Mopping Up

We have been well handled while in India. Please note that I use the word “handled” purposefully. Our Rotarian hosts have been hospitable and gracious to a fault. They do not seem to understand that occasionally we would love nothing better than to just explore and walk around. Everything has been carefully scheduled and conducted. The best images from this trip have been framed in the window of the van and not in the viewfinder of a camera. Nevertheless, it has been a marvelous trip. Frustrating at times but always innervating. That is why it is so strange to be in Trivandrum without an escort. This is our last stop before leaving India. We fly to Mumbai then Atlanta tomorrow. Our hosts have given us an opportunity to rest before the long flight home. It has been fun. Richard and I got up early this morning, took a breakfast of porridge (oatmeal) and omelets and started walking. We found a gym which Richard plans to visit later in the day (It is open from 5AM-9AM and 4PM-9PM). We managed to find ourselves in a slum and then a commercial district. It felt great to just wander without being told where you could and could not go. Finally, we reached a major boulevard where a train and bus depot were located. There was also a 2 screen movie theatre showing Slumdog Millionaire and a Tamil film which we had seen advertised throughout our visit. The main character seemed to be a Conan the Barbarian type figure and Richard wanted to see the film badly. So we made tentative plans to come back at 2:30 PM for the afternoon show. Those plans included the drivers so I gave one of the drivers 220 rupee (50 rupee: 1 dollar) for five tickets to the movie. I won’t go into all the details, but now I appreciate why our hosts handled us so strictly. At 2:30 the short driver and I were at the movie. The tall driver opted not to come in order to rest. He has three daughters, the youngest of which has been ill, and I believe that he opted for the money instead of the movie. Richard and Cheryl were unaccounted for. They were supposed to have taken the van shopping, but the van never left the hotel. Richard did not have his phone, and Cheryl’s phone was not accepting calls. Anger and helplessness is what I felt. The driver was five times more frantic than me.

At the appointed time, I went in to see the movie at the driver’s insistence. He waited outside, and after about ten minutes they all showed up. Unlike the US, movie tickets in India are assigned seats so we were united in the balcony of a huge theatre. We did not understand a word of dialogue but the storyline was very clear. The hero was a loner-iconoclast-ascetic-avenging angel-vigilante who seemed to spend an inordinate amount of the movie standing on his head meditating and sleeping very deeply. At important times in the film he would affect a fanatical stare and proceed to pummel the hell out of any bad guy who needed correcting. As a morality play there was no ambiguity, and the crowd loved it. There was even a multi-number song and dance sequence featuring a Little Richard look alike and a male cross dresser who thrust his hips seductively. It was at this point that we felt a little uncomfortable because the character was obviously a man, and yet the theatre, filled mostly with young men, started to whistle and catcall appreciatively. We had arrived at the point where unbridled hormonal activity and sexual tension collide. What a great afternoon!

There are a number of things that I have neglected to tell you. One is the story of my Ayurvedic massage. My friend in Knoxville, Manish, encouraged me to seek out an Ayurveda spa while in Kerala and Tamil Nadu. Ayurveda is loosely translated as “natural life”and involves diet, exercise, herbal medicines and massage. In Tenkasi some days back I was able to find both the time and the availability of an ayurvedic spa. For about $18 I was able to secure the services of a massage therapist for about an hour. The massage itself was nice if a little strange mostly because of the amount of oil that was used. I was swimming in it. Oddly enough it smelled faintly like the cabbage and vinegar my father used to eat with his meals. Ayurvedic massage is not deep tissue massage; it is mostly for the promotion of circulation and of course the oils are supposedly good for the health of your skin.The incredible thing about this massage was that the first thing you have to do is remove your clothes. The therapist then gave me a strip of cloth which he assisted me in fashioning into what I can only describe as a diaper. I am not sure why they bother because after a gallon of oil has been poured over you, it is transparent anyway. Adding to the bizarre nature of the event is the audience I had. In the room with the therapist and I were the spa manager who seemed to need to hover around and another man whose only job was to position himself nearby to tell me what was happening next. There I was with three Indian men in my diaphinous diaper oiled for broiling. Pure relaxation.

