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Date:
December 05, 2002
[A few notes first: Thanks to Carrie for keeping things current.
Also, I admit my last two emails lacked some research and objectivity.
For one, I was pissed at the Egyptians. Second, of course America
didn't invent the wheel or fire. That was sarcasm.]
I have been working the Bollywood movie industry in Bombay, India.
It is infamous for making even more tacky movies than Hollywood.
I do it mostly for the food and the experience. Three times a day,
buckets of goulash appear that's what it looks like to me and the
names sound like mumbo jumbo. But it tastes great. Thereês also
a bucket of rice and desert and boxes of bread. It makes all my
Indian dining experiences seem pompous and paltry. There are at
least four feeding stations, one for each caste. The caste system
still exists in India though, in this case, it is a bit different.
There are the movie stars, the foreigners, the Indians and the Nepalese.
During breaks a Frenchman and myself were practicing juggling were
recruited by the directorês henchmen to juggle flaming bowling pins
behind the dancers. (We were filming the evermore tacky music and dance
scene.) Unfortunately, I couldnêt manage my bowling pins during
practice without dropping them.
The movie set was crammed with idle Indians and Nepalese employees
eager to help. Bollywood can afford to employee many people. I have
discovered the answer to the riddle: How many Indians does it take to
screw in a light bulb? As many as possible.
This small army can accomplish amazing feats amongst the pandemonium.
For instance, in one day they carved a life-sized dragon out of
Styrofoam, modeled after a small bronze statue. The whole time the
surrounded by curious onlookers -- staring is a major pastime here --
and swarming workers whose job is to hold a tool for the sculptor.
No one could answer why a movie set in Banjok had Indian dancers and
movie stars and a background full of westerners. I should say white men
and blonde women. There was one beautiful Swedish woman of Indian
heritage who the directors made wear a hat and turn away from the
camera. I was ashamed to be a participant. Worst yet, they producers
refused to pay her.
Tomorrow, I have an audition to be the star of a Palmolive commercial.
It pays an astonishing 15000 rupees per day, 30 times more then the
employees of my hotel who work 24/7 and eat rice and peas two times a
day. At least they have a bed, even if it is just a bench beside the
front door. During the bus ride back to the hotel after a 14-hour
shoot, we pass several thousand homeless Indians sleeping on the
sidewalks and in the roads.
I feel like the Maharaja. I have a double room all to myself. Actually,
the rooms are so small that my bike occupies one bed. Even if I owned
only my bicycle (valued at 5 years of work) I would be a rich man and
have means to work. I could be a messenger or transport goods to the
country.
I feel disgustingly rich. On the way to my hotel, caught in traffic, I
had 15,000 rupees in my pocket. Old men, mothers, cripples and children
run alongside the cab, relentlessly begging for one rupee or even half
a rupee. The poverty here is heart wrenching. Cute children follow me
for blocks. "Please, sir. Help me, sir." Tugging on my pants. "Please,
help."
"Where are your parents?"
"They die, sir."
"How?" I test him. Sometimes I can tell it is a scam if the story
appears to elaborate as if constructed by an adult.
"The boy struggles mightily with his English, "My father drink," he
holds up four fingers, "beers and someone push him off the [seaside]
wall. My mother, she die on the train." The second sentence seems
sufficiently childish. "Please, sir. You are a rich foreigner,"
"What makes you think I am rich?"
"You have shoes. Look no shoes. My pants broken. Already, I learn work.
I shoe shine. But someone steal when I sleep. Please 50 rupees for shoe
shine."
What should I do? Give them money? I have no time to teach them to
fish? I am aware it is a common scam to buy boys shoeshine kits and
mothers bottles of milk which they resell to the vendors. I donêt want
to encourage parents to create miniature armies of beggars. It is
rumored or common knowledge, whichever you prefer, that to increase
profits parents severe fingers, hands, and arms of their children or
break their legs or, at least, provoke them to tears at the approach of
the blue-eyed, white man the locals call Sky. That is something I have
noticed all over the world -- children cry at the sight of me. Another
common tale is that parents tell their children, "If youêre not good
the white man will come and get you."
India will test every value I have. The catalysts are at five meters
intervals down the sidewalk, bouncing off me like pinballs, an infinite
variety of: beggars, drug dealers, drug addicts, prostitutes, masseurs,
homosexuals, men and women and every variation in between, cripples,
diseased, starving people sorting through the organic garbage in the
gutter (all plastic, glass and metal has been salvaged, all the
flammables have been burned), hawkers, touts, men preparing heroin or
an opium variety called Brown SugarÄ. Itês endless and they all want
something from me.
It would be easy to become heartless and aloof. Already I ignore every
greeting and think the paupers are no better or worse with or without
my help and I patiently wait for them to disappear from my conscious.
I have donated all my Bollywood earnings to some people in need. I have been
cheated in some cases and now I am suspicious of everyone. I am
going to have to pull the purse strings tight. I have been spending
piles of money. A few dollars is a pile of rupees. To be specific,
I have been spending 14 times the average daily wage and I donêt
do anything: no restaurants, no coffee, no beer, limited sightseeing.
I am getting worried I will have to make the decision between finishing
my trip or enjoying my trip.
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