Another Helpful Link

Well, back home and working on putting together my thoughts, getting re-assimilated into Western life, enjoying hamburgers and hot showers, and writing up some research for possible publication.

Here is a link to an article that deals with the sort of research I am getting at:

http://www.utne.com/2008-11-01/Politics/The-New-Colonialists.aspx

Mai Kusi Hu

(I am happy.)

After being overcharged for rickshaws, water, food, clothing and using the restroom; after being gawked at, stared at, laughed at and having "one snap" taken of me at least 100 times; after having the power go out on my in the shower, in a restaurant, while eating mangoes, while reading, and in an elevator with a strange man; after being ridiculously hot and sweaty only to freeze during the night and wish for a warm sun; after crying for the poverty, the dirt, the noise, the children, then ignoring it, then crying again for realizing what it was I had come to accept; after cold showers, bucket showers and no showers at all; after 8 hour bus rides with no air conditioning; after being terrified to look at, speak to, acknowledge the beggars on the street, only to be offered candy and bananas by them later; after being self conscious, afraid, hopeless at my ability to travel; after making friends that will last a lifetime; after seeing the face of a child made happy by the simple act of Mischa blowing him a balloon, a child simply given the chance to be a child; after meeting some of the most beautiful--and lost--spirits I have encountered; After being greeted--by name--in the street by vendors in a town I had only spent 3 days in; after swinging ever back and forth between missing home and never wanting to leave; after not understanding a word around me; after dirty streets, jeering stares, beautiful women and a million "yes please madam's," mai kusi hu.

I am happy. I wouldn't have done India any other way.

Images

So, these are--finally--some pictures of life in India. The first one, on the left, is of my fourth grade class. They look sweet, I'm sure, and were, as sweet as fourth graders can be when they have a substitute... I am so happy to have shared a bit of their time. As you can notice by the picture--as soon as one pulls out a camera in front of kids in India, its a clamor to see who can be in it first, most, biggest, happiest. They seem to think at times that a camera won't capture their image if they aren't within three feet of it. But gosh they are cute.


This is a picture of Dharamshala a view from the rooftop cafe run by guitar playing Tibetans. Prayer flags abound.

Above, on the right is a picture of paragliding. Yeehaw. To the left is the view from our hostel window in Gurgaon, south of Delhi. The building seemed abandoned, but in the dimness of night I noticed the twinkling of lights in the windows, and early in the morning one could watch the family as they rose, cooked over a fire outside, and set out working on the grounds.

To the left is a picture of all us lovely volunteerin' ladies at the Taj Mahal in our beautiful--poorly wrapped--saris. Talk about getting stared at, laughed at, pointed at!

"On the River"

Surrounded though I am by the beautiful world that is India, I cannot help but to reminisce about the home I have waiting for me. Being the time of year it is, many of my hopeful memories begin with the phrase "On the river..." and soon it became a house joke among the volunteers that if I opened my mouth to tell a story, those token words would invariably come out.

Today, I have a new "On the river" story to add to my collection. I am now in Rishikesh, a holy city that pilgrims travel to visit because it is situated at the beginning of the Great Ganga (or Ganges). This river, holy to the Hindu religion, winds through the sprawling town and temples, over ghats and under bridges. My first glimpse of the infamous ghats of India happened to be of Haridwar, on the bus ride to Rishikesh. They have become my love affair with Bharat-I am entranced by them.

They are a site for prayers, offerings, sadhus, conversations about the mundane as well as the spiritual, trash, washing, cleansing and beauty. In Varanasi, another holy river, some temples are located along the ghats and are under water for some of the year, only to be opened again when the waters go down. The series of steps leading to the river represent a custom in India where the riverbanks are not reserved for towering hotel complexes or private homes, but are set aside as an open access area, where no one and no thing can claim sole ownership of the right to the river except Shiva himself.

The ghats' color of dark red is contrasted by the bright colors of the temples and statues found on their edge. They glow a deep orange when the sun sets and rises, and one can watch sadhus bathe calmly on the edge, or run and jump enthusiastically into the waiting water.

