!ncredible !ndia

Gabe, Jonathan, and I are in our hotel room in Delhi, our last destination before heading home to the States. This day seemed so far away. The day we would not only be in Delhi, but also the day we would be (semi-)comfortable in India, the day we realized we will miss India, the day we knew we would get to see our family and friends soon, the day we mastered the names of Indian dishes (even when the menu categories include “Tit Bits”). This is also a day of many many days of self reflection. In Classical Indian Philosophy, our professor explained that the only way to Moksa (liberation) is through self-knowledge, and India forces you to face yourself, find out who you are, and wrestle with your demons only to realize that these “demons” weren’t demons after all. India shakes you up, scares you, surprises you, asks you where you are from over and over again (“Madam, you are from?”), tests your guts (both your gastrointestinal pathways and your courage), makes you laugh and sweat to the point where you ask, “I had pores there?”, pushes your boundaries, pokes fun, then rocks your world.

I have been drowned in the bizarre and foreign, while at the same time understanding that my own culture is also bizarre. The most important lesson I can take from India is that no matter how many miles separate us, how many phrases get lost in translation, how many awkward cultural misunderstandings we have, empathy among the human race connects us all. India’s passion has surprised me countless times, and I hope to bring its flame with me no matter where I am.

Did I just write an advertisement for !ncredible !ndia? It doesn’t matter–I’m just happy that India wasn’t just all about wearing bindis and saris (although these things are nice), but it was also about growing up in a way where I haven’t lost my curiosity but I have lost narrow mindedness.

The President Came?

The president of India came to Pondicherry University, so naturally, everyone left. When our friend told us the president would be visiting Pondi to give a speech, we got excited. “Wow! Do you think we could meet him? I wonder what he will talk about. What will be the security be like?” we thought. It turns out the answers to such postulations are: “No, no one gets to meet him. He will give a generic speech on the importance of education. And the security will be ridiculous. Blogs will be blocked, the Indian army will be living in the cricket stadium, trees will be knocked down for better visibility (or maybe because the president just doesn’t like the oxygen trees give), and the school will be on lock down. So we leave, just like everyone else. Jonathan brought his laptop to yoga class, so we could find and finalize train tickets to Kanniyakumari, the southernmost tip of India, and Kodaikanal, a city on top of a mountain.

Meshan, Emma, Gabe, Ian, Jonathan, and I headed to Kanniyakumari the Monday before the president came; Jonathan, Gabe, Ian, and I took the train and Meshan and Emma took the bus. Jonathan and Gabe had anxiously awaited the moment we had the chance to take the Indian rail. Jonathan even bought a sappy book on the Indian rail that includes hints of a romance novel. Gabe and I just hoped the train would be all around weird and interesting and have samples of scenes from “Darjeeling Limited,” which ended up to be true. Men come by with huge tins of masala tea at stops, chanting “teateateateateateateatea,” making sure to fit as many “tea”s in as possible into one breath. Other guys served paratha and chapatti in newspaper; the type of curry is a surprise. We were given blankets and a pillow in a brown paper bag; awkward conversations including “you are from???” and advice from strangers on not talking to strangers is the entertainment for the night. You can open up the door between the cars of the train to look out and watch India in fast forward. The train rocked us quietly to sleep, and on our way to Kanniyakumari, we awoke to a very orange sunrise behind mountains, windmills, and more palm trees.

