Addis Ababa

Today is the start of a very good day in Ethiopia:  We've got water!

Our friends are residents of Addis Ababa, the capital, for the past 1 1/2 years and are in the  diplomatic corps.  We were rolling on the floor from the their stories about the pain and pleasure of living in this African metropolis - until it hit us where it hurt - the bathroom.

So many people have asked why Ethiopia was such a priority for me.  For starters

Ethiopia has a fascinating and ancient history. In addition, the ancient Ethiopian Church is unique in the world in its Jewish influence, obvious even now in the biblical names of many of the people, streets and stores, as well as rituals, holidays, and Amharic, the national language has many similarities with hebrew.    Rather than bore you with the details, look at the questions below.  If something interests you,  answers can be found at the bottom of this page.

1.  What was the prior name of Ethiopia?

2.  Who was the last Emperor of Ethiopia and from whom did he descend?

3.  What countries border Ethiopia?

4.  Which river has its source in Ethiopia?

5.  What major anthropological discovery was made here in 1974?

6.  How do Ethiopians derive their names?

7.  What sacred object is housed in Axum in the north? (HINT:  Indiana Jones)

8.  What prominent early Hebrew prophet married an Ethiopian worman?

9.  What is the connection with the Caribbean and other Rastafarians?

10.  Was Ethiopia ever colonised?

Two of the crazier things here are the calendar and the clock. Ethiopia did not adopt the Gregorian calendar as did the rest of the Christian world in 1582.  As a consequence, the Julian calendar still rules which means that Ethiopia is seven years and eight months "behind" the rest of the Christian world.  Their calendar consists of 13 months (hence, the country's tourism slogan,"13 months of sunshine"), of which 12 months contain 30 days each, while the 13th month is just 5 days in duration (6 during leap years).   New Year's Day here is September 11.  

Much more confusing is Ethiopian time, which, like neighboring Kenya and Tanzania, measures time in two 12-hour cycles starting at 6 a.m. and 6 p.m, respectively.   So our 7am is their 1pm.    Our 1pm is their 7pm.  Fortunately, when dealing with westerners, most Ethiopians use western time.  Just to be sure though one must always clarify, "Do you mean 5 pm, European time, or do you mean 11?

 Addis (as it is known by the locals) is actually quite civil as compared to other African capitals I've visited.   It is relatively clean.   There are traffic signals and median dividers.   Perhaps most importantly, it seems that there is less desperation here than in many other developing world cities, including those of India.   But one should never be fooled by appearances.

Traffic is a nightmare at rush hour.  It can take more than one hour to go less than just a few miles to the other side of town.  Detours are plentiful.  Oftentimes there is no detour at all and traffic snakes every which way through unfinished road construction slaloming past working bulldozers and around other material and equipment blocking the path like giant boulders left behind by a volcano.  Huge potholes, no signposts, and people, of course, are everywhere.  The pedestrians of this city of 4 million, for some reason, do not look when they cross the street, preferring instead to trust the good will of oncoming cars to swerve around them.  Everything takes 3 times as long as it does in our world.  Ethiopia was ranked last among nations for its telecommunications capability by an international internet watchdog.  True to its reputation, the internet is slow, intermittent and controlled, our friends say, by the government.   Certain news sites are inaccessible.  After 45 minutes shopping for some trip supplies in a local store, we were unable to purchase anything because the credit card machine could not make a connection and we didn't have enough cash on hand,.  Calling in the card number was not an option as landlines are almost nonexistent.  Electricity surges are common.  We have gotten used to eating dinner in a darkened restaurant, and speaking with friends as the lights go on and off indiscriminately for varying lengths of time, usually coming back before the end of a paragraph, or just in time for the punchline of a joke.  Remember the gas lines during the Arab boycott back in the 70's?  We just saw a line three times as long.   Writing this entry is no easy task.  

