Annabelly

Voyage to Himachal Pradesh

ahay — Wed, 9 Jan 2008 18:09:00 GMT

I’m sitting in the dark right now because the power is out. Again. This is a daily battle in the year 2007 in a progressive city of 3 million+. Somehow I survived my Himalayan adventure and have made it back to Jaipur just in time for my finals, three days of last minute Christmas shopping and packing. It is hard to believe that I am leaving India already; the time went so fast in some ways. In other ways though, I feel like I have been here forever. I wasn’t entirely positive I was ready to leave India until I went to the Himalayas; I am more than sure now. While part of me is sad—I will miss Rajula’s cooking, a schedule-less existence, people-watching, and maybe even the entertainment of traveling anywhere by road—I am craving a real bed (no more hip-bruises from sleeping on a wood board!), a hot shower, shaved legs, raw vegetables, fireplaces, my doggie, anything and everything that is clean, and a population that is safe and organized. I will never miss the trash, the deception, the lack of punctuality, or the extreme narrow-mindedness. I think though, my time can’t be completely over in India. I need to come back someday, but it will be awhile. I need some time to reflect, lick my wounds, and prepare myself before I can do this again. I think next time it will be the Mediterranean, sipping wine or maybe Sweden to see all the pretty people. The third world has lost its appeal for the time being.

Himalayan Adventure: Two girls alone in the Indian Himalayas. 100 Rupees for lodging ($1.50) per night, 20 Rupees for meals ($0.50), 0 degrees C, no heating, raging rivers, 8,000 foot cliffs, demonic public bus drivers, power outages and 21,000 foot mountains.

Meg and I left for our adventure in Himachal Pradesh last Thursday via the Jaipur bus stand. We have a couple of guy friends that we have met here in India that, contrary to my stereo-type that all Indian men are innate genital-driven delinquents, are really quite wonderful and helpful. The boys offered to give us a ride to the bus station in the center of town. After lying to our host parents about the taxi that was waiting outside, we crawled into the boys super-chic Honda and sped off.

As upper caste Brahmans, the boys have spent very little time communing with the sector of Indian civilization that rides public buses in the middle of the night, like Meg and I. Thus, they were absolutely horrified by both the thought of traveling in such a manner and our audacity to stand alone in the dark at such a place. In retrospect, their horror might not have been completely unfounded—Jaipur’s late night bus stand does feel like something of a lewd entertainment house where we, unwillingly, were the performers. Out of concern, our Indian friends stayed with us, staring down anyone and everyone that dared look in our direction, and literally walked us up the bus steps, to ours seats, and then notified the bus driver of his delicate cargo before finally heading home at 12:20 am. We arrived in Delhi at 4:40 am, safe and tired, with great plans to take an autorickshaw across the city famous for its late-night and early morning dangers, described in one giudebook as the “city where a woman should never, ever be alone at night.” Gripping a can of mace each, we found a rickshaw driver who offered to take us to the New Delhi Train Station (see: top three most dangerous train stations in India) for 150 Rs. Knowing that the cost was no where near that, we were in no position t argue and hoped on, hoping to God that we would not end up with our organs cut out in the bowels of New Delhi. We did arrive safely and with plenty of time to figure out how and where to board our train. Asking no less that 5 people where to find the check-in desk (this is the only way to accomplish anything in India,) we were unanimously steered across the enormous, dark parking lot to a tiny shack-like building with the words “Foreign Tourist Information Bureau” above. Those words alone should have been a red flag. I should have looked, screamed, and ran until I found any other way to register for my train. But alas, we were alone at 4:45 am in Delhi and we have both been cursed with a female anatomy. So, we went across the parking lot, dodging sleezy rickshaw, chai, and god-knows-what-else wallas, until we finally made it to the sign and found a man who stood dousing his samosa stand in brown water before dumping the rest of the bucket over his own head. When he finished sputtering in the early morning cold he told us to “walk back” pointing towards a tiny alleyway littered with trash and lit with one small light, swarming with mosquitoes. I think it is interesting at this point to note that when things become scary/dangerous at a certain level in a foreign country, instead of becoming more scared or leery, one tends to give up, throw caution to the wind, and just hope to God that infamous traveler’s gut kicks in somewhere before robbing and kidnap. Again in retrospect, all signs said “get as far away from the ‘Tourist Bureau’ as possible.” But, I was determined to make that train in 1 hour and not even fear was going to stop me. Inside, we met a slimy man with slicked back hair who told me that it was snowing in Shimla. Meg and I immediately became excited, smiling and yelling something about how that meant we could listen to Christmas music without feeling like the Anti-Christ. He then told us that, “seeing us happy filled his heart with light and joy” and that he would “do anything to make us happy.” Red flag? He proceeded with quite an act. First he dramatically dialed a number he deemed to be the “Train Reservation Line,” then he very effectively made faces to show his despair and regret, then hung up the phone to inform us that unfortunately, our particular train car was having work done on it and wouldn’t be going that day. All other classes were booked. Also, there was a cricket match on in Delhi and trains would be full for the next 10 days. This also meant there were no hotels. Furious, I made him call his little friend at the reservation desk back. I spoke to him, at first calmly, and then irate, until he said that he had no further information at this time and hung up on me. We were being scammed. So, we waited another hour while our sleazy friend made a scene of finding a taxi that would take us up to Kalka in Punjab to connect to our second train at 12 pm. As he worked, ever so slowly, Meg and I decided to try and find someone at the train station that could check us onto the train and prove that we were being lied to. So, we told our scamming helper that we were going to the bathroom but wanted to look at our ticket, he handed it to us, and we made our way back across Ursala’s Sleezy Walla Garden to the train station. Standing in a check-in line, our white-skinned glory drew attention. And of course, before we could get to the front of the line, another man moved in for the kill. I attemped to pull my ticket out to show him, and realized that our other con-artist friend had given me an empty envelope. Our train was leaving in 5 minutes. Beyond angry, Meg and I made it back to the Tourist Bureau where I yelled, asked for my ticket, waited, and finally got it in time to see that the ticket was useless, our train had left 5 minutes before. With no other way to begin our trip, we agreed to take the man’s advice and got in his friend’s very hyped-up taxi for an astounding price of $75 apiece. To give perspective, I would not spend this much money again until I had paid for food, lodging, travel across the most dangerous roads in India, and gifts for 7 days. When his taxi friend finally arrived, we were greeted by a man no taller than 4’10” with bug eyes and a car that was the size of a smart car and smelled like vomit and urine. We dubbed our driver “Yoda,” and climbed into his unmarked car at night, in Delhi, alone (with our girl parts,) and let him speed away into the pollutant haze. May I also add that he had no business card,taxi meter, and we never asked for any kind of driver’s license (my fault, I know.) At this point, I think I made my one and only intelligent move of the morning. I called my mom and told her, if anything happened, my mangled remains would be somewhere along the 350 km stretch of freeway between Delhi and Kalka, and that finding us would involve a 3-state search and virtually no information. She was surprisingly calm. She told me to call her when I arrived safely...? Sitting in the back of taxi was defiantly what I thought would be the closest I would come to dying ever, or at least on the trip. In our tiny tin can, we swerved in and out of lanes, speeding semi-trucks, cows, goats, humans, and avoided pot-holes. In Delhi and for around 150km outside, the smog is so thick that Indians call it “fog” and it makes visibility less than 200 feet in some places. When it is dark, as it was when we left, sometimes it is less, and driving 150 km/hour in such conditions is, well, unsafe. We had no choice though, and I closed my eyes, turned on a my NPR “This American Life” podcast and refused to open my eyes until the tires stopped and I couldn’t see a truck anywhere in my sight range. I gripped my mace for 5 ½ hours and when I opened my eyes, we were there, at the foot of the mighty Himalayas, in plenty of time to catch our train up to Shimla, for 8 days of alpine fun. The Kalka train station confirmed that we had been scammed: there, our tickets were fine and there was no need what-so-ever to register with the tourist bureau. After not sleeping the night before and the stress of Yoda’s taxi though, we didn’t even care, and just went straight to the train so that we could really begin our journey.

