印度人

I debated even bothering to finish blogging about India.  So long after the trip it hardly seems worth the effort, but then I told myself I've only got two places left to tell about, and thousands of clamoring blog fans who'd be disappointed if I left them hanging.  Also, it's much more fun than grading papers.  So this is for you, the 1 ½ of you who actually read this.

Our second to last stop in India brought us to that primeval, feculent, and some would say holy river, the Ganges.  We traveled to Varanasi, where many Hindus go to die.  According to legend, the city was founded by Lord Shiva around 5,000 years ago.  It has the reputation of being one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world.

So there I was, eating corn flakes and thinking they may indeed be the secret to happiness in this life.  I was so busy shoveling them into my open mouth I didn't notice the guy who sat down beside me.  He stopped me, mouth open and spoon perched in mid-air with a question.  And then another.  Soon we were having an in-depth discussion about the problems of Chinese education, the inevitable rise of China as a superpower, the economic disparities in developing nations, and everything in between.  I love that I can meet someone for the first time and within minutes we're talking about the problems of the world.

That's why, if you asked me what my favorite part of India was, without hesitation I'd say, "The people."  We saw beautiful things, and ancient buildings, and experienced life on a whole new level but I'd still say I loved the people the most.  Here's an example of a conversation with one vendor:

                "I only have a 100, do you mind giving me change?"
"I don't mind anything, except when girls make flirt with me."
                "Oh I'm sure that must be terrible for you."
"Yes.  But luckily it never happens."

It was there that we took a boat ride from Raja Ghat on Mother Ganga.  I could show you a picture of our guide, Babu, but pictures can be so incomplete.  By looking at his photo you'd never know that his head is shaved because his sister died 20 days ago in childbirth.  Or that her ashes are now flowing in the river where he believes paradise lies.  You wouldn't know that he's been married for 14 years and has three daughters.

By just looking at a picture you wouldn't know about the rhythmic slapping of the clothes being washed at the edge of the river, keeping perfect time with the drum beats of those worshipping her waters.  You'd remain unaware of the two tiny kids asking me for a pen, or watch them multiply into four and then six kids; pointing at me and asking, "You name?  You name?"  They shove each other to get in the picture we take and we can hear their teeth chattering after bathing in the river to wash away their sins.  They shiver with the wind and grin at us.

We didn't stay long in Varanasi.  It was just enough to notice that special feeling old places have.  It's something intangible, that a new place has to grow into, and can't fake.  I felt its presence and wondered, if I were born there, would I want to leave, to go to a place with no history and fresh beginnings?  I suspect at least part of the reason I'm attracted to such an ancient place simply because I come from the metaphorical babe of the world.  We moved on to Goa but I took with me the memories of the smoke rising from a cremation ceremony on the edge of the river, and the sound of 4 cricket games being played simultaneously on the riverbank.

"Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together."
-Mark Twain

疯狂的人

Every morning at 6am the Cai's neighbor starts playing his revolutionary music.  He starts with one song memorializing the conquest of the communists in the early 1950's.  He likes this song so much he plays it 3 times at full volume.  It's loud enough to wake up the tenants in the whole apartment building.  The playlist grows a little more varied after that and continues for an hour before closing with the same song it began on.

Two weeks ago Mrs. Cai was trying to get over a cold and needed to be able to sleep in, so her husband found the power switch for their neighbor's apartment, disconnecting his ability to disturb the whole neighborhood.  When the perpetrator of the racket discovered what had happened he wrote death threats all over the area to ward off further disruption of his electricity.  The Cai's contacted the police about the noise violation but they were told that since the man is mentally ill, he can do whatever he wants.  He reportedly used to spend his days throwing bricks out the window at passer-byes who happened to wander near his apartment.  The police admitted that they are afraid of him and refuse to put a stop to the morning music.

They know the man is insane and therefore exclude him from prosecution, but there aren't enough facilities to house the mentally unbalanced, so he remains in public housing, free to do whatever he pleases.

When my friends first told me about their annoying neighbor I dismissed it as a laughable story without cause for too much concern.  The news today made me reconsider my first position.

