The Holy Cow! Tour
India 2008


The Faces

The Maharani Jabel

On Location

On The Sub-Continent

The Holy Cow! Tour

India 2008

On Sunday morning, we decide to go to church in Old Goa. The ride is a lovely road of brightly colored stucco villas and cottages, palms and succulents, the ever present cows and a little sea grass in the sand. We end up at Bom Jesus, the il Jesu of India. It was the Jesuits who came here, St. Francis Xavier, tore down a Hindu temple and put up the Catholic basilica. It was not possible, for reasons not entirely clear to me, to put a cross atop Bom Jesus and to this day, there is no defining, quintessential cross atop this church that once in the door, you can immediately identify as Jesuit. It's an utter delight to be here and walk down the aisle, and makes me think of Sunday morning at St. Al's, Sunday morning in Paris, Sunday morning in Florence. Sunday morning anywhere in a Jesuit church. You got marigolds here, though, and that's how you know you're in India. That and the saris.

This is the day I become enamored with Indian wedding jewelry. Originally a Moghul tribal custom, women receive beautiful gold necklaces from their husband on their wedding day, much as western women receive gold wedding rings. Theses necklaces are splendid in workmanship and of the most highest quality in gold and gems. They are best and properly worn with saris, with no collars, buttons or distractions to dim their dazzling splendor. I am absolutely smitten and immediately begin a search to find and buy wedding jewelry. It takes me a while to figure it all out, though. I have no idea what they really are--they look like fabulous gold necklaces to me and all I know is that everybody seems to have one.

I say to one woman, That is a FABULOUS necklace!

She: (murmuring with sweet smile) Thank you.
Me: I'd like to buy one of those!
She: (small smile but now with distinct upturned corners)
Me: Do ya know where I could get one?
She: no.
Me: Is there a jeweler....?
She: I do not know. My husbands buys this for me.
Me: ...anywhere? a place where you can get a beautiful golden necklace? do you know where
your husband...?
She: (bigger smile)(dancing eyes)
(now downcast eyes but still smiling)
Me: okay. Have a nice day.

I say, to the GNY, what the hell? What kind of a day is it when I can't make friends and get information? She says, Honey, that woman had something she wasn't telling yuuuuu.

We continue to walk around the church and see Francis Xavier's mortal remains. We peek into the sacristy and I realize that in a few hours, Joe Montana will get up and go to the sacristy in our church in The Kan, EWA, where he will prepare to serve mass. We see the adorable creche, a beach scene, with sea grass and cows. We are captivated by the Indian women, their faith and their practice of dressing up in glittering saris, braiding flowers into their hair, gathering their husband and children and going to church on Sunday morning. The women are definitely in the lead at Mass in India. It is a real happening here at Bom Jesus and a delicious slice of unedited, untouristed Indian life. Dogs in the gutter, seminarians arriving en masse, men hand in hand, the old, the young, everybody comes.

I see a gorgeous woman with several of these spectacular necklaces. They all have black beads, some more than others. They are absolutely incredible! This beautiful woman has 5 beautiful children and they walk in front of her and she in front of her husband. I say to her as she passes, THOSE NECKLACES ARE GORGEOUS! She smiles graciously, in pleasure and surprise and as her husband passes I say, DID YOU BUY THOSE FOR HER? His broad grin turns to a big, thin-lipped smile and he blinks hard and says YES I DID. She turns and gives him a beautiful secret look.

What am I missing here?

Well, this: I find out later than everyone has one of these necklaces because you get them when you get married. And you most likely get your mother's when she dies. The black beads are traditional, to ward off evil spirits. Of course, the women don't know where to buy them, because they don't buy them! According to the men and women I talked to, women really don't know. Only men buy them. It is tribal custom and originally, the necklace you wore was of course, distinctive to your tribe.

All I know is that I love Sunday in Goa and I love these beautiful gracious people. They are quite delighted to speak with you, although taken back and a bit afraid. The children are delightful, the elder have sassy eyes, the marigolds are plentiful and the balmy, soft air is thick with the smell of sandalwood.

Peace be with YOU!

The Maharani Jabel
On Location
Old Goa, Goa, India

Got snow?

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

The Holy Cow! Tour

India 2008

You see, I'm an American. This I know about myself. I didn't find this out by taking American Government from Dean Lundblad at CHS or when I took Idaho History from Mrs. Hopperstad in the fourth grade. (It's appropriate to note that that particular class was and is, my all time favorite. Year long self-directed study of anything Idaho, culminating in a trip to the Cataldo Mission, a place that still puts me in joyful tears of another realm. It's a bold and known fact, I love me My Idaho. And as usual, I digress.) I didn't find out about being a proud and grateful American by listening to my father, who was a prominent figure in Lake County politics and was precisely opinionated about all national and international current affairs. I didn't know that I was an American by letting my mother drag me into the DAR and Colonial Dames, because I got back. In the gene pool, that is. No. I didn't know and appreciate that I am an American until I began to travel.

