Category Archives: India



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. 


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.

The Sundarbans

The Sundarban is the largest estruine forest in the world. It’s the mouth of the Ganges river; the planet’s biggest delta. The Sundarbans cover 10,000 square kilometers of jungle, the majority of which is mangrove. It forms the apex of the Bay of Bengal’s triangle between the east coast of India and the west coast of Burma, Thailand, and Malaysia. The forest is shared between India and Bangladesh, but two thirds of the forest lie across India’s border.

Screenshot 2014-04-07 09.40.50
The red line roughly follows the border between India and Bangladesh. I marked Kolkata and Dhaka with red dots.

The Sundarbans reserve is visited by thousands of tourists every year because it is a sanctuary for the Royal Bengal Tiger.  There are only about two hundred big, mean, salt-water drinking felines. Territorial and solitary, tigers keep their space from one another. That means that on average, there is one tiger in every 50 square kilometers. The chances of sightings are minimal.

I went down for another reason, although seeing a tiger would have been a welcome bonus. In addition to being a ecological and bio-diverse wonder, the Sundarbans have a crucial importance protecting two of the worlds fastest growing, most populated, and poorest cities in the world.

Even though Kokata and Dhaka are over 100 kilometers from the Bay of Bengal, the Sundarban forest acts as a cyclone buffer. The mangroves are a protective shield, mother-earth’s storm surge barrier.  The forest cuts storms off from their energy source, warm ocean water, and tames their intensity before they hit landfall on the doorsteps of these south asian megacities. Cyclones need to pass through the mangrove jungle before they reach the urban one.

Officially, Kolkata is only 5 meters above sea level, which makes for a negligible gradient as the land slopes 120 kilometers towards the sea. Water looms all on sides. It flows down from the Himalayas in great rivers, ebbs and flows upstream from the Bay of Bengal, and for a couple months every year falls from the sky in the Moonsoon’s deluge.

Even after fighting its way through the banded web of the Sundarban mangroves, cyclones have hit the area recently, and with devastating results. Kolkata has been lucky in recent years as cyclones have veered easterly into Cox Bazaar, Bangladesh.

But more devastating outcomes loom ahead, especially as sea levels rise and drown parts of the mangrove. The loss of the Sundarbans threatens the habitat of the already endangered Bengal tiger and it threatens the livelihoods of over four million people that make their living on the fringes of the Sundarban (making bricks, fishing for shrimp, farming rice, or collecting honey (with masks on the back of their heads to confuse the tigers who always attack from behind). But the rising sea also has an effect much further down river as it hacks down the natural shield that protects two urban centers and over 200 million people.

Sometimes the natural world comes up with the best solutions for things.  Inventors often adapt mechanisms observed in the natural world into machines.

The Sundarbans is far more effective than any designed storm surge barrier and would save Indians and Bangladeshis, many of whom can’t even feed themselves regularly, the task of funding a multi-billion dollar project to protect their homes.

The Dutch, who are ahead of the curve, are trying to emulate the natural process of the Sundarbans by pumping the seabed of the North Sea into fortifying sand dunes.

In India, they are accelerating the degradation of the mangroves with chemical pollution and rerouting rivers which off-sets the salinity balance and kills the species of mangroves.


Before I came to India, I heard and read how utterly shocking roads are in rural India. Adam Smith, a British director who I met in London described the roads as a ‘symphony’ as he waved and interlocked his arms mentioning the array of animals, vehicles, and human traffic that intertwine into a functional chaos.

I read George Black’s essay about traveling on the roads in Bangladesh which read: “By the end of the first day, it’s already become an ingrained reflex: brace for impact as yet another suicidal rickshaw, luridly painted with pictures of birds, animals, and Bollywood stars, swerves suddenly into our path. Our driver bangs on the horn, shimmies to the right, avoids an onrushing bus by a matter of inches, then calmly resumes his navigation of the demented streets of Dhaka, Bangladesh. I relax my death grip on the dashboard and exhale.”

Hearing those impressions for the first time, I smiled at the humor, reading through it as hyperbole.

But then I was there, immersed in it and thought, ‘Yes. Yes. You were exactly right.’

Before departing for the Sundarbans, my biggest fear was getting dragged off by a tiger in the middle of the night or drowned by a crocodile. If the animals didn’t get me, I feared the Dacoits, the armed pirates, (a tourist craft was robbed under moonlight by masked robbers in mid-february). I left all my valuables, except my passport, in Kolkata.

