Air Travails

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/shashi-tharoor/air-farce_b_155363.html

The above article by Shashi Tharoor on the ordeals of traveling took my mind to mine during my recent trip to the US, during which I did a lot of domestic traveling.

I have no business to grumble, I realize. If an international celebrity of Shashi Tharoor’s credentials can be subjected to these travails, who am I to crib, especiall since, at the end of the day, I felt happy and secure at the thought that the aircraft I was traveling in would not blow up mid air.

I was a victim of Transportation Security Administration (TSA) inspection twice. I had picked up a couple of serving dishes which caught my fancy at the one dollar shop which I had insisted on visiting. And which Sunny, my husband insisted on not visiting. My son-turned- mediator took us to the shop and I picked up these two ceramic dishes, much to the disapproval of my husband who thought they were cheap, heavy and not worth even the one dollar each cost. Again the mediator son convinced him that ‘we’ (he and his father) should be indulgent with the old lady and her whims. Somehow, the old lady bit worked and I picked up the dishes, knowing fully well everything that Sunny said was true. But, I am the type who gets a lot of thrill acquiring these low cost stuff – fun stuff - exotic but not perhaps the type we’ll leave behind as a cherished legacy to our children.

I took extra care to pack these dishes, as they were breakable. I must say that I am pretty good at it, having had to deal with a lot of transfers across the country with all our worldly possessions. I can proudly say that the damages in terms of breakages were negligible. But then, there was no TSA intervention while transporting things by road from one destination to another in India. On reaching Chicago, on unpacking, I found that one of the dishes which raked up such a domestic controversy was broken. Sunny was around, helping with the unpacking. I refused to look at his face for fear of that triumphant i-told-u-so-good-riddacnce-to bad-rubbish look in his eyes!

In our box I saw that note from the TSA that our box was picked for random checking, and an apology for any damages, including damage, if any, to the lock.

During my return journey to India too, my box was singled out for TSA inspection. This time the damage was to the nail polish bottles which my daughter insisted I take, knowing fully well, on my own, I will not buy them to paint my nails. She bought me enough shades to last till she made her next visit. Fortunately, I had the good sense to pack them in a double zip lock. On unpacking, I found all the bottles stuck together. Apparently, they’d opened all of them to ensure they didn’t contain liquid explosives – but did not take enough care to close them tightly. The zip lock, however, proved its quality by containing the leak within itself.

I wish the TSA has a system which will ensure that the boxes that are randomly examined will be repacked the way they found them. After all, air travelers too have some rights!

But the worst ordeal was at the Boston airport. As I stepped past the security gate, the officer there kept my boarding pass and asked me to sit down. Soon a gigantic lady came with that beeping instrument and told me that I have to be checked from ZERO. I looked out to see my brother and family looking at me very anxiously. I gave them a plastic smile to indicate that I’m not rattled and than looked back at the lady.
“I’ve to check you from Zero”
I didn’t know what that meant.
”Want the screening to be private?”
“Naturally”, I smiled. I was shaking inside, with nervousness and embarrassment. Is it going to be a strip frisking? And why me? The other passengers were just walking past the beeping door and were heading for the lounge.
“Come”, she said. I followed her with no footwear, no shawl. It was terrible. I must confess that I am very sensitive about my feet and the shape of it and always choose my footwear to cover the oddest pair of feet that the creator has ever made. Another reason I’m never seen without my footwear is, I use them to add those missing inches that the almighty forgot to bestow on me. So with my feet flapping like a duck’s and my dress hanging disproportionately long without the well heeled footwear, I walked behind that huge lady, a long long way, feeling very self conscious, thoroughly humiliated, and very sure all eyes were directed towards me. “Well, if this is a terror merchant, I might as well have a good look at her”, the expressions of the Indian passengers seemed to say.

