Kate In India

The Final Post

2006-06-24T09:29:00.000-04:00

Well I am home safe at last. Allow me to say for the record that 15 hours on a plane is at least 10 too many. Wowie. Apart from being too long the trip was okay—a few noisy kids, a few people who appeared to have been suffering from tuberculosis, but otherwise not bad. My first night at home, I dreamt that a rat was in my bed and didn’t fully awaken from the dream until I had flung myself out of bed and turned on a light. Clearly the emotional scarring created by the Mt. Hermon Rodent Posse will take some time to heal.

This will be my last posting for Kate in India. My journey is over and thus so is this blog. I’ve created another one at www.kathlynnsworld.blogspot.com but I haven’t decided yet how much I’m going to keep blogging. I’m not sure that my musings on life in Pittsburgh will really merit continued posting—somehow without tigers, huge spiders, monsoons and typhoid fever I’m not sure I’ll have enough to be witty about. We’ll see.

But to end this blog, I wanted to reflect back on some of the things I learned while in India. When I really started thinking about it, there are a lot of ways in which my knowledge has been enriched through my experiences there. I’ve learned practical life lessons such as:

How to cook curry

How to use a wood stove without burning down the house

How to crazy quilt

How to use a pressure cooker

How to purify drinking water

How to set up a tent

How to perform a successful “squat pee” under a variety of circumstances including in the toilet of a moving train

Other, perhaps less practical (but still extremely worthy) life lessons including:

How to wrap a sari

How to win a confrontation with a monkey (okay, so I never really mastered that one but I understand the theory)

How to identify the call of an octet owl

How to haggle with a rickshaw driver

How to ride side-saddle in a skirt on a motorcycle

How to recognize a cobra plant and to identify this as a herald of impending monsoon

How to exchange pleasantries in Hindi

How to slack line (it’s like tightrope walking—notice I do not claim to be good at it)

How to tell if a litchi is ripe

And I’ve learned a few things about myself:

I get carsick on mountain roads

I can handle mice and big spiders in my living quarters

I cannot handle rats in my living quarters

I can walk confidently through the jungle by myself at midnight (and yet I cannot walk confidently across the street in Pittsburgh by myself any time after dark)

I actually do like (some) small children

I can move to a place where I don’t know anyone for 7,000 miles and make friends and a life for myself

I am not happy unless I have a functional kitchen

I enjoy the occasional hike

Happiness has very little to do with your circumstances and everything to do with how well you are able to adapt to them

So there you have it. Move to India (or any foreign country) and you’re sure to come back a little more confident, a little more self-aware and with all kinds of fun new skills. I suggest you try it.

Cheers!

One Last Goodbye

2006-06-20T09:34:00.000-04:00

The time has come for the final farewell—it’s time to say goodbye to India. As I post this, I am waiting for the taxis to come and take me to the airport and at this time tomorrow I’ll be back in Sycamore.

There are certainly things about this country that I will not miss—molding clothing, the smell of the Bazaar, rodent-infested living quarters, deranged drivers, and gigantic spiders among other things. But there are many more things that I will miss very much when I leave this place.

I will miss my walk to school every morning, stomping along the path, enjoying the breeze and keeping my eyes peeled for pine martens and langurs. And waking up on a Saturday morning and hearing the rain drumming on the corrugated metal roof, knowing that I don’t have to go anywhere today.

I will miss the colors of India, the bright greens of the trees, the purples and pinks and reds and yellows of the mountain flowers, the bewildering array of patterns, designs and hues of the saris and salwar kameez that decorate the bazaar. And I will miss my snowy mountains, and popping outside in the morning to see if they’re visible through the clouds, greeting them like old friends if they are. I will miss lying in the grass outside Mt. Hermon, listening to the sounds of children chattering in Hindi at the employee house below ours.

I will miss my Woodstock family, especially Joanna—my kindred spirit this year in a place often defined by its overwhelming strangeness.

I will miss “ji,” that wonderful respectful title—somehow so much more natural to me than “sir” or “ma’am” ever could be. And I will miss the graceful physical greeting (and leave-taking)—palms together and uplifted, head tilted in a slight bow of acknowledgement. “Namaste!” I will miss Bollywood movies and Bangra dance parties.

I will miss the donkeys with their bells, trotting up and down the mountainside burdened with bricks, or cement, or milk jugs. I will miss the clanking of cowbells. I will miss looking up at the stars--so incredibly bright and amazingly close on those Himalayan nights. And looking out over the Doon Valley, twinkling lights spreading out into the darkness until they disappear into the foothills.

I will miss riding on the back of a motorcycle, hair blowing in the wind, recklessly denying the danger inherent in the ride. I will miss my yoga classes—the stretching, the breathing, the “relax your spleen.” I will miss naan and butter chicken and momos and dosas and samosas and ladoos. I will miss going out to a good dinner and having it cost $1.50.

I will miss wearing saris and gigantic earrings and having that be normal professional attire. I will miss seeing the children in all their native finery, proud of their heritage. I will miss teaching, for all that it sometimes drove me crazy. I will miss hearing the babble of multiple languages going on around me—English, Hindi, Chinese, Punjabi, Korean, Japanese, German, or some combination of them all.

India is not the sort of place that you can ever forget. It gets under your skin and inside your heart, whether you want it to or not. I am not the same person I was when I came here and I am happy for the changes. So namaste, India, and thank you. Farewell for now, but hopefully not forever.

Delhi Again

2006-06-19T04:45:00.000-04:00

I am in Delhi for a few days before I leave the country. It's the first time I've been anywhere but Mussoorie by myself in this country, and while somewhat daunting, I am enjoying the experience. For one thing, I love auto-rickshaws. Weird, I know. But they're just so fun--puttering along crowded roads in those ridiculous green and yellow, three-wheeled transports. Plus, they're earth-frendly--all the rickshaws, taxis and busses in Delhi run on natural gas. It's cool.

My purpose in spending time in Delhi was to pick up my wedding dress and then allow time for the inevitable alterations. Fortuantely, there don't need to be that many. The dress doesn't quite look like the pictures I gave him, but I expected that so it only took me a few moments to get over the initial disappointment and realize that the dress is quite lovely in its own right--and now even more unique! The bridesmaids outfits are Still Not Finished despite multiple conversations and his assurances that they were. Sigh. I just spoke to my tailor, though, and he claims that even now, his minions are scurrying off to Old Delhi to find the appropriate material for the missing dupattas. I'll believe it when I see it but I haven't lost all hope yet.

The best way to kill time in Delhi is to shop, of course, and I've succumbed somewhat to the "I'm leaving Indian and might never have a chance to buy this sort of stuff again" mentality. Somehow I bought ten pairs of shoes yesterday. The sparkley fun kind. In my defense, five of those pairs are for the wedding. The other five...well...they were just all so pretty, darn it! White sparkly, pink sparkly, multi-colored, leather-tooled sandals. Yummy. And of course I bought a few more shawls/scarves, just in case. Repacking tomorrow will be quite a challenge, but I think I'm up for it.

I also have finally been bitten by the Su Doku bug. I bought "Su Doku for Dummies" to take on the plane but cracked it out early. What fun! My first puzzle--desiganted "realy easy"--took me about 40 minutes, but I'm getting better. There are 240 puzzles in the book so I figure the 15 plus hour flight home should be a breeze!

The first goodbyes

2006-06-13T05:20:00.000-04:00

The inevitable good-byes are underway and as much as you try to prepare yourself for them, it still hurts more than you expect. How do you say goodbye to the people who have been closest to you for a year of your life and whom you might never see again?

This morning, I put my four best girl-friends into a taxi and wished them well, waving and blowing kisses while they drove away and trying desperately not to burst into tears. I failed of course, and even typing this makes the lump in my throat return. It finally feels real, now. I am leaving Woodstock and soon this amazing year will be a memory, slowly fading with time. I will see some of my friends again, I hope, but there are many more that I will not and that is a hard thing to accept.

Middle School Explained

2006-06-06T04:46:00.000-04:00

What a difference a year makes…

I think that the fundamental differences between the middle school grades can really be illustrated by examining how they chose to spend their time during their final half-hour period with me. I let them choose the activity and simply made sure the volume stayed at a somewhat reasonable decibel level and that no one broke anything.

The sixth graders all played an orderly game of taboo together.

The seventh grade girls worked on Shakespeare word searches while the seventh grade boys drew inappropriate pictures on the white board whenever they thought I wasn’t looking.

The eight graders played a variety of games related to rock/scissors/paper but which included smacking each other on the hand (or sometimes head) when you lost.

And that, in a nutshell, is middle school.

Expo

2006-06-06T01:22:00.000-04:00

On Saturday, in the midst of a frenetic weekend that included a music concert, yoga, a trip to the Bazaar, a party, a moving sale and a dinner invite, I also attended the second annual Woodstock Expo. This event is supposed to be a cumulative experiential learning project done by the tenth and twelfth graders after they finish their exams. They work in small groups with a faculty advisor and come up with an interactive project that they then present to the rest of the school on a designated day. Unfortunately, it comes at a bad time of year when the kids are already on summer break mode, their faculty advisors are stressed by end-of-year craziness, and no one is really thrilled about the idea of giving up a Saturday morning to look at projects.

However, I was pleasantly surprised by several of the projects and the day turned out to be fun after all. There were seven major themes: World Cup (soccer), Bicycles, Music, Science Olympics, Public Art, Graph Theory and Global Issues. Within those large divisions there were three subgroups doing distinct projects related to the larger theme. The rest of the school was divided up into groups that went around and saw one subgroup in each large group. Each touring group had a mixed bag of elementary, middle and high school students to encourage mingling between the schools. I co-chaperoned with another teacher and we led our children around to the various projects, sometimes participating, sometimes just watching.

Some of the groups were disappointing because they were either unfocused or hadn’t put any work into their project. But some were pretty cool. At the bicycle group we learned that balance is the most important element in bike riding and got to practice balancing on a very skinny beam while holding a large stick with weights tied to the ends. There was a lot of falling off and a small amount of balancing. And we also got a demonstration involving watermelons of why you should always wear a helmet while biking. Melons really do well as representations of the human head. They smush impressively and ooze red stuff.

Then in graph theory (which sounds snore-inducing, I know) I learned that you can color in any map of the world with only four colors and not have any of those colors directly border each other. Betcha didn’t know that!

“Public Art” was really just a display of a collection of student work from throughout the year. Not particularly interactive but I enjoyed seeing it. I had no idea we had such talented students. There were some amazing pen and ink drawings and several good paintings. As one who is artistically challenged I really like to see what other people can do.

In the music group we were asked to create a dance to a folk song. This did not thrill many members of my group (particularly the high school boys) but it was Miss Lockard to the rescue. I taught them some very basic steps—like “join arms and twirl around”—and we bounced around the room for a while. My partner was an eleventh grade boy who was traumatized by the experience of being forced to dance with a teacher.

Jeopardy!

2006-05-31T23:26:00.000-04:00

I realized yesterday why people go into teaching. It’s because when you put together a good lesson and the kids really take to it and you can see that they are having fun and learning at the same time, it is a truly indescribably great feeling. You just want to prance through the halls exclaiming “YES! I have just made a difference in those children’s lives.” Even if all you did was play a game.

This is the last week of classes and the kids are pretty much tuned out. They have come to expect a parade of videos in the last weeks and demand to know “are we watching a movie” the second they enter the classroom. I would have succumbed to the lure of the TV myself this week but other teachers beat me to the punch and I couldn’t book it for my seventh or eighth graders. What to do? And then it hit me – Jeopardy! The kids love playing games so much that they don’t even notice when you sneak in actual learning.

So I sat down for several hours and came up with a 50 question Romeo and Juliet Jeopardy for the 8th graders. 10 questions in 5 categories: Movie Madness (they watched the DiCaprio version earlier), Character Clues, Story Stumpers, Who Said It, and Shakespeare Trivia. I actually had a great time coming up with the questions and – wonder of wonders! – they had a super time playing it. We actually spent the entire 80 minute period playing and the kids were really into it most of the time. Interest waned toward the end of the first round when it was clear that the boys were going to soundly defeat the girls. But they all perked up again when I reminded them that in round 2, point values double and it’s anybody’s game.

I was very impressed by how well they all knew their material, too. There were some hard questions and they knew most of them. Here’s a few sample questions—how well do you know your Shakespeare? (answers at the bottom)

Movie Madness for 300 -- What is Friar Laurence’s tattoo?

Character Clues for 200 – How is Tybalt related to Juliet?

Story Stumpers for 500 – Why will Rosaline not have Romeo?

Shakespeare Trivia for 300 – What are the three genres of Shakespearean plays?

Who Said It for 500 – “Peace? I hate the word, as I hate hell…”
(Bonus points if you can complete that line)

FINAL JEOPARDY QUESTION: How old is Juliet?

Answers:
The friar’s tattoo is of a huge Celtic cross on his back
Tybalt is Juliet’s cousin
Rosaline has vowed to live a life of chastity
The three genres are comedy, tragedy and history
Tybalt spoke those lines and the rest of the verse is: “all Montagues and thee”
Juliet is 13 years old

How did you do?

Whizz-popping

2006-05-30T07:53:00.000-04:00

You know you teach middle school when you end the school day with songs about farting swirling around in your head. As a treat for the sixth graders, I showed them an animated movie of Roald Dahl’s famous children’s book, The BFG—the heart-warming (and yet gross) story of the Big Friendly Giant and the little girl he befriends.

Perhaps the most memorable scene in the book (and now, apparently, the movie) involves whizz-popping and a drink called frobscottle. Frobscottle is much like soda pop but instead of the bubbles going up, they go down. Thus, instead of burping when drinking—which is considered unspeakably rude in the BFG’s world—the gas comes out the other end. Voila! Whizz-popping!

In the movie, there is a lovely ode to whizz-popping in song form, wherein Sophie and the BFG leap around the screen, propelled by the gas from their rears while singing:

Whizz-pop whizz-bang, feel the bubbles go down!
Whizz-bang whizz-pop, bouncing all around!

It’s a cute scene, and unfortunately the song is really catchy and tends to stay with you. I’ve been muttering “feel the bubbles go down!” under my breath all afternoon. And when asked what it is that I’m humming, I serenely reply “a song about farting.”

Ponytail

2006-05-30T07:34:00.000-04:00

I wore my hair in a ponytail to work today...

Wait, maybe you didn’t hear me the first time. I said, I wore my hair in a ponytail today. For your information, it has been literally 10 years since I was able to pull my hair into a ponytail. I chopped it short when I was a freshman in high school and never looked back.

Until I got engaged, tried on wedding dresses and realized that short hair just isn’t all that “bridal.” I had visions of romantic up-swept tresses and dangling tendrils and my bobbed, ear-length locks just weren’t going to cut it (no pun intended) so I’ve been growing out my hair since last May. However, my hair is obstinate and ornery and simply refuses to grow at the standard 3 centimeters per month. It prefers a rate of more like 1 centimeter and so has crept ever so slowly downward over the last year. And at long last, I can create a short pony tail. Or even pigtails if I feel so inclined. It’s all very fun.

Of course, now my ears stick out alarmingly like a bat’s (or perhaps an elephant) but that is a separate problem.

Kamikaze Mouse

2006-05-25T05:52:00.000-04:00

The following story was initially contained in an e-mail to my friend Suzy who gets credit for inspiring me and shall henceforth be known as Suzy Muse, which sounds ever so nice…

Wanna hear a mouse story? I know you do! I never get tired of telling them so of course it stands to reason that no one ever tires of hearing them. Mwa ha ha.

In any case, we have a stupid and/or kamikaze mouse in our kitchen. Or maybe a whole fleet of them, it's tough to tell with mice. Two nights ago, I was chopping up some mango in my kitchen when a flurry of movement to my left caused me to leap into the air, uttering a maidenly cry of distress. And there was a wee mouse, lurking under my shelving unit. So I briskly rattled the shelves hoping to scare him away. But the little bugger wouldn't go! I poked at him with a spoon and then he ran, but only as far as the end of the counter where he proceeded to hide behind some melons, thinking he was invisible there. Then he kept coming back out under the shelves. Rattle. Flee. Hide. Return. Repeat. The whole time I was in there! I was in mortal fear that he would suddenly turn totally deranged and race across my cutting board and possibly up my arm and into my hair, where he would then nest.

And then last night he was back again! I had to sit in the kitchen the whole darn time I was baking, to guard my cooling muffins, because I was sure that if I left them alone even for an instant, I would return to find a horde of ravenous mice getting a free dinner. So I sat there, alone, at 10 o'clock at night, jumping at every small noise because I was sure it signaled the arrival of the mouse horde. Or perhaps a rat horde, the mice being scouts for a larger and more terrifying menace. And I did, in fact, spy 3 mice (or the same mouse three times) throughout the course of the baking spree. And I shrieked every time. Damn things.

Reiki

2006-05-24T23:28:00.001-04:00

One of the intriguing things about living in India has been experiencing (second hand!) Eastern medicine in action. Our yoga instructor is also a specialist in a variety of other arts including “twist therapy,” acupressure and acupuncture with which he claims he can cure anything from the common cold to cancer. We remain politely skeptical. But last night I got to see another kind of therapy, called Reiki. It’s actually a Japanese healing art that involves channeling a spiritual energy into healing. It’s sort of like Christian laying on of hands, except that the healer doesn’t actually touch the patient, just hold his or her hands above and sort of cleanses the patient’s aura.

Our yoga instructor brought a pupil from another class with him last night to observe our class and she is a Reiki master. My friend Brian broke his back a few years ago and still has chronic pain so she asked if she could perform Reiki on him. He agreed so we settled down to watch. And it was really fascinating. First she rubbed her hands together and then held them a few inches apart for a few seconds. Then, keeping her hands about 5 inches above Brian, she swept them down and along his body, with a little wrist flick at the end, for all the world like she was sweeping the negative energy away from him.

Then she circled him a few times before deciding where to begin. She knelt at his side and then, sort of picked at the air above him in various areas and in differing patterns. She held a stone between the fingers of one hand and drew designs in the air with it. Perhaps it should have been silly but somehow it wasn’t because she clearly seemed to be responding to something. She would pause, hold her hand still for a bit, then begin again in a slightly different area. The idea is that she was pinpointing areas of pain (which can be felt as heat) and then drawing them away.

The process lasted about 10 minutes and finished with another round of sweeping movement. Brian wasn’t too wowed by the experience, though. He said he felt a little bit better but not perfect. Then again, I think that with most healing, it’s a matter of degree. You can't expect to feel 100% better immediately after one treatment of anything, be it western medication or eastern energy channeling. If you feel a bit better, that’s a good thing. Of course, I’m not going to be signing up for acupuncture or twist therapy any time soon. I’m brave enough to watch but not to participate!

English

2006-05-24T05:40:00.000-04:00

Wow. Just when you think you know the English language…you hang out with British people. Last night was a potluck end-of-year party with my book group—a chance to hang out together one last time, bid bon voyage to those members who are leaving Woodstock, and stuff ourselves with tasty treats. It was also an opportunity to try out a charade-type game that my friend Melanie owns. Melanie is British. The game is British. Most of the members of book group are American. Let the good times roll.

The point of the game was just like charades—act out a word or phrase and have your team guess. The twist was that the words and phrases were supposed to be well-known English sayings. They came on little cards with six phrases to a card and you were supposed to get through as many as possible in a minute. Sometimes this was not a problem – phrases like slippery when wet or quick on the draw were easy enough to act out and understood by all.
But then we entered the hilarious realm of “weird British phrases no one outside the island has ever heard of.” Take, for example cocking a snook. Or playing conkers. Or comparing cucumbers at the allotment Or, my personal favorite hanging nuts for the blue tits. Not only was it impossible for us to act out these “well-known phrases,” we were also incapable of even reading them aloud without collapsing into tear-inducing gales of laughter.

The best thing about the game, though, was watching Melanie respond to these bizarre sayings. She knew them all and would nod understandingly while the rest of us stared in bug-eyed confusion. Then she would realize that we were all lost and explain, in tones of incredulous exasperation that of course "cocking a snook" means to look down your nose at someone. And that a blue tit is a bird and they like nuts so you put nuts outside for them. Well, of course.

Bittersweet

2006-05-22T07:33:00.000-04:00

These last few weeks have been a blur of activity and this weekend was no exception. Friday night, Joanna, Anne and I played host to a pack of 17 rambunctious middle schoolers in a night of crafts, cards and cooking. Joanna kept order during rowdy card games while I taught the basics of crochet and Anne oversaw baking and frosting sugar cookies. It was really fun for me to be able to interact with the kids I teach in a non-class setting where we can relax a bit more and, if not shrug off completely, at least loosen the bonds of teacher-student relationships.