But the most absurd story is the story about water.  Our friends have two large tanks servicing their house which tanks are replenished at night when the spouts are turned on by the government. Every now and then (about once each month), either the electricity dies and the water can't be pumped to the house or, like yesterday, the nighttime surge doesn't happen for an unexplained reason.  There may not be enough water for the entire city and it must be rationed, or the government sells the supply to Djoubiti, a neighbor, in exchange for much needed foreign currency, or a water pipe is broken somewhere.  No one knows when the water will flow again.  It could be hours or days.  A mad dash is then commenced to find water.  Private haulers promise to come and refill, but never show.  Some haulers can't find the water needed for their customers either.  Others are promised twice or three times the price and go elsewhere.  Our friend, took his car searching the city for any  private water hauler he could find. Once spotted, he raced to block its path,  slamming on the brakes just in front of the truck, forcing the driver to stop.  A large bonus was offered for a delivery.  Although they agreed to come in "10 minutes," they never showed, having probably gotten a better offer from another frantic ex-pat.  There are companies that, for a relatively high premium, will reliably deliver water when needed, (often traveling up to 50 miles outside the city to get it), but they require payment up front.   The problem, he explained, is that oftentimes by the time the private haulers finally arrive to tap off the tanks, the city has opened the spout.   There is no where for the hauler to put the precious commodity because the tanks are now full.  Payment is required anyway.   This has happened so many times that our friends now simply do without and pray for rain.  

Tomorrow we leave for 3 weeks, traveling overland to the north of the country.  We'll be back in Addis on the 23rd for a 3-night pit stop before we begin our journey south.   There's so much more to write.   Thankfully I will have the time on the long drive north.  Hopefully, I will find an internet connection that stays on long enough to make the post.

ANSWERS:

1.  Abyssinia

2.  Haile Selassie was the last of 237 Ethiopian emperors, all of whom claimed to be direct descendants of the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon.  It is a dynasty that ruled the country for 3,000 years.  When the Queen returned to Ethiopia from Jerusalem and her liason with the King, she converted to Judaism and gave birth to Menelik, the progeny of the two monarchs.  Menelik, (which derives from the hebrew "Ben Melek," or "Son of the King"), returned to Jerusalem when he was 22 years old to visit his father.  He was greeted with a joyous reception and stayed for 3 years, learning the law of Moses.  As Solomon's eldest son, he was offered the throne of Jerusalem, which he declined.  Solomon accepted his decision and told all of his high commissioners to send their eldest sons and ordered that 1,000 people from each of the 12 tribes of Israel accompany Menelik home.  Upon his return, Menelik's mother abdicated the throne in his favor and the Somonic dynasty ruled Ethiopia, almost unbroken until 1974 when the 237th monarch, Haile Selassie, was overthrown in the revolution.   This is the short answer.

3. Landlocked Ethiopia is bordered by Somalia in the east (and Somaliland, an as yet unrecognised state), Eritrea and Djibouti in the north, Kenya in the south and Sudan to the west.

4.  The NIle river has two sources:   The White Nile is sourced in Uganda and the Blue Nile is found here in Ethiopia.   We will be visiting the source and the Grand Canyon-like gorge where it is found tomorrow, on our trip up north.

5.  In 1974 the almost complete 3.5 million year-old hominid skeleton, nicknamed "Lucy" (the song "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds" was playing the camp shortly after the and discovery), was found in western Ethiopia and demonstrated that bipedal hominids had evolved much earlier than had been previously assumed.  She is the likely candidate for the common ancestry of the human chain of evolution.  Ethiopia hence claims to be the cradle of civilisation.

6.  The first name of any Ethiopian is given by their parents.   But the "family" name is their father's given name.    Therefore, a man may be known as Djenie Tadese, not of the "Tadese" family, but rather, the "son of Tadese,"  His wife may be Guerne Belai, the daughter of Belai."   Their children's "family" name would be the first name of their father, "Djenie."

7.   The Bradt Guide describes it best:  In Axum's Maryam Tsion Church (in the country's north) lies an artefact which, were it proved to be genuine, would add immense substance to Ethiopian legendeering.  Unfortunately, only one person alive has ever seen this artefact.  The Ark of the Covenant, is, according to Ethiopian Christians, kept under lock and key in the Church and only the official guardian is allowed to enter.  The Ark was built by the Children of Israel to hold the Tablets of Law given to Moses by God on Mount Sinai.  According to the Bible, God gave Moses precise instructions on its design and embellishments.   It was thus vested with a deadly power that was particularly devastating in time of battle.  After the Jews settled in Jerusalem, the Ark was enshrined in a temple built by Solomon in the 10th century BC, where it remained until the temple was destroyed by the Babylonians in 587 BC.  While in Jerusalem, it was the most treasured artefact of the Jewish people, virtually the personification of God.  There is strong evidence that Menelik, took the Ark back to Ethiopia when he left Jerusalem, with the blessing of his father, King Solomon. The Ark has remained in Ethiopia ever since, locked away in the "Holy of Holies," the inner sanctum of the Church.   The history of the Jewish influence in Ethiopia and on the Ethiopian Church is fascinating and if you are so inclined, I would highly recommend the seminal book on the topic, The Sign and the Seal, by Graham Hancock.  

