Italy and after

Oy vey! It's been a long time. I know I should have posted sooner. A number of things have prevented me from doing that. I apologize for the long delay. So I'll try to give an overview of my last few months.

I went to the European Association of South Asian Archaeologists conference in Ravenna, Italy at the beginning of July. The conference was great, and I presented my paper "Social Difference and Craft Production in Iron Age Tamil Nadu: Preliminary Results from Kodumanal" on the second day with a full room in attendance. My fellow grad students from Madison also presented, and everyone did a great job. I also met a lot of other great researchers, faculty, and grad students in other institutions. Though the cost of the trip was pretty high, the return on the investment was very high.

After the end of the conference, my friend and fellow grad student, Katie and I had made plans to travel for just over a week along with Katie's friend Sangeeta. So we started from Ravenna and took the train to Venice, where we stayed on a smaller island nearby called The Lido. The Lido was once a beach resort for the rich and famous. Now it's a somewhat less glorious place but with a lovely beach, and the cost of hotel rooms was much cheaper than in Venice proper. We each purchased the three-day boat pass for $50, which was ridiculous, but less ridiculous than paying for each individual boat ride. The boats are like the bus system in Manhattan, and there really is no other way to get around. We explored Venice, though we didn't see every single sight to be seen. I got some nice pictures in Venice. I'll put a few here, but the full set can be seen at Flickr.

After Venice, we took the train to Florence (Firenze), and from Firenze to Siena for a day. From Firenze we returned to Bologna where we first arrived, and flew home. The best parts of the trip involved a lot of wine and/or sangria, and are thus a bit fuzzy in my memory. The little local bar on the corner by the Hostel outside Bologna was fantastic. They were truly the local flavor. The glasses of wine also only cost 1 euro, and were filled to the brim.

The Duomo Cathedral in Firenze

The sights of Italy were just spectacular, and so was the food. For the most part anyway. There were a few disappointments on the food front. But the last meal, a "Ravioli alla fantasie della chef" was superb. It was a creamy sun dried tomato sauce with walnuts and pancetta and lots of parmesan, and probably some other ingredients I couldn't identify. I knew I was taking a risk, letting the chef's fantasy take my dinner, but it was spectacular.

Everything about Italy was so great, and the trip so short, that all I can really conclude is that I need to go back. We didn't go to Rome, (too far, too much to pack in to a short trip), nor did we see any of the other spectacular archaeological sites or monuments that dot the country. Someday I'll have to plan for myself an archaeological tour of Italy.

However, I did see a really interesting exhibit on the Etruscan period, though all the signs were in Italian, and I couldn't get much about who really the Etruscans were, or what was going on in terms of politics or society at that time. They made some really cool artifacts though:


After returning from Italy I got back to the business of research. This was interrupted by the death of my hard drive, though getting it replaced under the AppleCare protection plan was amazingly easy, considering it's India. I mean I had to go to Chennai on the overnight train, and contact an Apple authorized repair place, but they were fast, efficient and nice. All my research was backed up... so a hassle, but not a disaster.

I also conducted some experimental work with a local Potter near by to Thanjavur, in which we attempted a couple of different methods for producing the so called "classic Black and Red Ware", that is the most common type of pottery found in the Iron Age. Except for some cracking it came out pretty well:


After that I went to Pondicherry to meet with professors Rajan and Subbarayalu, and proceeded to Coimbatore District to visit other archaeological sites of the Iron Age, in the region around Kodumanal where my research is currently based. I found several interesting sites I hope to return to, and saw some lovely country-side. Here's a couple of examples:



I'll be going out soon to visit more sites, and I'll do my best to post again soon.

Cultural Encounter of the Day: Columbus Was From India

I feel like I should have been writing these kinds of little vignettes of my cultural encounters all along. So here is hopefully the first of many. I truly enjoy the new perspectives I gain in these encounters.

Today I went to the post office to post a package back to the U.S. to a friend of mine who spent a year living in India, and he wanted a new pair of Indian style sandals and some strings for the Veena (a South Indian instrument often confused with the Sitar). Mailing a package to the U.S. is made more complicated because you can't mail anything without having it wrapped in white cloth, stitched closed, and sealed with red wax. But first you have to show the clerk the contents of the package, so they can see that it's not harmful or illegal.

I went inside the post office and began asking around about mailing an international package. There is no particular counter or person who is designated to handle these things. But someone always comes to help. I showed the contents of my package and asked about where to get the white cloth and stitching done. I was directed across the street, and when I enquired about how much it should cost, the post office guy escorted me across the street to the shop of miscellany (a rocking horse, clay dolls, safety pins, hair pins, envelopes, and also re-weaving the seats of 'caned' style chairs, and stitching parcels in white cloth). He warned the guy that I know Tamil, and I came to study so he should treat me fairly, not cheat me, and speak Tamil with me.

So I sat around in the shop and watched him measure out the cloth, and start stitching. Pretty soon he was making conversation. Did I come to study Tamil? Do I know Tamil well? What is my native country? Do I like India or America better? Do I like English or Tamil better? (All asked in Tamil, of course. This is my translation).

After a pause I was asked a question I've not been asked before, in India: 'How did America get it's name?' I said there was a guy named Amerigo who came from Italy, and he came very early on in the history of the place. It is named after him. I mentioned that he was not the first European to reach that continent. That was Christopher Columbus, who came from Spain.

In response, the man stitching my friend's package said, "Ah, yes. Christopher Columbus. He is my countryman. He went all over the world searching for God. That is how he discovered so many new places. But he is Indian. My countryman."

Oh. I said. Really? I didn't know that.

Expectations, Great and Otherwise

I figured out long ago, (or thought I had figured out) that having high expectations was a surefire way to be disappointed. Having low expectations on the other hand, was a pretty good way to be pleasantly surprised. Here I am, living in Thanjavur, working on my research, and I've been at this for three months now. I thought I had the expectations under control, but let me say at the outset that I had it all wrong.

I was optimistic about the wrong things, and pessimistic about the wrong things. And I did an incredible job of disappointing myself on both counts.

I should say too, that I am typically a glass half-full kind of person, so when I create pessimistic expectations it's usually something I do consciously to avoid disappointment later on. But here's the catch: If I get too pessimistic about things, I get so depressed as a result of those low expectations that I begin the process of a self-fulfilling prophecy. This definitely happened in the process of my research. I decided, at the outset, that the project was probably going to turn out horribly, and that the results would be worthless. I thought by telling myself this that I would end up later happily surprised if I got any interesting or valuable results. Instead, I got so caught up in the idea that it was all going to be awful, I could barely motivate myself to get out of bed in the morning to do the research. And I was so distracted by my own negative vibes, I wasn't even paying attention to the work I was doing.

