Hyderabad? More like...HyderabadASS

My December vacation trip around India started with me being, as my brother coined, a doofus. Misreading my train ticket (which was in English just to paint that picture for you) I arrived at the Varanasi train station not one, not two, but five hours early for my train. So after sitting in the train station for half an hour I decided to go see a movie at one of the malls that were close by. The movie, which I saw after a quick bite at McDonalds, was called "Oh, My God."

In the film, God jumps between snarkily narrating the story and snarkily showing up as various supporting roles. The story is simple. Guy comes up with a money-making scheme; guy prays to god that it will work, gets fired for handing out pamphlets about his scheme at work, guy repeatedly gets given money by God, guy goes insane lying on a pile of money in the street, God, as a mental hospital doctor, tells him he is mqking good progress and then guy ends the film by playing ball with his friend's daughter. It was all very straightforward and a real treat to watch.

After the movie I went back to the train station where I sat in the ladies waiting room for an hour until 9pm: the hour when my train was orignally supposed to arrive. To make a long and very boring five hours short for you, after three "This American Life"s and several sudokus later, the train arrived at 2am and I got on. I don't have much to say about the actual train ride except that I wasn't allowed to sit in the doorways because Indian officials love rules and I was on the train for 36 hours. Now, I'm the last person to say that train travel is boring, but 36 hours on a train is pretty substantially a) uncomfortable and b) boring. In any case, I arrived in Hyderabad 8 hours late, where I was met by the people I am staying with, a Belgian couple named Katrein and Hans. I met Katrein through Couchsurfing.com a week ago or so, and asked if it could stay with her. She said yes and I totally (I mean totally) lucked out.

First of all, I didn't have to take a rickshaw to her house, because she met me at the station with her driver, Saiid. We went back to her totally swank apartment where I was shown to my own room and bathroom. Right as I walked in I smelled something familiar, but I couldn't tell what it was. Katrein then said, "Oh, the bread must be ready, one minute," and then took out bread from her bread machine.

What? I was just in India...right? Wrong. Welcome to heaven.

So I spent some time napping and eating freshmade bread, and then Katrein, Katrein's friend's son Pinto, and I went for a walk around Lotus Lake. It's a really beautiful lake with a very nice and trash-free path around it. Afterwards we came back to the house, I learned how to say some words in Dutch (my accent is apparently very good) and waited for Hans, Katrein's boyfriend, to come home. We went upstairs to have a drink with a woman from Germany who was very nice, but was upset that she couldn't being her cat home during her vacation due to the EU's crazy animal-protection rules.

Roundabout 7 we went to the "Twin Cities Tea" which is just a bunch of ex pats (people from Western countries who leave to live in India) and NRIs (non-resident Indians). Anyway, I overheard the most American conversation ever (at least in recent memory):

Scene: two men, one very skinny, one very overweight; both have crewcuts and both are American.

A: So where are you from in the states?

B: Chicago

A: *leans back and nods while saying* Ooooohhhyeah Chicago. Whereabouts?

B: *extends his pinky from his beer and makes a circle* Belmont area you know, down the green line?

A: Yeah yeah, the green line. My sister spent some time in Chicago a few years back; college.

B: *that tongue click thing people do* Yup.

It was like every gathering I have ever been to. Ever. When I heard it I almost cried. God, I miss America.

Anyway, so after we ate some food there, we went to a club called Firefly. Before we went in Katrein said, "Now, if you're uncomfortable, tell us and we can leave. I don't know if I could handle this coming from your kind of city." I, foolishly, said, "Oh no, don't worry. I'll be fine." And thus it began.

I entered into a midnight blue, black, chrome, and glass room with music so loud the clothes that weren't right up against your body vibrated with every beat. The people all had skinny jeans, gelled hair, and black eye-liner. I saw the craziest haircuts ranging from a faux hawk to a fashion mullet. Run Lola Run was playing on four projector screens throughout the club and the bartenders were in complete silhouette, with blue neon lights pulsing on the wall behind them. Waiters in entirely black outfits with polished silk ties suggested drinks like 'cosmos,' 'mojitos,' and 'lemon twist martinis.' This place was out of this world. Or at least the hell out of India.

I spent two hours talking to various very successful couples who decided to live in Hyderabad for various reasons. Most had been brought up India, and everyone I talked to had spent at least seven years living the US. At 11:30 we got a hookah and sat in a side room that was entirely white plastic. The waiters brought us water. Then it was closing time. The club cleared out in a matter of minutes and it was 11:57. The clubs, Hans and Katrein told me, all close at midnight. So we very abruptly were ushered out into the elevator and went home to sleep.

Today Katrein and I saw Golconda fort, which was great, and then we bought tomatoes and cucumbers for a tomato, cucumber, and feta cheese salad, which was also great. The two activities were pretty on par for me. The rest of the day has been spent walking around and cooking myself dinner. Overall, a very good day.

But despite my pretty laid back day, the title of this entry remains to be my opinion of Hyderabad.

I saw a fashion mullet, people.

-allison

India's the Sparkliest Country in the World

On Wednesday at 5 pm we all got on the train and set off for Jaipur to attend Virendra-Ji's niece's wedding. Ariel, Denae, and I had berths near one another, so we all piled into a section. almost immediately, we were bombarded by Frenchmen, who were all wondering out loud who we were and where they were supposed to be. Now, it's been about 2 years since my last French class, but I did take it for 12 years, and I can still understand it when someone says, "Why are there Americans in my berth?" Don't think you fooled me, Frenchie, I see your game.

After a few hours of lounging about the train, I spent some quality time sitting in the doorway listening to TaTu with Sara, where I discovered that my dream of becoming an international pop idol may be closer than I thought. I then returned to my berth where Ariel was talking to the aforementioned Frenchies. She asked me to do my Frenchman-speaking-Hindi impression that Ed and I are now famous for, and I reluctantly obliged, clearly seeing the next step in the conversation.

Me: (Lots of embarassingly gutteral sentences in Hindi that you would only see in a really bad SNL skit)
Frenchman:

That's right. NO WORDS. Just a look dripping with, "I'm not amused." And you know what? I didn't even blame him.

After that I went to sleep, and spent the next morning once again lounging about the train, wandering to different berths my friends occupied. Then I sat in the doorway for a while. Then I wandered around more. Then Ariel bought some really disgusting candy that tasted like Cap'n Crunch. Then we found out about the attacks in Mumbai.

I don't really know how to describe the feeling we all had. All of us on the program are constantly looking up news sites and talking about current events, and for every one of us to be stuck on a train unable to find out any information, was torture. Sara's friends were saying that foreigners, specifically Americans and British people, were being targeted and shot in the street. The Taj was on fire, and the Oberoi as well. Passports were being checked, and the death toll was around 80. We thought all of those deaths were foreigners, at the time. But as the death toll climbed, we tried to buy newspapers at the train stations we stopped at. Every newspaper was in Hindi, but we were able to pick out enough information to tell us what was going on. We eventually found out that foreigners weren't being targeted, and that passports weren't, on the whole, being checked.


The whole experience felt so much like September 11th for me. I felt like I did when I was watching the second plane hit the tower, waiting for my brother to call and tell us he was okay. I felt useless and scared and yet very distant. It was a terrible thing that happened, and I'm just exceedingly happy I wasn't directly affected by it. We have a friend in Mumbai, and he was also thankfully unharmed.


After we arrived in Jaipur the mood lightened a little and Sara, Mary Beth, Denae, Maya, Ariel, and I went to our hotel. We all showered and put on clean clothes, went shopping, and then went out to dinner.


