Good Karma

2006-12-03T06:47:00.000+04:00

"Human language can repeat only an infinitesimal part of what exists."
-Mary Baker Eddy

My trip to India marked a lot of firsts for me: first time I had to get a polio shot, first time anyone called me "ma'm," first time I ate lady fingers (and a lot of other things), first time I was told that I look Chinese, first time I wrapped a saree, first glimpse of the Himalayas, first time I feared monkeys...I could go on for hours. It was also the first time I'd ever kept a blog, but while my sporadic updates let my mother know I was still alive and saved us all from mass e-mail hell, I don't know if my words did this incredibly complex, eclectic, fascinating, frustrating, wonderful, chaotic country justice.

Right now I'm sitting at my parents' house in the guest room that has been converted into the holding cell for all my worldly possessions. I'm jetlagged and going through a bit of reverse culture shock, but it's good to be home. You just know when it's time for an experience to be over, when it's time to move forward and see how that experience has changed who you are, how you see the world and, possibly, the course of your life.

Lots of people asked me "Why India?" My stock answer was usually "why not," simply because I couldn't remember what inspired me to go to India. The more I researched and read about the country, the more my fascination grew to obsession with the Subcontinent-- its culture, its history, its religions, its politics, its problems, its contradictions. With each passing day, I somehow managed to simultaneously understand more and less about the country. There is no way to "sum up" a place like India in a neat, packaged description. It can only be experienced.

Why I chose India is no longer important. I'm just glad I did.

2006-12-03T05:59:00.000+04:00

A Home Away from Home

Homestays are the current fad in accomodation in Kerala, and because of my story assignment, I spent most of my time in the state sleeping and eating at a family home. After almost three months of waking up in uninspiring hotel rooms, it was nice to be in a home and around a family again, even if it was someone else's.

The family who owned last home I visited in Wayanad, Ente Veedu, really took me in as one of their own. Seetha, the woman of the house who manages the homestay, was really excited to dress me up in the traditional Kerala dress, which looks like a saree, but is actually two pieces of fabric instead of one. Once I put it on and accessorized with a bindi, I totally blended in with the family, as you can see in the above photo, right? Right... As a side note, in the last two weeks I've had one man tell me that I look Indian and another tell me that I look Chinese. Considering that I'm your typical American mutt (English-Irish-German), I don't know why no one in India ever thinks I'm American, and I really don't know how anybody could think that I look Asian.

Anyway, Seetha had a photographer friend who shot her daughter's wedding photos come over to take a few snaps of me in my new digs. I think this photo will replace the Diwali photo as my 2006 holiday card:

2006-12-03T05:44:00.000+04:00

A Series of Demotions

If a travel agent in Fort Cochin tells you that you do not need to reserve a seat on the train from Kochi to Calicut, he is lying. If a ticket agent at the Ernakulum (Kochi) train station tells you that you can upgrade to the chair car for a few Rupees once you get on the train, she is also wrong. And if you listen to both of them, you will end up sitting on the floor of the second-class unreserved train car with your feet dangling out of the door as you whiz past Kerala's coastline.

The bulk of the magazine article that I'm working on is about Wayanad, a more remote region in northeastern Kerala and getting there from Kochi requires a five hour train ride to Calicut and then a two hour bus ride into the hills. Rupert, who is photographing the story, and I got steadily demoted from the AC Chair Car to the Second Class Reserved car to the Second Class Unreserved car in a matter of minutes, and while we were able to sit comfortably near the door on our packs for the first two hours, I had to stand for the third hour and then sit wedged between one man's knees and the bathroom door for the last two.

At the end of the trip, one man turned to me and asked, "Ma'm, why do you ride second-class unreserved?" I shrugged my shoulders and said, "It's all that was available." He shook his head and said, "It's so crowded," then paused to think for a moment, "but I guess it's the same everywhere in India. Just one big crowd."

2006-12-03T04:56:00.000+04:00

If I Were an Expat...

...I'd live in Fort Cochin. One local expat said that Fort Cochin, a neighborhood on one of Kochi's peninsulas, is like an emerging SoHo. I don't know if I'd go that far, but it is a charming, peaceful and beautiful place to explore.

The area's charm comes from its eclectic mix of religious and cultural history. One local told me that there was almost a perfect balance of Hindus, Muslims and Christians in Fort Cochin. There is even a Jewish Quarter established by Dutch settlers who mingled with colonials from Portugal and England. The fragrant, sinus-clearing area around "Jew Town" is the hub of the spice market.

The Chinese fishing nets are the signature sights of Fort Cochin. At sunset, the beach behind the nets is the place to be for locals (and tourists). Families and newlyweds eat ice cream, listen to music and wade out into the algae-infested water while the sun dips into the Arabian sea.

What I found most interesting about Fort Cochin, though, was its blossoming modern arts scene, its selection of fine restaurants and the hidden flagship shops for emerging fashion designers. Kashi Art Cafe is a great place to mingle with Fort Cochin's intellectuals and a visit to its gallery down the street, Kashi Art Gallery, is a great way to see some of India's best modern artists. My friend Rupert and I splurged for dinner at the trendy Malabar House, which is considered one of India's best boutique hotels. We put on the fanciest clothes we could dig out of our backpacks (well, the least wrinkled anyway) and felt like we were splurging on the experience, although in the end we spent less than $20 on a fine three-course meal and wine. The co-owner of the Kashi Art Gallery, who is an expat from Michigan, said that the growing scene of hip, modern culture in Fort Cochin is important for visitors to see and appreciate because so many travelers come to India to see ancient history, but it's equally important to see the forward momentum of the country as well.

2006-12-02T17:48:00.000+04:00

Backwater Cruising

Every region of India has its tourist "must do": a boatride along the ghats in Varanasi, drinking tea in Darjeeling, and the Taj Mahal in Agra (this is a universal India "must do," actually). In Kerala, it is the backwater cruise.

From the coast on inland, many of Kerala's villages and towns are linked by a large network of backwaters. You could travel from the south all the way up to Kochi by boat, a much more relaxing and enjoyable mode of travel than the bus or train. You can choose from a wide range of boats for your trip from the public ferry to a houseboat designed like a traditional Kettuvallam, a rice barge (see photo) to the "made for tourists" tour boat. If you want to coast through the water in ultimate style, you could book a three-day trip on the ultra-luxe houseboat, the Discovery, from the Malabar House for 50,000 Rs (approx. $1,100 USD), which is more than my round-trip ticket to India cost. Someday...

Being the budget backpackers that we are, my friend Rupert and I opted for the public ferry to save a few rupees and get the local experience. We joined the Keralaites riding to work, school and to see family along the backwaters. Like the Ganga, these waterways are an instrinsic part of life for the locals. It's their mode of transport, where they bathe, brush their teeth, wash their dishes and play. There are boats acting as floating shops bringing locals their supplies, and fishermen looking for the catch of the day.

After having sampled just about every mode of transport available in this country, I think the boat is the way to go.

2006-12-02T17:41:00.000+04:00

Kathakali performer in Varkala, Kerala

2006-11-25T17:13:00.000+04:00

Happy Thanksgiving

In the spirit of the holiday season, I just wanted to make you all jealous about where I spent Thanksgiving soaking up the sun and eating fish curry instead of eating turkey and passing out on the couch. (I was in Varkala, a cliffside beach town in Kerala.)

I'm getting sappy as my time in India is quickly coming to an end, but I am eternally grateful that I took this trip and even more grateful that I had so much support and love from my family and friends (and all the random people I've met along the way in India).

2006-11-23T09:37:00.000+04:00

Trading my Momos for Bananas

Here is the beauty of traveling in India (and the convenience of budget airlines like Air Deccan): you can go from watching the sunrise over Mt. Everest to swimming in the Arabian sea in the matter of a day and a very reasonable amount of Rupees.

On Tuesday, I turned my backpack upside down, put my fleece jacket, hiking shoes and wool socks at the bottom and dug out my mosquito net, my flip flops and my swimsuit. Instead of eating momos, dal bhat and chow mein, I'm eating seafood briyani, fish curry and plenty of bananas. I've covered myself in so much DEET that I'll probably grow a third eye or a tail.

Welcome to South India.

