Matthes

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Erste Male

Honeymoon-Phase. So wird die erste Zeit in einem fremden Land manchmal genannt. Weil alles zuerst rosiger erscheint, jede neue Entdeckung spannend und toll! Das ist auch gut so, ansonsten würde man diese ersten Tage vermutlich emotional gar nicht erst überleben. Und das trifft meine ersten paar zig Stunden hier eigentlich ziemlich auf den Kopf. Ich wohne in Bandra, einem für seinen prozentualen Expats-Gehalt berüchtigten Stadtteil Mumbais. Bandra liegt im Westen der Stadt und sein westlichster Streifen direkt am Meer. Über einen großen Hügel, genannt Pali Hill“ drängen sich Hochhausbauten portugiesischen Stils (zumindest hat man mir versichert, es sei portugiesisch), fast ebenso hohe rankenumwachsene Bäume und Palmen. Dazwischen findet man kleine einstöckige und enge Imbisse, Einkaufsläden und Cafés, schmale schattige Gassen und wendige, um die Ecken brausende Rikschas. Die terrassenförmige Hügellandschaft könnte auf einer kleinen karibischen Insel stehen und die von Sitzgelegenheiten gesäumte Promenade Venice Beach in Kalifornieren zieren. Der Haken: Hügel und Promenade stehen in einem nur mäßig wohlhabenden Teil einer indischen Wirtschaftsmetropole, nicht im reichen Kalifornien und auch nicht in der touristischen Karibik; und das Gesicht dieser süßen Verheißungen verzerrt sich: Die schmalen Gassen sind müllüberladen, genauso wie der Felsen-„Strand“ jenseits der Promenade und das Meer dahinter,  Alte und Kinder betteln auf den Straßen, magere Hunde und Katzen streifen wild und suizidal durch die Gegend, und der Verkehr in den bewohnten Teilen unterscheidet sich nur marginal von dem auf der überfüllten Ringstraße um den Bezirk.   Doch alles was das heißt, ist, dass Bandra nach wie vor Indien ist, und ich bin eigentlich ziemlich dankbar, hier untergebracht zu sein. Den „Expatcharakter“ bemerke ich als Neuling praktisch gar nicht, die Gegend ist abends vergleichsweise ruhig, es gibt ein paar gute Essensgelegenheiten um die Ecke, und eine Promenade ist immer noch besser als keine Promenade! Es ist der sanfte Einstieg in diese Metropole, deren schiere Größe ich bislang immer noch nicht begriffen habe. Hier also erlebe ich meine indischen Ersten Male: Die erste 30° heiße Nacht, das erste Straßenessen und die Furcht um die Folgen, die erste hüftgroße Fledermaus am Abendhimmel, die erste unbekannte Frucht, die erste kleine Echse in der Küche, die ersten Sprachbarrieren mit dem Hausverwalter und den Sicherheitskräften, die erste, nicht ganz so kleine Kakerlake in der Küche, die ersten 3 Tage ohne Internet und Handynetz. Wie gut, dass es die Honeymoon-Phase gibt!

