Still clueless

DISCLAIMER: All of the photos used here were taken from random pictures on the internet, except, of course, for the jogging photo, which is the only authentic photo of me that I have ever seen . . . .

Now that I've been in India for six months, you would think that I knew a few things. But I am constantly reminded that this is a developing country and that there's a lot more to it than one can figure out in six months.
First-world conveniences here, particularly on campus, are common enough that one can almost start to believe that India is developed, just a few glitches. But as I cross the street from the school to the coffee place at the embassy compound . . . (by the way, this is NOT the coffee place at the embassy, where it is VERBOTEN to take pictures because terrorists want nothing more than the formula for making Irish cream lattes, but "Cafe Coffee Day" is Anna's favorite name denoting coffee locations in India), I see -


several women carrying large bundles of wood on their heads.



This does not compute, that people are looking for firewood to keep warm and carrying it on their heads while I am wondering whether to go wild and get a mocha instead of a latte since it's a weekend.











Or I go running with my ipod
Jeez, will they ever stop staring at me?

and pass the dumpsters across the street and am unfazed by the fact that, in the dumpster, there is/are:

a child (maybe 8 or 9) wearing a plastic bag like a shampoo cap, throwing stuff out to his friend (I cannot believe that I found a picture like this randomly on the web - scary);

a dog lying on top of the pile of garbage like king of the hill





an adult or two sorting recyclables to sell





more likely, all of the above.
The dumpster a block away usually is overflowing onto the street, where cows, dogs, and crows feast together - no big deal. And we're walking to the shopping area deciding: Asian fusion? the new restaurant?

OK, it's not just about dumpsters. This afternoon I'm in a cab driving to a movie theatre about 1/2 hour away to see "New York, I love you," English for "Paris, t'aime" . . . mais le film francais est plus meilleurs que le film americain." Or something like that. And we drive past the following on the way:
clothes hanging out to dry on every available surface: rooftops, fences, bus stops, etc.

• a man and woman herding goats past the Oman embassy along a main road (where did they come from and where are they going?)
• 
  
• rows of tent dwellings along a six-lane road, where I observe women doing laundry, cooking a meal over a fire, and recall that the last time I was even IN a tent was in the Himalayas last fall, when someone else was doing all of the work.
• more people than I can count who look like they have not groomed themselves or changed clothes in a LONG time.
  

And I try to assimilate all of this into the same world, wondering what it is like to live in a tent in a tent neighborhood by the highway, and to go to the park to collect firewood for cooking and keeping warm, and to carry a load that's twice my weight on my head, and herd goats past taxi stands on embassy row, or not to have enough water to shower or bathe - and it is
very
difficult.

In fact, after six months here, even though I know where to get my cafe lattes daily, and whine when they give me two percent instead of skim, I still have not

• taken more than a couple long walks to explore, because it's too scary when you get lost and are in the middle of a dusty construction zone and groups of men are staring at you with grim expressions as if to say, "What are you doing here?"
  
• bought fresh milk - just the boxed stuff because (repeat after me, "it's too scary")
  
• mailed a letter through the Indian postal system
• mailed more than 3 letters to the U.S. via the embassy mail system (which means that either I gave up on the holiday card idea or I have very few friends or family members)
• figured out how to call anyone from the phone in my apartment
• learned the names of the school guards to whom I nod and smile every day
• visited a public library
  
• gone to the National Art Gallery
• seen any real museum in Delhi other than the outdoor folk art museum the first week I was here
• made a female Indian friend, other than my students (and counting them is unfair, since they're a captive audience)
• ridden a bike on my own (and I've only ridden once with others)

OK, so I'm slowly figuring things out. Sometimes I almost think I "get" this country.
But then I come back from lunch, sipping chai, and look out the classroom window, my back turned to the Smartboard and my laptop, and I see

several women carrying baskets of soil on their heads



men and women patting the soil into a hill that is being turned from a pile of trash into a newly-landscaped school entrance area.
All of the people working there are thin, I cannot tell their ages because they have rags wrapped around their heads and faces to protect them from the dust. I don't know their names and we'll probably not be introduced.
I'll never know their lives and they won't know mine. But there they are, maybe 10 yards away, working every day.

And then I realize that I may live here but the "real" India is still on the other side of the window and that may be as good as it gets. For many of the Americans living here, that is as close as they want to be.