Then Saturday was Jazz Jam, an annual music event taking the form of an outdoor café-style concert. The advanced jazz students performed music ranging from big band swing to the canteen music from Star Wars and students and staff took turns reading poetry, sometimes even original compositions. The audience was arrayed at tables in the Quad and in theory there was food. I say “in theory” because they ran out of all the good food (momos, pizza, ice cream floats, etc.) within about 20 minutes of the start of the program. Alas. But we still had a grand time. Louise and I cha-cha’d in the back and cheered on our friends Melanie and Scott as they wowed us all with their swing abilities, much to the fascination of the students who really aren’t used to middle-aged British couples flinging themselves about.

Sunday was the last chapel of the semester and the devotions were given by staff members leaving at the end of the year and seeking to impart a few last words of wisdom. It also happened to be Brian’s birthday so twelve of us dutifully trooped back to his house after chapel for cake and cookies and ice cream. In the dark, as it turned out, since the daily thunderstorm brought with it the daily power failure. But there’s something fun about birthdays by candlelight. And the sight of Brian opening his gifts with a headlamp attached to his forehead will not be soon forgotten by any of us!

For the first time, though, the weekend’s festivities took on a bittersweet tone in light of the impending farwells. As I sat in the Quad, listening to Laura croon to “Girl from Ipanema” or smiled at Kevin’s devotion in Chapel, I couldn’t keep the sadness from creeping in, just a little bit. One month from now I will home again having said goodbye to India and many friends, perhaps forever—friends who have been like family this year in this strange place where home is so very far away for us all. Woodstock is a transient community and every year brings with it countless goodbyes. Leaving will be hard for me and I imagine it must be even harder for those veterans who linger on, making new friends and saying goodbye to them in a never-ending cycle of happy memories and tearful farewells.

Water

2006-05-16T22:57:00.000-04:00

I can now add a new item to my list of “first-time experiences” that I’ve been accumulating in India. This morning was the first time I have ever washed my hair in a rainstorm. Literally – in a rainstorm, not during a rainstorm. There I was at 6:30 this morning, attired in mesh athletic shorts and a t-shirt, standing on our porch and leaning out to stick my lathered head into the runoff from our gutter.

Why, you ask, was I doing this? Was I having a moment of hippie-ness and trying to be a conscientious environmental steward? Well, no. I was showering in the great outdoors because we are now going on day THREE of no water at my humble abode. None. No showers, no washing dishes, no flushing the toilet. No nothing. I have no idea why we are high and dry but I suspect it has something to do with all the construction that’s been going on at a near-by apartment. They messed with our pipes to put in their pipes and something seems to have gone awry. Yesterday I just went to work dirty but I simply could not face another day without a shower. I had planned to go over to a neighbor’s house and use her shower but Fate conspired against me.

Just in case it wasn’t enough of a hassle to have no water, this morning we also had no electricity. And that meant that my neighbor’s shower wouldn’t be hot since we have electric geysers and if I’m going to take a cold shower I might as well use the free stuff falling from the sky. Which it was (and still is, as a matter of fact) in a torrential flood.

So I am clean (except for my feet which are mud-caked from the slog to school) but grumpy this morning. That rainwater was really really cold and I suspect I didn’t get all the shampoo out because I showered in record time. I sent a curt e-mail to the Person In Charge Of Such Things inquiring as to when we might expect running water and invoking the name of my sick housemate in an attempt to encourage speed. Being home sick with typhoid is bad enough. Being home sick with typhoid and no running water is just inhumane.

Poetry in Motion

2006-05-16T07:33:00.000-04:00

Another fun-filled day in teacherland. Jamie’s typhoid is refusing to leave without a major struggle and so for now I’m still Miss Lockard, English Teacher. Today I had two sections of 6th graders for 80 minutes each. I was looking forward to it because the sixth graders are legendary for being fantastic – they answer questions without prompting, love to read aloud and actually request to do extra projects. Dream children. And my hopes were not dashed, although I still felt like a bit of an overworked sheep-dog by the end of the afternoon. No matter how lovely the children are, by the end of an 80 minute period just before school lets out, they get squirmy to say the least.

Currently the sixth graders are doing a unit on poetry so we started the class by reading several poems aloud. I was looking down into my teacher’s manual while talking – “Okay, I’m going to need a couple volunteers to….” And as I looked up, I realized that every hand in the class was already raised. Wow. Although I have to confess that I wasn’t a huge fan of the poetry they were reading :

See the kitten on the wall

sporting with the leaves that fall.

Really, I expect more from Wordsworth.

The assignment for the day was an exercise on poetic imagery, particularly as it relates to the senses. I gave them all a piece of candy and they had to fill out a poetic chart creating similes, metaphors and rhymes and picking out “vivid” adjectives with which to describe their sweets. They all cheerfully furrowed their brows, buried their noses in thesauruses and set to work. The results were pretty funny.

Miss Lockard, what rhymes with oval? (ummm….)

Is it a simile if I say my candy is like sweet? (no, try again)

Miss Lockard, is ‘bananish’ a word? (no, but use it anyways—points for creativity)

Does anything rhyme with sugar other than booger? (not that I can think of)

Miss Lockard, people with jaundice are yellow, right? So can I describe my candy as ‘jaundiced?’ (absolutely)

I ate my candy and now I don’t know what it tasted like, can I have another? (no, you weasel. I told you not to eat them until you were done.)

At the end of class, as a reward for hard work, we played a rhyming game. The kids all sat on their desks (a treat in and of itself) and one person said a word which the others then had to rhyme to, around the circle, until someone faltered. So I would say “cat” and then it’d be “sat!” “fat!” “at!” “mat!” “ummm…snat?” OUT! On to the next word.

It was pretty fun and very amusing to see what interesting new words were created as the list of possible rhymes dwindled. I particularly enjoyed the rhymes for “easy” like “greasy” “sleezy” “cheesey” etc. We bent the rules a little on that one and also admitted “peasy” because it sounded cool. This is what I like about teaching English. Silly games like that are actually educational. I pity the math teachers. "Okay, time to play Name That Math Term!" Poor dears.

Promotion

2006-05-11T07:56:00.000-04:00

Well, thanks to the typhoid outbreak, I’ve been promoted. I’m a middle school English teacher now. My housemate, Jamie, is the real teacher but she’s one of many down for the count. The school is getting desperate and having a really difficult time covering classes. It’s one of those things you don’t immediately think about when signing on to work at a boarding school in the middle of nowhere—you can’t just call in substitute teachers from the next district when someone gets sick. The teachers you have are the substitutes you've got. The healthy teachers are handling extra classes and non-teachers are being pressed into service whenever it seems like it might work. So I’m covering Jamie’s classes until she’s well again.

And, wonder of wonders, I love it! I’ve only had a couple classes so far but I can feel myself getting excited. There is something really magic about teaching middle school. On the one hand, the kids can be pretty rowdy and are prone to giggle at everything but the payoff is that their minds are so open. They’re still at that point where what you tell them is new and exciting and you are in the position to light their enthusiasm and help them love the subject you’re teaching.

The 7th and 8th graders are both studying Shakespeare (which in itself is pretty cool—we didn’t touch Shakespeare till high school at my school). A Midsummer Night’s Dream for grade seven and Romeo and Juliet in eight. I’m familiar with R&J but had never read Dream and so raced through it yesterday. Good play. I highly recommend it. Then today I found myself spending my free periods pouring over teaching guides in search of insight into how to present the topics and looking for fun activities. I really want to be more than a warm body babysitting the kids until their teacher gets well. I’m not at all qualified to teach, but English is something I’m good at and I hope I can bring something to the classes.

Right now the kids are being good for me and I really hope it lasts. Middle schoolers are, by nature, an alarmingly energetic bunch and keeping their attention for 80 minutes will be a challenge. Plus they’re prone to silliness. And immaturity (which I realize goes with the age). So it was really no surprise to discover that the character “Puck,” when his name was written on the board, quickly gained a new initial letter when my back was turned. Giggles all around. Sigh. Wish me luck!

An Old Friend

2006-05-08T04:04:00.000-04:00

This Sunday I got to see an old friend. In a moment of energetic enthusiasm I agreed to chaperone a middle school hike on Sunday. Ordinarily I’m not much of a hiker but a) we were promised that this was the most beautiful hike ever in the history of the universe and b) our hiking director has typhoid and needs all the help he can get. So I signed up. We were supposed to leave at 12:30, but when dealing with middle school this really means at least 1pm after last minute water bottle checks are completed and final runs to the bathroom taken care of. We loaded up a bus and drove about an hour, across Mussoorie in the direction of Kempty Falls. We offloaded near “Camp Lake Mist” at the base of one of the mountains and hiked back into and then up out of the valley.

And it truly was one of the most gorgeous places I’ve been to around Mussoorie. The hiking was steadily upward but not too challenging and the path was wooded and crossed several streams. So we stopped frequently to splash about and giggle and climb on fallen trees. (This is what is so great about hiking with sixth and seventh graders—they find everything so exciting).

At one point, I was bringing up the rear when up ahead I heard the girls shrieking and saw them fleeing from some creature. Great. The children are being mauled by a wild animal. But, upon closer inspection it proved to be just a dog, barely more than a puppy and clearly more interested in licking the girls than consuming them. I calmed them down and said hello to the pooch, who then began to look strangely familiar as she wiggled about in front of me. Our lead chaperoned mentioned that we were near Brentwood Sanctuary and the pieces fell into place. It was Basanti, our puppy friend from the start of the year. Brian had briefly adopted her and then given her to Brentwood Sanctuary when it became clear that keeping a dog just wasn’t feasible. She was quite a bit bigger now but still the same cheerful and loving creature she had always been. Once the kids had been informed of her identity, they lost their fear and, for the most part, enjoyed her company. She followed us for about 2 hours, usually leading the pack and happily licking everyone she could reach whenever we took a break.

The weather was cool and breezy. The scenery was lovely. And we had a frolicking canine companion. Perhaps I should go on more hikes.

Barbecue

2006-05-08T03:56:00.000-04:00

Saturday afternoon we had a music jam at the Wildman’s house. Pete and Dot are a fantastic middle-aged British couple who stand in nicely as parent figures for all of us lonely singletons. They have a great house just above school level with a nice terrace and fabulous interior decorating. It is definitely the “homiest” of the staff homes I’ve seen. And they like to entertain, so on Saturday afternoon everyone was invited up for a good old fashioned barbecue. Those with musical instruments brought them, everyone provided food for the grill, and we all hung out for several hours singing, laughing and snarfing large quantities of food. Very Large Quantities. Not many people have grilling capabilities here and we all got a little over-excited at the prospect and ended up with about two tons of meat. Chicken hot dogs, shrimp skewers, lamb kebabs, pork chops, chicken breasts. A smorgasbord of carnivorous delight.

And then there was the music. Pete plays a mean guitar, knows half the songs in the world and can fake his way through the other half. Louise is fantastic on fiddle, JT accompanied on the electric keyboard, Laura took over the bongo drums and Lorenz and Brian also strummed guitar. It was great! We had song sheets full of classic rock songs from “All You Need is Love” to “Tambourine Man” and “Can’t Help Falling In Love With You.” So the adults sang with wild abandon while the children stared at us is confusion and demanded to know who Bob Dylan was. As the evening slowed down, Louise played some fiddle tunes and Lorenz sang a few Austrian folk songs. I’ve decided these are really best when you don’t understand them. Radha translated a few verses of one song and it was something about how being alone was worse than eating rats. Somehow it sounded far more romantic in German!

The other great thing about family-friendly gatherings, of course, is the presence of small children to worship and adore. Baby Anderson (also known as Petra) made an appearance, sleepily charming all she met. And Lorenz and Radha’s son Joseph is a perpetual favorite; a happy-go-lucky one year old with a penchant for playing the bongos. The older children cheerfully “khud-climbed”, scrambling all over the mountain side like goats and attempting to give their parents heart failure. A lovely time all around.

Disease

2006-05-05T03:48:00.000-04:00

My housemate Courtney headed back to the States earlier this week to recover from typhoid fever. She’d been fighting with it for about 3 weeks—oral antibiotics, IV antibiotics, home rest, hospital rest, diet, you name it—and they eventually decided she’d recover better at home. Now it looks like Courtney was just the first of many to become diseased. I would hesitate to call it an “epidemic” but just today 3 staff members and 1 staff child were diagnosed with the bug. I’m not sure what the total sick person count is, but alarmingly, the four most recent casualties all live near Mt. Hermon and we all share a common water supply. Coincidence? We hope so.

The tough thing is that it’s so darn easy to come into contact with bad water. At first it seems like the simplest thing in the world to avoid: only drink filtered water. But that’s really just the beginning. Take dish washing: we wash our dishes in tap water and once they’re dry there’s no problem, but often things aren’t quite dry when you pick them up. When you remember, you can dry them out with a napkin but sometimes you don’t even notice. Or maybe you accidentally get some water in your mouth while you’re showering or space out and rinse your tooth brush under the tap. Or you dutifully wash your hands after using the restroom but they’re not quite dry when you head into lunch and grab that roti off the buffet line.

So now we’re all paranoid. The most common symptoms of typhoid are exhaustion, body ache, a low-grade fever and occasionally some nausea. Well, those are also typical symptoms of any general malaise and the common cold so it’s tough to tell what you’ve got—impossible without a blood test, actually. And it’s the end of the semester so everyone is exhausted. But now, the minute you feel tired a little voice starts chanting “typhoid, typhoid” and suddenly you feel warmer than usual—is that a fever coming on? One month to go. Fingers crossed!

MELA

2006-05-01T04:19:00.000-04:00

On a more positive note, Saturday was MELA at Woodstock School. MELA is an annual food and shopping event that is basically like a big cultural art fair, with all the proceeds going to a scholarship fund. It takes place in the Quad and there are stalls set up outside and in the dining hall. The Development Office even set up a little “café” on one of the balconies overlooking the Quad, complete with tables for two and coffee. This year’s theme was Rainbow Nation so multicolored pennants and streamers adorned the balconies and railings and flags representing all the students of Woodstock were strung between the buildings.

Many of the shopping opportunities come from NGOs from around India who sell handmade goods and it’s that much easier to spend your money when you know that the necklace you’re buying is supporting a Garwhali women’s shelter or a leprosy mission. A few of the merchants from the local Bazaar were there too, like the Tibetan ladies who sell fun jewelry made of huge glass beads or hand-worked silver. I was seduced by a fantastic bracelet/ring combo—the kind with a bracelet that is attached to a ring by fine chain/bead strands. I imagine it’s the kind of thing that a princess would wear.

And there’s always plenty to eat. Local restaurants set up food stalls and hawk biryani, momos and kebabs while the students man booths selling ethnic food. The Japanese kids had flavored ice slushies and the Koreans sold their equivalent of sushi, called kim-bap. The 9th graders opted for a hot dog stand and walked around with trays of dogs, shouting like baseball stadium pros.

Then there is dancing, again a chance for the students to showcase their cultural heritage. The Korean girls performed a dance with fans and groups of Indian and Bhutanese students each put on quite a show. Even the elementary school kids got involved with a dance of their own which was incredibly cute—wee people from a variety of backgrounds prancing around self-consciously in full Indian apparel.

The clothing is probably what I enjoyed most about the day. The students were encouraged to wear “national dress” for the MELA and they did so with wild abandon. This is what is so great about working at an international school—students who normally blend together in a sea of jeans and t-shirts at school suddenly transform into icons of their cultures. The Japanese girls wore kimonos and the boys had gorgeous robes. There were beautiful saris and flashy salwar kameez. At least one German girl donned a dirndl and our Russian student, Boris, even sported a military-style jacket and tall hat.

Death stalks Mt. Hermon

2006-04-30T22:34:00.000-04:00

Thursday night my housemate Ethan discovered a renegade rat in his room. And then proceeded to bludgeon it to death with my walking stick. I may never recover and I didn’t even witness the event.

Brian, Laura, Joanna, Courtney and I were all minding our own business in the kitchen when Ethan charged into the room to announce the presence of the intruder. Brian immediately joined him in the chase and from the kitchen we could hear thumps, bangs, and masculine hunting noises (such as the occasional primal grunt). Courtney had gone with to watch and encourage, and ran back and forth between the apartment and the kitchen with reports – “it jumped into his bed!” “They’ve got it cornered!” etc. Eventually all was quiet. Then, because boys really never do grow up, Ethan decided to bring his treasure into the kitchen to show us all. Thank you, Ethan.

But wait! The story doesn’t end there. Last night there was another rat execution at Mt. Hermon. This time the nasty little bugger made an appearance at a Farewell Courtney (heading back to the States to recover from Typhoid Fever) dinner party we were having. It was a warm evening so we had all the food on the table in the sunroom and we were sitting outside on the porch. Suddenly, Joe looked up and nonchalantly commented “hey, look at the little mouse.” Little mouse? Little mouse? Yeah right. Big honking rat racing across the floor and eyeing the table of goodies with his beady little eyes.

Ethan was off somewhere so it was up to Brian and Joe to dispatch the rodent (the ladies of the group being otherwise occupied standing on chairs and screaming). Brian grabbed the walking stick. Joe grabbed a paintbrush. I’m not making this up—the closest thing at hand was a large paintbrush that he brandished ferociously as he charged into the fray. They cornered the rat behind a potted plant and Brian got in a lucky whack with the stick. Good bye rat.

Except that after they had heaved the carcass over the back fence, Brian got an attack of conscience revolving around whether it was really dead. What if it was only wounded and therefore suffering? So, in the dark, he climbed over and around our barbed wire fence to find the rat and put it out of its misery.

As funny as these stories are in hindsight, I am getting really sick of the whole rat situation. I spent three hours on Saturday cleaning and rat-proofing the kitchen as much as I could. I bleached the counters, washed everything we ever even think of eating off of and put all items of food in plastic containers. But there’s still an enormous hole to the outside behind the refrigerator and inevitably there are crumbs and whatnot for rat snacking. Sigh. I’m counting the days till June.

Crunchy

2006-04-27T03:37:00.000-04:00

Well, my decision not to eat dessert at school anymore (part of the larger "no one likes a pudgy bride" campaign) was justified thoroughly this noon when my dining companion bit down on something crunchy in her apple crumble. The crunchy item in question turned out to be a cockroach, baked into the dish. Anyone want seconds?

On Modesty

2006-04-26T00:33:00.000-04:00

Perhaps one of the most interesting cultural phenomena to observe while traveling is the concept of modesty. What body parts are deemed to be too sexy to be seen? What kind of outfits are considered racy? What is “appropriate attire?” It varies wildly the world over and figuring out what’s what is an important step to fitting in to your host culture.

Yesterday I was wearing a funky long, purple and gold tunic that covered my bum and sported a modest neckline. I was also wearing a shawl, despite the warm weather, because the shirt was sleeveless and showing bare shoulders is not acceptable at Woodstock (or Mussoorie generally—in a big city like Delhi the rules change). And yet on Friday I will don a sari that will expose massive swaths of my lower back and tummy to the world—and that’s no problem. Stomach display is considered perfectly normal and nothing to think twice about, whereas in the US (though the category of “unacceptable dress” is shrinking daily) that kind of midriff baring would probably raise some eyebrows, particularly in a school setting. But Americans don’t bat an eye at naked shoulders. That’s fine.

Perhaps what makes these differences so interesting is that really there’s no “reason” for any of the cultural fashion mandates. There is nothing inherently more sexy—or even sexy at all—about a shoulder, or a stomach, or an ankle. It’s just that particular societies have deemed some body parts titillating and others not. I’d love to find out how or why these cultural norms came about but I suspect the answers are lost to history.

Full Circle

2006-04-26T00:20:00.000-04:00

Today I am wearing a lovely pink and orange tie-dyed dupatta with little shells tied on in place of fringe. It's gorgeous and I'm getting lots of compliments on it -- "It's so Rajasthani!" they all exclaim.

Well, yes, it probably is. But it was purchased at Target in the good old US of A. My housemate's mom saw it, thought it was funny that it was made in India and sent it to her. I fell in love with it and have confiscated it. So it's made a full circle. India to the US to India. The world is a funny place.

Proverb

2006-04-23T22:36:00.000-04:00

Proverb for the Day:

She who lies outside reading for hours will sunburn the backs of her knees.

Reflection for the Day:

Having sun-burnt knees sucks.

Sari magic

2006-04-19T04:10:00.000-04:00

Friday night in Delhi we went to the Indian Habitat Center for an art exhibition opening. But not just any art exhibition—it was the first solo event done by our colleague and friend, Joe Demetro. Joe is the wacky High School art teacher that everyone loves. He works primarily in abstract painting as well as sculpture and I often don’t “get” his work, so I was a little nervous about the show but definitely wanted to be there to show my support.