Heaven

In my experience you can reach no point in Southeast India without a detour of at least five city blocks down a narrow, pot-holed street so narrow that you can easily ring the doorbells on both sides from the van if you extend your arm somewhat. We were on one of these streets when I learned that we were on the way to another temple. I was told that this temple was very different. Not only are you required to remove your shoes here before entering but also your shirt (men only). We had been staying in Tuticorin and this temple was built right on the beach a short way from town. We were told that in 2004 when the tsunami hit India, this temple and the surrounding area were left intact while villages up the coast were devastated. This place was not only sacred but thought to be a damn fine place to ride out bad weather. Consequently, hundreds of pilgrims filled the place. Imagine holding the after-Thanksgiving sale at Best Buy in an area, without ventilation or air-conditioning, the size of the space shuttle. Lots of bell ringing, shouting and jostling for position. It was very special, and, once again, this is my last temple. Period.

While in Tuticorin, I spent two nights in the home of Anoop who is not a Rotarian, but his father is. They are coconut oil exporters and very outspoken in their appreciation of Western ways. This affords me some relief from the seemingly constant conversations about the virtues and advantages of India over America. I have come to believe that Indians are insecure about their place in the world viz a viz America.

Our third night in Tuticorin was spent at a farm that Anoop’s father owns. It is about forty acres and is more of a retreat than a farm. They have groves of mangoes, papaya, banana, coconut, star fruit, gooseberry, jack fruit, limes, guava and some other things I did not recognize. In the morning I took a walk around the farm. There were flying squirrels in the trees above me, and everywhere I went I would startle wild peacocks out of their roosts in the mango trees. They landed on the ground with a surprisingly loud thud and trotted away. Twice a pair of the birds flew across my field of view a short distance away. The farm workers did not speak English, but we managed to get papaya, star fruit, and tender coconut thanks to patient gesturing from Joseph, the foreman. It was a very brief glimpse at Heaven.

Jim 12- MicroJets 0

The mosquitos are back. Actually they never left, but I have been trying to ignore them- something like trying not to notice Aretha Franklin’s Inauguration hat, but these things hurt. I’ve decided to take the offensive. I am much more keen on the pursuit of their demise than I once was. My ploy is this: I stick a thick juicy western leg out from under my covers. Not one of the bony Indian variety but a light skinned one which fairly glows in the failing evening light. It is a siren song for these blood-sucking pilots of my room’s air space. And, as they say at home, I am slaying them.

For the last couple of days, We have been in Ramnad, another indistinguishable Indian town with a temple and palace, dirt streets, lots of cows, chickens and goats running everywhere and horn honking- always horn honking. I was told before we left the US that in previous years, the GSE teams from other countries who visited East Tennessee would get to a point where they became somewhat disinterested and uncooperative. Apparently, each year like clock work, the team leader will pull some trusted Tennessee Rotarian aside and ask, “How many dams do you have?” after having visited his fifth or sixth one. I feel that way about temples. The Rotary Club of Ramnad met us yesterday at a school where we were greeted by the entire student body (on a Saturday!) and proceeded to have a Q & A with the middle school aged students. We enjoyed this immensely eventhough the questions were impossibly broad like, “Tell us of New York” and “What are Americans like?”  Following this, we went to the temple which was OK. Then I learned that the next day they had us visiting another temple and palace and the day after that they will accompany us to Madurai where there is …another temple and palace. So I negotiated. And appealed to their sense of fairness. Finally, I offered that my frail constitution required bed rest and a short holiday from temples. Actually, the hosts were very gracious. If they were hurt or thought I was being peevish, they did not show it. We have gotten along famously. Dinesh Babu, my host in Ramnad and the President of the Rotary club here, tells me that the membership thinks we are the best GSE team to visit here.

