Caption at the source:
A sadhu takes photographs of others as they wait to register their names for the annual Amarnath Yatra in Jammu
Saturday, July 02, 2011
Photo of the day: sadhus and a camera
From The Hindu:
Comin' Home Baby. Am comin' home.
All good things come to an end, and so did my my trip to Ecuador.
The evening before my pre-dawn departure, I settled my bill at the hotel and asked them to arrange for a taxi to the airport, and headed out for one final stroll along the major thoroughfares of Centro Historico. One last walk up to Plaza Grande.
The graffiti-art murals there caught my attention, yet again. I knew I would never see anything like this in America. Imagine such a mural by the White House at Washington, DC!
I took in as much of the sights and sounds as I could. Because, I knew that I might never ever visit Ecuador again in my life. There are so many other places I want to get to within my limited budget and re-visiting is an unaffordable luxury.
On my way back to Hotel Real Audencia, I stopped at the store two blocks away to get a couple of guavas. The store was crowded, as it was during my two other ventures there. I carefully selected two guavas--one ripe, and the other semi-ripe and much firmer than the other.
Even the express checkout line was long. The lady behind me had a couple of bags of strange looking meat, which made me think about the Ecuadorian specialty of guinea pig. "Could this be?" I thought to myself.
It was now my turn at the counter. The young woman's eyes were red, perhaps from the long and strenuous hours at work. She probably can not even afford dreaming about the comforts that I take for granted in my everyday life. "If I were a rich man" as Tevye sings in The Fiddler on the Roof, I might have just about emptied my wallet for her to go on a vacation.
As I walked past the front desk at the hotel, I reminded them about the taxi for 4:30 in the morning, and for a wake-up call at 4:00.
"Don't worry. It will be here."
I slowly climbed up the two flights for one final time.
My phone's alarm woke me up a minute before the wake-up call ring reverberated in the room. After a shower and getting ready for the long flight back to Oregon, I sat at the table and picked up a blank piece of paper.
"Sra/Srta, gracias para servicio" I wrote on the paper. And placed on top of that paper two small packs of Trader Joe's chocolate bars, which are faithful travel companions of mine. I hoped that the housekeeping women would enjoy them.
When I got into the plane, my mind seemed to be filled with equal parts of regret over the end of a wonderful vacation, relief that the stress of being alone in an alien land was over, and joys of going back home.
Rudyard Kipling remarked that we are not able to call the entire world our home “since man's heart is small”. Kipling, too, was a product of globalization—he was born in India to British parents, and spent his early childhood in Bombay (now Mumbai), which he described as “mother of cities to me.” Of all the places he had been to, Kipling felt that one place was special. He wrote about that in a poem entitled “Sussex”:
From the little I have traveled, there has been nothing to even remotely lure me away from America. Not even from Oregon, it looks like.
As the plane took off from Miami, and I was on my way back to Oregon, I realized how much more familiar Ecuadors' hills and green felt compared to the concrete jungles down below. I wanted to do a Pope John Paul act of kissing the ground when I reached Eugene--my own Sussex. At least, for now.
Until my next trip!
The evening before my pre-dawn departure, I settled my bill at the hotel and asked them to arrange for a taxi to the airport, and headed out for one final stroll along the major thoroughfares of Centro Historico. One last walk up to Plaza Grande.
The graffiti-art murals there caught my attention, yet again. I knew I would never see anything like this in America. Imagine such a mural by the White House at Washington, DC!
I took in as much of the sights and sounds as I could. Because, I knew that I might never ever visit Ecuador again in my life. There are so many other places I want to get to within my limited budget and re-visiting is an unaffordable luxury.
On my way back to Hotel Real Audencia, I stopped at the store two blocks away to get a couple of guavas. The store was crowded, as it was during my two other ventures there. I carefully selected two guavas--one ripe, and the other semi-ripe and much firmer than the other.
Even the express checkout line was long. The lady behind me had a couple of bags of strange looking meat, which made me think about the Ecuadorian specialty of guinea pig. "Could this be?" I thought to myself.
It was now my turn at the counter. The young woman's eyes were red, perhaps from the long and strenuous hours at work. She probably can not even afford dreaming about the comforts that I take for granted in my everyday life. "If I were a rich man" as Tevye sings in The Fiddler on the Roof, I might have just about emptied my wallet for her to go on a vacation.
As I walked past the front desk at the hotel, I reminded them about the taxi for 4:30 in the morning, and for a wake-up call at 4:00.
"Don't worry. It will be here."
I slowly climbed up the two flights for one final time.
My phone's alarm woke me up a minute before the wake-up call ring reverberated in the room. After a shower and getting ready for the long flight back to Oregon, I sat at the table and picked up a blank piece of paper.
"Sra/Srta, gracias para servicio" I wrote on the paper. And placed on top of that paper two small packs of Trader Joe's chocolate bars, which are faithful travel companions of mine. I hoped that the housekeeping women would enjoy them.
When I got into the plane, my mind seemed to be filled with equal parts of regret over the end of a wonderful vacation, relief that the stress of being alone in an alien land was over, and joys of going back home.
Rudyard Kipling remarked that we are not able to call the entire world our home “since man's heart is small”. Kipling, too, was a product of globalization—he was born in India to British parents, and spent his early childhood in Bombay (now Mumbai), which he described as “mother of cities to me.” Of all the places he had been to, Kipling felt that one place was special. He wrote about that in a poem entitled “Sussex”:
Each to his choice, and I rejoiceAs much as Kipling treasured his corner in England, I too rejoice in the fact that America is my home. It is ever with an excited heart that I walk through immigration and customs when I return. This time, it was at Miami, just as it was in 1988 when our group returned from Venezuela. A lot of water under the bridge over the twenty-three years since that first South American trip, and the twenty-four years since I came to America as a graduate student.
The lot has fallen to me
In a fair ground—in a fair ground—
Yea, Sussex by the sea!
From the little I have traveled, there has been nothing to even remotely lure me away from America. Not even from Oregon, it looks like.
As the plane took off from Miami, and I was on my way back to Oregon, I realized how much more familiar Ecuadors' hills and green felt compared to the concrete jungles down below. I wanted to do a Pope John Paul act of kissing the ground when I reached Eugene--my own Sussex. At least, for now.
Until my next trip!
Friday, July 01, 2011
Déjà vu, all over again!
As much as Ecuador was a new country for me, and knowing only a couple of words of Spanish was a constant reminder that I was a foreigner there, there were also quite a few times that places and things felt familiar. Déjà vu, all over again, as Yogi Berra so eloquently described such emotions.
And it is not because of my Venezuela experience either. While that played a role, it was far too minor.
The sharpest of all such feelings of having experienced it before was when I was walking around in the museum/public library by Plaza Grande.
I looked down at the courtyard from above.
"I have seen this before."
I tried to search through my memory vaults, and opening and closing those doors isn't as fast and easy as was the case in the past. If trying to recall things at this age is this difficult, then growing old will not a fun trip for sissies like me!
