Waves of Mutilation

June 01, 2007 @ 11:08 AM

Evan Collision, Ollie to fakie

“INCREDIBLE INDIA” seems to be a national anthem of sorts. At least the saying is stamped on anything touristy, from leaflets to the giant posters that overlook me and a few hundreds people trying to snake a shorter way towards a Customs desk. This could be the first time ever advertising does not lie. A few hours later, finally all gathered from various flights, we’re riding a cab, and in a jet lag and sleep deprivation daze, a weird shape materializes on our left side, then disappears into the night as we pass it. An elephant riding into town, just like us. Words and photos by Benjamin Sidebars by Soy Panday What’s so strange about showing up in the middle of the night at a one eyed hotel front desk and get greeted by half a dozen men? Maybe having one of them wake up and push people that were sleeping on the floor in front of your room door, so you can get in… Our two first days in Delhi were not to be a smooth transition into India’s reality. The second you walk out of the plane, you’re there. We all tried to play it cool, until one incident or sight broke the bubble for us, one by one. For Vivien, it took getting really excited about a possible skate spot, on that first morning, and almost step on people sleeping on the ground. In broad daylight, next to a busy street that sounded like a highway. He looked around and went a bit quiet for a minute. It had just sunk in. We went to bed a minute before the muezzin started singing. Four in the morning. The streets all seemed eerily quiet when we arrived in our room. We even commented on it. What seemed like seconds later, the ancient call for prayer started to wake up the Muslim community, and everybody else.

Soy Panda, kickflip

One by one, all the noises of life woke up and started spreading their wings into another day. A shy klaxon, a dog fight, some calls from one house to another slowly escalated into the cacophony that is Delhi. There was a man on a roof terrace across the street. His friend was doing some cleaning up, but he grabbed a flute and played a tune that was almost audible from our room, when the street sounds would lower, somehow, for a second… Little girls in uniforms walking back from school were buying sweets, and a dog was drinking water out of a puddle. All was well. When we looked at the crowd on the platform, we started to wonder if all those people were getting into one train, ours. And if so, how long that train would be. We zigzagged through hundreds of people staring sternly at our funny group, just as the train arrived. I won’t try to describe the melee. Luckily, we had reserved seats. As we were trying to find space for our bags, some tiny hands reached from the ground to grab the trash left by the previous customers. Two ten year olds were crawling in between seats, cleaning the ground and begging until some train employee started hitting them till they fled the coach. As we all settled in for the long ride, Michael ended up seated next to a young girl that decided to feed him with her own lunch box. Micha would later admit he did not like the spicy carrots much. Maybe as revenge, he later tried to explain skateboarding to her via a ‘King of the Road’ copy of Thrasher. What did she make out of all the nakedness and flying birds depicted in there?

Evan Collision

The train from Delhi to Lucknow was stretching endlessly into the night now. The countryside showed nothing through the yellow and crass tinted windows anymore. Memories of two men speeding on a motorcycle, through a dirt road, carrying a giant TV —the kind from way before flat screen – or of a cow looking lost on the shore of a river that died a longtime ago, all seemed very blurry, as it looked certain this train would never get anywhere. Night tea at Panday’s house turned into hours of discussing many subject with Soy’s dad, (a retired teacher that will jump at any chance to teach a class!), from the caste system surviving into modern society to Inspector Derrick’s fame in different cultures. As it was time to finally get a bit of rest, some music pierced through the night. Sounded like a party was happening, just a bit beyond our window. It was wedding season, and the repetitive chants would probably keep on rotating in our brains, even if they did stop… In the morning, when questioned about the endless wedding party, Soy’s dad laughed out loud and explained us the commotion had nothing to do with that… the local mosque’s early calls to prayer had got some Hindu feathers brushed the wrong way, and very motivated people decided it was time to show who was closer to God and who could pray all night. On the microphone. Basically, we got treated to a religious sound system battle… A “ badder than thou” type of thing. We silently prayed for an armistice to happen, so we could maybe rest those red eyes of ours. There is not much peace to be found in India’s cities. Sure enough, we have our busy streets and rush hours on our side of the world, but it just can’t compare (or even compete) with the constant tornado of bodies and vehicles going their way as if they were alone on this earth. Every Bollywood movie seems to include at least one motorcycle pursuit, and this leads to every single Indian to believe in their supernatural skills at driving any kind of vehicle very fast through any type of traffic. It took me three days to realize we were riding on the left side of the road! As logical as this was- due to British heritage- the local traffic just did not seem to follow any kind of rules whatsoever. India being a “not especially looked after by the Gods” place, we did saw our fair share of accidents, including two young girls on a moped hitting a car at almost full speed while we were skating this road gap. The taxi just took off, as some people gave a hand to the victims. They eventually managed to get back on the saddle and drive away (a bit more cautiously). We resumed our session. When the police do show up for this kind of thing, they usually arrest everybody to then discuss it all for hours at the station. This is why usually any accident sees everybody fleeing the scene without a second glance. That day, our presence probably motivated a few witnesses to help those girls. When we reached the railway crossing, it was closing. Remembering how slow our “express” train had been, we joked about spending the night there, until something would finally pass by. Bicycles and pedestrians were of similar advice and kept plunging under the barrier to calmly cross the tracks. We were in the first row, waiting, when one car pulled in front of us, coming from our side. Then, another one did. The whole width of a two lane road soon got covered with vehicles of all sorts. From sidewalk to sidewalk. And a bit more. When the train did pass, we stared at the exact same situation on the other side… As the barriers barely started to go up, some mopeds were already getting in there. Somehow, this technically impossible equation got resolved in a matter of minutes. The proof that total lack of care for anyone that is not you is the way forward in terms of traffic etiquette? Time for a change. We could already hear — and giggle about— the circle drum sessions and full moon parties that were awaiting us in Goa. Oh, and the sound of aluminum scratching pool coping, as somewhere there, we would find Nick Smith’s palace: sk8goa. Distance from Lucknow, capitol of Uttar Pradesh, to Goa on the shore of the Arabian Sea is less than 2000 km.