“Have to start from zero, sthat okaye?” she asked. They were two other female officials in the room where the “private screening’ was to take place.
“OK”, I shrugged nonchalantly, elaborately casual.
Then she just ran that beeping contraption superficially over me!! That's all she did!
What all that drama was about, I couldn’t make out.
“I did a lot of traveling during this visit”, I told those officials after they gave me the green signal to go. “This is the first time I’ve been screened like this. Why so?”
“You wanted private screening. That’s why I brought you here”
“I thought I’ll have to do a strip, since you kept saying zero”
I suppose my relief manifested in a form of irritation.
"Tell me, why did I have to be screened like this. Am curious”, I told them
“Where are you from?” (Oh oh, that’s the reason eh? I told myself triumphantly. The cat will be out of the bag in a minute.)
“India”
“What’s the weather like in India?”!!!!!!!!!?????.
I stared at them.
“Monsoons in my part of India”, I replied like an idiot.
“Ooooh, it must be beautiful!’, they cooed.
“Yes beautiful. Beautiful”, I agreed and walked back to collect my accessories and boarding pass.

Raja, my son-in-law told me later that just like the TSA does random inspection of the baggage, they also do random inspection of the passengers. The chosen passenger will have it noted on the boarding pass.

When I got back to Chicago, I looked hard at my face in the mirror. Why was I singled out? A random selection? Is there some system in this selection? Or is it because of me Asiatic origin?

Better still, is it because of my one mile long name of which they couldn’t make out if I was man, woman or extra terrestrial, which should explain why even my baggage was marked out for inspection?

Like I said earlier, getting into the aircraft, i forgot the unpleasant zero experience, and felt that I was flying safe.

When man Meets Nature - Munnar III

DO WE REALLY NEED THIS?

DO WE NEED LAYS TO WARM UP TO NATURE?

HUMAN INTERVENTION - AT CHIYYAPARA where the water crashes down in a never ending roar to meet the river

I wish i could post the stench of urine at this spot, that came everytime the breeze blew from some direction .

Lets hang our heads in shame!

Shouldn't we do something about this, and not be just armchair cynics?

When Man Meets Nature - Munnar II (to be contd)

Do follow the tale told by these pictures. The last picture is at Chiyapara, enroute to Munnar.

The story of this waterfall will be concluded in the next post.

God's Indulgence: Munnar . Post - 1

No, these are not paintings. They are real! God's work not man's.

I was not aware that wild majestic beauty untouched by man existed so close to us.

Now i know what the poet meant when he exclaimed 'Wilderness is paradise enow'.

These pictures of Munnar were taken yesterday and the day before.

Mists and clouds blurring the distance between earth an heaven even as you watch them, occasional drizzle, green mountains and rocky mountains, the crystal purity of the sparkling water as it hops, skips, jumps down the rocks laughing with wild abandon, the river flowing by your side all the way, dense forests and large parrot green patches of grass, man's footprints in the form of rows of eucalyptus trees and tea plantations appearing like green velvet from a distance- - - This is what Munnar is made up of.

This and much more - - - -

I have not seen many places of great scenic beauty- but i cannot think how any place can be more beautiful that these mountains.

Nature at her most beautiful best - that's what you see in this paradise situated some 4000 plus feet above the sea.

Chilled in Venice and Capuccino

“It will be windy”, Antonio, the travel agent’s local man who accompanied us through the tour in Italy, had cautioned us. “Put on something warm”.

So I pulled the sweater over the salwar suit. My feminist husband who turns macho when it comes to braving inclement weather, chose, however, to wear a half sleeved shirt, and , as a concession (I was nagging) a sleeveless sweater. I must say he looked quite handsome!

As we entered the bus, I noticed that most of our friends were also clothed as though to beat a mildly chilly weather. Of course, none was as inadequately dressed for the weather as my dear husband.

The short walk from the hotel to the bus was brrrrr cold! I got nervous and offered to run up to the room and get the windcheater and the cap for both of us. As expected, the hubby vetoed contemptuously with an upward turn of the left corner of his mouth.