I arrived in Trivandrum, the capital of Kerala on Tuesday night. I stepped off the plane, my hair went limp, and I started sweating. It's quite the change from the cool Himalayan breezes, but I'm excited to be here. Kerala is an incredible part of India. It's beautiful with it's cliffside beachers, backwaters and spice and tea plantations. It's the most literate state in India (around 90 percent), boasts a progressive attitude toward women and was the first state to elect a Communist government. Like in the mountains, I feel more relaxed here too, sort of like when you travel to the southern U.S. Everyone is just so damn nice. Southern India is definitely more gentle than the north.

It's not without its problems though. Much of Kerala's male population has to leave the state to find work; many go to the Middle East and send back money. Also, Kerala has one of the highest rates of farmer suicide in the country, which is part of why I'm here.

In addition to lounging on the beach in Varkala, exploring the backwaters in Alleppey, and eating plentious amounts of seafood in Kochi, I'm researching a story about the growth of homestays and rural and eco-tourism in the state, particularly in the hardest hit rural areas as a way for farmers to supplement their income. Yes, it's a real assignment, paid and everything, for a national consumer magazine. I don't want to say much more, but I'll keep you all posted on when and where you can read this hopefully fabulous story.

As Mark Twain said, "The secret to success is to make your vocation your vacation." It's good work when you can get it.

2006-11-23T09:30:00.000+04:00

When you fly in America, you basically have to show your photo ID just to buy an overpriced coffee at Starbucks or to go to the bathroom in the airport. Not so in India. I passed through two major international airports--Calcutta and Bangalore--and not once was I asked to present photo ID. Not to get my boarding pass and not to get on the plane.

Aside from that slight glitch in security, I found flying domestically in India to be quite convenient, comfortable and cheap. I'd heard a few horror stories from other travelers about flying Indian Airlines, the government-run airline. In recent years, however, several budget airlines a la Southwest and ATA have popped up in India thanks to a growing middle-class that loves to be tourists (once they get off the airplane, they squeeze into a jeep for a week).

I was quite comfortable on my Air Deccan flight, except for the fact that they can't check your luggage all the way through. To get from Calcutta to Trivandrum (Kerala), I had to piece together two one-way flights and claim my luggage in Bangalore and then re-check in several hours later, after lugging my backpack around the airport.

It was worth it though. For less money than a train ticket from Calcutta to Trivandrum (and significantly less time--12 hours of flying/waiting vs. two days), I was able to go from one end of the Subcontinent to another.

2006-11-23T09:18:00.000+04:00

The Art of Travel

Traveling in India has provided wonderful lessons in letting go, being flexible and flying by the seat of my pants. My plans have changed and been altered dozens of times, and sometimes, I just have no plan. It usually works out better that way.

Sometimes I find myself second guessing my decisions, wondering if I should have stayed a day longer or less in one place, should have visited a place I've already passed and is now too far out of the way or if I'm missing something along the way. I've realized though that there is no right or wrong way to travel, and wherever you end up, it will be amazing.

A few days ago, I had just one day in Calcutta before catching a flight down to Kerala. What to do for one day in one of the world's most densely populated and polluted cities? I'd heard mixed reviews of Calcutta (Kolkata); some loved it, called it their favorite Indian city while others said "get out as soon as possible."

In one day you could go on one of those whirlwind bus tours the government puts on, but those are tiring and slightly embarassing as a herd of Westerners are marched on and off a bus around town. Instead, I opted to just wander the Maiden area, see the Victoria Memorial and walk down Park Street.

If you had only one day in New York City, what would you do? It's overwhelming. If it's a nice day, I would recommend meandering through Central Park because it represents the city at it's best. You see people from all walks of life, neighborhoods, socio-economic backgrounds lounging, exercising, kissing, reading, walking, playing baseball, sleeping, begging, selling and eating. I felt like a day in the Maiden was like this, excpet I've never seen a cow or a herd of goats interrupt a softball game in Central Park.

Park Street is home to some of the nicer shops and restaurants in the city. It's lined with trees and since eating seems to be the citywide pastime, it was a good place to go. I was enjoying myself so much that I was regretting only giving the city one day, not even 24 full hours. But then, when I returned to my hotel room to wash off the one-inch layer of grime and soot that had accumulated on my body, I knew it was time to board that plane and head south.

2006-11-23T09:03:00.000+04:00

Darjeelingites are not Indians

India is less of a nation and more of a multi-lateral conglomeration. If you travel a half an hour, you feel as if you've entered a new world. The culture, the traditions, the food, the customs and behavior, and even the language changes a bit. There are, of course, a few constants, like the indecipherable side-head bob, the frustrating inefficiency and mouth burning cuisine.

I have found, however, that the Himalayan regions are very different from their counterparts in the plains. And apparently, the resent being part of Mother India. I had several lengthy conversations with two trekking guides and a few other locals, many of whom are of Nepali descent, about how much they resent being a part of India, don't consider themselves Indian (even though they were born and raised in the country) and don't even like Indians. Darjeeling used to be part of Sikkim, which used to be a small, independent nation, but has since been swallowed up by India. The cultures in Sikkim, Bhutan and Nepal have many more similarities to eachother than they do to greater India, and Darjeeling is a mix of all of these. Darjeeling is now part of West Bengal, although you notice a very thick line of demarcation as you leave the steamy and crowded plains of West Bengal and wind up the steep mountain road with cool breezes to the hill station. Many Darjeelingites try to avoid speaking Hindi at all costs, although they eagerly take in Hindi movies and music.

As a foreign traveler, I notice an immediate difference in the mountain regions. I feel more relaxed. I feel much more comfortable being on my own, especially after dark. No one questions my marital status. Their attitudes toward women are much more equitable and respectful. No one stares. In most of India, there is no taboo against staring. I've been on seven hour bus rides where I don't think the men blinked or turned away from me the entire time.

The trekking guides told me they only take foreigners and will not take Indians on trips, although they also said that it's usually not an issue. Indian tourists don't like walking. They like to squash ten people over capacity like sardines into a jeep to get anywhere. During my trek up to Sandakphu, the guide took me on a lot of tough short cuts and meandering trails in the backwoods to avoid walking on the road that the West Bengal government created that runs all the way to Sandakphu. While trekkers may resent seeing cars drive by during their nature adventure, it does make life easier for the villagers along the way. They have a steady stream of supplies this way. Personally, after seeing the signs along the road about the blood bank, I would rather walk than drive up that road.

2006-11-20T08:55:00.000+04:00

Small World Coincidences, Part Two

Running into the same travlers becomes pretty common place since we all use the same guidebooks and tend to cluster around the same neighborhoods, but the other day in Darjeeling, I had not one, but two, small world encounters.

My trek finished in Rimbik, a small mountain village about four hours by jeep from Darjeeling. We were waiting for the jeep, supposedly coming at 7 a.m., which by Indian Standard Time, means more like 7:45 or 8, if at all. There was a German guy, about 20-years-old also waiting in the tea stall. We started chatting and did the mandatory "where are you from" questions. Ater I mentioned that I grew up in Illinois, he said he had spent a year in Illinois during high school on an exchange program. I asked where and he replied, "Have you ever heard of a town called Bloomington?"

I about choked on my chai. Turns out he was actually in Danvers, a small farming town just outside of Bloomington. As we chatted about my hometown, I started feeling kind of bad that he came all the way from Germany to see America and ended up in the middle of a cornfield for a year. He said that it was pretty common for foreign exchange students to end up in the Midwest because the families were the most open. This is true; some chemical in all that corn makes Midwesterners are some of the nicest people you'll ever meet. He also visited the University of Illinois last year to reconnect with his old buddies from Olympia High School. He was telling me about the frat houses he visited. Ah, the wonders of a shrinking global society that allow me to have a discussion about the U of I's Greek system in a remote Himalalyan village with a German.

The second experience that had me whistling Disney's "It's a small world after all" occurred when I returned to Darjeeling to check into the Hotel Dekeling. (I decided to upgrade from my $3 per night hotel with limited luke-warm water to the $15 per night Dekeling as a present to myself after finishing the trek.) On the door was a "Principia Panthers" sticker. Prin, for those of you who don't know, is the small Christian Science college near St. Louis that many of my AU buddies hail from. Turns out the Dekeling is where two professors, also AU people, bring their students each year for the Himalayan Abroad program. The hotel owners showed me letters from the students who stayed there, and as is common in the "four degrees of speparation" world of Christian Science, I knew most of them.

At this rate, I'm expecting to run into my Kindergarten teacher in Kerala.