Strangely, I did allow some optimism into my world. I thought I could allow myself to be optimistic about simple things, like how quickly I could get things done, about how far along I would be by now. These expectations were also a horrible idea. Now of course, with the classic disappointment of expectations too high, I am frustrated with how slow things have been going, and how little progress I've made in three months.

Only now, after some serious re-evaluation of the situation at hand, and of my own mental state and expectations do I realize I had it all wrong.

I should have been pessimistic about the simple things. Expected it to take forever to get up and running, expected that in 3 months I would make ridiculously little progress. I realize too, I needed to be optimistic about the big picture. I need to have some faith in the project in the long term. I need to believe (even if I am disappointed later) that it is going to produce interesting, valuable, and meaningful results.

In the end, I may be disappointed by having expectations set too high for the project as a whole. But I should be prepared to accept that THEN and not NOW. I walked into this project with a sense of defeat already hanging over my head, and that was not the way to begin.

Now, I know better. In 3 months I have made as much progress as I could have under the circumstances, with all the limitations involved. And in another 3 months it will be the same. And now, for no good reason, except that I NEED to, I believe that this project will work. That something will come of it. I don't know what, and it probably won't be what I expected when I started. But, I have faith.

Alien-Celebrity status

Now I know what it feels like to be Jennifer Aniston, if Jennifer Aniston was also a purple-ish green color with antennae and an extra set of arms and legs. Or at least I imagine that my experience and the alien version of Jennifer Aniston have something in common. For one, I get stared at everywhere I go. Not everyone stares, but most do, at least the first time they see me. I think of my skin as part of the normal range of human colors, but because in India foreigners are relatively scarce, it sometimes feels like I must be purple and green. They discuss it amongst themselves. "Look how white she is, how pale..." And they tell me directly, "Your skin is such a light color. It's very beautiful." Sometimes they comment on things like tan lines, if any are showing, or the presence of small brown moles. But by far my most common experience is being called "vellai-kari" which just means white woman, by large crowds of children. They scream, and point, and tell their friends to look. "Hey look, over there, hey-da, it's a white woman!" If the children are too young to understand that they should be pointing at me and calling out "vellai-kari" their mothers usually whisper it to them, and then tell them to say "ta-ta" as in "bye". From my cultural perspective it seems like they just want me to go away. I'm sure there is some other logic involved, and maybe I will start asking why they say that. In any case, my presence pretty much never goes unremarked.

I should add here that this is in no way a judgment of people, but rather my perspective on my experiences. I understand that they are curious, and in their situation I'm sure I would be too. I know I have done similar things to foreigners in the U.S., on occasion. Even knowing that, it still makes me uncomfortable. One reason it is so uncomfortable is the fact that it comes across as reverse racism. Some people go on to tell me how ugly their own skin tone is. Another problem is that I understand what they're saying. So even when they think they can talk about me without my knowing, I comprehend what they are saying. This happened to another friend of mine as well. She had somewhat of an acne problem. Some women on the bus noticed, and began discussing in Tamil how ugly they thought she was. Even when she told them she could understand they kept talking about her. It was very hurtful to her to hear people discussing that. Anyway, please don't take this as a negative judgment of the culture, but rather as an account of my frustrations with the limits of my own understanding.

I posted before here about the amazing pattern of similarity between people in Tamil Nadu and the questions they inevitably ask me when they meet me for the first time. "What are you doing here?" "What are you studying?" "How old are you?" "Are you married?" These are the most common questions, and I was asked again today, by relatively small children. I guess you could say kinship matters. After being told that I am not married, people usually ask either: "Why not?" or "Would you consider marrying an Indian?" And today, on top of being asked by a group of small children, I was also asked by an adult man, who proceeded to give me a full 10 minute discourse on why I should marry an Indian. It was all in Tamil, and I didn't understand every word, but one of his first reasons was that I have studied and learned Tamil, and in India this will cause men to be interested in me, but in America, men will not care that I have learned Tamil, and then my learning Tamil will have been a waste. In addition, in India, I have the positive feature of being foreign, and thus being more attractive to men, while in America, I am just like all the other women, and will have a much harder time finding a husband. He made several other points as well, but I didn't understand them as clearly. There was something to do with the central government (of India) giving some kind of benefits to my (future) children, and something that sounded like the idea of them (my future children) having dual citizenship, and access to the amenities of the west. It was an interesting conversation to say the least.

All in all it was a pretty average day. I was stared at almost constantly in public, got asked personal questions that I don't really like answering, got lectured on how to live my life by a total stranger, and was generally treated as an object rather than a person. I know this summary makes it seem pretty horrible, and honestly, it feels that way sometimes. My sister has now coined the term cultural depression. It came about because I happened to mention that I didn't leave the house all weekend. I didn't go out on either Saturday or Sunday for anything. She said, "So, you're depressed." And I said no I'm not in general, just sometimes I don't feel like facing the world outside." And she said, "So, it's situational depression." I said, "No it's cultural. It's not really depression. It's just that sometimes I feel like I can't face the fact that it's India outside my door." So she concluded, "It's cultural depression." And I'd have to say that's pretty accurate. I've been in India a long time now, and before coming to Thanjavur, I felt like I was pretty well adjusted to the situation. Over the culture shock, and adapted to the various differences in the daily life. But Thanjavur is different in that it lacks the same kind of community of American friends that I had in Madurai. Without at least a few people to hang around and just be my own cultural self, I guess I do begin to feel a little depressed. Partly, it's due to the objectification, which in itself isn't SO horrible, but is rather frustrating because it takes the place of culturally satisfying interactions.

Here is my (psycho-cultural) analysis of the situation: I, as an extrovert, and generally as a human being, depend on receiving what I perceive to be positive feedback from people around me. I would say the simplest form is the American "friendly smile". The smile, that as a part of American facial expressions means, "you're ok," "I like you," or simply "hello". But without any Americans (or other westerners) around, and when most of my interactions involve people stereotyping and objectifying me, I don't get the quotient of positive feedback that reinforces my sense of self worth. Not only do I not receive this culturally conditioned form of psychological stimulant, I have to restrain myself from showing that friendly smile to a large portion of the population here. The largest portion that I have to refrain from smiling at are men, because, what in America is considered a friendly smile, in India is viewed as interest or an invitation. Further, giving people, men or women, that friendly smile is what most often precipitates them feeling comfortable enough to ask me the long list of personal questions I'd rather not answer.