WE soon reached the spot where we had to alight from the bus to board the boat that was to take us to ST. Marks Square.

As we walked, the realization hit us with the bitterly cold blast that greeted us, that we had seriously underrated the weather. It was windy all right but the wind bore no resemblance whatsoever to the welcome breeze or even the occasional chilly wind of our tropical homes. This was terrible - felt as though someone was shoveling ice on me as I walked along. I looked around and saw everybody shivering shamelessly. Some were trying to control the jaws which went kadakadakada.

“They should have told us it’ll be this cold”, someone grumbled.
“They dihidihidihid”, voice unsteady.
“They should have told us it’ll be freezing cold! Pah”

As we waited for the boat, we noticed that the water between the jetty and wall was full of rotting leaves.

The Keralites among us tried to make a joke of Venice being the Alleppey of the west but couldn’t get to the end of the joke as our voices dwindled off into a freezing halt. We tried to smile at each other but ended up grimacing.

I looked anxiously at my husband. He grinned at me nonchalantly, but I thought I saw something laboured in that grin.

“Not freezing?”, I asked him.
“Will survive, don’t worry”. Casually.

The boat arrived and a batch of Chinese tourists came out. All of them looked double their size from the layers and layers of clothes they had wrapped themselves in. Their headgear reminded me of the pictures of Eskimos. And as they passed us, they were grinning at us and at each other, hugely amused at us, the poor tropical creatures, shaking and shivering and crouching in the most undignified manner.

The boat was warm and soon we were in our elements. The view on either side was incredible. It felt as if we were moving through the medieval ages. Cameras were clicking furiously but I sat back and enjoyed the feel – the feel of traveling through some age in the remote past, the feel of the romance of a bygone era.

Oh, it was lovely.

How well these Italians have preserved their heritage! The centuries old structures were well maintained. How well developed is their tourism industry. Why can’t we also do this, I thought sadly. We too have an equally great heritage to preserve. Why don’t we get our act together like these people who are so proud of their history and heritage?

WE reached the jetty near St. Marks Square where the guide was waiting for us. Out of the warmth of the boat, we restarted the uncontrollable shivering act. I saw hands disappearing into the sweaters, noses turning red, teeth chattering as people listened to the very competent guide who was least impressed by our frozen condition. She herself was in a great overcoat with a furry collar, and wore a warm monkey cap which covered her ears well (It took all my self control to restrain myself from snatching it off her head and running away with it). She wore knee high boots, and here we were with nothing more than trousers or jeans or churidars or salwars between us and that sadistically biting wind that was, without let up, sending millions of tiny sharp icy darts.

Needless to say, the square was simply out of this world. Soon it was dark and the lights came. The sight took our breath away –the lights were symmetrically arranged for the best effect. The bell tower, St. Marks Church churches with stunning carvings and pillars – oh, it was all so richly carved with figures from history, myth and religion. Only, we were freezing and wanted to get into a warm place to revive our blood flow which, by then, was beginning to get congealed.

My poor husband by then had given up all his macho pretensions, and was making funny sounds.

“What is it?” I asked.
“Chumma” he said, like Mohanlal.
“What are those strange sounds you are making?”
“Hei, it’s nothing”, he said. He tried that lopsided grin which froze half way thru. I noticed the goose bumps on his arms. He was the only human being in that crowded square who had any part of the anatomy exposed to the stinging wind. I noticed that he too was becoming an item of tourists interest.

I wanted to gloat and tell him “Serves you right”. But I didn’t. After all, I can’t behave as though there is no tomorrow.

Soon, it was time for the gondola ride. We chose not to go. Another couple from Kerala too decided to stay back. We were not sure if we could handle the cold(When the group returned after the ride, they told us that the gondola ride was warmer than standing in the Square). Besides, it was dark and the visibility was almost nil. The guide told us that it was worth going just to feel and hear the sound of the water lapping on the sides of the gondola. Well. We have traveled enough times in the snake boats back home in Kuttanaad. So there was no novelty in the experience, we Keralites who chose to stay back consoled ourselves. It was a different thing if we could see the banks, which, the guide had told us, was not possible in that fading light.