The sun in Kanniyakumari is directed over the city, water, islands, and buildings in the way an artist would put a lamp light over an object before painting it. All day, no matter where we looked, we were graced with gorgeous landscapes. It is difficult to take a bad picture in Kanniyakumari. We took a boat out to one of two islands with a statue and palace-like building that serve as a shrine for Swami Vivekananda, who inspired Gandhi’s nationalism. A large group of boys that apparently comprised a basketball team (although there were too many boys for one team) chanted, hollered, yelled, squealed, and other annoying, loud shrieks while we were waiting for the boat, on the boat, and on the island. Old women shuddered, shoulders hunched as they attempted to plug their fragile, wrinkly ears. The boys did not seem to care. An old man asked me to take a picture of him and me and of him and his wife and apologized for the boys’ behavior. Really, the guys were a little older than us, but they acted like twelve-year-old boys who just found their cousins’ Playboy magazines. We were told that they were trying to show off for us, and to ignore them for the sake of the old ladies’ ears. At the shrine, we admired a huge statue of Vivekananda inside the tall palace-like building. The ceiling, floor, walls, columns, and entire architecture of the building were stunning. The building, which faced the city, was gorgeously stoic. Waves splashed the sides of the small island. Gabe and I attempted to take pictures of the water splashing against the rocks and islands. All of us competed against each other in the game of “who can stand the hothothothothotHOT ground longest” while arguing over what the yoga teacher meant by “you can see the sunrise and sunset in the same place in Kanniyakumari.” (Laura just came in my room and gave me a wonderful concoction of banana, vanilla, cinnamon, and milk. She makes awesome masala tea and lime juice with “bubby water.”) We took the boat back, arguing over if Buddhism or Hinduism came first over shouts from those adult-looking children. Turns out, Hinduism truly is the parent of all religions.
The next day, we wondered over to a bright, white church. When we looked up, a boy was dangerously climbing the side of the church. It made my palms sweaty just looking at him. When we entered into the church, some rope dropped from somewhere above, and I thought it might have been the boy. My heart leaped, and then I explained what I just thought. Ian said that was my version of “rope-snake,” an example our philosophy professor keeps using where you mistake a rope for a snake, except I mistook a rope for a boy. Inside, the church was decorated with neon oranges and purples. Melted candles caked a metal archway. An older woman cleaning the leaves and dust (which is amazingly abundant in India; actually my friend Savera is allergic to dust, which we did not think could be humanly possible for an Indian—maybe she’s a walking paradox) told us to go around the back and up the stairs. We followed her orders, walking on more hothothotHOT pebbles up the stairs to a spectacular view of the colorful city, water, islands, and fishing boats, and fishermen attempting to get out beyond the waves. We wondered down to the boats, taking pictures, and staring out into where the three seas: Bay of Bengal, the Indian Ocean, and the Arabian Sea meet. The waves crash into each other; they seem confused. We walked to the end of a rocky pier, watching fishermen, now that they had gone past the waves, attempt to sail, give up and put their motors on and go back to land. Jonathan had purchased 10 rupee children’s sunglasses that made him look like an evil villain on vacation.
We went to the Mahatma Gandhi museum, which was shaped like a mushroom. It looked as if someone had pumped air into a normal building. An old man with a long mustache, as in horizontally long not bushy, greeted us with his gurgle-y, old man voice. We got to the center of the museum, which was a white room with a high ceiling, and the old man took his time, stared at the ground, closed his eyes, and said “Mahatma Gandhi.” I don’t really know what else he said after that because I couldn’t understand his accent and gurgle-y voice except for when he said, “Mahatma Gandhi shot three times,” “Camera, camera, camera, camera,” and “tsunami watcher.” This unexpected tour guide, although he was scamming us for some rupees, was the most entertaining, unhelpful tour guide I’ve encountered.
Ian left to go to a Buddhist monastery in Kerala to meditate and Jonathan, Gabe, and I made our way to Nagarcoil to catch our train to Kodaikanal. Meshan and Emma stayed another day and then headed to Madurai. Jonathan, Gabe, and I stopped at a bakery to for some snacks and to try an orange, pulpy soda. While nibbling on greasy pastries on the way to the train, we came across a small army of statues, all of a small boy peeing.
We arrived at Kodaikanal at an ungodly hour, and thankfully, a taxi was available to take us up the mountain, and thankfully, the desk attendant woke up to give us our room. We slept like sardines in a bed, and Gabe and I woke up to Jonathan cheering about free breakfast and a dead moth. We went to breakfast; because the hotel is situated on a mountain, we had to walk about stairs that spiraled around the rooms, walked over a bridge, and to the dining room that had windows as walls. We felt like we were living in a mountain tree house. Breakfast was delicious, especially the poori and cornflakes with hot milk. We walked down the mountain a bit and all morning, we played with the hotel puppy, played badminton, and watched hotel employees garden as they handed us apple-pear-like fruits that we accepted knowing quite well they would make us sick. We went into the city to indulge in Thai momos, and of course the joke ensued, “Gotta have mo’ momos.” Next door to the Thai place, we got hot chocolate and coffee in a small, cottage-y place, where the barista played fun Spanish music that Jonathan half-translated for us. We spent the rest of the day walking around the lake, taking pictures, telling stories, making each other laugh, and listening to Bob Dylan. We played ping-pong that night and an Indian game Jonathan had learned called carrom.
