Holi (the greatest holiday in the universe) and Kodaikanal

Lots to report America. I’ve again been neglecting my duty to record the mundane details of my life in hopes of finding something in my year abroad that I can trick potential employers into thinking is "life experience." However, the posts should get better because my sense of procrastinatory purpose has been restored. Finally, after months of arduous yet fruitless quests, I have real, actual books to read for a real actual research paper.

So starting with last week: unfortunately, India does not really celebrate Saint Patrick's Day, so there was no pretending to be Irish by dressing up like a leprecaun and singing Danny Boy (written by an English guy, just saying) this year. Instead there was Holi. America, I am not concerned by the fact that China is prospected to overtake our great nation in scientific output by 2013 (science is unamerican anyway), but shame, America, shame for neglecting the ridiculous holiday front. This should be our number one priority. Last Saturday morning, I was riding my awesome-hot-pink-recently-less-broken-than-usual bicycle back up from the football fields when I encountered a large mob of about one hundred strangers standing menacingly outside my dorm. I say strangers 1. because most of them really were strangers and 2. because the people I actually knew were completely covered in a rainbow of semi-cancerous neon paint powder. Armed with handfuls of colored powder, super soakers, and a drum which I can only assume came from Lord of the Flies, a sea of arms unceremoniously pulled me off my bike and completely covered me in Holi powder in a matter of 6 seconds. Surprise! I was more prepared on Sunday. The Frisbee team I’ve been playing with decided to play Holi (people say “play” Holi. It’s delightful), which resulted in my hair remaining green for about one week (also boogers are no longer black. Now rainbow). Riding home, strangers stained bright pink, the official color of Holi, would wave at each other, and for the next 4 days I would see people on the street with odd patches of green or purple on their skin, and assume they had contracted some form of alien leprosy before remembering. Best. Holiday. Ever.

Shirt started white. Just saying.

This past weekend (by this past weekend I mean from Wednesday morning to Monday morning because my classes are cancelled so often at this point that I only had to skip two of them to take this trip) I went with the Hyderabad frisbee team to our first tournament in Kodaikanal. As usual, I am going to talk about the train journey for longer than I talk about the actual trip because traveling in India is ridiculous (and because I actually may have spent more time on the train than I did in Kodaikanal.) Travel Buddy Judith and I boarded the train on Wednesday morning at 10AM, and with miraculously little incident we met our additional travel buddy, our English teammate, Beth (we bond over the fact that I know what "taking the piss" means) on the next train. As usual, the array of merchants selling chai, omelets, Rubik's cubes, car parts, etc. each chanting a song they had written about said merchandise (for example Chaichaichaichchchchaichaichaaaaaaiiii) paraded back and forth down the aisle for the entirety of the journey. We shared a compartment with a delightful Muslim man who switched seat with us every three hours or so in order to face the correct direction when he prayed. He became slightly less delightful when Beth accidentally let slip that she does not go the church, and he decided that English people are evil, but still smiled excessively and gave us candy. We discovered, as per usual India, that there would be no train from Coimbatore to Kodaikanal and that the bus routes had been blocked by a landslide. So the next morning we got off at the stop before Coimbatore, bought a ticket, found out that train was cancelled, and caught the following train which only came an hour late. Luckily this gave us ample time to get breakfast, at which point one of my contact lenses came out and literally the entire diner, including the kitchen staff, stopped in its tracks and watched in shock and horror as I put it back in my eye, as if I had just removed my eyeball. Waiting for the train we also met a gentleman with an extremely impressive mustach (mustaches are big with men in India. So are bell-bottoms. I never want to leave), who insisted that Beth speak to his college bound daughter on the phone about grad schools in England because her accent made her an instant authority on the matter.

 

This child road his bike back and forth down the aisle of our next train to the musical stylings of what I can only describe as a low budget sci-fi sound effects mix tape. A guy in the compartment next to us was happily listening to screeching sounds and different frequencies of static on his phone for the better part of two hours. Arriving at our next station, Kodaikanal Road Station, which logically seemed like it would be somewhere near Kodaikanal, an exceedingly persistent taxi driver decided to take it upon himself to inform us that there was no bus to Kodaikanal, but he would give us a very good and special deal. We found the bus station after an hour of searching and asking various people, with the taxi driver still tailing us and insisting that he would still give us a good and special deal, up until the point that the bus pulled away. We took two buses and it took about 4 more hours getting us to Kodaikanal about 32 hours after we'd left, but the entire trip was hysterical and the view up the mountain was gorgeous.

Kodaikanal is also called the Cloud City

 Kodai is cold at night. I have not experienced even mild chilliness since December, so I got to be a real frisbee player again and break out the ugly flannel shirt. Anyway, we finally got to the hotel where we were checked in by Messrs Kennedy and Clinton (not kidding) who very excitedly informed us 14 times that they have showers with hot water! 24 hours hot water, madams! No other hostel had ever had hot water, nor had they ever made mention of it, so imagine my excitement, like a child sprinting downstairs on Christmas morning, as we raced to our room to take our first showers after two days on public transportation. But you guessed it, America, my metaphorical Christmas presents were ugly metaphorical socks. I actually experienced brain freeze and saw my breath (I am not kidding) due to the temperature of the shower (turns out they just needed to replace the battery, but it was so hilarious at the time.)

The next day we stepped outside the hotel, and sure enough there was the same taxi driver from 80 km down the mountain, asking if we needed a ride. We got about a day of sightseeing in before the boys showed up, and then we had all our frisbee matches, which took up most of the weekend. If I elaborate much though, I'll start speaking in tongues (overenthusiastic frisbee jargon) and lose the remaining three people that compose my readership (one of whom I think may be the cat my mother has replaced me with). So just some highlights: For those unfamiliar with it, frisbee is actually a pretty serious game with a lot of plays and strategies. And I like to make my team pretend to be dinosaurs and/or turkeys once in a while to throw off the other team's defense. I love my team, and the people we played against were all really fun, so good weekend.

Other than that, yesterday India won the India v. Pakistan cricket match, meaning at 11:30 PM the streets were flooded with screaming, cheering people, firecrackers and other such explosives, motorcycles zooming by with giant flags, and lots of extremely happy strangers hugging each other. This is a country of really good celebraters.

Today, in Hindi class I learned that my teacher is not sassily calling me out every ten minutes or so like I thought for the entire semester. The word "jaise," pronounced "Jesse" means "like this," and she says it pretty sternly every time she writes an example on the board.

And finally, today the required books for my Human Rights course came in! Yes, the final is in two weeks, and yes, I have circumnavigated the earth and climbed Mount Doom searching for books for the past 3 months, but hooray! They're here!

I'm starting to get to that point that I got to last semester, where I'm finally more comfortable, have slightly more substantial friendships, and really start enjoying myself... which means I'm leaving soon. But that's okay. A month is a pretty long time. And it will be kind of a relief to sleep in the same city for more than 2 months in a row next year.

Also, I have a job and possibly a car for the summer, and a house with roommates for next year, and classes, real classes with real books. Little brother meeting me in Italy in T minus 30 days. Life couldn't be better.

I Visit Mysore and Extract the Plague

Dear America,

It is with great sadness that I must inform you that India has given me the plague (a small stomach virus). As we speak a small alien is feeding on my large intestine, growing and spawning until it will eventually claw its way through my tissue and burst from my stomach its teeth from its three bulbous alien heads gnashing (my tummy hurts) as it scours the area for its next victim (I'm going to purposely cough on the next professor who cancels class). I am too weak from sickness and despair to move (the Tylenol should kick in in about 20 minutes) and I find solace only in confiding in the motherland from my sickbed.

