Me and Leonard

A few posts ago I mentioned that one special day I found myself (well, at least my name and Shelter's name) in the same issue of the Guardian as Leonard Cohen.

One thing that Leonard said really struck me as profound. (I figure as a fan, a Canadian, and co-Guardian subject, I can call him that).  He was talking about writing as work, and the fact that songs don't come easily to him, but that he could hardly compare it to work in a world where "guys go down into mines, chewing coca and spending all day in backbreaking labour." The interviewer asked him if he learned anything from writing. Did he work out ideas that way? Leonard said,

 "I think you work out something. I wouldn't call them ideas. I think ideas are what you want to get rid of. I don't really like songs with ideas. They tend to become slogans. They tend to be on the right side of things: ecology or vegetarianism or antiwar. All these are wonderful ideas but I like to work on a song until those slogans, as wonderful as they are and as wholesome as the ideas they promote are, dissolve into deeper convictions of the heart. I never set out to write a didactic song. It's just my experience. All I've got to put in a song is my own experience."

I like this first of all because it's an unfashionable thing to say and surely Leonard Cohen is one of the coolest people on the planet. At seventy-seven years old, he can say what he really thinks and no one's going to accuse him of being trite. I remember when I was in my first university Creative Writing class, back in the 1980s, the professor told us to write what we knew. That advice is out of style now. In a recent Globe and Mail interview about Cat's Table, Michael Ondaatje goes to great pains to deny that the novel is a memoir. Fine, I get that. As a writer, you want the freedom to invent where the facts are too dull or don't fit your design. But then he says, "I really don’t want to write down what I already know. If I’m going to write about something that happened in my childhood, I’m going to invent the hell out of it. There are some writers who know exactly what the book is going to be before they write it. Writers I really admire. But that would bore the hell out of me."

I find this a deeply dismissive thing to say about writing in general and memoir in particular. (Back me up, Melanie Murray!) It's also the ultimate arrogance to think that it's easy to write down "what I already know." As Leonard Cohen's songs confirm, writing from your own experience doesn't mean writing what you already know. It means writing what you want to understand, what you've glimpsed, choked on, sweated over at 3 a.m. under the cover of your own shame, closed your eyes to, wept over, and made bargains with various forms of God over.

I often read (or listen to) work I think of as great: anything by Virginia Woolf, anything by Neil Young, Margaret Laurence's Diviners, T.S. Eliot's Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, Homer's Odyssey, Leonard Cohen's Bird on a Wire, John  Lent's Real World and I ask myself what they have in common. What makes them great? And I think it's the quality that Leonard talks about. I'd almost call it sincerity. The artist has worked on it until he or she and their lofty ideas have disappeared and what's left is the most vulnerable and sincere core of experience. For me, I know it's great when I forget I'm reading or listening. There's no more clever writer, no talented musician. Just the deep "convictions of the heart."


Here's that wonderful, affectionate article about Mr. Cohen.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2012/jan/19/leonard-cohen

The kindness of strangers

I'm home and so happy to be here. The last few days of the trip were clouded by my battle with an intestinal bug, so I have a skewed idea of Mumbai, I think. Also, I'm not much of a big city person and they don't come much bigger than Mumbai. Actually, according to my Google search, Mumbai is the 4th most populous city in the world, with a population of about 20 million and is set to overtake Tokyo as the world's biggest city by 2020. Canada's population is 34 million, so that puts it in perspective. India as a whole has over 1.21 billion people. Flying into Mumbai from Bangalore, we dropped down through the brown cloud of smog and then as we descended I could see the slums that ring the outer edge of the city. Here's a link to a National Geographic article with some photos that capture it well:
http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2007/05/dharavi-mumbai-slum/jonas-bendiksen-photography

Mumbai is a good city for walking, but unfortunately I was too weak for that. So I hired a taxi and the driver and I became friends for two days. (When you find someone who drives you where you want to go and accepts the payment you agreed on without argument, you want to stick with him). On my last day in the city, I went first to Dhobi Ghats, Mumbai's open air laundry, which was fascinating. For some reason, I felt like I could have watched it all day. Though the water looked questionably clean, the laundry hanging to dry is crisp and bright.