My fellow Delhi-goers and I decided if we were going to an art gallery we were doing it right—suits for the men-folk and saris or dresses for the ladies. So we swanked out and spent about 5 hours at the gallery, listening to Joe give lectures, nibbling on elegant snacks, and gaining an increasing appreciation for the art. At the start of the evening, it was all pretty bewildering to me and while visually interesting, I couldn’t really say that I “liked” any of it particularly. But after hearing Joe explain some of the pieces, and after gazing at them for numerous hours, they grew on me until, by the end of the night, I was exclaiming over how much I loved “The Army” and how I wanted it for my house. Go figure.

As fun as the show was, the most memorable part of the evening was the responses Anne and I got from Indian men to our saris. Good heavens. Around Mussoorie, most everyone is used to Westerners in Indian clothing and so we don’t really get much attention at all when we wear salwar kameez or even saris. Apparently in Delhi, this is not the case. I was wearing a bright orange sari and Anne (blond and blue-eyed) was dressed in green and we attracted a truly astounding amount of attention. Some of it was very positive and affirming—as when one very proper and polite waiter at the restaurant we went to for dinner stepped forward as we were leaving to quietly announce “I just had to tell you how great you two look in your saris,” accompanied by enthusiastic head-nodding from the other waiters.

Some of it was weird, though. We got stared at a lot at the Habitat Center and seemed to be having a particularly strong effect on a certain Indian math professor who was wandering around the exhibit. We met him early into the evening, he complimented our outfits, and I thought that was that. Little did I know that he was keeping tabs on Anne and me all night and repeatedly approached another friend of ours to rave about our outfits as well as our decorum. “Oh, don’t they look lovely in their saris.” “And such demure ladies! See how they haven’t touched a drop of alcohol all night!” etc. etc. ad nauseum.

And then, toward the end of the night (after consuming a fair quantity of alcohol, we suspect) he once again cornered Anne and me to continue his review. We were informed that we were “ideal Indian ladies” and that we fully and brilliantly fulfilled his mental image of what an Indian woman should be. Okay, fine. A little strange and socially inept, but fine.

But then it became clear that he seemed to think that this miraculous state of Indian femininity had been achieved through our living in India. He commented on what a positive influence Indian culture must have had on us to cause us to be so refined and lovely! By this point I was tired of him and somewhat pissed off by the implied criticism of my own culture and we bid him a somewhat curt adieu.

I love my saris and I shall not be deterred from wearing them by the fact that some men are overly fond of the look. However, I think I would be uncomfortable in one if I was ever out and about alone and will stick to group events.

PS – As a fun postscript, as I was writing this blog, I got a call from the guard at the school gate to inform me that my tailor had arrived with, you guessed it, more saris for me. BRIGHT pink chiffon with matching pink blouse and a gorgeous red cotton sari that was purchased by my great-grandmother over fifty years ago. I’m so excited! My friends and I have declared Fridays “sari” days and dress accordingly. Fun!

Delhi Again!

2006-04-18T03:20:00.000-04:00

This weekend was Quarter Break and we got a long weekend free so I headed for Delhi with five buddies for a weekend of eating and shopping. And not just any shopping, as it turned out—it was actually out-of-control-impulse-shopping-gone-wild. In fact, the only plausible explanation that I can offer for my current state of financial destitution is that I was possessed by an evil spirit which caused me to mistake rupees for Monopoly money and therefore spend with wild abandon.

It was fantastic. We browsed saris, haggled over salwar kameez, tried on dozens of sparkly shoes (I managed only to buy three), reveled in the abundance of produce and foreign cheese and generally had a fabulous time bouncing all over the city. I swear we hit most of the major neighborhoods and markets: Khan Market, GK1, INA, Dilli Haat, Pahar Gange, South Extension, Connaught Place, Janput Street, Nehru Place—you name it, we probably spent money there.

And the food! Ah, the blissful experiences of slurping a real milkshake (i.e. made with ice cream and not watery milk), chowing down on sun-dried tomato pasta in cream sauce, and even having a bacon cheeseburger. Yes, I got to eat beef. We went to the restaurant at the American Embassy on our last night in Delhi and splurged on super nachos, burgers, steaks and anything else we could think of to eat.

Anne, Joe and I even made an effort to be cultural on our trip, via a trip to Humayan’s Tomb. It’s a lovely site, with well-kept lawns and beautiful Moghul architecture for the tomb itself. The tomb area is so calm and serene that it’s hard to remember you’re in the middle of an overcrowded, polluted, sweaty third-world city.

So I’m broke but energized and ready to hit the last two months of my stay. Hard to believe, but two months from today I will have left Mussoorie for the last time and will be on my final few days in India. Time flies!

The Changing Times

2006-04-10T22:30:00.000-04:00

In response to a query from one of my loyal readers: the Health Center now uses empty film canisters for collecting "samples" from ill patients. Talk about gross. Plus then you have to bring it in! I wrap mine in a paper bag and slink inside the office. But everyone knows why you're there when they see the little bag. And of course, for those of you who don't know Woodstock, the staff tea lounge is directly next to the Health Center so there's always an array of colleagues sitting outside and sipping tea as you march in to the nurses to present your little package. Bleah.

On Illness

2006-04-10T04:31:00.000-04:00

When you live in India, illness is a fact of life. The water can make you sick. The food can make you sick. Your roommates can make you sick. If you can think of it, it can probably upset your stomach. The prevalence of all this illness has brought with it a certain degree of comfort in discussing discomforts that I had not experienced in the US and which, to be perfectly honest, I’d rather not experience here. My friends and co-workers aren’t at all hesitant to talk about intestinal parasites and stool samples over lunch. The latest symptoms and diagnoses are the subject of much tea-time talk and a few weeks ago, when I confessed to not feeling entirely well to a high school girl I barely know, she casually asked—without the slightest hint of embarrassment—“diarrhea?” I can barely bring myself to type that word, much less utter it aloud to a virtual stranger! I was mortified.

Luckily, even though we get sick regularly, most everything is curable today. We take antibiotics for the bacteria, “flagelle” for the amoebas, bed rest for typhoid, lactobacil (the “good” bacteria) for pretty much everything, and hope to hell we're not doing permanent damage to our systems with all the drugs we're ingesting. The younger crowd tends to get sick more than the seasoned veterans. I think this is due in large part to the fact that we can’t bring ourselves to swear off of “Bazaar food” as many old-timers have long ago. The rational part of our brains realizes that the restaurants in the Bazaar are dirty, gross and would make a US hygiene inspector go into cardiac arrest. But it’s yummy food and so when the school cafeteria deals us a particularly unkind blow, we find ourselves chowing down on questionable food off dirty plates and imagining we can already feel our insides roiling. Pass the salt and hand me the antibiotics.

Science Fair

2006-04-06T06:28:00.000-04:00

Today is the middle school science fair. I somehow can’t remember ever taking part in such an event, although I do have vague recollections of trying to build a carton that would protect an egg dropped from a considerable height and of putting great effort into constructing a gorgeous volcano that really spewed. I just can’t connect these memories with a specific, juried event.

My deprived childhood aside, what a fun thing! I spent a very enjoyable half an hour wandering through the school cafeteria which has been transformed into a staging ground for serious scientific experiment and is now overflowing with posters, beakers, burners, potted plants, magnets, basketballs, diapers, boom boxes, and other paraphernalia in addition to an array of small children eager to tell you about their discoveries. One smartly-attired sixth grader (complete with red tie) informed me that listening to a fast song inevitably increases your heart-rate, although listening to a slow song does not guarantee a decreased heart rate. Another pair gravely avowed that the reason girls had higher blood pressure than boys was probably because they worried more about things like diet and clothing. They also determined that “older people” (i.e. eighth graders) had higher blood pressure than “younger people” (i.e. seventh graders) again perhaps because of stress—contemplating high school can make anyone nervous.

I also learned several scientific tidbits applicable to everyday life. For example, a team of boys (!) discovered that an Indian brand of diapers called Baby Soft outperformed both Huggies and Pampers in a carefully controlled soak-age test. This is information everyone needs to have! And my suspicions that coca-cola is not the best liquid for watering plants were confirmed. Apparently mango juice isn’t very good either, but bottled water is fantastic. Even the tap water produced zero germination in the seeds (which is sort of funny considering all the interesting things tap water can make grow in one’s small intestines).

I came away feeling proud and even, perhaps, a bit smarter.

Why caution is necessary when using e-mail

2006-04-05T23:24:00.000-04:00

We use Microsoft Outlook as out school e-mail system and overall I really like it. One of the nice features is that when you get a new message, a little balloon pops up in the corner of your screen, showing who sent the message, the subject and the first line or so of the note. Ordinarily this is a very handy thing. But there can be occasional problems.

For example, yesterday, after receiving some annoying news I e-mailed my school friends a quick note with the subject of “Damn.” It just so happened that my housemate Ethan was showing a movie to his class of 8th graders via his computer so his computer screen was largely projected onto the classroom wall for all to see. And then, into the corner of the movie, comes an e-mail popup that says “damn.” Isn’t technology great?

Keeper of the Zoo

2006-04-05T06:05:00.000-04:00

Woodstock is broadly divided into two main schools—the High School and the Quad School, which encompasses both elementary and middle school. I work primarily in the High School and never really spent much time in the Ankle-Biting and Pre-Pubescent Sector. Until now. There is only one librarian in the Quad School library and her brother is getting married so, in true Indian style, she’ll be gone for two weeks (that is some party!). So I am filling in as the sole controlling agent amidst the chaotic ebb and flow of small children in search of reading material.

It really can be alarming. I’ve gotten somewhat used to the insanity of the High School. They’re loud and obnoxious but I can relate to them and usually control them with a mixture of humor and sarcasm. I’m not quite sure what to do with smaller kids. I brace myself each time a tidal wave of pint-sized people pours into the library, shrieking – “where are the Wally books?” “How many books do I have checked out?” “Can I go back to my locker? – and leaving a wreckage of shredded paper, forgotten belongings and un-shelved books in their wake.

But of course it’s not as bad as I make it sound. Many periods are very quiet with only a handful of library frequenters. And even when it’s busy, little kids are adorable and the ones who are just learning to read with confidence are my favorite. They come in, faces alight with the joy of accomplishment, and proudly return a just-finished book before prancing off to find another.

Someone came up with the truly brilliant project of Reading Around the World. We’ve pulled aside a number of books, fiction and non-fiction, from or about the 7 continents and each participating child is responsible for reading one book from each area. When they finish a book, they come racing into the library because we put a sticker on that continent on a large wall-map. Once they’ve completed all 7 continents, they get a prize. Much enthusiasm abounds, although minor altercations do occasionally break out, stemming from a general dearth of books on Antarctica in our collection. The ones we do possess are in hot demand.

So overall I’m having a grand time as Quad Librarian/Zoo Keeper. And if there’s mayhem, at least it’s amusing—it’s hard to take yourself too seriously when a large part of the job consists of saying things like: “Tristan, please stop body-slamming the stuffed gorilla.”

Punctuated Equilibrium

2006-03-30T01:23:00.000-05:00

Well, I think I may have proven the evolutionary theory of Punctuated Equilibrium (the idea that evolution doesn’t happen as a continuous action but is characterized by plateaus of non-change and then sudden leaps). How did I achieve this scientific marvel? Yoga, of course.

I’ve now been doing yoga classes three times a week—for a total of 5 hours—for a whole month. When I first started, I wasn’t super thrilled with the classes, in part because they just highlighted what a weenie I am. We always start with ab exercises and I suck at those. And I’m not as flexible as I imagined myself to be. My instructor said not to worry, that in a month I’d be much better. “Ha” I thought. And for the next three weeks I seemed to be right. I went regularly and worked as hard as I could but didn’t see much improvement.

And then—suddenly!—I became a Yoga Queen. Seriously. This Monday, everything just clicked and I am now about 10 times better than I was last week. I have no idea how or why but I can do more leg rotations and evil leg raises. I held my poses so perfectly that I got a “wow” from our reticent instructor. And my leg muscles finally decided to stretch. I am one of those people that is doing good to touch my toes. And yet Monday night, there I was, sitting on the floor, feet straight out in front of me, with my Head On My Knees. Yes, that is correct. Head On Knees. I felt like Gumby.

So there you have it. Punctuated Equilibrium. No longer just a scientific theory. Now an exercise fact.

2006-03-28T21:39:00.000-05:00

I’ll be honest. I don’t like poetry. Never really have. And I’ve slowly stopped being embarrassed about it. But even I, tone-deaf to verse, can be touched by the truly great. Like Alice Walker.

facing the way

the fundamental question about revolution
as lorraine hansberry was not afraid to know
is not simply whether i am willing to give up my life
but if i am prepared to give up my comfort:
clean sheets on my bed
the speed of the dishwasher
and my gas stove
gadgetless
but still preferable to cooking out of doors
over a fire of smoldering roots
my eyes raking the skies for planes
the hills for army tanks.
paintings i have revered stick against my walls
as unconcerned as saints
their perfection alone sufficient for their defense.
yet not one lifeline thrown by the artist
beyond the frame
reaches the boy whose eyes were target
for a soldier’s careless aim
or the small girl whose body napalm
a hot bath after mass rape
transformed or the old women who starve on muscatel
nightly
on the streets of new york.

it is shameful how hard it is for me to give
them up!
to cease this cowardly addiction
to art that transcends time
beauty that nourishes a ravenous spirit
but drags on the mind
whose sale would patch a roof
heat the cold room of children, replace and eye.
feed a life.

it does not comfort me now to hear
thepoorweshallhavewithusalways
(christ should have never said this:
it makes it harder than ever to change)
just as it failed to comfort me
when i was poor.

--Alice Walker

Starry Night

2006-03-28T21:14:00.000-05:00

It was an amazingly clear and beautiful night last night. The lights of the Doon Valley were visible for miles and miles and seemed to twinkle as we admired them from our yard. And I got to see an old friend—the Big Dipper. I am very fond of the Big Dipper since that and Orion are the only two constellations I can ever locate with any degree of certainty. All of first semester, my star buddy wasn’t visible and I felt somewhat bereft. I have no idea if the Big Dipper is actually visible at all times in the US—I’m lucky to see the stars at all. But here there was something about seeing this amazing array of constellations every night and not seeing the one I like best that was distressing. I caught one brief glimpse when I happened to be up and outside at three a. m. (Activity Week – I was throwing up outside my tent. Ah, the memories). But now he’s back and for some reason this makes me happy.

Unexpected Audience

2006-03-24T03:28:00.000-05:00

I think that one of the most unexpected pleasures that I’ve gotten from blogging is the comments that people leave. When I started this blog, I was basically writing for my parents and my grandfather. He attended Woodstock School as a boy and I wanted to be able to give him regular updates on my experiences so he could see the Woodstock of Today through my eyes. It never really occurred to me that anyone else would read it!

And so it’s been lovely to learn that other people follow and enjoy what I write. And the “comment” phenomenon is great. My friend Emily shares her own experiences in London that correlate to mine (such as a very funny discussion of Al Fresco Peeing) as well as cooking tips and general humor. And my other friends drop a line every now and again.

The second category of comments come from people I don’t know but who happened upon my blog for some reason. Sometimes this is annoying—as when some rabid and ridiculous Indian men took offense at a posting. But more often, it’s lovely. I’ve particularly enjoyed receiving notes from two Ex-Woodstockers who share their own memories and experiences. Keep ‘em coming, Preya and Rhonda!

And sometimes, a blog can help you re-connect with people you’d lost track of. For example, I suddenly got a comment from my roommate on an archaeological dig in Israel during the summer of 2000. Wicked cool. I love it!

So despite feeling slightly self-conscious to actually have an audience for my ramblings, I do love to get “hellos” so Thank You!

An Attempted Mugging

2006-03-23T03:54:00.000-05:00

Okay, okay, I know everyone is probably sick of monkey stories but this one is short and way too important to skip. It fully illustrates and gives credence to the amount of fright I feel whenever I see one of the nasty creatures lurking in a tree or stalking along the side of the road.

Two evenings ago, my housemate Courtney was returning to Mt. Hermon after a brief shopping foray to the Bazaar. Her backpack was full so she had (albeit foolishly) tied a bag of grapes onto the outside of her bag. She noticed a crowd of monkeys around the gate at the entrance to our house, but vowed to walk firmly and confidently through them. This plan was going well right up until the moment when a large Rhesus monkey launched itself off the fence and onto her backpack. It was trying to get the grapes, not actually attacking her, but I’m sure that mental distinction is rather difficult to maintain when there is a huge, possibly rabid, monkey clinging to your back. Courtney screamed, shook from side to side (much like a wet dog), managed to dislodge her would-be mugger, and ran for it.

We are all very shaken by the experience.

As a related side-note, we received an e-mail today from the Assistant Principal informing us that a team of Monkey Catchers (his words) had arrived on campus to round up rogue monkeys and transfer them to another location elsewhere on the mountain. Whenever the beasts get too numerous, they undertake relocation schemes, none of which really work because the monkeys always come back. But at least we should have a few weeks of relative peace, safe from the Monkey Menace.

Never-Ending Weekend

2006-03-20T06:29:00.000-05:00

I just had one of those glorious weekends that seems to stretch on forever because you’re luxuriating in a continuous stream of Things You Enjoy. It was warm, it was gorgeous, I had nothing pressing on my agenda and so I filled my weekend doing all the things I love. I did yoga, threw my first-ever pot on a wheel, played tennis, slept outside in the sun, read two novels cover to cover, hiked to the grocery store in shorts just to get an ice cream cone, talked to my parents and to Josh on the phone, and watched Pride and Prejudice. Fantastic.

Plus, my house was suffused with a sort of manic happy energy the whole weekend, produced by the fact that my housemates Jamie and Ethan got engaged Friday night. General rejoicing all around. We were bouncing off the walls all weekend and that just added to its goodness.

Happy Holi!

2006-03-15T00:43:00.000-05:00

Today is the Hindu festival of HOLI—the celebration of colors. As with many Hindu holidays, I’m a little fuzzy on the origins of the celebration but the story I’ve heard most often is thus:

Originally a festival to celebrate good harvests and fertility of the land, Holi is now a symbolic commemoration of a legend from Hindu Mythology. The story centers around an arrogant king who resents his son Prahlada worshipping Lord Vishnu. He attempts to kill his son but fails each time. Finally, the king's sister Holika who is said to be immune to burning, sits with the boy in a huge fire. However, the prince Prahlada emerges unscathed, while his aunt burns to death. Holi commemorates this event from mythology, and huge bonfires are burnt on the eve of Holi as its symbolic representation. (http://www.indiaexpress.com/rangoli/holi.html)

The festival is celebrated right after the full moon in March. It starts in the evening (last night), with bonfires and general revelry and continues the next morning with the throwing of “color.” This takes several forms—there is colorful powder to be tossed about by the handful (it looks a lot like the sand used in sand-jar art and is really beautiful in big piles in bazaar) and then there is colored water to be dumped over one another. Apparently, the consumption of marijuana (sometimes in drink form itself) accompanies much of the boozing, and the whole affair is usually over by lunch time as the participants subside into much-needed rest.

While for the most part the holiday is all good fun, it can get out of hand and in some parts of the country, like Delhi, foreigners can be the targets of some nasty pranks. Some are harmless but annoying (like throwing color on people who have no interest in “playing Holi”) and some truly dangerous (like throwing acid and other chemicals on innocent passersby). In Mussoorie, any pranks would be of a harmless nature, but it is still advised that we avoid the Bazaar today.

Last year Holi was on a sunny warm weekend and there was much fun to be had at Woodstock—I’ve seen pictures of laughing, color-soaked staff and students frolicking together. This year, it’s 40 degrees, raining and a school day so celebration is somewhat subdued. I think the kids are throwing color down at dorms after school but I’m not dressed for it so I may hide. There is talk of a belated Holi part at Mt. Hermon this weekend if we can get our hands on some color after the fact. If so, I promise to post pictures.

The Corbett Foundation

2006-03-14T22:50:00.000-05:00

Since the Corbett trip was ostensibly an educational foray and not just a chance to look for pretty tigers, one of our stops was the Corbett Foundation (www.corbettfoundation.org), an NGO started by the owners of one of the big resorts near the park. The foundation’s work is focused around the (totally correct!) theory that, unless the villagers who live in and around the reserve support the park and its goals, it will never be ultimately successful as a protected area.