So we hung around in the square while the others went for the gondola ride. The ground floor off the pavement of the square was full of shops where Italian jewelry, Murano glass items and a whole lot of other things were very attractively displayed. We tried window shopping. The rates appeared whopping, particularly when we converted euros to rupees; I guess our frozen state too had something to do with the rates appearing prohibitive.

“Let’s get into a café and have something to drink”, I suggested. “It’ll be warm and coffee will warm us up”

We got into a café and ordered cappuccino coffee. We were thrilled at the prospect of sitting in the warm café and sipping little by little piping hot coffee. Soon the order came. Each of us was served, without exaggeration, half an ounce of bitter coffee! We masked our utter dismay behind a poker face while it was being placed on the table. I even managed a sweet thank you in the direction of the waitress. After all, we are the brand ambassadors of our country!

I wish I had taken pictures of our expressions as we looked at the half ounce blackish coffee and then at each other.

“Maybe more will come”, I said hopefully.
“Mmn. kaathirunno” (you can wait forever for it), my friend said.

We tried sipping the coffee slowly but none of us could go beyond one and a half sips. It was over! One and a half sips for two euros!!(More that Rs.120).

“We came in for the warmth. Let’s think that we are paying for getting away from the cold”, I said weakly. After all it was my bright idea to walk into a restaurant and sip a giant cup of piping hot coffee and feel the warmth seep through your body and thaw the frozen blood. I had to come up with some justification.

All the three nodded somberly in unison.

Looking back, we realized that we should have freaked out on some good food and stopped converting. But I think it takes a few days of transacting in the unfamiliar currency to be able to do that. The Venice trip was in the evening of the day we landed in Italy.

And of course, our brains too were frozen, disabling sensible thinking. It takes sometime to handle the alien climate of an alien place too.

Renaissance Visited

I saw. I really and truly saw. With my own eyes.

I saw the Statue of David and the Pieta. I actually stood before them and looked at them. And thought of what the sculptor believed - that a form was always trapped in a stone, and the sculptors job was to liberate it from the stone!

I saw Buonnarotti’s aesthetic extravaganza on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel and on the wall behind the altar.

As a child I had seen them in that gigantic hardbound album of classical art which I couldn’t lift. So heavy it was. My brother Vakkachayan had acquired it from somewhere and it was my favourite pastime turning its pages, from the first to the last and reading the captions and the explanatory notes. Every picture in that book of paintings from the 11th century to the 19th century had a long story behind it. My brother told me many of them, and I poured over those pages almost every day. The Sistine Chapel paintings and the statue of David, I remember, made me blush. I remember the domestic help once teased me for looking at ‘obscene’ pictures.

But last week I saw them all. In flesh and blood(!?). And I looked and looked.

No. I have no trained eye for art. But the idea. Yes. It is the idea that held me enthralled. The idea I had passed on to my students year after year when I introduced them to the Italian Renaissance, the precursor to the English.

Looking up, with my head at right angle to the body, at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in the heavily crowded room where cameras were not permitted. I remembered the numerous stories about Michael Angelo. The Agony and the Ecstasy. The spirit of Renaissance reflected in the strange but exquisite co habitation of the Hellenic and Hebraic achieved in the paintings and sculptures of the period. The liberation of art from the straight-jacketed demands of an austere religion. All that I read (without fully comprehending) and taught as part of my profession came crowding into my mind. The feeling was strange. It was like a nostalgia for something I have never seen or experienced – perhaps a nostalgia for an imaginary world I was forced to inhabit as one of the imperatives of my occupation, and which eventually entered my soul and became part of me.

Maybe I’m not making sense.