What is that makes the length of a day? Surely, not the minutes in the hour. I think perhaps it is the amount of new sensory information one can take in—or perhaps the amount of faces you see in a day, that makes one so long. We were in Ahmedibad, Gujerat only 50 hours—but they filled me up to the brim. We just had a 3 day week end for Gandhi’s birthday—and there was a non-stop flight to Gujerat, his home state, which was good enough for me. We stepped off of the plane into astounding heat and humidity. Even compared to Chennai the air was palpable. Heading into town we saw the subtle differences of the north—the way the women wear their saris, pulled over their heads, and men in dhotis rather than lungis and all in white. Camels on the street along with the familiar ox and cattle, and bikes, and scooters and the deafening horns of countless cars and buses.
We (my friends Barbara and Ashley and I ) left our very non-descript hotel to find the MG house, an magnificient hotel well out of my price range around the corner—this became our second hotel. We ordered exotic drinks of ginger and lime and coconut milk and made our plans.

Off to the market! It was not that far away and the road was packed! We passed elephants, and endless vendors sell everything from underwear to household utensils. The crowds were dense and the sweat streamed down our backs and bellies and we followed the tide of humanity along. We bought garish clothing for little girls, and shoes and shawls, a head scratcher. We looked at the whole street of glittering saris hung over the streets, and were called to come in! Come in! Looking is free!
In the evening, Ashley and I went to eat on a roof top where we were attended by about 10 handsome young waiters who filled our glasses and watched us for any sign of need. We had a Thali, a traditional vegetarian meal with endless food brought for our delight.
At ten o:clock a history professor volunteers to take us on a night tour, a walk through the old part of the city. The neighborhoods are called “poles” and they are like rabbit warrens through the city. Each one has a center area and at this late hour there was a party in one, with light and food and children running to exclaim at the oddity of white women in their neighborhood. There are building there called havelis, like we saw in Rajisthan—only carved of wood, teak from Burma. Buildings that survived numerous earthquakes. There were secret passage ways that freedom fighters hid in. And each pole has at least one large bird feeder—and it is daily stocked with fresh water and bird food—a Jain tradition.
Children ran after us and people gawked. Not much tourism in Gujerat, and we were the only white faces around. Families hung out of their windows—everyone seemed to be up. We were drawn by the sound of the Indian oboe and drumming, and passed under a gateway to the kings tomb. The people played there every night for 5 generations as a notice that the gates were closing. Anyone not in, in time was locked out for the night. We saw the kings tomb, and

people were lying about sleeping—“It is the living to fear, not the dead.”
We went back to our hotel by midnight and slept like the king.
Gujerat had many treats to offer. Gandhi’s ashram on the river, now a library but still a place for prayer and meetings. Mosques, with carvings like lace through the rock for windows. Quaking towers mosque, where people are no longer allowed to climb. Markets, blocks and blocks long—selling underwear and household goods. Shoe shops to make Imelda Marcos pause, shawls, and baby clothes fashioned after Bollywood.
We spent the morning at the Ashram and watched the washer women in the river, and children bathing. Groups of school children were there in matching hats or uniforms. Gandhi is alive and well in Ahmedibad.

We saw women who wore so much gold on the top of their ear, that they flapped down.We visited a shop where they sold emeralds the size of dimes on rings and ancient textiles. We went to the market, and spent hours looking at wares. WE walked the streets greeting that of God in everyone. We rode in rickshaws around ox-carts and camels and elephants.

We went to Jain temples, where the gods all look the same, and resemble the children of the corn, with astonishing carving in stone.

And then, we visited perhaps my favorite spot so far in India. It was a mosque, possibly called the Sarkhej Rosa

—but what delighted me beyond explanation was the mixing of Hindu and Moslem---people were gathered there at the courtyard of the neon lit shrine—moslem women in burkas, and hindi women in saris, holding each other’s babies, eating each other’s food. Children laughed and ran around and peered at us. We were invited to come in and observe and partake. No segregation. The Hindu’s went inside to pray and there was singing and dancing in the courtyard.
Gandhi would have been so pleased. I have never seen anything like it before or since.

After we went to eat where there was traditional dancing, and music, and puppet shows—again a traditional Thali dinner, without the white shirted waiters. Another night in a hotel with no windows, but very attentive room service--$4/day.

We spent the last day seeing the calling cards of Ahmedibad. The Step Wells are a remarkable and beyond our understanding in the West. Water storage structures were developed, the grander they were reflected the power of their patrons. They are wells dug stories deep, each one supported by intricately carved columns, and as the water evaporates one climbs deeper into the well on, yes, steps. Along the way are carvings in the stone and pillars. We walked down realizing the coolness that they provide and sat on the steps for a moment before whisking back to the airport, and our lives in Chennai.

On the way to school. . .

The security man is sitting under the overhang reading the paper. He jumps up to “Vannacum” me. I rev up the scooter and head down the early morning street—3 men in orange lungis, one on a drum, one with a flute, and one with a flag are coming down the street, we touch our hearts in greeting. The flame forest tree is dropping the last of the brilliant orange blossoms, causing a carpet of orange on the wet pavement. A crow pulls at the skin of a dead rat. The flower seller is tying jasmine blossoms the size of a marble to strings to sell, sitting on the curb next to the temple—incense smells waft out as I pass by. Men in coats and blankets walk abreast in the street oblivious to the car horns—I veer around them. The bus blares its air horn at me as it vrooms by, splashing a sheet of water over my freshly ironed clothing. Women gather at the faucet to fetch the days water in large brightly colored plastic urns. They carry one on their head and one in each arm, swaying along the street to their home. The woman with the Alaskan husky on a leash is at the tea stand. The well groomed, well behaved dog stands leaning into her leg. On the tree lined avenue there is a coconut stand stacked neatly in a pyramid 6 feet tall. The vendor sleeps on the sidewalk next to it, arms folded over his chest. Bikes with a large cart in front on two wheels, pedal with loads of green bananas, and one carrying boxes that look like televisions. Men gather at the tea stand, drinking from small silver cups and smoking. Always men standing around—the only women I see are working. The oxen stand patiently chewing. One wears a new garland of yellow and red flowers around its neck, its horns painted bright green and blue. The bamboo weavers loom is empty, with bamboo poles leaning next to it—ready for busy hands and chatter. A dog, with balls the size of grapefruit charges out to snarl at passing dogs, defending its territory. They skitter, and he heaves a sigh and stands proud. 3 men pissing on the side of the road. Two children shitting next to the garbage heap—a man brushes his teeth while squatting on the other side. The idol vendors, who live in a black plastic tent on the side of the busy road are just getting up. The mother holding the naked baby and the little girl stretches and rubs her messy hair. The pot holes in the road are full of water, and it is dangerous to hit them, not seeing how deep they are. I pull into the school and take off my helmet—another day to school. All of these sights are now so common to me—like the ride to Friends school, I drive on automatic, taking the sights and smells in without even gasping in surprise.

back home

I have returned from a cool green, lush and loving summer. Minnesota, Michigan and Montreal each offering gifts of love and laughter and comfort. So much so, that I couldn’t bare to return—to pack or plan or even think of returning to India and adventures with my niece Nicole who was joining me. My heart ached and was heavy when I got on the plane, but lifted as the flight carried me from one reality into another.
We landed in Delhi to find the parking lot under a foot of water, and our faithful driver and new friend, Dillbagh waiting for us. He hustled us into his brand new car and deposited us at a hotel for a short rest before we left Delhi for Agra and the Taj Mahal. We decided to travel by car as we had no definite plans set in front of us, and the heat was grueling. Dillbagh and the driver, Rakshesh, were to spend the next 4 days with us. We traveled in luxury, airconditioning and two knowledgeable guides who entertained us with philosophy, medical advice, religion, and local customs. Dillbagh gave us advise on losing weight, constipation and the helpful medical advise of how to chose the gender of your unborn child—which, apparently is to take some secret capsules 2 months into pregnancy. Nicole and I laughed until we cried, much to the gentlemen’s delight. We were more fortunate at this decision than we knew at the time, because the things we wanted to do turned into different opportunites that we didn’t even know existed.
The drive to Agra in the early morning showed the world waking up. Stone masons carving, camel carts on the move, people walking to the fields, women, always women carrying huge bundles on their heads. Riding in the car allowed us to stop to meet women working in the field, who shyly let us join them. We stopped for lunch and found a young boy with a half dead cobra that he rallied up with a few pokes and notes from his flute. Nicole’s first Indian meal. Roadside stands that no white women had ever frequented, and the mistaken idea that we were with our Indian boyfriends caused considerable stares and discussions.
We arrived at the Taj Mahal in the late morning. There were throngs of people, all Indian to see their national treasure. Entering through an ornate archway my breath caught as I had my first glimpse of the monument. The Taj is built as a mausoleum by the Emperor Shah Jahan for his wife who died in childbirth of their 14th child. The construction began in 1641 of pure white marble inlaid with semi-precious stones and remarkable mosaics. The marble brought from 40 miles away. Truly a wonder of the world of architecture and craftsmanship. Startling, and yes, the Indian people are so proud of it, but my western mind could only think what a waste—how much riches used for this decorative place that serves no one. The Emperors invaded and robbed India of untold wealth, stripped her bare, and then left. Not one school built. Not one hospital or public service of any kind.
We rested that afternoon and when Nicole woke up and looked out the window—there was an elephant! We joined our guides at a place they frequent for an authentic meal. A road side stand with rough wooden benches and table right next to the road. We ate rice and dahl and chapatti. Nicole has already experienced things here that my friends in Chennai would gag at—and all with the eager excitement of a new traveler in India.
In the morning we left early again, to head to Akbar’s palace, perched on top the highest hill. Again, and opulent development which only served his many wives and children, guarded by eunuchs. The courtyards were expansive, circled by detailed carving in granite. Thinking about the amount of work and what they had to work with is mind boggling. We were the only visitors, and we could imagine children running here and playing hide and seek, and women wiling away their days in idleness.
We visited Akbar’s mausoleum—another stunning piece of useless architecture totally inlaid with mother of pearl—sparkling in the sun. People’s devotion was palpable.
There were vendors selling wares. One man was selling garnet stone necklaces. I remembered my aunt Tina wearing a ring with 3 garnet stones. I could see her hands and fingernails, and felt a surge of love for her. I bought it and it inspired me to write her a letter and send it to her after decades of neglect. A gift for my heart. Traveling unearths long forgotten memories—smells, sounds and sights trigger them from the depths of the mind.
We drove in luxury along dry hot roads, with the women carrying large bundles on their heads, and endless streams of goats followed by a fellow dressed in white carrying a stick—often with a white turban—scenes from a movie we had never seen. There was a bird sanctuary along the way, and because we were not on a bus, we could stop. Cars were not allowed in, and there were men who ferried us on their bicycle rickshaw. We sat in covered shade while the old man pedaled our considerable load in the blazing sun. After 40 years of working there he knew where every bird lived and what each call was. We saw baby owlets! And so many songbirds and small water birds—the big ones north on migration from the heat. At the end of the long quiet and beautiful road, we got out to walk. He took us to a place where the fruit bats were nesting—hanging upside down—wings occasionally fluttering—he spooked them up for our delight! They flew over head, and visions of batman were not to imagine. They are the size of large cats and soared over head to land and hang upside down again. Nicole was as delighted as a child on Christmas morning. She was more fun to watch than the bats.
On to Jaipur!! Visions of my favorite jewelry dazzeled in my mind. I only have 5 rings to wear daily, and was scheming of another 5—with earrings and presents glittering next to them. I was planning on all of the things I could buy for family and friends—JAIPUR!!! The shopping mecca of the world! We arrived late afternoon and Dillbagh immediately took us to a shop that only Indians shop at (and he gets a commission). But it was grand, and Nicole bought several things to take home—a jewelry store (not my price) but Nic bought her mom some stunning earrings—and other shops, until we could ditch Dillbagh and were dropped off in front of the Palace of the Winds. There were far more hawkers than shoppers,, and crossing the street made our hearts beat with terror! We just wandered—trying to get away from the people grabbing at us to come into their shops. We found little fried lentil balls from a street vendor, which we wolfed down—delicious! We bought only a few things—our energy waning, and decided to return to our run down musty hotel, where only Indians stay—of course, we are so hearty. We looked at our loot and recanted the day. Traveling with a dear friend is such a treasure—someone to hear the minutia and really be interested. We showered and slept under a rattley fan. When we woke up, I was pumped to SHOP!! We came out to meet Dillbagh sitting on the couch in the lobby—“So sad. The Mattahani died! Everything closed!”“EVERYTHING??””“Yes. She was so very loved and died in the middle of the night.” And indeed everything in Jaipur was closed—even tea stands. She was 93 and was once voted one of the top ten beautiful women by vogue magazine. She was gorgeous—Rita Hayward beautiful. And she actually did things to improve people’s lives. She worked for education for the girls in Jaipur—and living conditions. People loved her! We got out of town, with my purse still full, but empty bags. How fortunate that was.
We went to the Ajmer Palace and fort, and rode elephants up to the top—another first! They were gaily painted and wore festive cloths. They kind of rock side to side as they made their way up the hairpin curves to the top. It was such fun to see the ones coming down and other tourists sitting on top. The view breath taking—and the ancient fort was enormous, the walls made of rock rolling out to the edge of sight. Part of it still inhabited, and some in ruins 6 hundred years old. At the top of the hill we entered the courtyard to find Dillbagh waiting for us with his smiling face beaming at us. “So lucky,na? Here I am waiting for you!” And we did feel so lucky to have him there for us.
“A new plan!” he jabbered, “We will go to Sariska Animal preserve! Maybe we see a tiger!” And happily we headed out again. The land going east this time was very rugged terrain—scrub trees and no houses. Ridiculous vehicles jury-rigged from tractors, trucks and trailers. WE saw many pilgrims carrying water jars hanging on the ends of sticks they carried across their shoulders, and there were people along the way feeding them. We began to realize that there were many flat bed trailers and trucks carrying large crowds of people heading the way we were. The people were thin and wirey and more packed together than sardines in a can. “AHHH! Sariska! No promise of a tiger you know—only luck, but we are lucky!” WE pulled into a large lodge with beautiful gardens, but---no cars. Lucky! We went inside, and it felt like the old British movies of India. A sign read ASK FOR DOCTOR- TAXI- OR GYPSY, which cracked Nicole and I up. It was quiet. In fact, it was closed. Someone had poached a tiger, and they were closed until Monday. We really cracked up then! Laughed our heads off at the absurdity of it, and bundled back into the car. “No problem! I know a village near by—we’ll eat there, and a temple festival that I took my mother to every year.” We didn’t feel troubled, but just wondered what window of opportunity this would open for us.
The trucks kept coming, and buses all heading to the festival. We stopped in the nearest town, and gawked at the people gawking at us. Wild dramatic people, women in such rich garb and bangles—cars with 20 people in them, children who screamed when we went near them—old men in dhotis (ankle length cloths pulled up between the legs)and kurtas (long simple shirts) and white turbans. The women in long skirts, mid-driff shirts and long dupatas (scarves) worn over their heads, and sometimes pulled over their faces. They had rings in their noses and bangles up to their elbows. Crowds gathered to look at us, and we were the first white person many had ever seen. Men and women totally separate. We ate at the local “café” chapatti and a thin dahl and vegetables and then took tons of pictures, to everyone’s delight. They would laugh and scream at their images. And on—to the festival. We parked and walked down a dusty road lined with people selling icons, jewels, barettes, mirrors, holy cards, cigarettes. Dillbagh insisted Nicole and I buy necklaces that married women wear—for our husbands sake and we walked on. People singing and 3 men and a boy laying in the dirt scootching their way to the temple—first on their stomachs, then on their backs, never walking. “They may do this for 15-20 kilometers! IT is for success in business!” Dillbagh explained as though that made a lick of sense to us. There were throngs of people, and drumming and chanting and balloons and toys—festival is really a festival here. People picnicking dand eating ice cream and corn –just like the state fair. Nicole was surrounded by hoards of young men wanting to shake her hand and have her take their picture as they made macho poses. Holy men bowed to us and everyone welcomed us. It felt the farthest I had ever been away from the familiar in India—nothing I had ever seen or felt…
The temple was crammed full, and the temperature over 100 degrees—lots of smoke and incense and people washing the idols and each other, and people praying and yelling and laying on the floor prostrate. Kids running and blowing bubbles, and women gathered, huddled sharing news with those not often seen. Dillbagh got all freaked out that he couldn’t see Nicole and started ordering us around—his feet were burning without shoes on the hot cement. We worked our way out to our sandles and back through the crowd. We stopped to listen to a group of women singing and Nicole joined them. A haunting movie in my head. I hated to go—it was so rich, so beautiful, so wild.
We decided to zip back to Delhi to catch a flight that same night to Chennai—the days were so long and full and rich—a true time warp in many ways. Dillbagh took us to his home to see his family and get my bags and dropped us at the airport—we were dazed and amazed, and I was heading. . .home.

