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.

Pongal! A Celebration including Decorated Cows, Beautiful Costumes, and Demon Flies

Fantastic news! I'm not going crazy. I just triple checked and the semi-insane vivid dreams I've been having are not the result of some until now latent degenerative mental disorder which would inevitably conclude in my being locked up as I immediately assumed earlier this month; they're just a side effect of the malaria pills! Another benefit, my dreams have been playing out like really imaginative full length movies -- terrifying, semi-insane horror movies -- so yes, I have scary dreams about fish serial killers (it doesn't sound scary, but trust me, terrifying), but I could make millions from screenplays.

The non-sleeping portion of the week has been slightly more funfilled. I'm still no closer to a schedule with real, actual classes, but week 3 is going to be the week for me. I can feel it. [I also may be changing my major again in part due to India's silliness. (Suprise!) and yes, I just did parantheses within parantheses. This was bound to happen evenutally]. But I'm a little sick of stressing about classes, so instead I'm going to write a brief summary of the greatest film in the history of the universe: Main Hoon Na, a Bollywood film so ridiculous that it makes Troll 2 look like a cinematic masterpiece. Imagine a combination of Bourne Identity, Days of Our Lives, and Never Been Kissed (We have carry out this secret military operation! You are the half brother I never met?! We have to pick out Becky's prom dress!), then add dance numbers including the random use of fireworks and electric guitar, and make the dialogue awkwardly translated English slang from Hindi. Also, bear in mind that the main actor, Sherukh Khan, is a guy in his 40s playing a guy in his 20sundercover as a high school student. Also the main character's super cool heart throb brother wears a awesome 80s outfit including leather jacket, giant belt buckle that says JUSTICE, acid washed jeans, and rambo bandana to keep his long super cool heart throp 80s hair out of his face (Sidenote: the film was released in 2004).
  

I finally found the women's football (soccer) team, which I'm really excited about because I've been otherwise unsuccessful in finding people that don't live in the international dorm with me. (It's a grad school so there are no clubs or sports teams, and I still don't really have classes). The girls seem really cool, and best of all Becca, our new frisbee friend Kate (yes, we immediately hunted down and befriended the only other frisbee player in the whole country. And by the way, her team has a lifesize carboard cut out of her that they take to tournaments), and I brought a frisbee to football/soccer yesterday and they all found the "flying plate" extremely fun and would like to learn to play (I can't wait to show them turkey points). I have no idea what anyone is yelling on the field when we play because most of the girls on the team are from Kerala, so they're usually shouting in Malayalam (sometimes English though) rather than Hindi or Telegu (the two languages I've been attempting to learn because they are the most widely spoken in Hyderabad), but this just adds an element of suprise to the game. I also have no idea how to pronounce our team name, which poses as a slight problem during our team cheer, so I've just been shouting nonsense sounds (people laughing at my inability to do things sounds the same in every language). I'm also hopefully starting sitar and/or Hindustani vocal lessons at some point next week, or month... some time in the unsure Indian future.

This weekend was Pongal (which my parents have reminded me time and again rhymes with my imaginary friend from when I was 4, Congal, who looked a bit like the monster from Trilogy of Terror, but that's besides the point). Pongal is a four day harvest festival celebrated in South India. People dress up cows, fly kites, make kolams (really awesome intricate designs made from colored rice flour that keep flies from coming inside) outside their homes, and other such exciting festivities. A group of us went back to Shilparamam (the magical market place where vendors shout silly things to make you come over and rip you off because you're too cheerful to be good at haggling). I actually thought I had finally done a good job haggling because I managed to talk down a set of bangles, but alas, they stained my arms bright turquoise.

Kolam

What is not shown in this picture: Part of this act included the cow standing on top of a man and bouncing up and down. Crazy right? But then the cow decided that it need to pee. But I'm not putting a picture of that up.

These kids are dressed as Hanuman. They were part of a troup of musicians.