2006-11-20T08:26:00.000+04:00

Cross One Off the Life List

Most little girls obsess over ponies and princesses. Never one to follow the norm, I have been fascinated with mountains, specifically the Himalayas, for as long as I can remember. It's been one of my goals to go trekking through them for a long time, and last week, I completed a short, four-day trek along the Indian-Nepali border.

We started the trek in Mana Bhanjang, about an hour's jeep drive outside of Darjeeling. We crossed the border multiple times, actually staying one night in Nepal. The trek was the right level of challenging--not so hard that I thought more about my pain than the scenery, but not so easy that it felt like a waste of time. The Singalila Ridge offered stunning views of the lush green hills dotted with tiny farming villages. The villagers who opened their homes to trekkers for tea, food and lodging were so kind. The place we stayed at the first night was great, although I was a little thrown by the life-sized poster of Avril Lavigne in the main room.

The high point of the trek was Sandakphu (3620m). It was freezing cold, but I hauled myself out of the snug burrow I created out of my sleeping bag and five blankets to see the most spectacular sunrise of my life. The Sandakphu sunrise was a million times better than the view from Tiger Hill because you weren't witnessing it with hoardes of Indian tourists cheering and chattering away. Instead, there were only a handful of Indian tourists and about an equal number of foreign trekkers. My idea of enjoying a sunrise usually involves a meditative silence and quiet appreciation, but Indians cheer wildly as the sun starts to peek up over the horizon, growing exponentially louder as it rises. At first, I found this quite annoying, but now I find it sort of endearing. How great to be so excited for the dawning of a new day!

The other reason Sandakphu's sunrise top's Tiger Hill's is the excellent view of both the Kanchenjunga range and the Everest range, all at once. Like seeing the Taj Mahal, there was a surreal element to witnessing this view. It looked simply like a fake backdrop, a replica of photos I've seen dozens of times. I was having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that I was looking at these mystical mountains for real.

2006-11-20T08:22:00.000+04:00

Second Greatest Road Sign Ever

They're so much more creative and graphic with their road signs here in Darjeeling than we are in the West. I wonder if that makes them more effective than the mere "Slow" and "Caution" signs we use in the States. I still think the blood bank sign is the best road sign, but this one is a close second:

"Speed has five letters. So does death. Slow has four letters. So does life."

2006-11-14T15:00:00.000+04:00

Himalayan Sunrise

Early morning viewing of Kanchenjunga from Tiger Hill, Darjeeling

2006-11-14T14:56:00.000+04:00

Greatest Road Sign Ever

Yesterday I arrived in Darjeeling, an amazing hill station located in northern West Bengal, nestled between Sikkim, Bhutan and Nepal. Like most mountain roads, the one from the train station in New Jalpaiguri up to the town resembles the scariest amusement park ride you've ever been on so it's dotted with signs advising caution.

My favorite: "Donate blood at the blood bank. Do not donate blood on this road."

2006-11-14T14:44:00.000+04:00

Yes, I'm married and other white lies we tell

Just so you all know, since coming to India, I've decided that I'm married.

I was advised to avoid letting people know that I am traveling alone. Often, I find other travelers to spend time with, but other times, I'm very clearly alone. It's usually the first question people ask. "Are you alone?" This is often followed with questions like "Where is your husband?" and "Why aren't you married?" They say it like I've committed a horrible sin and ask in a tone I would probably reserve for "What? You killed someone?"

So to cut the questions short, I've come up with some stories, and they flow so naturally now that when I get back to America, I'm going to have to convince myself that I am not married. If get questioned about my husband's whereabouts while roaming around a city, I usually say, "oh, he doesn't feel well today. He's waiting back at the hotel." This clearly doesn't work while traveling on a bus or train, so one time when I was in a compartment with men who had been staring at me for three hours straight, I came up with the story of how I've been working in India and my husband just flew in to meet me, and we're meeting at the next train station.

I got questioned the most about my marital status in Varanasi. One teenage boy who had been following me for awhile said, "What? You are free?" I said, no, not really understanding what the comment meant. Then he said, "Yes you are. No husband." I said, yes, I have a husband. "Where is he then?" I told him I was on my way to meet him. A minute later, a Western man by himself was coming from the other direction. The teenager ran up to him and said, "Hey, I found your wife. She is here." The man gave me a puzzled look. I shrugged my shoulders and gave a faint smile. Then he played along and said, "Honey, where have you been? I've been waiting for an hour."

2006-11-12T09:30:00.000+04:00

My Brother-in-Law's Uncle's Dog's Silk Factory is the Best in Varanasi

Varanasi isn't just about death, and its charm extends much further than the banks of the Ganga. It's also famous throughout India for classical music, silk and its beautiful sarees.

Everybody's brother, uncle and dog has a silk factory in Varanasi, and they're more than happy to give you a private tour. In fact, about twenty people supposedly own the same one, the "best in Benaras."

Upon the advice of my guidebook, the man at the foreign tourist bureau at the railway station and my incredibly helpful guesthouse owner, I decided to visit the Mehrotra Silk Factory. Because of the word "factory," I was expectly a large warehouse. I almost walked past it because instead it's a tiny shop on a random gravely side street near the railway station. The shopkeepers were incredibly kind and showed me a large segment of their inventory without pressuring me to buy, although I of course did and more than I had intended to (some people in my life are getting some very cool Christmas presents, by the way). The way to verify the authenticity of silk is to burn it. If it smells like burning hair and disintegrates into ash, then it's real. If it smells like burning plastic or just really bad and melts together, it's synthetic or at best, a blend. Varanasi's signature for silk shawls and sarees is brocade, intricate weaving of gold and silver threads into the fabric.

After I made my purchases and chatted for awhile, the shopkeepers even showed me their collection of sarees, even though I made it very clear that I wasn't going to buy. I think one saree is more than any Western woman needs.

2006-11-12T08:53:00.000+04:00

Ganga is the Lifeline of Indian Culture

This tagline was written on the wall of one of the ghats along the Ganga, and I don't have any better words to describe how this river permeates the life of the city of Varanasi or India as a whole.

Varanasi (Benaras--like most cities in India, it has two names with several spelling options) is old, holy, historic, crumbling to bits and incredibly beautiful in its shabbiness. It has an atmosphere and aura unlike any other Indian city I've been to, perhaps because of the seamless blend of the energy of life and the acceptance of death. Saturday morning I took a boat ride at sunrise down the Ganga and watched the ghats come alive with men, women and children bathing, drinking, swimming, praying and washing their clothes in the Mother Ganga. The main ghat of the city is Dasashwadmedh and it's teeming with people and radiating with the dawning of life.

Shortly after passing by this ghat, the shift in energy is palpable as you approach Manikarnika ghat, the main burning ghat for cremation. Early morning chatter gives way to barking dogs and the crackling of burning wood. There wasn't a feeling of deep sadness, despair or morbidity, just an eerie quiet. You can sense the people who come there have a quiet acceptance of rather than resignation to the inevitable end of the mortal body. Ashrams and houses near the ghat are filled with people who came to Varanasi, the chosen home of Lord Shiva, to die. Those who die in Varanasi are guaranteed moksha, liberation from the cycle of death and life. Some are prepared with enough money for the cremation ceremony. Others are scraping together rupees while they wait to pass on. Those who cannot afford the cremation ceremony are wrappend in white sheets and dumped whole into the river. Several of these dead bodies can be seen floating nearby and bobbing in the water. My boat actually collided with one, merely eliciting a smile and a shrug from my boatman and a giggle from his ten-year-old son.

The coexistence of energy and inspiration with the acceptance and desire for death on the banks of the Ganga remind me of a passage I read in Gita Mehta's Karma Cola, a satirical look at the collison of the West and the East in India. She was talking to a Swiss national living in India about why he chose India over his home country. In part of his reply, he said, "It is here a noisy, dirty silence. So many millions being born, living, dying, without the fuss. This I appreciate. So little fuss. We Swiss are supposed to like order. Well, this is order because in India, you are always reminded of the significance and insignificance of life."

2006-11-10T18:47:00.000+04:00

India is Really Just a Big Small Town

When I first moved to New York, I was always caught off guard when I randomly ran into someone I knew on the street. But that tiny island is really like a small town sometimes, and it can lead to plenty of random encounters and connections. India can be like that too, apparently.

