and cars on the street. Step by step towards an autorickshaw.

Rather than asking the tuk-tuk driver what the price would be, I told him. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of that before.

I took the auto rickshaw for twenty minutes to the area of the city with a trusted connection with DHL shippers. India post would have kept the drawings to themselves or sold them unless I offered up a significant baksheesh bribe. Even still, it would likely never leave the country.

On the tuk-tuk ride, I spotted the customary orange an gold cloth thats draped over a dead body in the corner of my eye. I’ve started to notice more and more. It feels like everybody is dying in Varanasi; the place is grounding. There was a funeral parade. We were about 6 kilometers from the river, so they had quite a considerable distance to transport the body before it would return to dust.

The man  leading the way towards the cremation ghat at the Ganges was leading the carriers in the customary chants. I saw him turn around and snap a picture of the body with his digital camera. He spun around right as I sped by him in the tuk-tuk and he continued ahead with a satisfied smile, as if he took a great picture that could feature as the final post on the deceased’s facebook page. It was a strange, but poignant snapshot. The action seemed at odds with the rituals of death. But I guess it was a momentous moment to remember. In Hindu tradition dying here in Varanasi sets the body free from their belief of Moksha, the endless cycle of death and reincarnation. Nirvana.

I got to the ‘post office,’ a small stationary shop that sells an impressive array of postcards. It had no signs of having the capacity to do trans-continental shipping, but I was sent there by Petra, the administrator at Kriti. I nodded at the man behind the desk and shrugged showing the sizable tubes. He nodded back as if to say get comfortable from his post behind the desk.

I later discovered he suffered from Polio. He moved very well, despite the decrepit condition of his boney legs and was an especially helpful man throughout the process.

My first task was to get a passport copy. At the beginning, I was not yet trustworthy of the establishment, so continued to awkwardly juggle my four tubes of art around the chaotic streets, sweating through my shirt in the high 90 degree heat.

Indians give directions assuming you know the place as well as they do. I ask ‘Copy?’ pronouncing the word like a Brit so it doesn’t like I’m asking for coffee. A wave in one general direction is the go-to response and I continued down the street using my best judgement to assign distance to the gestured wave. This process continued in a fashion similar to the childhood favorite of ‘warmer, warmer, hot, hot, hot, toasted!!!’

The photocopier works out of a hole in the wall. He sits behind an empty desk and sells no other product besides black and white copies. I waited in line behind a nerdy twelve year old kid who wore his athletic shorts up to his bellybutton. He spoke pretty decent english but was quite bashful which added all-star character to his all-star dress. He was photocopying social studies pages that explained longitude, latitude, and the earth’s location. We chatted about his homework for a bit. One of the questions had me stumped: find the geographical location of these three cities. A. Shanghai B. London C. California. 

The photocopier didn’t have change for my 100 rupee note, so I walked down the road, bought a pen, and returned to pay him for the copies. He invited me for a chai, but the way he asked it sounded like wine. I inquired, wine? Quite curious that a man like this was inviting me for wine at 4pm. I didn’t even know wine existed in India! He said wine? At this point I realized he actually asked if I wanted chai. Then he continued, “come back in 2 hours, we drink wine.” I wasn’t brave enough to join him, so told him I had a train to catch but thanked him for the gesture.

Back at the shippers, I handed over my passport and visa photocopy and got an initial quote for the shipment. 24,000 rupees. I didn’t even bother to ask if he accepted visa cards. I set off on an adventure around the locality to collect the cash. I had 185 rupees in my pocket. ATMs give out 10,000 rupee limits, and many aren’t replenished with cash for weeks. Hopping around from ATM to ATM, I had enough time to do my long division and figure out what his quote was in dollars. The quote he gave me was for close to 400 dollars; I was going to get him to talk me through exactly how he came up with that and I questioned whether the work was even worth sending home.

I trudged back to the shop strapped with cash, I was an even more ideal candidate for a mugging.

Before I had time to demand a re-analysis of the shipping cost, the attendant explained he very badly guessed the dimensions of the box he needed to make and his quote was double the actual price.

He craftily built a box around the tubes.

Some kids ran up to the shop to ask whether any of the foreign coins that had been given by tourists along the river were dollars. There was a globe behind me and I showed  the bashful kids where the coins were from: Russia, Poland–much to their disappointment–and Bolivia–South America cheered them up.

As I was showing them where these places were on the map, something big swiftly moved through the gap between my legs and my stool. It was bigger than a cat or a dog. But any animal, besides cows, are unwelcome visitors indoors in Varanasi. I looked up and to my shock was face to face with a monkey. It wasn’t the vicious type, but a much bigger ‘black face’ monkey–as they’re called locally by the Indians. The monkey was scared of something and went into the back room, pulling boxes off the shelf as if to draw a curtain (real stealthy bud) and hid underneath a cabinet.

Here’s a picture so that you can get a sense of their size.

Screenshot 2014-04-13 22.58.10

The shopkeeper, who I respected after his impressive box construction and honest reassessment of the shipping cost, was unable to swiftly move around due to his medical condition. He told me to go buy the monkey some fruit.

I bought two bananas at the cart down the road and stood outside the store on the busy street waving bananas around. The thrity+ people at the tea stand across the road who didn’t see the monkey run in must have gotten quite a kick out of me jumping around with two bananas. Who’s the monkey now? 

The furry fella sat on the front porch of the store for a while, and took no interest in the bananas I tossed on the street for him. The bananas were run over by a rickshaw, trampled by a buffalo, then eaten by a street dog. At least they were used.

I went through a whole book of logistics and forms which had to be copied and recopied. I paid the man and that was that. I rewarded myself my own banana smoothie, wrote some postcards, and made it back for dinner. Lets hope nobody opens my box and uses it to ship drugs out of the country. That has happened, and I would prefer to be spared of six months jail time, even if it is a solid opportunity to start a memoir.