And that's the thing I never expected. You learn about others but you learn about yourself. Your childhood, your faith values, your family, your community, your outlooks. And when that plane touches down on your USA point of embarkment and you feel the cool, dry air of the jetway, you say, each and every time, I'm home. God bless the USA. And sometimes, you are exalting and sometimes you are asking.

So I'm an American. And I have to swat myself upon occasion, to remember that as much as I value being an American, it's just one of the ways to be in the world. Only one of the ways. Naturally, I believe it's a better way and in most ways, a superior way. But when I am being my best self, I know that it's just one of the many ways. One of the many ways to be in the world. Swat, swat, swat.

The Maharani Jabel

On Location

Goa, India

The Holy Cow! Tour

India 2008

So we Goa to Goa. Many thanks to Injun Joe for this line. Goa was the Portuguese stronghold on the spice route sooooo surprise, Goa is Catholic. All Catholic. All the time. It has a distinct Mediterranean feel and look with seafood second to none anywhere. Dear god, the seafood is good.

The thing about India is this: it is a travel challenge. To the nouveau, it is imposing beyond full description; to the experienced, it is daunting. The two primary factors are the poverty and the hygiene. The first is confronting, the second is elusive. Or non-existent. One. A dear, sweet friend recently said she yearns for the moment in her life where she will kneel and kiss the earth of Mother India. I savor the anticipation of that moment for her as well, but it is my heartfelt concern that she first Purell her lips and face, hands and fingers and then, lather and repeat.

In Goa, as everywhere, we wander among cows, fresh cow mess, dogs and fresh dog mess, and piles and piles and piles of garbage. Garbage and dust, dirt and filth everywhere. Everywhere. I believe I mentioned that I'm from the Lake City; at the lake, we had trash, refuse, rubble or reject material of any nature, we raked it up and burned it. They do this in Viet Nam as well. Not in India, it sits around. And this is how it is. It is Indian culture in its purest form but for us Lake City girls, it's unthinkable. Because it's causal and simple. You got a mess, you clean it up. In India, you got a mess, you live in it. And the homeless do live in it, make no mistake. Visually, it's not dismaying. It's horrifying. But to the Indian people, it is immaterial. Doesn't matter. It just doesn't matter. And it's pretty easy for me to see that I impose my values and standards on these people, like a good, white, Christian missionary would do. God, old habits die hard.

So we amble about two distinct parts of Goa: the grounds of our gorgeous resort on the ocean, where we all checked into individual villas that are drop dead fabulous and the Goa of the real world, outside the gates of the resort. The former is surreal, because there is a whole community of people whose only aim is to serve you. The latter is quite exasperating, bewildering, because there is a whole community of people whose only aim is to sell you. So you bounce around between the two worlds, each very real, however, and each a legitimate response to existence.

We take the bus up the road and get off and wander about a half a mile down to the beach, running the gauntlet of stalls and vendors, making deals for shoes and glittery handbags and bangles and silver jewelry. We are headed for a restaurant that has been highly recommended to us by some Indian friends in Bombay. As we hit the beach, we see the sign. Yahoo. We turn left onto a makeshift boardwalk atop the sand, probably twelve inches wide and wander about and around until we come to eight feet high piles of garbage. And the restaurant! right there together! The garbage and the restaurant! Wonderful!

We hesitate, but plunge on because our friends say the fish here is absolutely fabulous. So we go in, get a beautiful table seafront and order. Me: a Kingfisher beer and tandoori pomme frette and the GNY, a bottle of water and lobster. After they pour the beer, they place the coaster atop the glass. Should of tipped me off, but it didn't. I take the coaster off and take a big long gulp of beer and as I put the glass back on the table, the flies descend. Long story short, this is how it works: the fish comes and the air around us is black with flies. You inadvertently swallow a few while talking. So . Even more descend upon us as the food is served and the GNY pretty much loses it. Down the table, our travel friends suggest that everyone debone and create fly bait at center edge of the table in a big serving platter. The GNY snaps a lobster tail out of the shell that is the size of her forearm. The shell goes in the center of the table and in a few moments, we look up and this pile of bones is completely black. Entirely black. All black. Whine and cry or shut up and eat. We look at each other and begin eating. I order more beer. Small mercies do abide: it comes and it's cold. Best damn whitefish I've ever eaten. GNY's lobster tastes like cake. Buttery, barbecuey, expertly cooked cake. I order more beer, drink it quickly and we get up and leave.