We had Thanksgiving dinner at a vastly overpriced (Four dollars for a pizza? Please.) Italian restaurant, where we were all had a fun time talking about what we bought and how overpriced everything was in Jaipur. Abbie, a girl who studied Hindi with our professor and is in her gap year, asked us to say what we were thankful for. We each said something, some of them funny, some not. I said that I was thankful that I don't have to worry about my family and friend's safety back in the States. I can, pretty consistently, count on all of them being safe. I think everyone agreed. Though it was an extremely hard day for India, it was a pretty significant Thanksgiving for me.

The actual wedding was two days after Thanksgiving, but the day before the wedding is a ceremony called the Sangeet. Traditionally, the bride's family sings and dances for the groom's family, and the groom's family waves money over their heads and puts it somewhere. I never really found out where. Either the band or the newly wedded couple gets the money. Either way, it's waved over people's heads.

We were allowed to drink actual alcohol at the Sangeet (which of course, I did not partake in) and I saw a man, one of the caterers, carrying around a pitcher and visiting various tables in the eating area. He would stand by one of the tables, chat a little to the guest and would refill people's glasses on whiskey.

That's right, a pitcher. Of whiskey. My first thought when I saw that? "Go big or go home, India. Go big or go home."

We also danced for about two hours. Oh my god. Everyone was saying that our dancing was so good, and I was so sure they were lying. But, we were into it and having fun. Here are some photos of the Sangeet.

Sara and I created a dance called "Makin Chapati." We got really into it.

Chris got way, way more into it.

So after that we went shopping more (I bought so many gifts), and we got ready for the wedding. We got to the bride's family's house an hour early so that we could all put on our sarees and jewelry, and everyone seemed ecstatic that we got so decked out. Sara had a tiika, huge nose ring, and whatever that thing is called that goes from the nose ring to your hair on, and was totally bolywood blinged out. Sadly, it was deemed too flashy (seeing as no one but the bride wears this), and Sara decided for a more low-key everyday nosering. But, don't worry. We got pictures of the whole look.


The wedding was great- it was huge and set in a massive Greek-themed courtyard. There were hot gelabies and sarees side by side with what appeared to be a plaster statue of Cesear Augustus. It was pretty awesome. The bride was wearing what must have been 30 pounds of clothing, not including her jewelry, which must have been another 10 pounds. Her Rajasthani dress was literally dripping with gems and silver, while her face and neck were guilded in gold. She looked stunning, and the wedding was absolutely magnificent.

The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful except for the fact that our hotel had the best garlic bread ever (or at least in India...yeah, you're right, definitely not ever) and I spent practically every meal there eating spinach salads, tomato soup, and garlic bread. Mary Beth bought some bleu cheese, and we put that on the spinach salad. I swear I have never been so happy to eat a leaf in my entire life. Ever. I also, miraculously, had SPANIKOPITA. It was incredible. And though in the back of my mind I knew it was the worst spanikopita I had ever had, I didn't care. I still don't.

We did see Ek Vivah...Aisa Bhi (A wedding...even like this) and Dostana (Friendship). I don't want to talk about the first one; it was pretty uneventful and not funny. Dostana, however? Oh god. It was brilliant. Here's the story line. Two guys want to rent an apartment in Miami (the Indian idea of utopia in America, by the way), but a girl lives there alone, and her Auntie only wants women to live with her. But the apartment is SO NICE that the two guys decide to pretend they're a gay couple so that they can seem non-threatening and get the really nice apartment. Anyway, the main female actress's name is Priyanka Chopra and she was Miss World. She's really godamn pretty. So anyway, the two guys predictably fall in love with her and lots of dancing ensues. It was so awesome. The gay jokes in it are HILARIOUS.

Is there a man running like he's in heels? Yeah.

Is there an exorcism with skulls to get rid of the gay? Well, yeah.

Is there a guy in a leopard print muscle tee and a dog collar? Would it be a movie about gays if the answer was no?

Oh my god it's so good. I will force all my American friends to watch it with me when I get back to the states. I will continue to be your friend on the sole condition that you love this film with me. Here's a song from the film. Oh my god it's so good.
http://in.youtube.com/watchv=8sKNKf_0Oxk&feature=related

Anyway, so we're back in Banaras and as of six hours ago I finished my last final, so I am officially on vacation. And here is my schedule for the next month.

December 6-10: Varanasi

December 11-15: Hyderabad

December 16-18: Chennai

December 18-20: OkHornPlease: Padster, Scott, and Allison road trip to Goa.

December 20-27: Goa

December 27-January 3: Probably Mumbai

January 3-April 30: Varanasi

I'll try to update on my journey, but there sadly won't be any photos for a while. I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving!

-allison

Bihar is beautiful in the springtime...maybe.

Last Wednesday at 10 AM, my brother's flight landed in the Varanasi airport. In tow, he had two pairs of Gap jeans for me, six T-shirts, one friend from college, and one bag (half full) of Reese's. He had already eaten the first half, which no one could blame him for, and I surely did not.

After he arrived, we visited the school where I teach (not the Muslim one, but the other one. It's called The South Point School). There, I never have any idea what I'm doing and I have terribly broken conversations in Hindi with the two women I work with about labeling and organizing books. I don't know the Dewey Decimal system in English, let alone describing it to someone in Hindi. (In fact, my first day at Mount Holyoke College I actually thought all the books were in alphabetical order. The entire library. I'm not kidding.) Anyway, I showed Scott the room that I am responsible for turning into a community library, and the rest of the campus. After that we went to lunch and then finally went to the Radisson.

If I had some sort of sweet sound effect to attach to that word I totally would. It would be some epic drumming or opera. I'm leaning towards drumming, but maybe opera would have the classy tint I'm looking for. In any case, we went to the godamn Radisson and it was, to quote my facebook status, "almost like heaven, but, like, a lot better." The shower was like a dream come true. I took such a long, hot shower, that afterwards I was dizzy from the heat. It was SO GOOD. It definitely helped that it was my first shower in 3 months, which made it AMAZING. And the beds? Don't even. And the pillows were a dream come true. The day we left the Radisson, I took one, and spent the rest of the day with my backpack full to the brim with just the pillow. Because it was that fluffy.

Okay, now that you all understand how incredible the Radisson was, I'll describe why I was there in the first place. Jason, Scott's friend, works for a research group (or something, I don't quite get it) where he is based in Norway, travels around South Asia, and gets funded by the Norwiegan government to do cool shit. I think that that is his entire job. I know. I'm jealous of him too. Anyway, he has lots of money and I got to stay at the Radisson.

So on Saturday Jason was going to go to the India-Nepal border to do some fieldwork on the Naxals, who are big bad Indian commies. Scott and I decided to tag along, though I was more tagging along than Scott, due to his legitimate I'm-a-journalist-ness.

At 6 AM on Saturday, we ate our complimentary breakfast at the Radisson (because it's incredible) and then we located our car and driver to go to Nepal. As soon as we get inside, Jason checks to see how long the drive is. We expect it to be about 6 hours.

Jason: Kitna sumay lugega? (How much time will it take?)
Driver: Kyaa? (What?)
Jason: Kitna...sumay....lugega? (How....much time...will it take?)
Driver: *shakes head* Gyara gunte, bara gunte. (11 hours, 12 hours)
Jason: Kyaa? (What?)
Driver: Hahn. (Yes.)
Jason: Me...che gunte nahien heh? (I....not six hours?)
Driver: Nahien. (No.)
Jason: Janne? Ya anne-janne? (Going? Or coming and going?)
Driver: Hahn. (Yes.)
Jason: ...Anne-Janne? (...Coming and going?)
Driver: Hahn. (Yes.)

From this, Scott, Jason, and I decide that the driver meant six hours there and six hours back, which was totally do-able. It was what we expected.