Today, we went to the Government Arts College for Women where we participated in the formal recognition of a new Rotaract Club. The best I can figure, this school is a place where Indian families can park their daughters until it is time for them to marry. I asked the head of the school what the career possibilities were for the women attending. He assured me that these women would most likely not take jobs.

After the women’s college, we went to an engineering school for an interaction with the top performing seniors. The Q & A was actually only about 90 minutes, but we were at the school for over 3 hours. Here is what we did:

We got ushered into the President’s office and sat. Then we walked outside to another building where we saw the computer lab for the electrical engineering department. We toured the library of 30,000 volumes and learned that they have access to on line periodicals. We went back to the president’s office and sat. We went to lunch in a large classroom. We went to the president’s office and sat. We went to the auditorium for the Q & A. We sat through 15 minutes of acknowledgements and thanks. We, and seemingly everyone else in the room except students, were presented mementos of the occasion. Each member of the GSE team was also given a bouquet of flowers. I gave a short speech; the student body president gave a short speech. Thank God we were pressed for time because there were several others who looked like they were ready to make speeches. Finally the interaction was introduced.

As I mentioned before, India is awash in engineers. Civil engineers, however, are not all that prevalent. Unfortunately, the desire to design and build a properly operating waste treatment system or a machine capable of manufacturing enough toilet paper so that it is universally available is not a high priority. Seemingly, the Holy Grail for the engineering school graduate is a software engineering job in the US.

During the Q & A we talked a great deal about the US. There were questions about our aggressive foreign policy, our notoriously high divorce rate, our irresponsible banking system, the global recession that “the US has brought about”, etc, etc.It was an electric environment! One question was particularly intriguing. I inferred from the question that Bill Gates gave a speech in India some time ago in which he suggested that Indians had made his company great and one day he might move it to India. (Remind me to smack him if I ever get close enough.) I doubt this is what he said, but the question was, ” What would American business do without Indian workers?” A thousand answers popped into my head. I resisted the first and the second. My answer was this. Gates may outsource work to India because you will do it cheaper. You don’t need to worry about us, however. Instead of manufacturing computers we would rather invent them. We will continue to innovate and invent because that’s who we are. A people of great innovation, imagination and energy. We invented the computer, the internet and thousands of other life changing things. We will continue to lead the world in computing, scientific research, and finance. America will be just fine without you.

Now don’t let me down.

Another Wedding

One thing you learn while on a Rotary trip, is just how well connected Rotarians are. They have managed to hook us up with all sorts of special privileges and access to special pricing. In one of the Hindu temples we were allowed to enter the Sanctum Sanctorum, the innermost shrine in the temple and a place where Westerners supposedly are never allowed We were garlanded by a priest,  given a special prayer and anointed with some kind of herb. It was all kind of embarrassing and mysterious.

Today, we met another Rotarian whose daughter was being married. I say “met”, but that does not accurately describe the situation. This morning we traveled with some Rotarians from Ramnad to visit an vision screening  project of theirs in a nearby village. Doctors and nurses from Madurai had been arranged to provide free vision testing, glaucoma testing and referrals and eyeglasses for those who needed them. It was held at a small school and it really was a great project for which the Rotarians had provided all the publicity and food for the volunteers. Everything was moving along smoothly until I saw both of our drivers in line for the testing.