Kenny Reed Front crooks to fakie

As those of you who have once mistakenly set foot in history class and managed to stay awake might remember, India was for quite some time a colony of the United Kingdom, where -to sum it up briefly-maharajas were promised protection by the British forces -mainly from the British forces - provided they tax their people of all the produce they would grow, and give a large percentage of it to Her Majesty the Holy Queen, along with a well executed bow on the way out. Judging by the palaces that have grown on India’s dry soils, the maharajas’ side of the deal wasn’t so bad. It just wasn’t too good being a farmer. The way it worked was people would pay taxes to the British kingdom and in return, get the right to stay alive. Fortunately, when the country recovered its freedom in 1947, thanks to a clever man’s non-violent fight, things changed drastically: nowadays, people pay taxes to Indian politicians, and in return, they get the right to stay alive and wonder where the money is going, since drinking-water, decent roads, or electricity supply are nowhere to be seen. The rest hasn’t changed much. Indian politicians have merely replaced British invaders, adopting their ways, and the population, all too busy trying to work for the relative amelioration of their own life instead of gathering to fight for a common goal, is expected to jump in amazement when its corrupted leaders deign to lift a finger. Which, to be honest, they rarely do.

Soy Panday, wallride nollie out

It would actually take us 20hours to complete it. To make it short (where a whole article could be written about this one), we took a night train from Lucknow to Delhi that showed up three hours late to arrive with a mere eight hour delay! We still had plenty of time to reach the airport to find out our plane was cancelled and not to fly until the next day… we did make it, and as we were glancing out of the taxi that came to pick us up — identified by waving an old skateboard— we were already breathing a bit easier. The landscape was one of mild jungle (as you see it in cartoons) and small white houses of
Portuguese influence with very Indian bright ads painted on its sides. Most of them praising some beer or another. We definitely were in a different part of the country. Evan Collison and Kenny Reed were already in full Goa mode, waiting for us to show up to go on a motorcycle ride to the beach. They had arrived from Dubai a few hours before, and were trying to get used to the humid heat. It was nothing unbearable, but it did tax us as we were coming from a winter where you could see locals with layers of cloth wrapped around their body while Soy was trotting around in a t-shirt.
—Flashback of a well fed Indian walking around the Delhi market with a buttoned up North Face goose jacket— We were soon basking in one of the most beautiful sunsets to be seen, and falsely (apart from Michael) body surfing back to the shore. “Hey, what’s that? -What? -That sound… -Ehrr… Techno!?” As we reached the beach, we could hear the call of a probably tribally tattooed muezzin coming from the speakers of a giant bar on top of the hill! We opted for the more civilized option of the small bar/fish restaurant/hut that played, ehrr, The Strokes. Oh, that, and everybody was white, too. Goa, here we were… It did not take long to get used to the different rhythm of looking for street spots while riding around on mopeds —trying to avoid cows lazily minding their own business even in the busiest traffic, enjoying the ever evolving blue transitions of Nick’s kingdom, eating amazing fish dishes and avoiding at all costs some areas that we just could not cope with. Most of the skaters staying at sk8goa were there for three months or more, having saved up in England or Germany to forget about the mere idea of winter, and we could see there would be a point where the idea of riding your moped to the Subway could come to you.