Die ganze Nacht

Wie gebannt beobachte ich, wie die metallenen Schuppen des Gepäckbandes an mir vorbeiziehen, sich an den Ecken zu einem Dreieck zusammendrängen und schließlich mit den einsamen Koffern, die noch ihre Runden drehen aus meinem Blickfeld entschwinden. Mein Rucksack müsste jeden Augenblick auftauchen. Neben mir wartet Yuanyuan schon mit ihrer Reisetasche in der Hand darauf, endlich den Flughafen verlassen zu können. „Hey“, kommt es von der Seite. Ich löse meinen angestrengten Blick von dem hypnotischen Gepäckband. Ein junger Mann etwa meiner Größe und mit lustlos gelocktem straßenköterblondem Haar lächelt uns entgegen. „Are you guys going to Anjuna by any chance?“ Ich schüttele den Kopf. „Ah, pity! I was looking for people to share a cab with.“, sagt der Mann. „I’m Joe, by the way. Where are you going?“ „Vagator“, antworte ich und ziehe mein Handy aus der Hosentasche, um nachzuschauen, wo nochmal Anjuna liegt: Anscheinend auf dem Weg. Joes und mein Rucksack erreichen uns beinahe zeitgleich auf dem Gepäckband und entlarven uns beide gleichermaßen als Backpacker. Die Fahrt wird schließlich sehr unterhaltsam, als Joe, seines Zeichens Brite auf Urlaubstour, Yuanyuan, meine Reisegefährtin, und ich anfangen über europäische und globale Politik zu fachsimpeln. Kurz bevor wir uns schließlich an unserem Hostel angekommen von ihm verabschieden, fällt Joe noch etwas ein: „Hey, if you ever wanna go out together – I mean out-out – there is this party tonight apparently. The place is called Club Cubana.“ Draußen ist es schon dunkel. Ich nicke. „We’ll think about it. It’s already getting late but maybe if we still have the energy…“ „Sure, yeah. Anyways, I would love it if you can make it.“ Wir checken in unser Hostel ein, duschen und gehen zum Abendessen in ein südindisches Restaurant nebenan. Während des Essens meint Yuanyuan „You know what? I think I could still go for a small party tonight.“ Ich horche in mich hinein und muss feststellen, dass auch ich mich ein bisschen über den Gedanken freue, den Abend nicht einfach so in der Stille ausklingen zu lassen. „Ok, yeah. But let’s not invest too much energy, if anything turns out to be too much of a hassle.“ Yuanyuan ist einverstanden und als wir uns eine knappe Stunde später poliert und gestriegelt auf den Weg machen, dauert es auch gar nicht lange, bis wir ein Taxi zum Club finden und uns für einen fairen Preis die zehn Minuten dorthin fahren lassen. Der Fahrer lässt uns an einem Torbogen an einer Straßenecke aussteigen an, wo zwei in Orange gekleidete Männer mit „STAFF“ auf dem Rücken die Autos durchwinken. Auf einem kleinen Schild hinter dem Tor lesen wir „Club Cubana“, dahinter ein nach rechts in die Dunkelheit verschwindender Trampelpfad. Wir treten durch das Tor und einer der orange gekleideten Männer deutet vage in Richtung des Trampelpfads. Zögerlich folgen wir seiner ausgestreckten Hand. Wir gehen etwa zweihundert Meter in leichter Ansteige als ein weiteres, besser beleuchtetes Tor vor uns auftaucht, erneut garniert und flankiert von orange gekleideten Wächtern, die uns durch und auf einen dahinterliegenden Parkplatz winken. Eine kleine Gruppe von Besuchern wartet dort schon. Unsicher gesellen wir uns dazu. Jenseits des Parkplatzes führt der Weg steil einen Hügel und in das dunkle Grün der Bäume hinauf. Ich meine in der Ferne einen Bass hören zu können. Wir wollen gerade einen der Besucher ansprechen, als ein grüner Jeep die steile Stiege hinabgefahren kommt und rückwärts vor uns einparkt. Ein orangener Mitarbeiter eilt heran, öffnet die kniehohe Ladeklappe und bedeutet uns, aufzusteigen. Gemeinsam mit unseren anderen Kombattanten setzen wir uns auf den Pickup und der Jeep rollt los, den Hügel wieder hinauf. Höher und höher geht es und vorbei an all den von Laternen beleuchteten Bäumen bis das Fahrzeug schließlich vor einer Schlange von Menschen Halt macht. Wir stellen uns an, die Nachtluft in warmes, gelbes Licht getaucht und sind keine drei Minuten später an der Reihe, die frohe Botschaft zu empfangen und auch noch unsere letzten Sorgen auszutreiben: Fünf Euro Eintritt, Freigetränke die ganze Nacht! Durch ein weiteres, kleineres Tor hinter der Zahlstelle geht es, eine enge Kurve, ein paar Treppenstufen hinauf – und unsere Kinnladen klappen zu Boden. Die erste Terrasse ist ein großer Pool, ein Aussichtspunkt mit Sofas und Diven und ein Steinofen, aus dem Mitarbeiter eine Pizza nach der anderen ziehen. Die zweite ist eine Freiluft-Tanzfläche, die DJane hinter einem bambusgeflochtenem Pult trägt lustige Schleifen im Haar und ringsherum sind steinerne runde Sitzecken wie trockene Jacuzzis in den Boden eingelassen. Die dritte Terrasse ist eine einzige große Open-Air Bar mit einem langen Tresen, vielen kleinen Tischen und einigen Sofaecken. Dahinter geht es in ein zweistöckiges Haus kolonialen Stils aus dem es erneut und chartslastig wummert. Die vierte… Als Yuanyuan und ich wieder aus unserer Trance erwachen, steht ein pitschnasser Joe breit grinsend vor uns. „There you are!“ Yep, there we were.

