Dreadlocks, Robes and the Half Lotus

I was feeling a bit under the weather and fatigued from my bus trip today so I decided to spend my first day in Dharamsala taking it easy and giving myself some shopping therapy. In the end, I think I did too little of the first and too much of the second.

After taking a short morning nap, I ventured out into the town for some breakfast. Dharamsala, part of the Indian state of Himanchal Pradesh, is where the Dalai Lama and the Buddhist government were given asylum after the Chinese occupation of Tibet, and many Tibetan exiles have relocated here. The town is surrounded by jagged mountains and then opens up to a valley. Every time I look at the craggy peaks, I imagine what it must have been like to climb over them in order to live freely. Dharamsala is a lively town with a vey international crowd milling about, all here for a variety of reasons. The streets are filled with a mix of Buddhist monks, dreadlocked hippies, grungy trekkers and chilled out yoga-heads from virtually every corner of the planet.

It's obvious that tourism is the major business here but not in a tacky way. The people who move through here take deep and genuine interests in the Tibetan culture and Buddhist thought. There are fliers everywhere for yoga classes, Tibetan and Indian cooking classes, Sitar lessons, and Ayurvedic massage. Even though there are so many people around, it manages to be relaxed (probably because many of the people are zenned out, high or monks). Everyone is really nice and friendly, and it's been great chatting with both fellow travelers and the locals. I haven't even been here 24 hours, and I can tell it's going to be hard to leave, which I don't think is uncommon. Some of the foreigners who are here seem to be either long term visitors and frequent returnees.

I checked out a Buddhist Temple and turned a few prayer wheels, which is supposed to bring me the peace and happiness promised by the mantras written on them that I couldn't read. I watched some of the monks debate at the temple, a process that involves lots of clapping and stomping. I'm not sure yet if those signs mean they agree or disagree. I spent lots of time admiring the mountains while walking along a footpath that connected upper and lower Dharamsala (the upper part is called McLeod Ganj...that's the main tourist area). I came back up to McLeod Ganj and weaved in and out of the countless shops and stalls.

Shopping here is, in my opinion, better than Jaipur. While shopkeepers still encourage you to buy, it's not in the same harrassing way. Instead of trying to run away from high-pressure shopkeepers, I chatted with many of them about their lives, Dharamsala, Tibet, Buddhism and my travels. They're so friendly and welcoming. I'm also more keen on the jewelry, clothing and decorative items. The clothing is stuff I could see myself wearing in the states without people looking at me like 'why is that white girl wearing a sari?' Instead they'll say, 'when did Lindsey become a hippie?' I have a weakness for bookstores, and I'm especially into books right now about spiritual thought and anything realted to India/Tibet/Nepal/Himalayas. Needless to say, I could spend months in these bookstores. I'm trading in a few of the books I've already read while traveling for some new ones.

I tried to go to a yoga class, but it was cancelled so tomorrow morning, I'll see if I can still bend myself into the Lotus position. It's been a while since I've exercised and even longer since I've done yoga. I'm afraid if I get into the position, I'll be stuck there for the rest of the week.

And the Three Bears Thought Goldielocks Was a Problem

Thank God for Dusshera, at ten-day Hindu festival. It means, I get a ten-day vacation. And none too soon. My non-stop teaching schedule was starting to wear me down, made worse by the girls' habit of getting up at 3 a.m. to study for the tests they were taking all week. If they would do their work during class and mandatory study hours instead of sleeping and sleep at night, maybe they wouldn't have to get up at such an inhumane hour to review. Not that I'm bitter or judging. I'm just saying...

Anyway, I decided to stop letting the sight of the massively beautiful Himalayas continue to taunt me from the Doon Valley and get in them. The two main towns I'll hit are Dharamsala and Manali, with some smaller towns possibly on the side.

Really, the only way to get around in the mountains is the bus. So I took the overnight bus that left Dehradun last night at 5 for Dharamsala. It was a deluxe bus so it was better than the one I took to Jaipur (God help me), but it was by no means luxury. I did, however, gain the attention of a kind Tibetan women on her way to visit her brother. She switched seats so that she could sit next to me and we chatted during the trip. She told me about how she was two months old when her mother carried her over the snowy Himalayan peaks from Tibet to India. I was awestruck by the story of persistence and determination. On a lighter note, she also told me about the how the monkeys in her neighborhood in Dharamsala will come into her kitchen, open her fridge and steal food. After my experience with the evil monkeys in Jaipur and hering this story, I have decided that I no longer like monkeys.

