Baños and related ramblings 1

About two weeks into my 2007 trip I found myself in the Southern Ecuador town of Baños which, being located at the foot of the volcano Tungurahua, gets its name from the resultant natural steam baths. Despite the fact that the driving force of the town is tourism, its commercial enterprises seem well blended with the natural charms it has to offer--actually, I'm not completely sure about that claim, maybe I was just in a happy-tourist frame of mind, and would have discovered an ugly underbelly had I stayed longer than the five days I spent there. This was a time when I was allowing myself to be baby-sat by my Lonely Planet guide so this is quite possible. A related image from the day I arrived there, after a short bus ride from Latacunga, is that of walking towards a hostal strongly recommended by LP and actively ignoring the beckonings of proprietors--I was a dead give-away tourist with the backpack--of other hostals which had not made it into LP. Later in the trip, now that I was a more seasoned tourist and more comfortable with the setting, I would strike up conversations with tourists as soon as I landed in a town and get them to recommend places to stay at instead of using LP. That worked out much better as you can't beat up-to-date info. Also, new hostals open pretty frequently in tourist-centric places and offer really competitive prices in the beginning--I was paying $5 a day for one in Cuzco which had been recommended to me by a tourist in an internet cafe. I never regretted any of these recommendations although some of the LP recommendations left me a little cold. In Lima following LP's recommendation I stayed in a place which didn't have any other tourists but was full of lots of office-going locals--I remember feeling quite lonely with my minimal Spanish there, definitely a bit of a low point of my trip.

So where was I? Right, getting back to describing the town, the wide and clean streets of Baños gave the impression that the town did not come up haphazardly, but was planned, and had an efficient local government. There were some interesting cafes, discovered again mostly through the LP, which served a blend of local and international cuisine. One that I was particularly fond of had cosy seating areas with a happy mismatch of furniture, and was tastefully decorated by people with obvious artistic sensibilities. It was spacious with many comfortable nooks and corners, random pieces of art--very international. And a collection of books which is ubiquitous to any place frequented by tourists, and the policy-- also quite common--of only exchanging books as opposed to allowing people to buy them to maintain the volume of the collection. I think the owners were Americans who had visited the town and liked it so much that they had decided to settle down there. The food was quite good though a little more expensive than the less ambitious eateries in town. The larger room of the cafe also had big sized windows which let lots of natural light in.

There was another cafe which was run by a local artist who, as the LP predicted, also used the place as his studio when it was not open. Although it did have a strong odor of turpentine, the food was good authentic unassuming cuisine from Ecuador which had a homemade feel to it. Ecuador was, in general quite friendly to the vegetarian tourist. The locals' diet has a strong presence of vegetables and fruit--some completely new to me--and I really enjoyed the fruits salads I often had while over there. Your average lover of spicy food might however be a little disappointed as I found the food a little on the bland side and would have struggled had every meal not been accompanied with ahi which is a sour and sometimes hot tomato based salsa. I would have come back to this eatery more often if it was not so stifling from the smell. The paintings were just about average and I was glad for the artist that he'd had the sense to start this side business.

A major source of excitement for me was the discovery that a couple who I'd met and liked in Quito were staying in the same hostal as me. In any case, people are very friendly while traveling like you can only be to strangers you don't expect to ever meet again. A second meeting, under the circumstances, is like meeting a childhood friend! It provided such a fine start to my stay in this town. And this was not the only time this happened. There was another couple I shared the bus ride out of Baños with whom I ran into a second time in another one of my favorite places of the trip--Vilcabamba, which is farther South of Baños, not too far from the border with Peru. I was in the town square when I saw some people waving in my direction. My first reaction was to assume that they were waving to some one else but when the waving persisted I realized who it was. They were wearing sun glasses this time and different clothes--inexcusable, how could I have recognized them?! I guess staying on the gringo trail has its advantages.

