I walk into a shop to grab a cold drink and pack of fags.  A motorbike taxi guy gets to the register just ahead of me and I wait while he picks out a variety of sweets from the jars on the counter.  Eventually he pays, and I notice he hands over one of those old twenty baht notes, the ones that are somehow sharper and less green, with the battle scene on the back.  He exits the shop and I buy my stuff using a hundred baht note, and in change I receive this same strange twent baht note. 

The bell chimes as I walk out the door, and outside I see the motorbike driver on his bike, fiddling with his helmet.  I feel the crisp twenty baht note between my fingers and am struck by the strangeness of this fact - that not a minute ago this money was in the possession of a man I have never met nor spoken to.  What am I doing with this man's money?  And so I hold the note out to him, and a moment later find myself on the back of his bike heading for home. 

For anyone reading this who hasn't seen me since last time I quit smoking, I'm sorry to say that the honeymoon didn't last.  Bloody hell.

But, guess what, my idiot addiction has been getting me into trouble.  Working in a Thai school makes you feel like a fourteen-year-old.  That is, your bosses are paternalistic and treat you like a child, while you're busy trying to act like an adult and save the child's treatment for the students.  I'm constantly worrying about what I'm going to get into trouble for next, dreading being called into the principal's office for a rap across the knuckles.

And it is that dread, I'm afraid, which keeps me in check.  I have to admit that although I was born a rebel, I'm a fairly cowardly one - and a rebel who's scared of getting in trouble is a bit of a twat, really.  That is why I obey the rules at school, well, most of the time anyway. 

And that is why the latest spot of trouble hurt so much.  My co-ordinator came into my classroom yesterday just before a lesson was due to start. 

'What did I do now?' I asked with a smile.

'I'm afraid this one's pretty bad,' he said, with only the faintest ghost of a smile flickering across his face.

The Head of Department's been looking for you.  What, she hasn't found you yet? She's absolutely furious.  She got a call from the Head of Prathom saying that you'd been seen smoking in the women's toilets. 

Whaaaa?  What utter rubbish!  I wouldn't bloody dare!  I may be a lot of things but I'm not bloody stupid!!!

And so I spent yesterday afternoon and last night dreading the confrontation that was inevitably going to occur this morning, where I'd have to deny everything and my boss wouldn't believe me and I'd end up crying in front of her and the whole horrible nightmare of false accusations and victimisation and the whole kaboodle.

So this morning I go in to talk to my boss.  Let's get this over with.  And what do I find?  After expecting the worst, sometimes miracles happen.  I find that my boss is on my side, that the accusation is only hearsay, and I am let off the hook for something I never did anyway.  Big sighs of relief all round.  My boss is nice after all!

But the fact lingers... somebody is running around school spreading rumours about poor little me, and I don't remember treading on anyone's toes... and they could do so again...

And the knowledge that the reason this accusation is false is because I am way too gutless to ever rebel that far... I have turned into a conformist monster since I was fourteen years old and really was smoking in the toilets...

 

As I write this 9 judges are convening and getting ready to announce whether or not the two most prominent Thai political parties will be banned for 5 years, as well as 3 of the smaller parties.  They are calling this a democratic decision, being that they are deciding this in the 'interests of national security'.  In other words, the existing opposition opposes the government, and therefore they threaten the junta's ability to exist happily, and therefore they should be banned.  It will be so much easier at election time if the ballot forms have only one box to tick.

And so, bring on the military dictatorship!  Declare another state of emergency!  Cut down the riots with machine freedom of fire!  

This country is being governed by a pack of very dangerous pea-brains. 

I have to admit, I haven't been following Thai politics too closely over the last 6 months or so, but one thing in the news yesterday grabbed my attention.

An FM radio station in Bangkok received a call-in on Thursday, and a woman on the line said, 'I've got someone here who wants to talk to you.'  That someone turned out to be old Thaksin himself, who reared his ugly head again by coming on the air to discuss Thailand's situation.  He reiterated his wish for the new governement to stop procrastinating when it comes to holding free elections, to restore democracy to this country as soon as possible.  And probably the man has a sneaky agenda somewhere, but one can't help knowing that this time the man is right.

The junta's reaction to this telephone call?  It's no surprise to find that they immediately raided the radio station and closed them down.  And that's just the problem:  they are doing exactly what the world expected of them.  60 million Thais hoped so hard when these old army guys seized power last September that this time it would be different.  And lately those hopes have gone out the window, and the unrest has started up again. 