Our driver also turns out to be the slowest drive in India. Ever. If India thought it ever had slow drivers, I challenge it [India] to watch this guy drive. Seriously. And he lives in India, of all places. He was even a slow driver for AMERICA. Yeah. This guy deserves a medal. Anyway, so we drive into Bihar, which is the state directly to the east of Uttar Pradesh, where I live.

Bihar is the most backward state in India. It is the bottom state of almost every single ranking in India. The literacy rate? 44%. The literacy rate of women is half that of the men in the state, and it is one of the most oppressive states in India. We drove through a village where there were absolutely no buildings, only wood shacks with tarps as rooves lining the road. My brother jokingly said, "This is the third largest city in Bihar." It was supposed to be a joke, but I believed him. It wasn't a stretch.

So when we were about 1 hour away from Patna, the capital of Bihar, we passed through a town called Araa (What's Bihaarrrr's favorite city for pirates? Aaaarrrraa). We got stuck in an epic traffic jam that existed for no reason, and while idling we asked our driver how much longer. He said, "Che gunte," which, if you don't remember the previous dialogue, means "six hours." We decided to immediately procure a map and figure out where we were. So, we got out of the car and walked around the beautiful city of Araa. What's in a Araa? Bad food, turns out. Anyway, so we found a map and discovered that, in fact, the Nepal border IS 6 hours away. Super. We were then left with three options.

1) We turn around, and go back to Varanasi (another 6 hour drive)
2) We all go to Nepal, getting there at 8 PM and leave at 10 AM, our stay sandwiched between two 12-hour drives.
3) We all go to Patna, an hour-long drive from Araa, and check it out.

Jason was for turning back, but my brother said we might as well see Patna. I have no deciding weight, and didn't really care. We decided to go to Patna.

Now, if I were to equate Patna to a town in the States, I think I would say a shitty Detroit. If Detroit had no cultural influences (i.e. if Eminem weren't from there) and was about 60 times dirtier, then it might be Patna. Maybe. It would also have to be in India, I suppose.

I can only think of the word "bleak" when I think of Patna. The stores are piled on top of one another, there's racist grafitti against Bangladeshis everywhere, and the hotel we stayed at was super expensive and smelled like urine. It was totally lame, and I can now say I vacationed in Patna.

I will say, however, that Patna has one thing that was completely amazing. And that, my good friends, was the Patna zoo. There is no really good reason to go to Patna, but there's a really godamn great reason to go, and that's the zoo. I saw a tiger, a white tiger, elephants, rhinos, and Scott's camera got licked by a giraffe. I don't want anything else from a trip, so I considered it a success.

Anyway, the rest of the trip was pretty low-key. We left at 8 AM the next day and drove the 6 hours to Varanasi. I can honestly say that there has only been one thing that has made me really like Varanasi. Patna. While we were in Patna all I was thinking was, "Thank god I don't live here. Thank god." And as soon as we crossed the bridge over the Ganga to Varanasi, I was actually happy to smell my home city. I can tell you that that was the first time I have ever been happy to be met by that smell. So, all in all, the Patna trip was a success.

When we got back we stayed at the Radisson one more night (that was when I stole the pillow, by the way), and the next day I had class. Really, other than my trip to Patna, not much has happened. Oh, except for one photoshoot I had with my brother on the ghats. Here's a bunch of photos I took.

Now let's just start by saying that I have a goat problem. I love goats. I love them too much, and I know that. The number of pictures I took of these two goats is utterly absurd. For real.

Anyway, here is a picture of goats cuddling and a photo of Scott taking a picture of a goat.






Here are some mildly artistic pictures I took.






And these pictures are just ones that I thought worthy of my blog. Everyone who knows me knows about my weakness for puppies, Indian children, and Water Buffalo.














The final photo is definitely my favorite. In fact....Do you know what Water Buffalo remind me of? Those things in The Dark Crystal. The wisemen or something that use canes and have serious spinal problems. They were called Mystics. They walk, in the film, exactly like Water Buffalo. Okay, that's enough dorky references for one day.

Tonight the program house is having a fake early Thanksgiving. One of the girls on the program, Ariel, has taken charge and is cooking up a storm. Everyone's bringing or making something, and I will be making devastatingly delicious garlic mashed potatoes. It's going to be awesome, and you all should be jealous.

-allison

There are a few things I hate about my life

Number one is that fact that today I found a 6-inch centipede trapped in a bucket in my bathroom.

It was crawling (crawling? running? scampering?) as fast as it could around the bottom rim of the bucket. I stood staring at it for five minutes, and only looked away when my snoozed and subsequently forgotten alarm sounded. I looked to my alarm, then the bug then back again. I've never had to deal with an insect this large. I knew that I only had ten minutes to brush my teeth, get dressed, get all my things together, and take care of the animal before I had to go to my Urdu class. I awkwardly left my bathroom, turned my alarm off, got some clothes on, put my books in my bag, and then promptly returned to my bathroom. The centipede was still there, as I more or less expected. He was still scurrying in circles. Little had really changed. I had 6 minutes until I had to leave.

Still looking at the 'pede, I opened my medicine cabinet and got out my toothbrushing things. With my brow purpetually furrowed, I slowly started brushing my teeth. Now that I think about it, it was probably mroe of a scurry. Not so much a scamper, and definitely not a crawl. Actually, I would use a made up word to describe what he was doing. Skittering. I think, if he were doing anything, he would be skittering. Not as bumpy as a scamper, not as busy-bodied as a scurry, and with a definite goal of escaping. Definitely a skitter. T-minus 3 minutes. I had to finally face the problem of what I was to do with him.

I didn't want to kill him, but I also didn't want him anywhere near me. "Live and let live" is a nice idea until something has an exoskeleton and is 6 inches long. In those cases, I much prefer "Live and put outside". So, I carried the bucket out of my house, only flipping him over once by accident, and threw him into the only potted plant we have. Case closed. Looking back on it, I have no idea why it took my so long to do that. But for a good 8 minutes, the solution to the problem was unconceivable to me.

So that was my morning. After I left the house I went to Urdu where I continued to be shamed approximately every five minutes. Example.
Me (reading from a textbook): kh...khoora
Urdu Professor (Salman Sahib): Khooda. What does it mean?
Me: Doesn't it mean "trash"?
Salman Sahib: ... It means Allah.
Me: ...Yup, yup it does...

That's just one of the things that has happened which has knocked me off whatever pedestal I thought I deserved.

The other most annoying thing in my life is that my camera has decided to stop working. It keeps showing me this message which is something like, "Full CT," and I have absolutely no idea what it means. That's what I get for allowing Scott to lend me his super fancy camera. I think tonight I'll charge the battery and maybe that will fix it. I don't know. In any case, that is why I haven't been taking, or posting any pictures.

In other news, Salman Sahib asked me if I would like to teach english to Muslim girls next semester, which I definitely would. My internship at South Point School hasn't started yet, but I plan on going over there today. It looks like my life will be full of Indian children soon.

I still go to Salman Sahib's school every Saturday morning for an hour to teach english conversation, and it's getting more and more fun as time goes on. The second day though, when they were taking pictures of me with their phones, was a little tense. After I confiscated the phone, which made me feel like a totally hardass-teacher, I tried to delete the photos. Then I couldn't figure out how to. That made me feel old. And I'm 20.

In any case, now they seem to like and pseudo-respect me. They correct my Hindi and I correct their English, so I feel like it's a good system. I prepare a lesson for each class (I know, right?) and try to talk to them in Hindi, while getting them to respond in English. Even in India, there are still those few kids in the class who know more than everyone else does and LOVE showing it. It's strange, but I sort of like them best. One of them is Salman Sahib's son, who's SO GODAMN BOSS. Last week we had an-hour long conversation in which he asked me every question he could think of about America. The following comments were some of my favorites.