Then to Chowpatty Beach. It was Sunday afternoon, just before sunset. The beach was crowded with families, sweethearts, groups of friends, hawkers of roasted corn, roasted peanuts, giant balloons, florescent pink cotton candy, toys, juice, deep fried food of various kinds and garbage. Lots of garbage. It's hard to know what to say about it; it seems like a desperate problem and I found it upsetting to say the least. But I'll let the photos speak for themselves.

Now that I'm home safely, what sticks with me is the kindness of strangers. It makes all the difference when you're traveling. There was Jay, an Anglo-Indian man discovering his family roots and fellow traveler on the Golden Triangle tour. When we first met and he saw I had a cold, he went to his room where he had a tea kettle that he travels with, and he brought me back a cup of hot "Lem-Sip", a lemon drink like Neo-Citran. I later gave him some melatonin tablets which the next day he pronounced "brilliant."

In Hampi, not quite strangers, but fellow writers Eugene (from Korea) and Birgitta (from Sweden), helped me with my unwieldy luggage (the London clothes which I had hoped to ship home from London but was unable to), by hiring a taxi to drive us to the train station, instead of taking a complicated route involving a ferry and auto-rickshaw. At the Hospet/Hampi station, Eugene lugged my heavy bag, even though she herself was traveling with a light knapsack. And Birgitta answered my every craving, first for a Coke, then an orange, then potato chips and apple juice as I sat immobile on a dirty bench smelling of urine, and watched the trains, praying we'd get the first class compartments we were waitlisted for, instead of sleeper class. We didn't. When I had to make a dash to vomit in the nearest garbage can, I think Birgitta almost cried along with me. It was a low moment.

But what made it bearable was the Indian family in the station who saw my Air Canada baggage tags and began to talk to me about Canada. When they learned I was sick, they carried my two heavy bags onto the train for me and stowed them safely under my seat. And as luck would have it, they were sharing our compartment. The berths (Eugene took out her antiseptic wipes) were pretty dusty and you don't get any bedding in sleeper class, but I had my scarf and a blanket I'd brought from Canada and hadn't needed until then. I was so spent, I was just grateful to be horizontal and I felt safe with the kind family sitting and talking with Eugene and Birgitta. I actually slept really well on that train and thankfully wasn't sick again.

These aren't my train photos, by the way. I was in no state to be capturing the moment. I found them online.

On my last day, when I was catching the taxi to the airport at 11 p.m., I gave my blanket and my remaining change to a man who worked at the hotel. It was only because I had no more room to pack the blanket and had left in the room. When he came to carry my bags and I told him I was leaving it behind, he asked if he could have it, since he has to sit outside the hotel all night and it gets cold. And I gave him the change because I had no more paper money to tip him. But as I got in the taxi, he said, "God bless you." And it seemed so heartfelt that I truly did feel blessed, always a good feeling when you're flying.

The taxi driver (the same one who'd driven me around Mumbai for two days) rode along with me and his friend (he's a day driver; his friend shares the taxi and is the night driver) and then when he was dropped off at his train stop, he fussed over the airport arrangements and told me to call him on my cell when I got to the airport.

It was a good trip. Now, every night since I've been home, I've been dreaming that I'm still in India.

Saturday night in Mumbai

I had a good day today in Mumbai, in spite of lingering cramps and the fact that climbing a few stairs seemed like a marathon (ie. I'm a little weak). I began the day with breakfast on the roof-terrace overlooking the typically grimy yet grand neighbouring buildings (sooty? or mould-stained from rainy season? not sure). I shared a table with three sisters about my age from Mauritius, an island off the south coast of Africa (in case you didn't know; I didn't!). They were very nice and had come to India just to "do Mumbai" but they weren't all that impressed. Instead, they sung the praises of Mauritius, which does sound beautiful (and I just googled it).

