Confessions of a Knife

I have not spent any of my recent time working with my fieldnotes, just looking for some gainful employment. I must confess, however, that I have been on several occasions since my return to the temples, and not without some blasphemous intentions.

Before I list my sins, shove some Žižek in your head; it's been bouncing around the blogs I read:

It is unlikely that the financial meltdown of 2008 will function as a blessing in disguise, the awakening from a dream, the sobering reminder that we live in the reality of global capitalism. It all depends on how it will be symbolised, on what ideological interpretation or story will impose itself and determine the general perception of the crisis. When the normal run of things is traumatically interrupted, the field is open for a ‘discursive’ ideological competition. In Germany in the late 1920s, Hitler won the competition to determine which narrative would explain the reasons for the crisis of the Weimar Republic and the way out of it; in France in 1940 Maréchal Pétain’s narrative won in the contest to find the reasons for the French defeat. Consequently, to put it in old-fashioned Marxist terms, the main task of the ruling ideology in the present crisis is to impose a narrative that will not put the blame for the meltdown on the global capitalist system as such, but on its deviations – lax regulation, the corruption of big financial institutions etc.

Having given myself a few days to readjust to the imperial mise-en-scène, I decided to pop in on a few friends at the local cinema. They suggested that I watch Zack and Miri Make a Porno, and I did... not for Kevin Smith's sake, but to shock myself back into local hipster culture. It was somewhat amusing but had Smith's telltale falsely honest relationships and characters smothered throughout. I left with the usual feeling: that I had been entertained, but betrayed and manipulated. People might say that the film should just be enjoyed; I say then you will walk away with unquestioned assumptions and a little duller for it. People might say that the relationships and characters in the film aren't meant to be honest, that they are exaggerated to the point of absurdity; I say that you have become too dull and must avoid popular culture for several months. In the meantime read Cassavetes on Cassavetes. Some might even say that the relationships and characters are honest... I don't know what I should say to you then; it is too late. I sound like a real jerk, don't I? I suppose it's just my anger at myself for watching bad film. And my militant training at the brutal, merciless hands of The Prince of Kings.

Grandma's a Witch

Raymond Fisman, a professor at Columbia University, told a recent seminar: “In Meatu, there are veritable witch epidemics now and again – certainly any time there is a bad crop year. Witches are the scapegoat of first resort. He suggested that “witches” were killed to make resources stretch farther. “Who are you going to knock off? You want the person who is the greatest consumer of household resources relative to that which they produce . . . it turns out that it’s grandma.”

That being from an article on witch-hunts in India's Assam and West Bengal, where there have been about 750 witch-killings in the last five years. Considering the current state of the economy, I think we all know what needs to be done on Thanksgiving.

Parricide aside, I am assembling my fieldnotes from India and hope to soon have here for you a reflection on my experiences and attempts at ethnographic methodology. I must balance this work with my job-search, however, which has proved fruitless thus far. Contract-killing has taken quite a hit in the downturn, and as such I have not found any postings in the papers or even craigslist. However, my application to the School of the Americas has been accepted with a full scholarship! I guess I'm at a crossroads...

Post-India Stress Syndrome

Two nights ago, as I lay late in bed addled with jet-lag and a sinus infection, I attempted to provide commentary as my youngest brother flipped through my photographic record of India. As usual, I quickly lapsed into a trance and began to channel unknown entities; my brother of course had the good sense to record this information. The transcript of that night's divination follows:

J - There were all these little snakes dancing in my face.
J - You Don't Even Know!

J - Everything is possible......in India.
M - Then we must all go.
J - NO!! There are too many possibility people!

J - Where are you!?
J - Don't be afraid.

J - I have 3 faces.....in my hand
M - What do they look like?
J - All old men.....they have control, but I control the central face........I was at the conference; they gave it away!

J - Oh my god it's a catrabbit! the size of a pig! Its front half is a rabbit but the back half is...(mumble).....Face in the carpet!

J - That monkey has my rat's tail.
M - You had a rat tail?
J - I'm a rat!

J - There was a little boy at the zoo running around with a boogie board carrying it like a shield
M - So you did go to a zoo
J - NO!!

J - Rippling in Alaska zoom into flag pistol.....there's an engraving on the handle...it says "me be, me see."

According to my brother, by the time I spouted this last bit I had fallen asleep and was going faster than he could write, so it is regrettably incomplete. However, it appears to be the most pertinent parcel of future knowledge, and I suspect it to be vital clue in preventing the Palin run of 2012.