I was only a couple kilometers out of the city when I realized that my fears were not in line with the real dangers. If I was going to be hurt it would be on the trip down between the city and the boat dock.

Outside of Kolkata, heading south, the landscape is characterized by primitive mud walls protecting small conglomerations of palm-thatched houses, acres of paddies, and frequent brick kiln chimneys, emanating smoke,  that tower impressively high above the squalor, poverty, yet complete brilliance of a place where humans have built communities on landscapes where humans are simply not supposed to live.

The landscape looks iconically dutch, but without well-engineered dikes, cute windmills, or bike paths set apart from the roadway. Water is everywhere.

The roads are infested with bikes, scooters, and motorcyles, but dominated by big trucks that speed down the cluttered roadway with the same force that a 12-wheeler would barrel through the uninhabited desert in Nevada.

The bus I was on would scape by goods carriers loaded with pumpkins or coconuts. It rolled onto the siding of the thin road to miss a rickshaw so overloaded with plastic tubing that the loaded machines width was five times longer than the tuk tuk itself.

You see a car carrying an excess of a dozen people, you see trucks carrying a small village, families pile into rickshaws that could barely fit three people my size. Boys hang onto the backs of trucks, men sit cross-legged on roofs, legs hang perilously off the sides of cargo-bedded three wheeled motorcycles. Life is valued differently here.

I was sitting in the front row of the bus. Thick paned glass separated me from the cockpit where a driver and his co-pilot navigated the roads–that make New York City look like rural Maine, with lackadaisical confidence.

It was one of those situations that happen all too frequently in India, where you are tossed into an unpredictable situation and realize that it is all so far out of your hands. Might as well enjoy the ride.


I stepped off the boat and into the heat. The air was hard to breath. It was like stepping into a sauna, where the heat is so strong that it envelops you into invisible pressure that is persistently trying to knock you off into sleep. Even the dark skinned indians walked around with umbrellas to guard them against the intensity of the sun.

Before getting on the tourist craft, the boat wanted a xeroxed copy of my passport and visa. The man asked for my passport, I handed it to him. Then he asked for my visa, I showed him the page. Then he asked for my passport. I pointed at it. He was confused and didn’t realize that they were both in the same blue book. I didn’t feel great leaving my identity, my most valuable possession, and my ticket out, left at the hands of a 5 foot short jittery man as he disappeared into the cracks of the village so I followed him, keeping my eyes on my passport the whole time, and giggling to myself about how ridiculous it must have looked to have this tiny man chased through the back-alleys, canal sides, and markets of this compact and hectic fringe town by a white man, drenched with sweat almost double his size.

Passports got sorted.

The cruise set off.

We passed through settlements above, where people subside off of honey collecting, shrimp farming, and live in mud thatched houses, many of which had solar panels on the roofs and satellite dishes on the sides. But the villages were primitive and far more interesting than any of the wildlife we saw (some birds, mud skippers, crabs, a couple of lizards, deer, a wild boar, and the fin of a dolphin). There was a troupe of young IT engineers at TATA, one of the biggest Indian multinationals, that reveled at the sight of deer. Understandable for people that live in the thick of a city like this.

For me, the wildlife touring was significantly less interesting that watching the settlements on the fringes of the wildlife sanctuary and national park. But the day cruise that followed was peaceful and highlighted by sunset and sunrise in one of the remotest and wildest places I’d ever been. I slept that night, outside my cabin could have been the set of the heart of darkness but I rested pretty soundly with malaria-pill enhanced dreams and was happy that I slept through the night without being awoken by a masked robber.

Hussain hand made paper

Jaipur is in Rajasthan, India’s Westernmost state. Rajasthan has become immensely popular on India’s tourist track because of a multi-million dollar effort by the Indian government to promote tourism. But regardless of the efforts, the draw of story-book-quality 17th century palaces and forts is magnetic.

The Amber Fort transports those of us with wild imaginations back to the times of the Mughal empire where sturdy walls were built to protect the royal family from the likes of leopards, snakes, coyotes, and herds of elephants just as much as threats from neighboring armies. The Imperial complexes were lavishly constructed from war booty. They gleam high on desert cliffs. Below, goods were carried from bazaar to bazaar by mules, camels–even elephants.