The bus ride wasn't very restful. I would sleep for short spurts and then wake up to find myself on the high side of the bus as it careened around the winding mountain road. Horns continue to honk, even at three a.m. We got to Dharamsala at 5 in the morning, and I was a little nervous as I made my way to my guesthouse in the dark. A German trekker who was arriving from Manali scared me to death as she approached the guesthouse right behind me. We had to wait for awhile for someone to come out to the reception, and I was insanely tired and stiff from the busride, but I thought I would find fellowship in another solo female traveler. Not at all. This woman was really unfriendly; she seemed annoyed that I even said hello.

On the upside, I got to experience my first Himalayan sunrise. Absolutely breathtaking.

Happy Birthday, Ma'am

I celebrated my 24th birthday on Thursday. I guess now I'm old enough to be called Ma'am. I was thinking about how far away I am from 23, or at least, my 23rd birthday. I got lots of hugs and hand-drawn cards from the students as well as chocolates that they bought with the spare Rupees they could scrounge up. I had a hearty meal of chow mein in the company of some ten-year-olds, played a rousing game of Uno and went to be happy and satisfied. All of this is a far cry from the celebration of my 23rd year with some friends at Pravda in New York City where we racked up a bar tab significantly higher than the annual national per capita income in India.

This is not to say I didn't have a happy birthday last year (I did). I'm just making the comparison in perspective and priorities, and how not only have mine been changed already by India but also the entire year leading up to it. I haven't even been here a whole month yet, and I've already learned more than I could have anticipated. Every day is an ever changing tide of emotions from sheer joy and fascination to frustration and even guilt. Guilt for all the times I complained about my own financial struggles or felt like I needed more than what I had. In reality, I've been so blessed with opportunities and experiences, and I've realized, have everything I need already.

The students always ask about my life in America and what school is like there. One night, two girls were asking me about how much people make in various professions. They asked how much I was making when I was working in publishing in New York. I gave them a small range, and their eyes grew wide and they exclaimed that I was so rich. I didn't have the heart to tell them that what I was making in New York hardly paid for my rent, my bills, my student loans, and my food. I didn't tell them that my meager salary put me at the bottom of the heap and was hardly enough to survive in New York. I didn't tell them about how many times I went broke or ate ramen for a week straight because I couldn't afford much else. Because at the end of the day, I had an apartment with a television, heat and a/c, running hot water, a computer, an iPod and clothes that I don't wear. I've traveled internationally. I was fortunate to go to school where not only did the electricity not go out seven times a day but had dozens of computers and televisions in every classrooms, classes with fewer than 40 kids per one teacher, marker boards rather than chalk, a cafeteria not infested with flies and thousands of resources at my fingertips.

The feelings of guilt have passed and been replaced with sheer gratitude for all that I have. Obviously, I knew how fortunate I was before I came here. But it just became much more real to me when I was able to make the comparison first hand rather than theoretically based on what I've read and been taught. And to see that none of the physical possessions (or the lack of them) make one bit of difference.

For the record, however, ramen in India is the ONE thing that is more expensive here than in America. I saw it for sale for 15 Rupees, which is about 33 cents. Isn't it 10 cents in the U.S.?

Lost in Translation, Part Two

I think I'm going to turn "Lost in Translation" into a regular column on my blog because some things are just priceless.

It's standard for English grammar books to include complelling essay prompts like "who do you admire most and why" and pictures of things like the zoo to stimulate storytelling. But the grammar books we use here boarder on morbid. They're obsessed with accidents, death and destruction, especially in their use of pictures. They have essay topics like "describe in detail an accident you have witnessed" and "Write about when someone you know died." The books are full of drawings of people trying to wade out of floods, houses burning down and car accidents. One story prompt includes a picture of a girl getting taken out by a bus. Another shows a very grapic accident between a car and a semi with no survivors. One of the men is laying on the road in a completely unnatural position with his leg over his head.

My favorite, however, is a sequence of photos:

Photo One: Girl sitting on her bed reading.
Photo Two: Girl as spontaneously caught on fire.
Photo Three: Boy tackles girl to the ground with a blanket.
Photo Four: Girl admires boy as her hero.

