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,