Emporers are no longer comforted by multiple concubines within the reaches of ruby encrusted marble walls, but the transportation methods remain exactly the same. Nowadays, colorfully painted trucks pass camels towing carts rigged with expired airplane wheels. The carts attach around the camel’s neck, about 8 feet in the air, and slope backwards at 60 degrees, an arrangement that looks particularly uncomfortable for the driver, at least in comparison to those lucky enough to lounge on the backs of the elephants hauling fabric into town.

The auto rickshaw felt even more unstable than usual when a tree-trunk sized leg of an elephant thunders down less than a meter from my nose.

Outside of Jaipur is a temple devoted to Hanuman, a monkey-faced Hindu god, where monkeys actually rule with utmost power. The cavernous temple is set above a watery pool where hundreds of Nazuri monkeys groom, scratch, and play with each other. While baby and adolescent monkeys entertain each other, the biggest males prefer stalking jittery humans like prey, exposing their teeth and big claws. They approach so close that you can only throw a bag of nuts the other way to maintain your safety or back away nervously if you’re empty handed. The monkeys are agile and show off their upper hand by clamoring around the temple’s rocky faces with ease.


Jaipur is sprawling out horizontally faster than bacterial growth. Rajasthan’s desert’s natural predators are no longer a threat to humans safety, but theres a thin line. When water is short in the summer, overheated leopards come into the villages in search, at least until the monsoon comes in and cools the environment off.

Jaipur is thrusting its way towards modernity faster than most economies in the world. Metro lines and arterial flyways are popping out of the ground, the city has grown by over 2 million people in the last 30 years.

In gaps between the modern glass and metal facades, historic archways transport you back into the 17th century orient.

It’s easy to get a sense of what the place once was simply by talking to the people and hearing their family history. Vijay Singh’s ancestry dates back to the beginning of time here in Jaipur. His grandfathers were always warriors for the Maharajas. India’s independence came in 1947 changed everything for the Singhs. A family of warriors turned to tourism to guide westerners around places that their ancestors once defended their lives over.


30km south of Jaipur, one of country’s most longstanding paper-making families has built itself a home after a long series of moves in the past four centuries. From Turkey, to China, to India, the Hussain’s have finally settled in Sanganer. Sanganer’s seven rivers provide abundant supplies of water, a necessary input to transform ground hemp into pulp and make hand-crafted paper generation after generation.

Hussain paper making was recommended to me by Sharon and Tom, two New York artists that I met in Varanasi. I tested the waters and asked various people involved in the tourist industry if they had heard of it and if it was worth visiting. I didn’t want to disappoint my father who traveled across the globe to come spend time with me for two weeks.

Nobody had heard of it but going to see the paper company was a bee in my bonnet. It’s hard to trust people in the Indian tourist business anyways. The touts usually recommend you to go to neon-lit, multi-storied, air-conditioned and elevator-serviced ‘village craft emporium’ and restaurants where a creepy wide-eyed dancer/musicians playing a traditional instruments will stare you down while you try your hardest not miss moving your shaken hand from the plate to mouth in a completely empty restaurant. Basically the rule of thumb: treat everything you’re told by tour-guides and hotel owners as opposite. If its ‘great’ then I will feel like an innocent man walking into prison and if they say it’s not that cool I probably love it.

I gave the company a ring and after a couple of unanswered calls got a response through a crackly phone-line who told me to call his brother. I had a quick call with the brother. We didn’t understand each other at all, but I thought that I heard, ‘come on down, we’d be delighted to show you around’ and relayed the news to my Dad.

40 minutes later we were in suburban India. I was used to the sights after spending the past three and a half weeks in Benares but I was much enjoying my watching my Dad react to the car wind through sandy back-alleys–with only centimeters to spare–past goats picking goodness out of garbage, impromptu cricket games, and traffic that only has one unspoken law: hit me and have an army of townpeople beat you into paper pulp.

Hussain paper-making is a smaller operation that describes itself as “probably the last of india’s traditional papermakers.” Our driver didn’t exactly know where to go. We stopped, totally dead-ended and asked for directions. After 35 seconds, half the local school, 6 pairs of men on motorcycles and even a family from on top of the roof of the adjacent building had joined in a town-hall meeting to chat about exactly where we were to go and the best way to get there. The committee (we had zero say in any matter) decided to send one of the kids along in the car with us until we found the family’s house.

The young boy, exhilarated to be sent on this seemingly noble mission, directed us around the nonsensical layout of the village. The kid signaled our arrival by jumping out of the window of the car.I slipped him 10 rupees for his service before he rushed back to his cronies to report.