The next day, we took a taxi further up the mountain. We were surrounded by pine trees, and crowds still flooded each stop but died down once we got into a “protected” part of the forest. At each stop, we gawked at mountains, green valleys, and trees upon trees. We hiked down a bit, and came across a stream that spilled out and dropped down the mountain. On our exploration, Gabe whistled the “Lord of the Rings” soundtrack. The taxi driver not only took pictures of us, he directed us on how to pose. He made us walk toward him on a road slowly and fiercely. He had us hold pieces of nature, like bark and sticks. Serious poses, angled shots, and just an array of super cool!!!!! pictures now flood our cameras. We listened to a series of good hits resembling the Talking Heads.
Our eyes weary from seeing so many beautiful landscapes, we went to a restaurant called “Potluck,” where we indulged in hot chocolate with chili powder and pancakes with tasty organic honey. If we could thank the bees that made the honey, we would. Someone had planted a marijuana plant in the pot of flowers hanging off the side of the patio of the restaurant. Silly.
The next day, we ate another filling, tasty breakfast in the hotel that smelled of pine in the fall-y air. We were very merry. Our silliness, as always, brightened our souls, and kept us appreciative of our time in India. We discussed if we should take a taxi and stay a while, or catch the bus back to the train station over another cup of hot chocolate. We decided to take the bus, to save some money and in realizing all good things must come to an end. What I’ve learned is that good things surprise you, last forever, come and go, and are just around the corner if I am looking for them.
We caught the bus early, and squeezed into a three-seater—Jonathan on my left and Gabe on my right near the window. The bus left in a hurry and hurried, hurried, hurried down the mountain and acted as if all of the winding roads were actually just straight-aways. Signs lined the roads with images of skulls and crossbones, screaming “CAREFUL! DEATH ZONE” and “GO SLOW!!” I think the bus driver was a) blind to signs, b) the best and most confident bus driver in the world, or c) had no sense of how fast the bus was going and does not understand physics. The view was distractingly stunning. Tree-filled mountains surrounded us, and valleys were just below us and could be seen out the windows just past the road. It was best to ponder and imagine the nature of our surroundings instead of the fact that no walls on the roads to protect our falling existed. (Right now I am in Café des Arts in the French Quarter, aka “White Town,” where at least four other girls look too much like me. It’s getting to the point where it’s awkward that we are not pointing out the fact that we all look alike. If you couldn’t tell by now, I start my blog posts in some places and end them in other places.) I started out the bus ride reading my Indian version of National Geographic, only to put it down, recognizing the fact that my surroundings were more beautiful than the pictures in my magazine. As the bus threw us side to side, the opposite wheels lifting as we wound down, Jonathan informed us that a bus had recently plummeted off a mountain near Mumbai. Thanks Jonathan. His eyes were closed as he let his head bob to the movement of the bus while Gabe and I nervously laughed our way down the mountains. I let the boys examine my sweaty hands every once in a while. We concluded that we were all really okay with death. We are so blessed to even be here, and be in the mountains and riding down these beautiful roads. If we were to die by falling off the mountain, it would be a good, peaceful way to go. But alas, we have made it back alive! About a quarter of the way into the ride, the woman in front of us threw up out the side of the bus. One loogy curved around and through our window and landed its gooey-ness on Gabe’s neck. While I laughed to the point where tears fell down my face and Jonathan had a disgusted look plastered on his face, Gabe only shrugged and said, “Well, you know, that happens—people get car sick and throw up. It’s no problem.” I closed the window for him, protecting us from any more curve-balls. But a couple of hours later, when the worst of the windy-ness had ended, a woman two seats ahead of us threw up, and her vomit curved in through the window in front of us, where the previous woman and her children had been throwing up skillfully throughout the ride. The puke sprayed the faces of the first woman and her children as well as Gabe, Jonathan, and my faces. As we wiped the bile off our faces with our T-shirts, we all shrugged, following Gabe’s example and also in our attitude of “it’s no problem.” The woman that had graced us with the inside of her stomach turned over her shoulder and peaked at us in a blank stare while wiping the corners of her mouth.
In waking up early to catch our stop on the train ride back, Gabe reminded us how nice it will be to take a shower. I said, “Yes of course to get the vomit off of us.” Both of the boys said, “What vomit?” They had repressed any memory of the puke incidences, but were quickly reminded. They also forgot that night at dinner at our favorite restaurant, Palki, when I was telling the story to Emma and Ian. Gabe said that before coming to India, he was a wrinkled shirt, the wrinkles being petty complaints, and India has been ironing out these wrinkles. A conclusive metaphor for how I feel about changes in my attitude.