We walk back through the sand on the little, wobbly boardwalk and a guy stands there urinating in broad daylight. The bus ride back is quiet and the resort with our beautiful villas looks extra good that night. I scrub every inch of my body until I am red all over.

I am positive I came to India to learn to understand better.



The Maharani Jabel
On Location
Goa, India

The Holy Cow! Tour

India 2008

So we go over to the Jains to see their temple, which is exquisite. Just yuuummy. It is laced and bound with icons that stimulate and inspire me. It is a riot of fruit sherbet colors. One thing that's bothering me is that we didn't have many Hindus on 10th and Penn over there in the Lake City so I do not have a familiar, completely accurate vocabulary and dialogue about the Jains, about the Hindus that I can plug into. Rather, I am learning. And I am a new learner. So it bothers me that when I inadvertently say something inaccurate or incomplete, I will offend the Hindus that stop by Notes From The 'Kan EWA. I ask your forgiveness in advance and greedily solicit your tutelage and mentoring. I promise to be worthy.



The thing I love about the Jain temple is the soft, but vibrant hues that melt into each other. But I guess I mentioned the fruit sherbet, didn't I? I love this temple because there are acts of devotion everywhere, most of which I do not understand. But you don't need the is dotted and the ts crossed when the air is thick with love and true beauty.



They didn't teach us about Hindus at Central School in the Lake City, heck we didn't even speak of Jews , and that's one of the many things about a Jesuit education for which I am grateful and that made me determined to set Jesuit education as an incontrovertible value at Bellemaison. The Jesuits talk about them all and you are free to examine any of them closely. So I am so happy that the time has come for me and the Hindus. I've been waiting to know; I am just going to love this! And the Jain temple fills me with light and love, reassurance and hope so I realize that the livin' the day in dirty, needy India is going to be more than just fine. Despite the religious malevolence, man's inhumanity to woman, the air, the water, that industry known as begging, and each and every one of the one billion people that live here looking to make a rupee, I will be ok and will find the beauty that others positively glow about. Sometimes I am slow to the party, but I always show up.










The Maharani Jabel
On Location
Bombay, India

The Holy Cow! Tour

India 2008

As I mentioned, India was not ever on my here'swhereIwannago list. That's important because I had absolutely no expectations or anxieties about seeing certain things. So what I didn't expect and what literally took the wind out of my sails was really, really, really dirty air. Los Angeles back in the day didn't have the air that India does. In fact, environmental pollution is an issue in every single city, town and area of India. It's staggering and sobering. And whatever is said about good old Americans and their polluting hearts, I will henceforth take with a grain of salt because from what I have seen in Asia, we're the least of many, many serious problems. I digress.

Although I am genuinely sick by the time the car reaches our hotel, I am still very pleased and excited to be greeted by these Indian studs at the front door who proffer the traditional red spot and the marigold lei. Hello, indeed! The hotel is gorgeous and the people, all Indian, are gorgeously professional. And Madonna checks in, right after we do. Hello, hello, hello! Then I pick up the paper.

Seems that on New Year's morning very early, two couples left a party at another five star hotel in Bombay, the Marriott, and as they walked along the sidewalk to their cars, a mob of 80 men tore the women's western dresses off, held the men and raped the women. As the outrage in the city rises, the chief of police says the media overreacted. hello. A day or so later, in another province, a young teen age girl is taken from her home after school, raped and then burned. HELLO? are you kidding?

So I am in no mood to get too far away from our guide, Oxford-educated Bombay native now at NYU. I know of some really good bazaars around the corner and up a few blocks, but I do not venture out. I am quite happy to get on the bus with the tour and visit Gandhi's house.

And I actually really, really like that. There is so much about him I do not know and so much about British India that's fascinating in an almost ghoulish way. The downside is that I see Bombay from the bus, where I am still suffering mightily from the effects of the filthy, dirty air. The upside is that we visit a spectacular Jain temple, too.

Gandhi with Charlie Chaplin

Hello Bombay. I just didn't know.

The Maharani Jabel
On Location
Bombay India

The Holy Cow! Tour

India 2008

India was an adventure which was co-scripted with the Great New Yorker. I never had any ambition to go to India but the GNY called night and day, every day for two weeks. Because I needed to get some work done at the office, I contacted the Travel Corporation of India and signed up. It worked out nicely for me because the calls resumed their weekend schedule and centered around shoes, Chanel, and gossip. But on New Year's Day 2008 a year or so later, I wake up from a nap in Seat 11C and look at the window at Bombay, India as Virgin Atlantic flight # 1920 from London screeches to a halt.