Michael Mackrodt, 270 ollie

But we only had two weeks of India and a good ten days were gone, already… Delhi was chanting our names again.
We finally got to skate the Paluka Bazar marble banks; somehow, that night the guards seemed to enjoy us. They actually did before, but some sort of authority seated in a car parked far away would always make them chase us. But tonight was the night. Suddenly some voice from another world just froze all of us. It was just a mumbling we could not even decipher, but it sounded unreal. When we turned, we faced two children setting up camp to have a look at our circus, and eventually sleep there for the night. The older one with a Mad Max look just kept on talking… to us, maybe? And it was as if his voice came from under the ground. Kenny was trying a trick and the mumbling just drove him crazy. It was so foreign it got nerve pinching. Kenny started mumbling too, referring to the tiny child as the Devil Voice. Two hours later, we were still there, enjoying the spot free of hassle. The two kids were now friends and Devil Voice was rolling around on Jan’s board, displaying good balance. This is when an ice cream tricycle rolled in! Some bought ice creams for the kids, and then left.

Whoever has been on Indian soil before has been shocked by how hard it is to not step on an Indian beggar. They are everywhere, knocking at your window, breathing exhaust fumes with a two year old baby in their arms when your car is at a red light, limping alongside you on the street with missing hands, or simply lying left and right on their stumps at every street corner. Mass poverty is literally in your plate, sitting next to your rich Indian dish, and it can frequently steal your appetite. There is not much you can do, and sadly enough, there is not much you should do, besides sharing your food when stumbling upon ‘real’ starving beggars (easy to spot: they’re the ones who won’t go “Oh, not one of those again…”). Before giving away your Rupees, think of what your actions will support and enhance. Indeed, what renders those atrocities even harder to bear is what caused them in the first place. Mendacity is not only cultural in India; it has become an organized business.
mIND your sTeP In Hinduism, as opposed to Protestantism, work ability is seen as a mere survival tool, rather than a means to better life in society. With the notion of service to the others absent from Hindu moral values, what started with being considered normal that meditating Holy Men should beg for their food soon turned into mendacity becoming a job like any other. And to face the fierce competition that rules the streets of touristy cities, what better idea than to give your line of descent a little advantage by physically deforming them, so as to render them more pitiful to the foreigner’s eye? A couple broken bones at birth will ensure a better position in the market, no doubt. Mutilation is fashionable these days, I heard.

Jan Kliever, pivot fakie

I’d love to shake hands with the genius that came up with that brilliant idea and managed to have it accepted by millions of people, for thousands of years. Take notes, for if you want to make a name for yourself, you’re going to have to one up this! The way reincarnation works is that your behavior in this life reflects in the quality of your future life. Basically, the better you behave, the better your next life will be. Easy. But wait, there is more. Turn this around and there appears the real genius: if your current life is a nightmare, you can only accept it and blame yourself, for you are merely paying for the bad things you did in your previous life. Who are you going to riot against if you’re the only person responsible for your own misery?
So while the rich candidly enjoy their easy life and despise, orat best pity, the miserable –not without a sense of pride for their previous lives’ behavior-, the poor have no choice but to accept the harsh reality of their life to docilely behave as good as they can in hopes that their future life will be better.
Soy, Vivien and I were having one last sweat on those banks, when the real police arrived, lazily. A patrol on foot, in the ever unnerving army suit/ thick mustache combo. They reached for their long canes and started “pushing” the children away. There was not much to do that to stare at the scene so it did not get too ugly, then shake hands with the two children as they were packing their little bag, leaving for another location and possible peace. The policemen were now seated on a ledge, waiting for us to put on a little demo. Fuck that.

Vivien Feil, frontside flip

Everybody just charged a last supper, stuffing as much of Indian cuisine as possible before boarding that one plane. Just as if, as all of us were very ready to leave and get back to our comfortable lives, we knew we would miss all this sometimes soon. Soy, Evan and Kenny were flying next morning. We all waited in front of the hotel for a taxi we ordered an hour ago, knowing it’d be late, probably… It was more than late now, and we were all getting antsy. Pre-airport stress.

When the car finally showed up, we threw our bag to the roof luggage-carrier and crammed ourselves in there. Tired and a bit dizzy from too much food and little beer in too short time, we gazed at the road that we knew, for it also led to that one bump to bar spot.
Wait! That was not the road to the airport anymore?

“No problem, we need to get some gas!” Imagine four pairs of very wide eyes in a dark taxi as not so nice words started flying in various languages. Finally one of us switched back to English to mention we are actually going to the airport in order to catch a plane there, not to visit it. “No problem, now you have to get outside of the car!” Turned out the law says you can’t pump gas into your car with people seated in it, as a taxi. We obliged in a very thick silence. The driver was now starting some kind of argument with one station attendant. Some one screamed something about eventually going to the airport, and a “no problem” later, we did head back into the right direction. Did I mention that time does not really exist in India? .

Kenny Reen, Japan grab