Certainly I am not trying to argue against having cross-cultural friendships. They can be wonderful things. Though they often require a large expenditure of energy in order to come to an understanding about the simplest things. One positive aspect of these cross-cultural friendships for me is the practice I get in speaking Tamil. For instance tonight, we were discussing William Shakespeare, about whom my 16 year old friend, the younger sister in this family, is studying in school. She said they were reading the stories of Shakespeare, and in her experience they were all comedies. I said, "No, there are comedies, tragedies and histories." She asked about the most famous example of a tragedy, and I immediately said Romeo and Juliet. Then she and her mother asked me to summarize the story of Romeo and Juliet in Tamil. So I did. It was certainly a challenge, but I think I did alright.

I am certainly happy to have made a few friends, however hard it may be to communicate and understand each other. I just hope I get accustomed to this new version of the Indian cultural experience, and get over my "cultural depression" soon. It's no good for me to be here, if I'm constantly wishing I were somewhere else. I wish I had something more positive to say in conclusion, but I think it will have to wait for another post. So stay tuned...

Oh the places I've been...

Well, Since I've been back on the Fulbright, I've done a bit of travelling, and I thought I would share some pictures of my trips here. First I went to Varkala beach in Kerala with some friends. They are leaving India, and it was a great way to say goodbye.

The beach at Varkala

Jill and her new friend Jonny from Wales

Sandy looking very serene

I was also feeling very chill.

Then I went to the Fulbright Conference in Aurangabad, and with my fellow conference attendees went to the Ajanta caves. The caves are amazing. I had been before, but it was still astoundingly beautiful. It was also nice to see that they're doing a good job maintaining and improving the caves, and continuing the conservation work on the frescoes. Of course they wouldn't allow flash photography, so my pictures came out mostly blurry and dark. But here are a few of the neat ones.

Buddha sculpture with an eerie green glow.

Buddha with a double shadow

Me outside the caves at Ajanta.

I look really tan. :)

As always, you can see more of my pictures at: Flickr

F***ing Patriarchy

As I have mentioned in the past, India has a thing for bureaucracy. And I'm not a fan. I'm even less of a fan of bureaucracy when it intersects with patriarchy.

Yesterday I went to the BSNL (Bharat Sancham Nigam Limited) state run telephone company office to sign up for a home land line. The main purpose of this land line is so that I can get broadband/DSL at home. However I can't even fill out an application for broadband until I have a phone line connected. So I went in the afternoon and picked up the forms. When I got home to fill them out I was dismayed to find that the second line, below my own name is the name of my father/husband. I contemplated leaving it blank, but I realized that when I turned the form in they would make me fill it in. So I wrote my father's name. It's pointless, right? What reason or purpose could this have? It seems like such a symptom of the patriarchal logic that doesn't consider me a whole person without reference to a male figure like a father or husband.

The third sheet form of the three stapled together was a form to indicated a beneficiary in case of death, who would receive my telephone line or the rights to my 500 rupee deposit. I left this entire form blank, since I assumed it was not, as the Indians say, compulsory. But apparently it is, and when I went to submit my application they made me fill this form out too. I protested saying I don't have anyone who I want to get my telephone line, or 500 rupees, and I don't plan on dying. But they insisted by saying, "Just put your father's name and address."

Of course for pragmatic purposes I did it. But it has been bothering me ever since. I know it forms yet another instance of cultural difference that I should learn to accept. But I have been having a hard time accepting these instances of cultural dissonance. I wish relativism could do it for me, but that doesn't seem to work either.

Ah, the Travel Woes

When travelling, or perhaps when doing anything in life, the things that go wrong always make the best stories to tell. No one is interested in hearing about an uneventful trip. Having been on the road a lot recently, I have surprisingly few stories to tell. Most of it was uneventful.

I started out in Lahore early one morning, and left by car to go to the border crossing with India. It took only just over an hour to get there. It took another hour to cross the border back into India. Passports were stamped, questions were asked. I got across without problem. I got to Amritsar by bus, and decided to waste my afternoon before catching the train going to a Hindi film, Guru. I got the train, and arrived in Delhi at the youth hostel at around midnight. On the flight to Chennai, seated in the row with me, was a family of four who had never flown before. They were all amazed. I and the other guy in our row had to repeatedly tell them to stay seated and keep their seat belt on while the plane was taking off. The other guy in the row, an Indian who is doing his Ph.D. in the US, started out a total stranger and ended up a friend. He does his research on space and architecture in Urban Planning in Old Delhi.

The most eventful part of my recent travels was when I arrived at the airport in Chennai at around 5pm for an 8pm flight to Delhi, that was intended to get me there in time to catch my international flight to Amsterdam and then Detroit. When I arrived in Chennai, I checked outside at the Jet Airways desk, regarding the status of the flight. When I heard the words, "Just one minute, madam" my heart sank. She came back to inform me that flight had been cancelled. In fact it was cancelled two days previous. "Didn't anyone contact you?", She asked. No. No one contacted me. "We had re-booked you on a flight earlier today." But no one TOLD ME that! Ok, so what do I do now? I wondered.

I have to say Jet Airways, at least the staff at Chennai airport was very helpful. They offered to put me on another airlines flight, leaving at approximately the same time the Jet Airways flight was supposed to. They got me set up, checked in, etc. I sat down to wait. I watched with a sense of total despair as the Indian Airlines flight they had checked me into was delayed by an hour, and then two hours. I certainly wouldn't make my connection in Delhi. I felt helpless for about five minutes, and then realized there were other flights listed on the board to Delhi, on other airlines. I ran back to the Jet Airways desk, and looking desperate and out of breath explained that the flight they had put me on was now delayed and I would miss my flight. I asked if they would switch me again. They agreed. But we had to run. The next flight, with the new airline, Tata's IndiGo was about to depart. We had to get my baggage, already checked in for the Indian Airlines flight, off of a baggage truck in a loading dock area. They issued me a new boarding pass, and I ran, through security, and boarded the plane.

When we took off, and the stewardess announced that the flying time to Hyderabad was an hour and twenty minutes, I began to freak out again. First, I thought I was on the wrong flight, but then considered the more likely possibility that it wasn't a direct flight. I wondered how long we would sit in Hyderabad, and whether we would reach Delhi in time. When I got off the plane in Delhi I had 45 minutes until the departure of my international flight. I had to get my luggage, get to the international terminal 10 minutes away. I ran. I grabbed my bags, got a cab, everything with a sense of utter urgency. I must go NOW. When I got to the Delhi International Airport, they had closed the check in for the flight. It was not due to depart for another 25 minutes, but they had closed the check in desk. I had to beg the guy who was standing at the counter to let me check in for the flight. I jumped the line at customs and again at security, half-asking permission, yelling "My flight is leaving, is it okay if I just...?" and running to the front of the line.

Once I got through I realized a large portion of people in the lines were also on the same flight. But I was so relieved to be making the flight after such a long and torturous day that I can't say I cared that much.