Gabe was a model in a Runway Show

“Why are we here? What did we do to end up here? What was the series of events?” I was audibly expressing my existential thoughts to both myself and Jonathan at 3 am at the neighboring college. Our hands were pruney from the rain; our eyes felt if they could be pruney, they would be. My pants were filled with rainwater. Ian and Jonathan attempted to sleep, slouched in their chairs and Jonathan kept his collar up–a hopeful but useless attempt at protecting himself from the conditions.

We were at a runway show at the neighboring college. College students pay 450 rupees, which is about $7.50 to participate in the show. Each participating college had at least one “team” of runway models. Pondicherry had two; Gabe was on Team A or B, whatever, and Carolyn, a Fulbright scholar from Carnegie Mellon (she’s more than that, but I will sum the description up by saying she is creatively awesome) was in the other group. We waited outside Silver Jubilee campus for the bus to take us to the next college. Gabe’s group wasn’t quite done practicing, even after rigorous, skip-classes-for-a-day practice for the past day and a half), so the bus departed an hour and a half later. But it was no problem–just another opportunity to binge on mango corn flakes. We got on the bus around 8:30 pm, and when the second Pondi team got on the bus, various Tamil and maybe Hindi chants and songs were sang back and forth. Gabe and the rest of us participated in the clapping. Here is a picture of Gabe dressed in his runway outfit on the bus. The top is a typical Kashmiri look, the scarf, we’re not sure, and the ribbon on his head and on his feet (made to look like Roman shoes), and the sun painted on his face are added bonuses added by his peers to make him look like the sun. To be hopefully not too culturally insensitive, the top looked like something I wore to bed when I was eleven. It came right down above his knees.

Apparently, according to both Gabe’s and Carolyn’s experiences, the stress for preparing for the runway show for the other students was real. Arguments erupted over how to walk on the runway, when to walk, what colors to wear, etc. Tears were shed. Now that the planning was over, it seemed the kids could not wait to get on that runway and strut their stuff.

We got off the bus, still confused as we always are. Jonathan, Ian, and I, who were not participants, had to pay 350 rupees to enter into runway hell, but we didn’t know it was hell yet. In fact, it seemed like we had come across a great musical festival. The food vendors provided an array of tasty treats. Students crowded the stage in anticipation for the Tamil artist to perform. To our surprise, we were going to see quite a famous performer. Leon attempted to tell me what the artist was saying, but we mostly all danced in a large circle doing whatever. These kids are great dancers. I felt like a fool next to them, but a delighted, attempting-to-participate fool. By the time the concert was over, it was about midnight. It was a long concert. The novelty wore off about the second hour into it. Gabe said he wasn’t supposed to go on until 1 am. We were all pretty tired from the day, so we groaned but concluded it was all worth it. The runway shows did not begin until around 1 am; each show was supposed to take about a half hour, and Gabe’s team was about fifth or six on the list and Carolyn’s team was seventh or eighth.

