Eyes on India-- Installment 9!

Today's Thoughts... A bit of the Traveler's Grumbles and Revelations

We spent the remainder of our time in Varanassi wandering the banks of the Ganges to admire and stand in awe of the hyper-involved and moving ceremony of cremation—dressing the body, anointing the body, perfuming the body, wrapping the body, decorating the body with fresh flowers, incinerating the body upon its pyre, and sending the body back to the life vein of Mother Ganga. We also managed to make two luxurious stopovers in a fantastic silk shop— Merothra’s Silk Factory (where we purchased gorgeous prints and swatches to our hearts’ desires), and at the much needed pool of a nearby hotel (a few bucks gained us a day’s entry pass for swimming, lounging, and surfing the net.)


Two days after my arrival, we were boarding yet another train, this time bound for Delhi where we would regroup, visit with a sick friend before her voyage to the UK, and then climb aboard another steam-wheeler heading to Rishikesh, the yogi center of Northern India. But not before, of course, we climbed aboard (HOW?!?) yet ANOTHER mistaken train, this time having been DIRECTED by the taxi driver of the hotel we were staying at, given a platform number, walked to the platform with assistance carrying our bags (20 rupees please) and told to board THIS train. Well, yeah, so no. At around an hour into the ride when the conductor came to collect tickets, it became frighteningly clear we were on the wrong train. Panicking, unlike my friends who were hitting the rails for the first time in-country, I started calculating what we could do or say to get ourselves to Delhi regardless. Fortunately, recognizing our plight and the strain on my paling face (can I pale?), the conductor of our train arranged with the conductor of a second train which we would board at 2am to head to Delhi. Standing on the platform at 1:30am in a random city, we waited for 2+ hours for the next train to arrive, which thankfully it did. Unfortunately, our friendly conductor was gone and his kind counterpart on the next train was nowhere to be found, though we asked and searched for him. Sensing an opportunity, another conductor allowed us to board but only after forcing us to repay for tickets and trying to charge us for pillows and blankets (which ALWAYS come for free). My friends forked over the cash, and with heart palpitations and my temples throbbing, I complied as well (though I utterly refused to pay him for free blankets and pillows). Boarding the train, we watched as he pocketed the cash, gave us no tickets, and strolled off to collect more exhorted sums from his unwittingly foolish passengers. Seething with rage, I attempted to sleep.

The next morning we pulled into a distant train station in Delhi about an hour out of the city (sigh), almost two and a half hours in creeping traffic, after arguing with swindling rickshaw drivers, again paying too much, and slowly, painfully, with damn near heatstroke, made our way back into the capital. But at least we made it, right? Sigh, at least we made it. Fast forward two days after shopping, sleeping, and recuperating in the big city, we arrived yet again at the train station to buy tickets (after two rickshaws, two cyclos, and one man on foot trying to convince us to purchase tickets at this or that “authentic” train booth for foreigners(it was starting to become a game, really, hahaha), and then marched our way authoritatively upstairs only to find that we were not in fact allowed to purchase a ticket without all parties present. A third friend, feeling rather ill, had opted to stay at home, so we sallied forth to purchase her ticket (sans her passport) on our own. Large pleading eyes, saccharine sweet voices, and an insistence not to move from the manager’s desk eventually won out and we left with three tickets for Rishikesh.


I was slowly learning that what had seemed so easy in all the Southeast Asian countries I’d visited thus far: how to click with the myriad folks I crossed paths with. I didn't quite understand with the rickshaw driver in Jaipur, nor the boatman in Varanassi any more than the train conductor from who knows where, but I was gradually gaining perspective on what was to transform my thinking and consequently my awakening to the behemoth cultural bazaar that India had to offer. It took patience, persistence, ample time, refusal to budge, and consistent appealing on a personal level: with a hard-working train station manager and likely mother who softened at hearing of a young girl (our friend and a teacher nonetheless), ill with food poisoning and unable to venture out for the day to purchase her train ticket and her two well-meaning friends (also teachers with big hearts and small wallets) who feared that coming back later there would be no ticket for our friend who would be left abandoned in Delhi all alone. Cue the chewed bottom lip and melting eyes... but in sincerity. I had the feeling that if I wasn't careful, if I wasn't genuine, unlike the plasticked grins I was used to, there was nothing to hide behind here. Not in a place where life is lived so unabashedly, when pride comes second to practicality, and artificial niceities are things you read about in books.

It was the same with the mobile credit seller who sold me 120 rupees credit in Varanassi for my Delhi sim, for which I received only 20 rupees credit that he supplemented with an additional 50 from his own stock. Much like the vendor who relented on a price drop after persistent inquiry that, no his scarves were not of pure silk. It was a whole new way of relating, at times on an emotional level I would never have appealed to in Thailand or many places I'd visited in S.E. Asia thus far. But I was learning, slowly learning, that to crack the hardened shells of many I would meet in India, it was not only worthwhile, but necessary to re-learn past-learnéd interpersonal skills.

When we eventually arrived in the Rishikesh station, complete with capering monkeys that sneered and attempted to steal whatever food items were in hand, we picked our way through the mass of bodies camped out on the ground (as it is far more practical to spread out blankets and pallets to wait in the station lobby for trains that might come early/late/or not at all), and out into the fresh-ish nighttime air. Already, you could feel the difference of ascending out of the stifling heat and lung-clogging smog of the cities. We ran into a pair of smiley backpackers and together set out, in the darkness, on foot, for the bus station that would take us to Rishikesh proper (from the city of Hardiwar as we were).


Perhaps in the daylight and not the pitch black, I would have been more enthusiastic. Maybe if I was certain we were proceeding in the right direction. Maybe still if I didn’t have several pounds of souvenirs and traveling gear piled on my back, I would have been a bit more jovial about the whole night-walk to the bus station, but as it was I was not. But, yet again, we made it! Finally pulling into Rishikesh after a hilarious and even fun bumpy ride up into the foothills of the mountains. Around 11pm, we dismounted our happy-honking bus steed and walked in the pitch darkness across a thin bridge to the ashrams of Rishikesh just as it started to pour. Haha, at this point we were beyond tired, a wee bit lost, soaked, and basking in the ridiculousness of it all. That’s when one of the girls slipped and splatted down— into a hefty pile of cow dung. That was about all we could take, and doubling over in painful laughter, we guffawed and cried in the rain.

Ah, yes, we were in India indeed.

Eyes on India-- Installment 8!

Today's Thoughts...

Varanassi, home of the coursing River Ganga, pulsing womb of Mother India. Varanassi, the oldest continually inhabited city in the world. Varanassi.
I flipped through the pages of my guidebook as I nestled atop my trundle top-tier bunk bed in my sleep sack. Occasionally, I would take a second to peer over the edge at the inquisitive faces upturned, mouths agape, watching me. I don’t know if they could tell that I was terrified of them. Particularly of the little girl chewing gum and swinging her ponytails on the bottommost bunk below me. I had marched onto the train with a show of great authority, hustled and hoisted myself onto the third bunk, ensconced myself in my sack, and hidden out to wait for the morning, a thirteen hour ride from Delhi to Varanassi. All the while, eyes and fingers pointed in my direction. I figured if I could just hide long enough, by mid-nightfall most people would have forgotten about me entirely. I was right. As the evening lights came on, card decks appeared and samosas were handed around. I managed to snag a few and a motley assortment of snacks from one of the dozens of hawkers passing by—“Hai samosa! Hai chai! Hai veg! Hai non-veg!” Literally a cornucopia of eats most of the night long.

