Five miles in a rickshaw makes me appreciate the human body. A lithe, skinny man barely 5’2 pulls me and another woman along through dense night traffic too congested for most vehicles to pass through without great pains. Every couple minutes I want to jump off and help him pedal – the rickshaw itself must be the weight of another two people, making a total of four people being pulled by only one pair of very, very skinny legs.

I’m in Varanasi, one of the oldest towns in India.
Known for:
a holy upriver Ganges spot;
a large Buddhist temple;
a sculpture featured on India’s currency that is 4000-years-old (three lions back to back staring out defiantly).
(Interesting fact: These lions are polished limestone. No one has figured out yet the process to polish limestone apparently, and they have no idea how they did this 4000 years ago. Yet another morsel of knowledge lost to ourselves – not the first or the last time this has happened.)

One hour later I’m in a boat on the Ganges river, looking at a ceremony performed in honor of Diwali, Festival of the Lights. Diwali is one of the very few national holidays in which literally ALL of India participates in, no matter your background, language, religion, caste. Strings of yellow marigolds hang everywhere and lights stream down building facades. I’m sure India gets brighter from outerspace these few days. For a couple rupees a little boy puts a chunk of banana leaf in my hand with some flowers and lights the candle in the center. Lowering the leaf to the water I let the flame float away into the night, unsure of what wish or prayer I bestowed on it. The further away it gets the more it blends with the stars above, a small kiss to the galaxy.

Moving away from the ceremony, my group is taken downriver to see the pyres, or different cremation sites that take place just off of the Ganges. A bright fire burns (is that where they cremate the bodies?) and I see a wooden bed holding a beautifully adorned body. A small thought drifts by – did they ever wear such nice clothes in their life? And another thought – how many bodies does this river hold in ashes?

The group tour comes to an end with the International Conference on Universal Digital Libraries (ICUDL) which consists of a fruitful set of discussions and panels on the nature of digital libraries, after which I take off for Qatar to start a documentary on the Heritage Library, a subset of the Universal Digital Library which is a project headed by Carnegie Mellon University.

The documentary centers on this rare-books library in Doha, Qatar, to provide an example of the nature of digitizing books, maps, and libraries. Putting an entire library online for users to access 24/7 anywhere in the world is in itself a revolution, unlocking geographical access to the books, promoting universal access to knowledge (the digitized books will be available for free), and providing archival value (think destructive daylight, oily fingers, flipping pages, and the Alexandria fire). There is more, but I’ll spare you the details.

In some ways I view the Universal Digital Library as simply an amazing project, grandly democratic in its vision: to disseminate knowledge as widely as possible through a platform most of the world has some kind of access to – a computer and the internet. To digitize books and make them accessible for free is simply making knowledge available on a scale we never dreamed of before. Think of writing a thesis, article, or conducting any research for any subject: how long does it take you now to research a topic? You first start with a run-through of what’s available online. Then, you grudgingly have to admit it’s not great quality, and drag yourself to the library. You check out too many books and, moreover, you’ll probably miss the sections which would have helped you the most because the books or papers are not electronically indexed. You get my point. The Universal Digital Library is a revolution

I watch a rickshaw driver pedal by, thinking, if this guy could spare a couple rupees for public access to a computer with internet, he could have access to these books. That is, if he can read. Which is another issue altogether. Being poor, that driver uses his body to earn a living, not his intellect. And always this dichotomy strikes me – making me think of the intellectual elite I am so familiar with back home, some of whom constantly pine about not finding the time to exercise. Including me.

After seeing the shape these rickshaw drivers are in…

Namasté
Isabelle

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

So, after the temples of Khajuraho, I have toured another two Indian cities, attended a conference, gone to do a documentary in Qatar, returned home, and now, find myself in India again, doing another documentary. Where am I right now? Somewhere over some ocean. Don’t worry about it. It seems proper that I just pick up where I left off, in nonlinear fashion. Afterall I am a filmmaker, telling stories with nonlinear editing is my forté.