This past weekend CIEE planned a group trip to Mysore, oh foul seed of my stomach's undoing. I had been wondering where the giant program fee that CIEE required was going (besides our matching T-shirts, snack time, and prize money for inane contests such as the who-can-dial-the-program-director's-number-the-fastest contest). It went into this trip (Disclaimer: I get seriously irritated with CIEE sometimes, but the directors actually in India are doing a good job). The trip was planned for March 10, which coincidentally was also the date of the million person Telengana march, so our car got stopped several times by police on the way to the airport. That's right, you heard me correctly, airport. Super fancy luxury number one: a glorious, air conditioned, one person per seat, neutral smelling mode of transportation with real working doors that brought us to our destination in less than 18 hours. It was beautiful.

When we arrived in Mysore, after our 4 hour bus ride from Bangalore in our air conditioned, fancy-pants, TV containing, seat reclining, in-case-you-didn't-notice-we-are-tourists-please-stare-at-us! bus, I immediately started taking obnoxious tourist pictures 1. because it's super fun to be obnoxious and 2. because CIEE booked us for the fanciest hotel in the universe. This place had a chandelier in the lobby. We went up stairs where I jumped on my fluffy, bedbug and roach-free bed complete with linens that had been recently washed and two pillows, used my Western toilet with the little "this toilet has been sanitized" paper strip, and watched Indian VH1 (nerdy Indian gentleman with large 90s sunglasses and classy Indian lady in silver taffata dress earnestly co-ganster rapping) and Indian MTV (on which two Indian men were playing the slap game -- a game in which one person slaps the other as hard as he can for 30 seconds).

Inside one of the Buddhist temples

This is what the alien will look like once it has burst forth from my stomach and devours my carcass as its first earthly meal.

Since the trip was organized by CIEE, pretty much our entire time there was scheduled with lectures, performances, temple visits, and crayon drawings (not kidding), most of which were really interesting. We got to visit an exiled Tibetan community, and the Dali Lama had just stepped down as political leader the day before, so that was really exciting. Despite all the educational/historical/super old and beautiful/ridiculously fancy stuff though, I am going to have to say that the most memorable part of this trip was the food, not because it was delicious (which it was), not because it was the first recognizable green substance I have consumed in 2.5 months (which it was), and not because I believe it may be responsible for the evil parasite that is currently feasting on my innards (Tylenol, why won't you work?), but because India has several special rules about eating that I have heretofore not mentioned:

1. All food must be delicious. Preferably deep fried and delicious. This will both gain your guests' trust and encourage them to eat more.

2. Never tell your guests how many courses there will be. Always let them assume there is just one based on the enormous serving size of the first scoop of colorful, many-syllabled unidentified goop that you plop onto their plate. The subsequent 11 courses will be an exciting suprise!

3. All serving sizes must be huge. Preferably at least 4 times the amount of food that a normal human being can consume. Otherwise you are inhospitable.

4. Even if your guests say they don't want any more, they really do. You should plop another giant spoonful of butter fried rice on their plate even if they quickly pull their plate away and cover it with their hands like a nerdy 3rd grader trying to keep other kids from cheating off his spelling test, shouting "no, no please! I've already had 11 courses. My stomach is going to explode!"

5. If your guest does not finish all the food on their plate it does not mean that they are extremely full from the previous giant plate of food that you gave them, or that they are allergic to the food you have given them; it means that they hate you and your cooking. It also means that they do not care about wasting food or starving people.

6. If your guest manages to finish the enormous plate of food that you deftly managed to scoop onto their plate around their arms outstretched in protest, you should immediately refill their plate while they are not looking. Remember, this is a competition. The foreigner must never win. You must be more polite and hospitable than them.

Anyway, I would say it was a pretty successful trip. We got to fly all the way back rather than busing half the way, so I got to see four safety demonstrations narrated over an intercom by a creepily seductive voice for a safety demostration and acted out by flight attendants wearing bump-its and/or a natural Snooki poof (I think it was part of the uniform).

I'm going back to sleep now though. The alien is feeding again, and I need my strength.



Place 12 vehicles around it ,and three more adults and a small child or baby on the front seemingly steering the motorcycle, and you have a fairly common representation of driving in India.



Like the rest of India, this post is a little too random to have a coherent title.

Dear America,

As much as I want to talk about my various public transportation catching misfortunes, bicycle problems, and continuing quest for classes, (and then I'll talk about all my exciting trips to the store to buy batteries and train

missing experiences).

(India has decided to double space my post yet again.) I've been following all the protests going on in Egypt and Libya pretty faithfully, and I know that protests happen all the time, but it seems like this year is an especially revolutionary year, maybe because there are so many other protests happening close to home. The Telengana separatist movement has been getting increasingly intense (I'm still safe). There was another bandh last week, meaning the city was shut down by vigilante protesters for 48 hours, and all my classes were cancelled. Then there was the rail roko, which halted all local trains for an entire day. And I didn't mention this before because I was worried about presenting it with the gravity it deserves, but people have committed suicide as a political statement for this cause. Employees and students are striking, sit-ins are being staged everywhere, people are throwing rocks, police have used tear gas. There were a bunch of workers sitting outside the university gate yesterday and police milling around everywhere (not actually sure if its related though. I asked a guard and he said "Nothing is going on. Nothing is there!" the first definitive answer I have ever gotten in India: a completely inaccurate statement which actually means "Get away now, and don't ask questions.") According to the news, the final push is going to be a million person march into Hyderabad where they will lay siege to the city (yes, the article literally says "siege"). But I don't even know if it will be the real "final push" because the Srikrishna committee was supposed to have made a final decisive pronouncement in January. Things just keep getting pushed back. I've been careful not to express support for either side because it's not my fight/I'm supposed to be an ambassador for America/people are so passionate about it, but it's a very exciting time to be in Hyderabad.

Meanwhile, students at Dickinson just staged a massive protest to improve the school's policy on sexual violence, and I'm a little disappointed that I couldn't be there to take part in it (being Feminist Jesse and all). I'm just so excited about it because from what I gather, both side handled it really well, and it looks like Dickinson has already made a lot of concessions.

Now on to to more mundane: public transportation. I could say it was an unlucky week, but instead I'm going to say it was an adventurous week. While England has no visibly marked addresses, there are no road signs in India, and most people (including drivers) don't know where most things are, so I can't really go places without getting lost. But everyone in India is lost, so I'm never really lost. I had four or five bus adventures (lost, stranded, or otherwise detoured transportation mishaps) and two blown bike tires this week, so I'm just going to narrate one. I decided to take the local train to the park to play frisbee. So after getting up the requisite 2 hours early, battling a small zombie infestation (I know that sounds nasty, but there is no other way to describe the line for train tickets. There is a large crowd of men that push each other out the way to get to the front. I kid you not, one man actually grabbed another man around the middle and tried to lift him out of the way. And then about 12 people try to shove their hands into the little one person ticket hole at the front of the line while everyone continuously shouts their destination rhythmically, which begins to sound a little like a "braaaaains" chant), shoving our way onto the unlabeled train (we were lucky enough to find space in the toilet bay), my travel buddy, Judith, and I discovered that the train was going in the opposite direction of the park. Yes, we had gotten on the same train on the same track at the same time the last time we went to the park, but this is India; we should have known better. So after passing Gullaguda (a place that sounds suspiciously like the island homeland of the yellow polliwog from one of my favorite 90s Nickelodeon shows), we got off at the next stop, a random deserted field an hour outside of Hyderabad. We began to panic when all the sudden we heard a glorious sound... "Hallo? HALLOOOOOOO!!!! Where you are going, madams?!" ... the sound of a confused Indian man wondering what the two idiot white girls are doing at a deserted train station. After convincing him that we would rather take the 20 extra steps required to walk on the stairs over the train track rather than climbing down into the sharp, rusty pit to walk directly over the sets of operating train tracks, we met him on the other side and explained that we needed to get back to Hyderabad. Luckily, he was extremely friendly. He invited us into the control room for chai, told us his entire life story, showed us pictures of his grand kid, talked about the wonders of Jesus (this happens a lot. People seem to equate white people with super-duper Christianity), and sent us on our merry way back to Lingampalli. One great thing about India: higher ratio of entire-life-story-upon-meeting-you people. So, yes, I guess I could say I got lost 5 or 6 times, that my bike broke, and that I got attacked by zombies, or I could say I am still successfully surviving Indian public transportation, I fixed my bike, and I defeated several zombies.


