Adventures in India

A Whirlwind Trip

2010-04-20T16:13:00.000-07:00

On March 23rd I shut the door to my apartment for the last time, tearfully hugged my neighbors goodbye and headed to the Surat train station with Drew. I was on my way to Delhi and destinations unknown and he was on his way to catch his America-bound flight out of Mumbai. I spent only one full day in Delhi despite the fact that it took 20 hours to get there and I was off again on a ten hour train to Amritsar.

Amritsar is in the Northern state of Punjab and is home to the Golden Temple, the holiest temple for followers of the Sikh religion. The Golden Temple attracts more visitors than the Taj Mahal and lies in the center of a man-made lake known as the Immortal Nectar. Being the holiest temple, visitors are required to cover their heads, remove their shoes and no alcohol or meat is sold within the vicinity of the temple. It really did have a calmer and more peaceful feel than many of the Hindu temples I had seen and I returned later that night to watch the sacred Book being put to bed at 10pm.

After viewing the Golden Temple I went in search of transportation to the Pakistan border to witness the border closing ceremony. I struck up a conversation with some Brits who had already arranged a jeep and we were off. Our jeep let us out about a mile before the actual border which is where we joined one of the longest lines I have ever seen. It took quite a while to get to the security check point where I was given a thorough (and uncomfortable) pat down, and finally, we were admitted into the stadium. It was quite a show with lots of yelling, flag waving, and finally a handshake before closing the gates for the day. You can see a video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4luORtjKu4

I spent only two days in Amritsar before the heat proved to be too much, so the next day I packed up and went to the bus station. I bought a 10 hour bus ticket to McLeod Ganj which is nestled in the hills just above Dharmashala, the Dali Lama’s refuge home. I had already spent time there after running the half marathon, but the cool weather and peaceful surroundings brought me back. I arrived at 8pm, had some Tibetean momos for dinner and found a room for the night. The next morning I was out the door by 6:30am to see the sun rise and to watch McLeod Ganj come to life. The weather was perfect, the air was fresh and the sky was blue. I spent the entire day walking around and then at 5pm I went to yet another bus station, and was leaving again after only spending a day there.

At the bus station I boarded a 12 hour night bus bound for Delhi to meet up with a friend. The roads in and around Dharmashala are notoriously dangerous because of the numerous hair-pin curves and I said many prayers during the long journey as the driver flew down and around the sharp corners. After we reached the bottom of the hill and were on a straight stretch there was a loud noise from the back of the bus; one of the tires had blown. Had it happened just ten minutes before on the curvy road, the driver wouldn’t have been able to control the bus. In the early morning we finally reached Delhi and as I was getting my bags from the bottom of the bus I happened to look at the tires; they were all completely bald.

From Delhi my friend and I took a 12 hour train to Jhansi, the nearest station to Orchha, an ancient city known for its many temples. The most interesting temple is the Ramaraja Temple, which is actually a palace and the only temple in which Rama is worshipped as a ruler. I stayed several nights in a heritage hotel palace named Amar Mahal with sprawling grounds and swam in the infinity pool by moonlight.
After Orchha we were off to Khajuraho, yet another city famous for its unique temples. The Khajuraho temples, from the 9th and 12th century, are known as the Erotic Temples and for good reason. Discovered in the late 19th century, the carvings at these temples depict the various ways in which people can um, enjoy each other (I don’t recommend children to view the pictures on my Picasa album).

From the Erotic Temples we changed vehicles at a friend’s house and then rode around in a 1942 Ford jeep from WWII to the city of Satna which was a lot of fun. The next day we left the jeep behind and drove an SUV to Bhopal, the capital of Madhya Pradesh. Bhopal is a nice city complete with a wildlife park placed alongside a huge lake in the center of the city. Without knowing the background on Bhopal, you would never have guessed that it was the site of the worst industrial accident in India’s (some say the world’s) history. In 1984 the Union Carbide plant leaked a lethal gas that immediately killed 9,000 people and eventually left an estimated 20,000 people dead. Today, people are still suffering the effects of the leak and many children are born with birth defects while the people of Bhopal await justice from the new owner of Union Carbide, Dow Chemical. I you are interested, you can see a short documentary here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ehFcv4ywvA

While in Bhopal, I was taken outside the city and was able to see some cave paintings. These paintings are relatively unknown and have only been viewed by three groups of experts who date them at 20,000 years old. After the caves we drove through the wildlife park and were able to see a large variety of animals, including some tigers and sloth bears. After our time in Bhopal we met up with another friend and drove to Jhirabagh Palace in Dhar, a lavish palace redone in 1943 in an art deco theme. We were the only guests at the palace and I spent time wondering through the large estate which felt like a jump back into time. From there we traveled to Fort Amla, a historic fort in central India, for a night before boarding a night train back to Delhi where I spent my final day in India.

On April 8th I sadly went to the airport. Kirsten and I boarded our flight to London and said goodbye to India. As the airplane lifted off the runway the life I was living suddenly became a series of memories; the present became the past. In a matter of minutes, India was a speck behind us, and unknown adventures in England were in front of us, stories of which are soon to come.
Pictures from my India trip are here: http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/lyndi.milton

Go Goa!

2010-03-19T11:08:00.000-07:00

After my last day on the 26th of February, I was feeling very sad and I knew I had to do something to snap myself out of my gloomy mood. Two other Nanubhai teachers had left for Goa on the 27th and they had invited me to go, but initially I declined. Goa is located in the South of India and is known for its beautiful beaches, party scene, and as a place to unwind and relax. Goa was now sounding like the perfect place to go. On the afternoon of the February 28, I looked for tickets and found two; one to take me from Surat to Bombay, and the other to take me from Bombay to Madgaon. I bought my tickets at 3:00pm and I had to be at the train station at 11pm to catch my train. I did a fast packing job and was waiting for a bus by 9:30pm.

When I finally boarded the train at 12am I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep for long. My train was scheduled to arrive in Bombay at 4am, and then I would have 7 hours to kill until my next train. When the train pulled into Bombay I had to navigate the city commuter trains to get to the next train station, which was confusing, especially in my sleep deprived state. Three commuter trains later and I was finally at the LTT station, where I now had 5 hours to kill before the next train. I was exhausted now and was looking for a spot on the ground to curl up when I saw a room with the sign “Ladies Waiting Room.” Curious, I peeked inside. There were two very old ladies inside and it looked relatively clean. I picked a corner, laid out a plastic bag, and tried to sleep. Sleep was difficult as women streamed in and out and the early morning sun shone into my face. One woman saw me smile at her baby so she walked over and thrust it into my hands. I then became the babysitter for her pantless and diaperless baby for the next 45 minutes while she washed dishes and clothes in the sink.

At 10:30am on the 1st I boarded my 12 hour train and was happy to find that I had the top bunk. This meant that I could sleep undisturbed for as long as I wanted, which turned out to be 7 hours. I eventually climbed down and had a delicious dinner of crackers. The train was scheduled to arrive at 11pm and in my haste to prepare for the trip I had no time to research the city of Madgaon. From Madgaon I would need to take a two hour bus to Palolem Beach, but no buses would be running so late at night. I was now faced with the decision to either sleep on the ground in the train station, or venture out into the unknown streets for a hotel. In my anxiety I had been praying a lot on my train rides because I really had no idea what to expect or what I would do upon arrival.

Thankfully, before the train arrived I started talking to an Indian man in my compartment named Thomas. He was 45 and a self-proclaimed Roman Catholic and he would not allow me to sleep in the station. Together, we walked the darkened streets in search of a decent hotel. When we found one, he booked two rooms and paid for them both. He then insisted on taking me to get something to eat because he had seen me eating only crackers all day. The next morning he brought me chai, took me to breakfast, and then put me on a bus to Palolem. I feel so blessed to have met Thomas!

Goa was ruled by the Portuguese and they lent their architecture and religion to the region, giving it a distinct flavor which felt so different from any other part of India I have seen. There were many large, beautiful cathedrals, and even the style of dress was different. There were fewer saris and more skirt and blouse combinations. After five train rides and a beautiful bus ride, I arrived in Palolem where I met up with Kathryn and Addaia. We went to our beach hut, which was precariously perched (partly) in a tree. One side of the hut was supported by the small tree, and the other three sides were supported by bamboo. When we walked around in the hut it would creak and move and I began to have flashes of our eminent death due to beach hut collapse.

We retreated from our rickety hut and headed to the beach for some sand and sun. It was very strange for me to put on a bikini. After nine months of being wrapped up in yards of fabric and always being completely covered, wearing a bikini was like being naked to me, not to mention the ghastly color of white my body had turned. The water was so warm it was like bath water and the beach was lined by restaurants and bars offering tempting items for three girls from Gujarat. We spent several days lazing around, reading books, playing cards, drinking lassies, and decompressing from a challenging year. I literally kicked off my shoes and I spent five days without wearing them.

After a week on the beach it was time to bid the sand and sun farewell. I headed back up to Bombay to meet up with Kirsten and Meghan for what would be another difficult time…see the blog below to learn more.

Beautiful Bollywood

2010-03-19T10:38:00.000-07:00

After hanging out in Goa for a week I ended up in Bombay to meet up with my roommates Meghan and Kirsten for what would be our final dinner together. Meghan was heading back to America in the early morning hours of March 11th and Kirsten and I wanted to be there to say goodbye. It is hard to say goodbye to someone who, for nine months, was your co-worker, roommate, friend, and little sister. Most of my tears were shed before I even got to the restaurant so I was able to keep it mostly together. Still, as Kirsten and I drove off in a cab and watched Meg disappear into the chaotic mess at the airport, we were again struck with sadness and we clung to each other and cried.

While entering our hostel a few days later a man asked if we would like to go to Bollywood…Kirsten and I looked at each other and immediately said “Sure!” I had been waiting for this very instance for a long time! Bollywood is India’s version of Hollywood and it turns out more movies than Hollywood. Bollywood movies can be very fun with lots of singing and dancing, and you rarely ever see kissing. They usually run about 3 hours and anytime a movie is shown in the theaters here there is an intermission.

The recruiter promised transportation, three meals a day, hair, makeup, costumes and a mere 500 rupees. We did have our misgivings though, as we had heard of scams involving just these kinds of promises. We decided that we would see what kind of people showed up the next day and would go from there. The next morning when we headed down to the lobby to meet the recruiter my worries were put to rest….there were several very large men and people from all different backgrounds and decades. For some reason this made me feel better…I would have been very nervous if it was all young women. We boarded the bus with everyone and we were off to Bollywood!