Further, through all of this I had been carrying a painting. An original oil painting by a contemporary artist, purchased for about $100 in Mahabalipuram. It was in a PVC pipe, nicely wrapped. It made it to the US safely, through all of the running around. It was only after all that, on a flight with Jet Blue between Chicago and Jacksonville, when I checked the painting (as I had been all along), that it got lost. I watched the baggage claim go 'round and 'round in Jacksonville waiting for that PVC pipe to emerge. It never came. I went to the Jet Blue baggage office, and made a claim. I had to describe the missing item. I was told it would almost certainly be on the flight the following day. It never appeared. When I tried to contact the airline to see what they would do to settle the issue, I was told they have no liability for that rare items, antiques, etc, unique or irreplaceable items. They won't do anything. They'll keep looking. And I get nothing. Grrr....

My return flight to India was relatively uneventful. I ate my last hurrah of good sushi for a long time in the San Francisco airport. I bought raspberry vodka and tequila in the duty free in Frankfurt, and arrived, very jet lagged in Chennai.

Maybe they should make a new airline with that as the name... You know, Jet Airways, Jet Blue, Jet Lagged...

P.S. I actually have a photo of the board showing my cancelled flight, and the delayed flight to Delhi, but I can't upload it from this internet cafe. I burned a DVD backup of all my photos, and they don't have a DVD drive. I'll post it ASAP. Also, I'm sorry I haven't been posting frequently on the blog. I got an anonymous comment telling me I should post more often. I have two things to say about that. First is I have been running all over the globe. Since December I have been in the following cities: Madurai, Chennai, Thiruvananthapuram, Cochin, Delhi, Gurdaspur, Amritsar, Lahore, Harappa, (then back through Delhi, Chennai) to Amsteram (ok, fine it was just the airport), Detroit, Chicago, Madison, (New York - airport), Jacksonville, Los Angeles, (San Francisco - airport, again), (Frankfurt - also airport), back to Chennai and then Thanjavur, again Madurai, and I'm leaving tonight for Varkala (in Kerala). I haven't had a lot of time to sit down and write a post. Second, I'm not inclined to post anonymous comments that are not particularly interesting. And especially if they're negative. I guess that's censorship. And I do feel somewhat bad about it. I don't know who you are, Anonymous, but next time, it would be nice if you gave a name.

Wedding, Punjab and Pakistan

When I was invited to my friends wedding in Gurdaspur, in the northern Punjab, I thought I couldn't go, and I was regretting it. I have 5 sets of friends getting married this year, and I wasn't going to make it to any of their weddings.
Plans changed and I got to go. I was the only one of Amanda's friends who could be there, since everyone else was in the US. Only her Dad could make it from the US.
The wedding was in Gurdaspur, where Davinder, the groom is from.

Of course I don't know any Punjabi, so I didn't understand pretty much anything anyone was saying. But I had a great time anyway. The food was great, the music was loud, and the ceremony was serene and reverent.

Bride and Groom after the ceremony.

After the wedding I went to Amritsar for a day to see the Golden Temple. It is the holiest place in the Sikh faith, and a beautiful building. Built in 1577 and destroyed in 1762 by a Mughal emperor, Ahmad Shah Durani, it was rebuilt in 1802. It was attacked in 1984 and had to be restored once again. Amritsar the name of the town comes from the words "amrit sarovar" or tank of nectar, the pool of water that surrounds the building.

Golden Temple at Dusk (Amritsar, Punjab)

Going to Pakistan, I crossed the border at Wagah, which was an interesting experience. Crossing the border by foot was fascinating. Aside from the myriad of bureaucratic processes, I was reminded that the borders we have are invented, lines drawn on the landscape with big fences, and people patroling them. The dirt, the wind, the rodents, and even the people are the same on both sides. The air you breathe doesn't change.

In the case of Pakistan and India, this line is recently drawn, the fences recently built. The partition between the two is only 50 years old. In Lahore, the places I visited, the Lahore Fort, Masjid Wazir Khan, and Jehangir's Tomb, are all part of the Mughal history of the region. A shared history of Pakistan and India. And Harappa, and the rest of the Indus Valley civilization, serves to drive that point home. A shared history 10,000 years old.

Entrance to Lahore Fort.

Tile Column at the Masjid Wazir Khan (Lahore, Pakistan)

Ancient city of Harappa, conserved area (Dist. Sahiwal, Pakistan)

For more of my photos from the wedding in Gurdaspur, Amritsar, Lahore and Harappa visit my flickr site.

The Beauty of Bureacracy

Nothing in life is guaranteed. We all know that. Will plans work out? Will everything we hope to achieve actually be realized? Everyone has these doubts. Or at least I know I do.

But there is one thing guaranteed in life. Bureaucracy.

I have never been some where that did not have some form of bureaucracy involve in getting there, being there, leaving or staying. Of course I am thinking of India, where I sit and write. But I can think of a million other examples from everywhere else around the world. It's hard to conceive of a world without bureaucracy. Everything from paying taxes, airline tickets, paying electricity and phone bills, to international travel, visas, and government permits.

What if every time you got on a plane or train, no one asked for a ticket. What if you paid cash, and walked away. You never had to make a reservation, no paper record was ever made? Of course it seems as though the world would fall apart. Nothing would function.

Is there a way to get rid of bureaucracy? Or at least to get rid of paperwork? What would happen if all paper transactions became entirely digital? There are of course several ways in which this could happen. At present the most likely seems to be embedded RFID chips in various forms of identification, such as passports, drivers licences and credit cards. Recently there has been a huge outcry from the technology community over the security or rather lack of security with RFID chips. Not only can individuals be tracked using RFID, but the chips themselves can be hacked to access personal information. Therefore not only is it an open floodgate for identity theft by those who know how, but also a means for pan-surveillance, a sort of 21st century version of Jeremy Bentham's Panopticon. Panopticon on Wikipedia.
Bentham's orginal Panopticon text.
Also, see this story on RFID in passports in the Washington Post.


As frustrated as I am with paperwork, paper pushing, form filling, and blue ink, I think I prefer this form. It is a human system. Because it is a human system it is slow, flawed, and frustrating. It is subject to prejudice, among other human weaknesses, but it has it's beauty too. It certainly doesn't facilitate the kind of surveillance that would come from a paperless bureaucracy based on RFID. It also means that sometime, if you have a problem, someone can fight for you, someone can intervene on your behalf, and take care of things.

Bureaucracy's greatest flaw is it's greatest beauty. The problems of cronyism and corruption, of the influence of money over bureaucracy and the hearts of the people who make up a bureaucracy make it what it is. Bureaucrats can be heartless, and unwilling to help. In some places, and for some people, the greasing of palms can be the only way to get something done. Bureaucracy is certainly in most cases, in most countries around the world, a game in which the cards are stacked against the poor.