Sometime around 2 or 3am when the hubbub had finally died down—old family friends had returned to their bunks, aluminum and plastic wraps of delectables were shoved back in purses and shoulder bags, and the last whiffs of steaming cups of chai had wafted idly down the corridors—the roaches scuttled out to feast on the remains and I finally managed to drift off to sleep clutching my ipod and mobile phone tightly to my chest. At about perhaps 4 or 5am, I woke up to realize two things: the train was stopped in some city or town I couldn’t quite make out and there was a man staring into my eyes. Surprisingly, my first reaction was not to scream and in fact barely registered as shock, half sleep as I was and inured as I’d become to the constant (quite literally) in-your-face transactions and curious inspections that burst my personal bubble on a minute-ly basis. Instead, I sort of grunted a strange low sound resembling that of a disgruntled sow and shoved at the face with all my strength. Somehow, I managed to miss the face just as it rapidly receded and I instead pushed off the probing fingers he’d used to hoist himself up. The face (and body I suppose) sort of tumbled into the darkness and hit the ground with a soft thud. Swinging over the side of my bed and the snoozing figures below me, I caught a glimpse of a startled young man who scurried off down the corridor. Recalling the tale of an Australian friend I'd met in Vietnam about dozing on a train to Jodhpur, India and waking to a man attempting to pry her ipod from her closed fingers, I quickly checked my bunk for my own electronic possessions. Fortunately, my, erm— bosom— had cushioned and incidentally shielded them from his grasp. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep much that night.


Eight a.m. found us pulling into the Varanassi station just as the morning furor had fully taken over. In a sleep-desirous haze, I gathered my things and quickly dismounted from the train, terrified that I might get stuck and shipped off to who-knows-where. Jostled and hustled to and fro, I made my way outside where, to my great surprise, a spiffy taxi car was waiting for me with my name on a placard. During the night, I had located the hotel where my friends were set to stay and inquired if they had indeed confirmed their booking, unable as I was to actually get a hold of them. This had been confirmed and so in the a.m. off I went to their hotel. Walking into the lobby, I was stunned. The floors were scrubbed and something marbly, there was a bellhop to gather my bags and a concierge to assist me with finding the room. Although there was much confusion as to why I’d arrived in Varanassi ahead of my friends and why it was they and not I who had made and paid for the booking, eventually I was escorted to a room with a comfy bed and TV. There was the inkling to call my folks and let them know I’d arrived at long last and unscathed, but recognizing that my phone was out of credit (and subsequently unavailable for them to call me as incoming and outgoing calls are charged, oy!), I gave up on that notion, turned on the tele to some horrible movie with Hilary Duff and Nicholas Cage in a fictitious wartorn country with rockstars and big business scandals and fell fast and well asleep.


The next day, FINALLY united with the girls I was to spend the next two cities in, we woke up at 6 a.m. and made our way down to the famed ghats of Varanassi. There is something unbelievably tranquil and at-once beautiful about the streets of an ancient and people-filled city in the morning. It’s as if even the early-risers realize that it is too soon to punctuate the dawn with the hawkings, calls, yells, and smells that will dominate in the hours to come. And much to my surprise, after the non-stop cacophonous assault of honks and shouts and cows braying and plopping dungeroo that had thus far defined my trip, Varanassi at the dawn was, dare I say it— at peace. We were dropped off some distance from the Dasaswamedh Ghat and meandered down to the Ganges from there, sipping on our Maaza mango juice boxes the whole way down. At the river, after haggling for approximately five million hours, we clambered into a boat and began our journey down the glistening waves (ok, so not really waves, but ripples?) of the Ganges. The water itself is septic, meaning little to no life can sustain itself in this area of the river, as polluted as it has become over the years, not from the daily holy bathing done by pilgrims and city-dwellers alike, nor the pyres of cremating corpses left to drift down its gentle stream, but pollution primarily funneled in by factories that pepper the city and the banks of Mother Ganga.
Regardless, there is certainly something magical and pristine about the river in the morning and something that awakens in your own soul watching all the people coming to purify their bodies by dipping in her sacred waters. We docked after about an hour, proceeded to engage in another five million hour debate over the cost of the ride (really, REALLY, now?!) and endeavoring to stay at peace in our inner souls, coughed up a modicum of extra cash (NOT what was requested of us, of course) and ultimately wended our way back to the hotel, smiling and humming with the life of the city that had just shaken its last grumblings of protest at the morning’s rays. By which I mean, the cars and rickshaws descended, metal-grated shop fronts flung open, the women piled baskets on heads and at waists, the sun scorched the skin mercilessly, and the day in Varanassi began.

Eyes on India-- Installment 7!

Today's Thoughts...

We left Agra behind on a sweltering morning in April and made our way back to bustling Delhi. Needless to say we deftly avoided our former dwelling. In her palladian wisdom, Allison recommended perhaps a slight pay upgrade for our sleeping place; a most wise choice. Though our new digs came complete with questionably stained sheets (it was only a light stain after all), not a complaint escaped our lips as we prepped for Allison’s last days in India and my last day’s with my beloved companion.


We jumped off the day's events with a trip to Humayun's tomb in old Delhi, a glorious fortress attributing to the city's Mughal past. The squat pearly building reminded me very much of the towering alabaster monument of the Taj Mahal. The curving calligraphy decorating the exterior and the interior transported us back to the age of glory in which the tomb was erected to house its precious wares. Outside was something of a tropical paradise unseen elsewhere in Delhi's dusty din-filled streets. it was like a slice of calm in the sea of chaos that surrounds much of the city. Plenty of others found that paradise pinicking on the grass and stone around us. As always, there was of course time for an impromptu photograph with a group of giggling gorgeous gals, exquisitely decked out in matching saris that sparkled perfectly on the white backdrop of the tomb.

To celebrate (or mourn?) Allison's imminent departure, we decided to treat ourselves to a bit of cosmopolitan pleasure— shopping and cool air-con movie theaters. Our new best friend? Soma, a lovely shop in Connaught Place filled with all the wonderful thing a girl doesn’t need, but obviously buys in India—cloth duffel bags, tea cozies, placemats, cloth knickknack boxes, block print PJs and scarves, scarves, scarves galore. This was to be my first of three trips to purchasing paradise. Following this brief interlude, we crowded into the oversized and comfy seats of a nearby theater, Allison assuring me that we definitely didn’t need subtitles in a Bollywood film because they sprinkle in occasional bits of English and of course everyone knows every Bollywood film line is practically the same— love lost/threatened/attacked, singing, joyous dancing, and ultimate happy ending. A friendly guy in line confirmed as much. So large tubs of popcorn in hand, post private body and bag search, we got geared up for hilarity. Three hours later, we walked out of the theater, slightly dazed, thoroughly confused, and inexplicably sad at the epic tear-jerking drama we had witnessed featuring none other than Indian heartthrob Shahid Kapoor. Truthfully a good film indeed, it was miles away from what we’d been expecting. Other audience members looked at us and smiled, nodding their approval. We smiled and nodded back, pretending that maybe we’d understood a fraction of what we’d just seen.

That night, Allison and I had what was to be our last dinner and jaunt out on the town. Tears in my eyes and terror in my heart as I’d still not quite connected with our roving companions, I bid her farewell and waved as she headed off into the night, eager to return to home sweet home Thailand. Heart heavy, I locked myself in our hotel room, washed several shirts, pants, and personal effects, steeled my nerves, called my parents, steeled my nerves again, and slept. By morning, I was weaving my way determinedly to the train station. I promised I would not stop, not interact, not be duped, not be thieved, not be conned, not be harassed, not be bothered by a soul. Grim face set, bag clutched tight, with a deep breath, I descended into the chaos of the streets below. And surprisingly, alarmingly, nothing happened.

