So Many Cows...What To Do?

Chopta-Rishikesh 162, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

Cows are everywhere; on the street corner, crossing traffic, impeding traffic, in the alley, in the trash heap, getting massages from people passing by, on the steps of 15th century monuments, on foot bridges bringing pedestrians to a halt, and even in homeless cow shelters. Streets are stained with cow manure that fills the air with its distinct aroma bringing with it thousands of flies awaiting yet another feast. Streets are not knee-deep with manure because the dung is constantly being gathered to eventually be forged into dried out disks to be used as fuel. Cows provide many essential elements for everyday life; milk, curds, ghee butter, urine and dung — are all used in puja (worship) as well as in rites of extreme penance. The milk of the family cow nourishes children as they grow up, and cow dung is a major source of energy for households throughout India. Cow dung is sometimes among the materials used for a tilak-a ritual mark on the forehead. Most Indians do not share the western revulsion at cow excrement, but instead consider it an earthy and useful natural product. (If you don't believe me check out this article on the front page of a Delhi newspaper a month ago http://www.indianexpress.com/story/286437.html Cow urine seems to do the trick) So, when I am caught in a traffic jam caused by an emaciated cow wandering through traffic or see people sharing a fresh roti (flatbread that is a staple of an Indian diet) with a playfully aggressive bull on the street corner that feels he is just as entitled to the roti as the purchaser, I get frustrated, amused and bewildered that such a different world exists. This life is not wrong, it is just different.

Why is this world so different you ask? The majority of Indians are Hindus. Hindus have many gods and worship each for a particular reason. Cows are involved with many of these gods- Lord Krishna and Lord Shiva in particular. Lord Krishna was a cowherd, and the bull is depicted as the vehicle of Lord Shiva. Today the cow has almost become a symbol of Hinduism. Holy cows are not always happy cows though. Many of the cows roaming the streets of India are malnourished, surviving on whatever they can find in the trash heaps beside local markets. Many of the cows end up eating plastic bags, cardboard boxes and other manufactured goods that get wrapped around their stomachs often turning fatal. This is disastrous for a country and a people that worship the animal. The solution: government run homeless cow shelters called goshalas. Goshalas were set of for a couple reasons. The religious reason is to treat, protect, nurture, and ultimately save the dying nomads roaming the streets. The more practical reason is the clash between a developing nation and its religious base.

India is growing at an alarming rate. It has the fastest growing middle class in the world and one of the fastest growing economies in the world with construction happening everywhere. It is a fascinating time to be in India at this point in time to witness the changes taking place. Even though I have no prior experience in the country to accurately judge the rate of change, it is not hard to see that basically everything seems to be under construction: new subways, bridges, roads, hydo-electric projects, shopping malls, movie theatres, Mcdonalds, KFC and much more. It is like stepping back in time to when America or Western Europe was developing. The construction is not being done by massive bulldozers, graters, or other advanced machinery as I am accustomed to seeing back home. Most of it is being done by people; dozens of them chiseling away at rocks with hammers to produce gravel, digging roadside ditches with nothing more than a pick axe, patching old roads with scolding hot asphalt by hand and building bridges as fast as the workers can carry the beams to the top. The most shocking aspect about the labor is the majority of it is performed by women, occasionally with a baby wrapped around their backs. If she tires from the additional weight wrapped on her back, the baby will be placed on the curb, dangerously close to the unpredictable traffic. She has no other option. Just today I watched as a group of workers cleared a rock slide from a ditch with the women being the ones actually carrying the rocks to the truck, not the men. They just helped load the buckets as the women carried the loaded buckets on their heads to the dump truck for removal.

With a country that is modernizing rapidly, nomadic cows wandering the streets can hinder development. The goshalas are being set up across the country as a place to put all of the wandering bovine because they can't be eaten. The goshalas I have visited have been financed by various religious organizations, private donors, or local governments. They range between fifty cows to over a thousand depending on the facilities. All people involved seem to be happy with the situation and are looking to expand. The most exciting part of all of this is the actual capture of the homeless cows on the streets that can often turn violent; not for the cows but for the catchers themselves. It turns violent when the unsuspecting cows are being chased through the streets by the urban cowboys with the objective of getting them into a truck door wedged against the side of a building. The cows can become angry of course and cause harm but the average bystander often helps the cows escape by fighting off the John Wayne's of the Indian streets. I have never witnessed such an event but the goshala managers have told me some comical stories of the round-ups. It should be quite a sight.

