L'Chaim - Mumbai, Nov. 29, 2009

Log margin notes:
Yesterday I spent the morning at the local synagogue. The building itself is very impressive; the service itself was orthodox, nice and fairly normal. I was welcomed many times over by the regulars there. (See previous entry.)
Afterwards there was a kiddish lunch served of traditional Indian vegetable dishes as well as rice, chicken and fruit.
In true Jewish fashion, a heated discussion broke out between a few of the regulars and a friend of the local Chabad House where four people were killed a year earlier in the attacks.
The locals insisted that the money collected from around the world should be used for the local community, but Chabad has its eyes on the world.
The rabbi was able to calm the situation and the occasion remained peaceful meal. Then, with an invitation from the Chabadnicks who attended the service, I went to the Chabad House... for another lunch.
I was given a tour of the, still under construction, Nariman House by an Israeli who is affiliated, but not a Chabadnick himself.
The bullet holes were obvious and as he explained, mostly from police who were not well-trained in counter-terror tactics. They had clearly been firing around corners. He showed me the section of wall missing where Maharastra state commandos broke through to combat the gunmen. In what would be the rabbis' office, a grenade blast had smashed the tiles on the floor.
He also showed me the room where a young rabbi Gavriel, his wife Rifka and their son Moishe were killed.
"Death is everywhere," the Israeli said.
Finally, I was showed to a modest lunch table at around 12:30 p.m. and was asked to sit. I was clearly welcome, but for me only in the uncomfortable way which is possible in a foreign country where I'm very familiar with neither the local language or the Hebrew which was spoken. Lunch began and I was implored to "say l'chaim" (to life) many times. In honor of the rabbi and his family, I was in no condition to refuse. I finally chose "the yellow," which is known to the rest of the world as "The Glenlivet." The other option, "the white," is known to the world as "Absolut."
I said "l'chaim."
Lunch number two was salad, chick peas, olives, pot roast and potatoes. Many prayers and stories went around the table which were translated into English for me and one other. After each, a round of l'chaims.
If not for any ability in Hebrew, I was respected for my ability to say "l'chaim." I was surprised how quickly some of the others at the table were soon asleep... on the table.
After hours of this, I had to escape to meet a new friend at the Times of India. We were supposed to meet and possibly begin work on a story about the city's ambulance services. I tried to escape, but was held back in a very religious way. I was #10.
To say a prayer called Kaddish over lost loved ones a group of 10 men is required. I agreed to stay for another 10 minutes, which I did. It felt good to be there for them to say Kaddish. It was a small sacrifice on my part, but I figure it meant a lot to them.
After the prayers dancing broke out and I broke away to find my way from far down in the historic section of Colaba to near the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (CST) across from the Times of India building.
"The yellow" had sharpened my navigational senses. I was late and decided on short-cuts. I made no wrong turns and showed on time.
I met Sudharak, of the Times, for the first time while I was sitting in police headquarters earlier in the week. I was waiting to speak to the commissioner about an ill-fated 26/11 story (see Nov. 26 posting). Sudharak was somewhat planning an ambulance story of his own and was intrigued when I told him about my own ambulance experience back in New York.
However, this day we met with a few other of his friends for yet another meal, biryani. After dinner we went to the local press club chatted for a while over some more snacks and decided to meet again on the next Tuesday to work on the ambulance story.
I had eaten a lot that day, but had to rush home to pay for the dinner which is delivered to my room every night for Rs. 70 or a modest $1.55.
I didn't make it, but I did call ahead and avoided another scrap with my battle ax landlady. I at the food at the next day's breakfast.
The scrap finally came when she insisted I was one day behind (again) on my payments to the food delivery people. She had the wrong date. I was not behind, but call it yet another run in with the old dragon.
I also couldn't believe that she asked me if I planned to stay in the room beyond the one month I already paid for. I was disappointed that she doesn't hate me enough to want me out.
I sleep easy there. I'm sure I'm more her problem than she is mine, but I won't stay there any longer than necessary.
Besides, I can't stagnate in one place too long. I've got a country to see here.

