Arielle's Obligatory, Self-Indulgent and Retroactive Traveblogue

Amritsar part 3: the Wagah Border

2010-07-04T16:14:00.000+05:30

The golden temple is fascinating enough to make Amritsar a must-see. The Wagah border, about 7 miles away from Amristar, is captivating, slightly scary, and not a little funny. The Wagah border is currently the only way to cross the border between India and Pakistan over land. Each and every night the Indian and Pakistani border authorities hold joint/rival closing ceremony(ies) that takes place in front of thousands of spectators. On our way, we drove past lines of trucks carrying goods for Pakistan that hadn't made it in time to cross over. Park about a kilometer from the entrance and walk through a gangway filled with Indian propaganda and advertisements for fans. We saw a man wearing a trojan hat. My dad pointed at the novelty and our tour guide laughed, because we'd be seeing a lot more trojan hats throughout the evening.

After we past through border through border security we were seated in pretty prime location. The Indian arena was already pretty full. By pretty full I mean there were over a thousand people there. The Pakistani side was completely empty, but I could already see that it was nicer. For one thing we had some of the best seats but when we sat straight ahead the thing that was easiest to see was the Indian people sitting on the other side of the path. Looking at the pristine marble that was used for the Pakistani stadium, I'm pretty sure that people sitting there would not have been covered in dust after the experience like we were. Back on the Indian side, People, mostly women and children took turns running with the flag up and down the route to the gates at the border, while bollywood music played. After half an hour of this the Pakistani spectactors started to file in. Their stadium wasn't full, but it was larger so I would hazard to guess that there were about thousand spectators on each side.

Then the ceremony started. A man who I can only describe as a cheerleader on the Indian side started screaming "oooooooooooooh," in one breath while his couterpart started at the same time and tried to outlast him. The pakistani cheer leader always lasted longer, but the Indian would always start again when he realised he'd been bested to make it seem like he had won Meanwhile men on both sides with feathered helmets with different colors goose stepped up and down the path to cheers of "Hindustan."

Words and even pictures cannot do it justice, so luckily I have video or found one on youtube.

Neither my father nor I saw the hand shake. I wonder how many other spectators miss that.

As my father has become fond of saying: "It's HILARIOUS, until you realize both of these countries have nuclear weapons. I'm not sure it's really any different from the Olympics or the World Cup, but then I'm ambivalent about the constructiveness of those events as well. Sports is a zero sum game: when the Dutch are happy, the Brazilians are sad. Is that really an attitude you want to foster on a daily basis. Well, some people do want to foster that attitude. That, in a nutshell, is my problem. In the end, while the ceremonies may not be so different from events that are important in my life, that doesn't mean they aren't harming the process of coexistence.

The thing I was the most uncomfortable with was the use of the word "Hinndustan."Hindustan is my least favorite name for India since it means land of the Hindus. As the above picture shows, it is not only Hindus invested in the fate of India. India is a secular country with more Muslims citizens than Pakistan. There are those within the Indian political establishment who would have India be in the exclusive control of the Hindus, and they have dangerous ideas about the future of the country. I much prefer India or "Bharat" the historical name for the region. Although I guess Pakistan is/was also part of Bharat and thus would be a little awkward. Like red sox shouting "North America" in the faces of Yankees fans.

Still an open land border between the two countries has to ultimately allow for further exposure to each other, and I'm a big believer that more exposure to those from other places leads to better understanding. At the same time if this exposure comes through a prism of screams and skilled marches, is it really exposure at all?

On a side note, on the way back we ran into a boy hawking DVDs wearing. A daisy girl scout shirt. Maybe this is only interesting to other girl scouts, but the whole thing seemed reminiscent of Jacqueline Novogratz's The Blue Sweater and had to take a picture.

What I miss the most

2010-06-28T21:40:00.000+05:30

I can't believe it's been 3 months and I'm just starting to realize how many things I miss. Here are just a few: being tall, Grishma's turn of phrase, menus with 3 token "non-vegetarian" options, eating with my hands, the nivedita guides, monkey's being a part of every day life, the international staff, the local staff, fruit, the color, making a difference, "mexican" food, and so much more.

Amritsar part 2: Jallianwala Bagh and a return to the golden temple

2010-06-20T15:21:00.001+05:30

On April 13, 1919 Britisih officers opened fire on thousands of peaceful protestors gathered in Jallianwala Bagh in Amritsar. According to the British Raj, 379 people died that day; according to the Indian National Congress, the number was closer 1,000. However many people died, it is clear that General Dyer ordered his fifty men to open fire on thousands of men, women and children, trapped on 3 sides by brick walls. This was perhaps not just. The site today is an almost painfully beautiful garden, complete with manicured bushes and walls with bullet holes.

There is small gallery of portraits of Sikh heros. Featured in this gallery, twice, is Udham Singh, a man who later travelled to England and shot and killed Michael O'Dwyer. O'Dwyer was the Lieutenant Governor of the Punjab at the time of the massacre and unrelenting supporter of General Dyer's decision to open fire. General Dyer died of natural causes and was remembered in Britain as the saviour of British India. I was, to put it lightly, a little uncomfortable with the glorification of an assassin/terrorist, and yet it is easy enough to see why he would be a national hero. One man shooting one man who was responsible for the death and oppressions of thousands. Seems like easy enough equation. I guess my discomfort is partially a function of my nationality. I believe the Iraq war was immoral and resulted in tens of thousands of unnecessary deaths. And yet I would still have a problem if a wronged Iraqi citizen shot Dick Cheney.

My dad asked if many Pakisanis visited the site; this was after all their fight for indenpendence, too. Our tourguide was unsure as most of the Pakistani came over the border on tour buses with their own guides. I'd like to hear more about that.

After touring the garden, we walked around the market street. The street was vibrant and charming. Well as charming as a hectic Indian city can be. People drove by piled in the backs of trucks. We ended up taking refuge from the heat at a well air conditioned coffee shop franchise. I saw in our guide book, that the golden temple housed the central Sikh museum.

Since the complex is always open and always free we decided to head back to see what we could learn about this faith. The museum consisted of 3 large display rooms, filled with portraits depicting the gruesome deaths of Sikh martyrs. One in particular sticks out in my brain. It featured a sikh saint with his dead infant son wrapped around his neck, while his Moghul captors forced him to eat his child. This is the reason Sikhs should always carry daggers.

