Extreme sport in Bangalore

Two things make walking in the city a highly risky activity:
1. sidewalks (or the lack thereof). I've not yet seen a poured-concrete sidewalk here.  Sidewalks are composed of small pavers, inevitably bumpy, missing in places, ragged at the edges; or they're unevenly-laid oblong granite slabs, gaps and height-differences sometimes plastered over, with silver-dolar-size holes for rainwater drainage (I suppose that no one wears high heels) to the channel beneath.  Suddenly one comes on a slab broken or missing, with a two-foot drop to the muddy pit below: step carefully over the wide gap to the other side! Sidewalks are always littered, there being no dustbins, but sometimes serve as actual garbage dumps, mounded with rubbish. Frequently they're piled with sand, gravel, builders' blocks and other construction materials (even if there's no nearby construction); or, a heap of stones might just seemingly have fallen from the skies onto the walk. Automobiles park on sidewalks, and vendors set up shop on them. If a driveway is cut across the sidewalk, the hapless pedestrian steps off an 18" cliff. If a tree grows close to the road, the sidewalk doesn't skirt it: It simply stops, picking up on the other side. Indeed, since the roadbed is invariably smoother, and the sidewalk obstructed, walkers are often found in the street, bringing us to challenge #2.
2. Vehicles. Traffic is insane. It careers madly, lane-less and unruly, until stopped by a light (with a few. of course, running the light). There are zebra-crossings but they mean nothing: vehicles rule the road, and sounding the horn apparently gives a driver the right-of-way---even if he's turning against the traffic, which isn't uncommon. A car emerging from a side-street doesn't stop just because a pedestrian is already crossing, nor does it wait for a break in traffic. Leaning on the horn, it forges ahead, forcing the walker and oncoming drivers to stop (or at least slow). Cacaphony [for whatever reason, horns are particularly abrasive here] is the spirit-wearying mode.
   Of course traffic is on the left, as in England---but here, looking left isn't enough, as bicyclists often ride against the flow, and scooters or even cars might also go the wrong way. Indeed, motorcycles and bicycles will use the sidewalk, heedless of pedestrians, if it's quicker. In lieu of signals, there are many traffic circles. Here pedestrians are truly on their own: they can be observed huddling in small clumps, clinging to a divider, in the midst of exhaust-clouds and chaos, hoping for a break. If there are six inches between passing vehicle and human, no one flinches---though, not being yet inured, I have shut my eyes and even emitted a faint cry when it looked like a disaster was imminent. However, I've yet to witness an accident. [I did, eventually, see a fender-bender.] I like the touchingly earnest signs warning not to drink and drive, or advising "Drive with Care Make Accident Rare," or threatening a sizable fine for "lane indiscipline": could that fine be collected from every violator, the city's revenue problems would be over.
     Result: I'm working on a walking/touring style that combines looking down at the hazards ahead one minute, then looking up at the sights, the next. I imagine that I resemble a demented pigeon, but I've survived.