Facing West - Mumbai, Nov. 28, 2009

Travel log:

The 17 men around the bema said the Amidah facing West at the Kenneseth Eliyahoo Synagoge in the Colaba section of South Mumbai.

It was the first time I said the prayer facing any other direction but East, in order to face the Western Wall of the former Temple in Jerusalem.

The service, in the 125-year-old orthodox synagogue, was attended by about 17 men and six women, mostly of local Marathi-speaking Mumbaikars. Some Ashkenazi Chabadnicks filled the pews to ensure the congregation had a 10-man minyan for the service which was conducted in a traditional Sephardic Hebrew with an English sermon.

Both inside and outside, the shul is coated in a soft, but distinct baby blue paint in an otherwise polluted city. The bema stands in the middle of the sanctuary, below gold painted chandeliers. The ark is in the traditional place at the front of the room, below the array of colors which are barely contained within a two-story stainglass window.

Corinthian columns support the balcony and separate two rows of pews, one close to the center and one along the wall. The pews in the farther row, along the wall, sat below the open windows which provided a modest, but necessary breeze.

Outside armed police guards stand on the streets of a bustling and predominantly Muslim neighborhood.

Tourists may enter at any time with a valid passport and Rs. 100 for photography priviledges.

To enter for services I was asked by a non-English speaking employee: "Jew?" and "Passport?" Another non-English speaker attempted to ask me: "Come where?" I guessed and said: "New York." With those solid credentials I was welcomed in and showed to a seat.

NEWS BRIEF - Mumbai, Nov. 26, 2009

Demonstrators sang, chanted and picketted for peace near the Gateway of India in the shadow of the Taj Mahal Hotel

Foreign and local media crowed the Mumbai Chabad House where a restricted memorial was held

Throughout the day, memorials and vigils were held at sites where some of the over 170 people were killed by the 10 terrorist attackers.

NEWS BRIEF - Mumbai, Nov. 26, 2009

Mumbai police rolled out new armored and rapid response vehicles to combat the ongoing terror threat

Police officers march along Marine Drive in a show of force on the anniversary of the 26/11/08 attacks

Mumbai police units paraded along with new combat vehicles and security commandos along the waterfront on the one-year anniversary of the 26/11 terrorist attacks.

The parade followed Marine Drive from Nariman Point to Chowpatty Beach where the public was allowed to inspect the department's new terror and crime fighting equipment.

Chief minister Ashok Chavan of the state of Maharastra presided over the parade which is expected to become an annual event.

(More pictures to follow.)

NEWSFLASH - Mumbai, Nov. 26, 2009

Mumbai police bulk up, make contacts in seaside slum, terrorist landing point

By: Aaron Hochman-Zimmerman

Mumbai, Nov. 25 - One year ago 10 foreign terrorists guided their small craft to a Mumbai waterfront slum called the Fishermen's Colony; they spread across the city and killed over 170 people.

Life is about the same in the slum since the attacks of 26/11.

Shacks and residents are still huddled together in the Cuffe Parade section of Mumbai near the polluted Back Bay. Residents cook kettles of prawns and other small fish. Laundry hangs over the sandy Earth. The bathroom for some is little more than the far end of the shore near the waterline.

Nearby are wealthy neighborhoods, tourist attractions and the heart of the city's financial center.

A few police officers chatted near the entranceway of the ghetto, but shortly moved on.

Some at the colony noticed the strangers come ashore the day of the attacks, but communication with police is what was lacking, said Police Commissioner D. Shivanandhan.

What has changed in the colony, according to Shivanandhan, is the degree of the contact between the residents and the police.

Without divulging details, he said that the situation has been rectified.

There is little in the way of noticeably electronic security or even mobile phones, but "poverty does not affect the security situation," he said. "We can protect all those landing points."

Earlier, on the other side of the bay, the Mumbai Police Department rehearsed for a parade scheduled for the morning of the one-year anniversary of the attacks. Similar parades are likely to become an annual event in Mumbai and will act as a yearly demonstration of the city's law enforcement capabilities.