The first team came out with a fierce, competitive edge. It was scandalous really–the saris were twisted at the shoulder, exposing more shoulder than I’ve seen in a couple months. Each kid had a dramatic strut to the very end of the runway. The boys had hard stares and a certain body language to the point I could here them thinking, “I’m going to slowly but confidently walk up this runway with a very mean stare but what do with my hands?” They would pose at the beginning of the runway, at the end of the runway, at each side of the runway, and each pose lasted for about five seconds. The choreography involved spins and stares. It was exciting at first, but then each kid went up and down the runway so many times, posed so many times for so long, and kept staring so meanly. No smiles. Our first thought was, “How is Gabe going to do this? Our Gabe? This is going to be so ridiculous.”

We were sitting in front of the stage, behind the cameras where the stares were directed at. We accepted the rain eventually. At first it was “oh no,” then we danced in it, then we sat in it. Even my armpits were rainy. At about 4 am, Jonathan and I, slumped in our chairs, tried to stair meanly back at the models as a simple protest. Why are these kids so adamant about strutting over and over again at 4 am? This has gone on too long. Just too long. Aren’t they tired and wet like us? Haven’t they already showed their friends their fancy clothing? Narrators attempted to command the audience’s attention with stupidly daunting voices as they said things like, “The game of chess. The most competitive game in the worrrrld. The woman is exulted as the powerful queen.” What? Again, it’s 4 am. Despite our frustration, we were deliriously anticipating Gabe’s debut.

“Next team, Pondicherry University,” announced the announcer lady. YES. Yesyesyes. Gabriel is coming out. Here he comes. We can see him on the side. This is going to be stupidly funny. Yes. Of course, each student had to walk a bunch of times. Honestly, I don’t remember what they did because I was just so excited to watch Gabe “strut,” a walk that I think Gabe is incapable of (being a non-strutter is not a bad thing, of course; strutters can be quite irritating with all the stomping and mean looks). Finally, Gabe is the last. He, as the sun, is alongside the moon, walking behind the group of kids representing different Zodiac signs. The moon, poor girl, falls off the stage. This part is not funny, but Gabe’s reaction is. I was tempted to post the video of the whole thing, but I don’t want some jerk like Tosh.0 to get a hold of it and emphasize the fact that the girl fell off the stage. Anyway, one second the girl is on the stage, the next, the girl is off the stage. And Jonathan, Ian, and I knew that Gabe’s reaction was going to priceless. He looked at where she fell off the stage for a good five seconds just frozen. He later told us he remembered his “coach” told him, “the show must go on,” so he kept going, with the weird stare. He did a quick glance to the left in a sort-of pose then turned around and went back, while staring back at where the girl fell. The stage itself was about six feet above the stage, and there was nothing he could do, and audience members helped her up. She was totally okay physically, but was embarrassed. Our yoga instructor said Gabe should have saved her, which would be impossible because they were too far away from each other, and then went on to say that Gabe needs to be a good husband, whatever that means. Once Gabe got back to the start of the runway, he faced the audience, and the Zodiac models all walked towards him in a dramatic way that made him look like a pseudo god that had brainwashed some minions. Then they all walked off the stage. This all with Gabe wearing his flowy, night-gowny top and scarf. It was brilliant. Jonathan, Ian, and I laughed and laughed to the point where I was holding up my phone with one hand to record Gabe’s debut, and using the other hand to prevent myself from falling on the ground.