Instead of going on a long trip this week I've been having a lot of miniadventures (most involving getting lost, actually involving India getting lost and changing the relativity of my geographic position through no fault of my own). I got to jumped on several rapidly accelerating buses this week, which is pretty much the equivalent of eating an apple pie at a baseball game in America. I'm basically assimilated. And I drove a motorcycle (in an empty parking lot for 8 seconds. It counts). Because my bicycle was broken (or as I like to say, operationally challenged since this is the optimism only section) this week, I got to do a lot more hitchhiking on campus this week (which makes me sound really awesome and On the Road-ish, but is actually a norm). The weekend consisted mostly of playing football(soccer) and frisbee at ungodly early hours of the morning to avoid the heat. We've officially hit the 100 degree range this week, and I can no longer get the shower to emit cold water. I never thought I'd have that problem.


With any luck, the maybe-test, that glorious hypothetical proof that I am actually doing something remotely academic and will receive a bountiful reward (course credit) for my arduous quest to procure syllabus and books, will be occurring today. It did not happen last week like I had hoped, but I'm sure the professor will actually show up for class today.


***** Update! ***** The maybe-test occurred yesterday (I started writing this on Monday morning but got distracted). Still no sign of my professor, but he did send a lovely substitute who lectured about something (unrelated to human rights). My doodling skills have been improving immensely!


Other mini adventures: I finally got to see the Birla Temple this week, which is this beautiful giant white temple in the middle of Hyderabad with ornate shrines to most of the major religions of India. I have successfully learned to ride my bike with no handle bars, another marketable skill from India that I will surely write on my resume for the internships that I really do not want, but should be applying for because if I don't get an internship this summer there is no possible way I will know what to do with my life, let alone get a job, my education will crumble to pieces, I will have to sell my hair (which I am told will soon fall out anyway due to the malaria pills) to pay off my student loans, and I will have to resort to keeping the twelve cats that I will be living with (since no suitable husband will accept me without a junior year internship) in my refrigerator box home.


I also got to see a Kuchipudi fusion dance performance in honor of Women's month. An Indian woman started with a short Kuchipudi piece, which is the traditional dance of Andhra Pradesh, and then a random German woman in the audience started talking to her, and she looked sort of taken aback. I assumed that this woman was actually a stranger interrupting the performance because something like that would actually be totally normal here [more and more, I am realizing that funniness is almost completely contextual. People do the most bizarre, hilarious things here -- like grown men joyously singing Barbie Girl on their bicycles and asking me for an autograph and chanting PEENAPELL!! (pineapple. And yeah, the double parentheses just happened) in a chipmunk voice continuously for an hour straight on a moving train at 6AM -- but they're social norms. Sometimes I worry that when I come home, my appreciation for the ridiculous will have dulled... or I will just have more fodder to freak people out with my weird behavior. One of those two.] Anyway, it turns out the German woman was part of the show and they were doing one of those weird postmodern, breaking down of the 4th wall in theater things. So she got up and did some really awesome, but very odd modern dance involving a machine which looked a bit like a jet pack strapped to her back which made various cricket, water, and other new-agey earth noises whenever she moved. And now everyone in the audience thinks that your typical Western dance. It's just like what I used to do in England: do something weird and insist that its an American tradition.


Other than that, I've just been spending a lot of time trying to talk to people on campus and in Hyderabad. I've had limited opportunity since I've been away most weekends (and CIEE doesn't want me to make friends so they keep me in a foreigners only fortress a mile from everyone else on campus. Shouldn't complain though. We get air conditioning). It's been a really exciting week in that respect. Everyone I've met has been really awesome/way more interesting than I will ever be. But conversations don't make for very exciting adventure stories so I'll leave it with that for now.


We're headed to Mysore this weekend for the CIEE planned field trip, so I'm preparing for more middle school fun. I hope we get to wear our matching T-shirts again.

Hampi: The Adventure Continues! (and other exciting but unrelated stuff!)

Dear America, Land of Snot that is Green, Left Handed Scissors, and Toilet Paper that I Don't Have to Ration and Trade like Cigarettes in a Minimum Security Prison,

I believe our story last paused with the promise of creepy mermaid babies, so in the style of an infuriating multiple episode TV special (i.e. Kurt and Blaine's will-they-won't-they relationship in TV's ridiculous, mildly nonsensical hit series Glee), I'm going to develop another plot (and probably leave it with a similarly infuriating cliffhanger) before continuing with cliffhanger at hand.

I have my first Human Rights test on Monday (maybe. I haven't actually seen the professor in a week or two, and he never announced the test in class, but it seems to be happening according to the vague powers of India). Human Rights, if you will remember, is one of the courses which required a month long Lord of the Rings quest to obtain the syllabus. I had originally thought that was going to be a Mordor-capital-letter-Q-Quest, but it turns out it was just a get-to-Rivendell-there-are-actually-still-two-and-a-half-movies-left-in-this-journey-including-elephant-fights-mini-quest, as after I did obtain the reading list I discovered that it encompassed not a list of 8 required readings paired with the lecture dates which would supplement my obscure-accented professor, but a list of a million bajillion "recommended reading," none of which were available in the library or the campus book store or the random book truck that sometimes parks outside of the campus shopping complex (Dear America, why don't we have book trucks?). Anyway, through an intensive search montage, I deduced that a few of the articles were available at the Center for Distance Education, an conveniently unlabeled academic building somewhere on campus. However, after another search montage I discovered that this was not the Center for Distance Learning that contained books. The cryptic man at the desk informed me that I would have to traverse to the Golden Threshold for that. Upon returning to my professor, the sage, Mr. Miyagi character (with equally veiled advice that only makes sense at the end of the movie and equally inscrutable accent) of this story, I found out that another book was more closely within my reach. His assitant would make a copy and I could pick it up tomorrow. So I temporarily abandoned Indiana Jones and the Gold Threshold, and returned the next day to find that the assistant was not there and that Mr. Miyagi would not be returning until the date of the maybe-test. With my new book title I ventured into town via 6 different forms of transportation, and checked 3 different major book stores, each deeper into the concrete/garbage/beautiful temples/amusingly mispelled English billboard jungle of Hyderabad. The third store finally had it. However, it did not have an cataloguing system so the two store employees procured it for me after half an hour of checking every single title of every shelf in the store. So I am now in possession of Amartya Sen's Argumentative Indian, a book that is not about human rights. But what will happen next for our hero? Will Mr. Miyagi ever return? Will the maybe-test actually occur? Will she ever obtain a book related to human rights?  Tune in next time!