I walked around. Found the stairs to the terrace-roof, and those doors were open as well.
The cleaning crew was there. Off to one wing of the terrace were the female crew of four. And it was a mixed crew on the other side. I was the only tourist who was on the terrace, and was glad to be there by myself.
It was like the old days at home in Neyveli, or at grandma's in Sengottai. Even at my parents' new place in Madras, where I go up to the terrace almost everyday when I am there, and often think of the times we have had mixed rice under a full moon sky during those Neyveli years.
My mind kept thinking about the courtyard déjà vu, like the tongue repeatedly trying to dislodge a food particle that is wedged between the teeth.
And then it hit me. I figured it out. It was "eureka" time.
I had seen a similar courtyard in Goa!
I suppose the Spanish and Portuguese colonial architectural styles were not all that different on opposite sides of the planet!
It was one of those many occasions when I missed having somebody beside me to share these thoughts. I exited the building, and as I joined the masses down on the street, I was struck by the irony of "being alone" even while jostling my way through the narrow sidewalks, in a city of two and a half million, and in a world with nearly seven billion people.
Was a profound revelation that feeling lonely is merely a state of mind. And that was no déjà vu.
And it is not because of my Venezuela experience either. While that played a role, it was far too minor.
The sharpest of all such feelings of having experienced it before was when I was walking around in the museum/public library by Plaza Grande.
I looked down at the courtyard from above.
"I have seen this before."
I tried to search through my memory vaults, and opening and closing those doors isn't as fast and easy as was the case in the past. If trying to recall things at this age is this difficult, then growing old will not a fun trip for sissies like me!
I walked around. Found the stairs to the terrace-roof, and those doors were open as well.
The cleaning crew was there. Off to one wing of the terrace were the female crew of four. And it was a mixed crew on the other side. I was the only tourist who was on the terrace, and was glad to be there by myself.
It was like the old days at home in Neyveli, or at grandma's in Sengottai. Even at my parents' new place in Madras, where I go up to the terrace almost everyday when I am there, and often think of the times we have had mixed rice under a full moon sky during those Neyveli years.
My mind kept thinking about the courtyard déjà vu, like the tongue repeatedly trying to dislodge a food particle that is wedged between the teeth.
And then it hit me. I figured it out. It was "eureka" time.
I had seen a similar courtyard in Goa!
I suppose the Spanish and Portuguese colonial architectural styles were not all that different on opposite sides of the planet!
It was one of those many occasions when I missed having somebody beside me to share these thoughts. I exited the building, and as I joined the masses down on the street, I was struck by the irony of "being alone" even while jostling my way through the narrow sidewalks, in a city of two and a half million, and in a world with nearly seven billion people.
Was a profound revelation that feeling lonely is merely a state of mind. And that was no déjà vu.
Grandfather is wrong. Are we stuck with the incorrect call?
The following is a letter from the Oregonian:
As the same paper's editorial put it a few days ago, "It's time to emancipate our state from the onerous Measure 36."
But, of course, undoing it won't be easy, though not impossible--requires amending the state's constitution. Oregon is one of the 29 states in a similar situation:
Meanwhile, our increasingly wimpy president, who with every passing day is testing the political winds, instead of going after good and correct policies, displays his verbal skills when he says that his views on gay marriage have been "evolving." Yeah, right! Looks like his ideas have been regressing ever since he announced his candidacy for the presidency!
"Evolve already!"
What my grandfather, John M. Vranizan, fails to see in his June 30 letter on "Gay marriage"is that my generation sees same-sex marriage as the civil rights issue of our time.
His argument that a civil union has the same benefits, without the title, is a modern version of the Jim Crow laws, being separate but equal. Since he grew up in that era, it is hard for me to understand how he can not see the link.
As to his views on the evolution of mankind: Evolution does not stop; we continue to grow and change in new ways. That is how our ancestors evolved from our great ape cousins, to develop a society more tolerant of people's beliefs and ways of living.
If I was sterile, with no potential to have children, I know my grandfather would want me to adopt, as he knows that being a good father is a life-long goal of mine. I do not comprehend how he could not allow gay couples to do so, too.
This issue does not change the way I love my Grandfather, or the way he loves me.
PATRICK M. SCHNEIDER
Southwest Portland
Schneider is 24. His grandfather is 75.
As the same paper's editorial put it a few days ago, "It's time to emancipate our state from the onerous Measure 36."
But, of course, undoing it won't be easy, though not impossible--requires amending the state's constitution. Oregon is one of the 29 states in a similar situation:
legislators are bound not by today's constituents but by yesterday's voters. Many of those voters aren't even around anymore. The strongest support for banning gay marriage, nationally and in nearly every state that has faced a referendum, has come from old people. In Arizona, California, Oregon, and Wisconsin, voters below the age of 30 opposed ballot measures to ban gay marriage but were outvoted by their elders. In Michigan, Ohio, and Virginia, young voters split almost evenly. Today, you can see the same pattern in Ohio, Oregon, South Dakota, and other state and national polls. Gay marriage is becoming a majority position in part because people are changing their minds, and in part because a generation that's OK with homosexuality is replacing a generation that wasn't.
The question now is whether the new majority will get its way. To undo the constitutional amendments of the past decade, supporters of gay marriage will have to pass ballot measures in those states. In Nevada, they'll have to do it twice. Passing ballot measures is hard. People tend to vote against them out of suspicion and fear, particularly when you're messing with the constitution.
Meanwhile, our increasingly wimpy president, who with every passing day is testing the political winds, instead of going after good and correct policies, displays his verbal skills when he says that his views on gay marriage have been "evolving." Yeah, right! Looks like his ideas have been regressing ever since he announced his candidacy for the presidency!
"Evolve already!"
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Stephen Colbert is now a Super PAC. Making a better tomorrow, tomorrow
"I am a Super PAC, and so can you" says Colbert, whose application was approved by the FEC.
"Making a better tomorrow, tomorrow" :) .... only in the USA!!!
"Making a better tomorrow, tomorrow" :) .... only in the USA!!!
We like theirs. While they like ours?
Walking around in Quito and Otavalo, and driving while being on the tours, and taking in the sights reminded me of the colors in the built environment that we lack in the US. It is the same case when I am in India. I suppose it will be the situation in most countries in South America, Asia and Africa.
Buildings like the one here were not uncommon at all. And was a pleasure for my eyes especially after months of nothing but gray brought on by the overcast and rainy conditions at home.
Speaking of colors, only now do I notice a rather dull pattern in the couple of photos that I have of myself from this trip--I am wearing only black t-shirts and long-sleeve versions. A colorful personality I am not, literally!
Not difficult to understand then why my father finds it rather annoying when day after day all I mostly wear are grey and black when I am in India, while the rest of Chennai and its peoples are clothed in all possible colors of the rainbow!