Pushkar Camel Mela

ahay — Wed, 9 Jan 2008 18:07:00 GMT

I have grown so lazy. I have to spend an entire day pumping myself up to write e-mails. There are just so many things to tell and so many ways to fail to explain how incredible and incomprehensible my life in India is. Just know that nothing I do or say to relay my information will even come close to portraying the wonder of my ordinary, day-to-day existence in India. I have learned that in order to co-exist here, one must throw out all cultural norms, standards, and expectations. Nothing is ever unsurprising here and now, with just 3 weeks left, I am finally sad to think of leaving. That said, enjoy!

Stories from the Infamous Camel Mela in Pushkar

We left Thursday afternoon via government bus, crowded to what I thought was capacity, and sat for 3.5 hours, sharing sweat with our neighbors and breathing in the noxious fumes of the dusty, polluted Indian highways. What is perhaps the most fascinating about bus travel in India as a foreigner is that, most of the time, one is never 100% sure of where the bus will take them or where it will stop on the way. At the bus station, a chaotic crowd elbows and shoves towards the small ticket window and the man behind the window simply lists of possible cities of destination in quick succession, and you just hope to God that he hears you say “ha!” after the right one. After establishing a city and paying, he usually points in some direction and shouts a number, indicating which bus to climb aboard. Unfortunately, or fortunately for the adventurous, Indians have a tendency to mis-translate numbers, and so one must be vigilant in asking at least 3 more opinions. It is also very important to be quick in the transition from counter, to questioning, to boarding because buses leave very regularly to most big cities and no one is interested in waiting around. On the buses, though they have allotted assigned seats for customers who pay in advance, there really is no one to stop an entire Indian family or a grumpy Brahman man with a superiority complex from situating themselves/himself in your seat. Simply enough, punctuality is the name of the Indian bus game. Once aboard, ask a few of the people on the bus around you where the bus is going, just for good measure, and try not to panic as your bus takes strange dirt roads off the highway, drops off and picks up villagers, and then rejoins freeway traffic by pulling out in front of three camels and a semi truck.

After finally arriving in Pushkar at 7pm, we hopped off the bus at its first stop. Getting off, we were mobbed by holy men and people who wanted to “help” us find our way. Like so often in India, we had no idea where we were, or in which direction to go to reach the “Krishna Inn.” I suppose it was our fault, we were dumb enough to make a reservation at a hotel that has the same name as almost every other place and person in India. Thus, a note to all who travel in India: avoid reserving a room at anything with the name “Krishna” at all costs, because hours later, you will finally discover that it is the “Krishna Guest House,” not the “Krishna Inn”, “Krishna Hotel”, “Krishna Motel,” “Krishna Hostel,” “Krishna Garden House,” or anything else “Krishna.” After we falling victim to yet another false priest (reference my last e-mail,) asked at least five people their suggestions on which direction to go, we somehow ended up at our “guest house.” It was really quite nice—for $13 a night. There was a hybrid Western-Squat toilet that incorporated the needs of the West with the functionality of the East: a toilet seat that was extra wide for standing on, also wide enough to sit on, and stood 3 feet off the ground just like home. I spent most of my time squatting to avoid touching the infrequently cleaned seat, all the time praying for good balance lest I fall 3 feet to my death on the hard marble floor.

After settling in at the Krishna, we left again to explore the city. While exploring, we decided to partake in all activities we were recommended to avoid during our time in Pushkar. We let our cheap traveler sides get the better of us and began by consuming an unhealthy amount of street food. They key to eating street food safely with an American digestive tract is to be sure that the food is recently made, is still hot, and was served without flies on it. Our food was hours old, cold, and had been sitting on a plate in the street, collecting fumes, dust and more insects than I care to remember. Somehow though, it was delicious. We had masala potato soup, pourris (fried chapatis), samosas, naan, and vegetables, and jelebis (a very strange fried dessert,) all for $1.50. For some reason, at the time, spending as little money as possible seemed infinitely more important that staying out of the hospital and since I haven't been sick yet, I felt like testing the waters.

The rest of that evening, and actually much of this weekend, I will have to relate in person, when I am home safely and can’t receive reprimanding e-mails. The next morning, we woke up and made our way down to the camel fairgrounds. The streets had become crowded and hectic over night and it took almost an hour to walk the one-kilometer to the fairground. It was fascinating people-watching though. Because the fair occurs in conjunction with the Hindu pilgrimage to Pushkar Lake, the majority of the crowd was from the rural villages and women wore the brightest color combinations, bangles all the way up their arms, and nose rings that took up most of their faces and were held up to by chains that connected to their ears. The men wore the traditional diaper pants (I don’t know the real name) and brilliantly colored turbans on their heads. Families all traveled in groups, the women in the front and the men at the back, and carried all of their belongings (including bedding, food for a week, and campfire-making gear) on their heads. Interestingly, the young women carried nothing. It seemed that as the women got older, their loads became heavier and I saw women pushing 90 years old carrying bags twice their size on their heads. These old ladies are fighters, let me tell you. When the crowds got too thick to move, elbows start flying and people begin yelling and shoving. Most of the time, I would turn around to see if I was in someone’s way and see a tiny old lady pushing and screaming her way into my kidneys, which were just about level with her eyes. When we did arrive at the fairgrounds, we saw hundreds of camels. Unfortunately, my photos don’t really portray the scene well, but it was amazing. There were black camels, tan camels, reddish camels, hairy camels, shaved camels, all kinds, and all decorated with fancy jewelry in their ears and pierced noses. Some had even had tattoos.

Walking across the fairground, the vendors were adamant, on the verge of violet, and poked, prodded and grabbed at us to buy their products or sign up for a camel ride across the mela. Everywhere there were people cooking, sleeping, smoking, selling things, or just sitting back and relaxing. Unfortunately, we missed many of the big events of the fair because we had gotten the wrong schedule of events. We did however make it in time for the closing ceremonies and one of the evening dances. The dance was held in the fair’s main stadium, which probably sat around 100,000 people in the seats and another few thousand in the arena. When we arrived, the entire place was nearly full and there was a mob of angry Indians outside yelling and pushing, trying to get in. Fighting our way to the front of the crowd at the entrance, a security guard seemed to notice our white skin and grabbed us by the arms to pull us through. He then led us to roped-off section made up of the front rows that was reserved for upper caste Indians and anyone with white skin. As horrifying as it was to allow myself to be segregated, as I looked back at the sea of Indian faces behind me, sitting on each other’s laps, fighting to see, and harassing the police officers that beat them back with sticks, I was thankful for my peaceful seat among the culture-shocked tourists. The next day was the true adventure. The crowds were unbelievable, moving was impossible, and we experienced India in a way few people ever have to opportunity to. BUT, because everyone is complaining about the length of my notes, I will save those stories for the next one. If you are picking and choosing which to read though, read the next one. ☺ I will try my best to write it before I leave for the Himalayas tomorrow!