On Saturday, we decided to check out a Hanuman temple on the other side of town. I'm assuming it was the other side of town but it might have been closer. every time I get in a taxi or rickshaw, the driver gets lost for a little while (this is either a ploy to run up the meter or due to the lack of maps and consistent directions from passersby. I'm guessing both). I driver was actually really cool (besides overcharging us, but it's kind of a given at this point). He spoke four languages so he helped us ask the temple operators questions. The temple was beautiful, super old, and as always, contained strangers that wanted to take our picture.

You may not be able to see the ominous swarms of flies reminiscent of Biblical plagues, which are buzzing around the banana offerings to Hanuman, the monkey god, but I assure you, they were there, and they're probably taking pictures of us with their little fly cameras.

University courses continue to be hypothetically meeting somewhere eventually

Dear nations of functional universities and working bicycles,

The time I am using now to write to you, is actually time that I allocated to attend a Buddhism course, one of the many courses I have been making valiant but ultimately futile efforts to attend for the past week. I managed to find the professor for this one and write down the change in time and date of the course that he had made without telling anyone. He even gave me the building that we would be meeting in (the physics building because why would a Buddhism course meet in the Humanities building?), but alas, no room number, which led me to my hour excursion this morning. After the Buddhism department had no idea where he was, I asked a gentleman from the building the class was supposed to be held, a gentleman who spoke no English and insisted on bursting into every single classroom in the entire building to ask since he didn't understand my English suggestion that I just come back later. On the plus side, the science professors all seemed perfectly friendly and appeared to be holding class which provides me with some tenuous evidence that classes do actually meet here, so I will eventually attend one. But sadly, no luck finding it this time (much like last week when three different departments sent me on a six mile scavenger hunt to a class whose time and date had also been changed unbeknowst to the students or department).

On the way there I discovered that my awesome hot pink bicycle tire had a slow leak, making it extremely difficult to pedal and steer, so I was fortunate to have the extra time to head over to the bicycle repair tree (I say bicycle repair tree because it is literally a man that stands outside a hollowed tree with a bike pump). I was slightly less fortunate because my awesome hot pink bicycle's awesome bike lock broke in front of the science building causing the back tire to lock completely, so I actually half carried, half dragged it to the bicycle repair tree. But let's look at this from a positive perspective: that bike is pretty cumbersome. I now have full faith that no one will ever steal it. Then, the lock magically repaired itself right before I reached the tree, so really this was a positive experience that tested the stealability of my bicycle and introduced me to the bicycle repair tree. (Sidenote, dear readers, the electricity has just shorted out again, so I may have to cut this short as the battery for my computer no longer works.) Then on the way back up the hill I had yet another positive experience when my (electricity's back!) awesome hot pink bicycle chain again popped off, but thanks to the same fortunate (wait, it's out again) event happening last time I rode the bike, I am expert at repairing bicycle chains (okay, I think the electricity is back for good now). So really it was a very fortunate and productive morning. Anyway, I've just found out that my afternoon class has also been cancelled, so now that I have extra time I can write about the rest of my weekend.

On Saturday after the mock drill / super secret bicycle quest CIEE took us to this really fantastic organization called the Desire Society. It's a school/orphanage for children who are HIV positive. It was a little awkward at first because they took about 20 of us and I was worried it would overwhelm the kids having too many strangers/pretend adult figures around. But they seemed pretty excited a they had a talent show because they'd been learning dancing, and it was they were some seriously good dancers. I talked to the program director about it, and I'm trying to figure out the best way to put a video on the internet because it's a really cool thing to show off, the kids were really excited about it, and I feel like it would be great publicity for the organization to bring in money for school supplies and medical bills. It's too far away for us to go back weekly but a few of us are trying to plan to volunteer there, and there are some other closer organizations that I'm really excited to start working for (as soon as I have a course schedule).

