part two - representing america

Quitting Ahmedebad we continued our way south towards celebrated Bombay, stopping just short of Bollywood at the former Portuguese colony of Daman. Established in 1535, they held on for 430 years before India, restless during a lull in Pakistani wars, unnecessarily bombed the airport and church before seizing the region. Coastal ocean zephyrs and a low population of 90,000 held appeal, as we tend to enjoy less wearisome and redundant experiences with the human element when we are off the major tourist routes - away from other europeans and the infrastructure/culture that inevitably develops to support/aggravate them.

Within the boundaries of "dry" Gujurat but not it's jurisdiction, Daman has the tourist appeal of coastal Santa Barbara, with the (relative) permissiveness of Las Vegas. Passing the police checkpoint into town is comparable to the state line seperating california and nevada; an assaul of garish embarrassing signs shamelessly offering the forbidden. Coming from across the state of Gujurat, Hindu (and Muslim) youths arrive to avail themselves of what is possible the best selection, value, and quantity of alcohol India has to offer. While not quite the hippie-rave-vomit "scene" that is Goa to the south, it is unequivocally "pleasant," a popular destination for vacationing Indian families, pleasure seeking youth, and solitude questing American kiters.

A mellow walk through the old Portuguese villa empirically validated our assumptions as we were virtually ignored. Afternoon found us near the community hall, where several local youths invited us up to join them in drinking beer and flying kites on the roof. Although the company was enjoyable and comparatively mellow, we were unable to enjoy the meditative stillness and serenity of riding the perfect breeze. Convenient proximity provoked our first acceptance out of what have been many invtitations to cricket. An odd sport, there is a delicateness to it that belies the independence of indian identity from the colonial era. Whatever ridiculous and seemingly arbitrary rules seperate this from baseball entirely eluded us. Linguistic challenges and generally loos adherence prevented any further insight into game mechanics. What transpired was an arhythmic flurry lasting an hour or two, watched by the chewing goats busy devouring the already undersized field. Retiring for the day we retraced the route to the kite shop, acquiring yet another stack of paper and wood contrivances. Day Thee, the final day of the International Kite Festival was imminent, and it was time to get creative.

we began day two of the international kite festival wandering the alleys of the portuguese villa

we paused at the bridge connecting "small" daman to "big" daman, pondering just how we might assist with the cuping of leprosy. while thus engaged, some local youths, brothers of the rice paper and string, invited us up to join them on the community center roof where they were preoccupied with drinking alcohol and flying their kites.

while of course we had held on to our string, our previous kites were ditched before boarding the shatabdi express that delivered us to daman. having not found a kite shop yet to replace our paper falcons, our first mission was to obtain the necessary elements. our new friends were more then willing to oblige, riding us around town, trophies on the backs of their motos.

another day, another muslim kite shop. we picked up six or so of the most air worthy units available...

...when in rome...

...and an hour later we were back on the roof, prepared for kiting induced satori

however the original group had departed and replaced by a younger, more curious crowd

that grew...

...and grew. it wasn't long before we abandoned our aspirations of aerial euphoria on Day 2 of the International Kite Festival

the locals had quite a schedule laid out for their holiday; after a demanding afternoon of kiting and drinking, it was time for the universal favorite: cricket, to be followed by a trip to the cinema. as they were playing in the field just adjacent, we accepted for the first time an invitation to play. This field is not regulation size. (bad floppy - picture up tomorrow)

with no idea of how the ridiculous game worked, and admonishments not to follow through american style, we tried to do the little bunt shit as we had been seeing on television. this didn't seem to prevent older brother and his friends from totally slamming the ball, even if they were technically "out"

that would be a miss. no matter how much he intended otherwise, when the bat did connect with the ball, todd could not prevent himself from immediately throwing the bat. (you are supposed to run with it. absurd.)