Needless to say, I have been coming up with my own (positive) essay prompts and using other pictures for description.

Sorry, My Dance Card is Full

We all know I've never been much of a clubber. It's just never been my scene. I have decided, however, that if the clubs in New York played Hindi pop music, I would be there every night of the week. When you hear it, you just can't help but smile, shake your hips, put your hands up and shrug your shoulders.

Last Saturday, we had a party for all of the boarding students, which was especially exciting for the girls with boyfriends since interacting with the opposite sex is extremely limited outside of classtime. (These rules are relaxed for the party.) All the students were there from the five-year-olds to the seventeen-year-olds, but for the first hour or so, the party resembled your first junior high dance where the girls stay on their side dancing with eachother and the boys on theirs, some dancing, most just watching the girls.

Actually, the first to cross the gender line was my favorite eight-year-old Nepali, Shaswat, and he came to dance with yours truly. This brought about five or six more of his buddies over. I'm quite popular with boys in the five- to ten-year-old range. Soon everyone mingled, but it was pretty much Bollywood G-rated, which made me smile at their adorable innocence as I remembered the obscene grinding that used to occur at my own school dances.

You can bet I'll be coming home with some fabulous new Hindi Pop CDs. You're all welcome to borrow them any time. And if you have any CDs you'd like to get rid of, I'm thinking of taking up a collection for the kids at the Carman School. When it comes to Western music, the kids are way too crazy about the Backstreet Boys. We need to broaden their horizons.

Lost in Translation

Some of my favorite memories from my first week at the Carman School:

1. I have a tendency to get red in the face when I get hot. One young student asked, "Why is your face red?" I said, "Because I'm hot," fanning my face for emphasis. "When you're not hot anymore, will your face look like this," he asked, pointing to his own brown skin. We had a little conversation about diversity after that.

2. My favorite student (yes, I know, you're not supposed to have them, but I do) is an eight-year-old from Nepal. He talks non-stop, but in very good English. He asks lots of intelligent questions, some that I don't even know the answer to. He asked me what the national animal of America is. I said the bald eagle. He said, "Ma'am Lindsey, that's your national bird. What is your national animal?" Damn kids. Does anyone know the answer? I thought it was the bald eagle.

3. Same student...he asks me everyday how many days more I will be here. Every time I tell him he says, "Ma'am, when you go back to America, I will miss you. I will cry for you." Can I bring him home? I don't want to make him cry.

4. Teaching all my girls the Moose song from my camp counseling days (My AU friends will appreciate this. The rest of you are shaking their heads at my cornball-nature). But hey, it's English, right? They love it. They ask to do it daily.

5. The other day I was assisting a first grade teacher with her class. She took the students to the computer lab to show them some cartoons that I assumed would be educational. She proceeded to show them a cartoon death match of Britney Spears v. Bill Clinton where Britney suckerpunches the former president several times before kicking him in the crotch for the knockout. The other cartoon was a prank phone call between neighbors where one repeated over and over "I will fucking kill you." This was definitely getting lost in translation because it really wasn't appropriate for the six-year-olds. Then we had to leave the computer lab when one of the computers suffered a small explosion and the room filled with smoke.

How much is this potato?

On my first full day here, the school's coordinator took me to a first period class, walked me to the front of the room, and said, "Ok, teach them English grammar." And then walked out, leaving me with about 30 snarky sixteen-year-olds staring at me.

O.K., the English language. Where do I begin? And so went my first day of teaching, stumbling through class after class, quickly shuffling through their English books to figure out which chapter they were on, assessing their skill level, and trying to teach them at least one thing before the end of the 35-minute period. At the end of the day, I was a little frustrated with my supposed inability to teach them anything. How was I supposed to teach them English, especially when my Hindi is limited to things such as "how much," "water," and "potato"?

I managed to scrounge up some of the class books and other books to be used as teaching aids in the library (or what passes for one) and planned some lessons. Since that first day, I'm happy to say I've been much more prepared and hopefully more effective.

