Spoken Wheel

A Few of My Favorite Things

2012-02-13T13:58:00.006+05:30

I've decided that the very best way to begin concluding my India interlude is to post various clips and pictures of some of my FAVORITE memories, people, and things I’ve gathered during my time here.

So without further ado, click on the link below to see one of my favorite memories in India...

Dadi's Poem

What you have just seen is something actually quite incredible. My friends' grandmother, Dadi, has just recited the only English she knows in the form of a poem she learned in primary school. During the time Dadi went to school; women in rural areas generally were not allowed to advance in education beyond the primary level. Education was deemed as frivolous because the societal expectation for women was simply to marry, have children, and tend to the household. So Dadi was taken out of school completely by around thirteen years of age and given away in marriage by the time she was fifteen.

While still attending school, Dadi was so eager to learn that she stood outside the door of a classroom to learn English even though it was forbidden for women to study. All these years, she has remembered the simple lines of this little poem:

“I have two hands and I can see;

The book that is in front of me.

The wall, the ceiling, and the floor…

She trails off on the last line of the poem, but this is unforgettable nonetheless.

Dadi had an amazing impact on me in the way she loved each of her children, grandchildren, and other family members. The entire family doted on her like a queen, showering her with kisses and care. She worked hard throughout her lifetime with very little opportunity in education, but she has raised a family of men and women who are making incredible strides in education and business. To me, it all began with her tenacity to learn by standing outside the classroom as a little girl.

She is simply unforgettable.

Dadi

Animal House

2012-02-08T12:49:00.006+05:30

I am not sure that many people would pass over a pool party to go to a research lab. I know I probably wouldn't if the options were laid out openly for me to choose from. But as with most of life, things are not always clear up front and you just have to go with it. This is especially true in India…

This past Saturday morning, I was relaxing over a leisurely cup of tea at my friend Lullu’s bachelor pad. Lullu is 47 years old and, by choice, has never been married. She is sort of a Renaissance woman in India and a world traveler to boot, so we always have a good time swapping stories and laughing together.

During this particular conversation though, Lullu was spending an exorbitant amount of time trying to convince me to skip a pool party that some German friends had invited me to in favor of a picnic venture to the outskirts of Chennai. The plan was to take a nice drive through the country and grab lunch along the way. Lullu mentioned we would also stop somewhere which had something to do with some sort of research, but she sort of glossed over that. An alarm went off in my head at her evasiveness about the destination, but she pleaded ignorance when I pressed her for more information. In the end, I buckled under the pressure and out of sheer curiosity. I don’t really like pools anyways.

The car arrived with Lullu’s friend, Arun, in the driver’s seat. He is a Herculean sort of man with a booming voice and billowing stomach. After introductions, I climbed into the back seat next to a pile of law books and settled in to enjoy a much-needed retreat from the city. The reprieve literally lasted one minute before my thoughts were jarred by bullet-like questions directed at me from Arun’s seat. He wanted to know what I did, where I worked, my general tasks, how much money the project used, etc. etc. etc. After 20 minutes, I was exhausted and began to wincingly regret my earlier choice to skip the pool party. But when I found out that he was a civil lawyer who consorted with all sorts of politician on India’s frontline, my intrigue perked and I came to learn some fascinating aspects about India’s political system along our drive to the unknown destination.

Alas, the political lecture came to an end once we pulled into a gated compound where stark white buildings surrounded a central courtyard. On the ride, I learned that the “research thingamagig” that Lullu mentioned earlier was actually a non-governmental organization called IIBAT; this was our picnic destination. Arun inherited the organization from his father and intended to give us a tour of the facilities.

The tour began with being led into a small, dark room where I immediately detected a very strange and offensive odor. The four walls were white with tinted glass all around, and the air reeked of a humid donkey-like stench. My first thought was that my close proximity to Arun was the reason for the odor, but it was too strong a smell to come from any person. I’m not one to follow social etiquette at times by holding my tongue so I asked him what the horrendous smell. To this, he replied:

“A cow.”

"Excuse me?" I gasped.

That was when I came to know that I was standing in the middle of a research lab that tests various chemicals and toxins found in products and the environment on little animals of every sort. As a recovering vegetarian, I was appalled and the P.I.T.A. within me balked at being on the premises. But “Bill Nye the Science Guy” also had a major role in swaying my horror towards a developing intrigue.

Arun led us through the lab where the affects of chemicals commonly found in products and the environment were tested on animal so that the results could be examined from the skeletal to cellular level to assess the potential damage to humans. IIBAT functions as a regulatory organization that keeps both foreign and national companies from releasing harmful substances into the market. Only once a product has passed their thorough inspection can it then be released into the market with government approval. It was fascinating stuff! So Lullu and I were led into mosquito breeding rooms where mosquitoes with malaria were studied. We entered a worm lab where two tons of worms were processed each year to test soil and the effects of chemicals on the environment. We watched the brain of a mouse be dipped into wax, sliced into thin sheets, and then placed onto slides for examination. We met doctors, lab technicians, and researchers who all did their best to explain to us the complicated scientific processes.

However, my intrigue ended with the last stop of the tour.

Arun led us out of the compound and into a tree grove where plants were also grown for testing. Along the path, Arun said he was taking us to the first and oldest “animal house” ever established in all of India. Don’t get me wrong; I like animals. A lot. As a little kid, I begged to go to pet shops and would have, in my childish excitement, been thrilled at the prospect of seeing something called the “animal house.” However I was too keenly aware of the purpose of the animal house based off of the labs containing slides, skeletons, and samples of various animals that I had just seen. Lullu and I began to protest seeing the animal house, but Arun insisted.

So Lullu and I put on doctor’s caps, covered our shoes, and were led docilely through an air shower to enter the facility while Arun waited outside. Two men showed us into a room adorned from floor to ceiling with cages where the Cadbury bunny is kept. Opening a random cell, a giant white rabbit was hoisted out by his drooping ears and placed on a metal table for us to pet. I obliged by stroking the quivering animal and silently wishing him a quick death. The next room contained a breeding room of white guinea pigs that frantically scattered to the furthest corner of the room from us. Their little beady red eyes watched us cautiously as they formed little protective huddles of white fur. The next few rooms were more of the same blur of white fur, red eyes, and frantic animals. It was so incredibly sad and traumatizing. Once we were outside I breathed the fresh air but could still somehow feel the animal’s scent clinging to my skin.

On the ride home, I came to know that the entire afternoon was a set-up by my darling friend as an interview for a possible internship with IIBAT. Lullu said that if she had told me the real purpose, I wouldn’t have come (which is probably true). Arun, who thought I was aware of the interview, stated that he wondered at my apparent lack of knowledge about IIBAT and why I hadn’t read up on the organization before touring its facilities. I was flabbergasted but couldn’t help laughing at the way the afternoon had turned out aside from the animal house. I think I'll have nightmares about that one for a week!

So my Saturday went from pool-side relaxation to an animal house. Who would have ever thought?

Chortle Weaponry

2012-02-01T13:04:00.001+05:30

What kind of sense of humor does one need to survive the international field?

One that stretches beyond all of the usual lines of humor and wit.

According to Wikipedia (take that graduate studies): “The hypothetical person lacking a sense of humor would likely find the behavior induced by humor to be inexplicable, strange, or even irrational.” Dear Wiki, never a truer word has been said.