Corruption in bureaucracy could perhaps be called the largest problem of the last 100 years. News articles abound about the disaster of Hurricane Katrina, corruption in various governments around the world, corruption in American politics. A search of the BBC News website shows more articles on the subject of corruption than the search engine can return in one go. They suggest I narrow my search.

I am not the only person in the world who wonders what the solution is, or if one can be found. It seems to me that many people think that the digital solution is the best. Perhaps mathematically that is true. It would certainly be the most efficient for time and money, since a computer (however large or small) can do the work of hundreds of (mere) humans.

But as a human, despite the flaws of other humans, I think prefer to subject myself to a human system of bureaucracy than a digitalized one. However, the fear I have is not one in which computers become self aware and take over the earth, like in the movie The Terminator.

The problem is that with digital bureaucracy is still run by humans, and the potential for a secret puppeteer is even greater than with the current human/paper system. If we don't like the idea of government wiretapping home phones, or secretly reading our email, then the idea of an more efficient, and complete record keeping system, of someone tracking your every move is not at all appealing.

If you were ever afraid of the wizard behind the curtain in The Wizard of Oz be afraid now. The secret of a digital bureaucracy is not that there is some kind of machine running the world without prejudice, rather that it will be an even more rigid system designed and run by the same flawed humans. It will be harder to get help if you need it, and whatever injustices and prejudices currently exist will only become more permanently entrenched.

Should you need to reach a representative in government, or call someone at the IRS to correct an error, you will now be routed to a call center somewhere in Asia, or perhaps on the new moon base, where the person on the other end of the line will be very friendly, and kind, and completely unable to help you.

For a fun and interesting fictional/sci-fi exploration of the idea of pervasive digital surveillance read The Traveller by John Twelve Hawks.

For a more intellectual read on the history of surveillance, bureaucracy and punishment, check out the section on panopticism Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison by Michel Foucault.

Pierced Through the Nose

Ah the beauty of my new Macbook's built in iSight camera with sepia filter. I mean they almost look professionally done.

Anyway, I don't really know what came over me, when I decided I wanted to punch another whole in my body. I don't really consider myself the piercing kind. In fact, it was such a fad for so long that I resisted getting piercings precisely because I didn't want to do what everyone else was doing. In India of course, and Madurai especially this is a common thing for women, so I did end up doing what everyone else is.

I went to the doctor for the piercing after buying the jewellery, because it was recommended, and I thought it would be the most sanitary. I even told the doctor that I came to him so that it would be cleanly done, and I wouldn't get an infection. I expected him to clean my nose with alcohol, but he didn't. He wanted to give me a local anaesthetic, but I said no. I would rather feel pain than feel numb.

So I sat in a chair and he stood over me with a big hollow needle (on which he had poured some kind of disinfectant). I closed my eyes. He pushed the needle in. I thought,"Well, that didn't hurt so much". Then he tried to pull the needle back out again. It was stuck. That hurt. Then he went in again from the other side. Ouch. Finally his woman assistant pushed the jewellery through the hole. It didn't bleed much, which was good. But it sure was sore. And ironically when I got home I realized part of my nose was numb. They had poured some kind of liquid over it after piercing, which might have been a topical anaesthetic. I was annoyed because the numb part was not the part with the hole. Unfortunately the numbness stayed for about three days. Now that part of my nose is no longer numb, but it feels like someone is tickling me with a feather.

With liberal application of antibiotic ointment, so far there's no infection. Thank goodness.

I almost think I would have been better off with any old lady off the street. I'm sure they know better what they're doing than this guy.

Not to mention he proscribed me three different medications to take for two days afterwards. It was probably totally unnecessary, but because I was forced to buy them from him, and one was an antibiotic I decided to take them. After the not-so-sanitary way in which he pierced it, I thought it couldn't hurt. However, once I looked at the pills I realized I didn't know which one was which so I took all three. I hope if I have kids they aren't born with two heads or something.

Ah, India!

The Story of Pumpkin

This is Pumpkin.
I first saw Pumpkin lying in a pile of garbage by the side of the road. I was not surprised. She was shivering, and her nose was inside a plastic bag. Every rib and vertebrae was visible. She was coated in filth. Once I realized the thing I was looking at in the pile of garbage was alive, and was clearly suffering from starvation, I couldn't do nothing. I have walked past suffering (in humans and animals) too many times here in India, and for some reason I could not do it one more time.

I wanted to do something, but I still wasn't sure what would be best. What can you feed a starving and suffering animal that won't harm it further? I called another American friend who had previously adopted a puppy off the street here in Madurai. The answer was biscuits and milk or water. I bought biscuits and water and went over to the dog. I didn't yet know what else I would or could do, but doing something to help felt right.

After she started eating the biscuits and water I took her out of the garbage pile. After she ate the entire package of biscuits and drank some water, I decided to take her home. I didn't know if I could keep her, but she had such enthusiasm for the food, and it seemed like she deserved to be given a chance at living, rather than die in a pile of garbage.

As I was walking home with her in my arms, it dawned on me that her shivering was not really shivering at all, but a muscle twitch that was persistent. It occurred to me that something might be wrong with her other than starvation. I called my American friend again and asked if she knew of a Veterinarian. I went to the recommended location, and found the Vet operating out of an office about 4 feet by 5 feet. I was skeptical, but it is generally true in India that people care less about animals and have fewer pets than Americans. So it was understandable. I paid the Vet 400 rupees, for which he gave her an antibiotic shot, and two vaccines, one for Rabies and one for a variety of other communicable diseases. But he also diagnosed her muscle twitches as Distemper, a viral infection, which I was not at all familiar with. He said she had a chance at recovery, although he did warn me that it is sometimes fatal. I took her home, not knowing what else to do, but try to feed her sufficiently to help her get over the virus.

I bathed her and discovered that she was barely strong enough to stand. She had difficulty it seemed, mostly because her muscles had wasted away to such an extent that they just couldn't support her for more than a few seconds. The other problem was the twitch. But she kept trying, and I deemed her "a fighter".
"She wants to live." I told my friends who questioned the decision to adopt a sick stray off the street. "She deserves the chance to live."

I bought the antibiotic tablets the Vet prescribed and Pedigree puppy chow. After the first night, in which a puddle of pee and a puddle of puppy diarrhea appeared on my floor, I decided to keep her mostly on the balcony, and outdoor space that would be easier to clean. Since she could barely get up to go bathroom off the mat she was laying on, this seemed best. I also had come to realize that I probably wouldn't be able to keep her, or take her to the US, and I should not allow either myself or her to develop too much of an attachment.

