The photos for all three stops in Tamil are online, here: https://www.icloud.com/iphoto/projects/#8;CAEQARoQuWj_bg94JNNh9wuTyGGCSw;D7C17FF7-93BD-49ED-865A-D2CA94614A01
We arrived in Chennai with the setting sun. I immediately liked it better than Delhi. We got lucky and landed a room in the Lonely Planet's "top choice" for hotels: Hotel Chandra Park. Starch white sheets! Four pillows! A/C! The kitchen wasn't too bad, either, and so for 3 of our 4 nights in the city we got room service, a luxury I'd never afforded before
The San Thome Church. Originally built in 1504 by the Portugese and re-built in 1893 in its current form. The most noteworthy thing here is that it is the National Shrine of St.Thomas Basilica: the burial site of Doubting Thomas, the apostle to Jesus credited for bringing Christianity to the subcontinent. There is an ancient pole, possibly a ship mast, sticking out of the ground behind the building with Thomas's tomb. It is believed by the congregation that the church and the patrons there during the tsunami of 2004 were spared by this pole as a holy miracle of their saint. It is true that the church is right on the Chennai coast that was otherwise hit terribly by that disaster.
This is the Ramakrishna Mutt math, a Hindu temple that feels like a Hindu temple but, from the inside, looks like a Catholic church, complete with arched ceilings and stained glass windows. It was a pleasant and friendly place to sit and walk around.
The process of haggling with rickshaw drivers is draining, and we weren't around long enough to learn the bus system; we opted to take in the city mostly by foot. We took it in with our senses bombarded the way only India bombards. The eco-awareness and/or the municipal waste systems are terrible in most of India. It is normal to throw any sort of garbage outside, anywhere. There are staged systems of sweeping garbage into collective mounds that are partially removed by trucks, but this process is a losing battle. It is also all-too common to see waste poured directly into water ways. For men in India, when nature calls, he simply turns away from the masses, unzips and lets fly. (There is also a squat and spread 'em technique when he is wearing a dhoti.) Combine this with deification of cows, dogs, goats, chickens, etc., strewn anywhere, walking on the streets is never a simple one-foot-in-front-of-the-other process. (And this is not even counting the special occasions when the sewers are spilling over onto the streets due to monsoon flooding.) There are smells in city streets one can walk into that pierce the nose with a foulness I imagine hell might smell like.
Smells on the streets in an Indian city are like orbs that you pass through and see only with your nose. You walk through walls of stench: the aroma of rotting water, the perfume of a weeks worth of decomposing food so far gone the street dogs ignore it. Yet, and this is a big yet, there are equally invisible, heavenly corridors of insence and home cooking so delightful the mind and body will-lessly swoon. In South India it is poplar for women to tie strings of tiny white flowers in their hair. These flowers chains are created and sold at street stalls. These tiny flowers give off the sweetest fragrance that miraculously cut through the din of other smells. One's appreciation of these gems is duly heightened. In India it is more precious than ever to stop and smell the roses.
We passed this community near the fort train station. It unoficially took over the third lane of the three-lane motorway with life spilling out of the houses made of thatched palms and scrap materials. I felt nervous walking along the rush of autos, but clearly I was an outsider. The farm animals and dogs were unphased. There were babies playing on the white lines of the roadway.
We tried to go to Fort Saint George. (Alexandre loves his forts.) But, we failed. We walked there via a path we found on the map only to be sent to the "main entrance" by the guards where foreigners are allowed to enter. We were offered many rides by a fleet of female rickshaw drivers, but despite the thrill of seeing ladies in khaki doing a "man's job", we declined. This was regrettable. We literally circled the entire fort being turned away at every entrance. We could see the museum beyond the guarded walls, but we did not solve the puzzle of getting inside. Maybe it was a simple oversight, but after miles of walking that morning in the wet, sticky heat with the intensity of India's 4th largest city bearing into our bones, we gave up and went back to our air conned sanctuary.