Living artfully

Last week, every single day for six days, I spent 2-4 hours taking part in a course called, "The Art of Living." With a title like that, a whole lot could happen. It could be a Martha Stewart course on making vegetable cupcakes. But no, it's the first sorta spiritual Indian "thing" I've done since arriving. . . though I didn't know that when it started.

It seemed like a good idea when I signed up - the first week of the new semester, a new year, new page, new leaf, get rid of the detritus of the past and take a step into my exciting future. "What is the course about?" I asked the friends who had taken it. "Oh, a bunch of breathing techniques kind of like yoga."

So how did I end up dancing around a room with my eyes closed, ardently hoping that no one else was cheating and opening up his or her eyes. . . or, later, staring into other participants' eyes "like a child," to find "God's love" there. Talk about uncomfortable. Or telling your life's story in 9 minutes (why 9, I wonder?) to a group of five people (while unofficially trying to listen to other life stories being told in the classroom). Just try it. You'll be amazed at what comes out.

Did they say anything about bowing down to "the angels of lust and obsession," as we were directed to do two days in a row? We were supposed to get down on our knees in four directions. The angels of greed, anger, and other things that are bad were all around us, apparently, and bowing to them meant that they would take care of these things for you. But I couldn't get used to the idea of "angels of lust" - the image just didn't work for me. Angels are supposed to be angelic, not lustful, angry, and obsessed, right? So once again, I wasn't thinking about the right things. Plus I did not want to get down on my knees with my eyes closed, then stand up, turn 90 degrees, and do the same thing again. All that space around me where I could hit unseen objects? Obviously I will have a lot of adjusting to do if I lose my eyesight. So I settled for just being able to turn 90 degrees with my eyes closed, then pretending to say "Namaste" to anyone, angel or demon or just regular person, in that direction. Don't laugh; try turning 90 degrees four times with your eyes closed, and see if you end up facing where you started - it's not easy!

I did find an image of an "angel of lust" on the net; actually, since it was part of the "Gallery Girls" book collection at amazon.com, they now have added this to my amazon.com database, so every time I log on to amazon in the future, they will probably recommend some strange dark lustful teenage fantasy novel, along with the "Garfield" recommendations I get due to previous purchases for my nephew.

Bowing to the wrong type of angels was only one of the activities that I NEVER would have thought I would be doing last week. Now, I'm not saying that I did anything wild and crazy, like engaging in some ancient disgusting Masonic ritual - yeah, I've read The Da Vinci Code and seen Sherlock Holmes (the movie), and I know how to be careful.

The main activity, designed to put our bodies in touch with our minds, or vice versa, was breathing "artfully." Every day we had to do a breathing routine. First, we learned how to do "throat breathing." I'm still not sure what it is, but when I heard people making snoring sounds, I did that too, so at least I sounded ok. Then we had to do a routine, sitting on our heels, that was like doing the "Funky Chicken" in three parts, while our feet went to sleep.

Here's a picture from the course website of some soldiers doing this, in case you don't believe me.


Next we did three sets of rapid hand-raising and dropping and shouting "Huh." After that we had to sit cross-legged and breathe 20 long breaths, 40 medium breaths, and 40 short breaths; all of this, three times in a row. Then we lay down for awhile in "corpse pose" and had out-of-body experiences from all of that hyperventilation. Do I sound skeptical? All of the poses had Hindi? Sanskrit? names that reminded me of IKEA product names. Not having seen any of the words, I can only tell you what they sounded like:
throat breathing was "ujai" breathing
sitting cross-legged was "sonasam"
Sitting on your heels was "arvaan"
doing the funky chicken was "prayana"
raising our hands and dropping them was "pastreeka," a word that made me hungry every time I heard it.
the whole breathing thing was called "kreeya"
and so on and so on. After awhile the string of commands sounds like reading the IKEA catalog aloud.

Here I should tell you that this course, although "different" by Minnesota standards, definitely does good things for many people. The sponsoring foundation has sessions for helping opposing groups to come together, it brings the program to prisons, etc. And there's no question but that it's a positive approach. As the instructor said before our first "big" breathing exercise, "Keep going, NO MATTER WHAT." Then he paused. "No one has ever died of breathing," he added. That provided a modicum of reassurance. Though I did spend the next few minutes trying to decide whether there were exceptions. What about carbon monoxide, for example? But that was just the angel of skepticism interfering with my positive thoughts.