Without generous amount of humor paired with the ability to laugh at oneself, the “inexplicable, strange, or even irrational” undercurrent of life in India would nearly drive you bonkers. Humor has come to be the only way I can function day in and out in India. It is my “fundamental weapon in the cognitive arsenal” to wield off the more surprising events and comments occurring daily at a surprising rate.

Just today, while sitting at my desk, one of my coworkers walked into the room and after taking one look at me said:

“You are looking very white today.”

As opposed to purple, green, or fuschia? I’ve never received such a greeting in my life, but something tells me it was meant as a compliment. My response to him was:

“Thank you?”

These kinds of comments are quite frequent, but they never cease to surprise me.

You have to learn to anticipate anything, and I do mean anything, when it comes to living in India. A few weeks ago, I was shopping in a grocery store with one of my friends. I stopped to look at a rather pretty stuffed animal peacock with my 7 year old niece in mind. While debating the purchase, I felt a rather abrupt bump on my left arm from a woman in a sequined sari standing with two others. I’m used to being jostled to some extent and didn’t think much of it even though we were standing in an aisle entirely empty of people.

I then felt something rather awkward being hoisted into my arm that was like a gangly sack of potatoes. Looking over, I saw these gaping, kohl-lined eyes staring back at me a few inches from my face. Apparently, I had not been jostled by a woman just eager to look at stuffed animals but because she wanted to shove her small, diaper-less child in my arms so that she could take a picture of us. With lots of cackling and enthusiasm the woman and her friends gathered round me and the baby, snapping pictures with their camera phone. My friend was pushed off to the side where she stared wordlessly with her mouth hanging open.

I started cracking up and directed my smiles towards the woman with the phone though I usually make it a rule never to pose for people in pictures (the fact that I even have to say that is laughable!). But apparently my smile didn’t suffice because the women pulled and pushed my arms to readjust the baby on my shoulder and closer to my face. At that point, the line between horror and humor began to blur, and I could feel my face getting more flushed by the second. I smiled for one more shot and then handed the baby back to the mother so I could escape the increasingly awkward situation. My friend and I dodged into the next aisle where she assured me that she had never in her life seen something like that happened. We doubled over in laughter at the absolute strangeness of the event.

Though that’s one of a few times where more noticeably humorous things have occurred, I have more than enough reasons to chuckle ever day. Just in the past two weeks, I have been chased by a three-legged dog that ended up just eager for love. I have walked towards a little girl who suddenly squatted on the sidewalk to make a deposit before resuming her jaunt. I’ve had a crow skydive at my head to grab my hair. The list goes on…

All in all, I am having more than my fair share of amusement in every form and facet and am learning to always arm myself with humor no matter what happens. It’s a good thing that I love to laugh.

Sounds of India

2012-01-19T12:28:00.001+05:30

The ceiling fan was churning at a million miles per second, generating a whirlwind that beat the thin sheet against my legs as I tried to sleep. Outside, the sound of the rooftop pigeons chirruped and tweeted their off-beat songs in a pleasant, cooing fashion. I lay there with my eyes closed, trying to absorb the sensations of sound I sensed in the midst of my futile slumber.

Outside, the knell for the Muslim call of prayer must have sounded, sending waves of their eerie prayer all around me. There is something about their songs and prayers that creates a sense of reverence in the air. Whatever I may be thinking in that moment ceases to be; all I can hear is their praise.

The ability to hear in India is probably one of the most exhilarating aspects to my time here. The cackle of the shop sellers bartering with customers; the echo of horns disturbs the air; the conversations of two men speaking any of India’s many languages with arms draped around each other’s shoulder in friendship. All of these sounds flood my senses and enliven me.

While walking through the slum area later that day after my futile but peaceful nap, three little girls caught sight of me as I passed their corrugated, metal shack. My peacock earrings attracted their attention, and they began to chase after me shouting the Hindi word for peacock (“Mor! Mor!”). Two of the girls ran together with arms around each other’s shoulders; the girl in front catapulted herself through the air on a giant stick, casting shy smiles towards me as we walked.

Later that evening, I sat round the dinner table at the Salvation Army officer’s home listening to the lilting accents of the family’s mix of Tamil and Telagu as I feasted on the spicy fish curry, rice, and vegetable dishes. In quiet, simple moments like these, I am my happiest in life. Sometimes it doesn’t take much.

I think most people tend to be overwhelmed when they first arrive in India with all of the olfactory sensations. But I’m learning to separate the senses with the more time that I’m here, cherishing each aspect of this magical and stunning culture as I discover it. In all of it, I never cease to be amazed…

Ganga Aarti

2012-01-06T16:15:00.002+05:30

Standing on the river bank of the Ganges now floods me with a sense of awe. I am about to observe a Hindu ceremony called ‘Ganga aarti’ in which prayers are made and lights set afloat on a river that Hindus believe to be a goddess. The priest have soaked the grounds with sacred water from the river’s mighty flow and roped off the section for the ceremony. Rishikesh, or the Gateway of the Himalayas, is the purest place of worship at the Ganges because this is the place where the river meets the plains from the mountains. However, it is the Mother Ganges herself who is the source of purity, so followers gather nightly at the shore to wash their sins away and pay her homage.

To enter the holy banks of the Ganges in this purified place, you must remove your shoes and ring a bell to herald your humble approach to the gods. The sound rises in a cacophonous pattern of clangs, dings, and hums. Eight small tables containing puja, or a form of worship, are placed in perfect symmetry to each other with towers of unlighted candles upon each. The sound of praise from the crowd commences with the sound of the bells, welcoming all to hear, join, and praise. The crowds raise their hands together as the priests in their ankle length skirts carry the flaming towers to the holy water where they wave the mounting flames to and fro. The crowd cries out a sacred chant to commemorate their gods and bring their praise to the Mother Ganges. Their hands are pressed and raised to their hearts as a symbol of dedication. While observing all of this, I realize that I’m standing too close to the bell so that my ears are now ringing loudly and temporary deafness is setting in. But the sight is incredible and unforgettable.

The priests raise the flaming towers one last time and then carefully carry them back to the small tables. They begin to sprinkle water from the holy river on the gathered crowd to include myself and then distribute small carnation-like flowers that have been blessed by the priests. The aging woman in front of me eagerly beckons the priest to give her a blossom before the others, but he bids her to wait her turn. The smoke from the candles is intoxicating and I can no longer hear properly from my left ear. Though I’m temporarily deafened from the bells, all of my senses are alive.

I've just been given a blossom by a man in a turban which I accept with the palms of my hand brought together and facing the sky. Though I consider saving the flower to press it in this journal, I realize the ceremony calls for me to cast the blessed flower into the rushing river. I throw it in and wash my hands in the pure river bed as those around me do. A priest then approaches with a flaming tray carrying blessed sweets and a flaming candle lit from the ones used for the ceremony. He bids me to wave my hand over the flame and eat the white round sweet that he pours into my hand. It tastes like pure sugar and crunches between my teeth.

My conscience is stricken in this moment as I only wish to observe the ceremony, not participate. However, somehow, I am always pressed by the overwhelming crowds to partake in the various ceremonies I have observed to include this one. Lest I offend, I mimic their motions in a holy observance of rituals that mean nothing to me.

The flaming candles illuminates the faces of eager followers who reverently place their clay tray containing puja of sweets, flowers, and a lighted candle into the water. The floating candles either hover on the banks of the water or rush away in the river’s vibrant current. Together, the pinkish glow of the retreating sun along with the flickering, floating candles diminish into the night against the backdrop of the mountains.

