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Were
you here with me, you might notice a phenomenon
peculiar to this place. People walk around with
fuzzy bits of white paper clinging to their fingers
and wrists. The bits of paper are similar to those
you see stuck to the face of a man who has cut
himself while shaving.
It's
not that we're shaving our hands, though. The
little scraps of paper cling to us as the result of
the odd notion (noted by me only in this particular
part of the world) that there is no major
difference between the paper used for drying one's
hands, and that used for drying, well, other parts
of one's anatomy.
This
is not just a problem with supply. It's not a
question of using one because we are short on the
other. Rather, it's a difference in philosophy. The
hand towels we're provided are actually different
from toilet paper in that the sheets are about six
miles long and five inches wide. They are loaded on
large rolls into dispensers near the sinks, right
where you would expect hand towels to me, but they
are just as thin and insubstantial as low-grade
toilet paper, so instead of actually drying one's
hands, they partially dissolve, and form a paper
Mache-like substance that must be peeled away a
little bit at a time.
Another
unfortunate aspect of this requires some background
explanation before it can be fully appreciated:
Hand-washing here is so highly valued that it is
all but included in General Order Number One (that
oft-amended document that prescribes the acceptable
manner in which to wear one's reflective belt, how
many alcoholic drinks one is permitted per day, and
whether the polypro liner to the Gore-Tex jacket
can, in fact, be worn as a garment in its own
right, or must be worn only under the jacket.)
Hand-washing
is considered so important that there are sinks
outside the chow halls at which attendants ensure
you have done so before you are admitted. This is
all well and good, especially when people have
recently received smallpox vaccinations, or have
colds. Besides, it's what our mothers have been
telling us all our lives.
At
the chow hall where I work though, the sinks and
the towel roll dispensers are outside, in an open
courtyard. This makes some sense in a place where
it's rained only three times since last April, but
not in a place where every other day since that
time has seen sustained winds of 15 - 20 miles an
hour. The wind, blowing across the funnel bottom of
the towel dispenser, draws the paper out. The
longer the piece of paper that is exposed to the
wind, the greater purchase the wind has on it,
until, on a really good day, miles and miles of the
stuff are blowing around, winding themselves around
anything stationary, and lifting swaying ends,
cobra-like, in updrafts above the walls of the
compound. The mere sight would cause an
environmentalist to fall away in a dead
faint.
I'm
typing on a proper desktop computer now, so I don't
have to contend with ACRS (Arbitrary Cursor
Repositioning Syndrome) but I find I'm up against a
more serious handicap. One of the dozen or so
televisions in this room is tuned to MTV India,
instead of the normal news channels and
surveillance drone feeds.
I
find my attention constantly wandering from my
keyboard to the amazing spectacle of dark-eyed
lovelies in saris who magically transport
themselves from the banks of the river Ganges to
modern-day dance floors. There, they combine the
graceful movements of the Oriental dances with
modern music and steps. While the dress and
demeanor are (mostly) far more conservative than
anything you'd see on American MTV, the impact is
much more powerful. Instead of the interchangeable
cardboard cutouts who pass for celebrities in our
culture, these people seem real, and
multidimensional. The women tend toward voluptuous,
and the men are - imagine this - imperfect, even
fat.
While
some songs are in English, many are not, but the
themes are readily identifiable. They are the
desires and conflicts that describe the human
condition; the hunger for love, the struggle
between tradition and "progress" - the search for
one's place in the world. Absent are the references
to violence and misogyny, and the disrespect for
social norms that characterize our "popular" music.
In this respect, these videos have far more in
common with our country music than with the rock
and roll from which they derive their rhythms.
On
screen now is a man whose proportions suggest a
cross between Lou Costello and Jabba the Hut. He's
playing the classic role of the eternal friend to
the beautiful woman. This singer is clearly aware
of his physical shortcomings and, instead of
covering them, or compensating for them, uses them
to make his point about the poignancy of unrequited
love.