During the drill, the police department's traditional parade units were followed by the debut of new armored all-terrain vehicles and armored personnel carriers fitted with machine gun turrets as well as an outfit of specialized security commandos.

"I'm in charge of the security for the city ... one is duty-bound," said Shivanandhan, who replaced former-Commissioner Hasan Gafoor.

Gafoor is currently involved in a scandal stemming from allegations that he accused other senior policemen of shirking their duty during the attacks.

Despite the circumstances of his predecessor, "I have no mandate," Shivanandhan said, other than what the law requires. "My job is to give confidence to the people."

To that end, the department has held 30 to 40 training exercises simulating different attack scenarios within recent months, Shivanandhan said.

Still, from the point of view of the people, much work needs to be done.

"No change," said Mumbai resident Amal Thakue who came out to watch parade practice. Mumbai [is] not safe, very dangerous," he said.

"The morale of the people may be a little different, but the morale of the policemen is very high," Shivanandhan said.

At the top level, Shivanandhan and his officers have studied the lessons from the attacks dated 9/11, 7/7 and others, and are committed to the safety of the city.

"I, as a leader, pledge myself to give complete security to the Mumbai people," Shivanandhan said.

Also, from the beyond the edge of the city, the Indian Coast Guard has increased patrols, said spokesman Commandant Kulpreet Yadov.

"Good steady progress is being made," he said.

Call it a Victory? - Nov. 25, 2009, Mumbai, India Nov. 25, 2009

Log margin notes:

[WARNING: Adult (and revolting) Language]

I wrote a story today... my first one of the trip. I sent it to the Huffington Post so I'll hang it up on the blog on Thursday (the actual anniversary of the 26/11 attacks, which is the subject of the story.)

For now, I'm happy to go on and on about how I actually got this big scoop.

I was told by a local journalist, who is one of my contacts through a friend in New York, that this seaside slum called the Fishermen's Colony (where the terrorists infiltrated the city from small craft) has not changed at all since the attack.

I made every attempt to get a hold of various police officials on Monday and Tuesday. I answered the dumb questions of speed-bump functionaries who finally let me in to wait for someone who could talk to me. He said he'd be happy to talk on Monday... four days after the anniversary of the attacks. I was beginning to understand that I had missed the opportunity, although through another journalist I met in the hallway introduced me to the Commissioner himself. He said he may have a minute late on Wednesday. That would have to be good enough. (See Nov. 23, 2009 post for more.)

Still, I didn't give up and set out the next morning to get my pictures of the colony even if I wouldn't be able to speak to a police official. The person who told me about the colony in the first place said I probably shouldn't go in there alone. I didn't have enough time for all that. I got on a train.

On my way to the seaside slum I heard drumming and saw a lot of police activity. I was determined not to be distracted, but I stumbled onto a police parade rehearsal in preparation for the big show of force on 26/11.

I got a few pictures and found out that the Commissioner was around. I couldn't find him, but spoke to another reporter who said the Fishermen's Colony was really no big deal. I could go alone.

After a bit more walking I found the place. If I had tried I could have followed the smell... a sour waste smell burned my nose from the road. To this Long Islander, the more familiar stink of low tide was a cheap, but welcome cologne on top of the other odors. Just inside the gate from the main shoreline road, shacks stand next to fishing boats. People were milling around and not overly interested in me or my camera. The residents were busy cooking over small burners sitting in the soil or hanging laundry outside of their patchwork shelters.

I walked 50 yards down to the waterline to find a shot from the perspective of the attackers who landed there. More people began to notice me as I stood with my shoes just submerged in the filthy water. As I looked around the beach for another perspective I walked over a line strung seemingly for no reason from the gate to the beach. All of a sudden I noticed I had narrowly missed a few piles of shit. It was too big to be dog shit and then I saw that the people squatting beyond me were not looking for bait fish in the shallows. I was standing in the shitter. I did not recognize the originating animal, at first, as the poop (shall we say) lost its form as it was washed over by the tide... which I imagine was the intent of the poopers.

I'd had about enough of that and went to see if I could speak to some of the people there. I thought English might be a problem and I was right. I started to leave and saw some elderly ladies sitting around big buckets of fish on the sidewalk. I still had my camera out and went for a shot.