Curious followers of the ceremony observe my frantic writing as I seek to preserve this moment with words. I’m sure that I’m as curious of a sight to them as their ceremony is to me.

Whisky Chocolates

2011-12-30T23:17:00.001+05:30

The henna on my hands has long dried, flaking onto the key boards as I type this. I have spent the past week with a Hindu family at the base of a valley town called Dehradun huddling under blankets and wrapped in layers of clothes to warm me in the midst of the North India chill. Its been an incredible holiday; one that has led me to furiously record occasions as they occur so as to preserve them forever. All of the sounds, sights, and flavors of this time must be remembered so that I can be transported back in a moment in the future. Its too precious of a time to forget. So in the spirit of Christmas, I thought I would share the following experience so you can be transported to this place alongside me...

"I am sitting on the side patio in the warm afternoon sun of Dehradun. The rays of sunshine are making me sleepy and heating the shawl around my neck till it radiates warmth. I was invited to sit here beside an ancient grandmother and her aging daughter, the relatives of a friend of mine who invited me to join her family for the hoildays. I've been told to call them by their Hindi names for grandmother and aunt as I've now become part of the family for the holidays. Dadi, the grandmother, cracks the shells of peanuts and places them in my hand for me to eat. Boha, the daughter, knits baby booties for her newest granddaughter who was born just two weeks ago. The sun lights on the identical faces of a mother and daughter separated only in looks by time that spans a few decades.

They both stand at five feet tall with knee length dppattas on and hair tightly pulled back. They have spent Boha's entire life together living in a joint family in the valley town of Dehradun. Their quiet way and soft-spoken Hindi is captivating and soothing to my senses so I do not have to understand what they say to simply enjoy being in their presence. Nevertheless, I wish with all my heart to understand and soak up their words which have been marinated in a lifetime of love and laughter.

In an effort to present a small gift to share in this moment, I excused myself to go grab a chocolate bar that I obtained earlier in my journey in Delhi. I paid no mind to the fact that the truffled chocolates contained a gooey center that has been infused with Grouse's Whisky. Only after presenting it did I remember that Hindus don't partake of alcohol as part of their religious observances.

By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late to withdraw the gift. Both Dadi and Babu had curiously opened and eaten the decadent chocolate, marveling appropriately at the taste as only the kindest of people do when they receive a gift. I felt too guilty not to divulge myself for presenting them with sinful treats. Being that neither of them speak English, I explained the situation to Dadi's grandson who thankfully laughed and informed both the women of the chocolate's true nature. Dadi's eyes widened and her toothless mouth gaped; alcohol had never passed her lips over the span of more than eighty years of her lifetime. Boha's eyes lighted up, and she chuckled at me. Both looked at the chocolates, at me, and then back at the chocolates again. Boha then carefully wrapped the chocolate bar up and put the chocolates in the box to be saved for Dadi's son, the father of my friend, who secretly liked to take an occasional and secret whisky in a separate room from the family.

Throughout the rest of the day, my mishap was told with subsequent laughter that was shared by all to include myself. The climax of the retelling came when Dadi wobbled in a comedic rendition of drunkenness to the delight of the entire family...."

The rest of my Christmas time tale goes on, but I'll save more of its telling for another time lest the blog get too long. Until then, I hope you all had a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

The Train that Leads to Nowhere

2011-12-16T15:42:00.003+05:30

It has been about two months since I first arrived in Chennai. Every day feels like an accomplishment; every day feels like an adventure. The little things which I have taken for granted for years suddenly feel like monumental undertakings. I’m no longer able to confidently say that I can pay my own bills, brush my teeth in the morning, order takeout, or travel places confidently on my own. It has become an everyday adaptation in which I learn to trust and rely on others for the simplest of tasks. Yesterday, this was tested to the extreme on my mistaken boarding of a train to nowhere.

It was 6:30 a.m. yesterday morning when my alarm blaringly shouted for me to get up. The night had been unusually muggy for this season and so I slept fitfully. The mosquitoes took advantage of every opportunity to feast before I retired, so the itching angry welts didn’t help me in my slumber attempts. I tossed and turned most all night only to be awoken by the shouts, singing, and banging doors of the college girls in the hostel. Apparently 5 am is the new hour to sing Christmas carols; I guess I missed that memo. Let me just say that a pillow over your head can only help so much.

Lacking sleep and good humor, my morning increased my discomfort when I discovered that the water, once again, had run out. This has been happening more frequently as of late, but fortunately I have the buckets of brownish water standing by to suffice me until the tinted liquid flows through the pipes again. I managed my morning ritual quickly with the stand-by buckets, grabbed my things, and headed out the door by 7:15 am.

I flagged down a rickshaw and, naturally, two or three stopped to claim my fare. They bartered amongst themselves leaving me to settle on the driver with the best price. Once aboard, I noticed that I had miscalculated the time it would take for me to reach the train station. It was 7:35 at this point and my train left at 7:45. This was my second time on the rail way and my first time alone so I was worried about being on time. I wasn’t even thinking about the possibility of getting on the wrong train at that point.

I hurried along the pathway to the stations, ducked into a queue, and asked the man behind the scratched foggy glass for a round trip ticket in first class to Chengalpet. During my time here, I have learned that service providers will generally give what they think I’m asking for instead of clarifying with me. So, he gave me a one-way ticket on general boarding and told me the train would leave in two minutes from the left side of the platform. I didn’t have the time or wherewithal to argue so I hurried to find my arriving train.

I reached the crowded platform just as the train was pulling in and hopped onto the ladies’ only cart. I found a seat that wasn’t doused from the recent rains and placed myself by a window. The cart was moderately unoccupied, so I pulled out a book to pass the time until I would meet my coworker, Shega, a few stops later. We were conducting field visits for the day with rural clients to assess their housing situation and design individualized housing construction plans. I was really excited about seeing more of the rural life, taking pictures for the reports and meeting new people.

Breaking my reverie, my phone buzzed loudly in my lap.Shega wanted to confirm that I was on the right train and asked me the most recent stop I had seen. I wasn’t sure because of my daydreaming so she asked if the train was stopping while we were talking. It was, so we both assumed it was the right train. I noticed later that we passed a station that was along the route, so I settled into my seat and continued reading.

My thoughts were jarred with each stop as the cart became more and more packed with women of every sort. There were sellers, students, and professionals in colorful saris and duppattas all cramming further and further into every available space. One woman was practically sitting on my lap while another snoozed beside me. The lady two seats down was complaining loudly to others and pointing towards me because my purse had fallen in her lap earlier. I simply stared out the window, hoping to get off soon. An hour and a half had passed since I first boarded, and I was feeling claustrophobic.

The phone buzzed again, and it was Shega letting me know to de-board the train in two stops. I pushed my way to the door, gripping the handles, while ladies selling cheap goods pushed their way around me. I was at least a head taller than most of the people on the cart: a glaring white woman with oversized sunglasses and messy hair amidst a crowd of gleaming braids, gold jewelry, and bindis. Right before I de-boarded, my phone buzzed again.

“Where are you?” Shega asked.

I stepped onto the platform and looked around at a vaguely familiar site.

“I just stepped off. Where are you?”

“I’m standing on the platform and I don’t see you.”