Back "home" again

Time is going quickly. I wasn’t excited about it, but I had promised Ashvini that I would come, and there was no other time, and no reason not to. I got up at 5 and had coffee and set off in the early morning on my scooter for Vilavanur, a small village west of Pondicherry. I left early to avoid the hot sun and traffic. My first big adventure on my scooter.
It was clear and cool in the early morning. No traffic, and I buzzed along pushing 60 kph. I passed Mahabalapuram, the first milestone singing along at the top of my voice. When I came to small towns, I would slow way down. I watched the little dog crossing the street—I beeped and slowed down. It looked like he was going to continue, when for some unknown reason, he turned back—right in front of me. I yelled loudly, heard the thump and yelp, and went down. People rushed to me and somehow lifted me and my bike up and a large crowd materialized out of no where. I stood up, and looked around. No sign of the dog. My pants were torn and people had worried looks on their faces. I went to the side of the road to have a drink of water. My face and knee and hands were bloody, but I didn’t feel any pain. I stood up and shook myself out. The bike had a similar gash on the left side, but other wise just fine, too. One man insisted I follow him. We wove through the little dirt streets to a small catholic church, parked and walked in. The dark cool hall was a relief, and two women in white nighties came out to see me. They cleaned me up, gave me a tetnus shot and swabbed the scrapes with iodine—yeouch! She gave me 1000mg of ampicillin and 800mg ibuprophine and ointment for later. No charge—I left a donation in the pot and headed out again. I was thinking about some story about getting back on the horse, or bike—as I very carefully head back down the road.
I arrived at Vilavanur at about 10:00. It was a dusty little town along the road. I bought fruit and sweets and waited for Ashvini to fetch me. I was surprised that she came by bus, with her “brother.” Her village is about 5 miles down the road---a true small village. We passed through rice paddies being harvested, and canes of brilliant green sugar cane. The air smelled sweet, and there were birds other than crows. People on the bus were all agog, and Ashvini, all smiles explained how I was HER friend, and had come to see her. Her brother following on my scooter.
She had told me the whole village would be waiting for me, and she did not exaggerate. There were at least 50 people around me by the time we reached her auntie’s house. We started the long introductions which we were met with peals of laughter from everyone I greeted—except the little children. Children under 2 looked at me with widened eyes, and then screamed bloody murder. “She thinks you are a ghost!” Ashvini laughed. The louder the children cried the harder the crowd laughed. They would bring other little children to look at me and scream. It wasn’t until I returned that I realized I had a large abrasion and bloody, scabby chin, that I did look pretty scary. Ashvini took me inside her aunt’s house. It had three rooms and was constructed of country bricks covered with a hard mud. One room was the kitchen, about 4 x 8 with 2 window openings, but no glass. The main room was about 5 x 8 with one bed inside, a board on bricks. It also had an opening in the wall, and the puja room with an enormous clay pot, that must have been built in that room for it was too large for the doorway. It was where they kept the rice harvest. There were many other pots, and a metal wardrobe for their belongings. 4 people in the family, and everything fit easily inside, with room for Ashvini, her sister, brother and mother’s things while they stayed the month there. Ashvini kept a tight grip on my hand and a huge smile on her face. I was there. I was her friend, a white girl, and I was there. Everyone was greatly concerned with my face and knee and wanted to touch it. I suggested a walk in the village, and to visit her grandfather, who was at the rice field he is the caretaker of.
The heat had set in, but in the greenery, with a breeze it felt much more pleasant. The colors of the green and blue sky seemed to vibrate as we walked along the road. The first stop was her church. A non descript brick building with a tin roof. We went in to a room about 15 x 15. Ashvini had told me before that she was a Christian. The room was plain, with a blackboard on the back wall, and a raised area in the front. No pictures or symbols. The pastor came in to meet me, a pleasant young man named Simon. Simon had grown up in that village with the name of Krishna. He went off to the university where he got his degree in mathematics and landed a government job—a coveted job, with a pension. One night he had a dream about Jesus, and when he woke up he knew that he represented the one true god. He went to theological school for 3 years, and decided that his calling was to come back to his village to enlighten the people. His family disowned him, and he built his wife and him a small house and hung up a sheet for his church. And some people came. This was two years ago, and somehow this little non-denominational church has a following of about 50 kids and 25 adults—no small amount, for the village only has 50 houses. He is well thought of by everyone, and is reunited with his family. He tutors kids, and reaches out to people in other villages similar to this one. He joined us for our walk, and was my translator. He told me I was the first white person to ever visit that place.
We heard drumming, and saw a funeral and the large wood pile for the pyre. We walked through the patties and sat under the shade of the jackfruit and mango trees—laiden with green fruit. It was a large group of people—Ashvini introduced everyone as her small mamma, or small auntie, or large auntie, or brother/cousin, or uncle—everyone in the town related to her in some way, biological or symbolic. We walked through the village, greeting everyone, and telling them I was Ashvini’s friend. I took pictures and showed the people their image in the tiny camera to their amazement and delight.
We sat on the stoop of their house with the crowd pushing to see me. Amazed at my gold teeth. One old woman held and stroked my hands staring intently at me. She said, “I see her talking, but I can’t understand anything she says.” She had never heard anyone speaking English before—never traveled further than the small town down the road. Her first white woman. I was there for 7 hours, and was beginning to feel my aches and pains. How much more have these people endured? The only work in the village is in the fields—10 rupees an hour—25 cents—when there was work. The big concern and talk was that the farmer had bought the first tractor harvester—reducing the already meager work. The first of what is to come I think. What will happen to these naïve people? Like Ashvini’s family they will migrate to the city in hopes of better wages—the same house in the city less livable with cement all around and no sanitation. Families separated, little hope for a better life.

JAISALMER

It’s hard to wrap words around Rajasthan. We arrived in Delhi in the morning and had the day to spend. A friendly taxi driver escorted us around the classic sights of the city, and we wandered like zombie tourists, the red fort, the gate of India, the Indira Gandhi monument was especially moving. Mostly photos and text written on her. I had never really stopped to consider the immensity of her election—not only a woman in India, but also a widow--- (check out the Deepa Metha movie, WATER). I really didn’t know a lot about her, or her reign, but had a negative flavor in my mouth about her. Seeing her house, and reading her words cast a different light. I read a short book about her written by her chief secretary and learned more. There was a very negative press from the US because she stayed the course of non-alignment—she would not side with the US or with Russia, but insisted on neutrality. This caused the western press to present her as one of them. In 1984 she removed all of the privileges of the Maharajas, which Mahatma left in place in order to keep India a whole country, and not several little kingdoms. The government was providing them with stipends and they were land fiefs, overseeing and bleeding their kingdoms dry. At the time Rajasthan had 21% literacy—within ten years it rose to 61% because they started building schools there. The Maharajas sound like spoiled little rich boys, playing polo in England, and traveling throughout Europe with the finest educations and jewels in their crowns. The monuments they built for themselves rivaled their palaces, literally jewel studded with astounding marble and inlay. “ . . .his true spirit had called to him, then, informed him that it, too, was wild and brave, and refused to be denied the right to adventure(royalty, in this case). As always, the price for such romance had been high and paid for by others. Porters had carried boulders from the riverbed—legs growing bandy, ribs curving into caves, backs into U‘s, faces being bent slowly to look always at the ground—up to this site chosen for a view that could raise the human heart to spiritual heights.” (Inheritance of Loss, Keran Desai). They provided Rajasthan with rich artistic heritage, but a hell of a life for the common person. Needless to say, this did not endear her to the people of this area either—very hard to let the benevolent oppressor go—people seemed to love them, even now(more later.) Reading her words, and seeing the grave tragedies she endured moved me beyond words. The night before her death she told a political rally: "I don't mind if my life goes in the service of the nation. If I die today, every drop of my blood will invigorate the nation." She was shot in her own garden by one of her own security men. No exact motive is known but it is believed the pair were Sikh extremists acting in retaliation for the storming of the Sikh holy shrine of the Golden Temple in Amritsar . Her family paid huge amounts with her assassination and after that the murder of her son—also for political reasons. I still have a lot to learn, but I am leaning a supporter of this selfless and courageous woman.
We caught a 17 hour train out of Delhi that afternoon to Jaiselmer. The day tripping we did only showed us the shiny side of Delhi. Riding out of town on the train, we began to see a different side—a harder life, the term “under belly” came to my mind, even though I am not really sure what that means, I am fairly sure I saw it. Shelters made of plastic and any scavenged material. Densely populated, and I am quite certain that there was no sanitation. Yet, even here, as we chugged past, I saw men dangling children on their knees, children laughing and playing, women talking together throwing their head back in laughter. How can people living such difficult lives know joy? Something to learn here. The evening settled slowly as the landscape became dustier resembled Eastern Africa—scrubby trees and tumble weeds. As total darkness took over there were brilliant flashes of lightening in the night sky. I rumbled asleep, and when I awoke I wondered, “Where AM I?” The Great Thar Desert. Watching out our windows we gaped at the men in huge white turbans and women with chiffon veils covering their faces—sticking my camera out the window to grab my first impressions to have people wave and step in front of each other to get their pictures taken. Some women peeked shyly around their sari veil and stared me in the eye. We saw houses made of stone—no trees for building. Some of the houses were made of granite slabs cut 12 inches wide and 5 feet tall with thatch roofs. Herders with their goats and women with pots on their heads gracefully wove through the tapestry of the land, offering splashes of color in the bleak landscape.
I realized in the morning that my passport and small purse were missing—it felt like such a small blister on my foot—nothing to do about it. We arrived in Jaisalmir in the morning and were met by a little car to trundle us off to our hotel. We were offered rooms for $1/day, but decided to stick with our reservations--$3/day, right in the center of the old city with breathtaking views of the fort and the city. The Jeet mal Hotel was a 350 yearold building still lived in by the original family, with modern amenities added. Clean, with the most amazing chief (a former camel driver) and a not so honest hotel owner, who seemed to think that we were women of very little brains or understanding. We left our bags and headed up to the Golden Fort—the only living fort left—meaning that life there continued as in the past, with shop owners, shops, temples and workers living within the fort. 25% of the city still resides within the fort walls. And of course The Palace.
Jaiselmer was founded in 1156 on the camel train routes between India and Central Asia. IT was a city of wealthy merchants who constructed the fascinating design of Havelis—grand mansions built of the yellow Jaiselmer stone. The amazing thing about them is that they have great windows cut of the stone with intricate designs cut out for light to come in and to allow women to look out at the world passing them by. Built by the Rajputs ,a warring people, they went through endless sieges and wars. The development of Mombay caused the decline of the city.
Entering the fort there is a maze of small narrow paved streets—7 beautiful Jain temples (12th -16th century), and lots of tourist stalls and shops. There is a large square in front of the 7 story palace of which part is open as a museum of opulent wealth. The first night there was an old man sitting on the palace terrace playing a stringed instrument and singing in a high thin wavery voice. He wore a multicolored turban and dhoti and sat cross legged for hours singing his ballads. I am told that he has been doing this for20 years and sings songs about life in the villages. He smiled and singed to sing to each person who came by. Spellbinding.

The following day was the festival of Gargol—a goddess of fertility. At 4:00 we heard singing and followed it to find a group of women and girls going house to house and singing. The mistress of the house came out to give each of them sweets, and they went to the next house—all this on the way to the center in front of the palace. 30 camels decked out in extreme finery standing at attention—drummers pounding and thousands of people from surrounding villages all there for the envent. Girls and women in sequined saris and bangles and nose rings and disks. Children with kohl in their eyes darting in and out of the crowds. A festive crowd filled with anticipation. The Maharaja arrived in a land rover and went into the palace to do “puja” (prayer) with the goddess and then after a few hours returns to the masses with a 4 foot tall statue carried on shoulders, while he follows (unsteadily) on his white steed to walk to the small lake at the far end of town, for the goddess to have a drink of the water to ensure all women fertility and good marriages. The girls carried coconut wrapped in cloth with faces drawn on them to set afloat on the lake. Being in such a loud, hot, raucous crowd was exhilarating. The people so happy, laughing, talking—reunions taking place. We went enmasse to the lake as the sun was setting.
We ate our delicious Rajput meals on the roof top of the hotel watching the fort and havelis change colours in the sunset. Beautiful. Wandering through the little streets, with open sewers running along side, I was pushed and nudged by the many cows here—a brazen group who people place left over food for and bring in hay from the fields. They wander at will and traffic and people all defer to them. The town was not as crowded as one might expect, and I saw no beggers or homeless people. Certainly not wealthy, but looking as though they had “enough.” There are many shops here for the tourist, rich mirror work and embroidery done by local people. I bought a slew of pillow covers at a “cooperative” which claims it is a direct dealer for the artisan…hmmm. There were antique tribal dresses and bead work—weavings and paintings. Wandering through them a man teaches how to tie the turban—how could I have left without one? People encouraging to come in and “make your eyes happy—no buy! Look is free!” They are master sellers, showing you a lovely piece and then asking how much you would pay for it—even if you had no intention of buying they get you to bargain and you leave feeling you got a great deal, only to realize you never really wanted it in the first place. I bought a beautiful tribal dress all hand stitched and embroidered—I can’t wait until it is cold enough to wear.
We arranged for a 2 day camel ride into the desert to where the dunes begin to form. Leaving at 5:30 to watch the sun come up out of the desert—an orange ball at the end of the road. We rode 60 km out of town before we turned off onto an unmarked road? Place that led into the scrub. We rode several miles until we spied 2 men huddled over a small fire who turned to look at us. Hamja and Suban, our guides for the next two days. Both of them were stunningly handsome and smiled easily. Iwas astounded to hear their excellent English uttered in soft tones. They served us tea as our gear was unloaded. We could hear the bell of a sheep in the distance, other than that complete silence. An older man wandered in—“This man is the father of the desert,” Suban said. They laughed and joked with him, and we shared our breakfast of hard boiled eggs and bread/jam. The shepherd appeared in tattered clothes and wouldn’t make eye contact. I would catch him looking at us, and was slightly crosseyed. His sister joined in out of no where—a stunning beauty with a large nose ring, and beautifully appliquéd and stitched clothing. She tossed her hear, and laughed loudly—grabbing my camera and exclaiming about herself. She was 20 years old and looked much older. Everyone was laughing and it was a precious moment. The realization of being in the desert with people in a setting that could be 100s of years ago---Is this my life? The camels were off grazing and they rounded them off, packed us up, we climbed aboard and they rose carrying us into the blue sky above the dusty ground. We headed off into what looked like no where in particular. The men talking and laughing in a friendly banter with each other—offering us bits of information about the landscape and answering our questions with a cheerful air. WE passed compounds where 4-5 families lived. Children run out to stare at us yelling, “One pen? One pen?” Sheep the only opportunity, as they haven’t had rain in 2 years. A pipe line brings water in from some river to the north, as long as it stays flush. Without that, no one could survive here any longer.
At mid-day we stop under a rare tree to sit the heat of the day out and let the camels rest. Hamja and Suban gather sticks and cook a feast for lunch of fresh vegetables sautéed and rice and fresh chapattis—we try our hand at them and laugh at the results. Laying under the tree I realize it is alive with lizards and insects and birds. One bird made 9 different calls from the perch inches over my face. The sky through the branches was clear and blue and there were no sounds of people anymore. Everyone took a siesta and I was left to my musing on the enormity of the moment.
In the afternoon we headed off again. Another man had joined us with his camel. I commented on how good he smelled—like clean laundry and herbs. The men laughed and whacked his back—this was his last safari. He was getting married in 20 days to a woman he had never met, never seen. He was planning on staying home with the sheep and his new bride. Suban rode behind me on the camel and talked softly to me as we plodded along into the endless horizon. He told me of growing up in his village and going to school until 3rd grade when he took up working with the camel safaris, learning English and a little German from the tourists. He told me that is exciting to go to your wedding day with anticipations and dreams of what your wife will look like. I am sure his wife breathed a huge sigh of relief when she saw him. He is 22 and has 2 children. He sees them for about 2 months in the summer when it is too hot for safaris—and then maybe 2 other times a year. His wife/children live with his parents about 60 miles away in a very small village, which seems to mean a compound of an extended family. He talked about trying to save money and find a way that his children will not have to be camel drivers. HE talked about being part of the desert, and knowing his way anywhere, even in the dark. “It is part of me,” he said with no sentimentality. We passed wild girl camels, who are left to roam the desert and not work—“Their job is to have strong young, they are not strong enough for this work.” Hamja burst into song and sang love and marriage songs as we rode along. We passed dead sheep and a cow in the deserted desert—they weren’t eaten, because they only eat the sheep if they do a ceremony in killing it. They left the skin as well. Curious. And then over one rise—a dead camel! It had died when it broke his leg and they killed it, leaving its bones in the sun to bleach. So of course, I came home with a camel skull and jaw bone much to the amusement of the drivers. Near dusk, we first spotted the dunes—small ones but so pristine and beautiful. There are large sprawling dunes south of us, but they have become a huge tourist attraction with buses of people coming and stands of food and trinkets. Plastic bags and litter plentiful. We opted for this smaller version, hungry to be away from the madding crowd. Standing on them you can see for 360 degrees the horizon—only on Lake Superior have I experienced that. This was indeed a sea of sand and sky.
At the camp fire another camel boy of about 10 came to sit with us—clearly enjoying the company of Hamja and Suban. They laughed and sang and we sang and ate the wonderful food they cooked for us. WE watch many peacocks strutting down in the valley, their blue shocking on the drab sand. They make wonderful squacking calls in the night. We had thick bedrolls rolled out for us with heavy blankets and white sheets. The sky was overcast, and no stars when we went to sleep—waking up in the night, there they were in glorious twinkling and the sound of the camel munching near my head. The sky meeting the horizon in a full circle around me with me in the center. The air was cold and crisp. I looked over to see Suban and Hamja rolled in quilts. A perfect moment.
Breakfast and coffee and off to meet some of the people that live here. Of course they knew we were coming—it is an arrangement with the camel drivers—and the news of our arrival came in on the wind. Their compound was so clean—swept, no trash or mess. The clay walls surrounding the homes were painted with colored clay. WE were invited in and everyone wanted their pictures taken. A 8 year old boy took my camera and shot a lot of photos there—many of them excellent—and now I have some of me. Generous people of the desert—I had a glass of milk, freshly milked from the cow. I peered into their homes, almost totally bare with small drawings on the wall, that the boy took pictures of. The women tried to take my rings off, and laughed at the toe rings and mendhi. Each person eager to show us their home, their goat, their mother and grandmother. A woman shows us how to grind the rice in an ancient stone contraption she rotates. Children touch us and laugh and stare—makes it even—I stare back. There is a grace and elegance in these women. Quiet and hesitant but comfortable in their homes and surrounding. Proud of what they have made there. A bus now comes by to take the children to a school—we heard it pass in the distance—the kids stayed home to see the foreigners. Ah, well.
The next village we were told was a village of “untouchables.” An old idea outlawed, now—but clearly representing a lower class—the lowest class. They also welcomed us in, and I took a picture of 2 small boys. Their young father taps me and points to himself—pleased to see his image in my small camera. I don’t understand what it is that fascinates me so about seeing people living in such conditions. I am mystifies and tear at my mind trying to grasp what it would be like—what their lives are like. How is it that I am me and they are they?

