Mind The Gap Year

Home is wherever...

2012-06-10T17:11:00.002-10:00

It is strange to be home.

We've been back in the States for a week and a half, and I'm still wandering about a little lost and shell-shocked. Of all the places I've visited this year, the United States is by far the most shocking and strange. Anyone who has spent time with me the last few days can attest to my wide-eyed staring at people baring their knees and shoulders in public, or my enthusiasm at seeing anyone in a sari. I can't get over how many blond people there are here, or how there are no cows on any of the roads. Crossing the street is hazardous, and drivers get frustrated with my casual strolling in front of traffic. Living in a country where there are not calls to prayers every few hours, and where life does not revolve around religion is strange. It is harder to find the divine here.

There are other realizations, namely that everyone in the world is trying to be Minnesotan. It's an overplayed topic, but honestly all the trendy, tight pant wearing biker geeks and fashionistas in the world are copying Twin Cities fashion. You may wonder how I know this, and the answer is that around the world, there are small pockets of trendy devotees, but only here does EVERYONE do it. We are the critical mass that shows the world. Normally dressed people are weird in the 612 (our phone area code for those of you non-locals), particularly when juxtaposed with thousands of their all out peers.

Being vegetarian is also a distinctly persecuted way of life in the U.S. Probably thanks to some evangelical vegetarians, abstaining from eating meat is treated as a judgement towards omnivores, not a personal choice. Keeping a pure vegetarian diet is hard enough for someone obsessed with salami and sausage, and having people berate me for trying out different culinary habits is a mildly amusing affair. In India, I noticed that I would get dirty looks occasionally for what I wore in public, but that nobody cared what I believed or ate. Adjusting to the norms everywhere was one of the most complex affairs, and gave me intense respect for those who straddle two or more cultures in their lives. The gap between british and american is small enough for me, and seeing people elegantly switch from being american to indian, or dozens of other combinations, was a lesson in observation and wonder.

You get a lot of raised eyebrows after coming back from such exciting experiences and attempting to explain succinctly what you did in 10 months, on 22 planes, to six different countries. People want to know what your favorite experience was (probably celebrating Carnaval in Sitges, Spain) or your favorite place (my heart beats for Nantes and my lovely friends there). Last year pre-gap I lost my temper more than once over silly things, exploding without reason or reasonability. After seeing so much on the extreme side of life, very little merits having an overreaction.

Little by little I see small changes in Minneapolis, and how I interact in this community. I was working at my cafe job and a trio of girls walked in, and ordered in heavy accents. I heard them chatting amongst themselves in french, and took the rest of their orders in french. Friends! These days my sense of geography is much more personal and immediate. I can ask people about their countries with more of a sense of where they are and what they are like, and through hearing about what they love about Minneapolis, I see my city through the eyes of foreigners.

My life is still as adventurous and bizarre here, which makes me think that perhaps keeping a blog or a record of my affairs is a worthy endeavor. There must be an audience out there who wants to hear about the man who feels the auras of our cafe's quiches before selecting a slice, or what it is like to be a segway tour guide. Honestly, I babysit adults as they play with segways by the riverfront.

We shall see. On the whole, it is good to be home.

Reflections on India

2012-05-28T16:43:00.001-10:00

Simon and I honeymooned in India in the fall of 1990. As one of the largest populated countries in the world, India was a nation we were eager to explore. From a family standpoint, Simon's mother, Pippa Nason, was born in Calcutta during World War II, and we had many friends from India that we worked with at McKinsey. And we had little money and lots of time so it seemed a great choice for our long adventurous honeymoon. We were right. We had a splendid time in India, setting the stage for our first couple decades of great life partnership.

21 years later I find this is still a fascinating country. I love the warm people, spicy food, colorful clothing, bustling markets, riotous traffic, and majestic palaces. And I find a country that has changed alot. Here are some of the changes I see from 21 years ago.

1.) Technology is ubiquitous. For my mom's 49th birthday, I called her from Delhi on our honeymoon. It cost me $100 on a land line - Happy Birthday, Mom! Now the country brims with cell phones, computers, and wifi. We Skype with friends and family from our Indian hotel rooms. Shopkeepers pull out their IPhone 4s (35,000 rupees or $US 636) to take pictures of us (more accurately, the two girls). Families of 4 zoom by on one motorcycle with one of them texting on a cell phone. School girls call their friends from auto rickshaws. And schools in India heavily advertise technology education, even using IPads.

2.) Speaking of schools, education is a huge priority in India. Billboards, newspaper advertising, wall posters are everywhere advertising for schools and education. Our tour guides and drivers place their kids into private English speaking schools so their children are fluent in Hindi and English (and a second Indian language potentially also). In private school their school year is longer than in America; they have only about 7 weeks holiday in total plus extra days for Indian celebrations per year. Newspapers report the results of students testing for entrance exams into universities. Education taught in an English medium is viewed as the path to prosperity for future generations of Indian children.

3.) Also powering the future are investments in city infrastructure and energy efficiency. When we flew into Mumbai 21 years ago, we landed at a ramshackle third world airport and then took 3 hours to get through customs in a disorganized mob of passengers. Today the airports we have traveled through in Delhi, Dehradun, Varanasi and Jaipur are beautiful first world terminals, typically with only 30 - 50% of gates occupied, built in anticipation of future growth. Delhi has a metro system now, and most of its public transportation runs on natural gas, resulting in noticeably less air pollution. Controversial hydropower is being planned and built on the holy Ganges river. A huge sewer project was under construction in Varanasi. We just traveled on a portion of the newly opened 4 lane toll freeway connecting Mumbai to Delhi (1300 km in length). To support its young, growing population, India will require substantially more investment in transportation, city infrastructure, and affordable and safe housing. But the growth in 21 years is remarkable.

One thing that hasn't changed in the last couple decades is that the majority of marriages remain arranged by the couple's family. I'm told that divorce rates are lower for arranged marriages than 'love' marriages in India. Simon and I were asked many times in 1990, "What is a 'love' marriage like?". Frankly, we really didn't know at the time, as we had only been married a few weeks. But I think we've done pretty well for a love marriage. So Simon, let's come back to India in the next 5 to 10 years so we can see what the next decade brings to this remarkable country!

Nikki Sorum

Jaipur

2012-05-27T01:00:00.000-10:00

So what is new on the less informative side of our lives?

Well I for one have been showered with dozens of photos taken by the lovely Jacqueline, all of them showing me looking left. Seriously, were you to investigate my recent photos, it would be a logical conclusion to assume my face and neck are stuck that way.

I assure you, they aren't. We have been doing a lot of looking lately, left, right and particularly at ornate ceilings of which India is so fond of (and you know what they say about fancifying your ceilings...). We've also been looked at a considerable amount, and deny an average of fifty photos with random small children who feel the need to pose with us. My favorite incident was when I smiled at a particularly adorable girl, whose father then forced her to shake my hand. Her response walking away was "pon he baba?"

"Who was that, dad?"

Which is how I feel a lot of the time. Who are you, strange person, and why do you want me in your group family photos? This has been turned to my advantage before however as I shaved mega ruppees off my shoes purchase by agreeing to take a photo with the shopkeeper, and what turned out to be all his male cousins. Don't worry, he'll post me as his fiancée on facebook tonight.

Today we visited a gorgeous white marble temple, inlaid with scenes from the mahabarata (explanation: one of the main religious texts of the hindu religion). Apparently before the Moghul invasion (with Islam in tow), the Rajastani tradition was to let their women choose their consorts. The chosen one was picked from literally a line up of eligible men, and anointed with a garland of marigolds. This is a great idea. Unfortunately it didn't last, as the hindus adapted to the invaders ways of parental involvement and multiple wives.

We also visited a monkey temple. I've a had the lifetime experience of a baby monkey clinging to my ankle and mewling pitifully. I did this as a child to strangers on a biweekly basis, but I'm hoping this young primate did not mistake me for its mother. Yes, my legs are hairy, but I prefer to live in disbelief. Anyways, the monkey scurried off after I gave it a peanut, and I soon made other, less cuddly and scarier monkey friends.

More blog to come, maybe tomorrow. We are leaving in three days and return to the motherland. Running at a million miles an hour in 100 degree (F) heat and visiting every monument in northern India is not conducive to blog posting. I try, and please forgive my failures.

The Odyssey of Blog Posts

2012-05-23T02:23:00.000-10:00

Nikki and Marielle on a boat for the aarti in Varanasi

I am struggling to update the blog because our lives in India have significantly changed since our last post. Nikki, the lovely mother of the equally lovely Marielle, came to see us in Dehra Dun and then whisked us away on what will be a two-week tour of northern India. Thus far we have stayed in Delhi, Varanasi, and Jaipur. Up until this point, our experiences in India have had a lot of depth but little breadth; our lives were mainly confined to our work at the school and occasional visits to Swami Veda Barati's ashram in Rishikesh. Now we're going on a whirlwind tour of a huge range of cities, cultures and history.

Nikki arrived in Dehra Dun last Wednesday. We showed her around our main haunts (Lakshmi Devi Academy, Chhaya Café in the mountains, and the Bollywood theatre) for two and a half days before boarding a plane to Delhi. The school's art teacher gave us each parting gifts on our last visit: Nikki was given a painting of the lovers/gods Radhe and Krishna, Marielle was given a watercolor rendition of ancient paintings found in the Ajanta Cave, and I was given an ink drawing of Meerabai. Meerabai, for reference, was a lady of questionable sanity who decided that she was literally married to a bust of Krishna. She spent her entire life prancing around his statue and showering him with marigolds. Now she is a saint. I'm still hoping that there was no deeper meaning to our correlating gifts.

In Delhi, we stayed at an urban bed and breakfast run by two devastatingly handsome/married Frenchmen. Our room was entirely pink in keeping with the theme of Jaipur (Jodhpur room was blue, Cochin room was white and gold, Gujarat room was orange, Bollywood room was a weird mix of glitz and Bodhgaya room was green). The complimentary pink bathrobes, homemade iced tea with crêpes and Ayurvedic beauty supplies were a great source of comfort in my days of "le heartbreak."

Our first day in Delhi, we went to the Qutub Minar Complex, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It contains the Qtub Minar, which is both the tallest brick minaret in the world and a monument to the end of Hindu rule/the beginning of Islamic rule in Northern India in the 12th century. Along with the minaret, there were many mosques, madrasas or schools, tombs, an iron pillar from 402-ish C.E, that does not rust, and an unfinished tower by some guy whose dreams of building a minaret even bigger than the first one were decidedly abandoned by his successors. I was especially intrigued by the fact that the Muslim conquerors knocked down all of the Hindu and Jain temples only to hire local (Hindu) builders and artisans to erect their monuments using the same materials, meaning that the Persian architecture still contained a stunning amount of original Hindu and Jain art.

After touring the Qutub Minar complex, we went to the Russian Science and Cultural Center to watch a professional dance troupe from Moscow take on traditional Indian dance. We went through a gallery of Nikolai Konstantinovich Rerikh/Nicholas Roerich's art, much of which was informed by his perceived links between India and Russia.

The next day, we went to the Red Fort in "old Delhi," which is notably more busy, narrow and congested than the part of Delhi designed by the Brits. What most amused me most was that the maharaja had a marble trellis from which he would wave to his followers every morning at a set hour to assure everyone that he was still alive. Nikki especially liked that, without the modern-day amenities of television and the internets, the Maharaja resorted to entertaining himself with a nightly lights show in the pool, complemented by 300 pretty dancing girls.

We then went to the Jama Masjib Mosque, which is the largest mosque in India and can hold 25,000 worshippers at a time. The mosque faced the largest spice market in Delhi, which was so full of chilies that everyone (not just the tourists) was coughing and sneezing. We visited a spice shop that let us taste dried melon seeds, masala for chai, cinnamon bark, and anise. We then went to the Gurudwara (Sikh temple) Bangla Sahib, where Marielle was happy to see that, instead of worshipping gods or idols, they worship the "living truth," or a book written by the first and only ten gurus of Sikhism. A Sikh belief is that the best way to attain humility is to serve food to others, so the temple housed an enormous kitchen (or langar) run on volunteer donations and work that feeds 20,000 people daily. We helped bake chapatis, or wheat flatbread grilled on metal griddle-like tawas. The day ended with a visit to the Lotus Temple, which is a modern temple for the Bahá'í faith. All Bahá'í temples are surrounded by nine pools of water, so being inside the soaring glass, marble and metal building was like, as Marielle put it, stepping into a glass of water.

After two and a half packed days in Delhi, it was time to visit the holy city of Benares, or Varanasi. Varanasi is the oldest living city in the world, having been inhabited for 5,000 years. The city seems mainly uninterested in riding the economic wave that has turned many urban points throughout India into fast-paced, achievement oriented hubs of business and education. Every night the 7,500 steps representing the Hindu gods are filled with worshippers who pray through hymns as the sun goes down in a tradition called the aarti. Worshippers also light candles placed on a bed of marigolds and set their wishes sail down the Ganges in a boat of leaves. The sun rises over women doing their laundry, men and children taking baths, pilgrims boating and brahmins chanting over the holy waters. Our guide told us that every stage of life can be found along the Ganges, from babies' first holy baths to the funeral pyres that cremate the dead all hours of the day.

In addition to watching the sunset and sunrise, we visited the Bharat Mata (Mother India) Temple, inaugurated by Mahatma Gandhi in 1936. The Bharat Mata temple is the only official temple in India to worship the personification of India and the mother goddess. Instead of busts of deities, the temple is dominated by a marble carving of India's geography. We toured the Benares Hindu University containing a large temple to Vishnu, and the site of Saarnath, where Buddha gave his first sermons. We also visited a brocade workshop where masters worked silk designs so complicated that a day's work would yield less than an inch of completed fabric.

In Varanasi we stayed at a hotel that was once used by the Maharaja as a summer cottage. It was surrounded by a mango orchard and organic gardens, which are shared by a friendly horse named Munna and twenty-five antisocial peacocks. Marielle and I discovered on our last night there that, if I sing a high soprano aria in the bathing pool, all of the fruitbats from the orchard would come and flap around our heads. We also discovered that Varanasi is a wonderful place for cheese devotees; the best two cheeses we tried were the fresh mozzarella di bufalo made by an Italian expatriate in the high Himalayas, and an organic yak cheese made by Tibetan farmers.

We are now staying in Jaipur, which is famously known as the "Pink City." We secretly refer to it as the "City of Lies," as the old city is a decidedly more orangey brown color. This is very disappointing. We will stay in Jaipur for two more days before going to Deogarth, Udaipur, and lastly Delhi again to fly to cooler climates.

We are now going to swim in a pool. Namaste, ciao ciao, ferme linge!

And Then There Were Three

2012-05-23T02:08:00.001-10:00

I have been invited to write on the blog! This is Nikki Sorum, Marielle's mom and honorary mom to Jacqui for the next two weeks. I arrived last Wednesday in Dehradun India to join Marielle and Jacqui. We spent a few days in Dehradun, visiting their school, having dinner with Pastor Chris Nelson from our hometown church, Bethlehem, and staying at Amaji Lalita Arya's home. Thanks so much to Amaji for letting the girls stay in her beatiful home and volunteer teach in her school, the Lakshmi Devi Academy. We are now touring in northern India, thanks to great advice from Vivek Agrawal, a friend in Minneapolis.

So I thought I would share answers to questions that many of you have asked me about Marielle and Jacqueline.

"How are the girls?". The girls are simply wonderful. They are confident, healthy, world wise and French-speaking soul mates. Two beautiful blonde 19 year old women get a lot of attention in India. They are gently pursued by Indian paparazzi who wish to take their photographs. When we go swimming in the hotel pool, there are at least a dozen hotel staff who have many jobs to do at the pool, sweeping, bringing towels, bringing drinks, walking by with ladders....
And they are aware of the local customs and speak enough Hindi to impress the Indians. Every day I am complimented on their beautiful manners. This has been an immense year of growth for both of them. They are extremely brave in their adventures and fortunate to have this gap year experience.

"What have they been doing?". For the last two months, they have been teaching at a charity school in Dehradun, India. They have taught English, Tae Kwan Do and dance. There are almost 300 children at the school, ages nursery to 8th class. The kids clearly loved Marielle and Jacqui and will miss them. The children shared several dances, songs, and a Tae Kwon Do performance with me on the girls' last day at the school. As impressive as working at the school was their hour long journey one way to work. They boarded a vikram (tiny truck taking up to 8 people for 5 rupees each - 10 cents in US), walked for 20 minutes through the heart of Dehradun calmly crossing riotous traffic, and then negotiated for and rode an auto-rickshaw (a three wheeled covered motorcycle taxi) for the last 15 minutes ride (10 rupees each or 20 cents). I've traveled lots of places, but this was impressive commuting by the girls. They've lived as local Indians for the last two months, eating vegetarian indian, loving Bollywood movies, and wearing kurtis (modest tunics over leggings).

"What are you up to now and when are you coming home?". We are visiting Varanasi, Jaipur, Deoghar, Udaipur, and Delhi. We have visited Sikh, Hindu, Buddhist, B'Hai, and Muslim places of worship, visited and stayed in palaces, shopped in the markets, floated on the Ganges at dusk and dawn, taken a cooking class, eaten primarily Indian vegetarian food., taken a yoga class by an Indian yogi. We have traveled by plane, car, auto rickshaw, bicycle rickshaw, vikram, bus, horse and buggy, rowing boat, and elephant. And we are only half way through our adventure! We will arrive home early afternoon on May 30. They are very excited to see their Minneapolis friends and family!

Nikki Sorum

Those Whom We Teach

2012-05-11T23:33:00.000-10:00

Once again, sorry we haven't been writing. It is perhaps a sign of our immense enjoyment, or utter exhaustion from the heat wave, missing our Amajii who has left for the States, and determined efforts to hide from the 4th grade.

Honestly, our students are great, except for maybe the 4th grade, which has decided that to show their love, they will insist on shaking hands for the entire class, running away when we try to enforce order, and enforcing the less than charming habit of kissing on the cheeks when saying hello and goodbye. Yep, we definitely put an end to that one. There is, of course, the 2nd grade, which was bored with our dances and songs and instead regaled us for about 15 minutes with song after song in hindi, english and screaming. Or the 8th grade, for whom every lesson ends logically in a dance off between the two inept westerners and the Bollywood born and bred dance machines. Or the first grade, whose attempt at learning "head-shoulders-knees-and-toes"turned into an excuse to beat their neighbor in those particular regions.

Children, my dears. I recall a quote by Fran Lebowitz, to the order of...

"Not all of God's children are beautiful. Most of God's children, in fact, are barely presentable."

Our children are wonderful, but their talents seem to run to the order of tiring us out, screaming questions in hindi when we don't understand the first time (we assume they want to go to the bathroom, and it works about 20% of the time) nor the second, and fixing our dance moves when we try to pull out the stuff we saw in our latest movie.

This next week we have our last two days of teaching, and then my honorable mother is coming for a dose of life on the indian side. Some activities we have planned include...

1) Henna tattoos! Super fun, super cheap, and only really problematic when you can't shove people as effectively to get through low moving crowds.

2) Bollywood film! There is a truly dreadful looking film about a ferrari that came out, and then another one about how a woman keeps reincarnating in order to find her true love. The key to finding a good movie has nothing to do with plot, cute actors or subtle filming. We just need dancing. And crazy music. (EXCEPTION: Vicky Donor, about a indian sperm donor's quest for true love, was the best film I've yet to largely not understand but still adore).

3) Lassis! Pekora (not for Jacqui, more for me!)! Indian delicacies! We shall regale Mama with yummy foods and eat whatever we can lay our hands on.

4) Crazy transportation, and the ensuing admiration of our abilities to argue, navigate and politely reject all attempts at kidnapping, forced purchases, marriage, signing autographs and taking photos with strangers, and autorickshaw rides, while managing to cross the street.

NO SCHOOL

2012-04-30T23:29:00.003-10:00

no school la la la sunshine la la la pretty flowers la la la

It's May Day, which, as it turns out, is internationally celebrated with no school (except for in the United States, where we decided during the red scare days that we would not partake in anything that the communists deemed worthy of celebration...according to Marielle). So we have a day off. We celebrated by packing a picnic and crossing as many mountains as we could before getting hungry, which we've found much more calm and cool than darting around thousands of suitors, cows and traffic just to get to a "McDonalds Family Restaurant" in downtown Dehra Dun.

Spring announced itself here with a series of sand and rain storms, and the mountains are in full bloom. We discovered a Tibetan town at the top of the first mountain to the north of our house, and there we found two Tibetan schools, a temple, a number of artisan and tapestry stores, and a tapestry/textiles/café co-op run by Indian and American entrepreneurs that employs thirty Tibetan women and trains many others in handicrafts. The café has a 270° view of the surrounding mountains and Rispana valley, and it has quickly become something of a safe haven for us. We come here often for the lemon cake and wifi, and we walk home surrounded by purple blossoms and Buddhist monks in saffron and crimson robes (with their iphones and crocs).

Now that we are actually settling into some semblance of a regular schedule (three classes in the morning plus recess, then various shenanigans in the afternoons), I have more time and energy for weirder/more entertaining things. We go to the Bollywood theatre once a week when we're not at the ashram, Marielle selects a fleet of books from the library for us to read and discuss on a weekly basis (last week was One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, The Color Purple by Alice Walker, To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee, 1984 by George Orwell, and Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller), and I'm working on turning the brigade of monkeys in our backyard into a Monkey Choir.

We only have two and a half weeks left of teaching before Marielle's mom joins us and we go frolicking round Northern India until June. This gives us enough time to learn some real rudimentary Hindi (it turns out that most of what our students taught us is rude, vulgar or both), master the art of Bollywood dances, and make our amaji love us forever and ever. Happy May Day!

Information on Himalayan Tapestry and Chhaya Café:

http://www.himalayantapestry.com/

Information on Joyn India (textiles):

http://joynindia.com

Anti-Bath Socks

2012-04-30T22:57:00.003-10:00

Greetings from the wondrous mountain café!

We have magically timed our illnessness to avoid school the last week, which is rather sad as I miss picking up juvenile hindi. Monday (yesterday) we were confined to the house, as we had some wicked sore throats, and we are not to be spreading viruses and american accents amongst the children. Those issues got all sorted out however. Today we were all set to go off and were informed that May 1st is a holiday for the schools here. Primary school told me that just about every country save the U.S. celebrates May Day. We, the Amuricans, don't put up with that communist nonsense. No fun for us.

The main thing that seems to be occupying my abundant free time is searching for unmatchable and filthy socks. I keep having nightmares that the reason they are unmatchable is that their colors have all been altered to different degrees by utter filth. Laundry, my friends, is not the question but the answer. However, this is a vicious cycle as I cannot FIND any socks once I decide to do the laundry. They are like cats, with their anti-bath sense.

Other calamities in the world of Marielle and Jacqui involve insomnia, all the more frightening after reading One Hundred Years Of Solitude, and not having access to a complete collection of Fran Lebowitz's articles and essays. And we ran out of peanut butter this morning, leaving us to eat real indian food for breakfast. We went on a picnic by trekking up the mountain, and spent our time imagining the legs of steel and buns of gold we would possess if we lived there. I prefer living in our leopard infested neighborhood, but then again my sanity has been repeatedly called into question.

A photo of yours truly and the other yours truly looking our most indian.

Redemption

2012-04-27T22:29:00.002-10:00

Pardon the absence, we've been battling all sorts of things. Hard to think of a concrete list, except that we've just gotten incredibly busy. And sick. And comfortable with tummies full of delicious food (the food went markedly up a couple days ago, after I gave the cook a piece of chocolate. Yep, we shall be doing that more often.) which we try our best to keep inside us. We've also been given concrete schedules for the school, which means that we can plan lessons (making animal sounds has been our biggest hit... learning english nouns and screaming!!) and aim to arrive at a specific time. Not just between 8am and 12 pm.

I'm now writing from a mountainside café, all alone because I let my bestie walk down the mountain without me, because she was feeling sick and (understandably) wouldn't wait for me to take my sweet time on skype, email and the blog. My redemption is therefore writing to all of y'all, and afterwards buying a coca cola for her to express my shame.

We now have approx. 2.5 weeks left of leaving our mark forever on Lakshmi Devi Academy before we embark on a tour of northern India. During this time we will get fancy trousers ideally suited for romping made, eat everything we can lay hands on (mild exaggeration) and walk up and down the mountain to experience the joys of wifi that quits only every other hour, and not every 20 minutes.

The power of perspective. In fact, I'm fairly certain the wifi here is better than what we get at home, but then again it has been nearly 10 months since I've been around more than four americans at once. Why americans have anything to do with internet servers is puzzling, but the service I get when there are loads of them around is dreadful. Here in this café I don't even need to go back home, as they have all sorts of "american specialties." Aka Chocolate chip cookies. Jacqui will go into greater detail about this wonderland, when she has finished walking down the mountain and feeling ill.

More updates: It has yet to get really hot here, thank goodness. The monkeys are still evil, and enjoy playing peekaboo-bare-my-teeth with us out of garbage cans. We have read collectively over 4,000 pages of various Pulitzer prize winners and classic novels from our home library, and play this odd game of sticking bars of chocolate where the other person is sure to find it and feel very very confused.

I probably ought to go settle my café bill and find my friend passed out from the plague somewhere. I do everything with the best of intentions.

My Day: An Introduction To Indian Stomach Bugs

2012-04-24T00:55:00.000-10:00

2am: Having spent yesterday hurling my innards out, I am awakened by a now familiar urge. I toddle to the bathroom. I throw up the electrolyte enriched water drink I was given yesterday. Even had I not been ill with a deadly jungle fever, the pineapple pre-teen girl perfume toxicant would have exited my system in some violent way or another. Hallucinations ensue.

7am: Wake up to the sound of my roommate’s nostrils whistling as she sleeps. Kick off my blankets and debate whether self-disembowelment is a step too far. Fantasize that there are lizards crawling on the walls. (Note: There are lizards crawling on the walls.)

9am: We go downstairs for breakfast. An attack of nausea and the call of my bed force me upstairs before I can enjoy my toast.

9:01am: Agony.

11:20: A philosophical moment. My roommate and I have a serious discussion about our personality traits. We decide she is a wicked prankster, and I am unconscionably arrogant, in particular with regards to fixing toasters. We reaffirm our desire to be friends forever.

I then go downstairs to return my hoarded teacups. Am stopped by our host grandmother, who remarks on the weight I have already lost. Fatal tropical conditions can have this effect, I am told.

12: The feeling of untidiness overwhelms me. I search for my hairbrush, but am waved off by Jacqui to look in the other part of our suite. I search, and fail to dig up my hairbrush. I return. The hairbrush is balanced next to her side of the bed. I cannot summon the energy to react, and fall into a stupor. Occasionally emerging from this catatonia, I pass the time away looking for split ends.

1:30pm: Continue to read my humorous story collection. There are more misses than hits in this rather hastily dubbed book. My favorite story is by far the dry account of Fran Lebowski’s day. It is titled “My Day: An Introduction of Sorts.” I long to possess such brazen irreverence.

This makes me think of all the helpful feedback I received in high school about adapting my writing to a more bland, impersonal tone. We could all take this opportunity to make a list of the bland, impersonal writers we know, love and cherish. I’m sure your list, like mine, would be utterly scintillating.

2:30pm: A quiet moment is taken to appreciate the peaceful bird song and explosions coming from the Indian Army’s shooting grounds located to the north.

3:35pm: I head outside to the balcony to admire the view of the Himalayas and do some serious reading. Several minutes into this activity I turn to find my roommate gazing intently at me out the window. Unlike most humans, I react in a calm manner (Note: I am accustomed to antics far more concerning) and invite her onto the balcony. She accepts this invitation.

3:45pm: A revealing moment. My roommate shares the reason for her furious typing. She has been taking a “future goals and career traits” test designed to clarify what attributes she wants to develop or let alone. Some examples from her list of “irrelevant traits” include “using foresight,” “developing hand dexterity,” and “operating machinery.” This explains why she failed to make the toaster work this morning.

3:55pm: Another skill clearly lacking is closing doors behind oneself.

4:18pm: My roommate leaves to go buy coca cola. This absence does not benefit me as a) There is nothing of hers I am capable of eating b) She left all the doors open. I take a nap. This proves boring. I cut my hair. This goes well. I wash my feet. I reread the humorous story collection. I find a dominoes pizza box stuffed inside one of the pillows.

4:47pm: Roommate returns bearing junk food. Her excuse for failing to bring me gifts: “You’re sick, and I didn’t want to make you throw up.” True, but I could always stash it for happier days. Sadness ensues. She proceeds to eat her bags of chips and drink the coca cola in a manner which recalls a garbage disposal truck. My sarcastic remarks only exacerbate the situation.

6:03pm: I go over all the funny pictures on my computer. By the fiftieth time they have ceased to be amusing, and the humorous story collection has proved itself tedious and frustrating. It is worth mentioned at this point that my clothing consists of a beguiling lacy nightgown (Note: Which wasn’t intended for newly-emaciated invalids), and has not be changed for a full day. I imagine this will not vary for the duration of my affliction.

7:13pm: I write a short piece on my precocious infancy, and the subtle (Note: or not so) decline since those golden years.

7:45 While waiting for dinner Jacqui and I cuddle on the couch. As she is missing her dog, she requests that I pant and make general canine-like sounds. I refuse. She insists. This indignity continues for another fifteen minutes. Then dinner! Dinner is strictly limited to yogurt, rice and lassi for me. Perhaps a third of what I am given ends up consumed, as my nausea, headache and disgust at being treated like a dog overwhelm me. But don’t worry, I am loved.

8:45pm: I begin Death Of A Salesman. Between Jacqui and I, we have, in the last two days, read Pygmalion, 100 Years of Solitude, Humorous Stories Collection, The Color Purple, and Death of A Salesman. With regards to the HSC, they claim to have “over 70 hilarious tales.” I counted seven. A woman is a tough judge in any comedic situation, and when you add indian stomach plagues to the picture, very little is droll, much less hilarious.

10:07pm: Death Of A Salesman proves too depressing and frustrating for my sensibilities.

10:30pm: I am left in the darkened room to sleep. Instead I rehearse various reprimands for those who have been disturbing Jacqui and I. They are ferociously castigated. Having won all the imaginary arguments in my head, I drift off to sleep. I proceed to entertain my roommate with my gargles and sleep talk, particularly my impression of a therapist.

Next Up...

2012-04-19T21:32:00.000-10:00

After several blissful days in Rishikesh, attending yoga classes, meditating and going for long walks around the Ganges, we are heading back to Dehradun to do some more serious work. We have about 4-5 weeks left to impart all our dancing, martial art and english wisdom, and to finally master some naughty words in hindi.

I'm excited.

A goal I have in the last coming weeks of my gap year is to succinctly summarize my experiences in each phase and country. While I partially mean this in the cocktail party sense (answering impossible questions like "so, what did you learn on your gap year?"), there is a pressing need in my mind to preserve my memories and lessons. Being able to reconcile my identities as "the american Marielle" and my newly internationalized self, and not forget or lose my hard earned wisdom.

It's a bit of a tricky goal to maneuver around, as generalizations and sudden proclamations and proverbs don't cut it when it comes to crystalizing that which profoundly alters one's thought process, outlook and behavior. How does one accurately describe one's sentiments upon viewing a calf being transported with two men and a small child on a motorized scooter meant for one occupant? What is the concrete wisdom learned in learning how to take public transportation in the city with the highest rate of pickpocketing in europe? Is there a proverbial lesson in learning how to make friends with someone who speaks not a single word of the same language as you?

The norms I've adjusted to and people I have become are wildly different. The same person who was a social night owl and swore like a sailor in France became a bookish tea drinker in England, and then an artsy doodler who hung out and got up to mischief with the best Brazilians ever in Spain. I am now a vegetarian yoga-practicing tae kwon do teacher who can get any price halved.

While I hope and pray that my international friends come visit me in Minnesota, in the end it is just me who goes home to people who said goodbye to someone a bit different. I don't know which parts I'll drag back with me, but as a friend we've made here in India said... "I used to be someone very normal and I've just gotten steadily weirder."

Next Adventure Planned: Dominoes Pizza outing with my lovely bestie, who has informed me that the pizzas here are divided on the menu into non-veg, and vegetarian. I think I'll stick to my hindu morals for now...

The Barber's Demon Client

2012-04-18T06:36:00.001-10:00

Ladies and gentleman, I am incensed.

Now, it is a truth universally acknowledged that there is common protocol in any hairdressing salon, irregardless of culture, country, or language. That is, despite all malevolent intentions of your tresses chopper, asking for "just a trim" and pointing out a reasonable inch of hair will get you with a workable haircut, plus or minus ineptitude.

Unfortunately, I am a very naive client. My haircut (150 rupees! 3 dollars!) was first handled by a gentleman who I now suspect is hired only to detain clients until the guy who actually knows how to cut hair comes back. He proceeded to amuse himself by ignoring my instructions, in hinglish no less, and chopping a gigantic chuck of my hair off.

He then confined himself to giving the wimpiest trim ever, and it was only until the real hairdresser came back that I got more than a quarter inch off my split ends. My bangs/fringe were/was cut crookedly, and so I yelled at the barbers and had my money waved off. A fellow client translated for me, saying "He says he's sorry."

So am I. So am I.

On a higher note (PUNS) we have discovered giant marijuana plants growing wild in enormous quantities around the ashram we are staying in. Five foot tall, meh, more like seven foot tall... We picked a bit to investigate on the internet i.e. "is this cannabis ruralis or savalis?" Only field research, no lab work WE PROMISE. However transporting this legal-ish plant got us some funny looks from the ashram guards, who keep tabs on everything we get up to. I imagine we will receive a lecture tonight about this. Recent information however has led us to realize that our wayside botanical plant is a fairly useless specimen. Apparently the real stuff is guarded by a certain type of "sadhus," India's version of rastafarians.

I did my best to find a photo not showing genitalia, for the unmarried crowd who reads this blog. Photo credit: stolen from the internet.

Side note: We get chased by this crowd every Tuesday. Tuesdays are the day of the monkey god, which is good enough an excuse to run around giving everyone orange bindis and charging ten rupees for their blessing. It is bad luck to say no, which is probably why I am saddled with this haircut. *curses*

Now down to business. My mother requested that I be a little less "cutely amusing" and a little more informative on this blog. So I will tell you facts.

Fact 1: These are the only songs we hear on the radio. All day, all night. All day. All night. What the sadhu?

Fact 2: On the Indian version of "Biggest Loser," instead of doing fitness, the contestants do Bollywood choreography. BEST SHOW EVER (though I have yet to experience these particularly electromagnetic waves).

Fact 3: The mosquitos here, despite their malaria tendencies, are distant cousins from the bloodsucking beasts we are exsanguinated by in Minnesota. The rabid monkeys, cranky roadside cows, labrador eating leopards and stomping elephants are still pressing concerns.

These are all the facts I can think of at the moment. Until very soon!

Yours Truly,

Someone who used to have presentable hair.

Still Alive!

2012-04-16T00:48:00.003-10:00

Marielle and I are trooping along into our second month despite the ever-increasing threat of getting mauled by wild animals (the mountain monkeys encroach more and more on Ritz and Smoky the highly effective guard puppies' space every day, a territory-deprived wild leopard has taken to eating unsuspecting pet labradors in the neighborhood, and gangs of wild elephants in the mountains just past our house have taken to a game called "stomp the humans") Something that struck me was that the families who have lost their pets to the leopard have not condemned him, but rather diverted the negative attention to humanity at large for taking so much from nature that an animal has no choice but to endanger his life and potentially trap himself forever in a human family's compound just to get his food.

If the leopard eats me, I would ask that we put our retaliatory efforts into finding a nice, safe place (preferably full of not-humans) for him to live.

I've also been struck with the effects of different teaching styles on children. Mama Oumou and Fatou, my host sisters in Saint-Louis, Senegal, learned through dictation and memorization. Virtually every male and most females in Saint-Louis were supposed to memorize the Coran before they finished their schooling, regardless of whether or not they actually knew Arabic and therefore understood the sounds and symbols they had committed to memory. One of my friends in Saint-Louis, a volunteer teacher, was surprised when, after having a coughing fit as she taught her students the alphabet, the students coughed every time they recited the alphabet for her. Similarly, when Marielle and I asked the third and fourth graders to draw their families and homes for a class this morning, we wound up with twenty perfect copies of the example we had drawn on the board.

Our students' creative energies tend to come out in different ways, like when the teachers release all the children into the courtyard for lunch and then go barricade themselves in the lounge. Marielle and I have found that this is a particularly good time to do tae kwon do, dance, or the newest game, "let's go skipping" (I skip around and students follow me. I don't know why this is so popular, but it is.) A new academic school year started last week, and we're still getting used to the new names and faces. I miss the former eighth graders, but it's fun to have a new playgroup class that's really, really tiny.

Marielle and I were invited to attend the wedding of one of the school's teachers on Saturday evening. It was a somewhat sad event for many of the people involved, as this meant that the bride would be leaving the school to move in with her husband in Delhi. Nevertheless, the DJ played party music until the outrageous hour of 10 p.m., unlimited ice cream was served to all, and a bunch of the men played a game where they covered their foreheads with one hand and slapped each other with the other. Like the aforementioned skipping, this was very popular. Our amaji/host grandmother defended us protectively against any potential suitors she deemed unworthy (aka all of them), we collectively signed about 30 autographs, people stared and stared at the two white, blonde, blue-eyed girls in formal Indian dress, and we were asked to leave before the bride came out so that she would get at least some attention.

On Sunday, we went to meet with some friends that Marielle had made at the ashram. A good part of our friendship is that we have different approaches to the same experience; when we were at the ashram, I took all the yoga and meditation classes I could while Marielle preferred to stay in the cafeteria and talk to international yoga enthusiasts and spiritual guides over buckets of chai. The friends in question live on a property called Vipasana House, which welcomes adolescents and young adults from all over the world who are seeking yogic healing for mental and spiritual illnesses. The complex itself is sprawling and half-wild in a once-tamed sort of way, and we spent a good part of the day hanging out, helping cook, and getting free massages. We left with a cartload of books and an invitation to come back any time we wanted, which we certainly shall (and not just because they have working wifi, wonder of wonders).

Tomorrow evening amaji is taking us back to the ashram for a couple days. We have decided that we are sort of like her personal pet monkeys, in that we do weird things (put peanut butter on everything before eating it), stupid things (accidentally barge into Swami Veda, Disciple of the Guru of the Himalayas' private quarters within the first half hour of our first trip to the ashram), annoying things ("Oh, you were sleeping? We hope you didn't mind our opera practice"), and yet she still adores us so much that she must bring us with her everywhere she goes. Or that is how I'm choosing to interpret the situation.

So yes, we are doing well in that we are well-fed and intact, beloved by many children and scorned suitors alike, and still allowed in amaji's house. For now.

Real Life For Us

2012-04-11T01:48:00.000-10:00

For those of you wondering, this is real life for us.

Team Bonding, Indian Style

2012-04-10T01:28:00.000-10:00

These past five days, we were privileged enough to travel with our fellow KHEL teachers to Jaipur for a bit of sight seeing, religious monument visiting and team bonding, Indian style.

Getting to Jaipur involved catching a three hour bus to Haridwar, place of the aarti (everyone lights flowers on fire and throws them in the Ganges at sunset). Because it was a holy day (Good Friday) there were buckets of people there, and so we walked/struggled through massive crowds instead of catching bike rickshaws.

One thing about walking with Indians is that they are mighty easy to lose. Normally one wears bright colors so those in your group can find you. However, EVERYONE wears bright colors here. They also either 1) stop and look at things every couple of feet, or 2) charge ahead, leaving us with no hope of ever catching up. Miracle of miracles, we caught every train and bus and had a lovely time. I am becoming a very calm, collected type “No Death, No Disaster, No Problem.”

Our train was a fairly straightforward affair, and we were comfortably installed in our sleeper car for the night. Other than being awoken around 1am by a thief who stole from the woman just across from us, and fasting from lunch until lunch the next day, it was a delicious adventure. I STILL love trains, and will take one with you anywhere you like.

JAIPUR NEWS WILL COME LATER. THIS IS ONLY TRAVEL INFO.

While waiting for our train home, we learned how to say, “Why are you bothering us, mind your own business” in Hindi. This is in response to the paparazzi cum stalker-esque behavior we are subjected to in any semi-crowded place. People throw their babies at us and attempt to take “just one snap, ma’am.” I have an urge to go Britney Spears on them, as it seriously brings out the anti-pacifist in me to have my photo taken by people who don’t respect me when I say “No, thank you”.

I ought to be more like Jacqui.

Marielle’s Typical Conversation With Indian Paparazzi:

IP: Ma’am, may I take one snap please?

M: No, no thank you.

IP: Ma’am please?

M: No, I’m sorry.

IP: Ma’am why not?

M: Because I don’t take photos with strangers. Please stop.

IP: Maybe with my baby?

M: No thank you!

IP: Please?

M: NO! (Explodes)

Jacqui’s Typical Conversation With Indian Paparazzi:

IP: Ma’am, may I take one snap please?

J: No. Go away.

And you know what? THEY LEAVE HER ALONE. India is making us into jerks.

We also played a hilarious game of drawing portraits of each other, balancing the notebook on our heads. I will leave you to judge our efforts, and would like to say that you can CLEARLY see the duck face Jacqui was making while I was drawing her. Me on the other hand... Unclear what was lost in translation.

I will treasure that portrait forever.

When we came back on the train, we arrived in Haridwar with an interesting conundrum. Some of the teachers wanted to catch the bus to go home to Dehradun immediately. After all, 12 hours in a train leaves everyone feeling wonderfully hostile towards humanity. The others wanted to jump in the Ganges, and take a bath.

Now for a bit of cultural comparison, this is like me taking a dirty, smelly, noisy train for TWELVE HOURS from say Detroit or Chicago, and arriving in St. Paul, Minnesota. I can then drive home, OR I could jump in the Mississippi. Logical decision?

Go home. Please.

Having now eaten food that was not deep fried in sketchy oil and handled by people whose fingers were in dubious places, I am much happier. I am clean, I am not surrounded by crying unphotogenic babies or thieves on a train. I can remember the great parts of my trip, and forget the rest.

Tonight I am going to sleep for AT LEAST ten hours. Anyone who wakes me up before 7am with their Rajastani folk music is going to get a rusty nail between the eyes.

Bored To Death And Blood Money

2012-04-05T01:09:00.001-10:00

We’ve now returned safely from RIshkesh, where we felt happily Beatle-like and safe, despite the killer wild elephants stomping on cars, leopards haunting wherever we go, and mountain monkeys who size us up as potential targets for their gang related vioelnce. Dehradun is treating us to a baby monsoon, which we braved to visit our beloved cybercafé. Things have taken a turn for the better here, as we’ve stopped asking if they have wifi and just go for it.

Today we went to a mindbogglingly boring film called “Blood Money.” You’d think that it would be easy to make something vaguely interesting with a title like that, but the whole affair was weighed down by overlong conversations (again, half hindi, half english) and moody sequences between the TOOL of a main character and his spineless and useless wife. It was like “Blood Diamond” in the sense that there were diamonds, blood, and bad guys with all the power.

But this will win no Oscars, and I dunno if it even merits a rotten tomato. Better to just forget.

The next film we go to see will hopefully be the trashiest musical comedy we can find. We have a huge need to dance, even if it is in our seats. The girl sitting next to me answered her phone five times during the movie, and indulged in the kind of conversations that inspire murderous feelings in pacifists.

Otherwise, India is great. I’ve been daydreaming about an ideal world where I can bring all my favorite people from this year to Minneapolis, and keep practicing my spanish, french and basic portuguese (ai se eu te pego? e saudades...). A little less than two months to go, and then back to the states, for a dose of crazy crazies, dreadful accents and politicians whose plans for the future are likened to etch a sketches.

Love to you all!

Marielle and Jacqueline

Rishikesh

2012-04-02T20:15:00.000-10:00

Darlings.

Pardon the absence, we've been staying in an Ashram on the foothills of the Himalayans, busy studying yoga, breaking various house rules, and scarfing up vegetarian food. And having deep, wise conversations with swami masters.

All around us is lush green vegetation, and the Ganges river which emits a hallucinogenic hazy blue color. There is thick jungle and hundreds of cows who amuse themselves by finding traffic to impede. Having been raised by a farm girl and nursed on horror stories of people being kicked, gored and trampled by these gentle creatures, I give them a wide berth. You might be a holy animal, but that probably makes you a cocky entitled jerk who will never get punished no matter how many americans you render... dead.

My macabre imagination is well supplied here, surrounded by a holy river full of laundry, trash and grandpa's half burned ashes, and gardens full of jumping snakes and pythons capable of sucking you from several feet away into their jaws. Or at least, this is what we were told by a very earnest student at lunch. Do you judge me if I believe him?

The Ashram itself is a very beautiful collection of cottages and well tended gardens and then a meditation hall, learning centers and a dining hall. There are also very attentive guards who rat on us when we sneak out to buy junk food after dark. Our first night here we took a self guided tour and ended up (by accident) in the guru's private quarters. He was very friendly, and kindly pointed us to less interesting parts of the complex.

Side Note: We are sort of like mischievous monkeys, so adorable that no matter how many filthy-yet-holy rivers we jump in, or how many times we forget to take our shoes off outside buildings, you must love us. We have yet to find a limit in this love.

Food here in ashram land is tasty indian veggie food, lots of dhal, curries, fried breads and pastries and sometimes lassis, sometimes salted warm milk.

Yes, salted warm milk. We decline such delicacies, like the terrible guests we are. My favorite food is the fried pastries we eat in the morning, to compliment our daybreak diet of toast and peanut butter. My mother told me as a wee anklebiter that I would have to go forth and diversify my diet. Apples, carrots, chicken fingers, peanut butter and pasta didn't cut it. I would "never find peanut butter in faraway places like Argentina, China or India."

I raise my Skippy peanut butter to you each morning! The wisdom of this message is not lost on me however. You can catch me eating everything on my plate (veggies, fruits, indian junk food!) except this garlic SUPER spicy sauce some sadistic person created as a torture tactic for persons of Norwegian origin.

One final note, with regards to our no longer secret language of french. It is a good thing we use Senegalese slang words, because there are lots of people who speak french here. It was a nasty shock when we realized our uncrackable and definitely private conversations were decoded by fellow francophones. Rage.

The internet is not good enough to upload photos, but they are pretty sweet and will be added when we are provided with quality wifi. Which will be a while.

Bollywood Re-Hashed

2012-03-28T23:24:00.002-10:00

This evening we were taken to a Bollywood film, on the condition that we wouldn’t dance during the singing/dancing scenes.

Public embarrassment for our chaperones thus averted, we were permitted to bob our shoulders and move our heads side to side and make general confused gestures. The film was, in the word’s of my darling roomie, “A really long, complicated music video.” We giggled through the advertisements (one DEFINITELY wouldn’t make it through the censor in the US. A man becomes a sperm donor, and has to explain to his fiancée and family. The motto was “make every drop count.”) and are coming back very soon.

Marielle’s Synopsis of “Agent Vinod”: Before I begin, you are invited to check my ideas on the internet, to see just how much I did or didn’t understand. My hindi is coming along nicely, (tum sunder ho) and I understand a lot thanks to copious usage of english. For example:

“Hin di hin dee three minutes till explosion hindihindihindi catastrophe-he hin hin hin DEE SIR WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Did you catch that?

The film opens with a random scene in Afghanistan. Agent Vinod and his side-kick are entrenched in an enemy hideout/compound. After the secret exchange of a harmonica-cum-knife, Agent Vinod uses this deadly musical weapon to kill his attackers and blind the head honcho. They find a beautiful woman in a straw sack (what the what?) and run off in a truck. They explode/defeat their killer posse and the scene shifts to a train going through Russia. Sidekick is busy listening in on russian gangsters chatting about a suitcase bomb which has recently gone on the bad guy market. All of a sudden, super clever bad guy (who happens to be a health freak, or so he said in hindi) finds a bug (bug: slang for electrical device for overhearing conversations) in the saltshaker. Bad dude shoots the sidekick and chases him to an internet café where he was transmitting an important message (I didn’t understand) back to Delhi. He dies.

Agent Vinod then gets this message, is heartbroken about the death of his friend, but manages to make it to some random russian nightclub. He tracks down a gang lord, tortures him with headphones (it works) and finds out with his unusual methods that he has a flight to catch.

Once on the plane he seduces a gay indian flight attendant called Freddie M-something, and steals his identity. Jacqui and I were uber-confused about this turn of events. Is it normal in indian action movies to pull flight attendants onto your lap and compliment their man-perfume?

Anyways, our pansexual hero with a taste for workplace harassment made it safely to Morocco and in a sheik/oil baron’s house. He fails some sort of test, is knocked out and then injected with liquid (by a super sexy doctor) which makes him say “my name is Freddie M_____” in funny accents. I do the same thing upon occasion.

Not play at being a sexy doctor. Say things in funny accents.

Lot’s of things happen in Morocco, the long and the short of being that the bomb is bought by the sheik, sexy doctor who was on his side betrays him and there is a dance scene with the pretty lady from the first bit in Afghanistan. While Bollywood has mastered the super glossy delivery and has truly well made effects/presentation, the first half was a headache to follow. They should give their writers less artistic freedom, it bothers my sensibilities.

Yes, that was the first half. We had an intermission and got ice cream. Jacqui also got american style steamed sweet corn. No word on how it was...

Marielle: Hey Jacqui, how was the steamed sweet corn?

Jacqui: Horrible. Too much salt and butter. It was impossible to eat.

There you have it. The popcorn was fantastic, although when we asked for butter we were met with blank stares.

The second half of the movie involved the random gifting of a plane to somalian pirates, the transportation of the suitcase bomb, and then THE GIRLFRIEND DIES. My dears, the cardinal rule of any action film is that it must end with the hero sleeping with his pretty but fairly useless girlfriend. Short of necrophilia, this must always happen.

Anyways we pouted, despite the somewhat happy ending (she gave him the bomb’s disarming password before she died. Huzzah!) and discussed the significance of the film lacking any and all ugly women. Or the fact that the only people in the movie with real power were men. Or that in real life, the main characters are (respectively) a prince and his fiancée/scion of a famous film industry family. Their first film together... How cute.

Tomorrow we have a graduation ceremony for the 8th graders, and will be presenting our dances and tae kwon do examples. I am now going to sleep, and beg a cuddle from my lovely roommate.

A salaam maleikum, goodnight et bon nuit mes chèrs.

They Might Be Aliens

2012-03-27T00:11:00.002-10:00

Mademoiselle “Adept At Crossing Busy Streets” speaking, newly zen from a realization that the vikram/rickshaw/car/scooter I am in/on will crash regardless of whether I am calm or freaking out. So I might as well be calm. Things have been going well here in Dooooon, sustaining only minor creepage from the local male population. As we walk down the street, stared at by everyone (blonde people!), I can’t help but exclaim, “DES EXTRATERRESTRES.”

We are clearly aliens.

Such are the realizations one reaches here in Inde, land of hyperactive schoolchildren, a injured bird in our bathroom, and a roommate who speaks to lizards in french, arabic, hindi and english.

Yes, we have polyglot lizards hiding in our room. A sample conversation...

(Tiny lizard is crawling across the wall. It is probably five feet long, with giant poisonous fangs. I am cowering in the corner)

Jac: Bonjour petit reptile! Ça va?

*Silence*

Jacqui: Apke se ho?

*Crickets*

Jacqueline: A salaam maleikum? Can you hear me?

*Lizard scurries across the wall, closer to me, and with the clear intention of eating me and my physics-for-fun nighttime reading. I faint and am carried out on a stretcher. End scene.*

We left to eat dinner, and my multitalented bestie was laid low by a headache, stomach grumblies and a hard case of karma. This is what happens when you eat RUBBISH food all day. Seriously, who eats four bags of chips, a bag of peanuts and drinks a bottle of coke?? And cookies. Particularly after a week + half of uber healthy veggie food. My coloc is a child.

When we came back from dinnaaah this lizard was nowhere to be found. Side note: We left all doors closed. Conclusion: This savage beast is still among us. Jacqui attempted to reassure me by saying that it has probably been here for the past few days.

Marielle: But what has it eaten? Our hair?

Jacqui: Insects?

Marielle: Your cookies?

Jacqui: Probably the cookies. This is why I am sick.

Marielle: Lizard cooties! The lizard of karma!

Yes, my friends, we have the lizard of karma in our room. You too could have the lizard of karma if only you could come and catch it and take it far far away.

I live in fear.

For those of you who commented before on the injured bird in our bathroom, know that I am not a hero. My reptilian-hablante roomie saved this pigeon from murderous raven peckage and Ritz the cowardly guard dog (save in the face of helpless, injured pigeons), and placed it in a box in the room next door. I cowered and in my own useless way patted Jacqui on the back for a job well done. If there is a committee who gives medals for this sort of thing (PETA?), I elect my chhoti poilu.

Jacqui: But I don’t want a medal from PETA. They are cray-cray.

Marielle: Anyone who eats disgusting amounts of vegetarian junk food is in that boat and happily paddling.

Other Things I Can Share With You: Hmmmm.

We have been reading a body language book and have been entertaining ourselves by pointing out expressions of disgust on small children. Body language is a very useful idiom to be fluent in. I teach students who at best know how to tell me my headscarf is crooked and can have in detail conversations about their favorite football team. I lost brownie points when I said that I’d lived in Barcelona and never met any players. But I can read their facial expressions! I’m clearly a waste of space in their eyes.

We are still recovering from that exhausting picnic, but at least have an idea of what we are teaching tomorrow. DANCE! That is, if we survive the night of the lizard of karma.

Mother-Speaking-In-My-Head: But Marielle, he is probably waaaay more scared than you are. You are a thousand times bigger than him.

Marielle: Are lizards developed enough to feel fear? I doubt it. And plus, I am bigger, therefore I feel more fear.

Please pardon me for the lack of facts or concrete events in our lives. I recount not serious things in this post, only my reactions to them.

Code Messages!

Pickles, check your SPAM folder.

Nigel, you’re the best, thank you for for the promo.

Thi, tu me faltas.

Chuck and Cindy, I miss your commentaries!

Mr. Pieces, How go the shower parties? (Miss Jacqueline humbly suggests that you add Ciara’s 1-2 Step to your regime)

1P, you’re a very useful human being, despite your ice cream addiction

Romalicious, has my badly marked postcard arrived?

Ruthia/Fufu/BeeEee/EeeEee/Ruby/Uff, I dream of you and the Special K bars

Snack That (Up on that India)

2012-03-25T01:13:00.003-10:00

Yes, let's stuff 50 adolescents with sugar and release them in a park!

Lakshmi Devi Academy, where Marielle and I are teaching, is the focal point of several distinct communities on the outskirts of Dehra Dun: to the immediate north, there is a colony for persons living with mental illness; to the immediate south, a colony for families touched by leprosy; to the west, a settlement of Muslim refugees from Pakistan and Bangladesh; and to the east, forest and smatterings of hill people. This means that the academy not only provides an education to a diverse set of students, but also serves a crucial role in bring the communities together in the name of their children.

To get to and from the school, Marielle and I have to take a vikram, or (theoretically) six-person bus, from our neighborhood to Gandhi Park, near the center of town. We then walk for about fifteen minutes before we find an auto-rikshaw, or three-wheeled taxi of sorts, which takes us to the bridge leading to the old slums. We then walk the next ten or so minutes to the school. This trip costs us fifteen rupees (thirty cents) each (unless we can convince a male such as Lalbahaddr our gardener or another LDA teacher to accompany us, in which case the ride is often free...for the lovely ladies).

Our entire Saturday was devoted to a field trip with the middle schoolers to a Sikh temple. On the bus rides there and back, Marielle and I learned a lot of Hindi vocabulary and tried just about every kind of Indian child's junk food under the sun. Tum tely ho, doom tum sunder ho (you appear drunk, but you are very beautiful). We were also introduced to the most popular singers in Dehra Dun: Shakira, Hannah Montana, and Justin Bieber. My favorite song, however, was a rendition of Akon's "Smack That":

Snack that

Upon the floor

Snack that

Gimme some more

Snack that

I need some more

Whooah

Fun fact: Akon is from Saint-Louis, Senegal, where I spent the past two months!

Marielle and I are both a bit (platonically) smitten with Dev, the fifteen year-old son of Devaky the cook. He humors us by coming along on long and apparently destination-less promenades, instigates balancing-things-on-head competitions with us multiple times per day, and five nights ago, instead of just telling us that dinner was ready, he came out wearing an apron, slammed his oven-mitted hands together, and declared "I AM GOD." India and Senegal have spoiled me for American senses of humor.

Some Wonderful Things:

-Although some of the teachers initially tried to split up our students so that only the boys would learn tae kwon do with Marielle and the girls dance with me, our amaji helped us to convince everyone of the importance of all the students learning everything. Very few things bring me as much joy these days as watching fifty young girls and boys punch and scream (or growl, à la Marielle's instruction) in unison.

-As of Friday afternoon, the garden just underneath our bedroom window is the favorite hangout spot of no less than one dozen baby monkeys.

-We taught the elementary school-aged kids how to play my favorite game, Pauvre Petit Chat Malade. The basic idea of the game is to not laugh as someone pretends to be a deathly ill kitten with attachment issues. Don't hate, appreciate. Anyways, the LDA teachers have all come to me with complaints of unprecedented meowing amongst the students. Oops.

Meow meow mrrrrraaaaooooow (until next time).

“I am your fabric man, I will make you dozens of beautiful clothes and we will be good friends.”

2012-03-20T01:16:00.001-10:00

Sunday: Today we had our first big adventure with the internet cafés of Dehra Dun, enjoying blasting Indian gangster music (there is no better way to describe this) and a shopkeeper who had no idea how to turn off the notification sounds on his desktop.

Aside from pining for my friends and families in Nantes/Minneapolis/Barcelona, things are going excellently. We are gorging our suntanned and blonde selves on tasty vegetarian delights (Dharani, you are goddess, thank you for the suggestion of breakfast foodsies) and reading fairy tale and physics books during our lazy afternoons.

Today for lunch we had sambar (spelling?) and a fascinating history of the school we are going to teach at starting tomorrow! Started in the 1980s by Mrs. Lalita Arya, our “Amaje”, or host grandmother extraordinaire, the program began by distributing milk for malnourished slum children. Things progressed to hiring residents with a little bit of education to teach under trees, and after the family returned to the United States, funds were set up to start a nursery and primary school.

Today KHEL charities educates (on a shoestring budget, no less) around 250 children, male and female, pre-k (SUCH CUTIE PIES) to the first graduating 8th grade class, regardless of religion (more on that later), skin color, family background and wealth. Located in what used to be the slum area of Dehra Dun, the surrounding area has seen a marked rise along with the school. Mrs. Arya is a strong force for good here in Dehradun, and in story after story (lunch was a prolonged affair today) she demonstrated both a rare and insightful wisdom, and a tenderness for women/humanity to give them the help in orde to help themselves.

We asked her what the effects so far of this school have been, and across the board the quality of life for those touched have risen. Girls are now permitted to speak in their homes, are respected by their parents and their opinions are even requested occasionally. They marry later, and can provide better lives for their families. As a proverb from the Punjab region of the country goes, “Educate a man, and you educate only him. Educate a woman and you educate a village.”

Another example she gave was the lack of religious violence. Riots can spread quickly and touch all regions, particularly large and diverse cities such as Dehra Dun. Since the school has been officially founded, there have been no religious conflicts within the school community and quick action is taken when other regions succumb. A Parent Council formed of representatives of all sects, branches, types and variances comes together in times like these, to reaffirm that they are united, a community devoted to their children, their betterment and their neighbors.

If you would like to snoop for yourselves, I suggest you do so here or send me/Jacqui questions, which we will gladly attempt to answer.

khelcharities.org/

It gives one heart to know such a wonderful organization, rooted and run by the communities which they serve, exists in this corner of the world. It will be a pleasure and an adventure to work with them.

ANSWER TO THE GEEZER MYSTERY: My grandfather, of the aerodrome fame, provided this answer to the puzzling question of just what would happen if we left the geezer point blasting.

“Hej Marielle,

The word "Geezer" in English and I guess Urdu/Hindi means a gas heater. Your message therefor meant " Don't leave the hot water running for 15 mins or you might have an explosion." P.S. geezer in cockney Argo/slang also means bloke/man.”

More News:

We have updated Jacqui’s nickname to “Chhoti Poilu”, which is a combo of hindi and french to mean “Hairy Little One.”

“Not because she is hairy, because we think it is a funny word.”

-Jacqui referring to herself in third person. An endearing habit of hers.

Now I’m probably going to get an addition a million times worse, along the lines of “Didi Degueulasse” or “Disgusting Older Sister.”

We are also very sleepy. This is not exactly the sort of news which will make the television, but it is very relevant to this blog post, as I will now go sleep. In Hindi they use the letter “Q” where we use the letter “Z” for the onomatopoeia for snoring.*

*This is a joke. Sorry if you got excited about this.

Monday: Today we started at the school, teaching a song and starting on the Tae Kwon Do lessons... Aside from forgetting korean counting after the number 7, things went smoothly. Shouting and gesticulating wildly always brings out the best in small children. Teaching correct posture and hand placement was less of a challenge than I expected, as most gestures are universal.

Getting TO school was an adventure and a half, as we took a Vikram (an autobus meets taxi meets autoricksaw), which costs about 5 rupees a piece, and then an autoricksaw to school. In between we walked in the middle of busy streets, like everyone else.

After school we had a delicious lunch (all veggie!) and tea with these syrupy delights which are pronounced vaguely like “jelly beans.” Spelling? We then decided the market/town was calling, and caught a vikram (love em!) down to the complicated, busy, congested adventureland. We made friends with a fabric dealer who sold me two hand dyed scarfs and gave us tea and Sprite while we waited. Such a doll. He also informed us that “I am your fabric man, I will make you dozens of beautiful clothes and we will be good friends.”

While waiting for the fabrics to dry, we also wandered into a shop and were accosted by an English speaking fashion expert. Thank god we speak french together, because it was overwhelming having onesies and jumpsuits thrown with great speed, accuracy and commentary. Some quotations...

“In fact, you are nothing special to me, I get many tourists in here who don’t know much about fashion and I love to help them, we have a warehouse upstairs where we can provide you with the latest stuff.”

“We do not sell clothes, we sell fashion.”

“Feel this fabric. Yes it is a copy. Yes it was made in Mumbai.”

“We have every fashion name here. WE HAVE ZARA. You know what Zara is? WE HAVE ZARA.”

Tomorrow, more teaching fun!

Dur dur d'être Jacqui

2012-03-17T21:11:00.004-10:00

Oh hey, Himalayas

The title comes from the song "Dur dur d'être Billy," (toutes les filles et toutes les drogues...) a song that people who understand French might possibly find funny. Or not. Marielle and I changed the song to include my name because it's so hard hard hard to be in Dehradun. So why is it so dur dur dur dur d'être moi?

We live in a very marble-y house in the foothills of the Himalayas. Included with said house are gardens, a meditation house, a library, and the tiniest/cuddliest guard dogs in existence (Smoky and Ritz). Marielle prefers cats, so that leaves me free to cuddle them to death. Marielle has forbidden me to cuddle any wild animals, including (but not limited to) donkeys, goats, puppies, cows, and anything else that might be carrying "deadly tropical diseases." The one downside of the gardens is that there is always the possibility of mountain monkey attacks. I do not entirely trust Smoky and Ritz to valiantly defend us in the event of mountain monkey attacks.

Lalita, our host grandmother of sorts, deals us equal measures of sass and pampering (well, maybe a bit more pampering). We call her amaji, which means "mother." I call Marielle diidi, meaning "older sister," and she calls me chhoti, meaning "little one." I am not terribly pleased with the latter arrangement, but then again, we live in a palace so whatever.

This morning we visited Lakshmi Devi Academy, the school run by KHEL Charities, where we'll be volunteering for the next two months (sidenote: KHEL stands for Kindness, Health, Education, Laughter and literally means "to play" in Hindi). The students are bright and adorable. They had prepared an elaborate welcome for us with marigold wreaths, songs, dances, a speech and Indian toffees. The eighth graders have invited us to go on a picnic with them at the local zoo. It looks like Marielle is going to be teaching a lot of tae kwon do while I do more music and science.

Things we are looking forward to: getting cotton shalwar kameez made for teaching at Lakshmi Devi Academy, finding a bookstore, hiking in the Himalayas, going to the grocery store with our amaji Mrs. Lalita Arya to pick out more yummy goodness, and going to Rishikish for a lights ceremony.

So yes, c'est dur dur dur dur d'être Jacqui.

Blasting The Geezer Point

2012-03-14T12:44:00.000-10:00

I am suffering a bout of insomnia, and rather than waking Jacqui with my tossing and turning I've made the executive decision to write on the blog instead and break the cycle of mildly hallucinogenic spanish monologues in my head.

(The story behind the monologues is: I read that most people can improve or maintain their linguistic abilities in languages they don't regularly speak by having interior monologues. Since I only speak french and english here, save the occasional skype convo in castellano, when I find it hard to sleep I have banal gabfests in español, normally involving me "arguing" with a waiter in Barcelona. It allows for the maximization of my profane lexicon.)

About the name of the blog post, I have a delectable mystery for y'all. There is a sign in our hotel bathroom which declares "Geezer Point Can Blast If Left On For For Than 15 Minutes." What, my friends, is a Geezer Point, and what happens if it blasts? We've left on every switch in the bathroom in the hope that something will happen, but three hours into my sleepless wait NOTHING HAS OCCURRED.

"Indian English" is the most amazing dialect in the world. I entertained myself all this morning with the newspaper whilst waiting for Ms. Cosette and debating over whether to spare the $1.75 for an Indian omelet delivered to my room. You have headlines like "PM Dishes Out Snub" and an article about how a political figure likes her "elevensies." If you don't know what elevensies are, you have been missing out.

I also counted the number of times I was called "madam" while ordering bottles of water (eight) and was whole heartedly confused when the newscaster spoke hindi and english all mixed up. What does this meeeeeeeaaaaan?

I'mma go try and sleep for the next 45 minutes, wish me luck!

Namaste

2012-03-14T09:21:00.002-10:00

India Gate

WE ARE TOGETHER IN DELHI!

This despite a nearer-to-death experience than Delta Airlines would be comfortable publicly admitting, getting stranded in Charles de Gaulle, getting stranded again outside of the Delhi Airport, and many other wondrous adventures that will hopefully be forgotten soon. Our grand reunion mainly consisted of crashing on the hotel bed and parceling out generous portions of chocolate from our combined stores. In the evening we went with our friends Keshav and Dishant to see the India Gate, and now we're getting ready to take a 6 am train to Dehradun, where we'll be living for the next twoish months.

Our (perhaps overly) sheltered Scandinavian taste buds are going through a sort of gastronomical boot camp. We blushed and gasped our way through a delicious dinner including peppery sweet corn soup, potato-stuffed naan, Kashmiri chickpeas, daal with red beans, cubes of cheese, cucumber yogurt, tomatoes, and anise with sugar. Keshav and Dishant judged us for our struggles.

The main impressions thus far have been the sheer force of such a large population (traffic, oh my god), the amount of English both spoken and written throughout Delhi, and the yummy food. I for one am homesick for my family in Senegal and also Odie Gandalf the Minnesotan dog/angel. However, I can't wait to see Dehradun (AND we've been told that there are four Bollywood theatres in the one city, all of which cost four dollars or less). Dance parties are imminent!

Watching Cartoons in Hindi

2012-03-13T20:29:00.000-10:00

Currently enjoying immensely the strangest (and politically rather iffy...) cartoons in hindi. I can follow the plot only because every seventh word is in english. And some of the words are food, which I have down pat.

Jacqui, get heeeeeeeeeeeere.