Walking in the Air

I love goodbyes. Can’t really pinpoint it, but it must be this glorious feeling of transitioning from one realm to the next, without really being sure what lies ahead, that excites me. The tear of the one I part with breaks my heart with a bitter sweetness that tenderly tickles my own eyes and nose. A joint of fear to loose everything that the past built and refined, to exit all safety of staying, hits my chest like free-falling on a rollercoaster. Or an airplane. Then the engine kicks in like an earthquake and makes me sink deep, deeper into my seat, like a loving hand on my sternum. I am a daredevil, so I listen to punk while taking off. Always the same song. Finally, the crescendo, feels like Walking in the Air. And off I am, gone without turning back, for a second free of worries, to some time that has yet to define me. I do love goodbyes. I am always the one leaving.

Mumbai

Give me any place, any city, town or village to live in for a couple of months, ideally a year, and I will inevitably fall in love with it. This is, however, far from being a romantic habit, for love means the vicinity of hatred and the exposure to pain just as much as it has the potential to create ecstasy and attraction. Over the last couple of months Mumbai had hurt me and drained my energy like few other places before. Yet I cannot deny to be in love with it. It’s the only valid explanation for that peculiar gloominess I felt when parting with this city. It is not the constant heat and haze that created this notion, not the horrendous traffic nor the highly questionable hygiene. It is every emotion triggered by these and many more characteristics of a hard-headed metropolis of which the world has probably only seen few alike. But that’s not all. There are too many people in this city, everybody says so. However, it is these people that in the end make Mumbai a place worthy of your love. They are its biggest treasure admits all the dirt, smells and pollution and they had held me there with their own love and care for a much longer time than I had ever anticipated. I will probably never stay in Mumbai for that long again, at least I hope I won’t. But they, the people who have been my friends, partners, lovers and family during the last months, and who now know that I am talking about them, will make me want to come back time and time again. To that city I have fallen in love with.

Pancakes Please

The small kitchen room is filled to the brim with the smell of fried dough and warm bananas. Rutvik and I are squatting on the floor around the small stove and talking about how we want to design our next pancake. It turned out to be a little more challenging to create banana pancakes than we initially thought it would, especially considering that none of us seemed quite sure how to do regular pancakes in the first place. But three trips to the nearby village to get bananas, sugar, eggs and again bananas – because the other guys just ate them all up – turned out to be worth it and we even somehow got the twist of how to creatauburn-mark-free pancakes with a nice and mushy banana filling inside. Praveen enters the kitchen, a plate in his hand. “Can I have one more?”. We look at him suspiciously and then at the already dangerously empty pot of dough. Both Rutvik and I haven’t had more than a few test bites of the pancakes we made so far and which we prepared so hard-headedly for. “It’s so delicious!”, Praveen continues in his broken English. “Maybe half?”. His smile wins us over and as he leaves the kitchen, excited like a child over his piece of brown, warm, sweet dough, all our worries disappear like flour in the wind. In the end we actually get to eat the last small pancakes ourselves, before going to help the men at the construction site. They are building a community kitchen which is soon to become the new social center of the village. In the heat of the rising midday sun work is harder than it should be, but the plastering of the beautifully twisted pillars turns out to be a quite fun and rewarding learning experience and I feel good about my work and what I’ve learned when I head for lunch. After lunch it is too hot to go outside and continue with the work, so I stay in and write on my internship report, that I promised myself to finish while staying here. Sitting next to my bag, I unconsciously dig between my clothes until I feel the satisfying phone-like shape of a chocolate bar I kept hidden from the cat, dogs and other predators around the house. Trisha, the 11-year-old daughter of the founder couple sees me. “Hey, what is that?” – “Chocolate”, I answer, truthfully, but as low and casually as possible, as to not let too many others know about it. She seems to get the hint, because she lowers her voice a little as well. “May I have a piece, please?”. I give her one when catching Rishab’s, her brother’s eye, taxing my chocolate bar. When I am done distributing chocolate to everybody nearby, only less than half of the once so proud bar is left. Soon I get enough of squeezing lines out of the insides of my brain and open the browser on my tablet. I seem to currently find myself in a small crisis, because I fail to come to a decision on where to go next, after I leave this village. A feeling in the gut tells me, India shouldn’t be the last place to stay after already almost five months here, but Japan is too far away and cold right now, Bhutan and Bangladesh not really a change of perspective, Burma and China too restricted with regulations and I don’t know much about other places around. I ask a friend in China and she recommends Thailand, so I type it into Google image search. Pictures of the white beaches around Phuket and Bangkok’s pulsing night life fill up my screen. Maybe that’s a good way to go. They might even have mangoes there that time of the year. “Hey Mattyoos!” Rafiq sticks his head up to the platform right under the roof where I am sitting. He seems to have found my camera lying around somewhere, because he is demonstratively holding it up now. “Oh, where?”, I ask. He points to some corner of the room. “Great, thank you so mu… huh?” Rafiq is still holding the camera in his hands and doesn’t seem too eager on letting it go that soon. He is holding it to his chest now and points towards the door. “You wanna take it out and make some pictures?” I mimic holding a camera in front of my face and pressing the release. He nods enthusiastically. I tilt my head to one side for a moment, then I shrug and make a gesture as if to shoo a fly, the way I have seen it Indians do it countless times. “Ok, sure.” He grins excitedly and runs off, camera at the ready. I sink back into the research about Thailand and lose myself in time. Soon it is growing darker outside and in the blink of an eye the sun has gone down with me still sitting between the mattresses on the platform. “Mattyoos!”, somebody is calling me. “What?”, I answer absent-minded. “Dinner”, Rutviks voice replies. “Huh, yes, in a minute.” I take probably ten minutes in the end, before I join the others. Rutvik, Praveen, Rafiq, Trisha, Rishab and a couple of other guys are sitting in the main room and the kitchen scooping up hot and spicy Sambal with small balls of rice they mush between their fingers before skillfully lifting them up into their mouths. Arriving in the kitchen, however, I am staring at an empty pot. “What happened to dinner?”, I ask, to no one in particular. “Ah, I think there’s only rice left.”, Rutvik answers. I stare at the half filled pot of plain, tasteless Basmati rice next to what seems to have been the Sambal pot. “Only rice?”, I ask, incredulously. Rutvik helplessly lifts his shoulders. Praveen looks at me mimicking what seems to be an apologetic smile, his hand still sunk deep into his portion. The kids don’t even … Read morePancakes Please

