塑料

For two years now I've woken up to a haunting sound.  It's the sound of someone calling out in Chinese as they walk below our apartments.  It reverberates off the buildings nearby.  I remember being woken by this when I first moved here and wondering if someday I'd understand those words echoing into my bedroom.  It took me about a week to figure out that the old people shouting were the same ones who dig through trash cans to find discarded plastic in the form of bottles and cups.  They then take the plastic to a recycling center and get money for it.  This is their livelihood.

Two years and countless hours spent studying Chinese have passed and I still have no idea what is being called out as they pass under my window, but I do know that anytime I need to get rid of the pile of empty water bottles collecting in the kitchen, at 6:30 or 7 every morning I can find someone to gladly carry them off for me.  My favorite is an old man I call "Grandpa" (the polite thing to call any old man I see).  He doesn't speak Mandarin at all, just the local dialect I'm almost completely ignorant in.  So when he smiles toothily and chatters away, I smile back hoping that will communicate how much I wish I could understand him.

A few weeks ago I brought a sack of bottles down to give to a woman I spotted as she plunged her hand deep into the dumpster in search of plastic treasures.  She looked up at me with a radiant smile and asked, "Do you believe in the Father?"  In shock, I asked her to repeat the question, unsure if I'd understood correctly.  She took a step closer and asked again, "Do you believe in the Father and the Son?  Are you a follower?"  I told her that I was and she began jabbering rapidly in Yichang dialect.  I barely understood a word, so I called a friend over to help me translate.  My Chinese friend couldn't understand either since the lady wasn't speaking standard Mandarin, so we apologized and continued walking.  As I walked away I heard her wishing me blessings from above.

It's a wonderful world.

"I've learned that making a 'living' is not the same thing as 'making a life.'"
-Maya Angelou

不要吃！

Dear Past Katie,

That chicken you're about to eat… DON'T DO IT!  It will keep you up all night and miserable most of the next day.  I know you don't believe me—what do I know?  I'm just a figment of your imagination.  But I'm trying to bend the rules of time to save you from lots of pain.

The beaches here in Goa are calling out to you, just begging for you to plant yourself in their sand and send down roots.  You'll be cutting down your potential relaxation time significantly if you put that fork in your mouth.  Spit it right out.

I'm telling you.  I've seen the sun rays torturing you while you lay in bed groaning.  You'll wish you could go back in time and undo this dinner so that you would feel well enough to go outside where the waves are.  You won't want to be confined to your room when you could be on the beach!  You'll be forced to watch a televangelist from Texas and Hannah Montana if you don't do what I say.  You know this chicken is not worth putting up with that.

Is the threat of Hannah Montana not enough?  Stop eating!  On top of that, you've finished your book and can't start on Shantaram until Jessica finishes it.  So you'll be bored out of your mind.  I told you you should have packed more than three books on this trip.  Who needs clothes to change into when you could have reading material instead?

Why is the fork still inching towards your mouth?  Your three days in Goa are rapidly dwindling; now's your chance to make them count.  Picture yourself on that beautiful stretch of sand, surrounded by locals trying to sell you jewelry, with the waves providing a continuous backdrop of serenity.  Go hungry for tonight and make up for it at the Bob Marley shack tomorrow.  They've got fish and chips—you won't regret skipping this dinner.

Well it's too late now, you've gone and ruined your trip.  Don't say I didn't warn you.  At least try to learn from this mistake and don't let it happen again.

Oh, and P.S.  …Buy some sunscreen.

"Life must be understood backwards; but... it must be lived forward."
-Søren Kierkegaard

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"