men – Climb to the Stars

India, Women, Men [en]

[fr] Quelques réflexions sur l'Inde, les hommes, les femmes. Même si la situation est clairement différente d'ici, il est tout à fait possible de voyager en Inde en tant que femme sans que ce soit l'enfer.

I lived in India for nearly a year, and upon my subsequent visits there have tacked on another 7 months in the country over the last 13 years.

Traveler Candace shares her notes on travelling alone as a woman in India. Her article, a reaction to this very dark picture of Indian men written by an exchange student (do also read the counter-piece), made me want to share my experience as a woman in India too. And also because since the highly publicised 2012 rape in Delhi, people ask me: is it really that bad? what is it really like?

Well, honestly, I haven’t had any particularly bad experiences in India. Sure, people stare more in India. And when it’s men or teenage boys, it can be a bit unsettling. But look around — women and children stare too. We’re staring material. People are often genuinely curious about foreigners. Get over it.

I had one guy I didn’t know e-mail me for a “sex date”. A fellow traveller leaning in a little too close on a bus (I swapped places with my male companion). A furtive breast grope at a crowded new year’s party. A friend of mine had somebody mumble “are you interested in a fuck?” while she was hanging out in front of a shop — she had to make him repeat it three times before she understood, I think the guy was more mortified than she was. In one of the hotels I stayed at, the manager came to chat with me during dinner a little too often for my comfort. But maybe he was just honestly curious (I really don’t know).

Let’s put this in context, though: like most women, I get unwanted attention in the West too. See #shoutingback. So this is not limited to India. Now, true, despite all the kamasutra and tantra idealisations, India is more sexually repressed than Switzerland. And more male-dominated. And it’s big. So yes, there are creepy guys, and there are definitely issues that need to be addressed. And there is risk, too. The Delhi rape didn’t just come out of nowhere. Years ago I read Bitter Chocolate, a book on child sexual abuse in India, which is quite chilling.

All this doesn’t mean that each woman’s trip to India will necessarily turn into a horror story. It’s quite possible to spend time in India without feeling like a sexual object at every turn of street. Being “sensible” is a part of it, just like it is in the West.

I’m careful how I dress, knowing that as a white woman I’m likely to start off with higher “sex capital”, so in doubt I might dress a little more conservatively than my Indian peers. I use the ladies’ compartment in the Delhi metro, the ladies’ side of the bus when there is one, the ladies’ queue — specially if I’m unaccompanied. I don’t feel like I’m driven by fear: one part is “do as Romans do”, and the other is that it just makes things more relaxed and avoids potentially annoying situations.

In her article, Candace points out one piece of “advice” that was given out to students going to India: “don’t smile at people”. I spent most of my time in India glaring at people, to be honest. A few years ago, I realized I spent most of my time in Switzerland glaring at people. I started smiling more to people I didn’t know, and trying to approach strangers in a more friendly mode rather than defensive. It changes things.

Sure, a smile is an invitation to some kind of interaction. If you have huge boundary issues you might prefer to lock yourself up in a scowl to prevent anybody from approaching. Interaction can indeed lead to unwanted attention, but it can also lead to friendly interaction. My life in India was (and is) filled with friendly men, and yes, having friends is something that will increase your safety — and your feeling of safety. For example, I travelled all the way to Chennai in sleeper class with my friend Shinde, something I would not have done on my own.

So, here’s a quick selection of some Indian men I met along the way.

Shinde and his wife Nisha, whom I stay with when I go back to Pune:

Madhav, who helped me find hotels to stay at when I kicked myself out of my pay-guest place, and remained a close friend for many years:

Mithun and his family, who helped me out when I arrived in India, hosted me and helped me find a flat so many years ago:

The “Delhi Boys” plus my host Sunesh’s family in Kerala:

Satisha, one of the helpful staff at Hillview Farms:

Thanks to Claude for sharing the article that got me started on The Life Nomadic.

Pourquoi les hommes ne chantent pas [fr]

[en] If you like singing in French, we're looking for male singers (in particular) for the vocal group I'm part of, Café-Café. We rehearse on Wednesday nights in Lausanne.

Hier, première répétition de la saison à Café-Café, après le week-end de travail aux Paccots de ce week-end. Deux nouvelles, toutes motivées, mais pas de nouveaux.

Pourquoi je dis ça? Parce qu’on manque d’hommes. On manque d’hommes au point que ça pourrait commencer à devenir un problème. On est un choeur mixte, mais avec 4 basses et 7 ténors (comptés mercredi) pour un groupe d’une septentaine de personnes, ça commence à devenir chaud.