sightseeing

   Yesterday was the big sightseeing day: more than six hours walking around the city (and for the entire day I noticed only six non-Indians, five of them in one group). You can see so much on foot! Of course, it helps to have a good map (contra Lonely Planet, the Tourism Office map is not adequate. For one thing, it has the airport in the wrong place, since it dates from 2004, before the new airport was built!).  Street names missing on map, and few street signs, but luckily many friendly policemen and others to ask for directions. (Everyone looked askance when I said that I was walking, though: see the following post for a possible explanation.) Of course I did go out of my way in places, but since the goal was to see the city, not keep to a timetable, that was all to the good.
    I set off through the surprisingly quiet neighborhood along one side of the Club (the main gate fronts on a turbulent thoroughfare), Lavelle Road, then an equally surprising stretch of clean, wide, smooth sidewalks and upscale enterprises (Vital Mallya Road---not to be confused with the Vital Mallya Road that intersects it at a 45-degree angle to it: what does the postal service do?), along Cubbon Park--then back into the honking, racing maelstrom, even on a Saturday. I plunged across a traffic circle and into a side-road: no buses, less noise, but no sidewalks either, and quite a few cows (though there are cows on the major roads occasionally, in the heinous traffic).
   Just when I thought I was lost, the white minarets of Jamia Masjid floated above the dingy skyline, and I carried on past a lengthy row of machine-parts shops. The mosque is massive, but entirely hemmed in: there's even an elevated roadway swooping along its south side. (I wonder how the city's Muslims felt about that construction project.)  Although not quite as white as it seemed from a distance, it's pristine in its surroundings, and delicately carved all over, in cake-icing style. The twin domes, white balloons, are hidden in the centre, visible only when one's standing in the shadow of the express skyway.
    Then on to the summer palace of Tipu Sultan, son of Hyder Ali: his main palace was outside Mysore, the seat of his kingdom, and at the time I imagine that Bangalore was a pleasant village. The palace still has a little oasis of green calm about it, and it doesn't overawe, being a moderate-size symmetrical wooden building, open on two sides, with a forest of tall pillars making a cool audience-chamber on each side. Once every interior wall and ceiling was covered with fine, colorful, floral and geometric patterns, like a Persian carpet, only faintly visible now. The Venkataraman Temple is next door, white outside, and full of elaborate carvings within. The Sultan was apparently quite tolerant, and the temple's bronze column is supposed to have saved his life by deflecting a British bullet, so I suppose that the proximity of the infidel temple wasn't too offensive. There were services going on when I arrived, with gongs, chants, and occasionally what sounded like a shofar. On the way to the Sultan's palace I'd wandered into a market and a couple of minor temples, with many cows lounging about, and even more buses.
     It was a bit of a slog to the Bull Temple and the Dodda Ganesh Temple beside it, but they were both interesting (though the bull was more comical than imposing). Worship and commerce jostle each other in these places, as vibrantly as they must have done in the cathedrals of medieval Europe.
     After a few wrong turns I reached the Lal Bagh Botanical Gardens---and made a circuit of this beautiful and impressive park, trying to exit in the right direction. The varied plantings, the Tank (its water green rather than blue), the many strolling couples and families---even the adivasi [tribals] camped in a corner---made a peaceful respite. Finally, a last hectic mile back to the Bangalore Club, a shower, a lot of liquids, and a rest day today . . .

Rishi Valley

Rishi Valley
     Now that my stay is over, I want to put down some impressions (helped by the starkness of the contrast between RV and crowded, chaotic, dirty Bangalore and its endless din). Although from the start I loved RV (which includes a Krishnamurti Study Centre and the outreach programs), and its school (RVS), every aspect is becoming more precious as I see how utterly unusual it is.
     "Impressive" and "inspiring" are the words Rishi Valley summons for me. Like SG, it has its location going for it--but unlike SG, RV largely created its setting, reforesting a barren, arid area, over 80 years, so that birds and other wildlife returned, erosion was slowed, and the bare ground bloomed. The green quiet, the closeness to nature coupled with the sophistication of the inhabitants: that's a rare combination.
     The place makes a first impression, but so do its people: faculty in lovely saris, lungis, or shalwar kameez; students in kurtas (with some western attire on males). In Bangalore even the inherently graceful sari is often garish polyester, with glittery edges and harsh patterns. The RVS students look comfortable, informal, but not casual: and only now in the city do I understand how tasteful their clothing was. Beautifully printed and draped fabrics everywhere made RVS as pleasing to the eyes indoors as the flowers and greenery outdoors.
     RVS's melding of Indian tradition, in setting, dress, and the school singing-assemblies, is balanced by its progressivism, formed by the philosophy of J.K. Krishnamurti.  Co-ed and casteless since its founding (very unusual in 1930), emphasizing cooperation over competition, RVS also balanced its elitism with involvement in the rural villages (through the RV health and education programs) and its focus on the environment and conservation. RVS is a working example of how the world could live a simpler, less energy-hungry and water-wasting life.
     The extremely unpretentious facilities still manage to nurture academic excellence, as RVS attracts the very best students and faculty. In this year's annual Education World survey, RVS came top out of all boarding schools in India: the "most admired" (despite its deliberately low profile), ahead of the much better-known Doon School. Many teachers here have come from a professional career in their field; high-calibre students focus on learning, with so few distractions while they're at school. Sitting in classes with the bright, engaged students and their dedicated, excellent teachers was inspiring for me. Students initiated contact with me outside of class, chatting about their holidays, the school, their music, their future, etc. Faculty invited me into their homes for tea or a meal, to yoga classes (begun with a chant in Sanskrit), and into their classrooms. Everyone patiently answered my endless questions.
     I'd been told before I arrived that RV is unique: now I begin to understand just how true that is, and in how many ways.
     