After witnessing portrait after portait of base brutality it was easy enough to see why the Sikhs seem to exude the "we're mad as hell and we're not going to take it any more" attitude. Their value of discipline and emphasis on martial prowess, is clearly reaction to this past oppression. To top it all off, the partition pretty much cut straight down their traditional homeland. This meant that Sikhs were disproportionately effected by the violence that ensued. The Sikhs it would seem cannot catch a break.

Interestingly Operation Blue Star didn't get a mention the entire day. In June 1984, the Indian army gunned down at least 492 Sikh civilians (independent estimates are much higher). This was a (militarily successful) attempt to re-secure the golden temple from a group of Sikh separatists. Its easy enough to see why they would think they too deserved a homeland. In response to the operation, Sikhs resigned from posts in the government. And Indira Gandhi, the prime minister who ordered the operation, was killed by two Sikh bodyguards on halloween of that year. Perhaps, the resulting assasination is the reason it wasn't featured in any of the Sikh memorials. Since the Sikhs still, or perhaps again, make up a core of the Indian military, perhaps they do not want to draw attention to the time that two Sikh members of that core assinated the prime minister and daughter of beloved founder Nehru just 25 years ago. Perhaps 80 years has to pass before an assasination can be glorified. Perhaps, it makes difference if the person assassinated is English or Indian. Still I'd think it'd be possible to pay homage to the innocent lives taken in Operation Blue Star, without condoning the killing of Indira Gandhi. In the same way that I'm not certain it is necessary to revere Udham Singh in order to memorialise those gunned down in Jallianwala Bagh.

I feel as if I have done a slight disservice to the Sikhs in my past two posts. You could be excused for thinking that I believed that anger is the fundamental force behind Sikhism. More fundamentally, the Sikhs are welcoming. At the golden temple you can pray in any direction you choose. In a country where the fact that Muslims pray to the west and Hindus pray to the East, is a conflict that maintains resonance, this is no small matter. The golden temple is not only free of charge to enter, but it is open 24 hours a day. It is not only devotees who are able to sleep under it's verandas, and partake of the food provided at the free kitchen, but tourists frequently do. In fact we returned to the golden temple one last time after sunset. People in sleeping bags were curled up asleep. Scholars with elaborate turbans and quills had their windows open as they pored over giant books and people prayed to them. The live music was still pumped throughout the complex. We sat in front of the water and watched the golden temple gleam in the moonlight. A man with a particularly large turban and a decorative (though functional) bow and arrow came running up to us. We were sitting incorrectly. We crossed our legs and smiled and waved as he walked in the other direction. If you ever find yourself in north western India, make it to Amritsar.

Amritsar part 1: A taste of the golden temple

2010-06-07T00:52:00.004+05:30

Actual date: March 24, 2010

A lot of the people who come to Sangam, go on a tour afterwards. This tour invariably includes, often exclusively, the "Golden Triangle" of Delhi, Jaipur and Agra. While these three cities do make a rather pleasing isosceles triangle, I always figured that their inclusion in most tours was, because they were the most interesting places to see in North Western India. Amritsar categorically disproved this previous prejudice. While Delhi, Jaipur and Agra were included in my tour and I would not have missed them. The day we spent in Amritsar was by far the most consistently interesting day of our almost two week trip.

The main tourist attraction of Amritsar is the Golden Temple. The Golden Temple, or Harmandir Sahib, is the holiest Sikh shrines. My father had already developed an interest in Sikhs when he noticed several of them in their turbans at the military installation near Sangam. So "why do they wear turbans.""Well," I explained. " the last and most revered Sikh guru instated what are called the 5 ks." These precepts are, in the order I usually remember them in:

1. Kesh: never cutting ones hair. Inside some of those turbans is knee length hair. The Sikhs do not cut their hair for pretty much the same reason the Amish don't: hair is a gift from God and should not be altered.

2. Kirpan: a dagger in order to symbolize the Sikh obligation to always be ready to defend the undefended, and, I assume, actually serve as a tool for that mission if need be. The primary example of injustice for the Sikhs are the forcible and brutal forced conversions that occurred under Moghul rule.

3. Kanchera: a special kind of cotton underwear with no elastic. The underwear serves to remind them to keep sin, especially lust, in check. It also allows for greater mobility in combat.

4. Kanga: the comb used to keep their hair in place under their turban.

5. Kara: the bracelet. This is the one I always forget, which is mildly amusing as its main purpose is to serve as a reminder. In case you forget your hair, the dagger, and the underwear.

The turbans can vary in size and intensity. Here is one particularly impressive one.

While Sikhs are prevalent in my old neighborhood, these Sikhs are almost exclusively members of military stationed at the Bombay Sappers Army Base. I'm sad to say that I have yet to become friends with a Sikh. I have Hindu, Buddhist, Parsi, Christian, and Jain friends. But the Sikhs so far have eluded me. So for better or worse, probably worse, the I learned about this faith as a tourist.

Amritsar is a charming city, to the extent that any Indian city can be charming. Cycle rickshaws seem more plentiful than the auto variety. The only evidence of the existence of the cycle rickshaw I got in my first six months is the locals continued use of the terms "auto rickshaw" even though they are the only of rickshaws within a hundred miles. I can imagine them saying to each other "shall we get a rickshaw?" "what kind" "let's go for an auto rickshaw as we'd have to walk all the way to New Delhi to find a cycle rickshaw."

Beyond the cycle rickshaws, the colors of the turbans creates a rainbow tableux. As my dad and I walked up to the temple we were greeted with hawkers, who seem a lot less menancing when you are with your father. My dad was wearing a baseball cap, which is not allowed within the temple. At the same time he needed to purchase a doo rag, because he could not enter the temple without covering his head. He went with the commemorative orange one, the color of courage, our tour guide assured us, also a color close to our heart for other reasons. Hup Holland!

The name golden temple refers to the central temple within a giant complex, a city within a city. Before entering the complex you have to remove your shoes, but since the entire complex including the floors is made of cool white marble, it's not really a problem. In the battle for the heart of Arielle's tootsies: Sikhism: 1, Baha'i: 0. It is A gated complex, with gleaming white marble walls and gates that open to all four cardinal directions, a gesture of acceptance of all faiths. In the center lies a giant baptismal font that is too big to be classified a pond, and too big to be called a lake. Though for anyone whose been to Colgate, it is about the size of Taylor "lake." Whatever it's classification, it is holy, and men strip down to their non-elastic underwear to bathe in the holy waters and women visit walled off sections to immerse themselves in the water modestly. Large fish, that look like carp, also swim in the water, presumably also basking in the holiness of the sacred water. At the center of this pool lies the golden temple.