First things first: I know and am quite aware that the tribal name of one of the four largest cities in India has been changed back from its Portuguese derivation, Mumbai from Bombay. Happened back in last decade of the old millennium. Problem is, people of Mumbai, er, Bombay, and all of India for that matter, haven't gotten the word yet. They refer to this place as Bombay. Good enough for me! Don't write in about this. I always run with the locals. Let them have their way, I say.

So I'm in Bombay with only the vaguest of recollections on how I got here. But I am firmly remembering my family at home back in the snowy Pacific Northwest, seeing them skiing and partying in my mind's eye, celebrating and joyous in each and every day of the Twelve Days of Christmas. Outside the plane window, it looks like it's warm. I gather my new blue pillow and my bag and trundle up the jet way, hoping there's cold water.

There's no cold water but instead lots of construction, graffiti, traffic, noise and sharply acrid hot, dusty air that makes my eyes burn dreadfully even before I step into the open air of Bombay itself. Oh good! A welcome sinus headache! How much fun will this be!

The Maharani Jabel
On Location
Bombay, India

Coming home. It always takes me so long to get back to life here in The 'Kan. I have a stubborn physical geography that furiously hangs on to where I was before I boarded the plane that last day; I would love to come home and bounce right into things but it just never works out that way. I do know that once I'm ready to see people in the evening, I am getting very close. So despite all indications, I horsewhipped myself into going to the Spokane Valley last night to have a steak and see friends. A false positive, to be sure. I always have behemoth unpacking to do and this time is no exception; what am I going to do with all this stuff? I have had the requisite comfort food: tomato soup and cheese sandwich and at least 4 bowls of cereal. Still, I'm not ready to be back. But I am soooo glad to be home. Even at the hand of the unforgiving jet lag.

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

I've been nominated for the Best Disappearing Act in a blog. sigh. I suppose that's deserved. And I am disappearing again. This time to India. I'll be back with a full report before Martin Luther King Day. Or thereabouts.

Happy New Year!


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

Cathedral of Volterra, Italy New Year's 2007

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

Bob Barker, The Venerated Elder of The Chow Nation, is going to go live with Santa. While I am deeply sad about the separation, I know he will have a good life with Santa as his life here has detriorated to joyless interims of wakeful unrest. He can't see, he can't hear, his rear legs don't work anymore and he is rail thin, probably with very brittle bones. Bob has welcomed me home for over 20 years, barking when my car hit the bottom of the driveway saying, Hey! I missed you! You're back! He was there when I came through the door from my mother's funeral and from the hospital where my dad died in my arms. He was there for the pool parties, birthdays, graduations, Thanksgivings, Christmases, Easters and Halloweens. As The Chows played, he would stand by at a close distance and bark, calling the play by play. No matter who came and who left, Bob stayed with me and is the one thing that has remained constant in my life. So he goes now to a better life, a life that he fully and richly deserves. If I live simply and with a pure heart, someday maybe I'll get to go live with Santa, too, but until that time comes, I will cherish our memories together and the good life we had raising those kids of ours. Eugene O'Neill opened my heart and helped me live fully in the pain and joy of saying goodbye with this tribute to his own dog:

The Last Will and Testament of An Extremely Distinguished Dog

I, Silverdene Emblem O'Neill (familiarly known to my family,

friends and acquaintances as Blemie), because the

burden of my years is heavy upon me, and I realize the end of my

life is near, do hereby bury my last will and

testament in the mind of my Master. He will not know it is there

until I am dead. Then, remembering me in his

loneliness, he will suddenly know of this testament, and I ask

him then to inscribe it as a memorial to me.

I have little in the way of material things to leave. Dogs are

wiser than men. They do not set great store upon

things. They do not waste their time hoarding property. They do

not ruin their sleep worrying about objects they

have, and to obtain the objects they have not. There is nothing

of value I have to bequeath except my love and

my faith. These I leave to those who have loved me, to my Master

and Mistress, who I know will mourn me most,

to Freeman who has been so good to me, to Cyn and Roy and Willie

and Naomi and - but if I should list all those

who have loved me it would force my Master to write a book.

Perhaps it is in vain of me to boast when I am so

near death, which returns all beasts and vanities to dust, but I

have always been an extremely lovable dog.

