waking up in the DEEP SOUTH

of the subcontinent. The Indian one. It's hot, dusty and dirty. I admit it, this is the trouble I've been looking for; since the early wannabe days in art school listening to Asian Dub Foundation and one of the Shankar clan while commuting to the tech heavy South Bay and getting a leg up on Indian English and eating curry with my right fingers. That was several years ago though and being broke in Eastern Europe is like a giant dose of chalky antacid destroying everything from curiosity, robust stomach acid and single speed/fixed gear bike fanaticism to the desire to careen into the unknown.

Which is to say, I'm back.

It started off, ironically, enough with a wedding. I'd make the familiar analogy into a puerile joke about how when one soul is born, another dies and such, but in my rush to experience the new I think it's best to cast off comfort and routine and this should definitely extend to bad stand-up routines.

The cast system in India is still alive and I found many ways of being fascinated, frustrated and confounded by it. I'm American so my lines of distinction tend towards the economic. Social, inherited, political or racial boundaries tend to be confusing. For the sake of clarity the wedding I'm about to describe is from the coconut picker's caste, which is apparently pretty "up there."

First, it takes damn near forever. The process is so complex and intricate that only the women in the family understand what's going on. After mutually being selected by the families, they can veto the selections until eventually invitations are made and the week long carnival begins. Naturally it must be on an auspicious day, though that can involve numerology or Hindu holy days or even a combination of those and the consideration of the monsoon season. Still awake?

They get engaged several times. There is a stage and everyone they've ever met comes up to bless them in a long procession. In explaining it to me the sister of the groom proudly explains that 1) He has no idea what's going on and is only following along. This enhances the "universality" of the marriage experience, as far as I can tell. 2) She says that there is one caste above the lofty coconut picker, the Brahman caste that has an even longer wedding ceremony. I can't help but recall various Richard Pryor routines, mainly the one where he explains the sexual differences between blacks and Chinese.

In the wedding invitation you've already missed the first engagement party that happens like 3 months prior. Then there's the regular engagement festival the night before where we have to take the Mexican party bus to the bride's banquet hall to bribe her with things like marzipan fruits and sodas particular to the Tamil Nadu region, then the wedding with the elephant trip, the convention center and the ride back in a red velvet cart pulled by imported white ponies. Finally the white guests are sent off on an air conditioned mini-bus.

The idea, I believe, was to show us the sights and distract us through what was likely more ceremonies that preclude catering to white people in English and (shudder) the consummation. Or something like that. Hopefully it is limited to a very meaningful handshake.

We're sent away and pass by yet another temple covered in renovation bamboo sticks and dead palm leaves. Feroz insists the bus stops though no one give a shit and I'm the Tamil version of a naked ghost in my halter dress. The cigarettes and faux vodka/Indian made grain alcohol help with the embarrassment factor. That and the charming Russian fellow.

For dinner we are going to this famous Tamil chicken hut. Apparently all the movie stars have been there and it's really famous. When I see the dirt floors, back alley approach to the place I can only look at the 5 different men making the parathas. And honestly it is immediately clear that these will be the best parathas that have ever been made outside of an inspired Indian mother's kitchen. It's like dumplings in Asia. The shop that sells only dumplings for 30 years is likely to have the best dumplings. The construction line; the mediation of repetition ensures it.

But it is the chicken that they are famous for. So we try the chicken.
On palm leaves it arrives with the standard sauces. Everything is super spicy, though it's clear that yes, this is the best chicken that has ever been produced outside of certain southern US establishments. We all eat until it hurts.

Then, since time is short we leave for the waterfalls inside the Tiger park. I have no idea where the hell this is and everyone knows that the reality is that no one has seen a tiger in this park in the last 20 years. Regardless, they have a waterfall that doesn't dry up. Instead of facing another bucket shower, we grab out towels and let the driver take us there.

In my post sexual revolution American brain, there's one big falls and everyone is in pilgrimage garb, waiting the spiritual purity of the falls. I'd just read something about Japanese warriors doing something similar under freezing waterfalls and was prepared for my awakening or at least the dawn of some kind of new superpower. Instead there's a line and metal railings, like at the cheaper amusement parks. His & Hers falls, never to be cross sampled. When Eni had called Aravind to ask about it he said not to wear the usual bikinis because the SHEER FORCE of the water would rip them off. So, we reasoned, we could wear shirts and bottoms. But upon seeing the actual thing (with floodlights illuminating the falls and the crowd there despite the late hour) we decided that it would be safe in a t-shirt and bikini bottoms.

So us Euro chicks are stripping down when the whole place comes to a stand-still. The men's side has completely abandoned the waterfall in favor of ogling us, while the men in our party rush to the front of the line and get right to enjoying the falls. In the meantime a nice Muslim woman in charge of things lets us know that we must put our pants back on.

How embarrassing. But really the strict women in full saris and Muslim wear bathing should have been a clue. At least we helped the boys skip the line, which was quite sizable.

The only other highlight of Courtallam in the Tirunelveli district was that while staying at the Esakki resort a crow decided to get insane and peck at our bedroom window starting at 5am. For anyone who hasn't seen an Indian crow, their beaks are ferocious and they are very intelligent. This thing threw his whole being into trying to crack the window with his beak. I was terrified. What would happen if he succeeded? I've seen "The Birds" and I laid there in terror until about 8am when he must have gotten bored and decided to bother someone else. Right about the time we packed up and had to be back on the bus for the trip to wherever, which was a very long drive. Good company is truly a saving grace.