Nearing our destination Subhan tries to talk us into staying on—so many things he could show us! The desert is so vast! He can tell we have a special feeling for it! Yesl we are different than others. Of course he is right—I am SO special, but his plea had more to do with possibly being the last safari of the season with the heat just around the corner---With genuine gratitude, we said our good-byes, feeling all the richer for this taste. It makes sense to me that it is hard to find words to explain the desert—it is silent and filled with space.
We still had 2 days in Jaisalmer and spent them weaving in and out of the small streets, watching the men play cards and the children play tag in the streets. Drinking sweet chai in the shade and drinking in the sights and sounds of this magical place stuck in time. On afternoon there was a lot of drumming and trumpets and singing in the street where we saw what I would call a parade—led by a sabu (holy man) sitting on front of the tractor which was pulling a trailer covered with flowers and people and an alter with a idol perched drenched in marigolds. There were some horses and motorcycles and many sabus dressed in orange followed by girls and women singing. They are going to temple we were told. We were there long enough and it is small enough that people greeted us as we came by. We looked in endless shops at the wonders made there for pennies. Again, people only kind and curious—no resentment or hostilities felt.

Circling over Madurai I saw large rock forms with temples on the top of them. They looked like tables with toy houses from the air. Driving out of town the Western Ghats came closer and loomed larger. Lightening streaked and the colors of the sky provided dramatic backdrop. I arrived at the guest house where I would be staying. A beautiful, spacious house with tall ceilings and large rooms. The chair person of the school I was to visit was waiting for me, along with the principal. They stood when I entered, and immediately set off to the dining room. Over dinner he lectured me on Hindu religion—intense. There were servants who watched our every move in order to anticipate our needs—more water, finished with plate, more rice. . trying to be invisible. In the early early morning when I took a walk with the principal throughout their compound the servants walked behind us with flashlights to light our way. . .

I was invited by the Raja family to visit a private English Indian School in Rajapalayam, south of Madurai. The school serves children pre K-standard 10. Friday was an observation day. I was impressed with the facilities and the high academic standard of the school.

Children demonstrated a startling amount of memorization coupled with a working understanding of what they were doing. They had math lab time and performed plays around the English stories they read. Americans love to say that the Indians only do rote learning (because they are so much better in math than American kids) without understanding what they are doing. I watched very little children recite their math tables and vocab words—but they did know what they meant. I also saw that this was memorization practice. These kids, by the time they are in high school have great strategies for memorization. I think as a generalization, we as Americans are afraid to have kids memorize, or do hard work if they don’t want to. I watched children write sentences (in perfect handwriting in K) ten times. Here is another fascinating thing,folks. The kids don’t hate it. They are so grateful to have the opportunity to be in school, and have the books to write in. I watched their faces scuewed up in concentration, with their tongue sticking out the corner of their mouth as they work on their sentences in English. But guess what? These kids are bi-or tri lingual. Out under the banyan tree, they performed—oh did they perform! Plays or folktales, songs, poems, speeches, yoga, tae kwon do, dances—It was glorious fun. It was a very happy school—lucky kids going there.
One aspect appears to be missing in Indian schools, creative writing. It is a novel idea that young children should do creative writing rather than copying work or writing answers to questions. I presented a slide show and showed videos of the AISCH staff teaching creative writing from 1-10th grade as models. Thanks to another teacher here, I have learned a lot about tech, and actually enjoyed giving the presentation—

Saturday morning, In the secondary school Imet with each class and the students questioned her about world events and being an American—and of course, “What do you think of our school? Indian education?” Every child dressed the same, every school age girl in all of India wears her hair in long braids, circled up and tied with bows. The lack of need for individualism is really striking in a high school class—as well as the discipline and segregation of boys/girls. This is a co-ed school, but boys on one side of the room and girls on the other. No cooperative learning. Or group projects. Rarely discussions. I was dreading it, thinking I had nothing to say to them, but they had a lot to ask and it was exciting exchanging ideas. I found it helped me develop my own ideas as I talked with them. Ideas about individualization, unity, materialism, communalism, equality, freedom, opportunity, fate—my head was reeling. . .”How did you get to be so famous?” one boy asked me—crazy.
I ended the day sitting under the 700 year old baobab tree where Gandhi held talks and parakeets live.

I came home from dinner at a little diner with friends. Laughing and talking. When I arrived home Permal was lying in the driveway on a blanket wearing towels on his head and wrapped in wool shawls. It is times like this I am furious at my lack of understanding Tamil. It is 87 degrees out. He is telling me somehow that he has a fever and is cold. I give him a sweater that Tim left here and an extra blanket and make tea and tylenol. He is sitting on my living room floor singing his prayers now. He assures me that he will go to the Dr. tomorrow if he is not better. He makes little moaning sounds. No, no no no! He can’t possibly go home for fear of losing his job—crazy. He finishes his tea and crackers. It is about ½ hour since he took his Tylenol. He stopped making the little sounds. He goes out and I watch him make a bed on the floor of the little guard shack and curl up. Two people under the same sun—but our lives are so vastly different.

hope

I am surprised to find winter doldrums in this country—although, I suppose they are not in this country, but my own heart/mind. I always attributed this malaise to the weather in Minnesota, the grey days and long nights with inclement conditions for these old bones. It was this time last year that I entertained the idea of leaving—a time of unrest. Even as I write this at my desk with a breeze I am covered with a sheen of sweat and a coil of it roll down my throat. No, it’s not the weather. Perhaps it is because I have always either been a student or a teacher, and have the rhythm of school in my bones. But here I am with bougainvillea blooming outside my window and I have the blues. Perhaps it is because Sylvia, Lydia, and Tim have come and gone. . .Pat and Ned. . . and I see what I am missing. Perhaps it is because I no longer marvel at chartreuse and pink houses, but pass them like the taupe ones in Church hill farms. The faces I pass everyday on my scooter are familiar now, as are their habits, and mine. I am not astonished when I ride my bike.
So today I recognized this and actively sought beautiful moments on the way to work. I took a new route, and got tangled up in streets that don’t run parallel. Backtracking, and backtracking again I saw a small girl, maybe 6 years old with a very small scrawny plant outside of her very dilapidated palm house. She had dug a hole and was planting it amongst the trash. I stopped my bike and watched her pump a glass of water to feed it, and then she stood back and admired her work and clapped her hands. The plant had one white flower growing on it, and drooped its’ head, but held the promise of life. These moments are everywhere—scattered broadside by a generous hand if only one watches for them.

The second largest city in Andra Pradesh (the state to the north of Tamil Nadu)is Vishakhapatnam. It is right on the coast, boasting of beautiful beaches and near the Araku Valley. A woman at school told tales of visiting there, and I couldn’t wait to take advantage of our 3 day weekend to go. Tim, Barbara and I booked tickets on an all night sleeper bus to leave at 6 p.m. Friday and arrive 6:00a.m. Saturday. We really had no idea what to expect, and were surprised when the bus arrived decked out with no seats but bunk beds, 4 to a compartment. Sounded perfect to me. We stopped after a couple hours at a restaurant where they had these woven benches/beds that people sat on to eat. They served “meals” which is a premade dinner consisting of rice and a variety of gravies on banana leaves for a set price. About 50 cents. They served it out of buckets ladling it out with a generous hand. Other buses pulled up while we were there. Looked like a good deal for the restaurant owner.

I had no problem sleeping, and welcomed the 10 hour stretch ahead of me. It seems about every two weeks I need to sleep 12 hours for a night—this was my chance. We got up at 6 to find we had another 4 hours until we really reached Vishakhapatnam. Why was I surprised? Our hotel was just minutes from the bus stop. The woman at the desk shuffled through a stack of papers, “No reservation. We have no rooms,” she sadly shook her head. As I waited without speaking, I realized I have learned a lot about living here. We just stood at the desk while she looked through the unorganized papers looking sad. After a bit she offered an air-conditioned room. “No, no air conditioning,” I said, settling in for a long wait. I was pleasantly surprised when she offered us one room with an extra bed—just what we reserved in the first place, and we went upstairs to drop our gear.

We booked another all day bus tour to go up the mountain and into the Valley, as the trains were all sold out, and headed out to the beach north of town.

The beaches were what one hopes for in your dreams—long stretches of sand lined with palm trees and clear beautiful water. There were huge signs on the beaches warning of the dangers of swimming in the sea. The local people were gathered and happy, picnicking playing ball and running in and out of the water—but not too deep. If anyone ventured into the water the police would rush over and blow their whistle and scold them furiously. We wandered way down away from the crowds and settled down on the sand. Thousands of little crabs scuttled about us dodging into the tiny holes in the sand. With Tim as our guard Barbara and I wore our bathing suits—I forgot the tabu of a bathing suit. We were flocked by curious well wishers wanting to shake our hands and learn our “good names.” The water was fresh and clean and such a relief to swim in. A lovely afternoon.

We walked up to the road to wait for a bus to come to take us back into the city. 3 People approached us, praising the lord. “Maybe we want to catch a rickshaw,” I suggested, smiling and trying to avoid the Christians. A rickshaw arrived and we scrambled into it, to have the 3 join us. “Do you love Jesus?” and I thought of the perfect song and belted out, “Oh Jesus, I love you—and I love Buddha too Rama, Krishna, Guru Dev, Toa de Ching and Mahommed. . .” There smiling faces were inches from ours, bobbing up and down to my singing. When I stopped they asked us about our religious faiths, and t=Tim started to explain how he was studying to become a Hindi. “A Hindi!!” They were flabbergasted and clearly crest fallen at such a prospect. “Hey, Lauri! How about singing Jesus Loves ME?” Tim suggested, happy to change the subject without changing the subject, I began, followed by a Gift to be Simple. The vision of 6 of us in a rickshaw rocking down the coastal road was at times more than I could manage containing laughing. The absurdity and humor of such a sight tickled me to death. A favorite moment. When we arrived in town and exited the rickshaw we all shook hands with the heart felt connection we made.

We left early on the morning on the bus, winding through the town, and up the hills through little villages. The bus was a luxury bus owned by the state of AP for tourism. We were the only whites—a situation more common than not—I think we were the only white people we saw on the whole trip, come to think about it, so we are frequently objects of curiosity. My goal on this leg of the trip was to see areas where tribal people live. We passed within 13 K of Orissa and into some serious hill country. The landscape of the eastern ghats was stunning, and we were impressed that roads, railroads, and electricity came so far out into the bush.

We stopped along the way to see the vistas, and bought coffee and honey from local farmers. We stopped in small villages and bought fresh papaya and pineapple slices. We visited a tribal museum about life in the hills. The most startling tidbit was that at the wedding ceremony, the man spits water in the bride’s face. A metaphor of life to come? After lunch there was a performance of local women dancers who were bold and stared you in the face. One woman on the street had hair to waist in one continuous dense mat. The women have 3 rings in their nose and a fierceness about them. They danced with precision and grace and humor. Clearly something they are hired to do, but enjoy themselves and each other doing it.
The drums accompanying them.

The day ended in India’s version of Mammoth Caves. Again, filled with Indian families on vacation enjoying the tourist sights of their own state. Friendly and proud to talk about their country.

We got back sometime very late to the city—Tim bought some chicken to eat from a vendor on the street—a real local.

We spent our last day by hiring a car to drive us up the coast to a town that was previously a Dutch
Settlement. There is an old (1700) cemetery there and still traces of their influence. The fishermen use sailing boats here, colorfully painted of course. Along the shore there were many statues built along the coast—as a tribute, or tourism we weren’t sure. Barbara and I wanted to buy baskets we saw the women carrying fish in—before they were used. We stopped along the way and found a woman in the process of making them. Bamboo—strong and beautiful

We lingered on top of a hill outside the city overlooking this paradise near two large statues of 2 of Rama and Sita. Feeling a little antsy to get back to the bus, but savoring the last smell, sight and sound. This is a place I would gladly come back to, but India is a big place, and there is so much to do. . .

It all goes by so fast--like a blur. . .




rice harvest. . .


This was a little Muslim girl at the palace. It seems they have to get their fashion fame early.

Christmas in INDIA!

Lydia arrived exhausted after 40 hours of traveling—we were anxiously awaiting her with our bags in hand to whisk her off on yet another airplane to Bangalore where a driver was waiting to drive us 3 more hours to Mysore and a resort where friends were waiting. Phew! She was too exhausted to be shocked, happy or surprised. We arrived at the resort at 3 a.m. and hopped into beds as hard as rocks. The night air was really chilly and we huddled in the woolen blankets—for the first time in a long time, there was no other sound than a bird in the distance—what could that be? In the morning it was Christmas Eve. I thought this would be a good quiet place to introduce India. It was indeed quiet. My dear friend from school, Esther arranged for us to stay for 5 days at her cousin’s resort on Lake Kaveri. They were anxiously awaiting us to get up and had made a genuine South Indian breakfast of idly, sambar, and chutney. Tim and Lydie reluctantly ate it, and I noticed them both eating cookies shortly after. The coffee was strong, and the morning crisp. Nothing planned but a day of rest and feasting our eyes. The land was scrub and being reforested by Nakesh, the cousin. I swam in the quiet dark lake with white egrets and black cormorants. We ate, and napped, and looked at the water. Quiet. Quiet. A new unknown side of India. We had a great dinner after Ester’s son and nephew and girlfriend arrived. A big bonfire, Santa hats, Christmas carols sung by the fire accompanied by the soft sweet voices of the boys—but it sure didn’t feel like any Christmas I ever knew. . .In the morning, we got up to fresh juice and coffee, sliced fruit and Esther and her cousin Sheila had bought presents for all of us. We opened them next to a little plastic Christmas tree under palm trees. We piled into Nakesh’s truck to head to the bird sanctuary for early morning viewing—and what a view!
Spoon bills (so aptly named!), cormorants, ibis, heron, pelicans, storks, ducks, geese—and there hanging in the trees fruit bats the size of cats! We took a boat with a man who rowed us silently across the still water—we glided right up to trees and rocks where they rested barely noticing our passing. In the boat, on the water, in the sun. . .exotic bird life as I had never seen. . .this is Christmas? This is Christmas in India.

At the resort there were the only visitors—it seemed like maybe the only visitors ever—such a luxury, such a mid-western thing to want the solitude and quiet, not an Indian ideal. We took the little fishing boat out with one of the men who lived there. They are typical boats we saw in rivers and on the lake. They’re called parisols—they leak badly and spin around. So funny. The man paddling us brought us a large fish he had caught that morning for our dinner.

The following day we had a reservation to go to the Bandipur Wildlife reserve! We entered the
National Park holding our breath hoping for a glimpse—when the driver started beeping his horn every 30 sec. “Why?” “So we don’t hit any animals,” he explained. Of course! What was I thinking? When we got to the office you need to have a ticket to ride a bus into the bush. Actually, it is good that is monitored so—just frustrating. There is only a small part of the park that people can ride through—the rest is really a reserve. We waited amongst troops of cheeky monkeys—one of which tried to pull my purse away from me—we had a tug of war! (I won, but he got the cookies out of it) There were working elephants there we could look in the eye, wild boars skittered on the outskirts—unthreatened, and un afraid. We boarded a rickety school bus that belched and farted its way down the two track—into the Indian forest, gears grinding loudly. The bus was filled with children yelling to each other, but yes, as we turned the bend, there was a beautiful bull elephant munching unconcernedly away. We stared slack jawed, and then I turned to look at the children. Their expressions of awe were more wonderful to me than the elephant. Lots of deer and monkeys, but no tiger—although the driver said that there was a tiger nearby—he could tell by the barking of the deer and the way they were behaving. WE drove back to the resort at sunset with flocks of pure white herons heading back to where ever it is they go.

Mysore is a charming area. There is a much slower pace, and the agriculture looks far more prosperous. It was harvest season for the rice. There were mountains of grain stalk on the road into the city—farmers spread it out on the road for cars to go over it and thrash the rice off the stalk, and then they sweep it up.

The cart here are specialized to the area—and too quaint. Beautiful scenes painted in brilliant colors on the sides of the carts. WE passed through one region where the carts had large 6’ high wooden wheels. Closer to town, tires. Sometimes the rice was piled so high, hanging over almost covering the oxen’s heads. We never tired of seeing them, exclaiming each one the cutest. IT is recognizing these small distinctions in the different states that make me feel like an Indian. Of course, everywhere we traveled, and stopped to take pictures, the people were tickled to see us, laughing waving and posing for the photo. Digital cameras! What a wonder. To see their image on the tiny little 1 inch screen causes huge delight. I think they are happy about the attention, maybe they are saying, “Look—another ridiculous white person! Don’t they look crazy? What a joke!”