Whether it is in India or Ecuador, as I walk around absorbing the differences, and the riotous and vibrant colors and sounds, I do wonder whether most of them are tired of what they have and would prefer the relative sobriety of the North American urban landscape.
I am reminded of a conversation when on a train ride in Italy back in 1998. I struck up a conversation with the Italiano in the adjacent seat. He was a management consultant and was fluent in English.
I shared with him my excitement about the scenic Italian cities, and asked him if he had ever been to the US.
I remember his comments even after all these years. He said the place he loved the most was Los Angeles. Why? "Because everything is new. I love the freeways there."
A day or so later, we went to small town outside of Florence, for which we had to take a taxi from the train station. I, of course, tried to chat with the driver. Told him how beautiful it all was.
He was curious about America, and was excited when I told him that we were visiting from California.
The driver was ecstatic. "I love California. Very beautiful. Good scenery."
The way he said that, I was convinced he had visited California and asked him about that.
"Saw on TV. Like to go there."
I suppose many of us are fascinated with the beauty that we perceive to be somewhere else. Only that can explain why in the charming small town of Otavalo, people construct buildings like this one that stand out oddly amidst more traditional architectural styles.
Perhaps people in Quito and Ecuador might find the structures and colors of North America to be more appealing then?
That certainly seemed to be the case as I looked down at the valley from the hills of the Bellavista neighborhood in Quito, where Museo Guayasamin is located.
Across was a McMansion with its own tennis court, which could easily be a replica of a rich estate somewhere in the exclusive neighborhood of Montecito near Santa Barbara.
Buildings like the one here were not uncommon at all. And was a pleasure for my eyes especially after months of nothing but gray brought on by the overcast and rainy conditions at home.
Speaking of colors, only now do I notice a rather dull pattern in the couple of photos that I have of myself from this trip--I am wearing only black t-shirts and long-sleeve versions. A colorful personality I am not, literally!
Not difficult to understand then why my father finds it rather annoying when day after day all I mostly wear are grey and black when I am in India, while the rest of Chennai and its peoples are clothed in all possible colors of the rainbow!
Whether it is in India or Ecuador, as I walk around absorbing the differences, and the riotous and vibrant colors and sounds, I do wonder whether most of them are tired of what they have and would prefer the relative sobriety of the North American urban landscape.
I am reminded of a conversation when on a train ride in Italy back in 1998. I struck up a conversation with the Italiano in the adjacent seat. He was a management consultant and was fluent in English.
I shared with him my excitement about the scenic Italian cities, and asked him if he had ever been to the US.
I remember his comments even after all these years. He said the place he loved the most was Los Angeles. Why? "Because everything is new. I love the freeways there."
A day or so later, we went to small town outside of Florence, for which we had to take a taxi from the train station. I, of course, tried to chat with the driver. Told him how beautiful it all was.
He was curious about America, and was excited when I told him that we were visiting from California.
The driver was ecstatic. "I love California. Very beautiful. Good scenery."
The way he said that, I was convinced he had visited California and asked him about that.
"Saw on TV. Like to go there."
I suppose many of us are fascinated with the beauty that we perceive to be somewhere else. Only that can explain why in the charming small town of Otavalo, people construct buildings like this one that stand out oddly amidst more traditional architectural styles.
Perhaps people in Quito and Ecuador might find the structures and colors of North America to be more appealing then?
That certainly seemed to be the case as I looked down at the valley from the hills of the Bellavista neighborhood in Quito, where Museo Guayasamin is located.
Across was a McMansion with its own tennis court, which could easily be a replica of a rich estate somewhere in the exclusive neighborhood of Montecito near Santa Barbara.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
If we are what we wear, then what about me?
Even as a kid, I didn't care much for fancy clothes. And now, life in the US and more so in academe has spoilt me even more. While traveling, all I seem to pack are a whole lot of underwear, undershirts, t-shirts, shorts, socks and, perhaps a light sweater. Not even jeans anymore--they are too damn heavy!
In other words, the typical American tourist I am!
It seemed as though I could spot fellow American tourists even from a mile away while I was in Ecuador. The Saint Michael College student I chatted with for a few minutes was obviously an American for simply the way he was attired, though his college t-shirt also helped.
I am not referring to the senior-citizen American travelers--somehow they end up wearing a lot more presentable clothes. It is the typical 18-55 age group population that travels with this "I don't care about my clothes" attitude.
You can then imagine how fascinated I was whenever I spotted a tourist whose clothes were not shabby. One of those sightings was at Plaza Grande.
I was seated on a bench at Plaza Grande watching people, most of whom were locals. And, of the Quitenos who were also idling their time away, it was almost often senior citizens. The younger Quitenos seemed to be there only to participate in some demonstration or the other.
One of the older men walked up to me and asked where I was from. I gave him my standard reply of the US and India.
"I have been to Bombay" he said. "I can give you a guided tour of Quito. For cheap."
"No, thanks."
"You want genuine Panama Hat? For cheap"
"No, gracias."
He walked away.
I continued with my people-watching undisturbed.
And then I spotted two women who were not at all shabbily dressed. Nor were they the local office-going women, who rushed around in their high, high heels. These two looked like mother/daughter tourists. And, it seemed that they were being led around by a local guide.
I was positive they could not be American tourists, only because of how proper they were! I stealthily took my camera out, zoomed the lens as much as I could, and ... click. I was done.
From what seemed as Asian features, I wondered if they might be from Peru and related to the Fujimoris there. If so, then they would be talking in Spanish, I hypothesized.
I had to figure this out. And the only way was to walk up to them, and kind of listen in. If the guide was talking in English, then the Peru angle was off.
I wore my hat, picked up my backpack, and casually strolled by them. The guide was explaining in English.
As I continued walking, away from the Plaza, I was reminded of an incident from a couple of years ago.
I was in India and I convinced a high school buddy, Venu, to go with me to visit with another classmate of ours at his parents' home in Bangalore. It was a pleasant train ride, during which Venu and I caught up with each other's lives since high school. As the train neared Bangalore, Venu headed to the bathroom and came back a changed man--he was now smartly attired in trousers and a fresh polo t-shirt. I was wearing the same old crumpled clothes.
"What's the deal?" I asked him. "Don't expect me to change out of this"
"You are ok" Venu said. "You are coming from America, and are a college professor as well. You can wear whatever crap you want and people here will be ok with that."
God bless America, at least for this reason!
In other words, the typical American tourist I am!
It seemed as though I could spot fellow American tourists even from a mile away while I was in Ecuador. The Saint Michael College student I chatted with for a few minutes was obviously an American for simply the way he was attired, though his college t-shirt also helped.
I am not referring to the senior-citizen American travelers--somehow they end up wearing a lot more presentable clothes. It is the typical 18-55 age group population that travels with this "I don't care about my clothes" attitude.
You can then imagine how fascinated I was whenever I spotted a tourist whose clothes were not shabby. One of those sightings was at Plaza Grande.