Twenty-eight children were stabbed in Jiangsu province when a mentally unstable man went into a kindergarten with a large kitchen knife and began attacking students and teachers alike.  This is reportedly the second of such attacks recently and demonstrates just how serious of a problem it is when the mentally ill receive no treatment and have no access to professional help.

It's time for officials realize the enormity of the problem and take action to adequately treat and restrain, if necessary, the millions of mentally ill people in China.  Too much time has already gone by without anyone taking charge.

"Politicians and diapers should be changed often and for the same reasons."

-Mark Twain

泰姬陵

There is a place in Agra
It's called the Taj Mahal
And it's been the ruin of many a traveler
It just might wreck us all

Our bus, it was a late one
Slowed by the traffic crawl
The guide he was a lyin man
He caused our own downfall

Now the only thing we really wanted
Was to see the white wonder
And the only thing we couldn't bear
Was to hear the traffic thunder

Oh mothers, tell your children
Not to do what we have done
Spend your day in sincere misery
When the trip has just begun

We got one foot on the building
When they called, "It's time to go"
We're goin back to Delhi
Cause the bus is really slow

There is a place in Agra
It's called the Taj Mahal
And it's been the ruin of many a traveler
It just might wreck us all

你应该去新德里

I was straddling the fence.

Not figuratively.  I was literally hanging there, with one leg on one side, and another about to swing over and join its partner.  We were in the middle of a dark alley in Delhi, at a time when the only people who would see us would have reasons of their own for sticking to the dark.  I looked down and tried to untangle myself from the wires inhibiting my progress.  Getting through the barbed wires looked tough but soon I had managed to extricate myself and hop to the ground.

I looked around to make sure the same crazy old man wasn't waiting below this time to ask us countless questions in Hindi.  Or maybe it was the same question, I don't really know since I don't speak Hindi.  Either way the coast was clear the second time we climbed to freedom.  We glanced over our shoulders one last time and walked quickly away from the shadows of the alley and toward the stench of the River of Rubbish.  A beacon of odor lit the way for us like the pillar of fire in the Old Testament.  We followed the smell to the 'Garbage Ganga' running past the med student's dorms until we located the sweets shop we were supposed to wait in front of.

Pausing to wait for the tour bus gave me the chance to strip off my clever disguise—the scarf tied around my head—and resume my prominence as a foreigner.  I felt the freedom of victory.  Twice we'd managed to sneak in and out of the med student's dorm, posing as Indians who belonged there.  It was a desperate move for desperate travelers without a bed.

Waiting for a tour bus was peaceful.  It was somewhere between dawn and daylight, the sky caught in transition when it hadn't yet settled on a color.  We watched a man wash a car in that grey light—watched the dirt get wiped away like the color from the sky.

The contrast between the beginning of this day and the one before seemed too great to have happened in the same city.  The previous day began in a conglomeration of elbows and shoulders all pushing me from every direction as I fought my way into the line at the train station.  It had taken us a minute to figure out the system but we were determined to act like the seasoned travelers we wanted to be.  Jessica got in the inquiry line and fought viciously to hold her place in the crowd as she shouted out possible train numbers to me and I submitted them to the lady selling tickets, who incidentally did not speak English.  The lady looked at me with eyes full of exasperation and I knew the answer before she shook her head.  There were no tickets to Agra on that train either.  Just like the 13 trains I'd already inquired about.  I wondered silently if I was giving her a reason to study English, so she could tell me to give up.

This time we were sure we were going to make it to Agra.  What's a traveler to India if they don't see the Taj Mahal?  After running out of trains and time on our first full day in Delhi we had booked a travel tour to ensure our passage.  The tour package was located by Prince Oswin, who came to our rescue for the thousandth time, and promised us three hours at the Taj.  I wasn't thrilled about the idea of a tour when all we really wanted to see was the world's most renowned expression of love, but decided it was better than not going at all.