Shanivaz: What is your favorite meal?
Me: Meal....hm. Probably pizza. But all the food on Thanksgiving is good too.
Shanivaz: Yes.
(end)
Shanivaz: In America, Empire State Building?
Me: ...Yup.
Shanivaz: How many floors are in it?
Me: Oh I have no idea. Maybe...a hundred and fifty?
Shanivaz: Wow!
(end)
Shanivaz: What is the tallest building in Boston?
Me: I have no idea.
Shanivaz: Oh!
(end)

He's so godamn cool. He brings Salman Sahib and I chai every day we have class. Because he's totally amazing. Also, his younger brother, Shaazan, is 8 months old and the cutest thing in the world. Seriously. I'm not kidding. Shaazan hated me for a month, but today he held my hand and smiled at me. I'm in love with an 8-month old.

Hopefully I'll be able to post pictures soon. The Ganga and the ghats are getting to be absurdly gorgeous at night, so I'll try to take pictures of that.

-allison

ps. The tallest building in Boston is John Hancock Tower at 60-floors, and the Empire State Building has 102 floors. Yeah, I looked it up.

Dwali Mubarak ho!

So today is Diwali, which is, as far as I can tell, the Christmas of India. Last night at the program house we had a puja, before which I volunteered to be the culturally clumsy white kid to perform. I offered a lot of food to Ganesh and Lakshmi, though I almost put the sweets behind the figures instead of in front of them. It was a significant faux pas, and the stupidest thing I did.

However, before the puja, I was put on the task of painting little feet throughout the house. The paint was made of spices and water and we had to put little feet in every doorway. They were so cute and tiny. In the next post, I'll put together a bunch of pictures from the night.

Post puja we went outside to set of fireworks, and I stepped on a sparkler(just like that time in 4th grade. Remember, Mom?) and it hurt, though it by no means ruined my night. It was a fun time. Tonight, apparently the fireworks will be crazy ridiculous and seen throughout the city. Diwali is also called The Festival of Lights, and apparently it's incredibly beautiful. I have no doubt that it will be.

I, however, am going to a special Diwali dinner with the woman I will be interning for at the elementary school. I am really excited, though entirely sure I will make a fool out of myself somehow. It's only a matter of time, really.

Okay well I'm off to clean my room. Happy Diwali everyone!

-allison

My Roommate Chris: The Iron Chef of Sweets

I had deep fried cookie dough last night. With a Cadbury chocolate center.

That's all.

Survey Post

In the last week, number of times seeing...
A dead dog: 2
A dead mouse: 1
A dead cricket: 80 billion
A mouse in my room: 6
A mouse in my bed: 2
Ants carrying other dead ants: 80 billion
Two men making out: 1 (It blew my mind)
The biggest spider in the world: 2

In last week, number of times eating/drinking...
Bugs by accident: 3
Food that I knew had bugs in it: 2
Amazingly delicious food: 2
Tuna melt: 1
Homemade mango juice popsicles from our freezer: 4
Chai: 40
Lassi: 4 (The lassiwalla on my corner and I are best friends. For real.)
Free meals: 11

In last week, number of times feeling like a complete fool...
In front of my Urdu professor: 30 (Sub point: Number of times Urdu professor has put his forhead on the table in what I can only guess is frustration: 8)
In front of my Hindi professor: 10
In front of any Indian: 200

In last week, number of...
Children talked to: 10
Misconjugated tenses: 75
Overeager rickshaw wallas: 20
Teenage boys that gawked at me and whispered in Hindi (during interviews): 36
Teenage boys that gawked at me and whispered in Hindi (outside of research): 50
Number of kids who speak better English than I do: 22

That's all I have to say. I thought of this list when I was riding my bike by dog carcass number two. I figured it was a susinct way of communicating to you all what my current life is like.

As a side note, I want to congratulate my brother on getting a job as a contributing editor at WIRED Magazine. In addition to being employed, he's like the coolest guy I know.

-allison

Super Shiny Flickr Page

Hey everyone, so there's that nifty slideshow thing I added (after an uncharacteristically significant amount of time spent yelling at my computer) in the top right corner of my blogger page. It's great, right? Well, there's more where that came from!

If you click on it it should send you right on over to my Flickr account page, whoes URL is http://www.flickr.com/photos/ahcarney/.

Good luck getting there and understanding my organization method. Flickr only lets you have three big groups of pictures with labels, so you're going to have to sift through everything. Have fun!

God, I hate formatting.

-allison

Everything in India Either Doesn't Work or is on Fire

So I'm going to have to go over lots of things in this post. Here is a quick table of contents:

Chapter One: Mussoorie
Chapter Two: The Train Back to Banaras
Chapter Three: My New Apartment
Capter Four: Motorcycle

Chapter One: Mussoorie

After a few days in the town, we discovered a restaurant named Kalsang's.

Before I really delve into Kalsang's cuisine, I need to make something very clear. I don't think when I say this it will have the weight it deserves, but I'll give it a try. There isn't cheese in India. Take a moment with that sentence. In India, there isn't cheese. Think about the implications for almost every meal Americans eat.

Yeah. It makes me hate everyone in the States, including my former self.

Okay, so in this restaurant, which had Tibetan and Chinese food, there was one dish that I got every time. It's name was Spinach and Cheese Momos (to get them fried was a 5 rupee charge- needless to say they were always fried). Was the cheese definitely Velveeta? Yeah. Have I had better momos? Sure. Were they the best godamn thing to grace this planet? Definitely. I ordered them to the hotel three times, and ate them at the restaurant at least six. This means that out of the 15 days I was there, I ate them on a total of nine days; If you had caught me on any day, the chances that I had eaten or was planning on eating Spinach and Cheese Momos (fried) would be 60%. Sadly, I have no photos of them, and I apologize for that.

Another culinary experience we had was ordering Domino's in Mussoorie. Domino's in Mussoorie wasn't always bad, but it was definitely not always good. The first time we ordered it we decided to go out on a limb and order the "Cheese Burst" pizza. It was 20 more rupees, and everyone was hoping that it meant stuffed crust. The following is what it actually was.








Now, this was straight-up melted white Velveeta cheese (same as the momos, except this is disgusting) poured on the pizza. And though we ate it, we also admitted it was a grave error in judgement. As of right now, it's sort of a sore spot in the group and whenever anyone brings it up it's more in remorse than anything else.

Despite the culinary highs and lows, the view from Mussoorie were amazing. Here are a few photos to sift through.

That final picture is the view from where we had class every day. It's okay with me if you hate me for a minute while you click on that and maximize the window.

Chapter Two: The Train Back to Banaras

The train itself didn't have much special about it. I, obviously, spent a lot of time sitting in the doorways and listening to music. Though, I will say that this time I got two very extreme reactions. One woman, after giving me a stern talking-to in Hindi about, I can only assume, the danger involved in sitting there, left in a motherly huff. After about ten minutes she came back, but with candy. I gladly took the candy, a kind of spicy tamarind candy that vaguely reminds me of whiskey, and thanked her, telling her it was my favorite candy. The first time I had it, by the way, I was disgusted by it. Now I think it's delicious. It's also two for one rupee, which is great. The other reaction I got was full on screaming by a man who was personally offended by what I was doing. He, like the man on the train to Mussoorie, told me he would be back in five minutes. Like before, I didn't move, and I never saw him again. I'm starting to think India's made up of garbage, goats, and empty threats.