To this end, the Corbett Foundation directs its efforts in three major areas. Medicine, Animal-Human Conflict Management, and Awareness. I don’t completely grasp the direct connection between medicine and the park, but it is definitely true that many of the villagers in Uttaranchal (and all over India) have very little access to fundamental medical care. The foundation started out small—providing first aid kits and a Hindi translation of a well-known first aid manual to 50 villages around the park. Since then, they’ve expanded to provide medical care camps situated in several of the outlying villages. They’re also working on a TB eradication program.

Animal-human conflict may be the largest area of difficulty. Since the park isn’t fenced or blocked off in any way, there’s nothing to keep the animals from wandering through the villages scattered around the periphery. So elephants come through and destroy crops, tigers and leopards raid the livestock, and occasionally a villager is injured or even killed in an encounter with a park animal. All of these events naturally breed animosity on the park of the local inhabitants and their response is frequently to kill the offending animal, particularly the carnivores. And who can blame them? That’s their livelihood and their family members the tigers are eating.

So the foundation makes an effort to mediate that tension as much as possible. They’ve started putting up solar-powered electric fences (how’s that for cool?) around some of the villages and cropland to keep out both the predators and the overly hungry herbivores. And they run a compensation program for when a tiger kills livestock. The government will reimburse villagers for that but it often takes up to a year which is way too long for them to wait. So the foundation pays them immediately and then collects the money from the government. There’s not a lot that can be done in the case of human attacks, but they do their best by providing medical care to victims and what compensation there is to families. It sounds like they’re really having a lot of success, too. Hurrah!

And of course awareness is a big part of any conservation effort. The foundation runs educational programming for both children and adults to inform them of the park’s goals and purposes. And it’s a good thing, too. They did a survey when the foundation was first started to see what the villagers thought the park was there for. The answer? The majority believed it to be a picnic spot for foreigners. So there you go, time to start educating.

It’s very hard for me to imagine what I’ll be doing in the future. It’s pretty cloudy right now. But every now and again, the mists part and I have a view of what I could be doing. Not necessarily what I will be doing, or should be doing—just that I could. And our visit to Corbett was one of those moments. When your heart taps you on the shoulder and says: “Hey, we could be happy doing that. And good at it. What do you say?” And I say: “Maybe. We’ll see.”

More Corbett Highlights

2006-03-13T22:13:00.000-05:00

The tiger was obviously the best part of the trip to Corbett, but there were other memorable moments as well. Our second day, after staying the night in the heart of the park and listening to the tigers call each other in the darkness, we were up before dawn again for an early-morning safari. We were slightly delayed by a rainstorm, but it quickly cleared and we piled into our jeeps, eager for glimpses of wildlife.

Most of the jeeps headed for water, hoping to catch deer (or tigers!) coming down for a dawn drink. We took a road that paralleled the park’s major river and we were not disappointed. A whole herd of wild elephants came marching through the grass across the river. There were probably about a dozen of them, including several wee elephants. Or at least as wee as an elephant ever gets. They paraded along the banks for a while, and we kept pace across the river. Then they turned towards the water and so we parked the jeep and just watched as they lumbered into the river, drank and splashed for a few minutes, and then proceeded the rest of the way across and trudged across the road not far in front of us. It was fun to watch them disappear into the forest since they cause quite a disturbance with trees and bushes swayed and rustling and being knocked down right and left.

Our closest wildlife encounter actually came on the grounds of the Dikala camp itself. A large Sambar deer had entered the compound and the guards hadn’t bothered to chase him out, so he just hung around the Canteen, hoping for handouts. It was impressive to be spitting distance to something that big with huge horns. Several of the kids, feeling bold, staged pictures where they were standing near the beast. This ended quickly, though, as the Sambar got too friendly and started nudging people with his horns. Boy, you know it when you are snuggled by a Sambar deer!

We also got a far-away view of a tiger kill. The tiger had brought down a Sambar deer, but the wounded creature had dragged itself into a bog area where the ground was much like slightly-firm quicksand. It didn’t sink completely, but the tiger couldn’t safely go out to consume its meal. So the body just lay there until the carrion birds started visiting. It had been there several days by the time we were there but the vultures were still there en-masse. We were far enough away that we couldn’t see much of the carcass (which was really fine by me), but it was still eerie to see these huge black birds circling over a lump on the ground.

The weather itself made the trip memorable. There were several rain storms over the three days we were in and around the park and while they caused minor inconveniences (like very wet elephant rides) they also made for some breathtaking views of the jungle. The sky would darken but there would still be patches of sunlight that lit up the greenery in that vivid shade that only exists when it’s storming. Everything was sort of electric—you could feel the storm on the air, hear the wind moving through the grass and the trees, and smell the rain on the way. And we were out in it! A little scary but exhilarating.

Return to the Jungle

2006-03-12T22:19:00.000-05:00

So there I was, drenched and shivering, clinging to my elephant’s saddle, and crashing through the Indian jungle in pursuit of a tiger…

This weekend I got to return to Corbett Tiger Reserve, as a chaperone for a 12th grade Environmental Science fieldtrip. They’d been studying national parks and conservation efforts and there was unused money in the fieldtrip budget. And since the teacher of the class is a man and 24 of the 28 students are girls, a female chaperone was required. My job consisted primarily of waking the girls up in the morning, herding them to the bus, and accompanying them on elephants and jeep safaris. I know, I know—it’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it.

Corbett is a 7+ hour bus ride from Mussoorie so we left at the absolute crack of dawn Thursday morning. I had to get up at 3:30 am to make the bus. Arg! But that meant that everyone slept most of the way, which was good. We spent our first night at a Center for Eco-Tourism just outside of Ramnagar (the town on the outskirts of the park). They gave us a briefing on the park itself and took us to Choti Haldwani, a village that Jim Corbett owned during (and after) his lifetime. He purchased a large tract of land, then brought in families from the area and allowed them to live on plots, completely free of charge. Very cool.

The next morning we headed for the park and spent the day safari-ing around in jeeps and on elephants. We spent the night deep inside the park itself at a station called Dikala. Then the next day it was more safaris at dawn and then we headed back to the Eco-Tourism center and finally came home on Sunday.

There were 30 of us total, so we broke into five jeeps for the actual safaris. Being in a jeep with a bunch of 12th graders is hysterical. Half of them were on permanent excitement highs, and had to be reminded constantly that if they squealed at every deer they saw, no self-respecting tiger would come anywhere near. The other half were too tired from the trip and kept dozing off and hitting their heads on the jeep’s side-bars.

But back to the tiger. In the afternoon of the first day in the park, we had a chance to go on elephant safaris. We had to split the group into several smaller groups because there weren’t enough elephants at Dikala to go around. So I took 9 kids with me and we headed to another area where we mounted up on two elephants and struck out into the jungle. The fun thing about elephants is that they don’t have to stick to the established trails the way the jeeps do. We just meandered through the brush along the river, admiring Sambar deer and ooh-ing and ahh-ing over peacocks.

Then, with no warning whatsoever, we came through a patch of grass and there, in a small clearing, was a tiger, just lounging on the ground. WOAH! TIGER! Our elephant was in the lead and though we motioned frantically for the other to catch up, our feline vanished almost instantly into the underbrush. I was too awestruck to get off a picture, but one of the kids was quick on the draw and actually caught it on video. I’m hoping to procure a copy.

But the story doesn’t end there! We scoured the area for a bit, looking for the tiger, and then we heard it roaring across the river. I have no idea how it got to the other side without our noticing—you would think something bright orange would stand out in the greenery but you’d be wrong. In any case, our guide told us that it was mating season and our male tiger was calling for a mate. Which made him track-able. So, since we were on elephants, we just followed the sound of his calls. We splashed through the river and charged through the underbrush. By this point, it had started raining and we were all soaked and freezing but no one wanted to turn back.

Our elephant had previously been attacked by a tiger and he was none too keen on repeating the experience, so we could tell when we got close again because he got very agitated and our Mahut had to keep forcing him to go on. It was all very exciting. In the end, our elephant returned to the river bank, while the other ploughed deeper into the jungle, hoping to flush the tiger out and back across the river. The plan failed and we never caught sight of him again, but the second elephant happened upon him, giving the other group a glimpse.

So we all returned chilled but ecstatic to gloat about our trip to the other, less-fortunate, groups.

Lent

2006-03-08T06:56:00.000-05:00

I’ve never given up anything for Lent. It just wasn’t a tradition that my family ever practiced. But this year, I’m giving it a shot. I take part in a weekly book group and our latest read has been a church publication called “Just Eating?” which deals with the connection between food and faith. It’s really well done and we’ve had some good conversations about everything from nutrition, to food as a sacrament, to hunger, to the environmental impact of food consumption. And through it all, the question being asked is: as a Christian, what should your attitude toward food be?

So when Lent rolled around this year, I figured it was time to participate. I decided to give up eating meat (except fish), largely due to the horrifying statistics about how much grain it takes to produce meat. Something appalling like 50 grams of vegetable grain go into producing 1 gram of beef. Of course, we don’t eat beef here—the articles are mainly aimed at Americans—but still, I was struck by the waste.

And I also felt that the year I’m living in a country where people are literally starving just down the road from me would be an appropriate year to make some kind of food-related sacrifice. So far it hasn’t been hard. Of course, I’ve only been meat-free for a week and 3 days of that I spent in an entirely vegetarian city. But I’m still proud of myself. The school cafeteria always provides veg options (though they’re often not great) so I won’t go hungry at work. And I’ve been looking up some good veg meals on the internet—things like potato enchiladas, veggie pot pie, and how to make good humus.

And it feels good. I like the awareness that being vegetarian brings to my eating. The discipline involved in knowing that I am not just free to chow down on anything I want. I may feel differently on day 35 when I’m having dreams about chicken wings, but for now I’m happy.

A-Hiking We Will Go

2006-03-08T06:43:00.000-05:00

I love the idea of hiking. Healthy. Wholesome. Invigorating. In my mind, I’m out there in the woods with my friends, pack on back, stick in hand, tromping merrily through the underbrush, fording the occasional stream, and stopping now and again to admire the wildlife.

Of course, in reality, I hate hiking. I don’t pick up my feet very high and tend to trip over roots, stones and large leaves. I’m not in very good shape and pant and wheeze my way up the slightest incline (Josh, darn him, showed no sign of wheezing at all, ever, despite being unused to the altitude). For me “getting there” is not half the fun. “Being there,” reading your book and eating your tuna sandwich is all the fun.

However, Josh loves to hike and because I try to be a good fiancé (and because my mythical happy hike refuses to be banished from my brain) I agreed to a small hike/picnic while he was here. Our destination was Flag Hill, so-named for an abundance of Tibetan prayer flags and said to be a great place to picnic and admire the Snows.

I dutifully packed (well, okay—overpacked) lunch for two, my book, his book, water, the camera and two shawls to use as blankets. The hike to the hill and up wasn’t bad, actually, even by my standards. The problems began when, the minute we arrived at the summit, the weather dropped 10 degrees and the wind picked up.

This didn’t deter Josh from stomping about some more, while I huddled under my shawl and tried to read my book with gloves on. Then it started to thunder. Then it started to sprinkle. And about the time we decided to call it quits and go home, the skies opened up with a lovely round of hail. Or maybe it was sleet. I’m not totally sure. It didn’t sting the way hail does, but it definitely consisted of little balls of semi-solid material that shattered when they hit the ground.

We hid under some scrawny trees for 10 minutes until a break in the storm allowed us to make for home. However, the good thing about coming home from a hike cold and wet is that you can take a nice hot shower, drink some hot chocolate and burrow under the blankets while you watch a movie.

Rishikesh

2006-03-05T21:56:00.000-05:00

My housemates and Josh and I spent the weekend down the mountain in Rishikesh and it occurred to me that Rishikesh isn’t India. Not really. It’s a yoga center, pilgrimage site and hippie magnet and everywhere you turn there are young hippies with dreadlocks and flowy clothing; ageing flower children with sun-leathered faces dressed casually but stylishly in linen; sexy Israelis in cool sunglasses riding well-polished motorcycles, and lots and lots of skin. The dress code of India doesn’t apply in Rishikesh and I saw women in shorts, spaghetti-strap tops, and even (gasp!) a bikini or two. It was amazing.

Rishikesh is set right on the banks of the Ganges where the river first emerges from the mountains. It is divided into neighborhoods of sorts—The High Banks, Swarg Ashram, Lakshman Juhla, Downtown. The Ashram areas host religious devotees from around the world who have come to improve their holiness and flexibility by practicing yoga. Here you get a lot of the Sadus—religious asthetics who wander around in bright orange-yellow robes and never trim their facial hair.

The High Banks area, where we stayed, caters more to the Western hippies and features stores selling hackie-sacks, yoga mats, hemp jewelry and, of course, the “hippie uniform.” That’s our name for the ubiquitous loose, mismatched, and homespun apparel worn by hippies the world over. One of the most common outfits are wide-legged linen pants that tie low around the waist. There’s extra material above the tie that you then fold down, creating a lovely pouch of fabric right at your midsection. They were all the rage in Israel, too, and I just couldn’t bring myself to buy something that unattractive.

My friends, however, were insistent that we all acquire hippie uniforms so we could blend with the locals so we spend several hours happily browsing through mounds of striped skirts, plaid pants, floaty tops, sarongs, sundresses, and cheesy t-shirts with pictures of Ganesh. The concept of “matching” doesn’t really apply to the hippie uniform—if you like it, wear it. If you can’t decide between those cute pants and the funky skirt, wear them both. Wrap a scarf in your hair and another around your waist. The more layers the merrier.

The food in Rishikesh is great as well. As a holy city, all of Rishikesh is vegetarian and with the steady-stream of world-tourists, the restaurants have come up with fabulous veg. menus from around the world. Throughout the course of the weekend I munched happily on veggie burgers, chocolate-banana crepes, falafel and hummus. We didn’t have much of an agenda so we spend many hours lounging about in the outside café at the hotel and eating steadily until we couldn’t move.

PS: And for those of you betting at home, we did in fact weenie out and take a cab, and considering that I still almost hurled, I think it was money well spent.

Where everyone knows your name...

2006-03-02T06:42:00.000-05:00

My fiancé, Josh, is here visiting for a week! This was The Big Christmas Surprise and he and my parents had apparently started plotting the second I said I was coming to India. Somehow they managed to keep it a secret until Christmas, despite the fact that everyone and their brother knew about it. I kept trying to tell people and they’d all smile and say “I know!”

In any case, he arrived yesterday after eons of travel. It really is rough getting here. He flew to Chicago from Pittsburgh and stayed with my parents for a day, then took a direct flight from Chicago to Delhi (14 + hours). From there, it’s a 7 hour cab ride up to Mussoorie. He got in at about 7am, unsure of what day it was, but he seems to be recovering nicely.

But the poor boy—he’s been meeting all the inhabitants of Woodstock and that can be quite an overwhelming experience. It’s not a big school and given the remoteness, it is BIG NEWS whenever someone comes to visit, especially someone of fiancé-level importance. My friends and co-workers have been looking forward to meeting him for weeks (if not months) and he tends to get pounced upon wherever he goes, with shrieks of “oh you must be the fiancé!!” He’s trying valiantly to learn names, and I love him for the effort. It took me about 3 months to get them all.

My boss has sweetly allowed me to take several days off while he’s here so we’re planning a hike/picnic tomorrow and then we’re heading down the mountain to Rishikesh—a Ganges pilgrimage site and general hippie center—for the weekend with a number of my housemates and friends. It should be fun! The big question is: will I brave the Indian bus system and possible disgraceful vomiting out the window as we careen down the mountain? Or will I weenie out and pay for a cab? Stay tuned.

Yoga Master

2006-02-27T22:32:00.000-05:00

The newest thing in my life is that I have started yoga classes! Well, officially it is just a “stretching” class. Here in the home of “yoga as a religious practice” there are those at the school who are uncomfortable with the staff learning yoga, since it could be a way of Hindu religion making its way on campus. Oh, the horror! However, my group, all Americans, is interested only in the “yoga as healthy thing to do” aspect, so we disregard the frowns and call our class by code names.

In any case, my friends had been learning all last semester and raving about how fabulous the experience was so this semester I took the plunge and signed up. We meet three times a week: two hours on Monday and Wednesday evenings and an hour Saturday morning. And let me tell you, it takes some serious will-power to make it to an 8am yoga session on a Saturday morning when the classes take place 40 minutes from your house and you’re on foot. Bleah.

My mental image of yoga, created largely from movies, was of lots of deep breathing and graceful poses with interesting names, like “downward facing dog” and “warrior one.” We would glide from pose to pose, much like a ballet, and end the session refreshed and relaxed.

Ha! The reality of yoga involved a serious ab workout, lots of sweating, and a general suspicion that I might die before we finished. We started with a grueling series of pilates-style “trunk strengthening” exercises like leg lifts and bicycle leg movements and I was unprepared for this nasty surprise. Our instructor is big on not over-doing it, which is nice, but when he came by me for about the zillionth time to say “don’t push it—if you can’t do it, don’t,” I began to have self-confidence issues. Of course, the truth was, I couldn’t do it. I don’t have abs apparently. Or arm muscles. I am flexible, which is a plus, but it didn’t help me quite as much as I had hoped.

The only part of the session that was more like I was expecting was the “final relaxation” where we all lay on our mats with our eyes closed while Ravi (our instructor) talked us through some deep breathing and relaxation techniques. That was very peaceful, although I very nearly disgraced myself with a fit a giggles when he solemnly intoned: “relax your pancreas….relax your spleen…” My spleen? I don’t even know where it is. How am I supposed to relax it?

But despite the altered expectations and the sore muscles, I think yoga will be a good experience. If I survive. Our next session is tomorrow and I’m a bit nervous because I have the athlete’s sure knowledge that it will be harder than yesterday’s. My muscles will not have magically toned over night—they’ll just still be sore from the first class. Wish me luck!

Work Report

2006-02-21T22:06:00.000-05:00

Lest you think that I spend all my time baking, playing with my friends, and fighting with the local wildlife, I thought I’d better give a Work Report just to prove I’m earning my keep here.

This semester I’ve been working mainly under the direction of the Admissions Office. As always happens, two big projects came up simultaneously after months of very little work and I’ve been crazy busy for the past two weeks. The first project was the creation and launch of a student-led tour program. For years, the Admissions Office has wanted to get current students more involved with the admissions process but it just never got off the ground. Enter Me. Since I had experience in student admissions programs from college, I was given the task of making the program happen.

And it’s been a blast. I asked teachers for recommendations on some of their most out-going, sociable and eloquent students then invited those students to join. We invited 40 and got 30 at our first meeting. Not bad! The numbers dropped sharply after that, because the tours have to take place during “free periods.” But we still ended up with a dozen interested kids. They went through training last week—roll-playing workshops, shadowing tours given by Admissions staff, practice tours of their own, etc.—and we have 7 trained and ready to go.

This week they’re giving their first “real tours” with parents and kids and so far the response has been very positive. The families love getting to ask questions of a current student who really knows what it’s like to live here. The students enjoy being able to show off the school. The Admissions staff don't have to spend all their time showing people around. Everyone is happy. Hurrah!

The second big project has been a revamping of our application forms. The current application process is a bit haphazard with a lot of overlapping and extraneous information. Plus, no one has updated the forms in so long that they aren’t even on a computer anywhere. All we had were the originals to copy from. Yikes. Enter Me Again.

Despite the fact that I had no experience in this area, I was assigned to renovating our ancient forms. And I found I loved it! I met with all the members of the Admissions Committee to get their feedback on what was lacking and what could be cut. I looked up the applications for other international schools to see what they were doing. And above all, I organized the forms into a logical order and computerized them. I haven’t shown my work to my boss yet. I’m a little bit nervous because I have proposed some major changes but with luck, she’ll approve. Keep your fingers crossed!

The Financial Paradox

2006-02-19T21:48:00.000-05:00

I have breaking news. My Apartment is Clean. Repeat: My Apartment is Clean. Now, this may not be breaking news for your average, tidy person. But I am not known for my tidiness and living in a somewhat dirty country has made for a super dirty living space. My shower has been growing mold since the monsoon but I just couldn’t bring myself to clean it. It’s a hassle.

But now my Dirt Days are behind me because I hired an ayah this weekend. Ayahs are basically all-purpose house-keepers. They do anything from cleaning to cooking to child-care, depending on the needs of their family. My ayah, Raji, will be coming once a week to do basic household tasks. She started on Saturday, while I was gone, and when I returned, my room was swept, my bed made, my bathroom scrubbed, my dishes washed and my laundry done. It was astounding. But you want to know the really amazing part? For all of the above, I will be paying about $7 per month.

And that really got me to thinking about what a paradoxical country I live in. India has one of the world’s largest discrepancies between rich and poor and this reality manifests itself in small ways all the time. The ayah thing is just one of them. Woodstock School does not pay well. Its teachers make virtually nothing by American standards—my friends make on average about $300 per month.

