This May Be Goodbye, India

I’ve been saying my goodbyes to friends as they trickle out of the hostel, embarking on their post-semester adventures. Mine begins today, and I am sad to depart from this beautiful campus and from so many amazing people. It was hard packing up my art projects and shaking the hands of some of the most talented and inspiring artists I’ve met from my studio. The other day in a fit of pre-reminiscence, I snapped some pictures of my campus to show how full of life it really is. That’s really it- India is just so alive.

It’s been a crazy couple of weeks- wrapping everything up, bargaining for those last gifts for everyone, studying for finals, painting, surviving a huge bar fight, and volunteering at an AIDS orphanage. Plus packing, and mentally preparing to return back to reality, move into my dorm, begin summer classes and interview for a co-op job- all starting the day I get back.

Regardless of my inability to plan a bit of rest, I am super excited for my last trip up to the Himalayas, in a holy town called Rishikesh. It’s been visited by some band called the Beatles- you may have heard of them. The Ganges river (healing powers I hear) will be rafted, and mountains will be hiked. I hope my parents (and mystery roommates) are ready to receive one stinky, deliriously exhausted, crazily-dressed girl on May 5^th! I probably won’t have showered or slept in two days- but at least my hair has finally turned back to normal after being pink from holi.

Being in India has given me such an insight into my life and who I am. My time here has been simultaneously empowering and calming, and I have learned more in these four months than I ever could have imagined. I have realized, to a degree, many of the things that I had been afraid of, and I feel so free. I refuse to let fear of the unknown, fear of judgment, and fear of failure affect me after this. India has taught me intense patience but also has given me the confidence to demand my voice be heard. And I have discovered such an appreciation for everything and everyone that I am so lucky to have in my life. I really want to thank everybody for all of their support and patience and love while I’ve been gone, and I can’t wait to see you all soon!

New Stories, New Photos!

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!

Discovering Rajasthan

Jodhpur

Once again, only the best highlights:

We took a half-day tour of the Bishnoi villages outside of Jodphur, where the original “Tree Huggers” once lived. Bishnoi translates to “Twenty-niners,” for the 29 rules to be followed by the people according to lord Vishnu. They highly value nature, especially animals and the local trees. When the 1730 Jodhpur Maharaja decided he needed to fell their trees to construct a new palace, a massacre of 363 Bishnois occurred, as they hugged the trees and accepted beheading as a sacrifice for the sacred wildlife.

Jodhpur Fort, overlooking the beautiful Blue City (homes painted in indigo to protect from the heat and the insects) introduced us to the beauty of Rajasthani architecture. Swooping window awnings and carved latticed walls to allow windflow, and to “allow women to look outside without the lusty stares of men.” Hmm. Gorgeous nonetheless.

A young boy approached us while we visited the blue city, and told us all about how Obama is good and Bush was very bad. His name was Viky and he took us to into his home up on a hill, and introduced us to every cousin and brother and sister. His mother made us chai, and his sisters complemented just about every piece of jewelry I was wearing.

As Rebecca and I wandered around the clock tower bazaar, we had the chance to glimpse three men playing trumpets late at night in their tiny music shop, and old women singing religious songs in their small temple. It was great to explore Jodhpur at night, to see all of its hidden surprises.

Recycled textiles are a wonderful invention by handicraftsmen all over Jodhpur and Jaipur. I found a small shop in the bazaar that featured hundreds of different cloths made from parts of women’s salwars and sarees from the villages. The village women cut up their old clothing, match the colors, and patch them together. The colors and designs are amazing, and it is so cool to imagine that all different people wore bits of a single textile for years of their life.

Bikaner

We took a two-day camel trek out of Bikaner. Laura had the funniest camel, who either farted or made a mating call every 30 seconds. The mating call consisted of blowing the inside of its throat out its mouth like a second tongue, and gurgling. Very attractive.

It was wonderful to be away from all people for a couple of days, in a country where solitude is rare. The stars were glorious at night, and I loved following tiny animal tracks in the sand. I saw giant lizards, antelopes, foxes, and vultures, and as we made our way through a small village on the way to the desert, all of the children chased our camel caravan shouting “Ta Ta!”