My basic day goes like this:

6 to 7 a.m.: Tutoring session with the senior boys
7:30 a.m.: Assembly (the students stand at attention, announcements read, a quick run through of the Lord's Prayer recited by almost primarily Hindu children and the singing of some contemporary Christian song led by a man in sunglasses playing an electric guitar)
8 a.m. to 1:30 p.m.: Teach classes
2 to 3 p.m.: Tutoring session with the four cutest six-year-olds on earth
3 to 5:30 p.m.: Much needed personal time
5:30 to 7:30 p.m.: Homework help for the girl boarders

It's a very long day of teaching, and I'm pretty worn out. Fortunately, the children get a 10-day vacation for the Hindi Dusshera holiday at the end of next week, come back for two weeks and then get another week long vacation for Diwali, giving me plenty of rest as well. Also, although the children go to school on Saturdays, I get that day off and Sunday is rest for all.

Good morning, Ma'am

I'll be 24 in five days. Does that make me officially old enough to be called "ma'am"? This is how every child (and fellow faculty) greets me and says good bye and ends basically every sentence. It's sort of adorable when a five year old says it with a huge smile on their face, but it just sort of makes me giggle when a seventeen-year-old does it. It makes me feel old. Actually, sometimes they have to say it more than once to me because I forget that I'm a "ma'am."

I've just finished my first, hectic week teaching English at the Carman School in Dehradun. All the classes are taught in English, which I wonder if it's the most effective way for the students to learn. I definitely commend their efforts though. The principles of Physics and Economics are difficult enough on their own. I can't imagine adding the complication of learning them in a foreign language. Most of the students (and the teachers) seem to rely on pure memorization of the concepts, not comprehension. For their tests, which they've been taking this week, they basically regurgatate memorized sentences or facts. But if you push them further to explain what it means, they have no idea, in English or in Hindi.

The school day itself is a whirlwind that seems to mirror life in general in India--loud, hot, overcrowded, and lots of jostling, but with a smile on everyone's face. The students of each grade sit in their designated classrooms while the teachers shuffle from room to room. Although most of the students are extremely bright, studious and polite outside of the classroom, they pay little attention to their teachers or give much respect to other students during classtime. One student even told me that they never do the work the teacher says to do in class. They just talk and do it later. The other teachers seem to have little control over the class and resort to a lot of yelling and scolding, but they're quite nice outside of the class. I've made a lot of friends already. The power goes out frequently--I would estimate at least five times per day. I've sat with students in very poorly lit rooms while they try to read, and I can't tell if they're right or not because I can't see the page myself.

Carman is a residential and day school, although the majority of the students are day students. I live in the senior dorm with ten girls, all about high school age. Ah, I have forgotten how much fun and overdramatic it is to be a teenager. Last night there seemed to be quite a lot of drama with one of the girls, and because most of the discussions were in Hindi, I don't really know exactly what the situation is, but as near as I can tell, the Brenda of the group is getting voted off the island. The girls are great though, with lots of interesting questions and I really enjoy chatting with them about their lives in India and sharing my American ways. I spend lots of time in the junior dorm as well with their resident advisor, Anu (my new friend...yea, I finally have friends!), and the younger girls, who are so loving and open and probably the cutest things I've ever seen, even though some of them can only tell me over and over "My name is Disha." And of course, "Good Morning, Ma'am."

Reading the Indian Express

On my train ride from Delhi to Dehradun last week, I had the chance to catch up on my news with The Indian Express, one of the English language dailies. Here is a list of the articles that caught my eye:

1. 187 Mumbai Life Stories (one story each day about the people who died in the train explosions last summer) #62 Ramesh S. Kumavat, 32: This gament factory owner and his wife moved to the big, fast city of Mumbai from smaller villages in Rajasthan and started a family with two children. Although his wife, Shaweta, is illiterate, the railways offered her a job so that she could support her family, but her in-laws forbib her from getting a job. She can't make house payments or feed her children, and she said her in-laws kept all of the compensation money. Each day that I'm here, I am more and more fascinated and perplexed by the restrictions, roles and views of women in this country, as well as the way families operate.

2. Frenchman flying a kite with camera creates flutter in Kalpakkam: Simply because of the way the paper used the word flutter--"he created quite a flutter with his actions." You just wouldn't see such words in an American paper, but I think we should use "flutter" in daily speech more often.