The complex is packed, but with pilgrims not tourists. I think my father were two of maybe 6 people there who weren't Indian. Granted some of them may have been Indian tourists, but most of them were donning sikh regalia. This is depressing as Amritsar was probably one of the most interesting places I went in India. Then again if it was overrun with tourists, would it have been? Despite the lack of tourists, there were still a throng of people lining up to enter the temple. Well, not exactly lining, this throng was overwhelmingly Indian. Lines are not big in India. I can't count the number of times I've watched British participants "queue" at a store just to watch every single Indian patron simply walk past the line to pay at the cash register. They are of course always indignant that anyone would cut, but also unable to push their own way forward. Still a surging line of zealous pilgrims would be overwhelming to anyone, especially to someone like my father who had been in India about a week.

Waiting in line only took about fifteen minutes, but once inside there were no less people. Pictures are not allowed inside the temple so I can't provide any here. The Guru Granth Sahib, the enormous Sikh holy book, is placed on an elaborate cushion and covered by an intricate and expensive (15000 Rupees or about 264 Euros) cloths that are replaced every day. According tour our tour guide, the discarded cloths go to other Gudwaras (sikh temples) around the world. Devotees throw money on the book, which pays for the never ending cycle of expensive fabric but also funds the free kitchen at the golden temple. Next to the Guru Granth Sahib is a live band that plays music that is piped throughout the entire complex. Lucky adherents get to sit next to the band and bask in the glory of the holy book. No status or prior reservation can you get those seats, you just have to wait around long enough for someone to give up theirs. Upstairs a scholar reads another copy of the holy book outloud and slightly people walk around admiring the view and look down at the book. The interior of the upstairs reminded me strongly of the princes chapel in Florence.

After the temple, we went to visit the free kitchen known as a langar. Each day tens of thousands of people eat in the kitchen sitting on the floor and eating with their hands, in typical Indian fashion. The kitchen has all kinds of gadgets that help speed up the process of cooking, that look like they come from some crazy inventors workshop ala Belle's father in beauty and the beast. Chappatti (an Indian toritillas) making machines like the one pictured above. Giant cauldrons of dal, big enough to cook a person in simmer. The dishes are all washed with sand and water. The most visceral memory I have of the Langar is of noise. The banging of dishes, the bowling of cauldrons full of dall and the chug chug of the automated bakers. This video doesn't really do the sound justice.

From India tour

My trip to Amritsar was so fascinating on so many different levels that I have decided to break it up into 3 parts to make the posts more digestible.

same city: new Delhi

2010-04-01T08:22:00.020+05:30

Actual Date: March 23, 2010

Before an afternoon train ride to Amritsar, we met the same tour guide for a tour of New Delhi. He told us that he was happy we were American because "America is like elephant and all countries are like flies." This statement is, for the record, not true, but, even if it was, who wants to hear this from there tour guide? While I may know a few Americans who agree with this statement, do they really want to hear that statement paroted back to them from members of the Indian service economy? Do statements like this translate into bigger tips? Did British Mem Sahibs expect to hear this and this has just been passed on to the next generations? Whatever the case I don't know how this could make anyone anything, BUT uncomfortable. If you understand, can you please explain it to me?

Our first stop was Gandhi's final resting place, Raj Ghat, or one of Gandhi's final resting places; when he died his ashes were brought to several significant places. I know this, because one of these places was Aga Khan palace in Pune. Before arriving our guide told us about the death rites of Hinduism. Humans, according to Hindu theology or at least our tour guide, consist of five elements: air, water, fire, earth and sun/sky/ether. That is why a cremation (fire) takes place on a river (water) bank (earth) under the sky/sun/ether, and air is obviously present. As an aside he added: "Muslims just burry their dead," in a tone that implied this was the craziest possible thing to do to a dead body. His account of the assassination was also different from most I've heard. According to him Nauturam Godse was motivated to kill Gandhi, because he disapproved of Congress' policies to attempt to keep and protect Muslims in India. I've always understood he blamed Gandhi for the partition. At first glance these seemed contradictory to me: How could he be upset about the existence of Pakistan AND upset that people were staying in India? But in Hindsight, I can see a hindu nationalist believing Pakistan was a concession to Muslims and see the Congress attempts to protect them in India as yet another concession. Plus, assasins aren't always the most rational people.

Raj Ghat, King's Bank, is the resting place of India's prime ministers and presidents. Gandhi, while neither a former president or prime minister, he is more beloved then any of them. And while I did get repeatedly retroactively angry at Gandhi while reading Indian Summer, I can't deny that he is the father of this nation. Two other Gandhis: Indira and Raj are also buried here. They are not related to Mahatma, but the daughter and grand daughter of Nehru and both the victims of assassination.

The Qutb Minar, the worlds tallest brick minaret at almost seventy five meters, is located in a sprawling archeological complex. The impressive tower itself was built by Qutb-ud-din Aybak, the Turkic Sultan of Delhi and the first Muslim ruler of India (or part of it) to commemorate his victory in 1193. Also on the complex are the ruins of a madrasa built by, the beginings of another victory minaret that was never completed, and a Mosque that was clearly used to be a Hindu temple. The evidence of the Hindu temple are really quite apparent. Shiva Lignam (the phallic symbol often used to represent Shiva) are present in the engravings and there are female idols (scantily dressed I might add.) Islam bans the worship of other gods, and images of living things are prohibited. This all brought up several theological questions for me. Images of living things are taboo in Islam, because you cannot improve upon gods work, but flowers are featured in Muslim architecture all the time. Are flowers not living? Are they not God's work?AND are you really allowed to leave images of big breasted women and other taboo images in your Mosque, simply because it use to be a hindu temple?

From there we went on to the lotus temple the Baha'i house of worship in Delhi. My most visceral memory of the temple is: pain, white hot pain searing into the bottoms of my feet. We had to take of out shoes. This is standard procedure in this part of the world, even in most Christian churches, so that wasn't really a problem for me. But we are asked to take our shoes off about 25 yards from the entrance and the way is made entirely of red sand stone that had been baking in the sun of an Indian summer day for a good 6 hours before we showed up. The soles of the feet are one of the most sensitive parts of the body due to a high concentration of nerve endings. This fact has always made me question creationism and/or intelligent design; if you were creating a being from scratch would you really put one of the most sensitive parts of the body where the being was going to stand? Maybe God is just a shoe enthusiast. Either way I ran up the path, dodged to the rare shaded parts of the walkway and stood on the sides of my feet as much as I could before I arrived.