There's a very pretty river that flows on one end of the town and my first hike here was down to the river bed. It was fairly pleasurable hike till at one point I found the trail blocked off by a large barking dog who was intimidating and threatened to cut my hike short. I spent about half an hour inching my way towards the dog--I would have felt incredibly stupid if I'd turned back--the philosophy being that if I gave it time to get used to my presence it would not find me so threatening. It was nerve-racking nevertheless to be in that situation and I really wouldn't have know what to do if the dog had decided to attack me--somehow the thought of traveler's health insurance was not a particularly comfortable one then. I eventually made my way past the dog, and a small one room structure outside of which a couple who were cooking and were the likely owners of the dog sat not reacting to my friendly and relieved 'hola'. Although probably squatters on public property, they felt comfortable enough there to resent my invasion of their privacy. Another few minutes and I was at the river bed where I sat meditating about my trip and soaking up the sun. This revery was interrupted by this time the barking of not one but two dogs. The original dog had brought along a scarier and braver companion who was leading the charge. I got pretty scared especially when this dog stepped off the trail onto the river bed I was occupying. My strategy of trying to get these dogs used to me was obviously not much of an option now. I made some mock half-hearted threatening gestures when he did that which forced him to get off the bank temporarily. We reached some kind of an impasse (with the dog taking note that I tended to get more aggresive when he stepped on the shore), I was quite unsure about what I should do and just stood there for a bit. After a while the aggressive dog seemed to lose interest in me and wandered off. I used this chance to start back up. I encountered the dogs again soon but was somehow able to use my momentum to carry on. Along the way I made my anger felt--more in tone than in actual words since my Spanish vocabulary was pretty limited at that point--to the couple outside the hut. Once I got back to the hostal I discussed this encounter with the Quito couple who gave me advice that took care of this issue for the rest of the trip.

The End of Manners by Francesca Marciano

The thing that makes this novel really work is its limited ambition and I don't mean that in a negative sense at all. It describes a photojournalist's trip to Afghanistan to cover a story about women choosing to take their lives rather than being forced to marry men much older than them. The novel covers just this limited period of time spanning the trip and a week or so leading up to it and the few story lines from the past that are included are so uncomplicated that they seamlessly blend in with the present tense. This feature of the novel--that it is uncluttered by too many fancy writing devices like competing subplots or too much jumping around in time or the presence of too many secondary characters--is what makes this book succeed. Although the book is of average length, the feeling I was left with after reading it was that I had just finished reading a short story.

Marciano uses a very sparse and clean writing style which accentuates the book's resemblance to a short story. But clearly, these very things that work so well for this novel can so easily fail if the plot itself is somewhat lacking. In this case, however, it is plausible, and fast paced, and, despite the several novels having been written about the devastation in Afghanistan, also seems very original. And even the people described in the novel, even the ones the author does not give too many paragraphs to, seem drawn--and drawn well--from real life. No effort is made to mask the grim situation in Afghanistan and this honesty only adds to this book's worth. Not a groundbreaking work of fiction, this, but well worth your time.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

This is a really terrible book. The first part, about Italy, is still fairly readable although you start to realize very early on that the author doesn't seem to have much of substance to say. Her writing confirms that just because a person decides to write about her emotional life, it doesn't mean that the description is going to be insightful or intelligent or, most importantly, even readable. A lot of the writing is of the personal journal kind--one section that immediately springs to mind is when she writes an analogy about loneliness and anxiety; the analogy reads like something written by a 10 year old child who is trying to explain to herself in baby-talk these emotions in an effort to deal with them--and who is also learning to write at the same time. That was the first time I wanted to stop reading the book.

There is something quite false about her account regarding her improving mental health in the Indian ashram, the subject of the second part of the book. She gives the impression that she is making rapid strides in the spirituality department as if it is some exam she is preparing really well and frantically for. Contrary to her claims, it doesn't sound like she is achieving her goal of becoming a calmer person. Then there are these encounters she has with a Texan at the Ashram. These descriptions really made me cringe: the fact that not only does she admire the kind of intrusive, judgmental, condescending and cliched remarks this guy makes about her--the book is autobiographical and you really have to wonder how intelligent a person our author is to give so much credence to this random guy--but also the way she writes about them as if they're these out-worldly pearls of wisdom she is oh-so-lucky to have received and is eager to share with her hapless readers. I think I decided to finally stop punishing myself by reading this book when she started describing her dreams: some really boring, commonplace dreams which belong only to her journal--to reiterate--and no other place. Please don't waste your time on this book, there are many smarter and more insightful things to read out there.

Machu Pichu.