The one truly amazing thing to happen on the train was the fact that Virendra, my Hindi teacher, was given a puppy in Mussoorie, and he had to take it back on the train. He named it Woody. the first picture is of the three boys and the puppy, with the second being the puppy lying on Sam's tummy. I can't even talk about how cute this dog was. It was incredible.

Indian trains are absurdly crowded. The tickets usually get messed up and people usually get on earlier than they are supposed to. The result of this is that many people don't have a place to sit, so they stay in the connections of the train and everything's very crowded and uncomfortable. But, that all changes when a white girl walks through carrying a small animal wrapped in a blanket. Everyone thinks it's a baby, and every single person clears out. It's incredible. I will use this technique on every train ride from here on in.

Chapter Three: My New Apartment

Due to a variety of reasons, chiefly the fact that my old apartment didn't have a kitchen and my room had three doors, I decided to move out. I got an apartment in Assi Ghat (the Western part of Varanasi) which is a lot busier than my old neighborhood, and overall more fun. Here are two pictures of my apartment: my bed and my bathroom respectively.

My first move in my kitchen was to make Macaroni and Cheese, due to the lack of cheese problem previously mentioned. Here is the glorious (yet fuzzy) picture of that.

The next day I made salsa with Ed and then added it to a batch of scrambled eggs I was making. It sort of looked like tabouli, but it was totally delicious. I have three people who can attest to that. I make damn good Indian salsa.

My new apartment is pretty perfect. I love the kitchen and the refridgerator and my bathroom and even my mouse roommate. I haven't named him, but I've seen him about four times in three days. So far, he's been okay. The biggest problem with roommates is a ridiculous ant infestation reminiscent of a story my brother told me a few years ago about his ants carrying a gecko up the kitchen wall to their lair.

Yeah, it's a lot like that.

Chapter Four: Motorcycle

So Pandit-Ji (he runs errands for the program and is generally awesome. For the purpose of this story it is important to know that he speaks no English.) fetches me a Royal Enfield mechanic and brings him to my house. The man and him talk for a few minutes in front of me; I understand about 1/5th of their conversation. Pandit-Ji then finesses me and the mechanic into a rikshaw and we go to my old apartment. Before we leave the mechanic asks Pandit-Ji if I know Hindi. He says yes. This is the first mistake made.

It takes about ten minutes to get to my house, and I ask the mechanic what his name is. He says Rajesh. He asks me my name, and I say Anamika (my Hindi name that everyone loves). We don't talk for the rest of the ride.

At the apartment Rajesh fiddles with the bike, but mostly just talks really fast with a lot of pan in his mouth. Pan can be found in two forms in India, a leaf wrapped around a betel nut and some other goodies, or little packets found on carts on the side of the road that look very much like strips of condoms. In any case, I can understand very little Hindi, and even less when there are two ounces of red mush in someone's mouth. We have a brief conversation, and he tells me I need a new battery. I ask him how much it is, and he says it costs 1700 rupees. That's about 1500 more than I am willing to spend on this 30-something-year-old bike. I ask him to charge the battery first, and he agrees. We then walk to his shop. His shop is a 15-minute walk away without a 400 pound motorcycle that won't turn on. He laboriously walks my bike there, and I, still getting stared at by everyone, walk next to him feeling terrible the entire way.

We get to the shop, and he proceeds to take apart the headlight, the undercarriage, the seat, pretty much everything, while this battery is charging. After three hours (I left and came back) the bike can turn on. I make excited-white-girl noises and him, his guru-ji (Dinesh) and four children stare at me. I smile and promptly look away. He revs the engine a few times and things are looking up. Then the clutch falls off. Just clean off the bike. It's just really great.

He says he can repair it in five minutes. He leaves on his bicycle to get the part and I stay behind with Dinesh, talking to him about his family and where he lives. From what I gather, Dinesh is Rajesh's uncle (the son of Rajesh's grandma) and though they don't live together, they eat together. I dont understand, but he thinks I did.

Rajesh returns and after another 15 minutes he's back. I pay him with all I have, but I need to get more rupees. I tell them that I will leave, alone, and then come back in ten minutes. I say alone because it seems as if they really wanted Rajesh to come with me, but I felt that I would be better if I traveled without someone on the back, seeing how inexperienced I am. In retrospect, I probably should have taken them up on their offer instead of deciding to go alone. However, this is the first time I have driven on Indian roads and I will say that I did a damn good job. I didn't hit anyone or thing, and I only stalled out once. When I got back to my apartment, however, it was a completely different story.

There is a little ramp (at a 45 degree angle and about 2 feet high) to get up to the apartment, and I thought I could ride up it. That, after try two, was apparently incorrect. After try one, I'll take a gander that only six men were around me. After try two where I almost fell off the edge of the ramp into a gully, I'll guess somewhere around thirty. After a few minutes of watching the white girl with the kickass bike, one Indian man handed someone his baby and walks it up the ramp. Was I ashamed? Less so than when I was hit by a motorcycle, and not much more than I am on a daily basis. So, I get my money from inside and then I have to bring the motorcycle back down the ramp. At first I walk really slow with it, and everything seems okay. Then the motorcycle starts going faster than I want and almost falls over. Five children run over to hold it up and straighten it out. I am absurdly grateful. The same men from before are still there. They are actually rolling on the ground laughing.

I get on the bike and one thing is clear. I don't have a clutch. Somewhere between getting to my house and leaving my house the part totally snapped. I instantly blame the mechanic until I see that the cement of the part snapped. The cement. When I almost fell into the gully, I must have hit the clutch on the gate and boken it. Anyway, I was pissed. Then I walked it back to the mechanics, incredibly angry. It took so long and I was sweating more than any analogy I can make. I get there, he replaces it, I meet an Israeli who's greatly impressed with my bike, I pretend as if I've had it for ages, I pay Rajesh, and I take off. I get back to the house and walk it up the ramp, revving it the whole way, without incident. It takes one try and I even do it with some limited agility. After all this, I'm feeling pretty good about my skills.

This morning I walk it down the ramp also without incident, and try to start it. The battery is dead again. I try a few more times, but give up rather quickly. An Indian man (they love helping white girls with their motorbikes) tries to start it, but can't. He shrugs and starts to walk off. Before he does I yell to him to ask him to help me walk it up, for without the bike on I don't have the engine to help me. He does it deftly and quickly, and the men who work across the street are still laughing, but I have an in tact clutch and somewhat in tact pride, so I feel like I won.

In short, I'm over the bike. It's too expensive and I can't deal with it. I think I'm going to give to Daya, who's the guy who helped me retrieve the bike from the rail station, sometime in the next week. It's too bad because the bike's totally badass, and I really do love driving it. But frankly, I'd prefer one that works. In any case, I think this might be the final chapter for me and the bike being together. I'll miss it, but I can make do with my bicycle.

Well, that's about it for now. For the next few days I think I'm going to spend a lot of time in my apartment watching movies and reading. I plan on avoiding all the Indian men whom I've met recently. They've all been friendly and therefore very disconcerting.

-allison

Hot Dogs in India: Yay or Nay?

I am getting on a train to return back to Varanasi in a few hours, and I will be back and settled in a few days. I am so excited for the train. Oh man, so excited.

This entry will not be an epic one, but I do promise return to my absurdly long, photo ridden entries soon. Therefore, I will not be writing a very long entry about Mussoorie quite yet. I will, however, include one very important note.

I have heard more Enrique Iglesias in the last two weeks in Mussorie than I have in my entire life combined. And I'm including 8th grade.

I'll write soon.

-allison

Mussoorie-tastic

I just want to preface this with two things. First of all, there have been a number of terrorist attacks in India recently, and I want everyone to know I'm okay. The bombs went off in Delhi, which is pretty far away from me, and right now I'm in an incredibly safe city. Second of all, and more importantly, there will be no pictures in this post. I know, I know. But I apologized, so now we should be able to move on.