Sunday, CIEE decided to plan yet another day long crazy secret quest (hooray!). CIEE is also really into enforcing elementary school rules (hooray?), so at 7:30 AM (8:45AM India time) we all stood with teams in a single file line (or else we lost points) wearing our matching maroon CIEE polo shirts (or else we lost points), which had just been spray painted half an hour before so they smelled like car exhaust and made us light headed (maybe that was part of the challenge?) and silently listened (or else we lost points) to instructions given to us in convoluted Indian English. Given 600 rupees, we had to race other teams to various destinations across Hyderabad using only rickshaws. This proved to be hilarious but not the most effective plan, as CIEE took away any leverage we had at all to haggle rickshaw drivers by dressing 30 white kids in matching T-shirts and making them compete for the same rickshaw. We got to see some amazing parts of Hyderabad. We went to the Safrani school, this place that employs widows and poor women to hand weave the most beautiful saris I have ever seen. We also got to visit the Salar Jung Museum, which has actually been my favorite museum this year. (Insane jade daggers, tiny paintings, elaborate scultures carved out of ivory, veiled Rebecca statue, bearded man cuckoo clock, other insane-most-beautiful-thing-in-the-entire-world-type-stuff). It was actually a little tragic because the artifacts are not well taken care of. Like one of the museum curators was beating the ornamental carpets in the carpet room, and the items in the silver room were taking part in a pollution study. An entire troop of boy scouts wanted a picture with me (still creepy. But at least no one asked for my autograph like some of the other people in my group). That paranoia everyone has in middle school, -- that everyone is watching and scrutinizing your every move so you should be super embarrassed when you trip in the hallway because obviously everyone saw and will laugh at you -- it's actually true. Everyone really is watching you in India (I have started making weird faces at people who stare and take pictures. I figure it's not as inappropriate as smiling.) We also took a boat to the giant Buddha statue, which was cool, but I enjoyed the boat ride over more because the entire time I was thinking about stuffwhitepeoplelike.com, which says that "white people love buying water front property." If a rich white American bought beautiful water front property in India, they would discover when they got here that it smells strongly of dead things.

New Goal for the Semester: Trick an Indian into Giving Me a Direct Answer

Dear lands of sunscreen that does not give me panic attacks,

I should be sleeping right now, but instead I am listening to the feral dogs which bark outside my window every night at this hour, so instead of sleeping, I am going to write about this weekend, was slightly more ridiculous than my normal India adventures. It started on Friday morning when one of my professors finally showed up for the class he was teaching (I can't remember how much I've written about the course selection process in India, but basically, I'm batting about 2 for 8 in classes I've attempted to attend that have actually been held.) Anyway, class only started 20 minutes late (pretty good for Indian time), and there was this really interesting guest lecturer talking about the Gulen movement when all the sudden there was very loud yelling and chanting and drumbeating outside. This continues for several minutes until finally the lecturer, who is American, stops and asks "Should I keep lecturing? Is there any immediate danger?" And the Indian professor responds with the classic noncommital Indian headbob (it's like a combination nod/shake head that Indians use to respond to literally every question. And from what I gather it means something to the effect of "I acknowledge that you are speaking to me, and I am providing you with a stock response that means absolutely nothing because my culture refuses to provide definitive answers for anything at all ever.") The protests were not dangerous, but this was still pretty exciting for me because Dickinson is not a particularly politically active campus. I didn't mention this in earlier posts, but since we've gotten here the Telengana separatist movement has been a really big issue in Hyderabad. A contingent of people want Telengana to become a separate state from Andhra Pradesh because they feel underrepresented in government, but Telengana would get Hyderabad as the capital. There's a lot of other complicated stuff going on that I don't really feel qualified to elaborate, but bascially, it's an extremely emotional issue for a lot of people. Anyway, the Srikrishna panel released a decision about Telengana statehood (not a definitive decision, of course, more of a proverbial head bob) on Friday, so the city was sort of in an uproar and there were protests. (Relatives, just in case you are freaking out right now, I am perfectly safe. The university on the other side of town is really politically active becase it has more local students who are invested in the movement, but my university has only a few very tame protests. I'm hyperaware of the places that are even remotely a bad idea to go to right now, and Americans are completely uninvovled and neutral on this issue.) So, class got interupted by protests.