I was seated on a bench at Plaza Grande watching people, most of whom were locals. And, of the Quitenos who were also idling their time away, it was almost often senior citizens. The younger Quitenos seemed to be there only to participate in some demonstration or the other.
One of the older men walked up to me and asked where I was from. I gave him my standard reply of the US and India.
"I have been to Bombay" he said. "I can give you a guided tour of Quito. For cheap."
"No, thanks."
"You want genuine Panama Hat? For cheap"
"No, gracias."
He walked away.
I continued with my people-watching undisturbed.
And then I spotted two women who were not at all shabbily dressed. Nor were they the local office-going women, who rushed around in their high, high heels. These two looked like mother/daughter tourists. And, it seemed that they were being led around by a local guide.
I was positive they could not be American tourists, only because of how proper they were! I stealthily took my camera out, zoomed the lens as much as I could, and ... click. I was done.
From what seemed as Asian features, I wondered if they might be from Peru and related to the Fujimoris there. If so, then they would be talking in Spanish, I hypothesized.
I had to figure this out. And the only way was to walk up to them, and kind of listen in. If the guide was talking in English, then the Peru angle was off.
I wore my hat, picked up my backpack, and casually strolled by them. The guide was explaining in English.
As I continued walking, away from the Plaza, I was reminded of an incident from a couple of years ago.
I was in India and I convinced a high school buddy, Venu, to go with me to visit with another classmate of ours at his parents' home in Bangalore. It was a pleasant train ride, during which Venu and I caught up with each other's lives since high school. As the train neared Bangalore, Venu headed to the bathroom and came back a changed man--he was now smartly attired in trousers and a fresh polo t-shirt. I was wearing the same old crumpled clothes.
"What's the deal?" I asked him. "Don't expect me to change out of this"
"You are ok" Venu said. "You are coming from America, and are a college professor as well. You can wear whatever crap you want and people here will be ok with that."
God bless America, at least for this reason!
Wind turbines could blow earth off its orbit. Obama's energy policy?
Why are such scoops always only from America's Finest News Source?
In The Know: Coal Lobby Warns Wind Farms May Blow Earth Off Orbit
Meanwhile, a soon-to-be-released blockbuster in the making "describes a small town being poisoned with wind":
Ok, that was all from the Onion.
But, seriously, the carbon in the coal? Not to worry:
So, what does President Obama have to say about our energy policy?
In The Know: Coal Lobby Warns Wind Farms May Blow Earth Off Orbit
Meanwhile, a soon-to-be-released blockbuster in the making "describes a small town being poisoned with wind":
Ok, that was all from the Onion.
But, seriously, the carbon in the coal? Not to worry:
So, what does President Obama have to say about our energy policy?
From Masapán to Bizcochos. Rolling in the dough
We had barely past the northern edges of Quito, which is one long north-south city thanks to mountains that restrict its east-west dimensions, when I could feel Oscar beginning to slow the vehicle down.
Ivan turned around from his shotgun seat in order to face me and the Canadian, who was seated in the rear. "This is the municipality of Calderon. It is famous for dolls and other art objects made from bread dough."
The nerd that I am, I quickly grabbed the guide book from my backpack. "Calderon is a famous center of unique Ecuadorian folk art; the people make bread-dough decorations, ranging from small statuettes to colorful Christmas tree ornaments." I jumped to the sentence after these. "These decorative figures are inedible."
We stopped in front of a small store. Ivan and Oscar shook hands and hugged and kissed the people there. A regular spot they bring the tourists to, I thought to myself.
"Masapán" The board made it clear that it was bread dough. As we walked to the back of the store, three women were working at a table as if they were preparing cookies for a party.
"We have been doing this from when we were kids" Ivan translated their words for us.
As I watched them, I wondered why they hadn't automated a few things over the years. Like the mixing of the dough. And the flattening of it. And, definitely, a more efficient way instead of the cookie-cutter.
I suppose it is not easy to get rid of the engineering and economics background within me!
It is the same way I used to feel back in the days when we visited Pattamadai, where grandmother lived. Pattamadai was, and still is, known for its exquisite mats made from "korai" grass. Some of the mats are so soft they can even be folded as if they are from cloth. Why not make it more efficient, I would think, on noticing that enormous labor was being spent on activities that do not add a whole lot of value.
I walked around in the store. I rarely buy mementos, and definitely rarely anything like this for myself. No surprise then that I didn't purchase anything from this unique masapán folk art store. (BTW, the store board did say Masapán and not Mazapán.)
As we got into the van, Ivan commented that the time spent in the store is almost always very short whenever there are only male tourists. "With women, we have to keep reminding them that it is time" he added.
The urban landscape disappeared completely as we drove. It was now nothing but hills, which Ivan said would soon turn brown as the rainy months had ended. And then, as if he heard my stomach's growls, Ivan said, "we will take a break where you can eat the famous bizcochos of Cayambe. You will also have a restroom there, if you need to use."
Despite his descriptions of bizccochos, I had a tough time imagining what they might look like. "You will soon see it" Ivan said with a smile. I figured it was time for me to shut up from asking more about bizcochos.
When we pulled to a stop, the huge graphic on the wall made it abundantly clear.
Ivan placed the order for bizcochos, and turned towards us. "The tour will pay for the bizcochos. Anything else, you pay."
If it were in the US, I would have ordered myself a cappuccino. But, here, I noticed that it was one of those automatic vending machines that would spew out a mix of milk and coffee.
"A hot chocolate, please." I knew it would come from that same vending machine. Why automate this, and not the masapan doll-making, I wondered.
A few minutes later, the waiter brought us the bizcochos and the drinks. Ivan and Oscar explained that the bizcochos are eaten with a salty cheese or with dulce de leche--a rich and soft caramel. I didn't like it with the cheese.
With the dulce de leche it was awesome. It was like dipping something softer than a shortbread cookie into caramel fudge and gobbling it up. Who in their right minds would not like that!
I looked around at the few customers at the cafe. The Canadian and I were the only tourists. The rest were locals, from a kid who looked to be barely five, to people much older than me. But, despite all the bizcochos and dulce de leche nobody was obese. Yet another reminder that I was not in the USA!
Ivan turned around from his shotgun seat in order to face me and the Canadian, who was seated in the rear. "This is the municipality of Calderon. It is famous for dolls and other art objects made from bread dough."
The nerd that I am, I quickly grabbed the guide book from my backpack. "Calderon is a famous center of unique Ecuadorian folk art; the people make bread-dough decorations, ranging from small statuettes to colorful Christmas tree ornaments." I jumped to the sentence after these. "These decorative figures are inedible."
We stopped in front of a small store. Ivan and Oscar shook hands and hugged and kissed the people there. A regular spot they bring the tourists to, I thought to myself.
"Masapán" The board made it clear that it was bread dough. As we walked to the back of the store, three women were working at a table as if they were preparing cookies for a party.
"We have been doing this from when we were kids" Ivan translated their words for us.