We took a 20-hour train (it left at 10 AM and got in at 6 AM the next day) to Mussoorie on Saturday. I, obviously, spent the majority of my time sitting in the doorway, inches from death. Almost every Indian who walked by said "It's quite risky" or "That's incredibly dangerous" or "I'm going to come back in five minutes to make sure you're not doing that anymore". The latter man never did come back, so I remained undisturbed.

I don't know why train travel affects me the way it does, but oh my god it is amazing. Never once while on a train have I just wanted it to be over. Even when I was "sleeping" during the night, not being able to extend my legs, abet my sweating, or ignore the cockroaches, did I want the trip to be over. And I'm not lying about the cockroaches; one scurried over my pillow while I was reading. I pretended it didn't happen until the train ride was over, when everyone finally broke down and told their own cockroach-in-their-bed stories. Denial, I swear to god, has been an invaluable tool for my continual survival in India.

The first thing everyone remarked on when we got off the train in Derhadoon (an hour-long taxi ride from Mussoorie) was the temperature. It wasn't cold enough for a long-sleeve shirt, but it was significantly below "I don't care if wearing underwear and nothing else is culturally inappropriate; I'm DYING." As the taxi climbed the mountain, it got even cooler, and everyone was happier for it.

After a quick nap and a walk around the city, everyone had decided that Mussoorie was incredible, nay, Paradise. Firstly, it has a fair amount of Western places, of which Varanasi is surprisingly bereft. Secondly, the fact that my forearms aren't sweating makes me be over the moon for Mussoorie and, consequently, India. I can't stress that latter point enough.

Guess what's not on my forearms? Sweat.

And I realize it wasn't a tricky question considering the previous sentences.

So far in Mussoorie, I have bought a few presents, a pair of pants to sleep in (because shorts are TOO COLD), a shawl, and a sweater. All day I have been wearing a sweater, and, my dear friends, what a glorious, glorious day it's been.

Yesterday I was sitting in an internet cafe (the internet never started working, but I tried for a good half hour), reading a book, and I glanced down at the street. In one of the stores, I saw a Sikh man collecting a dozen or so scarves someone had looked at, but had left in piles throughout the store. The man slowly walked through his abandoned store, picking up the discarded scarves and piling them near the register. He would pick up one scarf, fold it in half, put one edge of the center fold in his mouth, and fold it twice more. After each scarf was folded, he would meander throughout the store to put them, one by one, back in place. Now, I don't know why on earth i had this reaction, but it was most comfortingly American thing I have experienced since being in India. It doesn't make much sense, because I don't have a strong memory from the US involving folding scarves, but everything about India that I can't stand, the burning trash, the honking, the mangy dogs, all went away while I was watching him. It was as if I saw this man, who had in fact tried selling me a scarf previously that day, as exactly the same as everything I know. Maybe I had to see an action that simple, that closely linked to muscle-memory, to feel that way. I'm not sure. India's been overwhelming to me, and it was my first taste of real comfort.

So, that's it of Mussoorie so far. I have taken a lot pictures, so hopefully I will be able to post them soon. I will be in Mussoorie until October 2nd.

-allison

Accident Report GH-726

It's been almost a week since I moved in to my apartment, and I have just gotten the time/internet availability to post pictures. Why did I not have internet? Cheifly because I'm in India, but also because monkeys tore down our internet lines. Because I'm in India.

I have a few gripes, but overall it's a pretty good apartment. Here's a picture of my room and the almost Brooklyn-esque style kitchen.





My room is okay, I like my view of the kitchen. My shelves, on the other hand, are totally boss. I'm also the only one with a bed frame not completely made out of wood, but don't tell my roommates. They might steal it from me.

These are two views from my apartment. One: Watter buffalo. The other: Pretty sunset.







The temperature's cooled off a bit since my last entry, but is still hovering a degree or two above sweltering, and a few degrees shy of Hell. I have been sleeping outside due to the planned power cuts (10am-2pm and 1am to 4am) wherein I cannot enjoy the minorly helpful breeze of my ceiling fan. I use the word "enjoy" extremely tentatively. Due to my porch-camping I have gotten, as of the most recent count, 49 bug bites (the 49th happened during the actual count). Now, these bug bites don't really look like mosquito bites, but I'm deciding they all are due to the terrifying reality of what kind of bites they could potentially be. That being said, my 49 mosquito bites are treating me really well.

Okay, I know that everyone knows India's dirty, but I don't think I ever really knew exactly to what extent that was true. I have had a few Sex-and-the-City-Opening-Sequence-esque moments where a motorcycle has driven by and splashed me with the most horrifyingly opaque water I have ever seen. Quick question: what's worse than seeing the opaque waters of India? Smelling the opaque waters of India. Oh Lord. River banks of trash + rivers of dead bodies + untold fecal count = a smell I have only experienced here and in the hall of my freshman dorm. Seriously. Whoever spilled that vinegar and DIDN'T CLEAN IT UP is a huge jerk.

Okay. Here is a picture of my feet after a day in India.

Needless to say I shower every night.

Now that I have an apartment I almost have a daily routine, which is making India a little easier to get used to. Though, there is a Hindi intensive retreat that starts this weekend, and is two weeks long. I think when I come back from the retreat, which is in Musoorie, I will be able to really settle in.

Yesterday was one of the better days I've had in India. I biked around Benaras, went to a cafe called "Bread of Life" and had surprisingly good pancakes. They were like...really good. Yeah. After pancakes, I biked around more, got lost, and finally found my way to Lanka market, which is near the program house. I used my Hindi to buy some flashcards and a pencil case that has several soldiers on it with huge lettering that says "EASTER". I then walked across the street and bought a soda. When I was walking away with the recycled bottle, he yelled to me about the bottle I was holding. I yelled back, "Me bottel vaapas karoongi!" which means "I will return the bottle!" He wobbled his head and went back inside, which I figured meant he understood me. After coming through on my promise, a little girl came up to me and asked me for money. I bought her a piece of candy, had a brief conversation with her in Hindi, and biked off. After all of this, I was feeling totally self-reliant and in control.

Then I was T-boned by a motorcycle.

It was totally my fault, and right after it happened I just looked at him, my bike, muttered "maf keejiye" (excuse me) and hobbled to the side of the road. He slowly drove off, and one by one, about a dozen Indian men came over to help me. All of them were speaking super fast, super colloquial Hindi. The front wheel of my bike was bent, and the spokes were poking out everywhere. One man took my bike from me and starting kicking it. Another started yelling "FIX! FIX!" During this time I lost every single Hindi word I had ever learned and stood, clutching my bike, shaking my head at everyone who tried to speak to me. Finally someone spoke to me in English and told me to go to a mechanic. I nodded, because my bike couldn't roll anymore due to the front wheel fracture, and a rikshaw took me to a mechanic. As I was leaving I waved to everyone and used the only Hindi word I could scrounge from my memory, "Danyevad" (Thank you). They all seemed very happy to watch the white girl fumble with a broken bike, and I was happy to oblige them.

We arrived at a mechanic's shop (two tool boxes and eight men on the side of the road) and I got off the rikshaw. The rikshawalla said I owed him 30 rupees. I shook my head and, with my handicapped bike in hand, argued with this man, saying that the drive was only 5 minutes and it should be 20 rupees. During this exchange, all 8 men came up and to watch me sputter, all jumping in to agree with one side or the other. Eventually I handed the man 20 rupees and walked away. And just to clarify, "walking away" really means lifting the front of my bike up and dragging it 10 feet away. The rikshawalla rode off, and I turned my attention to the mechanics. (By the way, for the rest of my time there, I would understand snipits of conversations about how I wouldn't pay 30 rupees to the stubborn rikshawalla.)