And yet, everything else is so cheap too that most of the Woodstock staff have ayahs and cooks and gardeners. We have a gardener at Mt. Hermon that we pay about $10 a month and she does beautiful work. But it’s just so strange to me that in a place where no one has any money, everyone has servants. It’s this bizarre tension between luxury and poverty and I don’t know quite what to make of it.

Electricity

2006-02-15T21:59:00.000-05:00

Last night, I had my first official run-in with Indian electrical wiring and may I just say for the record that an electrical fire is the worst stench I have ever encountered in my life. EVER.

But let’s back up. All my housemates were out for the evening. I was cheerfully enjoying a night alone, eating corn chowder and watching Season 6 of Sex and the City (fabulous!). After I while, I noticed a slight smell of hot plastic but thought nothing of it because my heater sometimes gets a little too warm and smells like that. Okay, no problem.

Then, I heard some popping noises—sort of like the sound of big moths hitting the window. This was slightly alarming and when the sounds progressed into crackling, I got really concerned. I had just gotten up to shut off the power when clouds of noxious smoke started billowing from the voltage regulator we use with the TV. And all the power in the room went out.

I literally could not go into the room for several minutes because it smelled too bad. However, little damage was actually done as the fuses blew before the TV or DVD player could be fried. Thank goodness. But the whole house still smells funny today and we’re down one voltage regulator. Alas.

Ugly Shirts

2006-02-13T03:54:00.000-05:00

My housemate Joanna turned 24 on Sunday and in honor of the event we had a party Saturday night. She was responsible for the theme and picked: The Ugliest Shirt You Can Buy in the Bazaar for 100 Rupees. She’s brilliant, I tell you.

We all took our mission quite seriously and headed to the Buz Saturday afternoon in search of tasteless clothing. It actually proved to be slightly more difficult than we had expected, as many of the shop-keepers had an elevated opinion of their wares. We found multiple perfect shirts—truly hideous and cheaply made—that for inexplicable reasons were priced in the 300-400 rupee range. It was somewhat alarming. But, in the end, we prevailed.

Several of the best outfits were sported by my own dear housemates. Jamie (who is tiny) found a child’s dress and wore that as a shirt. It was a tank-dress with two different polk-a-dot patterns (red and white on the straps and black and white on the main part) with a lovely ruffle at the bottom and a frightening doll/child appliquéd on the front. Complete with yellow braid hair. Courtney’s was a lime-green over-sized t-shirt with polk-a-dots and a pair of Dalmatians inside a large heart. Joanna herself settled on a striped button-up in a bewildering array of colors. Though in the end she managed to look cute. Some people can just do that.

I will confess, though, that I secretly believe my outfit was one of the best. I couldn’t find a shirt that I liked enough (or hated enough) so I bought a nightie. The Bazaar in Mussoorie is filled with ugly nighties. Usually polyester, stretchy and beyond unattractive. We can’t figure out who buys them—we hope it isn’t erstwhile Indian men looking to surprise their wives on Valentine’s Day. In any case, I found a stunning green, yellow, and orange check one with a bit of green lace at the neck. I then artfully cut it to shirt-length, with one side coming to a point at about my thigh. Fab.

We ate, drank, danced, and handed out prizes for the worst dressed and a good time was had by all.

Welcome Back From the Monkeys

2006-02-07T02:35:00.000-05:00

**Real Time Report**

I am very displeased to report that, due to the unnaturally warm weather, the Mussoorie population of Rhesus monkeys has not migrated down the mountain for the winter as they are supposed to do. Additionally, they appear to have taken some sort of Assertiveness Training Course over the winter holidays.

I was sitting in the tea garden after lunch, minding my own business and talking with a friend. I could see a large monkey on the roof out of the corner of my eye but we were ignoring each other and this was fine. Then he got up and started ambling in our direction. I stood up and said firmly, but without any particular hostility, “Shoo!” and waved my arm at him. Did he turn and head back to where he was coming from like a good monkey? No.

Instead, he bared his teeth, arched his back, and lunged at me! Nasty bugger. It was only a feint, but I screamed and ran away nonetheless.

Monkey : 1 Kate : 0

*Sigh*

Exhaustion

2006-02-06T04:28:00.000-05:00

**Back to Trip Stories**

"Excuse me ma'am!" Hello!" "Yes, hello!" "Would you like...?" "Hello!" "Excuse me!" "No charge for looking!" "Hello!" "Hello!" "Hello!"

Traveling in India is exhausting because you must constantly have your guard up against the never-ending tidal wave of human interaction. Between the street-side touts selling their trinkets and the heart-breaking beggars looking for charity, any trip outside brings with it an inevitable barrage of people. And it wears you out.

The touts are mainly annoying. I come from a world where, for the most part, "No" means "No." (After all, we've all had middle school sex-ed talks). Here, "No" means anything from "Perhaps later" to "Why yes, please show me more of your worthless crap, and while you're at it, please ask your friends to show me their junk too." Postcards. "Genuine" garnet necklaces. Chess sets. Wallets. Paintings. Bracelets. Carved elephants.

You name it, they sell it, and they give new meaning to the word "persistent." Being polite is futile. Being anything but a stone wall is futile. So much as a careless glance in the direction of the merchandise is taken as a sign of intense interest and the level of hassling increases exponentially. Grrrr.

While the street vendors drive you crazy, the beggars shred your soul a thousand times a day. Dirty mothers with dirtier children tap at the window of the taxis, holding their hands out in supplication or touching their fingers to their lips, repeating "bread." They all wear matching expressions of weary resolve and have all mastered the exact same vocal inflection for their requests, so that one slides into another in a seamless flow.

Then there are the cripples. Missing arms and legs, or possessing them but disfigured beyond recognition. They hobble and crawl along the side of the road, sometimes with a cup, sometimes simply with hands upraised. They don't say much. They don't have to. And there's nothing you can do. Rationally, your mind knows that--you can't help everyone; your money might not even be a help; if you give to one tortured face, there will be fifty more when you turn around. The only way to avoid going catatonic when the press of helpless suffering gets too much is to steel yourself against it. Look past it and keep moving, ignoring the hands grasping at your sleeve. Eventually you break away, but you are left with a deep feeling of sadness, mingled with shame.

Superbowl Monday

2006-02-06T00:10:00.000-05:00

** Go Steelers! **

Answering an undeniable urge to show some Pittsburgh Spirit here on the Subcontinent, I joined several friends in watching the Superbowl live this morning. And for those of you unsure of the time difference that means that, yes, I got up at 4am on a work day to watch a sport I don't even like that much. But it was fun. About 10 of us showed up bleary-eyed at a friend's apartment, greeted by tea and zucchini-walnut bread and we happily munched until half-time at which point the "real breakfast" of pancakes and eggs commenced.

And I learned that Ben Roethlisberger has the distinction of being the player with the longest last name ever to start in a Superbowl game. Where do commentators come up with this stuff??

**Go Steelers!**

Fauna

2006-02-01T06:22:00.000-05:00

During our trip, we were fortunate enough to encounter a variety of fun and exciting animals. The list stands as such:

1 Tiger

3 Rock Pythons (from a distance of not more than 3 feet. Mom was very into the snakes. I am less fond of them, though once I realized that pythons aren’t poisonous, I relaxed somewhat, feeling that I could probably avoid standing still long enough to be squeezed to death.)

Wild Boars (woah, I would NOT want to meet one of those suckers in a dark alley.)

Langur Monkeys (yay!)

Rhesus Monkeys (boo!)

2 Varieties of Crocodiles (one which was fish eating and one even more carnivorous. We viewed from a safe distance. Ugly buggers.)

1 Flock of Wild Peacocks

Gazillions of Other Birds That Often Looked Similar But Were Allegedly Different

4 Kinds of Deer (Spotted, Barking, Sambar, and a fourth I can’t remember but which was utterly unafraid of our jeep and came up and licked my hand.)

2 Mongoose (Mongeese? Mongooses? Anyways, they scuttled across the road in front of our taxi.)

Several Jackals (cute little fox-like beasties that my mom consistently referred to as "hyenas.” Let me assure you all that there were no, I repeat no, hyena sightings on this trip. Thank goodness.)

1 Herd of Wild Elephants (which caused me to have the elephant march song from The Jungle Book movie in my head for hours.)

Many Cute Puppies (too bad they grow up to be so mangy and hideous here.)

1 Cockroach (ewwww—note to self: avoid the Hotel Amar Yatri Niwas in Agra in the future…)

0 Rats (Hooray!)

Tiger Tiger Burning Bright

2006-02-01T05:06:00.000-05:00

January 22nd, 2006

Dear Diary,

HOLY SHIT! I saw a tiger today! I real one. Not in a zoo. An honest-to-goodness, live, wild, could-eat-you-if-she-wanted-to, TIGER. (Or rather, Tigress. Our guide informed us that she was a female, about 3 years old). Way cool. We went on a jeep safari into the jungle at Corbett National Park and managed to get a glimpse of one of their famous beasties. This is not all that common given that there are only about 140 of them in a park that is 1,200 square kilometers. We had a good guide, though, and nearly killed ourselves flying down a dirt road in the jeep, in pursuit of a sighting. I was standing up looking when the guide hollered that he's just seen a tiger cross the road ahead of us and told our driver to floor it. Which he did. I darn near fell out and got the wind knocked out of me by a roll-bar, but it was worth it. She was so incredibly beautiful. She stood there, preening in the sunlight, surrounded by greenery and it was amazing.

Politics

2006-01-31T01:56:00.000-05:00

On our way from Jaipur to Agra, we stopped at the fort of Fatehpur Sikri. In addition to enjoying this gorgeous fort for its own innate beauty, the experience was memorable because I got a chance to talk politics with several ten year old Indian boys.

They were bouncing around us, trying to be helpful (and therefore earn a few rupees), and chattering away in remarkably good English. They asked me where I was from and I replied America. Immediately the response came back – “Oh…George Bush!”

My instinctive reaction was to pull a face and give the universally-understood “thumbs down” gesture of dislike. I wrinkled my nose and said “ewww...George Bush.”

One boy pondered this for a moment and then –without any prompting, I swear—came back with “George Bush bad. Americans good!”

I was delighted with this astute assessment of the situation and we all practiced chanting “George Bush bad. Americans good!” for several minutes as the boys frolicked around us. In my mind, this definitely earned them their 10 rupees.

Meditations On My Bladder

2006-01-30T00:35:00.000-05:00

One of the interesting side effects to traveling in a country of bumpy roads where clean bathrooms are few and far between is that you spend a truly inordinate amount of time contemplating your bladder. The inner monologue on a typical day might run something like this:

[8 am, at breakfast]

Should I have another cup of tea? No. Peeing is bad. Okay, no tea. Good plan.

[Three hours later while bouncing through the jungle in a jeep]

Hmmm….do I have to pee? Nah.

*BOUNCE*

Correction. I definitely DO have to pee. Now what? Hmmmm…maybe I can just have the jeep stop and squat behind it. I’ll be shielded from view. That might work.

Uh oh, here comes two other jeeps filled with Indian families. Abort! Abort!

Okay, how about that tree? Will I be visible if I do my business behind that tree? Yes? Damn.

Well then how about that one? That looks large enough for privacy. Good…but there could be poison ivy. Or I might pee on a pit viper. He’s sure to take offense. Or what if a passing tiger mistakes my exposed rear for a deer haunch and decides to have a nibble?

Maybe I don’t have to go all that badly, afterall.

Home Sweet Mountains

2006-01-30T00:31:00.000-05:00

Well I am safely returned from my expedition to the States and my whirlwind tour around India. The rats do not appear to have taken over the house, which is good. Someone broke into my apartment and stole my blow heater, which is bad. But all in all, the semester is off to a good start.

I have many things to write about--adventures abounded in the two weeks I spent bopping around India with my parents. Posts will be coming over the next few days. Not necessarily in chronological order; just as the spirit moves me. So prepare yourself for tales of wildlife, monuments, and bodily functions. :-)

Things that make you go...ewwww

2006-01-19T07:53:00.000-05:00

We are four days into our two week tour of Northern India and I can say with complete confidence that I have now seen enough men nonchalantly peeing in various public locations to last me a lifetime.

Is Batman Jesus?

2006-01-12T20:50:00.000-05:00

I will be the first to admit that I am not particularly adept at seeing theological underpinnings in pop culture. Take the Matrix movies. After the first movie, everyone was talking about all the Christian imagery and how Keanu Reaves was Jesus but I just nodded politely, while thinking quietly to myself –“Huh??” I finally caught on by the third movie (the whole dying with arms outstretched while a deep voice intoned “It is finished” was hard to miss) but it has to be pretty blatant for me to catch on. And I never really understood all the pleasure people derive from discussing the theology of Star Wars. Good versus Evil. Got it. Need we say more?

And then I watched “Batman Begins” and I suddenly understood the obsession. I was totally captivated by Liam Neeson’s character and the theology of the entire League of Shadows. It’s so interesting because their approach to injustice is portrayed as the “wrong” way, the path that Batman must not be tempted to follow. And yet, anyone familiar with the Old Testament will recognize the smite-them-all mentality. The League of Shadows steps in and destroys a civilization when the corruption, greed, and injustice get out of hand. Anyone remember the story of Noah? Massive flooding to destroy a corrupt nation? Or how about the offer God makes to Moses in Exodus, suggesting that perhaps Moses would like to just leave the Israelites behind to face God's wrath and strike out on his own after their destruction? The League would be so proud.

I particularly liked the scene when Liam Neeson confronts Christian Bale in the Wayne Mansion, just before it burns to the ground. Neeson is making his case for the destruction of Gotham City due to its unending corruption and Bale is pleading for more time, because there are still “good people” in the city. Sound familiar? Check Genesis 18-19 for the story of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.

I have no idea if this imagery was intentional. Maybe not. But I have discovered how easy it is to let your mind run away with the possibilities. I found myself contemplating: If Leam Neeson and his group represent the Old Testament, then is Bruce Wayne the New Testament? Is Batman Jesus? Good Heavens. I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

Wedding Planning

2006-01-04T11:43:00.000-05:00

Wow, this whole Getting Married Thing is complicated. Of course, I suppose a lot of the stress probably stems from the fact that I’m spending the year prior to my marriage several thousand miles away from my fiancé and the location of the wedding. Good plan Kate. So, my time in Pittsburgh has been a whirlwind of wedding adventures, also known as “how many meetings can I fit into a 10 day period?” We talked to the florist, the cake people, the reception people (caterer and wedding coordinator), and still need to chat with two different pastors and check out hotel options for our guests, not to mention tweaking the budget and picking envelopes for the invitations. Anyone else tired?

Our florist is fun. My mom picked him out on a visit to Pittsburgh in September so despite the fact that he’s been busily plotting flower arrangements and determining how best to disguise several 25 foot tent poles (the plan involves wrapping them in tall grasses), I’d never met him. He’s a hoot! Middle-aged guy, loves his job, and is very funny and expressive. I would make suggestions about flowers and he would cringe and pull faces, clearly being caused pain by my complete lack of expertise on the subject. Apparently sunflowers on their own are too “country” to be carried by bridesmaids wearing Indian salwar kameez. BUT if you pair those sunflowers with freesia, they suddenly become “funky” rather than “country.” Who knew?

And I’m pleased to report that I actually found a wedding cake that I like. Allow me to say upfront that I hate most wedding cakes. They’re frilly and/or super girly and/or gaudy. For the most part. I must have looked at about a zillion pictures of cakes online, seeking inspiration, and found that the shocking majority of them were just monstrous. I saw one that was about 7 layers high, with a riot of flowers bursting from between each layer, little dots and lacy things on the cake itself and then—the crowning achievement—a huge long veil attached to the back of the cake, cascading down the sides. Yikes. But we selected a nice simple one and we’ll just throw a few fresh flower blossoms on it. No veils. No ribbon. No little people smooching on top of the cake. I wanted carrot cake but apparently it won’t survive sitting out for several hours. Alas.

We only got to nibble on one flavor of cake b/c we hadn’t put down a deposit yet. But now that we have, we’re allowed to try other “sample cakes” so I’m planning a night with my honey and the wedding party where dinner will consist entirely of wedding cake. It may cause all of us to collapse into sugar-induced comas, but I think it’ll be worth it.

We also have our first session of pre-marital counseling tomorrow. I’m a little nervous, because you just never know what someone will consider a good exercise for a soon-to-be married couple. For example, one of my friends, at her counseling session, was forced to build identical structures out of tinker toys with her betrothed, while not looking at each other—communication by verbal means alone. Now, I’m all for communication, but tinker toys? Is this necessary?

Home Sweet Home

2005-12-17T19:31:00.000-05:00

Well, I arrived safely back in the good old US of A after about 36 hours of travel. Bleah. But the trip went about as well as you could hope for: no major delays and I even had a row to myself from Frankfurt to Chicago. AND my very own little movie screen so I could choose my movie (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory—boy Johnny Depp can be so weird). And because my mom is awesome, when I arrived home I found a basket of bath goodies waiting in my bathroom – sugar scrubs and bath salts and special shampoo and a shower puff – and I’ve spent much of the last few days happily submerged. I managed to avoid most of the hassles of jetlag. I slept 13 hours my first night home and have been good to go ever since. Good thing too. It’s the holidays, who has time to be jet-lagged?

Celebration

2005-12-17T19:30:00.000-05:00

My friend Deepa got married on the 12th of December and sadly I couldn’t be there for the event. I would very much have enjoyed witnessing an Indian wedding. Luckily, though, I was able to attend one of her pre-wedding events, known as the Haldi. (I had to miss the other pre-wedding event, the Mehendi, at which the bride’s henna is applied to her hands and feet). The Haldi was a women-only evening which took place in my friend’s home and revolved around the application of a sort of body scrub, believed to make the bride extra beautiful for her wedding. Amidst much singing, laughing, dancing, and ribald jokes, the women attending take turns smearing the bride-to-be in a thick, yellow paste made of turmeric powder, jasmine oil, and milk. It is gooey and smells a little funny and it literally goes all over her body. At least, as much as we could reach within the bounds of Indian propriety.

There is a protocol to this application, as well. First the family members went up and rubbed several handfuls on. Then the married women. Then the “spinsters” (anyone unmarried—I wasn’t quite sure what to make of being called a “spinster!”). And in return, Deepa would smear a stripe of the goop on our faces as well. A kindly Indian lady suggested to my friend and I (the only white faces present) that we might want to wipe it off quickly as it can stain the skin.

Coloration of the skin is exactly what they want to happen to the bride. The paste leaves a slightly yellowish tinge to the skin which, when covered by foundation makeup at the wedding, is supposed to make the bride’s skin glow. It is also thought to render her skin temporarily lighter which is considered a great sign of beauty. Fairness is highly prized in India.

When we had run out of paste, the young women spilled out into the yard which had been transformed for the reception. A huge tent had been erected and was lavishly decorated inside with tapestries and rugs and a bunch of chairs. We cranked up the Indian Bangra music and danced together. Or at least, the Indian women danced. I mainly stood there, awestruck by how good they were and horribly aware of how good I am NOT. Indian dancing, like Latin dancing, requires one to move one’s hips in ways that this white girl simply cannot comprehend. Eventually we got cold and slipped away, happy to have participated in the fun.

Going Down Day

2005-12-17T19:29:00.000-05:00

When working at a boarding school in a remote area, comparisons to Harry Potter are inevitable. I mean, really, who wouldn’t want to pretend that they work at Hogwarts? We even have school “houses” though they don’t mean as much as they do in HP. But one of the events that is most reminiscent of the wizarding world has got to be the tradition of Going Down Day.

Going Down Day is the last day of the semester. The kids come to school just long enough for one last assembly where they sit quietly, politely ignoring everything the principal says until he solemnly announces “you are dismissed” at which point a pandemonium ensues the likes of which boggle the mind. Shrieking and cheering and lots of hugs goodbye, a few tears and much racing about as the kids prepare to leave the school. This they do en masse, escorted by a number of teacher chaperones including Dana Crider, a burly high school math teacher who bears more than a passing resemblance to Hagrid in terms of stature and devotion to the students (though not, thankfully, in body hair or fondness for dangerous fire-breathing animals).

Dana shepherds the posse of students into waiting school buses and they all proceed down the mountainside together. The closest major town with a train station is Dehra Duhn, located at the foot of the mountain. All the kids are loaded onto a train—the Shatabdi Express (see, even the name is similar!)—and they travel as far as Delhi together before scattering to their homes around the world. It’s very fun. And very Harry.