Lydia read 4 books at the resort—we took long walks and talks and naps.

Into Mysore for a peek at the rich heritage and history. First the summer palace to the Maharaja. Simple, cool grounds with restfull lawns of grass and flowers. The house indeed built for summer heat—tall ceilings and 25 foot tall rooms whose entire walls are open. Mosaic and intricate carving adding the elegance. The regular palace rivals Versailles in France. Gold embossed walls, all hand painted of historic battles with a hall of mirrors and sculpture, and ceramics—truly a grand place. Churches and temples and markets! Tim And Lydia definitely cramped my style shopping—but even Lydia bought some precious treasures. Traveling with them, sharing the delight of such sights—precious.

The train ride back to Chennai was 9 hours—and about every hour they would come around with another course to a magnificent meal that went on and on. Lydia’s first sighting of Chennai! She writes the following, and says it all.

There is no way I can explain what India has been to me, what it is like. But If I had to try, I would want to give you all the smells that I have had. I think the sense of smell is greatly overlooked. I know I have an oversensitive nose, but here... here it is different. There are so many things here, so much... I have seen many things, and I can show pictures or try to describe feelings, but to give you an idea of what it would actually be like to be here, to experience it, I would want you to smell India.

India is a smelly country. The sweet smell of curry. The smell of sewage that only a polluted city river can give off. Exhaust from 10 rickshaws and motorbikes waiting to merge into traffic. Shit so heavy it sags your shoulders. The smell of urine that is so overpowering your eyes water. The calmness of a lake that has not yet seen a motor boat.

We passed what must have been a garlic pressing factory, because the smell of garlic, strong and rich, filled the air in a way only Kelsey Decker would understand. The salty smell of the ocean. A hundred bodies pressed together on a bus, all moving individually and all going nowhere. The smell of crushed flowers, fading in front of a statue of a deity painted bright blue. The fresh smell of passing the rice paddies, the smell is as green as the plants that hold sunlight in their color. The smell of garbage, of bags and bottles and organic matter waiting to be picked over. Orange from a street stand so strong and piercing it cuts through the haze and zips your brain.

Stores that smell of incense and musty artifacts and perfumed silks, bathrooms that smell of the mothballs they keep in the sink as air fresheners. Goats and cows and wild dogs. Samosas frying in oil and sending out their spices down the street on the breeze. Thick choking smoke to get rid of mosquitos, or the black tarry smell from burning garbage. Buildings of stone that give off their age and dampness, that reek of experiences they have witnessed, the tiredness of a hundred or a thousand lives seen.

This is what I have smelled, what I have breathed in and out. The beauty and richness, the dank and the sour, the good and the bad, all this has become my experience.

PS- the night guard just came in to order more water, and the only greeting he knows is "Good morning". Seeing as he is the night guard, this always gives my mom a good chuckle before bed.

I have just had one of the hardest and most eye opening experiences of my life.

My mother is in India for the year, and I have come to visit her for the holidays. She lives in a community area that is made up of homes that are gated with nice middle class homes behind them. In front the world is a dirt road with trash, dogs, a trash plot nearby and a few empty lots nearby, except for the small huts that are plopped in them as though dropped by a tornado, or someone stripped a palm tree of its branches.

In one of the lots lives a family of 11, although that was recently downsized to 8. The lot next door has about 6, I think. These huts are roughly 5x8 feet. They cook and eat outside.

My mother befriended the children that live in these huts. The eldest, Ashvani, is 14. Her father is an alcoholic, something not very common in India. When someone in her family needed medicine, she came to my mother, who gave it against the advice of friends. They told her she would never see that money again. She never did, because they have no money to pay her back. But that 14 year old came to clean my mothers house for her, because that was all she had to offer, her labor.

My sister Sylvia was here before me. She also met these children, 6 in all. She sent back presents for them, sweaters because the 80 degree weather we are experiencing is winter here. And they were thrilled. They were thrilled just to meet me. They called me and my family "friend" instead of our name. The second oldest girl, Jiamani, said "I am so happy" and covered her face in her hands. Not crying, just overcome with joy. Their brother, cousin and the two neighbors did not speak English except to say "Happy New Year".

They showed me off to their cousin- I got the impression that he was higher up on the social scale than them. They brought me down the street to meet their brother and his wife and infant, having me hold her as though it were an honor for them when I said she was cute. They held my hands and put their arms around my shoulders to show that I was with them, and when we posed for pictures together or

I agreed to race with them down the street they were literally thrilled. These are children who were so excited to have me as their friend.

Me, who have not done anything in my life. I am not a celebrity, a hero, a doctor/lawyer/politician. I am just a white person, someone who is not very special in the Western world but here in this small corner gave these children a sense of fame, of being special themselves. They were honored just by shaking my hand.

I am boggled at this meeting, it was a mind-boggling experience, meeting these people. Being in India is a mind-boggling experience. This seems to be a world of such contrast, of being tossed back and forth. I feel thrown around, as though I was in an emotional rickshaw (imagine bumper cars, but instead of hitting, you swerve or break- and it isn't a ride...)

I had never met these before and most likely never will again. They will go through as much school as they can; my mother told me that if students are not good enough they are asked to leave school, luckily that has not happened to them yet. My mother is here for two years, after that we probably will lose contact. But I think that they have left a lasting impression on me, of how lucky I am. I cannot imagine what it would be like to be in awe of someone because of the color of their skin or their nationality or their economic status. To honor someone because of that. The children were not the only ones, their parents seemed so pleased that my mother noticed their children. Their mother shook MY hand with such fervor, clasping it in both of hers,

There is no way I can explain what India has been to me, what it is like. But If I had to try, I would want to give you all the smells that I have had. I think the sense of smell is greatly overlooked. I know I have an oversensitive nose, but here... here it is different. There are so many things here, so much... I have seen many things, and I can show pictures or try to describe feelings, but to give you an idea of what it would actually be like to be here, to experience it, I would want you to smell India.

India is a smelly country. The sweet smell of curry. The smell of sewage that only a polluted city river can give off. Exhaust from 10 rickshaws and motorbikes waiting to merge into traffic. Shit so heavy it sags your shoulders. The smell of urine that is so overpowering your eyes water. The calmness of a lake that has not yet seen a motor boat.

We passed what must have been a garlic pressing factory, because the smell of garlic, strong and rich, filled the air in a way only Kelsey Decker would understand. The salty smell of the ocean. A hundred bodies pressed together on a bus, all moving individually and all going nowhere. The smell of crushed flowers, fading in front of a statue of a deity painted bright blue. The fresh smell of passing the rice paddies, the smell is as green as the plants that hold sunlight in their color. The smell of garbage, of bags and bottles and organic matter waiting to be picked over. Orange from a street stand so strong and piercing it cuts through the haze and zips your brain.

Stores that smell of incense and musty artifacts and perfumed silks, bathrooms that smell of the mothballs they keep in the sink as air fresheners. Goats and cows and wild dogs. Samosas frying in oil and sending out their spices down the street on the breeze. Thick choking smoke to get rid of mosquitos, or the black tarry smell from burning garbage. Buildings of stone that give off their age and dampness, that reek of experiences they have witnessed, the tiredness of a hundred or a thousand lives seen.

This is what I have smelled, what I have breathed in and out. The beauty and richness, the dank and the sour, the good and the bad, all this has become my experience.

PS- the night guard just came in to order more water, and the only greeting he knows is "Good morning". Seeing as he is the night guard, this always gives my mom a good chuckle before bed.

I have just had one of the hardest and most eye opening experiences of my life.

My mother is in India for the year, and I have come to visit her for the holidays. She lives in a community area that is made up of homes that are gated with nice middle class homes behind them. In front the world is a dirt road with trash, dogs, a trash plot nearby and a few empty lots nearby, except for the small huts that are plopped in them as though dropped by a tornado, or someone stripped a palm tree of its branches.

In one of the lots lives a family of 11, although that was recently downsized to 8. The lot next door has about 6, I think. These huts are roughly 5x8 feet. They cook and eat outside.

My mother befriended the children that live in these huts. The eldest, Ashvani, is 14. Her father is an alcoholic, something not very common in India. When someone in her family needed medicine, she came to my mother, who gave it against the advice of friends. They told her she would never see that money again. She never did, because they have no money to pay her back. But that 14 year old came to clean my mothers house for her, because that was all she had to offer, her labor.

My sister Sylvia was here before me. She also met these children, 6 in all. She sent back presents for them, sweaters because the 80 degree weather we are experiencing is winter here. And they were thrilled. They were thrilled just to meet me. They called me and my family "friend" instead of our name. The second oldest girl, Jiamani, said "I am so happy" and covered her face in her hands. Not crying, just overcome with joy. Their brother, cousin and the two neighbors did not speak English except to say "Happy New Year".

They showed me off to their cousin- I got the impression that he was higher up on the social scale than them. They brought me down the street to meet their brother and his wife and infant, having me hold her as though it were an honor for them when I said she was cute. They held my hands and put their arms around my shoulders to show that I was with them, and when we posed for pictures together or

I agreed to race with them down the street they were literally thrilled. These are children who were so excited to have me as their friend.

Me, who have not done anything in my life. I am not a celebrity, a hero, a doctor/lawyer/politician. I am just a white person, someone who is not very special in the Western world but here in this small corner gave these children a sense of fame, of being special themselves. They were honored just by shaking my hand.

I am boggled at this meeting, it was a mind-boggling experience, meeting these people. Being in India is a mind-boggling experience. This seems to be a world of such contrast, of being tossed back and forth. I feel thrown around, as though I was in an emotional rickshaw (imagine bumper cars, but instead of hitting, you swerve or break- and it isn't a ride...)

I had never met these before and most likely never will again. They will go through as much school as they can; my mother told me that if students are not good enough they are asked to leave school, luckily that has not happened to them yet. My mother is here for two years, after that we probably will lose contact. But I think that they have left a lasting impression on me, of how lucky I am. I cannot imagine what it would be like to be in awe of someone because of the color of their skin or their nationality or their economic status. To honor someone because of that. The children were not the only ones, their parents seemed so pleased that my mother noticed their children. Their mother shook MY hand with such fervor, clasping it in both of hers,

There is no way I can explain what India has been to me, what it is like. But If I had to try, I would want to give you all the smells that I have had. I think the sense of smell is greatly overlooked. I know I have an oversensitive nose, but here... here it is different. There are so many things here, so much... I have seen many things, and I can show pictures or try to describe feelings, but to give you an idea of what it would actually be like to be here, to experience it, I would want you to smell India.

India is a smelly country. The sweet smell of curry. The smell of sewage that only a polluted city river can give off. Exhaust from 10 rickshaws and motorbikes waiting to merge into traffic. Shit so heavy it sags your shoulders. The smell of urine that is so overpowering your eyes water. The calmness of a lake that has not yet seen a motor boat.

We passed what must have been a garlic pressing factory, because the smell of garlic, strong and rich, filled the air in a way only Kelsey Decker would understand. The salty smell of the ocean. A hundred bodies pressed together on a bus, all moving individually and all going nowhere. The smell of crushed flowers, fading in front of a statue of a deity painted bright blue. The fresh smell of passing the rice paddies, the smell is as green as the plants that hold sunlight in their color. The smell of garbage, of bags and bottles and organic matter waiting to be picked over. Orange from a street stand so strong and piercing it cuts through the haze and zips your brain.

Stores that smell of incense and musty artifacts and perfumed silks, bathrooms that smell of the mothballs they keep in the sink as air fresheners. Goats and cows and wild dogs. Samosas frying in oil and sending out their spices down the street on the breeze. Thick choking smoke to get rid of mosquitos, or the black tarry smell from burning garbage. Buildings of stone that give off their age and dampness, that reek of experiences they have witnessed, the tiredness of a hundred or a thousand lives seen.

This is what I have smelled, what I have breathed in and out. The beauty and richness, the dank and the sour, the good and the bad, all this has become my experience.

PS- the night guard just came in to order more water, and the only greeting he knows is "Good morning". Seeing as he is the night guard, this always gives my mom a good chuckle before bed.

I have just had one of the hardest and most eye opening experiences of my life.

My mother is in India for the year, and I have come to visit her for the holidays. She lives in a community area that is made up of homes that are gated with nice middle class homes behind them. In front the world is a dirt road with trash, dogs, a trash plot nearby and a few empty lots nearby, except for the small huts that are plopped in them as though dropped by a tornado, or someone stripped a palm tree of its branches.

In one of the lots lives a family of 11, although that was recently downsized to 8. The lot next door has about 6, I think. These huts are roughly 5x8 feet. They cook and eat outside.

My mother befriended the children that live in these huts. The eldest, Ashvani, is 14. Her father is an alcoholic, something not very common in India. When someone in her family needed medicine, she came to my mother, who gave it against the advice of friends. They told her she would never see that money again. She never did, because they have no money to pay her back. But that 14 year old came to clean my mothers house for her, because that was all she had to offer, her labor.

My sister Sylvia was here before me. She also met these children, 6 in all. She sent back presents for them, sweaters because the 80 degree weather we are experiencing is winter here. And they were thrilled. They were thrilled just to meet me. They called me and my family "friend" instead of our name. The second oldest girl, Jiamani, said "I am so happy" and covered her face in her hands. Not crying, just overcome with joy. Their brother, cousin and the two neighbors did not speak English except to say "Happy New Year".

They showed me off to their cousin- I got the impression that he was higher up on the social scale than them. They brought me down the street to meet their brother and his wife and infant, having me hold her as though it were an honor for them when I said she was cute. They held my hands and put their arms around my shoulders to show that I was with them, and when we posed for pictures together or

I agreed to race with them down the street they were literally thrilled. These are children who were so excited to have me as their friend.

Me, who have not done anything in my life. I am not a celebrity, a hero, a doctor/lawyer/politician. I am just a white person, someone who is not very special in the Western world but here in this small corner gave these children a sense of fame, of being special themselves. They were honored just by shaking my hand.

I am boggled at this meeting, it was a mind-boggling experience, meeting these people. Being in India is a mind-boggling experience. This seems to be a world of such contrast, of being tossed back and forth. I feel thrown around, as though I was in an emotional rickshaw (imagine bumper cars, but instead of hitting, you swerve or break- and it isn't a ride...)

I had never met these before and most likely never will again. They will go through as much school as they can; my mother told me that if students are not good enough they are asked to leave school, luckily that has not happened to them yet. My mother is here for two years, after that we probably will lose contact. But I think that they have left a lasting impression on me, of how lucky I am. I cannot imagine what it would be like to be in awe of someone because of the color of their skin or their nationality or their economic status. To honor someone because of that. The children were not the only ones, their parents seemed so pleased that my mother noticed their children. Their mother shook MY hand with such fervor, clasping it in both of hers,

Sylvia was the first of the visitors to arrive. I waited with anxious anticipation. I was at school, and left her information on how to take a cab to the house. My friends were aghast! How could I be so heartless? Arriving in Chennai with no one to meet her? Somehow, I never gave it a second thought. This was one world traveler who was up for India.
Her photos and thoughts say it all.
My enthusiasm was dulled by intestinal woes--a trip to the dr. before she came, and she thought--just a low grade virus--it'll pass. But I couldn't pep up. Was I out of sinq having my family come? We wandered, we traveled, we shopped--but I kept feeling less and less lively.
Tim arrived--a driver this time--and still I had no life. Days and many trips to the clinic. IT wasn't until Sylvia left, that I was properly diagnosed with pancreatitus and correct medicine, which quickly put me back on my feet. My only regret about her visit. Seeing things through her eyes gave me a whole new view--and here it is for you.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/54728603@N00/sets/72157611603856484/

soiree

I felt tired and a little worn out on people when I got home. Tim gently inquired if I wanted to go to a poetry reading. I really didn’t want to, but I didn’t say. We ate a light dinner of bread and cold bean salad quietly. He was so cheerful that I wanted to spit. I didn’t want to be. But as I ate the good food, and drank cold juice I began to relax and agreed to go—just for an hour. When we arrived there was a man reading. The setting was the semi=circular veranda of a house built in 1820. It was dark and the crickets and cicadas were accompanying the reading. As I sank into the old wicker chair and closed my eyes I could faintly hear the waves. The area where people read was ringed with jasmine garlands and candles were lit for lighting, along with a hanging bare bulb for better light for the old eyes reading. An old woman came up and sat on the mat and told a love story of Sita who could think of nothing but Krishna. Even as she washed the floor her bracelets jangled “Krishna, Krishna.” She sang in a thin high quavering voice a long song telling the story. Many of the people in the audience hummed along, and smiled at some of the parts of the story. A young man stood and shared some of his poems he had written himself. A group who came from Delhi came up and sang a song. An Argentinean man played Chopin and a piece called Summer written by an Argentinean that smelled of a tango. Another read and translated Sufi poems, one of which said, “In times of oppression, Silence is Violence.” One man read this poem by Thich Nat Han:

Don't say that I will depart tomorrow --

even today I am still arriving.

Look deeply: every second I am arriving

to be a bud on a Spring branch,

to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings,

learning to sing in my new nest,

to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,

to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.

I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,

to fear and to hope.

The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death

of all that is alive.

I am the mayfly metamorphosing

on the surface of the river.

And I am the bird

that swoops down to swallow the mayfly.

I am the frog swimming happily

in the clear water of a pond.

And I am the grass-snake

that silently feeds itself on the frog.

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,

my legs as thin as bamboo sticks.

And I am the arms merchant,

selling deadly weapons to Uganda.