In Dehradun, a city of about 250,000 people, I used to run into my students and their families all the time on my days off. This didn't surprise me too much, and it was nice because they would usually give me rides or stop and have chai with me.

I arrived in Varanasi this morning, and I'm staying at the absolutely wonderful Hotel Temple on the Ganges. While I was eating breakfast on the rooftop, I saw a woman who looked really familiar to me. She was apprently thinking the same of me and came over to chat. Turns out our paths crossed in Dharamsala a few weeks ago. And here we were, in the same place again. The more I thought about this, the less coincidental it seemed. Most foreign travelers hit the same cities and are using the same guidebooks with the same hotels listed in them. Nonetheless, it was nice to see a semi-familiar face.

She invited me to spend the day with her and another friend she had made through her travels, a man from England. We went to Saranath, which is just outside Varanasi and the site of the Buddha's firs and famous sermon in Deer Park. Saranath was an interesting little place with dotted with Buddhist temples in the fashion of temples from various Buddhist countries from Thailand to Burma to Japan. We also saw the ruins of some of the oldest Buddhist structures and, of course, deer in Deer Park.

2006-11-10T18:15:00.000+04:00

Goodbye Carman School

Wednesday was my last day at the school in Dehradun. When I first arrived in India, it seemed like I would be there for such a long time, but the two months went by so fast and now I only have a little over three weeks left in the country. I was sad to leave all of the students, yet I felt at peace about my experience. I felt I had fulfilled my purpose at the school, and I was ready to move forward.

I probably learned more from the students and teachers than they ever could have from me, and I'm so grateful to them for letting me be a part of their lives, even for a short while. One of the most important aspects of my trip to India was getting a chance to see the country as part of a community, albeit a temporary and small part, but an insider rather than a tourist passing through. I had the chance to get to know India and its nuances in a slightly more intimate way than simply skimming the surface of the country.

I learned about Hindi pop music, dancing and movie stars. I discovered that kids are basically the same everywhere; teen angst and puppy love know no geographic bounds. I learned that boredom is contagious, and idle time creates nothing but problems. I found that these kids dream big but think practically, for the most part. I encouraged the kids who expressed interest in attending school abroad, but I fear that a Western education system, if they could even get in, would eat them alive.

At the school, I had a first-hand look at a broken education system riddled with problems. There is no comprehension; the teachers recite straight from the book, the students copy straight from the book and the test questions are verbatim from the book and the notes. The students can read any piece of English writing you put in front of them, but you can't ask them what it means. They don't know. Some of the teachers don't even know. There is nothing to stimulate interest, creativity or independent thinking. When I brought in books with colorful pictures from the school's own library, the students consumed them ravenously and read them over and over, never tiring of the story about the Zookeeper or the Monkey in a Muddle. The interest is there as is the intelligence. They just need someone to give them a shove. Some of the teachers are ready to shove them (figuratively, although some would literally shove them as well). Other teachers are just using the job as a filler until they get married or because they failed to get a job in any other field.

I've always been a bit of a softy and discipline was hard for me. I got better as time went on at managing out of control classes and ill-behaved children, and while I had moments when I got really disgusted with the students' behavior, nothing ever made me so mad that I even fathomed hitting a child. That is one thing I could never handle: watching children at the school get beat. Teachers would slap them, hit them with sticks or badminton raquets, pull their hair or smack them across the face with plastic combs. After awhile, I don't think it had any effect on the children. They'd been hit so many times that it just became funny to them or expected. I've read accounts of the physical discipline being much worse at many other schools. I had children ask me all the time why I don't beat children; I usually replied that I don't beat them because I prefer to hug them.

My moments of frustration, however, were far outweighed by joyful and hopeful ones. I've never met children more willing and open to letting others in and sharing with them. I received lots of lovely cards and gifts upon my departure, as well as tears, which made me cry. (This should come as no surprise to anyone. Of course I cried. That's what I do. My emotions pour out of my eyeballs.) I will miss those children dearly. For two months, they were my entire life. They were why I got up in the morning, why I worked from 6 a.m. until 7:30 p.m., why I came to India. They have lots of potential, and they're fighting an overwhelming set of obstacles. I only hope that I was able to add a little more fuel their fires of hope.

2006-11-10T15:20:00.000+04:00

I Don't Want a Sunbath, Just My Mom

So far I've successfully avoided the infamous "Delhi Belly" (knock on wood), but I recently found myself handling a high fever, congestion and cold. I started feeling very ill at the school and my preference not to use medicine was getting lost in translation with the nurse, who speaks virtually no English. She and the rest of the staff were very kind and had the best intentions for me while I was ill, but they had some odd suggestions for how I should get better.

First, the nurse kept bringing me pills that she couldn't really identify, just say that they are "fever pills." She almost held me down to take them until I finally could communicate through one of the students that I did not wish to take any more. Then, after she took my temperature to find that it was 102 degrees, she said, "You are hot, red in face. You need a sunbath." I said, "Excuse me?" Then she made me go lay in the sun, despite more protests on my part. I have never been so hot and uncomfortable in my life. Later in the day she took my temperature and at 101 degrees, she said, "Normal!" Some of the teachers and staff advised that I not eat rice because it was bad for my health. Rice is the essential part of EVERY single meal at the school. If I don't eat it, I'll starve. Considering how I was feeling at the time, starvation didn't seem so bad.

For those concerned, the fever and other symptoms are gone, and I am feeling like myself again, although my struggles rendered me virtually useless during my final days at the school. It also made me question my ability to care for myslef. I'm 24-years-old, have been living away from my parents for six years now, and felt mature enough to go to the other side of the planet, yet the only thing I wanted while I was sick was my mom.

2006-11-10T07:28:00.000+04:00

No Wardrobe Malfunctions in this Half-Time Show

I've been introduced to several new sports during my time in India, most notably cricket and badminton. Carman recently hosted the Dehradun Interschool Badminton Championships, and it was quite the event. Carman took second to Whellam Girls, one of the premier girls' schools in India. We were definitely the underdogs as I looked at our girls out their in their wrinkled school uniforms and generic Ked sneakers while the Whellam girls had sharp looking sports outfits and brand new, matching Nikes.

Badminton can get rather intense on the court, but the audience is quite civilized, not like the rowdy football and basketball games I remember from my high school days. Spectators of badminton are like those of golf; you politely clap exactly seven times after each point.

My favorite part of the whole event was the half-time (well, in between match) show. A group of our junior students performed a Punjabi dance, and while I have great respect for the girls who were on the dance team at my high school, I have a feeling that these eight-year-old Indian girls can shake their hips and twirl circles around those girls.

2006-11-10T07:22:00.000+04:00

Ma'm, Go to Toilet!

The students at the school are really respectful about some things. They will always get you a chair, even if it means they stand for the rest of the class period. They are offended if you don't cut in front of them in line for food or tea. And they ask permission for everything: to go to the bathroom, to drink water, to come into a room.

The little kids, as they are still learning the intricacies of the English language often omit a few words in their request do things so instead of "May I go to the toilet," it comes out like a command: "Ma'm, go to toilet!" "Ma'm, drink water!"

The funniest part about it is that they are supposed to put their arm straight out with the palm faced down when they say this. The small children, however, put their arms diagonally upwards infront of their face so I always expect them to scream out, "Heil Hitler!" rather than "Ma'm, go to toilet!"

2006-11-09T15:35:00.000+04:00

India: It's just like Jenny Craig

I walked in on a conversation the other day between two of my students. One of the girls is half-India, half-Australian and a bit on the heavier side. She was apprently explaining to the other girl why she was overweight.

"Everyone in Australia and America is fat," she said.

The other girl pointed to me as I walked in and said, "But Lindsey Ma'm isn't fat."

"That's because she's in India right now."

My secret is out. The true purpose of my trip to India: weight loss.

2006-11-09T15:11:00.000+04:00

The Burdens of Pretty People

Despite its majestic mountains, beautiful beaches and holy temples, India's most fascinating and telling sights are its people. Women in beautiful sarees, religious wanderers, lamas, fruit sellers, and children with hollow eyes. I always get a little shy though about taking pictures of people who I think are captivating because they're simply living their lives--going to the market, washing clothes, playing with their children. I always feel invasive so I end up with more scenery shots than those with people, even though the people are are where my true interest lies.