Carolyn’s team went on about a half hour later. She was forced to do this hula/playful clawing pose to a song that kept saying, “Touch me, touch me.” It was so bizarre. Leon played a mob boss, which was fitting, and a couple of girls held a fake gun and a chain. At one point, Gabe had come to sit with us and said, “I think this is the definition of nihilism.”

We were and still are happy that we participated. It was such an experience, filled with frustration, laughter, delirium, and something else we can’t quite explain. We took a rickshaw back, refusing to wait to hear who won the runway show competition. As the sun came up, I ran to pee after waiting ten hours, grabbed my computer, and skyped my mom right at 6 am, the time I told her I would. She comforted me with laughs as I told her this story.

We all agreed that it felt like a crazy dream, not quite a nightmare, but one that we could not wait to wake up for as it forced you to contemplate beauty, patience, existentialism, waiting, rain, stares, and so much more. Cool, but let’s try not to do that again.

Lost in Translation

Sorry for the delay! We went to Bangalore, Mysore, and then Ooty for the holidays (Independence Day and Ramzaan), and for the last couple of weeks, I tried to get out of my room as much as possible. I could go on about the trip, which I will soon, but I feel the need to discuss language first. Whenever I have traveled outside of the States, the idea of language has filled my brain with foggy thoughts or more like questions. How do a bunch of miles and different cultures make our tongues move in different ways to produce syllables and sounds that are incomprehensible to foreigners? Why does it seem like English spoken in India seem like different English than in the States or the UK? Why do so many people know English? Why do children in X country know three more languages than I do? Why do I only kind of know the basics of two other languages than my own?

I used to not like learning languages. Languages made my mind bend in ways it had never bent before. “The adjective goes after the noun? But how?” I would think. “Well if I can’t roll my ‘R’s, I guess I can’t speak Spanish,” was one of the many excuses. However, I sooner or later was able to think in full, grammatically correct sentences and I knew “embarazado” does not mean “embarrassed”; it means pregnant. Then I switched to German because you know, why keep going when things begin to make sense. A couple semesters ago, I took a semester of splendid German with a splendid professor from Belgium. When words like “schnurbart” (mustache) become part of your vocabulary, and you can annoy your friends with too many “danke”s and by constantly introducing yourself like, “Ich heisse Gwen” (with the “w” pronounced like a “v”), life remains interesting. Even now, I like to pretend I am fluent in Deutsch even though I’m nowhere near close. It’s fun to twist my tongue into a new vocabulary, and I don’t want my hard work that went into making flashcards and then memorizing the words on the flashcards to go to waste. So I will keep saying, even it’s just to myself, “Ich heisse Gwen. Ich komme aus Baltimore. Wie geht es dir? Es ist warm. Ich muss wandern.” After I wrote this paragraph, I met people from Germany. I introduced myself in German, and I felt and Jonathan noticed, my brain freezing out of excitement, and the conversation switched to English.

I was taken aback by how many people know English so well. I knew the classes at Pondicherry University would be taught in English, but I didn’t expect some of my peers to understand words like “romanticize,” but they do. I didn’t think I could ask anyone on the street where to find the hardware store, but I can. I didn’t think bus drivers would understand that I only want to go three kilometers down the road and stop. If someone does not speak English, I am reminded that my hands have a whole other language of their own that somewhat makes sense to locals. Contrary to my assumptions, communication is fairly simple halfway across the world. Fairly.