8.  Moses married an Ethiopian woman.  There is a strong historical connection between Ethiopia, Egypt and Yemen.

9.  Haile Selassie, the Last Emperor to rule Ethiopia, was known as "Ras Tefari," Chief of the Tefari tribe.  He offered land and other incentives to the descendants of former African slaves in the new world if they returned to Ethiopia.   It was the beginning of the Black Pride movement.   That's about all I can find on the topic.  Clearly not enough. 

10.  Ethiopia is the only country in Africa to never have been colonised by Europe, except for a brief period from 1936-1941, when Italy invaded and Haile Selassie went into exile.

There's so much more to write.   But I have to stop here.  Addis is calling.  

You Say Kolkata, I Say Calcutta

Ever since reading "City of Joy," Calcutta has always intrigued me.   The mere mention of its name conjures up exotic mystery, contradictions, and adventure.  After very productive meetings with PROOF's partners there, and an afternoon and evening of speed sightseeing and partying with our hosts, it seems to me that the capital of West Bengal (one of 22 Indian states) is very different from the one described in the book, written so many decades ago.   The city made famous by Mother Theresa and Mahatma Gandhi is filled with the vestiges of both decaying and newly renovated colonial buildings and shows very obvious signs that India is most definitely swiftly moving from "developing" to "developed" nation status.

Kolkata or Calcutta?  Which is it?

The Indian government changed the old colonial spelling of many of its cities in recent years in a tilt toward national pride.  Calcutta became Kolkata.  Bombay is now Mumbai and what was formerly Madras is now known as Chennai, among other changed names.    I thought that it might be offensive to use the old name and was diligent about my pronunciation when speaking to Indians.  However, it was finally explained to me that when Indians speak in Hindi they say the new name but when speaking in English they often use the old, British pronunciation -  similar to the French, for example, who say "Pa-ree" when speaking in their language, but use "Paris" when conversing in English.  

We met at the crack of dawn at the office of DRIK India, the leading photo agency in Southeast Asia, which uses the power of visual media to bring about social change.  It's projects include education about HIVAIDS,  poverty and class distinctions, human rights issues and violence against women and children, including rape and sex trafficking.   The purpose of the meeting was to brainstorm how PROOF could help advance the the organization's goals.  Other potential partners, invited by DRIK, also were in attendance, including several women's rights groups.

We reviewed, in detail, the intended project - a campaign to educate, advocate and bring needed resources to small villages throughout West Bengal. The major hurdle, we learned, is the protection of the women brave enough to come forward with their stories and the activists who support them.

West Bengal is the rape capital of a country notorious for violence against women.  The government here, as elsewhere in India, often turns a blind eye to the rape claim, or worse.  It has been known to use intimidation, threats and bribes to influence victims, witnesses and advocates to drop claims, ostracizes survivors as well as their families and supporters, and often buries sexual violence cases in a mountain of bureaucracy.  Corruption is rampant.  International pressure however is mounting and tourism is falling. The government is beginning to worry.   A world-wide organization like PROOF, they said, will provide much cover and protection to the small army on the ground.

The meeting was interrupted by the screams, shouts and cursing of two men downstairs.   It seems, we were told, that this happens quite often.   The two men are brothers in the same business.   One of them, according to the other, had taken some cash profits and gambled it away.

We soldiered on ignoring the ruckus.

We were told that blatant confrontation with the government must be avoided at all costs if the project is to succeed.  Any campaign that is aimed at government indifference could result in an immediate shutdown for "agitation."  Trials on the agitation issue, could take decades.  The State government here recently enacted a new law which prohibits anyone, including journalists, social workers and activists  from speaking to a rape victim or any member of her family, even if the victim is willing and eager to tell her story.  Testimony will have to be collected in the utmost secrecy.  There was hope that the law would be repealed shortly due to international pressure.   Some of the more notorious rape stories that happened in West Bengal and which received wide global publicity include the gang rape of a 16-year by the same gang -twice -(!) - as punishment for refusing to drop her criminal charges.   She was finally doused in kerosene,  set on fire and died of her injuries.   Another case involved the gang rape of a 20-year-old  by the men of her  village.  The men had been ordered by the village elders to commit the crime as punishment for what the entire community viewed as "loose" behavior. The girl had been caught talking, unchaperoned, to a man from another village and had been "rebellious" throughout her young life.   She is currently in hiding with her family and has pressed charges against her rapists, many of whom were married.   The entire village, including the wives of many of the men, is now claiming that the rape never took place despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

Representatives from the women's groups attending the meeting, included a particularly fierce, passionate activist for women with disabilities who are often shunned for their disability and suffer disproportionately from vicious crimes at greater frequency than the general female public.  The activist is herself is a victim of polio. She told us about a recent incident of a particularly brutal rape, torture and murder.   The 16-year-old girl had her legs opened and pulled apart after the gang rape.  Not a single one of the perpetrators has been brought to justice.