J’ai commencé à recruter activement autour de moi. Au judo, hier soir aussi, avant d’aller à la répète.

Tu chantes?
Moi?! Euh… non, et puis je chante faux.

En discutant avec des copines de Café-Café, c’est un peu le même constat partout: les hommes ne chantent pas, ou en tous cas chantent toujours faux.

Refusant de croire que nos hommes sont génétiquement programmés à ne sortir que des fausses notes, j’ai mis en marche mon petit cerveau, et je suis arrivée à l’hypothèse suivante, que j’ai testée sur quelques personnes qui l’ont trouvée fort séduisante. Mais permetez-moi d’abord un petit détour par mon histoire.

J’ai toujours aimé chanter. Mais seule. Avec la musique à coin dans ma chambre ou le casque sur les oreilles, sur mon vélomoteur, dans ma voiture, quand il n’y a personne dans le coin. Ou bien alors en camp scout autour du feu, quand tout le monde s’égosille et qu’il ne s’agit pas de chanter bien, mais de chanter tout court.

En parallèle de cela, j’ai toujours pensé que je chantais faux. Voyez-vous, je me basais pour tirer cette conclusions sur les seules démonstrations de chant publiques que j’avais faites. Je vous le donne en mille: les interrogations de chant à l’école quand j’étais adolescente.

Je ne pense pas qu’on m’ait jamais dit que je chantais horriblement faux. Par contre, quand on est seule debout au piano devant toute la classe, qu’on essaie vaguement de chanter quelque chose qui est trop haut, le trac au ventre, pour être évaluée, bien sûr qu’on s’entend dérailler.

Pour ma part, il a fallu que je passe par une succession d’étapes (vraiment m’écouter chanter dans la voiture pour constater que ce n’était pas si mal que ça, karaoke avec les copines, d’abord avec puis sans Martini, puis finalement prise de courage à deux mains pour aller m’inscrire dans un choeur) pour arrêter de penser que je chante faux. Allez, j’ai pas la voix la plus juste du monde, je dis pas ça, mais je crois pouvoir dire que je chante suffisamment juste.

Et les hommes dans tout ça? Eh bien.

Je pense que chanter faux, c’est en grande partie dans la tête. On croit qu’on chante faux, alors on se gêne, et en effet on chante faux. On croit qu’on chante faux, donc on ne chante jamais, et en effet quand on essaie c’est pas terrible. J’ai entendu quelque part qu’à moins d’avoir des problèmes d’ouïe (suivez mon regard… j’en ai!) tout le monde peut apprendre à chanter juste. Je ne sais pas à quel point c’est vrai, mais je reste persuadée qu’une grande partie des personnes qui se définissent comme “chantant faux” ne chanteraient en fait pas si faux que ça si elles arrivaient à faire un pas dans leur tête et chanter dans des conditions favorables (pas tout seul sur un scène pour commencer, par exemple).

A mon avis, les hommes souffrent en grande partie de ce que j’appellerai “le traumatisme de la mue”. A l’heure des interrogations de chant à l’école, nos pauvres garçons sont en train de muer. Catastrophe! C’est sans doute bien pire pour eux que ce que j’ai vécu. A moins d’adorer vraiment chanter, ou d’avoir un peu de technique de chant, je suis persuadée que beaucoup de ces adolescents en viennent simplement à s’étiqueter “je chante faux” pour le reste de leur vie. Quel gâchis de belles voix d’homme!

Alors, messieurs. Posez-vous la question. Essayez de chanter seuls dans votre voiture (avec la radio ou un CD, parce qu’a capella c’est bien plus difficile).

Et dites-nous dans le commentaires: quand avez-vous commencé à penser que vous chantiez faux, si tel est votre cas? Je crois qu’en quatrième année, il n’y a pas plus de petits garçons que de petites filles qui chantent faux. Si vous avez d’autres théories sur la question, je serai ravie de vous entendre.

Et messieurs de Suisse Romande, sachez que tous les mercredis soir à 20h, à Pierrefleur (sur le Grey, près des Bergières, sortie Blécherette), on se retrouve pour chanter. On fait de la chanson française Nougaro, Fugain, Aznavour, etc, on n’est pas ringards, la moyenne d’âge est de 45 ans et notre benjamine en a 26, on est sympas et (avis aux célibataires) il y a plein de femmes :-).