Indian tourists, however, have no problem making me the main attraction once in awhile. I thought I was being conceited when I felt that I was being singled out for photographs, but I think I might get more than my fair share of photo ops, and I have a few theories about why. Even when I'm in heavily touristed areas, I get picked out for photos by Indian tourists more than others. It's true, I swear. First, the obvious reason, is that I'm alone, thus I am more approachable. But there are many other people flying solo, too. Second, my dazzling smile and stunning good looks (obviously), especially when it's been three days since my last shower (please note the sarcasm with number two).

Finally, and what I think is the kicker, is that they have me confused with Alice Patten, star of Rang de Basanti. She plays Sue, a British woman who comes to India to make a documentary about the political activity among the country's youth. All the children and teachers at Carman School think I look like her and took to calling me Sue. One child even wrote an fecicious essay about me. The topic was "The person I admire the most" and he called me Sue Ma'm throughout the essay.

I posted her picture here. Personally, I think the only similarity in looks that we have is that we're both white, but perhaps that's the connection the children were making. Anyway, I think the Indian tourists who wasted a few snaps on me standing with their children and wives and holding their babies also mistook me for the movie star. I expect the paparazzi to start following me soon.

2006-10-25T09:35:00.000+04:00

A Little Luxury and a Hot Shower

I know what you're probably thinking after reading my last post about rafting in the Ganga. "Ew, she went swimming in a river where people bathe, pee and place their dead?" While parts of the Ganga are polluted and less than sanitary, this segment is quite clean and pure because it is so close to the source in the mountains and its rushing current. There's no downstream effect yet. You can bet that when I go to Varanasai (Beranas), the city on the river where many go to die or spread the ashes of the creamted bodies of their loved ones (or simply drop the body whole), I will be admiring the river from a dry spot on the shore.

I also promptly took a shower, my first hot shower (from a gyser and not a bucket!) since September 6, when I took one at my parents' house in Bloomington, Ill., but not before I had an intense full body massage. I saw signs all around Rishikesh for the Baba Massage Centre and heard great reviews from other travelers. After logging hours on Indian buses and getting knocked around the river, I decided that I deserved a little pampering for the price of two Starbucks lattes. The masseuse used her entire body--hands, feet, knees, elbows, even her head--to massage mine. I got my head massaged, my face massaged, back, legs, arms, feet and even my ears. It was exactly what I needed to work out the kinks from that morning's militant yoga session.

2006-10-25T09:02:00.000+04:00

Rolling on the Holy River Ganga

After the light show in Amritsar, I headed toward the the epicenter of inner light: Rishikesh. Famous in the East for its ashrams and prime location on the Ganga and famous in the West for the Beatles and the Maharishi, Rishikesh is beautiful, serene and peaceful. There's definitely an international set of travelers here, but the Indian tourists, pilgrims and ascetics come in droves as well, not like in Dharamsala where Western seekers of enlightenment seemed to outnumber the Indian and Tibetans. Rishikesh and the nearby holy site of Haridwar are the famous points where the Ganga dumps out of the mountains into the plains of India.

I decided the rigidity of an ashram stay might be a bit much for me so I opted instead for the Yoga Niketan Guesthouse where I could cherry pick from the yoga and meditation offerings at the ashram across the street without the minute-to-minute schedule. Plus, I had a magnificent view of the Ganga from my balcony.

Mary Baker Eddy spiritually defines river as a "channel of thought," which I've always found to be a powerful description, but it is especially potent when contemplating the Ganga. This river is a fundamental source of inspiration for Hindus. It's more than a significant part of the Indian landscape; the river's current corresponds with the lives of many Indians. They bathe in it, drink from it, wash clothes in it, lead animals to it, pee in it, play in it, pray by it and release their dead in it. Pilgrims travel for miles to make offerings to it, tourists take countless photos by it, and parents dunk reluctant, crying children in it to assert their purity. Its a source of atonement and necessity, but also, as I found, adventure.

When I got tired of twisting my body into a pretzel and quietly contemplating nothingness, I decided to find adventure on the mighty Ganga and head out on a half-day rafting trip. I joined a sweet Gujarati family, who could hardly contain their excitement for the trip. Each time the calm current of seafoam green water gave way to the choppy whitewater, they forgot to paddle and would wave their paddles in the air like lassos shrieking, "Wahoo!" We shot like a pinball through some hairy class III+ and IV rapids and passed through the splendid lush, green Rishikesh valley, waving to the pilgrims on the shore and the Westerners sunbathing ("Hippies!" yelled the Gujaratis with delight). It was quite a rush, as rafting always is, but especially to know that I was letting a river of such importance splash over me.

2006-10-25T06:46:00.000+04:00

And Then There was Light, Fireworks and Mini-explosions

Happy Diwali! Doesn't this picture look like the perfect snap for a holiday card?

Saturday was Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights that celebrates the return of Rama and Sita after almost 15 years of exile. It's one of the biggest holidays and festivals for the Hindu faith and in the weeks leading up to it, my students talked non-stop about the tradition setting off crackers (fireworks). The festival coincided with the Sikh celebration of the return of the sixth Sikh guru, meaning that it was double the celebration in Amritsar.

The beautiful Golden Temple was specially adorned with millions of white lights and an evening celebration of fireworks and candle lighting was planned. The temple complex was absolutely packed, with most of the people filtering in sometime between tea time and dusk. Candles lined the entire pool and by dark, it was difficult to walk around the tank because people had claimed their spots for the show.

I was told at the information center the day before to come a little early and request to be taken upstairs for the best view. A few other Western tourists were there, but it was mostly Sikh tourists. Television camera crews were there to document the event, and I was interviewed as the token American by three television stations, although I didn't have a TV to find out later if I made it onscreen. I spent most of the evening with a few engineers and consultants from England working on a structural engineering project in rural India. The fireworks display was magnificent.

Soon after it started, though, a small explosion went off a few feet from where we were standing. It was followed by a series of explosions, each one louder than the last. The crowd started fleeing for the stairs. One of the British engineers literally picked me up and pulled me through the mob. The explosions dissipated, and it turned out to be a set of firecrackers that had gone off prematurely. The rest of the evening went off without a hitch, and we were able to admire the illuminated temple in all its glory. From my guest house that night, it sounded as if Amritsar was being bombed because those crackers are so loud, and people set them off until about 4:30 in the morning.

2006-10-23T10:47:00.000+04:00

Travel as a Spectator Sport

The only open border crossing between India and Pakistan is 32km from Amritsar in Wagah, and each night it draws huge crowds when the border is closed and the flags are lowered. The Indian side was packed with people exuding the same enthusiasm that they might at a cricket match with England. One of the patrol officers leads the people in patriotic chants and songs while Indian tourists push and shove for a chance to wave the Indian flag in front of the crowd. The military police on either side go through a ceremony of yells and stomps, trying to outdo the officers from the other side while the crowds try to outcheer eachother as well. Everyone cheered and waved as the last bus of the week from Delhi to Lahore crossed over and the gate was closed and the flags lowered.

There is a separate "VIP" section for foreign tourists, although I didn't sit there. A group of Gujarati college girls befriended me on the walk from the taxi stand to the border and invited me to sit with them. It was nice to have interpreters for the patriotic chants and cheers.

The Indian side vastly outnumbered the Pakistani spectator side, likely for many reason. One, sheer logic that India has more people. Two, proximity of the border to a major tourist town. Three, a less volitile state of affairs. And four, a much bigger domestic and foreign tourist market, which correlates with number three since several foreign governments advise against travel to Pakistan.

2006-10-23T10:41:00.000+04:00

The Best Dal in Life is Free

I spent the first two days of Diwali vacation in Amritsar, a city in Western Punjab famous for its Sikh Golden Temple and its proximity to the only open border crossing with Pakistan. The Golden Temple is astoundingly beautiful and serene. The golden structure glitters in the sun and looks like its floating in the tank of water (or "pool of immortal nectar"). Sikhs from all over make pilgrimages to see the holy temple and bathe in the tank's ghats.

The Sikh pilgrims and those who help maintain the temple were incredibly friendly and enthusiastic about explaining their faith and history. I stopped in the information office to inquire about getting to the border that evening, stayed for a cup of tea and conversation, and an hour later, emerged with more literature about Sikhism than I could read in a lifetime.