It's really a shame that this is my most visceral memory of the temple, because it really is quite exquisite. Built in 1986, with 9 sides (9, as the highest single digit, is a mystical number in Baha'i faith), and 27 petals it really does look like a lotus flower or the sydney opera house. The lotus is a symbol of purity in Baha'i. It is two stories high with the major hall on the second story. The bottom story has at least one small library and I'm not sure what else. The building is surrounded by 9 (9 again) pools, which work a natural coolant. There are stairs over the pool that lead directly to the entrance of the second story and main hall.There a woman gave instructions in Hindi, she was followed by a woman who spoke with what I believed was a New Zealand accent. Women must cover there had, silence is requested, and once inside people from all religions allowed to stay as long as you'd like and pray meditate for as long as they'd like. The inside is cool, and, thankfully for my feet, white marble. The large cavernous space does include a pulpit, which I assume someone preaches from on Sundays, the day the temple is closed to visitors. There is also a lot of empty space to walk around and I assume sit on the ground and meditate or pray. In the 9 corners of the building there are gold, or at least gold colored plaques, with quotes from their scripture in English or Hindi.After exploring the inside, I set out to learn more about Baha'i. I was a little embarrassed by how little I knew about Baha'i, wanting desperately not be like so many people I've met in my journey who seemed to know so little about what other people on this little globe believed. What I could tell you before I went came down to three facts:1. It was a syncretic and ecumenical faith.2. It was started in Iran, but now outlawed there. 3. Rainn Wilson and some of the members of Crosby Stills Nash and Young are/were Baha'iThis was disturbingly little, so I read the information on the windows of the lower story and picked up free literature from the small library on the bottom floor. This is what I learned:

The Baha'i faith centers around 3 figures: the Bab, Baha'ullah, and Abdu'l-Baha. The Bab (the gate) was born in Persia in 1819 and 35 years later of a new spiritual Figure. After Inspiring many followers of his owm, he was matyred in 1850. 3 years later, Baha'ullah (glory of god), while in prison for following the Bab, recieved prophecy that he was the Figure the Bab had foretold. He was two years older than the Bab. After several years in exile and seeing his religion spread across the region, Baha'ullah died and appointed his eldest son Abdu'l-Baha as his successor. Baha'i is less syncretic than I, at least, had come to believe. They have their own scriptures and their own prophets. I was always under the impression that they were more like the Cao Dai, who represent and worship figures from in the architecture and belief system. Though perhaps that is also a mischaracterization of Cao Dai. I just vividly remember a monastery in Vietnam with statues of Jesus, Moses, Buddha etc. and somehow in my mind has associated that space with all syncretic spaces.

While they are not the sum of other religions parts, the common foundation of all religions is a fundamental aspect of their creed. While I respect the ecumenical nature of their faith, their insistence of the positive aspects of religion. Religion, they believe, is the Bulwark for the protection of all peoples and nations. Then again I guess I can't expect religion to be skeptical of itself. The Baha'i faith has several politic tenants as well. I am a fan of most of their principles, such as universal education. I am always suspicious of religions with explicit political goals, even ones in harmony with my own. Which I guess just makes me suspicious of religion. I also found strange that a religion, wherein several were matyred by a state government, preaches strict obedience to the government of ones country.

At the end of the day I had honored Gandhi, seen ancient expressions of power, and learned more about a faith that I knew little about. While I still had more questions and doubts about everything I had learned. I could head to the train to Amritsar knowing it was a day well spent.

new town: old Delhi

2010-03-28T20:04:00.004+05:30

Actual date March 22, 2010

Waiting for us outside our terminal was a driver and a hotel representative, not our tour guide , apparently it normally takes two people to pick up two people and one suitcase from the airport. We then arrived at the hotel to be taken around old Delhi, by a tour guide complete with that I guess well meaning bravado so typical of men in the service industry here. I think this attitude must be considered helpful by some, and I have my suspicions that it is less an organic cultural trait and more of a carefully cultivated relic of colonialism. Either way I'm tired of it. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about the attitude can be summed as such: let me hover, let me pamper you in a condescending way, let me treat you like you don't have a brain in the head, and let you pay me for the pleasure. Now he personally wasn't really as bad as all that, and really none of them are, but after seven months, every time someone has condescendingly "helped" me by making my life difficult adds up. I'm so looking forward to saying "no thank you" and hearing the words "ok." I guess I'm just weary. Anyway back to Old Delhi, which is what you want to hear about anyway.

He took us off to see Old Delhi. he Delhi red fort is closed on Mondays so we just saw it from the outside, which made me wonder about why it was on our itenary on a Monday...But I knew we would see plenty of forts in the next two weeks, so I guess I can't complain. My main reason for having any interest in the fort was the admittedly minor role it played in the novel I'm currently reading: Midnight's Children. So after a look at the fort, we headed to Jama Masjid.

Jama Masjid or Friday Mosque is the biggest Mosque in India, a country with not an insignificant Muslim population. It's worth noting that there are more Muslims living in India than in Pakistan. Yes India's Muslims make up only fifteen percent of the population, as opposed to ninety five, but in raw numbers India's Muslims number higher. The mosque is stunning, with a capacity to fit eighty five thousand and forty one meter or one hundred and thirty five foot minarets, which also used to function as a sun dial. Under advisement from our tour guide. we "rode" aka climbed to the top. The view is impressive, but horrifying. I'm usually don't have a problem withe heights, but something about that minaret tapped in to a primordial fear. There was really no way of falling out as we were surrounded by marble, but there was quite a thin ledge for us to stand on, about the width of my feet and quite a few people between eight and fifteen. And the man in charge wouldn't let me down. As it was time for evening prayers and all non believers had to leave the mosque, but as my father and I had been the last ones up, we apparently had to be the lasts one done. I hope this isn't the sign of budding claustrophobia. After a drive around the city it was time for bed, where we would tour New Delhi the next day.

While I can't say that I would cut Delhi out of my tour of India, I think it is better suited for a longer time period focused purely on it. While it has many, many attractions that I think would be difficult to see in a week, none of them are cut to the quick as awe inspiring as the himalayas or the Taj Mahal. It's impressiveness is it's sheer quantity of things to see, which in a two day tour you can barely scratch the surface of.

Pictures to come.