A Bass in the Distance

The metallic scales of the luggage belt slowly pass where I am standing, contract at the corners to form a triangle and finally escape my field of vision carrying only a few lonely suitcases with them. My luggage should arrive any moment now. Next to me Yuanyuan is already waiting bag in hand to finally leave the airport. „Hey“, somebody calls. I struggle to take my eyes off the hypnotically rotating conveyor belt. A young man, about my age, with brown-blonde lazily locked hair smiles at us. „Are you guys heading to Anjuna by any chance?” I shake my head. “Ah pity! I have this cab I could ave used some people to share it with. I’m Joe by the way.” We shake hands. “Where are you guys going?” “Vagator”, I reply and pull my phone out of the pocket to see where Anjuna is again. Apparently on the way. Joe’s and my backpack arrive almost simultaneously and embarrass us both to be just some more backpackers in Goa. The ride turns out to be a lot of fun when Joe, a British recreational traveler, Yuanyuan, my travel companion, and me start talking about European and international politics. Just as we say our goodbyes at hostel, Joe remembers something: „Hey listen, if you ever wanna go out together – I mean out-out – there is this party tonight apparently. The place is called Club Cubana.” Outside darkness has already fallen. I nod. “We’ll think about it. It’s already getting late and we had a long day…” “Sure, yeah. Anyways, would love it if you can make it.” We check in, shower and go for dinner in a South-Indian restaurant next door. While waiting for the bill Yuanyuan says “You know what?I think I could still go for some light partying tonight.” I think about it and am surprised to find that I, too, am finding the idea of ending the night on a not-too-silent note rather attractive. „Ok, yeah. But let’s not put to much energy into it, in case it turns out to be too much of a hassle.“ Yuanyuan agrees and we actually manage to quickly find a reasonably cheap taxi as we step out of our dorm one hour later. We are only  ten minutes into the ride when the driver stops at a turn and tells us that we have arrived. The entrance is a simple gate, revealing its meaning only at a small illuminated sign reading “Club Cubana”. Two men in orange shirts and with “STAFF” in big letters on the back signal us to pass through and follow a dirty path that looses itself in the dark beyond the gate. We follow the way hesitantly. About two-hundred meters on the path a second slightly friendlier looking gate appears guarded by even more orange wearing staff members. They nod in our direction as we pass and point towards a large parking space to the right, away from the main road that seems to go up the steep hill that rises dark and tall in front of us, specked by only some dim yellow lights between the green of the trees. I am imagining to hear a bass in the distance. On the parking lot there are already some other visitors waiting and happily chatting away. Confused as to what they are waiting for we join them and just as we decide to ask somebody, a Jeep comes driving down the hill and halts in front of us. A staff in orange hurries to open the tailgate of the pickup and we board the car. The engine roars and up it goes into the dark and toward the top of the hill. There is a cue in front of yet another small gate that looks more like a door, but it takes us only three minutes to get to the front and lose the last of our worries as we receive the happy news: Five Euros entry fee, open bar all night. Through the door we go, around a small corner, up a few steps – and our eyes grow wide. The first terrace is a big swimming pool, a vantage point with divans and a wood fired oven out of which orange staff members pull one pizza after the other. The second is an open-air dance floor, the DJane is wearing funny bows in her hair and dancing on a pedestal made of bamboo, all around there are deep seating areas like dry Jacuzzis. The third terrace one big bar, with countless small tables and sofas on the borders. Beyond arises a single colonial-looking two-story building where even more music seems to be playing. Yuanyuan and I lose ourselves and each other in the trance that this place puts on us. When I finally find her again, a dripping wet Joe is standing next to her, grinning at me. “There you are!” Yep, there we were.    