One thing I wondered was why the relaxation tape included the narrator's cough and subsequent silence, which kind of spoiled the rhythm of his instructions. And the part where he said, "Relax your thigh and hip. Your WHOLE leg. now your janitors. What did he say? Relax your "janitors?" "janitals?" What are those? . . . oh. I wondered what people's faces looked like at that moment.

At the end of the relaxation instructions the voice started to sing somewhat tunelessly, like someone talking to himself. The first time we heard the tape, I thought it was our instructor, as we had our eyes closed, and I was embarrassed for him when the singing started, because it sounded so pathetic. But then when the cough came at exactly the same point the second time, I realized it was a tape. But it wasn't our instructor, it was "Guru-ji," or Shree Shree whatever (again, that's what it sounded like - the truth is irrelevant here). The same guy whose picture sat grinning at us flirtatiously throughout the course. The same picture that we were asked to bow down and thank on the last day. That is the last time, I swear it, that anyone gets me to thank a picture.

Speaking of closing our eyes, I became increasingly suspicious of exactly what was going on when we had our eyes closed, doing our breathing or meditation or relaxation or just sitting with eyes closed. It was like a surprise party that never stopped, except that there weren't any presents. At first when I heard whispering and commotion I assumed that the instructor was taking breaks.


Later I started to imagine that he was trying to stifle laughter.



Every day that we did the breathing we would debrief afterwards. I felt like a failure (though now I know that the cause of feeling like a failure is pure EGO) because other people were having great highs, or at least crying uncontrollably, when I was lying there thinking about how, by the time we got out that night, the stores would be closed and I was out of toilet paper.

We did journaling, too. We had to write down some questions and then discuss the answers the next day. I loved the discussions, because we had to "come close," just like kindergarten circle time, and I couldn't wait to sit in a semi-circle around at the instructor's knee. Kind of like my joy when I sit in a chair and my feet don't touch the ground, which doesn't happen much when you're 5'8". Unfortunately (don't tell my students), I consistently forgot a pencil, so I just tried to look reflective while others wrote, and then I forgot the questions by the time I got home. The one day I brought a pen was the last day, when I planned to catch up on all of my missing entries. During the first few minutes of writing down new mantras, such as "The present moment is inevitable," I noticed that my hand was covered with dark blue ink. So much for notetaking. At least it looked like I was having a special moment of healing when I rushed to the sink to wash my hands.

One of the other class participants asked me today, a week after the course, "Did you cry?" and I would have felt like a failure again, except that I now know that is ego and I don't have to do that because, no matter what, the present moment is inevitable. I realized that the bottom line of the course was just that, "Did you cry?" Without that, it meant nothing. Crying was the badge of accomplishment. Even my purchase of the "Cosmic Celebrations" CD, with hip jazzy spiritual vibes, couldn't make up for the lack of tears. I wish now that I had bought the CD with the gangsta rap spiritual songs, created for their courses for 14-18 year olds. Maybe I didn't cry, but my dancing could bring tears (oh, there goes that ego again).

The instructor told us that if we continued the breathing exercises for 40 days, we would be hooked and do them for life. What is it about 40 days? walking in the desert, floods - that time period sounds like bad news. Since the course, I have done the breathing exercises . . . well, actually, I haven't done them once, although I have continued breathing on a routine basis. I haven't even listened to the Cosmic Celebrations CD at home yet.

And I also received a CD of the relaxation narrated by Guru-ji, so if any of you want to relax your "janitors," I'll be happy to lend you the CD. Or we can dance to "Cosmic Celebrations."

The Green People

Our last vacation destination (and also the most expensive - always be suspicious when they give you leis and coconut drinks for free on your arrival):

the real story behind
Somatheeram Ayurvedic Resort
Disclaimer: Actually, what follows could probably be a story that occurs in many ayurvedic resorts, on a daily basis.

Now, I don't pretend to know much about ayurvedic medicine. When I read that it was based on humours in the body, I immediately thought of medieval alchemy and bleeding people and decided that my conversion was unlikely. But then we read more in our hotel room and learned that there are three basic personality types: two are lighter-skinned and have thinner features and lackluster sex lives, while the third is "broader and thick-boned" with darker skin and has an "intense" sex life. Aside from the suggestion of some ethnic stereotypes here, who would volunteer for the first two types? I wondered if that meant that white people have more fun with tans until they get skin cancer.