After our long battle at the train station we waved our white flags and surrendered to the stronger warriors, knowing that we still had a chance at Agra the next day.  So we called the ever-faithful Oswin and asked him what to do.  He called the tour company and got us on a bus touring Delhi and leaving immediately.  Thus we began our exploration of Delhi—on a bus examining our wounds but safe from further combat.

That day was spent comfortably traveling from site to site.  We had ample time to leisurely examine each stop.  A few of my favorites were the Qutab Minar, Humayun's tomb, and the Rajghat—where Mahatma Gandhi was cremated.  Delhi is packed with historical sites, but don't take my word for it—go yourself!  And do yourself a favor and stay longer than two days.  Also, be sure you have a place to sleep.

A high pitched tune brought me out of my reverie to the realization that I was still standing in front of the sweets shop, reliving the day before.  It took me a minute to place the noise until our tour bus pulled up and I realized it was the horn that played a melody.  Little did I know how much I could come to loathe that sound in the next 22 hours.  We boarded our bus with high hopes and settled down for a long, long, long, long journey to the Taj Mahal.

I closed my eyes and let the sun spill through the window onto my shoulder.  I didn't know then that despite all the wondrous things we had seen, and were going to see, the things that would stay with me were the few minutes stolen from the trip to spend with my friends.  I smiled to myself when I thought that Ami and Akhila had given up their room for us to sneak in and out of in the dead of the night.  Remembering the late night laughter we shared warmed me from the inside out.  Hopping from place to place didn't give me much time to spare, but the meals shared and jokes told with my friends linger in a different way than the amazing things we saw.  Time may erase the words we said but won't touch my affection for them.

"True friendship is an identity of souls rarely to be found in this world.  Only between like natures can friendship be altogether worthy and enduring."
-Gandhiji

骆驼没有名字

On the first part of the journey I was looking at all the life.  There were plants and birds and rocks and things.  There was sand and hills and rings.  The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz and the sky with no clouds.  The heat was hot and the ground was dry but the air was full of sound.

We sat high above the sand and plodded our way into the Thar Desert atop Chewbacca and a camel with no name.  Each step jolted me into a new appreciation for walking.  I resolved never again to consider walking a less-than desirable method of transportation.  Our camels ruled the desert, they were in their element.  The only thing that seemed out of place was us.

We were in Jaisalmer.  Rather, we were outside Jaisalmer; it was our first great adventure in India.  We met it at full speed with arms thrown open in expectation.  Jessica, I, and our two desert guides found ourselves at the mercy of the earth.  Or what I once thought was the earth, but felt as though I had been transported unknowingly to Tatooine.  Chewy belonged there, the sand people belonged there, but we did not.

Our guides were exceptional.  The men and plants seemed to spring from the same seed, spawned by the desert.  Both were marked by their ability to subsist on only the barest of sustenance.  I was in awe of their thrift.

After a few hours of rocking through the sand high above the ground I forgot where we came from or where we were going; I was aware only of the incredible loneliness of the land.  We met no other travelers, only a herd of sheep.  Even the sheep seemed like they were looking for companions in their aimless wandering.  They stared at us expectantly, knowing that the sight of another living creature was special.

My mind began to drift and I found myself writing the story of our journey using only song lyrics.  I surprised myself with how many songs I found that fit perfectly into the story like they were written for that purpose.

When we reached the sand dunes we stopped for the night.  The sudden stillness was unsettling, as though the world was supposed to sway rhythmically underneath us and the constant motion was our tie to reality.  I had a hard time walking but the dunes were calling to me as clearly as if they'd spoken aloud.  I had to summit the sand ridge even if I couldn't walk the next day.

That night we slept under the stars.  The temperature was as bitterly cold as it had been ferociously hot during the day, changing only its direction and not its intensity.  I've never seen the contrast between the blackness of the sky and the brightness of the stars in quite such an extreme display.  I lay awake as long as I could and tried to etch them into my mind to recall whenever I want.  Because every once in a while you have to lie under stars and lose yourself in their charm, and forget that life on earth isn't always beautiful.