Virtually rich, really broke 

It’s been a while. And although a lot of things happened, the one thing that shook up my stay here in this already very alien country occurred just a few days ago, the night before the US elections: Two hours before midnight the prime minister of India publicly announced that the highest denominations, 1000 and 500 rupees, worth around 14 and 7€ are declared worthless starting at 0:00 that night. Two hours later the 100 rupees bill became the highest valid bank note, worth around 1,4€, leaving the whole nation with only little and less cash in their pockets to spend the next day. By morning all the ATMs were stripped of their 100rs-bills and within the first few hours of the day banks ran out of their stack of bills as well and shut down. It’s four days later now and the first ATMs have started working again, dispensing freshly printed 500rs- and 2000rs-bills that have been introduced to substitute the old denominations. But with a huge portion of the population and many many shops not using electronic payment methods the banks are still under siege by large cash-dependent crowds which no one seems to be able to serve proper- and effectively. In my opinion this is not only, but also due to that one additional regulation that might actually break my own financial neck: People are only allowed to withdraw 2000rs/day from ATMs and 10000rs/day from counters. Of course this rule was put in place to evenly distribute the new and temporarily limited denominations to the public, but for people completely dependent on cash – like I am – this poses a serious inconvenience. For me this problem becomes a notch more serious, because I actually pay a fixed fee of 500rs for every transaction I do with my credit card. When withdrawing large amounts of money at once this isn’t too much of a heartbreak. But when only withdrawing 2000rs a time and having to do that approximately 20-25 times a month,… As ridiculous – and thus entertaining – as this situation is to me at the moment, I have to step carefully and keep an eye on the news these days. Everyone here is trying to live a daily life as close to usual business as possible, weary about what might happen next. But I myself have to hope for the withdrawal limitations being lifted within the next 2-3 weeks. Otherwise this small fun financial revolution, brought to us by “Modi Entertainment” might very well mean the early end of my stay in this country.