About an hour later we showed up at a studio. We were taken into a huge room full of makeup mirrors, costumes, and production assistants running around screaming at each other on headsets. They had us all sit in chairs while the director walked up and down, scrutinizing us. She pointed at Kirsten and another girl. “You, and you! Come with me,” she said. They were to become the waitresses; while in the meantime, I was taken to the costumer and given a short black dress and heels. After I was dressed I went to accessories where they gave me jewelry and was then sent to hair and makeup. After the transformation from rural teacher to glam clubber was finished I was allowed to eat some breakfast before I was rushed to the set.

As I walked onto the set my mouth dropped. It was an incredibly beautiful nightclub, apparently set in Istanbul. I was immediately paired with a man from Iran, given a fake martini and was directed to walk with my “date” in front of the camera while laughing and talking. We did this simple scene about 5 times before the director was happy. Then, I was placed at the bar talking with a man from Holland while the real bartenders showed off their skills for the camera. Another scene at the bar had me sitting right next to one of the main characters while he did his dialogue. During dialogue shooting we were not allowed to make any noise, but we had to appear as if we were having real conversations while dancing and having fun. This was sometimes a challenge, especially when there was no music to dance to. When the cameras rolled all the air conditioners and fans had to be turned off and the set soon became incredibly hot, especially with all the lights shining on us.

Finally, the moment I had been waiting for all day; Abhishek Bachchan entered the set and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He is a very famous (and handsome) actor in India; he is married to Aishwarya Rai (purported to be the most beautiful woman in the world) and his father is the most famous actor in India. In several scenes I was standing within feet of him. We had just watched him in a movie called Paa and it was weird to now be standing so close to him.

One thing I really enjoyed about the day was meeting and talking with all the other extras. I talked with people from Australia, Iran, Kazakhstan, Afghanistan, America, Spain, England, etc. It was a really interesting and very exhausting day. After nine months in flip flops, my feet and my back were protesting the heels. At 9pm, 12 hours after we started, we were released. We changed back into our street clothes and once again became hippies, teachers, and tourists. Kirsten and I were asked to come back for the next five days with paid accommodation and an increase in pay, but we already had confirmed tickets back to Gujarat, so sadly, we had to decline. Despite shooting for 12 hours, probably only 5-7 minutes will actually be seen in the movie. Look out for Crooked (working title) in the future and you will be able to see Kirsten and I, or at least my right arm and the back of my head ;)

A Year to Remember

2010-03-09T21:46:00.000-08:00

On Friday, February 26th, Kirsten and I woke with a heavy weight on our hearts; it was our last day of school. The day we had been dreading for weeks was finally here and there was no avoiding the pain that we would feel. As I wrapped myself in a sari for the last time, my eyes stung with tears. I thought back to the first time Kirsten and I wore a sari to school. I remember feeling nervous that my sari would fall off and how our cheeks burned with embarrassment when 700+ students cheered wildly at the sight of us in traditional Indian dress. That day seemed so long ago, and now, here we were preparing to say goodbye. I could have never predicted the emotions I would feel on our final day, but earlier that week I was given some insight into just how hard it would be.

On the 22nd, after weeks of preparation, endless amounts of frustrations and several headaches later, our Spoken English students performed their Annual Function to a hall packed with students, teachers and families. Despite our worries, the students did a fabulous job and we couldn't have been more proud. At the end of the program some of my girls rushed up to me and said, "Teacher, Binal is crying." As I went to comfort her, the tears became contagious and soon, all 16 girls were huddled around me, tears streaming down their faces. "Please Teacher," they begged, "don't go to America. Don't leave us!" Now, I was the one with tears running down my face.

The rest of the week was just as hard and filled with tears. In each of my final classes I wrote my address on the board and the students copied it down into their worn notebooks. I was crying again when my 8D class presented me with gifts and roses. I was deeply touched when my 5th standard students gave me whatever they could, which amounted to 15 ball pens, 2 key chains, a half bottle of purple nail polish and a heart made from notebook paper. I choked back my tears as I said goodbye and walked out of the classroom for the last time.

Not only did I build relationships with the students, but also with our fellow teachers, and saying goodbye to them was just as hard. As a small token of our appreciation, Kirsten and I hosted a lunch for all the staff members on that final Friday. The entire staff of 60+ people gathered in the center hall and I was fighting back tears (unsuccessfully) as some of the teachers spoke about us. When it was my turn to talk, I couldn't. Sadness had gripped my throat and I couldn't catch my breath. Kirsten took over while I regained my composure and I then tried to relate with words the feelings in my heart. I thanked them for opening their school, sharing their students, and for treating us like family.
As we sat down to eat, a teacher leaned over and whispered, "Even though you are leaving, we will always remember you in our hearts."
"And you will be in mine," I replied.

My days in India are numbered, a fact that I would like to deny. This country is so vibrant and full of life, from the colors to the people. India is bursting with possibility and I hope that the students, the future leaders of India, are given the skills to make their dreams possible and to lead their country. I hope that I helped to contribute to their future successes, and I hope that they will remember me, because I will remember them.

I feel so blessed to have had this opportunity to experience India in such an intimate way; to interact with it's future, to fall in love with it's people, and above all, to learn. India is a country I have grown to love, even though it challenged me. It's a place I have learned to appreciate, even though at times it frustrated me. My heart will not forget the things that my eyes have seen or my ears have heard. The kindness that was shown to me and the friendships I have made will not be forgotten.
For me, India will always remain Incredible.

A Difficult Day

2010-02-19T08:06:00.000-08:00

Time. There is never enough of it. Time seems to speed up as we get older and it flies when we are having fun. These realities about time are becoming more and more evident to me as my final weeks of teaching draw near. On Monday, I taught my English Medium students for the last time and it was a very depressing day. The students had no idea it would be my last day when I walked into the classroom on that Monday morning. When I told them, there was an audible gasp and the pained look on Dhruti’s face was especially hard to bear. Her mouth dropped open, her brow furrowed and it looked as if she might cry. I felt the same way.

When I first came to the English Medium school the students didn’t know what to think of me, especially the Kindergartner and Pre-KG kids. I was immediately drawn to them because they are some of the cutest kids I have ever seen, especially in their uniforms. The dress shorts, plaid button-up shirt, and striped tie make the boys look like little gentlemen. The girls, dressed in blue pinafores, white socks and the same striped tie, look like petite ladies. Some of the kids are so small that their white socks slouch and bunch around their tiny ankles. The illusion of perfect gentlemen and ladies is shattered when the school bell rings and they run full force to the playground, their striped ties waving to me in the breeze.

My favorite part of the day is recess, which is when the kids descend upon the narrow patio to devour the delicacies packed into their small lunch tins. Instead of sitting in the staff room with the other teachers, I sit on the patio and watch the kids. On the first day I did this, the kids walked by me and recoiled in horror at this strange creature that had appeared at their school. I would smile at them and say hello, which would either send them into a fit of giggles, or send them running.

Part of what I love about recess is the opportunity to watch them interact with each other. They are so animated with their facial expressions and their bodies; they use their arms and hands to gesture to each other in such a serious manner. At times they are in such intense discussions it seems they could be discussing the future of India, or how to achieve world peace. I asked the teachers what they are saying and was told that they are talking about their snacks, and most arguments involve “He/She was eating my food!”

Slowly, week by week, the kids became more comfortable with me. Now, the kids are the first to say “Good morning Teacher!” When I walk down the corridor, I am greeted by every student with a smile and a wave. They ask me (in Gujarati because they are so young) to open their lunch boxes and water bottles. It may sound weird, but I was especially touched when a KG student came to me to tattle on another student. Tattling, usually seen as an annoyance by teachers, meant to me that they finally recognized me as a teacher. I was no longer some alien creature. My persistence had paid off and they had accepted me.

The Principal told me in our final discussion on Monday that I was the best teacher in his heart for his students. This touched me deeply and I was taken aback with his sincerity and at once I felt the same. His students are the best students in my heart.

The Near Zero North

2010-02-09T07:11:00.000-08:00

Before I knew it, it was nearing the end January and it was time for us to leave on our two week trip up North to run our half marathon. I trained for 11 weeks, along the way posting weekly blogs on my progress (www.21k4kids.com). While the students prepared for their exams, we prepared for our trip by packing the warmest clothes we could find, which for me were two long sleeved shirts and a fleece zip-up. I never anticipated that I would be cold in India so I brought nothing from America useful to combat the cold.

We started our journey on yet another train ride in sleeper class, a mode of transportation that I am beginning to loathe. Drew, Kirsten, Addaia and I jumped on a packed bus to Surat and had to stand with our packs on for 30 minutes, about 29 minutes more than I could handle. Meghan stayed in Bajipura to finish some work and was scheduled to meet us in Chandigarh on the 30th. We arrived at the station, hopped onto our train and settled in. The scheduled 24 hour train ride turned into 30 hours as dense fog reduced visibility to zero. During the long periods of time we spent sitting on the tracks my sanity decreased as the hours increased.

Finally, we arrived in Delhi to my friend’s familiar face. We checked into a hotel, washed the train grim from our bodies, and headed out to the Defense Colony for food and choice beverages that can’t be found in Gujarat. We spent the next few days bumming around Delhi, drinking coffee, eating western food, and watched New York I Love You, which made us all a little homesick for America.

For the next few days we headed off to Jaipur, about a four hour drive from Delhi in the state of Rajasthan. Jaipur is known as The Pink City, named so after the Prince of Wales demanded that the city be bathed entirely in pink. Jaipur is home to many ancient forts and palaces that mystify and take your breath away. We toured the City Palace and Ajmer Fort, a fantastic fort perched on a hill. Jaipur was originally a walled city and remnants of the wall can still be seen from Ajmer Fort on the distant hills and at first glance, it reminded me of the Great Wall. After sightseeing, it was time to head back to Delhi. As night fell, so did a thick blanket of fog, again reducing visibility to zero. The four hour trip stretched into a painful 9 hours and we didn’t make it back to Delhi until 4am.