Jaipur

Lassiwala had the absolute hands down best lassies I have ever had. They were served in honey-comb shaped pottery, and tasted like heaven.

The pink city itself was beautiful. By law, every shop must be painted pink. It’s great.

We made good friends with an autorickshaw driver, who at one point took us to his friend’s Italian restaurant, where we were served beer from a teapot (unlicensed to serve alchy) and he told us about his life as an autodriver. His parents couldn’t afford to send him to school, as he was the youngest of 9 children. He can’t read or write, which impedes him from becoming a guide (his aspiration). He doesn’t want to get married, because he commiserates with Bob Marley by saying “No woman no cry.”

He let Laura drive the rickshaw past the lake palace. I considered trying, but I thought I would kill us all.

I later met a girl on the street in Jaipur who designs jewelry in her father’s store. She took me into her local temple on her way to work.

At one point, nearing the end of our journey, we laid down in the hotel bed to rest, and turned on the TV. On came the Amazing Race, and the contestants were headed straight to Jaipur! Go figure! It was hilarious to watch them muddle their way through Indian transportation to all of the sites we had just visited that day, and to see a newcomer's reaction to India compared to our accustomed view.

Overall, my trip put my faith in people on a bit of a roller coaster ride. Sometimes I felt like all friendship here comes with a price. Other times, I truly believed in the genuine friendliness of the people I was with. It all comes down to taking every new interaction as a fresh start, and seeing what happens. Not everyone is out to get paid, although it so often feels that way.

You know, Agra!

Watching the sun set from the beach, on the river behind the Taj Mahal, was the best and cheapest way to experience the breathtaking wonder of the world.   My friends and I sat in the cool sand and attempted broken Hindi with locals.  And wore the occasional beard.

In the late evening, it was wild to observe men on the Agra rooftops conducting a well-choreographed routine with their squads of trained pigeons.  With a series of whistles, they control a group of about 30 birds swooping through the air.  I got it on video, don’t worry.

Paneer butter masala and malai kofta.  Yum.  Cheesy, buttery goodness. 

I woke up for the sunrise back on the roof of our hotel, and loved seeing the warm light spill across the city.  Big monkeys popped out of the shadows onto the rooftops to begin their day, and about six local mosques commenced their morning call to prayer, only with a pleasantly un-synchronized two-minute delay between all of them.  

PS:

(There have been clouds in Hyderabad this week, and there have been absolutely beautiful skies.  I missed clouds!  But the heat is getting a bit outrageous, and my farmer's tan is becoming comical.)

 

A Moment in Delhi

Only days before leaving for my big trip up north, I resigned to visit the health center on campus, despite my bad habit of ignoring my parents’ good advice.  I had made a decent recovery from that special time in the library, but I wasn’t able to fully shake the mystery sickness.  I tried eating Sunday night Chinese, and relapsed.  Laying awake late at night after finishing a paper, running to the bathroom every 3 minutes, I started feeling short of breath and a bit dizzy.  I hit up the infirmary instead of giving a presentation the next day, was admitted, and laid down next to a student with hideous burns all over his arm.  The health center was quite the contrast to the medical care I’m used to.  I staggered around for a while looking for a receptionist or something, and was eventually pointed into a curtained room where a woman recorded my woes and sent me into the emergency unit.  Picture a nurse in a white saree sticking an IV into you without gloves or handwashing, then being given pretty pills in the hand that you just had to make real use of in the Indian bathroom with no toilet paper or soap with the other hand out the door connected to the IV.  This is all a bit graphic, but trust me when I say I am omitting the worst of it. 

Arriving in Delhi, I hoped it wasn’t a poor life decision to be traveling for 9 days after the whole ordeal.  Luckily I started feeling much better after a day or two.  My friends and I had a real whirlwind tour of the major northern cities, and got a great taste of north Indian culture.  Instead of listing everything we did and saw, I’ll just give a description of a few of the most memorable moments from each place, starting with Delhi.