Reading about the treatments is like entering a dark alley alone - at first you think you'll be ok (oil massage, sounds good; herbal face pack, a-ok), but then you get to the "other" treatments. Let me just say, rather than listing the details, that when I was sitting waiting for my massage with the other "patients," that a group of Swiss women next to me whispered (about another woman) "It wouldn't hurt if she would just relax." This sounds like the transcript of either a colonoscopy or a rapist's confession. But certainly not like anything that I would want to subject myself to voluntarily. I was happy to limit my experimentation to the "rejuvenation hand and foot massage." No, not a massage OF my hands and feet, a massage WITH the masseuse's hands and feet (not at the same time).

Waiting in the pre-treatment area, you recognize the veterans because they are wearing oil-spotted green robes and often, head wraps made from torn rags, while you sit there, innocently waiting for your "initiation," your street clothes marking you as a target for the "initial consultation" with a "medical officer." My initial consultation was disappointingly brief, since as soon as the "mo" learned that we were staying for only 3 nights, he was only interested in our blood pressure and heart rates. In contrast, while I was being rejuvenated a short while later, I could hear the in-depth consultation in the room next door. Think about the effect on your massage that listening to such a conversation can have:

"Patient:" Frequency? mumble, mumble. Well, work has been stressful.
"Doctor:" How would you classify your . . .mumble?
"Patient:" I wouldn't say that I eat meat that often.
"Doctor:" unintelligible
"Patient:" Four out of seven days.

Of course this was completely distracting. Forget about lying on the floor bathed in oil with someone's foot pressing on my stomach - what was the rest of this guy's story? Why was he here? Would the treatments cure him? It was all I could do to keep from jumping up, sans clothes, and running into the consultation room to find out.

So now I'm sure that you're curious about this hand and foot rejuvenation massage. Forget modesty. As the woman in the next cell (well, with brick walls and no windows, what else would you call the rooms?) was overheard to say, "Take EVERYTHING off? (pause) This too? EVERYTHING?" Actually, after I dutifully followed directions, the masseuse handed me a gauzy cloth that I assumed was the head wrap (though I didn't stop to wonder why you would put on a head wrap before the head massage), so of course I put it on my head, which caused her to break medieval silent torturer character and laugh. I had just put the disposable underwear on my head.

Back to medieval imagery. The massage took place in this dark room - first, the woman lit an oil lamp and then proceeded to light pieces of cloth afire, tearing them apart after they started to burn, then stepping on them to put out the fire (Is this weird enough yet?). Then she came over to me, sitting on a stool in my disposable underwear, put her hand on my head, and chanted a prayer that probably meant, "Jeez, my feet hurt" or "Make her give me a big tip." Skeptic that I am. Then she unfolded a large cushion on the floor and fastened a rope to a hook on the ceiling. Would I survive? There was also a massage table to the side, which I found out was for the later "hand massage." She commanded me to lie down, face up, on the floor cushion, with my arms out to the sides. Crucifixion visions abounded. Drawing and quartering, maybe? Oh, I forgot about the part where she took a brown bottle of oil, poured it into a pan, and heated it over the flame before pouring it back into the same bottle.

After pouring some of the oil onto my stomach, she took hold of the rope and (at this point I closed my eyes like you would before the scary part of a movie) - it was odd; she never jumped on me or even used both feet at the same time, but she used her feet with as much skill as if they were hands. I'll depart from the detailed play-by-play at this point, but there was a lot of oil-pouring, flipping over of oiled Ellen like an egg in a skillet, and by the last part, which was a face massage, I really didn't care about the patient next door's meat-eating habits or frequency of ? In fact, I had a feeling of smug complacency when I took my place among the other "patients" in the post-treatment porch area in a comfy chair and waited for the warm coconut milk, wearing my newly-acquired green robe and head wrap (the real one, this time).

Do I look happy?

OK, what about drugged?



Speaking of drugged, you know how you go to Mexico and suddenly a large straw purse with flowers seems entirely appropriate, along with a floppy straw hat, straw coasters, and straw wall hangings? Then when you get home you wonder what the hell you were thinking? I think the same sense of warped reality exists in many vacation spots, but it was at a high point at our spa.

Guests went to meals, even dinner, in green robes and oily head wraps, carrying canvas bags with the resort's name and logo as if they were badges of achievement - but they needed those bags to carry several things: the brown bottle of "medicine" that every legit patient took to meals and put on the table as a centerpiece (note photojournalistic effort here),
a thermos of herbal water, and the one or two mandatory books that patients needed to create a social barrier between themselves and any tablemates. I always thought that reading at the table was rude, but groups of people who, presumably, had come to the resort together, sat during lunch and dinner transfixed by their novels. This resort was so quiet that the girls and I fantasized about what it would be like if various loud, ornery types showed up, such as the Guerin family.