After Jaipur, our group split up. Drew and Addaia left for Chandigarh to meet some friends and Kirsten and I hung back in Delhi for another day of fun in the capital. Then, on the 29th we got on the Delhi subway, stopped at the Interstate Bus Station and searched for a bus to Chandigarh. We found one leaving at 3:30 and we didn’t arrive in Chandigarh until about 9pm. Having not reserved a hotel beforehand, we were stuck haggling rickshaw drivers to take us to unknown hotels. After looking at three hotels out of our price range we were directed to The Blue Moon Hotel in Sector 12. At this point, we were so tired that we gladly accepted his ‘bargain’ of 1,000rs and were happy to find a modern room with a hot water shower!

We spent the day before the race walking around Chandigarh to get a feel for the city. The Lonely Planet described it as a boom town, but Kirsten and I thought it was more of a bust. The city was a planned city with the heart being sectioned off into numbered ‘sectors.’ We headed to Sector 17, which was supposed to be the most interesting sector, but we were disappointed by what we found. We hired a rickshaw to take us into another sector so we could carb-load at Pizza Hut. We gorged on pizza and pasta until we were happily satisfied. At the hotel, we laid out our running clothes, shoes, and bib numbers so they would be ready when our alarm went off at 5:15am, then, we burrowed ourselves into our thick fleece blankets.

The alarm went off. It was here. Race Day. We shivered as we slipped into our running clothes and laced up our shoes. I stuffed some money into my shorts for a ride back after the race and we went down to the lobby, hoping to easily find a rickshaw at 6:00am. It proved more difficult than the front desk man said it would be the day before. We were growing more and more anxious as we stared down the empty road bathed in darkness. Finally, a rickshaw pulled up to our hotel to drop some people and we jumped in. We shivered violently as the cold morning air blew against our bare legs while the rickshaw flew down the road. After about 7 minutes of driving we came to a police barricade and were not allowed to pass. We jumped out and pleaded with the officers, who only gave us directions on how to walk the half kilometer to the starting line. Just then, a car pulled up with a fellow runner in it. “Would you like a ride?” asked the driver. “Yes, please!” we answered back between our clattering teeth. Being a native of the city, the driver of the car knew some handy shortcuts and got us to the starting line just in time to meet up with Meghan, Drew and Addaia. We huddled, said a prayer, and we were off and running.

The race proved harder than I thought due to the acclimate weather. I am now a Gujarati Girl, used to hot, dry weather and Chandigarh was cold and wet. I settled into a comfortable pace and tried to focus my attention away from my slowly numbing body. I tried to drink some Gatorade at one of the stations, but found that I could barely swallow it because my muscles were so cold. I also tried to sniff my nose but my face was too numb for it to be effective…yep, I used my sleeve (don’t tell my mom). After some mental and physical battles I made it to the finish line in 1:48, well under my goal time. Our efforts raised over $1,000 for our libraries! You can read a more detailed account here: www.21k4kids.com

After we were all showered and had regained feeling in our extremities, we packed up my friend’s car and headed further North. We drove for about 6 hours into the hills and stopped at Palampur, famous for the production of North Indian tea. We toured a tea plantation the next morning and I couldn’t help myself…I plucked a leaf off the bush and was not impressed with the taste. After sampling tea, it was back into the car for some more driving, this time to Dharmashala, home of the Dali Lama. The drive was beautiful and the roads that were lined with tall trees wound up endlessly into the peaceful hills. We drove further up and stopped at McLeod Ganj, a more bustling center of activity. The girls decided to call this home for the next two nights while my friend, Drew and I continued into the hills to a more secluded place to stay, literally, on top of the mountain.

When I first saw the road we were to drive up, I didn’t even think it was a road. Regulations state that any new roads must be carved out of the mountain by a chisel, which made for a very small, and very rocky road. I closed my eyes at several points during the drive, but couldn’t believe the view at the top when I finally opened them. Stretching out beyond our guest house was an unbelievable sight. Tall, snowcapped mountains on either side made for a dramatic valley below. Wild monkeys could be seen jumping from tree to tree and the air was so crisp and clean. During the drive a leopard jumped in front of our car and it was a thrilling sight. It was hard to believe that this was India.

That night we dined with the Crowned Prince of the region at his estate, which was a great experience. Even though the ruling class gave up their powers in favor of a united India in 1947, many people still look to and recognize the descendants of the Maharajas. Some of these descendants still own great forts and palaces scattered throughout India. Drew and I had a great time talking with the Prince and learning more about Indian history.

The next day Drew and I were feeling a little ambitious, maybe a little too ambitious, as we embarked on a hike further up the mountain. My legs were still sore from the half marathon and the hike wasn’t as easy as I had hoped it would be. After about an hour we reached a small tea stall, the halfway point. I glanced around and looked up on the top of another mountain that was looming above us. I squinted at some small structures on the top. “We had better not be hiking up to that!” I said to Drew. He shrugged his shoulders and we continued on…to that very peak. The higher we hiked, the colder I got. My hands were so cold that I thought they would crack. I pulled them inside the sleeves of my cheap fleece and huffed on. Finally! We made it to the top and were rewarded with an impressive view at 9,059 feet. I couldn’t resist making a snowman out of the patches of snow…a snowman in India! I never would have thought.

Good times must come to an end and we were again packing up the car for the 12 hour drive back to Delhi. Our road trip through North India was a great time and I enjoyed getting to see a side of India I didn’t know existed. As we boarded our 7:45am train I took in one last deep breath of cold, fresh air and then climbed into the top bunk, where I would remain until our 1:30am arrival in Surat. I am excited to plan my next trip through India where I would like to find myself maybe on a beach, or, anywhere for that matter.

Pictures: http://picasaweb.google.co.in/lyndi.milton

Christmas in Colaba

2010-01-10T05:26:00.000-08:00

Christmas this year was not traditional, which actually seems to be the tradition for me. In the last 5 years, I have spent only one at home with family, which was in 2008. Before that I spent Christmas in Beijing, Xinzheng, Manila, and now India. My roommates had never spent a Christmas away from family, so we decided to go on a trip to distract ourselves and Mumbai was the perfect destination for four days off.

We boarded the train on Christmas Eve after working a full day and woke up in Mumbai at 5am. The train ride from Surat to Mumbai should be about 5 hours, but we took the slowest train imaginable and the trip took a lengthy 12 hours (one way was 99 rupees; about $2.00). We found a taxi and headed towards Colaba, one of the most popular places in Mumbai, in search of The Salvation Army Hostel. It was too early to check in so we hung around the dining area and while we waited we witnessed a small Christmas gathering of the workers and got to sing some Christmas songs and listen to the Christmas story. Then, we all filed downstairs to check in, which is when I realized I had made a huge mistake.

As I was packing for the trip I was hesitating about bringing my passport, and then, at the last minute I decided against bringing it. As a traveler, your passport is the most important item. A lost passport can be devastating, so if I think I don’t need it, I leave it locked up at home. Other teachers had told me that they had stayed in hotels in Mumbai with no passport, so I thought I would be okay. This was not the case for me. When the gruff front desk man asked me for my passport my stomach dropped. I did have a black and white copy of my passport and visa which I handed to him. He was looking them over when I realized that the visa copy was of my OLD visa which had expired on November 14th. I had neglected to photocopy the new visa I received in October. My stomach jumped.

“This is expired,” he said in a rough tone.
“I’m sorry, I left my passport in Gujarat. I do have a new visa,” I managed to say.
“You cannot stay here without a passport and visa. Go to the police station and ask for a letter,” he replied flatly, handing the copies back to me.

When I entered the Colaba police station several officers turned as I entered and gave me a hard look. “What can I do for you?” the sergeant asked.
“I, um, I need a letter to stay at The Salvation Army. I, uh, forgot my passport,” I stammered as I handed him my passport and visa copy.
“Sit and wait,” he barked back and I obeyed.

I sat for about 45 minutes while he dealt with four Indian women and their grievances. The longer I sat, the more nervous I got. I started to run through my options if I was not given the letter that I needed. I decided that I could give my bags to the other girls for safekeeping inside and that I would wrap myself in my sheet and sleep outside. It wasn’t too cold, and if no one saw that I was a foreigner maybe I could survive two nights sleeping on the streets of Mumbai.

Finally, the sergeant finished with the women and it was my turn. Before I even sat down in front of him he swept all the papers from his desk, including my only copy of my passport, balled them up, and threw them into the corner. Not good.

“So what do you want from me?” he asked.
I repeated my story as he looked at me, clearly not happy that I was there.
“How can I write you a letter?!” he said, folding his arms across his chest, “I don’t know you. Go back to America and get your passport,” he said.
“I have my passport, but I left it in Gujarat. I’m sorry. I made mistake and left it in Gujarat,” I replied, shrinking smaller by the minute.
“Go back to Gujarat! Get your passport, and then come back to Mumbai,” he growled.
“I can’t, my return ticket is for the 27th. I am only here for two nights, for Christmas. Today is Christmas,” I managed to say through the growing ball in my throat, and I felt it coming; tears.

Till this point, I had not cried in India, but this was too much. It was Christmas Day and the irony of not having a place to stay was too much. I bit my lip and my eyes spilled over as a few tears slid silently down my cheeks. He picked up the phone and began a lengthy conversation with someone while watching me.
He slammed down the phone and said “Do you know what Whagwalla means?”
“What?” I sniffed.
He began to write the word on a scrap of paper. “Whagwalla! It means Tiger Killer. Say it! Tiger Killer.”
“Tiger Killer?” I said in a questioning voice, totally confused as to what was happening.
“You go to Salvation Army and ask for the Tiger Killer,” he said as he slid the paper across the table. “I have just spoken with him. You tell the manager he is the Tiger Killer. Maybe he will let you stay,” he said.
“Uh, okay, um, Tiger Killer? Ok, thank you,” I said as I walked out.

The manager at the Salvation Army was clearly not happy with the trouble I was causing by not bringing my passport. He was more Army than Salvation and he too gave me a hard time about not bringing my passport. I don’t blame him; it was a stupid mistake on my part, but it was Christmas! He snatched the scrap of paper I humbly offered and slammed it into his desk drawer.
“You stay only two nights,” he said in a tone of finality.
“Yes. Thank you. Only two nights. Merry Christmas,” I said as I breathed a sigh of relief.