Anyway, once we left there we proceeded to a public meeting hall for the wedding reception for a Rotarian’s daughter and her new husband. Hundreds of people were there pushing  toward the stage where the wedding party was trying to look interested and engaged in the face of this onslaught off well-wishers, two videographers and a still photographer. And music- loud, very loud music. We were given two smudges on the forehead- one red and one yellow so that we might enter the great hall. We were also asked to take some rock candy, but I don’t know whether that was a courtesy or requirement. Our escorts then started waving us to follow them to the stage. The bride’s father greeted us; he was obviously a victim of the delirium of the occassion, smiling absently. Soon we are standing on stage looking out at an audience who seemed surprisingly disinterested in the strangers who had shown up. We continue to push our way in, and I find myself offering my blessings to the bride and shaking hands with the groom. I leaned in to offer my congratulations. He looked bewildered and exhausted. The bride dawbbed her lip and forehead with a cloth; I thought she was going to pass out. “How long does the reception last?, I asked concerned for his and his new wife’s health. “What?, he said. “How long will you have to stand here?”, I tried again. “Madurai”, he replied. The father of the bride then brought over a dish with a white powder. I was entreatied to smudge some on both of the young couples foreheads. I dipped and touched his forehead first, and then dipped again and went to hers. I thought I pulled it off with dignity like a real pro. Once I  completed the action, I looked up to see several of her attendants watching me and giggling as if I had made a complete ass of myself. The bride was too exhausted to notice, poor dear. Nevertheless, I was posted next to the groom for pictures. Cheryl stood next to the bride with Richard next to her. We took pictures. More people joined us and we took more pictures. Years from now I am sure both sides of the family will claim that we were invited by the other.

The Game

On several occasions prior to this trip, the team spoke of the stresses involved in this type of travel. After all, this is more of a business trip representing Rotary than a vacation. It was suggested that the travel, exhaustion, food,unfamiliar language and customs, constant packing and unpacking, Rotary meetings, and a dozen other things could lead to an emotional meltdown which we call the Implosion.

We are all tired, and we all in varying degrees dread the next meal of Indian food. Small things are starting to get on our nerves. Yet, no one has imploded yet. I keep looking for it to happen  to the others; it has become a little joke between the three of us. We have managed to maintain control. That is, until two days ago.

As I mentioned, we were assigned two drivers and a van to facilitate our travel inIndia. These guys have been great, and I really think they have come to enjoy our company. They are particularly loyal to Richard who does his best to provide them beer occassionally at the end of the day. I can not overstate that India is a very difficult place to navigate a vehicle, particularly a van. It is like trying to roll a cantalope into a tube sock. In addition, there are always thousands of bikes and motorcycles and pedestrians. Here is the Indian car joke I promised (it is not very good): Germans go into the dealer and buy a fast car; Americans go into a dealer and buy a big car; Japanese will buy a light car; Indians will buy a car with the loudest horn. They use them all the time mainly because they have to. Anyway, our drivers are the most serene guys in the midst of this chaotic traffic that you could ever imagine. Then, it happened. We were traveling pretty fast (by Indian standards) when a pedestrian walked right out in front of us. Truly, he was nearly hit, and it scared us. The shorter driver who was riding shotgun at the time screamed at the man through the glass. It was that brief, ferocious reaction you get from a mean dog when you get too close to his cage. Then it was over. Kind of the way I expect our implosions to be if they ever come.

Wonderful Things

A wonderful thing has happened for Cheryl while in India. Early on in the trip she felt that sometimes the men we met purposefully treated her differently than they did Richard and I. Subtle things, but I noticed it also. Often men would not offer their hand upon greeting nor engage her in conversation. She was always smiling and poised, but we all knew it bothered her. In Sivakasi it was most noticeable; that is where we realized something wonderful. The women of all ages adore her. First of all, she is bright and charming, and there is an earnest warmth about her which is immediately disarming. Most of all, she is a successful and independent American woman. On occasions when she has been asked to speak, at schools or Rotary Club meetings, the women are spellbound. Just an appearance at a women’s vocational training center created such excitement, I had to leave the room to allow the women there to crowd around her just to touch her or stand nearby. The mother of Sridha, our coordinator in Sivakasi, asked me if she could adopt Cheryl. At a school in Rajapuyam, the female teachers demanded a group photo with Cheryl before we left. She has been warmly embraced, both physically and emotionally, by women everywhere. And on and on. So now I have concluded that Cheryl fills a need for many typical Indian women. She is an iconoclast. Perhaps a hopeful inspiration. Certainly, a warm and cheerful friend. Maybe just a bit intimidating for the men.