I am the twelve-year-old girl,

refugee on a small boat,

who throws herself into the ocean

after being raped by a sea pirate.

And I am the pirate,

my heart not yet capable

of seeing and loving.

I am a member of the politburo,

with plenty of power in my hands.

And I am the man who has to pay

his "debt of blood" to my people

dying slowly in a forced-labor camp.

My joy is like Spring, so warm

it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth.

My pain is like a river of tears,

so vast it fills the four oceans.

Please call me by my true names,

so I can hear all my cries and my laughter at once,

so I can see that my joy and pain are one.

Please call me by my true names,

so I can wake up,

and so the door of my heart

can be left open,

the door of compassion.

An hour passes somewhere into the darkness, and then another. I could have sat there all night. Everyone was reluctant for the evening to end. Beautiful moment upon moment built up, shared in our hearts.

hyderabad

This all happened so long ago—like a dream or a fairy tale. Yes, Hyderabad is like a fairy tale. And I was traveling with the Fairy Queen: Padma. Padma is a preschool teacher at AISC who exudes and radiates love. I was immediately attracted to her from a distance—her voice, movements and aura. A very elegant lady and master teacher admired by all. Imagine my delight and surprise when she invited me to join her to travel for the week end to her home town of Hyderabad in Andra Pradesh where she grew up. Getting a ticket was no easy feat. We met at the train ticket office at 6:00 a.m. to wait in line to try to get a ticket. The line snaked down the street by 8:00 when they opened, and Padma used her senior status to get us tickets. Well, not exactly—to apply for tickets. They would have to be picked up the following day and another trip to the office—but it worked, and we left directly from school on Friday during a rain storm. There was a young man and woman with their 9 month baby sharing the open cabin with us. Babies here don’t wear diapers or pants and women clean patiently up with their saris. The lightening flashed snap images of the country side as the train ambled along. Trains here are fully—over booked and move slower than cars through the countryside. Indians are travelers. There were 2 triple bunks about 36 inches apart. When the train stopped at the villages along the way scraggly looking dusty kids jumped aboard. More than one had a monkey clinging to them. Their pants were tied up with rope and they were begging, only to be kicked off at the next stop to catch another train home. We dropped the bunks down and went to bed after 10 and the rhythm of the rain and train rocked me to sleep.

We arrived at about 6 am, and Padma’s childhood friend, Shaker, met us at the train. He drove us to the spot that Padma grew up, now an apartment complex which her mother owns an apartment in. Her mother lives with Padma’s sister in Hyderabad and we had the flat to ourselves.

Padma’s beloved departed father was not only influential to her, but the community. A medical doctor he cared for all of the people we met, and they still feel indebted to him. In the back yard of the apartment he gave some of his land to build a pre-and elementary school that would be free to needy children. This was 40 years ago. Padma took us to visit. Some benefactor had sent milk laced with almond oil. There were between 4-10 children in each small room. There was a teacher in each room and the children sat on benches with hopeful expressions. Padma had gotten a bottle of elixir from a sacred temple and poured a bit into each child’s and my hand. It was thick like molasses. She said it would make us strong and healthy. We nodded in agreement, feeling the difference already. The children greeted us and I sang to them, and they sang to me. The contrast from our wealthy supplied school was painful.

The difference from Chennai palpable. Clean streets! No trash! There were large monkeys in the streets and walls of yards. The traffic was subdued, and appeared more orderly. The architecture had a strong Islamic influence. Although the state of Andra Pradesh is only 5% muslim, the city of Hyderabad is 50% muslim. Padma had arranged for a driver for the day to take us out. She was an excellent guide, not only showing us the historical and cultural spots, but adding the personal perspective that only one who had a happy childhood could do. We stopped for me to buy a blouse to wear with my beautiful silk sari from my dear friend and neighbor Pappu in Plymouth. 80 cents and fits perfectly.

Hyderabad and Secunderabad are sister cities, one on each side of the Musi River—The Cities of Pearls. Driving over the Musi we watched small boats and a ferry taking people over to see the world’s largest free standing stone carved Buddha. He is made of 350 ton and 50’ tall. When he was being ferried out to this island the barge sank—it was raised, and now is in the middle of the river.

Our driver wound his way through side streets to arrive and park on a small side street on the top of the hill.
We stepped around the corner and there was the towering Charminar . It is a 4 column structure with 4 arches facing the cardinal points. Minarets on each columns built in 1591. It overlooks the incredible Laad Bazaar where we spent hours going down many roads of wares, and did not even see a fraction of it. The driver went and found some kohl and applicator for my eyes. Although there were stalls there were many people selling small things as well, “Hello Madame! You speak English?” a young boy asked me. As I came out of one shop there he was again, “Madame? You speak German? I speak German!” He was there all day speaking 12 languages. Delight for my eyes, and ears, and nose—well, sometimes a delight for the nose.

The presence of Muslim women in full burka whisked down the streets. We were invited to enter a large mosque—a rare event to let infidels inside. The city was ruled by the Nizam, a muslim, who declared Hyderabad an independent state in 1724. Hyderabad became a center for the arts, culture and learning, and the center of Islamic India. The nizams accrued enormous wealth. The people were loyal to the Nizam, and he was a benevolent leader. We visited the Chowmahalla palace, now owned by the government and rented out for weddings and concerts. The architecture was dazzling.

A short rest, coffee and shower to get dressed for the Wedding Reception—the reason for coming to Hyderabad. On the way there, right there in the city, before my very eyes---2 camels decked out walking down the road. . .Where am I anyway?

The bride was a daughter of one of Padma’s childhood friends. The reception traditionally comes before the wedding. The traffic was at a standstill and members of a marching band with instruments and full regalia passed our stopped car. We joked that maybe they were going to the party—They were! We arrived just in time to see the marching band come down a dark road lit by porters with elaborate gas lanterns on their head. The band marched the car with the groom and his sister in it. They stepped out of the car with such regality. The groom is from the north, and the bride from Hyderabad and so there was a tribute to both cultures. The brother and sister walked together down a path covered with arches laiden with flowers. The parents followed and then the guests. We walked into a wonderland! Towers of fruits and flowers everywhere. The people were dressed so splendidly—the finest and most beautiful saris and silks. There were throngs of people, and waiters with trays of h‘ors de oeuvres and juices. A receiving line on the stage, “Are you friends of the brides?. . .No? The Groom?” people asked. Barbara and I were the only white faces in the crowd. Then---THE FOOD! The food, the food the food. Unbelievable amounts and variety of foods. We took small bites of food down the line each one an explosion of taste. The servers would watch our face and beam large bright smiles as we oohed and ahhed over our taste. We were there for hours, talking and mingling with the people. The grooms family from Rajasthan. His people had bright orange hair, startling to me. It was explained that they did not like white hair, and so when they go grey they color it with henna. Everyone treated us as though we were long lost friends. Watching people greet and speak with Padma only increased my appreciation. A teacher she had in secondary school was there. We left late happy and heavy with food and feast.

In the morning we dressed for the wedding. It was held at a hotel with a roof top buffet restaurant, and two big rooms. The groom sat on mats on a raised platform with the brides parents and 2 pooja men under bright spotlights. The priests were reciting the Vedas to him for hours which explained what is expected of him as a husband. Barbara and I tiptoed in and took a side seat—there were not many people there yet. The grooms uncle came in and greeted us, “Oh—come and have breakfast!” he boomed. And we did. Traditional south Indian breakfast of a porridge, chapattis, fruit and curd (yogurt), and coffee. We spent some time talking to the grooms sister and aunt and then returned to the same scene of the wedding. People came in and out, called out to each other talked and laughed. The parents on the stage called out to friends who came. It was a very relaxed and informal occasion except for the groom who was sweating and looking very uncomfortable. This went on for several hours. I had a really good talk with the grooms sister and her husband. They live in Philidelphia and are both pharmacist. The bride and groom are both student getting their PHD at MIT where they met. His father is one of the scientists who worked on India’s space shuttle to the moon. The whole team was there! I remember when we began our space program and the enthusiasm and pride it carried. I think many educational and development schemes came out of this for the USA. The enthusiasm in Indians is great. Very educated and gracious people. After about 4 hours the bride came in, and everyone perked up. The pictures speak for what words cannot say. They sat side by side listening to the priests with parents by their side. AT one point a fire was lit and they walked around the flame—smoke billowing up and filling the room as spices and things were added to it. Her sari was tied to his scarf and they walked around some more. He placed silver rings on her toes. They were married. We seemed to meet everyone and in returning to the wedding from the night before it felt as though we were seeing old friends. My friends in India.

The trip back to Chennai was another overnight train ride. Our cabin (Without walls) was right by the open door. The seemed nice—cool air rushing in. However, it also meant that people hopped on and off during the night. One such unknown person took Barbara’s Teva sandels with them. We arrived to school with an hour to spare and many memories to savor.

Old Kochi—our last stop.

We left in the morning with the sun cresting the tea plantations. People walking to work with loads on their heads trudged along wearing woolen head scarves. The bus was a similar model to the one we came on, and we each took separate seats making room for others to fill. Going down the mountain was faster and it was better to not look out the front window but the side ones as it seemed that every car we passed was a near miss. We arrived in Kochi—rather Ernakulam in the early afternoon. It was a long rickshaw ride over several bridges, from island to island. Old Kochi is an island. We had the name of a “home stay” which means a simple hotel. We were pleasantly surprised. The rooms were brightly painted with enamel paint and the beds comfortable. It was run by a Norwegian woman who had biked from Norway. She has traveled all over and was strong and wirey and friendly. She lived there with a young Indian man who owned a new rickshaw along with his battered one. There was a long term guest staying there as well from Sweden who appeared very stoned everytime I saw him. We left our gear and all went our separate ways. I roamed from art gallery to art gallery—impressed to see so much local art. There were even some good water paintings. The cafes had showings and the work for sale. Nothing like that in Chennai. I went into a restaurant at the intense urging of a young man. Tired, I ordered rich thick coffee and chicken curry for lunch. The waiter sat down with me and invited me to a party that evening. “It’s free for you—everyone else, 200R. It is a partners party though. You would be my partner.”
I looked at this kid bewildered. “What are you talking about? What are you thinking? How old are you anyway?” It was at this moment I realized that there are a lot of gigolos in India. I think they must think that old white women are easy marks—or that we would willing pay for the services of young men. The last thing I am interested in.

Back on the street, every shop has someone that begs pleads and pulls you to come into the myriad of shops. I learned later that they get a commission for bringing foreigners inside. It was fun shopping there though. There was much more variety of goods, strange pants and shirts. Jewelry and jewels. Pottery and pictures. Antiques and furniture, in every price range. There were the first truly beautiful things I have seen for sale.

A man insistedly escorted me into a great find. It was a wax museum of the costumes of the Kathacali dancers—specialized in Kerela. The man patiently took me from statue to statue explaining the characters, their make up, hand gestures.
He played every drum and strummed each string and told me the stories they perform. He asked me to dinner, and when I declined insisted I must come to the show that evening. I had every intention of attending.

I wandered past the grand churches St. Francis constructed in 1503 by the Portuguese Franciscan friars. Vasco Da Gama died in Cochin in 1524 and was buried on this spot. There is an imposing Santa Cruz Basilica built in 1506—rebuilt in 1902. There were posh resorts made from restored ancient houses and buildings. I met up with Erin on the way home and felt I was getting a urinary tract infection. No problem. I stopped at a pharmacy (every other building) and told the man and he gave me a rehydration drink and antiobiotics--$.60. ( Something to be learned here for American medicine.) I went back to the hostel and took my medicine. I decided to decline the evening out and stayed back. Lina and Sabu invited me to eat with them, and bought a bottle of beer to toast his new rickshaw. We sat and Lina told me tales of biking there and how she ran away from her predictable life in Norway. When I asked her about the young men, she said that really they seem to find older women interesting. She is 20 years older than Sabu and they have been together 2 years. She was easy to talk to and the Swede smoked pot and stared vacantly nodding his head to comments made. She said she would like to cook Briani for us all for lunch the following day. I went to bed early feeling as though I had swallowed burning coals.

Infection gone in the morning! We all felt refreshed from a day apart and wandered down along the shore watching the fishermen haggle and hustle their fishes freshly caught. Vendors just setting up their stalls beckoned to us—“Good deal Madame! First sale of the day!” We heard that line all day. We took a rickshaw to “Jewtown.” Stepping out the vehicle sped away when Erin realized that she had left her back pack with passport and all of her money in it! A man handed her his bike and she whizzed off looking for him. Everyone whipped out a cell phone and started calling everyone they knew to tell all of Kochi. The crowd grew, and Erin returned on the bike to be whisked away on a motorcycle of a policeman. When she returned there were over 50 people gathered—including the local television station. A short while later the rickshaw returned to deliver the goods—all intact refusing a reward.

The TV people interviewed all of us saying how honest and helpful the Indian people are. Smiles radiated and Erin trembled.

Originally built in 1568, the synagogue was destroyed by the Portuguese in 1662 and rebuilt two years later when the dutch took Kochi. We went to see it, but it was closed. It is at the end of a small street. As I looked at the plain building I heard a woman crying and wailing-“What is the matter?” I asked the two police men sitting guard. “Why is that woman crying?”
They cocked their heads, listening for a moment. Both wobbled their heads. “Jew.” Was the explanation.

I bought a silk skirt, old worn Kollu dolls (clay), shirt, and chai pants like I stole from Linda Roberts 30 years ago. I lost my mind and bought a ring with 4 saphires a ruby and emerald for $80. What was I thinking? We went back to the Sublime Roof hostel for a lunch of briani before we headed back to the airport and home. Yes, home. It really felt like I was going home.

breakfast on the balcony before leaving Munnar.

Munnar, communism and the tea plantations.

We left for Munnar on a very rickety looking bus. The seats very worn vinyl over steel seats. There were no windows, and in case of rain sheets of corrugated metal slide down from the roof. We all had seats and watched the country side slide by. Past the rice plantations and the land began to rise into hills. The bus drove for about an hour when it stopped at a bus petrol station. We were informed that we would be there quite a while. There was a cement building about 400 sq. ft. with one wooden desk and a few benches lining the walls.

It was Barbara that noticed they were transporting petrol from a hole in the roof of a tanker and putting it into the gas tank with liter bottles. Hmmm—yes, it could take a while. It was about 45 minutes before we took off again for another 4 ½ hours, the road steeper and the gears grinding we rose p into the chilly hills of Munnar. It wasn’t the cold that took our breath away but the sights of the lush and sculptured tea plantations.

A young man on the bus called a hotel ahead, the Adair and yes, they had one large room with 4 beds and a hot shower—right next to the bus station. It was about 65 degrees. When we got off of the bus, people had woolen hats, down coats, scarfs, blankets, rags tied around them to keep them warm in this frigid country. Walking the very steep road up to the inn warmed us up. We off loaded our gear, exchanged greetings and head off for a bite to eat before we went to bed.

The morning offered us a stunning view of the surrounding hills shrouded in early morning mist. We planned to take a local tour in a van as the sights of Munnar are all spread out. WE headed off to find that each stop had street lined stalls that sold trinkets of Munnar to the tourists, except for us who were Indian. We stopped first at a beautiful lake surrounded by forest. The most tranquil natural scene I had yet witnessed—Except for the sellers, there were no people or houses in view—government land. The road was blocked off and armed guards let cars and buses through. Upon asking, we found out it was to stop poachers from poaching sandalwood. There was a lot of cutting of wood there none-the –less. We rounded a corner to see a person riding on an elephant. Domestic. We went higher in the mountain past waterfalls gushing out of the rock faces. Flowers growing abundantly, yellows and pinks. Spots of color in the virdent green. Even the bougainvillea have thorns growing on them here. Tough flowers to withstand the environment. On the road we were stopped by a local to look down the hill where 4 wild elephants strolled eating the lush vegetation. Delightful. They are protected by the forest rangers.

In the afternoon our tour took us to the Eravikulam National Park home to the rare but almost tame Nilgiri Tahr. At the entrance of the park we waited in line to buy tickets with hoards of highschool groups draped in beautifully embroidered Kashmir shawls. The kids were like groups of kids anywhere, fooling with their phones, taking pictures with them, wearing headsets and showing off for each other. The difference is that the boys and girls stay in separate groups. To enter the park we had to board a bus that belched further into the forest and up the hill. It dumped us all at a clearing where we could look into the mist of Tamil Nadu. The Nilgiri Hills. Everyone got off the bus and headed up the paved path into the hills. “Stay on the Paths!” the signs instructed. We entered into the “pristine” wilderness with the pack of people as you would only find in India. Everyone laughing and yelling and talking loudly—so much for animal sightings! In any regards it felt liberating to be away from towns and housing and we dutifully followed the switchback upwards for 2 K. where the path was blocked off by private property. We photographed the tahr, and the other tourists photographed us, another exotic and rare species in the Nilgiri Hills. A crowd of beautiful young girls crowded around Erin to talk to her which was more interesting to them than the park.

That evening we went into the town of Munnar, the spice capitol of Kerela. We shopped, and ate in a small café and then poked about. I was asking someone where I could buy a flag of Kerela (the communist flag) and was over heard by a tall thin man in a ragged sweater. “Can I be of assistance,” he offered. I explained my quest. “Come with me, I know where you can get one. Not at these stores.” As I started to follow him he said, we’ll just go to my house.”
“Wait a minute,” I said slowing mu step. I’ve got to check with my friend. Barbara was intent in the buying of spices, and I asked her. “Barbara, this guy says he will take me to his house. I’m not sure that’s a good idea—what do you think?” And we both laughed. “ I’ll take someone with me”—and fetched Erin, who readily agreed. We followed at a fast pace through winding alleys behind ‘John.’