One old lady seemed like she was motioning me to 'come over' to buy some of the fly-swarmed seafood. Seemingly annoyed by the camera she made as though she would throw a fish at me. I figured I'd had enough altogether of the Fishermen's Colony. I had what I went for.

The next step was going back to my room to drop off the camera because I could not take it into the police station.

I ran out and back from the 'burbs and sat until I finally met the Commissioner. He pretty well killed my story by telling me that the poop, um, poor conditions at the colony had nothing to do with the terrorists ability to come ashore. Even the poop didn't keep them away. What else ya gonna do?!

I went back after giving up on a story that didn't seem to exist and figured I'd write what I had. I couldn't do that before I had words with my landlady about the her not giving me a key. She said I could 'come and go as I pleased' when we agreed that I'd rent the place. I assumed I'd get the key the next day or something. How could I not get a key, right?

As it turned out I get no key because I'm only here for a month. I said as long as she's there to open the door, what do I care? But now it seems that she thinks I can only come and go when it suits her schedule. This is gonna be testy for the next three weeks.

No big deal. I'm otherwise feeling fine. I've got the actual 26/11 parade to cover tomorrow and who doesn't love a parade?

Goodnight everyone.

Tourism 1, Journalism 0 - Mumbai, India Nov. 23, 2009

Log margin notes:

Today was my first full day of journalisting; and it ended my streak of early successes. The last entry noted that I was able to settle in to my new environs pretty quickly and with generally little static. Still, once I got down to work, I turned off the highway and into some of the infamous Mumbai traffic.

My goal for the day was to set up an interview with a police official who might enlighten me about some of the security precautions taken and not taken since the 26/11 attacks. That's 11/26 to US Americans, so it makes it a pretty timely story and I was anxious to get on it quickly.

My first problem was a common one when traveling in foreign lands. I couldn't get my cell phone to call landline numbers and I knew I needed some additional phone code to dial, but no one could tell me what it was. Dhara, my contact who gave me some numbers in the police department left her phone home and could not help until later in the day.
I eventually gave in to using the heavily trafficked pay phones which are seen all over the city at snack/smoke stands and other xerox and communications shops. Many of the phones have coin slots, but others are just timed by the storekeepers who charge Rs. 1 or 2 per local call.

I stood on the loud street corners attempting to speak to deputy police commissioners and others with fancy titles. The assistants I spoke to did not understand "freelance" journalist and insisted on knowing what paper I worked for. (This is a sore point which came up frequently back home.) After sorting out who I did or didn't work for, the commissioner was always "in a meeting" and I was told to call back in 30 minutes.

I even went to see one of the commissioners at police headquarters. I was asked for my press ID. (This is another sore point which also came up frequently back home. I decided then and there that it will be worth my trouble to create my own ID badge. And if no one has ever heard of the "Earth Times" then they don't know what they're missing. It's a fine publication.) Neverminding all that, the guy at the security desk sent me to a crude-looking metal detector, my cameras were turned on and thoroughly inspected. The desk officer said I could go in to meet one of the commissioners, but I would have to leave my camera bag there. I almost did it, but after one second's consideration, I couldn't.

I kept on trying my calls from the pay phones, but no luck. "Call back, half hour." In the meantime, I saw some of the touristy things and had a decent time at it. I walked through the famous Crawford market filled with fruit and vegetable vendors. I saw the jewelry district where cows were being fed by passersby, a religious rite. I got plenty more pictures (more than the blog will allow me to post), including some of school kids, beginning with the little girl pictured. She insisted that I take her picture and was not satisfied until I used the flash. Others joined in and all actually thanked me.

Daylight was getting short and I called it a day. My first losing effort... it had to happen sooner or later. I found my way to a train at the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, the Grand Central Station of Mumbai. My train quickly filled and slowly emptied while sitting at the platform. A solid citizen, Ashandar (I didn't ask him how to spell it), asked where I was going. He said he was headed to my own suburb of Bandra... really his Bandra. The tracks had been changed and he directed me to the proper train. We found a seat and he told me about growing up in Bandra. He said it was the area where British soldiers were traditionally quartered, which is exactly what I pictured. He asked me what I was doing here and I told him I am here to write until I take a "government job" in Morocco.