There was one loud complainer who brought joy to my heart - first we heard him complaining that his fish was taking to long to cook (we'd had the same feeling, but bore it in Somatheeramistic pained silence), then, the next day, he went into a rage that there was no bread at the buffet: "I've NEVER seen an Indian buffet without bread!" They brought him bread, but charged him 20 rupees for it (50 cents), which he, on principle, refused to pay. YES! I loved this guy!

The last night of our stay, we finally officially "met" this man and his two young adult children, and spent several hours at dinner laughing and talking - I think that the staff was in shock. People laughing? I'm surprised that the medical officers didn't cordon off the area, though we did manage to clear out the dining area pretty quickly. We seemed to share a common view of ayurvedic medicine, which was skepticism. What WAS in those universally brown bottles of medicine? At one point, I had witnessed a post-treatment victim, er, patient, being given a full bottle and heard her say, "Drink ALL of this by tomorrow morning?" Of course she sighed and took the bottle, while the other patients around me smiled understandingly (but no laughter, of course - there's a fine line).

And, for world history students, there's lots of evidence of cultural diffusion in Kerala. Their version of Christianity was somewhat different from what I had experienced before. I had never seen a Christian outdoor "temple" with multiple statues of Jesus on different levels, behind glass. People came early in the day and brought offerings, which looked a lot like the rituals that Hindus perform at temples or small shrines early in the day. When I first saw the outdoor temple/church?, on my way to the beach, I found it a bit frightening. Gradually I became more comfortable with the structure, which I named the "three-story Jesus."

From a distance . . .


and closer . . . (notice the gold robes that don't usually appear in Western images or statues of Jesus).
I think what scared me, other than the unfamiliar appearance of this monument, was that just as you passed it, ANOTHER statue of Jesus appeared that had not previously been visible, this one without glass but much larger
Was this a sign that I shouldn't go swimming? It did give me some pause, though what gave me much greater pause was the fact that about 1/2 mile down from the beach, fishermen were crouching in that familiar pose that I first saw in Mumbai, adding their contributions to the many bacterial forms that appear in the ocean.

Plus it was too darn hot on the beach, even at 7:30 AM - I went back up to the pool after taking a couple of obnoxious tourist shots of the local fisherman pulling in their nets, then sending another crew out to sea.













By the way, the only thing worse than an obnoxious Western tourist is a Western tourist who tries NOT to be obnoxious and attempts to "fit in" while quietly taking pictures - it's like well-to-do Edina HS students dressing like gangstas and rapping about "drive-bys."

Women came from the nearby village with metal tubs on their heads, bringing some food and drink and then using those tubs to carry back the fish.

Guess what the women brought first to the returning men? Chewing tobacco, or "paan," the national craze, which results in small pieces of aluminum-foil wrappers in every nook and cranny of India, along with gobs of red spit. Attractive.

OK, time for the random photo of the day: Amy and I modeling our new saris just before she left last night. We had to watch several youtube videos to figure out how to wrap them. and last, but not least, an ad spotted in a Delhi metro station that makes coffee sound almost as good as cigarettes:

Holiday in Kerala, Pt. 2

Welcome back after the commercial break, during which I took a trip to Udaipur with Amy - where we stayed at what has got to be the most romantic room in the most romantic hotel (Jagat Niwas Palace, Room 106) in a very romantic city. All this for $50 a night. And that's my travel tip of the month for all of you romantics, whether in a romance or not. Here we are, the three "romantics," Amy, yours truly, and Sarah (who stayed in Room 107 and coveted our room, so don't reserve 107 when you go), showing off the impressive tomes we were reading. Extra credit to anyone who can read the titles.



And this was the alternate view from our dining table, looking up at the City Palace, which was lit up at night.




Meanwhile, school starts on Monday here in the City of Fog, and memories of Kerala are already fading, but here goes . . . .

While we were in Munnar, the site of the infamous elephant ride, we dared to walk into town on our own several times. Though it was only about 1/2 mile, the traffic made it more like the experience of Disney World's ride "Space Mountain," during which rumor has it that I yelled "Mommmm-my" (I was only 33). One night, on the way back from the knot of intersections known as Munnar, I was making a speech to Amy about how smart Sarah is to carry a flashlight - in fact, my exact words were, "I really should get a flashlight," just before I moved out of the way of an oncoming car and fell into the sewage ditch.