TJW Report 3

I am so accustomed to bizarre things happening around me that I sometimes forget to appreciate their significance. The first time I visited a goshala was a shock, but at the time it just seemed normal to be abnormal. There I was trudging around a homeless cow shelter in my poorly selected footwear, sandals, in a foot of cow manure when a Jain Guru appears with her sponsor to check on the goshala. The sponsor, a very talkative Indian woman from Delhi, gives me the grand tour of the 'emergency room', 'labor room', "sick bay', 'operating room', and the manager's suite fully equipped with five cows recovering from surgery requiring extra special supervision (I was offered the job but regretfully had to decline). The sponsor would lie in the foot deep manure to hug and kiss the cows saying over and over again, "You see, they are just like us. They just can't talk." I didn't know what to think. I grew up on a commercial cattle farm that was business and here is this woman playing in the cow shit like she has found her long lost friend. This is an extreme case and not all Indians do this but it still makes me think about other beliefs. This woman may sound bizarre and a little off her rocker but she was a successful business woman in Delhi and her son is a manager for a hotel in Singapore. She bragged about this fact for hours just as a mother would in the States. It is easy to think of people worshiping cows and letting them roam the city streets as crazy but is that any crazier than waiting to see if a groundhog sees his shadow which will determine the upcoming weather patterns. Are the average onlookers on Delhi streets that fight government paid cow catchers in an attempt to help the cows escape capture and remain free cows for just one more day crazy or cultural sound? This is all seems like abnormal behavior but then again what is normal. As I tell myself everyday, just because a culture or belief system is different does not make it wrong.

Different cultures also have different expectations that can seem bizarre when put in contrast with your own belief system. The main contrast I have found is the definition of success within each culture. What is success? I was asked this question in my Watson interview over a year ago. I stumbled through the question, soon forgetting about it and its significance. I was a graduating senior from a prestigious liberal arts school; I knew everything and had my life planned out for at least the next decade. At first, the question even sounded silly because success was clearly defined for me at the time; wealthy with a nice big house with a couple little ones running around inside the white picket fence, the American Dream. I never actually sat down and thought about the question because that is what I was supposed to want. That is a great life and I still want some variation of that but there is so much more to dream and think about now. Being successful is so arbitrarily labeled depending what the local culture dictates that I have constantly asked myself which label of success is correct? Are any correct? What is my definition of success?

A successful profession or life varies greatly depending on your geography. With the Masai, the man with the most cows, wives and children is idolized reaching almost god like status in the village. In Texas, a similar man will have his wives and children taken from him by the government with criminal charges being filed. I am not condoning such behavior but it shows how differently similar lifestyles are viewed within different cultures. In India, a man can be fired from every job he has ever held, be a failing father, husband and citizen of the community but still find salvation by simply giving up and becoming a wandering Baba. He can simply start walking, basically becoming a nomad, and living of the generosity and charity of others as a holy man. This is respectable in India. Even though he has left his family to fend for themselves and has failed in every other aspect of his life, he will still be respected. Is the French stock broker that decided after six years on Wall Street to give everything up and start an extreme sports company in the Himalayas successful? He sure seems happy. Is one man's success any less significant depending on his culture or geographic location? Each destination I reach brings with it a new set of rules, expectations and commitments that defines the culture. Every two to three months, I have to redefine so many different aspects of my life to adapt to my new surrounding that is creating one big melting pot of contracting philosophies. Again, what is the right recipe?

Most people simply accept their cultural expectations to be the truth and strive to attain their culture's version of success. The past nine months have opened my eyes to different worlds that I never knew existed, some mesmerizing and others terrifying. With the new exposure comes excitement but also anxiety to see what I will think upon my return home. Will I fall right back into my previous life without missing a beat or will I chose a different path? I don’t know the answer to these questions right now. I keep telling myself that I don't have to worry about it but that does not stop my mind from constantly churning over the possibilities.

Learning about the world is a funny concept coming from the States where traveling abroad usually means going to Europe. It had been an amazing year to be traveling as an American citizen. Obama or Hillary? If I had a nickel for every time I have been asked that question, I could fund a second Watson year for myself. I have also been embarrassed to find that many people know and follow the American political system closer than most Americans. I try to keep up to date with the political news just to be able to answer the inevitable third or fourth question in every introductory meeting with a stranger: Obama or Hillary? The question often comes in the most random and unexpected places.