Unfamiliarly familiar uncomfortableness

So I am sick. The doctor says it should be just a sore throat, although it feels like a spiky alien hiding in my esophagus. That being said, I put all endeavors to explore Indian cuisine aside and focus on finding meals that are both familiar and potentially swallowable without the risk to faint from all the pains. My adventurous ethnographic spirit only goes so far. Of course I saw a doctor. And then another one. And then a third one. To be nice, I just wanted to make sure. To be honest, I didn’t trust the first two. And that actually surprises me. Because up to this day I can clearly remember me and my flatmate at that time having a discussion about whether or not to trust the local doctors of the small Chinese town we were living in. I argued that doctors around the world are first and foremost qualified because of their experience of practicing medicine, completely unrelated to the particular medical tradition they follow. Meanwhile my flatmade just had an ingrown toenail removed by a doctor who couldn’t wait for the local anesthesia to kick in, so his position in our argument was colored somewhat more pessimistic. But I actually never regretted my optimistic perspective on Chinese doctors and medical institutions. On the contrary, most encounters were professional, original and comforting. So why is it I can’t seem to warm up to Indian doctors? Maybe it’s just the damn short consultation hours, in which I forget to say half the things I wanted to and I am asked just a minimal amount of questions before being perscribed a whole list of meds that supposedly cure my disease. Because going to the doctors is much like going to the hairdresser for me: The more time you invest the more satisfied I will be in the end – even if the same result could have been achieved in less then five minutes. Or maybe it’s just the walk to the doctor’s office and witnessing all the dirt and waste around me, people spitting and dogs pooping on the street, that just makes a clean office look a little too good to be true. I did make out one major difference, though, between seeing a doctor in China and seeing one in India: China has a huge medical tradition of its own which is still implemented today and which enjoys a clientel at least as big as those looking for modern medicine. But more than that, traditional Chinese and western medicine overlap a lot and people don’t usually use one or the other exclusively. And neither do practicioners. So when I visit a doctor in China it always carries a feeling of experiencing something completely new, foreign and exotic, and that means having no other choice than to trust the work of the expert in question. In India we have an Ayurvedic tradition which is still strong, but by no means mainstream, so seeing a doctor here much resembles seeing one back home in a European country – in it’s basic structure and essence. There’s a waiting room, a consultation room, people being called into the consultation room, talked to, examined and sent home with recipes for meds to take. But there are certain differences. And I think I have mentioned it somewhere before, culture shock means not experiencing the totally foreign things, but those which are look like things we are used to, but are not when stepping closer: The tiny size of both office and waiting room, the uniform price for every examination, the lack of receipts for those cash payments, again – the short consultation times, the pills that are sold without outer packaging or package insert, the number of different drugs you are told to take at once. All those little things contribute to this unfamiliarly familiar experience all the while being in an uncomfortable state to begin with. There are a couple of treatments to this sort of “illness”. Ideally, you can find a practicioner whom you can trust and who makes you feel comfortable under his or her care. If those kind of doctors aren’t around, you will have to stick with those non-professional people you can trust and let them guide you through these annoying times. That helps. A little.

Cheap Bananas

I point at a bunch of bananas. It’s just six of them. The old man nods and puts the bunch into a plastic bag. Then he goes on to lift up another small bunch and tries to put them in the bag as well. “No.”, I say, wiggling my hand in disagreement. He puts down the bunch, bobs his head and lifts the bag into the air for me to take. “How much?”, I ask. “Fifty.” I know I would get this many bananas for twenty rupees back at my place. I smile at him knowingly. “Twenty.” He bobs his head again, as if to say ‘It was worth a try’. We have reached an agreement. I give him fifty and wait for him to give me the change. He hands me a ten-rupee bill, then another, then it’s his turn to wiggle his hand in front of my face. It means ‘That’s all you’ll get’. I am short ten rupees, but I shrug nonetheless, put the twenty rupees in my pocket, take my bananas and leave the push cart. The very first and the very last thing I am thinking about when coming to another country, is the question of how I am perceived as somebody who wasn’t born and raised here. It is the last thing, because I rarely find out a definite answer at the end of a stay, and because it is one of the most exciting things to ask people about! Usually these people can not – or would not – even tell me everything right from the beginning and many of them have to think a while before giving an answer; in fear of jeopardizing our relationship or in wonderment about their own uncertainty, I can’t say. There are a few potential answers that were given to me before I came to India, and even before I traveled abroad for the first time. Usually these answers would broach the issue of “critical whiteness”. That’s the idea that my light skin color and West-European appearance in general might trigger assumptions about my wealth and social status, and thus lead to a higher risk of being the victim of robbery, fraud or over -enthusiastic shopping assistants. And fair enough, many, maybe most of the people that I ask about my appearance and the possible effects would tell me exactly the same thing at one point or another: “Be careful, because, you know, (awkward pause) you’re a foreigner and many might think you’re an easy target.” And that’s actually true. Because I didn’t grow up in this country, I am – in a sense – like a newborn baby that knows little and less on how to behave, where to go and when to be careful. And if somebody wants to take advantage of that, he probably has a very high chance of succeeding. But what I found out, is that “critical whiteness” and the negative effects of it are culture-specific. Everywhere where being white means being foreign you will be subject to certain disadvantages, but not in the same way. For instance, I am sure that there are countries in which people who look like me have to fear being victims of obduction or robbery at gunpoint. And, sure enough, pickpocketing is a thing in India, but not to an extent where it would get dangerous for your own health. Here, I am much more worried about becoming a victim of fraud or being screwed over when buying fruits. That being said, I think I should actually embrace being screwed over by merchants. This doesn’t mean that I would simply give in to any price they suggest. It means that I know the usual value of the object and I am still willing to pay a little more, if the merchant in question tries to squeeze some extra bucks out of me. Because in the end I really am a privileged young white European who’s of a fairly well-positioned family, and paying 10 cents more or less for a 2kg-bunch of bananas that’s already just 50 cents will probably not affect my future in any way. It is my obligation as a lucky global citizen to know, but to care a tiny little less about the money I am spending in a poorer country. It’s late in the evening and I’m too tired to walk all the way back home. “Rikshaw!” There’s always one close by, and now is not an exception. The driver looks at me enquiringly. I tell him my address and he slightly moves his head to point at the backseats. My sign to get in. The rikshaw drives off, but after a few seconds I notice that the driver hasn’t turned on the meter yet. “Excuse me, could you please turn on the meter?” “Five hundred”, is the answer. His way of saying, that this is the price tag for my ride back home. In my head I calculate that a regular fare would only be around two to three hundred. “No, turn on the meter, please!” “Five hundred!” he insists. The rikshaw is getting faster. “Alright, stop!!”, I demand. Finally he bobs his head, shortly turns back to me grinning, and turns on the meter. We arrive. The meter shows 280 rupees worth of driving. I dispose of checking my mobile app that would have told me, whether this is correct or the meter is rigged. The price sounds fair. I give him three hundred. He counts the money. “No, no! Five hundred!” He turns towards me, an indignant look on his face. I laugh. It’s a cold laugh though. I am not in the mood for any more games. “I payed you according to the meter.” I point at it.“No, no! No meter!” He turns around the small ‘For Hire’ sign and the meter resets. The price vanishes. I am getting out of the rikshaw. “I will not pay you any more.” I doubt that he can understand me. … Read moreCheap Bananas