Then, that evening, a few friends and I made plans to get a cab to go to a small low key place 10 minutes away from the home stay to get some daal and a drink... so I thought. The group grew slightly and our already over stuffed taxi could fit no more so two other girls and me hopped out and hailed a rickshaw (Remember -- the pretty yellow golfcart-tricycle-death-machines?). After 15 minutes I discovered that the place we were going was not in fact 10 minutes but all the way across town (still a safe part of town, family who I know is still worrying about me and has not replaced me with the cat as I suspect). Nonetheless, I was a little irritated because its dangerous to take transportation home alone at night especially for women, so I didn't really have an option to turn around. So onward we pressed toward what would become yet another quest. The driver of the rickshaw had answered with the usual head bob when we told him where we were going, the head bob in this case meaning, "I have no idea where that is, but I will pretend to because I would like your stupid American money" rather than "certainly I know where that is, stupid Americans who I am ripping off because you don't know how to haggle" as we originally thought. Luckily, rickshaw driver had a superhero sidekick sharing the seat in front with him so that when we got lost in the city, he could stop every 30 seconds hop out and ask a different person for directions, all of which were incorrect because India does not have maps (only more head bobs). Anyway, we finally reached the name of the place -- the little place 10 minutes away from the hostel where we could hang out and get daal and a drink -- and it was a huge 5 star hotel on the top of a creepy giant hill overlooking a lake with a gate with several security/bouncer checks, a fountain in the front, classical music playing in the chandeliered lobby, a doorman in a tuxedo/turban/crazy twirly mustaches, another tuxedo man every five feet saying "good evening, madam" (when did I become madam? Am I a middle aged mystic woman reading a crystal ball now?), etc. I was bascially on the Titanic (if it was a Gothic horror movie). So I was now woefully underdressed, but ready to use my talent for never being embarrassed by my inappropriate behavior to get through it. Anyway we go in and ask one of the many tuxedoed gentlemen where the Underdeck (the little place 10 minutes away from our hostel...?) is, and he leads us back outside and down a set of stairs lighted by candles (I am convinced at this point that I am going to be killed in a cult ritual), past these beautiful hanging vines and equally beautiful lake (which unfortunately surpasses Edinburgh's lake of poo because bodies of water here are often so full of garbage that we have to wear scarves around our faces to handle the smell), and into this room... and it is a nightclub with laser and strobe lights, a DJ playing American dance music, and a free bar (also it is boat themed so my Titanic metaphor still works except underneath the bourgeouis finery, instead of the working class cargo hold Irish step dance party, there is a ridiculously posh night club). Make up your mind, India. What are you? (Response: probably a head bob).

Moving right along, the following morning my program scheduled something called a mock drill, which I again wrongly assumed would be a lecture about safety. It was actually an unbelievably convoluted race/quest (I know. It's like they know me.) We were given a destination in a secret envelope and we had to reach a secret destination and contact a secret person without using our cell phones (which meant we got to harrass random strangers, yay!) as fast as humanly possible to win a secret prize. Our destination was all the way across giant campus, and we had only 3 bikes for 4 people. Luckily, I have been practicing riding my bicycle with someone on the back because everyone in India does it, and I'm trying to assimilate (and also because I like to practice stupid things in my spare time. Did I mention that I learned to French braid via youtube after finals week?) This means I got to speed down the left side of the road on my awesome hot pink bicycle shouting "Look at me! I'm assimilated!" and obnoxiously ringing the bell with someone else sitting on the back also shouting and it was still totally normal (sort of... surprisingly more so than you would think). Yes, India. Sadly, we did not win the secret prize. More sadly, my awesome bike chain popped off making my bike significantly less awesome and functional on the way back (don't worry I fixed it). But let's focus on the positives. I got to have another quest, I got a mango juice box out of it, and I have developed another obscure skill.

