Boys Will Be Boys

Walking down a busy city street in India, it is not uncommon to run across the occasional group of police officers. Representing a long history of corruption and violence, these men are the epitome of power, class, and, well, power. It was surprising, however, to see two such men walking down the street, twirling their batons, and linking pinkies. Once I noticed the first couple of very close men, I quickly saw them everywhere. All around me were 'men who like to hang out with other men'.

Since Kodaikanal is a tourist destination, every weekend the town is crammed with Indian tourists paddle boating, horsebackriding, and enjoying the crisp mountain air. Most of these vacationers, however, are men. These gentlemen come up the mountain sporting cowboy hats and handlebar moustaches to vacation with their friends, ride bicycles around the lake, and catcall at a few unsuspecting women. At first it's a bit odd seeing a group of rowdy young men taking photographs of each other while paddle boating in Mickey Mouse boats. But, just like everything else, you eventually get used to it.

The other day, however, I got a little insight into just how early this phenomenon starts. One of my little preschool boys came up to me and said, "Teachah, Teachah! Abhi kissed me!" I look at Abhi, another three-year-old gentleman, and he gives me a look of satisfaction. To complete the action he follows up with, "well, I like him....so..." To this, just like all other instances of 'men who like to hang out with other men' I have come across, I simply let it slide. What this means exactly I don't know. I guess I'll never understand this boy-girl-boy stuff. All I know is, Indian boys don't seem to think Indian boys have cooties.

A Mail Tale

India is known for its superbly reliant courier service. Letters, postcards, and packages (parcels) all share the same risks of either arriving on time or never at all. Yet, as I recently learned, sending a package has a story all its own.

Having collected all my necessary items, I carried my wrapped items to the post office located in the part of town known as "The Budge". This is the part I like to refer to as, well, creepy. I proudly ignored all the stares and laughter along the way because I fully understand that seeing a white girl carrying a massive parcel must be a bit baffling and wildly hilarious. After climbing the steps up to the post office, I presented my bulk to the teller. He looked at me, then at the package and said, "Box Madam. First box finding. Outside man box." Grabbing my parcel, I headed back down the steps to find a grocer who might have an extra box. I found one and took it back with me to the post office. I quickly learned that the prior contents in the box was chili powder. After getting covered in a cloud of red dust, I sealed my contents safely into the box and brought the box back to the teller. The man looked at me, then at the box and said, "Madam. Parcel material packing. You tailor bringing, parcel wrapping." I headed back downstairs and up the hill to find a tailor who would wrap my box in cloth. I found one, bargained down to a reasonable price, waited while he stitched, and proceeded back to the post office. I proudly presented my wrapped box parcel to the teller. He looked at me, then at the box and said, "Madam you no sending today. Closing only. Closing 2pm. It now 2:30pm being. You no sending today." I grabbed my box and lugged it all the way home.

I still have not sent my package.

Stalin Steals the Show

A few weeks ago, the entire town of Kodaikanal was in a sort of disarray. Why exactly? Well, Stalin was coming to town! Stalin, the current PM of Tamil Nadu, was coming to our little haven to conduct the grand opening ceremony of the new bus station. Quickly, in order to receive his presence, hundreds of posters, billboards, and road barriers filled with photos of the great man himself were couriered up the mountain. They were hung, strung, and drilled into, around, and all over the main road in town. A new line was even painted down the middle of the road leading right up to the bus station. Right after the bus station however, the rest of the main road looked very sad as there were no shiny posters of Stalin on a horse, nor was there a white line down the middle of the road. He came and went in one hour time while everyone was cheering in their Sunday’s best. Today, all that is left is holes in the road were the banners once flew, an opened bus station, and a bright white line painted halfway down the road.

Oh yes, his 70' legacy also remains...

A Typical South Indian Day

The other day, while coming back up the mountain, my bus got hit by a jeep. The crash was quick and left only minor damage (a broken headlight and dented frame). This little accident, however, quickly turned into quite the scene. After only a few moments a crowd of about thirty men appeared from who knows where to ‘take care of the situation’. Ahem, determine who was at fault. Abruptly, a cloud of smoke, lungis, and Tamil profanities appeared in the middle of the one-lane mountain road. Since my understanding of Tamil is clean and simple, there was nothing to do but wait. And wait we did.

Every once and awhile, the driver and his team would get back on the bus ready to get on the road. Then, one of his team member’s anger reignited and they all ran back out to fight a little more. An hour later, after hundreds of Tamil words had been uttered and 1000 rupees exchanged, we merrily got on our way. Here's to another typical South Indian day!