The Governor of the West Bengal is a women and there had been high hopes that she would bring about the necessary reforms.   She is as dismissive of rape victims as the men who preceded her.

Everyone in the room agreed that violence against women is on the upswing in India; that it is not simply that more victims are coming forward.  Indian society is very conservative, they explained, and men seem to be getting more and more angry and violent.  We agreed that the shrinking of the global community and the fast and wide spread of news, coupled with the depth and breadth of technological communication (everyone has a cell phone) has informed India's lowest and rising middle classes  that the lot of the poor here is an anomaly in much of the western world.  Rich men commit violence against women too, they said,  but for both victim and perpetrator, violence against women seems to be more prevalent among the lower classes.  Moreover, fewer poor female victims ever receive the justice and protection guaranteed them by international human rights' laws.

Among the goals of the campaign was the establishment, in each country, of a "One-Stop Clinic" where a survivor of sexual violence can get all the services she needs under one roof, including psycho-social and medical treatment and a rape kit.  Education of the community of the needs of the victim and fast-track rape courts, also top the list of needed resources, among other things.

It was confirmed that DRIK's main office in Bangladesh intends to participate in the project as well, which would include workshops, conferences and a traveling multimedia exhibition as described in the previous post, entitled "Work and Nepal"  The campaign would be coordinated in the 3 neighboring countries of Nepal, India and Bangladesh and take place during the "16 Days of Activism" campaign scheduled globally from Nov. 25- Dec. 10,  2014.

While the campaigns of all three countries will be quite similar, each campaign will be custom-tailored to appeal to the differences in culture and community common to each country.

Each campaign will open with a conference that includes policymakers, survivors and advocates (the identities of all survivors will be kept hidden), and which will be purposely kept small and by invitation only.  Workshops in peace-building, reconciliation, conscious-raising and edcuation will be included in the kick-off, a multi-day event.

But in Nepal, for exanple, street theatre, which is hugely popular in a country with a very high illiteracy rate, will be the main traveling event.    In India, the ubiquitous 3-wheeler taxis, will sport poster-size signs listing resource numbers and other information for survivors of sexual violence, for which a permit would be required, a major hurdle in itself, involving lots of red tape.    All three countries will have traveling exhibitions that include life-sized photos of survivors, whose identifying features will be hidden, as well as the oftentimes very emotional oral testimony of those survivors describing their ordeals, including, in many instances, banishment by their families and communities post-rape.

The goal of each and every one of PROOF's campaigns is to empower survivors to direct their own destiny and to gain the confidence to advocate for themselves.  We were told, for example, that two Nepalese women broke their silence, with PROOF's help, and gave testimony.  They are now the Plaintiffs in the first international case soon to be filed in Geneva against Nepal, for violation of their internationally protected human rights.  Another woman, in India, we were told, was entitled to government money for a disability that included a useless right arm as a result of schrapnel.  Someone else had been taking her check.   Once she was able to break the self-imposed silence and give testimony to PROOF's parnters on the ground, the woman felt empowered to go to the bureaucracy and demand her entitlement.   She finally received it.

The afternoon was devoted to sightseeing.  Subhu, a photographer with DRIK and Nandita, who volunteers at a group home for vulnerable women, Leora, me and a driver squeezed into a 4-seater car and zipped around Kolkata at the speed of a snail, caught in the massive traffic chaos that is so common in India's large cities.  Beautiful but decaying and decayed colonial architecture was everywhere.   Formerly white-washed and columned buildings now sport a dusty and cracked, dirty sand color, with broken window shutters  hanging by a thread.  But the former glory of what once was the Britishers' (as the Indians call them) colonial gem could not be disguised by the dilapidation.