I found her on Tuesday afternoon. Halloween, and it was then that I decided to call her Pumpkin. Wednesday she seemed better, stronger, and although sad to be left alone a lot of the time. Thursday seemed even better. She was still weak, but she was eating heartily, including the scrambled egg I cooked for her.

My landlady complained that she whined a lot, but there was not much I could do. On Thursday afternoon after I went out, and found her lying in an awkward pile with her neck bent backwards. She had gotten up to go to the bathroom, and fallen down on her way back to the mat. She had been unable to get up.

Friday was worse. I fed her another scrambled egg and puppy chow in the morning, and when I found her Friday afternoon, she had vomited all the food I had given her and was lying in the puddle of her own diarrhea and had been unable to get up and move. It occurred to me then that she might not make it, and that the best thing to do might be to have her euthanized. I cried at the thought of it, but still I started thinking that might be the end result.

By Saturday morning she was having seizures, and had been unable to get up off her mat to go to the bathroom. She was having trouble breathing but was still holding on. She had vomited even the water that I gave her.

I knew it was time to let her go. She was twitching, seizing, and whining as if in pain. I decided it was time to take her to the government veterinary hospital to have her euthanized.

When we arrive at a quarter to seven in the morning, the auto driver assured me they would arrive at seven. But they didn't open until 8 and the Vet didn't come until 8:30. When he did arrive, and finally saw me and the puppy he told me they don't do that there. He claimed there was some kind of government law or regulation against it. I sort of pleaded with him, saying it was the humane thing to do. And he said something vague to the effect of "Maybe we can do something to ease her pain." I looked at him completely blankly, and he walked away.

Finally I went to find him, to ask if they couldn't or wouldn't euthanize her here, where could I go? He said, "No, No. I'll send my deputy." I looked at him blankly again, tears running down my face.

What is a deputy for a Veterinarian? In what way is he a deputy? What does that mean? So the deputy, came and told me I had to write a letter. It was all very vague, but he brought me a piece of paper and I started writing. Then the Vet came out and looked at the letter and told me it was all wrong. I had to start over. I had to address it a certain way, and give the specifics of the dog. Her name, age, sex, color, breed, etc. I looked at the Vet when he said breed, like, what do you mean "breed"? Look at her. She's a street dog. And he said: "You can put down 'local breed'." So I rewrote the letter and gave it to the Vet. He took it and waved me off in a vague direction. "Take her over there." I wandered in that direction, dog in my arms, sobbing. Finally someone pointed me to the "operating room" and had me lay her on the table. Then they told me to leave the room. When I left her, she started crying loudly and I started crying even harder.

The auto rickshaw driver was telling me "It's ok madam, don't worry." And one of the women working there, was saying to me in Tamil, "Don't cry, don't cry." And then, finally, practically shouting it, "STOP CRYING!" I tried to stop but couldn't really do it. I realized it was culturally inappropriate to display so much emotion over a dog. But there was nothing I was going to do about that.

The Vet called me over again to inform me that they would not be able to do anything with the body, that I would have to take it with me. I said ok, I don't really know where to take it, or what to do, but I will take it and I will figure something out. I said this because it seemed to be a condition of their doing this thing for me. The auto driver was there, and the Vet explained it to him too, and he said he could find someone. So then the Vet asked if I was done with the dog.

I said no. I hadn't really said goodbye. So I went back inside, and said goodbye to her. I kissed her face, and said I was sorry, and I hope she gets another chance at another and a better life. I didn't know that I believe in reincarnation, but apparently I do. She got such a bad deal in life this time, I just kept thinking I hope it gets better than this. I looked her in the eyes, and I felt that she understood. And then I left again. They forbade me to be in the room.

A few minutes later they came out and told me it was over. I went in and saw her, both sad that she was gone, and happy that she was free of the shell in which she had suffered. Her body was still for the first time. The muscle twitching that had been constantly plaguing her was gone. I collected her body in the shawl in which I had been carrying her, and lay her on the floor of the auto.

I cried the whole way home, despite the auto drivers pleas of "Don't worry, madam. It will be alright, madam."

In the neighborhood near my house we pulled over to the side of the road next to some people sitting there. The auto driver called a man over and explained that he should dispose of the body. The man made a face, but said yes. Then the drive turned to me and said, "Give him 100 rupees." So I gave him 100 rupees, and he took the body. The driver assured me he would do a good job burying it.

I got home, and my landlady asked what happened. I couldn't really explain it to her, but she gave me coffee, and asked in Tamil if I "felt". "Feel pannriyaa?", she asked.

"Yes," I said, "I feel."

The Rest of Hyderabad

Here are some pictures from Hyderabad, the rest will be up on flickr.