I have another story about this really great NGO we visited, plus the questiest quest that CIEE has planned yet (it involves matching Tshirts that smell like car fumes, rickshaw races, and a Buddha statue, get excited), but it's getting pretty late and the feral dog pack outside my window has finally quieted (uncharacteristically. They're probably quietly planning the best way to give rabies right now), so I'm saving them for when I have the energy to do them justice.

Jesse Battilana: Proud Owner of the Best Bike in the Entire Universe

Dear Party in the USA (I'm running out of patriotic songs) and England's mountains green (that's William Blake, England. Seriously, you people need to study up on your blind patriotism),

Operation Ugly Jesse is going swimmingly. I have decided to keep up basic hygiene rituals like bathing and brushing teeth, but the dumpy, unflattering clothing has been wildly successful. Creepy men have been staring at me noticeably less (perhaps because I am no longer walking around in a group of 25 other American girls, since orientation has ended, but I like to think of it as a story of my own hard work, ingenuity and triumph – the Ugly American Dream.) If things continue to go well, I may use some beeswax to black out a few of my teeth. I’m still waiting on a marriage proposal (the girls who have been here a while assure me that this is inevitable). I’ve always dreamed that someone would love me only for my passport and pasty complexion reminiscent of evil oppressive ancestry (I’m really not appreciating the fact that I went from 0 to loose-white-she-devil-temptress in 6 seconds. Not even a Porsche can do that.)

I'm going to get serious with you for a second (India has decided to randomly doublespace again. I hope the uneven format does not detract from my serious moment), my beautiful, traffic law obeying nations of respective Democratic and Parliamentary glory (and slightly lesser glory). I was pretty homesick this week. I’ve been away from my friends and family in America a fairly long time now, and I only just started considering England a second home. Plus, everyone else on this program is fresh from the holidays. But do you know what alleviated 95% of that homesickness today? My brand new hot pink little girl’s bicycle (Because America’s superior consumer culture has rightly taught me that I can replace love and friendship with things!) Campus is miles long and I have been waiting all week for bikes to be available for rental because it takes a good half hour to walk anywhere from my home stay. Imagine my delight when I eagerly queued (oh, how I miss proper queuing, dear England) for my bicycle key early in this morning like a Star Trek fan who pitches his tent a week before the box office opens. Imagine my even greater delight when our house manager, who I have spoken to maybe once, took one look at me and immediately led me over to the tiniest bicycle in the entire lot, a glorious hot pink one complete with basket and extremely loud bell (I’m decking it out with streamers and ribbons… and possibly rims). I was particularly excited about the bell, enthusiastic as I am to assimilate to Indian traffic customs. I immediately sped toward main campus on my liberating new vehicle, ringing the bell continuously for about 20 minutes, assimilating perfectly with the persistent horns of the motorcycles, buses, and rickshaws that regularly pass through campus. I don’t think I’ve explained horns adequately in the past. Yes, I mentioned that the horn is used as a greeting, announcement of one's presence in your blindspot, declaration of one's virile masculinity, and for absolutely no reason other than to make a lot of noise (okay, cool we're back in singlespaceland. Thanks, India). But I did not mention that fact that horns range from your generic beep in any number of different notes, to an arpeggio, to a delightful tune, to the sound of a dying cockatoo (our rickshaw today). You think I’m kidding. The sounds of vehicle horns are as different as snowflakes or Lady Gaga’s outfit choices. I plan to install the National Anthem on my bicycle horn. Until then, I shall be content with ringing my bell obnoxiously and having everyone perceive it as completely normal. Navigating off campus has gotten easier. I still have no clue on the bus system. I asked a few Indians today if there existed a route map or a schedule I could look at, and how they laughed with amusement at my foolishness. Indian bus systems are like Diagon Alley. You have to already know what’s there to find out about it (if I were in England, Harry Potter would show up and help me, but does India have wizards to orient me with the public transportation system?)