Leaving Rishi Valley
         Day 12, and time to leave (though I'd happily have stayed longer). I came  to RV in a cab from the airport, arranged by the school: $50. To Bangalore itself I decided to take a bus from the town nearest the school: $2. The three-and-a-half hour ride was cheaper than the subsequent 15-minute auto-rickshaw ride to the Bangalore Club.
     I sat on the back seat of the old bus, because that's where my bags, and the open window, were, not thinking what sort of ride the worn springs and out-holed roads would provide. Long-disused posting muscles were called on, as I rose to accommodate the "trot" of the jolting vehicle.
     The bus-driver's style didn't differ much from the taxi-driver's, though the weight, chassis, suspension, etc, did: swerving, passing, accelerating and braking, with horn accompaniment at all times (Jinny and Clare, if you're reading this, do NOT visit any cities in India: your sensitive hearing will be assaulted mercilessly). The brakes, so essential, squealed ominously, and a few times I thought of my dear children, in case those became my final thoughts.
     Next to me sat two schoolgirls, their curiosity maximum but their English minimal. Photos of my children (including Paul) passed from hand to hand in the last three rows, with voluminous commentary in Telugu. Then my passport (with Chinese and Indian visas) and a $20 bill, were huge attractions.  The girl beside me wanted to keep the bill and give me 20 INR: I had to explain that the US 20 was worth 900 rupees!
     The girls got off at a town bus stop, where a group of waiting schoolgirls gasped audibly and stared at the white-haired white woman in the native bus. Some boys were bolder: they got on to chat, hopping off when the conductor appeared. Snack-sellers also boarded: at least one looked to be about ten, but was clearly not in school. And a loudly-complaining chicken also rode with us, in a cotton bag. A university-student now sat next to me: her English was good, and she explained that she was a farmer's daughter, but she and her sister were both studying in Bangalore.  For women, India's future generally looks better.
     For the last hour the bus was fully packed (but the hectic driving style was not moderated). An extra person squeezed onto the back seat. The jasmine-adorned schoolgirl-passengers were long gone, replaced by young men packed in comme des harengs en boite. The boulder-strewn landscape and green fields disappeared, replaced by buildings and construction projects. It's sometimes difficult to discern when a building is going up, when it's coming down, and when it's stalled: chaos prevails on any site.
     Within an hour of reaching the city limits I was longing to turn about-face and return to Rishi Valley. The city is the noisiest I've ever experienced: an assault on the ears and the spirit. The air is visibly charged with construction dust and car exhaust (auto-rickshaws seem to emit clouds). The ground is littered with debris: there are a very few concrete posts with tiny bowls, perhaps meant for cigarette butts, because they just mock the idea of rubbish bins. Everyone simply drops wrappers, fruit peels, papers, plastic bottles, et al, where they stand. So a sidewalk vendor of sweets on small shiny aluminum plates will be marked by trails of the plates, in all directions. In fact, the sidewalks deserve a separate entry: I took some photos of them today, and I hope they can be rescued from the useless BlackBerry when I return. Fortunately for me, thanks to a mutual Harvard contact, I can retreat to the blissful quiet of the Bangalore Club---where I also just discovered the library, with (unlike the internet cafes) computers whose keyboards are not a microbiologist's dream . . .
  

Some observations

* A bullock cart, drawn by cattle with high upright horns curving like a lyre, passing a [parked] jeep.

* A handbell, rung in the dining hall, silences 300 people for a full minute before lunch begins.

*The girls' toilet is a squat: just like those in train stations and public squares in Europe when I first travelled there, 40 years ago.

*There are no desserts, but they're not missed, because endless cups of sweet, milky (but not spicy) tea fuel the day.

*Lizards, pi-dogs, stilt-legged cats, and monkeys [bonnet macaques] wander at will.  In the villages there are cows and goats, but I have yet to see a chicken.

*When it's picked young, sliced thin, called "ladyfingers" and served in a delicious sauce, okra can be yummy even to a confirm okra-hater.

