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