kolkata

fish on the street, plucked chickens on tarps, flesh for sale in back alley markets, sweat shop jeans for sale and shirts and ties, american flags on the buckle, though they were all made in china. "mineral water, please?" nothing from the tap, avoiding the bacteria, foreign to my body, though it's what they steamed my rice in, washed my fruit with, i'll just cross my fingers and hope for the best.

we arrived in kolkata in the morning, several days ago, burning heat, a new climate, very different than delhi, more trees. in west bangal, they speak hindi, bangali and english, the signs in the street use all three. we meet rafique with the embassy bus, riding around in a government vehicle, the only white people in sight, we are getting used to the stares and snickers, sometimes i play with people's looks, break into clown mode, goof off. they love it.

manoj was introduced as our technical assistant but he became more of a friend, a member of our group. leaving kolkata tomorrow morning...we're sad he's not coming along.

at all of our performances he was right on the ball. translating left and right, manning the dvd projector, never missing a beat. we gave him a card today when we said goodbye.

chaos around the temple, kali the destroyer, lines around the block, anointing myself with coconut milk and taking off my shoes. peddlers pretending to be guides trying to charge us an entrance fee "this way, around the back..."

performing clown in the field in front of the stadium where 10,000 people came to watch the "escape artists from the usa" tripping and falling messing with people in line, the whole town of MIDNAPORE where rafique is from, dressed to the 9's.

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we're being lead somewhere up some stairs, fabric on the walls, music playing, television noise, where are we? after driving 2 hours through rice fields and concrete buildings crumbling away and children sifting through gravel and paving streets and sewing garments on the highway and cows holding up traffic taking their sweet time to get from one grass hut lined side of the street to the other...after 2 hours of talking with rafique and manoj about america and gender and why we couldn't perform for the muslim boys school (they wouldn't let laura and alessandra through the doors), talking about marriage and culture and bangali's famous sweets (lots of fried gooey balls) and music and bollywood and language and haircuts...here we are in this stairway marching up and up it seems to never stop...we come to a room like a hotel room where there is tea and flowers, fragrant flowers, everywhere and packages with our names on them, handmade rugs and handkerchiefs, plaques and bows. we speak with the local officials we eat some food with our hands, and we go to set up our show.

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the potato man wants his picture taken. he is sitting in the lotus position, legs crossed and grinning wide, seeing us, obviously not from around here, he asks "you have camera?" and in his picture his face is beaming, i show it to him on my digital screen, his eyes twinkle, i notice that about this place, how children in india somehow all keep their twinkle into adulthood, they don't lose it somewhere, they hold on...


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i performed today. the venue was outside and we rigged our set-up on bamboo tied securely to the cement walls of an islamic school in some misty jungle town where human rickshaws are still legal and the only cars you see are passers through...

1,000 children ages 4-17 gathered around and we improvised a show, myself included, since there were no lights to run i put on my clown nose and the yellow plaid shirt and black slacks i bought for 200 rupees on the road outside the gate, which is manned by the man selling plastic toys and razors on his best woven carpet mat. during the show, in full swing, i grabbed a kid's backpack and took a look inside, i reached in and pretended like my hand was being swallowed by some unseen evil lurking in the dark of that young boy's vinyl pack. kids screams and squealed, gaffawed and waved hello. i shook man hands and pretended like they wouldn't let go of me, like i was stuck to them, or trying to escape, i feigned panic, i mimicked fear, i fell and got dirty and i laughed at the teachers, impersonated them, i stole their pens when they weren't looking, i chased chickens and swatted flies, i flirted with girls and tried to keep my shirt tucked in. the kids roared in laughter. my heart swelled. my first official performance in india and afterwards i was signing hundred of autographs, surrounded by little reaching hands and joy-filled brown eyes and unbrushed smiles. like i was brad pitt or something. the closest they'll ever come to the american dream. after the show i was taken up on the roof of the school by the president of the academy and we stared into the distance, the abyss together and he said, "please sir. come back someday."

...

i walked by the salon, taking a break from group, seeking something all my own..."hmmm" i thought "what if...." i stayed in the salon for several hours cutting and dying and styling my head, it's now short and dark brown, spiky and fresh, with highlights of copper gold...it was a social experiment, how do i communicate with these people what i want when they have no clue what i'm saying???

the guy who spoke the most english was running around, or perhaps "flitting' would be the more appropriate word, unable to translate many of my requests...he himself had long curls and bleached blond streaks, nail polish and eye-liner and reeked of designer impostor perfume. he wore a wedding ring and although he gossipped with the other stylists about me, little whispers and giggles, he talked about a wife and his devotion to shiva. one of the men in a tight half-buttoned shirt gave me a head and face massage while we all waited for the sink to get fixed (it never did, some skinny kid with ripped shorts and no shoes who they called out from the back room came and poured warm water by the cup full over me.) i said thank you many more times than i needed to, i'm sure. all these "no no no...after you's" and "no, please i insist." all these polite words can't really console a person who bathes on the street, hangs their clothes over the fence, sells belts by the arm load and will never smell clean air.

tomorrow, by the orange smoggy sunirse of kolkata we will fly to channai. and do this some more.


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