I looked to my left and noticed a sign that said: Chetpet. I was extremely confused at this point because I live on the border of Chetpet and Nungambakkam at a hostel in WCC. After spending an hour and a half on the train there was no way I should have gotten off at almost the same place I boarded.

Miserably, I replied: “Oh no, Shega. I’m in Chetpet.”

“Chetpet? Spell it.”

“C-H-E-T-P-E-T.”

Matter-of-factly, Shega said: “Heather, you got on the wrong train.”.

Normally, moments like these are laughable. But I just wasn’t feeling capable of humor right then. With a sigh, I hopped off the platform, crossed the rows of rail tracks with the other passengers, and climbed the dilapidated stairs on a bridge to the main road where I hailed a taxi back to WCC. I was extremely frustrated to the point of curses and tears, which I resorted to for a moment once back in my room before I then collapsed on the bed in exhaustion.

Later on, I found out that I could have been largely fined for making a round trip journey, but I thought that was laughable since I never actually de-boarded. Another person shared that I should always ask at least ten people for direction before following the most reoccurring advice given. It seems outrageous to me, but that’s the way of life here. And so, every day I am learning that my self-sufficiency is counterproductive and will often lead me to board the wrong train. This notion can so easily be taken for a life lesson if I were feeling up to philosophizing about trains that lead nowhere. Maybe someday I’ll feel creative enough for that. For the moment, I’ll just default to a new phrase I’ve adopted and used with a frequent sigh for situations such as these:

“That’s India!”

Throw a Stone Up in the Skies of Goa

2011-11-29T18:08:00.002+05:30

The European couple posed jauntily for their self-portrait as they waited alongside us on the five hour lay-over in Mumbai. Their pierced faces, exposed skin, and tattooed arms seemed grossly out of place next to the conservative Indian dress of the other airport passengers to include Jen and myself. The women were unperceptive to their differences; instead, they guzzled their morning beers while bending towards each other in some secret conversation. I only saw them three other times after we waited. One was at the Café Coffee counter while Jen and I ordered afternoon samosas. One of the women laid thickly into the workers with an air of indifference and sharp tongue at being served food heated in the microwave. The next time they would be jutting their hips, standing on their chairs on the plane, and celebrating our landing in Goa among the silence of the other waiting passengers. The last time I saw them, they were crashing into the other passengers with luggage carts and aggressive determination. I watched the retreating backsides of Mohawk and skin as they strutted out of the airport, baggage piled high, on their way to party their way through Goa. It was our first experience with the bands of tourists we would join in the land of beach, beauty, and nightlife.

There is a saying in Goa that goes something like this: “If you throw a stone into the sky, it will land on a church, a temple, or a bar.” If it were allowed, I would also add that the stone would surely land on a tourist. We joined the masses in the bare white skin parade on our non-traditional Thanksgiving vacation to the beaches of Goa, witnessing firsthand the stark contrast of the differences in cultures.

Our first day on the beach was Thursday morning; the day the rest of America would be dutifully tending to family time and the mealtime indulgence. Jen and I trooped our way down to the beach, securing a spot along the Arabian. The water was warm and the waves embracing; it was perfect. All around us, varying sizes and shapes of whiteness joined in our worship of the sun while we were catered to by the beach attendants.

Our attendant introduced himself as ‘Terry,’ but Jen observed that the name seemed unusual. We would later find out that his actual name was Bharat. Due to the unfamiliarity of the Western tongue to Indian names, he changed his name to make himself more memorable to his customers. Throughout the day, he dutifully brought us whatever we asked and made sure that we were comfortable. During conversation, I asked him about his family, where he was from, and how he liked Goa. He shared that he lived with his wife and two children six months out of the year in Goa, working as a beach attendant. He paid about $30 to the owner of the beach chairs in order to serve the guests and only profited from the tips that he earned. Sometimes he made $4 dollars from a customer; sometimes he made nothing. Either way, he seemed content to be standing in the heat of the sun day in and day out, serving foreigners as they baked their white skin in the Indian sun. These things always make me pause and reflect on my own opportunities in life with a grating and guilty sense of gratefulness.

Though we spent much of our time reading and lazing in the sun under the care of Bharat, Jen and I reserved a day to observe the sites in South Goa. We found ourselves on a tour along with newly married Indian couples, a young family, and a guide who did not speak English very well. From the morning to the night we toured all over South Goa, seeing flashes of various beaches, temples, churches, and even a haunted house. It was a glorious whirlwind of a day complete with dolphins, history, and new friendships.

The nonstop tour ended with a dancing boat cruise along the Mandovi River under the stars. There I managed to coerce two of the brides to join me for the ladies’ dance on the stage. We laughed and imitated each other’s Western and Indian style moves till the very last of the songs had been rung out. It was one of my favorite memories of the weekend. While making our way off the stage, I noticed a group of younger Indian boys pointing in my direction and approaching me. Before I knew it, I was surrounded. The group of boys shook my hand, telling me I was a good dancer, and asked for a picture with me. Apparently my attempts at Indian dance moves are better than my Western shuffle. I chuckled to myself as they posed around me, pulling Jen in the picture and snapping a few shots. Honestly, I’m not sure that I will ever get used to my skin color being a novelty item.

Aside from the beach and the beauty, the trip would not have been complete without experiencing some of the nightlife of Goa. It was a sampling of Western culture all over again, with many tourists bound and determined to wear the badge of ‘intoxication’ throughout their stay. Jen and I followed the recommendations of the locals and ended up at Cavala, one of the first bars ever established in Goa. An Indian band was crooning out Paul Simon, Jimmy Buffet, and other old tunes on the outside deck of the quaint little bar. It looked like a lighted shed or wooded haven and felt like an old friend. A few days later, we found ourselves at Club Havana on a hill-top overlooking Anjuna beach. The bar had outdoor pools, three levels of carved stone decks, and breathtaking views. However, my favorite nightlife experience by far was ‘Lucky’s’. Jen and I serendipitously found it as we aimlessly wandered one night. We ended up sitting on beach chairs under the stars with a candle lit table and scruffy dogs at our feet. It was glorious.

There was a lot to be grateful for in all of our relaxation. Throwing a stone up in the skies of Goa landed us in some pretty spectacular places among fantastic people and left us with some incredible memories. Though it is never easy to be away from family on a beloved holiday, I have to say that this non-traditional Thanksgiving not only takes the cake but it takes the turkey as well.

Biryani and Prescription Drugs

2011-11-15T09:54:00.001+05:30

It was a hapless Thursday afternoon just a week and a half ago. Nothing noteworthy was happening; a good sign if you are in a foreign land. I attended a training on home improvement by the Habitat team for some clients of a partner micro finance institution called Growing Opportunity. There was a good turn-out and lots of questions asked by potential clients, making it a productive work day overall. At least that’s what I was told. I don’t speak Tamil, so I couldn’t really understand much of what was said. Nonetheless, we all celebrated with some Biryani, a much-sought-after rice dish noteworthy to Tamil Nadu, from a place my coworker had ordered from for nearly two decades. It was true to its form, and I dug in heartily to the delicious dish with a recently-discovered passion for eating with my hands.

Two hours later, something was not right. My stomach, it seems, didn’t take to the Biryani the way my appetite had. I was sick as a dog by the evening and languished through the night with a rocking nausea that had me clinging to furniture as I walked around my room. Come Friday morning, I was useless, sleepy and terribly sick. The food sickness seemed to have exacerbated a cold that had been brewing since the week before. So there I was: sick, sick, and sicker. The racking cough triggered the nausea which triggered the sweating which triggered the sneezing. A lovely combination, don’t you think?

