Mangosteen!

I have been hunting for tropical fresh fruits. I could not bring home such things to keep the memories alive, but I have been determined to find them, for my own nostalgia and to share some of the South Asian experience with my children.

In looking for tropical Easter treats, I have discovered several things. First is tropical fruits can be hard to find, especially the elusive dragon fruit and the lovely custard apple (a.k.a custard fruit.) Second discovery is many tropical fruits are easier to get alhold of fresh frozen. Not quite as good, but better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, right? (I found frozen custard apples, but they look brown. We will see how they taste!) Third discovery is green coconuts, shaved and ready to drink are cheap, $1.50 or less! Fourth is that whole dragon fruits look like little dragons. And lastly is the name of that mystery fruit I fell so in love with on the cruise: mangosteen.

Mangosteen are not a type of mango, or a type of bovine. They look like a red plum, but don't eat the red! I let one thaw for an hour, and cut it in half, revealing the soft white meat inside. Perfect, sweet and chilled. I honestly never thought I would see them again. Now they are in my freezer! Happy to share!

Regaining the Mundane

Settling back into the old routine can be difficult. Not so much because I have changed so monumentally. Time will tell on that score. Now, I have even dropped the Indian accent that I gained temporarily (people in India understand me more when I use an accent…), and while I have spent time trying to get the fruits and dishes I enjoyed abroad, I have also had to cook from my own less inspiring repertoire of dishes.

Aside from a persistent cough brought from the land of SARS, bird flu and TB, I fear that I may still be suffering from jet lag. I get dead tired at about 8pm, and come wide awake at about 5am. Not so helpful for my life working nights (sadly, by the time I could work the day shift, the jet lag will have faded.)

Even though my pantry is now restocked and there is fresh fruit on my counter, I fear that it may be some time before I can be up until 2am folding laundry (OK, you got me, playing video games!) or sleeping in to noon.

A Very Long Day

For most of us, a day is 24 hour long. Being nocturnal, at times I see each and every hour as it slides by. But this was an unusual situation. Boarding the jet-plane shortly after midnight, we preceded to flee the oncoming dawn, crossing over Iran (carefully avoiding Pakistan and Afghanistan airspace,) then Eastern Europe and Germany, landing in scenic Amsterdam shortly after dawn. On the clock, we had traveled about 5 hours. But this trip a quarter way wound the globe took about double that.

Sadly we had very little time to enjoy Dutch hospitality (or even the gift shop) before we joined the line for the trans-Atlantic flight. Again fleeing the morning, we arced over the globe, over northern UK (causing Shreeyash to pine for Edenborough,) south of Greenland then over Labrador and Quebec. About ten hours in flight again, we set down in Detroit.

Much as I have completely loved Singapore, and Puket, and Kochin and Mumbai and Pune, it is so nice to return home. Home of the red, white and blue, the land of “please” and “thank you.”

And again I blink. Was I REALLY riding on a motorcycle though some of the most dangerous streets in the world just hours ago? Sitting cross-lazed or cement floors, eating with my right had? Watching wild monkeys cavort? Plucking quartz for the dry earth and exploring ancient carved caves? Did that really happen?

Nothing appears to have changed here. Webkinz are still on sale in the airport shop, as they were weeks ago. I am still wearing my second-hand trench coat. My bags are still packed. Right here.

But there has been a change. I have my pictures and memories, and a promise. A promise to return as soon as possible; not to let another fifteen years pass. I promise to be a part of my family, by e-mail or in person, and to return the warmth and love shown to me.

With a return to Detroit from the east, just over two weeks after leaving to the west, comes quiet satisfaction in my moments of introspection. On this fifteenth day, the circumnavigation of the globe is complete. I have completed 15 days around the world.

Leaving India

All too soon, dreams come to an end. Following our second night in Pune, it was time for us to make plans for return. Our cousin arranged for a car (made by Tata of course) and driver to take as to The Mumbai airport from his house. The trip was uneventful; we did see some wild monkeys and very nice Western-style houses. The speedway was as nice as any freeway in the States. We passed slums and shopping malls and millions of people going about their lives.