I got out and looked around in the midst of the dusty road, pondering the next move. A minute later, a door opened behind me. An ancient dark-skinned muslim man beckoned us into his house. His black skin was muscular and veiny in stark contrast to his white Topi, or cap, and big white, but bloodshot eyes. His gloomy appearance was trumped by his big heart. He projected kindness. He warmly invited us into his home to sit and wait.

His home was minimal, there was a stack of about eight thin mattresses all pushed to the corner of the room so the bedroom could double as a living room during the day. Women rushed through the room, rather quickly, to cast a glance at the unfamiliar visitors then returned to their household activity. No conversation was exchanged, except our sincere thanks, bowing down with are hands clasped over our hearts, for the seat offerings. It would have been rude to reject the seats, as much as I’d preferred the elderly man to sit down and relax.

After about 15 seconds, a young spritely man in a blue business shirt that was weighed down by a mobile phone ushered us back into the car. He directed us out of town to the factory.

This adventure was turning out marvelously, and I was very glad to see my Dad wrapped up within the brilliant charm of the sporadic and unplanned.

As an ex-corporate lawyer, Father Bruce is a lover of itineraries and unhappily married to the stress that the over planned days bring. India is unpredictable and tight planning mixes like oil in water.

The factory was inside of what looked like an abandoned sandstone house from the set of Star War’s Tatooine. The paint outside was chipping, the gate was rusted, trash was seeping out of the nooks and crannies (no different from any other part of India).

Inside were three concrete tubs where ground hemp is mixed with water to become pulp. One man was slowly and confidently straining the pulp onto a sieve that cut the shape of the paper and was piling the sheets in sets of 200, each separated by a linen cloth. Once 200 were made, the paper is stuck to the wall to dry in the 95 degree dry heat of the desert. After dry, its varnished, giving it a glossy smooth face.

The family makes multiple types of paper, most from hemp, some from recycled paper. Some is thin, others are sturdy three ply pieces pasted together. All is strong. One man demonstrated to us by scrunching the paper and pulling at it with all his might. It had the maneuverability and resiliency of a tarp.

The youngest of the Hussains showed us around the small campus. The whole operation would fit inside of a two car garage. He pointed out one man who was neatly piling dried paper into stacks–it was his father and explained that the man who let us into his house was his grandfather. There were three or four other men working there who were brothers and uncles. And five women–none of whom were introduced, mentioned, or acknowledged. There was a fishtank too.

Here’s an excerpt from the website:

The Family Arrived in India via Bokhara in Central Asia. They arrived in India around 800 years ago, settling in the Rajasthani village of Sanganer, just outside jaipur. The family name Khagzi literally means paper maker, from Arbic, and the word currently used for paper in modern hindi is Kagaz

The history of paper dates back to the history of human culture and civilization. Handmade paper making is a traditional art that has been practisized by a particular class of people and generations together. This art has been passed from one generation of craftsmen to another generations of craftsmen. These craftsmen are also known as kagzi. Mohammad Hussain Kagzi runs one of the few units making paper. He is a part of extended Kagzi family. They were originally from Turkey and from there mover to China and then family settled in India. Kagzi family history goes back to 14th century when the rular was Feroz Shah Tuglag in Delhi. Even in those days Royalty used handmade paper made by them for official document, pantings, calligraphy, and to make copies of Holy Quran and to maintain account books. In the 16th century the rular of Amber, Raza Man Singh brought the Kagzi saganer and settled them on the bank of river Sarsvati. Thus the town emerged as one of the biggest paper producing center in North India.

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The Akhara

7am on Saturday morning, I was led into a back alley of north Varanasi by Anil, the trusted auto rickshaw driver of Kriti Gallery. He grinned at me, ear to ear, exposing his perfectly white and well shaped teeth—a rarity for an Indian man of his age and profession. The narrow path sloped gradually uphill, past beggars, a few men hand-manufacturing components for machinery, and a lonely buffalo to a stone gateway, our terminus. The top of the gateway had a drawing of two men wrestling and read, “Akhara bara Ganesh”

Before I go any further with this story, I need to backtrack one week to my introductory tour of Varanasi. Petra and I meandered down the riverbank like an inch-worm. She, accustomed to the sights, sounds, smells and other endless stimuli of Varansi, tried to keep me at a steady pace, but I got caught on things that needed more time for investigation. She’d go then wait. Go, then wait. And so on. It’s how I feel when I’m walking my dog Ollie through the rodent holes of pine park. If she was frustrated by my pace, she hid it well.