My primary emotion was embarrassment, as the lights of the oncoming car were still shining on the parts of me not in the ditch: an elbow, my head - I hardly even remember the experience of the ditch itself: the lovely smells, the damp "soil?" - because I jumped up so quickly. Later I wondered how I managed to hit my right hip, my left knee, and scrape my right elbow - without pain elsewhere - another medical miracle. Back at the hotel, we realized that my elbow looked "gross." I envisioned all of the bacteria that could possibly live in an Indian sewage ditch rapidly crossing into my bloodstream, traveling to my neck, and strangling me (isn't that what they do?). The hotel clerks seemed dutifully concerned, and produced a package of bandaids, offering me half a dozen or so. I'm sure this had nothing to do with wanting to get a woman with a disgusting elbow injury away from the reception desk. But, just to ease the suspense, I survived. The elbow injury even gave me an excuse to avoid the yoga class we were "all" going to take at the last place where we stayed, the "Sometheeram Ayurvedic Resort," though the girls were suspicious of my motives (they of little faith).

Japanese encephalitis is always possible
The trip from Munnar to Kovalam, our final destination in the State of Kerala, is about 9 hours, so we stayed for a night in Kerala's famous "backwaters," at a hotel where our cabin stood perched over a canal. Now, could someone please explain to me why, in a country where malaria is endemic, people actually WANT to spend holiday time in the midst of large pools of standing or very slow-moving water. In fact, spending several nights on a houseboat, drifting along prime mosquito breeding grounds, is considered de rigueur. Instead, we stayed in a hotel on the edge of a misty lake, waving from the pool to houseboat-goers passing by, and we waved a lot, because the frequently-promised pool towels did not appear for a very long time. After we had been there for an hour, and three groups of swimmers had traveled to the reception desk or begged a passing employee to get some towels, two towels arrived. What followed looked like the evolutionary period when amphibians crawled onto land (maybe they wanted towels, too).

By the way, the picture is of one of the canals by our cabin, not the hotel pool.

Amy, who had been advised against a shot for Japanese encephalitis (carried by mosquitoes, of course), spent time reading about it in order to assuage her worries, and learned (whew, relief) that the disease-carrying mosquitoes exist in areas of rice paddies. Hey, this is India - not Vietnam - no problem, right? But then on our way to the backwaters resort, Mr. Rishi pointed out the many rice paddies in the area. As a result, there was a lot of rapid door-shutting and use of "Ultrathon" mosquito repellent, with a DEET level that probably kills most life forms within 5 feet. Just try not to think too much about the fact that it takes only one bite . . . .

Our last day with Mr. Rishi
In the morning, we went to the adjoining bird sanctuary, named by the Lonely Planet guide as a worthy destination. What we saw were lots of discarded plastic bottles and two crows, until we were out of the sanctuary and in the hotel parking lot and saw two birds with white feathers and big wingspans. I don't think the Audubon Society would appreciate our effort.

Mr. Rishi had gone back to his home in Cochin for Christmas the night before, and he apparently had another night of festivities ahead of him on the 26th, because he was a man on a mission when he promptly picked us up that morning. He is a Hindu, by the way, but he informed us that "everyone in India celebrates Christmas." The celebrations seem to involve a lot of pretty cardboard stars (placed over light bulbs), plum cake, colored lights, and fireworks, making the holiday a lot like the Fall holiday of Divali, a wedding celebration, or New Year's Eve. On the road, we witnessed auto rickshaws carrying 10 or more people (with seating capacity for 3 plus a driver) and food and baggage on top. Really adds some imagery to the "Over the River and through the Woods" lyrics.

As we sped along on our last day, Mr. Rishi asked if we could stop at his sister's "shop," and I thought - uh-oh, this has been too good to be true - he's going to try to get us to buy stuff. But no, Mr. Rishi lived up to his loveable reputation - his sister lives in a small village and runs the ration shop - a place where the poor can buy government-subsidized staples. He asked if we could take our picture with her - then one with him in it. The entire time, his sister looked like she was in shock at the scene of an accident. She shook our hands and, I think, smiled briefly. But after we left, Mr. Rishi told us that "she was SO happy." Judge for yourself - does this woman look thrilled?
We agreed to send the pictures to Mr. Rishi and he repeated "This will make her so happy." We then got into a discussion of how she had been widowed at a relatively young age but would never remarry because "it's against our religion" for both men and women to do so - a good reason to take care of each other, I guess.