Now on to the creepy mermaid baby. Unfortunately I couldn't get a picture because I was concerned that displaying it on the internet might have the same effect as a Gorgon, but here is the tapestry that was displayed next to the moonlit mermaid baby tapestry in the eating establishment my travel buddies and I went to in Hampi after our Hanuman mountain adventure:



I named the scary imp on the left, Strawberry. He is a vegan and uses yoga to levitate.

 Yes, friends, Hampi is hippy Mecca. Dreadlocked, silly Ali Baba pants sporting, "authentic wooden Indian flute that I bartered with a craftsman on the street corner for," drug induced spiritual journey having, foreigners lined the streets of Hampi, and it was glorious. (I do not mean to rip people having spiritual journeys and other backpackers. There were just too many stereotypes in one place). In addition to the creepy mermaid and psychedelic mushroom nymphs, the cafe also had a Dali tapestry, hammocks (each containing its own respective obscure instrument playing occupant emitting an array of different smokes), and the chillest of chill annoying hippy music with redundant guitar chords and lyrics about enlightenment. It was the best lunch ever. Unfortunately, after our morning of hiking through various hottest-part-of-the-days, two of my travel companions got sick from what we think was heat exhaustion. So I spent the rest of the day generally wandering and purchasing Ali Baba pants. (Ali Baba pants are the extremely silly, voliminous pants that people often associate with India because everyone in Alladin, which does not take place in India, wears them. I have never seen an Indian wear them, but merchants in Hampi know that tourists love them, and I must say, they rank pretty high on the delightful-o-meter.) Then next morning we had breakfast on our hostel's rooftop cafe, where the manager played one of his favorite Hindi songs, which repeats the same two lines 101 times. I know because I asked him. Then he played it again. My two travel buddies were still feeling sick, so just Travel Buddy Denise and I set out to see the rest of the temples. We talked to several of the rickshaw drivers on our walk down the road, who fondly remembered us as the girls who walk everywhere (because we're too cheap to take a rickshaw). Some little kids approached us, so we were talking to them, and then their parents came and invited us into this open building... which turned out to be a wedding. It was awesome. Everyone was really excited to see us, they fed us, they showed us around the adjoining temple, they were just generally super nice, and they even invited us to come back later for lunch.

Part of the wedding. Something with rice (I'm not really sure what. The people I asked only spoke Canada... that's the mother language of Karnataka, not our friendly neighbors to the north )

 So after that we saw checked out the rest of the temples, did more general wandering, purchased the world's tiniest bananas, and sat in one place for a very long time (this sounds like it would be really boring, but it's actually one of the best parts of traveling, especially when you are obviously foreign. So many people come up to talk to you. One of the traveling instrument salesmen, came up to me and started pulling every manner of random thing out of his magical Harry Potter bag, and when I told him I wasn't going to buy anything he stayed and talked to me about music anyway. Then showed me how to build this weird quacking ocarina instrument out of wax and a dried up plant rind.) So excellent trip, my only minor complaint being the ride home. We got an overnight bus. Whenever I book an overnight bus I always forget that I'm booking an overnight bus in India, which means that it is more than likely that the bus will have a very loud dying cockatoo horn which the driver beeps very often and unneccessarily.

Other news from this week: I finally found a frisbee team! They seem really cool, and there might be a tournament in Kodaicanal (the cloud city) in a few weeks, so I'm very excited. I jumped onto a rapidly accelating bus, the only proper way to enter a bus in India, so Operation Assimilate is going along nicely. Also, I like califlower now (I'm becoming different and worldly).

My Trip to "Hampi," A Beautiful Land that is Totally Real and Not Part of Some Weird Indian Truman Show

America, this week has been so action packed (my life can be described in the same words as the summary on the back of a B rated DVD) that I'm going to have to resort to list form again. I am currently staying up way past my Indian grandmother bed time (10 or 11pm... I've been calling myself Gladys this semester) because tomorrow my classes are cancelled yet again, except this time for a good reason. My Human Rights class was cancelled yesterday because my professor is mediating negotiations with the Orissa government about a kidnapping (I am now slightly more sympathetic that class gets cancelled so much and he still hasn't given us access to any of the reading material for the course). Also, the Telengana Action Committee has called another bandh on the city, which means that for the next 24 hours the city is on lock down because of the Telengana separatist movement. Serious stuff (I am safe). Actually, this post, the first half at least, is going to be less silly than usual, but hopefully still interesting. Otherwise skip down to Friday, my trip to Hampi, Land of SIlly Hippy Nonsense and Delightful Pants.

Monday: Immediately after class I caught a shared autorickshaw to the Safrani school. It's this really cool weaving school that employs widowed women and it's partnered with and funds an elementary school. I had talked to the woman in charge a week before (I can never figure out her name because its an unfamiliar Indian name that everyone says really fast, so I've just been calling her Nana in my head because she is a super sweet little old lady that constantly seems like she's about to offer you freshly baked cookies) and she had said they needed of tutors. Anyway, I show up ready to tutor, they plop me into a second grade class with a lesson plan and say, "Okay, teach now." ...Suprise! So for the next hour I taught capacity to a class of 25-30 Indian second graders. I think under normal circumstances, I would say that this was a pretty surreal experience, but I am literally phased by almost nothing after being in India for two months. I went back again yesterday and taught an English class, and it was delightful because the curriculum had a story about Kuchipudi dance and the glory of Andhra Pradesh, so I couldn't pronounce any of the long Indian names and the kids couldn't pronounce any of the English words.

Tuesday: There was this big women and rape culture discussion outside the library, so it was pretty exciting to finally get involved with some campus activity.

Wednesday: One of my stranger days in Hyderabad. I was supposed to visit an NGO (non profit organization) and basically just ask them what they do as the "big project" for one of my classes, but I've turned it into a field work assignment (because I am not a second grader, and I would actually like to get college credit for this course). So I went to this faith based HIV/AIDS clinic, and it was basically the coolest place ever. They provide counselling, and medical services, and HIV testing, and religious services for further emotional support, and they meet with pastors and community leaders to spread awareness and reduce stigma, and they visit schools and slum areas, and they provide child care, know all of their patients personally, send people visit patients regularly, deal with several other diseases and I think they also slay dragons and bandage wounded unicorns on the weekend. I stayed for like 6 hours and got to talk to a ton of people. I'm a huge fan of this organization. They use religion as a base for a support group, so they can provide confidential medical and emotional support.
Weird thing about privacy though. All the councilling and medical examinations happened in one giant room and all the walls were glass. I asked about it, and the doctor I talked to said that its a strategy to help reduce stigma and create a greater sense of community. He had me sit there through a bunch of check ups as people detailed all their extremely personal medical information (he even had me copy down a prescription) and no one seemed the least bit bothered that I was there. I'm not really sure if this is just the paradigm NGOs in India use or its a class thing, or an India thing, or something else entirely. American Privacy Jesse was super freaked out, but it seemed to work really well, and it really did seem like a tight knit community.

But now on to the sillier portion of our story: Hampi. The only way I can describe Hampi is if Disneyland tried to make an India wonderland theme park geared toward hippies and dinosaur lovers. It was, like, ... too super pretty and lush to be real. I am actually convinced that everything was made of plastic and all of the people were hired actors. I am also convinced that a pterodactyl was going to swoop down and pluck me out of the banana field we got lost in, but the director of this grand charade cut it out at the last second because he knew we were suspicious. I refuse to believe that Hampi is a real place.