At one point I noticed some young men my age lifting weights and jumping rope up on a balcony. I compared their muscles to my beer-belly-in-the-making and asked Petra if that was a gym.

“Sort of.”

It was an Akhara. Here are facts I have gathered so far, although more research is due:

  • Men practice wrestling and body building at an Akhara. The central stage is a sand pit where the wrestling ensues. The whole idea is that the sport is a way to train your body, your diet, and your soul, and therefore shape you as a person into a well-trained citizen of India.
  • Many of the members are from a caste of milkmen.
  • There is a larger spiritual element to it that I haven’t tapped into. Except when I tapped the holy clay mound then tapped my forehead before entering the pit.
  • During British Colonization, the Akharas were centers to train strong men to revolt against the scallywags.
  • The gyms are a dying breed, they’ve lost popularity.

She told me a little bit about what she knew. Basically that it was a gym where they practice wrestling and lots of the city’s milkmen go there.

I half-joked with Petra, “when do I start?”


A week passed.


On Friday night, Petra asked me what I was doing the next morning at 7:30am. She got a text instructing me to meet Pinku (a friend of Navneet’s who I had met at a Kriti Gallery dinner) at an Akhara to meet the coaches.

I woke up early on Saturday, quite nervous. It was my Dad’s surprise 70th birthday party, so I had an early morning Skype call to my Dad’s party where I was passed around to every single member of the festivities. It was dizzying, but cool to be connected half a world away.

I told my parents what I was up to.Their response—“SO stupid” “You’re going to get hurt” “Idiotic”

I said, “You think a lot of things I do are idiotic, but I still do them,” wished them well and took off to the gym.  If I’m going to go down, I’d rather go down with my boots on.

The gym is set on a rooftop. You walk up steps through the gateway into a courtyard area. On the left side of the path are squatters who are cooking manure to make fertilizer and grow pot plants on the side. On the right are cows hanging out in a little rooftop pasture. You walk past these unlikely–yet ubiquitous in Varansi–sites for sights, through a row of bushes and into the gym space.

The courtyard is paved with stone. There are benches around the pit, a shower (which is a waist-height nob that you plug with a wood cork and squat down in a stone tub to rinse off, a well to fill the shower, a shed filled with stone weights and other pieces of equipment that look like they once belonged to circus body builders from the 1890s, and a small 10 foot by 30 foot gym with a bench press, some free weights, a pull-up bar, and a lats machine.

The center-piece of the Akhara is the clay pit, covered by a corrugated metal roof thats propped up by square columns decorated with simplistic paintings of snakes. On the north-east column there is a orange sculpture of Shiva that has been painted with so many coasts of uneven paint that it now looks like the blob.

Across the lane, acting as one of the backdrops of the open air gym, is a temple.  The two spires of the ornate roof stick up above the skyline beside the Akhara. The other side is a giant oak tree that provides shade to the gym as well as habitat to monkeys.

The Saturday that I met the coaches was an auspicious day, I was told. It was the day of one of the gods of strength and power. I introduced myself to the crew at the gym. Nobody there speaks english so we have a very primitive method of communication. But it’s seemed to work so far. After a brief introduction, they told me to and come back tomorrow for testing.


I returned the next day, more nervous about wearing the strange underwear than anything else.

Every move I make at the gym is watched by about 15 sets of eyes. Westerners have come to this gym, but only very occasionally, and only to shoot photographs or watch the age old traditions there.

Nobody has ever asked to participate.

It’s quite intimidating having every move you make watched like you’re the last remaining siberian tiger. Especially when you’re wearing a cloth speedo.

I showed up and a bloke who spoke the most english, a couple out of order words, came over and showed me how to tie my underpants. They decided that I’d look great in lime-green. Mine are way brighter and more flamboyant than the pants that anybody else wears. #freshmantreatment.

They told me to warm up, so I jogged around while every watched my circus monkey moves, then did one of Justin Moss’s Bowdoin Rugby style warm ups.

I was invited into the pit, but before entering I had to touch the holy mound of clay adorned with flowers.

Inside the pit, I tussled with a broad shouldered mustache man. (They all hate my beard, I think it’s regarded as a muslim thing, so I think I’m going to have to go back to movember styling if I stick around.