Mr. Rishi looked at his watch frequently, and seemed to be passing more large buses, so I asked him what time we would get to Kovalam and he said, "5 o'clock." He was focused so intently on driving that he frequently wiped sweat from his chin, and the amount of mumbling increased as we got closer to our next hotel. Towards the end of the drive, his wife called twice, turning the thumb screws even further. When we arrived at the hotel, we bid a fond farewell and he looked happy and relieved - it would be another 7 hours or so before he got home again. Half an hour later, as we sat drinking from coconuts and wearing leis, Amy said, "I miss Mr. Rishi." Somehow I think that was a one-way longing.

OK, this is long enough for Part 2; Part 3, I promise, will focus completely on life on the healing farm, aka Somatheeram Ayurvedic Resort (NOT to be confused with Sometheeram Ayurvedic Health Resort or Somatheeram Ayurvedic Resort Annex, since each of these have separate beach areas, strictly enforced by the "life guards" who spend almost all of their time chatting, seated under an umbrella, facing away from the water).

But first, some photo illusions:
1. Where was this photo taken?

Looks like . . . .(guess before scrolling, or you're cheating)






the Taj Mahal, doesn't it?
But actually, it's a monument right here in Delhi, (Mughal emperor) Humayun's Tomb, which allegedly served as the model for the Taj Mahal.
The "real" Taj Mahal entry fee? $15. The entry fee to this lovely building and gardens? about 25 cents. Hence the motto (that I just made up), "It's better in Delhi."

2. Congratulations if you got that one right. Here's an even bigger challenge. Where was THIS picture taken?




Looks like . . . .




the Great Wall of China, doesn't it? In fact, it's the second longest "Great Wall" in the world, after the one in China. The Rough Guide to India says that you can walk the circumference of this wall, surrounding the Kumbalgarh Fort high in the hills of Rajasthan, in "just" two days (sleeping somewhat uncomfortably on the stone, I suppose). Here's the fort where the Maharana lived ("Maharana" means a ruler who has never been conquered; while "Maharajah" may have a failure or two under his belt; and "Rajah" is barely hanging on to his title). However, there are troubling technicalities, as Emperor Akbar the Great (my students better remember this guy) poisoned the water supply and officially "took" this fort for two days from the big "M."
The sad thing about Rajasthan, with its beautiful "Pink City" of Jaipur, "Blue City" of Jodhpur, and "Lake City" of Udaipur, is that most of the state is drying up. We passed countless dry riverbeds, dams built that no longer serve a purpose, and old men driving cattle around in a circle to pull water up from deep wells via a waterwheel. Lake Pichola, the one in front of our Udaipur hotel, is one of the few lakes that still has water. Even the cab driver who took us to the fort talked about how global warming is changing the weather. Once the topic came up, he gave as evidence the earlier-than-usual mango tree flowering this year. And every single time we passed a mango tree (>100 times), he slowed to check for flowers and excitedly pointed them out when he saw them.

Tomorrow is Amy's last day here and she has only 700 pages to go in the book she's borrowing from me here, A Suitable Boy. Any wagers on whether she'll finish?

Holiday in Kerala Pt 1, before I fell into the sewage ditch.

Yes, it's still Jan. 1st, but I can feel my fingers warming to the task of catching up on the blog. So many stories to tell. Fast forward from Anna's adjustment to Amy's arrival late on the 19th and our departure for Kerala, the Southwesternmost (is that a word?) state of India, for the long dreamed-of vacation.
Itinerary:
Cochin - visit to historical "Jewtown" and synagogue dating back to pre-European days, implying migration patterns that make shivers run down the back of any self-respecting world history teacher
Munnar - land of lovely, serene tea and spice plantations among the hills where wild elephants wander
Kumarakom - the heralded "backwaters" of Kerala, where it's considered unthinkable not to stay on a houseboat (we didn't)
Kovalam - beautiful beaches, Ayurvedic resorts abounding, "tribal" fishermen (there is apparently only one "tribe" throughout all of India, since people look at me, puzzled, when I ask "which tribe?")