I’d concealed cash in several places, gripped a particularly sharp key in my pocket until my fingers ached, and frowned so hard my eyebrows hurt… and nothing happened. I knew what the evening would hold—- either a 12 hour train journey to Varanassi in the East where perhaps friends might be waiting or a 16 hour bus ride north to the Himalayas and the mountain town of Dharamshala, home of the exiled Dalai Lama. With nor hitch nor glitch, I purchased a ticket to Varanassi and by four that afternoon, after a leisurely lunch at our favorite rooftop spot, was well on my way. I heaved a sigh of relief as I tossed my bags onto the train. Every article I’d read online, in Lonely Planet, and heard from passersby came to mind—I purchased a chain to secure my bag to my bunk, I nabbed a ticket for the top bunk, 3AC, locked my goods with a thick padlock, buried the key, stuck my ipod headphones in my ears (shoving the ipod itself into my bra), and fell into a pleasant snooze. With the exception of a mild grope for my goods as everyone slept at 2am (thereby followed by a loud “hey, who is that!” and smack at the hand that felt on my bunk), the night passed without event. Before I knew it, the morning sun peeked in the tiny window below me. I laid back wide awake to stare at the ceiling, the numerous rusting nails an acceptable substitute for the fading evening stars. “Don’t stop believin’” by Journey blasted in my ears.

My adventure truly had only just begun.

My Lips Are Sealed

Today's Thoughts...

Generally, time spent in the classroom is time spent laughing myself absurdly into stitches. I come in ready for whatever antics my students might devise for the day. For example, in a high-stakes, fast-paced, do-or-die competitive vocab race, hearing one student shout breathlessly, a tantivy hand shooting up with dizzying speed : “Obsessed! I am insomniac when I stay up late nights because I am obsessed watching porn!” With quizzical stares, outright giggles, and ten points to his team, the game winds on. (Oh, the things I didn’t need to know about my students…)

But there are other times when it really hits me that I’m carrying on this life in a land not my own, struggling to impart even an ounce of my own vastly limited wisdom on a brood of youth on the precious brink of adulthood in Asia. In southeast Asia. In Thailand.

Times when I ask students their opinions of the materials we dissect in class, eager to hear the revolutionary self-reflection Glass Menagerie has inspired or the eye-opening experience a thorough perusal of A Raisin in the Sun has afforded them, only to hear groans, whines, and lamentations on the “seriousness” of the material, how “stressed” the characters all are, and just how unnecessarily “dramatic” these dramas read to them, these are the times that get me. Glimpses of troubled American lives, of troubled lives in general ,phase them not in the least, try though I might to expose them to the myriad misconceptions of mental illness (Sylvia Plath’s “Lady Lazarus” and Joyce Carol Oates’ “Aiding and Abetting,” my aids), to introduce them to the dynamics of family life in dysfunctional households (Glass and Raisin to the rescue), the prism of faces in the minority spectrum of the West (hats off to Jhumpa Lahiri and Sandra Cisneros), even the captivating lure of a good piece of mind-bending sci fi (courtesy of none other than Ray Bradbury). But I know all this I say. I accepted it long ago. Get over it. Move on. Teach the material and just let it go.

But I still can’t let it go. I can’t just accept that my kids are unfamiliar with the Holocaust, so: we must read The Diary of Anne Frank. I can’t ignore the reality that my students yawn at the Cambodian genocide, so: we must research on the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge. I can’t rest knowing how many know next to nothing of Israel and Palestine, Afghanistan and Iraq, or the general mayhem and fragmentation of the Far/Near/Middle East. So we must screen scenes of Hurtlocker, discuss the themes in Kiterunner, indulge in bits of Caramel. Though I only achieve a fraction of such lofty ambitions as deconstructing and reconstructing their images of the wide, wide West, with all my years of educational training, prep, and yes, literary, historical, and socio-political obsession with the greater world around me, even now, even a year out/in, it still baffles me to encounter this lack of concern with the greater, wider sphere, or as one student put it, the relative chaos of life both outside and inside of Siam’s walls. “Ajarn, we like calm. Not so much drama, so serious, better calm, more normal.” And suffering in the land of smiles isn’t normal? And pain in a world of hair extensions and lipsticked tears isn’t normal? No, there isn’t suffering, or pain, or general malaise and discontent for that matter, only occlusion, the greatest mask of all. If you don’t see it, it isn’t there. Or is it?

When I get essays from students saying that they were blighted (or was it doomed?) with the curse of homosexuality, and despite their best efforts to change, it was fate they should end up this way; or writings that state: “Sooner or later I have to accept my fate that I am ladyboy and no one can be my soulmate. I have to live my life alone,” that’s when I recognize, in Langston Hughes’ well-worn words that the plastic grins and shrilly giggles truly are mere “laughter to keep from crying,” the high stonewalls of a people’s protective façade. Ironically, that’s when Thailand feels a little less foreign. Because in those moments when I want to reach out and hug someone (but don’t because the physical expression would make most kids blush); or when I want to shed my own salty tears of heartache for their dilemmas (but refrain because such an unchecked display of woe would bring me shame), those are the moments when I feel that maybe I too comprehend the method to the madness so to speak.

Still others remind me on a daily basis of how little I really know about this place and the people in it, even after my year of residing here. The very same day we all giggled and guffawed behind raised palms at the hasty admission of nocturnal indecencies/explorations, I sat in my office, eagerly packing and ready to go, finished with a long afternoon of twenty plus student meetings to counsel my students on their progress in class and warn those dancing on the edge of their imminent descent into the depths of academic no-return. One student, a straggler, tip-toed in bowing politely and sitting before me. I had seen this particular student only a few times before, no regular face in our weekly lessons of which eleven classes had already been skipped. I sighed, sucking in air through my teeth, and had to restrain the urge to roll my eyes. It was 5:30 on a Friday, I was ready to go home and had zero patience for the excuses and whinnies of yet another delinquent pupil. Informing my erstwhile scholar of the pitfalls of self-destructive acedia, I posed the questions I ask to each student who is struggling in a class (albeit at this point eroded to a weary and rehearsed monotone as the clock struck 5:34): Is everything okay at home? Are you having trouble? Why aren’t you coming to class [insert: doing your homework/handing in essays/being a student]?

With that same plastic grin, head slightly bowed, came the soft reply, half-apologetic, half-gentle chuckle. As I heard the words, my mind sort of withdrew. I could hear my own bumbling, stumbling response, though from a great distance, some aquatic bubbles in my ears. The student was rising now, leaving and I wanted to reach out a hand, run and give a hug, scream why don’t you stop smiling and cry?! Why are you even in school right now? If this were the States, you’d be sobbing on my desk. If this were the States, you’d be heaving in my arms. If this were the States, I wouldn’t see you for a month, two months, forget the measly eleven classes you skipped. If this were the States… but of course this wasn’t the States, this was Thailand where domestic violence, sexual assault, abortion, death of loved ones, and attempted suicide are secrets of the shadows. In the haunting words of poet Paul Laurence Dunbar:

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

This is Thailand where the sun only shines on those who shine back and life must be lived in episodes of bright white orchids and mountain rainbows. This is Thailand where the mask isn’t merely a defense mechanism: it’s a way of life.

"This land is your land, this land is my land/
From the teak wood forests, to the Phuket islands/
From the rushing waters, to the peaks of Siam/
This land was made for you and me/
This land was made for you and me."

This land is Thailand after all.

Eyes on India-- Installment 6!

Today's Thoughts...

Though the rest of the trip was fairly uneventful, save perhaps the hour-long pseudo-erotic Ayurvedic hot oil massage Allison and I managed to get ourselves into. (That’s the last time I say yes when I walk into a dark room and someone tells me to take off all my clothes.) Before we knew it, we were back on the train bound for Agra and the wonders of that masterful edifice to Eros, the Taj Mahal.