When you visit the temple, you can stay there free of charge in one of the Gurudwaras or pay as little as 50 Rs to stay in one of their more private rooms in a guesthouse. You can also eat in their community kitchen for free (although if you're not a pilgrim, you should leave a small donation). The founder of the religion, Guru Nanak instituted pangat (dining together), a practice that enourages equality. Basic meals of chappati and the best dal I've had yet are served to diners who sit together in long rows on the floor, regardless of caste, economic or social status, or religion.

2006-10-23T09:46:00.000+04:00

Five Meters of Fabric and a Busted Blouse

My post entitled "Does this saree make me look fat?" was misleading. I never bought a saree in Jaipur. It just had a better ring than "Does this Salwar Kameez make me look fat?" Last week, however, I made my saree debut, and you can judge whether or not five meters of fabric is flattering on me.

Sarees (or saris, like many cities in India, I'm not sure of the correct spelling, but both seem acceptable) are the dress code for the teachers at Carman School, but I am obviously exempt. The students and teachers ask me everyday when I will wear a saree. So for the annual Sports Day, I thought I'd put on the traditional Indian dress.

I enlisted the help of two of my female companions, Sapna and Premjodt, and the trip to the market was one of the most fun shopping experiences I've ever had, although my indecisive nature made choosing one difficult. Every saree is beautiful. Because of my skin tone, we ruled out colors like yellow and peach, and I vetoed an orange and blue saree because it was a little too "Rah-Rah, Go Illini" for my taste. We finally agreed upon a shimmery blue saree with gold trimming. I was fitted for a blouse and picked up the whole ensemble two days later.

The morning of sports day, I took my new digs to the dorm warden Anupama to dress me like a doll because if I did it myself, I would come out looking like a child playing dress-up with her bedsheet. After putting on the blouse and the petticoat, Anu started wrapping. And wrapping. And wrapping. She took the excess and folded it accordian style several times to form pleats and tucked the top into the petticoat just below my navel. Then she swept the remainder diagonally across my torso, letting some drape elegantly down my back. Two safety pins and some bangles from Jaipur completed the look. The dressing process took about eight minutes.

I walked into the dining hall trying not to rip the front of my saree or fall and break my nose. The children all looked at me wide-eyed with smiles and almost choked on their eggs. I felt a little like a a mermaid because of the shiny blue color and the restricting lines, but I got used to it after awhile, except for the blouse. It was too small, meaning I either gained ten pounds in two days or the tailor messed up. I'm going with the latter because I don't think my meals of rice and dal add much weight. Even though I could only close three of the four clasps, I managed, breathing ever so slightly, until mid-morning when I let out of sneeze so violent that it not only popped the second to last button, but ripped the string that formed the hook for the clasp. Fortunately, the saree covered all the vital parts.

I received lots of complements on how well I wore the saree and was encouraged to buy more in order to wear one everyday. I'll admit, I took a few moments to admire myself in the mirror before I relunctantly took it off that afternoon. As temptingly beautiful as all the sarees are, I think I'll stick with one because I don't know what I would do with them back in the States. They'd probably be turned into glorified table runners.

2006-10-22T16:55:00.000+04:00

My Current Obsessions

These are my three favorite children on earth right now (l. to r.) Piyush, Raunauk, and Shaswat. The other day Shaswat said, "Lindsey ma'am, when I graduate class 12, I will come live with you in America." I replied, "Oh? And when will you graduate class 12?" "In 10 years," he said.

I read in a recent issue of The Times of India that Madonna is adopting a one-year-old Malawian boy. Is this true? (I'm a little out of the current events loop.) So I was thinking, I would be totally in vogue and in the company of the likes of Madonna and Angelina Jolie if I came home from India with a child.

On an unrelated topic, in the same issue of the Times, the front page carried the headline, "US seeks to rule the universe." I thought, My God, George Bush has gone and declared himself king of the universe. What else has happened since the last time I had my hands on a newspaper? (I read on to find out that he hasn't yet declared himself master of the universe, but that the U.S. is trying to limit the rights to space.)

2006-10-22T16:06:00.000+04:00

Confessions of a So-Called Environmentalist

I like to consider myself environmentally conscious. I'll be the first to admit, however, that I don't always practice what I preach. For example, I never recycled in my apartment in New York because I couldn't tell the recycle bin from the trash bin in front of our building. (Judging by the assortment of items in there, I don't think any other tenant could either.) But at least I was putting things in a trash can. I never litter or just toss my trash to the wind.

The other day I was shopping in Dehradun's Palthan Bazaar with my teacher friends from the school, Sapna and Premjodt. We stopped to get ice cream bars and walked as we ate. Long after we were finished, Premjodt turned to me and asked, "Lindsey, why are you still carrying around that stick," pointing to the licked-dry wooden ice cream stick. Then she promptly ripped it from my hands and tossed it on the ground. I shrugged sheepishly and stammered, "I guess I was just waiting until I found a garbage can." She shook her head and said, "Lindsey, this is India. Everywhere is the garbage can."

2006-10-21T10:11:00.001+04:00

And the Winner is...the Scootee!

Getting anywhere in India can be like playing a thrilling game of chicken with your life, and transport is half of the adventure of India. Here are some of the players in the game:

Autorickshaw: These icons of India transport are the little motorized, petrol-chugging autos with yellow tops that growl along the roads. They're probably the easiest way to get exactly to where you want to go, unless you're in Agra and the driver takes you a bombed out house instead of the travel agency. This is the method I use most often, especially if I don't know exactly where I'm going, which tends to be most of the time.

Cycle Rickshaw: Man-powered cart pulled by a bicycle. I've only ridden them a few times because they're a little too skeletal for me. I feel like the whole contraption will tip over each time we round a turn. The first time I took one, I thought the driver would be less likely to cheat you and take you in circles because it's his own energy he's draining, but not the case. Some will still shred their leg muscles for extra rupees.

Bus: Two kinds--local and intercity or interstate. I've only taken the local bus in Dehradun, and the first time, I ended up with my nose shoved into someones armpit and a children clutching either leg. Most of the time, though, the other women on the bus will beckon me to the front to sit near the driver, a space reserved for women. For intercity/interstate buses, you can choose between a deluxe tourist bus or a local. The latter has only bench seats and takes forever because it will stop for every person on the route. Some people will stand for the entire eight-hour trip. Deluxe is a bit of a misnomer because the only thing better about those buses is that the seats recline, and they only stop for every third person. You pay a lot more, but they still hit all the same potholes.

Train: Probably the best way to go from city to city, unless you're in the mountains where they don't run. Chair cars in express trains like the famous Shatabdi Express are quite nice with cushy seats, full meal and tea service, and free newspapers. Passenger trains stop at every little train station along the way, but if you're riding overnight, you won't notice, and even better, you will not waste a day, and you'll save on hotel fare.

Private car: India looks different from a private air-conditioned car. It's more like watching the country on TV than truly experiencing it. I actually prefer rickshaws because you can experience the noise and the energy of the country rather than watch it pass you by.

Scootee: This is my new favorite form of transport! It's a motorbike, smaller than a Harley and quite mobile. Usually, motorcyles, like skydiving and pigeons, freak me out, but after a few minute with my friend Sapna on hers, I was loving zipping around the streets of Dehradun. I did, however, almost lost my right leg to a bus, but it's all part of the experience.

Walking: The best way to explore and discover the nooks and crannies of the city as soon as you master crossing the street at tangled intersections.

2006-10-21T09:32:00.000+04:00

My Legacy as the Moose Lady

What was once my greatest bribing tool has now become the bane of my existence. On multiple occasions at the school, I've called upon my years of experience as a camp counselor at Adventure Unlimited. In an effort to get the boarding students to feel comfortable around me, I spent an evening teaching them silly songs and dancing, including the now infamous "Moose Song."

Then, much to the students amusement, I started teaching the song to fill the idle time in the classrooms that the students are often stuck with. I'm not sure how often they'll need to use the phrase "There was a moose full of juice on the loose," but hey, it's English, right?

The song has gained such popularity in the school that when some of the students see me, they smile, put their thumbs to their ears with their fingers spread wide and shriek, "Moose!" followed by giggles. When I walk into some classrooms, the sudents immediately plead, "Lindsey Ma'am, dance! Please!" So I started using it as a bribing tool. If you do this adverb exercise and write a paragraph about this story, we'll do the moose song. This worked quite well for awhile, but they have caught on to my scheme, and it no longer works. I now spend half of classtime fending off requests to sing and dance like a moose full of juice.