I made it through the weekend with the stomach flu subsiding and the cold viciously settling into my lungs. I ended up leaving work early on Monday and made my way through the fumes of street pollution with barely enough strength to stand. There is something terribly frightening to being sick in a foreign country that doesn’t compare to being sick in a place you know. In place of Nightquil, people were subscribing hot milk with lots of pepper in it for my cough and cold; instead of throat spray, salt water and spicy food was the cure.

Lucky for me, rescue was not too far off! The college campus has the privilege of hosting a 70+ retired doctor who spent her life in the field of medicine. At the request of the warden of my hostel, I visited the good doctor with the hopes she would prescribe something better than hot milk and black pepper. I was in luck. She had stashes and stashes of drugs, and she readily gave me them all. I don’t know if they were expired; I don’t know if they were helpful; I don’t even know what they were. But I walked out of the room after she thumped on my chest with the strict orders to rest and take the handful of medicine she gave me. Whatever it was, it worked. I took the medicine and fell fast asleep around 9 p.m. that night. I woke up the next day around 2 p.m., feeling a little bit more alive.

Since then, I can’t say I have fully recuperated. The chunky cough is still there, but I think the blame lies with the toxic pollution in Chennai. Aside from that, I did get the chance to face my nemesis, Biryani, at my first Indian wedding this past Friday. Fortunately my recent upset stomach didn’t permanently stave off my craving for wonderful Indian dishes. So from biryani to prescriptions drugs: I knew getting sick was bound come. India is renowned for it, after all. Still it is never fun to be sick no matter where you are. Fortunate for you, being sick in India makes an illness something to blog about. : )

Eating Biryani on a banana leaf at my first Indian wedding

Let There Be Art

2011-11-02T14:27:00.001+05:30

Just six miles or so away from me lays another world. The unassuming gate welcomes visitors from all over to step inside the door to explore the wealth of beauty within. Cholamandal Artist’s village is a co-op of thirty or so artists who banded together to develop their artistic skills in an unfettered and pure environment. A phenomenon of its own kind, it’s a sustainable village of artists who push the boundaries of art to fuse the East and West together.

In my last post, I recounted a rather dire saga about my failed attempt to explore the hidden world of art in Cholamandal. Thanks to a few extra rupees and the services offered by ‘Fast Trak’ cabs, Jen and I finally reached our destination this past weekend. In every way, it was worth the wait.

Though it would have most definitely been frowned upon, I managed to snap a few shots in the art gallery and sculptor garden so that you could take a brief peak into the richness of Cholamandal along with me. The quality of some is poor, but if you try just hard enough, you can picture yourself alongside me in a meager gallery with beauty strung up all around.

Random Statue

I love this one

Texture

This artist was one of our favorites

One of Jen's favorites

One of Mine....

Birthing

No Hands

Its fuzzy, but I love all that this picture says. They are floating on a sea of dead people while crows feed upon the carcasses. The woman, bare-chested, boldly stares at the birds while the man cowers behind her. I just like the story here....

This was called 'Butterflies'

Stunning in person

The day finished off with tea in the sculpture garden. Inspired by the day, I managed to snap a few shots that I kind of like.....

Roots

Broken Pots

Young Coconut

Tea time flowers

Fuzzy but interesting

Blink

Multiple Me

Tea time treats (complete with french press coffee. We were in heaven!)

With Sweat and Determination

2011-10-27T09:42:00.002+05:30

Determination is a beautiful quality to have. It’ll get you further than you ever thought you would go and provide momentum to achieve things even when obstacles stand in your way. However, there are times in your life when signs clearly indicate: “STOP,” “DON’T GO THERE,” and “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.” That’s when perception should step up and say, “You’ve taken this as far as its going to. You’re done.” I’ve never been very good at heeding the latter because of this innate stubbornness I was blessed with. However, I AM slowly learning as I get older. Lucky for me, India is the perfect environment to hone my stubbornness into an art of determination combined with perception.

Since arriving in Chennai, I’ve anticipated visiting the Cholamandal Artists’ village just outside of Chennai. It is a commune started by a group of reputed artists in 1965 who pledged to devote themselves to a lifetime of making art. The village consists of quaint resident cottages, two art galleries, and gardens all nestled on a serene plot of land in the midst of the city’s hustle and bustle. Everything about stepping into an artist’s world appeals to me, and I eagerly put it at the top of my list of things to do while in India. Fortunately my dear friend in the area, Jen, is an artist herself and could easily be roped into coming. This past Saturday was the day we set to stimulate our artistic inclinations and tap into our hippy side.

When I researched Cholamandal online, the website gave me all the confidence in the world that I could navigate the 8 km separating me from my prized destination. After recently taking on public transportation and discovering that I could handle it, I had enough self-assurance in my ability to make my way to Cholamandal on the public bus. After all I might as well experience it while I’m here, right?

I was wrong; very wrong. My novice navigation of the city and public transportation could not have prepared me for public buses on a 95 degree day. The sweating never stopped from the moment I woke up and continued to seep profusely through my clothing as I made my way to meet Jen. There we were, right or wrong bus stop, dripping all over the place and turning our heads in circle. This way? That way? Neither of us had any clue but feigned confidence in order to maintain our spirits.

We jumped onto the first bus that loomed into the stop. Teetering back and forth, packed tightly into every space, we bumped and sweated our way through the city. I was sopping up my forehead with a small tissue, deeply regretting my choice of Western wear for the city adventure. Jen mirrored my misery and I could tell that both us might not be up for the 45 minute ride of clinging to seats and sweating out last night’s curry. At our bus switch, a man noticed our perturbed cluelessness and volunteered his services. He weaved through the crowds with his head barely visible and pointed to a major bus depot across the street. It was shaded; it had buses; it looked like the perfect waiting spot for our final leg of the journey.

Jen asked the conductor to indicate our bus to Injabakkam, the route we would take to Cholamandal, and we were told to find bus 599. There were dozens and dozens of buses in no clear order, but Jen’s keen eye spotted the faithful iron steed in no time. After securing our spot on the 599, the hour-long waiting game began in the oven like innards of the bus. We were hot; we were sweaty; and we were overwhelmed. Sitting still and drinking water seemed like the best thing to curb the dehydration setting in.

However, once we sat down, the beggars that lived at the bus stop spotted us and began to make their way towards us. One after the other, they came in waves of small children, crippled men, and mother’s with crying babies. A woman with steel needles piercing her cheeks even passed by and offered us the opportunity to pray to her small Hindu altar for a small fee. It was difficult to resist their persistence, and soon I had given away the scraps of food I had and every coin I possessed. But it wasn’t enough to satiate their need or insistence that I should give them more.