As a city, Agra really gets no love. Everyone trucks in (or trains in as it were) from Delhi during the day to ogle the incredible, unforgettable Taj, and then boogey their way right back the very same night without so much as a peek at what the town really has to offer. So we decided to take our chances on a night or two in Agra, home of the Indian World Wonder. We checked into the Shajahan Hotel/Hostel/Guesthouse, comforted by the no-bones/no-B.S. attitude of the fair and mild owner, his prayer beanie carefully pinned to his slicked down doo. Besides the constant power fluctuations (granted, they were being caused all over the city by the construction for the Common Wealth Games) and the random four hour sermon blaring from nearby speakers at 2 a.m. one Friday night/morning, it was a darn decent place to crash. Neither of us could quite make out what exactly was happening down the street four hours, but whatever it was, somebody surely was riled up about it and wanted the whole world to know. We contemplated trooping down in our PJs just to figure out what all the hubbub was about. Then again I don’t know how warmly we’d be received in tank tops and underwear (really, do you sleep in long woolen pants when its blazing outside?)



The next day at the Taj (after groaning and moaning over a 750 rupee ticket price, compared to the 25 rupees for nationals; WTF?!), we entered the Taj compound for what was to become a 5 hour stint admiring the beauty of its pristine design and form. In the midst of this magnificent splendor as well as the twenty-three photoshoots we or Allison took part in (yes, I was counting), we noticed a scantily clad young girl, high ponytail, and higher shorts, attempting and failing miserably to take her infamous photo of the Taj while groups of men heckled, guffawed, and tried their best at groping her. With her racer-back tank, booty shorts, and kicks on, I unfortunately wasn’t surprised, disgusted though I was by their unseemly behavior just the same. Aunties passed her by, shaking their heads and clucking, tossing those darkness-come-quickly glares at her as they did. Last I checked, the Taj was a holy site, a World Wonder, AND an ancient tomb. Just saying.



We squished our feet into the foamy surgical slippers we were given and slid our way inside, outside, aroundside the immaculate marble. We ran our fingers along the glorious grooves on the corners, traced the looping patterns in the air. It was a serene and blissful peace I cannot fully describe. It was in a word—heavenly. Far more beautiful than any picture can ever do justice. Favorite moment of the day was doubtless our hilarious jumpshot with a random young man, his messenger bag flying and adorable sweater vest throw high as he leaped by Allison’s side. Priceless. In fact, the next day we ran into him in that very same woolen vest with his mother and girlfriend at the Agra Fort. Definitely worth the second day in Agra! Fantastic rosy walls with an adobe-like hue. Brilliantly intricate carvings and stone masonry. And as the story goes, after the king built the marvelous Taj as a tomb for his deceased favorite wife, his son Aurangzeb imprisoned him in Agra Fort where from his window he could watch and pine after his most-treasured alabaster tomb.



Doubtless, besides the awe-inspiring sites of Agra, our favorite pastime quickly came to be rooftop restauranting for every meal we could, the Taj just looming in the distance. At sunset, at sunrise, in the twilight. I’d venture to say that there’s no time that isn’t perfect to eye that masterpiece. Our last afternoon, we climbed the narrow flight of stairs to the stone terrace roof, a picture perfect view of the Taj in the distance. As we chatted up life with our young waiter, a boy of no more than nineteen, we asked him if he liked living in the shadow of fame, hungry-eyed tourists with their oversized cameras pouring into and out of his city each day. He laughed and informed us that he loved Agra, precisely for that reason. “Everybody love my city,” he said. “My city is love to many peoples.” When asked if he had any desire to get out of Agra, out of India, and see the countries and cities and world where all those people come to Agra from, he looked at us incredulously and said proudly: “Why would I go to see the world when in my city, the whole world comes to me?”




I smiled a small smile and took a sip of my lassi, watching the sun dip behind the clouds and the outline of the Taj. In that moment, I understood exactly what he meant.

Eyes on India-- Installment 5!

Today's Thoughts...

I wish I could say that the rest of our time in Jaipur was notedly humdrum and unworthy of mention. But that wouldn’t make for a good tale to tell ;P Sure, we did all the glorious sites like the sparkling City Palace and the famed Observatory.



We ate more unspeakably delicious food at the Peacock Hotel and lining the winding streets of the pink city. Sure I bought more Ali-Baba pants than I will ever know what to do with. But what stands out in my mind are two markedly divergent and singularly memorable experiences. Following our stalking interlude, that very same night we witnessed some of the heights and the depths of our random encounters with a similarly unsettling experience involving a young rickshaw driver.



Our feet were killing us. We couldn’t find the restaurant on the Lonely Planet map. (Really, LP? How you gonna do us like that though?) And so we decided to give up and try our luck back at the Peacock for dinner once more. But not before we had wandered through the market sampling spicy chili roti cakes with sambal and beans, jelabi swirls of sticky syrupy deliciousness (something like funnel cake soaked in heavy syrup), and anything else we could get our hands on for so long that we’d simply forgotten the whole laborious process of pausing our adventure for the tedious task of dining.
Oh, and there was the brilliant evening’s entertainment with the gang of monkeys that took to the streets (or buildings there surrounding), swiping bananas and fruits from unsuspecting vendors and then tossing the carcasses with squealing primate glee onto the heads of the cuckolded merchants. If I had a rupee for every time on my trip a monkey tried to…well, I’d have a whole lotta rupees in my pocket that’s for sure.



The sky had fallen dark long ago during our meandering and it was only then that we finally thought to go back to our comfy cozy abode. The guy walked up out of nowhere, I remember. He was at Allison’s elbow asking where she was from. (At this point, I was used to often being overlooked as the short dark minion next to my gorgeously tall and blonde compatriot. I wonder if perhaps I didn’t call to mind images of those very creatures swinging so joyously above our heads? ;P). She shook her head no. After the fifteen millionth time, you just do have the patience anymore. He prodded further, repeating his question and following up with a “Why are you so mean? It’s just a question.” She was cracking. I could see it on her face. Hold tight! I willed her. Her face remained impervious. Good. We walked on.

Growing frustrated, he jogged to stand in front of her, blocking her path ahead. “Why are all you foreigners the same? Think you’re so much better. So much better than us Indian people. Isn’t that it? I have a rickshaw. I was going to ask where you need to go. But you so stuck-up. So stuck-up.” At that, we stopped. Allison whirled on him, “I don’t want your tuktuk or rickshaw or whatever it is and I don’t want to talk to you because I don’t want to.” “Why so stuck up? So stuck up she is.” I could tell her defenses were crumbling. He muttered on further until she finally burst out asking where this mysterious rickshaw was in the first place. He immediately produced it and for roughly twenty minutes we drove on listening to his rant against all white people, all foreigners who come to his country, think they are so much better than his people, what do you know, you give no one a chance. Not everyone is bad. Not everyone is out to get you. You think bad thoughts and bad things happen to you. Bad things happen to you when you think they will.

With that he turned down a deserted street alley and for the second time in two days, I hurled my person from a moving vehicle and onto the dusty path beside us. The tires screeched to a halt and Allison lept out as well. I don’t know about you, but as my great-grandma used to say—if it stinks, it ain’t gotta be you what sticks around to smell it (…or something like that). Then the obscenities came flying. I don’t think I could quite count the insults and slurs that flew from that tongue at such an alarming pace. All I knew was that I suddenly felt my skin prickle and my heart thud in my ears. And then she came. She must not have been more than five feet tall, but a wee auntie the size of a prepubescent child sidled up from out of the shadows and planted herself, unflinchingly, unspeakingly, and firmly between us and the raving madman before us. With an icy glare even I could feel cut through the nighttime air, she quite literally bore him down. His rage bottled, though still brimming, he grabbed the fistful of cash Allison had at some time produced and raced off, screeching down the block. I turned to the little old woman who was already hobbling away. I shouted thank you and she turned, unsmilingly, and shaking her head clucked, “Beta.” (“Sweetheart”) With a bobble and a nod, she was gone.