____________________________________________________________________ 

 Hustling through a tall curved archway, everyone pushes through, bobbing heads becoming silhouettes against the emerging daylight. And then, what I’ve only heard about, seen in postcards, read in a textbook materializes into something real. A brilliant white flesh shines, almost too bright for the eyes.

 It is the Taj Mahal.

 As a good Indian friend of mine says, if you think something is beautiful, better stare at it from afar and never come too close. Otherwise, the beauty is lost. I don’t fully agree with this statement – I find beauty in the details of life – but the Taj is most impressive when taken as a whole. The white structure is so magnificent it is hard not to want to get close, to touch, to see, to smell it. It is said to have been built with the hardest, nonporous marble in the world (found only in India). A local marble “factory showroom” my tour group was shepherded into (showing off  dark, skinny men with cracked skin bent over etching by hand) claimed a plate of marble could be thrown from the top of a building and it would barely chip. The same plate could have a cold glass of water on it for hours and never show a ring. The same plate also cost minimum $1500, with full dining tables going for $800,000. Hmm.

 Anyway, coming back to the Taj, I never knew that one of the 7 wonders of the world is actually a mausoleum, dedicated to the death of a person. In fact, dedicated to the death of one person alone. Located in a town called Agra, the surrounding economy centers on selling anything Taj-esque: Taj-keychains, Taj-postcards, Taj-plasticstatues, Taj-buddahs, Taj-goddesses, Taj-this, Taj-that. Tourists are walking targets, as with so many of these wonderous wonders, the authenticity is somewhat ruined by the kitsch trinkets, hawking, and general feeling of being a sheep herded through the gates to snap a picture, take a look, and make room for the next groups thankyouverymuch! (And take a keychain with you.100 rupees. Okay, 50 rupees. Wait don’t go! 15 rupees!)

 My “walk-through” was informative however. I approach the building with stealth, avoiding all the hawkers trying to get a rupee out of me by telling me where to stand for the best picture. I know where to stand for the best picture, and as soon as they point to a spot, my pride and professionalism tell me I automatically can’t take a picture there. Of course they are actually pointing to a few good spots, but I don’t concede. I can’t believe there are actually people waiting around here telling tourists where exactly to take pictures. This embodies for me the ultimate deterioration of a tourist experience. I can’t even have the simulated pleasure of snapping my very own photo from my very own angle.

 Breathe. Now getting closer, I see the Taj isn’t as white as I thought when I first saw the blinding sunlight reflecting off of it. Shoes must be taken off so I pad barefoot, getting finally inside. The inner chamber is dark, I can barely see. The grave lies enclosed in a intricately carved marble enclosure. My stuffy nose prevents me from smelling what I hear is something putrid. I’m content to be sick for a moment, blind and senseless in the obscurity. 2 senses down, 3 more to go… Maybe mausoleums commemorate the feeling of death as well as the actual death itself.

 After this, during the span of about 30 minutes, I get stopped a dozen times by women and men alike to pose with me, half of them thrusting their children into my arms for a picture. I’m becoming more of an attraction than the Taj Mahal. Come see Isabelle Carbonell, as-yet-unproclaimed 8^th wonder of the world!!! Just kidding.

 Maybe I’m over-analyzing but it seems wrong that this huge, breathtakingly beautiful monument pronounced a wonder for the world to behold is about only one person. Not about society, a cause, a group, a movement, or history. It is one rich man’s folly for his late wife. A folly he nearly repeated in black, mirrored across a river that runs behind the current Taj. These second foundations still lay, stopped in their tracks by his son who decided his father had squandered enough money on one Taj Mahal, threw him in prison, and took the throne. Oh those rich folk.