Richard, in many ways, has grown into a better man in India. He has met many of India’s challenges head on, not the least of which is Indian-style toilets. No detailed explanation is necessary. Richard had admitted early on in our relationship that he was not a risk taker- that his interest in being a part of this trip was to push himself past his comfort zone. At the time, I thought that might be only slightly larger than his shadow, but he was earnest in his desire so we chose him for the trip. As I mentioned before, this trip is the first time Richard has been out of the country, and India is the 10 meter high dive of destinations. The language is a challenge; the food is a challenge; just being an American in India is a challenge. Far too often we have been asked if all Americans are sex-crazed and hedonistic spoiled brats. This from people who have drivers and cooks and cleaning servants. Richard has begun to seek out these conversations. He has begun to communicate his vision of America with a conviction that surprises even him. He shakes hands and works the rooms at Rotary meetings. He wades right into classrooms full of children or centers for the developmentally disabled. He has become a man of poise and understanding, tolerance and conviction that can only come from embracing and conquering your fears. And the love of home.

Food

I have been asked by a few people to address the subject of food here. We have been seved Indian food morning, midmorning, noon , tea and night. This may seem like a silly statement to you, but look around. From your office window or car can you see a Mexican or Chinese restaurant. No such thing exists here. There is a vast virgin expansion area for McDonald’s, KFC and Taco Bell here. Cheryl and Richard giggled excitedly when they found a Snickers in a store about 10 days back. I have been enviously looking for another ever since.

Food is offered to us constantly, and everyone thinks we are very poor eaters. No visit to a factory or school or home can be conducted without the offer of at least tea or coffee and biscuits (cookies) or something heavier. We are constantly being ushered into rooms with formal seating arrangements and asked to sit. Most recently this happened at a large printing company. We sat. The company representatives sat across from us. It was most surreal because no one said anything. We were there to take a tour of the facility, and, being the impatient one, I started to get up saying, “shall we move?” which is the Indian way of suggesting “let’s go”. I was gently told that we would have tea and biscuits first. This scene has been repeated  daily.

On the subject of Indian food, I have become an expert in recognizing where the danger lay. Everything in India is either much spicier and hot than we are used to or much sweeter than we expect. I hope to celebrate my next birthday before I eat rice again once I get home. When people here ask me what Indian food I enjoy, I have to honestly tell them that much of it is good, but I have no earthly idea what any of it is called. We have eaten a great deal of vegetarian food which I have enjoyed; we have also enjoyed a type of fried chicken, like chicken poppers, but I can not figure out how the chicken is cut up because I do not recognize any of the pieces.

Incidentally, I have  started to ask my hosts and restaurants for forks and spoons. My experiment with eating with my hands is now complete. One of the great surprises to me is my fondness for Rasan or what is called pepper water. The ingredients are tomato, garlic, pepper, tamarind, coriander leaves and water. It is cooked into a thin broth and eaten at the end of a meal to aid digestion. Very strange and delicious.

I need to inform Justin and Hank that I have finally located a jack fruit in Virudenagar at a market. I picked out a little fellow who tipped the scales at about 30 pounds. The flesh tastes like a peach – mango hybrid, but the flesh was very dense . It probably would have been better if the temperature of the fruit had not been 90+ degrees.

Youth

When I was younger, people told me ridiculous stories about India where cows were not eaten but revered as gods. They wandered the streets freely. The point of these stories was to underline how primitive and superstitious Indians were. Allow me to dispell this myth: Hindus are not primitive people and cows are not revered as gods. Lord Shiva, one of the central gods in Hindu,  used a bull for transport. Just about every temple has a stature of a bull. In reality, Hindus include animals of all types in their religion as a reminder that all life is important.