Of course language barriers have thrown us through some difficult-to-navigate loops. For example, when we asked the guy who everyone buys bus tickets from on the bus that we wanted to get off at Paradise Beach, he did the head bobble (which I will demonstrate for you all when I get back) and had us get off at Serenity Beach. Of course, serenity is an acceptable replacement for paradise, but not when we were craving to see the palm-tree-y, Kingfisher-filled, and population explosion of Indian “paradise.” But it was “no problem,” as Sunny would say, and we solved the problem by overpaying for rickshaw rides away from Serenity and towards Paradise. A direr example has to do with our expedition to find our bus back to Chennai in Ooty. At the one and only bus stop in Ooty, which is where our bus ticket told us to go, we asked different people, some who looked official in fancy uniforms with whistles and/or batons, if our bus to Chennai was coming. Our questions were answered with head bobbles and random pointing, which uuuussssually means “Ok” or “Yes”. We were over-confident in our understanding of the communication and head bobbles in India, and thought “Well this is where we need to be!” when indeed it was not where we needed to be. After some grumpy exchanges when we realized we were in the wrong place and now late for our bus and entering different travel places that were closing for the night, we stumbled upon one bus manager who went above and beyond to stop a bus for us so we could arrive in Chennai overnight. Long story short, we made it back, armpits smelly from anxiety, breath not-so-fresh, and sleepy brains, and a better understanding of the language barrier we had only experienced in harmless places like tea shops until that point. Getting a soda instead of a masala dosa is not as frustrating or anxiety provoking.

Language barriers are usually just very silly now to us. Of course it can be irritating like the bus in Ooty example, but they have provided many giggles. In Mysore, we only had a couple of hours before catching our bus to Ooty, and we hoped to make the best of those two hours. We had heard of a famous book store and a bazaar, so we stopped a rickshaw to take us to either. He didn’t understand book store, so we went for the bazaar. He faked an understanding look while holding up his index finger and saying, “Bazaar!” and we replied “Yes!” and squeezed into the rickshaw to be sent to a wonderland of a market. Instead we ended up at a McDonald’s. There was some hesitancy as we thought, “Is he going to get a burger quickly, and then he’ll take us to the bazaar?” until he looked back at us, waiting for us to get out. We laughed and said, “No, no, baaaazaaaarrrr.” He did the similar fake face and repeated, “Ah bazaar, bazaar.” and proceeded to take us to “U.S. Pizza” which has a logo of a football player holding a pizza box instead of a football. Laughter ensued, but this time more restrained and annoyed laughter, and off we went again. We had him stop eventually, realizing we would just go to the art gallery we passed, which wasn’t too far away. We gave the driver half of what we agreed upon because we did not reach our desired destination, and he looked at us like, “C’mon” while repeating, “Petrol.” Jonathan took himself and his sympathetic heart to a shop to get change, while Gabe said, “You took us to a McDonald’s.” in a surprisingly stern voice that revealed that Gabe can try to be assertive although the driver didn’t understand.

A habit of many teachers here in India, whether they are yoga instructors that Sunny invites over to his house for an introduction to yoga, or professors, is to say the entire sentence except for the last word, wait, and then say the last word and then repeat the last part of the sentence. The sentences are formed like……….this. Just like…this. The yoga instructor at Sunny’s was describing the chakras to us. We don’t exactly remember all of them because we were distracted by “And the next chakra is located behind the…..genitals. Behind the…..genitals.” We, along with Sunny and his wife, thought it was a fill-in-the-blank quiz and keep whispering “genitals” more times than we prefer.

Accents are the cherry on top of one of those Indian ice cream sundaes I described in a previous post. When my friend Savera talks to me, she goes nice and slow, aware that I am already confused by the chaos around me. When she talks to locals or her friends, her English is like a whole new language. In Bangalore, her home town, she helped us bargain with shopkeepers and rickshaw drivers. I stared in awe of her ability to switch quickly from Hindi to English and was confused when she said she “knew enough Hindi to get by” which was a humble way to say she is a master of the Hindi language and commands the respect of any rickshaw driver. In conversations with our friends in the psychology department, their jokes and laughs come out so quickly that I find myself constantly laughing, jaw open like a buffoon (do people still use that word?). I honestly can only make out the last of their words, and I’m mostly laughing at their accents going back and forth like poetry and me not being able to understand even though they are speaking in English. Kim, my friend from France, speaks English incredibly well, and she’s still trying to improve by finding big words in her books and having me or the dictionary explain them. She came to my door a couple of days ago and said, “I feel like a prostitute” (attempt saying that in a French accent) because she was wearing a dress and boys kept staring at her although the dress wasn’t revealing. I laughed at both her joke and her accent, but mostly her accent. Laura and Hadrien, French students from the same school and pictured here, along with Kim, sound like they are composing perfect melodies when they speak French, even when they argue. “Crossiant” sounds even more delicious when they say it. Their English has improved remarkably well in just the past month or so, whereas my French is limited to a greeting, saying things are magnificent, how to say “bless you” when someone sneezes, and “cool” (which is just “cool”). The French are much more expressive than us Americans. They keep you on your toes with high eyebrow rises and sound effects. Conversations are more fun that way. Kim, Laura (whose names are pronounced in the most cheerful ways possible), and I just had a good laugh at the way my list of Tamil phrases that the Study in India assistant, Mani (pronounced “money”), gave me. The list includes how to say, “Hi!”, “Welcome!”, “How are you!”, “I missed you so much!”, “I am lost”, and “Come with me”, a series of phrases vital to having a conversation. Especially when you need to express that you’ve missed people you just met…