First off, they were all absurdly nice to me. One man walked across the street solely for the purpose of procuring a stool for me. He also ended up getting me a soda (not the brand he said he would, but beggars can't be choosers, I suppose). The man knows even less english than I know Hindi, so our conversation was incredibly incongruous and even now I don't know most of what was said. Here's a good example of what our conversations were like.

Him: Your country from?
Me: USA
Him: Me? Bengal.
Me: (raises eyebrows and nods slowly) Neat!
Him: Me- Bengal. Jogging.
Me: (Squints)
Him: Jogging.
Me: (Squints)
Him: Jogging (makes running motion with arms)
Me: Wow! (I still have no clue as to what he's talking about)
Him: (Smiles) Ahh! Bengal! (Hands me his driver's license).
Me: Jogging!
Him: Yes! Jogging!

I still don't know if he just enjoys jogging, is a professional jogger in Bengal, or is even the national joggER of Bengal. Either way, he loves to talk about it.

So after 2 hours of, more or less, that exact exchange, my bike was fixed up with all new spokes. (In retrospect, I think when he kept saying "New! New!" over and over again, he may have been asking me if I wanted all new spokes, and not telling me I needed them. But I'm over it.)
At first the second mechanic said it was going to be 250 rupees, I took out my wallet and (sort of) lied by saying I only had 200 rupees. He wobbled his head saying "it's okay, it's okay" and took my money. Jogging man then came over and yelled to the second mechanic to give me ten rupees. Without contest, he gave me 10 rupees. So, somewhow the price went from 250 to 200, to 190 rupees. I'm still confused as to why this happened, but I didn't argue. Looking back, it was probably because I said that I would come back when my motorcycle broke down, which is going to invariably happen. Anyways, In the end it only cost me about 5 dollars, and I rode off into the sunset.

Here are a few pictures of bike post-fixing. I'm sorry I didn't get any photos of the broken bike, because my camera wasn't on me. But, look how shiny it is now!

Well, I'm going to go pick up the Royal Enfield today and hopefully I will actually be able to come home with it. I have no idea how lofty that dream is. We'll see.

-allison

The Overnight Express Delhi-Varanasi Limited

On Monday I traveled from Chennai to Delhi to meet up with everyone from my program. The flight was fine, despite a bit of confusion over which airline I was actually flying.

I arrived at 9:30 in the morning and got a pre paid taxi. I told him to go to the Blue Triangle Hotel on Ashok Road. I knew it was near the YMCA, and perhaps across the street from the YWCA (a fact I vaguely remembered reading in an e-mail a few days earlier). After a long, traffic-y journey to the YMCA, he told me we had reached our destination, though the Blue Triangle was not in sight. I asked a man at the YMCA where the Blue Triangle was. The cab driver gets out of the car, has a tiff with the guard, and then the cab driver, in a huff, got back in the driver's seat. I hesitantly got back in the car we drove off. By chance, we passed the Blue Triangle, I yelled in what I'm sure was completely fluent Hindi, "The Blue Triangle is there! The Blue Triangle is there!" We parked on the sidewalk, he tried to get 50 rupees out of me for the tip (I know, right? Ridiculous. That's practically a dollar.) and I entered the hotel.

After signing in, I went up one flight of stairs to my room. I had already known everyone on the program from this past summer, but wasn't sure whom I was living with during the interum preiod in Delhi before we got apartments. As I entered the room, I saw two huge black bags full of clothes. On top of a bag, I saw one half of a pair of snakeskin pumps. Catherine was definitely my roommate. I asked the hotel manager and he said that she had gone out with some other people from the Wisconsin trip.

I decided to spend the next few hours not looking for my friends, but spending some quality time on the first bed I had been on in about a week. It was definitely the right decision. I napped and read for about 3 hours, at which point I heard someone fumbling with some keys outside. Catherine's first encounter with skeleton keys wasn't going well, so after a waffling minute or so, I opened the door. We hugged, and I went to the other girls' room.

The next few days was spent going to a mosque, some historical sights, the National Museum in Delhi, and eating incredibly good food. We also visited the AIIS (American Institute for Indian Studies, I think) headquarters outside Delhi. We spent a total of about 5 hours there, and while i would love to detail everything that happened it can be summed up in a few key details.

1) The entire group was jet-lagged out of their minds and exhausted.
2) Total, I think we spent 3 hours in libraries talking to ecstatic archivists.
3) We spent about an hour in a small AV room talking to a music media archivist. One of the program directors fell asleep.
4) We spent the 30 minutes following in another small room with a map archivist who said the word "actually" 68 times. I counted.

So...I don't really need to give you guys a play-by-play of that afternoon.

On Thursday night we took an overnight train to Varanasi. The train station was very cramped, ridiculously crowded, and had an ever-present (not so) faint waft of urine. After waiting half an hour for the train a drunken man starting yelling at us about how we are foreigners and we will never be from India. Squeezing his water bottle in anger, he shouted "This is a country of angels!" He then lost interest and wandered away. He came back several times, but never said anything. His scowl was the only communication he shared.

After another half an hour, the train arrived. The train stood without opening its doors for 20 minutes, and we boarded. Here are some pictures of the train journey.

The floor was disgusting, the food was sub-par, and the men around us loved staring at the white kids. The squat toilets smelled terrible, were (to my dismay)ridiculously slippery, and every five minutes a man would walk by barking out, "Chai, Chai, Chai!" It was most people's personification of complete discomfort.

Despite this, if you know nothing about me, know this: I love train travel. I love everything about it. I spent an hour sitting on the stairs with the door flapping next to me watching the country go by. And though I was sitting in a viscous pool of something, it was brilliant. I can't really describe how it made me feel, but it lifted a lot of anxiety I had about my decision to go to India. I guess that's that only way I can describe it. If anyone ever wants to take a journey on a train, count me in. I will be so down.

We arrived in Varanasi at 8:30 AM, and moved all of our bags into the program house. After moving in, we ate breakfast and spent some down time around the house. During said down time I found our mailboxes, and while everyone elses' names were spelled right, mine had a mispelling I had never seen before. If anyone wants to write me a letter, make sure you spell my name "ALLLSON," otherwise, they might not know who you're writing to.
That evening we had a musical performance that was incredibly impressive, and I stayed up late on the roof of our house with Catherine, Chris, and Sam takling about tattoos, politics, and global warming. Here are a few photos of Mary Beth on the roof to give you an idea of what it looks like.

Today I went for a walk to Assi Ghat with Mary Beth, Catherine, and a flimsy, handwritten map Shashank made for me. The famous steps to the Ghats are mostly underwater (three cheers for monsoon season) so we just sat at the top of the stairs for a while before we each had a 7up and made our way back.

So far I like Varanasi, save one thing. It is so hot here. It is hotter than Chennai or Delhi. The second your shower is done, you feel exactly the same as you did before you starting showering. Which is usually equal amounts of sticky, sweaty, and uncomfortable.

In short, so far so good. I have a cell phone now, which is pretty great. You can e-mail me if you would like to call (All incoming calls are free for me, but expensive for you. Pretty much everything is inexpensive for me.) me at any time.

I hope all of your respective countries are doing well.

-allison

ps. McCain's running mate? Anyone? Aaanyone? Everyone on the program found out in the computer lab and could not stop talking about it. Did you know Sarah Palin's husband is a champion snowmobiler?