Mama India, you baffle me still.

No Place To Home

Today's Thoughts... (special happy birthday to a special birthday somebody!)

When I started the house search for myself and my hopeful-soon-to-be roomie TaReva, we had some basic notions of what we desired in a happy humble abode— electricity, internet, running water, sunlight, security, cooking space, living space, sleeping space, and maybe a dash of greenery by way of a garden or verdant stoop. We were asking too much, far too much. After seeing approximately 26 ½ houses (one we didn’t even make it inside; we just bolted at the gate), I was starting to lose hope. The house was too small. Too big. To empty. To cramped. Too far. Too close. Too unperfect. We’re being picky, we admonished ourselves. Get over it! It’s just a place to sleep and eat after all. I mean, isn’t it?

Forget that we’d gone through View who tried to get us to move onto a farm 2km outside of town and once led me to a gate from which we ran (she, in 4 inch stilettos no doubt) as a snarling hound gave chase at the front gate. Suffice it to say, we told View buh-bye quite a while ago. And then there was Nat; she was a real sweetheart, truly. Except Nat wasn’t so good with directions, and never quite understood that motorbikes simply can’t do the things cars can, like Idk whip it down the highway at 120 km/hr because “this way only take 20 minutes to house, na!” So after seeing her sixth house and spending 45 minutes driving around in the blazing hot season sun, baking, browning, burning to a crisp, sweating unforgivingly, and fuming at her “just a little this way, that way, na” directions, I told Nat we would no longer be needing her services. Of course, there was Oh and Woh and Wee and Yip and Yay, but no such cry of joy ever escaped my lips while I was with them. Uh-uh. Not a one.

Ready to accept defeat, we then met April. Oh April. I should have known something was screwy with this one when she made me meet her at a bookshop and drive her on my moto to the house we were viewing. When I asked where her own bike was, I got a nebulous, “oh not here. Somewheres. Drive this way.” The entire 10 minute ride was pretty much her criticizing my driving (you been here one year! Hahaha. No way! Joke! Joke!) to her wigglinggg, wriggling, and bouncing on my seat (so much so that the next day my seat lock broke and I had to get it serviced) to her obnoxiously pointing out that my bike was spewing black smoke and is that what it always does? Thanks, April. Thanks.

We pulled up at the house and…I had seen it before… the day before in fact. She looked surprised, alarmed, and then pissed that apparently her client was double-teaming the agents on his townhouse. In silence we drove back to the bookshop, bouncing all the way, and she barked at me to meet her at a new house the next day. So foolishly I did. Well actually considering that my bike was broken, I missed the first day’s visit which TaReva attended, warning me of monkeys and Elvis Presleys. So the second day, I arrived. It was an okay house. Nice amenities—kitchen, three bathrooms, jungly walkway to the front door, bungalow. But I immediately noticed precisely what TaReva had mentioned—a giant glass display case filled with monkey memorabilia and faux-autographed framed black and whites of the King (and not his Majesty of Thailand though he hung overlooking all near the door). There were large blown up posters of Elvis and other 60s performers, black and whites of old times Chiang Mai, and primate paraphernalia like cups and bowls and door hangers and figurines EVERYWHERE. We briefly thought for a moment of hanging the King next to the King, but then figured that’d be deemed blasphemous or sacrosanct at the least.

But April assured me it all could go (except His Majesty), that the family had once owned a pub and these were the remnants. Okay… But then there was the problem of the window, 5/6 of which was blocked by the ENORMOUS glass display case. “Can come down,” April nodded smiling. No worries. That’s when I noticed the door… or rather lack thereof. At this, several bells went off, particularly imagining the pregnant pause when I would tell my parents that I moved into a house without a door. I could hear my mother’s warning voice calling me by my full name. That was all the motivation I needed. I called TaReva.

“We can’t,” I heard myself saying over the phone. “I mean, there’s no door. It’s just a screen with a padlock. There isn’t even any glass.” But TaReva suggested let’s come in and talk to the landlords; see what we could work out with sensible people. So today we went and met the sensible folks that built a house without a door, mounted a glass case in front of a window, blocked off a driveway by planting a tree, and decorated their living space with 52 hairy apes (I counted). Needless to say that went great. The case was there they said to hold the figurines and photos. Could it be moved? I mean, the house felt sort of cave-like as it was. Of course not because the scorching rays of the sun would pierce through the three inch glass on the window and like a microscope to a hill of ants, sear the flesh from our bodies in the daylight hours. Sorry, they said it’d be too hot. Pretty much exactly like that. As for the door, they laughed. Security? A thought that hadn’t occurred to them. To much work to put in a proper door or glass panes. Maybe a curtain? How about a nice curtain? Padlocks are so strong after all. And that pesky tree in front of the gate, well that has to stay. Because it’s there already of course and that’s where it lives. The tree, not you. It lives there.

Flushed and breathless, TaReva pondered aloud about the lack of privacy in the bedrooms with windows that face directly into those of our neighbors (students who dorm in the single rooms next to the house). We then received a fifteen minute schpeel about the hand-picking of the students and their good souls and kind hearts and closed eyes even when you step out of the shower in a towel or change and expose a bra or dance around naked and perform wildly ritualistic pagan ceremonies in the wee hours of the night. Well what about friends, we ventured? What about their friends? Well of course they are not allowed to have friends over, ever. Or to smoke, or drink, or stand outside, or talk after 8. Do those rules apply to our house? Do you smoke? No. Drink? Occasionally. Have friends or menfolk over? I have a boyfriend, I squeaked. Does he live here? No. Will he live here? No. Will he visit? Certainly. How often? Just a few times perhaps. Where is he? Indonesia. Consideration... pause... (why was I holding my breath)... and success! TaReva was not so lucky when she mentioned our guitar-playing, dinner-party having friends. Oh, just maybe six of us, maybe some guitars, yes, and maybe some singing, of course some food, Lauren loves to cook, I’m learning guitar, no no, not late at all, maybe midnight? The conversation screeched to a dramatic halt. I waited as they contemplated. I was sweating and I could feel the drops sliding down my nose. So naturally, I fled to the kitchen as she duked it out.

When I came back, a bit more red in the face and thoroughly ready to go, she re-capped the evening’s arrangements—no the glass case would stay, the tree lived there, the door might have a gentle blowing sheet to shield us from fiends in the night, and perhaps, maybe, in a manner of speaking, they could procure a waist-high bush or spritely shrub to conceal our naked forms in the bedroom windows. But under no circumstances were guests to be allowed past 8pm. The owner has to get up at 3am, so not a chance. So we said our good byes to the nice people and hopped on our bikes. Oh! One more question! April said we could get our own fast Internet plan, is that right? Not a chance. Only one line for the whole compound. Ah, yes. Of course. Gotcha.

Hmmm. I guess I won’t be blogging about our days in the house from hell from the house from hell after all.

Landlords: 1.

April: (-∞) Negative infinity.

Lauren and TaReva, oh-ye-pathetic-souls: Zip.

Sawatdii kha, Profesora Lorena!

Today's Thoughts...

Today I had my first Spanish class. Correction, today I held my first Spanish class. Correction still. Today I held my first Spanish class in Thailand. Ahat have I gotten myself into?