The hardest part was seeing the little girls lassoed into the ring of women beggars. I watched the begging women gather in the center of the bus terminal, looking like football players formulating their next play. A little girl in a shiny, cheap satin dress with pink ribbons in her hair approached them. One of the women lifted her head from the huddle and pushed the little girl on the shoulder, indicating that the girl should get back to work. She came round to our 599 haven, singing an Indian song in a surprisingly clear and beautiful voice. Once her song ended, she very aggressively began demanding alms from each waiting passenger. I was somewhat taken aback at her adeptness at begging and scamming us, appealing to us with her need for food and money. I managed to snap a shot during her insistence…

After about 50 minutes, Jen and I noticed that people were getting off of the 599 and going to other buses. After asking around, we both discovered that we were in fact on the wrong bus. Frantic now, we approached the conductor and asked for more direction. He told us to look at the front line of all the buses for 599, giving us no real direcion. Knowing that precious time was passing us by, we ran up to the front to see the first line of buses leaving the terminal. We roamed the remaining aisles looking for the blasted 599, asking random strangers as we looked around. Our efforts were coming up empty, the sun was beating on our heads, and no one could seem to tell us if the bus had left or where it might be. My steely determination had kicked in as I searched, dragging Jen behind me on my quest to find the bus. After stopping to rack our brains and come up with a game plan, I realized that I was being repeatedly hit on my arm. Looking down, I noted the girl in the shiny cheap dress with pink ribbons demanding more money from me. I turned away, and she continued to twist my fingers and tap my arm firmly. I needed to lose her.

Spotting the 599 at the back of the line, Jen and I ducked into the bus and picked out new sits. It was just after one in the afternoon, and the bus wasn’t leaving for another hour and a half. Sitting there, frustrated and sweating, I looked over at Jen to see her visibly wilting. She was growing more dehydrated by the minute in the intense heat. Still determined, I began to remind both of us how wonderful it would be when we arrived and were embraced by a commune of artists. We both smiled weakly at the prospect, sweat beading on our forehead and dripping down our backs. In that moment, another begging girl boarded the bus and made her way to us. In Jen’s face, she began to demand food and alms. After a firm no, she made her way to my side under our elevated seat and began to hit my feet, poke my toes, and tap my leg. Here we go again, I thought.

It was 1:30 and we had been at the bus stop for approximately 2 hours sweating the entire time. Jen looked at the little girl, at me, and then said very resolutely: “I’m done.” I knew then that my determination and resolve were not going to serve us if Jen dehydrated and we lost our tempers. Without further ado, I conceded defeat and we left the terminal. Both of us had one objective in mind: find air conditioning and find it fast.

Our day ended at one of the biggest malls in Chennai. I hate malls, but this was glorious in every way. It was cool, I wasn’t sweating, and there were no small children accosting me for money. I felt like a Western failure for not making it to the Cholamandal artists’ village, but sometimes things are not meant to work out. Not immediately, at least. This weekend is another opportunity to make it happen under the right circumstances. Fortunate for Jen and I, its monsoon season. So instead of sweat, we’ll battle water of a different kind. But I’ll take it. Circumstances willing.

This proves that we sweated....

I found a Go-Girl!

I Want to Be Sedated

2011-10-17T20:43:00.001+05:30

Walking down the street listening to “I want to be Sedated” by The Ramones was an uncanny representation of my mental processes today. My feet sloshed through the mud in tune to the rapid beat of “ba-ba-bamp-ba ba-ba-ba-bamp-ba” as the feelings of insanity whirled around me in regards to the ironies of India. The past week has been so full of experiences both cruel and laughable that my only sentiment today is to turn off my brain or join in the madness. Instead, I think I want to be sedated.

The process of enlightenment to the organized chaos in Chennai has absolutely thrown me into a culture-shock quandary. From the beggars on the streets to hand-eating etiquette; there is lucid sanity that permeates life here. My first ray of irrational sense came last week during a grocery meander down the street with my friend, Shega. While Shega and I sauntered along, a begging woman approached us with a whip in hand and a determined look on her face. Raising her arm high she cracked the whip and struck herself before extending her right arm for money. I was shocked to a standstill while the small woman with weapon in hand began to loudly demand recompense for her self-abuse. Shega managed to pull me along, weaving around the woman and ducking into a store to lose the woman in her close pursuit. She explained that many of the city’s beggars have developed scams using children or street theatrics to earn a living. I was nonplussed at such a jarring and convincing system, but Shega shared that many of the most convincing beggars have been pulling the same ruse year after year.

Her advice wasn’t so reassuring by the time the weekend rolled around. After the busy work week, I decided to get out and experience some of the sights. I was invited by a group to join in an early beach-side picnic on Saturday morning. It sounded like a great chance to mix with the locals and discover hidden gems around Chennai. Afterward, I planned to make my way alone to a tourist spot called “Elliot’s Beach” for a reprieve in nature. However, as I was soon to discover, nothing is ever as it seems to be in India.

Our beach-side venture turned out to be a picnic among planted groves of trees with the Bay of Bengal barely visible in the distance. We situated ourselves between two trees on a small hill above ant beds and other unknown creatures. As we prepared to dine, I suddenly noticed that we were not alone. Our hapless dining experience was soon to be shared by a gaggle of small, homeless boys led by an old woman. They gathered closely around us as we began to eat, hovering like dogs around a dinner table begging for scraps. I lost my appetite immediately. The children had reddish tinted hair with dark skin; a clear sign of malnourishment. The women herself was bedraggled and crouching in dirt with a deformed hand extended towards us. The young picnickers carried on, joking and laughing, but I was too disturbed to enjoy myself. Here we were on a happy weekend jaunt with hopeless suffering surrounding us. I could barely handle it, but the others carried on as if we were the only ones there. It was a disturbing irony for life in India that they coped with, but it was a cruel nonetheless. I had never witnessed a picnic surrounded by poverty. The meal was shared at the end with the homeless group and money was given to the mothers, but I left feeling that it simply wasn’t enough.

After the picnic with poverty, I ventured by myself to the beach where I hoped to find respite from the city. Instead, my retreat led me to a trash-heap beach where the decayed skeleton of an old carnival now offering beggars a sunny reprieve. I walked about in an attempt to enjoy myself, dodging new groups of beggars as I snapped a few pictures. All of a sudden, I felt a tickle on my arm. I looked quickly to see a tiny, white maggot making his way into the sleeve of my shirt. I nearly screamed. A middle aged man passing by flirtatiously smiled and said, “Nice picture taking?” I swallowed my scream, smiled weakly, and walked quickly away from whatever maggoty spot I had stumbled upon.

I made my way to the shore where the waves looked like empty shelves with no surfers to adorn them. With a sigh of disappointment, I resigned myself to sit next to a pile of garbage in order to watch the waves’ crash onto the filthy beach. The oil tankers on the horizon smiled at me and waved in the distance. My first view of the Bay of Bengal looked more like the Bay of Pigs: and not the Cuban kind.

It wasn’t long before I managed to singe my skin in the intense rays of the sun. I was done with the beach. I was done with the picnic. The subsequent traffic and chaos of city made my trip back to the hostel increase my feelings that I had found my way to madness. Since then, I’ve managed to recover my spirits slightly, though I have to confess that it has only been marginal improvement. I’m grappling with this strange new upside-down world of chaos, and I feel like someone “just put me in a wheel chair” to get me front row seats to the show. “Ba-ba-bamp-ba ba-ba-ba-bamp-ba!”

Part 2: And The Winner Is....

2011-10-12T11:13:00.003+05:30

I headed out the door of the office with advice trailing behind me, nervousness before me, and my head held high with determination. The office is situated along a side street dotted with street vendors peddling strings of flowers and spicy fried bits of foods. The occasional Hindu temple intermittently joins in the street adornment with flashes of colors and gleaming statues of the gods. I scurried half a mile of so past all of these with my senses heightened and my stomach queasy. Every smell was more pungent and every sight more distracting. But I pressed on with an assumed appearance that I knew what I was doing and where I was going in order to keep from being accosted by passing auto (rickshaw) drivers and street vendors . It also served as a weak attempt to bolster myself with fake confidence.