Leaving Sangam

2010-03-25T09:32:00.004+05:30

Actual date: March 22, 2010

After months I left Sangam by Rickshaw at nine thirty in the morning. It's still surreal that I won't be back there working in 3 days time. The night before we had a farewell dinner at a lovely, if typically slow, restaurant and had the "Sangam Awesome Awards." I won the "most likely to ask five more questions award." Note to university admissions boards: I wasn't exaggerating. That morning the staff local and international gathered in the breezeway to wish me goodbye. Saroj even came on her day off to see me off. There were tears, though not my own. Possibly I didn't cry, because it didn't really feel like I was leaving, or because I knew I would see each and everyone of them again. I hugged everyone and I was off with my father for a 16 day whirlwind tour of the North of India. This was originally planned as a 3 month lone trip circumnavigating India, but due to visa issues this will just have to do. So far I'm enjoying myself quite a bit.

2010-02-14T00:08:00.002+05:30

On Friday some of my friends were discussing plans for the upcoming Tuesday. My life is such that week days mean little, and if you don't make plans, you don't leave the centre. I was for seeing My Name is Khan, a movie about a Muslim man trying to travel across the states after 911. However, since Shiv Sena, a Marathi nationalist party, was angry at the star Shah Rukh Khan for blaming them for some controversy over Pakistani cricket players and had prematurely absolved themselves of responsibility of any violence committed in their name. So we decided to play it safe and visit the German Bakery.

On Saturday the 13th, at 7:30 a bomb blast went off in the German Bakery in Koreogan Park, Pune, a neighborhood I frequently visit. It is hard to explain the German Bakery, to people who have not been there. It is situated almost next door to the controversial OSHO ashram and is often frequented by foreign spiritual seekers in blood red robes, backpackers who visibly sell and purchase drugs, and people attending meetings of WAKEUP Pune an organization associated with Sangam that advocates for HIV awareness, education and prevention. While it is overwhelmingly western in clientele, food and spirit, it makes an effort to look at home in india. The structure, if you can call it that, is made of corrugated iron sheets painted green. It wouldn't have looked out of place in a slum.

After initially hearing we wondered if this attack was not necessarily targeted at foreigners, but at the drug dealers or the followers of the ever mysterious, and not uncontroversial OSHO. I still secretly hope that is the case. While it makes no difference to the dead and the grieving, it could make a very big difference for the future of India and Pakistan.

I think what is currently bothering me the most, is how little this bothers me. I find myself surprised by how shaken my local friends have been by the incident. They are shocked because Pune used to be "safe." While it is true that this is the first terrorist attack in Pune, people die here every day from the traffic, from the noxious fumes legally emitted from factories and from violence sanctioned by political parties over CRICKET. While my heart is of course with the victims of the attack, I am not afraid to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That is, after all, something that will kill you anywhere. But I am afraid of how much more violence there will be if this attack, whatever it aims, derails the much needed talks between India and Pakistan.

obligatory self-indulgent and unapologetic

2009-11-09T23:16:00.001+05:30

I haven't written on this blog as often as I would have wanted. I have specifically written about the trips I've taken. Since we often run the same or similar sessions for different events I figure I will always have more to say about them. Whereas, my impressions of a specific tourist location will only get increasingly vague. I do plan on writing more about my day to day life, but as I have had such difficulty updating my blog frequently, I've started trying to tweet regularly about my day to day to life http://twitter.com/books2005. And yes I did just use the word "tweet" in a sentence.

Going to goa

2009-11-01T14:20:00.002+05:30

The day after our first event ended, Jane and I boarded a bus to Goa. Well "boarded A bus" is not entirely accurate. We showed up at 4:30 at the Sind bus company near the train station, when the ticket said our bus would be leaving there at 5:00. The man at the counter took the ticket and immediately said "swargate." As the bus station (swargate) is a considerable distance from the train station, Jane and I looked at each other and panicked. Our anxiety was assuaged when he immediately responded that we should return at 5:30. Then he directed us to a minibus from the Gogte bus company, which took us to yet another bus company, and picked up more passengers -- too many in fact. It was not that there were more people than seats, but with our luggage people had to sit in the aisle. I began to worry that somehow this van was our bus to Goa. It didn't make sense that this van filled to the brim with people, back packs and suitcases would ride all the way to goa. But then again when has public transportation in India ever really made sense. When I asked, the driver and passengers chuckled. While I may have just embarrassed myself, I was too relieved that I wouldn't be spending 12 hours on a van next to a stranger with my backpack on my lap. When we arrive at another Swargate that was entirely unfamiliar to me, there was a bus with ISLAND written across the top in giant lettering and the phrase "from goa to pune." And yet while our ticket said island bus tours, when we tried to get on the bus driver directed us to the Patel bus store. The man there spoke perfect English and told us to head to the bus we had tried to get on. And of course he looked at us like we were idiots.

So all in all 6 bus companies were involved in a single bus ride. This lead Jane and I to believe that maybe there is a hidden oligopoly of bus companies in India. This is purely conjecture, but I wouldn't be sure if it ended up being true. Either way, it's situations like this that lead me to use "public transportation" as a tag on my blog.

Bombai

2009-10-25T22:30:00.004+05:30

After a pleasant evening spent having dinner with friends, I went with Sara and Jane to a "club" to meet with George, an old friend from high school. Unfortunately, a combination of his friends working on Indian Standard Time and our ridiculous midnight curfew meant that I saw him for exactly 15 seconds. While this certainly was annoying, when an atrocious thunderstorm began at 12:30 I was grateful to have a roof over my head.

The rain continued through out the night and into the next morning. It showed no sign of abating, when we woke up. So we knew we would be unable to see Elephanta. As that was the one thing my travel companions wanted to see in Mumbai it really was unfortunate. And yet, a part of me was extremely happy to see the rain. This past monsoon has been disastrous. Not because there was too much rain, but far too little. It actually started 6 weeks later than usual and went on to be extremely light. Since the rain that falls during monsoon has to last India until the next monsoon, this lack of rain is a bit problematic, to put it lightly.

Since we couldn't see Elephanta, we went to Mani Bhavan, Gandhi's Bombay residence. The rain was continuous and drenching. While we trudged with all our stuff to the bus stop and hoped that it was raining this hard in Pune.

Mani Bhavan is a cute little museum, but I think the aspect I appreciated the most about it was its dryness. The top floor of this residence consists of dioramas of important events of Gandhi's life. For me, it was less informative and more useful as a method of jogging my memory. A story Gandhi confessing a misdeed to his father and being rewarded for his honesty struck me.