“A short rickshaw ride, and then we’ll go to my house.” We giggled. It was a short rickshaw ride up a hill. We got out and literally went underground down a ramp to a series of well lit offices—The Communist party headquarters. There were many men in white shirts reading papers and sitting chatting in the sparse rooms. John proudly introduced us around. His new friends.

“What is the party doing for the tea workers?” I asked. The tea plantations are owned by Tata, and they make 100r./day. (About $2.00) The work is grueling and there is no way out once they take the job. “I owe my soul to the company store,” I heard Tenessee Earnie Ford sing in my mind. The schools provided for their children and their housing is very crowded and substandard.

“Oh course, it is the primary concern of the people in the hills. The only hand to feed also keeps the people hungry. It is a very complex issue.” No argument there. What is with Tata though? They own most of India, the auto industry, the communication, the cable TV satellites, the tourism. . .I have to investigate this more. I had a dream of starting a great school there for the tea workers children.

Erin and I were given flags, and John turned and left quickly. Passing through a lane of shops he stopped a beautiful woman. “My wife!” he introduced. Somehow that was calming news.

His house was up a winding street with very old homes built into the sides of hill. We climbed steep steps to a door. John’s mother answered the door. We went in and had a seat on the couch while John went to make us tea. His mother was a slight woman with white hair and an elegant posture. “My name is Margaret Julia,” she introduced herself.
“Oh, and my youngest daughter is Julia Margaret,” I answered.
“That is no coincidence,” she affirmed. John returned with scalding tea and we all sat with our knees almost touching in the little room. “Do you like poor people?” she asked me leaning closer.

“Why, yes I do.” I answered, and as I said this it set off a series of queries into my mind. What is that I find alluring about the poor? Why am I more attracted to sitting in this room that a well lit comfortable room? My favorite moments of India are such.

“I can tell,” she said.

Her husband Abraham came out of his meditation room in a lungi. “In five days we will know the outcome of your election which could change the world. We hold our breath for Obama.” So do I. I wonder how many Americans know anything of Indian politics. Every where I go here people ask and revere Obama and the America that would honor and trust and elevate a man of color.

We had to leave, although I could have sat there all evening, because we left Melissa and Barbara in the town. They were dutifully, and annoyedly waiting for us, but forgiving when they heard our great adventure.

We wrapped ourselves in blankets and memories and anticipation as we went to bed. Dreaming of the last leg of our trip—Kochi.

map of kerela

The backwater trip

We went downstairs where a rickshaw was waiting for us. I sat on the single seat with the driver, and the other three women squeezed in the back seat. On the way to our houseboat the driver sang loudly—“A love song!” he told me as we weaved in and out of traffic. You better take notice Tim!

When we arrived, we saw the boat yard where they were repalming a boat. Every year they replace all of the palm work. No small feat. The boat we were to travel on had 3 attendants, the captain, Sonny, the cook, Anthony, and the ? What was his role? Who knows. It felt a little like a floating boudoir. The front of the boat had the classical steering wheel, with a raised mattress and pillows behind, with a table and four chair on the front deck all in a shaded palm cover. There were two bedrooms behind, each with 2 beds, mosquito net, and separate toilet, sink, and shower. Behind those was the galley where they concocted delectable delicacies and waited upon us like we were royalty.

It was a hot sultry day, and we lazed languidly about on the front deck feasting our eyes on the sights around us.

Occasionally we exchanged thoughts and perceptions, but mostly we drifted. This was far different quality from the day before. We watched Indian life drift by—the houses, the fishermen wearing these umbrella modifications for hats. A fisherman approached our boat to sell us giant prawns (they looked like little lobsters) for our dinner that night. WE drank a lot of water, and lime sodas—I in the sun any time I got.

We passed endless rice paddies—all worked by women in saris. The green is startling, and their saris as well. The lake we were traveling on is about 1 km. from the ocean. The land on both sides heavily used. Little tiny spits of land, about 100 meters wide have houses right next to the water. Kerala is the first (and only?) elected communist government. It has the highest reading level in India—91% (supposedly). We saw many pictures of Che Quevera along the river. He is a hero in these parts.

We stopped at noon, so the men could take a siesta, and I swam in the cool murky waters. Floating on my back looking at the clear blue sky with occasional puffs of clouds. It was a lazy day, and then we arrived at the village where we tied up to land.

My camera lost power.

I followed a young girl to the temple. Nothing like the ones at “home” in Tamil Nadu. It was spare—a dusty court yard with many tall brass candle holders, characteristic of Kerela. There was a Ganeesha statue and another Krishna in pagoda like shrines. We walked leisurely back, meeting a man who spoke English. “I am a poor man. See my house? (It was indeed simple) I work in Alipuzhia weaving mats now, so I can build my home better. I have one son. See how strong he is? And Obama! This is good for everyone, don’t you think?” Yes, I think.

When we arrived back at the boat there was a man with a canoe waiting for us. He took us weaving through the canals of the village. We watched families coming home—children from the school, women cooking, and men talking. We bought a bottle of “toddy” a liquor, or beer made from coconut palms—gross! People paid us very little mind but we could observe them living along the canal. Each house had a stair way built to the river, and there was a government break wall built along the canal. People bathing in the river, washing dishes and clothing, and talking to their neighbors on their stoops. Many of the very simple houses had TV, and music is in the air everywhere. Watching how normal people live is my greatest joy and biggest interest here. There was a feast for the eyes. We arrived back at the boat to find a candle lit dinner ready and waiting for us. The freshly caught prawns for the others and fish for me. We ate and sat in the candlelight marveling at the accident of history that allowed us to be in such a spot. I am traveling with 3 strong and wonderful women. Frogs were a symphony to sleep by.

The morning only allowed a quick walk, and swim before we ate our breakfast and were headed in a streamline back to Allapuzhia.

Time is funny here. What seems like a lifetime can be only minutes. I think of the string theory, and how time is warped. It is proven here in my mind and experience.

We arrived back at Allapuzhia to catch a bus into the mountains to see the tea plantations at MUNAR!

Deepavali Break! Escape to Kerela

The plane was delayed an hour and a half. We checked in at first class, not noticing the sign. “No guns, brass knuckles, fireworks, gasoline or crowbars allowed on board.” Hmm. These Indians are so particular. We landed at dark—6:oo p.m. Many cars and rickshaw drivers waiting to do our business. We took a prepaid cab, meaning that the government decides what is a fair price for our fare and laughingly left the airport in a new city in India. Thiruvananthapuram—or Trivandrum. With the windows rolled down it immediately felt different. The world was full of green. Trees hanging over the growth and it felt that nothing could stop the plants—they were wild. We wove through small streets, trash, hotels and eateries that could fit in your bathroom. Amazingly the driver knew our hotel. It is billed as a quiet spot at the end of a small lane—colorful, with wicker furniture. That might have been a stretch. There was a lot of color in the sheets, which smelled clean, but were stained from a variety of activities. The mattresses felt as though they were made from piles of newspapers. Melissa was waiting for Barbara, Erin and me to arrive. She had caught an early morning flight and had already cruised the city, taking pictures of the Chinese influenced architecture with red tiled roofs built with a pagoda tilt.

We walked down wet dark streets and poked into shops, stopping to eat at a small café. The wasps were busy building mud nests in the windows and everyone stared at us as we ate and laughed. We went home and tried to find a new hotel for the next night up a ways north. I had booked this hotel it cost $2.00/night, and no one was too happy with me. “This sounds GREAT!” I exclaimed. “Wafting in the remnants of faded grandeur, this Raj relic has immense, crumbling rooms with high ceilings and wooden floor. Or how about this, ‘the rooms are run-down and slightly dysfunctional, but sanitary and have balconies overlooking the backwaters. . .’ “ We rolled with laughter on the beds. We settled making an arrangement with a hotel billed as “an estate crowning a breezy peninsula surrounded by leisurely backwaters on 3 sides. The enormous rooms enjoy the views of the extraordinary vision of the pert bosoms, of a misshapen sculpture—the Goddess of Light—the Valiyavila Family Estate. It was difficult for me--$8.00/night per person.

Although this was supposed to be a quiet street, it was Deepivali weekend, and there were a lot of firecrackers going off. Melissa went to talk to the guys in the front office, who I think had quite a bit of “toddy,” the local brew, and were giving her the run around practicing their
English by repeating themselves as they made no sense. She was very gracious and polite and lasted a lot longer than I did. Kollam we decided. About 40 miles north by train.

We all pretended to sleep, and a beautiful 3 inch moth joined Barbara in our room with a myriad of mosquitos for the night.

We got up and left about 7:30. Down streets with broken pavement a lot of trash and interesting woodwork on houses and stores. We arrived at the train station and purchases our 3^rd class seats onh the train leaving in 2 hours. We went to the Indian Coffee House for breakfast.
This is a fascinating building. A tower with a spiral inside, no steps but an incline. The booths on the outside edge with windows opening up to the street and tower. The waiter was quite decked out, and had waited on Melissa the day before. We all had our picture taken with him and drank a lot of coffee before we headed over to the train station with an hour to spare. It took us quite a while to realize we were in the wrong spot. IT was so quiet, and were directed down to where we should enter the train. Of course all of the seats were taken. We could have sat above on the racks, ”Hmmm…no underwear.” AS we stood pondering our situation, a coffee vendor hustled us into the airconditioned car and sold us coffee. “Ahhh. . .” We watched the country turn from the city to the country, and we were on our way to Kollam. Shiortly after the conductor stopped by to charge us each 3 dollars on top of our 25 cents we had already paid. Ouch. The price of luxury.

When we arrived at Kollam, we took an auto rickshaw to the jetty for Valiyavila
Family Estates where we were unindated with offers for a backwater tour. We had read that this was the end of the backwaters, and tours were organized there. 4 of us. Each went with a different vendor, listening to their pitch assuring us of the best trip. Back together, telling what we had learned. We decided to go with Suresh. A package deal, an afternoon tour by canoe, night in a hotel on the beach, and then a ferry north to Allapuzia A(Venice of India), where we would stay the night in a hotel, and then catch a house boat for an overnight in the backwaters at a village—all for $40/person. A spurgle—but what the heck? As we were talking with him the man from The Family Estate of Valiyavila appeared. He was extremely disgruntled, saying we promised to stay at his inn. We said we would go with him, but he changed the rate we were expected to pay—doubled it. “Oh, forget it!” I told him. “I’m not going with you if you cheat us.” We were interrupted when our taxi arrived to take us to the canoe. We gathered our bags with the hotel man arguing with me. We were upstaged by the taxi man, who appeared to be hopped up, yelling at Suresh. Suresh kept a pleasant face, telling us to not worry—it would sort out, when the taxi man slapped Suresh in the face, yelling and carrying on in Malayalam the local language. He hit him in the back of the head as Suresh headed back to his office. As he posed to hit him again, I stepped in between them and faced the taxi driver. “Stop it! No fighting!” There was an instant crowd around us, and the taxi driver disappeared into it. We went to sit down. “I’m not riding with him,” I told Suresh.

“No problem. I’ll call auto rickshaws for you.” Suddenly we felt tired, but the hotelier from Valiyavila suddenly loved us. He was a good friend of Suresh. Fighting is a rare occurance here.
“You must fill out a police report!” HE crowed and led me back into the office. Many people crowed into the little space the size of my bathroom to watch the event of me writing a report. I wrote specifically what happened, even though I was egged on by many onlookers to embellish. I signed it and then had to write it in triplicate.

We were ready to zoom away in our little yellow chariots off to the inner reaches of Astamurti Lake where a young man was waiting with a dugout canoe to pole us through canals into the back waters. It was still and green and lush. The canal cut through small villages where 80 percent of the men are gone to Saudi Arabia to work. Small farms, spice farms, fish farms and egrets. It was quiet.

A water snake ssssed away from the boat. The young man had such poise and grace. He took us see where they make coir out of coconut innards. A rough hemp rope. We all tried our hands spinning it. We stopped at a spice farm where they grow pepper, turmeric, peppers, and other exotic spices for their own use. We had a coconut drink. The old man used a curved 8 inch blade to whack the top of the coconut off. “Do they ever hurt themsel ves?” I asked the guide. We watched people spin the coconut mesh into rope, and build the houseboats, replacing the palm.

“Oh yes,” he answered. “This man only has 9 fingers!” I gasped, until I realized he was teasing. IT was a slow and beautiful day. Like a dreamscape. The canal followed the village paths at time covered by palm trees—the young girls in their colorful safis floated by, laughing and covering their mouths as they peaked at us. Flowers hung over the water, so still, and egrets stood erect, alert. The road back to town took us through a valley so green, dripping colors.

We were tired when we arrived back in town and were pleasantly surprised at our hotel.

The hotel, which was part of the package was lovely by my standards. Right on the beach. We offloaded our gear and headedoff tofind a local restaurant. People on the beach celebrating the day. Kids with kites, children running and families laughing as they stood in the surf covering their fine clothes. No one wears bathing suits but swim fully clad. Such a festive feeling. Selling cotton candy. People all too glad to talk to us and invite us to join their celebration of the day. The sun setting in the Indian Ocean. We found a small restaurant where we ordered hot Kerela chicken. Yum. Hot! Wandering back to our hotel, full of the day and food and food of the soul. The beds were still hard, but the pillows soft.

In the morning there were rickshaws waiting to take us back to catch the ferry up the Astamundi Lake to the Hugging Mother’s Ashram. When I stepped off of the rickshaw immediately a young man took my arm and ushered me ahead of our group, “This way, Madame. Quickly! They are waiting.” There was a large crowd there this morning, smiling and nodding at me.

“Wait! I want to buy some water,” I tried to pull away, but his grip was firm.

“No—for you, Madame, we give water—no worries.”
In my usual docile manner, I followed him through one ferry on the next. I noticed there was a man filming me with a large conspicuous camera. “TV, Madame,” my escort whispered in my ear. He took me to the front deck, where I could ride in the sun. I sat down and settled my bag, all for the camera.
“Now, interview! Tell the good story!” And so I told the story of how the taxi driver slapped Suresh, and how he tried to walk away from the fight, only to be followed by the very agitated man. Words of encouragement were whispered in my ear, “Tell him that Suresh is a good man! Tell them that you were afraid for your life! Tell him that it is bad for tourism but you are so courageous!”
Next, they interviewed Melissa, Erin and finally a bewildered Barbara, who got on last and didn’t know what we were doing.

“Can I have your autograph?” an English couple laughed. We all laughed.

The ferry chugged along leisurely, past the statue of the Goddess of Light and her pert breasts. Slowly out of town past several small churches on the banks and the graceful Chinese fishing nets, hung on poles with a light to shine in the night to lure the fish. Most of them were on bamboo poles, but a few modern ones had metal poles and hydraulics to raise them. The ride was beautiful and peaceful. People on the shore waved to us as we passed. Spots of color in the green foliage. We rode for 2 hours and stopped at a small restaurant on the banks for a lunch of fresh grilled fish and vegetables before we got back on to ride the last half hour to get off at The Hugging Mother’s Ashram. She was visiting Europe. A fascinating woman who performs her ministry through hugging people. She has a huge following of people from all over the world and has raised a lot of money which she has built a school for art, and provided a lot of homes for people suffering from the Tsunami and other tragedies. Her ashram now houses 20,000 pilgrims. There was a palpable spirit there as people bustle about. I plan to return next September for her birthday celebration—or maybe just another time to meet her and get some of that hugging.

We walked through the grounds, through the neighboring village to catch a bus back to the main road where we planned to catch a bus or train to Allepuzhia—the Venice of India! The town was a scratchy dusty town, with no train for 4 hours, and so we settled in at the bus station to catch a ride from there. It was hot, and dusty. I opened the little book I carried by ‘The Mother.’

“Never grumble. All sorts of forces enter you when you grumble and they pull you down. Keep smiling. I seem always to be joking but it not mere joking. It is a confidence born from the psychic. A smile expresses the faith that nothing can stand against the Divine and that everything will come out all right in the end.” Hmmm. That fits. The bus came and people crammed into it like I imagine they do in subways in Tokyo. People pressed so tightly together, you can lift your feet up and not fall down.

It was a hot hour and half to Allapuzhia. Our hotel, (part of the tour) was right next to the bus station. I was totally charmed that we were on the third floor which was constructed out of woven palm fronds. The cheapest construction and yet the most endearing to me. Like the Swiss Family Robinson’s treehouse. Enchanting. We dropped our bags and wandered down the streets. If not exactly Venice, one of the primary modes of transportation in the town is on boats in canals which spread long fingers into the land emptying into the ocean. We took a rickshaw to the ocean—again filled with families and picnickers and people too happy to be alive. We watched the set for the second night into the ocean. Barbara wandered and poked into shops and marveled at the exquisite displays of spices for sale. We stopped and bought silver ankle bracelets.

Back at the hotel who was there? But Suresh! I could see he had a few drinks as he pulled me aside.

“Good to see you Suresh! What are you doing in town?”
“I had to see you, Madame. I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t know other woman like you.”
“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Do you want me to go on your backwater trip with you? I can be your guide!”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, but thanks for the offer.”
“We could have a bigger boat! No extra charge! 3 bedrooms—two for your friends and one for you and me.”
It was all I could do to not let out a huge guffaw. “Suresh, thank for the offer, but definitely no.”
He shook his head sadly and held my hand. “Maybe you’ll come back and we can have our own tour.”
I guess I’m not dead yet.
In the morning—our house boat tour.