His
American contemporary would use a video to create a
fantasy in which he is the object of all feminine
desire, and in doing so, would make a caricature of
himself. This man though, seems to give us a more
unguarded view of himself, and I am surprised to
find that, as the song progresses - as the story
progresses - the man's lack of physical attraction
becomes less noticeable. The impression that
remains is one of a searing voice, an aching soul,
and an enduring love.
Behind
all this are some of the richest sets I've ever
seen; crowded bazaars, rolling deserts, and lush,
green jungles. Sometimes the settings are modern
cities, but often the videos are shot in villages,
or among ancient ruins, and though the artists
frequently wear western clothing, they almost
always wear traditional costume at some point in
each video. It's as if they are paying homage to
their traditions, still being guided by them,
instead of shedding them in a headlong pursuit of
the new.
That
endearing attachment to heritage, and the becoming
modesty that results from it, is the only thing
that keeps at bay the sinking feeling that I am
watching a generation's loss of innocence. It's the
difference between Busby Berkeley and bump and
grind. It's what prevents MTV India's artists from
being nothing more than shabby copies of the
bottom-shaking Jennifer Lopezes and Britney
Spearses and the preening corruption of Snoop
whatever-he-calls-himself-these-days. It's the only
thing that makes the videos hopeful and in many
ways beautiful. I expect (although I hope that I am
wrong) that this is a very temporary
situation.
I'm
taking a step back now, because I recognize that
I'm way beyond my depth. When I start using
grandiose terms like "loss of innocence" someone
ought to stop me. So let me tell you a little bit
more about the buses here.
What
I neglected to mention in my last letter (and in
keeping with my musical theme) is that many bus
drivers play music on boom boxes or through their
bus's sound system. I suppose some could be
bothered by this (and I'm more likely to be than
anyone else I know) but it's never been a problem
for me. It's been my experience that the drivers
have made excellent choices both in terms of music,
and of volume. For instance, just the other night,
returning from work at 0300, the driver was playing
the blues.
Far
better than New Orleans, the desert epitomizes the
soul of the blues. On a cold night far from home,
when the only light comes from distant, impersonal
stars, Muddy Waters in just what the doctor
ordered. You close your eyes and rest your head on
the back of your dusty seat and listen as he wraps
the notes of his old guitar like a comforting
blanket around his aching heart. He, more than the
bus, carries you home that night, and sends you to
sleep knowing that a little heartache is a good
thing from time to time.
Usually
it's lighter fare. The bus rocked to Prince one
night; another time we listened to jazz, and one
afternoon a driver was even playing Vivaldi. I
admired his courage. Nothing though, prepared me
for what my fellow riders and I were treated to
this afternoon. The driver was listening to a book
on tape.
Having
never written a book, I recognize that my right to
criticize can be questioned fairly. Believe me
though, when I tell you that the novel in question
was so poorly written, so seventh grade in its
treatment of characters, dialogue, and setting,
that it was inconceivable to me that it made it
into print, let alone audio tape. To make matters
worse, the reader made hash of the already
execrable dialogue, and made a bad thing even worse
by imparting to each character a thin, cartoonish
voice. It was painful for each of us on the bus,
but the driver seemed unaware. On the contrary; he
appeared to be captivated by the story, and almost
missed a stop because of it.
It
was at about that point when a new character was
introduced to the story. He was a flamboyant dancer
in an all male cabaret. The reader endowed him with
a lilting voice and a hyperbolic lisp, the
presentation of which cut like a cheese grater
across the sensibilities of everyone on the bus.
Except the driver. When at last we arrived at our
destination, we disregarded the honored practice of
each deferring to another, and everyone made for
the door at the same time.
When
we disentangled ourselves from each other and the
bus pulled away (the sound of the book receding in
a cloud of blue exhaust) we burst out laughing. We
all agreed that it had been the longest bus ride
we'd ever endured.
Steven
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Should
Have Surrendered
A tower riddles by Coalition gunfire shows the
wisdom of the Irawi Army's early
surrender
The
Bridge is Out
A bridge leading to one of Saddam's many
palaces is permanently out
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