What have they managed to achieve, this 'government' the newspapers are finally referring to as a 'junta'?  They have done their best to bugger up the economy, they have done nothing to quell the violence in the south, they have banned political meetings from taking place, and they have proven their block-headed objection to free speech by stopping up the media.

And their achievements?  The list is eerily empty.  They seem to have spent the last 6 months drafting a new constitution which is being cut down from every angle, this being their excuse for idleness in other areas.

So the old enemy Thaksin, whom everyone loves to hate, pops up and says the thing on everyone's minds - WHEN will this promised election happen for Christ's sake? - and the junta manage to legitimise him and shoot themselves in the foot by trying to shut him up.  Much as I despise the man, I have to admit that this time he is the good guy. 

I'm 30.  It's about time I found myself a husband.  Natural solution: read the 'Matrimonial' section in the Times of India.

Parents invite alliance from Convented, very beautiful Jain / Aggarwal girl of soft natured bureaucrat or highly cultured business / professional family for very handsome Jain boy 26 yrs / 183cm.  Sr. executive in global company posted at New Delhi.  18 lak p.a., only child of prominent family of Uttarakhand.

No, that one's no good.  Convented my ass.

Beautiful match for Handsome (53) looks forty Legally Divorced.  Divorce was due to Martian Affliction of Ex-wife.  Caste / Religion No Bar.  Prospective Bride up to 40 Should be With Strong Sense of Indian Ethos and Value System.  Bengali / Hindi Speaking Background Preferred.

Damn.  I don't speak Hindi or Bengali.

UR V. Yng Sweet Slim Caring Hindu Knowing Girl & can love a Sr. Asst Prof. (caste Indian, Religion - Humanity above Rituals & Ridity! Witty.  Unwed., V.slim TTtlr, Healthy, Fit, Fair 42/5'10" Alon & don't want to raise population).  Lets happily Read Sing Talk Trvl & Friendly Wrk Together 4 Country & Humanity!  Class, Creed, Country, Religion, Profession, Caste No Bar!  Trgdy-Victm Wdb Prfrd.

Now, he sounds nice...

In case you were thinking of ever coming here, don't.  Patna is one of those fairly horrible places in the world, a catastrophic, headache-inducing orchestra of honking horns, pavements crammed with rickshaws and parked motorbikes, piles of blackened motor parts manned by sullen, oil-smeared vendors, cows, dogs, hogs, donkeys, goats and street urchins picking their way through mountains of roadside rubbish, pedestrians choking on fumes squeezed in tight between this and oncoming traffic which threatens to run you down at any moment.  It's a sprawling industrial nightmare without any of the redeeming features of urbanisation. 

Having said all that, after a month of slumming it in grimy budget guesthouses, I'm treating myself; I've been holed up in my rather luxurious hotel for the last 24 hours or so getting quite well-acquainted the loo - yes, that infamous Indian affliction has finally reared its ugly head. 

That hasn't stopped me from dining in the hotel restaurant, though.  The Black Peppercorn restaurant is amazing, all plush and fancy, the waiters all in black tie racing to fulfill your every whim.  Unfortunately, it's one of those establishments that believes ultra-swift service is a sign of class, so that when the waiters serve you everything you've ordered in 90 seconds flat they glow with satisfaction and expect you to beam back.  Meanwhile, in this land of beautifully woven table cloths and shining teak panels, the stereo pumps out tunes like 'Don't Want No Short-Dick Man'.  I love it.

The best thing about being in a classy hotel, though, is the Not Being Stared At.  I arrived dirty, dusty and looking generally unkempt in every possible way, but the staff were far too polite to look down their noses at me (although I suppose asking for a security deposit was their way of doing that).  Even in the restaurant, dining amid the upper middle classes of Patna in my shorts and t-shirt, nobody casts me a second glance.  Fabulous.

For I have been stared at pretty much constantly for a month. 

A couple of days ago I took myself to the Delhi zoo.  Beautiful enclosures, however the animals seemed to be in rather short supply.  Not to worry, though; my fellow zoo-goers seemed quite content to spend their time staring at me instead.  Perhaps, I thought, they should scrap the animals altogether and fill the cages with foreigners.

On the trains I've seen one-armed, one-legged lepers hopping by, Hindu priests singing lullabys, performing dwarves doing handstands and cartwheels in the aisles, and not once has any of the above managed to shift the attention from me.  On the train from Delhi, a woman was so absorbed in staring at me that her young son, sitting next to her, was able to pick his way through her handbag, every now and then tossing small items out the window - an address book, several bracelets, a small bottle of perfume were all offered up to the homeless who prowl the train tracks - without her noticing a thing.