About seven months ago when the presidential race was just gaining momentum, I was in the meat eating ceremony with the Masai. As we were sitting around the fire watching my prize goat roast over the flames, the Masai elder, Noonjuma, was asking me questions about my life through a translator, his son. Halfway into the conversation he asked me, "Who will win...Obama or Hillary?" I was shocked to hear this coming from a man that could only speak Maa, the Masai language, and not Swahilii, the language of the local newspaper and radio. Noonjuma's next question, "How long will it take me to walk to America?" Noonjuma knew the leading presidential candidates of America but he didn't know there was an ocean impeding him from walking from Africa and America. How can this be? Why should he care about Obama or Hillary? I have thought about that conversation often but as bizarre as it may sound, the election will affect him even if he is tucked away in a cow dung boma in the Rift Valley of Africa.

America’s influence on the world has no bounds: good and bad. It is shocking once you discover the extent. Every newspaper I have read from Zimbabwe to India and everywhere in between has at least one major article on US politics or pop culture. The front page of the Victoria Falls newspaper in Zimbabwe did not talk about the dire humanitarian or economic crisis in the country. Instead, it fully documented Britney Spears’ little sister getting knocked up with the subsequent article about the US election. As I put down the paper in disbelief, I peered across the street at the endless line of people camping on the street corner waiting for the bank to open not knowing if it would be in an hour or a week. Still yet, little Spears was more important that starving Zimbabweans. How can our priorities become so skewed?

Not all of my discussions about my home, America, have been pleasant. In fact, most have been very anti-American. There have been many instances when people automatically dislike me for being an American. It has affected me whether I like it or not. I have learned how to hate America during this trip, even believing it at times. Now that I know how to hate my country, I can appreciate it for what it represents: an improbable experiment in democracy as Obama put it. It wears on me having to constantly defend my country around every corner when it has been instilled in my brain since elementary school that America is the beacon of hope in the world, the leader of the free world. Being raised in such a way often blinds people of the countless possibilities the rest of the world has to offer. This mentality also creates a bizarre contradiction: the country with the most influence and power in the world knows the least about it.

Not all things in life are bad though. Riding through the Himalayas on my pink Enfield lets my imagination run wild. I find myself in a fantasy world of towering snow-capped peaks, numerous waterfalls sending freshly thawed water cascading down the mountainside, tiny villages dotting the lush green landscapes with blossoming apple orchards sprinkled along the terraced mountain slopes, monkeys darting in and out of traffic, cows laying dead or alive on the street, colorful Hindu shrines and temples around every corner and random festivals that fill the air with joyful music, alluring spices, and mesmerizing colors that overwhelm the senses. It is a world that I thought could only exist in my imagination. It feels like a dream but I know it is real; more real than anything I have ever experienced. I tell myself everyday that I am on of the fifty luckiest people alive because I have been given a gift: a chance to experience the world, learn about myself, and open my mind.

Finally...My Bike!

Bike Trip 1 014, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

Things have changed greatly since I last posted any news. I am now the proud owner of a reconditioned 1994 model pink Royal Enfield Motorcycle. It took me a month to finally muster up the courage to follow through with my original plan of buying a bike due to the treacherous driving conditions. To the casual onlooker on the street or even the passenger in the back of a bus, driving in India is the most chaotic, dangerous, and frustrating debacle ever witnessed and rightfully so. Might is right on the roads. Buses stop for no one; not even passengers for they must run alongside and somehow manage to climb aboard with their luggage and sometimes children. India has the fastest growing middle class in the world and that means people are starting to buy more cars. Getting a license can’t be that difficult because most people really can’t drive worth a damn. More cars on the mostly the same infrastructure build by the British Raj with lots of bad drivers spells congestion and accidents. Throw into the mix the mopeds carrying three to five people, numerous other motorcycles with delusions of ESPN XGames grandeur, donkeys, camels, cows all pulling carts of some sort, nomadic cows wandering the streets as if it is their right (it is in India), monkeys waiting eagerly on the side of the roads awaiting the right moment to dart across the road, goat herders guiding their flocks on the curb, landslides, more cows and who know what else…maybe an Elephant!

You are probably thinking who in their right mind would even attempt to drive a motorcycle, much a less a pink one under such conditions. I talked myself out of it until I took my first trip to the north with friends I met from Delhi. It was the weekend of Holi, the festival of color that was meant to welcome the spring and win the blessings of Gods for good harvests and fertility of the land but has turned into an excuse to drink Bhang (a drink that has opium in it), cover unsuspecting tourists with colored ink, and dance the night away very intoxicated. During this weekend, I decided to leave Delhi and head north into the mountains. We took two different hikes at the base of the Greater Himalayan range; one to Tungnath Temple ( a holy Hindu temple) and the other to a lake above a small village called Sari. It was a crazy experience to be surrounded with Bhang silly Indians dancing around fires, dogs with steel collars to at least give them a chance if and when they attacked by leopards, six and seven thousand meter peaks dotting the horizon and small villages scattered across the Himalayan foothills with intricate terrace farming networks carved out of the hillsides. After the hike, I stayed behind in Rishikesh (the Yoga capital of the world and also the place where the Beatles visited to study meditation with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi). After a couple days of watching old men take heaps of cow manure and turn them into dried out disks of manure, people sharing the food and bottled water with random cows on the street and people even giving cows massages on the street, I decided it was time to go back to Delhi to get a bike so I can visit more small towns in the mountains. A bike would offer me the freedom to see all of the small towns and not just the tourist hot spots. I did take a swim in the Ganga (Ganges) while I was in Rishikesh. It was cold and refreshing.