I Found the Coconut

I can't write much because they are after me now, the men painted white. They say something like "om tare tutare ture soha." I think because i find the coconut with the camera card and the other maps. I must follow this person to Cabo de Rama. These are the only snaps on the camera card. -Jerome

I Found This Scratched Into Banana Leaves

[Note from finder - these words were scratched into a pack of banana leaves tied together with the coconut rope from the husk, you know? They floated with a wave in front of my bungalow in Palolem but the rope was made very poorly so some of the leaves are missing. This i know because they are numbered. I followed the instructions and am writing this blog with the password it gave me, so maybe somebody who knows this person will get this. There were many leaves and it took a long time for me to write it here, but reading the story made me very interested. I don't know all of the english words so i didn't understand all of it. I am alone here in Goa with none to speak french and i am not good at making friends you know so i feel like this person has become my friend. -Jerome]

1. [Instructions for the finder to write this with password. Also password for flickr.com and instructions for camera card but i have not found it yet. Also maps through jungle.]
2. I have many leaves available, and many old coconut husks with which to tie them together, so I won't worry about being brief; I will try and tell everything from the beginning. I believe I have plenty of time to think about it all.
3. I knew that night was the night, but I was still quite apprehensive about the entire affair. This is why I truly came to India, after all, and under false pretenses. I began the day fasting, ending with a ritual vindaloo with ginger rice.
4. I allowed myself not a single drop of water and instead meditated in the hot sun amidst several zebu cattle on the beach. I spent six hours in the dragon pose as per my instructions before my final meal.
5. In my search for the food I required I entered trance and wandered Palolem, finally drawn to a restaurant on the north end blaring Massive Attack. The lights were dimmed in red paper lanterns and the deck was heavy with opium smoke.
6. Waiting for my food I drew a fifteen-card spread; There was an overwhelming wand influence, and almost half the spread was trumps. This indicated a confluence between will and dharma, but several cards suggested a terrible trial.
7. [missing]
8. [missing]

Reflexive Contradictions

Yesterday I spoke vaguely of the many contradictions I've observed in India. Today I hiked up to Pothamedu; since it was Sunday I was able to hike through a tea and cardamom plantation. I stopped near the top at a tea station and spent some time talking with folks. On my way back I reflected on the contradictions inherent in my own being here.



I am traveling through places considered by Western standards to be quite underdeveloped, but I am in many ways sponsored on this trip by a system based on the continual economic and militaristic exploitation of such lands and peoples to ensure its own comfort,

Entrenched in Munnar

I have developed a kind of aural spatial perception of traffic over the last few weeks, enabling me to give just enough room for a rickshaw or car to pass without looking, or to know when to dive into the muck or off a cliff in the event of an approaching bus. Sometimes, however, the buses have deceptively high-pitched horns, leading one to believe a mere motorbike is encroaching. Both Sarina and I have had the occasion to look behind us casually only to behold the monstrous visage of "BABY JESUS" lettering the top of a hellbent deluxe-AC bus barrelling down on us. Needless to say this has scarred our psyches in ways unfathomable to the imperial proletariat.



The bus ride up the mountains to Munnar lasted approximately 4.5 hours, careening up through innumerable switchbacks and narrowly missing downward-bound traffic with remarkable accuracy. Regarding the ordeal with enormous levity, I began to question my sanity when I noticed the nervous terror etched into the miens of the local passengers, who numbered fewer and fewer the higher we climbed. One old woman seated directly in front of me leaned out to spew chunks; Sarina was listening to her IPod behind me and no doubt thought the spray to be a refreshing monsoon sprinkle. If I ever require extensive knowledge of momentum, inertia, topography, or surface tension, I will immediately seek a Keralan bus driver over say, a physicist or engineer. It is no wonder that the state provides a plurality of drivers to the rest of India, as well as to various Middle Eastern countries. I suspect that roller-coasters will be rather hum-drum from now on.



I saw my first wild monkey on a tree branch during the trip up.



I now much more fully appreciate the class in Collins' Ethnographic Field Methods in which we covered methodology informing theory and theory informing methodology. And studying anthropology has overall given me a subtle awareness of commonality and difference,

Malabar Blues

Some final thoughts before setting off to Munnar. Keep all limbs inside the vehicle at all times, if you want to keep them at all. There is a copy of The Fountainhead mocking me from the bookshelf in the internet cafe, nestled between two Noam Chomsky books; Dawkins looms above them. I saw a North Indian intellectual yesterday or the day before wearing a blue scarf and red Chomsky shirt. At Cherai Beach a giant hammer and sickle was chalked across the road, next to a giant lotus flower. Scores of men young and old come there to stare and call out to Western women in their bathing suits.