UN DAY

UN day was the last day of school before Divali break. My class of 13 represented 5 countries—you can imagine what a school of 981 represented. The day started off with my students arriving in their native costumes. The kids from India and Korea wore gorgeous elaborate dress. The kids from Denmark, England and US were left adrift in the sea of color and tradition. The richness of the Korean and Indian heritage was stunning. So interesting to see people so proud of their culture. We had an all school assembly when school began. It began with a “parade of flags.” One of the teachers with a great radio voice announced the flags as children carried in the flags from their home country to the accompaniment of the school band. It was stirring, and yet unsettling to me.
Everyone clapped for each country—but cheered wildly for their own. The songs and speeches were about the unity and connectedness of each other—but somehow the flags seemed to divide us. I felt a hint of “Mine is better than yours.” Other teachers didn’t agree with me, and so it was just my interpretation. The rest of the program consisted of songs. One about children’s rights, but the ESL class, my class sang a song of Freedom. I had joined my first choir, and we sang, “Come young citizens of the world—we are one. We are one.” Singing with a group in harmony was a great thrill for me and I sang it to every child in the audience. Hopeful. In the afternoon everyone had shed their costumes, and we had a feast of nations in our classroom for lunch. Mothers went all out bringing specialty foods for the children to eat. Indeed a feast. It was interesting to me that 2 mothers wanted me to taste their foods first—“Eat this! I made it.” It gave me a little more understanding to their child. Oh what a dream the UN is—if only we could live it a little more fully. I am hopeful with our new president who says he will talk to our “enemies.” How else will we understand each other. I wore my peace t-shirt that Tim sent me. That is my country. Every country.

Later that evening a local woman visited me, as she does every Friday. We sat on my couch. I have a little table in the living room, with a picture of Jesus, Buddha, the Mother, and Ganeesha on it. “Do you love Jesus?” she asked me.

“Yes, I do.”
“Me too,” she answered. And I love Si Babba, and Krishna, too.”
I showed her that Si Babba lives in my kitchen in the form of a poster. I sang “Oh Jesus I love you, and I love Buddha too, Rama, Krishna, Guru Dev, Tao de Ching, and Mahommed,” for her. She loved it, and I taught it to her, and we sang and danced in my living room laughing together. “Why do some people say that there is just one way to love you God and come to you—we are all a part of you. . .”

The cable guy.

As soon as I come home from my bike ride from school, I shower and put on a sarong. I was in my room when the doorbell rang, and I saw a man waving to me on the front porch. I waved back not recognizing him without my glasses, but didn’t hesitate to open the door. After all, I have a security guard. He had already removed his shoes, and stepped past me. “Cable, Madame.”

“I don’t have cable,” I answered, following him into my own house. “I don’t even have a TV.”

“No, no. Of course. Upstairs. There’s a problem upstairs. Just take a look in back.”

He was a young man and smaller than me. I showed him through the kitchen unlocked the back porch and he stepped outside. I waited absently as he looked upstairs and drew lines in the air of imaginary wires. “Just take a look inside.” He stepped past me again, and I relocked the door to find him in my bedroom. “Here,” he said, “I’ll just run the wire from this window to this one.” He shook the bars that guard all of my windows. “Are these strong?” He asked.

“I don’t want any cables in my house.” I responded sternly. “I didn’t come to India to watch TV.”

“Nice art. Do you have children?”

This line of talk always makes me smile as I think of my 4 wonderful kids. “Oh, yes. . .” and as I started to blab on about them.

“And the Mister? Is he here with you?”

“No, he is staying in the US until after the election, when we elect Mr. Obama.” I started to think something was a little fishy.

He looked under my bed.

“Madame!” he said. “It is very dirty under here! I will just clean this for you.”

I laughed at him. “OK. It’s time for you to go.”

His phone rang and he babbled on into the phone. HE covered the mouthpiece with his hand, and said, “My boss—1 kilometer away.” He finished his call.

“I mean it now, you have to go. No cable.”
“No problem, Madame. Just one small kiss.”
“One small kiss! Get out of here. Come on—right now.”
As I pushed him away, he leaned over and kissed my shoulder. I couldn’t help but laugh—it was beyond absurd! He was remarkably strong. I gave him a good shove, still thinking it was funny.
“Oh! Madame! Sorry, sorry! Just a small affection! You see I love all foreigners! Please just one kiss!”
“OUT! OUT! OUT!”
He made another lunge for my delectable 56 year old saggy shoulders. “You’re so beautiful, Madame! I cannot help myself. Just a small kiss,” he said reaching for me.

“If you don’t get out, I’ll call Permal!” Isaid and gave him a good push out the door I had managed to open. He stuck his foot in the door. I looked into his eager young face.

“Madame! One kiss?” he pleaded, and I banged the door against his foot and slammed the door and locked it.

“I’ll be back tomorrow!” he called through the door just before he dashed out the gate and down the street.

I went outside and told Permal never to let him in again. “Bad man!” I gestured.
I called up to Jerry, upstairs. No cable problems.

trash

One of the first impressions of Chennai is the extreme amount of trash everywhere. I live in an upscale neighborhood and there is no trash pick-up so everyone just throws it in empty lots. There is trash galore in the fishing village. People sweep their yards and in front of their houses—but there is no where to put it—so they put it on the beach. Plastic bags are a plague—but less than 1/3 the cost of paper, and sturdier. India has a disorganized system of trash pickers. They begin by 6 a.m. and have different specialties. Some search for plastic, some for paper, some rags, and some glass. You see them picking through the trash lots with big bags to their head and a pointed stick stirring the mess. Children are often the workers. They sell the trash to recyclers for less than a dollar a day. Some NGO (non government officials) have organized some of them to cut out the middle man, but we are still talking pennies. Some areas have dumpsters, but where to put it? There was a scheme to burn it at a wet land, but it has caused so much air pollution and infected the waters of neighboring villages. The population of Chennai has doubled to 9 million people and they just can’t keep up. The idea that trash is a problem is a new one, apparently. The rag pickers are part of the culture. There is the added difficulty of the cows, dogs, and goats that roam the streets. They depend on the waste. Things have changed over night here—except the habits. It was not long ago that people bought food on banana leaves which they threw into the streets and the cows ate. Very little came in packaging. Now plastic packaging is common, and the old habits haven’t changed. Everything still goes into the streets. I separate my trash and set out plastic bottles, food for the animals, and they collect the newspapers. My guard keeps them, and turns them in for ½ the cost of the original subscription. Every night when I come home, the food and plastic are gone. I take the bits, and odds and ends to school with me. What they do with it all, I have no idea.

Deplorable. Desperate. But, when you really think about it, it is a low priority for most people here. There is still not clean water to drink, rare sewage systems. In the villages it runs in trenches down the side of the streets. This to me and to them is a far higher priority. Americans are aghast at the trast as are Europeans, but the Indians take it in stride. They didn’t give up with TV blaring slogans of “Don’t be a litter bug,” and later, “Give a hoot—don’t pollute!” Those ditties don’t play in the conscious of people here.

It must be said that the people here are fastidiously clean. Their clothing, no matte how tatty, are clean and usually pressed. People are proud of their hair, and keep it clean and brushed. Their houses and even huts are clean swept and their yards or stoops are swept with fresh blessing made of rice flour daily. It is the government that must be too overwhelmed to do anything. I read an editorial that suggested organizing the rag pickers, and paying them reasonable wages for their services and elevating their status—but that was just an idea, not an action.

I had an interesting conversation with a construction engineer who is overseeing the building of our school. He said that this is ”Misplaced impatience—“ hence the incessant horn blowing and desire to jump into the the 21^nd century while many people still live in the 20^th—or even 19^th.

I have arranged for a dumpster to arrive at our trash lot. I have dreams of several—some for paper, plastic, glass. I dream of a neighborhood clean-up followed by a block party, but. . .

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Today I traveled with 3 other friends by bus to a nearby village called Mahaballahpurum. We left Chennai at 8:00 a.m. and rode on the express bus an hour and a half. When we got off we were met by a very friendly auto-ricshaw driver—Mamaurm, who named his vichicle “Smiley” with pictures of Si Baba, his guru, on it to protect us. The attractions in this village are temples carved out of single boulders. They are now taken over by the Indian Government and managed as historic sites. This set of temples was carved around 500-650 a.d. They don’t think that they were used as worship sites, but perhaps to honor a king, although not a lot is known. There are Hindu references of the Gods. It remains a mystery why the people making them abandoned them—several in the stages of development. They know that they are carved from the top down, so not to disturb their work. The carving is fine and intricate, with fine details still in the faces. The rock is granite, one of the hardest rocks in the area, and difficult to work with.

When we went to the first site there was a monkey that someone had given a pepsi. He deftly opened the bottle and drank it down to everyone’s humor. Later down the path another mother monkey with baby hanging on passed me by, but chased a woman carrying a Fanta orange bottle—she was persistent and the woman abandoned it to the aggressive animal.

The magnitude of this feat was more than impressive. There were stairs carved into the curved rocks to lead up to the top where there were vistas of the ocean and looking far across the land. The driver waited for us while we climbed and marveled before he drove us to the next set of buildings. The first one was a lighthouse, which was used continually by building fires on top in the nights to warn sailors and bring the fishermen home. It was replaced in 1920 by a more modern one, which is still used.

There were 5 sites in all, a tremendous amount of work. Inside of several of them are detailed friezes of scenes of love and battle. Ancient and current favorite themes. There was a perfect well carved out of rock—a perfect 10’ hole. Thinking of the work and strife that made them is humbling and painful to consider. By the shore temple a man and parrot told my fortune. It confirmed my loving family and devotion to finding a path of truth and integrity—it encouraged me on. Everywhere people selling wares—of course many carvers of intricate small and large granite and marble carvings. I bought 2 perfect moon stones to send to Sylvia to make into jewelry.

The sun was bright, and hot. I wore my bathing suit under my pants, and am turning the color of the rocks. We were taken to a roof top restaurant that served lime soda and fresh fish. We ate and rested and talked. Wonderful strong women. Easy to travel with and fun to share the moment with.
After short shopping we boarded the rickety bus back to Chennai. Hot and tired and happy.

Last Saturday, (9/13/08) I began my classes in ESL (English as Second Language). 10 out of my 14 students speak a different language at home, so I was very excited that the school is providing this class, paying for it and the graduate credits, providing lunch and breakfast and even paying us to attend! The teachers are great—two teachers on staff I work with teach the class and it makes sense and helps provide strategies and encouragement. The class goes from 9-12. At noon I set of on “Rosebud,” my trusty steed and headed to a neighborhood call Besant Nagar. I had a sketchy idea of how to get there, and I think took a long round about way past homes shops and street scenes. I stopped at small shops and a very strange art gallery where no one was there. It was so hot—the hottest time of day to be on a bike, and I passed an opened gate leading into a shaded and over grown area. I saw a guard sitting under a tree and rode over to him. The sign on the building said Montessori school, and it had a big courtyard and garden, but obviously no kids played there. “Sari shop, Madame,” he informed me. I went into a small entry way where they had dusty fabrics on shelves. The soft pounding drew me further in and with permission entered the weaving shop. Ancient looking looms with complicated stringing hung with stones tied to them. The people loved me taking the photos and soon everyone had to stop for tea to view them. They invited me to sit with them and I spent over an hour there. They showed me the dyes from plants, and how they stamp the material. I bought some small items and when I return to buy more will take them the photos.

I found my way to the beach, where there is a giant famous catholic church. They had a big lighting display of Mary, 20 feet high lit with Christmas lights. It is right next to a large Hindu temple. I wished that there was a mosque there too. The religions seem to live in harmony here, a fact that the southern Indians take pride in. This is no small thing these days—so much fighting and destruction up north. Outside of the church was very festive with garish pictures of Jesus, God and Mary rivaling Shiva and Vishnu for sale.

I found material for sale for 75cents a yard and bought several pieces—now to find a tailor to sew it for me. The bike is a marvelous tool for me. It gives me independence and takes me to all kinds of new places. People greet me and laugh at the sight of me. One of the teachers said I look like the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz. I feel more like Glenda, and often like Dorothy—this sure ain’t Kansas.

The next day my friend Barbara and I got up and left our homes at 6:00 a.m. We walked and then took a shared auto to the train station where we caught a train out of this area to the Central Train Station. The train station is a huge building just a year old, and it was empty—like a huge parking garage with nothing in it. There are large cement pillars, and there was something horrid on each one. AAHHH!! I hated to look, fearing it was crap or puke, but on every one? It started at about waist high, and I realized it was beetle nut spit—still disgusting but not nearly as bad as it could be. The ticket agent sold us our ticket and then escorted us to the train which came in moments. He rode along with us, as his shift was done and explained how we had to get off, walk across a abridge through the station, to another one to catch another train heading to Ponneri. We did. The people on the train were curious about us, and several people talked to us, and one showed us carefully worn photos of his farm out of the city. Everyone wanting to be helpful People got on one station to sell, “sweets” and other goodies. No one ever took our tickets or checked, but everyone had tickets.

We got off and walded a long way through the outskirts of a village into the main hub, where we caught a bus to PuliKat—our destination.

Arriving in the city by the sea the smell of fish was certainly apparent. WE walked through it all down to the waters edge where we could walk out on spit of land. “I need a boat!” I called to everyone and no one in particular. Sure enough within minutes a man came up to us and indicated that we could hire him to take us out to the island and the peninsula of land that formed the saltwater lake. No hesitation. The motor is mounted on a long pole, and he steers with the other end of it. We headed out through the shallow waters where people were catching small 3-4 inch fish in nets. WE found them later laid out in the sand to dry—“Chickens,” the man answered simply. They grind them up with powder and feed them to chickens at a factory. He took us to a stretch of beach longer than we could see. The wind was gentle, and so were the waves. NO TRASH!!! I have never seen a more pristine beach or beautiful water. I swam and floated until I realized my face was feeling very tight from the sun. We boated some more and watched the fishermen and painted storks. Later in the season this is a great place for migrating birds. I must return.

The return trip proved just as interesting. The puja-man wanted us to take his picture in front of his little temple. Barbara and I got into one train car with all men, when we realized that the train was segregated. People squenched together to make room for us. We arrived back in Chennai sunburned and tired—and happy.

Pondicherry, Auroville, Ganeesha, and a family festival

9/4/08--Kottivakum--my neighborhood

Some enchanted evening. Some women who have been here a year invited me to come over to dinner with them. Caroll’s apartment was airy with an American kitchen and good karma. We had a splendid meal, and I left on my bike to come home in the dark. I followed the loud music, and found a makeshift stage with an audience of about 100—children dancing in the dirt, women on one side, men on the other. In honor of Ganeesha I think. People doubled over with laughter at my appearance—I rode on past little shrines with people singing and chanting. When I turned into my neighborhood I saw in the streetlight a long table set up at the corner lot where the people live in the “little house.” The table was metal and could seat about 50. “Auntie! Auntie! Come my sister!” I was beaconed to join in the festivities. At first I thought it was a wedding. The young girl came out decked in jewels and a beautiful red sari—smiling and hugging each othe, I got out my camera. “OH! PHOTO!” she gasped! “Yes! Yes! Now come and eat!” I was seated next to the mother and served briani on a banana leaf topped with onions and garlic and spices. A large glass of water was poured for me—taboo, but who is to argue? It was a mountain of food, and I mixed it with my fingers and dug in. Delicious—the spices blending perfectly with the sharp edge of the onion. I had just eaten though. I ate slowly, wondering what to do with the rest? Finally, I pulled out my camera, which diverted the attention, and I stood up for the extended photo session. The girl was Asrani’s sister—14. My heart ached. “Where is your husband?”

“No, no, Uncle.” Snap. More with the baby. “Super beautiful was the cry when I replayed the pictures.” Everyone smiling—beaming. Finally Debbie Baby said in good English, “No Husband! No wedding! Birthday!” A sigh of relief from me. More photos—shot like mug shots in the dark. “You are my very special friend,” Asrani said as she hugged me good bye. I wondered at my good fortune to be invited twice for dinner in one night, and being served food by people with so little to have 2 night in a row. Ah, India.

I had a case of the blues over my birthday. I suppose it the accustomed ritual with friends and family that I missed so much. Earlier in the year we had graphed our birthdays in the classroom, and the kids asked mine and we added it to the graph. We have birthday circles for the children honoring them, giving them wishes from the heart. My birthday was a celebrated holiday in our classroom. The children made many surprises for me—little books, a big card. Esther (the teaching assistant) gave me a beautiful full skirt that’s green and bright yellow with sequins. Several children gave me small gifts from home. The kids told all of the other teachers it was my birthday and how old I am. A parent brought in a big cake and juice for all of us. I felt very loved and appreciated. That was Thursday.

Friday, right after school Barbara, another new teacher and I caught a very full bus to Pondicherry to spend the week end. We sat next to a young man who lives in Texas, but was born in “Pondy.” He talked to us the whole way down. He had met his wife, who is from Chennai, in Utah. He told us about how upsetting it was to their families that they found each other, and that it wasn’t arranged. To make matters stickier, they are from different castes. IT took two years for them to convince their parents that this was a good idea. He explained that the Brahmin caste is considered a higher caste, but that they are the families which the priests come from, and now they are a poorer lot. Both of his parents teach at the University here—He didn’t say what her parents do in Chennai. He was so poised and friendly and the trip was over too quickly. We went back to the Park Guest House, where I had stayed the week before. We were met by a very small man who told us his name was, “Bond. James Bond.” He was very cryptic about signing us in. The next morning the old woman was back at the desk, next to a young woman. Last week she was very sour, but today she was very friendly. She recognized me and when I told her that I was having a lovely time, she responded, “Lovely people have lovely times.” Barbara and I set off and went to the Ashram of Aurobindo and the Mother. It was a beautiful spot, built around a big tree with a tank under it filled with arranged flowers. Flowers every where, and the people sat and meditated, hugged and touched the tree and prayed around the tank. I think it is so interesting how enlightened people are so revered to the point of worshipped and prayed to. I think Eckard Tolle and Thich Nat Han are enlightened people, and teach very much in keeping with Aurobindi and the Mother, but I can’t imagine praying to them, making temples and worshipping them. It is an interesting notion. There was a great book store where his poetry and writings are published in over 30 languages. I bought several small booklets.

