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. . .