It ain't photoshop.

ALL ROADS LEAD TO GUPTA By Twilly Cannon

I fly to Amsterdam the next day, stopping for a night in D.C. to get an Indian visa. When I arrive in the Netherlands, 24 hours later, a number of action scenarios are already under discussion. Most of them involve the Greenpeace balloon. As a precaution the German action team has already shipped it to Delhi. We weigh the risks and benefits of trying to fly into the Indian test site at Pokharan. The unknowns are immense. Would the Indians shoot? Even if we accomplish the flight could we get news and images of it out? What are the broader logistics of an action in western Rajahstan?

After an hour of discussion the risks and unknowns hadn’t lessened and we drop the idea. That’s when the idea of the Taj comes up. GP has a long tradition of using famous landmarks: Mt Rushmore, the Statue of Liberty, and the Berlin Wall amongst others. The Taj was the symbol of India, why not? I don’t know who in that room had the idea but it hit all of us like a bolt. Settled. I fly to Delhi that night. Little did I know the next two weeks would be a surreal blur of action.

Nity meets me outside the terminal and we auto-rickshaw it back to the office. I’d brought a bottle of Scotch for him which we crack on arrival, catching up on the last two years since we’d seen each other. We spread our sleeping mats on the office floor and crash. I have a terrible night’s sleep. Periodic blackouts are hitting Delhi and the swamp cooler and ceiling fan constantly cut out. The room heats to 110 and fill with mosquitoes. Nity, a native Tamil, doesn’t seem to mind.

In the morning we go to Customs to fetch the balloon—a Cameron “special shape” that looks like the Earth. Unfortunately it has been shipped as cargo and this is where our problems begin. If it had been shipped as personal belongings we could’ve just picked it up. Coming as cargo launches us into a weeklong engagement with the byzantine Indian bureaucracy. The balloon is under customs arrest. We need permissions, bonds, and a whole lot of things we’d yet to learn of.

We tackle the permission issue first. Nity’s dad—a warm and gracious man--had been a member of the Indian senior civil service. So Nity knows something about bureaucracy. We spend the day, and the next one, trolling government ministries looking for someone who could release our balloon. Our strategy is to parlay a meeting with one official into one with another higher up the bureaucratic food-chain. Usually the meetings ends without results and the official asking us, “have you talked with Mr. Gupta?” Mr. Gupta is the head of the Indian Ballooning Association and famous throughout India.

Eventually the authorities realize Nity and I aren’t Pakistani spies and give us permission to receive the balloon. We go back to Customs to find the bond required is way beyond our means. Since the balloon’s value had been stated on the airbill there was little chance we could reduce the bond. Nity and I auto-rickshaw into old Delhi to meet with a customs broker who is a friend of his dad. He examines our growing load of documents, over the top of his glasses for several minutes without saying much. “There is nothing I can do”, he says finally, and hands us back our papers. “Have you been to Mr. Gupta?”

We’re heading back to the office when our cab is stopped by a herd of uncooperative elephants blocking the narrow street. It’s a bad section of Old Delhi. Nity turns to me and says, “You know, Twill, it seems as if all roads lead to Gupta”. So far we hadn’t wanted to visit fearing it might tip our hand. Out of options, we decide to visit him the next day.

Meanwhile back at the office the rest of the team has started to arrive. We are joined by nuclear campaigners, press folks, office support and more action help. That evening we go out near the airport to meet our pilot, Franz, whom the German action team has recruited. Neither Nity nor I have met him before so we don’t pay attention to the quiet man in his mid-50’s sitting in the hotel lobby. We go over to the airport to see if Franz had indeed arrived and, confirming he had, return to the hotel. It was then we realize the gentleman, still waiting, was our pilot.

Franz is a world-famous balloonist. He has a balloon flight company based in Hamburg, thirty year’s experience, and is one of world’s few hot-air dirigible pilots. I felt like I’d gotten Randy Johnson to pitch for my Little League team. In the morning Franz explains that Indian and European gas fittings are not compatible and he disappears out the door looking for a machinist. In the afternoon he returns having solved the problem. Nity, Franz and I go to visit Gupta.

Mr. Gupta lives in a palatial Raj-era home in the Connaught Circle area of Delhi. His doorman leads us into a sitting room and, after a wait just long enough to emphasize his importance, we are led into Mr. Gupta’s study. He is sitting behind a massive desk in a dark, wooden room. The walls are covered with large-format ballooning pictures. Nity, Franz and I emit a simultaneous gasp as we view the photo to our right. It is a Cameron special shape—shaped like the Taj Mahal—taking off next to the real Taj Mahal. “Very beautiful, isn’t it?” asks Mr. Gupta.

We’re in Franz’s world now so he and Gupta talk hot air pleasantries for a bit. Nity gets around to asking for help getting our balloon out of the slammer. Fellow balloonists and all that. The conversation returns to more generic balloon talk. Tea is served and we listen to Gupta detail his numerous records. Our meeting ends with a vague assurance of help.