A Hindi Lesson and an Indian Wedding

ahay — Wed, 9 Jan 2008 18:05:00 GMT

Namaste. Aap kesse hoh? Mein budia hey. Mira naam Annie Hay hey. Or aap? Meri mataji ka naam hey Jaquine Hay. Muray pitaji ka naam hey Alan Hay. Mein Bharat key sanskriti seekany Bharat aaee hoon. Yahan par dekanay layak kiya heh? Thoda sa bi nahee, jaissee aapkee marzee. Koi baat nahee. Kaal melangay, dyaan rakna! EH! Chaale Jao! Nikal jao! Bus, rahanay do. Ghanda Chokra. Ben Chode. This is the full extent of my conversational Hindi knowledge. Hello, how are you? My name is Annie, what is your’s? My mother’s name is Jaquine, my father’s name is Alan. I have come to India to study its culture. What is good to see here? No, not at all, as you wish. It doesn’t matter. See you tomorrow, take care! And… Go away. Don’t touch me! That’s enough. Dirty boy. A very bad word that usually comes next in the sequence. So, just in case my last note left you all feeling as if you had no reason to be jealous of my minimalist Jain existence, think again: I am writing this as I wait for my personal, at-home masseuse to arrive and give me a full-body rub-down for one hour, for a rate of $2.10. Beat that. I am now a good Jain-- I am spending very little money on what we will call an hour of meditation. So, back to where I left off with my story about my life 3 weeks ago (yes, I am that far behind.) At ten a.m., after our all night bus trip, we hopped yet another bus and went out to the town of Ajmer, where the bombings of the Sufi mosques occurred two weeks prior, for our professor’s brother’s wedding. The wedding was incredible. I, like most Americans, knew nothing about Indian weddings and I believe my only frame of reference was the short scene in the movie “Bend it Like Beckham” or “Monsoon Wedding.” As it turns out, traditionally, the groom leaves the home of his parents atop a white horse and rides with a procession of family members and close friends, all the way to the home or hotel of the bride. He wears clothes spun with golden thread and brings gifts like gold jewelry, diamonds, and clothing for his future wife. I found this practice particularly appealing: what girl has not dreamt of her man arriving on a white horse, dressed in gold, bearing jewelry and clothing, and promising to love her eternally? If only they had actually met before… Our professor, (a gorgeous, energetic woman who was married a few years ago and, unlike many Indian couples, has a very loving marriage), treated us like family. I think many of you have seen photos, but we brought saris and dressed in the traditional wedding dress to be polite. One of the best decisions I have ever made. The family was so flattered to see a bunch of white girls in saris that we could barely get out the door to join the procession because we were so flooded by people who wanted to ask us how we knew how to wear them, where we got them, and why white people didn’t wear saris more often—my explanation was useless, they still insist that I should wear them at home. They were sweet though, and I think I posed for 1,000 photos… The procession was crazy and any inhibitions I had about dancing and my lack of rhythm were cured: everytime I could pause to breathe, I was whisked away by another auntie or cousin who grabbed my hips, flung them right and left, and then grabbed a hand and tossed it into the air. I must say, it was quite a scene. I think my hips have some loosening to do. We walked for about 3 miles altogether. First came the Aunties, all dressed in gorgeous saris with intricate hand beading, and shaking their hips all over the place. A few of the male cousins and husbands joined in, and one guy in particular caught my eye. I was told he was an incredible Indian dancer but, to my untrained eye, it looked more like a strange, slow interpretive dance that was some sort of mixture of the Macarena (which I cannot spell), walking like an Egyptian, moon walking, and Hoola. After the Aunties came the older people, who danced with their arms but had retired their hips long ago. I did my best to hide in this pack. Lastly came the groom, bejeweled and with a stoic expression atop his white horse. At the edges of the procession, a band and men with big lanterns kept the rowdy dancers confined, and the people watching along the streets out of the procession. It was all very surreal. I think one of my favorite memories was dancing along and peering out into the street to see a huge crowd of men, staring and pointing, trying their best to figure out why the hell three white girls were wearing a saris and dancing like fools with a wedding procession. It was just one of those moments I wish I could have a freeze-frame photo of: the expressions were worth a thousand words. When we arrived at the bride’s house, the dancing went wild. Mind you, that procession was the most exercise I have had since arriving in India, and easily the most movement my hips have done—ever-- and by the time we got there, I was doubled over with a side ache and had sweat pouring from every pore in my body. The word “tired” meant nothing to the Aunties, I suppose it was just too much fun to watch the dancing, demented white girl. So, I tried to dance until the bride’s family finally let us in the gate, and then I settled myself into a comfortable chair with my fellow travelers (who were, thankfully, just as mortified to dance) and had some chai. Upon arrival, the groom is hurried to a stage where he is seated on a thrown-like chair and has photos taken until the bride comes out. When she comes, they are both photographed and stand up there for about an hour and a half for photos. While most of us would kill ourselves, smiling for that many photos, Indians have figured out a solution: the bride must look very upset and sad to be getting married. There can be no sign of happiness on her face, lest she look provocative, like she is awaiting her wedding night and, bonus, she her face doesn’t get tired from photographs. We sat out in the audience, observing, and trying to escape the prodding of the Aunties. No luck, right after we sat down, we were asked to join the groom on stage. So, in front of at least 300 Indians, we awkwardly climbed the steps in our saris onto the stage to speak with the groom. When we reached him, he told us that he had asked that we come up so that he could tell us personally that, “you are looking so beautiful. I am very flattered that you have come to my marriage and that you have dressed in the traditional manner. You are looking so very nice, this dress suits you.” He then asked to have one photo taken and then called a waiter over to make sure we had food and sweets for the rest of the evening. I must remember to be this considerate and kind at my own wedding. And so the night went on; photos, food, and conversations about where we were from, what we studied, whether we liked Indian culture, and why it was that in our country, we make such bland food. Conversations are very predictable with Indians. I must introduce myself in terms of who my father is and his occupation, what university I go to, what my field of study is (I think I need to switch to economics or physics, they like that answer,) what my religion is and sometimes, what my caste is. I haven’t quite found the right response to that last question, it still always leaves me surprised and sputtering. By 12:30, and after a night without sleeping on the bus, we were barely able to keep our eyes open. So, our professor and her husband and their son drove us to their home where we all slept on the marble floor with a small sleeping mat, lined up like sardines, and I had the best night of sleep I have ever had in India. The wedding would go on for two more days. We woke up to a man pushing chai at our noses and telling us to come down for the breakfast banquet that celebrates the bride and groom’s first night together. Exhausted, we did, and spent an hour stuffing ourselves as the aunties and uncles scooped serving after serving of spicy breakfast food onto our plates, loving the fact that white people ate Indian food. I thought I was going to pop. After breakfast, we escaped, and all decided that the wedding had been incredible, but after a week of travel and very little sleep, we needed to go home. So, we excused ourselves, packed, said our farewells, and caught a bus back home to Jaipur. It was quite a week.