As I watched them, I wondered why they hadn't automated a few things over the years. Like the mixing of the dough. And the flattening of it. And, definitely, a more efficient way instead of the cookie-cutter.
I suppose it is not easy to get rid of the engineering and economics background within me!
It is the same way I used to feel back in the days when we visited Pattamadai, where grandmother lived. Pattamadai was, and still is, known for its exquisite mats made from "korai" grass. Some of the mats are so soft they can even be folded as if they are from cloth. Why not make it more efficient, I would think, on noticing that enormous labor was being spent on activities that do not add a whole lot of value.
I walked around in the store. I rarely buy mementos, and definitely rarely anything like this for myself. No surprise then that I didn't purchase anything from this unique masapán folk art store. (BTW, the store board did say Masapán and not Mazapán.)
As we got into the van, Ivan commented that the time spent in the store is almost always very short whenever there are only male tourists. "With women, we have to keep reminding them that it is time" he added.
The urban landscape disappeared completely as we drove. It was now nothing but hills, which Ivan said would soon turn brown as the rainy months had ended. And then, as if he heard my stomach's growls, Ivan said, "we will take a break where you can eat the famous bizcochos of Cayambe. You will also have a restroom there, if you need to use."
Despite his descriptions of bizccochos, I had a tough time imagining what they might look like. "You will soon see it" Ivan said with a smile. I figured it was time for me to shut up from asking more about bizcochos.
When we pulled to a stop, the huge graphic on the wall made it abundantly clear.
Ivan placed the order for bizcochos, and turned towards us. "The tour will pay for the bizcochos. Anything else, you pay."
If it were in the US, I would have ordered myself a cappuccino. But, here, I noticed that it was one of those automatic vending machines that would spew out a mix of milk and coffee.
"A hot chocolate, please." I knew it would come from that same vending machine. Why automate this, and not the masapan doll-making, I wondered.
A few minutes later, the waiter brought us the bizcochos and the drinks. Ivan and Oscar explained that the bizcochos are eaten with a salty cheese or with dulce de leche--a rich and soft caramel. I didn't like it with the cheese.
With the dulce de leche it was awesome. It was like dipping something softer than a shortbread cookie into caramel fudge and gobbling it up. Who in their right minds would not like that!
I looked around at the few customers at the cafe. The Canadian and I were the only tourists. The rest were locals, from a kid who looked to be barely five, to people much older than me. But, despite all the bizcochos and dulce de leche nobody was obese. Yet another reminder that I was not in the USA!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
There is nothing as bad as war. Everybody hates this war.
"There is nothing as bad as war. ... When people realize how bad it is they cannot do anything to stop it because they go crazy. There are some people who never realize. There are people who are afraid of their officers. It is with them the war is made"
"I know it is bad but we must finish it."
"It doesn't finish. There is no finish to a war."
"Yes there is."
Passini shook his head.
"War is not won by victory. ... We think. We read. We are not peasants. We are mechanics. But even the peasants know better than to believe in a war. Everybody hates this war."
"There is a class that controls a country that is stupid and does not realize anything and never can. That is why we have this war."
"Also they make money out of it."
Sounds very contemporary, doesn't it?
It is from Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms
.First published in 1929.
Eighty-two years have gone by and, yet, echoes today's world.
Perhaps another piece of evidence that the more things change, the more they look the same :(
PS: A couple of pages after this, Passini is killed in a mortar attack when they are eating cheese and macaroni in the trenches :(
Andean and Indian women are keepers of traditions. Men?
Even in the active city areas of Quito, it was quite common to see women--young and old--in traditional outfits. I was awfully tempted to take photos of them, and almost always better sense prevailed. A couple of times, particularly in Otavalo, I clicked in a hurry, pretending to be looking at something else, and while using to the maximum the zoom feature in my simple camera.
I could have easily filled up the camera memory card with photos of women and girls in different traditional, indigenous attires. The clothes and the women were lovely sights to behold. But, all I have are a couple of photos that I hastily took with an enormous sense of guilt as if I were peddling illegal drugs in dark alleyways!
It was even more heart-warmingly pleasant a sight when young schoolgirls were chatting and giggling away in their outfits. But, I was never too far away from them to hurriedly snap them up. As I was walking back towards the van, I spotted a few schoolgirls; but, darn, they were not in the old-style outfits, but in this:
So, I did the only thing possible: I stopped outside a clothes store, and took a photo of the displayed outfits.
I rarely ever spotted a man wearing comparably traditional clothes. Even poncho-wearing men were not as common a sight as I had initially assumed would be the case. A few men with long hair, yes. And some bunched up or even braided. But, that was the extent to which men outwardly displayed anything traditional.
I suppose this is no different from the case in India. Even going back to my grandparents’ generation.
The one grandfather who lived long enough to play with his grandkids got rid of his traditional brahminical tuft by the time he was off to college. There are photos of grandfather as a college student--back in the early 1930s--and he is in shorts and trousers. On the other hand, his wife--my grandmother--continued to wear the traditional nine-yard sari and the works.
Andean men, too, seem to have easily walked away from their traditions. I am not sure how much the women continue with the traditions out of choice, and how much the continuation is because of the relatively un-free and restrictive conditions for women. I would hypothesize that if girls and women had as much freedom that men--in India and the Andes--have, then they would echo Annie Oakley's "Anything you can do I can do better; I can do anything better than you."
There was one photo of a woman that I took after asking for her permission. At the market in Otavalo, I bought a couple of small items at a stall run by a woman. After paying for the goods, I asked her, "photo, ok?"
She smiled and gave me a thumbs-up.
Without guilt, but still in haste, I clicked.
I could have easily filled up the camera memory card with photos of women and girls in different traditional, indigenous attires. The clothes and the women were lovely sights to behold. But, all I have are a couple of photos that I hastily took with an enormous sense of guilt as if I were peddling illegal drugs in dark alleyways!
It was even more heart-warmingly pleasant a sight when young schoolgirls were chatting and giggling away in their outfits. But, I was never too far away from them to hurriedly snap them up. As I was walking back towards the van, I spotted a few schoolgirls; but, darn, they were not in the old-style outfits, but in this:
So, I did the only thing possible: I stopped outside a clothes store, and took a photo of the displayed outfits.
I rarely ever spotted a man wearing comparably traditional clothes. Even poncho-wearing men were not as common a sight as I had initially assumed would be the case. A few men with long hair, yes. And some bunched up or even braided. But, that was the extent to which men outwardly displayed anything traditional.
I suppose this is no different from the case in India. Even going back to my grandparents’ generation.
The one grandfather who lived long enough to play with his grandkids got rid of his traditional brahminical tuft by the time he was off to college. There are photos of grandfather as a college student--back in the early 1930s--and he is in shorts and trousers. On the other hand, his wife--my grandmother--continued to wear the traditional nine-yard sari and the works.