"All we are is dust in the wind"

如果我睡不够

I don't function well without sleep.  I never have.  It’s probably very entertaining to others to watch me fumble around trying to think coherently when I went to sleep at 11 and woke up at 3, but for me it’s excruciating.  I don’t know how I made it through college with this malady.  I can’t remember, because most of my time was spent in that sleep-deprived funk—which might explain the graffiti on Dudley Chancey’s office window…

I try to limit the number of days when the stupid things I’ve done can be blamed on my desperate need for sleep (and I’ve subsequently discovered that reducing the excuses does not reduce the amount of stupidity revealed).  From time to time it provides a nice defense though.  We left for the airport in Mumbai at 3am, for our flight to Jaipur.  Jiapur is an intriguing place full of tourist attractions but our main objective was to get out.  We were set on going to Jaisalmer to ride camels in the Thar desert.  Jaipur was just a stepping stone.

Optimistic at first, we strolled the streets in search of adventure.  We were delighted by the cattle ruling the streets, and fascinated still by the beauty of India.  Four hours of sleep quickly took its toll on my endurance though, and before long I was dragging my feet and longing only for a place to sit.

I was wearily plodding along wondering if Jessica was putting rocks in my backpack as we stepped, or if it was growing without any help from her.  All I could see was the brown of the road, the darker brown of the excrement on the road, and the lighter brown of the dust in the air when suddenly a glowing patch of green appeared before us.  I was certain it was a mirage but followed it anyway, through a dusty gate into paradise.  A beautiful green park opened up before us, bereft of prying eyes and bursting with sunshine.

Overcome with joy we threw our backpacks down in the grass and sprawled out in the sunshine to rest.  Jessica was soon asleep but cursed by my body’s hatred for napping I was forced to pull out a book to pass the time. 

About the time the hero of the story was going to commit murder I was interrupted.  “Excuse me madam?”  I looked up at the four boys who had walked by our temporary camp for the second time.  The one in the red suit with a red and white striped tie, emboldened by my attention, decided to get to know me.  “Your country madam?  Your good name madam?”  He fired question after question while the other three looked on.  He confessed to me that they were supposed to be in school but were skipping.  I asked him why the other boys didn’t talk and he said they couldn’t speak English.  We humored their curiosity for a while before turning our attention to resting again.

Soon the hero of the book I was reading had secured his standing in my mind as being morally deficient and I felt my eyes growing heavy.  I heard a familiar voice asking questions, and as I pried an eyelid opened I spied the same four boys, back to interview us again.  This time he wanted my phone number in India, China, or America—he wasn’t picky.  He settled for my email address.  Eventually the kid got tired of repeating everything he said three times until I understood him, and they wandered away.  I finished my book and we decided to look for a place to eat.

I’m usually pretty adventurous—some people might choose the word “insane”.  I’m typically not afraid of seedy-looking restaurants and dubious living conditions.  So when we found a restaurant called The Nice Café which advertised pizza, I decided to give it a try.  Sometimes hole-in-the-wall places are gold mines of undiscovered delicacies.  Sometimes they’ll make you regret your bravery.

The Nice Café had a nice rooftop with a nice view, where we ordered our nice pizza and nice lemon-soda.  I started feeling a little queasy when our nice lemon-soda came out and the glasses didn’t appear to have been washed in the last decade.  I did not feel nice about them.  When the nice pizza came out I took a deep breath and plunged in.  One bite was sufficient to let me know that I would not be able to coax myself to eat the rest of the pizza and keep my stomach intact.  I felt terrible knowing that the owner would see that I’d only eaten one bite of my pizza before leaving.  He was so…nice.

I sat for a while staring over the balcony and wondering what to do.  I had to avert my eyes when a guy stopped to relieve himself against the building, and my gaze fell on the drainage ditch below.  There were some desert shrubs growing up close to the building and I saw a vision.  The four hours of sleep was catching up to me, and any idea seemed like a good one, especially if it came from a dream.

I saw the pizza flying off the roof and making its escape to the drainage ditch below.  Covered by the bushes it would fulfill its destiny as food.  The animals that abound the streets would ensure that it was eaten, and I would be absolved of my guilt for not being able to.  The nice owner would think I’d eaten my fill and not be insulted by my poor appetite.