Self Portrait in the Queen's Mosque

A view from inside Golconda Fort

Hero Stone from the Archaeology Museum in Hyderabad

Happy in Hyderabad

*retyping a lost post sucks. That's all I have to say.*
The guidebook says Hyderabad is a city of contradictions. Old and new, Hindu and Muslim, rich and poor. They are right. Hyderabad is in some ways the most modern city I have been to in India yet. ATMs on every corner. Rampant consumerism, malls areas with flashing lights reminiscent of New York City. But at the same time there are things that lag behind. For one the garbage problem is still there. On the small street on which my hotel is located, there is a giant garbage pile which is generally smoldering or fully on fire. Its smoke fills the entire street. And despite signs every few feet along the walls that prohibit urination and defecation, people still regularly squat down in the gutter and just "go". The signs even threaten a 50 Rupee fine, but people regularly ignore it. There is less sexual harassment here though, which is a step forward. Some younger women wear jeans, tank tops, and tight t-shirts without being harassed. So that's great. On the other hand many women also wear Purdah, which the guide book claims is mostly to avoid harassment. I'm not certain that they're right, but it certainly makes for visual contradictions to see women in tank tops and jeans, and women covered head to toe in draping black fabric.
One of the contradictions, Hindu and Muslim definitely has a traumatic history which is being relieved even today. The clashes took place decades ago, but the animosities between Hindus and Muslims living in close contact are still evident. On the bus today I saw an "heated conversation", you might call it, between a Hindu man and a Muslim man over who had the right to sit in the seat. But so far as I could tell it was really not about the seat at all, but rather the expression of pent up anger and frustration. I guess if shouting and arguments on the bus are the manifestation of these hostilities it's better than the communal rioting that took place here in the past.
I did have one good "inter-cultural" experience. Yesterday, when coming back from the Laad Bazaar and Charminder, I caught an auto with a Muslim auto driver. Initially he was talking to me in Hindi and very broken English about how my god and his god are all one Allah. And I said Yes. But mostly I didn't understand a word he said. Then I said something to the effect of "I don't know Hindi" in Tamil, and he answered me in Tamil. It turns out he is Tamil, and has been living in Hyderabad for the past 20 years. He converted to Islam 25 years ago, and moved to Hyerabad, married a Hindi speaking woman and has 5 children. He converted to Islam from Hinduism, and was very sincerely enthusiastic about his religion. So he starts asking if I have read the Koran, and I said No. Then he asks me if I will read it, and I said Yes. Finally I promised him I would read the Koran (something I should do anyway) and he was very pleased. Then he started asking me about marriage. A common line of questioning. I told him I am not married yet, don't know when I will be, or to whom, and my parents will not arrange it for me. So then he told me I should marry an Indian Muslim and convert to Islam. I said something to the effect of "Maybe, you never know what will happen." And he was very happy about this too. By the time we arrived at my hotel he was calling me his younger sister and offering to arrange my marriage. I declined that offer. Then he offered to send me a copy of the Koran, and I told him he could do that, I would certainly read it. He wanted my phone number which I declined to give, but gave the Institutes address so he can mail me a copy of the Koran. Then he told me not to pay him for the ride.
If he does send me a copy of the Koran (in English) I really will read it. As I think many Americans (or at least the liberal ones) are now thinking, I need to learn more about Islam and understand it better if the world is going to become a better place, with less hatred and more understanding.
On another topic completely, yesterday I went to the Archaeology Museum here in Hyderabad, and saw their very lovely collection of Bidriware, Chinese pottery, Hindu sculpture, and bits and pieces of Buddhist stupas. While there I was wondering around the courtyard and saw an office with a sign that said NO ENTRY, but the walls were lined with books. So I poked my head in the door and said "Are you the archaeologists?" and the woman sitting there said yes. She turned out to be Dr. Suguna Sharma, an archaeologist who was working on textiles and patterns. So we talked for a little while and had tea, and she referred me to Dr. K.P. Rao, at the Hyderabad University. His was a name I thought I recognized, and indeed he is the author of the book Deccan Megaliths (1988, Sundeep Prakashan, Delhi), which I have often cited. So she gave me his contact information, and this morning I called him on the phone and asked if I could meet him. He proposed this afternoon, and so I went by bus to the campus (18 km away from the town) to meet him.
Dr. Rao turned out to be a very friendly man, and very helpful and interesting to talk to. He gave me copies of many of his articles, and allowed me to look at and photograph some of the pottery from a megalithic site that he has been excavating recently. He also said that when he goes for field work I can join him and participate in surveys and excavations and the like, whatever he's doing next summer. To top it all off he said I can come back and do some analysis of pottery and human remains from his recent excavations. It's all very future and tentative, but I'm still thrilled and excited nonetheless.
I have been doing some sightseeing too, and will post those pictures soon.

Systems to prevent voter fraud

Voter fraud is a problem. It has always been a problem (as long as democracy has existed), and I'm sure it will always be a problem. A while ago I saw a news story in the form of video of a man testifying before the US Congress that he was hired to create a program to hack the computerized voting system in Florida. He claimed that as he understood it, he was writing this program so that future attempts at fraud and hacking could be more easily identified. I paraphrase: "It only took a few lines of code to insert a few extra thousand votes on whichever side you wanted them to be."

India has another sort of problem all together. For one they use paper ballots with pictures for the different parties and candidates. This results in several problems which are equally difficult to solve. The Indian press has been reporting on these problems and the government's efforts to solve them. One significant problem are armed gangs coming with fake ballots to stuff the ballot boxes. This has been solved with each of the voting centers being heavily guarded with armed police. So what if it feels like martial law when you go to vote. All those men with guns are there to protect democracy...

Another problem involves tampering with votes after they have been cast. For that they put giant padlocks on the metal boxes in which the votes are placed.

The third and perhaps most serious problem you might think would be individuals who attempt to vote more than once, or at more than one voting station. Since many people here don't carry government identification (there are no ID cards like drivers licenses that people carry regularly) instead the resort to a semi-permanent form of body modification. Like a club in New York, or a theater where they stamp your hand, once you have cast your one and only vote, they put a plus sign in ink on your finger and fingernail. Since there are multiple elections, for district representatives, ministers, etc., they reserve different fingers for different elections. In this way they mark you as a citizen, as one who has legally and rightfully participated in the democratic process.

In some ways it seems silly. In America we have computers for that, and you can only vote at your registered center where you are listed on a roster. You have to present proof of identity, but in the end they don't mark you in any way. And yet marking seems like a good idea. That way you can see who cares and who doesn't. On election day if you run into your friends, and you don't see black ink on their fingernail you can chastise them, and tell them to go participate in their democracy. That's what Democracy is supposed to be for. For that matter maybe it should be a tattoo. A small one, to be sure. But still, a small unique mark for each year that you vote. How brilliant would that be?

Video of the congressional testimony on vote machine hacking.

A poet and a saint (and a woman)

This most recent weekend we took a trip to the temple in the town of Srivilliputhur, about an hour away from Madurai. The temple there is dedicated to the saintess and poet Andal, who wrote bhakti devotional poetry about the Lord Rangunathan, an avatar of Vishnu. The temple there was built in the Nayak period (14th century) and had exquisitely beautiful stone sculptures of which I took an excessive quantity of photographs. There isn't much else to say about it, so instead I'll refer you to my Flickr Page.

The main gateway or gopuram at the temple in Srivilliputhur.

No Wonder the British Preferred the Hills

View from the train going up the mountain to Ooty
Ooty is one of the most beautiful places in India. It was one of several important "hill stations" built by the British to avoid the heat and dust of the plains. The Nilgiris in general are unbelieveably beautiful. And I was fortunate enough to live there, in a town called Lovedale, for 3 months several years ago. This past weekend I went to Lovedale to visit the friends that I made there. Because of it's beauty and temperate climate, the Nilgiris have long attracted outsiders. Including the British, but also North Indians and various European expats.

Tea plantations in the clouds and fog.

The result is that a North Indian woman and her husband moved down to Lovedale to retire. After he passed away she decided to start a school. She hired teachers including my friend Josephine, to teach in this school. After a few years she got tired of running the school and closed it down. Then she offered Josephine a job as her house servant, gave her and her family (husband and two children) a single room to live in. This room is attached to a three room cottage which she rents out, often to foreigners, such as myself, which is how I became acquainted with Josephine and Lovedale. Recently she added a kitchen on to the one room, so that now Josephine and her family have one room for sleeping, plus a kitchen.

What is worse than having to be a servant, is being treated like one. And that is the tragedy of the situation. "Leela" is her pet name for Josephine, and she shouts it at the top of her lungs whenever she wants tea.