However, cows and bulls do wander the streets of south India. Ocassionally they are being herded or used to pull carts, but, mostly, they just wander around. Regardless of whether we are in the countryside, villages or municipalities cows are walking, standing or laying around everywhere. The other day day I went to an open-air farmers market where the vendors were starting to pack up for the day. The spoiled produce was thrown in a pile for the cows who were milling around inside the market area. It seemed quite natural actually.

All of this is intended to tell you that I have learned something very important in India. I do not know yet what it is.

I am starting to really miss the US and look forward to returning. If I never hear another car horn, it will be too soon.

The He-Man Woman Haters Club

I think Cheryl wants to leave- not India, just Sivakasi, a small, hot, dry  town about two hours north of Courtallam. I am reluctant to guess distances anymore. Depending on the traffic, it can take you two hours to travel sixty kilometers or six blocks. We are all together for the first time in the home of Daga, who owns a business printing labels and packaging for the safety match and fireworks industries. Irony thickens the air in India. He also happens to look and act exactly like Sid Caesar…doing a voice impersonation of Yogi Bear. He even employs the finger pointed skyward for emphasis gesture. He cracks me up. This is a Hindu house, but the family is from Jaipur in Northwest India so they speak Hindi instead of Tamil. Imagine going out in the yard to mow the grass, greeting your neighbor and not being able to understand a word he said. I’m telling you the situation would crack me up if it weren’t so serious.

You see, this is an industrial town, a very wealthy industrial town. My fear when we left Courtallam and three days in a western-friendly hotel – swimming pool, toilet paper, all the conveniences- was that we had softened and the next home visit would cause dissatisfaction. Daga’s house is no boot camp. By Indian standards it is a veritable palace. We each have a bedroom with our own bath. Each room has its own TV and air conditioner. In truth, neither the TV nor the AC in my room work, but they are there. It’s like living with Sid Caesar; like dinner and a show. Daga is strict “veg”(pronounced “weg”) which is what everyone calls a vegetarian. I mean strict: no eggs. I asked him why he could drink milk but not eat eggs. “Eggs become hen; milk no become cow”. Delivered clearly and straighforwardly and with that  skyward finger pointing gesture. Pure comic genius, this guy. Actually, the explanation was the best I have heard while here. Most questions answered by Hindus about their beliefs involve complex stories covering generations filled with impossible names over expansive geographical areas. Daga’s cook is fantastic, and his house filled with scrumptious treats- figs from Afganistan and almond candy that is wrapped in a pure silver foil that you eat as part of the treat. It was Cheryl who approached me excitedly shortly after we got here and informed me that the house had Hershey’s chocolate and Doritos. She was Home, by God! The problem is this:

Daga has a wife who will not or is not allowed to interact with us. Of course, we nod when we pass, but that is about it. Daga does all the talking and makes all the decisions. She might as well be Daga’s gallbladder. Women throughout southern India have proven reserved. The men have been the more dominant in social settings, conducting business and commanding control at home, but Daga’s home and Sivakasi itself are different. Last night, I made the mistake to ask Daga about the incident in Mangliore where two girls who were enjoying a beer in a pub were taken outside by a group called the Sri Ram Sene and beaten. This group is very actively promoting the preservation of traditional Indian culture. The event has sparked a national dialogue about the legislation of morality by fanatics. It sounded very familiar to some events in our country and I have taken a keen interest. For those of you on Facebook, there is a group of Indian women who have started a Facebook group called The Consortium of Pub-going, Loose and Forward Women. On Valentive’s Day they mobilized many 1000s of women to mail pink panties to the offices of Sri Ram Sene. The photo in The Hindu was hilarious. I just assumed that Daga would condemn an attack on young girls minding their own business. His response was vitriolic and unexpected. Please understand that I do not pretend to comprehend the very complex and diverse society of India. Two weeks here has made me an expert of nothing, but I have made a gut level decision that Sivakasi would not be on the itinerary for a second visit to India.