After cleaning up, we hit the streets. Mumbai, also interchangeably called Bombay, is an island in the Western state of Maharastria. Our hostel was in prime real estate in the Colaba district and we were just a five minute walk to the Gateway of India and other sites of interest. The weather was perfect on this Christmas morning and our appetites were craving both good food and entertainment. We ended up at Mondegar Café for our Christmas brunch which included bacon AND sausage for me. After filling up on delicious food, we headed to a nicer part of Mumbai to watch Avatar in 3-D, which we enjoyed immensely. As we were walking out of the theater we literally ran into a famous Bollywood actor, but were too star struck to speak.

The next day we went to the Museum of Modern Art, did some shopping, marveled at the Gateway of India, admired the Taj Hotel, and got lost in the chaos of Crawford Market. We spent the majority of our time eating all the food and drinks that are impossible to find in our village. Before we knew it, it was time to head back to Bombay Central to board our train headed for home. After another 12 hours we arrived back in Madhi, the village Kirsten and I teach in, and jumped into a rickshaw bound for Bajipura.

We had postponed opening gifts until the 28th, which is when we celebrated our after-Christmas Christmas. I made some muffins (thanks to Shellie) and Dunkin Donuts coffee (thanks to Hannah) as a special treat and we all sat on mattresses on the floor as we exchanged our Secret Santa gifts between the four of us. Then we laid on the floor together and watched Elf and Love Actually. Even though we were missing our families, we were still able to have a good Christmas.

New Year’s came and went with barely a second glance from me. Running at 6am everyday makes me very tired and I try to be in bed by 10pm. As I was heading to bed at 9:30 Drew asked if I was going to stay up, and then I realized that it was New Year’s Eve. Going to bed sounded like more fun, so I missed the arrival of 2010.

Hit the Road!

2009-12-29T09:17:00.000-08:00

Some of the Nanubhai Teaching Fellows are hitting the road, literally, in hopes of earning money for rural education. A group of 6 Fellows have set their sights on running a Half Marathon in January with the hope of earning money for every kilometer ran on race day.

After running my first marathon in 2006 I decided that I would either run one Full or two Half Marathons every year. I’m not sure how to explain my attraction to doing something most people would consider a punishment, but nonetheless, I continue to run even here in India. My roommates call me a masochist, and maybe so, but misery loves company and so I enlisted them to join me.

Training for a major race in America can be hard enough; running in India sometimes feels impossible. As we have already experienced, the obstacles can be great. Earlier in the year we were faced with extreme heat, punishing humidity, and finally, mass amounts of rain during the monsoon season. It has also been difficult to find good places to run; there are no jogger friendly trails here. The main roads are extremely dangerous and so we started scouting good routes on less traveled roads that cut through the thick sugar cane fields. Nutrition is now becoming a problem as our mileage increases. We are on vegetarian diets that don’t provide us with enough calories or protein to sustain all that we demand of our bodies. I am starving one hour after eating breakfast!

The idea of raising money through running has been in my mind for a while. When I traveled through Indonesia I met an English teacher who asked me if I could send his school some books in English. I promised that I would, but at that time I was living in China and it wasn't possible for me to fulfill my promise. When I returned to America in July of 2008 I vowed to make good on my word and I began to send boxes of books to Indonesia. I felt great about being able to help, but this was very costly for me during a time that I was unemployed. It was also during this time that I was training for the Seattle Marathon and an idea popped into my head; what if people donated money for every mile I run, and that money could finance the postage of books to other countries? I was really excited about this idea, but it never got further than my mind. Until now.

So here we are; 6 of us in 3 different cities in rural India. We are all training for the same race, all with the same hopes that running a few miles can make a difference in the life of at least one student. We have our own blog spot where interested people can follow our training, feel our pain, and hopefully get involved in our goal of providing assistance to a well-deserving student. Just like our students, we will keep our eyes on the future and continue to work hard despite all the obstacles and pain that we face.

Please visit www.21k4kids.com

So this is Christmas

2009-12-29T09:14:00.000-08:00

Last week in my Spoken English class we spent a lot of time talking about Christmas, which seemed a little unreal to me. In India it feels nothing like winter, let alone Christmas time. I still think it is baseball season in America and that my parents, who are both teachers, are on summer vacation. In the Land of the Perpetual Sun, it is difficult for me to imagine people in America bundled up, building snowmen, Christmas shopping, and spending time inside with family and friends to take refuge from the cold weather.

Explaining and planning lessons around the Christmas theme made it a little easier for me to get in the Christmas mood. The students here all know about Christmas, but in our little village they have never had an opportunity to hear about it from a Western’s point of view. I have to admit that the more I talked about how Christmas is celebrated, the more ridiculous it sounded to me. When asked who Santa Claus was I first tried explaining about Saint Nicolas, the Patron Saint of Children, and how through the years he morphed into the Santa Claus we know today. This was of little interest to them; they wanted to hear about the red suit, red cap, and the bag of gifts they have seen in pictures. As I talked about how Santa flies around the world in a sleigh and enters every home through the chimney to deposit gifts under the tree and into the stockings hung by the chimney (with care) their expressions became more and more contorted into a face that seemed to be saying “Huh?”

In my class we made Christmas ornaments out of pipe cleaners and it was a lot of fun to see the students use their creativity. At first when I handed out the pipe cleaners they kept asking me “Teacher, what do I do with it?” “Anything!” I replied as I showed them how to bend and twist them into different shapes. As they caught on to the pipe cleaners’ possibilities there was no stopping them. Then, on Christmas Eve we made Christmas cards and chaos reined my classroom. I spent time the week before cutting out different shapes and preparing all the materials, which included some glitter that was sent from America (thanks mom!). The glitter was by far the most used material and the desks and floor of the classroom sparkled with the remnants of their creations.

The culmination of the Christmas lessons was our Christmas Party. The students took full control of the planning as they ordered food and a cake and talked to the Principal about wearing red clothes in lieu of their uniforms. I was not allowed into the assembly hall until everything was just perfect. They even managed to find snow spray and as I entered we were all covered in wet, foamy snow. As I cut my Christmas cake the students sang We Wish You a Merry Christmas before I blew out the candles. Then, every student fed me a piece of cake, and then smeared a little frosting on my face. I had a lot of fun celebrating with my students and I appreciate their efforts to make my Christmas a very merry one!

An unfortunate coincidence

2009-12-15T08:45:00.000-08:00

Today I was given a new name. Why? It’s a funny story that I will tell, but only because I have a tendency to be self-deprecating. Promise not to laugh too hard at my expense. Promise? Okay…

In Gujarati, Lyndi means . . . . ready for this? . . . . goat poop. Yep. Goat poop. You just can’t make that stuff up. Hilarious, I know. Okay, stop laughing! I almost didn’t believe Meghan when she came home from school and told me that her principal laughs hysterically every time my name comes up in conversation. She finally asked what was so funny and he replied “In Gujarati Lyndi is poop of the goat!”

I couldn’t believe it! Why people neglected to tell me this until my 6 month here (my 6th day would have been preferable) is beyond me. I went to school to ask the teachers I work with if it was true; surely they would have told me of this unfortunate coincidence. In the staff room I leaned in to the teachers that sit next to me and said quietly “So, in Gujarati my name means….” and they began laughing. “Who told you?!” they asked. Awesome, I thought. It is true.

Apparently people didn’t want to tell me, fearing that I would feel bad about sharing my name with a goat’s excrement. A valid reason I suppose, but in hindsight I feel pretty bad about walking around proclaiming that I am goat poop for the last 6months. I guess if anything, I’m not surprised at all. I’ve known since I was ten that my name is unusual and causes problems (“your name is Cindy/Mindy/Wendy/Lyndsey??). So now, this just confirms it. Again, thanks Mom.

From now I may be introducing myself as Lena, as suggested by an Indian teacher here. I like this new name, but I don’t know if I can embrace it. I still like my old name, despite its unfortunate meaning. I recently began teaching two new 5th standard classes and I hesitated before introducing myself as Lyndi, knowing that a 5th standard student’s sense of humor would capitalize on such an opportunity to laugh. After both saying and writing my name on the board I cringed, waiting for an eruption of laughter, but there was none. Perhaps they waited until I left the class to die of laughter, or perhaps, it isn’t that big of a deal. As a teacher at my school told me “Have no tension….don’t worry, be happy.” So, I will happily proclaim that I am, in fact, goat poop.

The Last Resort

2009-11-10T08:16:00.000-08:00

After a beautiful three hour drive from Kathmandu we arrived at The Last Resort which is situated on the top of a gorge 12km from Tibet. After checking into our very cool safari tents we headed out for a hike up into the stunning hillsides. The hike was beautiful and we met the cutest kids on the way. We stopped off at a local house on the way down to try some homemade “beer” which tasted like a combination of stomach acid, corn, charcoal and dirt. After the hike we went to the sauna where I set my new sauna record of 40 consecutive minutes, exiting right before I thought my body would melt.

The next day we got up early to jump off a 450+ foot high bridge that spans a tropical gorge with the wild Bhote Kosi river raging below. Bungy was available at the resort but I wanted to try The Swing (http://www.bungynepal.com/swing.htm), something I had never seen before. This is the highest canyon swing in the world and the thought of jumping off the bridge both thrilled and terrified me, which is why I knew I had to do it. The canyon swing involves being attached to a rope that spans the canyon and is located about 90m in front of the bridge; once you jump off the platform you freefall for about 8 seconds before the rope attached to your waist pulls tight against the other rope and you begin to swing at 150km per hour through the gorge.

There were about 25 people signed up to jump and as I waited for my turn to jump I became incredibly nervous; at one point while watching someone else jump my knees became so weak that I had to sit down. If I had to name one fear it would be of extreme heights, which is exactly where I found myself standing on the bridge. One man who had signed up for bungy stood on the platform and then suddenly backed out. My stomach turned. I said a prayer for Meg, Kirsten and I and resolved to just do it. My heart was fluttering while the harness was put on me and I tried to focus on breathing. Finally they called my name; it was time to jump.

As I walked to the platform I started to feel very calm and I was ready. The crew member reviewed what I was to do; hold the rope with both hands and take a hop off the platform. He began to count; one…...two…...and I jumped! The only sound I could make was a guttural “Ohhhh!” I fell so fast that the wind rushed into my lungs making it impossible for me to make a noise. It was such a strange feeling to be in such a long freefall; it was enough time to formulate thoughts like “What did I just do?!” and “I change my mind!!” This is when I began to kick my legs. Then the rope pulled taut and I began to swing at such an incredible speed above the gushing water. As I swung I looked back up at the bridge amazed at what I had just done. I let go of the rope and relaxed my body to enjoy the swing. It was fantastic! (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C7urCnDRDXY) The rest of the day was really low key compared to jumping off a bridge; I read my book and thought to myself several times “you jumped off a 450 foot high bridge this morning!”