I am afraid that long after I'm gone, I will not be remembered as the American who taught them how to punctuate their sentences or why you should say "They are" rather than "They is," but as the lady who taught them that the moose liked to drink a lot of juice and even though he drank it with care, he still spilled it on his hair.

2006-10-21T09:08:00.000+04:00

Punjabi Dances, Shaking It to Shakira and Marching Like the Saints

I have decided that I unintentionally picked the best time to come to India and the Carman School. I initially chose the months of September, October and November because it was post-monsoon season, and I was getting kicked out of my apartment anyway. October happens to be the month of the Dusshera and Diwali holidays allowing me both a fascinating glimpse into the festivities and time off from school to travel more. But at the school, I've also been fortunate to witness the season of dancing and singing competitions as well as the annual sports day.

Lively dancing and music are such engrained parts of the traditional and modern culture here. You can't walk down the street or ride a bus without hearing Hindi music blasting (I think my favorite is Punjabi). And everyone's always in the mood to start shaking their hips, waving their hands and shrugging their shoulders. Right before Dusshera we had a folk and modern dance competition at the school, and let me tell you, there's nothing cuter than seeing eight-year-olds decked out in traditional garb. The older students put together dances to Shakira, Ricky Martin and the like. A week ago, we competed in a dancing and singing competition against a several other schools. These kids are such excellent dancers. One of our students could definitely put Senor Martin to shame. I love that the male students take get as into the dancing as the girls. I think you'd be hard pressed in America to convince high school boys to put on sequined tops and shake their his to Shakira. One group of girls put together a dance to Michael Jackson, and they came out in skirts so short that even I blushed. You can imagine the reaction of conservative Indian parents. They completed their dance to stripping off their tops, leaving only sports bras, and little applause. I felt a little embarassed for them.

Sports Day is a competition between the four houses in the school. They compete in running races, tug of war, swimming and badminton. The event with the most weight in the final scores, however, is the march pass. The students had been practicing since before I arrived at the school for this event. Each day the march like little soldiers to the beats of the drum or static-filled recordings of "When the Saints Go Marching In." As we got closer to the main event, the teachers began to fine-tune the students' marching. I heard one teacher barking over and over at the KG class to keep their elbows straight. Really, the kids are five and their English is very limited. They don't know their elbow from their ear. It all came together in the end though, as these events usually do, and the kids had fun and looked like perfect little marching saints.

2006-10-07T18:37:00.000+04:00

Getting My Feet Wet

I once met a girl from Nepal whose family owned a trekking company. She spent a couple of days training with the mountaineering staff at Adventure Unlimited, and it was in Colorado that she reached her first summit, a 14,000 foot peak. I remembered being amazed that she lived among the greatest mountain range in the world and had trekked above 18,000 feet many times, but never actually climbed to the top of a mountain.

This memory all makes sense now that I understand more about trekking, and that it isn't exactly mountaineering, although at times you encounter some pretty steep and rough terrain. It's basically walking from point to point, usually mountain village to mountain village, sometimes passing over huge passes or peaks to do it.

Robert Pirsig wrote, "It is the sides of the mountain which sustain life, not the top." On my short two day trek, I passed through several mountain villages, met nomads from Punjab with their sheep and horses and saw a variety of wildflowers and crops terraced into the mountainside. In the villages, local people would invite me and my guide in for chai. My conversations were usually limited to "Namaste" and a smile and children asking my name or yelling "Hello! Chocolate? Hello! Chocolate?" My guide usually did some interpreting for more in-depth conversations. The villagers have been spending the last few weeks stocking up food and cow feed for the harsh winters that are about to come. It never ceases to amaze me, though, that in a village where running water was limited, nearly every house had a satellite dish and a DVD player.

I was pleasantly surprised by the varying terrain and landscape of the Himalayas in the Kullu Valley. There were the snow covered, jagged peaks that I always associated with the range, but the peak I climbed, Pitalthsu (spelling?) Peak, was very agrarian and pastoral. Sheep were grazing and corn was growing below tree line. I usually associate corn with the flat prairie lands of my home state of Illinois, not the Himalayas. Cannibis also grows wild in these parts.

At 12,800 feet Pitalthsu Peak is not the highest mountain I've ever climbed, but it might be the steepest ascent I've ever done. I gained 6,000 feet in about three hours. Needless to say, coming down was a bit painful. My toes are well acquainted with the front of my hiking shoes after slamming into them with each step. I discovered later that I cracked both my big toenails very low in the nailbed.

I'm a bit sore, blissfully exhausted and already planning my next trek. Time was a limiting factor this week, but I'm looking into longer treks in Sikkim, the far north-eastern state near the border of Nepal, during November when my teaching assignment is over. Hopefully my toenails will grow back by then.

2006-10-04T14:43:00.000+04:00

Good Karma: The Illustrated Version

I finally figured out how to get some photos up here! Don't laugh...despite my year at Laptop Magazine, I am no more tech-savvy than a Luddite.

I added a few to some recent posts. I may go back and add more to some of the older posts as well, just in case you don't know what the Taj Mahal looks like.

This photo is the view from my guest house in Manali. The British girl I met was meeting a friend at this guest house, and I'm glad she led me to it because I never would have found it on my own. It's just off Old Manali Village, but you have to hike for about ten minutes on a narrow path into the valley. There are several guest houses along the way, but this one is at the top.

I'm heading out on a very short two-day trek tomorrow before I head back to Dehradun and my favorite little kids. It's a good thing I figured out how to get the photos up here; I'm fully prepared for breathtaking sights on the trek.

2006-10-04T13:59:00.000+04:00

I Think This Monk is Hitting on Me

The bus ride from Dharamsala to Manali makes the non-air conditioned one across the desert in Rajasthan seem heavenly. You need kneepads and a helmet to drive through the mountain roads. I have bruises on my knees and significant knot on my forehead from where I slammed into the window three times. I may have suffered a mild concussion.

About half the passengers were a group of young monks from a monastery in Sikkim on their way to Ladakh. They were all probably in their early twenties and as soon as they got on the bus they shed their robes for jeans, basketball jerseys, and baseball hats cocked to the side. The British girl I was hanging out with commented that if she didn't know better, she would have thought they were "bad boys" from America.

I settled in for the bumpy ride with my new CD player and Indian/Tibetan tunes that I picked up in Dharamsala (I decided not to bring my iPod to India, but after a couple of long bus rides, I decided my trip needed a soundtrack. So I bought a cheap walkman, which might have already bonked out on me. I'm not sure). Anyway, one of the more hyper monks asked the one sitting next to me to switch him seats. He wanted to borrow my CD player, which was fine because I was trying to sleep anyway.

We chatted for a bit about Sikkim and how he had joined the monestary when he was eight-years-old. He was nice, but oddly persistent in the way that he kept insisting that I give him my e-mail address and asking if we were friends. Then he tried to hold my hand. I politely weasled my way out and tried to fall asleep. When I woke up, his hand was on my leg and his head on my shoulder. As if the bus ride weren't uncomfortable enough.

2006-10-04T13:52:00.000+04:00

The Dalai Lama Drives Too Fast

The Dalai Lama came back to Dharamsala yesterday (I'm not sure where he was), and there was all kinds of excitement in the town. Many of the shops and cafes were closed, and the streets, except for Temple Road, were very empty. Everyone gathered around Temple Road, and many of the monks and nuns were carrying flowers to greet him with.

He was running late, but I thought I managed to find a pretty decent viewing spot, except that when word spread that he was minutes away, tons of people moved in and started pushing and shoving. You know, for peace-loving hippies, they sure know how to use their elbows.

Anyway, I'm not sure if the wait was worth it. He went by in a split second and I almost missed it. And then it was over. One woman next to me said half the time its a decoy. So basically I waited two hours to see a glimmer of a man who might not even have been the Dalai Lama.

2006-10-03T08:36:00.000+04:00

Samsara

In Sanskrit, samsara means "continuous flowing" or "continuous movement," which in Buddhism, refers to the constant cycle of birth and death or reincarnation, only escaped through enlightenment. In Tibetan Buddhism, it can also be interpreted as "wheel of suffering."

I was thinking about this concept last night as I attedned a local jam session (I know, how hippie of me, but when in Rome, right?). Anyway, the place was packed with dreadlocked travellers and young Tibetans. The music was great and the company even better. I sat with two German girls and a Canadian woman with her Tibetan husband and their two-year-old son.

