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
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
So this is Christmas
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!
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!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
An unfortunate coincidence
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Last Resort
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!
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!
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Lighting a path...
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.
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.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Delusional in Delhi
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
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
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Don't drink the skin!
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?
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!
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.
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.
Monday, September 7, 2009
"Super Fast Express" to Chennai
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
My thoughts at this very moment...
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…
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
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.
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.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Bright lights, beefless burgers and Big Bazaar
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.
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?!
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.
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
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!
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.
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