The next morning was our last day at The Last Resort. We had a great breakfast and packed up our stuff to head out to the river where we would begin our rafting trip. I had never rafted before and I was nervous that I would fall out of the boat. My fear was in vain and I had a fantastic time navigating the smoky turquoise water. While being tossed around the rapids I screamed more in shock of the icy water than out of fear. We stopped on the bank of the river for a picnic lunch before heading back into the freezing water for the final push down the river. The guides directed us to a large rock on the bank of the river where we were able to jump and fall twenty feet before being plunged into the frigid water. It was a great trip and I am looking forward to my next rafting experience.

Our time at The Last Resort was amazing and I hope I can return in the future to try the bungy!

Lighting a path...

2009-10-11T06:30:00.000-07:00

When I entered one of my 8th standard classes this week the students were poring over yellow cards that the teachers had handed out. I asked my co-teacher what they were and she told me that the students had received their result cards from September exams. “Are they happy?” I asked her. She gave me a smile that said neither yes nor no. “In this class 10 students have passed.” This is a class of 64 students. Confused, I asked “You mean passed their English exams?” This would make sense to me because this is one of the lowest classes; most of the students come from very rural areas and have received poor English training prior to entering Madhi High School. “No,” she replied “ten is the number of students who have passed all subjects.” I was floored. Here I am trying to teach English, and they aren’t even able to pass exams in Gujarati or Hindi, their native language. “These students have a difficult time learning” she added. I had suspected just that and now it was made evident.

I went on with class as usual but I couldn’t stop thinking about it; 10 out of 64! The common belief of the Indian teachers is that the students in C, D, and E classes are backwards and dull. To me that is unacceptable. These students are not dull, even though their test scores may tell a different story. If anything, these students are the victims of an education system gone bad; the cracks in the system have widened and more and more students are falling through them. I know my students are smart and capable; they just haven’t been given a chance.

The students must take the result cards home to show their parents, who must then sign the card in multiple areas so the school knows they are informed of their child’s progress. As the students handed them back to the co-teacher she scanned the cards to make sure all the signatures were there. On some of the cards there was no signature. Instead, there was a thumbprint; a sign of an illiterate parent. I was surprised at the number of thumbprints on the cards and I mentioned this to my co-teacher. “Many parents are farmers, they have no need to read, and therefore they cannot help with homework.” Again, I felt another blow.

This cycle of illiteracy has been spinning in some families for generations and it may continue to spin unless something is done to stop it. I have no illusions that in ten months I can overhaul the system, but I do know that I can make a difference, even if it is only one student at a time. What I hope is that I can slow the spinning down enough to give these students a chance to grasp something, to learn something that can pull them out of cycle and hopefully not only change their lives, but also the lives of their children.

On the wall of my room I have a small card with a quote by Buddha: “Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared.” It reminds me of something my students in China told me; A teacher is like a candle; they burn themselves to give light to others.

I want to be their candle.

Delusional in Delhi

2009-10-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

On September 17th I returned from my trip to Delhi, and I couldn’t have been happier to be back in my tiny village. There were some highlights, but the trip to Delhi was mostly riddled with frustrations, difficulties, sicknesses and scams. Let me tell you my tale…

Our trip began on the Paschim Express, train number 2925 to Delhi. We left at 4pm on September 10th and arrived in Delhi on September 11th at 10am. The craziness of Delhi hit us as soon as we stepped off the train and didn’t let up until we boarded our train home 6 days later. Rain had descended on Delhi the day we arrived and the city was coated in a grimy film.

Delhi is a patchwork quilt of humanity and the vast disparity of economic status and social class collide in the bustling city of 12.8 million people. Delhi’s wide variety of people can be attributed to the turmoil of Partition when it became a refuge for many who were displaced during that period of history. The majority of people living in Delhi are not native to the city, one of the largest groups being the descendants of refugees from Punjab. In Delhi you can find the privileged and the disadvantaged, the over indulged and the ignored, the obese and the starving. The city was such a dizzying array of sights and smells that I often felt bombarded and over stimulated. If you aren’t prepared, Delhi will consume you; it sucks you in and spits you out.

Our first concern was finding a place to stay. The New Delhi Train Station is located in an area of Delhi know as Paharganj which is regarded by Delhilites as being a breeding ground for seedy activities, especially when night falls. Main Bazaar, across from the train station, is the heart of Paharganj and was where we headed to find a hotel. We price shopped several places and finally settled for a 400rupee ($8.50)a night room complete with cockroaches, no hot water, and a broken toilet. Home sweet home.

After showering and unpacking we hit the streets in search of a tourist office to plan some trips, a decision we would later regret. We ended up at a travel agency located in Connaught Place, a landmark shopping district laid out in concentric circles in the heart of New Delhi.I was skeptical of this agency but went along with the other girls. We booked three tours, our first being a day trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. The Agra tour was booked for the next morning and we were scheduled to be met in the lobby of our hotel at 6:15am. The other two tours were a day tour of Delhi and a day trip to Jaipur. After painfully handing over our hard earned rupees we headed to Café Coffee Day for a cup of real coffee before heading back to Main Bazaar to get ready for a night on the town.

Two other teachers from our foundation were also in Delhi and we arranged to meet at an upscale lounge called Q’ba in Connaught Place. After a drink we determined that we needed to find a more economically feasible place to enjoy ourselves and so we jumped into rickshaws and headed out to the Defense Colony, an area developed during the British rule. On the way we passed the New Friendship Colony and a sign that said “New Friendship Club (members only).” It seemed a little oxy-moronic to me, but that’s Delhi.

We settled into a more rupee friendly bar and enjoyed exchanging tales of our travels to Delhi. When the bar closed Meghan, Kirsten and I weren’t ready to head home so we talked to some locals and headed to an upscale club in a nearby neighborhood where we were the only foreigners. It was a little shocking to see so many Indians in a context we never see in our small village. These were the privileged; people with disposable income and with time to spend it. The Indian girls in the club were dressed in the same manner as can be seen in Western clubs; a drastic difference from the modest salwar kameez that dominates our area of India. Our night of dancing finally ended at 2am and we jumped into a rickshaw for the twenty minute ride back to our place.

We had only slept a few precious hours when our alarm woke us up; the Taj Mahal was waiting. We were in the lobby at 6:15 when a man entered and motioned us to follow him. He took us through the twists and turns of the confusing back streets and alleyways of Main Bazaar, and I hoped we wouldn’t have to ever navigate this area alone. Finally we popped out on the other side of Paharganj and were standing on a busy main road. We waited awhile before a rickety bus finally pulled up. We were told that we would arrive in Agra at 10am, but as the clock ticked away, so did my patience.

Finally, at 1pm we pulled into the heart of Agra and my excitement was growing when the bus suddenly pulled over and a man boarded. He looked at us, the only foreigners on board, and spoke in broken English saying that we should get off the bus and follow him. I knew something was up because none of the Indians on board were being asked to get off. The four other teachers started to get off the bus, accepting what he said without any questions. I hesitatingly remained in my seat until they had all jumped off the bus. At this point I knew we were being scammed and I was torn; should I get off the bus and risk not seeing my friends, or stay on the bus and risk running into problems alone? The girls started calling to me from outside and I hurriedly grabbed my stuff and reluctantly jumped off the bus. The scam was off and running and we were the unlucky victims, literally along for the ride.

There were two rickshaws and two drivers waiting for us. The drivers spoke good English; obviously, they have done this before. They explained to us that our tour bus was in fact not going to the Taj Mahal because it was an Indian tour bus and Indians were not interested in the Taj. They said they would be taking us around to the different sights, and that at 4pm we would meet back up with our tour bus for our trip home to Delhi. I was already annoyed with the drivers at this point and I could see where this scam was going; I had seen it before in China and other countries. Memories of being taken to the endless factories and shops on these types of tours flashed through my mind.

They zipped us around the city, whipping in and out of traffic. We stopped outside the entrance of the south gate of the Taj and were told we had about 1 hour and 30 minutes before we had to meet. At this point I was already in and out of arguments with the drivers. Early on I established that we had absolutely no intention of paying them anything at the end of the day. To this they responded with feigned hurt, as if they were offended. “Listen Madam! I am doing this for you! It is my job to take you.” I wasn’t buying it or letting up with my obvious annoyance. Later Kirsten told me that the driver kept asking why I was so difficult and it made me laugh.

We paid for our tickets and excitedly headed to the metal detector where I got an intimate pat down by an unfriendly female guard. The Taj is surrounded by a large wall that resembles the Red Fort in Delhi and it takes about a five minute walk through perfectly manicured grounds before even glimpsing the Taj. As I walked closer I could see the Taj looming in the distance and I caught my breath. My eyes were taking in the one of the most beautiful things in the world, but my mind couldn’t grasp it. The perfection made it look fake, as if it was a painted backdrop. The Taj is symmetrically perfect, as tall as it is wide, and I was awestruck. I stood for a minute just looking at it; I contemplated the immense undertaking of building such a structure without any modern technology and the kind of love that moves a man to build something of such beauty. Then I started my thorough photo documentation.

The marble used in the Taj is smooth and milky white but when the sun is setting it takes on a slight rose tint. It was so smooth and I liked the feeling of the warm marble on my bare feet. Throughout the Taj there are inlaid flowers made from a shinier, multi-colored marble and verses from the Koran are scripted onto the marble above the door and arch ways. Some of the marble is cut into intricate lattice work and is unbelievably detailed. The Taj is a spectacularly amazing work of art made quite literally with love.

We met back up with our drivers and the perfection of the Taj was soon forgotten as the scam continued. We drove for a bit and pulled up to two shops; a “marble works factory” and a leather store. I knew it! Now the drivers were going to get some commission for bringing us here and I was going to have no part of it. I was so annoyed that I marched up to the driver and said in an abrupt tone “We do not want to see a marble factory and a leather store. We want to eat lunch.” To which he replied “Why are you never listening to me!? Your problem is you never listen! We are not going to marble factory and leather store! We are going to marble factory!” Ugh! I refused to go in and spent some time in the parking lot counting to ten. We then piled into the rickshaws and pulled up to a restaurant; it was lunch time and again they would be making money by bringing us here.

