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.

Diving Right In

Arrived. In the morning. We have, how you say, bus lag? Have been here now at the project site for three days. None of my Hindi has helped, so much for orientation week. But, it is a slow process. Thankfully, it is not as hot here, and also the feel of the mountains brings me back home. The hills are beautiful, as are the people and my fellow volunteers.

Volunteering itself is something I am still working at--I have visited my school once so far, the next day was a holiday, and I wasn't quite told what I should be doing. Tomorrow might provide a bit more guidance, but perhaps it is the time for me to take initiative. Either way, it is an experience, and a lesson in diving into the moment.

There seem to be alot of those around here. On Wednesday, I went paragliding in the Himalayas. I wasn't sure if I was going to do it until I watched three other volunteers jump off a cliff, float up into the air and off into the Indian sunset. The feeling of flying is surreal, but not so unattainable on ground. Experiences are what we make them, and the feeling of peace, adrenaline and fear felt in the air can just as easily be found wherever you find yourself.

We learned that today, as walking back from the market to the house we went to talk to two girls sitting on the side of the road. To their left and down a road was their home, a small village tucked away in a street of Palampur. Well, not quite a village, but a community at least. We were immeadiately invited in, and after hesitating a second we dived in. Not knowing what to expect, and not being able to speak in Hindi, we joined the many families as they gave us a cold refreshment and we made their children some origami with the paper Arielle had just got. We sat there for half an hour, playing with the kids, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes and feeling like a part of the clan. The elders came to greet us and shake our hands, and I felt a sense of hierarchy and respect that I am foreign to. As we sat, one woman took the rings off of her hand and gave them to each of the four of us.

Being welcomed into a community that we don't know, that guidebooks tell us to steer clear of, that in our minds we are reluctant to enter, opens something in our hearts. Its right to give, to accept, to share. Its natural, healthy even (as Abbie would say). Why is it sometimes our first instinct, then, to reject this?

The Many Faces of Discomfort

A 12 hour bus ride. A/C, roomy and not so bad. Except for the dripping. Makes one wonder how many different ways there are to be slightly uncomfortable:

Being stared at, sweat everywhere, all the time; dripping AC on the bus; paying to pee; begging children; being a stranger in a strange land; having to pee on a bumpy road for 2 hours with no stop in sight; sweating in the shower; fiting four to a seat; not knowing; not having duct tape; smelling the sulfur of Delhi; later tasting salt that tastes like the smell of Delhi and not being able to eat eggs again; being constantly afraid of getting scammed, stolen, touted; horns on the road at night; fear of travelling alone; worry of bloodclots on 15 hour plane rides; malaria; Delhi Belly; dehydration; discomfort of having money, wealth and opportunity and not knowing how to use it wisely.

But, underneath it all, a happiness. What kind of happy am I? A curious happy, content but not complacent.

Because, as long as that list is, it is beans compared to what it could be.

Taj Mahal

Things I have learned in India thus far:
1. Honking is for awareness, not anger. *Cars honk always when passing, this is hard to get used to, as I generally associate honking with being in the wrong
2. Wear a sari. *Some locals will laugh at you, but most will giggle in a good way, and even offer to help you tie it correctly
3. Don't take pictures of other men's monkeys. *When in a stopped car on our way to the wonder of the world, a man with monkeys stood by our window. Some girls took pictures of them, and he shook our car until we paid him
4. Have a sense of humor, it will help get you through almost anything unpleasant. *People mean no harm, but life in India for a white girl can be trying
5. Don't be afraid to bargain
6. Don't be afraid to give
7. Smile for the camera! *"Just one photo," is a phrase any white person in India will hear from the locals countless times. We are all leaving behind proof of our visit on many Indian's cameras.
8. Indian drivers really do know their stuff, even if its scary as hell
9. Let your guard down, people may surprise you.
10. Cotton underwear is no good in hot climates.
11. Learn Hinglish. *Even if your Hindi is not perfect, speaking in an Indian accent peppered with English gets you far
12. The Taj Mahal truly is breathtaking-like the feeling you get a second before dropping into a giant wave train on the river.

Bollywood

Old Delhi, New Delhi, crowds, touts, beggars and more. The group of nine white tourists drew attention at all the sites we stopped at, and we were asked multiple times to take pictures with the locals, or Indian tourists. Finally, being treated like the celebraties we are? An interesting experience at best, at worst it turned into an uncomfortable experience. At the Jama Masjid mosque in Old Delhi, we drew a crowd that shoved their children in our laps to have their pictures taken while religious pilgrims prayed a few feet in front of us. There are some times when the novelty of being a tourist wears off.

Later, we see a Bollywood movie, showing the other side of India. Glamor, movie stars and sexy bodies fill the screen. It is hard to reconcile these images with those of the crowded streets and dirty water. It is shocking to see both side by side, but then I wonder if the only reason we think the contrast in India is so great is because here the poor is not segregated from the rich. Everything that India has to offer she shows on her sleeve, the good the bad and the ugly. Sometimes I feel that back home we are too afraid so afraid to show our old and infirm, our poor and broken, that we soon become uncomfortable in their presence.

On another note, we have all been realizing that the more time we spend here the more broken our English becomes. Misplaced verbs and incorrect tenses litter our speech, as if we are trying to blend in a bit more. Anything helps in the game of cover up.

To Delhi or not to Delhi

Third? Day in India. At least, I think it is. Nice thing about being on a vacation--ahem, I mean volunteering--is that one loses track of days as quickly as on the river. Speaking of which, many things here remind me of those river days. The heat, the sun setting and rising, dictating the day, and drinking only filtered water are a few. There are other reminders that I am hesitant to compare to my river time, such as watching locals living in slums cook over a fire outdoors, or working late into the dark because the day is too hot. This is a hard thing to say, however, as the two situations are much different. In the states, people pay to be able to sleep outside. Here, people have no other option. It's like pointing out the scenery to a man doing hard labor in the mountains--the aesthetics don't strike him as the most important part of his day.

The frequent power outages, touts and rickshaws, however, serve as reminders that I am not back home. When the power switches off, in the entire apartment complex in which the hostel is located, the absence of the whirling ceiling fans is felt within a few seconds. Heat is not far from the door.

Orientation began yesterday, and after the brief history of India, we began to learn basic Hindi. Sitting in a 80 degree living room above Gurgaon--a city a few km south of Delhi--trying to concentrate is a bit harder than comfortably learning in a classroom. Our attention drifts quickly, to the dismay of our instructor/hostel owner/program coordinator. Orientation week so far is going well--the emphasis being more on travel than service. I am curious to see how this changes in our attitudes when we arrive next Tuesday to our projects.

Tomorrow we travel to Delhi, and again on Thursday for sight seeing. I am preparing myself mentally for the adventure. However, I am eager to head North and escape the heat as much as I can. The amount of sweat that has poured out of my body in these last few days is monumental. As if the locals needed another signpost of my foreign-ness, aside from the pale skin, funny clothes, gaping looks, cameras pointed everywhere, and lack of communication, I also appear drenched in sweat everywhere I go, whereas they remain oblivious to the heat.

Namaste.