The scenery was breath-taking. Large basalt faces sprouted from far below creating ancient volcanic gorges and valleys. While generally dry, the landscape was frequently punctuated by trees and shrubs, resilient in the spring warmth.

The city was different. Traveling through the bowels of Mumbai revealed it to be as frenetic and chaotic as one might expect when 15 million people choose to cram onto an island, each in search of a better life, and each with a scheme to bring it about.

I have to say that I am grateful I was not driving. It can be said, diplomatically, that Indians effectively and precisely utilize the road space. In the press of city traffic, mere inches separate vehicle from vehicle. I could have reached out and touched the beetle-shaped rickshaws or large red city busses we shared the road with.

Enthralled as I was by the press and energy of Mumbai, I did have a pervading sadness creep into the experience. Time was so short. With a whole world to drink in and savor, I only had time for a sip and a nibble.

To be fair, my brother did offer to try to revise my travel plans, going ahead and allowing a few more days in India without him. Enticing as this idea was, the time with my brother was precious too, as valuable as traveling alone would have been dreary. This coupled with how much I miss my wonderful children really answered the question before it was asked.

In departing, family members asked when I would return. In all honesty I had to say “I don’t know.” In my heart, I quietly promised “As soon as I can. As soon as I can.”

Pune- "Welcome Home"

Waking up in Chinchwad, outside of Pune is like a dream. No, it is not a paradise, but I do feel a deep connection to this place and these people, even the people I do not know. My kind cousin and his family gave us their only bed. While not as soft as the ship beds, and without the gentle rise and fall of the waves, I got a spectacular night’s sleep.

I did have to remember how to do a bucket bath, and how to squat… but these things are like riding a bicycle. It a appears that one never really forgets. I find that I am able to track more of the language than I expected. Certainly I am unable to converse, but with enough time I think I could pick it up quickly.

The first night with my cousin he took us to a type of restaurant known as a thali restaurant. Essentially it is a buffet in reverse. Upon sitting, a small army of servers approaches and fills a series of bowls and covers the remaining empty places on the plate with delightful foods, also providing several drink options. They then circulate, refilling anything I might be remotely interested in having more of. I summed up my experience for the owner this way: “I felt like a prince.”

The second night’s dinner was pov baji. Now, I had purchased a can of pov baji at home one time, but it just did not come close to the delightful flavors that my cousin’s wife creates when she cooks.

With this our only full day in this city, we visited family, and my cousin indulged me while I tried and failed to find a geocache. At the home of my grandparents, now occupied my aunt, we were met at the door, and greeted with “Welcome to your house.” My aunt, known to my kids as “India Aji,” performed a ceremonial foot washing for travelers returning from afar, and then we rinsed the dust from our mouths before entering the flat.

We had occasion to speak to two of the three cousins that I did not see. Each time the message was the same. “Welcome home. You must come visit us at our house. You must come home more often.” And I truly felt like I was at a long lost home. Even though Dominoes Pizza now delivers throughout the town, and wireless internet and mobile phones and automobiles are ever more abundant, the thing that has not changed is the love of family, the sorrow of separation and the yearning for togetherness.

Mumbai and Pune

It took two days at sea to move form Kochin, in Southern India, northward to Mumbai. It has been called “Maximum city,” featured in such movies as Slumdog Millionaire, countless Bollywood films and is backdrop for countless daily stories of heartbreak and hope.

Briefly leaving the ship, my brother and I made our way to Victoria Terminal (referred to as VT Station,) the main train station in Mumbai. After purchasing reserve tickets on an air conditioned express coach to Pune. With several hours to spare, we went to the Taj Hotel, of notoriety recently. That was a spectacular structure. Again, all the service staff had pressed uniforms, and immaculate grooming, a stark contrast from the streets a few paces away. It clearly highlighted the “Other India,” where everyone speaks impeccable Queen’s English, walks with shined shoes on vast colorful handmade rugs, drinks bottled water, is driven hither and yon by a personal driver and also employs a housekeeper and laundry woman.