The Party Report

2005-12-05T06:24:00.000-05:00

Well, I am pleased to report that the first annual Mt. Hermon Holiday Shindig went off splendidly. And this despite (or maybe even because of) the power failure half-way through. There’s something quite perfect about singing Christmas carols by firelight, accompanied by an acoustic guitar and a violin.

The day started out on a bit of a stressful note when I awoke to discover that we had no electricity. So much for my plans to do laundry and bake all day! But it eventually came back on and Joanna and I made use of the waiting time to finish up the last of the paper chains, construct a large glittery “Happy Christmas” sign for over the mantle, and move furniture about. I must say I am rather proud of the transformation enacted upon our dining room. Ordinarily this room is utterly bare of furniture and the ugly, stained fibrous floor covering, boarded up fireplace, and robin’s egg blue walls create very little atmosphere. But do not despair! Kate and Joanna, interior decorators, to the rescue!

We borrowed a couple rugs to cover the stains on the floor, hung Christmas lights on the walls, and bright garlands from the lights and doors. A friend came by and set up an electric keyboard in the corner which we festooned with glittery gold cardboard stars. We pulled a couple chairs and a couch in from the sunroom and taped colored bells and trees to the walls and the place began to look festive. And then, the crowning achievement. Joanna suggested we un-board the fireplace, just to see was there. And lo and behold! A GORGEOUS, old-fashioned, wrought iron fireplace. But could the chimney possibly be open? It could! (We tested this by having Joanna climb on the roof and look down the chimney while I shone a flashlight up it). So, as our guests arrived, they were greeted by the cheerful and utterly Christmassy sight of a roaring fire where just yesterday there was an ugly piece of sheet metal. It was grand. And when the lights went out, the light of the fire kept the party going.

So we all ate snacks and visited and sang till our throats were sore. Joanna’s mom came dressed as Mrs. Clause and read of The Polar Express. Brian spiked the cider with rum and Joanna’s sugar cookies just kept coming. Jamie taught us hand gestures to “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” and everyone joined in on the chorus of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” I myself wore reindeer antlers, which more than one person said “suited me.” I’m not sure what that means, exactly, but I took it as a compliment.

Christmas Spirit

2005-12-01T01:19:00.000-05:00

And speaking of Christmas carols with altered lyrics, I have been advertising my upcoming holiday party in just such a fashion. Saturday night my Mt. Hermon housemates and I are hosting a Seasonal Soiree and I've been sending e-mails to my colleagues, musically inviting them to the event. Here's one of my better carols. To the tune of "Jingle Bells."

Stomping up the hill
One chilly winter night
At last you’ll get a thrill--
Mt. Hermon in sight!

Christmas lights aglow
Music in the air
Your heart will rise and you will know

You’re happy to be there.

OHHHHHH!!!!

Mt. Hermon! Mt. Hermon! Happy Holidays!
Come and join us for the fun this coming Saturday – HEY!

Mt. Hermon! Mt. Hermon! Happy Holidays!
Come and join us for the fun this coming Saturday.

Baby Jesus and the Stinky Pig

2005-12-01T01:12:00.000-05:00

This morning I went to see the elementary school kids do a Christmas pageant. And wow, I dare you to find something cuter than a crowd of first and second graders dressed up as animals and singing Christmas carols. Their pageant was the story of the birth of Christ told from the point of view of the attending animals – sheep, donkeys, camels, etc. They had lines to recite (all memorized—I was very impressed) and sang Christmas carols with slightly altered lyrics. At one point the camels went marching through the audience singing “Those wise men are breaking our backs, loading us with big heavy packs” to the tune of We Three Kings. And a chorus of sheep sang “Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the sheep,” ending the verse with “echoed back their joyous bleat.” It was fantastic.

Their costumes were super cute as well. Each animal wore appropriately colored clothing (yellow for the camels, brown for the donkeys, white for the sheep) and then each had a color coordinated baseball cap with the appropriate ears, eyes, and sometimes noses, attached. So the camels had long noses and small ears and the donkey had big floppy ears attached to their baseball caps. The effect was great. You knew immediately who the sheep were because they had a profusion of cotton balls stuck to theirs.

The pageant was made particularly memorable by the addition of several animals not frequently appearing in manger scenes: two dogs, a lion and…a stinky pig. The lion represented the current King of the Beasts who, although initially wary of the usurper, eventually gives Jesus his crown. But the best was the pig. Early in the production, she came to see what all the fuss was about and was shunned by the other (apparently Jewish) animals. Imagine a small child dressed as a sheep pointing dramatically to the small child dressed in pink leg-warmers and wearing a snout on her hat and saying “You are unclean! Ewwwww. Go away!”

But of course, in the end, even the stinky pig is allowed into the manger to see baby Jesus because Jesus loves everyone—even if you’re stinky.

Stomp Stomp Stomp

2005-11-29T01:27:00.000-05:00

As I go stomping through the woods on my way to work each day, I often find myself humming or even singing cheerful marching tunes to match my steps. The most appropriate song and therefore the one I sing most often is, of course, "The Bear Went Over the Mountain." Now, you might not think of this as a good stomping song, but you’d be wrong. It’s got quite a nice beat. Observe:

Left...left...left right left...

The bear went over the mountain
The bear went over the mountain
The bear went over the mountain….
To see what he could see

*stomp* *stomp* *stomp*

The other side of the mountain
The other side of the mountain
The other side of the mountain…
Was all that he could see! (stomp)

It’s quite an invigorating experience. Stomp stomp stomp. Plus I like to think that it keeps the monkeys away. Who wouldn’t be intimidated by a woman in a fleecy hat with a large red backpack striding through the trees and singing loudly about bears?

An Autumn Day

2005-11-28T03:20:00.000-05:00

It’s Sunday afternoon at Mt. Hermon. Cole (our fabulous student-teacher friend) is leaving this evening and we’re all stuffed to the gills and lounging about, wallowing in the glow of a tasty farewell brunch. The Snows are out in force, just visible through the trees. The air is sharp but it’s still glorious to be outside in the sunshine.

Anne is working on her slack-line skills, patiently balancing again and again on the thin web rope. Jamie and Ethan are lying spread-eagle in the grass practicing their yogic breathing as we offer commentary on whether or not their stomachs are inflating enough. Joanna is cutting Brian’s hair into a mullet (thoughI still do not understand the 20-something male’s fascination with this hair cut). And I’m sitting on a blanket diligently cutting strips of red and green paper for paper chains to festoon our common room.

Next week, grades are due and there’s a myriad of “getting ready to leave” things that need to be done, loose ends to be tied up. But no one is thinking about those things now. We’re all soaking up the sunshine, reveling in the company, and enjoying the moment. This is our life. And it is good.

Bucari Tips

2005-11-28T03:12:00.000-05:00

Kate's Bucari Tips #32

Before lighting your bucari, you should always remove all flammable and/or meltable objects (and this includes candles) from the top of the bucari. Unless, of course, you want to spend the entire evening in your neighbor’s apartment waiting for the clouds of smoke to dissipate in yours.

Why I Love Living in India

2005-11-24T22:52:00.000-05:00

As I was walking to school this morning, zigging and zagging down the switchbacks, I saw motion ahead of me so I paused to check it out. And there, in a clearing below me was a troop of adolescent Languors break-dancing. Okay, they were probably just playing, but it did look rather like break-dancing. There were about 10 of them frolicking about together and it was about the cutest thing ever. Most of the time Languors stick to the trees—they’re far more arboreal than the Rhesus Monkeys of Death—and I had never really seen them moving about on land before. It’s quite a sight. They would stand up on their hind legs and sort of hop about for a few paces before thunking back down on all fours, sometimes with spins or summersaults thrown in for good measure. Then they’re pause for a little bit until one would break the stillness by tackling his neighbor and the romping would begin once more. It was great.

Then, after I had torn myself away and continued walking, I got my first glimpse of a Pine Marten. These little creatures are related to the weasel but are much more winsome. Their coat changes with the seasons from tan to black and right now they’re in between. This one had a black head and big black bushy tail but a tan body. They’re slightly larger than your average housecat and quite shy so I was lucky to meet him. He was shuffling up the mountainside towards the path, though he quickly reversed direction when he realized the path was occupied.

With all these fun sights I was a bit late to work, but it was worth it.

**Note: I didn’t take the picture of the Pine Marten. I found it online. This is why you should never leave the house without your camera.

Turkey Day

2005-11-24T22:12:00.000-05:00

I’m happy to report that my first Thanksgiving in a foreign country went off quite well. It wasn’t a school holiday here so I had to work until 6. But then there was a big potluck dinner for all the American students and staff which was grand. The menu was somewhat altered from the “traditional” American feast because many of those traditional food products are indigenous to North American and cannot be found in Himalayan Indian. Like turkey. You cannot buy a turkey here—except at the American Embassy grocery store in Delhi which has groceries flown in daily from the States—so we substituted Ham Loaf instead. Except that there wasn’t very much ham loaf and we were limited to one paper-thin slice each. So really it was a vegetarian Thanksgiving.

The school provided the ham loaf and dinner rolls and then the staff brought salads, vegetables, and dessert. Lots and lots and lots of it. And it was Yum (a Woodstock-ism). My bean and veggie salad with lime cumin dressing was a smash hit. I think because it was pretty. There were a few too many dishes of glorified coleslaw or plain green beans so a salad with corn, peas, tomatoes, red onion, and green pepper with red and white beans, caught everyone’s eye. I was personally a huge fan of the whipped sweet potatoes. I had not realized that sweet potatoes existed over here because they are unrecognizable unless you know what you’re looking for. They’re white and look like big deformed carrots. But they tasted just like sweet potatoes—maybe even sweeter than usual.

The dessert table did include a few pumpkin items (no idea where they got the pumpkin) but as I’m not a big fan, I stuck to things like Snickers pie and brownies. My friends at my table all grabbed an assortment and then we grazed on each other’s selections. And then we all had to walk home up the mountain, staggering and wishing we hadn’t opted for that last slice of apple pie.

The other fun thing was that we segued seamlessly from Thanksgiving to Christmas by singing some carols after dinner. I realized that my 20+ years of singing Christmas carols with my family on Christmas Eve has really given me quite a repertoire. On several occasions, mine was the voice leading everyone through the less-well-known sections of things like “Let It Snow” and “Winter Wonderland.”

But now, Thanksgiving is officially past and it is time for Serious Christmas Festivities. Of course, the Christmas festivities really started before Thanksgiving here. I spent much of the week creating Christmas bulletin boards in the library (Merry Christmas in 52 languages for one and the meaning behind Christmas symbols for another—did you know that the circular shape of the Christmas wreath is supposed to represent the infinite and unending love of God? I didn’t.) and this Sunday is the Christmas Chapel. But I did resist the urge to break out the Christmas earrings until today. Right now my ears are adorned with snow globes complete with loose glitter-snow inside. Small and tasteful they are not. But very very festive.

Staying Positive

2005-11-23T02:55:00.000-05:00

The rat situation is distressing, but there have been some high points recently as well. For example, I've gotten some really great pictures of the area. I took my camera to work with me a few days ago and documented my walk. And Sunday night, I got some shots of the Snows at sunset. They turned pink as the sun went down and we clambered onto the roof to take pictures.

Good Sport

2005-11-23T02:53:00.000-05:00

Okay, I have to say I think I’ve been a pretty good sport when it comes to all the adjusting that has to be done when you move to a new environment. I’ve turned my encounters with the New and Weird into light-hearted, even humorous, anecdotes about mice, monkeys, and mold. But everyone has a limit. The breaking point when you have to stop and shriek “Enough is enough! I am not laughing anymore!!” And I have reached that point.

You see, Mt. Hermon has rodents. And they are neither big-boned mice, nor feral-yet-ultimately-friendly guinea pigs (though I’ve tried valiantly to persuade myself of both those identities). No, we have rats. And I am just not okay with that. I had come to a grudging acceptance of the presence of a small mouse or two running about the house but these are fairly good-sized rats and I’m really not sure how many of them there are. Definitely more than one.

The problem first reared its ugly whiskered head on Saturday night as I was watching TV in the sunroom with Angie. I happened to glance out the door into the dining room and saw a rat skulking along the wall. This was not a pleasant sight but Angie and I temporarily rectified the situation by firmly closing the doors to the sunroom and barricading them with sticks of firewood at the bottom, lest the intruder try to sneak underneath.

I mentioned the problem to a friend on Monday and she gave me rat poison which I dutifully put out in several well-known rat haunts around the house. And the next morning, it was gone! Hooray! No more rats!

So, you can imagine my consternation when, last night as I was walking to the living room, not one but TWO of the nasty buggers went zipping across the floor of the dining room. Now, I will confess that I did get a moment of amusement out of the situation when one of the rats miscalculated and zipped headlong into the door jam with a thump. However, the amusement was fleeting while the revulsion has remained. I honestly slept really badly last night because I was very much convinced that every sound a heard was a rat making a beeline for my bed.

I will be getting more poison this afternoon. I’m hoping that one large, piggy rat ate all the initial poison and is now dead and that I just need to get a bit more to take care of his friends. I really don’t deal well with traps. And my brave male housemate has offered to bludgeon them to death with sticks whenever he sees one, but this is a) ineffectual and b) really gross so I’ll just keep putting out the poison cakes, thanks all the same. Maybe we could get a cat.

Love From Home

2005-11-17T02:36:00.000-05:00

I received a wonderful birthday present in the mail today. It was a card from my fiance. But wait! It was more. When I opened it, I discovered a birthday card signed by all my loved and missed ones in the seminary community. Luckily, I read it when I was by myself, because I got a bit sniffly. But in a good way. As much as I enjoy being in India, I do miss home and it was so nice to get some love from the homefront.

So, to everyone who signed the card and made my day....

THANK YOU!!!

and

I LOVE YOU!

Staying Warm

2005-11-17T00:55:00.000-05:00

As the warm autumn days slowly give way to bitter, soul-suckingly-cold winter nights, my thoughts turn increasingly to the dilemma of how to bundle up and insulate myself against the chill to avoid such nasty experiences as frostbitten toes. Now, those of you living in the land of central heating are probably thinking that I’m a weenie and it’s not as bad as all that. And I am, in fact, a weenie. However, that does not change the fact that it gets cold really here in the land of drafty third-world construction. The inside temperature inside one’s house usually only manages to reach at most 10-15 degrees above the ambient outside temperature. Which means that when it gets down to freezing outside it will be in the 40s in my house. And that, my friends, is cold.

But do not despair! There are a variety of heat-producing options available to the resourceful Indian inhabitant. These include:

The Kerosene Heater – The nice people in the hospitality office of Woodstock provided me with a small kerosene heater for my apartment. They did not, however, provide me with any kerosene nor any insights into where one might acquire such a thing. Huh.

The Propane Heater – These are cumbersome metal contraptions, attached to large propane tanks. Lighting them is a bit of a pain and they smell but they do produce warmth. I have one in my office but didn’t want to shell out the necessary cash to get one in my house. Besides, inhaling the fumes for 8 hours a day is really enough for me.

The Blow Heater – Blow heaters are small electric heaters, about 2 feet by 1 foot, which blow hot air out from a series of fans. For the most part they are fabulous though there are two areas of potential difficulty. First, if the power fails, as it frequently does, there goes your power. Second, and more worrisome, if you turn the heater up too high, it can do bad things to the wiring in your house. These bad things can range from simply blowing the fuse to causing flames to shoot out from your fuse box (as happened to my friend Tara—ALL the wiring in her house had to be replaced).

The Electric Blanket – I brought one with me from the States and finally got a voltage converter so I can (in theory) make it work. The idea is that you put it in your bed and turn it on about a half hour before you want to climb into said bed. Then it’s all cozy and warm and welcoming rather than frigid and awful. Only I’m not sure if mine works. You’d think it would be pretty easy to tell—either the blanket is warm or it is not—but you’d be wrong. The blankets never really get hot to the touch so it can actually be quite difficult to tell if it is functional. However, in a brilliant demonstration of mind over matter, I am telling myself that it works and thereby feeling warmer.

The Bucari – A bucari is an Indian wood-burning stove. They consist of mid-sized metal cylindrical drums with a door, an air vent, and a pipe to channel the smoke out of your house (again, in theory). They’re a bit of a hassle because you have to light them, using large quantities of newspaper and often employing lots of blowing and frantic fanning with magazines. But once they get going they provide an incredible amount of heat (as I discovered when I left our plastic firewood barrel too close to the bucari in the sunroom. Now it looks somewhat like a piece of modern art). They also consume an incredible amount of wood. Part of the problem is that the quality of my firewood supply at the moment is less than impressive. It consists of broken up pieces of furniture that I bought from the school. Many of the pieces are varnished or painted (yay toxic fumes), most have metal in them in the form of nails, hinges, etc. and all of it burns up in moments. However, I have ordered a supply of better firewood and some pinecones to use as kindling so all will be well soon.

And, of course, there is the “wear every piece of clothing you own at the same time” method. From what I’ve heard from my more experienced friends, everyone spends all of February wearing so much clothing that we’ll all look like chubby marshmallow people. At least then if we happen to go tumbling down the mountainside, we have built-in cushioning.

Reading

2005-11-16T05:03:00.000-05:00

I have a goal to read through the entire Bible during my time in India. Despite the fact that I have a master’s degree in Biblical Studies, I still suspect that there are snippets that I’ve never actually read and there’s certainly a lot I haven’t read recently. Like Chronicles. Be honest—have you ever actually read through 1 and 2 Chronicles? Does anyone ever sit down and just read Chronicles for kicks? I doubt it. And if they did decide that it would make some nice light reading, they would almost certainly give up in frustration after 8 chapters of genealogy. Yes, the first gazillion words of that lovely book consist entirely of “so and so was the son of blah blah blah.”

Now I confess to getting a certain amount of enjoyment out of reading the crazy names people had back then. I say we bring back some of them. Like Arpachshad. More children should be named Arpachshad. Or how about Hodaviah? Davi for short. I wonder how Josh would feel if I suggested a good Chronicler name for our first born son. I know he has his heart set on Joshua David Snyder Junior, but I bet he wouldn’t mind giving that up in favor of Eliphelet Tappuah Snyder the first.

I decided against tackling the Good Book systematically—where’s the fun in that? Instead I’m reading the books in no particular order, driven simply by my whim. I do try to alternate between Old and New Testament. And because I’m a nerd, I’ve made a little chart so I can track my progress. So when I’m feeling like I’m not making any headway, I can quick read a tiny book like Titus and then feel good because there’s another check mark! Very satisfying.

I think my favorite OT book so far is still Genesis—I mean, how do you beat a book that talks about things like Nephilim?—but Amos runs a close second. Social justice rants just never get old. In the NT, I’m partial to James, Champion of Works. Good man. And I surprised myself by enjoying Hebrews. It has a lot of super high Christology but if you want an amazing description of faith, read chapter 11. Or even just read verse 1: “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Beautiful.

So my voyage through the Holy Scriptures is going well. It’s a nice way to end the day, to read a Psalm and a few chapters and then sleep. I recommend it.

In The Name of Beauty

2005-11-14T03:23:00.000-05:00

Human beings—and, let’s face it, especially women—do some strange things in the name of beauty. For example, yesterday I paid a woman to rip all the hair off my arms. Why? Well, because it looks nice that way. Waxing is very popular here and my housemate Joanna got her arms waxed about a month ago. I was captivated by the result so when she announced she was heading into the Bazaar for beauty treatment, I plucked up my courage and tagged along.

There’s a really cute beauty place in the Buz called My Salon, that is decorated in the most shocking shade of Barbie Dream House pink. I dare you to walk in and keep your eyes from widening to twice their normal size as your brain struggles to process the assault to your senses. It was fun. They offer a full range of beauty treatments including such strange things as “body polishing.” I have no idea what might be involved but I’m not sure I want to find out. In my mind, I see a giant floor buffer being applied to one’s exposed derriere.

The waxing process itself was actually not as painful as I had expected. Not great, mind you. The hot wax (mine was standard but I’m told that for a slightly higher fee you can get “tutti fruiti” wax that smells nice) is applied in wide slathers and then the cheerful Indian woman firmly presses a cloth over the wax and RIPPPPPPPP. Eeeeeeeek! No, actually, I did not eeek. I was very stoic. Joanna got her armpits and legs done in addition to her arms for she is braver than I. I might try it in the future, though, because shaving is a pain.

So now I have no hair from shoulder to finger tip (not that I really think my fingers were particularly furry, thank you very much!). It’s a strange sensation. I keep petting my arms because I’m entranced by how smooth they are. And I imagine that I’m colder because I’ve lost a valuable insulating layer, but that sensation is probably mainly in my head.