So when I went to Lovedale to visit this weekend I decided to do something to try to help improve their lives. Josephine's husband is an Auto rickshaw driver, (like a small three wheeled taxi, if you've never seen one), but business is rough and he doesn't own his own auto. Most of his earnings go to pay the rent on the auto itself. Also, these days many auto drivers have cell phones, which allow them to maintain regular customers. Raja (that's his name) wasn't able to compete. So on top of the birthday presents for Cinderella, I bought them a cell phone and a subscription to service for life. All they have to do is pay 50 rupees every 6 months to keep it active. My good deed for the week.

If I wanted to here, I could go on and on about the not-nice deeds of the rich woman who employs my friend. But suffice it to say she does not treat her as an equal, and barely as another human being. It is not slavery, to be sure, but the analogy can be drawn.

And yes, Cinderella really is her name. I'm not sure if Josephine knows the American story or only heard the name somewhere, but she named her daughter, her eldest child Cinderella. And despite the fact that both her parents are still living, this real life Cinderella lives in almost as tragic circumstances. All I can say is that I hope her prince one day comes. It was her fourteenth birthday on Sunday and we celebrated with presents, church, more presents, and chocolate cake. The chocolate cake was amazing.

I was only able to stay for two days, but it was still lovely. And I hope I really did make a difference in their lives. We shall see.

Cinderella, Josephine, Malcom and Raja in front of their home.

The view from their front door. Clouds and mountains, clouds like mountains.

Women Dance the KummiAdi

Here is the video:

Village Festivals

Yesterday I went to the village of Vilaacheri, where I hope to start pottery lessons next week. I went because I was invited for a festival the name of which I'm not entirely clear on. The festival consisted of the following: Extremely loud film music played over gigantic loudspeakers, drunk men, millions of children, women dancing the KummiAdi, men shouting and whistling, and the procession of the village gods around the village on ceramic horses painted brightly and carried with long bamboo poles by 8 young men each. The village was festively decorated with streamers and each house had beautiful chalk paintings, called 'kolam' out front. Where the procession was set to begin, the women were dancing. Then when they finished, the men picked up the ceramic horses, beginning with the head god of the village, seated on the first horse, and processed to the main temple, and from there to each of the other temples in the town. It was fascinating, but also exhausting.

I also seem to be playing a small role in the politics of the village, since I have been befriended by a woman who is running for village president (what used to be called 'headman'). Her husband who is now dead was the headman many years back, and now she also has the desire to run for office. I was with her before the procession started, as we walked around the village, she greeted many people and introduced them to me. Whether she thinks her friendship with a foreigner will help her in any way, I can't really say. Whether it could actually help her get votes, I don't know. But there are seven people running for the position, so who's to say.

The women dancing the KummiAdi.
p.s. I have a video of the women dancing as well, but I'm still working on uploading it.

An Earth a Day

As another aside, if you have a minute check out this quiz that estimates your consumption on a world scale. It's depressing, but probably somewhat accurate.

In India, where I consume almost entirely local products, never drive a vehicle, walk or take the bus almost everywhere, etc. I still consume more than my share of the planet per population. In America, according to my normal American consumer habits it tells me that if everyone in the world lived like me, we would need 4.5 earths to support us all.
Check it out: Earthday.org Footprint Quiz

Off the beaten path... Kodumanal

Finally I was able to get to visit the site of my future research: Kodumanal.
I left Saturday morning on a train to the town of Erode. This cost 32 rupees. A bus to the even smaller town of Chennimalai (6 rupees), and from there a bus to the tiny village of Kodumanal (3 rupees). A chance to visit the site of my archaeological dreams? Priceless. Or well, nearly so, anyway.

The travel was uneventful save for the barrage of questions I usually get when people realize I speak some Tamil: Where is your native place? Why have you come to India? Why have you come here specifically? What do you do? What do you study (i.e. what degree)? What subject do you study? How old are you? Are you married? Do you have children? Do you have siblings? Are they married? Do they have children? What do your parents do? Will you get married? When? Do you have a groom already picked out? And sometimes questions like: Why do you have three piercings in one ear and only one in the other? Do you wear Indian clothes in America? Do you wear Sarees? Where do your parents live in the US? Is it a joint family? etc. etc. These questions I answered on the bus to several people on the way to the village and several times to different people in the village. Luckily, once I've told a few people, and they are around, whenever someone else comes by and starts asking the same questions, whoever I've already spoken with begins answering for me. What is especially fascinating is that everyone always asks the same set of questions. Sometimes they only ask the first three or four or five, but the order is almost always the same.
I was also questioned on the bus, as to whether I knew the address where I was going. And I didn't but I knew the name of the village, and the name of a man to talk to when I got there. I hoped that was enough.

Sure enough, I got off of the bus and asked for Mr. Somu and was directed towards a house. It turns out it wasn't Mr. Somu's house, but the house that Dr. Rajan had arranged for me to stay in for the night. They provided me with a bed and a meal, and were very hospitable and nice. Of course they too asked all the same questions, but I didn't mind. Theirs was a joint family, one grandmother, two sons, two daughters-in-law, and 2 grandsons, one for each couple. And they all lived under one roof. Anyway, they fed me a lovely dinner of rice, two kinds of vegetables, sambar, rasam and yogurt. It was delicious. Despite the fact that they had no running water, (a cistern over the kitchen sink and gravity provided it instead) they had a Sony Wega Trinitron TV, cable and a DVD player. So we watched a Tamil movie in the evening while the two two-year old boys played with their toy cars.
In the morning Mr. Somu came and got me and we went to check out the site.

There wasn't alot to see, especially in the habitation area. A mound was not especially apparent, although the scatter of pottery and the fine clear crystal debitage of bead making was very abundant. The trenches had all been filled in, and were not marked anywhere. And the whole thing was under cultivation. There was a lot more to see with the megaliths in the burial part of the site, although that too had been plowed at some point in the past. One large excavated megalith was left open, and I'm pictured below standing down inside it. A few others were apparent on the surface. Also, menhirs, or standing stones were still there and quite obvious. If there were really over 100 megaliths there when Rajan and the archaeologists studied the site nearly 20 years ago, many of them must be gone now, or are no longer visible on the surface.
In any case, it was immensely useful to get a first hand view of the site, rather than simply read about it or look at black and white pictures in a book. As you can see from below, the pictures are nice, but you still don't really get a sense of the whole thing. Of course it's spread out over 50 acres, or so Mr. Somu said.
Luckily I didn't fall in any more septic tanks... (there were several possible candidates, but I was adept at avoiding them.)

This is Kodumanal, the habitation site.

Me in front of the transepted cist of an excavated megalithic burial.

One of the stone circles, indicating a sub-surface burial.