The Taj Mahal

ahay — Wed, 9 Jan 2008 18:00:00 GMT

Unfortunately, having waited this long to write anything down, don’t even know where to begin. Things got crazy hectic with hospitalizations, traveling, the end of my travel literature class, and the departure of our American professor, Lyle. I suppose the best place to begin is the beginning, so I will start with the day before we left for our week in Agra and India’s capital, New Delhi. The morning we were to leave, we found out that Stephen was in the hospital with a 103-degree fever, rash, and malaria-like symptoms. He looked awful and there was no way he could make the trip. So, we left for the Taj Mahal sans our 6th member. It’s funny how after being together in such an intense environment for 2 months a group becomes so used to each other’s presence. It felt so empty with just 5. The Taj was incredible though. We arrived at around 7:00 am when all of the vendors and beggars were still setting up camp and sipping their chai. Maybe it was so impressive to me because I had no expectations—famous buildings are always so much less than they are cracked up to be. Not the Taj. With the sun just rising through the ever-present Indian smog, it cast a golden-pink glow across the ponds and marble of the building and looked even more extraordinary than every picture I have ever seen of it. I think its size was also surprising—it seems to go on forever when you stand at the base. It was the first time I had really seen white people since I had been there and I expected there to be hoards and for them to completely ruin my experience but I was wrong. There were a few, mostly French, but I didn’t even notice them. After walking through the long garden entrance with the still pools that reflect a perfect upside-down image of the mausoleum, we got to the base. There, we were asked to remove our shoes and offered little doctor foot-covers to protect our feet from dirt. I found that hilarious, nothing can save my feet at this point. I did notice the French practically beating each other in a race to grab the foot-covers though. I think not covering my feet was one of the best things I did at the Taj. Marble tiles surround the entire base of the mausoleum. They connect the Taj to the still-active mosque and the replica former guesthouse that stand on either side. In the morning, the tiles that are in the shade of the Taj are still cold and almost purple-color. Somehow, they made the shadows feel almost powerful and when I looked up to the towers topped with minarets, they seemed cold and silent, and I felt very small and very alone but somehow comfortable. I sat down and looked up and just stared for a good half hour. It is probably the first time a building or man-made creation has done that to me, and look how it left me; all gross and sentimental. Next thing you know, I will be talking about the “vibes” and “feelings” of my environment. Maybe it was just the product of the shock I felt when I realized it was the first time my feet have been cold since arriving two months ago. The inside of the mausoleum was very interesting. It is beyond architectural wonder to me: If one were to draw a line down the the center of the golden coffin that entombs the remains of the Raja’s beloved wife and follow it out the door of the tomb, it would line up directly with the point of the onion dome of the top of three doorways leading out, the center of the reflective pools outside, and the three doorways that are part of the entrance gate. Everything to the right in left, down to the tree, is perfectly symmetrical. The doorways are also inscribed with verses from the Qu’ran and inlaid with rubies, jade, and other semi-precious stones that make up the floral patterns of the Islamic tradition. Inside the mausoleum, the patterns and versus continue, and though one is not allowed to photograph them for their preservation, they create a beautifully decorated home for hundreds of pigeons that fly, squawk, and shit all over. We were also fortunate enough to have a terrible guide who liked to scream when he talked so as to ensure we heard and understood. We received loathsome looks from all inside and I am sure single-handedly woke the dead. We left around 10 that morning and went back to the hotel to pack up for Delhi. I, after not eating breakfast, decided it would be a very good idea to take my Doxycycoline (anti-malaria drug). Not so, it was the first and only time I have been sick to my stomach this trip and I am proud to say that after one quick retch and the pill’s expulsion from my system, I was fine and have been ever since. Meanwhile, Whitney (our other boy) was not doing as well and was slowly coming down with the same thing as Stephen. He went to the ER in Agra and came back an hour later with herbal vitamins and supplements and some plant-pills that were supposed to bring down his fever. We arrived in Delhi just before dark and were driven to a street lined with incredible temples from the Jain, Hindu and Muslim religions. Navratra, a Hindu holiday that is nine nights long and involves lots of eating, praying, and decoration, was in full swing, so the street was decorated with Christmas lights, garlands, and flooded with people. We turned into an enormous Jain temple and were told to get out of the car with our backpacks. We would be staying in a Jain Ashram for our four nights in Delhi. Our rooms, which were locked by a single padlock, had no showers, just buckets with rusty water, and our beds were wooden boards with a ¼ inch think piece of cotton as padding. The walls were white, the sheets used to be white, the floor was tile, and there were two light bulbs: one fluorescent and one an eerie green. There were just two windows in the room, which were covered with a chicken wire-like-netting and instead of looking outside, they looked down into a gymnasium where hundreds of Jains were gathered to eat food in rows on the floor and listen to some kind of motivational speaker who spoke so loudly that the glass shook. All I was missing was my straightjacket and a much needed round of sedatives. Our first night there, by 9 pm we were told that we had missed dinner and that all restaurants would be closed. I however know that this is not true because Indians do no eat dinner until around nine, and in one of the biggest cities in India, I am more than positive that SOMETHING had to have been open. But, following the orders of our very Jain trip leader, we were not allowed to spend more than 100 rupees each on dinner (that is $2.50.) So, we ate street food and practiced the concepts of non-possession by eating chow mein that no one’s body could possibly posses for more than a half hour without sharing with the porcelain God (which, may I add, in the Ashram, didn’t work.) The next morning we woke up for breakfast in the cloister’s dining hall: an all tile room where we were forced to remove our shoes before entering, were given tin plates and cups to eat 1/3 cup of porridge and vegan soy chai that came from a tin bucket and ladle, and sat at stainless steel tables and benches. While we ate, we sat below signs that said, “eat only what you must, never over-indulge,” and something about how there were starving children in India with a little cartoon kid with those big, watery, starving-child-in-India eyes. I gave my porridge back to the man, cleaned my plate, and walked down the street and bought a banana and an apple. I hate porridge and I see enough starving kids every day to not wish to be reminded during my morning meal of what a terrible person I am. I gave my apple to a little girl begging next to the banana cart. The evening before we had talked on the phone to Stephen’s host father who told us that Stephen was still hospitalized and that he had developed a fungal infection in his mouth and had pussing sores that prevented him from eating. They had also still not ruled out malaria or dengue fever. After speaking with my own father about the severity of malaria, I decided that someone had to force Whitney, who still had a 103-degree fever and a rash that was only getting worse, to go back to the hospital. So, we all did and, let me tell you, trying to convince a Jain to spend up to $200 on an overnight hospital visit was one of the hardest things I have ever done. “It is just the change in season, he takes the supplements and takes rest and he will be fine.” Or, his brain will boil or his kidneys will fail and you will have killed a whole hell of a lot more “jivas” than you would have otherwise! Anyway, Whitney also ended up in the hospital, and the four girls, ever resilient, were left to tour the city of Delhi on our own. We saw a lot of famous things. I don’t remember names, I have them written down, but honestly, going into detail would be boring. Lots of remnants of the Moghul empire, the New Delhi Gate, the home of the president, the parliament building, a billion other government buildings, and some nice botanical gardens. I think most significant of all was our guide kept comparing everything to Washington D.C. and I kept nodding in agreement until I realized that I have actually never even seen my own country’s capital or seen the government buildings of any other country. That evening, I ate meat for the first and probably only time this trip, and drank alcohol. I think it was my most rebellious moment: for a Jain, I sinned in the worst ways possible and then went home to curl up in my Ashram room, surrounded by monks and nuns who had never touched such horrors in their lives. I really am a terrible Jain-- and maybe person? We ended our tour of Delhi with our last afternoon in the hospital keeping Whitney company. He missed all of Delhi and was discharged at 8 pm the night we left. Frankly, I don’t think he missed much. For me, the culture and true India isn’t in the cities, it is out in the country and if I ever do return to India, I will avoid the cities like the plague. We caught a bus at 12 O’clock midnight and attempted to sleep. The guy behind me liked to grab the back of my seat and pull my hair and the guy in front of my snored like my father. We arrived back to Jaipur at 5:30 am, just in time to leave again for Ajmer, a town 40 miles away to go to the wedding of a friend. I will save that story for later. I hope all is well with everyone and be excited for the next e-mail, I just spent a week out in the rural villages being fed, drinking chai, learning about eco-friendly farming by Indian standards, dairy cows, and not showering for a week. It was one of my favorite weeks in India so far.