I looked around quickly and held the pizza like a Frisbee.   It flew just like the pizza in my vision.  I dusted my hands off and sat down triumphantly, thinking I had successfully avoided offending the cook.  The exultant smile was still flitting across my face when a worker appeared on the roof, marched to the edge, and looked over the balcony at the ground below.  He peered for a moment and then walked back to the kitchen.  He never said a word as I tried to sink into to dirt under me.

Probably the last word they’ll use to describe me at that restaurant is nice.  I tried to think of the least offensive way to not eat a bite of food and instead doubtlessly affronted their pride worse than any customer they’ve ever had.  The moral of the story is: never trust my judgment when I’m functioning on insufficient sleep.

“Many things--such as loving, going to sleep, or behaving unaffectedly--are done worst when we try hardest to do them.”
C.S. Lewis

星期一关门

Because I live in China, I’m used to feeling like I don’t know anything.  Not much in my 23 years of life before China happened to me has prepared me for this grand adventure.  However, it was revealed to me just how comfortable I’ve gotten in this land I once thought was so strange, as soon as I ventured out on a new quest.  Suddenly China seemed achingly familiar and understandable.  In India, and often in China, I’m humbled by my own ignorance of the world around me.  I’m desperately trying to eliminate the gaps in my knowledge but it seems that the more we learn, the more we realize how little we know.

I used to be on the swim team in high school but lest you start to get impressed let me admit that I was the slowest person on the team.  Actually I was the slowest person to ever grace the waters of the University pool.  Every day was the same.  I’d dive in and the water never failed to take my breath away.  The shock made me feel like I’d never truly been alive until that moment.  Of course it didn’t help when my sister stood on the edge and threw ice cubes at me.  I would resurface, breathless and shivering.  But after swimming for a few minutes I adjusted to the temperature and the water felt so good I never wanted to leave.  In a way, India had the same effect on me.

Our university in China has a medical program populated with students from India and Nepal who spend 4 ½ years here before returning home to do their internships, and last year I became close friends with a few of the students from India who met with us every Sunday for fellowship.  They graduated at the end of my first year in China, and are now back in India so I was looking forward to seeing them again.  Being foreigners together in China gave us a close bond and I miss them daily.  One of my friends lives in Mumbai and kindly invited us to stay at his house but due to my poor planning I hadn’t given him the flight number we were coming in on and was afraid he’d be unable to find us and go home.

We arrived in Mumbai in the middle of the night, utterly exhausted.  I was a little grouchy after missing our train on the way to Hong Kong and starting the trip stressed because the power had been out in our apartment, but thankful that we’d still made it on our flight with such small obstacles to overcome.  Because we hadn’t had power I hadn’t been able to check my email, so I wasn’t sure if my friend was going to be able to pick us up at the airport or not.  For the same reason, my cell phone had given up on me so I couldn’t look up his number to ask.  I was standing in line to go through customs just praying that he’d be there.  There’s something about airports that makes time drag on indefinitely, until you feel that real life is something going on outside and you’re not a part of it. 

We waited a profane amount of time for our backpacks to come off the airplane; that coupled with an already delayed midnight flight made it well on the way to 2am before we emerged from the Mumbai airport and looked around for a familiar face.  To my immense relief I saw my friend waving immediately and breathed out the tension I’d been holding in.  We got to his house at somewhere around 5am China time, which is what our body clocks thought it should be, and slept a painfully short amount of time before church the next morning.

Going to a large, organized church was one of the things I was looking forward to most about our trip.  It was wonderful to be surrounded by so many strong believers.   I closed my eyes and listened to the echo of Praise Him!  Praise Him!  Ever in joyful song fade away.  I thought about how beautiful and appropriate some of the old songs are.  After church we walked around town a little bit and went to the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival.

One thing I noticed above everything clamoring for my attention was beauty.  I was, and still am awestruck by the beauty that is everywhere present in India.  The people are beautiful, the clothes are beautiful, and the buildings are beautiful.  The arts festival was a concentration of color and creativity that impressed me immediately, but I found the same flair for art in every city we visited.