3. Anti-thin Spain bans five models: Five models were banned from a Madrid fashion show because they were underweight, an action which created quite a flutter (see, it works well) in New York and Milan. Along with the roles women play in culture, I've been thinking and observing how beauty is perceived in different cultures and countries. Many of the most beautiful women, models and actresses here aren't twigs.

4. India Open Marathon: Perhaps I should have entered the half-marathon. My best time would have placed third, although on second thought, I'm sure the hot and humid conditions and extreme pollution (as well as the fact that I'm horribly out of shape) would have tacked on several minutes or possibly hours.

5. An Indian Love Story: An 18--year-old Muslim woman from London ran away to Ghazibad to marry a Hindu man after their three year Internet love affair. The wedding of India's version of Romeo and Juliet was attended by 1,000 people and telecast live.

Does This Sari Make Me Look Fat?

Shopaholics should not come to Jaipur. Well, they should, but they should bring an extra suitcase. Jaipur is a major shopping hub, featuring a dizzying array of textiles, jewelry, shoes, handicrafts, and so on. Haggling can be incredbily tiring but worth it, although a couple rupees here and a couple there starts to add up, as does the weight of my pack.

I tried not to bring too much of my own clothing, knowing that I would probably pick up an assortment of things along the way. Yesterday I bought a couple of tunics, a pashmina, some jewelry, a beautiful silk bag, a pair of camel leather sandals and some presents that must be kept secret (I can't blow it!). But the best purchase BY FAR was a "salwar kameez" set. Salwar is a baggy pair of pants often wore by Indian women and the kameez is a loose fitting top, although mine is a little bit fitted. The top is black with a little bit of bright blue and gold embroidery and the pants are white with matching embroidered flowers by the feet. I think I might be able to rock the top back in New York with a pair of skinny jeans. (Will those still be fashionable when I get back?)

Usually, I'm much more of a window shopper than a buyer, but it's difficult to window shop here. If you even glance at an item, shopkeepers will continue to knock the price down until you think to yourself that you'd be nuts not to buy the shoes for $1.50.

By mid-afternoon, I and my wallet had had enough shopping, and I decided to call it quits before I bought a set of Rajashtani puppets. I decided to head back to the Arya Niwas for some rest and repose in its quiet garden, as well as the 5:00 yoga session. Actually, that's only partially true. I was also giddy with excitement about trying on my new Indian clothing and admiring myself in the mirror. The verdict? In my new duds, I practically blend in.

Land of Kings

I'm in Jaipur, the southwest corner of the "Golden Triangle," and it just might be my favorite corner. Jaipur is in the state of Rajasthan, which is your camel-spitting, elephant-trotting, grand palace bearing home if India. The architecture of the Pink City and beyond is beautiful, and the bazaars are buzzing. I found a lovely and serene place to stay, the Hotel Arya Niwas (www.aryaniwas.com) and definitely recommend it to anyone who passes through Jaipur.

Driving along the road from Agra to Jaipur allowed a broader glimpse into the desert state of Rajastan, which is very impoverished, has one of the lowest literacy rates in India and has been suffering from a long drought. Tiny farming villages of mud huts lined the highway, skeletal cows grazed on brown grass and bare fields, and women in bright saris carry water jugs to their homes. Some of the bigger villages display a clash of poverty and Western modernism as crumbling houses bear billboards advertising cell phone companies and Coke-a-Cola. In one village, about fifteen men were gathered around a television in a grass hut.

I'm constantly pondering the collision of the Western world and traditional Indian culture in this country. It seems as if the rush to modernize by Western standards in India can be likened to building a mansion on quick sand; the foundation is not strong enough and erodes more quickly the more you build. The environmental degradation that has taken place is widespread, and while some of it can be attributed to natural causes (the drought), much of it is caused by the intense strain on local resources. The poverty is engulfing. It's heartbreaking to see the shoeless children asking for food, water and money and the tatterted tents haphazardly set up wherever they will stand for shelter at night.

But it’s Good for You

You know those things in life that are supposedly good for you, build character or are purely great “life experiences”? Yeah, they’re crap. If someone offers you the easy road, you should take it. Like when someone offers to take you from Agra to Jaipur in a private air conditioned car for only 200 Rs. (less than $5) more than the bus, you don't turn him down because riding a a non-air conditioned bus in India will be a "good life experience," a story you can tell your kids. You could also tell your kids about riding in an air conditioned car to Jaipur. They'll be just as impressed if you tell them at a young enough age.