McIndia

ahay — Wed, 9 Jan 2008 17:59:00 GMT

McIndia Swollen with head cold and angry with myself for even considering this place an option, I push in the door. It seems to move on its own, and I follow, stumbling through gracelessly. I am immediately blasted with a cold air that smells like sugar, body odor, and grease. When I catch my balance, I find myself standing face-to-face with the McDonald's security guard whose sole job, it seems, is to open and close the door for visitors and perhaps, ward off the occasional Hamburgler. He isn't friendly and I don't waste my time uttering a pleasant "namaste," I am on a mission. I have been in Jaipur, India for a month and have come down with a vicious cold. My throat is raw and tears stream uncontrollably down my cheeks from my eyes, which are bulged like a bullfrog's. I feel like a force to be reckoned with. In my illogical state, I curse the heat, India, and life in general. I have rationalized however, that the only thing that will make me feel better is ice cream. But, in a country with un-potable water, searing temperatures, shoddy electricity, and a humid monsoon season, eating ice cream is a dangerous gamble. Figuring I couldn't possibly feel any worse, I decide to take my chances on a place that is popular, at the heart of an American-influenced shopping Mecca of Southern Jaipur, and known for its reliable refrigeration: McDonald's. I am not proud of this. Just the night before I sat outside this same McDonald's waiting for a ride, verbally attacking those without the self-control to resist one of America's most manipulative corporations. But, desperation causes craziness, and perhaps Indian McDonald's will be different. There may have been a line for the counter, I didn't notice. I push my way up to the front and read the menu hanging above the cashier; it is brilliantly lighted and plastered with photos that make the food look too-good-to-be true. Scanning, I find a photo of a chocolate-dipped, vanilla ice cream cone and spout, "one McSwirl please," at the cashier, who looks confused and almost scared. Amused, I remember that a blonde, fair-skinned 21-year old girl at the local McDonald's is probably an unusual sight. Waiting for him to come around, I notice that his stare is not the only one I am receiving. A lull has settled over the crowd of around fifty people, andas nearly every set of eyes moves to the counter of the restaurant where I stand. Ordinarily, this much attention makes me uncomfortable, but I am so fixated on the strange menu, instead I start to giggle. Soon, my giggle catches on, and my four companion join me. "Look, they have a Vegetarian Menu at McDonalds!" I point out, snorting. "Paneer Salsa Wrap? Veg Pizza McPuff?" I was feeling better all the time. I continue sardonically cracking jokes about "The Happy Price Menu," "The McCurry Pan Chicken Burger," and the thought of meat that costs less than a dollar. At fourteen, I swore I would never eat fast food again. Something about the preparation, the mass production, worker's rights, and Eric Schlosser's Fast Food Nation influenced my decision. Unfortunately, my fourteen-year-old self did not have the foresight to see that, one day, I would stand here in India, one month down and three to go, unreasonably frantic for American food of any kind, and actually wanting to try everything on McDonald's the menu. When my cashier is finally able to process my attention, I pass the man the 20 Rs (50 cents) that I owe and attempt to ask him how long he has worked at McDonalds. It is just a question. It appears as though working conditions at McDonalds India are superior to those of America and it certainly seems far superior to working as a cycle-rickshaw-man or the toilet cleaner at the Delhi airport. "I not sure, ma'am, I'll ask." He replied, looking as if we were going to be sick. He rushes back to a man that stands giving orders to the McVeg burger-fryer. They speak quickly in Hindi, bobbling their heads, and then rush back up to the front, the manager-type puffing up his chest and clearing his throat as he approaches. "Since 2001, ma'am. In this location since 2001." Confused, I thank him, grab my McSwirl, and find a table to take in my surroundings. Sitting in a huff, my friend Shawna tosses her camera into her bag, "So apparently you can't take pictures in McDonalds," she says sarcastically. Evidently, the Hamburgler-fighter had another job: to assure that no one "snapped a photo of the McDonald's menu." God forbid any curious American student attempt to steal the right to print a photo of the much-coveted McAloo Tikka Burger. As we sit, we look around the restaurant. The kitchen is immaculate, and ironically, the cleanest I have seen in India. I feel as though I am missing something as I realize there are neither mosquitoes nor flies around to vie for my food. Instead, workers buzz around the restaurant, asking how the food is, picking up trash, and smiling. Fit young men and women in bright saris replace the obese crowd I remember from my experiences in America's McDonald's. A sign to the left of the counter leaves me floored: "Our veg products are eggless and 100% vegetarian, see for yourself! Ask manager for a restaurant tour." Another sign also catches my eye. It shows cartoon characters called the "Dilli Pirates, and tempts with the slogan: "party like you never have before…" promising children a McDonald's birthday party to rival all others. Looking around, I notice a pole plastered in photographs of children, smiling, dancing, and eating away their birthdays on the McDonald's Party Bulletin Board. And, as I start to laugh at the photos and the thought of toddlers partying like they never have before, I notice that a section of the restaurant looks as if it has been the victim some kind of scientific shrinking experiment: miniature red chairs, greasy tables, plastic trays, and posters decorate the room. My glance stops, and I begin to contemplate who or what could possibly make use of such objects. Suddenly, my ears are filled with a repetitive, nasal voice crying, "jump in the air, jump in the air, jump, jump, jump in the air!" Before I realize what is happening, I see a girl of about six leap onto the center of a round munchkin table. She begins palpating her hips and thrusts her pelvis forward and back to the cheers of the adoring friends, who sit around the table watching. While I look horrified at this child-strip-show, I notice her smiling father turn on the video camera just in time to watch his six-year old feel her chest, hips and thighs, squat to the floor, and give her inner thighs a loud, "smack!" As the girl hopped off the table, I hope the spectacle will end. Instead, a hefty boy of about eight, wearing a button up shirt with racecars on it, jumps up and cruises to the center. The small table legs struggle under his weight, and he leans his head back, forms his hands into some kind of thug-like symbol, and also begins to thrust his hips. It is a dance something like the cross of inner-city gangster hip-hop and Bollywood sex idol hip-thrust. The crowd loves it. Horrified, I remember my own youth spent in the America's McDonald's Fun House. The Fun House may have been head-lice ridden and germ infested, but in contrast, throwing harmless plastic balls to play tag seemed like innocent childhood fun. Mistaking my expression for one of amusement instead of abhorrence, a friendly waiter came by and asked me to fill out a customer suggestion survey. Tearing my eyes away from the spectacle, I begin to read. It asks that I rate the restaurant on certain criterion. Was the service quick? My choices are between Ferrari and Anari, with varying degrees of smiling and frowning faces between extremes. How was food price? Not too much or, let's go Dutch? I begin to laugh again. Finishing our ice creams, we make our way toward the door. My belly coated in cold-healing soft-serve ice cream, a great new tune in my head, and visions of of the Dilli Pirates dancing in my head, I completely forgotten my cold. The security guard opens the door, frowning. I smile and offer him a friendly, "Shukriya! Namaste!" I deposit my trash in the only public trashcan I have ever seen in India and I make my way out the door. The air outside still feels like a blast furnace and not 100 feet out the door, I am attacked by a hoard of beggars who grab and pinch my arms and clothes. Suddenly, I remember my cold, my swollen eyes, and India. Screaming a pathetic "Nay, bus!" to the little boy that is grabbing at my purse. I made the mistake of offering them my chocolate a few days ago and they will never let me forget it...

I love India...sometimes

ahay — Wed, 9 Jan 2008 17:56:00 GMT

I have received complaints about my last few e-mails. I have been told that what I write is depressing and after reading, one feels like 1) having me sent home, or 2) sending me a care package for everyday I am here. Not to worry. While it is definitely one of the least-safe places my parents could possibly allow me to go as a woman, I have a good head, so far I have made intelligent decisions, and if nothing else, India has taught me to be much less trusting, which I have been told might be a good thing. I think I will be slightly jaded when I return, but I will also become shockingly more aware and appreciative of my American culture. The bad things are what make for the good stories and so, that it what I report back. Do know though, India is not at all bad; it is a crazy, stressful, very amazing and wonderful time. I am learning a ton, making incredible friends, eating great food, and having experiences that I only dreamt I would be lucky enough to have. But, I would bore everyone to death if I just told you that I liked it, I saw some monkeys and temples, I do my laundry and my bathing in the same bucket, and that I missed everyone. So, on that note: Stop reading if you are a compulsive worrier. This is India. India and I have an incredible love/hate relationship. I love the culture and the hospitality. I am living with a new host family that is wonderful and treats me like royalty. I go to festivals and I am taken in like a celebrity. People tell me they admire me (mostly for having dimples, a sign of beauty I hear,) love to hear me speak, and act as though it is the greatest honor to speak with me. The food is wonderful and I love the way I can make any Indian's day by telling them my favorite food is Indian food. I love chai, I love the fruit, and I absolutely love the dedication they have to family and friends. I now find their perpetual tardiness charming and love never having a schedule. My professors miss class because their bus broke down, or more often, because there was a strike in the city and the roads were blocked by angry mobs. I also think the language barrier is endearing. Petrol fuel trucks are decorated in colorful, bright letters that say, "Caution: highly inflammable." It is just so stereotypically India! I have even come to terms with the most dangerous roads in the world: I have decided that, under no circumstance, will I ever allow myself to think I will die in a car crash in India. Even when I am sitting in the back of a top-heavy SUV and facing sideways without a seat belt. There is always a semi-truck ahead, another coming the other direction, a pack of goats to the right, and three cows to the left, and a cliff beyond that, I do not think about dying. Instead, I put my energy into appreciating the fact that I did NOT and will not die. I just sit there and marvel at the incredible skill it takes to drive an enormous 4-wheel drive vehicle in such adverse conditions and at such speeds.