Like a dumb tourist

Permaculture is weird to explain. Its a concept of the 1970s, there was this guy Bill Mollison and people are still implementing it today – even after reading the literature only that much made sense to me. People who asked me to explain the word to them must have been disappointed and astonished by how little I myself know, proudly proclaiming to be going to India soon to “do” permaculture. The last couple of days helped to fix this problem. AES does work as a permaculture organisation, but they are implementing this concept in an educational context with socially marginalized people. Since this is taking permaculture a step further, it is hard to still see the roots, the groundwork involved and the things they have in common with other permaculturalists around the world. The last two days though, we were visiting a holiday resort in the hills between Mumbai and Puna who actually specialized in paragliding, but asked AES to help them design their huge garden and farm to become self-sufficient and ecologically sustainable. The important term here seemed to be “design”. During our stay we walked the whole property while mapping the land and talking about what to plant where, how and why. No wonder the whole process felt so much like landscape architecture, however there were some distinctive features to the way AES worked that space: Instead of looking into the most efficient short- and mid-term usage of the land, they took a long-term approach and focussed on how to integrate human needs in a mostly naturally structured landscape. A phrase that really stuck to my mind was “let the land guide you” or “the place will show you what to do”. I imagine this perspective to maybe be the key difference between conventional and profit-oriented landscape design. And although it sounds a little like a esoteric statement, it might just merely be the idea of letting the land and its needs come first, before looking into the ways humans can profit from it. Another thing happened during the process of following AES doing their work at this site: For the first time, Sukriti and Chandan had to directly implement their know-how on permaculture and thus reveal themselves as the experts that they are. I was completely overwhelmed by the detailed knowledge of plant species, garden design and agriculture that they used to present their thoughts and sketches, and standing by their side, with nothing but my camera to use, I felt like a little child on a school field trip. Or like a dumb tourist listening to a city guide. What am I studying again? If there’s anything I learned from this trip, it’s that there is still so much to figure out for me, before really being able to get a “native” insight on how the permaculture world ticks in India. Right now, all the things I read about permaculture have come to life and I am trying to find out how I feel about that. But I am pretty sure already that this is going to be a mind-opening experience and orientation for what I want and can do in life. And that’s everything I asked for.