Delhi

After watching a huge parade travel down the main street, we lost ourselves in an amazing bazaar down an alleyway, which sold everything from beads to saree borders to festival decorations to felt jewelry displays.  There were fabrics upon fabrics, kitchen supplies, spices and perfumes.  Amid the bustle of the narrow alleys, bicycle rickshaws with large loads of goods were constantly yelling at us to get out of their way.  They really sneak up on you compared to the putting, beeping autorickshaws, known as “tuk-tuks” in some places because of these characteristic noises.  In the bazaar we happened upon the most beautiful street of tiny, stacked homes I have ever seen.  Like a solace in the center of a never-ending market of shouting and selling and squeezing past strangers, the street had three people walking down it.  Lined with pink and yellow and turquoise apartments with intricately carved and painted doorways and potted flowers and plants on every doorstep, the street gave us a chance to catch our breath and see the understated beauty that could be hidden anywhere here in India.

I ate at my first Indian McDonalds in Delhi.  It smelled exactly the same.  (Beefless, of course)

A pigeon found its way into the huge, silent Lotus temple, where everybody was meditating in the quiet cool.  The marble temple is shaped like a giant lotus flower, with high ceilings, large windows, and rafters curving down to the floor.  The pigeon had no place to land, and I followed it with my eyes as it flew in circles around and around, confused.  The temple workers were so strict about peacefulness, that they even asked parents with crying children to leave.  Their silence was disrupted, however, with the loud smack of the pigeon on one of the large glass windows.  The thud echoed throughout the airy temple, and I had to stifle a laugh.  The bird was okay, don’t worry.

I also bought a beard in Delhi, which would come in handy in making our Taj Mahal pictures a bit different from everyone else’s.

Our 6-hour bus from Delhi to Agra made a stop in the middle of the countryside at a small collection of food stands.  I needed to use the bathroom, and it took me a while to realize that the pink, roofless, concrete box was the ladies’ lav.  There were two-foot high partitions between the “stalls,” and everything just drained out a hole in the wall at the back, but the floor was basically flat.  An old woman came in with me, and chattered to me in Hindi while I tried to figure out how to not pee on my feet.  After all this time she made me wonder if I’ve been using Indian toilets backwards.  Maybe that’s what she was trying to tell me.  Unfortunately my Hindi’s not THAT good yet.

I’ve digressed again, however- Sorry!   Delhi was a neat old city, more metropolitan and complete than Hyderabad with its half-finished buildings.  

HOLI.

There's so much I'd like to say about Holi.  It's a fantastic Hindu holiday celebrating the coming of spring and referring back to a Religious story about the burning of the demon Holika by a devotee of the god Vishnu.  The holiday celebrates colors, and people used to throw handfuls of crushed-flower powder at their friends in order to protect them from summer sicknesses like chicken pox, but now most of the powders have slightly harmful chemicals in them, which is a bit ironic.  Potential health risks aside, Holi transcends caste, skin color and gender -related social constraints.  The village people were some of the first to attack us Americans, and boys and girls attacked each other brutally.  I got egged.  

I wish I could say more but I just threw up all over the library bathroom.  I put up tons of photos, though, so you should get a great depiction of the holiday. Ugh. Bed.

Life At Your Own Risk, and ... Recycling?

I do my painting in the fine arts studio, next to the talented graduate students perfecting their impressive portfolios.  The building is old, with blue shutters on its barred windows, peeking out from a curtain of vines dangling lazily from the roof.  It is a beautiful place to create, despite the fecal stench of the septic system located next door.  I have discovered a large exposed pipe with a gaping crack next to the entrance to my studio, from which I suspect some of the stink is escaping.  Usually lots of loud shouting in Hindi provides background noise as I paint, probably due to the fact that the Health Inspector’s office is adjacent to the studio.  He must have a lot on his plate. 