Asharof helped me out again last night, when I left my camera's memory card at the internet cafe. After introducing me to more of his family he drove me back in his piece of junk rickshaw, wiping the rain off with some dirty newspaper (was he a little drunk?). He didn't charge me, but told me instead that "God knows what is in your heart." He is currently jobless, not for lack of willingness (his programming skills can't compete with youth), but because Kerala is communist he has a roof over his head and food to eat. We gave each other our most profound wishes and parted ways; he will send me a Christmas card.

When we went south to the backwaters the other day, I saw some petrol tankers labeled "Highly Inflammable."

How did I end up in India? How did I end up studying Indian philosophy, religion, culture, and history? How did I end up at Towson University? Where the hell do I go from here? How will I ever think again that comfort is worth the theft of natural resources and the mass murder of millions? How could I ever believe again that war is anything but war against children? How can I ever again be confused about who the real enemy is?

The whole financial collapse thing was going on right before I left the U.S. I've been trying to keep up with it from overseas... It seems that we are nationalizing our banking system. How many times does history need to repeat itself? Don't people realize what's really going on? It's not like we didn't see this coming, but... Maybe soon it will be enough to mobilize the angry middle class, i.e. to make the guards realize that they're expendable and on the same side as the prisoners, as Howard Zinn put it.

The British and Germans Are the Worst

Ventured out of Kochi yesterday through the backwaters not far to the south. Saw a kingfisher but was moving too fast to get a decent photo. Leaving Tuesday for Munnar and some wildlife preserves. Che is big among much of the youth in Kerala, especially in the smaller villages. A North Indian about my age bemoaned this fact to me after we were talking to some locals about it, denouncing Che as a butcher who killed whoever he wanted. I found out from a woman working in Kollam I've been speaking with online that the timed blackouts are occuring because the first monsoon was a "soft" one, and therefore did not provide enough hydroelectric power at the dams. Not much in the mood for description, but I'll leave you all with some pictures.

No Name, No Slogan

Yesterday I met two Belgians on holiday; actually Carol was originally from Germany and Susan is a Flemmish Belgian. We swapped tales of our adventures, talked film and philosophy, exchanged some useful information, and had dinner.



Today I met Asharof, a Muslim who helped me buy a few small items in my neighborhood. We spoke a long while about the various religions of India and of Indian religious character in general. He took me to his home and introduced me to his extended family. There we spoke more, about Ayurvedic remedies, Malayalam and Urdu, the Qur'an, Mother Theresa and Gandhi, Western and Keralan culture, and family. Later he took me around the island and showed me all the temples, churches, mosques, and synagogues, as well as the spice factories.

Fumez-Vous?

A French family just came to our homestay, with a little girl, and we also happened to eat next to them at a restaurant last night before the blackout. I forgot to mention, the commies here like to conserve energy, so there are mandatory blackouts for a half-hour each night. Each district is designated a different half-hour block, but everyone is prepared and life goes on just fine without the juice. There are also random blackouts now and again due to weather or grid strain, but these generally only last five to fifteen minutes.

I was delighted to speak a bit of French with the little girl, who couldn't keep to her seat at dinner. We chatted a while, but the cutest was at one moment she lept over to me shouting "regardez!" One of her top front teeth was missing, and she was inserting a toothpick in and out of the gap. When they first arrived the girl was wearing Western clothes, but by then her parents had found her some jungle-hippy threads. Then she asked me for a smoke.

Lungi, Not Dr. Murungi

I decided I really wanted a lungi, the long skirt-like articles of clothing worn by many of the men here in Kerala, because they look really comfortable in the heat and humidity. My first mistake was trying to get one in the more touristy Fort Kochi; my second mistake was asking right off the bat if the tailor had any. All of my previous haggling experiences had been fun and successful because I pretended to not be very interested in what I was buying. He started me off at about six and a half times the going rate for a lungi, and wouldn't budge much lower than six times. I should have just walked out, like I had done a few times before to get the prices I had wanted, but I was absolutely sick of jeans. I think maybe he was also worried that if he cut the price too much for me in front of the two annoying women from Maine that were in the shop, he wouldn't be able to get much out of them; they looked ready to spend quite a bit, too.