Andean men, too, seem to have easily walked away from their traditions. I am not sure how much the women continue with the traditions out of choice, and how much the continuation is because of the relatively un-free and restrictive conditions for women. I would hypothesize that if girls and women had as much freedom that men--in India and the Andes--have, then they would echo Annie Oakley's "Anything you can do I can do better; I can do anything better than you."
There was one photo of a woman that I took after asking for her permission. At the market in Otavalo, I bought a couple of small items at a stall run by a woman. After paying for the goods, I asked her, "photo, ok?"
She smiled and gave me a thumbs-up.
Without guilt, but still in haste, I clicked.
Monday, June 27, 2011
From papa to aaloo. Locro for me.
"After we spend time at the market, we will have lunch in Otavalo before we go to Peguche" the tour guide, Ivan, outlined the plan. "You can have some of the typical Ecuadorian food."
After having grown up in a strictly vegetarian home, and even though by now I have spent more years in the US than in India, I continue to be mostly a vegetarian, with a few inroads into the animal world as food. And, when I travel, am all the more ready to stick to the vegetarian food because my nose and tongue can't quite feel comfortable even with the familiar chicken meat that is cooked very differently from how I am used to in the US.
So, there was really only one Ecuadorian food I was keen on: locro.
There are many variations of locro, of which the one I was after was locro con queso and with avocado. A basic potato soup with fresh cheese and avocado.
The previous day, Mario had talked to me about this soup. Actually, the conversation began with his question "there is something from Ecuador that is used a lot even in India. Do you know what I am referring to?"
I had no idea what Mario had in mind.
"Potatoes! Potatoes are from here" Mario proclaimed.
"Not true. Potatoes are from Peru" I replied. "But, Andean, we might agree."
"Peru claims potato came from there, but we believe it is from Ecuador" was Mario's comeback. And then he went on to describe locro as a basic food item anywhere in Ecuador. A national dish, of sorts.
So, there was no doubt in my mind that it was locro that I was going to have for lunch. And not that other Ecuadorian claim to fame--guinea pig. Yes, guinea pig meat was an item in the restaurant menu. In fact, it was even available at casual stalls all over.
I ordered the locro and a fruit juice, while Ivan and Oscar had the day's special. The only other tourist, the Chinese-Canadian, decided to try out a regional pork specialty.
While we waited for the food, the Canadian asked Ivan and Oscar, "a lot of South American women win Miss World and Miss Universe contests. Do you also think that the most beautiful women are from the countries here?"
Oscar, who was not texting at the table, hedged--his mother is Colombian. Ivan, as a typical tourist guide, was not too keen on providing responses that could be unfavorable to the customer. I am a useless bloke at these topics because I think pretty girls are everywhere! The topic died out.
Meanwhile, in the background, a local musician was playing an acoustic guitar and a pan-flute (not at the same time.) But, he was playing to the audience--tourists--and spent some time on his version of Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge over Troubled Water. I wished he played local melodies instead.
When the food came, I looked at Ivan and whined like a five-year old, "where is my avocado?" Ivan translated that to the waitress and in a couple of minutes came a plate with beautifully sliced avaocado.
I added the hot sauce that every Ecuadorian restaurant has and had my first ever locro. It was delicious. The fruit juice was delicioso. The Canadian was having a great time with the pork and beer. And Oscar and Ivan went after their meals with vigor. Good times were had!
A few days after this, on my way to the airport at 4:30 in the morning, the cab driver asked me about Ecuador.
Buena vistas I replied.
"Guinea pig?" he asked.
I said no.
"But ... " and ...
I searched in my head for the few Spanish words that I know ... "Locro mucho gusto"
The cab driver gave me a wide smile.
After having grown up in a strictly vegetarian home, and even though by now I have spent more years in the US than in India, I continue to be mostly a vegetarian, with a few inroads into the animal world as food. And, when I travel, am all the more ready to stick to the vegetarian food because my nose and tongue can't quite feel comfortable even with the familiar chicken meat that is cooked very differently from how I am used to in the US.
So, there was really only one Ecuadorian food I was keen on: locro.
There are many variations of locro, of which the one I was after was locro con queso and with avocado. A basic potato soup with fresh cheese and avocado.
The previous day, Mario had talked to me about this soup. Actually, the conversation began with his question "there is something from Ecuador that is used a lot even in India. Do you know what I am referring to?"
I had no idea what Mario had in mind.
"Potatoes! Potatoes are from here" Mario proclaimed.
"Not true. Potatoes are from Peru" I replied. "But, Andean, we might agree."
"Peru claims potato came from there, but we believe it is from Ecuador" was Mario's comeback. And then he went on to describe locro as a basic food item anywhere in Ecuador. A national dish, of sorts.
So, there was no doubt in my mind that it was locro that I was going to have for lunch. And not that other Ecuadorian claim to fame--guinea pig. Yes, guinea pig meat was an item in the restaurant menu. In fact, it was even available at casual stalls all over.
I ordered the locro and a fruit juice, while Ivan and Oscar had the day's special. The only other tourist, the Chinese-Canadian, decided to try out a regional pork specialty.
While we waited for the food, the Canadian asked Ivan and Oscar, "a lot of South American women win Miss World and Miss Universe contests. Do you also think that the most beautiful women are from the countries here?"
Oscar, who was not texting at the table, hedged--his mother is Colombian. Ivan, as a typical tourist guide, was not too keen on providing responses that could be unfavorable to the customer. I am a useless bloke at these topics because I think pretty girls are everywhere! The topic died out.
Meanwhile, in the background, a local musician was playing an acoustic guitar and a pan-flute (not at the same time.) But, he was playing to the audience--tourists--and spent some time on his version of Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge over Troubled Water. I wished he played local melodies instead.
When the food came, I looked at Ivan and whined like a five-year old, "where is my avocado?" Ivan translated that to the waitress and in a couple of minutes came a plate with beautifully sliced avaocado.
I added the hot sauce that every Ecuadorian restaurant has and had my first ever locro. It was delicious. The fruit juice was delicioso. The Canadian was having a great time with the pork and beer. And Oscar and Ivan went after their meals with vigor. Good times were had!
A few days after this, on my way to the airport at 4:30 in the morning, the cab driver asked me about Ecuador.
Buena vistas I replied.
"Guinea pig?" he asked.
I said no.
"But ... " and ...
I searched in my head for the few Spanish words that I know ... "Locro mucho gusto"
The cab driver gave me a wide smile.
If it is not "war" in Libya, then ...
In an op-ed piece in the NY Times, though not about the Libya war itself, a University of Chicago law professor and "a longtime supporter and colleague of Barack Obama at the University of Chicago, as well as an informal adviser to his 2008 campaign" writes about his disappointment with the candidate who promised transparency who then has morphed into "our untransparent president":
The record of the Obama administration on this fundamental issue of American democracy has surely fallen short of expectations. This is a lesson in “trust us.” Those in power are always certain that they themselves will act reasonably, and they resist limits on their own discretion. The problem is, “trust us” is no way to run a self-governing society.
I was a mad hatter in Ecuador. But, no Panama Hat though.
Up until my Ecuador trip became real, which is when I started doing my homework about that country, I had no idea that the Panama Hat has its origins in Ecuador. A Panama Hat is really an Ecuadorian Hat. Things, profound and mundane, that we find out every day!
As tempting it was, I didn't buy myself one of those Panama Hats. They simply do not mesh with the person that I think I am. Furthermore, most movie portrayals of characters with Panama Hats are of sleazy men :)
I did get a hat though. I was waiting at Mitad del Mundo for the tour to Pululahua, the volcanic crater, and walked in and out the stores there. In one was a young woman, who seemed to have a lot more indigenous blood in her, though perhaps not entirely indigenous. Her economic well being depends on tourists like me spending money, I thought to myself.
She offered me a Panama Hat to try on and I smiled my negation. She then pointed to a stack of felt hats.
"Mucho calor" I said, hoping my Spanish was correct. Plus, I already have a felt hat at home that I don't use because, well, it just doesn't fit my persona.
She showed me another set, and said "you can roll this and pack into your bag."
I liked that one--not because it could be rolled up, but because I could see myself wearing that even in Eugene during the summer.
"How much?"
She flashed thrice the five fingers on one hand to mean fifteen dollars. I knew I was expected to bargain and pay a lower price. At the same time, I knew that any additional dollar or two would mean a lot more to her than to me. But, then, when in Rome, do as Romans do! So, I showed my ten fingers and then three more. She agreed.
I had a new hat.
I have another summer hat at home. But, my favorite of all is a hat that I no longer have. In 1994, when visiting the Amish areas in Pennsylvania, I fell in love with those Amish hats and bought one for myself. There practically wasn't a day that I did not wear that in Bakersfield, where the Sun was merciless. I would have had it for a lot longer if not for that fateful day when my daughter rushed into the car and jumped on to the car seat. The seat on which I had temporarily rested my Amish hat. I heard the hat being crushed.
I hope this hat will survive a lot longer than the few months that Amish hat did.
As I walked around with this new sunscreen on my head, I was watching people and listening to their conversations if they were in English. I heard one woman say "there are so many cultures all around." To which a man replied, "imagine how multicultural all of us will be as more and more people marry across cultures in America."
I couldn't resist the temptation. "Where in America are you folks from?" It looked like a husband and wife with their three children, the oldest looking like a pre-teen.
"From Pennsylvania. Lancaster. Amish country, you know."
"Oh, I love that part of the country. I was there many years ago, and bought myself an Amish hat. I am from Oregon."
"We drove up to Crater Lake. Every summer we take our kids all over."
I looked at the eldest and said "hey, you owe your parents big time."
The dad jabbed his son and said "see, you owe us when you get older."
"Can you adopt me into your family and take me on your trips as well?" I joked with them.
While the parents laughed, the kids looked at me, perhaps wondering what to make of this brown-skinned guy with a local hat, but talking American, and yet with a strange accent. Or maybe they thought this is how people from Oregon are!
As tempting it was, I didn't buy myself one of those Panama Hats. They simply do not mesh with the person that I think I am. Furthermore, most movie portrayals of characters with Panama Hats are of sleazy men :)
I did get a hat though. I was waiting at Mitad del Mundo for the tour to Pululahua, the volcanic crater, and walked in and out the stores there. In one was a young woman, who seemed to have a lot more indigenous blood in her, though perhaps not entirely indigenous. Her economic well being depends on tourists like me spending money, I thought to myself.
She offered me a Panama Hat to try on and I smiled my negation. She then pointed to a stack of felt hats.
"Mucho calor" I said, hoping my Spanish was correct. Plus, I already have a felt hat at home that I don't use because, well, it just doesn't fit my persona.
She showed me another set, and said "you can roll this and pack into your bag."
I liked that one--not because it could be rolled up, but because I could see myself wearing that even in Eugene during the summer.
"How much?"
She flashed thrice the five fingers on one hand to mean fifteen dollars. I knew I was expected to bargain and pay a lower price. At the same time, I knew that any additional dollar or two would mean a lot more to her than to me. But, then, when in Rome, do as Romans do! So, I showed my ten fingers and then three more. She agreed.
I had a new hat.
I have another summer hat at home. But, my favorite of all is a hat that I no longer have. In 1994, when visiting the Amish areas in Pennsylvania, I fell in love with those Amish hats and bought one for myself. There practically wasn't a day that I did not wear that in Bakersfield, where the Sun was merciless. I would have had it for a lot longer if not for that fateful day when my daughter rushed into the car and jumped on to the car seat. The seat on which I had temporarily rested my Amish hat. I heard the hat being crushed.
I hope this hat will survive a lot longer than the few months that Amish hat did.
As I walked around with this new sunscreen on my head, I was watching people and listening to their conversations if they were in English. I heard one woman say "there are so many cultures all around." To which a man replied, "imagine how multicultural all of us will be as more and more people marry across cultures in America."
I couldn't resist the temptation. "Where in America are you folks from?" It looked like a husband and wife with their three children, the oldest looking like a pre-teen.
"From Pennsylvania. Lancaster. Amish country, you know."
"Oh, I love that part of the country. I was there many years ago, and bought myself an Amish hat. I am from Oregon."
"We drove up to Crater Lake. Every summer we take our kids all over."
I looked at the eldest and said "hey, you owe your parents big time."
The dad jabbed his son and said "see, you owe us when you get older."
"Can you adopt me into your family and take me on your trips as well?" I joked with them.
While the parents laughed, the kids looked at me, perhaps wondering what to make of this brown-skinned guy with a local hat, but talking American, and yet with a strange accent. Or maybe they thought this is how people from Oregon are!
The wisdom of working out ...
The following are from this wonderful blog:
More here
If that impressed you, then how about this:शरीर पोषणार्थि सन् यु आत्मानं दिदृक्षति ।
ग्राहं दारुधिया धृत्वा नदीं तुर्तुं स गच्छति ॥-विवेकचूडामणि
Some people are interested in nurturing their body well assuming that it make their soul also happy.
Such people are kidding themselves; trying to cross a river on a crocodile taking that to be a log.
- Vivekachudamani
शब्दादिभिः पंचभिरेव पंचपंचत्वमापुः स्वगुणेन बद्धाः ।
कुरंग मातंग पतंग मीन भृंगा नरः पंचभिरंचितः किम् ॥- विवेकचूडामणि
The five senses are sound, touch, sight, taste and smell. Animals that are slaves of any one of them often pay the price by their life. A deer follows the sound (of its calf) and becomes a prey. An elephant is enslaved by its vulnerability of touch behind the head. A moth is driven to the flame by its sight. A fish is baited by its longing for taste. A bee loses its life when it gets trapped in the lotus which attracted it by smell. What can now be told of a man who is driven by all the five senses?
- Vivekachudamani
More here
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Columbus discovered America. Confusing all of us Indians.