Obviously not real.

Two of my travel buddies, Denise and Amanda, posing in front of what is obviously just a green screen of what is supposed to be the beautiful view from atop the mountain where Hanuman the monkey god and hero of the Ramayana was born... Sure it is.

That's right, Hampi. I'm wise to your tomfoolery. I know this is a Jurassic Park version of the Truman Show. Who looks stupid now?!

Friday: We arrived to "Hampi" (the elaborate movie set) on Friday morning after taking the overnight bus and then a local bus from Hospet. The bus ride was our first cue that something was amiss. Too many glorious super old, super beautiful temples combined with far too much picturesque scenery. But we decided to give the place the benefit of the doubt. Our hostel, a delightful place called Vicky's painted in the neon hues of Barney the big purple dinosaur, warmly greeted us with a polite warning about pickpocketers and the dangers of narcotic drugs hidden in foods from friendly strangers.

We spent most of the day contently exploring the town and enjoying the natural habitat of Barney's dinosaurs friends, who were hiding from view for most of the visit. We got there early enough to see Laksmi, the village elephant, at the Vipalksa temple. Laksmi will bless anyone who gives her two rupees by bopping them in the head with her trunk... unless you are white because her owners have trained her to be racist. (I'm actually not kidding. The elephant knew not to bop any white person in the head unless they handed her ten rupees. Impressive but disturbing talent.) We were overjoyed to discover that our hostel had the luxury of western toilets rather than the squat potties which I recently conquered but still don't really like. Fun fact though, many toilets in India sit on a raised pedestal. This is fine for squat toilets. It's sort of like going to the bathroom on an empty stage (I like to make fake applause noises when I'm finished to make the peeing process more exciting). However, when you place a western toilet on a pedestal you get what I like to call the Awkward High Chair Toilet Effect, in which your legs dangle off the side of the toilet like you are a one year old dining at IHOP.

Saturday: An extremely exciting day, we decided to start our morning early to avoid the unbearable midday heat with a hike to the mountain top Hanuman Temple on the other side of the river. We rose with the sun and got a nice breakfast to fuel our travels, papaya and banana pancakes. Then, I immediately threw up. Realizing the inevitable, I responsibly made my way to our bathroom sink and emptied the contents of my sad western stomach into its dirty porcelain depths, with great pride for my nation that I had made it to the proper puking receptacle, all the while ignoring the faint dripping noise that I assumed was a toilet leak. Then I looked down and discovered that the sink had a pipe that just emptied onto the floor, and I watched my beautifully aimed, sink bound, rainbow of breakfast sludge trickle onto my sneakers. (But if I could just brag for a second, my papaya and banana throw up was the color of a beautiful sunset, so haHA, India. America makes vomitting into art.)

Still early yet, we headed to the river (yet another beautiful place that was obviously part of a fake India set for the weird reality series that Hampi was secretly shooting) to catch the one boat to the other side, about 20 meters away, before the hot part of the day. So that only took about five minutes India time (an hour and a half). Reaching the other side, because we are working on assimilating, we immediately decided to waste a bunch of time enjoying the scenery in the shady parts of town as the giant fiery ball in the sky continued to rise. Beautiful (but definitely not real) rice fields, mountains (probably painted onto the back wall of the biodome in which the Hampi film was taking place), etc. Then we started the 5 km walk to the base of the Hanuman mountain, during the hottest part of the day. Many a rickshaw driver informed us that we would never make it alive unless we took his rickshaw. In India, as you get closer to your destination you also get farther away as we learned from each subsequent rickshaw driver that we passed, who told us that the mountain was further and further (according to my calculations we covered negative 3 km in just under 45 seconds). After walking for a while we decided to take a short cut which proved to be an excellent decision as it led to an excellent adventure of us fording a thorny creek filled with sludge (for all intents and purposed a rapid filled river with quick sand on both sides), battling a spider that was guarding the river (think Shelob from Lord of the Rings), wandering through a banana field labrinth (no sphinx in the middle though), and triumphantly reaching the shade on the other side in the name of glorious America (because I lied before. Now was actually the hottest point in the day) and destroying the Ring of Doom at Mordor. But the ascent to the top of the mountain was yet to come. After our grand adventure, we reached the monkey infested base and prepared for the climb, about 500 India steps (so a million bajillion frillion vermillion steps. Seriously, I do not know what people were thinking when they made steps in this country. At a whooping 5'0" I am of average height here, and the stairs are so steep that I have to do a Super Mario coin jump to move forward. I got tired of shouting "WOOHOO! ITSA ME!" after a while although it seemed to placate the monkeys). Meanwhile, as we puffed up the mountain, Indian construction workers stolled past us toward the top balancing huge bags of cement mix on their heads during the hottest part of the day (because this was actually the hottest part of the day). We made it to the top and the view was, to use the word literally, breathtaking because it actually elicited gasps (even though I know it was just a constructed movie set). The temple was pretty awesome, too. It's supposed to be the birthplace of Hanuman the monkey god from the Ramayana, a major tale/religious epic in Hindu tradition, which coresponds with actual places in India. (Hanuman is awesome. He had to get a magic herb from a mountain to rescue Ramaand he couldn't figure out which one it was, sort of like Donkey in Shrek, so he just picked up the whole mountain. Also, he can fly. And grow and shrink at will.) Anyway, we spent a while up there and then head back down and walked back to town during the hottest part of the day (India is really freaking hot).

Exhausted we stopped for lunch/dinner at the most ridiculous hippy eating establishment I have ever seen. But, America, its getting late so I'm going to leave you with a cliffhanger. Be sure to tune in next time though. There will be tales involving creepy mermaid babies and extremely silly pants.

My Visit to the Sai Baba Ashram on the Magic School Bus

Dear Family, Friends and Creepy Strangers Who Have Been Stumbling Upon My Blog,

Sorry for the sparce proof of my existence in the last few weeks. I've been a little hesitant to write because India is not quite as inherently hilarious as England was, and as I may have mentioned earlier, I hate it when people insist upon assaulting my eardrums with their spiritual life journey / newfound enlightenment / bullhonky profound insights from living somewhere else / how they looked the coyote square in the eyes and saw both fear and respect, etc. So I really don't want to do that to you.

I believe I last left our adventure with my having just safely returned from Ajanta and Ellora, smelling of victory (and uriney public bus), yet still yearning to one day attain a reading list for my classes (call me spoiled, but the syllabus just wasn't enough). I'm happy to report after several more arduous weeks of struggle, I have finally managed to procure the list of books I am maybe supposed to be reading for class. Nevermind that the library doesn't have them; proof of their existence is enough for me. I'm starting to tinker with the idea that perhaps I should stop fabricating these incredibly stressful and apparently unecessary academic quests (i.e. getting my teachers to answer questions, getting my teachers to tell me when their classes take place, getting my teachers to tell me what kind of work I should be doing) since I'm obviously not supposed to do any kind of actual work this semester, but I guess I need something to freak out about. Otherwise these blog posts would be too calm and fulfilled, and who wants adventures without an unecessary, complicated emotional subplot?