“He’s not going to help us” Franz says flatly as we depart. He explains there is a fierce competitiveness amongst balloonists such as Gupta and himself. “He thinks were trying to sneak in here and bag a record”. The road to Gupta’s is a dead-end. On return to the office we find Amsterdam will pony up the bond money. Get ‘er done, we’re told. We’re ecstatic, more determined, and running out of time.

There are too many things to do at once. The paperwork has to begin anew. Someone has to get the wire transfer. Transportation needs to be arranged. And, since it seems like we may pull this off, Nity, Franz and I need to find a launch field. We delegate tasks in the morning and the three of us set off for Agra. Nity is on his mobile with his friend Jutin. Jutin will put the convoy together. Action aside, I’m excited to see the Taj for the first time and am not disappointed. Many more skillful than myself have tried to describe it without success. It is a powerful, iconic sight. I know right away we made the right choice. We return to Delhi early and bond in hand Nity and I return to Customs. Franz heads off to get his gas bits. It’s Friday afternoon and we have to fly before the conference start on Monday, European time. Nity and I work furiously filling out the multi-page form. Take it to the desk. Wait. Mistake, begin again, erasures not allowed. A second try and we’re back at go again. Nity snags a customs broker passing by, explains we’re Greenpeace, and asks for help. The guy stops and fills out our form. We return to the desk, no mistakes. But, we are told, we cannot submit the form because we are not customs brokers. “It is not possible, sir”. Nity snags yet another broker and he agrees to endorse our form. This time, it’s approved.

With less than an hour before closing Nity and I race to the Customs warehouse. “Give me all your rupees”, he says as we arrive. I hand him a pretty fat wad and he wades into the craziness that is an Indian customs yard, handing out “personal service fees” (as we would later describe them in our accounting) like no tomorrow. He finally comes over and lights a smoke. Minutes tick by. Nity is nervous. Less than fifteen minutes before closing our crates start to appear. Jutin also appears with a couple large trucks. The crates are loaded and we return to the office where the rest of the convoy is already formed. Good on ya, Jutin. A brief stop and we’re on the road to Agra.

I am definitely revved up. It seems so close—the we-might-actually-pull-this-off moment. The convoy arrives in Agra about ten p.m. To our surprise, yes, we do have reservations. We check in and commandeer the conference room. Another mistake we’d made in our initial haste was to ship the banner with the balloon. It’s an all-night banner party. Nity, Franz, Jutin and I go over the morning logistics one last time. I tell them to get some rest and go help with the banner. Around two a.m. I lay down for an hour’s rest—I figure I’ll need to have my shit minimally together this morning

At three a.m. we assemble in the muggy predawn. The warm temperature is a real concern. The balloon gets lift from the difference in temperatures inside and outside the envelope. The hotter it is outside the harder it is to get lift. Nearing the launch field the convoy slowly threads its way through the narrow streets of a small village. There are a lot of people sleeping outdoors, in the road on charpoys, so we have a team in front, gently moving them out of the way.

It’s still dark as we arrive at the launch field. The Taj glistens across the Yamuna River, a couple hundred yards distant. We struggle to wrestle the heavy balloon out into the field. It’s spread out and the basket is prepared. We’re ready, it’s a go. Nity gets on his mobile and phones our press officer at the Sheraton where she is waiting with the press corps. He sends Jutin to the Sheraton as well. We didn’t want to tip the press what we had in mind beforehand and, given the difficulties of navigating through the village, Jutin will have to lead them back to the launch field. He speeds off and, unbeknownst to us, knocks over a telephone pole in his haste getting through the village.

Almost every action has a moment when all is prepared, the gun is cocked, and all that’s needed is to pull the trigger. This one is no exception. As we wait for the press to arrive I have my first chance to think about what the reaction of the Indian government might be. I am so tired my logic process is reduced to a jumble of conflicting estimates. I decide I’m too tired to worry about it now. The press seems to be taking a long time getting here. Nah, lack of sleep…distorting my time sense.

Nity’s phone rings. It’s Jutin. The villagers have taken him and the press corps hostage, demanding to know who’s going to pay for their telephone pole. Nity grabs a wad of rupees and heads off to cover the pole. I’m getting more nervous, worrying how long we have before the authorities arrive. While I wait for Nity and the press to arrive hundreds of villagers are waking up and coming onto the field to take their morning shit. No modesty here—everyone squatting in plain view of one another, each with their little can of water.

Pretty soon we’ve attracted the attention of dozens of small children who crowd around the balloon. “Mr. Yanni! Mr. Yanni!” they’re calling to me. It’s a bizarre moment. I just smile and wave. (Later I find out that Yanni had staged a laser light show from this field).

Nity and the press arrive and we begin filling the balloon. It’s going to be a tethered flight. Too many powerlines and security zones to risk a free flight. Nity climbs into the basket with Franz and a photographer. Liftoff. The flags of each of the nuclear nations unfurl from the bottom of the basket as it rises. The balloon reaches the end of its tether and there it is: the image we had worked so hard to create. It’s pretty emotional.