That night we also visited Chaupati Beach, where we looked curiously at the local fast food but were warned not to try it unless we wanted to be sick during our trip (a futile warning unfortunately).  The beach was swarming with people and life.  I tried to soak it all in, all the color and chaos, but instead it absorbed me.  I lost myself in watching the people around me until we walked down to Nariman point and breathed in the sea air.

The next day we planned to visit the Elephanta Caves, a fascinating collection of Hindu and Buddhist caves on Elephanta Island.  It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site, full rock carvings dedicated to the god Shiva among other things.  We sauntered down to the Gateway of India and were met by this sign:

“Every Monday Elephanta Caves are closed”

Apparently lots of things are closed on Mondays, like the Red Fort in Delhi, and the Indira Gandhi Museum.  If I had bought a Lonely Planet I might have found out about these little tips ahead of time, but that’s what happens when you are stingy.

We tossed around the idea of going to the Elephanta Caves the next time we were in Mumbai, at the end of our trip.  I really didn’t want to miss out on that experience.  But as the philosopher Jagger once said, “You can’t always get what you want.”

Since we’d already wandered around the arts festival, Marine Drive, and the Colaba Causeway we decided to take a local train.  That’s when I first encountered the poverty I knew was just beneath the surface of everything I’d seen so far.  Though the economic situation in other countries is similar, I got the feeling India is more open about their poor.  They didn’t try to hide them and pretend like problems didn’t exist.  I stood at the edge of the endless tangle of shacks and felt guilty for being there.  I thought about the money it took to take me there, and how absurd it was that I was born vastly richer than I deserve.  Even though I didn’t create any of the problems that afflict the people I saw, I couldn’t help feeling like the lowest person on the planet for just being there to witness it.  The money in my pockets seemed to accuse me just by existing.

If people remember the things that go wrong more than they remember the times when everything is great, then most of my last two years will be stuck in my mind forever.  And I think it’s true.  I think good days are synonymous with boring days.  So as I look back on the trouble we had in India, I realize that the trip is already growing in my mind, as one of those that I’ll be telling my grandchildren about and they won’t find it nearly as interesting as I do.

India is the only place I can remember being where I repeatedly proclaimed I love being a girl.  Everywhere we went they had security lines and there were separate lines for men and for women.  For some reason the ladies lines were a fraction of the length of the men’s and we breezed through security checkpoints.  They’ve also instituted “ladies only” trains in some places, which is a welcome break from unwelcome stares when traveling.

On our way back to my friend Sooraj’s house Jessica and I hopped on the ladies car while Sooraj ran down to the end after shouting instructions about when to get off.  The trains only stop for about 30 seconds, so it was easier for us to get on where we were.  We sat down and realized our car was much more comfortable than the ones we’d ridden on earlier.  There weren’t very many ladies and the seats were surprisingly cushioned.  That’s when I realized we’d accidentally gotten on the first class train.  In all the times we had ridden on a train before no one had asked us for our tickets, so I was trying to decide if it was worth getting off at the next stop and trying to make it on the economy class train before it took off again.  I decided I didn’t want to risk not making it back on the train, so we stayed where we were.  Unfortunately for us, a lady came around asking to see our tickets.  Not only did we not have first class tickets, but Sooraj had our tickets in his pocket.  We panicked as she lectured us about getting the right tickets, and we called Sooraj who got off at the next stop and met us and the angry railway employee instructing us on the importance of getting on the right car.  We meekly apologized and she graciously let us off with a lecture as our punishment rather than a fine.

Those first two days in India flew by, and we left for Rajasthan early the next morning.

It should be stated now that any attempt of mine to convey the richness, vibrancy, and chaos that is India will be sincerely inadequate.  I can share with you a glimpse here and there into my own experiences, but were you to go to the exact same places as me, and do the exact same activities as me you would come away with an entirely different experience.  The India you would discover would be very different than the India I explored.  They’d both be worthwhile.

 

''The greater our knowledge increases, the greater our ignorance unfolds.''
- John F. Kennedy