I specifically asked to visit Nahum's Bakery, a Kolkata landmark and Jewish bakery, which has been in the same family for 170 years.  Christian Hindus and others form long lines, particularly around Christmas, to buy its moist, fresh-baked-daily fruit cake.  There were once 30,000 Jewish families living in Kolkata.  Today there are only 20.   One of the two surviving brothers who jointly own the bakery explained that while the Jews of Kolkata were fairly treated, most of the community had left for Israel and points beyond.    He himself, over 80, lives in Jerusalem and just happened to visiting.  An Indian manager runs the place in his absence.

A nighttime boat ride on the Hooghly River, a drive-by of Mother Theresa's "hospital" and a quick look at Kolkata's beautiful railway terminal made us hungry.   But first we strolled the streets for awhile, smelling the curries, burning sandalwood and navigating the narrow, crowded sidewalks lined with vendors on both sides; pedestrians, dogs, and people rushing everywhere.  Sidewalk may be a misnomer.   The walkway had no curb, being flush with the street, and was lined on both sides of the narrow path with vendors lined shoulder to shoulder.  Clothes, toys, books, electronics, scarves, saris, just about every sellable item known to man, hanging from above.   The available space for pedestrians was just too small to hold the shopping and walking crowds.   We finally gave up the sidewalk for the road, like the Indians themselves, to brave the cows, rickshaws, cars, buses and hordes more pedestrians.  It was much faster, albeit a bit more dangerous, to move forward from the street rather than the sidewalk, but at least we progressed.  At one point, Leora was stopped by Subhu, our host from DRIK, from buying a book from a street vendor.   Many of the books sold on the street, he told us, are missing pages.  Sure enough we checked and found plenty of non-sequential page numbers.

We went to a local bar for a pre-dinner drink, waiting for the restaurant to open enjoying the clean, relatively quiet interior.   Dinner at the best restaurant in the city, came to only $36 for all of us!

By Day 3 of our journey here, I finally got the obvious idea to ask for a "doggie bag" so I could take our restaurant leftover away  and give them to people living on the street.   I am happy - very happy - to report, that my hunch that very, very few people in India are starving, was confirmed by our hosts and by a little experiment I conducted here in Kolkata.  After our dinner I looked for and found the skinniest, dirtiest, most wretched child I could find.   She was playing ball with some friends.   I gave our dinner's leftovers to her, which she grabbed, placed it down on the street where she was playing and continued with her game.  While many may be hungry and deprived of a healthy diet, very, very few are dying of hunger.  This is not to dismiss or diminish the miserable living conditions of the very poor who make less than $1000 per year, but I felt a bit less overwhelmed and guilty about passing the significant number of beggars looking for a handout.

Maybe I am becoming numb or desensitized to the poverty.   I pray that I am not.

Crazy, Wild, Life-Affirming Varanasi

 Varanasi is the holiest of 7 holy Indian cities.   It is the Hindu Mecca.  It's Jerusalem and Rome.   I can easily say that it is the craziest, wildest, holiest city I've ever seen. 

It sits beside the Ganges, river of the gods.   Wide and muddy, the river runs the length of the subcontinent, starting in the Himalayas and emptying into the Arabian Sea.   Hindus come to Varanasi to cremate their dead, cure their ills and pray for hope.   It is also here, on the banks of the river, where all of life's cycles play out in microcosm every day.   And it is simultaneously frightening, wonderful and mesmerizing to watch.

Varanasi is a city of 3 million people and yet there is not a single traffic light.  Imagine walking in what you think is a pedestrian mall when suddenly cars, motorcycles, rickshaws, cows, goats, dogs and taxis, come at you from all directions.  There is no center line.   There are no shoulders.  Everyone on the "walkway" vies for the very limited space and maneuvers in circles  just to move forward.   No stop signs, no traffic cops.  Nothing to bring some semblance of order to the chaos.   Just crossing the street is a lesson in prayer:  As soon as you spot a small gap it's every man
for himself, as you dart across, holding your breathe.  Vehicles, bicycles, animals and people come at you from all directions.   You wish you had eyes on all sides of your head and hope that the vehicles' drivers see you and have enough time and space to avoid hitting you.  One crosses the street here, as in the other big Indian cities, on a wing and a prayer.

The narrow, crowded lanes of Varanasi's old city are packed with people, shops, and the ubiquitous dogs, one of which, in particular, had haunted my sleep for the 2 nights we were there. I had been acclimating to the culture shock that is Varanasi when I first met him.