Is it fun to be so famous?  I have to admit, in China I used to catch myself enjoying it.  For in China there were two kinds of stares, one the sort of friendly stare and shout of 'Hello!' that made you feel welcome in a strange land, the other, my favourite, the mouth-agape look of shock, as though you'd just landed from planet Krypton.  Here, though, the stares are different.  They are generally unwelcoming stares, leering stares from sleazy men and disdainful stares from ordinary women.

So while I can't say that I am having a bad time, I have to admit that in some ways I'm looking forward to returning to the anonymity of Bangkok, where I can roam the streets without anyone casting me a second glance, and most of the time not even a first.   

   

Just before this trip, I finally invested in a digital camera.  I've added some photos of India, and will continue to add more, time permitting.  To have a look, scroll up and click on the India photos link on the right hand side.

I don't understand this thing called 'love'.

Supposedly romantic love didn't exist in the west until the late Middle Ages - outside of marriage, what existed beforehand was merely understood as playful lust - we 'adored', but we did not 'love'.

But surely this is purely semantics, for basic emotional afflictions do not alter over time, do they?

The Indian notion of 'falling in love' has generally been confined to a love that grows between spouses after an arranged marriage, although of course there are Romeo-and-Juliet type exceptions, the kind that defy convention.

Indian socio-cultural ritual is rigged, as all customs are in one way or another.  Young men and women are kept very distinctly apart in Indian culture, which makes it incredibly difficult for a young person to meet someone of the opposite sex outside of their family.  Also, of course, caste taboos have been strongly ingrained for centuries; it would be almost inconceivable to fall for someone outside of one's own socio-economic realm.  In the same way that Queen Victoria couldn't conceive of romantic love between women, Brahman and Shudra simply don't match.

This does not deny the existence of romantic love outside of wedlock; it simply ensures that it occurs as rarely as possible.  For, as we can gather from Western culture, romantic love outside of the boundaries of convention leads to chaos - the total breakdown of social order.  No longer do we base our romantic relationships on the premise of class, financial status, or even 'having things in common'.  Romantic love, 'falling in love', is seen as a force in its own right, uncontrollable, unrestrainable, so that it is entirely possible tp fall for someone, to marry someone, completely 'wrong for us'.  Hence that famous statistic of 50% of marriages ending in divorce (surely that figure must be higher by now?).

Most Indians sniff at Western marriage, seeing it as a doomed, topsy-turvy indication of a dissolute, immoral culture.  How, they ask, can one vow to marry someone, spend their life with someone, on the basis of romantic love, which is known to fizzle out so quickly?  Rather, Indians appear to see love as a force that is entirely malleable, that can be reined in and directed toward the correct person.  This will inevitable happen after marriage, as a new couple settle into their lives together, and the bond that is called love strengthens and grows.  And as for finding that correct person, of course 'mummy and daddy know best'; how can a young person be expected to know who's best for them?  One's parents have far more experience in these matters.

And for us westerners, so immensely proud of our culture of individualism which pronounces Freedom to be the new god - freedom of expression, freedom of speech, freedom of profession, freedom of choice, freedom to become fabulously wealthy at the expense of others etc. etc., the Indian system appears impossibly rigid.  In our arrogance, we pity those 'forced' into marriage with strangers. 

Typical! We pity them, they pity us.  Who is right?

Of course, as a gay woman, I am grateful to have been born into western culture; the freedom it offers is a ticket to my own personal happiness.  But then who's to say that had I been born in India, I would have even had the opportunity to become unconventional, to allow this particular sense of self occur?  Perhaps, like Queen Victoria, I would have remained blissfully ignorant of this whole side of myself.

I am certain that I am just as brainwashed as everybody else, worshipping my own freedom and independence in true western fashion.  Indians smile politely and blink uncomprehendingly at my lifestyle; probably they feel sorry for me.  For am I not, like all westerners, the victim of a chaotic civilisation that has completely lost its values and direction?  Single and childless at age 30, living alone in an unfamiliar culture and country? 

Perhaps they are right.  Who knows.

Little problems, the usual sort.  I planned a day out for myself, taking in a couple of the Ghandi museums (both Mahatma and Indira).  Took a rickshaw to M.G. and it was greatly done, bravo.  Afterwards checked with a lemonade wallah the way to I.G. would should have been just down the road, but it emerged that there are two M.G museums across town from one anther, and of course I had been taken to the wrong one.  Never mind.