Since the trip was 10 days, I'm just going to hit some highlights. Our driver was "Mr. Rishi," and he accompanied us until we reached Kovalam. Luckily he has quick reflexes, as traffic in peaceful Kerala is anything but - the belief that we would live through the vacation lasted, at most, about 30 seconds at a time, since the driving pattern involved (on a "major" two-lane highway with a posted 25 km per hour speed limit) tailing a bicycle, auto rickshaw, bus, or several cars; honking and veering over the center line repeatedly; finally, usually when we had just reached a curve with no visibility, crossing the line and speeding past the obstructing traffic. Repeat ad infinitum. Remember, this was happening in both directions - the center line reminded me of an outline in a coloring book for 2-year-olds - it meant nothing to the drivers. The worst thing was that people were actually trying to walk along these streets, also. But more about that later. None of us got much sleep during the many hours of driving, particularly when Mr. Rishi started reading English phrases on ads or street signs aloud to himself.

Here's a picture I took from the back seat: a narrow bridge, an oncoming truck . . . . It was like the climactic scene in "High Noon" with Gary Cooper. Let me just say, to end the suspense, that we survived.






There were moments of ethnic confusion, in addition to the "tribal" issue. First of all, we went to "Jewtown" in Cochin and found only one Jew, monitoring admissions to the historic synagogue. However, there was a "Cafe Jew Town," and we did stop and purchase a distinctly Indian wall hanging from a Jewtown "authentic" shop.

I guess it's not exactly kosher :) to ask two guys to pose with your daughter immediately after a tough bargaining session where they have just feigned misery at being forced to sell a wall hanging to you at a price worse than robbery, even in "Jewtown."




Then, also in Cochin, we went to see the "Chinese fishing nets" - no sign of any East Asians, but the girls did "help" to pull in the net (no tourist gimmick here).




Here they are, all sorts of "Chinese" fishing personnel. The guy stooping low is just faking; it's clearly Amy and Anna who are doing all of the work.

Since the net gets pulled in every time a tourist walks by, we were lucky to see even one small fish flopping in the giant net - Anna's reaction was predictable - "Ewww." She was not interested in any further exploration of the fishing nets after that. Wimpy vegetarians. Don't they get ANY enjoyment out of watching animals suffocate?

Speaking of work, let's get right to the tea tasting. There we were, visiting the tea factory, and they hired us to taste tea for them. We put on aprons (sorely needed when you're handling one teaspoon of tea at a time) and watched while another employee (our colleague, presumably) measured "exactly" 2.5 grams of tea leaves on a scale. There was a lot of spillage and rough estimation involved, but the scale and the 2.5 gram piece of gold were impressive. We were accompanied by a growing number of fellow employees, including one family that spent some time telling us that every member of the extended family was a doctor (not just any old M.D., but SPECIALISTS). Not that we asked.

The tasting was a high-risk endeavor, but our supervisor (the man in the blue shirt) stopped at nothing to make the conditions hygienic. They boiled several cups of water and gave us each a spoon. Then we were to dip our spoons into each cup of tea, scientifically brewed with water at the optimal temperature for that type of tea, and (here's the hygienic part) dip the spoons into one of the now-cooling cups of water. So, in case you haven't "gotten" this yet, everyone's spoon was being first dipped in the same tepid cups of water, then into our mouths, then into the same tepid cups of tea. Luckily no one there apparently had Japanese encephalitis, dandruff, the heartbreak of psoriasis, or anything that we could catch from saliva. We followed up our tea-tasting employment with a tour of the plant, including a claustrophic visit to see the tea leaves on some tables in a small room with one entrance/exit - along with the "no photos" sign that we obliviously ignored - it seems that illegal photography runs in the family.

Amy, have you no shame? As you can see, we were trying to stop her from taking the picture. (This photo will probably go into my file at the New Delhi police headquarters - further evidence of flaunting photography laws).




Next, let's jump to the elephant ride - no, not one of those touristy "amusement" types of rides - we went on a real trail ride. Yes, it's even recorded on a video made by our (unneeded, of course) trail guide. He apparently is not familiar with this type of camera, as his >1 minute video is basically an outtake featuring a) motion-sickening swinging of the camera, b) the guide talking and laughing to himself - if anyone can understand Malayalam, his language, please translate; and c) what appears to be an optical illusion - we appear emerging from the brush not once, but twice.

You can watch the video, and hear some authentic Malayalam elephant commands, here.

Maybe this guy was a genius. Notice, however, that we were on our own with this obviously-crazed animal, who was practically galloping through the woods, yet we remained calm.

Stay tuned for Part 2 of Holiday in Kerala, where the infamous accident (was it really an "accident?") happens, the hotel clerk gives me lots of bandaids , we meet Mr. Rishi's sister, and we join a cult of zombies in green robes and greasy head wraps.