We were sipping a pomegranite lassi in a dive with an open view of the street, when a funeral procession passed by on its way down to the river.   The corpse was wrapped in a brightly colored ruby red and gold thread sari and was carried by 4 men on a simple stretcher over the heads of the crowds.  Bodies are sprayed with I don't know what, and the odor was actually intoxicatingly sensual.  Like many old cities throughout the world, the streets  are only wide enough for 1 1/2 people to walk side by side.  We had to physically press ourselves against the walls of the buildings in order to let funeral processions pass.  Music blares from CD shops, Hindu chants echo from the Temples and tourists negotiate with shop keepers as dead bodies float overhead on beds of simple wooden rods and burlap.

Down by the river the scene is even more bizarre.

There is a 4-mile long "promenade" that runs along the river.  But this is no French Rivieria or even Atlantic City.  The promenade is littered with garbage, cow dung and dog poop, the homeless, the deformed, the beggars, the religious, merchant hawkers, incongruous tourists from Japan and elsewhere, and the pious from all parts of India who have pilgrimaged here to dip in the mystical waters of the Ganges; to cure an ill, to bring good luck, to bury a body.  Every few hundred feet along this promenade is a "ghat," a wide opening in the walkway, with narrow steps running the length of the opening that lead down to the river.  It is at these ghats where life comes out of the closet and is lived in full view,  displaying both its glory and its revulsion.  The religious perform rites while seated in semi-circles, lead by their Hindu leaders, chanting, praying and eating symbolic foods, surrounded by flowers and burning incense.  Dogs, goats and cows relieve themselves and give birth here.  Local residents bathe and perform their morning and evening hygiene routines, soaping up their bodies and head and brushing their teeth.   Women clean themselves with their clothes on.  Laundry is washed at the ghats, children run errands and men play cricket.  Families picnic here.  The women's saris bring bursts of color to the grey ghat stage- bright red with silver trim,  sunflower yellow, magenta, turquoise and emerald.  Copper, gold and silver bangles adorn every arm and ankle.  Some of the more religious have painted their faces white, wear white cloth around their bodies, and, Ghandi-style,  hold walking sticks as they move slowly forward, barefoot, in seemingly no predetermined direction.

When the sun goes down the ghats are lit up by funeral pyres which line the shore.  Scores of pyres, -  high plumes of fire, smoke and ash - can be seen all along the river bank as each family cremates the body of a loved one that they've hauled from the most distant of Indian villages and towns.   At a cost of almost $ 1,000, (not including room, board or transportation), this is a hefty price for most Indians.  Although a restricted area around each pyre is reserved for family only,  we were able to get fairly close and wandered among the piles and piles of massive wood stacks that are burned each and every day and night.  The dogs picked at the cooled down bones.  Ashes are scattered in the river and both family members and tourists set small candles afloat in the water as an offering to the departed.  No one cried.

The most disturbing part of Varanasi is what Leora and I called "The Walk of Shame."  No cars are permitted within about 1/4 mile of the old city.  Visitors and pilgrims alike walk through a true pedestrian walkway, divided in the center with metal rails.   Along the entire distance from the car park to the old city's entry and back, are beggars, lepers, and families living on the street.  Of course, dogs are plentiful and compete for scraps of food and a piece of cardboard to keep their bellies warm during the night when the temperatures dip very close to freezing.  Kids in rags and no shoes, beg for coins as their parents keep a watchful eye on their effort.  Amputees display their stumps and the dogs keep searching.   Hawkers beg you to buy their trinkets of plastic toys, half-filled balloons and pens.

But of all the sights I saw in Varanasi it was one particular dog I kept thinking about all night, and obviously still today, 5 days later.  He was a beautiful sand-colored mutt, curled up into himself on the side of the river, next to a few friends.  The top of his head had a huge gash and the flesh of the skull was exposed to the cold night air.  A man standing nearby told me that the mutt had been in a brawl with another dog.  A vet, he said, would come, for a mere $40, and fix him up- dress the wound, give him some antibiotics and bandage the area.  I didn't do it.   All night, while I was warm in my bed, I thought of him and his open wound, with nothing between it and the wet, frigid and windy air.  I actually prayed for the first time in decades for that dog.  We left early the next morning so I didn't have time to help him.    I hope someone kinder than me does.

If all of this sounds like its too much to take, you would be right.   On the other hand, I came to view Varanasi as the truth.  No sugar coatings here.  Absolutely nothing hidden behind garden walls and fences.  Humankind and the cosmos are exposed in all their wonder and dread.

I don't think I'll be returning anytime soon.