Right now I can hear a fellow soccer enthusiast from across the building shrieking at a assumably exciting Liverpool playoff match. But an hour ago the real shrieking was coming from my room. I was about to call my mother, light some incense and prepare for bed, but a large brown blur caught my eye. It was so big I thought there was an animal in my room. Reaching for the matches, I laid my eyes on the most gigantic spider I have ever seen. Its body was about the size of my fingernail, and with its legs stretched out it would have probably been the size of my hand. Dear lord. It was hideous.
(looked kinda like this)
Somehow I managed to survive, and with my newfound appreciation for life, I figured I’d reflect on my latest array of experiences. I am sensing my time here in Hyderabad coming to an end (maybe because of the farewell dinner tonight, with the lecture on how we may have forgotten how to speak English. Hmmm. Plus another confused and slightly pathetic tabla/sitar performance.) and have begun to have paranoia dreams about leaving as I sleep through the three-hour scheduled power outage every morning in the fan-less heat. The first dream entailed flying over to Paris and sleeping in a park, and another involved being kidnapped on a ferry.
Speaking of ferries… after traveling to the very southernmost tip of India and hopping onto a tiny fishing boat with two old men chewing pan, grinning with stained, red teeth, then touring the backwaters of Kerala on a canoe and houseboat, I took a local ferry on my way to the tea hills of Munnar. The ferry was packed with mostly older men, with a few women aboard. The wooden ferry, painted yellow and green, actually had lifesavers on the ceiling (which was surprising). Small trails of ants made their way up and down the posts by the open-air windows. We passed cormorants in palm trees on the channel banks, deafened by the motor of the vessel. I wrote in my diary with a young girl who I later discovered was named Shrilakshmi, reading over my shoulder. Everyone was so fascinated by us; my friend Keiko and I were playing cards, and six old men gathered behind us to watch, cheering when I threw down a good hand. Small, but beautifully humble homes lined the waterway, and I’ve learned only about five of the million uses of palm trees to locals. Two men, uniformed in blue, pushed us off from the ferry stop after a family embarked from the platform outside of their bright purple and white-striped cottage. Clothes hung on lines outside of every home, colors blowing in the warm, moist wind, and I picked up the scent of jasmine from the flowers in the little girl’s hair. Following the scariest bus ride of my life and a frustratingly unbargainable taxi drive up the winding roads of the tea mountains, we arrived in Munnar, set to trek through the thousands of hectors of tea plantations.
While we sang the Sound of Music in the hills, our guide explained to us about the politics and religion of the state, and of course about the tea. Kerala is the only state in India that has an alternating 5 years of Congress, then 5 years of Communism. It also has a huge Christian population as a result of their British, Portuguese, and Dutch heritage. It was neat to see churches in full swing on Palm Sunday, and to meet a Hindu man who casually mentioned that he “also worshipped Jesus.” Our guide described Munnar’s traditions on Good Friday, which would entail fasting then climbing one of the many cross-topped mountains. It sounded like a bit of a health risk to me, but very devotional nonetheless.
Back in Hyderabad, I decided it would only be appropriate to visit the nearest Catholic church in Lingampally on Easter Sunday. It was quite an experience. Leaving a bit late so the kids from Miami University Ohio could watch their hockey team tragically fall to Boston University, we grabbed a rickshaw to the English service in our best salwars. Upon arrival, certain differences immediately struck me, beginning with the removal of the shoes at the door. There were a few pews at the back, but most people sat on the floor, facing a garish, blue, heavenly mural with the crucifix at the center. I was greeted by synthesizer drum beats and loud piano. Women in sarees covered their heads, except for one woman in a turquoise Easter dress, which was just kind of weird. Like all lines in India, the line for the host was more like a scramble to the front of the church. The priest was very good, and the entire experience made me miss the religious excuse to gather with my amazing family.
I’ve had a few interesting occurrences back on campus lately, including my friend Thomas’s attempt to hail a tractor for a ride with an almost deadly result, and a huge caste-related protest causing the cancellation of classes.
What I’ve learned:
-Don’t stick your arm out in front of a speeding tractor late at night, because they may not see you. The walk up to our dorm is a long one, but not worth almost bleeding to death to avoid.
-The caste system lives on and causes conflict even within the walls of a liberal college setting. A Dalit medical professional in the campus health center, known to steal supplies, practice unsafely, and lead to the death of more than one student, was suspended after the poor treatment of a burned cafeteria worker (which led to the strike of the mess workers). He has pulled the caste card, and the Dalit student union protested for an entire day, cutting off transportation in or out of the campus. Despite his history of unethical and illegal practices, the students support him because he is of the backward caste. The protest made it to the newspapers.
The most recent newspapers, however, have been loaded with election coverage. Politics in this country are fascinating. The papers proclaim the corruption as if it’s no big thing, and it makes me wonder how much worse it is here or if we are just better at hiding it. Politicians drive around in cars with gigantic speakers strapped to the roof, either bumping music or giving enthralling speeches in the local language. People along the Andhra Pradesh coast and I’m sure in many other areas of India are placing their bets on the winners of the election. And the sale of alcohol for the next three days is prohibited to prevent bribery and rioting. Showing election coverage on TV is not allowed anymore before the polling, and with no alcohol to give to crowds, campaigning politicians are giving away millions of rupees in bribes (as well as the occasional color tv). The money has been found stashed in ambulances and other hiding places to secretly distribute to hopeful voters. I wonder if any bollywood stars are running. Prime Minister Singh better watch out if Amir Kahn gets any big ideas.
Anyways, I’ve got one more adventure planned before I book it home to America in May:
Ze great HIMALAYAS!