By the time I reached Cusco, the big city base closest to Machu Pichu, I was quite saturated from all the traveling. I was clearly not upto, atleast that's what I thought at that point, the frentic activity making a trip to MP would entail. I was quite satisfied to indulge in the many options Cusco offered--like the most beautiful square I've ever seen (see below), all the dining and drinking options including a really cool Irish pub full of friendly tourists, the views afforded by the hilly terrain around the square, and the night clubs that closed only when the last patrons left. At the same time MP was one of the big reasons for coming down to SA--in the last few years of my PhD, when I was inching my way towards what turned out to be the finishing line, my escape fantasies were dominated by visions of MP. So, despite my fatigue, I was keeping my eyes open for inspiration.

It came in the form of a Canadian girl who was staying in the same hostal as me. During one of the later conversations we had she told me that she'd gone ahead and booked with the travel operators located in the hostal itself--the softest option available--she too was too exhausted to shop around as everyone had advised us to do. I followed her example, a decision in no small part aided by the prospect of traveling with a friendly and attractive girl.

We left Cusco in the evening. Following a 2 hour long taxi-ride and a 4 hour train-ride we arrived at Aguas Calientes after midnight. We were so exhausted that we decided against, despite this possibly once in a lifetime opportunity, hiking up early to see the sunrise at Machu Pichu. I think it was the right decision. But, around 3:30 am the hostal came alive with the noises of obviously more determined people, who were too excited to make an effort to be quieter (only in retrospect am I able to put this in such innocuous language). Finding it impossible to sleep through the commotion, the once-in-a-lifetime aspect of being at MP became harder to ignore, and we did decide to hike it for the sunrise (buses started only later, to see the sunrise hiking was the only option). It was still quite dark when we left. The first part of the trail was alongside a very loud Rio Urubamba the energy of whose waters lifted our spirits.

The hike up was hard, we had estimated that we would have to do it fast if we wanted to beat the sunrise. Initially, I was no match for the Canadian (she an experienced hiker and me just out of a very long and sedentary stay in grad school!)--I was wheezing like I was 40 and found myself wondering how much punishment a heart can take before it gives up--yes, it was that bad! The higher we climbed, the lighter it got, the harder we tried. Towards the end my heart had so wholeheartedly, as it were, embraced the activity it had been dragged into that, when after climbing for about 50 minutes we finally reached the gate, I could have easily climbed some more.

But there was no sun to be seen. We were not sure then if it was because of the clouds. There were about 20 disappointed looking people on the steps outside the gate waiting to be let in. The authorities, we learnt, were being strict about not letting people in before the official time. Even if they had it would have been pointless because Machu Pichu was covered with clouds as we discovered some 30 minutes later, when they did eventually allow us in. Our first views of Machu Pichu were therefore dull and disappointing; we could only see brief stretches of the terraces Machu Pichu is famous for. This is how it looked like to start with:
We ran into an Austrian couple we'd sat across from in the train the night before. While traveling anyone you meet a second time is like your best friend, and we reacted accordingly when we saw them. They had taken the bus up which turned out to be a smarter decision although at $6 a person it was way too expensive for Peru. We had an English speaking guide whose delivery was very zen-like. He lingered on many points and took his time. He obviously liked being a guide. In that sleep deprived state, however, I found his labored delivery highly exasperating. I would often space out, miss the important bits and pieces. Ended up getting a somewhat garbled version of the history lesson he gave us. The tour lasted about an hour and a half, I was not getting less impatient with time. We could see other tour guides who had started at around the same time as ours finish much earlier and were envying the tourists in those groups. We were really dead by the time our guide finished and came back out for a much needed breakfast. Something about breakfast changed the tenor of the day. Suddenly, we were all very relaxed, happy to be there, as if finally realizing where we were, and excited about going back in to explore Machu Pichu on our own terms.

We walked around; by now the clouds too had lifted, and it was like Machu Pichu had come alive. We took lots of snaps. I was in unbridled love with the Canadian by now no doubt encouraged by the wonderful example the Austrians were setting. They were on a year long trip around the world and joked that they would marry if they were still able to stand each other's presence at the end of that time. There was a lot of laughter and the conversation really flowed.