I could not help but reflect on my last visit to this place. Fifteen years prior I had been here with my brother and sister. My brother pulled me away from a game of three-card Monty; someone bent corner of one card making it easy to track. Several of the men in the group even offered to give me money to bet with. Sensing trouble, my brother hustled me away before I was hustled or worse! My sister rented a horse for a ride on the Mumbai shore. She kicked the horse into a gallop on the beach. The problem is the beach is crowded and she knocked over someone. We left in a hurry. This trip to the beach area was far less eventful.

We took lunch at the Kaiber Restaurant, a spectacular facility with a Middle-East feel to it. On the conclusion of lunch, we returned to the ship to pick up our bags at get to the train. In an attempt to simplify our trip, we picked up a taxi from the secured area of the port near the boat. This did not help. The taxi was unable to use the closest gate, instead driving quite far afield for the official customs gate for taxies (had we gone out on foot as we did without our bags, we could have obtained a taxi very easily to VT station.) To save time, he took us to he side entrance of VT terminal, but the train was not easily accessible from there. Driving to the front of the station, we had to run to the platform and hop on the train at the rear. Had we run for the AC coach, we would have missed the train. To find our seats, we had to push our way forward with all luggage in tow. Pausing for rest now and again, we made our way, seat to seat and car to car until we found the air conditioned car. Stowing our luggage, we collapsed into our seats for the trip.

Vendors circulated selling tea (tea bags made by Tata, the same company that owns Jaguar!), coffee, cold drinks, snacks, books, fruits and even shoe shines. Notably absent was the army of red-clad coolies which had mobbed trains in the past, seeking to help anyone with bags off the train. But present was armed Indian guards some patrolling and some in sand-bag fortifications. Ironically the guards were a chilling reminder of the darker side of this beautiful city, yet their presence was quite comforting.

I had heard repeatedly that India had changed in the past fifteen years since my last visit. Of this I have no doubt. My memories of this place were at times wild and bewildering and frequently spiced with a feeling of being out of control. Not so this trip. I have found the people polite, well spoken and generally tolerant. But the most stark reminder of changes was yet to come.

On arrival at Chinchwad station, outside of Pune, I was met by the family that I both knew and yet did not know. My cousin and his son met us. When last I has visited, my cousin was recently married and they had no children. He had aged, and I have no doubt that he thought the same of me. Standing on the train platform regarding him, I felt like Rip VanWinkle. It did not seem like fifteen years. The smells and sounds were the same, and the family I care so much for was here greeting me with smiles and open arms. But everything had changed. The roads were nicely paved, cars are far more prevalent, and my cousin and his beloved wife, entrepreneur and businesswoman, have their own flat and two beautiful children in private school. He had certainly aged, but did not appear worse for the years.

It is so difficult to reconcile that this world exists simultaneously with the world of America. People live and die in each place, living day in and day out, but it seems like a different planet.

Cochin

I have been told for years that I needed to visit Southern India, that the weather was better, the people were nicer and that I would have an all around better time. Well, Cochin was most certainly India, with the aroma of rickshaw exhaust mingled with blossoming tropical trees, the birds darting here and there and small lizards on walls and fences. The people were more polite. Even negotiating for taxi rates was done in a quiet tone, and without a tough sell.

Some of the locations we visited were surprisingly interesting, such as the laundry. While mundane, it is functionally unchanged from colonial times. Clothing is cleaned by beating it against rocks and hung out to line dry. Clothing is ironed by irons that are wood (or coconut husk) fired.

We also visited some churches, dating back hundreds of years. It is said that the apostle Saint Thomas established the church in India in the dawn of Christianity, and that his bones rest in India to this day.

In “Jew town” an aptly named district with a Jewish center and cemeteries, we stopped at a lovely spice market. I was able to pick up some star anise, a spice I learned about form one of the boat chefs, and some other spices as well.

We wanted to have some Southern Indian food for dinner. After checking several restaurants, we ended up at the local Taj Hotel in Cochin. While the food was more expensive than we could have had, we were able to get the food we were after and be assured that it would not poison us.
We met friends at the hotel and proceeded back to the safety of the ship.