When I asked my students in our introductory lesson why they wanted to speak Spanish, many cited the fact that the language is spoken in un sinúmero of countries around the world, which is totally true. When pressed for exactly which assemblage of countries spoke the language, the immediate responses were, in this order no less: Spain, Texas, Mexico, Brazil, and a country in the World Cup, ah, yes, Paraguay. I hung my head— this is going to be a loooong semester.

To their credit, in our first class, my students were downright exuberant. As per course, I informed them a week ago that under no circumstances would I speak English in class. Solamente en español, I warned frightened faces and horrified agape ‘O’ expressions. True to my word, Spanish only I spoke from Hola when they eagerly filed in to Adiós as they traipsed out—¡Hasta luego, profesora! ¡Hasta pronto! It was only then that I realized that whatever my obsession and amor for the language, it HAS been a year since I have held a fluid fluent convo, let alone taught for an hour and a half without so much as uttering ni una palabra inglesa. It was as daunting a task for me as it was for them, if not more so. So naturally I sprinkled in several phrases of Thai (quite a few I didn’t even know I had) and the occasional Japanese (really, now, it’s been like three years, c’mon). After all, language is just a giant word bank in the left cortex, isn’t it? Spatinglish (or Engsphai?)-- hmm, going to have to work on that. On top of it all, I'm pretty certain I vacillated somewhere between channeling Antonio Banderas and Carlos Mencia. Same, same, but different?

By the end, I was panting, they were cheering, and I had spelled Buenas noches three different ways on the chalkboard. My brain still tingled with the collision of tongues tangling in my head as I walked to my moto and heard an excited student call after me: “Odious, teacha!” I paused, flipped through the catalogues in my head and responded somewhat belatedly, “¡Adiós! ¡Hasta mañana!”

Well, learning takes time.

¡Ay Diós mio!

Skin I'm In

Today's Thoughts...

Every so often something happens to remind me that no paradise is paradise untainted, na? Last night had a blast hangin out with friends for the night. We decided to make our way to one of the more happenin clubs in town. As per usu, bouncing around, dancing about, making friends with random tables of folks, passing drinks around between us and our new compadres— a real night on the town. But there’s always something hiding just beneath the surface on these nocturnal jaunts. Always something that nags at the back of my mind when the liquor’s stopped flowing and the cups have gone dry. Suddenly, I look up and I’m all alone. Every single time.

I don’t mean that there isn’t a massive throbbing, pulsating crowd of hip young twenty-something members of the Thai elite bopping and reveling all around, but inevitably whenever I go out with a crowd of my fair-skinned friends, I can’t help notice that I’m quite frequently, almost always, the one getting no kind of play. Not the kind of coquettish play that of course comes to mind, not looking for that per se, but the joyous banter of a dance floor, the witty commentary and jokes of folks just having a good time—almost zilch. Sure I get talked to when I’m asked if my friends are dating anyone, if they like Thai men, where they are from, how long they are here, usually because my mini modicum of Thai is enough to play Hermes and pass the messages along. I get passed drinks just the same because this is Thailand and we don’t discriminate.

But almost never does it happen (unless the new cadre is of the farang variety) that anyone is interested in engaging with me on any, if admittedly superficial, level. So in these moments, I shake my fro bigger, laugh louder, dance harder, and toss back the glasses just a little faster. Coping just fine, really. Not that I blame anyone—who can? In a hemisphere obsessed with bleaching, powdering, unstaining sun-kissed flesh, where is there room for sun-scorched me?

SHEBA
Curly a-fro
Hair not so straight
I bet you don’t love my sassy gait.
I move to a rhythm, yall don’t hear
I shake my hips with women,
But I’m not quite queer.
I watch you and
You watch me
But you can’t make moves
On this Ebony
Delectable Mahogany, skin smooth and fine
Chocolate, Mocha, Licorice divine
If you only knew what’s beneath these layers
Powerful, intellectual, f the naysayers.
So wrapped up in skin so white
Can’t appreciate this hue of night
Powder those cheeks all day long
Translucent, pearlescent, flesh faded and gone.
Doused in the bleach, tryin hard to conceal
Melanin, my best friend, shit's gettin real.
Calumny and lies
That’s all you spread
Typical, predictable
--That book’s been read.
Wish I could teach you just how to see
Black is beautiful.
Black is me.

Eyes on India-- Installment 4!

Today's Thoughts...

Jaipur is hot. Rajasthan is hot. Typically, the desert is hot particularly in hot season—small fact we somehow overlooked. Boiling (literally my skin felt like it was going to slide off my face), we arrived at the eclectic and wonderful Peacock Hotel. Our jaws dropped. Palatially-sized rooms, strong arctic breezes from desert coolers (sort of like a water-powered aircon unit/fan with something resembling a bird’s nest tucked inside; still uncertain of exactly how the contraption worked), oversized king beds, shimmering bathrooms with no sullied streaks of unknown sources—we were in heaven, Peacock Heaven.

Immediately we plopped down on the beds (after a brief rendezvous on our balcony (a balcony!)) and straightaway passed out. When we woke it was dinnertime, which was the perfect time, chowing down on undeniably delicious curry, paneer, aloo, and even some sneakily weaseled warm and large Kingfisher beers. Subsequently and logically, we then we slept some more. In fact, when I think about it, when not trekking on foot in the searing heat or snapping shots (or shots being snapped of us) at national sights, we spent much of our time in recovery from the heat and chaos, sleeping. Not that I minded one bit.



Our reserves replenished, we took to the streets of Jaipur the next day. Suddenly every rickshaw driver was our best friend, every rickshaw our own private “Indian helicopter.” It was hot, the streets long, but we pressed on, politely declining every overeager offer for a ride. Wandering down a random alley, we found ourselves in the midst of one of the inner city’s bazaars. Suddenly the street narrowed to a shoulder by shoulder width and people suddenly appeared bursting from the crannies, cracks, and crevices of every building in sight. The mouth-watering smells luring us ever deeper into the fracas, we stopped at a firepit on the side of the street for samosas. Giggling children, gaping adults, shifty-eyed youngins— all stared in wonder, snickering behind their hands. A small child tried to thump my rear as he passed, chuckling with his friends. I turned and bum-bopped him right back. He squealed, jumped, and raced on laughing.



Fried savories devoured, we wound our way on through the silver market, the gold market, the metal market, the clothing market, the shoe market, the meat market, the veggie market, the market market stopping only to climb our way up the dizzying spiral staircase of a large minaret to see the city skyline. Our tireless guide (and by guide I mean the rando dude standing at the base of the minaret who followed us up and explained in lilting tongue something about a fort and a king and a son and a death and many things I found difficult to concentrate on while gazing into the exquisite midday horizon. Eeerrrrttt! Rewind. So when have you heard me tell a story that didn’t have some rando-crazy-nuh-uh-hold-up kinda ridiculousness goin on?



Oh we wound our way through the streets alright, bobbing and weaving in and out of gorgeous sari fabric shops and precious blacksmith handicraft stalls (prompting my purchase of a several kilos miniature brass theater mask—when am I going to use that again? Right. Never.) And that’s when Allison noticed her. A young woman, not more than thirty, in a faded blue sari, walking not more than twenty paces behind us. I thought she looked a little off particularly given her wild and untied/unbraided hair, so uncharacteristic of most women we saw, but I shrugged and ignored it…until we saw her behind us after nearly half an hour of our wanderings. That’s when I noticed her mildly unfocused gaze and battered appearance. We both turned around stared at her with that cold excuse-me-can-I-help-you? face, but she just stared off into space as if she couldn’t see us. Five minutes later, she was still there. We stopped again, glared again, and this time made gestures for her to get-going. Not a moment’s hesitation, she walked closer, further still. Allison was getting agitated and for that matter so was I. She turned and shouted something at her. People looked, but she did nothing. Didn’t ask for cash, didn’t want a photo, didn’t try to snatch our purses, didn’t appear to want to shank us—I mean our thusfar vocabulary in random street interactions was exhausted and we could find no meaning to her madness. Yet she crept uncomfortably close still. It was unsettling.