Once back in Delhi, I contacted a bike shop called Bullet Wallas (wallas means ‘guy’. So a bricklayer will be a brick walla for instance). After wandering the streets of Pahar Ganj, a very crowded and dirty neighborhood of Delhi, I finally found the bike shop. To my surprise it was run by a American guy from New Mexico named Balu. That isn’t his real name but since he was a big bear of a guy in India and someone made the Kipling connection and called him Balu. This is where the story gets really bizarre. I tell him I am from WV and he is taken aback and says he has been deer hunting in White Sulphur Springs, basically right next to my home in Lewisburg. Who would have thought that in the middle of India I would meet an American biker that has been hunting in my home county in WV. It is a small world!

I tell Balu I want a bike to head to the mountains. He was also shocked by the amazing coincidence and is more than willing to help me out. We go to the shop to find a newly built Enfield bike that just so happened to be Petal Rose Pink with a tan leather seat. “I’ll take it” were the first words to come out of my mouth. I ordered stickers to be put on the bike that say, “Bullet Wallas West Virginia” with two orange dueling banjos in the center (that was Balu’s idea). While my bike was being finished, I met four English guys that had the same idea as me, to buy a bike and head north. We decided it would be safer and more fun if we all hit the road together.

Buying a bike and driving around India sounds like a great idea but here is the catch, I have never actually driven a motorcycle. I left that part of the story out when I was purchasing my bike from Balu. I simply said that I had limited experience on a bike. That was the understatement of the trip! About the third day when I was hanging around the shop waiting for all of the bikes to be ready, Balu threw me the keys to my bike and told me to go fill her up with petrol. It was about 4PM, right in the middle of rush hour in Delhi, and I had never ridden a motorcycle. I figured I had to learn somehow and I took off. I made it about 100 meters before I stalled out and couldn’t get it restarted. A crowd soon gathered to laugh at the foreigner that couldn’t get his pink Enfield to start. One man out of about a hundred finally offered to start the bike for me. I was off again and this time only made it 20 meters. The crowd followed laughing and jeering at my inability to drive. I finally made it out of the alleys and side streets and onto the main street where I again stalled out in the middle of bumper to bumper traffic five rows deep. After another crowd formed to heckle the foreigner, I realized I was out of gas. After pushing the bike for thirty minutes, filling up with petrol, stalling out about nine more times, I finally managed to get it back to the shop in one piece. Luckily!

My second ride wasn’t any better but much more comical. Balu took all five of us to a deserted park to practice before he sent us out on the open rode. I finally got the hang of the gears and was doing quite well. We were all excited, trying tricks, and weaving in and out of trees with ease but then it came, a thunderstorm. Out of nowhere, a torrential rain moved in over us. Balu, the only man that knew the way home, took off and yelled, “every man for himself.’ We ended up stuck hiding underneath an archway for at least an hour with dozens of homeless people staring at us. A hell of a day!

I am now in Manali, a hill station about 500km north of Delhi. (Hill stations are towns in the mountains that offer modern amenities such as internet, restaurants, and better hotels). The ride to Manali was an eventful one with many breakdowns, wrecks, monkeys, cows, goats, snow-capped mountains, and much more. It was a great ride and we all made it here in one piece. It was definitely a group effort. The four English lads I am traveling with are good company and we hit it off immediately. I plan to visit some more goshalas (homeless cow shelters) around Manali. It is more for comic value than anything else. I have been in email contact with one Goshala that signs off every email with ‘yours in service of Lord Krishna and His cows.’ I am not joking. I can talk forever about my visits with the goshalas but that warrants another post.

I have decided to name my pink stallion ‘Chibuku Gopa’ which means ‘Chibuku the Cow herder.’ Chibuku is the name of a local African alcoholic brew that I ran across in Malawi. The drink is kind of like mixing sour milk, bread dough and alcohol together and drinking it. Wretched! But, the Malawians had a very catchy song and dance to go along with the drink that I loved and that is where Chibuku gets her name.