Once we'd covered the main parts of Machu Pichu a second time, we decided to hike up Wayna Pichu which was an adjacent peak which afforded spectacular views of Machu Pichu from above. This hike was also a pretty difficult one although it seemed a lot less safe than the previous one.
In toto, we managed to spend, despite being so weary to start with, about 12 hours at Machu Pichu. What made that possible and the day so truly memorable was not merely the location but also the wonderful group of people that surrounded me. To save $6 the Canadian and I actually hiked down too--not too difficult this time as we were on a high from the way the day had shaped up.

A Night of Indie Music. (Not another sterile review!)

Last night I should have gone to bed at 10 considering how much work I'd put in this week in trying to figure out a fairly complicated code--success in which endeavor will ensure that I have the possibility of continuing with my present temporary position if my job hunt stays unsuccessful--and my level of mostly related sleep-deprivation. Except that I didn't. I was up till 6 in the morning spending most of that time reading a blog I've recently discovered which gives a much-needed vent to...my need to vent, I guess (since this is being written in a public domain, methinks I'll try and not spill all the beans here).

Needless to say, I woke up feeling quite un-proud about myself. Had to put in a few constructive hours before I could feel halfway-good again. Afterwards, while I was headed home to catch up on this ever elusive thing they call sleep, I thought about why I didn't go to bed in time--especially since I'd had such a productive week. The tentative (always!) conclusion I reached was that I had somewhere along the way decided--and this is a trap I keep falling into--that I would feel content (about life?) if I was able to do what I was supposed
to be doing. And this reluctance to go to bed was a protest from my body/mind about being forced to conform to this hypothesis. To remedy this situation I decided that I needed to give myself some more leeway, some more breathing space. Keeping with that theme, I decided to attend a $5 concert of folksy music featuring local artists at the 'new' State Theater theater (now that's awkward!). I tried to round up the usual suspects but no one bit. Ultimately ended up going alone which in itself is a somewhat unusual experience for me.

I can't, for the life of me, remember who the first act was. Okay, before I write about the individual performances, let me first tell you a little bit about the format and the venue. The State Theater has now opened-up for intimate performances a tiny room which they call The Attic, with mostly-floor seating. Today's performances, which were the first that the Attic has seen, consisted of four half an hour acoustic 1-2 person sets by four different local-ish singer-songwriters. The first guy's music sounded quite rich--only a guitar, mind you--and in addition to having good-energy going his music had enough complexity to keep me interested. I think I would give him a fair grade (how meaningless is this without the guy's name, isn't it?). Kudos to him for asking what kind of mood-of-music the audience was feeling like. Though it was a little worrying when he responded to a 'angsty' request from the crowd with 'is that a real word?' (I'm a bit worried here myself as blogger is underlining it!) What kind of a folk-singer are you if you doubt 'angsty'?

The second set was by a two-man group called 'Matthew and the Judes', the lead singer sporting a guitar and his very young looking friend a saxophone (oh, god, I do hope, to prevent unimaginable embarrassment about being wrong, that this was a correct identification on my part!) . The guy was a little nervous considering it was his first performance--he told us this--but managed to deflect his nervousness with some funny self-conscious self-reflective oh-what-a-klutz-I'm kind of remarks. He had a decent voice but needs more polish to become a better performer. I didn't like his song selections which I thought were pretty flat and boring. Hit those high notes dude and give us some emotion for crying out loud! If my Matlab code was able to emote, believe me, I wouldn't be here!

The third act was for me what made the evening really worthwhile (hence the shortness of this paragraph!). Joseph Dabney was in his own world but seemed very sure, justifiably, of the 'product' he was serving-up. He hit his entire range of notes and the contrast between the subdued and unrestrained parts really hit the spot for me. I didn't really catch too many of the lyrics but the performance was almost so full of emotion that I didn't really miss that at all. This guy is a Penn State student who has a strong presence on the popular social networking sites, do check his music out which is available on MySpace.

The fourth guy, a minor celebrity in the local circuit, gave the show its title--'Koji in the Attic'. Koji who had a very laid-back style seemed very popular with the crowd in part due to a clearly amazing rapport he had with it. He even made us do some very iffy (for me personally, people around were chomping it down like Popeye) interactive stuff recalling which gives me the shudders, so will omit. He talked a lot in between songs--told us about how in getting his latest album recorded things got so hectic that he 'almost got depressed'! I think that's when the spell broke for me--is there a difference between almost depressed and depressed and thanks for clarifying that you stayed on the acceptable side of the fence--'phew, man, for a moment there you had me doubting how cool you were!' All this would be forgiven if he had played some more exciting songs. Acoustic doesn't have to mean serene (I'm being generous here)! All his songs were in the lower/middle register which was not at all satisfying.