It was exactly like George Washington and his cherry tree.

After the museum, we found a bookstore and parked ourselves there for a couple of hours. There I was able to comprehensively answer a question that had been gnawing at me: why the name change. Before arriving in India, I had always assumed the transition from Bombay to Mumbai had not really being a transition at all. I guessed that it, like the city we used to call Peking, had always really been pronounced Mumbai and someone had finally realized it began with an M and not B. Soon on my arrival to the subcontinent, I came to understand that the transition from Bombay to Mumbai was not so smooth. The name Mumbai was occasionally met with cringes and I was asked more that once by locals to call it Bombay. During the two hours spent searching the book store, I learned that Mumbai is and always was the Marathi name for Bombay. However, the official name change was instituted by a reactionary political party and therefore. So, if I call it Bombay I am expressing support of years of emperial oppression and if I call it Mumbai I'm supporting an extreme backward looking. This is why I've settled on Mumbay and, perhaps, the occasional Bombai.

We spent the rest of the afternoon traveling across the city in the rain, stopping at coffee shops and vegetarian restaurants to dry off, read and chat. While the weather was certainly less than ideal. I enjoyed the opportunity to relax in a new location and I look forward to more vacations like this one, though maybe one with a little less water.

Goa

2009-10-25T22:08:00.002+05:30

As I left for Goa I promised to do a lot of reading and writing on the beach. And I did. I at the very least wrote about Goa. I just haven't been as good about posting them online Here is (a modified version) of what I wrote:

Goa is exactly how I pictured it. Lush vegetation, undeveloped beaches, and hippies--lots and lots of hippies. Now anyone who knows my opinion on hair dryers knows I'm not free of hippie tendencies, but the westerners here to take it to a whole new level. Men go shirtless, don't shave and wear their long hair in top knots. The women walk around in long flowing dresses, carrying their babies on their back while they motorcycle to the beach. And it's not even tourist season. Most tourist locations won't even be OPEN till November. While Goa has always been on my list of places where I wanted to go, I couldn't help but resent the average tourist here. The people here are in some sense rebelling against the cruelty of mainstream society or at least they would like to think so. And yet they come to this impoverished country to to lie on the beach and listen to goa trance, and wear clothing that makes them feel enlightened. The people in Goa must be the least stressed people in the world and yet I have never seen such a high concentration of yoga classes and auyervedic massage parlors. I know after I've had a stressful day of bumming around I always need a massage and a yoga class. I'm definitely glad I saw Goa, but I have no desire to experience it during tourist season. If for no other reason then that it is making me sound like a snob.

Despite the previous rather pedantic rant, I did enjoy Goa. And in exactly the same way the tourists who I just belittled did. I went there to relax and that's exactly what I did. On the first day we made our way to the beach, which was beautiful and underdeveloped. Brahman bulls wandered past our . I never was one for sunbathing. I spent most of my day in the water, which was exactly the temperature an ocean should be.

The second day we did a little sightseeing and visited Old Goa, the former capitol of Goa when it was a Portugese colony. At one point it was bigger than London. It was a beautiful town filled with lots and lots of churches. The portugese were clearly more concerned with converting individuals than the English were and the Christian influence is everywhere. The Christian prayers written over the gate and crucifixes in places I didn't know you could put crucifixes. While there was plenty to see, there was also plenty of heat and Linnea, Jane and I crashed half way through and sat at cafe and talked. Mollie and Kylie came back and informed us they had seen the resting place of St. Francis Assisi. It is a sign of how hot it was that I had no desire to go see it myself or do anything but get back on a bus and head to our guest house.

The last day we spent on the beach but not swimming. Instead we shopped and had a nice lunch at a seaside restaurant. As I finished Between the Assassinations, ate delicious Indian food and listened to the waves crashing on the sand: I said I love my life. And I truly meant it. Yet I was certainly happy to get back in the thick of things. I don't think I'm cut out for a life leisure yet.

While I would defnitely do it all over again, Jane, Emma and I have decided to stay in Pune for our upcoming 3 day break and see the things we never get the chance to see. We also want to spend a day at the national institute of naturopathy having a spa day. I think Pune may prove to be more relaxing than Goa.

Mumbay

2009-10-13T19:09:00.003+05:30

The weekend most of my classmates headed back to Colgate to sleep on the floor of their Greek house, to catch up with "old" friends, and enjoy one last bout of college life without a pesky thing like class, I headed to Mumbai with 6 women I hadn't even known for a month. The weirdest part of this experience is how normal it felt. It's hard to believe that I left Colgate less than 6 months ago. It's like I've shed that entire chapter of my life as if it were a now unnecessary layer of skin.

Trains in India are not the quickest method of getting from point A to point B, but they are often cheaper. A return trip to Mumbai costs 200 rupees, or slightly less than 3 euros. If you think in some other currency, click here. That is not only cheap by our standards, but relative to the costs of things in India. It is slightly more expensive the cost of two chocolate bars, for instance.While I have heard plenty of horror stories about Indian train rides, especially when they are coupled with bouts of travelers diarrhea, my journey was pleasant. The only real complaint I had was I finished my book, Joy by Osho, half way through the journey, which isn't really a complaint at all.

The first shock in Mumbai was the existence of taxis-ones with four wheels and windows! When you've spent your entire time India being carted around by rickshaws, taxis begin to lend an incredible air of cosmopolitanism. After situating ourselves in the salvation army hostel in Colaba, a touristy district of Mumbai. Since last call for most bars in Pune is 11 pm we didn't think anything of the midnight curfew imposed on us there. I had not come to Mumbai with any sort of agenda. I had gone on this trip bond with my coworkers, to see a little more of India, which I plan to do every opportunity I get, but mostly to just get away. Besides while Mumbai is a metropolis and a city most people in the western world have heard of, it does not contain a plethora of particularly important tourist traps the way places like Delhi do. So when Kylie said all she wanted to do on our weekend was see the caves at an island on Elephanta I was more than amenable.

The weather, however, was not. While it wasn't raining when we got to the gateway to India, it certainly looked like it was going to. A man who immediately set off alarm bells, told us that it was not advisable to go out this afternoon as it was likely to rain this afternoon and if it rained we would be unable to get back. It was better to come back the next morning, according to him. While he clearly wanted us to not go so that we would chose to take one of his tours. It did look like it was going to rain and the weather is usually more clear in the morning. So after getting rid of the hustler by claiming a local friend was coming to meet us, we decided to go to the Victoria and Albert Museum. or rather Katsuko, Jane, Kylie and I decided to, while Mollie, Sara, and Linnea went to an art gallery.