I went to the park instead, and read my book by a lake for a while.  Even in the shade, though, the 44 degree heat took its toll and I had to leave.  Into the old town, instead, for some monument spotting.  Instead I spotted a McDonalds, and, head down in case anyone should recognise me, I snuck in to this Big-Macless air-conditioned paradise for a chicken burger.

There are far fewer foreigners here than I expected (in fact, haven't seen a single one since this morning).; certainly far fewer than Farang Central, Bangkok.  Or am I just going to the wrong (or right?) places? Also, I have to say, far less destitution than anticipated.  In Ethiopia, beggars flocked around you at all times.  Here the vast majority seem to be at least in some sort of employ, whether that be driving rickshaws or street-sweeping or collecting bits of cardboard.  I'm lucky if I get begged from ten or fifteen times a day.  Somehow, though, the deficit in destitution (ha ha!) seems to merely amplify what there is.

It's not just the scrawny fetid lepers lying semi-naked and comatose on median strips, or the ragged children digging through garbage bins, or the sharp-eyed kids eying foreigners' bulging pockets.  It also means flared tempers, grown men fighting like soi dogs over scraps.

 I watched from a doorway as two men emerged from a shop, taking the fight outside.  I soon gathered that one was the shopkeeper, and the other a disgruntled customer who had been short-changed.  They pushed and shoved and snarled at one another while others  variously egged them on or tried to break it up.  They finally disappeared inside, the shopkeeper re-emerging moments later to place a single rupee coin in the gutter.  The customer, following close at his heels, headed straight for the gutter, from which he plucked the measly coin before storming off, still angry but satisfied at least at having settled the matter.

A world where a tiny coin can mean so much is a sad world in anyone's book.   

I catch the night train to Delhi.  I arrive at my 'compartment' in the sleeper section and throw my pack on the upper bunk.  Immediately I am joined by two Hindu cavemen, enormous lungi-clad creatures with bindi-stained foreheads, overwhelming amounts of facial hair and massive pot bellies protruding from stained white singlets.  The stench, even before they sit down, is overpowering.  However they make up for it by singing Hindu lullabys well into the night, and I find myself forgiving them.

In the morning we arrive at Old Delhi station and there is the usual pushing and shoving as people try to storm their way onto the train at the same time as people are storming their way off.  Head down into the metro and I find myself forgiving Delhi, as suddenly I'm in a swanky, modern, air-conditioned haven.

At New Delhi station I decide against taking a rickshaw as the hotel I've booked is fairly close.  Unfortuantely I get lost pretty quickly and stop to ask some guys the way.  Of course they all point in different directions.  I'm standing in a busy road with traffic noise, fumes and the stink of urine invading my senses.  It's 8:30 in the morning and I'm already drenched in sweat.  Okay, so, rickshaw it is.

I find a rickshaw and the guy gives me a good price.  As we are crossing a bridge, he keeps muttering at me in Hindi, each time turning around and jabbing me lightly in the breast.  'Stop doing that,' I say after the second time. 

'lffdi fogpo efow?' 

Maybe he doesn't understand where I want to go? 'Main Bazaar.  Hey stop that!'

'Gerklj erlkeowi ferio effw?'  

'Main Bazaar.  Stop hitting me in the tit!!'

'Hedop sdkl sowr?'

'Just bloody drive!  Stop it!'

Suddenly he stops the rickshaw and climbs off the saddle.  He is fiddling with his flies, and I look away, figuring he is going to take a leak by the wall - not so unusual.  But when I glance back at him, he has his penis out and is displaying it proudly, a little grin on his smarmy little face.

'You disgusting pig!' I hiss.  I grab my pack and storm off down the road.  An autorickshaw pulls up alongside me and I ask him the way to Main Bazaar.

'40 rupees,' he replies.

'No, no, WHERE is Main Bazaar?  This way?  That way?'

'30 rupees.'

'No, no, you don't understand, I want to know WHERE!'  I am almost shouting now.

'Okay, okay, 20 rupees.'

'JESUS!!!'  

And so I storm off again, only to see that a cycle rickshaw has pulled up just ahead.  The wallah beckons to me, and I see that he's already got a passenger; a skinny European guy is sitting in the back.  'Is it okay?' I ask him, and he nods and smiles, bemused.  

As I climb into the passenger seat beside him, I suddenly realise this guy will have seen me shouting at various rickshaw drivers like a crazy woman, and so I feel compelled to tell him the story.  As I do so, I find myself laughing, and all is again well with the world.