Bottom-line, check out this Joseph Dabney guy!

On Depression.

Quoting Anaïs Nin in her diary quoting someone called E. Graham Howe:

The expression which we know as depression can be more clearly understood as coming to those who are not willing to be depressed, i.e.: to fall down according to the falling rhythm, or to let go when the time has come to lose. Depression is characteristically associated with over-conscientiousness, and so it is particularly liable to befall virtuous people. This is because it is their moral duty to hang on to all the good things, fixing them forever against the moving law of time...

Free boogers anybody?

Yesterday, circumstances led me to a very early dinner. The natural choice was 'Pita Pit' where, as is a common custom at fast food joints in these parts, after having paid for 10 meals I was entitled to a free one. Since, despite having being in this country for a while, I tend to follow meal timings from back home, I usually find the place fairly deserted whenever I go there, and always wonder how they've managed to stay afloat--that it's a front for a drug dealer is one of my favorite chuckle-inducing theories.

So here I was standing for once in a really long snaking line waiting for my usual falafel pita and not loving it! Partly because had lots of time to think about Jeeves' claim that the food here always gave him tummy issues and watching--in a totally unrelated way--the 'healthy' amount of sweat almost dripping off the guy at the grill--obviously, the air conditioning was down. After about a half-hour when I finally reached the counter I discovered that the guy who was about to make my pita was sporting a very noticeable booger in his left nostril. Obviously, I wanted him to do something about it. As I was considering various different phrasings in my head, to my obvious relief, the guy for some reason switched places with another guy. As this new guy was making my pita I suggested he nudge his coworker into a more hygienic state. This guy's initial reaction after giving the coworker a brief sideways glance was a flat-out denial--"no, he doesn't!" was his very emphatic response. When I persisted he did finally convey the observation. The offending party's reaction was to make a very half-hearted ultimately unsuccessful effort at wiping it off on the back of his gloved hands. I left the place with mixed feelings (or alternately I high-tailed it out of there) and tried to keep my mind very blank as I swallowed down my meal. Later as I listened to a cute couple at Webster's sing some at times very pleasing folk music I pondered if a free meal was really worth this kind of stress...

The Moor's Last Sigh by Salman Rushdie

Reading it on the recommendation of a fan of Rushdie's calling whom a voracious reader would be a vast understatement--a conservative estimate would be to say that the books in her house outweigh all her other possessions by a few factors (perhaps, betraying my experience in reporting research here?). This is the second Rushdie I am reading after Midnight's Children which I read as part of a course almost a decade back curious to see if my opinion would be different reading it outside a classroom so many years after forming my first impression. I am not a big fan of that novel. My main problem with it is the high density of incidents packed into every square inch of every page of the book exacerbated by its, what's got to be, magic-realistic genre. My memories of reading books of the genre can be summarized as ultimately unsuccessful attempts at maintaining my willing suspension of disbelief. The coincidences mount and as the novel progresses the twists seem more and more arbitrary, whimsical, and ultimately nonsensical. In Rushdie's case, as is being confirmed with this novel, I give-in to disbelief somewhat earlier than say a Marquez.

I feel Rushdie would be more successful as a short story writer--I think the next time I read something by him, and if the trend is maintained that should happen sometime in 2017, it'll be one of his short story collections. In fact, even with Moor's Last Sigh I was actually enjoying Rushdie's virtuosity, his humor, his way with words, his depiction of `Hinglish' and the intricate sentences for about the first 30 pages before I experienced my first cringe. His description of the division of a house between the families of two brothers listing out in detail the specific articles that went to each side concluded with a phrase to the effect that the division was so ruthless that even the lizards of the house were divided. For me that phrase did not have its obviously intended effect of being funny. Instead, it felt like a relic from the first draft which should have been removed by the author's own better judgment. It's not my intention to write a review of the novel here. I think people who liked Midnight's Children will probably like this one too and going by my own reaction the converse should also be true. Despite strong hopes I have not become a fan of Rushdie's.