*Sandalwood trees are so precious (valuable in monetary terms) that here they grow at the top of 12-foot stone-and-mortar pillars topped with glass shards. Armed gangs [dacoits] have invaded the campus to cut sandalwood, in the past: the surrounding area is extremely poor, so the temptation is great. There is school security, though: two night watchmen like to chat loudly outside my bedroom window at 12, 2, 4 . . . or oftener.

Blackberry is resting

     It turned out to be more difficult than I'd thought, to get a SIM card. At the airport (where my flight arrived at 12:15 AM) I focused only on getting through the throng (tail-end of international arrivals) at Immigration; after a half-night at an airport hotel, I asked my driver, who recognized the phrase "SIM card" but not the rest of the sentence: "Please, may we stop to buy one before leaving Bengaluru environs?"  It turned out that he spoke Telugu only, so we didn't chat on the 2.5 hour drive (where I'd have hated to distract him from the road, in any case). 
     Rishi Valley (named for a wise man, or rishi, who lived here, in legend) is entirely remote: there is no school store where SIM cards are stocked, because, in fact, cellphones are not allowed. Only faculty and visitors may have them, and use them at home, not in front of the children. I've seen only one laptop (a visitor's), no tv, and the computer I'm using is clearly middle-aged, if not elderly. It would be interesting for our students to see how a school functions with old, but still appropriate, technology: pencils and paper.  One morning, however, the entire upper school watched a TED talk on a big screen, and there is a computer-teacher, and a lab.
     Yesterday it finally occurred to me that I could at least take photos with my charged but not connected BlackBerry: first, though, I must ask about the etiquette.  Visiting the rural school this morning, for instance, I wouldn't have been certain that photography would be welcome ...

Leaving France, 9 September

The Mediterranean--a thin sheet of stainless steel at Marseilles, a bezel of brilliant lapis at Toulon and Aiguebelle (it's not called the Cote Azur for nothing--and sorry, I can't make accent marks here), and those pointed cypress, parasol trees, and grey-green shrubs that punctuate the coast.          Three fantastic days with my English-German-French-speaking friends {where a conversation, and even a sentence, can traverse all three languages before it ends); their lovely house overlooking the sea gained an additional adornment in the form of an exquisite and charming, blond and blue-eyed, grand-daughter, just one year old.  [Aargh: beeping sound suggests power is failing.  Later]
Noted: lingerie ads in the metro used to mean pictures of half-naked women at every turn. This time I didn't notice one: it it sensitivity to Islam (i.e. fear of the loss of a market) that caused a change?

From Bangalore Airport to Rishi Valley, 10 September

        Driving in India is not for the faint-hearted.  I was only a terrified passenger, trying to keep my eyes on the deep-red earth, the colorful village women, etc., and not on the pi-dogs who prefer to lie in the road, the monkeys who try to cross in front of cars, the truckloads of goats (men clinging on outside) we passed, not to mention the humans who, thanks to near-constant horn-blasts, scurry out of the way.  Several times I held my breath as we cleared a bus or clung to the road-edge with inches to spare; once I closed my eyes as we overtook a cement-truck around a blind curve.  [All in reverse, as it were: driving is on the left, a legacy of the Raj,]  Most of the roads around Bangalore are very good---better than in RI (faint praise); as the area became really rural, the roads crumbled at the edges, washed out in patches, and acquired deep potholes.
          We sped through many tiny villages: chaotic and ugly, as randomly scattered concrete boxes, some covered with ads or graffiti, have replaced indigenous architecture (the old, rounded thatched roofs, which must have given villages the look of a conclave of haystacks, are rare now). I never saw a village woman with an ounce of fat on her. Men were thin or stocky, pencil-legged, or supporting a belly, but the women were willowy. Occasionally a Muslim woman in black hijab, a crow alighting in a flock of parrots.
         The landscape is not lovely, but impressive: from the flat terrain rise a few massive, upthrust, red cliffs--as if a bit of Arizona had been air-dropped in.  Boulders litter their feet, though elsewhere the rust-red soil seems to have been sifted, rock-free. Wood is fuel, and can be eaten by ants, so the few fences are upright slices of granite, formerly, at least, cheap.  There's the odd tree, and startling magenta bougainvillea can light up a village corner, but much is dryland scrub, crops, and agave- or yucca-like plants with silvery sword-leaves. Arizona, again..