Getting Aggravated in Agra

Other than the Taj Mahal and bridesmaid Agra Fort, I wasn’t very impressed with the rest of Agra or its atmosphere. From the second I stepped off the train, I had to fend off relentlessly persistent rickshaw-wallahs, tour guides, post card vendors, photographers and touts. I had an endless stream of people following me around trying to sell me something, take me somewhere or show me their uncle’s jewelry shop. It’s no wonder celebrities often punch paparazzi in the face; it’s damn tiring being hassled all day long.

I’m also an easy target because I’m clearly foreign and a woman traveling alone. And because of this second point, I am always extra alert and mindful, almost to the point of paranoia sometimes. An acquaintance in Delhi helped me plan my trip to Agra and Jaipur, and she had arranged for me to pick up a bus ticket to Jaipur from a travel agency in Agra. I thought I would go there as soon as I arrived so that I wouldn’t have to worry about it later, not thinking that it was only 8:15 a.m. My rickshaw driver, however, had other plans. He took me to the street I requested, but instead of turning into the strip of commercial shops where the travel agency would likely be, he turned down a dodgy road that led to an even dodgier looking house that would probably crumble to bits if you touched it. There were about five men hanging around the house. He said, “This is it. It’s closed. Open at 10.” My red flag had gone up the second we turned down the driveway. “No. This is not right. Please just take me to the Taj Mahal.” I had to insist this several times until he turned around. All the way to the monument, he tried to convince me to hire him for the day. He even showed me a little book that people had written in about what a great guide he was. I could not have jumped out of the rickshaw faster as soon as I saw the entrance to the Taj Mahal area.

Photographing the Taj Mahal

I recently made fun of a certain someone for the infinite amount of pictures he took of the Taj Mahal during his trip to India. It's possible that I will need to eat my words for two reasons. One, I am not a very good photographer so I rationalize that if I take 100 pictures, then about eight of them will be decent. Second, you can't help it. It's just that beautiful. It looks superimposed against the hazy blue sky. It's surreal to stand in front of something you've seen immortalized in photographs your entire life. So you take more, just in case you happen to forget what it looks like (and, of course, to prove that you've seen it live). And for the record, no picture of the Taj Mahal is really bad, except for maybe the goofy one of me pretending to touch the top that the guide convinced me to take.

Indian Style, Western Style

Yesterday I began my journey around the "Golden Triangle" (Delhi-Agra-Jaipur). Up until now, I'd had the luxuryin Delhi of always having access to a Western-style toilet. But on the early morning express train to Agra, I had my first experience with the Indian version: a hole. I was fortunate enough to have the extra challenge of making my debut while on a moving train. I've had enough backpacking exprience that I've mastered the squatting technique so it didn't become trickyuntil I tried to use the water for cleansing. I splashed more on my pants than myself. Great. Now as I walk back to my seat, everyone will whisper, "Look, the American girl peed on herself," which I swear was not the case. Well, I did have a little bit of backsplash on my shoes, but I figure these Chacos have mucked through far worse already. At least this time I knew it was myown urine. The best part of this whole ordeal? When I exited the WC, the one right across from it was labeled "Western Style."

If You Ever Feel Lonely...

...send a mass e-mail. You'll got lots of electronic love. Not that I'm lonely. I have 1.1 billion people to keep me company. But I do appreciate the love and support that many of you sent in response to my e-mail and my blog.

Also, I wanted to introduce you to the blog of Ivan Shiras, my good friend Bri's boyfriend, who is living in India for eight months working for a technology company. You can compare and contrast our India experiences. Here is a sampling of the types of comparisons you can make: He's in the South, I'm in the North. He uses the newest technology. My power goes out at least once a day. He gets paid. I'm draining my savings. He basically lives in Club Med India. I...well, I'll post pictures of where I've been staying soon. All jokes aside, he's having a very cool experience as well and perhaps our paths will cross somewhere in this vast land. Check him out at http://ivanshiras.blogspot.com.