But, at other times, being in India is like having one of those nightmares where you walk into a theater and everyone turns around and stares at you. Wondering why, you look down and realize you are completely naked and your first impulse is to turn around and run, but then you realize you can't because there is no escape. For a blonde, India is also like being Pamela Anderson at a trailer park. While the other two girls get stares, it is nothing like it is with me, and sometimes it makes me hate India. It has become a group-wide joke, Blonde Annie and Her Hoards of Men. Whenever I walk home from school, I have to go in a round-about way so that I can lose my followers before they see where I live. I have hidden in trees, behind cars, and even squatted in a ditch. I had wondered why I got so much more attention until my host mom lovingly explained that is was because I "have hair the color of the prostitutes." After that, I noticed that in every advertisement, the sexy, ho-bag girl is always blonde. So, I am guilty by association and have to endure questions like, "how much sex do you have?" and "I pay you 500 rupees, you come?" Thankfully, my roommate is Indian and she has taught me defensive swear words that seem to shock them into silence long enough for me to escape. Sadly, this foul treatment of women is the product of years of male dominance and religions and social practices that hold men on a higher pedestal. Reminders that women are inferior are everywhere. As a result of the dowry system, every year in India, around 125,000 women are killed by their husbands or in-laws in "accidental" burnings or car accidents. Though the dowry has been officially outlawed, it is still very much an issue in the 80% of the population that remains rural. At the time of marriage, a girl's family is expected to provide her future husband's family with an enormous sum of money. Often, the amount is equivalent to 4 years of the girl's family's income. If the new family doesn't consider the amount suitable, instead of refusing the marriage, the new family will make the new wife into a kind of indentured servant and should she still not prove useful, they will force her to take out multiple life insurance policies and then fake her accidental death in order to claim the money and allow the husband to remarry, and therefore receive another dowry. The wife is also expected to produce a son because sons are considered to be much more profitable to the family. This belief has resulted in a high rate of infanticide, in which, for fear of humiliation, exile, or even murder by the family, women will do anything they can to destroy evidence that they gave birth to a girl. Women dispose of girl babies by leaving them in dumpsters for dogs, the middle of the road to be hit, or by drowning them. Their husbands support this practice completely. Marriages are also still arranged in almost all Indian families. In some small villages, girls and boys are wed by age 1 or 2. They are then forced to live together as soon as the girl "matures," and begin producing male offspring. Abuse, neglect, and adultery run rampant. Women are killed for infidelity; meanwhile, men often have mistresses and are seldom penalized in any way. Their wives are expected to suffer in silence, as it is their fault their husbands look elsewhere. What is interesting is that in the bigger cities, laws to imprison both men and women for committing acts of adultery are strongly adhered to. Unsurprisingly, men are almost never charged unless the woman was married and her husband presses charges. What I find most frustrating is that women accept this treatment. My Hindi teacher, for example, is an extremely educated woman from a wealthy Hindu family. Everyday she complains to us about the way women are treated in this country. She tells us that her father gave her less food, never bought her good clothes, and then married her off to a man that she met at her wedding. She says boys are given preferential treatment and it is unfair, yet she has a son that she treats the same way. Her husband tells her how to dress, where to go, and with whom she can associate. She supports herself financially, which he approves of, but her mother-in-law (who chose her to be her daughter-in-law) cannot stand her and is constantly accusing her of stealing her husband's money whenever she wears something nice. She tells us that she loves her husband and constantly assures us that she is in a "very happy marriage," but she is the property of her husbands and wears her red tikka to show she is married, three rings, a toe ring, and very conservative clothes at the order of her husband. She loves to talk to us and can't believe that we could possibly have "dated" many boys in our lives. She even explained to me yesterday that there is a "horrifying trend here among young Indian boys which they call 'french kissing' where they stick their tongues in girl's mouths." She assured me that if her husband tried such a thing, she would "vomit on his face." I chose not to say anything.

Enough complaining, here is a funny story: A few days ago, I was at a museum in a small town outside Udaipur in the S.W. region of Rajasthan. Like many places we go, tourists were are, and we received more attention than the museum itself. While waiting for a glass of sugarcane juice, I had my first celebrity moment. It takes a while for the cane juice to be produced. A cow is hooked up to a huge bar and forced to walk in a circle—over and over. As he walks, a man feeds the sugarcane stalks into a machine that squishes the canes into juice. Apparently, it is NOT ok to kill a cow, but it is definitely ok to make the cow want to kill itself. Feeling bad for the cow I thought about throwing my eight rupees at the man whipping him and wrestling the cow free, but someone tapped me on my shoulder. It was a lady holding a baby, and her husband, sister, sister's husband, children, mother, father, mother-in-law, father-in-law, and God knows who else. They were all staring at me with these crazy smiles of admiration, touching my skin and grabbing at my hair. Finally, the husband said, "please ma'am, hold my baby for snap a click." In India (yet another thing to love,) taking pictures is called "snapping clicks" and this man and his entourage, wanted me to hold their baby for a photo. I thought he was joking. I laughed and said something stupid like, "oh, cute baby, its funny how all Indian babies are cute" and turned back to the cow. He then grabbed my shoulder, turned me, and his wife placed the infant child in my arms. The baby had a little bindi on its forehead and was wearing gorgeous sparkly bangles. The photo was atrocious and I have attached it to this e-mail. I was so uncomfortable that I ended up looking like the most un-nurturing, unloving mother on the planet, and after seeing the photo, have started to doubt whether I am meant to have children. The family was so happy though. They all clapped, tilted their heads, bobbled them in typical Indian fashion, smiled, and put their hands together in prayer, telling me that my wealth and success would surely rub off on their baby if they framed the picture. Poor child, I think that my parents can vouch that mediocre grades and a part-time restaurant job aren't really the makings for success. I should have chased them down and told them the truth, but I was too busy basking in the glow of my inflated ego. Since then, I have held a few other babies, and everywhere I go in my small, conservative hometown, people reach out to touch my skin and my hair. I have stopped minding that I am cursing every child that I touch, and have convinced myself that if they are going to be strange enough to frame a photo of me for their mantle, they deserve the curse. Plus, it's India, there is an economy in everything: they get their photo, I get a good story to tell. I went to the neighboring towns of Ajmer and Puskar this weekend. They are interesting because though they are separated by only 22 kilometers and a hill, Ajmer is a Muslim city and Pushkar is very strictly Hindu. They are built on big lakes and called the "sister cities" because their layouts are very similar. Both cities are pilgrimage sites for their respective religions and, even though this causes populations to swell and everything to become crowded in chaotic, they coexist in complete harmony. Meanwhile, a few hundred kilometers North, Kashmir and the Northern states are at constant odds with Pakistan, even with the separation of an entire desert. We rented a $4-a-night room in Ajmer with a squat toilet, an eau-de-turpentine aroma and no shower to speak of. We went to two of the holiest sites in India, were ripped off by priests, discovered the infamous "Pushkar Ganga Pizza", and hit a cow. Overall, I would say quite a successful trip, full of crazy experiences that I will have to save for another e-mail as this is getting very long. I do think it is worthwhile to let you know that two days after we stood outside the holiest mosque in India and posed for the picture I have attached with the scarfs on our head, the Sufi mosque was bombed and 2 people died and 17 were injured. The bomb went off two feet from where we stood in that picture, a little disconcerting. They are unsure who is responsible for the bombing at the moment, but the theory is that it was a group of fanatic Shiite Muslims from Bangladesh that oppose the beliefs of the Sufis. Because the Sufis and Shiites lived in veritable peace until the invasion of America in Iraq, people are not entirely happy to have Americans in the area at present. We usually tell everyone that we are Canadian and when we return to Ajmer in a few weeks for our professor's wedding, we are going to be very careful to avoid public gathering places and have been offered rooms in the family's home and will be fed all of our meals there to ensure our safety. At present, the U.S. State department has not put up any warning against American travel in Ajmer but there are fairly legitimate fears of more attacks as the election season approaches. But, we have asked around and everyone has told us we are safe as long as we stay with families and that Ajmer is no less safe than Jaipur. So, c'est la vie! What an incredible experience! Hope all is well! Miss you all and I can't wait to come home to a hot shower, soft bed,the peaceful countryside and safe cities.