We spend the better part of the next hour switching people in and out of the basket, taking more shots and doing interviews. At one point, grabbed by the giddiness of the moment, I get about two hundred of the kids to grab the tether and walk the balloon down to the banks of the Yamuna. They chant “Yanni! Yanni! Yanni!” as we haul it. It’s truly over the Taj now. We return and the press officer tells me the press has what it needs. They’re taking off for the airport where we have a chartered jet waiting to take them, and our footage, back to Delhi. Nity goes with them to do interviews. The remaining team begins breaking down the action. After about fifteen minutes the soldiers begin arriving.

There are about two squads of them, led by two officers. Most are armed with 1908 Lee-Enfields—like the one your daddy used in the Great War. The thought of being threatened with antiques makes me laugh. Nity once told me “In India the back end of the gun kills more than the front.” (Clubbing) Everyone is shouting, and then talking, in Hindi. I have no idea what’s going on. I call Nity on his mobile and tell him he better get off that jet. Jutin tells me we’re being arrested. Finish packing the balloon and we go with the soldiers he says.

It is now 121 degrees on the launch field and we are struggling to pack the balloon. I’m drinking over 4 liters of water an hour and still haven’t had to take a piss. One of the action team collapses in the heat. The soldiers are amused...but they won’t help. Nity arrives and starts talking with the officers. The village kids have no idea why the soldiers are arresting Yanni. Finally we’re all packed up.

Just as we begin to convoy out an impenetrable sandstorm whips up. We have to creep along the dirt track as visibility is near zero. The truck in front of us bogs down in the sand. The four or so vehicles in front of it don’t notice so they continue on. The rest of us struggle to free the stuck vehicle. The sandstorm begins to abate. Jutin yanks the driver out of the truck, jumps in, and promptly digs the truck in up to the hubs. A thunderstorm breaks over us. But instead of rain we are being showered with marble-sized globs of mud. Unreal. For some reason we are working frantically to free ourselves--for our own arrest.

I jump in and calm the situation down, organize some ditching plates, and half-deflate the tires. Then, with everyone pushing or pulling—including the remaining soldiers—we break the truck free. The two vehicles carrying the officers return. They’re pissed and shouting at their men in Hindi. We’re told to leave the truck with the recruits and get in the back of the officer’s truck. I realize I don’t like being driven out of town in the back of an army truck. We are driven to the outskirts of Agra to an old fort.

The fort is right out of the Lives of the Bengal Lancers. Tall, crenellated stone walls with guardposts on each corner. We enter through the 30-foot high, heavy wooden gates, cross a dusty parade ground, and pull up in front of the headquarters building. It’s so hot some of the officers have moved their desks onto the porches. We are told to sit at one of these. On the desk is nothing but an old rotary telephone. The men who have transported us disappear into their barracks. A troop of large Old-World apes watch us from the wall tops.

Two new officers appear; one is apparently the base commander. He indicates a well by the side of the HQ and tells us we can wash up. As we take turns pumping for one another I notice the apes moving down off the walls. They’re trying to snatch our daypacks. I rush back over to the table, grab a chair and harass the apes. They bare their teeth and squall at me with loud yowls. Eventually they return to the wall.

We are all seated around the table with the officers when—of all things—an orderly appears and serves us tea on real china. Nity and the officers are conversing in Hindi. I get only the barest jist of the conversation from the occasional English word. They don’t seem to be arguing. After a few minutes one of the officers drifts away. I see him drive out the gate of the fort.

As the conversation between Nity and the officer continues the phone rings. The officer answers. “CNN? Reuters? Deutche?” Someone is apparently telling him about the press coverage. He hangs up, says a few more things to Nity, and goes into the headquarters building. We sit there for about ten minutes with nothing happening.

“Fuck this”, Nity says, “we’re outta here.” “We’re breaking out of jail?” I ask. “Nah, these assholes don’t know what to do with us. Fuck ‘em.” Nity gets on his cell phone and calls Jutin who appears through the fort gates a short time later. The officer still hasn’t returned when we get in the car and leave.

Jutin drives us to our hotel where we shower and collect our things. Then we head over to the Sheraton to see if anything needs to be wrapped up. There is no one there save the regular guests. Nity and I down two scotches and two beers each and we all get back in the car to return to Delhi. We’re asleep before we get out of town.

I wake up in front of the office and blearily go inside. Franz is there but rushing out the door to catch a flight. He grabs me by both shoulders and, beaming broadly, says “It was fantatische! Fantastiche!” With that he was gone. Nity and I head over to a bar in Defence Colony. Up early the next morning to fly back to Amsterdam. Nity and I hug goodbye. I ask what kind of scotch he wants next time. As I go out the door tell Nity: “Next time you see Mr. Gupta, tell him Yanni says hello.” We both crack up.

Upon arrival at the office I am greeted in the lobby by a large-format photo of the flight. I am ushered into a large staff meeting and am introduced by Jon Castle—a brave and venerable Greenpeace skipper. People start applauding. I mumble something about the action. That night I crash hard at my friend JR’s house. I fly to Missoula in the morning. It had been three weeks since I was home.

The image of the Earth-shaped balloon flying high above the Taj reached saturation coverage worldwide.