The Victoria and Albert Museum is a result of British imperialism, as the name clearly implies. In fact it is no longer officially known as such, but by some presumably Hindi though possibly marathi name I have no recollection of. The museum itself is fascinating. And while the foreign entrance fee is 15 times the price of the local fee it does include a well done audio guide and was definitely worth it. Tourist attractions here often have foreign fees that are substantially higher than the local fee, because well we are willing to pay them. The museum itself was definitely worth going to. Think British museum exhibit on India but bigger and without quite as much imperialist guilt.

Afterwards we met up in a coffee shop. I went in search of a new book and came back with Avrand Adiga's Between the Assassinations. His first book, The White Tiger, is magnificent and everyone should read it. When I removed the cellophane wrapping, I realised that my book was clearly not entirely legal. It bore the unmistakable signs of being photocopied. I hate to admit it, but it never occurred to me that this was a common business scheme, even in a part of the world where bootleg music and movies are plentiful. However,my newly purchased book does feature a bookseller who makes a living selling just that, so it is apparently not an uncommon practice in India. I felt awfully naive not figuring it out before hand. But there's nothing I can do about it now, besides savor the book.

Ok I'm literally out the door on my way to Goa, but I thought I'd post what I'd had if only for my parents sake . I'm not bringing my laptop so there won't be any posts until Wednesday at the earliest, but I anticipate time to write, while I'm on the beach so expect a flood of posts once I return.

Lion Fort

2009-09-29T11:14:00.000+05:30

Jane, the CVPs and I decided to spend our Saturday off waking at 5:30, navigating illogical and sometimes dangerous buses and hiking an occasionally vertical mountain path in the sweltering heat. The buses in Pune don't seem to run on predetermined schedule. When we asked a local staff-members for a bus schedule he just laughed. We had to leave the centre at 6 am to avoid the heat of the midday Indian sun.

While we successfully managed to leave the centre at 6, we were not able to immediately board a bus. We spent a good 20 minute playing a rousing game of "is that a bus or a truck" to only be disappointed when the answer was inevitably truck. We were at least heartened by the good number (perhaps 20) of other people waiting for the bus. The first bus rocked up at 6:20, but the men on the bus shook their heads when we asked "swargate?" Never fear their were still an even dozen people waiting for the bus. The next bus arrived and still we were rebuffed, now their were only 2 others waiting: a rather aloof man and a horrified looking woman with a handkerchief tied around her face to ward off traffic fumes and/or swine flu. Finally a third bus arrived and we were on our way...to the bus station.

When we arrived at the swargate bus station we had to continue to ask around for our next bus. After being pointed to the wrong bus several times, we eventually found the correct bus just as it was leaving. Thankfully seven obviously foreign women were able to cause enough stir for the bus to stop and we were properly on our way or at least we seemed to be.

The final stop our bus made was near a path that lead up the mountain. There was no indication that at the end of this path there was a fort of any kind, but we started walking. It was never really about the fort anyway. But here we were seven people hiking up a mountain with no clearly identifiable goal and no way of knowing how far we had to go. The stunning views along the way made the hike a little more bearable though.

Sara and Katsuko soon started to lag behind, as Sara was not feeling well and Katsuko stops to chat with everyone she meets. After walking for about half an hour, forty-five minutes of walking, we asked some guys who looked like locals how much longer we had, they said we had maybe completed a fourth of a journey. This was disheartening till we met them on the path again and realised that they too had never hiked to the lion fort.

Mollie, Kylie, and Lynnea then took a short cut, leaving Jane and I to hike up the mountain on our own. It was only 10 am, but it was sweltering. I have NEVER sweat that much in my life. At the same time it was highly satisfying. Then the path became an almost vertical cliff face. People who know me, (and I'm pretty sure if your reading this blog you will be one of them) will know that I'm not especially agile. However, I managed to climb up the mountain without breaking anything or knocking Jane out with a rock. The sense of accomplishment was tremendous, I could get serious about this hiking thing.

All we had to do then was wait for Katsuko and Sara. So we waited, and waited and waited. We waited until we became worried that they were lost or injured or somehow unable to reach us. We met a woman who was convinced they were on the mountain...and they were. The had found a way up the mountain that was less vertical and just missed the way were meeting. They had also made 2 new friends. These two new friends initially made me a little uncomfortable, the way the friendliness of the people here generally makes me uncomfortable. While I'm use to being the "foreigner," I'm not used to being met with stares, giggles and intrusive questions wherever I go. Here everyone wants to know everything about you. These always sets alarm bells off. As I will have to get used to this general attitude in the upcoming 7 months, I decided to go with the flow.

The way back down was easier and a lot quicker, but in a way it was more difficult. I just couldn't seem to convince my legs that I was, in fact, a billy goat. They began shaking uncontrollably. This phenomenon may or may not be called over extension. We never quite figured it out. We were also never quite able to figure out why in fact the fort is called the lion fort, though our research was not as thorough as it could have been. It never really was about the fort itself anyway.

Despite our misadventures, I came back quite enthused to hike some more. But nobody I went with had any serious interest in doing any more, and I wouldn't feel safe going alone. So that may be it for my hiking adventures for now.

I know it's been a while since I've last updated my blog. It's not only that I've been busy, but I've also been adjusting to the heat, the food and the atmosphere, and this adjusting has consisted of a lot of sleep. But the adjusting is happening. Soon I will get into a rhythm... then our first participants will probably show up and I'll become 100 times busier. Still I have the preliminaries written for 2, maybe even 3, blog posts, so keep an eye out for them soon.

Life at Sangam

2009-09-19T13:59:00.000+05:30

I've been in India for barely a week, and I already feel like I've managed to strike a perfect balance between the comfort and safety of Sangam and the sometimes harsh realities of urban India. It is truly the perfect living situation to experience India. Sangam is a 7 acre compound with a pool, coolers filled with safe water and air conditioned rooms for long term residents. The grounds are luscious, fragrant and a joy to sit and read in:

And yet the second you step outside the compound you are face to face with the real India. There is a tent city across the incredibly busy street. (It took several shots for me to get a shot of the tent city that was unobscured by traffic).2

A few feet down from Sangam is the water facility where the occupants of the tent city shower (sorry no picture.) Further down the road you can find some rather impressive greenery

...for the exclusive use of mental patients.

and the occasional herd(?) of pigs

The oasis atmosphere of Sangam is partially maintained by a creative combination of security. Tiles of the gods are embedded in the walls to prevent public urination on our wall. Broken glass bottles are cemented on top of the wall to prevent people from jumping the fence. These security measures have a whimsical effect, almost like that chapel in Guernsey.