Though it is hard, at times, to distinguish between the 'fake' and the 'real' spirituality and aura that surrounds holy cities of India, the ghats remain, for me, a shrine to the gods, to humanity and to life-sustaining water --or at the very least, a positive funneling of the high paced energy of spiritual tourists.

It remains a trial to be in the midst of the buzz of commercialized religion, so this afternoon, joined by another German working in an ashram in Delhi (for about a year), Mischa and I went on a walk to find a waterfall. Though none was found, we did scurry down a side trail some ways north of the city and dive into the waiting water below. We sat on the beach for a while, observing the constant flow of rafts full of more passengers than Holiday would ever legally allow on a single boat. Across and upstream from us were the same boats pulled over, and a massive line of Indians in life jackets awaiting their chance to jump off a small cliff. I laughed to think of the Salmon being this full of people.

On our way back, prompted by Gigi, our new companion, we went down another path to inspect an old temple by the river. Inside we found a sadhu that Gigi befriended in her fluent Hindi. We sat for a while and talked, and listened, and marvelled. The man spoke perfect English, had an undergraduate degree in political science and a masters in journalism, and was now living in a one room stone temple on the side of the river. He spoke of atman and brahman, of his love for his mother-our mother-the goddess Kali, and our presence before him. Laughing at our young ages, calling me "but a child," he gave us some candies for our journey home and invited us to come visit again.

Yes, it seems "on the river" things happen just the way they should.

6 Degrees in Hindustan

(Celsius)

Well hello, rain! Yesterday, like a gift from all 324 million Hindu deities, it rained. and rained. and Rained. I can honestly say I have never seen so much. It started Monday evening, and continued until Wednesday morning. We were cold and wet, but able to enjoy the company of the family we were renting a room from, as we sat around a small fire on the porch. Later, we danced in their living room to Bollywood tunes and Aqua (Hello Barbie Girl), and learned to cook some South Indian cuisine. Then masterfully devoured it. Our hosts were truly amazing, they spoke English quite well and we had an amazing conversation with the daughter about everything one hopes to discuss in a small hippie town in India (sans the chara of course). The father, who reminded me of my own dear dad--in style of dance as well as mode of conversation-- talked to us about cooking first, religion second and marriage third. A reasonable set of priorities.

This morning, we woke up to a whole new world. The rain brought the hills alive, green beyond belief, and a multitude of waterfalls sprang up--or down--around the valley. Even now, as I sit writing, I can count three beautiful wells of water pouring down the rugged hills. Not to mention, it stopped raining, the sun is shining, and the world is fresh.

Tonight we ride to Chandigargh to check out the Rock Garden--look it up, should be very neat, a man in Philidelphia is doing a similiar project--and back into the heat.

Hard to believe I have only a week left.

On the Road Again

Arrived yesterday afternoon in Manali, took an autorickshaw to Vashist, about 3 km North of Manali proper. After the 6 hour bus ride of ridiculously great views as well as ridiculously bumpy roads, we were ready for a break. We found a hotel in the main square of Vashist, right next to the hot springs and temples, for a very cheap price. It was a bit noisy, but at a certain point all one wants to do is put down their backpacks and settle in. We walked around the town, and found an amazing mixture of local tourists visiting the temple, hippies of all shapes and sizes, and the local village, going about their normal lives of harvesting hay, tramping it down with cows, then hand weaving it and carrying on their backs. What a great contrast, and an interesting study in the agricultural techniques. We supposed they could be doing things more modern--like the woman who was using passing cars to pat the hay down--but chose their traditional (not conventional in our sense of the word) methods. It was a refreshing sight.

We ventured out and about, and found a crooked charm. We will move tomorrow night to Old Manali, where by chance we found a yoga teacher, massage therapist and hotel owner all in one. It will be nice after the chaos of India to retreat for a bit into the quiet of Old Manali's twisting roads, and heal our bodies and minds, in preparation for the road ahead.

