TED is a packed schedule. From 8 in the morning until 10 pm or later, there's something going on. I did, however, have the chance to slip away Wednesday afternoon, so I thought I'd go check out the palace, then regroup with a TED offsite party at the local Royal Orchid Hotel. Silly me.
Getting off the campus is itself problematic. I inquired at the TED info desk, who sent me to the Infosys travel center, who called a taxi and sent me to Gate 2, where I waited for half an hour. Not that the cab wasn't there--due to security he had to park away from the gate where we couldn't see each other. It worked out eventually, though.
Except for the fact that by the time we made it into Mysore, 10 km away, in the usual traffic, the palace was closed. I tried to snag a few photos, but was alternately told to back away from the gate and asked if I'd like to buy some pot--really good pot, I was assured, "not like the stuff you get in US."
So yeah, everything was working out great at this point, and I still had two hours to kill before meeting up with the TEDsters. Someone did let me know that Wednesdays were tariff-free days in the spice market, so I headed that direction to see what could be seen (or bought).
Mysore traffic is nearly as bad as Bangalore's, with the addition of more round-abouts that move in the opposite direction I'm used to. Crossing the street can take upwards of five minutes, with a swirling mass of humanity meeting in the middle of the intersection, along with stray motorcycles, ox-drawn carts and the occasional goat. Almost every round-about comes equipped with a statue of Gandhi as well.
Beyond the crossings lies a stratified sidewalk scene: bikes on the curb, thousands of people passing each other on half the sidewalk, street hawkers with their wares laid out on blankets on the other half, and storefronts piled with everything you have no intention of buying.
The main streets are mostly composed of fabric shops and food stalls, with the occasional restaurant. And they're a maze; you can never really know if you're going in the right direction. Nearly instantly, you become the target white guy.
And thus I met Sura, who looked to be about 17. He spoke rather good English, was studying aromatherapy from his uncle, wanted to move to Chicago, enjoyed McDonalds and also knew a little Japanese. Thirty seconds later, the questions started:
You like India? When did you arrive? When do you leave? Where are you from? What do you do? You have a wife? Kids? You like Indian food? How do you like Mysore? Did you see the palace? It's closed now. You should come back in the morning. I'll take you. Did you know that there's no tariffs on goods in the market today? You can come with me if you want--I'm going to my aunt's house--and maybe you can see her make incense? You like incense? She sells hers to the Body Shop in America.
Well, why not?
Sura led me about five blocks away from the palace, making a left into an alley and then a right onto a back street. I couldn't find it again if I tried, and given the way I was being regarded I'm not sure many Westerners have ever found it to begin with. This is where everything you need for daily living can be found: shoes, bike repair, household items, cricket jerseys. Kids jump rope in the street while their older siblings polish their autorickshaws. There's also a cow on every corner, often dictating the traffic pattern.
Past the butcher's, where meat (presumably not cow) is being dried in the open air, stands a large stone passage. It's clearly older and better built than anything else in the neighborhood.
"This is the old market," Sura informed me. Indeed.
Unlike the shops outside, which mainly offered cheap rip-offs of Western clothes and clearly substandard toilet paper, the stalls here were awash in produce--shallots, potatoes, chili peppers, bananas, garlic, carrots and at least a dozen things I didn't recognize. The stone floors were clean, the people were friendly, and it smelled great.
There was more than just produce, too. Spice and rice bins lined the side stalls, and dedicated bindi dye purveyors (always women) metered out grams of fine powder you know you'd never be able to wash off, no matter how hard you scrubbed.
Through the market, out the back, around another jog and Sura pointed to an outdoor bench holding a thousand or two incense sticks. "My aunt made these today."
Sure enough, across the narrow street, a door was open and a woman sat on the floor, rolling balls of paste onto bamboo sticks.
"Come in," beckoned Sura.
The space was cramped. Past the small room--maybe 5x5--in which the woman sat, rolling incense, stood the aromatherapist, Sura's uncle.
"Hello," he greeted me in nearly accent-free English. "Please come in." What followed was a tutorial in incense-making, from the bamboo to the charcoal and pulp base mixture, to the soaking, the drying and, finally, the application of scents. "She rolls 6,000 of these a day," he said.
The mind reels. 6,000, every day, on the floor, in a 5x5 space.
"Come. Sit." Okay, then.
The room contained two benches, facing each other. I took one, and Mujeeb the smaller, next to a table containing about twenty vials of oils. He handed me a sheet containing descriptions of each: "Every oil has a different purpose, and is different for man and woman." I, however, got to try them all. I am thus now very relaxed, very sexy, eczema-free, mosquito-repellent and ready to be given away at my marriage.
Of course, they were all for sale. He asked me to write down what I'd like to purchase, and I selected two. Mujeeb, however, was running a buy-two-get-three-at-normal-price sale, so I ended up with another one that either removes crow's feet or is good for weight loss, I can't remember which. Business transactions are also always handled over a cup of hot chai, which was delicious (and no, I'm not worried--I've been drinking coffee and tea since I've been here and boiled water is fine).
When it was time to go, Sura called his brother Mola, who owns an autorickshaw. And good thing. Not only would I have not found my way out of the neighborhood, I never would have found my way to the hotel. Awesome ride, by the way. If you even need a lift in Mysore, I've got his number.
It's a long way back from Bangalore, so new friends turned travel companions are always welcome. Row 36 on British Air 118 was inhabited by fellow TEDsters, all of us headed for Heathrow. From left to right, it's Francis de los Reyes III, associate professor at North Carolina, Ashish Patra, student at Penn and the microbial fuel cell expert from earlier posts, and Anthony Vipin Das, ophthalmologist and founder of REPOrT, which has helped 20,000 kids in rural areas see better or again.
Like I said, amazing group of people. Of course, you should never trust the guy with the camera, as he's likely to catch you at your most glamorous.
After the stopover in London--bangers and eggs with a couple Guinness to wash it down--it was on to Boston, where I had two days of seminars to conduct at Digitas. Great people, and a lot of enthusiasm for the subject matter. I'll probably be back, which is fine with me, as there's a delightful place two blocks down that serves excellent lobster mac'n'cheese (yes, part of my re-entry is seeking out comfort food).