I tried to fight the hard fight, using my larger size and weight to my advantage, but he got me every time with technical moves. I’ve never wrestled, and was never the most physical rugby player on the pitch, but it was good fun.

At one point during the wrestling, two crazed monkeys started chasing each other around the ring. Everyone moved around to watch out for them because it’s very bad news to get bit by a diseased monkey. The monkeys left, and I thanked them, in my head, for giving me a quick breather. I then laughed to myself thinking, me and those monkeys are basically doing the exact same thing.

After a couple rounds I was completely gassed and the world was spinning. I made the timeout signal and got some laughs from around the place. I asked one of the chiefs how long I was wrestling. It felt like I was in there for about 12 minutes, but it was only 2 and a half.

They’ve started calling me the red man and are intrigued by the amount my body sweats. After the work-outs, the wrestlers take a sand bath and rub the clay into their skin. It’s supposed to be good for you, but also used to dry off. But only if you’re moderately wet. I get super wet, so I just turn into a clay man. It takes a lot of work to rub myself dry. The minerals in the clay are apparently cleansing. Who knows, though.

I returned again this morning where they taught me some moves and some stone weight exercises. I’m back again tomorrow morning but at 6:30am.

Two of the guys asked me what caste I was. I had no idea what to say, so I said just me. “Me only.” Ahh David Caste, they responded, likely in that thing humans do when they pretend to understand something they don’t at all.

They asked about my wife and were shocked to learn that I was only 23. They were thinking on the order of 35.

The uncomfortable feeling of being watched subsided today. I figure, hey if I can deal with this, I’m game for any number of public humiliation later.

It’s especially satisfying after the work outs when I walk out of that gate onto the street with wet hair and people figure out that I was just working out in an Akhara. I see peoples faces light up in wonder.  People like at me curiously in any section of Varanasi outside of the riverbank and tourist hotspots, but even more so walking out of the gym.

Before I left today, one of the guys came up and said, “I happy you come.”

Indian men in general are much more touchy-feely with each other. Its not at all uncommon to see to friends holding hands or closely hugging in shoulder wraps. I’m not about to get that close while I’m in my man-thong, so I keep my space around the arena.

But I do think it’s fun for these guys to have someone like me around.  It’s great to do something to try to improve my fitness and do something unique. I wouldn’t have been able to this opportunity without Navneet who has lived in Varanasi for his whole life and even he had to pull some strings. It’s also cool to discover this ancient, yet dying sport.

I’m sure, too, that some of this stuff will translate into rugby in the long term.

For your enjoyment:

photo 1

Here’s a painting—maybe not quite finished that I started yesterday.


Dead ended

Around the corner came two men. A bamboo stretcher was wedged in between them. I could see the strain on their faces. The physical and emotional weight on their load. The dead weight.  I then saw the orange and gold tapestry. A common sight in the city where Hindus travel to to die. I knew that I had come across a funeral procession. I looked behind me to move out of the way, but there was nowhere to go. I had wandered too far astray into the thinning labyrinth of Varanasi, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world.

The man leading the body to the Ganges with a trail of incense was already next to me in the thin alley pushing the procession forward with an indelible thrust as if directed by death itself.  I squeezed into a pocket and hugged the wall, between a doorstep and a city cow.

The men carrying the body looked stoic, either as if they were trying to hide their emotions behind a curtain of masculine strength or because they were struggling underneath the weight of the corpse

I pushed my left ear, my spine, and my heels against the brick wall trying to make myself, already too big for the infrastructure of India, as small as possible. With my ear against the wall, my right ear was brushed by the tapestry covering the newly deceased next to me. We were nose to nose. I was closer to this body, this person that was no longer, than I have been to many other humans throughout this year. Any closer and I would have been kissed.

It turned out that the body had just been brought out of the house moments before I arrived. After it passed, a young boy carrying a terracotta vase of water tripped out of the house, took a few shuffle steps as an attempt to try to balance the ceremonial water jug, then dropped it right at my feet. The water splashed over my ankles.

I passed the door of the house, where the women, who aren’t allowed to leave to go to the cremation ghats were sitting. A few were wailing in mourning, the rest comforting those who were suffering most.

Completely by accident, I felt as though I stumbled into the personal life and trod over the emotions of strangers.

In Varanasi, it seems like everybody is dying. But perhaps that’s just because the culture is so much more open about it. I wondered how often I walked by an apartment building in Buenos Aires, Rotterdam, or Mumbai where there were corpses waiting to be disposed of. It must have been occurred, it’s just hidden.