The restaurant was very run down and there were very few patrons inside, not a good sign. I was now in no mood to really eat, but knew I had to eat something and here is where a crucial decision was made. The other girls went about ordering chicken sandwiches, vegetable tikka, and curry dishes, but I was skeptical. I ordered nan, a flat piece of bread, and a Thums-Up, an Indian cola; my best decision of the trip.
It was now approaching 4pm and I was very concerned about meeting the bus. The drivers didn’t seem so worried and stopped once at a “cultural handicrafts shop” and became very upset when we refused to go in. No commission there. They then drove us to where the bus would be meeting us, but of course, it was going to be an hour late. They suggested going into a sweet shop that makes a famous Agra treat to kill time. How convenient.

At 5pm the bus did show up and I happily said goodbye to our scamming guides and took my place next to the Bangladeshi man. “Where did you go!?” he asked with concern. He then told us that they had indeed gone to the Taj, and they spent more time there than we did! They also got to see other famous sights that we did not. I was so angry, but then I realized I had to just let it go. I had just seen the most magnificently breathtaking building and I should be happy with that.

The ride back to Delhi took a painfully long 9 hours! We stopped at two different temples along the way and made various other stops at roadside restaurants, which is where Kirsten started to feel sick. We boarded the bus and began to drive and she began to throw up out the window. As we continued on Meghan began to feel sick as well and she threw up into a bag.

Finally, we pulled into Delhi and the bus started to drop passengers off at their pick-up points. We said goodbye to the two other teachers and soon it was the three of us and an Indian couple on the bus. We stopped where we had been picked up, got off the bus, and watched it pull away. We were left on the side of the road to fend for ourselves; this is what I had hoped would not happen. The Indian couple quickly disappeared into the complicated alleyways and soon we were completely alone at 2am in one of the worst areas of Delhi, and we were lost.

We walked for a bit unsure of where to go until we saw a light shining from a doorway. We were so relieved to have stumbled upon a police station and two police men on duty. They called someone from another station to walk us back to our hotel where we collapsed, utterly exhausted, into our beds.

Even though I was not afflicted by food poisoning like the other girls I was still feeling very sick. My head was pounding, my body ached and it was radiating heat even though I was freezing. I slept from 3am until about 7am when I forced myself out of bed to call the agent and cancel the tour of Delhi slated for that day; we would not be going anywhere. The next day we took it very easy while we tried to recover. We met up with a friend and visited Old Delhi. We saw the Jama Masjid, the biggest mosque in India, took pictures at the Red Fort, saw the Lotus Temple and rode cycle rickshaws around the crazy streets. On our last day in Delhi we met our friend at a mall to watch an American movie and then he took us to his house and cooked us a delicious chicken dinner.

The next morning we packed and got ready to say a cheerful goodbye to Delhi. We boarded our train, settled in to our beds and breathed a sigh of relief as we left the chaos of Delhi behind us. This trip was not the enjoyable trip we had envisioned, but there were some patches of good hidden among the bad. I’m willing to give Delhi one more chance, which will happen next week. Hopefully that trip will show me the better side of Delhi.
http://picasaweb.google.co.in/lyndi.milton

Don't drink the skin!

2009-09-09T11:22:00.002-07:00

Something that we have learned to vehemently avoid is drinking skin; the skin that forms on the top of our chai and coffee that is. The milk that is delivered to us daily is fresh milk (hours out of the cow perhaps) and is not pasteurized. We have to boil the milk to help kill any bacteria and to make the milk last longer. During our first weeks here we did not know we needed to boil the milk and a glass of milk left in the fridge after one day turned into something that looked a science experiment. It was scary.

The milk we get has a higher content of fat as well. We can’t order 1% or skim. It comes as it does; fatty. Our cook has recently been skimming this fat off the milk and saving it in a bowl. She then made this into butter, which she then turned into ghee (clarified butter) that is used in much of the cooking here.

The higher fat content is what I blame for the infamous skin. After making a fresh cup of chai on the stove I let it sit to cool, and as it cools, the skin forms. I usually try to move the skin aside but occasionally it sneaks its way into my mouth, which I then promptly spit out. It’s not that it tastes bad; it’s just kind of gross, and well, it is a bunch of fat. Sometimes as we all sit around the table drinking our chai or coffee while reading someone will suddenly spit out a mouthful of chai back into their mug and I know; the skin found its way in. My favorite is the unsuspecting swallow where someone is so involved in what they are doing that they don’t notice that the fat has formed. As they take a drink it takes them by surprise, and it comes dribbling out of their mouth as they try to get it out. You may think I have no life if I am sitting around watching people drink chai, and you would be right. Why else would I be writing a blog about chai skin?

Happy Anniversary!

2009-09-09T11:22:00.001-07:00

This weekend I celebrated my three month anniversary; with India. My arrival in June seems so far away and some days it seems that the more I learn about India, the less I know. I have learned that in India there are some things you can always count on, like the lunchtime chai delivery at 1:25 every day and the consistent inconsistencies of power and water. Stereotypes of India and of Indian people should never be counted on.

In my three months I have developed relationships not only with my students, but also the Gujarati teachers and one teacher in particular comes to mind. Upon meeting this teacher for the first time I was unsure how to feel about him. He introduced himself as the PE teacher, but he didn’t have to tell me that for me to know. I could tell by the shirt tucked into his sweat pants, the athletic shoes on his feet and the whistle around his neck. He also walked around with such an overbearing air; he was loud, his eyes could stare any student into submission and his whistle blows were sharp and piercing. It was funny to me that such a stereotype could cross cultures. Truth be told, I was a little scared of him at first.

Needless to say, I was more than a little surprised when I found the PE teacher in the back of my first Spoken English class. “I want to learn from you,” he explained when he could see my eyes questioning his presence. His English was broken and we communicated with holes of confusion. He made notes on paper from my writing on the board and I could tell he was making a concerted effort to improve his English. When my section of boys got too loud one day he was quick to reprimand them and I decided that this arrangement would work quite nicely; I could teach him English and he could help with classroom management.

Our conversations became more frequent and we talked about many different things. I learned things about his family and told him things about mine. We talked about the different sports the students enjoy and how to play them (although I still have no idea how to play Kho-Kho). When I needed rides to and from the English Medium school he was quick to volunteer, his reply to my "thanks" always being “No mention.” One day another American teacher was introduced to him and she told him that his English was very good. He laughed, and pointing to me said “She is a good teacher.”

Another teacher that I have grown very fond of is a primary teacher that I work with. Together we teach 6th and 7th standard, two of my favorite classes. Our working relationship in the classroom is seamless. After class on Thursdays we sit together in the primary staff room drinking tea and talking. She said she would help to arrange my marriage, and I half agreed. Her love for her students is obvious and I am so happy that we can teach together.

Someone else that I have enjoyed spending time with is a trustee on the school board. Within the first two weeks of arrival in India we had an invitation to his house down the street for a Mexican dinner. His family worked hard to make us feel at home and that night I had the best ice cream I’ve ever eaten. Tonight I called him to ask if he knew a place to get faluda, our new favorite Indian dessert. He said he didn’t know of a place but that he would call back in five minutes. When my cell rang he said he was waiting outside our house. We jumped in his car and he took us to his house where his wife made us delicious faluda and we feasted on custard apples while sitting on his porch swing. It was a very nice night.

I am always so surprised at the level of kindness and hospitality shown to us. I love getting to talk candidly with people here and the new ideas that form in my head as a result of those talks. I am enjoying the relationships that I am developing and I look forward learning more from them.

"Super Fast Express" to Chennai

2009-09-07T10:49:00.000-07:00

On August 5th we all piled into a jeep and headed to the Surat Train Station. The last time I was at this station was when I first arrived in India, fresh off a flight from San Francisco. I remember walking around the station in a daze, feeling jet lagged, tired, confused, and apprehensive about my decision to move to this chaotic country. Now, after being in India for about two months the station felt more manageable. It was packed full of people as we made our way to the crowded platform to wait for our “Super Fast Express” train to the South. When our train finally pulled into the station we climbed aboard, stored our stuff under the bunks, took a look around, and settled in for the start of our 36 hour journey, which was anything but “Super Fast.”

The start of the trip was nice. Men selling snacks, cold drinks, chai, and coffee frequently moved through the car and I enjoyed many cups of both. I sat on the bottom bunk by the window and watched as the amazing scenery flew. Since there was no AC in our car the barred windows remained open the entire trip so we could catch a breeze. Our birth was next to the door so at times I sat on the steps of the train and watched as the ground sped past my feet (not very safe in hindsight). The recent rain had turned the countryside of Gujarat into stunning colors of green and as we flew past fields of sugar cane and paddies of rice we glimpsed women in their colorful saris toiling away in the humid heat.

As we continued south the green gave way to shades of yellow and brown and the wind blowing in our car started to get hotter and hotter; so hot in fact that I had to move away from the window. We were now traveling through the desert and our nice train ride had turned into a trip through a wind tunnel in hell. The scenery was now drastically different; dry, arid land surrounded our train as we flew past lone palm trees providing respite from the blazing sun to lone herders.

We were all miserable by this point and I couldn’t even handle sitting next to anyone because of the extra body heat that was generated. I climbed up to the top bunk and tried to find my happy place in such an uncomfortable environment. I pulled out my bag of coveted Hershey Kisses, my fail safe, and wanted to cry when I saw that they had all melted! Feeling distraught, frustrated and tired I laid down on the hard, vinyl covered bed and tried to sleep through the night. In the morning I climbed down from my hot perch, eyes red, energy level low and craving for coffee high. I sipped on coffee and immersed myself in my book, trying to forget that our train was to arrive in Chennai at 4pm and it was just barely after 8am. Finally, we arrived in Chennai, a mere 36 hours after departure.

The Chennai Train Station was huge and bursting at the seams with people. We negotiated a mini-bus to take us to our dorm which had been confirmed weeks in advance and it took about 45 minutes to make our way through the busy city. I was so excited to get settled in and finally take a cold shower; it was my light at the end of the tunnel, or rather, the end of my train tracks. Upon arrival we were told that this was a men’s dorm and we were not allowed to stay there. There was a mix-up in the reservation and apparently our names were mistaken to be names of men! At this point we were all exhausted and feeling disgusting after sweating profusely for the last 36 hours. The only thing on my mind was a cold shower and scrubbing off the train grime from my body. After about an hour of waiting they were able to find a place for us to stay at a nearby campus, which we walked to in the thick humidity.