A few people spoke about the changing attitudes of young Tibetans, a lost generation born in exile. I've heard mummerings about a desire for a less peaceful approach to the occupation of the country, particularly by the younger Tibetans.

The whole room joined in to sing Bob Marley and Pink Floyd. One man, who was a couple decades older than the majority of the wanderlusting twenty-somethings in the room led everyone in "Blowing in the Wind." I realized he was one of a handful of people in attendance who probably sang that song the first time around, and how tragic it is that we sing the same politcally-charged songs of war and peace that our parents sang, not out of nostalgia, but out of relevance.

2006-10-03T08:33:00.000+04:00

Thought for the Day

A Precious Human Life

"Everyday, think as you wake up, Today I am fortunate to have woken up. I am alive. I have a precious human life. I am not going to waste it. I am going to use all my energies to develop myself, to expand my heart out to others, to achieve enlightenment for the benefit of all beings. I am going to have kind thoughts toward others. I am not going to get angry or have bad thoughts about others. I am going to benefit others as much as I can."

-His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama

2006-10-03T08:22:00.000+04:00

Waterfalls, the Mud Pond and Celebrity Status

Having had enough conversations about getting a guru, how to be your own therapist and techniques to help your dog and cat meditate, I decided to get off the streets of McLeod Ganj and onto the trails.

Yesterday morning I walked to the Bhagasunag temple and then continued on to a waterfall. Wasn't really the serene walk I thought it would be, considering the steady stream of people with the same idea. I came upon a group of Indian school children on holiday and was bombarded with requests for my photograph. Not sure why they picked me out. I'm not exactly an anomaly here; foreign tourists overrun the area. But after they followed me pleading, I decided to indulge them just to shake them.

The waterfall and views from it were lovely, but the whole endeavor took less time than I anticipated so I returned to town for lunch and advice on another day hike. The owner of my guest house suggest Dal Lake and then on to the village of Naddi for the sunset. Sounded good to me, although I decided halfway into the hike that I should bag the sunset. If I watched it set, that would mean hiking back in the dark, not something I was keen to do.

As I paused along the road to capture the scenery, I was again stopped for photographs, this time by four Nepali men on motorcycles. I think they must have me confused with someone.

The lake was a major disappointment. It was nothing more than a muddy pond with boats shaped like dragons and ducks that you could float around in for a couple of rupees. And there wasn't much of a view. It was a good walk, though, and hopefully a warm up to better hikes and treks to come.

2006-10-02T07:45:00.000+04:00

Tibetan Refugee: Dolkar Kyap

After the film, I had dinner at a place called Khana Nirvana and sat in on one of their weekly lectures by a Tibetan refugee. I was amazed at the compsure that Dolkar Kyap had as he spoke through an interpreter about being hung from his handcuffed hands for hours upon hours, being beaten, his eyesight destroyed, denied food and water and forced to work. He talked about how prisoners' kidneys were ripped out and sold on the black market. If I weren't hearing the words of the interpreter, I would have thought this well-groomed man in camo pants, tan polo shirt and hiking boots was giving a lecture on local hikes rather than the horrors of being a political prisoner. His lecture was peppered with occasional laughter and his voice remained calm, never rising in anger, but I could feel angr and disgust rigins in my own chest as he spoke.

He was sentenced to five years in prison for posting freedom and environmental awareness posters in his town. One of his main causes was to expose the natural resources being stipped from Tibet and the severe degradation of the natural landscape. He noted that after being released, you are never truly free because you can never hold a job and people avoid you out of fear of becoming a suspect as well. Since 9/11, some of the Tibetan political dissidents have been labled terrorists by the government. He has written a book about his ordeal that is currently being translated into English and he's researching a second based on the sale of prisoners' organs on the black market.

One woman at the lecture pointed out that she has specifically not visited China or Tibet because she does not want to support China in anyway, espeically by giving the country her money. She asked Mr. Kyap if boycotting the country was a good way to show support for the Tibetan people. He answered that while he understood why she was avoiding the country, visits by Westerners could help raise awareness among the Chinese people, most of whom are not fully aware of the plight of the Tibetans or have been educated to see benefits in the occupation. Mr. Kyap expressed that he was not blaming the Chinese population, only the government and its human rights abuses. The vast majority of individuals support human rights and freedoms. He also pointed out that there is virtually no way to avoid supporting China and the governments' treatment of prisoners with our dollars. He said that many of the prisons are given factory names to disguise their real identity, and many of the goods China produces, from shoes to car parts, are produced by prisoners (both Tibetan political prisoners and Chinese criminals) who are working for free.

Even in this age of information and communication, there are still so many things we have such limited knowledge about. We hear stroies from these refugees that are denied by the government, and we see few photos or documented film evidence that might be able to evoke more action. This is only my account of what I learned yesterday from one man and one film. There is a lot of literature about the history and personal accounts from refugees if you want to learn more. I would recommend the book Fire Under the Snow, by Palden Gyatso, an imprisioned monk who escaped to India and smuggled out some of the torture devices used against him.

2006-10-01T20:14:00.000+04:00

Red Flag Over Tibet

I spent Sunday afternoon and evening learning more about the occupation of Tibet and its refugees. I started by visiting the Tibet Museum and watching a screening of "Red Flag Over Tibet" (1994), shot by an American journalist who traveled from Nepal to Lhasa as a tourist since journalists were not really welcome in Tibet. The film was an intriguing and troubling look into the way the Tibetan culture been almost completely destroyed and hundreds of thousands of its people killed, displaced, imprisioned and tortured. It also discussed how the environment is being destroyed and the Tibetans still living in Lhasa and other parts of Tibet are strictly limited and monitored and many are out of work, replaced by the influx of Chinese who come there for better money-making opportunities.

A few of the Tibetans, speaking under strict anonimity, that the journalist talked to expressed discontent with the Dalai Lama's nonviolent stance. They were ready to pick up arms to fight for their country. The Dalai Lama was five when he was named the 14th Dalai Lama, 15 when he fled Tibet, and 19 when he started appealing to foreign governments for help. When I was five, I was tasting Elmer's glue, at 15, my biggest troubles were the braces on my teeth, and at 19, I was probably appealing to bartenders at Kam's.

The footage of Chinese brutality against Tibetan demonstrators is very limited, but there were a few snippets shown in the museum. I read accounts of how prisoners were tortured, women who were violated with electric batons and released prisoners who were ignored by family and friends out of fear and could never again get a job. I was haunted the rest of the day by the looks in the eyes of the ragged refugees, photographed as they stumbled down from the mountains into Dharamsala.

2006-10-01T19:51:00.000+04:00

Om Shanti

I took a yoga class this morning, which was great. I love doing yoga here even more than at home because the focus here is much more on the spiritual than the physical exercise, and I've found that I can actually bend and twist myself into much more difficult positions because I'm not thinking about the body at all. Today's class was incredibly inspiring because we were facing large windows that displayed the mountains in all their glory. I was reminded of what John Muir said: "Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days opening a thousand windows to God." It's no wonder all the religions of the world convene here and people come in droves to find enlightenment; you'd have to be made of stone not to be inspired in some way.

My dad once told me that it was natural for me to be attracted to yoga because it's the combination of religion and exercise, two things I value. I said I like it because I like any workout that involves lying on your back with your eyes closed for fifteen minutes. Actually, the mediation part is the most difficult for me. Clearing my mind isn't easy because it's usually running at a thousand miles per hour, thinking of dozens of things at once. But today I listened as Yogi Shivam talked about making our thoughts like still water rather than a quickly flowing river. I think I managed to slow mine down to at least a trickling stream. But I did use the time for my own peacful, spiritual thought, and even though Sivam wanted me to focus on nothingness, I think the inspiration I pulled from that time was more beneficial.

2006-09-30T18:46:00.001+04:00

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.

2006-09-30T16:12:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-30T15:45:00.000+04:00

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.?

2006-09-30T15:30:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-30T15:15:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-23T10:03:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-23T09:49:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-23T09:28:00.000+04:00

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."

2006-09-23T09:13:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-16T06:29:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-16T06:02:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-15T20:26:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-15T20:20:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-15T20:14:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-15T14:22:00.000+04:00

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."

2006-09-15T14:11:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-12T15:19:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-12T09:13:00.000+04:00

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.

2006-09-12T08:34:00.000+04:00

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

2006-09-12T08:12:00.000+04:00

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.