I have taken to carrying a roll of toilet paper around in my gigantic mom purse (a convenient accessory in Operation Ugly Jesse) because all the rumors you have heard about Indian squat toilets are true. There is a hole in the ground. And there is no toilet paper, unless you count the small bucket of cholera water conveniently placed at the left (because your left hand is your poop hand. I am poop handed. India, why don’t you love me?) of some toilet/holes (I miss my English NASA shoilet pod). I have mastered the art of the squat toilet. This is a substantial feat considers the fact that squat toilets are not designed to accommodate short legs.

I also saw my first Bollywood film yesterday, and I have no idea what I have been doing with my life up until this point. It is 300 times tackier and more glorious than High School Musical and a Harlequin romance novel combined. On a more disturbing note, every single person in the movie was extremely pale, some very unnaturally so, even though they were all Indian. There was a dance number in which all the female dancer were wearing black Afro wigs, but they were all basically white. I’m not condemning Indian media as any worse than American media, which any person who has ever suffered through my ranting American Studies feminist commentary during movies, shows, commercials, books or basically anything at all knows, but skin lightening freaks the crap out of me. In the United States at least, nonwhite people have basically been conditioned throughout history to believe that they’re ugly, but the Black is Beautiful movement decreased the use of skin lightening creams. Anyway, I just thought they were a thing of the past, but light skin is still a pretty big thing in Indian media. Just in case that wasn’t enough, a commercial for this product called Fair and Lovely, a skin lightening lotion, came on immediately after I noticed this. Anyway, today, I rode my beautiful, hot pink, loud bell possessing bicycle to the shop on campus to buy some sunscreen because I just spent a semester in England where they don’t really have sunlight, and India is full of glorious 70° F sunbeams of ozoney, skin cancerous peril. Anyway, I read the package which said UV protection, keeps skin healthy, keeps skin fair, and noted how interesting it is that marketing in India emphasizes light skin while American sunscreen would probably mention something about tanning skin that’s one of our respective status symbols. I mentioned all of this to my roommate as I started responsibly started rubbing the sunscreen into my face to protect it from the harmful rays of the sun, and she said to me, “Jesse, you want to be careful with lotions here. Some of them contain bleach as a skin lightening agent.” So after flushing out my face with cholera water for five minutes (two and a half hours), scrutinizing the bottle for signs of bleachiness, and thoroughly researching the company online, Hypochondriac Jesse sent an email to the address listed on the back of the lotion bottle saying that she is fatally allergic to bleach (and racist media claims) and could they please send a list of the ingredients in their SPF 15 sunscreen (Don’t worry. The company is legitimate, the bottle says herbal and “keeps skin light rather than “makes skin light” people who have lived in India that I frantically asked said that skin lightening creams are sold separately from sunscreen. However, Hypochrondiac Jesse fails to notice subtleties like this. She sees only rabies puppies and face melting chemicals of racism.)

I will leave you with the far more positive tale of my delightful chocolate bar purchasing experience. To preface, (I am a linguistics nerd) contrary to popular opinion, Indian English is not incorrect or broken English. At has its own unique grammatical patterns, idioms, a connotations for words that are equally complex to British English. (American English is, of course, superior to both of these but that’s besides the point). However, that does not stop it from being hilarious. When I opened my chocolate bar, it was wrapped in a golden ticket (because every Indian chocolate bar wants you to believe that you have won a trip to the Wonka factory), and it contained this message:

At Cadbury, it has been a constant endeavor to make the chocolate experience exceedingly rewarding. Cadbury Dairy Milk Silk is a child of such an endeavour. And we proudly invite you to be a part of the wonderful ‘Silk’ experience. Although Silk comes from the World of Dairy milk, it does display a few notable differences. A cube of Silk is visibly dome shaped in order to fit snugly in your mouth. These contours of the cube ensure that the fine, silken texture and creaminess of Silk never go unnoticed. And when the finest chocolate spreads to every corner of your mouth, caressing your sense along the way, we would have succeeded in enhancing your Cadbury Dairy Milk experience.