At some point during last week (much like Shaggy and Scooby do in most episodes of Scooby Doo as they frantically seek a sandwich of some kind) I accidentally stumbled upon the secret switch that happens to be the key to solving the great India mystery (and getting Mr. Jenkins imprisoned for impersonating a ghost so the old amusement park would have to close down). India is suddenly being nice to me. Rickshaw drivers give me fair prices and unsolicited directions to the bus stop. Shop owners respect my haggling abilities and no longer start at 12 times the actual price. People make small talk with me in Hindi. (Suchita has finally decided to teach verbs in class. She was holding off because she thought I was going to use them for evil. I probably shouldn't have asked her how to say "androcentric.") Only one person tried to cut me in line this week, and I scared him away with my Indian stank face. (I'm not going to press my luck though. This is probably one of those trick Scooby Doo endings in which Fred and Daphne follow some false lead for most of the plot before Velma finally cleans up their mess. I can't stand Fred and Daphne. Anyway, I'm sure the nice-India-lever will switch back soon.)

Most of the last two weeks consisted of more general campus exploring (we have campus monkeys!), NGO visiting (small children think they can trick me into saying Telegu curse words by telling me its their name, but sassiness sounds the same in every language), going out to eat at various super swanky Indian restaurants (I have yet to find an unswanky eating establishment, unless you count the train station two weeks ago), and learning to be a cricket grand master. Yes, America, not only have I learned to play cricket, I got to play a game in the university cricket tournament, and this time, the announcer was even able to tell the other white girls and I apart! Oh, happy day! We won, thanks to our pitcher (a tiny dance major who takes a sprinting start at the pitchers mound, does this graceful little gazelle leap, and then chucks the ball at the batter like the incredible hulk), our two excellent batters, all the other fielders, and my ability to entertain left field with my whimsical American buffoonery. CIEE also took us to this woman's apartment for an Indian cooking lesson, which is awesome, and now when I go home I can make glorious Indian food out of every day items you know like ghee, semolina, and khoya. Oh, you haven't heard of those?

Most recently, I came back from a trip to Puttaparthi to visit the Sathya Sai Baba Ashram with my friend Rachel. We took an overnight bus on Friday and another one back on Saturday, so I am currently running on a weekend of bus sleep (to clarify, bus sleep : regular sleep : : a pizza flavored Hot Pocket : pizza ... with many of the same side effects. For instance, like the grease from a Hot Pocket, I can feel bus germs oozing out my face right now, and I think I might be dying), but it was definitely worth it. The trip went astoundingly well. Everyone gave us great directions. Our bus broke down at around 2AM in a very non English speaking area for about an hour, which could have been catastrophic, but one of the other passengers directed us to another bus, we didn't even have to pay extra, and we go there after sun up instead of having to wait in the unheated ashram bus station at 5AM. The ashram didn't allow pictures, but I did manage to get some pictures from the surrounding town.

Or I was shrunken by Ms. Frizzle's shrink ray at a minigolf course. One of those two. Anyway, the ashram was amazing. We got to attend darsan which was an hour and a half long prayer ritual conducted entirely in song with tabla, sitar, etc. We discovered shawls were mandatory for entering the prayer room. We had made sure to wear high collared long sleeved kurtas so as not to offend anyone, but we had forgotten scarves. So we used the only things we had available, Rachel's pretty Indian sheet with lovely floral pattern that cooincidentally matched perfectly with her outfit and my fleece bright blue polka dot Barney travel blanket. I wish I could have gotten a picture of the inside of the prayer room. There were no walls, so it was an open space with a blue and gold carved ceiling, and ornate glass chandeliers with pigeons living in them intermixed with what appeared to be crape paper pineapples. The little kid sitting next to me kept trying to get me in trouble. She started making funny faces after hour one. Kudos to her for sitting still that long. After that we also got to sit in on a lecture by one of the holymen which was super interesting but I don't want to go on a nerdy tirade right this second. We asked where the best place to eat for lunch was and were immediately directed toward the Western Canteen by the gentleman at the South Indian Canteen who instinctively knew that all white people like plain potatoes, bread, and mayonaise. Upon arriving we discovered that the canteen could not operate unless someone volunteered to work, so we ended up serving rice and potatoes with the other lunch ladies for next hour (which was very fun) before we were rewarded with the first green vegetables I have seen in two months (you cannot possibly fathom how exciting recognizable vegetables are after two moths in India). After eating half my body weight in spinach, my excitement subsided enough for me to realize what it was that had been putting me mildly ill at easy since we had entered the canteen.There were pictures of Sai Baba about every two feet, and all of them were watching me. In fact there was one fairly popular photo of just a cut out of Sai Baba's eyes. I don't mean to make fun of Sai Baba. From what I gather, Sai Baba promotes peace, love, community service, and the end of the caste system. Seems like a pretty good movement. But eye pictures are creepy.


Imagine this picture. But with just eyes.

It didn't help that when we tried to leave the canteen, the women at the door forbodingly shook their heads and directed us toward a brick wall instead. As it turns out, they just wanted us to leave through the secret kitchen exit; we were not in fact trapped in a 1984-esque fantasy world with Alice in Wonderland buildings



You can't tell me that you wouldn't be concerned if you were locked into a room with pictures of eyes everywhere and the archway from Candyland right outside.

 Anyway, it was a really fantastic trip and we made it back to campus by 6:30 this morning, giving me some time to get a shower (I wiped down my arms and legs with Rachel's remaining acne pad in the bus station the night before, but I decided to treat myself). My professor had offered to take me to a local NGO for my research, which was cooincidentally a Sai Baba affiliated organization, so I was super prepared. Except she forgot to mention that they only spoke Telegu. Luckily, the founder's son, who spoke some English, was there.

I think that brings us about up to date, unless you want to count the Jim Gaffigan Youtube videos I've been watching for the last half hour. I'm starting to enjoy India a lot more now that I have met more Indian students and have exciting things to do other than hunt my professors down and flee from rabies. Thanks to all who have continued reading this blog. It's really hit me this semester how long I've been away from home. I don't expect people at home to feel my absence as much as I feel there's because I'm the only thing missing from my home -- life goes on -- but my entire home is missing from me (Life is going on, but is uprooted and restarted every few months). So it does mean a lot that people are still checking in on me after all this time. India continues to be glorious/action-packed/life-changing/full-of-opportunities-for-toilet-humor/etc, but I'll be excited to get home. I'm off to Hampi next weekend to hike and be blessed by an elephant.

Lonar, Ajanta, Ellora (I'll think of a more creative title later)

As I heard the approaching footfall of the Indian paparazzi approaching my tree, I knew this would have to be the fastest tinkle I'd ever taken in my life; I was already midstream. There was no turning back (I'm trying something new, America, because these posts aren't already ridiculous enough. It's called in medias res).