Cheryl agrees. Our local coordinator in Sivakasi is Sridha, a helpful and jolly man who led a Group Study Exchange from India to Brazil in the 1990s. He knows the stresses associated with this type of trip and has tried to accommodate our needs. We have had several meals with Sridha because he eats meat (including beef). The problem is that he ignores Cheryl. In fact, he seems to have instructed his wife, mother and sister-in-law to remove Cheryl from the room and occupy her time while the men sit and discuss important things. The ladies have been lovely to Cheryl, but she is being excluded. Last night, we had supper with Sridha and some Rotarian friends came over for beer and food. The women surrounded Cheryl and took her away. I mentioned to Sridha that she should be included. He assented but it was evident to me (and her) that her company was not sought. To her credit, Cheryl has maintained her smile and poise, but we are looking forward to moving on. Perhaps, we can take some Hershey’s with us.

Celebrity

Celebrity is an interesting and terrible thing. In India, and, in particularly here in Courtallam at the District Conference for Rotary District 3212, we are well known. In fact, we have been so thoroughly discussed and news of our trip so openly shared with seemingly everyone, it occurs to me that I should upon meeting a new host, Rotarian, store keeper, priest, whatever immediately apologize for turning down that last offer for tea or some more samba (gravy) for my rice. The fact is I think the people we have met are pretty impressed by us. They do not want to leave us alone. Between the home visit and the District Conference, I’ve shaken hands with Shankar a hundred times at least. He always is pleased to grab my hand, wag his head happily and smile. I fell like I have made a difference in his life; I know he has in mine. That’s really what is so overpowering about being here at the District Conference. We have been able to reacquaint ourselves with the Rotarians we had previously met in Nagercoil, Kanyakumari, Thuckalay, Tiruneleli, Ambasadram and a dozen other stops along the way. It is much more satisfying than a quick home stay, a couple of meals and then a wistful glance through the window of the van as we pull away. Then, there is the unaccustomed celebrity.

Everywhere we go, Rotarians are eager to take our hands. They graciously thank us for coming. There is a deference in the way we are approached. Even in the context of Rotary, which in my experience is a very egalitarian organization, Indians always seem to be keenly aware of their place in the hierarchy. Somehow, we appear to be thought of as brighter stars than most. The team remains personable and approachable, and our appearance at the conference and our formal presentation were well received. So much so, in fact, that everyone wanted pictures. I can only imagine how many times my smiling mug will show up in a south Indian photo album. A generation from now some small child will ask, “Why is grandfather standing next to the tall white guy and what is that God awful thing he is wearing?” (In truth, it was my “Special Guest” conference badge, a garish contrivance of ribbons the size of a sunflower.)

Most of the conference was a showcase of grandiloquence in Tamil to which we tried to remain blandly and inoffensively inattentive. Apparently, the dignitaries were also aware that there was some grand bloviating going on. On the morning of the third day, four of the five men on the dias were openly reading newspapers while the speaker earnestly beseeched the crowd. The fifth was rapt in the speaker’s oratory, dumbfounded by the surrealism of the moment. He was from Iceland, the personal representative of the Rotary International president and an unwitting prisoner on a hot and dusty soccer field of a heady group of Rotarians determined to show HQs how serious they could be. And then there were moments of great theatre. One of the last events of the conference was the introduction of the in-coming District Governor. He was called to the stage, and he brought with him his entire family. Then, began a series of testimonials from past District Governors – seven, in all. It is at this point that we learn that he is not the next year’s incoming governor or even the year after that. He is governor elect for 2011-2012! What follows next is hard to describe except to offer the word pandemonium. From every direction, Rotarians rush the stage to cover the shoulders of the future governor with a cloth shawl or garland of flowers. Each presenting person would then grip the man’s hand and turn toward the camera beaming. Every smile was duly recorded. (Note to self: photo processing lab in India as possible investment) After 20 minutes, it was still going on when we left.