The Winterline

2005-11-09T22:18:00.000-05:00

As the cold weather sets in, an interesting meteorological anomaly occurs in Mussoorie. The Winterline. The winterline is basically a false horizon, rising above the actual horizon after the monsoon clouds dissipate. I’ve been told it’s caused by pollution, but I choose to ignore this unromantic suggestion. It’s hard to describe, but basically a line forms in the sky each evening and the sun sets on that line, rather than on the actual horizon below the line. It’s really gorgeous. I don’t have a picture yet, but if you follow this link there’s a picture and a brief description in the middle of the page.
http://www.winterlinefoundation.com/

Also, I’ve posted birthday pictures in their own album and added a few pictures of the snowy mountains to the “scenery” album. Enjoy!

http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/indiakater/my_photos

The Big 24

2005-11-07T03:37:00.000-05:00

To be perfectly honest, I was not expecting a lot from my birthday this year. I’m a zillion miles from home, it’s busy time of year, and I had visions of spending the evening alone watching bad TV. All of which made the reality of my birthday that much greater. It was FABULOUS—a thoroughly memorable and happy day.

First off, I doubt I’ve ever experienced a more beautiful birthday. The weather here gets really cold at night but during the day it is sunny and warm in the sunshine and Saturday was particularly gorgeous. I spent a lot of the day outside and enjoyed 3 motorcycle rides throughout the day—woo hoo!

The day started off splendidly. My future brother-in-law, fiance, and parents all called to wish me a happy day. Then, my housemate Joanna and I made chocolate chip pancakes together which we then ate outside in the yard, allowing us to admire the Snows while munching contentedly. We were constantly vigilant for party-crashing monkeys but were fortunately able to enjoy our breakfast in peace. From there it was off to the St. Paul’s Church Fete. St. Paul’s is a lovely old stone church on my level of the mountain, about a half-hour stroll along the road with a perfect view of the mountains. The church was raising money for a new roof and so was having crafts and food and games and general fun on the lawn as a fundraiser and I agreed to help.

My task was to run crowd control and collect money at the second-hand clothing sale. Now, I’ve been at garage sales in the States so I know that people take bargain shopping seriously. But let me tell you right now that Midwest Americans have nothing on Indians when it comes to eagerness for a good deal. It was pandemonium! We had the clothing all on the verandah of the church and had to limit the number of people allowed onto it at any given time, just to maintain order. And then I had to square off against very pushy Indian women who were insisting that they should be able to pay 100 rupees for items clearly marked 500 rupees. I kept insisting that things were “fixed price” and we were not going to come down but apparently they took this as a challenge and simply redoubled their efforts (frequently in Hindi) to negotiate a better deal. I stood firm for the most part. I had no trouble refusing the aggressive bargainers. It was the clearly destitute few who came through and simply didn’t have the asked-for amount that I couldn’t refuse. And after all, it was a church affair.

Once the initial mad rush was over, I was free to wander the rest of the Fete, munching mutton momos (yum!), admiring handicrafts, and cheering on the participants in Bozo Buckets—a game unknown until this point in India, but met with great enthusiasm. Eventually I settled down in the sun with my knitting and just people-watched for a while until my friends appeared for a trip into the Bazaar.

For dinner, I met up with 7 of my good friends at one of the nicer restaurants in town and we engaged in a serious Indian feast. So much good food! And they all gallantly refused to let me chip in. We ended up at a Guy Fawkes Day party being hosted by some of our wacky Brits. (For those unfamiliar with Guy Fawkes Day, it involves lots of fireworks and, if you’re lucky, a burning effigy. Very fun). We arrived a bit late and missed the best fireworks but there was a nice bonfire to huddle around and my wonderful housemates produced a birthday cake with candles so there was much singing and rejoicing. All in all, I couldn’t have asked for a better day.

Activity Week -- Final Chapter

2005-11-04T04:03:00.000-05:00

We got lots of exercise during our week in the village. Every time we needed to go down to the school, it was via the same steep path we had initially climbed. Granted, it was much easier without the mega packs, but it still took a solid half hour to hike back in the evenings.

But we also had more enjoyable forms of physical exertion. On Thursday, we took the day off from our constructing and farming and went on a day hike to a nearby temple of importance to the village. The hike was greeted with much trepidation by my weenie kids, partly because the villagers enjoyed regaling them with tales of what an arduous journey it was. But we set off boldly somewhere in the vicinity of 8am (promptness not being anyone’s strong suit) and it turned out to be a great hike.

The temple is located on the top of the next ridge over from the valley in which Dwarghar is located. So we basically had to trek out of the valley and up to the top of the next mountain over. Wow, sounds impressive when you say it like that. Anyways, it actually only took us about 2 hours to reach the temple and while it was a steady incline, we weren’t scrambling or using grappling hooks or anything. At one point, we passed a cluster of small farms and a few children ran out to feed us fresh sweet peas, fortifying us for the rest of our trek.

The view was stunning, the weather was warm but with a cool breeze, and I actually found myself enjoying the hike. Surprising, I know. I think my enjoyment partly stemmed from the fact that, since I was in charge of motivating the kids, I couldn’t give in to my own negative attitude about hiking. And it made a big difference.

The temple itself was a small, pretty stone building, surrounded by a stone wall and shaded by a number of trees which produced a strange, bitter (yet edible) fruit. The view from the ridge was astounding—a Himalayan panorama on all sides, mountains, valleys, villages. Just stunning. We all kicked off our shoes, ate tuna and cheese sandwiches, and dozed in the sunlight for a few hours before heading back down. The hike down was actually more difficult than up because the path was covered in loose rocks that made descent a bit treacherous. But we all returned sun-burnt and happy.

Our other main chance for physical activity came each evening when the villagers would gather in the square before the temple to dance. And dance. And dance. Several men would drum and the men and women would sing to accompany their dancing and round and round they’d go. They were all terribly excited to have us join in and if I sat too long, some insistent village girl would appear in front of me, grabbing my hand, and dragging me back out. The dancing wasn’t – for the most part – wild or crazy, but it was steady. Often it involved linking arms in a big circle and stepping clockwise, then counter-clockwise, then front then back, in a never ended sea of human movement. It was very different from any other dancing I’ve seen.

On our last night, there were several special performances, including one by our kids. They had spent their free time over the last couple days choreographing a dance routine they could perform for the villagers. It was a smash success. Then the villagers reciprocated by acting out (dancing out?) several stories from the Hindu religion. Hindu tradition has it that if you take on the character of a god in dance, you might become possessed by that god. So as the villagers whirled and spun, the dance got more and more intense and wild until it was clear that these people were no longer fully in control of themselves. They danced with small braziers in their hands and when the coals spilled out onto the ground, they danced over them without even flinching. This display seriously frightened several of the kids and we left before too long but I thought the whole thing was fascinating.

The next morning we broke camp and headed home. By that point, I’d developed bronchitis and was ready for a rest. But my kids are already talking about making a trip back in early December for a local festival and I might be willing to go along, if asked.

Activity Week Part 3

2005-11-03T06:38:00.000-05:00

In addition to the construction project, my kids got time to interact with the local school children. We spent a whole afternoon playing games together in the grass. We taught them American Ninja (which is a glorified version of duck-duck-goose, beloved by Woodstock students) and they all played Kabardi, which is an Indian game. It’s tough to explain Kabardi. Part capture the flag. Part rugby. There’s some tackling. And a bizarre rule that states that if you are the person “it” and venturing toward the other team, you must constantly mutter under your breath. Often it’s just “kabardikabardikabardikabardi;” and if you stop at all, you’re out. Besides that, I’m not 100% of the rules, but everyone seemed to enjoy it.

And then there was the day that we tried our hand at agriculture. Wow. Let me say right now that the life of a farmer is not easy. First was plowing. This process involved following a pair of cows around the field and trying to steer the wooden plow to which they were attached. No mean feat. It was especially difficult for tall folks like me because the plow was very low to the ground and I ended up bent double to reach it. Next was field smoothing (although I doubt this is the technical term!). This project again involved cows, but of a more spirited variety. This time they were attached to a flat plank of wood which ran along the ground, smoothing it out. The cow-controller would get the beasts moving, and then leap onto the piece of wood, maintaining balance by gripping one or two cow tails. It was really rather like water skiing. Except with cows. We didn’t get to try this for long, due to the fact that our first student fell off immediately and the cows made a break for it, racing free of the field with several villagers running along behind waving their hands and shouting what I assumed was “come back!” in agitated Hindi. There ended our cow skiing adventure.

But there was more work to be done. Our next stop was grain harvesting. Armed with scythes (wow those are scary) we attacked a field of finger millet. This is a very graceful grain with long stems and feathery “fingers” of pods spouting from the end. We chopped off the tops and piled them in burlap bags. The villagers told us that it takes a large handful of grain to make a single chapatti and it probably took an armful of the pods to produce a handful of grain. Harvesting is thus a never-ending task in a village of 70 families.

We also got to pick chili peppers. I never knew how they grew, but they appear dangling from the ends of little bushes, bright red and about as long as your middle finger. They’re beautiful, but we were strenuously warned to carefully wash our hands afterwards lest we inadvertently touch our eyes and be very very sorry. The grains and chilies are then piled up on any available flat space to dry and between the clumps of yellow corn, red chilies, brown grains, and green herbs, it made for truly gorgeous displays in the village squares and on the rooftops.

Our final task was pounding the collected grain into useable form. Oh my goodness. 5 seconds of that task and I was ready for a nap! We were taken to a row of large stone slabs, each with a bowl-shaped depression hollowed out of the center. The grain is placed in the depression and then whomped with huge wooden bats. Each one is probably 4 feet long, tapered in the middle to provide hand-holds, with rounded ends. The bats are probably about as thick as your two fists cupped together and they’re quite heavy. The villagers (including fairly young children) wielded these with effortless grace, raising them high above their heads and slamming them down deftly. They make it look easy. When I tried this maneuver, I barely managed to raise the bat at all and when I came down, I landed off center and sent grain flying everywhere. After that, they put a sort of splatter shield around the depression. The agricultural equivalent of training wheels, I believe.

Then I got to separate out the chaff from the good grain. We poured the pounded grain into a rectangular metal tin and then shook it about and flipped the contents like a short-order cook with an omelet. And in theory, the heavy grain separates from the light chaff and the latter can be easily blown away. Ha. Just when I thought I was getting the hang of it, I gave an over-zealous shake and the contents of my tin went sailing into the air and onto the heads of the amused bystanders.

An accomplished farmer I am not, but I did have fun. And so did the kids, although I suspect we did not work long enough for them to truly appreciate the difficulty of agricultural life. I distinctly overheard a few boys discussing the grain harvesting, and coming to the conclusion that they could do it “all day.” I find this unlikely, but thus is youthful exuberance.

To be continued…

Activity Week Part 2

2005-11-02T01:26:00.000-05:00

The 50 children were fun at first, but I will confess that it got somewhat oppressive to be surrounded at all times by a large mob of people who possess a whole different perspective on “personal space,” firing questions at you in a language you don’t understand, and trying very hard to clamber into your tent with you. Fortunately, they were ultimately more interested in our kids, who were closer to their own age, than boring, stuffy old chaperones.

So what exactly were we doing in the village for a week? Apart from providing ceaseless entertainment for the villagers with our strange ways, of course. Take the process of water purification. We would fill up a large jug with water from a local spigot, and then I would carefully measure in the appropriate number of drops of iodine from a small syringe, cursing under my breath as the iodine came out in uncontrolled spurts rather than sedate drops. This is not normal village-folk behavior and they found the process fascinating.

But anyways, my pre-departure initial impression of our trip to the village was that it was to be a service project. We would go to the village and help them construct a school, building up the moral character of our students and giving the villagers a hand. I realized quickly that this wasn’t really the case. For one thing, it became immediately apparent that the villagers really didn’t need our help. We 18 visitors could probably accomplish in 3 hours what 4 dedicated villagers could do in 2. The week was much more about giving the kids a chance to experience a different form of Indian culture than they were used to. The vast majority of Woodstock students come from the well-off portion of the population—they have to to be able to afford private school. Therefore very few of our kids had ever experienced anything like village life and this was a great eye-opening experience for them.

The cultural exchange took several forms. First, there was the school construction. We did go down to pitch in on the construction site a couple times (again, much to the amusement of the on-looking villagers) and were mainly used for grunt labor, moving things. Our first day we moved a large pile of dirt/stone/rubble and this activity gave us all a first-hand taste of construction in the third world. In America, the task would have been accomplished in a few minutes with a bulldozer. We had two shovels, a broken pickaxe, three metal saucers, and several “stretchers” made of burlap bags slung between wooden poles. But in India, people-power is what’s available, not the latest technology, and they make the most of it. We formed an assembly line of diggers, stretcher-loaders, and haulers and make fairly decent progress. And the kids actually enjoyed the opportunity for physical labor, I think. There’s something very satisfying about leaning back after a hard job, massaging your sore lower back and thinking “I’ve accomplished something today. The dirt pile is no more.”

To be continued…

Activity Week Part 1

2005-11-01T04:12:00.000-05:00

Well, I survived Activity Week! I return tired, covered in bug bites, and with bronchitis—but triumphant. Yes, triumphant. I really think that may be the best word to describe how I feel about Activity Week. I can’t really say that it was incredibly “fun” or “awesome” or any other gushing superlatives, but I feel very good about myself having completed it. I survived some serious hiking, camping out for a week, unfriendly cows, and trench toilets, not to mention keeping 15 9th graders in check for the week. Not a small feat.

But before launching into Tales from Dwarghar Village, I need to put the week into perspective by mentioning that the Friday before we left, I got the worst case of food poisoning ever. At least I assume it was food poisoning—I can’t think of anything else that could make you throw up 25 times in one night and then feel (relatively) fine the next day. But that was Friday/Saturday and we left Sunday so I was not quite as eager to go as I might have been!

Be that as it may, I was packed and ready to roll at the prescribed hour of 9am. I thought I had been quite restrained in my packing, but my rucksack still managed to way around 40 pounds. This doesn’t seem like much when you first hoist it, but after stomping around the mountainside with it on your back for an hour, it seems to gain significantly in mass (more on that later).

Our destination for the week was the village Dwarghar, located not far to the northwest of Mussoorie. Getting there, though, is not a walk in the park. We took a bus for a very bumpy two hours, prompting me to pop a motion sickness pill. That was not a good plan because I was still super lethargic when we arrived at our drop point. The road turned inhospitable to buses about 12 km from our village and we had to walk the rest of the way in. Fortunately, we were able to pile our bags onto a jeep and only had to carry ourselves for most of the way. This still took a good 3 hours because the kids are NOT particularly big fans of walking uphill in the blazing sun for hours on end. Funny. I brought up the rear most of the week and really got a lot of insight into the life of a sheepdog. Lots of herding, some barking; I even considered nipping a few of the stragglers but decided that might just cause greater difficulties.

After our 3 hour march, we caught up with our bags at a roadside village. But was that the end of the journey? No no. The best (???) was yet to come. We shouldered our packs and then faced an hour long hike UP further into the mountains to our village, which was off the main “road” (using the term loosely). I thought I was going to die. No, seriously. There were moments when I was utterly convinced that I wasn’t going to be able to continue. My pack weighed a ton; I was dehydrated from all the puking over the weekend; I was groggy from the pills; it was hot. But in a situation like that you really have no choice. There was simply no option other than staggering onward. And at last I made it. And all the kids made it. And we were there.

And waiting to greet us at our campsite were no less than 50 village children. I’m not kidding. I counted them. They moved around a lot, but I’m positive that I counted at least 50.

To be continued…

Kate's Cooking Tips

2005-10-21T03:53:00.000-04:00

Kate's Cooking Tips #29

No matter how hard up you are for proper baking equipment, do not

--under any circumstances--

attempt to make a quiche in a tart pan with a removal bottom.

**New photos from Sports Day are up** http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/indiakater/my_photos

Sports Day

2005-10-17T02:28:00.000-04:00

Happiness is a funny thing. Sometimes it sneaks up on you. Saturday afternoon I found myself forming the base of a human pyramid, laughing hysterically, and shrieking “hurry up and take the picture, we’re dying!” And it occurred to me that I’m happy here in India. I complain a lot in my blog about the monkeys and the food and the mold, but really—this is a great place to live. Fabulous people, awesome scenery, good job. If I could import Josh into the picture I’d be content for quite a while, I think.

But why was I part of a human pyramid, you ask? My friends and I were being silly and photographing our house pride at Sports Day. Sports Day is another one of those fun time-honored Woodstock traditions. It’s a track and field competition day where all the middle school and high school kids compete in a variety of events, earning points for their house. The whole thing takes place down below dorms on the track field and spectators and students waiting to participate fill the stands. And since it’s a boarding school, all of the teachers and many of the staff show up to help, cheer, maintain order, and even compete.

Upon arrival at the sport field (to the sound of the band playing Eye of the Tiger), we divided up and sat according to house. The mighty Merlins, all of us in our red t-shirts, were positioned at one end of the field. The house showing the most school spirit is always awarded an extra 20 points and—of course—the Merlins won. Monty, the crazy Irishman I’m going on Activity Week with, led us all in rousing Merlin fight songs, playing his electric guitar with his amplifier in his backpack. We belted out “We Will Rock You” and other well-known tunes, such as “My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean,” which had been tweaked to:

My Merlin flies over the ocean
My Merlin flies over the sea
My Merlin flies over the ocean
Oh bring back some medals to me, to me!

And the kids waved Merlin banners and held up “Merlins Rule” signs and did victory laps around the field bearing the Merlin flag and generally had a ridiculous time.

The races themselves were fun to watch because the kids really put their all into the day. The boys especially took the competition very seriously and there are some great athletes out there. The best race was saved for the very end of the day—the staff-member 4 x 100 meter relay race. Oh yeah. I ran for the women’s Merlin team and I am very proud to announce that we smoked the competition. Our final runner even had time to do a little victory dance as she went by the Merlin grandstand. Cheeky, I know.

My favorite thing about the day, though, was that it made me think about my grandfather a lot. When he was here at Woodstock, back in the 30s, he was something of a sports star and set a number of school records. Even though it was just a silly staff relay, I felt like I was carrying on a tradition when we won our race. And throughout the day, it was ever so easy to picture another handsome young man, blue eyes sparkling, racing exuberantly around the track, just like the current crop of boys (though probably in somewhat shorter shorts).

On Gender

2005-10-12T05:01:00.000-04:00

One of the middle-school teachers—Christine—is pregnant, much to the excitement of the general Woodstock community which loves nothing more than small children to adore. We’ve got two right now, just a few weeks apart, but they’ll be growing into the walking and talking phase soon so everyone’s eager for a new small person to carry around and snuggle.

Talking with Christine about her doctor’s appointments paints a very informative picture of the typical Indian view of the relative importance of the two genders. Christine went in for her first ultrasound last week. All’s well, but what’s interesting is that in India they won’t tell you the gender of your baby before it’s born. They fear, and with good reason, that the majority of families who find themselves pregnant with girls will terminate the pregnancy. And my doctor friend has confirmed this. She’s the ob-gyn at the local hospital and one of the things she does with alarming frequency is sterilizations for women who’ve had as many children as they can support and too many abortions to go through any more. It’s really sad.

I also learned that at the hospital, the doctors have to be constantly vigilant against accusations of switched babies. Families will claim that the hospital switched their little boy for a little girl unless preventative measures are taken. These measures sometimes take the form of refusing to cut the umbilical cord until the family acknowledges that the child is a girl!

It’s absolutely astounding and just so heartbreaking. If that’s the value given to girls from birth, it’s no wonder by the time they get married their greatest worth is in their dowry and some men are perfectly willing to kill for it. The international visibility of bride-burning and other dowry killings has gone down in recent years, I think, as the government has been attempting to clamp down on it. But the problem isn’t gone and it seems to be just the most violent manifestation of a wide-spread cultural devaluation of women.

The Weekend Report

2005-10-10T01:58:00.000-04:00

Okay, despite the fact that I didn’t really do anything this weekend – I am loving not being in school and not having to do homework on a Sunday afternoon – I still have several exciting things to report.

1) I experienced my first earthquake! And I’m fine. No need to panic. I realize the darn new stations keep reporting only that Pakistan and “Northern India” were rocked by a massive quake, but allow me to clarify. Pakistan got hit horribly, and it’s a mess there. Some bits of India suffered some damage (like Kashmir). In Mussoorie, the chairs rocked for about 2 minutes. That was all. But, for me it was all very exciting anyways. I was sitting in the sun room reading Harry Potter when I suddenly felt kinda woozy. I looked up from the book and realized the wooziness probably stemmed from the fact that the room was moving. This actually took a few moments to fully comprehend. I stared blankly at the chairs that were swaying back and forth, realized I was swaying with them, and finally a synapse kicked in and the little “earthquake” light bulb went on in my head. By which point it was over.