Upon hearing the word "Morocco" a wild-eyed man on the opposite row of seats asked me in feverish broken-English why I wanted to go to Morocco. I told him it was for a job. He carried on and on: "Why get a job in Morocco? It is a poor country! I've been to Casablanca! You don't go there! ...Your government can't give you a job in your country?! Your country is rich!" Well, my new friend told him, in Marathi, to settle down and everyone started to ignore him like any other crazy man on a train. He kept on talking at me, but I was unconcerned. Finally an Indian Railway official came on the train and asked if I had a problem. Naturally, I figured that he thought "the outsider" was causing problems. It was actually the opposite. Some other solid citizens on the train saw what happened and went to the authorities. Following the railway man on the train was a pretty female police officer in an issue brown dress who gave the crazy dude a sharp dressing-down. She (apparently) asked him to leave and escorted him out.

The white boy (that's me) was even more a spectacle than usual after that and everyone left on the train seemed concerned for me and my opinion of India (which would obviously represent the entire West's opinion of India.) I was fine. I've dealt with train lunacy before.

The rest of the day was uneventful other than a little more help in the area of cell phone use from, Dhara, who gave me the police phone numbers.

I'll beat down the walls again tomorrow.

In the 'burbs - Bandra, Mumbai, India Nov. 21, 2009

Travel log:
Settling into Mumbai would be sporting enough of a challenge without any prior research or help from those who know. I intended to first hit the ground spending as little as possible with the intent of gritting through the first few days, then improving my situation in short-order.
The amount of $36 or Rs. 1600 per day buys a bargain in Andheri if the traveler is in no hurry to reach downtown Mumbai from the far northern suburb.
The Arma Galaxy Hotel is better described as a hostel, but comes furnished with a queen-sized bed, air conditioning, a ceiling fan, table, chairs, television (with BBC, CNN, censored HBO, a cricket channel as well as a number of Hindi channels), a reasonably clean private bathroom (with Western toilet) and an uncurtained shower. The view featured a partial suburban skyline as well as smoggy and dusty local streets.
The nighttime quiet there was cut by howling stray dogs and cawing crows, however, Muslim clerics provide the 6 a.m. wake-up call with the wailing call to prayer.
A complimentary breakfast can be ordered to the room including English and Indian standards: coffee, tea, milk, toast, jam, a vegetable sandwich or omelet.
Outside the hotel, the clouded streets and severely damaged pockmarked sidewalks blend together with left-hand traffic that tightly encroaches on any area where vehicles are not parked and shops do not sprawl. Walking along what could be considered a sidewalk feels more like walking through the entranceways of the various one-story storefronts. Harshly crude construction sites interrupt the shops which are reminiscent of a New York Garment Center "variety" store containing colognes, toys, trinkets, small electronics and mobile phone accessories. Still, many building seem unfinished, yet over-used. Walls are frequently made of sheet metal or plastic tarpaulins; gaps in the sidewalks are filled with trash and partially covered or at least bridged with wooden planks. Everywhere, stray dogs and the the occasional goat roams and picks at garbage.
Many items sold along the streets dealing with communications (ie mobile phones or internet cards) require an application in the wake of the attacks perpetrated on Nov. 26, 2008 by "the Pakistani gunmen," as the news often reports. The application requires photocopies of a passport and visa as well as two passport photos. Shops offering photocopy services are frequent, but may not be readily available when necessary.