Backtracking, this weekend I visited Aurungabad, home of the Lonar Meteor Crater and the Ajanta and Ellora Caves. A few fun facts about last week that I forgot to mention last week in the excitement of traveling:
1. When we were in Mumbai, this guy at the hostel asked us to be in a Bollywood film, to which we immediately said no (we've been warned that working in a Bollywood film usually means you waste a day standing around in the sun, and sometimes they just want white girls because they think white girls will wear things that Indian girls won't.) Then an hour later, a man came up to us on the street and asked us if we wanted to be in the Bollywood film. Then he said, "wait, you're that group of 12 white girls, right?" Word had gotten around. So, alas, my dream of Bollywood stardom will not be coming to fruition (which is too bad because as I mentioned earlier, they're better than Troll 2.)
2. Sure enough, when I talked to some girls at the hostel later, they told me that they had agreed to go to an Indian wedding (they're supposed to be amazing) and walk around gretting people (weird, but actually believable). When they got there, the people who had hired them, gave them the "beautiful Indian dresses" they'd been promised, which turned out to be extremely skimpy outfits, so they snuck away. 95% of people I speak to in the country are unbelievably friendly and helpful. But the other 5% want to destroy me.
3. We had our football/soccer match on Wednesday night at 8:10 PM (10 PM India time), but the authorities failed to mention that we could not wear cleats until 9:50 PM, which could have meant bad news, but actually meant I got to ride on the back of a motorcycle to retrieve my sneakers from the international house in time. I did not realize this game was going to be a big deal, but there were lights, an announcer, and a good amount of spectators. It was really fun, and very luckily only a 20 minute game because I've had a pretty bad case of Delhi Belly (look it up) since I got back from Mumbai, so the entire time I was hopping around in the giant spotlights on the field, trying to pretend that it was part of American soccer strategy. I probably needn't have worried though. The announcer could not tell myself and the only other American on the field, my six foot tall friend, Judith, apart.

Anyway, you must be dying to know the outcome of my literal piss race in Aurungabad (I just now reflected upon how much I talk about going to the bathroom in this blog, and I don't like what I'm discovering about myself. To be fair, though, using the toilet in India is actually a rather treacherous adventure, especially compared to the banality of Western restrooms... India is changing me). So I'm moving on to my Aurungabad trip. A group of 10 girls this time, we caught the train from Secundrabad on Thursday afternoon and split into two separate compartments. Again, through some glitch, we failed to procure our own seats, and ended up sharing a seat apiece. However, this train was infinitely cleaner, smelling only faintly of urine, and the three boys sitting next to my compartment were very friendly and did not try to sell us anything, get our numbers, take our picture 3 million times, trick us into giving them money, or stare at us while we slept. (They taught me how to play cricket! It is a delightful cross between baseball and Quidditch. They also seemed equally confused by the twitching turbaned gentleman who kept gliding by like a train ghost singing to himself at strange moments. I found this oddly comforting because it proved that they could also see him, and he was not a manifestation of my crazy malaria dreams making its way into real life, as was my original fear) It was an excellent journey.

We arrived at 4AM to discover that only 1 two-person room was open, so we piled the ten of us into it anyway and slept until a normal hour. Then we got a taxi to the Lonar Meteor crater another 3 hours away. You would think a giant hole in the ground couldn't possibly be worth it, but it was awesome.

We stopped to have lunch under a tree and were immediately swarmed by cows, goats, dogs, and fire ants. After that we decided to explore. There was a small village built around the lake, so as usual, everyone around stopped what they were doing, stared at us and took pictures. Several gentlemen took it upon themselves to follow us in a parade like fashion all the way down the mountain, taking our pictures. This combined with the fact that we had just spent 3 hours in a taxi without stopping (except for the obligatory chai break, which does not include anything toilet-like) nor were there any enclosed spaces posed a unique problem for my bladder, which brings us back to my tree. We had managed to shake our caravan of followers momentarily by looping around the trail and I took the opportunity to execute the speediest tinkle the world has ever seen. I finished just before their line leader rounded the bend, one of the prouder moments of my life, and I can't say that I didn't watch with a little bit of sadistic satisfaction as our stalkers traipsed through my freshly made puddle, still photographing all the while. We reached climbed to the top again and bought some water and I turned around to discover a row of silent school children, at least ten, staring unblinkingly at us about 1 meter away.



They were actually really excited about having their picture taken.

For the remainder of the day, they followed us in a single file line that a first grade student teacher would sell her soul for, and I momentarily tinkered with the idea of leading them into the same cave that I took all the rats in the village to earlier that week with my magical flute (Disclaimer, oh virtual forum of waning privacy: This is a pied piper joke. I am not a kidnapper. Nor am I comparing children to rats.)

Ajanta and Ellora Caves, were if anything, even more gorgeous/amazing/etc. than Lonar. They're man made caves filled with Buddhist, Hindu, and Jain carvings and statues.

As Travel Buddy Holly (who very rudely decided to remain in England, land of beaucracy that runs like clockwork compared to India, rather than buy an expenisve last minute plane ticket to Hyderabad and ditch her studies), so eloquently put it (because she is an English major. See liberal arts are useful! One day I will be employed...) Indiana Jones lives here (you see how I cited that? Another useful skill liberal arts college has taught me, oh potential employers who will undoubtedly look me up on the internet and find this incriminating blog despite my attempts at privay. Also notice my liberal artsy ability to convey my thoughts so concisely... stupid inevitable real world.)

Public transportation was a huge plus on this trip. I got to talk to a lot of really nice people on the bus and trains. I complain about Indians trying to rip me off / take my picture constantly / trick my countrymen into dressing like harlots all the time, but like I said 95% of people I talk to are actually unbelievably friendly and helpful. It's a pretty intense contrast. One woman on the bus gave me bangles after I talked to her for 5 minutes, and every person we talked to on the train ride home insisted upon sharing their food with us. One of the guys we talked to on the train ride up just emailed my friend today inviting her to his friend's wedding because she had been talking about how much she wanted to see an Indian wedding. He even said he could have one of his sister's dresses tailored for her so she'd have something to wear. Nice is an understatement. I've also realized that the advice CIEE gave us about not making eye contact with men is slightly insane and really overcautious (but actually not insane for the 5% of people who are not unbelievably friendly and helpful. They are actually out to get me. India is a paranoid person's Candyland.)

People in Mumbai Also Really Like to Stare

I have never been so thankful for my nose hairs as I have been in the last month. Not that I am usually in the habit of examining the contents of my nose, but I can't help but notice that India is making my boogers black. That's all I'm going to say about that.

Before I get into a detailed description of all the things that contributed to the color of my boogers on my magical trip to Mumbai last weekend, I want to celebrate the fact that India has finally decided to bless me with an actual schedule of classes -- and only three weeks after classes began at that! I also must say a few solemn words about my awesome hot pink bicycle, may it rest in peace, as after I got the blown out tire and the chain "fixed" for "very good deal just for you, madam! (overpriced by only 200 rupees this time)" so the chain started coming off twice as often (so I looked like I had leprosy for most of last week because of the permanent bike oil stains on my hands combined with the faded henna). He also realigned the wheels so the bike kept tilting to the right, which wouldn't be that bad, except Indians drive on the left, meaning my bike kept veering into oncoming traffic. Anyway, I sadly had to trade it in for another little girls' hot pink bicycle (I named it Awesome Hot Pink Bicycle 2), and it has Wicked Witch of the West handlebars, so devasted as I am, at least there is that for comfort. And now some quick Hindi language facts: The plural form of you in Hindi is "ham log" (try to stifle your giggles), which translates to "you people," resulting in Indian people often saying things like "I don't understand how you people handle our climate" and "You people are quite offended by silly things. Also, I met a boy from Jew Town, Kerala yesterday. Jew Town (he explained to me why this is not an off color joke, in India, but I still find the lost in translation bit pretty funny).