The concepts of Health and Safety are certainly very different.  Some regulations exist, but few are enforced.  This definitely has its positives and negatives:  Positives being time and cost efficiency, negatives being the potential for nasty accidents.  The fear of the lawsuit, of course, is barely present.  Seat belts are suggested but rarely seen, helmets are only expected in major cities for motorcyclists.  Autorickshaws quote a 4-person maximum on their yellow sides, but I’ve managed to fit 10.  Today as I rode my bike to the library, it was comical watching one school bus regurgitate about one hundred fifty uniformed children, running excitedly towards the “Save the Tigers” photography exhibition in our campus auditorium.  They were squashed in that bus like peeled, stubby crayons stuffed into a fraying Crayola box, bulging at the edges.  Aside from the precarious yet functional transportation, people aren’t generally kept in or outside barriers.  There aren’t safety railings up the sides of the touristy temple trails on the mountains in Hampi, or guards to yell at you for just hopping across the train tracks at a station to get to the other platform.  Nowhere seems really “off limits,” whether you’re sitting on roofs or exploring sites.  The exceptions are my hostel, which is like a fortress with bodyguards, or major public attractions like shopping malls, or movie theaters where you must walk through metal detectors and get patted down upon entry. 

On the dietary front, I usually find a few hairs in the occasional meal and we eat with our hands.  And that’s the pampered life of the guest house.  Recently my friends had a meal cooked on a fire fed with camel dung out in the Rajasthani desert- and they liked it!  I haven’t seen the preparation of meals in the average Indian restaurant, but I’d say that most would fail American health inspections in a heartbeat.  Nevertheless, the food is fantastic!  Street food, however, is delicious, but often is accompanied by an abdominal attack.  All water we drink should be bottled, but most lower-caste locals drink from the tap.   Warm showers are a luxury, and so are washing machines.  But being sweaty is totally legitimate in this heat, it’s been up to 106° recently.  As for the loo, it seems more sanitary to me, minus the lack of toilet paper.  No sharing a dirty seat!  Even medicines, cheaper equivalents to those in the US, are readily available at numerous pharmacies, but many people would rather use homeopathic remedies.  The other day Tabbu was telling me that she was using a unani medicine for her skin, and at Charminar I passed men sitting on the ground selling homeopathic medicines (involving porcupine quills and other intriguing objects).  We have been discussing this topic in my Sociology of Health, Sickness, and Healing Class- it’s very interesting.  All I mean to say is that there is less anxiety about germs and accidents and life here is very much “at your own risk.”  I find that kind of liberating in a way.  

Despite the fact that there is trash littered about almost everywhere, and no real recycling programs, Indian people will manage to re-use just about anything.  Cars that look like they were made in the 70s will be repaired and repaired until they won’t run any longer, and their parts will go back into circulation for years.  And when those parts no longer work for a car, they’ll be used in some other appliance.  The Mazaa drink (yummy mango juice) sold at any shop comes in a glass bottle, which when you have finished, you give back to the shop and they will ship it back to be refilled.  I watched the refill truck leaving campus last week, empty Mazaa, Thumbs Up, and Almond Milk bottles rattling on the back.  A couple of weeks ago, the sole fell off of my best pair of sandals.  Instead of throwing them away, I took them to the cobbler on campus yesterday and paid the equivalent of 12 cents to have new soles put on.  There’s a cobbler on campus!  And a tailor!  The cobbler is down this alley at “shopcom” (the main shopping center on campus with a bookstore and convenience store with the same meditation mantra playing in the background every day all day and a guy who owns the shop who generally has answer to my every problem) and it is literally a room full of shoes.  It’s GREAT!  I have even seen restaurant bills written on the backs of old receipts, and paper plates made out of old cereal boxes. That’s what I’d call recycling.   People go through trash, too, and take what they will find useful later. The organized response to the litter is quite funny actually.  Everywhere you’ll find these trash cans shaped like big bunnies or penguins that say “Use Me,” over a big hole on the animal’s stomach. 

Overall, things are going well over here at the University of Hyderabad.  If I could vote for the next student body president, I’d probably lean towards the student named Nelson Mandela.  He seems like a good guy.  It’s funny to see his campaign signs all over.  This weekend our program is taking us all to Mysore, which will be interesting with 30 people on the train- we’ll take up a whole car.  I pity the poor people who’ll be stuck listening to our banter.  And then I’ve got a few big trips coming up after that up North and then way down south to Kerala.  I’ll also be performing tabla on Monday for National Women’s day at my school, which should be entertaining after a weekend of no practice.  I hope everyone is surviving the snow back at home, I miss and love you all!