Notes from Chennai, with a Few Pictures..

The past month - or three some weeks, really - I have been in Southern India, in Chennai, which the British more famously called Madras.  It's the fourth largest city in India, and the capital of the Dravidian South, center of the state of Tamil Nadu.  

I've been in no mood for the internet, and so have left the blog floating derelict, despite many several requests to put something up here.  But I left Chennai this afternoon, hiring a tuk tuk to take me two hours (!) south to Mamallapuram, where I'll spend the next couple few days or more, as the spirit moves.. 

And the internet connection in the room here tonight is pretty strong.  Much better than the weak wifi that was only available in reception, and that at 25 rupees an hour, at my last digs.. 

And though I'm pretty tapped, verging on slightly exhausted, and really would rather go to bed, I've been making vague promises now for a while, so I'm going to throw something down here tonight about these past few weeks.. 

The scattered upshot: I stayed in what is basically the Muslim quarter of Chennai, at a place actually owned by a mosque, but that has been leased to a Brahmin (that is, Hindu) family for a hundred years, and has been in use as a guesthouse since 1951, since which it has been catering to a foreign (Beat, Hippy, international) clientele. It's a great rambling grubby place, several hundred years old, with no amenities to speak of, beyond a very attentive and helpful staff.  It's the type of place you will either love or loathe.  You have to look beyond the dirt, long stairs with no elevators; and lack of hot water, private bathrooms, air conditioning; and feel the ambience and discover the culture of the place, which is intimate; where if you stay more than a day and venture to talk to anyone, you will have found instant community. 

I hadn't intended to remain so long, it just happened.  That's the way I'm taking this. If something grabs hold of me, I'll be very unlikely to try and pull away unless something else is exerting a stronger pull.. 

I took some photos, not really anything forming a cohesive or comprehensive visual essay, yet perhaps enough to give a sense of what the place is like. 

Here's the unassuming entrance: 

Since 1951.

That institutional blue covers virtually every surface in the place that isn't white, brown or grey.  

This is my 3rd floor room, cooled very effectively by a ceiling fan (that is spinning here, and cannot be seen because the shutter speed is both too fast & slow) and the breeze:

There's a balcony in both front and thru the back.

You need to be careful leaning against things here; the railings, wooden stairways and such are not all necessarily all that sturdy.  Let's just say OSHA would not be all that impressed, and that in the States it would be a lawsuit waiting to happen.  No matter, the ghosts of the place keep guard, you can feel their heedful magnanimity about..

There is also a great tree full of watchful crows guarding the center courtyard, seen here at night:

the great tree

Said courtyard, my room opposite, seen from above, the 3rd story

The Wajullah, or Big, Mosque, owners of the house, as seen from my room balcony.

The mosque of course raucously belts out the call to prayer five times a day, and then burps out "Allah Hua al-Akbar!" or "Allah Hua al-Afdel!" intermittently throughout the day, as the spirit moves them.  It amuses that they - the Believers - are patrons of an institution next door sheltering a bunch of western beer swilling, ganga smoking, backpacker hippies. The world is far more dappled than those who never venture out into it might ever expect.

Here are a few shots of the social scene, not at all exhaustive, because I didn't think to take very many pictures.  People came, people went, every week there was a new set of folks, from all over the world.

The unstated, sporadically scandalous, policy is that Indians were not allowed to mix, due to the potential for culture clash, especially with the women.. The room price is too low (350- 525 rupees - like 5.50 to 8.50 bucks a night) and the culture gap with lower caste Indians too wide, so they "discriminate."

It's yet just another bubble of travelers - not tourists, really, but vagabonds and pilgrims - in an odd faraway place:

In reception, achieving yogic nirvana..

Davida, Raja (i.e. King in Sanskrit) and myself.  All kicking the glasses, note..

Raja (the night reception) and Bella, the English girl..

My digs radiating in the dark

The commune hard at work..

On the roof, at night: these are the choicest digs in the house..

And there, that's been my ramblin' home these past few weeks.  I've got more posts in the tube for the coming week or more, so keep your eyes peeled attentively on this here space..



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