After breakfast I got a carefully handwritten itinerary from two receptionists at the front desk of Kemp's Corner Hotel. (By the way, I did change rooms last night and though this one smells strongly of fresh paint, it's better than mothballs and the room in general is far cleaner and nicer, if not quite deluxe. I was getting dressed to go out when I was overcome with fatigue and instead ordered room service and watched Sex and the City II on HBO. I then slept like the dead.) They called me a taxi and I went to Banganga Tank, an out-of-the-way sacred spot, like a man-made pond sort of, where pilgrims come to bathe and splash a bit of holy water over their heads. It was very peaceful and I may go back tomorrow. I went to several Mumbai tourist spots, including the Gateway of India built over several years beginning in 1911 for the visit of King George V and Queen Mary. But the highlight of my day was a student art show in a square near Mumbai University.

Here's a sample:

Cutting chai glasses pyramid with the artists

This one (above) is called "Cutting." It's a pyramid of chai glasses, or actually it's more like a teepee. Two of the six artists who built it were nearby with a box of fresh glasses to replace any broken ones. They told me they'd been up all night putting it together and were very tired.

Bisleri water bottle maze

This one, the Bisleri water bottle maze, really spoke to me. It was just what it sounds like, a maze made entirely of empties of water bottles, to draw attention to the problem of recycling (as the notes said.) But ironically, though garbage is a huge issue in India, apparently the recycling rate for water bottles is something close to 90% in India. I learned this fact from an Australian environmental lawyer on my Delhi tour. Still, bottled water is both a curse and a blessing in a place like India. I believe in the west, in Canada anyway, it's just a curse and our recycling problem too is monumental. But here, access to clean drinking water is a challenge. For ten or twenty rupees, about 25-40 cents, you can get a 1-litre bottle of water. It's sold everywhere. It's not just westerners who get sick from drinking tap water. Indians do, too, especially when they travel to an area of India away from home. Cleaning up the water supply, making it safe to drink, along with cleaning up the extremely polluted rivers and waterways, that would be the real answer.

Crows

This one, Crows, was really cool. It reminded me of the work of the talented, late John Henry Fineday, who also loved crows. Crows love Mumbai. And they were pecking at my window every morning at about 7 a.m. at the Sangam House retreat. According to the artist's (Sumeet Snajay Patil) notes, in Hindu belief crows are synonymous with salvation (mukti). The crow is the one who gives mukti to the dead. So each of the crows in the installation represents problems in the city, symbolizing the desire for mukti from these problems. Here are a couple of close-ups. One shows a crow at a water tap, so more about the water problem.

After my day of sightseeing I went back to my hotel and with the cooling fan and clean white sheets, it did feel pretty deluxe. I went out again later, walking around my hotel. The big deal for me is the traffic. Okay, that and my horrible sense of direction which is compounded by the fact that a map is almost useless as it's nearly impossible to find out the street names. But the traffic. Holy kamikaze. It seems like walking signals, when they exist at all, are meaningless, or at least so many vehicles run the red light that the green time to cross is reduced to a fraction. Then add traffic that drives on the left, (except when some impatient driver decides to take a shortcut), meaning you have to remember to look the correct way before crossing. Funny how instinctive that is. I can't unlearn 40-odd years of training in a month. So what I do is tuck in beside a group of others who are crossing the street (I did it in London too). Then I dash, try to catch the eyes of the driver (instruction from a Bangalore friend) and hold up a hand if necessary. Way to get the adrenalin pumping. But I did manage to get to my destination, Crossword Bookstore. Hard to keep my purchases within reason. There are so many books here that we can't easily get in Canada (I know because I've tried). Tomorrow's my last day in India.

Bombay blues

I'm in a dingy Mumbai hotel room recovering from food poisoning. I just asked the bellhop (or whatever he's called) to come and kill the spider that was in the corner. I've also asked if they have a double room available because I heard they're "deluxe." I could stand a bit of deluxe right now. Actually there's nothing much wrong with the room, besides the smell of mothballs (popular in India), some blistered paint, a few stains on the otherwise clean sheets and the aforementioned spider. But I'm feeling a little frayed and not quite as stalwart as usual.

My two Sangam House friends, Birgitta and Eugene, (from Sweden and Korea respectively) and I traveled together the other day from Bangalore to Hampi by overnight train. On the way there we had 2AC class which means you each have a berth with another person sharing (ie there are 4 berths). The train left at 10 p.m. and as soon as it pulled out of the station, people made up their berths and went to bed. So we did, too. It was quite comfortable; they supply the bedding.

We took an autorickshaw to Hampi, then crossed the small river by ferry (ie. loaded to the max steel bottomed skiff) and stayed at a place called Shanthi guesthouse. Very nice. Mosquito nets in the cabanas. I love a mosquito net.

Lotus Mahal

Hampi is an incredible place. There are ruins from the the 14th-16th centuries when this was the centre of the Vijayanagara empire. At one time, there were bazaars with visiting merchants from China, Persia and elsewhere. The two most compelling things for me were the Lotus Mahal, apparently the queen's palace, so beautiful and peaceful with a warm breeze sweeping through it and the Hazara-rama which is a temple carved with hundreds of images from the Indian epic, the Ramayana. There's something about the way this narrative has captured the imagination over the ages that's inspiring, to say the least.

Hanuman the Monkey king

But back to my sad tale. After two days in Hampi, I woke up on the third day, the day we would be traveling back to Bangalore, with a bad case of food poisoning. I admit I had relaxed my guard just a bit and had a couple of things I wouldn't have normally because I thought I was home-free. At any rate, the difficult thing was that we were waitlisted for a First class AC train but had bought back-up sleeper class just in case. Sure enough, the train was full and it was sleeper class for us. Not easy when you're sick. Luckily we shared with a really nice sympathetic family. Still, it's not an experience I'd want to repeat. I can't talk about it just yet, as I'm still in recovery mode. Tomorrow will be better.

Home soon.





Intuition

I remember traveling when I was younger, that I had to learn again and again to trust my intuition. I'd step into something I wasn't sure about and then realize that I'd ignored what I'd already sensed in advance. Often too late, though not distastrously so, luckily. This may be an advantage of being an older traveler, or at least in my case it is. I've learned to trust my instincts and intuitions, gut feelings and desires. I'm both more flexible now and more certain. How to explain that paradox? Well, the place for paradoxes is India -- a string of fresh marigolds hanging in a tiny, grimy mechanics shop, dazzlingly clean white kurtas and turbans in a backdrop of cows grazing on garbage and men pissing on the roadside. Purity and filth, dignity and indignity.

The novel I'm currenty writing and researching begins in India and comes from a story I once I heard (or read?) that caught my imagination. It's a small anecdote really, just an opening into an idea, but it's stayed with me through the years. That story has come together in my imagination with a story set in rural Manitoba. Why? I don't know yet. But again I have learned to trust my intuition in writing. If nothing else, it makes the process a lot more interesting for me. I put things together because I sense they belong together. I don't work from an outline, although I do have a pretty good sense of where the story's going. I feel like an outline would take the fun out of it for me. New characters sometimes appear who take the story in a direction I hadn't expected. Main characters refuse to follow the plot I've envisioned for them. But once I've written a first draft, then I do go back and make an outline of what I've done and look for holes, etc.

I also have a policy of not talking much about the novel, or letting anyone read it, before it's written. It's almost a superstition, like a playoff beard. Once, when I was a kid, I snuck a look at my Christmas presents before Christmas morning. I never did it again. I think you can spend your ideas by talking about them too much. Afterwards, when it's written and I'm revising or feel "done", then sure. But not before. The one exception is the talking I do with David, my husband. He listens but doesn't pry. Often he's half asleep and just grunts a bit which keeps me talking. He may seem bored (probably not a pose). And sometimes he suggests things that I initially dismiss but that later return to me and I end up using.

I'm back at Sangam House today, just for one night, then taking the night train to Hampi with two writers I've met here. Then to Bombay. Home soon.

Enterprising India

The day before yesterday we travelled to Fatehpur Sikhri. Akbar built it intending it to become the new capital, but a shortage of water led him to pack up and move the palace, along with all the shops and services that supplied it. Fatehpur Sikhri is interesting, but it's swarming with both tourists and Indians wanting to make some money from tourists. Lots of little impish kids who know a few words in about six languages and have various little items to sell: postcards are common, but also dolls, bracelets, anklets, books about the site, pens, etc, etc. A sense of humour is extremely helpful. Our Indian tour leader taught me the phrase "na heeng cha-ir" which means something like "I don't want anything." He said to say it forcefully. I remember in Morocco the word "walloo" (nothing) was like magic, so I tried it out, (the Hindi phrase, that is, not the Arabic) except I'd written it on my hand and didn't have my reading glasses so I said "nee haang" and then upped the insistent tone, repeating "Nee haang, nee haang" thinking I'm very clever but getting only blank stares. They've never heard this language before. One boy, a young smiling smart-ass teenager (I know this terrain!) said, "Nee haang? What's that? Chinese?"

So I stopped and checked then corrected myself and said "Na heeng" and some kids ran away in shock, except the teenaged boy who said, "Good Hindi." So he hung around me for the next little while and enjoyed the show as I used my one Hindi phrase. He did correct my pronunciation as well. Then I bought four packets of postcards from him and we both were happy with the deal and he left me saying to his friend, "Nice lady." Charmer.

At Fatehpur Sikhri there's a pool; I assume it was a kind of cistern. The stagnant water in it was green sheened and slimy looking. Three young men in just their skivvies stood by it and when they saw us coming they hailed us and one ran to the edge of the cistern, prepared to dive in. I was horrified and felt sure he'd crack his skull on the stone ledge around it. But in he dived in and then he quickly climbed out to the cheers of some of my travel companions and of course he ran right over to collect for the show. I admired his enterprising spirit. He had nothing to sell but his young bravado and it worked.

But not to give the wrong idea. It's really only in these tourist hot spots that we've been hassled like that. This week I'm travelling with a G adventures tour and there are 15 of us, and most of them are young women of around 25, along with an Anglo-Indian man (40ish) an American man of 53, and two other young men, UK and Germany, also around 25. We have a great group, really respectful nice travellers. I'm realizing the advantage of being older. I can walk out on the street alone and no one bothers me at all, except for the occasional "hello" from someone. But it's not the young women who get bothered most; it's the big American male. Holy!

We're in Jaipur now. Pretty crazy busy. I'll need my earplugs to sleep tonight. To the Amber Fort tomorrow.

Horn concerto

I'm in my hotel lobby (where I get wireless access) listening to a horn concerto, ie. horns of every description: car, motorcycle, bus, truck, bicycle, rickshaw? Some do these riffs, up a few quick notes, down again, or a repetitive tattoo, half note blasts, quarter note toots.  Do rickshaws have horns? I'm not sure, although I've found something peaceful about riding in them, autorickshaws, that is. I've seen bicycle rickshaws, too, but none pulled by human power, thank goodness. The rickshaw drivers are famous for taking you to markets you don't want to go to, but I've found if you're firm, they're great. I just came back from coffee (where I parted with my travel mates; they went to a market). I caught a rickshaw back with an old guy. We got stuck in traffic because of some kind of royalty (from Singapore? or was it Oprah who is in India for the Jaipur literary festival?) coming through in a cavalcade: loudspeakers clearing the road, horns blasting. Dogs, cows, goats, pedestrians and all of us had to move over and sit for a while. There in the back of the rickshaw, I could watch it all unfold.

Volunteer at Sikh temple

In spite of the noise, the chaos, I've felt peaceful here. I think I mentioned the feeling of surrender when I was younger and travelling in a wildly different place from what I knew. But yesterday as I actually listened on my ipod to a Mozart clarinet concerto, my dad's favourite piece of music, and the crazy traffic horns provided an accompaniment that made me laugh out loud (because they kind of matched), I tried to identify this peaceful feeling, different from that feeling of surrender. And I realized it's gratitude.