Pour la pub plus musicale, nous sommes dirigés par Pierre Huwiler (ce qui n’est pas rien) et notre prochain concert, après le succès de Chéserex, aura lieu à l’Auditorium Stravinski de Montreux. En clair, pour un groupe vocal amateur, on a vraiment un bon niveau, même si pour venir chanter avec nous il n’y a pas de pré-requis côté technique de chant, lecture de partitions, etc.

Vous aimez chanter? [Venez!](http://cafecafe.ch/chantez “Oui, c’est la cinquième fois que je mets ce lien dans le billet, c’est pour être sûre que vous ne le ratez pas!)

Au minimum, venez nous voir le 24 novembre sur scène à Montreux…

PS: on ne refuse pas les dames, hein, surtout si elles sont Soprano II (très haut!), mais on a vraiment vraiment besoin d’hommes…

Adventurous Morning [en]

Eunuchs and a sleazy rickshawallah.

This day started out pretty adventurous, but luckily it didn’t get too bad.

To start with, a whole bunch of “men in saris” (eunuchs) were roaming in the area around the house. I still have to figure out the what’s and the why’s about these people, but in any case it was clear they were after money.

As we were making change at the chemist’s (for the rickshawallahs, not the sari-clad men), one of them started addressing me insistently, pawing at my arm in the process. Now, if there is one thing I don’t like, it is being pawed at by people who want to get money out of me, be they big or small, ugly, beautiful, child, woman or neither. Nisha told me afterwards that he had said to the chemist that one of his friends had died — hence the need for money.

A minute later, as I was counting my change (which had started by being 50Rs short), the sari-guy had the bright idea of sticking his hand upon my head. I didn’t appreciate remotely, and glared at him even more than before — unfortunately through my dark glasses, so I guess it was lost on him.

We (un)fortunately succeeded in finding a rickshaw pretty fast. The road nearest to the house is always home to a couple of ricshaws, but they invariably refuse to run by the meter. I usually end up walking down to the parallel road where busses and six-seaters as well as normal rickshaws can usually be found. Sometimes, though, like last evening when I was going out, you remain standing at the bus-stop for twenty minutes, and arrive late for your movie after a hectic (but cheap) ride in an overcrowded bus at rush hour.

So anyway, we were happy to find a rickshaw willing to take us to D.P. Rd, but a little less happy to notice that this guy simply did not have a meter on his machine.

On the other hand, the 40Rs he was asking for sounded very reasonable to me. I knew the trip was at least worth 60Rs by the meter. I hopped in, knowing I would end up regretting it.

And I did.

Five minutes later, Nisha and I realised we had misunderstood one another. When she said “D.P. Rd”, she meant “D.P. Rd” nearby, not “Dhole Patil Rd” near the station. Once cleared with the rickshawallah, his price for “my D.P. Rd” rose to a preposterous 160Rs. We agreed he would drop us off at the next rickshaw stand.

Of course, he wanted his 40Rs, but there was no way I was going to give him that much. I could go up to my internet cafe on Aundh Rd for that price, and we had gone barely half that far. I gave him 30Rs, he insisted, I refused, we got off the rickshaw. He followed us around asking for his 10Rs as we enquired for somebody who would take us to our destination and charge the legal fare. He didn’t even give up once we were in our new rickshaw, and I continued refusing to give him more money, explaining all my reasons for this shocking refusal — all that in Hindi, please. Two other drivers came up to join the fun, and Nisha also started arguing around in Marathi.

I was getting more and more angry at the guy, who simply would not give up his litany: “das rupaye de do!” After a couple of minutes, however, our driver started his engine (of his own initiative or at Nisha’s request, I could not tell) and drove off, leaving the irritating crook behind.

I was glad that I had stood my ground and hadn’t given in. Nisha gave me a tip from our driver: if a guy like that won’t let go, threaten to report him to the police. I’m keeping that in mind for the next one — or maybe I’ll simply play smart and really stop taking my chances with guys who won’t go by the meter!

I’m writing all this sitting cross-legged in front of my usual internet cafe, just opposite Taramai’s basti. If the power failure lasts much longer, I might go over to her place for some chay. Straight on the other side of the road, there is a construction site. I’ve been watching the women there shovelling up dirt and carrying it off on their heads under the (already) scorching sun. I managed to take some photographs of them too, and a short video. I think I’ve just seen Taramai and her daughter Roopali walk back to their house. Should I pay them a visit?