After recharging on dosas and lassis, we set out into the monsoons with Plan B: visit the governnment museums. Little did we realize we were there on Ganesha's special day and the whole complex was closed for holiday. Boo! We had to laugh. Then we decided to take a rickshaw to the big fair-trade store in town for some retail therapy. We got to dry some under cover and watch how the city copes with its rainy season.
On our last niht in Chennai we treated ourselves to a big ol' sampling of South Indian pastries from the Saravana Bhavan, the food chain everyone seems to love, including us.
The next morning we were off for Tiruvannamalai. In order to ask for the right bus, we literally practiced saying the name of this town so many times I can't remember how to say it wrong anymore. The bus took 4 hours to cover the 185 kilometers, and our window would only stay open if I held it up myself.
Tiruvannamalai is a prominent temple town dedicated to Shiva the Destroyer, set at the base of the holy mountain Arunachala. We did not come here exactly for this mountain, but Sri Ramana Maharshi did. Ramana is an Indian saint that was enlightened at age 16, in 1895. After this big change, he left his family, friends and schooling behind and began to meditate first at the temple and then in caves on the mountain for the next two decades. Slowly he became known without seeking any notice (in fact, he wanted privacy at this time) and began to attract a following. In 1922 Ramana and his followers established the Ramanasrama, the ashram where he lived and taught (often in silence) until his death there in 1950.
It is because of Ramana we went to check out the lay of the land in the depths of Tamil. Ramana, so we have heard, was a loving being who cared for animals and people alike. He taught people to meditate on the question "who am I?" to uproot our delusions of duality. He said the root of all thinking is 'I', and our delusions about reality stem from the assumption that 'I' is a separate entity from everything else. (How's that summary, Rain?) I am still stuck in attachment to an ego, as much as this gets me into trouble. But, I have strong intuition that there is more to know than I think I know. And, Alex and I have a wonderful teacher and friend who we love and trust and she loves and trusts Ramana Maharshi. This was more than enough reason to learn how to pronounce Ti...ru...van...na...mal...ai and swing through while we are on the same continent!
Even without our favorite saint, this town attracts thousands and thousands of pilgrims each year. One of the major practices is to circumambulate the 14 kilometers around Arunachala. We were there, this is the thing people do, so we did it. We kept our shoes on for this part. Neither of us are devout enough to walk the better part of 10 miles on Indian roadways (see several paragraphs up for further explanation.) We saw many, many sadhus (Hindu ascetics) hanging out along the roadside asking for breakfast. We gave away our food and then bought some bananas and gave those away too. No money, just nutrition.
We visited the temple toward the end of our loop. It's a big one. Old and formidable. It spans 10 hectares and rises to 66 meters. I don't understand the intricacies of Hinduism. I had a patient friend try to teach me once, but there are so many gods with countless incarnations spanning aeons, I get lost. I'm not drawn into it. It's not my home. But, I enjoy the sights and the true spiritual endeavor is one I respect, regardless of creed.
There are gorgeous peacocks in the neighborhood around the ashram. Free and flying (did you know they fly?) There were also dogs, mongoose, chicken, goats, squirrels...
flying (not really) monkeys...
and extra-regal cows.
We could not leave with out going up into Arunachala itself to explore. We entered the ashram, gave up our shoes according to the rules, and trekked upward. There is a peaceful ashram built around one of Ramana's caves some distance up. I sat for a while inside. My mind was a buzz but my body was wrapped in an heavy blanket of contentment. If I ever felt any power of this place, it was here on the hill.
Alex rested at this little ashram and watched a monkey show while I followed some white arrows to see what else there was to see. They led me up lots of rocks and would have taken me to the summit if I had not thought better of it. It took a lot longer to descend a rocky mountain barefoot than it did to climb up it, so Alex was waiting for me for about an hour. Oops! Sorry, love, I didn't mean to scare you.