 There is definitely something bittersweet about the Taj Mahal. Pure white, bright, brilliant, seeming innocence, hope, a prayer. An unprecedented token of post-mortem love (his idea to build a second black Taj Mahal surely shows his narcissism, but nevertheless). As with all grand things you finally visit, it can never live up to your expectations (I’m positive expectations are the death of many things, a fatal human flaw) (why, the most precious moments in life occur from spontaneity and not planning, when expectations were naught – and when one travels, the best moments are always, bar none, moments you have not planned).

 Only the small wonders of the world, on no one’s list but your own, are the ones you will truly cherish. One of the most delicious cups of tea I’ve ever had in my life was at a small hole-in-the-wall family-saree-shop this morning. And if I try to repeat this experience, it will be a cup of expectations, not tea. And in that I try to find peace that moments come and go, and there is no way to create The Moment. The best way to create those moments we all crave when on a break from daily routine is to be open to traveling away from the beaten path.

 Much Love And Only A Small Amount of Cynicism

Namasté

Isabelle

While filming, I was interviewed for a state-wide newspaper. The questions were basic:

1. Did I like India?

2. What was my favorite part of India? and

3. What did I think of India and its people?

I said, “yes, I liked India.” and that “I didn’t have any favorite parts of India yet, seeing as how I hadn’t been many places.” This answer did not translate well, so I just answered the city where I found myself – “Allahabad.” And to the last question, I answered that “I thought Indians were welcoming, warm and open.”

The journalist looked at me blankly.

He didn’t understand my english, so I tried to explain myself in other ways – “You know, open, warm, generous, giving, honest…” and apparently the only word that rang a bell was “honest” so now the headline reads something like…

“UNIVERAL DIGITAL LIBRARY IS A VEHICLE TO DISSEMINATE THE ANCIENT TRADITIONAL KNOWLEDGE OF INDIA;
ISABELLE ADMIRES INDIAN’S HONESTY”

Who knew my opinion on mattered so much? Enjoy the pictures…

Shooting at the conference…

The entire conference team, more or less. As you can see, I am one of the tallest. As usual.

Bindi and all, drinking Indian tea, being pictured entirely too much

The journalist in question who got my answer wrong -

Delhi, INDIA
Staring out of a bus window complacently, an unidentifiable animal with grey fur suddenly rounds the corner barreling at full speed down the street with a vicious dog on the chase. It swings a fist at the dog -

(A fist? What?)

and with a heavy grace, it grabs a branch and heaves itself into a tree – growling loudly. My jaw drops. It’s a baboon, in the middle of the city.

Furiously looking out of the window for the next two hours makes me realize monkeys of more than one sort are common here in Delhi. So are cows, which are considered sacred and hold up to 85 gods. Left to their own devices in the city streets, they chew on what is available to eat: trash. Their big dark eyes stare at me as I walk past; I imagine staring into the eyes of divine beings, so I stare back.

“Hello?” (Those gods must be crowded in there.) “Hey, I’m Isabelle, nice to meet you…Hi?”

The cow and I have locked eyes together for what I thought was a special moment, but, fat and unbothered, it waddles over to a pile of street garbage and starts to munch. The irony (sacred cow eating plastic wrappers) doesn’t escape me but I am too polite to ask if the contradiction strikes anyone else – perhaps there is no free lunch even for the gods.

Speaking of Gods, there are more than 330 million gods in the Hindu religion. Holy cow! Literally! I’m starting to learn more about Hinduism and its vast differences from the other two major religions I’ve been exposed to (Christianity, Judaism). Suddenly all those Krishna chanters in the city streets of Ann Arbor, Washington D.C., New York, and countless other cities I’ve been to are put into context. I actually know who Krishna is now (a divine being representing love/a charmer/a playboy/don juan/Casanova) and I know why they worship him (something about how he represents love, the purpose of life). I’ve been offered a book detailing Krishna’s philosophies, so I plan to convert in the near future. My days are numbered, soon I’ll be shaving my curls – they are up for grabs, OBO. No, but in all seriousness, I look forward to reading more about him, and I am glad to have finally enquired more into a group I have always considered a cult. This is what travel is supposed to do – debunk stereotypes and let you get to know a culture intimately.