The dorm can be compared to accommodations at a summer camp; a really bad one; for really bad kids. Our room had three wooden beds covered with a very thin cotton mat (circa 1950 perhaps) and decaying fabric that tried to pass as a sheet. I gave the pillow a couple pats and clouds of dust flew into the air. Mosquitoes were already buzzing around, obviously excited that they would have fresh flesh to feed on for the next four nights. The ceiling fan was spinning in the most lackadaisical manner and barely produced a breeze at all. I groaned and headed for the shower/bathroom which was located downstairs and through a courtyard; not a trek I would be making in the middle of night alone.

Life always seems better after a shower and we felt renewed by the cleansing water and were ready to hit the town. We jumped into some rickshaws in search of some dinner. I feasted on a burger (veggie of course) and savored my first cold beer in India. We were still tired from our exhausting trip and so we went to bed early. Again, it was almost impossible to sleep because of the heat and mosquitoes. I was the only one to bring bug repellent which we had to use sparingly between the three of us because it was a very small can. It only contained 23% deet; no match for the determined mosquitoes. They acted as if we didn’t have any deet on at all and proceeded to feast. I tried to cover my body with my sheet to protect myself from bites, but then I became impossibly hot. In the morning I was covered in bites and the bed had given me fresh bruises on my hips and back. Looking at the bites covering my body and face I thought that my souvenir from Chennai would be a case of malaria. This is not what I had in mind.

Our purpose in Chennai was to attend a conference for English teachers. The takeaway from the conference was questionable; most of the lecturers geared their talk towards college age students and the assumption that resources fully abound. This is not the case for us where we teach. My resources are a chalkboard and a piece of chalk; I can’t even rely on electricity in my classrooms. I had to laugh when a man wanted to demo a language program that cost $20,000. He had to laugh when I told him my yearly budget is $500. Some of the lectures were interesting and we did get to network with some teachers. There were only 5 other foreingers from America, Canada, and the UK. To be honest, my favorite part of our days at the conference became our twice daily tea break.

When we weren’t busy in the conference we explored Chennai as much as we could. Chennai is a nice city and is much cleaner and more organized than the bigger cities we have explored in Gujarat. It is situated on the ocean, making for high humidity and heat, and during our time there it was unusually hot. We sped through the city in rickshaws, cutting in and out of the busy traffic. We spent some time in a coffee shop (with real coffee! no Nescafe!), stopped at an English bookstore-twice (I went a little crazy), walked along the beach at night and ate the best masala dosa at a local favorite spot. Chennai definitely has more to offer, but our limited time there only allowed us to get a small taste of the city.

Reluctantly, we returned to the Chennai Train Station to board our 36 hour train home. My body was already tense just thinking about the next 36 hours and I seriously regretted not buying sleeping pills in Chennai. Again, I plunged myself into my book and then listened to my iPod as I stared out the window from my bunk. Slowly, the yellow and brown scenery returned to green as we crept closer ever so slowly back into familiar territory. As we stepped off the train onto the platform at Vyara an incriminating photo was taken (see below blog titled Feverish Foreigners) and we rushed to the vans that were arranged to pick us up. Happily we unlocked our front door and breathed a sigh of relief. We were home.

My thoughts at this very moment...

2009-08-19T10:39:00.000-07:00

So I just finished posting a blog, but had such a hard time (and a bad day) that I felt that I needed to vent by posting a blog about posting my blog. Does that make sense? So here are some things that have annoyed me today…

This morning we had no water. This is a common occurrence and on more than one occasion I have used a bucket of water to shower; we learned early on to always have one bucket on hand for such occasions.

It has been incredibly hot lately, and especially today. For a couple weeks we had heavy rain, which cooled the weather considerably, but now we are back to extreme heat. At night I have resumed what I have termed sleeping Starfish Style, which means that I lay on my back with my arms and legs as far away from my body as possible to avoid any unnecessary contact that would generate more heat.

I am sitting on my living room floor under a fan because it is soooo hot. It is almost 10pm but the temperature is still unbearable. While I am sitting here on my floor I have been using my flip flops to kill the innumerable amount of bugs that are crawling everywhere around me. The migration of bugs into our house has increased, and today there are new bugs crawling around. They look like earwigs, but are much bigger and seemingly stronger since it takes on average three hits with my flip flops to kill them. After hitting the bugs I sweep them behind me; I just counted over 30 dead bugs so now I’m sitting among corpses. We also have these tiny little ants that seem to be meat-eating ants. Given the option between a piece of food or a dead bug, the ants always choose the bug. They find their way into my bed and bite me. Today a bunch of these ants were busy dismantling a bee that died in our bathroom. I was so fascinated by it that I didn’t want to sweep them away. Now the bee is gone.

I spent the majority of my day doing laundry, a job I HATE. I used to hate doing my laundry in college…going to the laundry mat, filling the machines with precious quarters, and waiting around for them to finish. That sounds amazing to me now. Doing laundry here means filling up buckets, scrubbing the clothes on a concrete slab, rinsing them, rinsing them again, wringing them out and hanging them out to dry. Have you ever tried hand washing a sheet or sari? Or wringing the water out of a towel? It’s hard! I hate it! I really miss washers and dryers.

Today I switched out my mattress. The one I had on my bed is molding in the humidity. I think it is full of some kind of hay material and anything that touched my bed took on a lovely musty/moldy smell. I couldn’t take it anymore so I took a mattress that was vacated recently by one of our interns who returned home. I’m hoping it will at least mold more slowly than the other.

I guess I should include some positives amidst all this venting, so here are 3 revolutionary purchases that have made my life better:

1. Peanut Butter-We found peanut butter at Diraj and Sons (a store known for carrying hard to find items) and were overjoyed. For some reason it all comes back to peanut butter. In China, peanut butter was also a comfort food. Peanut butter toast was the perfect ending to a mediocre meal, or in extreme cases, it was the meal. Now I have my peanut butter with a banana wrapped up in a roti. Delicious!

2. Pillow-The pillow that was on my bed when I arrived is also made of some hay derivative. One day I noticed a terrible smell in my room and sniffed my way around looking for the source. It was my pillow. Thus began my search for a pillow stuffed with some kind of poly filling. After much searching I found one and happily handed over my precious rupees for an odorless night’s sleep.

3. Fabric Softener- No matter how much I scrubbed my clothes, they never smelled very good. I have a pile of clothes I brought from America that I haven’t worn yet because they still smell like home and I know that if I wear them they will never smell good again (I know I’m weird, but that’s beside the point). While shopping at Big Bazaar (a Wal-Mart type store) I saw a tiny little bottle of softener and had to try it. It works! Now my clothes smell nice after washing.

Ok, the bugs are increasing in number and are trying to crawl into my lap top. Time for a dousing of deet so I can head to bed…

Feverish Foreigners

2009-08-19T09:18:00.000-07:00

We have Swine Flu.

At least that is what everyone seems to think around here. The day after returning from a week-long trip to Chennai we went to school and were surprised to hear that a picture of us at the Vyara train station was in the state newspaper. Why would they possibly put a picture of us in the paper? I clearly remember seeing the man take the pictures as I dazedly stepped off the train after 36 hours of traveling. During the train trip to Chennai I had actually yelled at a man for taking pictures of us, but after such a long trip I was too tired to care about this one man and his cell phone camera. What harm could a couple of pictures do?

A lot; especially if the pictures are included in an article about Swine Flu, a very hot topic here in India. In the article it said that we had been checked by train officials for Swine Flu after stepping off the train, which is completely untrue. It also went on to say that people should be cautious of foreigners as we tend to be the carriers of Swine Flu. It was so unbelievable that I just had to laugh. I hoped that few people had seen the picture and read the article. We didn’t get that lucky.

As we were driving home from school the next day our van passed a bus stop and someone yelled “Swine Flu!” at us. Kirsten and I just looked at each other and laughed, but it was hard to deny the fact that it actually made us feel bad. Then, while we were eating at a community dinner to celebrate Independence Day the server started muttering about Swine Flu to the other servers. Now I really felt bad. Did everyone think we were infected? Then again, as I went to class to teach my 9B students chatter about Swine Flu started. “Teacher! Your picture!” one of the students yelled. She ran out of the room and returned with the article. “Ah yes, that’s me” I said dryly. Great. Hopefully it will blow over soon.

Bright lights, beefless burgers and Big Bazaar

2009-07-27T09:13:00.000-07:00

This weekend we headed to the big city of Surat. Even though it was Saturday we still had to teach until 11am and after we packed and ate we headed out to the bus station across the street. We had hoped to leave Bajipura at one, but weren’t able to get a bus until nearly two. The buses here are a little scary, as are the roads and the drivers. As we sped up to pass a truck I saw a sign on the bridge that said “Go Slow, Weak Bridge.” Comforting.

We planned on meeting up and staying the night with Daleena (who is from Oregon as well!) and Pamela, two teachers also employed by the Foundation at an urban school in Surat. We got a rickshaw from the bus station to a shopping center near the house the girls live in. Trying to squeeze four Americans into a rickshaw is hard. I ended up sitting next to the driver, but I could only fit half my body in the rickshaw so my knees were hanging out in traffic. Several times I thought I was going to be hit by a motorcycle. Arriving safely at the shopping plaza we first went to an ATM, something we do not have in Bajipura. Then we hit up a coffee shop called Coffee Day and it made our day. We even took pictures of our delicious cups of caffeine, which goes to show how deprived we sometimes feel here. After feeling sufficiently energized we went to a huge market that winds itself around and through complicated alleyways. There was so much to see at this market that I didn’t even know where to start. I ended up buying some new petticoats to wear under my saris and some shoes.