Almost six years ago, I spent a couple of days at Sengottai with my uncle and aunt, whose home is across from grandma's home, which was sold a few years after grandma died.
My cousin, who lived a couple of hours away, had also come over with her two children. Her son, who might have been about eight or nine years old, hesitantly walked up to me and asked, in English, "you live in America?"
"Yes. I have been there for a long, long time now."
The kid was now feeling a tad more confident. "We learnt in school that Columbus discovered America."
I could not let go off the teacher within me. "Oh, really! Terrific!" And then I added, "so, Columbus discovered America?"
"Yes. That is what the teacher told us."
"So, before Columbus discovered America, there were no people there? He was the first person to go to America?"
"No. Our teacher said there were people there."
"So, if there were people there already, then it means that somebody discovered America before Columbus did, right?"
The kid was stunned. He hadn't thought about it. His teacher hadn't told him that somebody else had known about America before Columbus.
Thanks to Columbus, who originally set sail to India, we have ended up referring to as Indians a whole bunch of different peoples with different cultures and traditions in an entirely different part of the world! I joke with students that "I am an Indian from India, and not an Indian from here" whenever I want to highlight this insane historical accident.
In a matter of a few years after Columbus, the lives of the original peoples of the Americas changed. Forever. Dramatically. For the worse.
Observing the Andeans, even the mestizos, I was always left to wonder how chaotic the disruptions would have been when the Spaniards came into their lives.
It seemed as if this older woman at Plaza Grande carried in her, and in her face, all those old stories. One wrinkle was about Columbus. Another was about Pizarro. A lot of lines, recalling a whole lot of people who messed them all up.
Even what she was selling at the plaza made it easy for me to relate to her and her culture: plantain chips, along with a spiced up mix of onions, tomatoes, chilies and lime and beans. Reminded me of a similar concoction that is a hot favorite in India, especially at beaches and carnivals.
As I sat watching her, I wondered about the stories that might have been handed to her down the generations. Or, was she, too, taught at school that Columbus discovered America?
My final day in Quito, I went to Museo Guayasamin. I admit to being clueless about art. It is always a humbling and educational experience whenever I go to an art museum, especially in foreign lands. A wonderful reminder about how little I know and how much I don't even know that I don't know!
I walked slowly by the exhibits. I was the only one in the museum, and was in no hurry. Some of the pieces reminded me of the village gods back in Pattamadai and Sengottai--the "maadans" who are not in the spectrum of the Hindu deities. Perhaps the Indians, on either side of the planet, were praying to the same gods.
I sat outside in the courtyard for a little while. It was yet another lovely day in Quito, with a blue sky, and scattered white clouds. Ample Sun and a light breeze.
It was in such a paradise that the peoples lived until "Columbus discovered America."
My cousin, who lived a couple of hours away, had also come over with her two children. Her son, who might have been about eight or nine years old, hesitantly walked up to me and asked, in English, "you live in America?"
"Yes. I have been there for a long, long time now."
The kid was now feeling a tad more confident. "We learnt in school that Columbus discovered America."
I could not let go off the teacher within me. "Oh, really! Terrific!" And then I added, "so, Columbus discovered America?"
"Yes. That is what the teacher told us."
"So, before Columbus discovered America, there were no people there? He was the first person to go to America?"
"No. Our teacher said there were people there."
"So, if there were people there already, then it means that somebody discovered America before Columbus did, right?"
The kid was stunned. He hadn't thought about it. His teacher hadn't told him that somebody else had known about America before Columbus.
Thanks to Columbus, who originally set sail to India, we have ended up referring to as Indians a whole bunch of different peoples with different cultures and traditions in an entirely different part of the world! I joke with students that "I am an Indian from India, and not an Indian from here" whenever I want to highlight this insane historical accident.
In a matter of a few years after Columbus, the lives of the original peoples of the Americas changed. Forever. Dramatically. For the worse.
Observing the Andeans, even the mestizos, I was always left to wonder how chaotic the disruptions would have been when the Spaniards came into their lives.
It seemed as if this older woman at Plaza Grande carried in her, and in her face, all those old stories. One wrinkle was about Columbus. Another was about Pizarro. A lot of lines, recalling a whole lot of people who messed them all up.
Even what she was selling at the plaza made it easy for me to relate to her and her culture: plantain chips, along with a spiced up mix of onions, tomatoes, chilies and lime and beans. Reminded me of a similar concoction that is a hot favorite in India, especially at beaches and carnivals.
As I sat watching her, I wondered about the stories that might have been handed to her down the generations. Or, was she, too, taught at school that Columbus discovered America?
My final day in Quito, I went to Museo Guayasamin. I admit to being clueless about art. It is always a humbling and educational experience whenever I go to an art museum, especially in foreign lands. A wonderful reminder about how little I know and how much I don't even know that I don't know!
I walked slowly by the exhibits. I was the only one in the museum, and was in no hurry. Some of the pieces reminded me of the village gods back in Pattamadai and Sengottai--the "maadans" who are not in the spectrum of the Hindu deities. Perhaps the Indians, on either side of the planet, were praying to the same gods.
I sat outside in the courtyard for a little while. It was yet another lovely day in Quito, with a blue sky, and scattered white clouds. Ample Sun and a light breeze.
It was in such a paradise that the peoples lived until "Columbus discovered America."
Doonesbury explains what college is for. Hint: not for learning!
My students know all too well that I emphasize understanding and analysis in my classes, and none of the assignments or exams is a test of their ability to memorize facts. And, thus, they know how much I hate the bubbling-in-answers scantron approach to education, particularly at the undergraduate level. I even allow them to use laptops and smartphones in the class--I try my best to push them beyond a simple and simplistic access to information, and get them to think about the information.
Towards the end of the last term, one student, "K," raised her her hand as we regrouped after a ten-minute break.
"Do all professors teach the way you do, or did we luck out taking your class?"
I gave her a dull boring answer because I had to ensure that I did not use the class time to critique colleagues, not only at my college but in higher education, who, even in this new world of Google and iPhone apps, think that undergraduate education is all about access to facts and testing students about those facts.
What I would have liked to tell "K" and the rest of the class, with a big grin on my face: "thanks for the compliments."
In this cartoon here, Trudeau conveys the same idea, and also the explanation that Bill Gates gave some time ago on why we have colleges anymore:
Towards the end of the last term, one student, "K," raised her her hand as we regrouped after a ten-minute break.
"Do all professors teach the way you do, or did we luck out taking your class?"
I gave her a dull boring answer because I had to ensure that I did not use the class time to critique colleagues, not only at my college but in higher education, who, even in this new world of Google and iPhone apps, think that undergraduate education is all about access to facts and testing students about those facts.
What I would have liked to tell "K" and the rest of the class, with a big grin on my face: "thanks for the compliments."
In this cartoon here, Trudeau conveys the same idea, and also the explanation that Bill Gates gave some time ago on why we have colleges anymore:
'Place-based colleges' are good for parties, but are becoming less crucial for learning thanks to the Internet
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