Heading out of Delhi, I visited some temples representing a few of these gods (including Krishna) in the forgotten town of Khajuraho, India. After an economic downturn, it lay fallow to the world for 1000 years, until a British explorer stumbled upon its 27 extremely “unique” temples. I wish I could have seen the expression on his face. Temples upon temples graced with figurines practicing the kama sutra abound. Positions requiring an unprecedented agility modern man has certainly lost are set in stone, 1000 years strong. The eroticism in the sculptures is acclaimed, yet I doubt that was the effect they were going for 1000 years ago. Full bodied men and women gaze out of stone, symbols of ultimate beauty in both acts of love and daily life. It is said they were meant to remind worshippers to leave their desires outside – so to enter the temple desireless. Only in this way could they be open to truth and enlightenment.

I hear tourists snickering behind me that this is 1000 year old porn. Instead, I find the temples refreshing – why impose our puritanical views to every corner and time period of this world? Rejoice that at least one culture was able to openly incorporate something into their daily act of worship that is normally on the verge of being taboo. There is something so human about these sculptures, an accidental documentation of love, sex, and sensuality. Though some features are exaggerated (the eyes, the breasts), the proportions of the body are correct. Even the slight curve of the stomach, the calves, the biceps are well represented. And that we are still up to the same kind of thing 1000 years ago gives me perspective that we are all just human after all, and 1000 years from now, if we haven’t blown ourselves up, and asteroids have charted their courses out of our way, we will be up to the same, exact… activities.

Love,
Isabelle

I’m in the midst of my travels here in India and Qatar, I sit glued to any TV possible to see what is happening.

The news I was so nervous for finally came, with no little anticipation: OBAMA WON!

My next president will be just another human being, not a messiah, but I am proud to have voted for a human being with such potential to lead with forethought, complexity, honesty, humanity, strength, and kindness. He will invariably have to make compromises to achieve higher goals, but he will also invariably be one of the most intelligent presidents we have ever had, though intelligence does not begin to describe why he will be an amazing president.

I am so proud and excited to be living in America.

If anyone has any reactions they’d like to share with me on the ground (in America or anywhere in the world) please send me your thoughts. I sit here longing to be home to share the excitement.

Much love,
Isabelle

Not long ago, I got an email from a friend telling me that “I’d been quiet for too long.” There are many reasons for this. But things have changed. Quiet I will be no longer. Here are some updates, some may be more exciting than others:

1.    THE DR: The background hum of my work has been the Dominican Republic documentary, something which I am still working on. Obviously, my trip in August upset quite a few assumptions I had made about certain characters I had thought I had previously understood. I’m rebalancing, translating, editing. I set deadlines, but then opportunities come up, such as…

2.    TATTOOS: I have written a book proposal, and designed a mock-up for a photography book I’d like to publish, called A Canvas of Flesh: The Untold Tales Behind Tattoos. It is a first-hand documentary account of the reasons and personal stories people have behind their tattoos – instead of focusing on the art alone. Pretty fascinating stuff. The stories I’ve collected are wild. Stuff like: one 28-year-old Detroit native with metal caps on his teeth bares his forearm to me and reveals some black patches. It looks like a botched tattoo. The he tells me they are footprints of his dead baby twins. I’m submitting to agents right now to see who’s interested. Next up, straight to the publishers.

3.    INDIA/QATAR: The last, but definitely not the least, is that I’m on my way to India and Qatar. I’m doing a promotional documentary for the Universal Digital Library, a project and organization based out of Carnegie Mellon University. They are flying me out to India for their annual conference on the issues and breakthroughs of digitizing books, and then I’m going to Qatar to film the documentary at the Heritage Library. I’ve got pages more to explain, so I’ll keep it short and vague today and expound on the upcoming blog posts.