Feeling hungry, we went in search of food; non-veg food. We also wanted to see a movie that night and so we settled on going to the theater and choosing somewhere to eat there. 7 of us decided on McDonald’s and I’m happy I did. I had a Maharaja burger, which is the equivalent of the Big Mac sans the beef. Instead it is stacked high with two chicken patties and some veggies. It was delicious! As we were enjoying our food one of the employees came to talk with us. He seemed very excited to have the opportunity to speak English with us and asked for our autographs. I told him that I had worked at McDonald’s in America which excited him even more. Then he asked me what the biggest difference was between McDonald’s in America and in India. Was this a trap? Obviously I knew what the biggest difference was, but I wasn’t sure what his reaction would be if I told him. I turned to Mansi, and asked in a quiet voice “Am I allowed to say the B word here?” She laughed and assured me it was fine. I turned to him and timidly said “Well, uh, I think the biggest difference would be that, we uh….eat beef.” “Ah, yes. We do not eat beef here” was his only reply.

After we finished eating our new friend asked if we would like a tour of the kitchen and we of course said Yes! Before entering the kitchen for our tour we all had to put on hairnets. He took us through and explained all the machines and apparatuses, the temperatures and processes, and most importantly, how the veg and non-veg foods are cooked and prepared in opposite sides of the kitchen. It was the most fun at McDonald’s I’ve ever had.

After dinner we headed up to the movie theater to watch New York, a bollywood movie that chronicles the lives of three immigrants in New York during and after the attacks on the WTC. There was very little English and no subtitles, but I was still able to follow the plot-I think. Halfway through, the movie stopped for intermission and people headed to the snack counter to refuel and I pulled out my 10 rupee bag of popcorn that I bought at the market. I would like to watch it again, but next time with English subtitles.

The next day we headed to a really nice mall and felt very out of place with our backpacks and scruffy appearance. Not being able to afford anything there with my dollar-a-day-salary some of us braved the monsoon rains to run down the road to Big Bazaar, a haven for those on a budget. I bought some material for shirts, sheets and a new pillow because the one I was given smells like mold. All in all, our trip to Surat was successful and enjoyable.

I'm fasting for what?!

2009-07-27T09:02:00.000-07:00

This week I started a five day fast for an unusual reason, especially considering my tendency to be a feminist. This fast takes place every year and many women, from pre-adolescent to adult, take part. The reason for the fast? We fasted in hopes of finding a good husband.

The reason I wanted to fast was mostly because I wanted to take part in something that is so important to the culture I am living in. The fast started on Sunday and I went to a temple for the Goddess Shiva with some Indian friends. First, we all sat in a circle around the shrine, which was a cobra with a large suspended pot above it. At the base of the shrine we placed a green leaf that had a symbol made from a red powder. Onto the leaf we placed a flower, a nut, a coin and next to the leaf we placed a banana. Then we poured three spoonfuls of water and milk over it all. After that we sprinkled an array of colorful powders on our growing pile. To that, we added more flowers, more water, and more milk. On top of that, we placed loops of thread. Onto the head of the cobra we placed flowers and sprinkled powder. We then lit the candles on our platter and stood, moving it in a circular motion in front of the cobra. To conclude the ceremony we moved out into the open worship area and sat in a circle while we listened to someone read from a book and then a priest tied a red string on our wrists, which I must wear until it falls off.

The rules for the fast differ among the castes and the religions, and I followed the rules that our cook laid out for me. I wasn’t allowed to eat any salt and during the day I was only allowed to eat fruits and nuts. At dinner I was allowed to eat a kind of flat bread made from wheat, but I had to consume everything while sitting at the table without getting up. If I got up in the middle of the meal I wasn’t able to eat anymore. It was hard to follow all the rules and after two days of fasting I was very tired and felt lightheaded. Many girls were absent from my classes because they were also feeling the effects of the fast.

My resolve was really tested when Kirsten and I were invited to Ruckshaben’s (one of my co-teachers) house for dinner. Knowing that I was fasting she prepared a plate of nuts and fruits and a cup of tea for me as an after school snack. As we sat chatting her brother stopped by for a visit and brought a fish for dinner. She also decided to make chicken that night. I was so sad! This was my first chance at eating non-veg in India and I was fasting! To make matters worse I had to sit at a separate table in the kitchen with my plate of flat bread while Kirsten and Ruckshaben dined happily on delicious protein that I was so desperately craving. To top it all off the table was very short and I felt very much like a child being punished.

At school this week there were many activities going on and they all seemed to coincide with the fast. The first competition was a mendhi (henna) competition. Hundreds of girls from all grades gathered in the assembly hall to apply mendhi on a friend, or in a couple cases, to themselves. I started looking at the mendhi of the younger girls in 7th and 8th grade. The designs were simple, but still impressive. As I moved on to view the other participants I was taken aback with the amount of detail and beauty of their designs. I couldn’t imagine trying to judge them because to me they were all amazing. A girl from my 8th grade class did mendhi on my hands and feet and went on to win the competition. The darker your mendhi is, the more your husband will love you, or so they say. My mendhi was very dark which excited my students. The other competitions were a hairstyle competition (which I was a judge for) a bridal dress competition, and an aarti competition where the students made offering platters used in ceremonies at temples. I was impressed by the creativity of the students and took many pictures.

Finally, the fast ended and I was permitted to eat all the foods I had been craving. My first meal was very flavorful and salt never tasted so good. Overall, I’m glad I took part in the fast and it really seemed to work because I am engaged!

Just kidding.

Watery Wishes

2009-07-27T08:50:00.000-07:00

Today I was sitting on my balcony listening to my iPod and enjoying a rare cool breeze when I noticed a bunch of women gathering across the street. Two women were carrying on their heads a wooden board that was covered in flowers while the other women followed behind singing and chanting. My interest piqued, and I began to watch more intently. They started to fill buckets with water and approached a group of men, and without hesitation threw the water all over them. Then the men turned on a hose and started to retaliate. I ran to get my camera, not wanting to miss this cultural event unfolding before me even though I was completely oblivious to what was really going on. Some of the women noticed me documenting them and I gave them a shy smile and wave. As they continued on through the street they poured water on anyone they could. Every house was visited and the owner would come out to pour water on the women holding the flowers. I was so enthralled with what was going on that I didn’t hear the three women run up my stairs with bottles of water which they poured all over me. This is how I came to join in with them.

I followed the women from house to house, not understanding anything that was being said to me, but still thoroughly enjoying the moment. At one point they gestured to the head pieces and seemed to ask if I wanted to put it on. At first I was hesitant, not sure what my role would be or even what to do, but I didn’t want to pass up such a unique opportunity. I obliged and took the heavy piece and placed it on my head. It was awkward and I had to hold it with both hands as I walked, being careful to keep my head level so as not to dump the flowers on the ground. At the first house the inhabitant seemed very surprised to see me. She then took some water and poured it over the flowers on my head. Then she sprinkled some sugar and sprinkled more water on me. This was done at every house I went to and soon I was soaking wet, so much so that I was afraid my pants were going to fall off! At one point someone took the head piece back and I was able to squeeze out some water from my shirt and scarf and tighten my pants.

As the sun went down, so did the temperature and soon I was shivering. I bid farewell to the group and made my way home, leaving a trail of water spots behind me on the road. When I got home I stripped off my wet clothes, jumped in a cold shower and went to bed. As I lay in bed trying to fall asleep I heard the sound of rain on my window. The monsoon had finally arrived.

First Day of School!

2009-07-27T08:15:00.000-07:00

Today marked our first day as teachers at the Gujarati Medium School in Madhi. For a week we had been going to class with our Indian co-teacher to observe how classes are run in India. My schedule has me mostly in 7th, 8th, 9th and 11th grade classes. In India, each grade is bifurcated into different sections depending on ability and the number of years they have been at the school. The first section is A and those students are at a higher level; the lowest section is E, and most of those students are from small, village schools. Most of my classes are sections of C, D, and E; the lowest in the school. It was disheartening the first couple days of my observations because the Indian teachers were reviewing the Gujarati alphabet! All I could think was how am I supposed to teach them English if they don’t know the alphabet in their mother tongue?! I tried not to let that discourage me and I focused on what they do know, their enthusiasm and trying to build upon that. After a week or two of teaching the students and I got more comfortable with each other. They are not as timid to answer questions and most times I have too many volunteers.

Aside from my work at the Gujarati Medium School I also spend two hours a week at the nearby English Medium School. This school is drastically different. English Medium Schools are not free and the one I work at is run like a military school. Students must stand at attention during the morning prayers and pledge of allegiance. While walking the youngest students must place their pointer finger on their lips, as if to say “Shhh.” The youngest students are 3 and the oldest are 12. The majority of the classes are conducted in English, even in the lower levels, the theory being total immersion. The class sizes are dramatically different as well. My 6th grade class has 10 students and my 4th grade class has 8. Even though my classes there are small they are just as exhausting. I constantly hear “Teacher! Madam! Teacher! Teacher!” as I walk through class to check work. Their English skills are higher and they are not afraid to use them. They are also extremely cute in their uniforms.

Our work day starts at 9:30 with a Spoken English class. This class is an extra class that the students can take for free. In India there is a huge trend of taking tuition classes, which are supplementary classes taken before and after school. Tuition classes are not free and some students cannot afford the extra expense so we added this Spoken English class. At 10:30 the bell rings for the first period and students run to their classrooms. In India the students stay in the same room all day and it is the teachers that move around. Anytime a teacher walks into the class all the students stand and say in unison “Good Morning Teacher” to which the teacher responds “Good morning, please sit” and as they do they say in unison again “Thank you Teacher.” At 10:40 Morning Prayer begins. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday the Prayer is in the assembly hall where 600 secondary students file in and sit cross-legged on the floor. The prayers are usually sung by three or four girls over the loudspeaker and the melodies are haunting. During prayer the students are expected to stand with hands in a prayer position with eyes closed, regardless of religion. The prayer ends with the national anthem and class begins.

Classes only last about 30-40 minutes, but that can seem like an eternity when you are facing a class of 60 students who don’t know how to respond to your questions. I sometimes have to rephrase my questions two or three times or write the question on the board before I can finally elicit a response. At 1:30 lunch begins and everyday is like a buffet, the best part being the chai that is delivered daily from the shop outside the gate. Sometimes I can't wait for the lunchtime chai so I sneak out the gate for a quick cup. All the teachers share food together so on any given day I am able to sample 6 different dishes, all of which are delicious despite their odd appearance. From chopsticks to fingers, I am becoming a pro at eating with my hands and only rarely use utensils. I think my tolerance for spicy food has also improved out of necessity. Our school day ends at 4 when our van picks us up and takes us back to Bajipura where we usually unwind from the day with another steaming cup of chai.