Maid To Order

I'm still getting used to the fact that I have a maid. She's not mine really. She's my landlady's maid, but she cleans my flat too. Everybody has a maid or some sort of service worker. Even at the magazine, I don't get my own chai or prepare my lunch. We have someone who does that. Anyway, I think my maid likes me. I was told that she would clean the entire room and washroom except for the toilet. They don't do that. But my maid cleans my toilet. Everday. So she either likes me or thinks I'm completely helpless. She also took me grocery shopping and wouldn't let me carry anything. I've tried to be an independent woman since I was about five years old so it's often difficult for me to let anyone do anything for me. Ever. But despite my protests, she will not let me do anything.

And this morning, someone tried to take her place. Two minutes after she came to my flat, there was a knock and the door and a young woman was there speaking in a mix of Hindi and broken English. I shook my head apologetically, indicating that I didn't understand, but she persisted. Finally, my maid sternly said, "No, No!" to me and slammed the door in the woman's face. She was offering to do the work instead, probably for slightly less.

This is apparently not an uncommon occurance. I had lunch earlier this week with another American couple, also still adjusting to the hierarchy of service. They told me a story about how a young girl knocked on their door at 6:00 a.m. and said that their maid Asha left town for a week and she would replace her. Asha was in fact upstairs, asleep. The girl came back every half hour until Asha came down, had a screaming match with the girl and chased her away.

Mountain Dreams, Malaria Nightmares

Have made the decision to stick with Plan A and teach at the school in Dehradun. I'm catching the train there next Monday. Working at the magazine would be a great way to see the modern culture and nightlife in Delhi, but it's not really why I came. My two main reasons for coming were to help people on a tangible level and explore the Himalayan region. Obviously, this is not happening in Delhi.

For instance, I spent yesterday reading a novel on Jewish identity (for review in the magazine) while listening to Tori Amos in an air conditioned office while the chaos of Delhi swirled below. Replace the Jewish novel with a boring article about the latest and greatest in hard drives, and you have my job in New York.

Will miss the girls at the magazine though. It's been great to be exposed to very modern and cultured women in Delhi, although I've encountered some funny situations. Last night, they invited me out for happy hour. Thought I would get to see the hip scene in Delhi. We ended up getting drinks at TGIFridays and dinner at McDonald's. I will say that the McChicken Maharaja Mac is quite good.

So this leaves a week to explore more of Delhi and hit Agra (home of the Taj Mahal) this weekend before I head for the hills.

On another note, the malaria-vaccination induced dreams I've been having provide plenty of nighttime entertainment. So far, I've flown to Paris with May's mom, shopped for maternity clothes with my sister, and adopted pet monkeys.

Eating Omelettes in India

Highlights of my first weekend in Delhi:

Bathing with a bucket; Wanting to buy every piece of jewelry, bag and trinket at Dilli Haat market; Discovering how fun and exciting playing chicken with a cow, a bus, a motorcycle and another auto rickshaw can be; Getting ripped off; Haggling successfully with a rickshaw driver (BIG confidence booster); Buring my mouth with a collection of spices, but loving it at the same time; Walking the lawns at the India Gate; Discovering sweat glands I didn't know I had; Eating lunch at the American Embassy compound, but feeling guilty about eating an omelette in India; Being asked if I'm Australian; Being asked if I'm British; Being asked if I'm Dutch; Not being asked if I'm American

A Lesson in Adaptability

Blogging is a new thing for me. And I already suck at it. I'm almost a week behind in updates, but I'll try to break it down based on memory and my journal entries.

I'm in India, and I hardly know which way is up right now. Well, I'm finally starting to get my bearings, but it's still overwhelming and fascinating and exciting every second I'm here.

The plan for this trip was to spend two months teaching at a school in the north Indian mountain town of Dehradun and then one month of traveling at will. As I said, that was the plan. Apparently, plans (and time) are fungible ideas in India. When I got off the plane in Delhi, a representative from the program I came through met me and informed me that instead of heading to Dehradun, I would be working at a magazine called First City in Delhi. Too tired to argue or discuss, I said ok and decided to make the best of it.

Friday I met the staff at the magazine, almost all women and all were very kind. The magazine is an English language arts and culture magazine about the city. Great magazine, but I still had my reservations about living and working in Delhi. On the one hand, it would be a fantastic opportunity to explore the city's modern culture. On the other, that's not really why I came on this trip. Still, I was getting over jetlag and after eating with the staff, I rested for the remainder of the day.