While Alex was nervously wondering where the hell I was, I was meeting these three men: Arun, Sastha and their teacher. They were here on a little spiritual holiday from their home in Kerela. It was a pleasure to meet them and I appreciated such kind companions on my unintended climb of Shiva's mountain of fire.
We boarded another bus. We are really sick of buses. This one was only 3 hours and our window worked, but it had a crazy drunk Tamil on it. We made it to Puducherry/Pondicherry and Alex was thrilled. This is a former French colony. The French part of town, with deteriorated cobble stones, Rue This and Bonjour That. It is Indian meets France. We had cheese! And wine! I'll get to that...
We scored a sweet A/C room in the Park Guest House. This is a branch of the Sri Aurobindo Ashram, an institution that seems to run this entire region spiritually. The jury is out on wether Sri Aurobindo and his french counterpart, co-celebrity, "The Mother", both long deceased, were legit or merely charismatic moralists. The hotel was coated with messages on how to live and how not to live that feel pushy, but otherwise it was completely gorgeous and cheaper than everything else in the overpriced holiday town.
We had a super cheap breakfast in the canteen every morning, overlooking the Bay of Bengal.
I meditated in meditation room and we both enjoyed the big garden.
"Pondy" is a holiday town for Indians. There were a handful of French ex-pats there, a spattering of whitey tourists like us, and otherwise it was full of out-of-towners here to enjoy a little break. There were honeymooners, rich old people, young bands of women in kurtas and men holding hands, people taking photos of the beach and of each other posing (but not smiling; that seems to be more a Western habit.) It felt nice to be among people enjoying their motherland.
There is a small art scene there. Lots of street art and funky places to sit and have fresh-squeezed juice.
There are some seriously flash Catholic churches that were installed by French missionaries. This one is Sacred Heart Church.
This one is Church of the Immaculate Conception.
And my favorite by far, Notre Dame des Anges. It's really interesting to experience Indian Catholics worship. Those who came to pray would frequently put their two hands right on the statues in physical, prayerful devotion. Having grown up in churches, I can't remember ever seeing large displays of surrendered devotion like this. I am used to discrete, knees-bent, head-lowered prayer. The French might have funded big buildings and converted a tiny percentage, but they didn't change the way people show devotion. The cultural contrast is great.
Three of our days there we rented bikes. Alex was too tall for all of their cycles, but for a less than a dollar a day, he didn't complain. We pedaled around Pondicherry, Alex making me promise before every venture to keep safety first. My favorite part of biking was ringing my bell. We channeled our inner rickshaw drivers and made lots of ding-dings all over town.
There are great antique and fun shops in Pondicherry. We could never afford the shipping on a solid stone Buddha head or a full-sized badass bovine, but poking around was lots of fun.
We rode on to the green rectangle of the map on the west side of town and visited the aquarium and botanical garden. The aquarium was a long room full of fish tanks. It cost 5 rupees per person and was worth just about that. The photo you see cost another 10 rupees which Alex was hounded for.
The Botanical Gardens were a charmingly disheveled mess of overgrown grass and few intended species from what we could tell. It is a hang out spot for kids on their way home from school. Old men were playing chess in a big group on a path. From what I could tell, we all enjoyed our time there.
Alex had been dreaming of eating good cheese and wine here, but all of the wine on menus was so overpriced we decided to have a picnic in our room. We rode to a grocery store, a bakery and a liquor shop to gather supplies. (He even got Roquefort blue cheese. (Making one very happy French boy.)) Then one night, with toilet-paper plates and Swiss Army knives, we had ourselves a secret, forbidden-in-the-ashram dinner in our room.
We are off again, this time on an overnight train bus to Kerala. Curses! We couldn't get on a train. We are set to take a Volvo A/C "semi sleeper" 12 hours to Trivandrum.
Lots of love and gratitude. We miss our families and send you kisses and hugs, as always.