Train Travel and Such

ahay — Wed, 9 Jan 2008 17:54:00 GMT

Getting Internet here is so complicated. COmputers never work and when they do, they aren't very reliable. So, I finally have the chance again. I am in a cafe in Udaipur where the internet is free, and the nice man that works here just offered me half of his chipatis and dahl lunch. It is very impolite to eat and not offer food to others here in India. It just makes me kind of uncomfortable. Anyway, so much has happened since my last e-mail that I don't even know where to begin. I have done some shopping and have fallen head over heels in love with Indian textiles. I had better start honing my sewing skills if I think I am actually going to be able to use all of the fabrics I want to buy. So hard to refuse though; they cost NOTHING! A few days ago we went out for a tour of Jaipur. The land rover took us out into the country where were went to a 17th century palace and the adjacent temple. It was gorgeous and looked like a tropical Versailles. After that, we went to what we have been told is the "Monkey Temple." I have asked people in Jaipur if they have been, but they have never heard of it by that name, and quite honestly, I don't really know why it is named that when there is so much more than monkeys to be seen. From what I gathered from the monk that led us through, it is a pilgrimage site for Hindus all over the India, particularly here in Rajastan. We went on a very holy holiday, Ganesh's Birthday, so everything was decorated in flowers and monks sang mantras over the loudspeakers. It was amazing. It was built in a canyon and rose in three tiers, each holding a HUGE pool of holy water. THe bottom tier was the women's pool, the middle the men's. and the top for the monkeys. The men and women swam and bathed in their pools, praying and scrubbing each other's backs. Thre were over 1,000 people in the baths, everyone was naked, women charmed snakes on the stairs, and people jumped off the surrounding cliffs, barely missing landing on their friends. It was crazy! At the top, the monkey's drank the water, ate peanuts, and then turned around and defecated into it. Gross, I really don't like monkeys. We decided to hike above the monkey temple to the top of the hills surrounding Jaipur. It was about a 700 foot climb, but well worth it. We could see for miles from the top and it really gave a good visual of where it was that I am living for the next 3 months. Two days later, we left for our trip over to Udaipur where I will be for the next 10 days. I was all excited because plans changed and instead of taking a bus, we ended up taking a train. I was under the impression that an all night train meant compartments with 3-4 births per room. I was also excited because it would mean air conditioning for the first time in forever. The train station was crazy. Basically, it is a cement campground. People bring blankets and firewood, and set up camp between cars and rickshaws while they wait for the train. Everywhere there was singing and It was hard to drive through for fear of running over a little Indian family. The beggars here were also some of the most determined I have ever met. They grabbed, pulled hair, and tried to pry into our backpacks. I don't think many Westerners ride the trains, we seemed to be a very odd commodity. According to India time, our 10:15 train arrived at 10:40. When we boarded, I definitely did NOT find individual compartments, but instead, three tiers of births, all facing each other, in one big communal car. To the left, 6 beds folded out from the wall. When open, my face was less than two feet from my sleeping neighbor. There were six of us traveling together, but we were spread all over the train. As the only Western girls on the train, we were all three a little bit nervous. We had computers, passports, ipods, and our girl parts, and none of us felt like having stuff stolen. So, we sent the boys off to bribe people and find a way to get us all into one little alcove. After a lot of arguing, we finally did it. By 12, we were all tired and everyone was refusing to take the top bunk. The top bunk was about 7 feet off the ground and left about 2 feet of headroom- if that. Not wanting anyone to start an argument, I took one for the team and hoisted myself up. I realized then that the sheets we were provided with were not actually supposed to be yellow, but had turned that color after years of sweat accumulation from the hundreds of people that had laid upon them. Above me, the air conditioning blasted down and I was freezing, actually shaking, I was so cold. I grabbed the nice fuzzy brown blanket they had provided me with, and laid it over my sheet. A few minutes later, I turned on the light to find my pillow, and realized that fuzz was not the fuzz of the blanket, but massive clumps of pubic hair, facial hair, and head hair that had also accumulated over time. So disgusted, so tired, and so annoyed, I just rolled over and accepted my fate as waking up with body lice and ringworm. This is India, you just can't care. I don't think anyone really slept on the train. I know I woke up with a massive headache after hitting my head when I sat up abruptly after one of my malaria medicine-induced nightmares. Everyone else seemed puffy, hungry and just disgusted. Spirits definitely improved though as we rolled into Udaipur. Called the "Land of Lakes," it is a beautiful city with yes, lakes, amazing architecture, and right now, after the rains, impressive greenery. Driving through, we were all so excited. THe shopping is impressive, the palaces incredible, and all in all, we were really looking forward to a hotel where we could all hand out after 6 in the evening and eat meals together again. Enter the Gulmohar Palace. Inappropriately named the "Palace," the Gulmohar MOTEL is something between a ghetto Motel 6 and a inner city drug den, only there are a few more dead bolts on the door and thicker bars across the windows. Similar to the sheets on the train, these were also yellow, only this time, they had stains of all colors, shapes and sizes, including one that was still wet and smelled of urine. Thankfully, I have had a smilar experience before, and I brought a silk sleeping sheet. I am now able to lay back, enshrouded by my silk cocoon, and appreciate the talent of people that can somehow make foot tracks up the walls to the ceiling, spill brown liquid across an entire wall, and paint a Hindu swastika in lipstick above the headboard. I will NOT be getting body lice here. The shower and toilets are a different story. Well, this is long enough. MY friends all left me and I have to walk home alone. I have my mace, but if you don't hear from me in a few days, maybe panic. No, don't really, it might just be that the internet doesn't work. Off to rest and then see some more palaces and temples. Hope all is well with everyone back there. Miss you all!!!!!

2 weeks down, will I survive?

ahay — Wed, 9 Jan 2008 17:52:00 GMT

Getting a little bit frustrated with the fluidity of life here. Everything changes constantly. One word can mean 10 things. 1 hours means anything between 1 and 12 hours. Tuesday means anything in the same week as that Tuesday. And, apparently, doing something as simple as getting a cell phone is monumentally difficult. I was supposed to be able to buy a cell phone today and had everything ready to do so. Here, even for a pre-paid phone, you need proof of residency, a copy of your passport, another form of ID, the person you are staying with's ID and also passport-size photo of them. I had all of these things, all ready, the only thing I needed to do was go to the ATM and get money. There is a long story with this, I will tell you on the phone tomorrow (if I have money to buy a phone card, that is a little bit uncertain) but it involved me getting dropped off alone at a bank, abandoned, forced to walk home, alone, and then when I got home, listen to 20 minutes of half lecture, half yelling, by my host mom. After that, in tears, I stormed out, grabbed my dutch neighbor (a 65 year old Jainist man who is really one of the sweetest people I have ever met,) and he took me to 4 more banks, none of which will accept my ATM card. SO, now I have no way of getting money. I am not sure if I told you, but $300 of my American money was stolen in Bangkok and so when I got here, I had $200, $90 of which I have left after travelling expenses and a week's worth of buying things that I needed as I started life in India. $90 will get me VERY far, but its still scary knowing that that is all I have until I get ahold of my parents and figure out what to do. Its more about adjustment at this point than anything.