The half a mile passed far too quickly. In the final stretch, the traffic seemed to reverse its pattern so that I was walking directly into the opposing lanes of buses, motorcycles, pedestrians, and auto drivers. There really are no sidewalks to speak of unless you consider leaping over giant cracks and unearthed cement in a dangerous game of hop-scotch as a sidewalk stroll. I clung to the road side, approaching the major intersection with the assumption that I’d have to sprint across in order to make it to the bus stop on the other side. I was relieved to find a pedestrian light and group waiting to cross. I looked across the way for the familiar and friendly sight of the lighted ‘walk’ man only to suddenly find the other pedestrians moving to cross before it was time. I jumped in the middle of the group, dodging a few motorcycles along the way as we made our way to the middle of the road. Another pause and the group moved again, safely making it to the other side.

The share auto awaited me upon my treacherous crossing. These forms of transportation are cheaper than a private auto or taxi, though not as cheap as the bus. For less than 50 cents, I can make it all the way across town. The bus is half of that while the auto is triple the amount. I didn’t want to appear like a frivolous westerner who reserves their own private chariot day after day, so I decided on the share auto and approached the first one I saw. Pointing to the next share auto, the first driver told me in a mix of Tamil and English that the other driver was going to the Women’s Christian College (WCC) where I reside. I jumped into the next one which looks like a smaller version of a minivan with open windows and seating for about eight people. On a good day, they can pack as many as 15 people into the seats through a nice layering affect where people are stacked on people. I was fortunate to find one with only 6 people and I secured a spot by the window.

It was rush-hour traffic which is actually pretty comparable to every other chaotic hour of the day. By the time we made our next stop, I found myself sharing my ride with about 11 other people. Two in the front, two in the trunk, and 7 crammed in between. Through rules of etiquette, women generally divide from the men which meant that I spent the ride averting my gaze from directly in front of me. However, I couldn’t help but notice the older man resembling what Ghandi would have looked like had he lived to be one hundred. He seemed ancient in his soiled garment and vacant, gaping mouth; his toothless muttering only made him more intriguing. He had an old red bindhi coursing deeply through a wrinkle running directly down the middle of his forehead. With his old age, he was every bit the appearance of wisdom. The two teenage girls behind me in the trunk chattered in mix of English slang and Tamil. They clung to the trunk door, which swung wildly open if they didn’t keep it shut with their hands. The other passengers ranged from differing forms of various intrigue, but my curiosity was quickly diverted to the window outside.

That’s because a giant public bus was dangerously narrowing in on my side of the auto. Have you ever seen those cartoons of automobiles packed to the gills with various limbs and heads hanging out of every window? This is exactly what was coming directly towards my side of the share auto. The bus was so full of occupants that men were hanging off the outside bars of the windows. They swung like rag dolls with every stop and start of the bus, and I could nearly reach out and grab hold of their garments. I knew then that I had chosen the right form of transportation for me.

The 45 minute ride fared well despite the leering of a mustached man. If you know me, then you know that I usually have a thing for men with facial hair. I don’t even discriminate against mustaches! But this experience may have forever altered my acceptance of furry caterpillars about the lip. Dusk was approaching, and the man was making me more nervous by the minute. When we were the only two occupants left in the vehicle, my eagerness to get off the auto increased exponentially. I began to anticipate my stop despite my uncertainty as to where it was, and I decided to take my fare out and distract myself from the mustached stares. I reached for my wallet in my backpack and quickly realized that it wasn’t there. Immediately, panic began to set in and my mind started painting scenarios of me leaping off the auto and running like a mad woman. I frantically searched again, swirling other belongings around my pack as I searched for the one blessed item. I was sure I had put it there when I left, but I tend to do spacey things whenever I’m distracted and stressed. Now there was no telling where the wallet could be! After all, I have been known to put normal belongings in places like refrigerators when I’m not paying attention. As a last effort, I checked the very bottom compartment of my sack where I usually keep my power cord to my lap-top. Underneath everything, there my paisley wallet spoke to me and I grabbed it with a sigh of relief just as we turned onto the road where WCC is located.

After making the stop, leaving the mustached man behind, and paying my fare, I crossed one final road to arrive safely at my destination. I was exhausted. The pent-up nervousness from anticipating every unknown disaster left me as I crossed the campus to my room. I had made it, conquering my fear in the process. Well, nearly. Tomorrow is another day entirely.

So, for now, here is a toast to conquering silly fears in life!

Part One: The Show-Down

2011-10-10T17:09:00.003+05:30

I have to confess something. I am petrified; absolutely terrified. Today, I will be challenging my fear in an all-out showdown. That’s right: I will soon be navigating public transportation on the busy streets of Chennai completely alone. There should be a healthy dose of caution when attempting any form of public transportation wherever your destination may be. But this type of gripping anxiety can’t be healthy. I mean, it is just a bus ride. Or at least that is what I have been telling myself.

However, I can’t seem to stop the ceaseless ringing in my ears of the voices of my most beloved family members with their countless warnings of kidnapping at my heedless and solitary ventures. I have always brushed them for being well-intentioned but overly concerned. More often than not, I won’t think twice about going for a two hour trail run deep into the heart of the Oregon woods by myself. I hardly bat an eye at a 13 hour car drive alone from Philadelphia to Chicago. Heck, I’ll even fly halfway across the world without hesitation. But put me on a crowded public bus teetering from side to side as it navigates its way through oncoming traffic, and I am shaking at the knees.

Oh, have I not mentioned how insane the traffic is here? You always hear people describe their hairy experiences with public roadways abroad. But this: this is its own furry beast entirely. I was fortunate to get my first taste on the back of a motorcycle at night.I sat on the back of the moped their gazing at the pretty lights of the city as the driver weaved their way around cars, nearly into cars, and past flagrantly walking pedestrians. If it weren’t for the jet lag, I might have needed to stop to use my “Go-Girl.” The positive thing was that I knew the driver and trusted her. Public transportation drivers are an entirely different matter.

Along with my legitimate fear, I could probably attribute much of my overwrought condition to the stream of advice, descriptions, and warnings that I’ve been given since the second day I arrived in Chennai. From what I’ve observed thus far, India is a land where people love to help you out. Mere strangers I meet for the first time will greet me and ask if I have eaten something recently. The second question is then directed towards my accommodations. Thirdly, they will ask how I’ve managed the public transportation system. And that, my dear friends, is when the advice begins. I have been counseled by groups of college students at the hostel, member of my team at Habitat, and people I meet for the very first time. The funny thing about this stream of advice is that it is all different. No person says the same thing. Regardless, these caring souls are so committed to what they tell me that I end up listening to an hour-long tutorial on how to navigate everything from the auto, taxi, public bus, deluxe bus, air conditioned bus, and share auto. Right now, I wish I had a bike more than anything. Not that I would last long on these crazy streets.

And now, it is time for the literal rubber to meet the road. With this confession complete, I will now head out to meet the beast alone. I’ll be sure to describe my experience to you if and when I make it safely back to my hostel. Until then, my courage is failing but I’ll go forward nonetheless. I can beat this. I can face my fear. Let the show-down begin!