Varanasi is  an auspicious place to die in the Hindu tradition. Dying here breaks the soul out of it’s continuing cycle of rebirth. There are hospices set up along the riverbank where elderly come and wait to die. The fires at the burning ghats never go out.


I’ve started a section in my notebook titled ‘Along the Ganges’ where I keep notes about things I think about, people I meet, or situations I stumble into.

Here are two worth sharing with you:


I was walking along the river with Tayla from Colorado. Tayla had pet snakes as a kid so saw this tout making music for his cobras and went and stuck her face in the wicker basket. She picked up a baby anaconda and started cuddling it.


We both knew that nothing comes free, especially in India. But since I was staying a yard-sticks distance from the cobras, it was on her. But still, from a distance I had a great sign-language conversation with the snake man. We hit it off. He’s a really friendly looking guy with a rockstar beard.

Tayla the snake charmer left for Agra and the rest of her India tour, but I’ve kept on running into snakeman. I’ve seen this guy every single time I’ve been out walking along the river. We give each other a head nod, smile, and a look of recognition. He’s always sitting down, each time in a different spot, with his snakes in front of him. After the fourth or fifth encounter, I thought to myself, “alright, we’re becoming friends.”

Today, I saw him walking along the river in the other direction. I was surpised to see him up and moving and gave him the ‘oh hey!’ look. He was happy to see me to. As he blessed me by touching the top of my head, I thought, “Awesome, I’ve got a buddy.”

He gave me a friendly hand-shake, then stuck out his hand and asked for money.

No fast friends in Varanasi. There’s only one thing people want from me.



10000421_10201678347300624_782689727_oThis fella, is 6 or 7. He looks taller because I bent over to take his portrait, but he stood at about my hip level. He was a truly remarkable young entrepreneur. This morning, he decided to make some money, so rallied two of his cronies and piled up debris left over from a festival to build a roadblock and gate to control the traffic along the public riverfront way by the ghats.

Whenever a westerner would come by he’d put the gate down and ‘you shall not pass’ until they coughed up change.

I encountered him for the first time with Petra, the German gallery manager here at Kriti who speaks elementary Hindi. We started chatting with him and he, like all Indians, loved to argue. In a country where remarkably few people are fully conversational in english. He entertained us in argument filled with laughs and wit. We ended up giving him 5 rupees, but I thought he deserved an award for coming up with money-making tactics that were more successful than every other person along the river.

As Shawn Carter says, you can’t knock the hustle.


The Ganges River takes a 190 degree turn in Varanasi and starts to flow towards its source in the Himalayas. It  is the holiest Hindu city in the world, older than Jerusalem, Zion, and Ancient Rome.

Hindus believe that if they die here, they are able to free themselves from the endless cycle of rebirth and achieve salvation. Religion declares that the city was founded by the God Shiva, who is both the one and only god, but at the same time hundreds of thousands of gods. Shiva represents complete opposite ideas, which is totally cool in of itself.  Archeologists believe that the city has been around since the 10th or 11th century BC so it is the oldest continually inhabited city in the world.

As a fellow artist-in-residence at Kriti said this morning, “it’s how I’d imagine it would be like if I were to visit modern day ancient Rome.” There are thousands of temples, giant-stepped stone ghats with magnificent castle-like buildings.

You can see how high the river gets during the monsoon season. The opposite bank of the Ganga is completely undeveloped because it represents the ‘other-side’ where you pass into after death. It has huge sand flats that represent a much wider flow of the river. Walking along the bank on the Varanasi side, one can look up and see plastic bags, debris, and a water stain 20ft above.

Down by the river, you see men and women plunging themselves into the holy water in ritual, bodies being cremated, men doing laundry, pilgrims traveling by boat. It’s an astonishing place.

The cattle here roam the streets with absolute power. Among the chaos of the city, the cows walk into traffic unfazed, keeping a steady, slow, and tranquil pace. They remind me of the Aurochs in ‘Beasts of the Southern Wild.’

I’m staying on a campus at an artist residency. It’s very pleasant having my own apartment with a bedroom and studio space after 6 months of hostel life. I’ve picked up a case of Kingfisher, paint, and paper, so I am a very happy camper.


I know it’s lazy, but right now I’m going to rely on photographs to tell the story of my past few days. Besides exploring, I got down to work on some paintings. I’ll post stuff as I think it’s closing in on done. Check out my previous post below for today’s work.