With the shopping complete it is time to head into city center. A taxi or auto-rickshaw can be hailed at any time of day on the seemingly lawless streets. Language and rates may be difficult for the English-only rider, but negotiating the fare before entering may prevent some heartburn. The real excitement comes during the ride. Nose position is key on the streets dominated by the open air rickshaws. Still, the hand-operated vehicles are at the mercy of a variety of pedestrians, panhandlers, bicycles, motorcycles, cars and trucks. Rickshaw passengers are particularly at the mercy of truck exhaust from the tailpipes which fall at eye level while sitting in traffic.
Finally arriving at the Indian Railway station in Andheri, the commuters queue at the ticket window for destinations north and south. The panhandlers which troop the lines there are usually women carrying sickly-looking infants. The scene is horrible, but also surreal and difficult to believe. Locals say the beggars belong to rackets which hand over the money to bosses in aggregate amounts of up to $1 billion per year.
With an Rs. 8 ticket to Churchgate Station in downtown Mumbai, head to the platforms where trains leave every few minutes. It is easy to find reports of riders dying during over-crowded commutes, but people are often happy to hang from open doors for the breeze during an otherwise roomy ride. Commuters also tend to jump early from a slowing train which clears room for the shoving match to enter the train. The shoving continues until the train's speed becomes too fast for hopeful riders to jump on. Rides can be well-packed, but well-mannered and usually carry two ladies-only coaches per train.
From Churchgate the landmark Nariman Point was a 15 minute walk along the seafront which came complete with heavily smoggy views of Mumbai's Back Bay and the Arabian Sea. I met with my first bit of help and a new friend, Kashtubh. Lunch was a whole curried fish, called bombil and rice. Afterwards, my new friend connected me with an apartment broker, his brother-in-law, Amod.
Brokers charge their fee of one-half month's rent to the lessee, however a "paid guest" room should run between Rs. 12,000 to Rs. 25,000 per month or $266 to $555 per month, with an additional security deposit. The money affords the renter a furnished room in the apartment of the landlord, typically complete with a television, air conditioner, private bath (with Western toilet) and some access to the kitchen. (Some landladies even ask that their tenant call ahead if I [or he] will be in after 11 p.m.)
Landlords, who also post the rooms online, often seek out foreign nationals, but the rooms are frequently occupied by university students and traveling business people. For security, a similar application is required, again including the photocopies of passport and visa and two passport photos.
Searching for a room farther south from Andheri, but still in a northern suburb, Bandra is reportedly home to many of the world's favorite Bollywood starts. The celeb population is likely to be seen at the more fashionable restaurants and cafes, which tend to be Western-styled. Unlike the dusty streets of Andheri, the flowers can grow in Bandra. Nearer to the sea, breezes mix with the sweet flowers that grow in the front gardens of the larger and sturdier modern to pre-war apartment buildings. The streets are well-paved (often with brick) and genuine sidewalks offer some space for pedestrians to avoid the more sedate traffic. Bright, clean and air conditioned stores line the main thoroughfares, although more traditional restaurants, food and flea markets are interspersed throughout.
Construction is an ongoing phenomenon in Mumbai, but the sites in Bandra are better contained than the rough works-in-progress in Andheri.
The howling stray dogs are much less frequent, as are the goats; although a few behemoth cows may be seen beneath the mangrove trees on the roadside calmly chewing... and not goring anyone.