I ask my Master and Mistress to remember me always, but not to

grieve for me too long. In my life I have tried to

be a comfort to them in time of sorrow, and a reason for added

joy in their happiness. It is painful for me to think

that even in death I should cause them pain. Let them remember

that while no dog has ever had a happier life (and

this I owe to their love and care for me), now that I have grown

blind and deaf and lame, and even my sense of

smell fails me so that a rabbit could be right under my nose and

I might not know, my pride has sunk to a sick,

bewildered humiliation. I feel life is taunting me with having

over lingered my welcome. It is time I said good-by,

before I become too sick a burden on myself and on those who love

me.

It will be sorrow to leave them, but not a

sorrow to die. Dogs do not fear death as men do. We accept it as

part of life, not as something alien and terrible

which destroys life. What may come after death, who knows? I

would like to believe with those of my fellow

Dalmatians who are devout Mohammedans, that there is a Paradise

where one is always young and

full-bladdered; here all the day one dillies and dallies with an

amorous multitude of houris, beautifully spotted;

where jack-rabbits that run fast but not too fast (like the

houris) are as the sands of the desert; where each blissful

hour is mealtime; where in long evenings there are a million

fireplaces with logs forever burning and one curls

oneself up and blinks into the flames and nods and dreams,

remembering the old brave days on earth, and the

love of one's Master and Mistress.

I am afraid this is too much for even such a dog as I am to

expect. But peace, at least, is certain. Peace and long

rest for weary old heart and head and limbs, and eternal sleeps

in the earth I have loved so well. Perhaps, after all,this is best.

One last request I earnestly make. I have heard my Mistress say,

'When Blemie dies we must never have another

dog. I love him so much I could never love another one.' Now I

would ask her, for love of me, to have another. It

would be a poor tribute to my memory never to have a dog again.

What I would like to feel is that, having once

had me in the family, now she cannot live without a dog! I have

never had a narrow jealous spirit. I have always

held that most dogs are good (and one cat, the black one I have

permitted to share the living-room rug during the

evenings, whose affection I have tolerated in a kindly spirit,

and in rare sentimental moods, even reciprocated a

trifle). Some dogs, of course, are better than others.

Dalmatians, naturally, as everyone knows, are best.

So I suggest a Dalmatian as my successor. He can hardly be as

well bred, or as well mannered or as distinguished

and handsome as I was in my prime. My Master and Mistress must

not ask the impossible. But he will do his

best, I am sure, and even his inevitable defects will help by

comparison to keep my memory green. To him I

bequeath my collar and leash and my overcoat and raincoat, made

to order in 1929 at Hermes in Paris. He can

never wear them with the distinction I did, walking around the

Place Vendome, or later along Park Avenue, all

eyes fixed on me in admiration; but again I am sure he will do

his utmost not to appear a mere gauche provincial

dog. Here on the ranch, he may prove himself quite worthy of

comparison, in some respects. He will, I presume,

come closer to jackrabbits than I have been able to in recent

years. And, for all his faults, I hereby wish him the

happiness I know will be his in my old home.

One last word of farewell, Dear Master and Mistress. Whenever you

visit my grave, say to yourselves with regret

but also with happiness in your hearts at the remembrance of my

long happy life with you: 'here lies one who

loved us and whom we loved.' No matter how deep my sleep I shall

hear you, and not all the power of death can

keep my spirit from wagging a grateful

tail.

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

The No Duong Left Behind Tour

Vietnam 2007

Prologue

When I sign on to ride my bike from Ho Chi Minh City to Hanoi, I am downtown sitting behind my desk looking out the window at snow-laden trees in the park. It is January 2007. Hard to say exactly what motivates me. I can't hear the word 'Viet nam' without thinking about my classmate Tim, who came back from from Viet nam as a decorated Navy Seal, but never came back the same. I think about Joe Montana's cousin, Butch, one of the best guys you'll ever know, who suffers still from Delayed Stress Syndrome as a result of his two tours of duty there. And of course, I think about the 60,000 people on the wall, most of whom I never knew. Viet nam has been on my mind a lot in the last five years, because it was the heartache of my generation, a mistake of mammoth proportion for which we grieve still. And now our new heartache is that we find ourselves in much the same position as we were in the days of our budding adulthood; only this time, we know much, much better and yet, it has happened to us again. Read that 'Iraq'.

But I can't say for sure if this tragic irony is what leads me to email my credit card number to a New Zealand travel company on a snowy January day; I don't know why I sign up in a flash. But I do. And so on the day after Thanksgiving 2007 in Seattle, Washington, I climb on a plane to Ho Chi Minh City for the adventure of a lifetime. I have no idea what to expect; what lays ahead.

Just as well. Just as well...


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA