Photo post: forts, vegetables, independence

I’m trying to avoid typing too much as my arms hurt lately, but here’s a quick blog post ofsome recent sights. Last weekend we took a tour of the three major forts in the Jaipur area. This photo is on the road to Amer Fort:

Apparently you can take an elephant ride up to the fort, though we were such a big group that this was not an option for us.

The forts are, as usual, breathtakingly intricate and beautiful. If only we could rent one of these for our wedding reception! (Actually, we could, it’s just prohibitively expensive…)

India has such beautiful old buildings. Hundreds of years old, crumbling, and lived in. They’re fascinating to look at. I think I could just look at old buildings all day.

From Amer fort there is an old wall that extends around what used to be the capital of Rajasthan. It reminds me of the Great Wall of China except, well, smaller.

Beautiful.

Old, old, OLD paintings in the fort:

A view from the top of one of the forts out over the city of Jaipur:

I just liked the little turret thingies:

I was telling my friend Bill the other day that I’ve gotten rather fond of the fruit and vegetable carts that are pushed around the streets every day. We ran into this fellow outside our school one day:

On August 15th, India’s independence day, we went out shopping. We saw some people celebrating on the street. Ironically, a number of people wished us “Happy Indian Independence Day.” In English.

Okay, back to work! I’ve got a ten-page paper due tomorrow and I’m only on page 6!

photo post: qawwali, the famous pigs, and Teej

I’ve been working on getting some photos uploaded and compressed for web viewing. This first batch is a bit old. Tomorrow I’m hoping to put up photos of the three forts we visited yesterday, but for that I need a faster computer than I have today. Unrelated to any of this is the dance party music that is blaring from the park across the street. Which just started playing a techno version of “Caliornia Dreaming” which is very, very weird. Two months I’ve been here and this country continues to surprise me.

Also in unrelated news, I bought a beautiful white saree that has incredible embriodery on it and I’m going to have it made into a wedding dress!

Here is a photo of the qawwali w went to. The two guys with microphones are the ones who did most of the chanting and singing.

Here you can see the pigs eating garbage off the slimy, wet ground. The public urinal is in the back right side of the photo (the pink and white building).

Last week some housemates and I and Aunti-ji went to the local arts center which was holding a celebration for Teej, a local Rajasthani festival.

My housemates (Mariel, Chelsea, Shilpa) and Aunti-ji

They had food and a small baazaar. Kind of like fairs in the US.

Here you can see cots that people are sitting on–it’s common to see people sleeping on these everywhere: the sidewalk, in front of a restaurant, etc.

The trees were all done up with christmas lights!

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Was it worth it?

Some people have been asking me if this trip was “worth it.” Figuring out the answer to this question means I have to define “it,” which I’m assuming means the pain and unpleasantness that I’ve experienced here. And for a few weeks now, my answer has been, “No, it wasn’t worth it.” With the caveat, of course, that one’s perspective on these sorts of things changes over time. Five years from now I may be very glad that I went, because I’m sure my life will be very different and leaving for India for three months will not be an option.

Still, though, what is the value of this trip? Was it worth the pain? I missed Matthew’s 30th birthday. I missed Bill & Jessica’s wedding, and Nina and Patrick’s wedding reception. I missed being able to vist my grandfather, who was undergoing treatment for cancer. I missed spending time with Matthew’s family, some of whom have now moved to Texas. That’s a lot of important things to miss, and for what? I’ve gotten better at Hindi, but my experience here has been so painful that I doubt I’ll do any major research here–I may study India, but I have no interest in spending large amounts of time in this country. So what use will Hindi be anyway?

The value of this trip, I realized last night, is that it has made my priorities abundantly clear to me. The glamour and excitement (so to speak) of doing international research is useless if I can’t be with the people I love. Matthew, our families, our friends…without these, what joy is there in life? How can I even consider spending months or years far away from the things that make me happiest in this world?

There was a headline the other day in the newspaper that read (I am not kidding you): “In India, even God would feel helpless.” And it’s true. India is like a force of nature. Things happen, there’s so much that goes on, and you can control precious little of it in this country. One really is at the mercy of things larger than oneself. Over and over again in this country, images of mortality have made an indelible impression on me. That we are so tied to these soft and breakable bodies is an enormous tragedy. And it makes me all the more ready to be home, with people I love, in places I love, because we never know what life might bring our way.

I’d hate to see what the Harlem of Jaipur looks like

First, an apology: I managed to get sick. AGAIN. No stomach problems this time, just an intense fever and general aches. It’s passed now, but it kept me busy for a while. (Meaning: it kept me buried under multiple blankets in 84-degree heat for a while.)

Second, some appreciation: Last week I received a care package from Matthew and some letters from my mother and it was wonderful. Both of them sent pictures and cards, and in the box from Matthew there was home-baked cookies, lots of dried fruits, Nutella, and SOFT TOILET PAPER. Now I know I am loved. And as Matthew pointed out, I’ll think of him every time I wipe my butt with the plush goodness that is American toilet paper.

On the afternoon that I was walking home from school with that package, it had just rained and the streets were wet and puddley. There is a corner by our house where there is a community piss pot, I think I’ve mentioned this, the olfactory nightmare in which men pee at all hours of the day and night. Next to this is a dumpster, whose trash is more often on the ground than in the dumpster, and around which dogs, pigs, and people tend to gather, picking through the trash. As I walked pass this corner on the day that I received my present in the mail, I saw a puddle from the recent rain nestled in the midst of a rather wide pile of trash.  And in the middle of this filthy puddle, with garbage floating all around it, an enormously fat pig was wallowing gleefully. The scene was perfect: the heavy stench of urine and waste and largest pig I have ever seen wallowing in filthy water surrounded by garbage. I thought to myself, This is India. My entire trip can be summed up by this one scene. And I still regret that my hands were too full to get out my camera and take a picture.

In one of our dinner conversations about how we don’t really have to worry about terrorist bombs, someone pointed out that our school and our house is in the “Fifth Avenue” of Jaipur. Or the “Upper East Side” of Jaipur. We apparently live in a classy neighborhood. Who knew? From the harassment, stench, filth, garbage, human waste, poverty, beggars, dirt, dust, trash, and sewage, I would not have imagined our neighborhood to be one of the upper-class neighborhoods of Jaipur. I will never, ever, EVER take for granted again my nice clean street in Madison, with its functioning sewer and water, electricity that runs consistently, and a notable lack of livestock roaming the streets. Never.

Thoughts I wish I didn’t have

I hate to say it, but when an Indian person on the street is polite or nice to me, I’m shocked. For better or worse (I suspect for worse) I’ve become accustomed to the harassment, the rudeness, the glaring, and the general disrespect. So yesterday when I was walking home and a woman pulled up in front of me on her scooter, I was a little apprehensive.

Turns out she just wanted to talk. She either studied or taught at the local university (I couldn’t tell which) and she gave “private tuitions” in my neighborhood. She wanted to know what I was doing (traveling or studying) and why I was learning Hindi. The latter is a very good question, one I ask myself on a daily basis. Why AM I learning Hindi? My answer always jokingly starts with “Indian food” and everyone laughs, but it’s probably the best reason I’ve got.

Anyway, unlike the crazy family we met in Dharmshala, who continues to call me at all sorts of weird hours and keeps instructing me to come visit Jammu/Kashmir (yeah, right), the lady I met yesterday was very nice and we had a short conversation and then she drove off. It was quite pleasant and made me smile. And she didn’t insist on getting my phone number, either, which was a relief.

The other good news is that I’ve either become accustomed to the weather, or the temperatures have eased a little bit. There’s been some rain recently, so I think that helps. Lately I seem to be NOT soaked with sweat when I arrive at school, which is excellent. It’s amazing how even slightly cooler weather can lift my mood.

On a more somber note, the bombings in Ahmedabad and Bangalore (and the 18 bombs found undetonated in Surat) have put everyone on edge. People keep saying that it can’t happen again in Jaipur, but I’m (obviously) a little nervous. Terrorism takes on a whole new meaning when you’re in a country where public areas are frequently densely packed with people, public transportation has no security, religious tensions are high, and violence seems both random and particular sadistic. In Ahmedabad the terrorists bombed the hospitals, for god’s sake. It makes me nervous about any future traveling, especially the traveling that Matthew and I were going to do at the end of the trip. Among my fellow students, I seem to be somewhat alone in my nervousness. They say that if you change how you live your life than the terrorists have won. But if you pay with your life, haven’t they won then, too?

Dharmshala: The Tibetan Government in Exile

I have finally gotten the photos up from our trip to Dharamshala last weekend. It was beautiful and mountainous and foggy and mysterious and refreshing. I can see why the Dalai Lama wanted to live there. We stayed in a hotel perched on the mountainside. Our hotel is the leftmost white building in the picture below:

On our first day in Dharmshala we took a hike to a waterfall. I couldnt tell you how we got there, as the route twisted and twined down some small paths and roads, but at least the way was marked for us:

This is Megin and me just at the start of the hike. Notice how dry we are.

And this is Clare and I just at the beginning of the hike. Notice the fog ominously rolling in.

The walk was not too long (maybe a few kilometers). About halfway through it started to rain, and about three-fourths of the way through it started to POUR. When we reached the top there was a beautiful waterfall with Tibetan prayer flags above it, fluttering in the breeze.

At this point we were soaked, and being creeped out by some men up there who kept trying to take my picture, so we went back down the path and stopped at one of the several chai shops along the way. Here is Clare and Megin. Notice how they are not dry, not at all.

At the chai shop we met a man who, I am convinced, was a magician or wizard or some such. He was doing something with his bright rainbow umbrella, trying to fix something, but I couldnt understand what or why. However, it clearly necessitated turning his umbrella inside out and shaking it at the sky a few times.

The city itself is cute, and small. the streets are narrow and some of them are twisty and some of them do not allow vehicles. It is a rather pleasant place to walk around, and we did a lot of walking.

On the second day we went to tour the Dalai Lamas monastery. Outside there were things written in Tibetan and carved into stone, which were beautiful but incomprehensible.

The monastery is, as one might expect, modest. Aside from two beautiful rooms for religious activities, most of it was plain and painted a pleasing yellow. And there was even some laundry hanging outside. Who knew that monks do laundry?

Inside the religious activity rooms were beautiful statues of various Buddhas. In front of the statues were offerings of money, dried fruit, dried spices, and many, many boxes of cookies. Who knew that the Buddha liked Chips Ahoy?

This is Megin, Clare, and me, in front of the statue pictured above. It was a wonderful trip (we even managed to find a Baskin Robbins Ice cream stand!) and the weather was gorgeous. Everything was green, and lush, and wet, and cool. This is in complete contrast to Rajasthan, where everything is hot, dry, brittle, and painful.

If I could have stayed longer I would have loved to have time just to sit on the mountainside and contemplate the sky. As it was, we had to come back for classes. But when I next go to the mountains, I will plan to stay long enough to absorb the peacefulness.

Is it really pig-napping if the pigs don’t belong to anyone?

At dinner last night we got into a lively discussion about whether the street animals are owned. The consensus was that cows and goats generally have owners, dogs generally do not, and pigs inhabit a proprietary no-man’s land somewhere between private property and public garbage disposal. Cows and goats are good for milk and sometimes meat, but what are pigs good for, in this heavily muslim town? We couldn’t figure it out. Also, how do people keep track of who’s animal is whose? And where do the animals come from? And where do they go at night? And why are they here, in the middle of the city?

Mathu, one of the Hindi students who lives at the Gandhi house with me, mentioned that she witnessed a pig-napping the other day as she was walking home from school. Apparently, two men had taken the back seat out of a rickshaw and when she walked by they were busy stuffing a pig into the rickshaw where the seat used to be. She thought maybe the pig belonged to them, but then why were they taking only one pig when there were many nearby? Which made her wonder…was it a pig-napping? And if it was, It begs the question: WHY?

Sick

Last night I had the most painful illness I’ve ever had, and thankfully it was mercifully cut short by the antibiotics I brought with me. I’ll spare you the details and just note that I don’t have much interesting to say today because I’ve been throwing up and/or sleeping for the last 24 hours.

I do have the Dharmshala photos uploaded and will get that post online asap, I promise!

An Indian man was nice to me, and an unrelated but funny cultural clash

Up until now every interaction I’ve had with an Indian man in public (i.e., outside of school) has been neutral at best (we ignore each other) or assault at worst (they grab a handful of my backside). There’s been a remarkable dearth of men who are polite and pleasant to talk to (again, outside of school). However, yesterday I had my first not-horrible experience with an Indian man on the street. As I was walking out of school, I met a man who sells water purification systems (of all things). He had seen all the foreign students coming in and out of the apartment complex where our school is located, and he thought maybe we all lived here and needed water filtration systems. I told him we lived scattered around the city, and he looked disappointed. He gave me his card and said if anyone needed a water filter, could I please pass along his card? I tried asking him some questions, like whether most families had a filtration system, how many they company sold a month, what was wrong with the Jaipur water, etc. He answered as best he could. Quite notably, he did NOT hit on me, whistle at me, grab me, or holler obscenities at me. I count it as a successful interaction.

I talked to my host family here about getting a wedding dress made while I’m here, since tailors are inexpensive. The family got really excited and wanted to make it as colorful as possible. Rajasthani wedding outfits are always very bright and shiny, with lots of embroidery, detail, and jewelry. Someone told me that Indians wear pure white as the color of mourning. Clearly, we had a cultural misunderstanding– they kept trying to add lots of color to the dress we were designing, and I kept trying to explain that a lot of color is not appropriate on a wedding dress. Except I was trying to explain why color was inappropriate without saying anything about, ahem, “purity,” and I completely failed. At the end of the conversation they were still insisting on purple and pink flowers embroidered all over. Maybe I’ll hold off on having a dress made here. My host mother thought that 32,000 rupees (about $800) would be a reasonable amount to spend on a dress. I told her there’s no way I can afford that and she looked perplexed. Weddings over here can have hundreds of people and be a week-long affair, so $800 for a dress seemed like nothing when compared to the rest of the spectacle.

Today I have two new adventures awaiting: a trip to the post office, and a trip to pick up my clothes from the tailor’s. Should be interesting. The friends I could ask to go with me are sick, and I dread walking down the street alone.  Although I’m getting better at ignoring the harassment, it’s still exhausting. But, alone it is.

The Golden Temple and the India/Pakistan border

We just returned from a five-day whirlwind tour. Megan, Clare and I went to Amritsar, site of the Sikh’s most holy temple (called the Golden Temple). Because Amritsar is only about 20 or 30 minutes away from the India/Pakistan border, and because I like to give my father things to worry about, we went to the evening border closing ceremony while we were there. In fact, it was the first thing we did after checking into our hotel.

Both countries have bleacher seating on their own sides. The seating was on concrete risers that were hotter than…well…hotter than anything I’ve ever experienced. The hot seating combined with the weather meant that we all felt like we just might die of heat stroke. Anyway, India’s side was notably colorful, with people singing, waving balloons, and dancing in the streets (to Bollywood music, of course!).

Pakistan’s side, on the other hand, was quiet, still, and BORING. Tell me, which country knows how to party?

Soldiers from both sides (pictured below are India’s soldiers) would shout, stomp their feet, march swiftly to the border and back again, and just generally put a lot of very silly machismo on display. There was an MC leading the audience in cheers, and the Pakistan soldiers (who I couldn’t see very well) were doing something similar on their side, though clearly the Pakistan side was just not having as much fun. Or they weren’t allowed to have as much fun, I’m not sure which.

And finally, on our way out, this rather startling sight of Indian soldiers patrolling the border.

The next day, we visited the Golden temple. Both women and men must have their heads covered and shoes removed. Everyone takes a foot bath on their way into the temple (these are the large white rectangles that you see in the photo; they contain about 3 inches of water and everyone must walk through them before entering).

Inside, the temple is a brilliant gleaming gold, surrounded by a large pond of holy water and a white marble complex. It’s quite beautiful. The water has holy properties, and many people were bathing in it. There was even an opportunity for visitors to drink some of the holy water, but we declined.

Inside the golden temple itself were beautifully decorated rooms filled with the devout, chanting and singing and praying and meditating. It was a total contrast to the Muslim shrine we had visited earlier in the week (which I have yet to blog about, I know). At the Muslim shrine in Ajmer, people were pushy, loud, the the crowds literally crushed us (I had a hard time breathing, that’s how tight we were) and several women were groped (lousy people at the Muslim shrine! How dare they do that, ESPECIALLY in a holy place?). The Sikh Golden Temple, on the other hand, was peaceful, entrancing, and people were gentle, and kind. It was like night and day. We walked through the several stories of the main temple (where we can’t take pictures, unfortunately) and saw many old men with beards and the Sikh turban chanting and praying. On top of the temple I saw a lot of Indian people taking pictures, so I figured that pictures were okay and asked Megin to take one of me. Turns out pictures weren’t allowed up there. Oops.

After touring the temple and eating prasad (or rather, failing to eat it, as Megin’s prasad had a large, dead wasp in it), we sat under some shade and watched the crowds and meditated to the chanting. It was one of the highlights of the trip for me. I have never found it so easy to meditate. The experience was unbelievable–my mind felt expanded, and detached, and completely at peace. And we were not the only ones with this idea.

After this we went back to the hotel, where we hired a taxi to take us to Dharmshala. I know, it sounds expensive, a taxi for a 7-hour drive, but it really wasn’t that bad: about $80 (total) for the three of us. For our own personal taxi! We though it sounded great, until the hotel told us that “if anyone asks, you must say the car belongs to your friend.” WHY? We were very persistent in asking why, and they would not give us a straight answer. This gave us cause for alarm, so we called Matthew and asked him to keep track of us and make sure we got to Dharmshala okay. Turns out when we got there we had no phone reception and no way to call Matthew, so the poor man was in a bit of a panic until we finally located a public pay phone.

I will post about Dharmshala in a separate entry, as it really is another story entirely.