Please send me your address if you’d like a personal postcard!

I’ll have pictures posted as I go along, and I’ll always provide links to my blog. If you have any comments/questions, you can either post them on the blog or email me. I love to hear from you, so don’t hesitate.

Finally: IF ANYONE HAS ANY SORT OF CONNECTION OR KNOWS A BOOK AGENT OR PUBLISHER PLEASE PASS ME THE INFORMATION!!!

All my love
Isabelle

A grand return, but nothing has changed.

It was early in May and I was trying to finish editing the documentary I started last summer about people living from a landfill in the Dominican Republic. Some of you may know more about this project than others. I realized I needed more footage, the kind which I had just *not* been able to get the year before because of a lack of connections, and a lack of trust from the community. The year that had elapsed since I went had opened more doors, however, and I decided to go back and see what I could get.

I have been keeping up with events in the area by calling a few contacts and asking for any updates or news they had. My best source does not own a telephone, and I have to call the colmado (small neighborhood store) across the street from his house. They shout his name across the street until he comes for the phone. Apparently the government filled in the dump with dirt to abate the smoke, and they bought some new trash trucks. “They are bright green and orange,” Jose said. So some of the smoke is gone, but not much else has changed. “Are you sure?” I asked, aware of all the plans the government had told me were going into action this year. It didn’t sound right. But I wanted to document how this had effected the lives of the people.

Upon my arrival, I indeed noticed how much better the smoke was. My arms and face didn’t go black anymore when I walked through the dump. But the essential problem of the dump hasn’t been addressed: there is a lot of trash, it’s not going away, and they need a place to put it. The trashflow is not being tackled on the front end: for example, reducing packaging materials, or, say, consumer recycling in homes. Oh yeah, and the buzos are as disempowered, poor, dirty, uneducated as ever. They have NO opportunities. There has been a lot of money thrown at the situation and very, very little has been done that can be accounted for. The money the sindico (mayor) has supposedly allotted for the project (75 million pesos) has produced green-and-orange trucks and one-time-dirt-fill. That’s about it. It’s a fascinating case study of politics, and also incredibly frustrating.

The situation stinks. The trash is putrid. Kids dirty with slime and black ash from head to toe still work in the dump. If the buzos find any food worth eating, they stuff their mouths straight from the ground. Poverty abounds, multiplying with every child born, misery in every nook and cranny. At a political level, the situation is also rotten. It has become a political battleground of wills, possible (definite) corruption, with the buzos lost somewhere in the middle. In fact, almost no one think about the buzos. They are nonexistent. Undocumented, illiterate, unskilled, they have no political power. They are ghosts in a system of grand corruption. Hey, guess what? I made a documentary about ghosts.

But I really enjoyed my stay there – I got to reconnect with all the different characters I had interviewed last year (Santos, Ignacio, Bedona, Diego, Ramon, Chivito, Pablo Esteben, etc…) and I also interviewed a host of more official characters such as the mayor himself (Jose Sued), the subsecretary of the environment (Ernesto Rayna), two doctors who have done health studies on the population surrounding the dump (Arsenio Estevez, Juan Rosario), two journalists (Maximo Laureano, Miguel Ponce) and more.

I feel like I really have a complete set of tools to finish the documentary now, a lot more information, and a better grasp on the situation. I also have some exceedingly juicy footage of the dump.. I got right into the trash along with them.

It’s a scandal, what’s happening. I don’t have a lot of power to change any of it, but I hope I can make some waves. Now comes the editing.

Oh and a big shout out to Ernesto, who was my translator. I can speak Spanish well, but when it comes to communicating complex ideas (”What do you think of the cycle of poverty that is perpetuated by the illiteracy and lack of political will from the state?”) I need a lot of help. He really enabled the trip and made all the interviews come alive.

More soon. Photos will be up shortly.
Besos,

Isabelle