The Motorcycle Blogaries

My (almost) week in Chennai has had a few memorable moments and/or beverages that have really made my visit here great. The first few that come to mind are the epic rainstorm my first night (see previous entry), seeing The Dark Knight, eating post-apocalyptic enchiladas, riding on the back of Scott's motorcycle every day, getting bitten by ants during the night, and strawberry-banana smoothies (I swear to god people, if you think you've had a good one in the states, you're dead wrong. I'm not kidding.). But perhaps the most memorable time I've had here is learning to ride a motorcycle.

You heard me. Riding. A motorcycle.

What you should know is that there were two main drawbacks. One was the helment Scott made me wear that was lined with, what I can only assume was, a queen-sized down comforter which made it hard to see, hear, and breathe. The other was the constant reminder that this was probably the most dangerous decision I could make while in India. But, the pros (which were that I'd be riding a motorcycle and...well, that's it) quickly pushed those drawbacks to the wayside to make room for Scott's 2007 Royal Enfield. This is me, the helmet, and Scott's newer Royal Enfield.Three years ago, Scott taught me how to drive his stick shift. After this, he promptly left for India, but his car stayed with me in the states. Though the standard took me a few months to master, I have been driving his Hyundai ever since. It's safe to assume standard transmissions and I have become pretty close over the years.

Despite my uncanny ability to lose my balance, my many years of teaching myself to ride my bike with no handlebars paid off, and within 20 minutes I was motoring around the block.









Just so we're both aware, it's also safe for you to assume that I'm a total badass.

Pending program approval, he might send up his old Enfield for me to drive around in Benaras. If he does, I will probably have to promise him (and my mother) to wear a stuffy helmet. It's totally worth it.

I leave tomorrow to fly to Delhi to meet everyone on my program, then a few days later I go to Benaras. I'm totally excited for Benaras. I've really liked my visit in Chennai, but I'm really looking forward to getting to know a city. When I first got here was terrified I would hate India. I think I've more or less accepted that I'm going to hate India sometimes, but I also know that other times I'll really love it. In all, I'm really happy about my decision to come here. At least this way I get to expand the amount of linen in my wardrobe. And anyone who knows me well knows how important that is to me.

On tonight's agenda is packing, going to a super fancy restaurant, and showering. I will update after I get to Delhi, though I can guarantee the pictures won't be as cool.

-allison

Baptism by Fire....or water.

I just arrive at Scott's apartment in Chennai. I will update the specifics tomorrow, because i just took some ambien and i can feel it kicking in. The title should give you a hint.
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Okay, so it's the afternoon the 20th and Scott and I are currently in his apartment lounging around waiting for some rice to cook. We are both pretty tired because we went to bed at around 4 AM last night. My flight got in at 1:10 AM. Why did we go to sleep at 4? Well I'll tell you.

So my traveling started at 10:16 AM on the 18th, which was supposed to get to the Newark Airport at around 2:30 PM. My flight left at 8:25 PM, but the next bus got me to the airport at 6:45, and was just cutting it too close.

After the 4 and a half hour bus ride, I took the monorail to the airport, and in the process almost got separated from my bag. But, my bag and me made it to Terminal B where Jet Airways was.

Wait. Where is Jet Airways? I ask about 5 attendants where the check-in was for Jet Airways, and they all point me in different directions. The last one tells me that Jet Airways hasn't set up yet. I have gotten to the airport before my airline. Noted, Jet Airways.

So eventually I get on the plane (after 6 hours of waiting) and fly for 6 hours to Belgium. I sit next to a super affectionate, super French couple and watched Step Up 2: The Streets. It was a pretty good plane ride.

I arrive in Brussels, wait for an hour, and then board my next plane. This flight is 10 hours long. Roundabout hour 3 my back is killing me from sitting for so long. I watch 3 movies, nap a little (though I don't want to go to sleep for fear of exacerbating my jet lag), and watch a killer episode of Planet Earth. Which one? Seasonal Forests.Did you know that there is a forest in South America where there are deer who are normally the size of a medium dog, who's young are the size of kittens? Deer Kittens. Are you kidding me, Earth?

The plane finally lands in Chennai and it is pouring outside. There's lightening and thunder and super strong wind. A truck with a boarding staircase drives up to the plane, but eventually retreats for safe, less gusty area. The pilot goes on the PA system and says that we need to stay on the tarmac until the storm dies down. We are delayed for 30 minutes on the tarmac of our destination.

We finally get to the airpot itself and head to customs. Customs take approximately 2 minutes including waiting in line, and then I go off to claim my baggage. While waiting, an official over the PA system says, "Allison Cairnee, please come to the front desk. Allison Cairnee." After locating the front desk, I tell the man who I am. He tells me that my brother was having car trouble and he'd be late. 'No problem,' I thought. 30 minutes later I collected by bag and was waiting for Scott to arrive. No Scott. Suddenly I hear, "Allison Cairnee, please come to the front desk. Allison Cairnee." I return to the desk. The man tells me that Scott is stuck in traffic, but gives me his phone number. I call my brother, the handset disconnects twice from the reciever, but I finally talk to him. He is five minutes away. We hang up, and I go outside.

It's my first time in India since 2006 and that India smell hits me really hard. It's not the bad smell of burning sewage that I also closely associate with India, but the other, less offensive smell. It's a little smoky, a little like tumeric, and everpresent. I see Scott, wave, and try to find my way over the 4 foot metal barricade. After hugging, we get in the car (I try to get in the driver's seat before I realize that traffic is different here). He tells me about the hellish trip he's had (a breakdown followed by an insane traffic jam), and says that the car keeps getting water logged. By this point, it has begun raining again, but fairly lightly. However, the unevenly paved Indian roads have aquired oceanic puddles that make the car hiss and promptly power down. The power in the car keeps going out, but amidst our many pirate jokes, we get closer and closer to his apartment with relatively high spirits.

The problem arises when we are faced with the fact that in front of Scott's apartment parking lot is a monumental lake. A truck slowly drives through it, and his wake breaks on the newly made shore a few feet in front of us.

"We need another plan," Scott says. I definitely agree.

We try a back route, Scott braving the ever-deepening sea beneath us. The car squeals, and shuts down. We wait a few minutes for the engine to drain before realizing that where we are the engine is underwater. Therefore, it's not draining.

"We need another plan." Scott repeats.

He rolls up his pants, gets out and pushes the car back about 40 feet. We wait a minute, and then head off down another route. Trying to come at the apartment from a different road, we go through another epic puddle. Whispering words of encouragement, we urge the car to make it just two more blocks. But, the car is tired, and the water is deep. With a silent shudder, the car goes to sleep. Once more, Scott braves the murky, sewage-ridden water to bring the car to safety. After half a block, I join him. Waving to his newspaper vendor, Scott gets back in the car and we close in on the apartment. I give it one big push over the threshold, and we park it. We've made it. It's 3:30 AM. We go upstairs, where we find that the power is out. Luckily, Padma (my sister-in-law) had set out several candles to help us stumble around the apartment and had made my bed, which is a mat on the floor. Scott and I drink some fairly ambiguously named "Sleepy Tea", and head off to bed.

By the time I got in my pajamas, took my Ambien, and went to sleep, I had been traveling for 30 hours.

So that was my first night in India. Padma, Scott and I are going to see the new Batman movie tonight and go to some really nice French pastry shop. I don't know what else is on the docket, besides sleep, that is.

For now, I am in India and things are going well. I haven't come to a conclusion about how I feel about being here. I like it, but 9 months is a pretty big commitment. I think as soon as I have a home base, a daily schedule, and more than one pair of pants, I'll be happy. But before all that, and before I can even begin to fathom traveling to New Delhi on the 25th, I need to catch up on some sleep.

I'll update you all soon,
Allison