Indian continues to lack traffic laws

Dear English speaking nations,

I am currently sitting in a plastic lawn chair in the converted airport that now comprises the Hyderabad police station, calmly awaiting my death. The unlighted terminal is disturbingly reminiscent of the setting of every video game based horror movie ever created. Anyway, I’ve decided to recap my week to stave off the boredom (we are approaching hour three), and to preserve my memory in the fairly likely instance that I am impaled, bludgeoned, eaten or otherwise maimed by the zombies who I know from watching far too many horror movies are undoubtedly lurking behind every corner.

New Years Eve and New Years day involved a good amount of clown car taxi riding to my doom (I have survived the roads thus far) and unparalleled amounts of unidentifiable but incredibly delicious food that continues to make me sick the next morning. For New Years we wanted to go out early to avoid terrifying Indian New Years traffic, so the house director recommended what I thought would be a humble pub but was actually this insanely fancy open air restaurant with creeping vines, palm trees, flowers, etc. everywhere and a band hanging out in the back playing sitar and table. Then the next night, CIEE had a welcome dinner at literally the fanciest place I have ever seen in my life. I basically felt like a mob boss. They sat us in cushioned armchairs. So India doesn’t seem to do anything halfway. Everything is either depressingly abject poverty, or a ridiculous palace.



CIEE sends us to Wonkaland for New Years

Two days before my alleged first classes (apparently classes started last week but the professors don’t show up until week three, but I’ll get to this baffling social norm a little later), I had my very first rickshaw adventure. For those unfamiliar with an Indian rickshaw, imagine a bright yellow cross between a tricycle and a golf cart with beautiful designs and various Hindu gods decorating it. Now add a monster truck engine and insert it careening down an unpaved road amidst about 12 other vehicles battling for the same lane. We explored Bell Cross, I tried my first street vendor food, and then we headed back via rickshaw. Perhaps a mistake as the rickshaw broke down under a bridge amidst speeding traffic as it was getting dark. Being the ever resourceful and sensible one, I suggested that we get out and push it away from the bridge so as to avoid the truck hurtling by three inches from my face. So the menfolk did that (I’m not allowed to. Stupid X chromosomes), and then the driver fiddled with some wires for a little while as we stood on the side of the road. Then the rickshaw started working again and the driver appeared to forget that he passengers as he started to speed away leaving us on the side of a darkening highway, so we intelligently decided to run after him. The rest of the ride went fairly smoothly.



Three wheeled death machine

This, rather than attempting to attend the two classes that I was supposed to go to, one of which the professor failed to show up for, the other of which allegedly begins the 15^th but actually they changed it to today after I’d already missed it, I took another rickshaw to Lingampally with some of the other girls on the program. Lingampally is known for beautiful fabrics (I’m not going to tell you what “lingam” means. Go ahead. Look it up.) Another rickshaw adventure! As there was not enough space, I got to ride in the back. I do not mean back seat. I actually mean the little blue bench probably Elmer’s glued to the bumper with other rickshaws and motorcyclists inches from my feet in traffic. It was probably the most fun form of transportation ever. Also, we had another 20 minute train stop (these are pretty common) so we got to make friends with the other motorists. A lady and a little kid, both of whom only spoke Telegu (so not even my 6 words in Hindi helped) came and hung out with us for a little while.

Anyway, that about brings us up to date with the police station/zombie terminal. Classes started last week, but none of the professors showed up. I tried to go to 4 of them yesterday, but 3 of them were cancelled/decided to change times without informing the class/have no existing record of the professor teaching it or the department it was listed under/other ridiculous reason. Unfortunately, Indian professors do not believe in email, or providing a syllabus or basic course description, or a room number, and they often fail to show up at class without warning. They also like to change classes so they conflict with your other classes, but not worry. My directors have assured me that just as careening down an unpaved road seated on the little plastic bench of a tricyle-golf-cart-monster truck into oncoming traffic as it blares its little La Cucaracha horn, this is completely normal for India and will sort itself out.