While I'm sure people wonder why I'm so pleased to live so close to public showering, runaway urban livestock and bustling traffic, I like that I am not cut off from those realities. If I was,my entire adventure would seem pointless. At the same time, I am able to escape these realities and partake in comfort and beauty when I so choose. Not to mention, I get to be a part of a vibrant and supportive local and global community. I am so excited for what the next 7 months have in store.

One more Photographic evidence of this perfect balance. Inside Sangam:

Three feet away:

Pune highlights

2009-09-16T20:10:00.000+05:30

Pune (pronounced poon-a or poon-ay depending on who you ask) is a city of five million people, no one has ever heard of . When I explain where I'll be for the next 6 months people either think I'll be residing in a suburb of Mumbai (which is a four hour car ride away on a good day) or venturing into some rural region of India as yet discovered by "civilised" men (there is evidence of settlement here from approximately 758 AD). Even though I was no longer party to these misconceptions, I must admit my knowledge of Pune was less than encyclopedic. In a way I wanted it to be that way, I wanted my first real understanding of Pune to come from experiencing Pune. And that's what I've been doing. While I have been here for less than a week, I've actually managed to see a good slice of the city.

Here are some highlights:

Laxmi Road is a shopping street devoted almost entirely to saris fabric, jewelry etc. It was my first outing outside of Sangam in the daylight. In a lot of ways it is what a shopping street in India should be: storefronts filled to the brim of vivid fabrics, glimmering jewels and gleaming bangles and vendors selling pomegranates, sugar cane and green oranges. There are so many beautiful combinations for saris, it makes me sad that I will never have enough opportunities to wear all the saris I would want to buy - not to mention not enough money. While Laxmi road was fascinating, it's such a specialized market place I doubt I'll be a frequent visitor. Well...except when I have to take guests there.

Vishrantwadi is in many ways the exact opposite of Laxmi road. While it is clearly an Indian road and does contain it's fair share of temples. It's aesthetic and atmosphere is distinctly utilitarian. You can find anything you want there, except for any notable sari fabric. As it is maybe a ten minute walk from my new home, it will be the place I go to buy essentials and run errands for the centre. Today the past volunteers (who have stayed behind to train us) sent us on a scavenger hunt there. Things you can find on Vishrantwadi include: Indian sweets, hot chips (the American kind), beauty parlors, a photo developer that always takes twice as long as they say, a tailor, multiple supermarkets, the standard Indian vendors, and much more. Things you can't find: diet coke.

My main introduction to Pune consisted of a formalised Sangam activity: Pune challenge. In a team with 2 community volunteers (one from Japan and one from Sweden), I followed instructions 2 four sites across the city in various different rickshaws.

Our first stop was India Art. The rickshaw driver had a little difficulty determining where exactly he needed to take us. But his zig zagging across town, allowed us to see more of the city I, at least, hadn't seen. And we got to pass the Doorstep School, where Sara, the Swedish scout , volunteers. The gallery had some pretty impressive art on display, though they all presented a pretty idealised version of Indian life. The gallery also works with disabled local youths and has art classes. The gallery manager was insistent that we come back and learn cartooning- I think I'll pass.

Then we were off to Pataleshwar cave temple is situated right next to yet another temple. While many "spiritual" people may intensely idealize India, you can't swing a cat without hitting a temple here. This is an 8th century Shiva partially completed temple to Shiva and Nandi. It is carved from a single chunk of rock. A small shrine can be found in the caves nearby. The shrines were pretty. However, I appreciated the caves the most for their coolness. The temple is surrounded by a beautiful and again cool park. The park was filled with couples enjoying the shade and holding hands etc. It almost makes me wish parks were a more popular dating destination back home.

Shaniwar Wada is perhaps the most famous destination in Pune. It is a palace fort as the capital of the Maratha Empire in 1732 by Peshwa Baji Rao I. Is impressive even from the outside. The fortress walls is imposing. There is a stage out front, which both Sara and I traipse across and spout a few lines of Shakespeare in our respective languages.The inside is now basically a park: filled with tall shady trees, the decorative fountains that don't seem to work, and ruined foundations to climb all over. It was filled with school children who wanted their pictures taken, in addition to the apparently standard couples. It was the kind of park I'd want to spend the day reading and writing in. Too bad there is a 100 rupee entry fee. Oh well, I basically live in a park, even if it is slightly smaller and devoid of couples. There was another stage on the inside of the walls, I will definitely have to look into concerts or plays being performed here. The view from the fortress walls were definitely entertaining in and of themselves.

Empress Botanical Garden was the end point from everyone doing the Pune challenge for an Indian picnic! Yet another park filled with couples. Apparently parks are one of the only places a couple can go without bringing a chaperon. This one though has a sign indicating that couples involved in inappropriate acts will have the police called on them. Kylie tells me she once saw a guard whistle at a couple holding hands. This is particularly upsetting since couples have no where else to go...The garden itself is lovely, and definitely worth exploring further. Since we usually bring groups here after the Pune challenge I guess I'll get a chance.

Why a blog?

2009-09-13T17:22:00.000+05:30

As a 20-something, recent liberal arts graduate, who is taking a year off, I am - of course- going to start a blog. For the next 7 months, I will be serving as a programme volunteer at Sangam World Centre in Pune, India. In this capacity I will "assist in the implementation of innovative and dynamic international events, including community action projects, children’s camps, and advocacy seminars."

Most likely the only people who will read these musings will be my parents, a close friend or two and - maybe, if I'm lucky - the occasional cyber wanderer. But that will not deter me, because the obligatory self-indulgent traveblogue does not exist for people to read. It exists as one more way of convincing oneself that this was the right decision. That while I could be in grad school furthering my education or pursuing employment and self-sufficiency, spending more than half a year singing campfire songs, discussing advocacy techniques and experiencing a radical new culture is for some ethereal greater good; that these 7 months are not just about me. In other words this blog exists to serve the self-indulgent purpose of convincing myself I'm not being self-indulgent. But if you don't indulge yourself at 22, when will you?