ProBlog - Jul. to Nov. 2009

For those just joining...
I, Aaron, your Lost Nav, signed up with the Peace Corps, left my job, moved out of my Greenwich Village apartment and expected a nice government-sponsored adventure to French-speaking Africa to follow. I think I'm back on track now, but the world didn't make it easy on me through this last summer.
Like a kid expecting a package in the mail, I anxiously checked my email during the rainy days of the summer. I was looking for my orders which I expected to have before September. They were scheduled to arrive one month before I expected to leave in October and would reveal the name of the country where I would be posted for 27 months. What could be more exciting?
I had no time to waste. I had people to see and things to do before leaving for what was sure to be a taxing, but gratifying two-year stint in Africa. I went to Chicago, Kansas City, I had a ticket for London, but did not have time for Austin. The orders still did not come. I began to divulge my plans to more and more friends, however tentatively because I learned during my Air Force days that: if you don't have your orders it's not happening.
People would ask about the program, about what was going on. I didn't know; I also didn't have a job or an apartment. The orders still did not come. Finally, after a few weeks on the couches of friends and family a vague email arrived asking that I call the Peace Corps office to discuss my future with the program.
Tentatively, I called and they said I would not likely be able to begin in October. If I would like to continue with the program, they said, would I find a quiet time to speak on Sept. 7. That was the day of my flight to London. I set the time just before my flight, packed my things and set off to the airport. I was anxious to go, but my mood was weighed down by the thought that I would come back to no job, no apartment and piling questions about what would happen in the future.
At the check-in desk they told me that I was on time for a flight which left the day before. The duffel-bag based filing system which I used while living on numerous couches failed me. There would be no refund. I bought a coffee and found that quiet spot where no flight announcement could reach and took the call with the Peace Corps.
My Peace Corps case worker told me that if I wanted to remain in their system, I would likely have to wait six months. I wondered if they would say the same thing at the end of that six months. Still, I had nothing else and I did still want to serve, so I agreed.
I looked around the airport, but all I could think to do was go back to Long Island in defeat.
The state of the economy and my lack of journalism experience left me staring at a black hole of unemployment and odd-jobs for years to come, if the Peace Corps thing didn't work out. When I got back to my parents' house I found out that my childhood pet, a nearly 20-year old cat named Max, was off to kitty dialysis. (Not including lost relatives, it had to be the worse day of my life.)
Max did not make it to 20; she hung on for another week.
Through a certain set of circumstances, I had joined the many unemployed in the country and was generally in a tough spot. I had to make quick progress or stay marooned on Long Island with few prospects. I got a door-to-door job collecting money for an environmental lobby called Citizens Campaign for the Environment. I met a good crowd there, but it wasn't my speed. I shifted my political focus to the re-election campaign of New York City Councilman Dan Garodnick. The campaign had no money to offer me, but I was back in the city. I assumed and was at least mildly confident the Peace Corps opportunity was still for real, but I would not leave it to chance. I was already planning some sort of overseas adventure whether it was government-sponsored or journalistic in nature.
Finally, while in the cramped campaign office, I got word that my orders were sent to my old apartment at Cornelia Street. My good friend and neighbor, Kaveri, delivered the orders which posted me to Morocco in March. I didn't even think they spoke very much French in Morocco anymore. I also received some starter lessons in Arabic. That answered that question.
There were a few more weeks at the Councilman's office until Election Day and I had to figure out how to spend my days from November to March. Kaveri had a six-month trip to Pune, India planned in order to see family and I thought how I might also fill a few months outside of New York. I considered spots across Africa and Asia, but as long as she was happy to have me around in India, I couldn't think of a better place. Kaveri was mildly worried about being able to travel as a single woman... it's good to have a man around, I guess. Plus, we're both reporters and she speaks Marathi, the local language in Pune, so it seemed like a pretty good match.
The plan (properly drawn on a napkin over a coffee) was that I would get my journalist visa and start in Mumbai. When she was ready to meet I would either head to Pune or she would come to Mumbai. After we linked up we would work as a crack team of journalists to get some good stories out and, of course, not miss the sights. We would eventually leave the Mumbai/Pune area and begin a tour to see as much of the country as we could manage. It sounded like a decent adventure for me, plus I had the employment safety net of the Peace Corps all the while. I frantically gathered up all of the supplies and documents I would need. I tried to fit in everything I had to do to put my life in New York on hold. I also had to say my goodbyes, which also felt like goodbyes for Morocco, even though there would be a few weeks back in the New York winter. Sure it was tough, but I figured that if I wasn't the guy who was always dreaming over the horizon, the I wouldn't exactly be the same person at all... for my own sake or for anyone else.
Some of my very good and very well-connected friends were able to set me up with a few contacts in India. The whole plan really seemed to be coming together, but I held on to a healthy paranoia and suspicion of anything that might stand in my way. I packed my new electronics (including one accidentally pink laptop), a few changes of clothes and one compass in order that I find my way home. (Even a lost navigator needs a compass, but I couldn't help but think that a compass is just as useful to leave home as it is to get back there.) I double-checked my flight reservation and headed off to India, by way of the England stop I had missed earlier. I could only imagine it would be the trip I had been missing for my whole life. With any luck these kinds of journeys would be the nature of the rest of my life to come... so long as I always make it back home now and again.
Here goes...