We had a crazy night last night. On Sundays, no one really does anything. So, after an entire day of sitting around and getting homesick because we had nothing better to do, all six of us met up at our local hotel bar (totally sketchy place where indian men like to sing Akon's "I Wanna Fuck You" when we walk in), and had beers. We restrict ourselves to one glass because it would be very dangerous to walk down the street if we were at all intoxicated, but it is nice and refreshing to sit around and talk and drink something cold. After our beer we decided we would go out for a nice dinner because a few people were craving meat. So, we started bargaining for an auto-rickshaw. I'm not sure if I have decribed an auto-rickshaw to you before, but it is a 3-wheel vehicle that should never be on a real road and should be restricted to the streets of Toon Town. They are open on both sides and in the back, have just a simple bench seat, and usually have a tiny windsheild with a wiper that doesn'y work. these are the only means of transportation in India, and not only are the NOT restricted to quiet, quaint neighborhood streets, they choose to drive down only the busiet, most dangerous streets in India, and therefore, the world. I am cheap, and ever more so after discovering I cannot get money at this point, and so we refused to spend $2 on each of the two rickshaws we needed to get across town to the restaurant we had been recommended. So, after a fair bit of bargaining, walking away feigning anger three times, we finally convinced the driver to take all six of us in a 3 passenger rickshaw for $2. were litterally in a human pile, carefully folded into the rickshaw. It is very important to NEVER leave ANY appendage sticking out of the open sides because in almost every short trip in India, you will be side-scraped or bumped by passing cars, motobikes, camels, horse and cart, cow, or cyclist. It is also very important to tuck all belongings of any value into the center of the rickshaw so that theives cann't come by and swipe them, as I have heard often happens at stop lights (though, thank god, I have no yet experience this.) We had driven MAYBE one kilometer when the sky broke loose. Rain in India is more like the unleashing of a dam, the streets flood in less that 10 minutes and before you know it, motorcycles are being walked because they transmission had been ruined, and children are wading up to their waists in street water, and bathing in the floating feces of hundreds of animals and people. The open sides of our rickshaw offered no protection, and by the time we arrived at our swanky restaurant (the first time I have seen airconditioning since I left Seattle) we were soaked a freezing. AFter dinner, we were worried about taking a rickshaw back because it was dark, and we decided again not to split up- just to be safe, and cheap... So, this time we piled into an even smaller rickshaw, and I was squatting on the bench that sits between the driver and the passenger. There was no way to secure myself, so everyone held an arm or a leg and hoped we wouldn't be taking corners too quickly, lest I fly out. As we began to drive, we saw the streets more flooded than I had ever seen. Some streets had become impassible, and were now fast-moving rivers with logs, trash, clothes, huts, and millions of other strange things floating down them. Our driver decided to take the freeway, which meant riding in our uncomfortable state, on the busiest road in Jaipur, when two lanes were completely submerged in three feet of water. Playing with tourists, particularly to make them scream, is a favorite past-time of Indian rickshaw drivers, and our driver was loving it. He decided to drive IN the water, which covered our wheels, so that it would come splashing into the cab and soak us all. Our screams were not of joy, but of sheer terror and disgust as the rickshaw hydroplained, sputtered, and swerved back onto the dry pavement until the transmission could handle another swim. And so it went for 30 minutes. We screamed, got soaked, and probably contracting a hundred skin infections apiece as the filthy water crept into our pores. At one point, a youn man on a motorbike heard us, and saw the white skin on my hand gripping for dear life to the one side pole of the rickshaw. He inched forward and peered in. Realizing that we were all white, and girls no less, he rocketed his bike forward and sent a stream of filth into our cab, laughing and calling to his motorbike friends around us. It was all in good fun, and as much as I was scared for my life and disgusted, I was laughing hysterically. It really makes you think about how many strange people you trust you life with when you are travelling, and that I suppose, at a certain point you have no control, all you can do is hang on as tight as you can. All in all, we survived, had a great meal, and made it home before the witching hour, 8:30 PM, when all of the prostitues come out. My host mom loves to feed us, and she tried to feed us again, but we refused and I locked myself in the room and went to bed. An hour in a car in India is the same as a 10-mile run and bad break-up for your body and emotions. I feel like I have been hit by a train every night by 9 PM. I had better go though. SO many more things to say, every day is an adventure, but I will have to be selective and write just a little. I have limited funds now, you know. HOpe all is well and I miss everyone a lot. India is not the same as Australia, I think I might actually want to come home when December rolls around..

I Have Fleas

ahay — Wed, 9 Jan 2008 17:48:00 GMT

When I was getting my vaccinations, the nurse asked me if I thought I would need a rabies vaccination. I remember that I was laughing hysterically and told her that it would the dumbest thing ever for me to get one, there was NO WAY any sane person would play with the feral dogs in India. I figured that the only reason I would need one was if I got bit by a monkey, in which case I would have to be immediately rushed to the hospital anyway, so I'd take my chances. And then, I met Tommy. He was rescued from a oil spill down the road and has the prettiest blue eyes you have ever seen. It really was love at first sight with this little puppy, and I have been feeding him my breakfast every day since we met. I figure he is about 12 weeks old, so I have convinced myself there is no way he has had time to contract anything too bad. We play carefully, he doesn't bite too hard and I wash my hands afterwards. Theykeep him tied to a chain outside the hotel and he sits in one spot, in his own excrement, all day. The man that owns the hotel thinks its fun too kick him and run at him to scare him. I finally got so angry that I told him to stop in my pathetic excuse for Hindi. His response? "You buy him for 6,000 rupees." Asshole. Tommy's only freedom is when we play. Unfortunately though, as I was falling asleep last night, I found a flee on my neck, and soon realized i was infested. I never want to spend another night searching for fleas with a flashlight again...I will have to stick to feeding him and giving him pump up talks from a distance. It seems odd that in a place where animals are not eaten and are revered as having their own spirits and souls, they are left to such a pathetic existence.
A few days ago, we went to a Jain convention. FOr those that don't know what Jainism is, let me explain. Basically, it is a religious practice that is completely founded aroun the idea of nonvoilence. It sounds so great in theory, but the devoted take it to an insane extreme. Jains believe that everything has a soul. Both animate and inanimate objects depend on eachother for life, therefore everything should be respected. The devout opt not to wear clothes, or to wear all white cotton, and they sweep the floor they walk on with a soft broom, lest they exterminate the life of an innocent termite of maggot. They also believe in reincarnation, and so by killing another soul, they not only accumulate their own bad karma, but also end another's soul's path in reaching "omniscence," or nirvana. I don't really have time to explain the religion in depth, but the more I study (i'm taking a class) the more disturbed and irrational it all seems. The basic teachings are wonderful, but in so many ways, it is not different than the brain washing, extreme beliefs of christians or muslims, and the convention we went to was, to me, downright scary.
I feel horrible saying it was scary, it should have been an enormous honor, but I couldn't help but find it very unsettling. Our Jainist professor arranged for us to meet India's holiest man, a Jain, who is revereed as a modern day Gandhi. He was speaking to a convention of about 2,000 followers that day, and somehow, our professor (who is a very prestigious man and is speaking for the UN on October) arranged for us to have a personal meetin with this man before his speech. All ascetic Jain monks wear masks over their mouths to avoid killing the spirits, or Jivas, in the air. The man sat on a bench, above everyone, and hundereds of people lined up outside for the chance to pray before him and kiss his feet. He is called "his holiness" and we were instructed to always try to keep out heads below his. The six of us were rushed ahead of the line, past his hundreds of devotees that had travelled for days to meet him. We were shooed into the room and asked to sit right before him. The Indian women were not allowed to sit near him, but as white women, we got a front row seat. Immediately, we were introduced, as "pursuers of knowledge" and given encouragement to continue in our pursuit. In India, educational experience is most highly regarded. Meanwhile, people who actually knew who this monk was, prayed to him everry day, followed his teachings, had pictures of him in their home, were in tears over being there, and cared enough to drive for hundreds of miles, were forced to pray though the window. I felt so uncomfortable and selfish I wanted to leave which, unfortunately, would have been an even more selfish. After my professor introduced himself, the translator asked if we had any questions. Keep in mind, we were speaking to the holiest man in India and there were around 50 other prestigious men and women in there, begging for the opportunity to speak to this man. Immediately, my professor looks at me, and says, "Annie, I know that you will have questions, anything you would like to ask?" I felt retarded. I just sat there like, "uhhhhhhhhh..." thinking, "oh my god, I have t freaking TALK to the HOLIEST man in INDIA!??" I was sure that I would offend him, say something about how I ate steak sometimes and had killed so many jiva I would be banished to a maggot existence for the rest of my life. Somehow, I pulled through, and instead of admitting my cariverous history and to my mass-mosquito killing lifestyle, I asked if he could give us, as journalism students, guidance in finding a way to promote his peaceful teachings in the media. And if so, how that would coincide with the war and destruction that IS the news. Not terrible. I must say that I didn't really care ALL that much about what I asked, as long as something intelligent came out. He responded to my question with something like, "yes, we need to teach peace. We need to promote non-violence (prounounced non-Wiolence) and offer some columns for people to discuss peace in the newspaper."
After me, discussion continued, I asked a few more questions and other people did the same. Every answer was some form of the above response and I left thinking, "I don't think this man has ever met a redneck."
When we left, we walked out to an enourmous crowd of people, all reciting Jain mantras with the holy man. Some were crying, all had covered mouths, and instead of seeming happy and non violent, they seemed miserable and sad over all the Jivas they had killed.
Moderation in everything, I suppose. The Jains have some great ideas, but when it gets too extreme, it can become more of a burden and blind than anything.
Hope all is well with everyone!