On to Mumbai! The trip began after we jammed 12 girls with luggage into the back of a taxi to Nampally Train Station. At the station, we discovered that our tickets had not been confirmed, so Kate (the organizer and soccer mom who continuously saved the day whipping peanut butter sandwiches, toilet paper, inflatable lifeboats, and anything else we needed from her bag all weekend), while the rest of us tried to ignore perhaps the three millionth beggar who ignored every other person in the entire area and immediately started circling the pack of white girls like a shark, shouting, poking, us and sticking their hand in our faces (I don't know how to describe it without sounding like a horrible entitled jerk, so I'm a horrible entitled jerk. Beggars single out Westerners, exploit Western guilt, invade your personal space, follow you, yell at you, sometimes hit you, and if you do give them money, others immediately swarm you. But, honestly, I’m still a jerk.) Anyway, with two minutes before the train is schedule to leave, the whole train station (which was already staring at us) got the added attraction of watching the gaggle of white girls sprinting down the track and leaping onto the train, which wouldn’t be leaving for another 20 minutes anyway because it runs on India time.

The train itself was glorious. We took a 16 hour sleeper train overnight. I was under the impression that we would have a separate compartment, perhaps even with a door, as this is what we booked. Silly thought. The train had open alcoves with benches for 6 people  (so 12 people) and with another bench facing the alcoves for people with unconfirmed tickets (us). Then each bench had two layers of benches that folded out so you could sit on them if you crouched and tilted your head. So we were all separated into the end benches of various different alcoves, giving the entire compartments a stage at which to unblinkingly stare (not exaggerating) for the next 16 hours. But I had a really fun compartment. After the intial first hour of staring, I started playing card games with them and discovered they were a group of 97 students from University of Mumbai traveling with their professors. They got me snacks and even a place to sleep (and also took my picture only 10 times instead of the usually thousand times.) A few other girls and I attempted some of our limited Hindi and they actually erupted into cheering. (The other girls weren't so lucky. Pretty much everyone but me woke up at some point in the night to several men who had standing over them staring at them while they slept. I think people tend to be less creepy once you talk to them for a little while. I'm still figuring it out.)

And the white girl said, "Apke se hai?" And there was much rejoicing.

The train doors every few alcoves weren't actually doors. They were open doorways (with puddles of urine in them), and we stopped every half hour or so and hawkers and beggars would make their way down the aisle several times before leaving the train, repeatedly shouting whatever it was they were selling or demanding. I started having fun with this after a while, as hawkers would stop in front of us, stick something in our face (a plastic toy, a 6 day old omlet they were selling, bangles, etc.) and yell "Chaichaichaichaichaichai!!!" so I started shouting things back into their faces, which they seemed to find highly amusing. I also got to experience the excitement of using a squat toilet on a moving train (squat toilet being a hole in the bottom of the train revealing the tracks flying by beneath you)! The way back was less fun. We had to close the metal slabs over the windows. Someone nochalantly mentioned to us that people throw rocks at the trains and sometimes come on and loot them in this part of town. We also passed through several train stations that smelled so bad that I actually vomited. At one point when when I was attempting to pull my camera out of my bag to take a retaliatory picture at someone who was staring at me, the string got stuck and set off my rape alarm, an alarm designed to be so loud that you can't think. Naturally, it jammed so I couldn't turn it off, so I decided to take the advice of every person with a mile radius of me, all of whom were now freaking out and yelling "Make it stop! Dear God! Throw it out the window!" (This is one effective rape alarm). So I panicked and chucked it out the window. (I'm pretty sad. This the second alarm I've lost this year. My first was in a bag that got stolen with my decoy wallet full of expired coupons and a note about the the rudeness of stealing. But at least now the thief will have higher moral standards and safety from wayward men). Anyway, at least we had our own compartment this time.

Upon arriving in Mumbai we headed to Gates of India, where we were scandalized to discover that some women exposed their knees and shoulders in this somewhat westernized city. I was excited, because I assumed this would mean that people would be used to Westerners and not photograph us as much. How wrong I was. There are currently about 300 pictures of me taken by strangers circulating Mumbai, by people who really like taking pictures of American tourists. We can categorize these picture takers into three different areas. 1. People who ask where you are from and make conversation before asking for your picture. 2. People who blatantly stare at you and take your picture, sometimes saying "PICTURE?! PICTURE?! ONE PICTURE MADAM!?" and 3. My personal favorite, people who try to surruptiously take your picture by pretending to take a picture of something right next to you and then quickly averting their eyes while innocently whistling and hiding the camera when you cross your eyes and stick your tongue out at them. The Gates were especially bad because it's already a huge tourist attraction, so getting your picture taken with the white girls becomes part of the tourist attraction. I've started taking pictures back at people in retaliation, so now my camera is full of strangers, too.

Kate had a friend who lived in Mumbai that took us to this beautiful super classy bar on a rooftop with a rooftop pool full of lillypads and a view of the sunset over the Arabian Sea (so I have many pictures of my unwashed hair fresh off the pee smelling sleepr train at the classiest place in the universe.) Then her mother, the nicest lady ever, took us to this amazing restaurant and order all this really good food and haggled the price down for us. Then we returned to our hostel. We were very lucky to receive a 12 person room with 2 bathrooms. However, the bathrooms did not have a roof and there we had a pigeon living in the rafters (This might bother some, but I was pretty excited to have a hostel pet. I named him Herman). Also, the lack of consistent water flow resulted in an exciting shower adventure in which I ended up scraping shampoo out of my hair with a comb.

We took a boat to visit Elephanta Island which despite being a giant tourist trap was amazing. We got see these beautiful Shiva Caves, have our picture taken by several hundred more people (two guys followed us all the way down the mountain with their cameras), attempt to avoid more hawkers attempting to sell us things for quadruple their value (more fun then it sounds), and best of all, watch the wild monkeys that infested the island steal crap from tourists less vigilant than ourselves. I saw one jump on this ladies back, steal her bag, and run away eating the banana inside it while hissing at her in a matter of 3 seconds. Then a guard chased it up a tree.) When we got back we went to the Hanging Gardens (most beautiful place in the entire unvierse), this Jain Temple I'd been dying to see all day (most beautiful place in the universe), and we got up then next morning int time to see the university, the courthouse, St. Thomas's Cathedral, and Victoria Terminus (more most-beautiful-place-in-the-universes. I'll post some pictures).

Shameless product placement

We also ventured into the Taj Hotel, which happens to contain a water fall in the lobby, a Titanic staircase complete with chandeliers, and several designer purse and perfume stores. But I would never trade my pet pigeon Herman in for any of that stupid crap.

One of several glorious buildings



Part of the Hanging Gardens


But now let me get to the best and most exciting part of the trip: my attempt to use the restroom in the train station. I was furious at the time, but this is actually hilarious. After informing the bathroom attendant that she could not trick me into paying triple the amount listed on the wall to use her toilet paperless public squat toilet, I stepped into the bathroom and attempted to queue for one of the stalls. I keep forgetting that this is a stupid idea, so immediately, three Indian women walked in, shoved me out of the way and positioned themselves directly in front of the stalls smirking at me with that "I know you won't challenge me, you sissified Western strumpet" look on their faces. Innocently believing that my place in line for the poop covered squat toilet was probably not worth a fist fight, I attempted to swallow my pride, waited for them to use the stalls and then edged right in front of the stall so no one else would shove me out of the way. But then, as the lady came out of the stall, she put her hands out and tried to football blocked me, shuffling to either side as I moved to walk past her, so that her other friend standing behind me could get into the stall before me. Never have I seen such devotion.
Oh, also, I forgot to mention, I'm pretty sure Mumbai is the place that Hitchcock's The Birds takes place. The places is infested with psycho crows, the only creatures that stared at us more than the people trying to take our picture and stare at us while we slept.



Not a friend of Herman.

 
I'm headed to Ellora this weekend, so more adventures to come.

This mustach is suprisingly stylish in Mumbai. Not kidding.