A Strange New Home

2011-10-05T17:13:00.001+05:30

Well, I've arrived safely in Chennai and for some strange reason I feel completely at home. Despite the slight set-back of exploding shampoo bottles and every other form of liquid in my suitcases, I survived the long flight and have settled into my room quite nicely. The heat and humidity hit me once I took my first step outside the airport, and the noise of the city ceaselessly floods my room. Strangely enough, I kind of like it. My accommodations are bare and simple, but they are cozy. The food is every kind of spicy, and I can tell that it will take some time for my body to get used to curry in the morning...and the afternoon...and the evening. However, the company I share my meals with makes it sweeter (if that's possible), and eating with my hands has always been a secret delight.

The interesting happenings also make the experience enjoyable. For instance, today I met the kitchen manager at the college where I'm staying. Her name is Wisdom, and she introduced me to her parrot named Obama. I laughed to actually meet a talking bird with the same name as the president. After breakfast, I shared some green tea with the lady who cleans my room every day. When I asked if she liked it, I received the infamous head bobble. I have yet to figure out if it really does mean "yes" or "no." This proves that the subtleties of non-verbal communication may not serve me well during my stay here after all.

But by far, the most unsettling occurrence for me is that everywhere I've gone thus far people stare openly. Usually if it is a woman, I smile and wave. If it is a man, however, I try to remember to avert my eyes and look away. The signals cross sometimes in my brain and I stare openly back at the men. This might not work to my benefit, as it can easily be mistaken as a come-on, but I am a quick learner with most things. And if either of these approaches fail, I just pretend like I am in my own world with no eyes trailing me wherever I go. It has served me well until this afternoon when I discovered that I was being closely followed by a one-eyed woman in the supermarket. I was trying to pick out some items when I noticed her standing closely behind me. I shifted only to find her then beside me. After attempting to smile and wave, which usually satisfies the viewer's curiosity, I realized that she was not leaving my side. So, I looked to her for help on picking out toilet paper. She pointed; I grabbed and then hurriedly walked away. There is only so much observation that you can handle.

Aside from the learning curve with all these things, I really feel like I belong. It is a weird sensation in such a foreign land, but there is something to it that I can't quite put my finger on. As with all things, only time will tell. For now, I'll just keep exploring the new territories and sharing my experiences with you!

My Top 5 Travel "Don't Do's"

2011-09-27T01:29:00.002+05:30

The past few weeks, I’ve felt like a crazy woman with a streaming paper trail of to-do lists for my upcoming trip to India. I go to bed late, wake up wide-eyed and frantic in the middle of the night, and drag myself out of bed far too early the next morning. I’m a grown-up toddler with a giant sippy-mug of coffee and belongings trailing behind me like a ratted baby blanket. Truth be told, I think I’ve gone mildly crazy in all my preparations.

With that, I have learned some incredibly valuable lessons from my scatter-brained ways. Hopefully, my travel lessons will impart some wisdom to you. If not, hopefully they will at least make you chuckle.

1. Do not make frivolous purchases of novelty travel items: It was about a month ago. I was innocently ordering school books through Amazon when I stumbled upon it in the lower left screen of my computer. Without hesitation, my irrational brained rationalized it to be a wise purchases for my 6 month adventure in India. It was called a “Go Girl.” That’s right. It was standing urinal aid made specifically for women. I happily ordered a lavender silicone funnel so that I too could experience the art of standing while using the bathroom.

It was made perfect sense in my brain. In fact, it made so much sense that I just couldn’t keep the news of such a marvelous purchase to myself. I brandished my right to stand and pee to anyone that would hear, using the purchase as a conversations starter at parties and during casual conversation with strangers. Some of my friends (you know who you are) warned me against it. But the item was just too novel. I had to share.

Now that a month has gone by, I realize that my purchase could give rise to some interesting interactions in India. We Westerners travel to other countries armed to the teeth with hand sanitizer and antibacterial wipes. And now, I come armed with a standing pee aid. Good grief, what was I thinking?

2. Do NOT wait till the last minute to get your vaccinations: This seems like a given. However, if you are anything like me, you have an incredible aversion to doctors. The commonsense person would say that a shot now means evading the doctor later. But I SAY: “What EXACTLY are you injecting in me?” The unknown substances within the preventative tonic sound a lot scarier than my own natural born immune system. So, I put it off until the last minute. This, I do not recommend. For the mere scolding of others, I would not recommend you to follow in my footsteps for last minute travel preparations. Aside from that, I do not want my many experiences in India to include yellow fever, malaria, typhoid, rabies, Japanese encephalitis, rabies, a cocktail of hepatitis, or any of the other possible illnesses. Note to self for the future: get your shots three to four weeks in advance.

3. Do NOT take a cross country trip before leaving: It had to happen. I had to somehow find my way from Philadelphia to Chicago to Portland to Seattle all within a week’s time. One word describes that week: exhausting. If the thirteen hour drive from Philly to Chicago didn’t do it, than the ten hour plane ride three days later to Portland from Chicago definitely did. Just about the time my body catches up with itself, I’ll be hurling it across the globe on a 21 hour plane ride. Yes, I know. Crazy. And, I highly do not recommend this.

4. Do NOT schedule your flight the morning after a family wedding: India has been a lifelong dream of mine. Ever since I was a little girl pouring over encyclopedias on India, I have wanted to go. In my over-eagerness to get there, I hastily booked a flight the morning after the Seattle celebration of my Aunt’s wedding to her partner. The wedding will include wine tasting, cocktails, dancing, and late night shenanigans. The next morning will include a fifty pound pack, customs, endless flights, and aisle seats. The two days marry well together, don’t they?

5. Do NOT forget to laugh at yourself: In all of my preparations, this is one thing that I have successfully incorporated into my life. I realize that the learning lessons from trip preparations are part of the fun of any adventure. So, I chuckle at myself when I pack ten books to take with me because of my love for reading. I snicker at myself for packing and unpacking half a dozen times now to ensure I don’t forget anything (which I am bound to do). Most of all, I smile at the journey ahead because I know it is going to be life changing in every way.

I hope my helpful hints aid you on any upcoming trips or adventures that you may be embarking on. And if you have any travel recommendations, feel free to thread a comment and pass along your wisdom to me!

Can I get a Witness?

2011-09-20T00:22:00.001+05:30

I grew up in love with the woods. I would trek for hours and hours, losing myself along paths of sunlight streaming through lofty canopies of leaves. In those childhood adventures in the forests, I discovered all around me a symphony of sounds. The many cracks, chirps, water drops, and swirling wind: together they made up an orchestra of nature. Spellbound, I stood in amazement as the woods unveiled a new song just for me.

Had I not ventured forth, I would never have experienced the fleeting beauty of the forest’s song. This makes me think of the old philosophical riddle: "If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" The reality of something taking place outside of observation is only hearsay unless someone bears witness to it. The tree falls. We would like to think that it makes a sound. But unless its descent is captured by an observer, the earth-trembling “ka-boom” shakes nothing.

The significance of life is truly captured when it is done so in a community. I am journeying forth on a six month adventure in India, and it is my desire to share that with a community of friends. In the same way that a song can only be appreciated if it is sung for others and a piece of art can only take the viewer’s breath when it has been unveiled, a journey can only find its ends when the traveler arrives home to share the experience with others. So as I embark, I hope to share the journey with you. Join me here to laugh with me at cultural blunders, smile at my traveling sagas, and share in the overall life-changing experiences I am bound to have in India.