Palampouring on our Tibetan Weddin'

Last day in Thakadwara, the town located just (south?) of Palampur. It's been a good week and a half here- it's wierd to have a place in India to call a home. It has been wonderful--the volunteer coordinators Manu and Arie have helped us out alot, and our host family has been really amazing, as well as our cook. The other day, we went with the girls in the family to a party a few towns away. Think of it: invited to an Indian fiesta. Pretty great, not somewhere I would imagine myself in a million years. The food was interesting, maybe someday I'll open an Indian catering business, and we can all eat with our hands!

The walk on my last day of school was bittersweet. Like the rest of the day itself, I was happy to have finally gotten into the swing of things, but sad that I would soon be leaving. On the first part of the walk to school I was waved to enthusiastically by the familiar faces of the kids in the village, shopkeepers in their stores and women washing their clothes. It's a nice feeling to be greeted not simply because of my white face, but because I have been, at least briefly, recognized.
My first class was, as always, very trying. English grammar isn't an enjoyable subject even if one speaks English natively. I can still barely manage to capture the student's attention. I wish I had more time to work with the kids to make things more fun an engaging, or at least feel the tiniest bit productive. I think this sheds a light on the fact that short stay volunteering is a frustrating venture.
On our last day, the girls and I went back to Bir, the Tibetan Colony where we landed after paragliding. It was a beautiful day, the Himalayas trumpeting their presence every time we glanced upwards. We bought a ticket on the toy train (so named because of the single gauge track and wobbly appearance) to a village that, apparently, didn't exist, and thus had to get off much earlier than expected. However, as I am learning on this grand adventure, sometimes its ok not to know exactly what you are doing: especially in this wonderful country, most people are ready to help you along with a friendly smile, and anywhere the path leads us is bound to be a pleasant detour. Letting go is becoming easier, and the rewards of finding oneself in a small village with a beautiful monastary can only be had with a certain lack of planning.

I am sad to leave this town, the girls I have been working with, and the people we have met along the way. But, I know that the rest of my journey holds alot in store for me, one way or the other.

Farewell Thakadwara!

15 Cups of Tea

I drift in and out of sleep from 5:00 to 7:30 as the house wakes up around me, the family that we are staying with washes their clothes outside, pots are banged, dogs bark, the hot Indian sun streams in through my window. Finally I emerge from this restless sleep as our cook knocks on our door to let us know that morning tea is ready. If this doesn't wake us, he rings our door bell, which plays a bollywood song--we are trying to figure out how to install one in America. I roll out of bed, stretch a bit, then chat and drink tea with the other girls in the kitchen. Around 8:30 breakfast is served: either stuffed potato chapatti with ketchup, oatmeal, or toast and eggs, complemented by another cup of tea. Once breakfast is finished, we usaully hand around the table to talk, and play with the family's puppy, Tomy, a black lab/mutt with a red bindi painted on his forehead. Around 9:20 I leave with Arielle to my project location. Her daycare is on the way to the school I work at, we pass honking drivers, fruit stands and staring locals. At 9:50, I have my first lessson, english gramar, with the fourth grade. The school is ismple, but set in a beautiful location that overlooks the forest below and is watched by the Himalayas above.

Teaching is hard. Teaching children can be trying. Teaching kids that speak another language and live in another world is intimidating. Of the obstacles to overcome is getting them to pay attention, wondering if they can understand me at all, trying to make the lesson entertaining, and watching the real teacher come in and gain their immeadiate respect and silence, while it's all I can do to make a few kids pay attention to me half the time. I have an inkling some children have picked up that the volunteers, unlike the teachers, will not hit them upside the head not matter how they misbehave. It seems that the minute I have their attention, usually thanks to another teacher coming in and getting it for me, the period is over.