But it was certainly worth it; the lungi was my golden ticket into the hearts of Keralans.

Where have all the chaiwallas gone?

I'm frequently amazed at the arrogance and condescension the Western tourists here display toward the Malayalees. And they seem to hate one another, as if each other Westerner represents to them the inauthenticity of their retreat into tropical paradise. I even saw a woman who had just arrived in Fort Kochi outright glaring at a small child. There's plenty of yelling, as in that whole volume = understanding idea. The Americans are the absolute worst.



Sarina and I are here for different reasons, obviously, but recently it has become more pronounced. She likes going to places in the tour guide, I use the guide to get an idea of reasonable prices and go elsewhere. She likes travel by autorickshaw, I like walking. I memorize maps in a couple minutes, she frequently goes off on her own and gets lost.

Chai...Chai...Coffee...Coffee...Mirindapepsiwater...Waterwatercoldandsweet...

So it's been a while since I've gone to an Internet Cafe...

First off, I'm in Fort Kochi right now, in Kerala, the only state of India to have democratically voted to be communist. For inspiration I read the second half of Al's essay A Man, which is devoted to a second person rendition of Che's life and death. But let me backtrack a bit.

The day after exploring the markets in Old Rajender Nagar (also spelled Rajinder) we went to Connaught Place, a gargantuan three-tiered traffic circle saddled between Old and New Delhi. I could barely breathe in this choking spiral of unregulated fuel emissions, open sewers, and soul-crushing poverty. Sarina was looking for some specific items in Janpath market,

Delhi Belly

Our first night in Delhi was an unfortunate introduction. I had not slept for two nights in a row, and our hotel did not send our driver, forcing us to use a prepaid taxi. A word of advice: don't give anyone your taxi voucher until you've arrived at your intended destination. Our driver was in fact a tout, taking us instead to a "tourist info" center where we were told that there was a "mistake" in our hotel reservation and that without our reservation number we were screwed. But we had already called at the airport to confirm our booking, convincing me that although I watched the guy dial the hotel's number we were in fact talking to someone in a back room. I let the man think we were desperate and willing to do anything, accepting his sales pitch on a tour of the Golden Triangle (Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur) while I considered our actual options. Once he started using underhanded sales (manipulation) techniques, trying to make us afraid and such, I got pissed and walked out.

But at this point, after an exhausting plane ride and the run-around through Pahar Ganj, my fear/paranoia level was indeed rising. I was done with taxis and autorickshaws, so we walked up the next street and found a decent cheap hotel. I wouldn't let my travel partner, our baggage, or our passports out of my sight at this point, so they were completely bewildered by my behavior. In a back alley I insisted walking on foot with one of the hotel workers so that he could photocopy our passports. On the way I explained what had happened and profusely apologized if I had offended in any way. He apologized even more that that was my first impression of India, and did not come across as a smooth operator.

Cuz It's Hot... Cuz It's Hot... Cuz It's Hot Baby, Cuz It's Hot

As you might know if you're reading this, I will be trying to keep a public record of my travels through India at the request of friends and family. In the morning I will leave, and I should arrive in Delhi early evening on Wednesday. I'm not bringing my computer, or a phone, or much of anything really. I've learned from past travels that those things rarely come in handy, and I go pretty light these days. This will be my first excursion into a non-Western country.

My primary purpose will be preliminary research regarding an ethnographic research proposal I wrote as an undergrad. The proposal was an attempt to combine my academic interests in anthropology of religion, symbolic anthropology, urban anthropology, neoliberal "globalization," and the history and philosophies of India with my personal interests in the occult and Ganesha. The idea is to collect ethnographic data via the method of long-term participant observation on Tantric sects devoted to Ganesha/Ganapati, especially ones who have grown in or relocated to urban environments. My efforts in the next six weeks will be devoted to answering the following questions:

Primum Mobile

What cowardice has moved us to curl bent and broken in our cages, to paint the windows black against the fading soft dawns desperate to dew our crooked tongues? Throw a white flag to the east and forget. There is a world, a secret world, where everything is a message and where communication is possible. God damn your past and your memories, filth for futures, and God damn your sacred soul. Pray with your body; pray with your body for the flames. Make love to every secret thought and confront the Hidden Intelligence. I am; I will be. Where are the Holy Living Creatures?