We left the Ashram and went a few blocks over to the Elephant Temple, where an elephant lives and blesses people. They sell grass and fruit and the people feed the elephant. He is not tethered, but stays there all the time. His head is painted beautifully and he looks you in the eye with his soulful ones. He places his trunk over your head when you bow to him. I fed him coconuts and grass and we caught a rickshaw to the settlement of Auroville.

Auroville is 40 years old now. Aurobindo and the Mother took a barren spot of land and have planted over a million trees. It is a multinational community working on sustainability. They have many different schemes going. Paper making, art work, dance, cheese, health, and engineering. They use a lot of solar power. They do a lot of outreach to the neighboring villages. They recently got the bid to clean up and restore the Adyar River Estuary and bird sanctuary. The information center has a video about its history and then you can walk out to the Dome. Apparently, it has the world’s biggest crystal in it. You can only go in with written request and an appointment. We walked through beautiful young forests and an astounding stand of banyan trees. It was an impressive moment. No trash, and everything is so well kept up. They have a set of stores that sell clothing, musical instruments, and jewelry, soap, candles. There was a café where we had a wonderful luncheon. The goods sold there are like nothing I have seen anywhere else. Very classy and tasteful. Everyone in the community is considered a teacher, learner, artist and researcher. They produce beautiful stuff at European prices.

We stayed for a couple of hours and then put-putted back into Pondy where Barbara and I wandered crowded streets in the Tamil Nadu neighborhood and bought clothing for very little. Looking, shopping was an experience in itself. We found the Grand Bazaar, an inside fish market where hundreds of women clean and sell fish, shrimp, and all seafood imaginable. I wish these pictures could be scratch and sniff. The next layer in was fruit, and if you could stand to stay inside and wander further you found men selling spices from piles of colorful smells. We ate on the familiar rooftop and drank cold lime soda—tired from our walking.

In the morning we swam in the ocean—rough and warm, a sensory delight. We even saw other teachers from Chennai—small country. After a quick tour through the city, we were shopped out and headed back to the city for a fund raising dinner a group was hosting to raise money for children affected by AIDS. It is a group home for 10 kids. It was my first big party of almost all Indians and they loved the entertainment and laughed and laughed. I left after eating on an early shift, and they were still going strong. Traveling here is exhausting somehow. I think it is the sensory overload of the simplest moments.

When I walked up to my house I noticed men climbing on a bamboo ladder and working on the mess of wires down the street—since then, no internet. How funny to be so dependent on something that wasn’t even available a short time ago. . . I am really missing people now. Hungry for any glimpse of home. (That’s a hint.)

Tonight I came home a long way on my bike, meandering different streets leisurely. I found the nicest surprise when I came home. Permeal, the guard, had dinner for me! Delicious food, some sort of dumplings, some savory, some sweet, egg pancakes, and sweet rice, spicy garbonzo beans. His wife made it for me, and he beamed when he gave it to me. So unbelievably generous and kind. We talk to each other a lot now, he in Tamil, I in English, and somehow we seem to understand comfortably. We drink cold lime water together everyday, and I have been sharing my dinner with him, and now he with me. What a world I live in.

Today is a day in honor of Ganeesha. The town is crazy with festivities which began at 4:30 a.m.

Saturday morning I got up early and headed off to the main bus depot to catch an express bus to Pundicherri, about 60 miles south of here. The bus ride cost $1.25 and took 2 ½ hours. I sat behind the driver with lots of leg room, sharing my seat with two other Indian women who cast secret glances at me when they thought I wasn’t looking. The ride was straight down ECR (East Coast Road)and as we passed through the southern “suburbs” of the city we hit open space with palm trees and simple houses made of fronds and mud. We passed rice paddies all set to go, but dry as a bone. Crossing rivers I was men poling boats as they cast and pulled in their nets. There was a cool breeze coming in the window, and it was a comfortable and pleasant ride. No matter how small the collection of houses was there was always a temple prominently placed.

We pulled into Pundicherry and I was surprised at how large a city it was. There were many dealers in antique furniture on the outskirts, and I longed for a car to go and browse there. As soon as I stepped off there was a young man to offer his services of an autorickshaw to take me to my hotel. I stepped inside and was transported out of the hustle and bustle into the French Quarter, free of trash and with orderly streets—there were even signs that requested “No horns”. Remarkable. I crossed through the gated entrance to the Park Guest House, run by Auroville, where I was sternly told to read the agreement, which said “no tobacco, no alcohol” before they would register me. No problem there. They lock the gate at 10:30. I was shown to my room—two twin beds , a desk, table, chair, ceiling fan and balcony overlooking the Ocean and The Garden of Positive Vibrations. Indescribable beauty. I took a quick shower and headed out along the Promanade. Passing the Tourism office I got a map and the young man Anthony, showed me things I would want to be sure to see. The city is an old French settlement, and it left the beauty of France behind. Everything was painted in beautiful colors, and it did indeed feel like a mini-Nice. There was a large monument to Ghandi in the middle of the walk along the shore, and I turned left into the town.

I visited a museum for 5 cents and saw stone carvings and beads and vessels gathered near-by at Arikamedu. The history dates back to the 2^nd century B.C. It was used a port for trade with the Romans and Greco –Romans. Wine, garum sauce and olive oil were imported and the exports must have included textile, beads, semiprecious gems, glass and shell bangles. The only thing there now are perpendicular walls and a mission house. On to the Tamil Nadu section of town, more honking, lots of street vendors of incredible wares. I had only brought about 15 dollars with me, and so was freed from the idea of shopping, and could honestly answer that I had no money—just enough to buy my two sisters a gift, which I will enjoy until I send them off. I was looking into a small temple in the main square when I was beaconed to enter by 2 laughing women. The puja fired up the incense and blessed me and gave me the red dot on my forehead (Is it made of crushed flowers?) and mint and sugar crystals to eat and a ladle of water to drink. He took a large bell and covered my head with it as he uttered prayers. I went to put some rupees in the plate but was waved away. A first. The women pinned a jasmine garland into my hair, gave me kisses and laughing watched me as I put my shoes back on to leave. Everywhere I went I was greeted with “Hello, Madame. What is your good name?” and each of them would introduce themselves to me as I shook their hand. Lovely.

I leisurely strolled the streets back to the Guesthouse where I collected my bathing suit and headed beyond the Promanade to swim—yes! In my suit! I was floating on my back for an unknown amount of time when I heard the familiar, “Hello, Madame!” A young boy was treading water next to me. Indians are not known to be good swimmers, and women rarely if ever swim. “Well, hello,” I answered. We ex- changed names, but skipped the hand shake, and the two of us swam for a long while, gradually heading in body surfing on the waves. One wave grabbed me and tumbled me violently about, like a rag doll by Winnie. I felt the boys body crash into mine and we were tossed upon the shore laughing and gasping. “You are so super to me, Madame,” he said as we parted. What does it take? Recognition only. I went back and spent the afternoon reading Eckard Tolle in the Garden of Positive Vibrations. It has left me in a quandary—what to do without an ego. I am finding myself passionate about teaching here, and yes, that does seem to have an element of my ego involved. I don’t think that is the driving force, but I am still watching and questioning. I will take him along next week when I return. I think he must have written the book in this garden. Carol Adleman would be quite at home with the beautiful use of flower, water and rock.

On my way to dinner, I stopped at a Tibetan store, took my sandels off and entered a little room about 10 x 12. It was full of beautiful Buddhas, and hindi gods, jewelry. I had trouble focusing on anything, and sat down. Kameer spoke softly to me, asking me what I was doing there, and how I found it.
I explained that I had no money. He took out a prayer bowl made of 7 metals, for the 7 chakras in the body. He took a large round paddle covered with red material and slowly ran it around the rim of the bowl. Like fine crystal glassware it started to sing. The absolutely most beautiful perfect sound came out and filled the room. He took a purple velvet pillow and rested it on my head and did the same. I could feel the vibrations in my feet. I bent over and rested my hands on the chair and he placed the bowl on my lower back and gonged it—my neck, and then I stood in the bowl as he gonged it vigorously—I could feel the vibration in my teeth. I was spellbound. Such a gentle loving man with no ulterior motive, other than healing and love. I thought of my friend Kathy, and sent these vibrations across the universe to her. This practice is used for healing—to align the centers of energy in the body.I look forward to returning to his shop. A life changing experience.

I ate a meal of vegetable curry and garlic naan with fresh lime juice for dinner on the roof of a restaurant overlooking the sea. Entranced by the events of the day, and totally satisfied and happy.

The sound of the surf was rhythmic and constant all night as I slept under the ceiling fan. In the morning I swam again, and magically there was my young friend. He and I swam to the laughter of others and drew a crowd. The people were very concerned about me being in the sun. I told them I wanted to be as dark as they were, and they laughed some more. I had collected a few shells, and so they appeared in a large pile on my cloth. The boys wanted to take me for a boat ride, but I declined. The boats there are merely large timbers lashed together which they pole along—maybe next time.

I sat in the garden before I left for the Botanical Garden—preserved since 1856. I sat down on a granite bench and as I sat silently I realized that there 100s of large fruit bats everywhere hanging from the trees. Why do they hang upside down? I laughed aloud.

Walking with my bags I tripped and fell—in fact it felt as though I flew, and my bags spilled out in front of me. A huge group of people rushed to me with concern, collecting my things for me and helping me up. I feel as though the Indian people are caring for me, watching over me as though a child. I took the afternoon bus home—again a pleasant experience. I was surprised at how exhausted I was when I returned. I have a series of little red dots scattered on my body—bed bugs I think.

I already paid to stay there again next Friday to have 2 days there. I plan to go to Auroville for a day. Check out their web site. Aurowille was envisioned as a Universal Town, where people from different nationalities, faiths and beliefs can live in peace and harmony. It is an attempt to realize the new society as envisioned by Sri Aurobindo and the Mother, a French artist who was his disciple. Nearly 2000 people from 35 countries are living here to realize human unity and transformation of consciousness. Sri Aurobindo was a revolutionary who turned poet and teacher. His spirit feels very present at the guest house and his teachings are pure love and acceptance.

School

I am delighted with everything about the school. (www.aisch.org) I am teaching in a new third classroom as the school is growing. I inherited an absolutely naked large room with big windows. Nothing to sort through, or figure out what it is. A shipment of supplies is supposedly on the way but until then I investigated the cast offs, and the storerooms and found tables and stools, book cases converted to cubbies, and large cardboard boxes covered with colored paper to make it beautiful. New bright pillows appeared and I brought my PACE flag from Italy, and the UN flag which I had hung from the high ceilings. Bright bulletin boards, prayer flags, and I am home. I have 14 students, 8 Korean, a boy from Denmark, a German girl, British boy, Chicano girl, and an American boy, and one Indian boy. I was troubled at the lack of Indian kids, until I learned that the Indian government passed a law against Indian nationals coming to our school. They must attend Indian schools—so my conscience rested. The staff is more than half local hires, and there are other teachers from all over the world. The American teachers here are travelers and have taught in many different countries—a highly skilled and competent group. The director of the school is an older American who has been here for 6 years. I love him. Actually, everyone I work with is friendly, helpful and very professional. There are about 850 kids I think. It is an absolute jewel of a job. The school facilities are state of the art—and there seems to be a flush budget and materials needed are to be had. We follow a rigorous academic curriculum and have the means to do so. I have a long morning meeting everyday, and close with silence. The children are incredibly sweet and so pleased with everything we do. We just read The Big Fitz—about the Edmund Fitzgerald sinking, and the great lakes. A great teacher, Bruce, comes in to help with the ESL kids 3 times a week, and they have a special class daily. This provides wonderful time to have discussions and individual time with kids. I couldn’t be happier.

After school I have a group of K-2 kids for Drama Club 2 times a week. We will do a performance at the end. 18 kids. It is a lot of fun.

The school has over 50% Korean. They are here primarily for the auto industry. I am learning as much about Koreans as Indians—well, not really, but a lot. Last week was Indian independence day—the same day as Korean independence day.

There is a courtyard in the school with fountains, and palms and a lot of flowering bushes and trees there. It feels like the jungle. There is a constant staff of people sweeping and mopping the floors, twice daily. Tuesday is the back to school night so I will get to meet all of the parents. I am going to do a slide show of the kids at work—that is sure to win their hearts.

Tiruvannamalai

We rode another half hour to the town of Tiruvannamalai, population 120,000. We drove through the town and marveled at the amount of men dressed in orange cloth with dread locks. Most of them had long beards and hair. Many carried sticks, but nothing else. We arrived at our hotel, a new one out side of town and were met with a large impressive crew of “room service” guys who wanted to be of service. Couldn’t they carry my purse? Unlock the door? They showed us to our rooms, and came in with us to show us how to turn on the lights, flush the miraculous western toilet, turn on the air conditioner, the faucet to the sink! “Room service, Madame!” And how! IT was early afternoon and we were going to meet to go to dinner together at 6:30, so another woman and I decided to take a walk. I was eager to see those guys in orange again. I got my wish. The people along the road were extremely friendly and all wanted their pictures taken. We met some women sitting at an empty tank (for holy bathing) and they were crazy for us. We took their pictures and they kissed us, and we kidded them. I noticed that their teeth and mouths were very red, stained from the beetle nut they were chewing—which makes you stoned. As we walked, I saw so many things. A small shop made of fronds with a TV on it showing Ghandi, and men watching it. We saw these many man made pools (tanks) and next to them what appeared to us to be above ground tombs—but Hindis cremate their dead. They were richly painted, and some of them even had photos printed on the plaster. There were many monkeys there—sitting on the stones and the colored platforms watching us—following us at a safe distance through the brush. We saw a funeral, and they took the person and covered him with dirt above ground—there was another hump in front of him. We later found out that the tombs are not tombs, but after people bath in the tank they go and rest on these platforms. The men we saw were Swamis, holy men that devote their lives to God. They don’t work but spend their lives meditating and had made a pilgrimage to this town from all over India. People feed them. Actually, we saw a man arrive on a bicycle and hand out rice cakes wrapped in newspapers to them. We bought many of these cakes to give to people begging. They cost about a penny a piece. The streets were lined with beggars on the way into town. Back the way we came out of the city and congestion to hear crickets! What a glorious sound. I went up to my room to take a shower, followed by the 4 room service guys. I went inside, and the doorbell to the room rang. I opened it. There they all were beaming at me, “Room service, Madame?” “Well, yes, I would like to buy a bottle of water.” They all nodded and giggled and took off down stairs. A few minutes later they were back with the water on a tray. I signed and they left. The door bell rang. “The water, Madame? Is the water fine?” “Yes thank you. The water is just fine.” I took my shower and went up to the roof. They followed me up. “Madame, please. Your job?” one inquired. I told them. They all nodded in agreement at what a fine idea this was. “Madame. Please. A photo with us?” Ahh, that was it! We took a series of photos, which absolutely made them fall down laughing, “One more?” Of course. After dinner it was a repeat. My roommate and I were talking about this as one of them casually walked by our window’s balcony. There was no where for him to go out there. He peeked in, “Room service, Madame?” I collapsed laughing.

In the morning we went back into the hustle of the town—literally hundreds of Swamis were there. We saw a large Ashram (Holy commune type community) dedicated to Ramana Maharshi (1879-1950.) HE lived for the last 20 year of his life there living in a series of caves. (More on him later.) There are over 100 temples in this town, the most famous is the Arunachaleswara Temple dedicated to Lord Siva and Parvati. It is located at the foot of Mt. Arunachala and is one of the largest temples in all of India with a 198’ 13 story beautifully sculptured gopuram and a thousand pillar hall. It was builts in 1502, but the inner part of the temple dates back to the 11th Century.The temple was awe inspiring. There were pilgrims everywhere traveling to the temple. It is enclosed in a tall stone wall with cows along the top. We checked our shoes at the door and filed in with thousands of others. In the courtyard, people were having family picnics and laying prostrate praying. There were carvings on all of the walls and statues everywhere. In all of this, the building was secondary. This really felt like holy ground, and the reverence and devotion the people felt was palpable. We were included in all of the blessings and left with white flour over our foreheads and red dots. I think I was elevated, and my feet did not touch the ground.

The legend is that Shiva appeared a\s a column of fire on Mt Arunachala creating the original symbol of the linga. The fire symbolizes Shiva’s light, which eradicates darkness and evil. I bought a necklace with the image on it and am wearing it.

After the temple we hiked up the mountain through the village where they have constructed temples at each of the 4 caves Sri Ramana Maharshi lived in. A young man, 14 guided us up the mountain and gave us a good history of it all in English. The view from the top was breath taking, partly because I was out of breath. Serious hiking in serious heat. If I had not taken to riding a bike here, I never would have made it. It was somehow a very mystical experience. The enormity of the spirituality with openness is profound. Even as a white foreigner I was embraced by the puja men, and blessed, and accepted. The notion of giving up desires as a basis and working for enlightenment is very interesting. Lots of thought on those to follow.