Finally, we both turned around, marched to her, which certainly took her by surprise, and demanded to know who she was and what her deal was. Allison threatened to call the police (both of us fully aware that meant nada) and I told her that if she was going to follow us for nearly two hour she darn well better have a good reason for it and grrr! She stared back with sneering eyes (yes, sneering eyes). (A test! Aha! She DOES speak English!) Did we offend you? Hurt you? Wrong you in someway? She just stared. Well, if you've got nothing to say, then GO! I bellowed. She jumped a little and backed up a step. GO! Allison repeated. Still sneering with those now very clearly focused eyes, she backed away only to hide behind a wall and glare. I sighed, shook my head, and that’s when I spotted the minaret. So as Mr. Bubbly Bopping tour guide droned on about something I barely remember, I was searching not merely for the beauty of the Jaipur skyline, but for the trail of our sulking, slinking, spectral companion in the crowds below. Deciding the coast was clear, we descended once more into the melee. Encounter one of five million of inexplicable strangeness.

Eyes on India-- Installment 3!

Today's Thoughts...

It was 4 a.m.: we saddled up like camels preparing for our sojourn across the seas of sand. Combing our way through the dark, we arrived at the New Delhi Railway Station. True to Lonely Planet’s word, the day before every tout and uncle within sight swore till they were blue in the face that no tourist office existed in the ND Railway station. That we had to go to a special office, their special office. That there was a fire; that it was their lunch break; that rabid chimps had taken over the office and held hostage all inside (not as far-fetched as it sounds when I started to notice the oddly copious hordes of primates in Indian train stations). Whatever, we said, we want to see this for ourselves. And we saw it alright, in the form of two tickets issued by an official tourist office employee, posted price to boot. At 4 a.m., tickets in hand, we arrive at the station, sleeping babies and grannies and mommies and poppies everywhere. By about 5 a.m., our train appears to arrive. In our spare time, we had made a friend, a young guy heading to Jaipur to publish his new book on Rajasthani fabrics and the legacy behind them.

Chatting and rubbing our puffy eyes, we slog our way onto the train. We walk the length of the train and platform, with no luck at finding our “air con chair seats.” Disheartened, we assume we’ve been had and head to the car marked with the number on our tickets. A frightening-ish bunker in the wee light of the morn with dozing bodies stretched everywhere, pools of spittle on the floor, and remnants of what I expect must have been last night’s samosas, ah and Mr. Cockroach, the erstwhile tenant of our car. But something doesn’t feel right. Allison inquires if this is the train to Jaipur. Blank stares. Now the first thing that struck me when I got to India was the abundance of English speakers, a foreign concept coming from the khas and kops of Thailand. I tried my luck on a small child—no dice. Our friend did as well and turned to us in confusion— this is the train to DEHRADUN! As in about a gazillion kilometeres north of Rajasthan. His eyes appear panicked. Bloody hell.

We turn to exit and notice that our path of egress has been blocked by other entering passengers. Everyone is suddenly crowding quickly… the train is moving! We push and nudge our way politely to a door. A man stands mouth-wide, gaping at us as he washes his face and shaves in the sink. Allison makes a hurried gesture to the door. He continues to stare, holding his razor. Our friend waves his arms wildly. The man does not budge and the train has gained speed. I turn heel, and squeezing Allison’s hand run in the opposite direction. A single small child is the fatality of this action. Dazed, he lies on the floor, clearly puzzled as to how he got there in the first place. We jockey and elbow past him and the rest of the cabins occupants. I pause at the door. The tracks are now whizzing beneath us. FREEZE. This is the part where I say, “These are the things I’m sure if I ever knew were to exist when I came to Asia, I would solemnly swear to NEVER do.” This is the time when I do them.

Our friend acts first and tosses his bag to the platform, jumping off into a sort of jog. I follow suit, chucking my oversized pack to the ground and reaching for his outstretched hand as he now runs to keep up with the train. We tumble to the platform. I turn, but too late to offer a hand; Allison is in the air. Wordlessly we all rise and gather our scattered belongings. After a moment’s pause, a garbled loudspeaker announces that the train to Jaipur will arrive one hour late. This is Asia after all. We take one look at one another and burst into hysterics.

Passersby stare bewildered and perturbed. We are perturbed. It is something like 6 a.m. Crying with laughter and tears, we collapse onto our bags, our hearts finally keeping pace with our breathing. This is why I came to India.

Morning March

MORNING MARCH
in tribute to the robed figures of the dawn

Burnt with a tinge that touches the sun
The smell of vermilion, a thousand golden orbs
A flame when it dances, blistering heat
Evanescent glow, celestial globe as it sinks
The sound of tangerine, a rush of sanguine winds
Russet, carmine, cerise, a blush of brilliant peach
Gracefully billowing
Constantly winnowing
Light from dark
Truth from life
Higher they climb
Olympian conference
On dorado peaks they sit
Honeyed towers of praise
La paz.

Eyes on India-- Installment 2!

Today's Thoughts...

After a mildly harrowing taxi ride from the airport, we arrived smack dab in the middle of Main Bazaar, in the Paharganj neighborhood aka backpacker-soulsearching-on the journey tomyinneryogi hangout of the city. Already spent, sweaty, and starving, Allison and I deposited our belongings in shady, sheisty, just plain sketchy digs that went by the name of Hotel Downtown. It was downtown alright. Grimy walls, rickety stairs, stained hallways that screamed something from a slasher film—yep, that was our place which Allison assured me (pause for the gentleman at the desk who hacks a loogey in her direction, er, to the trashbin at her side) came highly recommended as a sweet cheapie by a close previous companion (who a few days later, bless her heart, came down with a nasty case of bed bugs from another sweet cheapie down south). So I shrugged, albeit hesitantly, and chalked it up to my ignorance of South Asian mores and anyway it was a steal and anyway all hostels in the country sort of make your skin crawl. Eh, a little grime never hurt anyone, right?
We half stumbled our way down the small alleyway the hotel was located in, out to the main street. I promptly dove behind a cucumber pushcart to avoid the large wildebeest hurtling my way. Correction—cow. The large COW hurtling my way.

Shaken, though not broken, I clung tight to Allison as we picked our way through the main drag. No fewer than six motos nearly ran me down, two taxis actually struck me (going at about 10kmh, mind you), and three more cows stepped on my foolishly exposed toes. Steel-toed boots next trip? Check. Sort of like a game of Frogger, we danced across the street, zigzagged around the corner, and found ourselves in front of a dilapidated building. Allison reconsidered her guidebook. We were in the right place. We made our way up the five flights of stairs, I slipped twice on unknown substances, and finally arrived at a quaint and tasty-looking rooftop restaurant. We downed two sweet lassis a piece, a basket of garlic naan, some chicken tandoori, and a delectable bowl of curried chindi paneer (chickpeas and fresh cheese). I nearly melted out of my seat. Most of India was much the same—a culinary banquet at every meal. I may have had three bad meals during my entire stay. Gotta hand it to them, Indians know how to rustle up some mighty good grub. No complaints there!