After this, I have a half hour break during which I take notes of the day, prepare for the next lesson, and interview other volunteers and teachers. The bell rings--rather the gong is struck--and I go to the 5th grade to work on English reading. This period goes a bit smoother; the kids are a bit older, better at following directions, listen easily and enjoy reading out loud. We usually read for 20 minutes then either play hangman, draw on the board, or learn a song. After this class, I have another half hour break. I feel silly to have these breaks, as if I am really not doing anything here, and I suspect the time off is more for the benefit of the school than mine. I am, after all, and outsider to the school system. Indeed, even assuming I can handle the responsibility of these young people's education is ludricrous. Other volunteers seem to think they have much to offer, and maybe they do, but at this point I feel that I am merely here as a plaything for the kids: at worst a distraction and at best a helpful resource for English pronunciation. My research so far has been useful, and I am beginning to gain a good perspective of how to utilize the volunteers time more effectively. More on that some day.

After my break, I go back to the 4th grade and usually find them even more riled up than in the morning, though I understand how attention drifts in the hour before lunch, I can't imagine I was ever this out of control. (Kidding past teachers and parents, I realize I was probably worse) For this reason, I try to make the lesson as entertaining or brief as possible, for my own sanity as well as the kids.

At 12:20, I am done with my duties at the location, and begin my walk home. I pick Arielle up from her daycare location and we stop by the beauty salon, owned by the parent of one of Arielle's kids. We spend about 15 minutes there helping the mom with her English, being told how we should groom ourselves, and getting our hair done. It is an interesting and amusing stop on our way home to lunch.

Midday meal usually consists of chappati, rice, beans, corn, curry, onions and cucumber in some sort of delicious (swaadist) combination, accompanied, of course, by tea. After lunch most of us head to the heat of our rooms for a sweaty nap or reading break. Around 2 or 3 we re-emerge for a fourth cup of tea and decide whether we want to head to Palampur for the afternoon, or shop around the local markets for mangoes and momos. We spend the rest of the afternoon either doing laundry, playing cards, visiting families or reading and chatting, and drinking more tea.

Dinner comes around 8, another mixture of rice, chapatti, green beans, curry, and what else but tea. This is generally followed by sliced mangoes, fruit juice, or the Haribo gummies Mischa brought from Germany. Yummmmmy. We spend some time while enjoying our treats planning the next days activities, making games and crafts and reading some more. Finally, as the night cools down, sleep comes.

Beautiful People

Indians, Hippies and Monks, Oh MY! Traveled to Dharamsala and Mcleod Gang, seat of his holiness the Dalai Lama in exile this past weekend. Our arrival after a bumpy two hour bus ride was promising--early in the morning, with rain pouring down, we set out to find a cheap hotel in which to stay. The streets were empty, and the clouds obscured the valley and mountains in a most romantic way. We ate some breakfast at a place called the OM hotel, but alas, they had no room. We went on a search, and found another place, tucked away above the street, for Rs 325. Split between 3 people. Which equals 2 dollars per person, roughly. Well done ladies.

However, as the rain began to clear and the world around us began to waken, we found that the mystical Mcleod Gang wasn't the India we had been used to. Previously, seeing another whitie, or Westerner, was an occurance that happened maybe once a week, even in Delhi, even at the Taj. Here, it seemed hippies of all ages and backgrounds poured from the heavens. Dreaklocks, patuli, and sultan pants rained down. At first it was a welcome break, not to stick out like a sore thumb. Then, we stopped feeling like we were in India. Each tourist was trying to be less touristy and more alternative than the last, and I was reminded of the gnar bra's at any ski area or beach. Hippies of the modern era seem to be a bit more intimidating than the free loving beautiful people my parents tell me about. Either way, it was an interesting contrast to the town we had come from.

We saw the Buddhist temple, bought some great books, and went on a few amazing hikes. One to a waterfall, and another to the infamous Dal Lake, which upon arrival we discovered to be completely dry. Quite comical.

We also found a great secluded cafe run by local Tibeten guys, very cute ones I might add, The Cafe Rose. We went there a few times, it was set out on a roof with a great view of the town below and the mountains above. In the evening they would bring out a guitar and play Tibetan songs. It was surreal, and a much needed break from the crazy traffic and continuous flow of people back in the real world.

On the bus ride home, we were all happy to find ourselves back in the midst of the India we were used to. Whoever knew that coming home to a home only ours for a week would feel so good.