2) I am pleased to report the return of Basanti, my puppy friend. I realize that none of you knew she was missing, but she was for about two days and I was terribly afraid that a horrid mean monkey had eaten her. But she’s back so all is well.

3) But speaking of horrid, mean monkeys, my housemate Joanna and I had quite a scare yesterday. We were hanging out in the sunroom (of course—that’s where we live) and noticed a large pack of the buggers in the yard, grazing. No problem. They’re outside, we’re inside. Except that Joanna suddenly realized she hadn’t bolted her apartment door, allowing for the possibility that they could get inside. Ack! We crept outside together –safety in numbers and all that jazz – to quick check the door…just in time to see a mother and an adolescent monkey disappearing into her apartment. Not good. Joanna immediately leapt into Attack Teacher mode, raced over to the apartment and shouted “OUT!” while pointing dramatically with one hand. And, interestingly enough, they came out. But they weren’t happy about it and suddenly decided to attack. She got into the house and closed the door just as the adolescent threw himself at the door. Repeatedly. And of course, I was still standing outside, somewhat shell-shocked until a snarling monkey broke me from my trance and sent me fleeing into my side of the house. Nasty critters, really.

4) In other, happier, news—I bought an oven! Hooray! A pair of teachers is leaving and they were selling all their stuff, so I got it at a bargain price. And of course I had to make sure it worked so I made French bread, apricot/walnut bread, and chocolate peanut butter cookie bars. Now I have to distribute the food items quickly, lest I eat them all myself and suddenly weight 300 pounds. Fortunately, there has never been a shortage of willing snack-tasters here.

Delhi Part 2 -- Chez Karishma

2005-10-05T06:36:00.000-04:00

We stayed with Joanna’s friend and ex-Woodstock-staffer, Karishma. As more proof to the tiny-ness of the world, Karishma went to Beloit for a semester, before my time. How’s that for random? Anyways, Karishma lives with her family in a “village” just outside of Delhi proper. She picked us up at the airport and we bumped and jolted our way along a very poor excuse for a road for a while, then turned through a walled/gated enclosure into…a whole different world.

Their house is set on 2 acres of beautifully manicured lawn, with trees and massive rock formations (apparently the whole area was massive boulders and they cleared out tons while building the house). The house itself is amazing. For one thing, it’s octagonal. You walk through the main entry way, resplendent in marble with a fountain and large metal statue of Ganesh, the elephant-headed Hindu god. After the entryway, you find yourself in an interior courtyard. Then off to each of the eight sides, are more rooms, none of which adjoin each other—you always have to go into the courtyard to get from one room to another. Marble everywhere. It was just gorgeous.

My favorite room was probably the living room/library. You walk in and there’s an eating nook with a small table. Then beyond the table, two sets of staircases, along opposite walls, lead up to a loft, three walls of which are covered in bookshelves brimming with novels of all shapes and varieties. There isn’t enough room on the shelves, so more books are stacked up on the floor, patiently awaiting a spot. It made me giddy.

And I quickly discovered just how easy it is to get horribly spoiled. The family employs several full-time domestic helpers, including house-keepers, gardeners, a cook, and a general butler-type guy. This fabulous man would appear in the morning as we were blearily waking, offering us tea and coffee on a tray. In the afternoons, it was lemonade and trays of star fruit and veggies. Mmmm. The cook took requests as to what we’d like for breakfast or dinner and took great pleasure from creating the best scrambled eggs ever and some divine caramel custard (sort of like flan). Decadence indeed.

And did I mention the dogs? 14 of them to be exact. Yes, 14. And we’re not talking Yorkies here, either. They must have averaged 50 pounds each! As far as I can tell, they’re all mutts. Karishma and family have a large soft spot for strays and regularly rescue them. And you know you’re dealing with dog people when the construction of their house took the dogs into account. They have a large outdoor run, a holding area where they’re bathed and fed, and even their own refrigerator and min-kitchen where doggie dinner is prepared. Sadly, they’re not super friendly so I only got to meet a couple, but I would watch out the window when they were let out several times a day. The door to one of the rooms off the octagon courtyard would slide open (they all slide; none opened on hinges) and a frenzied mass of barking fur would stream across the courtyard and out through another door. I loved it!

Delhi Part One

2005-10-04T03:24:00.000-04:00

This weekend was Quarter Break which brought with it a four-day weekend. Hooray! I spent those four days down in Delhi and have much to report so I’ll break it into several blogs to prevent eye strain.

First things first: traveling in India. It sucks. Let’s just get that out in the open right now. Getting around this place is not designed for the frail or the impatient because it takes many hours to get anywhere and is often a bumpy ride. Delhi is about 250 kilometers from Mussoorie (or about 150 miles). In the States that would take, what, maybe 3 hours? Here it takes 6 hours by train and almost 8 by car. On the way down, Joanna and I went by train and on the way up we went the car route. As we shall see shortly, the correct decision was the first one: Train Travel.

The train to Delhi is called the Shatabdi Express and operates once daily. Everyone takes the Shatabdi so it’s often packed with students, staff, families, etc. The train actually leaves from Dehra Duhn so no matter what you have to take a taxi down the mountain. The trip takes about 45 minutes and gives new meaning to the phrase “vomit-inducing.” Not quite literally. There was no puking in the car, but several of us in the taxi looked (and felt) like it might be a good idea. The roads are super windy, the taxis have very bad shocks, and no air conditioning. Bleah.

But once we got to Dehra Dun things perked up. At first glance, the train left a little to be desired (blue vinyl chair covers and a faint smell of urine in the air) but the seats were actually quite comfy and there was plenty of leg-room. Luggage space is severely limited but we were traveling light so didn’t have to engage in any hand-to-hand combat to procure a spot for our bags. Because this is India, we got tea on our trip down and it was quite cute. It came in a little package labeled “tea kit” and contained one tea bag, a small packet of sugar, and an individually-sized creamer. We each got our own little hot water pitcher as well. Very refined.

As a side note about the train trip: You know you have finally mastered the delicate and ancient art of the squat pee when you accomplish this feat on a moving train in an India bathroom that consists of a pair of metallic footprints on either side of a hole opening directly onto the tracks racing by below. I am the Queen.

Anyhoo, we arrived safely in Delhi and had a grand time, to be detailed in forthcoming posts. On the way back up, Joanna’s friend and our host for the weekend, Karishma, agreed to drive us back to Mussoorie so she could visit friends up here. This seemed like a fantastic idea. And in some ways it was. We got to stop when we wanted and we had room for our considerably-enlarged luggage.

The downside was that Karishma drives a Gypsy. It’s sort of like a cross between a pickup truck and an SUV. There are two bucket seats in the cab and a padded bench in the enclosed “bed” in the back. That’s where yours truly spent most of the trip. Indian cars in general are not known for their great suspension. And Indian roads are, in fact, known for their atrocious potholes the size of VW Bugs. The result is an…exciting…ride. And the traffic pattern does not help calm things down. The “highway” we were on was a two lane road. One each direction—right? HA! Really it’s a mass of whizzing cars, motorcycles, auto-rickshaws, ox-drawn carts, horses, donkeys, cows, and pedestrians that weave in between and among one another with heart-stopping disregard for the personal safety of any of the above. Horns blare continually and I eventually had to stop watching.

Next time I vote we travel by flying carpet. Wouldn't that be fun?

Mathematically Challenged

2005-09-27T04:58:00.000-04:00

My job for the Admissions Office right now is to collate a bunch of surveys given to all the new students in middle school and high school. They’re open-ended questions like “What did you most enjoy most about the first six weeks of school?” and I have to turn their open-ended—and frequently either virtually illegible, broken English, or both—answers into nice coherent data tables. I’ve been asked to collate them by grade, by school (middle school and high school) and for all new students.

That doesn’t sound so bad, right? And it’s not. It’s fun most of the time and the answers are entertaining. The kids don’t like the food—surprise surprise. And several have suggested putting in a cable car between the dorms and school. The wimps! One high school boy mentioned that what he looked forward to most at Woodstock was the girls. Hmmm.

Now, the problem arises with my, apparently rusty, math skills. I go through and do all the surveys by grade first. Then I collate all the middle school responses. Then I suddenly realize that the total number of responses for middle school doesn’t match the sum of the responses for 6th-8th grade. And then I curse. So I recalculate. Repeatedly. And suddenly I realize that I counted “our bedtime is too early” twice and all is well. Repeat for high school. More cursing, this time with flared nostrils and pursed lips. And finally it turns into a nice chart and graph set. But en route there is much grumpy mumbling. Luckily I work in the basement all alone.

On Mountain Life

2005-09-26T09:15:00.000-04:00

Most of the time, I really love living in the mountains and not having motorized transport. The real beauty of the area in on the paths and switchbacks, not out on the road, and I enjoy my walk to school each day. The flowers are just amazing here—huge, gorgeous, and completely exuberant. Plus, as I hike (well, okay, stagger) up the mountain in the evenings I feel Fit. Healthy. Virtuous, even. Or at least like I’ve worked off two bites of the baked potato soup with cream and bacon that I indulged in this weekend.

The only downside to this outdoorsy life is that there is no escape from unremitting bad weather. You can’t just dash out the door and drive to the supermarket in the dry sanctity of your car. Oh no. You slog the half hour to and from work on foot even if it is raining buckets. Which it has been for the last two weeks.

This weekend was particularly nasty but at one point on Saturday afternoon, the rain seemed to abate. Joanna and I took advantage of this opportunity to make a break for the closest grocery story, about 15 minutes up the mountain. Sadly, we’d gotten about 5 minutes into the trip when the skies opened once more. However, as stalwart mountain dwellers, we had come armed with our rain gear. Out came the umbrellas. Inside out went the umbrellas. CRUD.

By the time we returned from the store with our precious eggs and butter, we were both completely and totally soaked. We’re talking drowned-rat level of squish. But that’s where the good part of bad weather comes in. You can come in out of it! When we got home, we dried off, both put on fleecy pajamas, curled up with tea and biscuits, and congratulated ourselves on what brave outdoorswomen we were.

PS – As a side note, if anyone offers you rose-water flavored digestive biscuits (i.e. cookies), allow me to recommend that you politely pretend to have gone suddenly deaf. These particular cookies smell very rosy and taste like they smell and really it is an unpleasant experience all the way around. So if anyone offers...Just Say No. You'll thank me later.

The Snows

2005-09-23T10:57:00.000-04:00

Mussoorie is actually only in the foothills of the Himalayas, a fact I frequently forget as I’m huffing, puffing, and stumbling up the mountain. North of us are the “real” Himalayas, “The Snows.” They’re quite a ways off, with any number of foothill ridges between us and them, and during monsoon, you can’t see them very often because of all the fog and low-hanging clouds. But every now and again they break free. And it is spectacular.

One such appearance happened last week. I was sitting in the common room, reading a book when my housemate came charging into the room and gleefully announced “grab your shoes, we’ve gotta go to the roof—The Snows are out!” So I dutifully extricated myself from my cozy bundle of blankets and scrambled up a rickety ladder and across the sloping, corrugated tin roof (yikes!!!). And there they were, just beyond the tree line. A line of ragged, snow-topped peaks. The Snows. It was just about sunset and the light was hitting the catching the snow and turning it pink. Wow.

Just a few days later, I was walking home at night and glanced north across the valley toward the Snows, not really expecting much. But I’d forgotten it was a full moon and they were out again. There was cloud cover in the valley and the peaks rose up out of it, looking for all the world like islands at sea.

Maybe people who’ve lived in the mountains in the States would be less impressed by the sight of the Snows, but for one coming from the ever-so-flat Midwest, they’re magic.

7th-Graders

2005-09-20T17:30:00.000-04:00

I made an important discovery on Friday. Ready for it? Seventh graders are Very Loud Creatures. Now, many of you may already have been aware of this fact, but it was a new experience for me. I agreed to help my housemate, Ethan, chaperone his 7th grade advisees Friday night on a camping trip. Really, I was tricked into this, as he made it seem like a staff camping trip when he asked if I wanted to go. But once my word was given, I vowed to honor the pledge.

Anyways, the plan was to take the kids camping near the school and then cook them breakfast back at our house on Saturday morning. But of course it rained. Not just rain—torrential downpour. So we ended up ordering pizzas and watching movies and “camping” on the verandah of Mt. Hermon. And it was pretty fun. We toasted marshmallows over a fire we built on the porch and the huge burnt spot on the concrete will be a monument to our adventure for eons to come.

But the changed venue made the event much more of a “slumber party” than a “camping trip” and the kids were pretty zany. First of all, they talk ALL THE TIME. I mean, nonstop. Primarily about the horror movies they’ve seen. I have no idea who is letting these wee children watch The Exorcist and Texas Chainsaw Massacre but if I ever meet them I’m going to whack them. And they shriek. And giggle. And poke. And spend large amounts of time debating who might be the origin of the alleged fart noises.

As for sleeping? Well, not so much. Most of them weenied out of the “sleep outdoors” plan and pitched their sleeping bags on the living room floor. A few brave souls camped out on the concrete porch (Like me. I was testing my new sleeping bag, which, I’m pleased to report, is quite snuggly, musty smell notwithstanding). But they got “scared” halfway through the night and all went charging inside, still wrapped in their sleeping bags, tripping over their sleeping comrades, and generally wreaking havoc.

And they liked to migrate. We decided that, between the three chaperones, we chased them out of Ethan’s apartment at least 6 times during the night. I would wake up to the sound of surreptitious giggles, stagger down the hall and find them, wide awake, looking through Ethan’s belongings, playing his guitar, and generally NOT SLEEPING. I swear some of them didn’t sleep at all the whole night.

But, they had a fantastic time and announced that we’re the coolest teachers ever. And that made it all okay in the end.

Activity Week

2005-09-16T13:50:00.000-04:00

There are many great things about working at Woodstock (have I mentioned the whole tea-with-treats-twice-a-day thing?) but one of the most exciting is probably Activity Week. This is when we take the learning outside the classroom and all the students go off on adventures of various sorts for a week. Some go to Delhi and do cultural studies; some go to a dance academy to learn traditional Indian dances; some go on massive week-long hikes; some go rafting and do ropes courses, etc. etc. And the best part is—staff have to (get to!) go along to chaperone.

I’ve been assigned to the 9th grade Activity Week. The 9th graders go to hillside villages for the week and assist with agriculture, building projects, water conservation, anything that’s needed. It’s sort of like your typical service/mission project but with less of an explicitly Christian thrust and more of an anthropological one. Our kids will have a chance to talk with village elders about the area, meet village kids their own age, participate in the cooking of meals, and learn a basic handicraft (like spinning thread or weaving a basket). Our primary objective for the week is to start construction on a school building so that the kids don’t have to walk as many kilometers to get to school. We’ll also devote one day to a full-day hike to a place of importance to the villagers, like a temple.

We’re teaming up with an NGO in the area that is overseeing the school project. We’ll be camping out for the week a little ways from the village, which means we have to cart all our supplies in on our backs – tents, sleeping bags, some food, water purification, etc. The villagers will cook some of our meals for us (with the help of our kids) and we’ll be responsible for making some on our own.

I’m super excited about the trip. There will be three adult chaperones (one leader, two helpers) and twelve kids. I’ve never camped for that long or roughed it to that extent so it should be quite an experience! Activity Week is at the end of October so I’ll keep you posted as I find out more.

Monkeys in the Morning

2005-09-16T13:32:00.000-04:00

When you are attempting to leave for work in the morning, and notice that your yard has been overrun by a herd of marauding Rhesus monkeys, what is the appropriate response?

A) Charge out the front door, waving your umbrella in circles above your head and screaming at
the top of your lungs so as to chase them off

B) Call in sick to work--clearly you can't leave with that kind of a menace lurking around the
house.

C) Decide that there's safety in numbers and force your housemates to forgo breakfast and/or
more sleep in favor of walking down with you

D) Climb out your bedroom window and slink down the path, hoping they won't notice you.

This is a tricky question, so take your time answering. There are several tempting answers.

I myself would have liked to employ "B" this morning, but was unconvinced that my boss would find it an acceptable excuse.

I then contemplated "A" but decided that I could provoke an attack rather than scaring them off, as there were quite a few of the nasty critters, including mothers with babies which always makes the males aggressive.

"D" seems like a good response, and would be, except that the windows don't lock from the outside and the only thing worse than a gang of monkeys in the front yard is a gang of monkeys in your bedroom.

So that leaves "C" --safety in numbers. I was actually the housemate being rushed out of the house, as Zoe has to be at work earlier than I do and was absolutely refusing to leave her apartment without support. I was alerted to the presence of the monkeys when I heard her screaming "GROSS!!! GO AWAY!!!" out the window. We also recruited my housemate Ethan for the walk down, since the monkeys are decidedly sexist and are far more likely to harass women than men.

I am happy to report that we all emerged unscathed but -- coupled with the scorpion in my shower this morning -- it was quite a lot of activity for not even 8am.

Culinary Epiphany

2005-09-14T09:27:00.000-04:00

I had an epiphany in the kitchen last night. A blinding moment of culinary clarity that brought with it a resolution...I will never again buy pre-packaged tortillas from the grocery store. Home-made tortillas are among the best things I've ever eaten in my life and may well be the answer to the age-old question as to the meaning of life. I'm serious. It could be that my taste-buds have been deprived by a month of eating chapatis (the sadly-inferior Indian version of the tortilla which lacks the key ingredient--oil--and is essentially just flour and water. Bleah) but those tortillas were truly divine.

The tortilla bliss came about because Joanna and I decided we needed a Mexican food fix last night and so tackled the problem of how to create a Mexican feast in a land without Mexican spices, tortillas, sour cream, or avocados. Nita Mehta to the rescue! She is a chef in Delhi who produced a whole line of cookbooks that help you cook foreign cuisine with Indian ingredients. She's got one on Mexican, Italian, Japanese, you name it. And so with her help, we produced bean and cheese burritos, salsa, and a pretty-convincing sour-cream substitute. It was fantastic!

Cooking over here is really a different experience than back home. For one thing, ingredients, as mentioned above, are limited and creative substitutions are required. We also only have a couple pans, most of them tin and cruddy. The "stove" is a gas-burner with two settings--inferno and off. This makes delicate frying (like French Toast, say) a challenge. But some things are great. Like the tawa--a round, flat, griddle-type object used to make chapatis and/or tortillas. I love it. I'm going to buy one and bring it home with me. And pressure cookers. Why did those go out of style back home? They're great. We flung the beans into the pressure cooker with some onion, garlic, and tomato and a short while later...VOILA! Refried beans! Amazing.

This morning I'm still feeling a bit of the happy Mexican-induced stupor of last night. It's great.

New Pictures

2005-09-14T05:43:00.000-04:00

Yes, there are finally new pictures. Check the "Fun and Friends," "Scenery" and "Home Sweet Home" and "Independence Day" albums. I don't have captions up yet for the Independence Day photos. Suffice to say a bunch of the staff learned (sort of) and performed a traditional Indian dance. They rehearsed up at Mt. Hermon then wowed the students at the Independence Day celebrations.

http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/indiakater/my_photos

Eco-Friendly Uttaranchal

2005-09-13T09:02:00.000-04:00

At this moment, "downtown" Mussoorie looks a lot like most third-world countries. A lot of dirt. Random, malnourished animals wandering the streets. A lot of garbage, much of it plastic. But in the not-too-distant future, at least part of that picture will be changing. The state of Uttaranchal has banned plastic. Mainly this applies to plastic grocery bags and they're taking it very seriously. If a merchant uses/offers plastic bags, he can be fined 1,000 rupees (or about $25 -- a LOT by Indian standards). As a customer, if I request a plastic bag, I can be fined 500 rupees. I think technically the law has been in existence for a while but they're really cracking down. And people are responding. On my last trip to the Bazaar, only one store gave me plastic bags. The rest make do with paper or just load things directly into my backpack. The school will be having several sessions on how to make bags out of old newspapers and I'm pretty excited about that "craft" opportunity!

It's just so great to see a clear, noticeable change in favor of the environment. We don't witness that very often in the US. And there's something vaguely ironic about this incredibly poor, resource-needy area being better than the wealthy Americans at doing something for the plant. I mean, many of the people who live in Mussoorie have enough to worry about just trying to survive, never mind mobilizing to clean up the town, and yet they take the time and the effort to do just that. It's amazing.

Later today I will (hopefully) be posting some more pictures. It was finally sunny so I took pictures of the outside of Mt. Hermon to give you a feel for where we're located.