Reluctantly, we stumbled our way back into the city (spent most of this trip stumbling and bumbling through the country), swathed our faces in moist scarves to keep from hacking from the billowing clouds of construction smoke (all prep for the Common Wealth games in October), and dodged wayward streams of saliva as we headed back to our humble (homey? homely? unholy?) abode. The next morning found us, satiated from an oversized breakfast-brunch-lunch, heading out to meet fellow traveling companions on what we expected to be a whirlwind tour through Rajasthan, the western desert state of the North. Instead, evening found us, sweaty, exhausted, shopped out, and lamentably friend-less as our would-be companions had taken off on their own whirlwind tour the day before without us. With a pout and a sigh, we bought train tickets to Jaipur, the pink city of Rajasthan, and prepared our own bootleg Indian desert (so smart aren’t we in hot season?) adventure. Well, at least the hotels would be cheap, bed bugs and all.

Five Things Mama India taught me my very first day:

1. Cleanliness is overrated
2. Culinary-ness is next to godliness
3. Dodging cars, cows, and streams of saliva that reach inhuman distances= Olympic sport
4. Beauty is skin deep, and hair deep, and sari deep, and Indian women deep
5. Rooftop refuge is a must.

And as a bonus— one hell of a way to spend my birthday. Desert sands, here I come!

Eyes on India—Installment 1

Today's Thoughts...

About a month and a half ago, something really awesome, incredible, and worthy of much fanfare and to-do, FINALLY happened in my life—I went to INDIA. Not really my Motherland, but after four years of gyrating, hip shaking, and exceptional eye seduction in an Indian dance troupe, I feel something likening kinship with the country. A little lowe for Mother India. Thus I began my birthday after spending the night on the floor of the Bangkok airport, straddling two continents as I leapt from Bangkok to Delhi at the start of my grand Indian adventure.

I hopped on my Jet Airways flight from Bangkok, pleasantly surprised and pleased by what I saw. Truly a worthwhile in-flight experience with great service to boot. I had no complaints. I arrived in Kolkata, already a bit wary from the countless warnings and advice from friends, websites, etc. I was ready at arms for anything. After bumbling like an idiot to get through security (“No, miss, this is the man’s security line. Are you a man?” snicker, snicker, a flashing of my dagger eyes.), I finally get my way through the winding woman’s search line, nearly four times the length of that for the men. Come on, ladies, let’s get with the program. After a three hour sulk, starving in the airport, no ATMs in sight to snag cash for a sandwich, hungrily and admittedly moodily at my foolishness for not having cash, I get on my Spice Jet flight. Hahaha, my Spice Jet flight. And oh, was it zesty as ever. (Not really, I just had to throw that one out there).

Delhi. The international arrivals are quite nice, far beyond what I was expecting of a chaotic tumble. I waited for about an hour and half for my friend Allison to show up, and eagerly beaming ran to hug her. Immediately I knew something was up. Bags under her eyes, face slightly flushed, she looked like she’d gone through a number. “How was Mumbai!” I squealed. She smiled weakly and motioned for us to head out for a taxi. In nearly a month’s time, I’d find myself shaking my head at my naivete. Oh, Mama India, how you have changed me.

TBC...

Power of the Pen

Today's Thoughts...

After what I thought was a very successful class on the social commentary and pseudo-feminist analysis in Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper,” I heard the words that would make any teacher groan: why so serious? Well, in a piece about the effects of psychosis on a woman tumbling into mental deterioration, I suppose one might think that the story might be a bit… serious.

But this is typical commentary for any piece I examine with my kids that doesn’t end with a hearty guffaw or have some secret murderous twist to freeze their hearts in their chests. Often, I hear my students complain not simply that the language is difficult (a deserved statement perhaps when dealing with Shakespeare and ESL readers); not that the concepts are too complicated (as one may be wont to say when digesting Dickens or Hawthorne or Brecht); and not even that the material is too dense (a ten page short story consisting of a series of pithy journal entries hardly warrants the nomenclature of the “tedious text” category). No, my students merely put up a fuss because (surprise, surprise!), sometimes life just ain’t all that purdy.

Now I’ll be fair. Sometimes, we do discuss particularly depressing pieces (excluding the pieces on depression per se). I often find myself explaining some major historical occurrence that, despite the indelible mark stamped upon the West, has left barely a trace this side of the Pacific. For example, the Holocaust.
My students all know what occurred during World War II; they can recite the victors, regurgitate the dates, and recount some tales of woe from these places called concentration camps. Never mind about the atrocious scientific testing on people herded about like cattle. Forget the tales of terror, hiding out in secreted annexes. There was a Hitler, but no frighteningly calculating individuals who went home to their wife and kids every night. There were camps, but no chambers that sucked the life from their inhabitants. That’s just it— it’s simply a veneer of knowledge. For them, these things existed, occurred, but behind a smoke screen, after which the movie was over and everybody lived happily (if brokenly) ever after. The End.

Now how exactly is that going to work in a literature class exploring the depths of mental turmoil and the weight upon the nuclear family unit in Williams’ Glass Menagerie, of the Civil Rights movement in America and the struggle of Black America in Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun, of the perils of reader censorship and the future brain drain of modern society in Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451? I was already chastised once for thinking these kids could read more than two books in a semester (nearly graduating seniors though most of them are). Now what? Am I saying they can prod the depths? That there’s somewhere deeper to go? That it might be possible in some far stretches of the wild, wild imagination to envision a hypothetical situation not yet determined to exist in which these students, my pupils might comprehend a greater world than the sphere they’ve been bubbled in? Time and tests will tell.

Good literature is supposed to teach us about the world. Good literature is supposed to teach us about ourselves. So when you ask, ajarn, why so serious? My answer?

Unfortunately, sometimes life is more than just smiles.

Deja Vu

Today's Thoughts...

So I’ve started teaching again.

I said, I’ve started teaching again!

This is the part where smoke and thunder fills the sky and some unseen voice tells me my destiny is doom, doom, DOOM! You know? The booming voice of fate that informs me that I have made the fatal error and—gasp—remained in stasis dare I say for another semester? Right. Nada. Didn’t hear a word from the skies.
What I did hear this week, however, was the raucous applauding and cheering as I walked into a classroom of students I had never met; the giddy giggles and explosions of AJAAAAAARN! as I pass through the halls; and the gentle murmur of approval from my fellow faculty colleagues. Man, it feels good to be home.

As it is, I sacrificed the chance to flee back to the Atlantic and a world of sticky oil spills and stickier health care bills. I stayed. I stayed. And it feels good. I miss my family a TON. My little brother, well not so little I guess at sixteen with a mustache and muscles to boot, finally got his first summer job selling hotdogs and concessions at the baseball stadium. I feel like a Mommy missing her kid’s first day of school. One of my best friends just graduated, countless pictures of her beaming in her cap and gown all over Facebook. I missed the jolly old year-numero-uno Reunions for my graduating class. A lot of things are happening at home, but even more things are happening inside of me right here.
Watching the newbies come in—teachers fresh off the boat, so to speak, with eager eyes and broad smiles ready to soak up life in the sun on the sands of Thai shores—I suddenly feel old. Correction, I feel ancient.

Some huge stone has been placed upon my back and suddenly, I buckle under its massive weight. I am a year out. I am a year out with no career or grad school plans, at least not remotely concrete ones, in sight. Did I make the wrong decision to escape to a land of coconuts and smiles? Should I be squeezing my way behind a desk at a 9-5 or cramming the contents of classic literature or political theory in the hallowed halls of an institute of higher higher education? I made this choice and now… I’m coping with all the particles that come with living with it.

I am happy. I am also intermittently lonely, no matter how many incredible friends I surround myself with. I love teaching. I also feel unfulfilled at times when I’d rather be measuring out spike tape on a stage than recording attendance in a class. I don’t know if I made the right decision. What is right anyway? Right now? Right not left. Righteous minded. Right is relative. I made a decision and I think it was a good decision and at the moment I am just waiting to see, thank you very much. What does autumn hold as the green green banana leaves change…well… remain their perky green? Your guess is as good as mine. But right now, for the moment, I think here is a good place to be.