Manon, a volunteer at the orphanage, grew up in an international school in England. She said in school, kids would use fake American accents because that was “the rage” until she realized that it was silly to act like people they weren’t. Her fake American accent is quite weird to hear. It’s very realistic and much lamer than her British accent. When she said, “The archbishop is coming, but I don’t know what that means,” yesterday, I found myself again laughing at one of her many jokes and laughing at her British accent, which is like added sugar to a masala tea.
Today, my friend Savera called herself a “dodo.” I said, “A whatwhat? A doodoo? Like poop?” She replied, “No!” in the same way that all of our friends say “no” when we say something dumb or ask if we can get water from The Best Water Doctor when the light on it is red. A dodo is a bird that went extinct, which I remember learning but do not remember caring, and the notion is that when you call someone a dodo, you are saying that they are dumb enough to go extinct. The more important part is that it sounds very silly in an Indian accent. However, it seems absolutely hilarious when us Americans attempt to say Indian names or phrases. I’m glad we can provide similar entertainment.

The best accent I’ve heard is from our friend Leon, who is from Bangalore. He is very aware of American culture as well as Indian culture, and often conveniently compares the two. One night, we were riding the back of our friend’s Scooty, and he held up my arms to the side and sang Celine Dione’s/The Titanic’s song, “Once more you open the door!” in his South Indian accent. I will perform Leon’s version of this song when I get back for all who will listen. He immediately became Celine Leon, a master of the lyrics of the master of romantic love songs.

Since being here, I have felt really bad that although I am abroad, I can speak in my native language all I want whereas others have to think more about what they are saying as they translate to English. English was forcibly introduced to the country by a bill passed in British Parliament; the bill itself is maddeningly racist. When independence was gained, language became a topic in politics. Arguments were had over completely getting rid of English or embracing it and adapting Hindi or English as the national language. Tamil Nadu wanted nothing to do with Hindi, like the rest of southern India because none of the languages were rooted in Hindi like the north. Language is still political today. At a writing conference, as our Study in India advisor Dr. Kalpana explained today, there was a general agreement to present in English. However, two scholars refused and one translated his work in Tamil into Hindi for the conference, and the other spoke in Tamil; both were from Tamil Nadu. They explained that too much of their writing would be lost in translation. When English was introduced to India, the elite were taught first. Even today, those that know English are considered of a higher social class. In many schools, they teach how to read and write in English, but do not teach students how to converse. Students at Pondicherry University have been asking for English conversational classes. When I express to my friends that have learned English as a second language that I feel bad that my language has encroached on the cultures of so many people, they say, “Well English is everywhere!” as in I shouldn’t feel bad, but I do feel ignorant for only knowing one language. Who knows, lessons with Kim can make me a fluent speaker in French, and the list that Mani gave me will make me a master of telling people I miss them in Tamil. My friend Noella, from Tanzania, is teaching me Swahili, and I honestly feel really cool when I speak it. At meals, the group of foreign students and Indian students sounds like the perfect medley of sounds.

Here is a short list of some language nuances as Indian people use English in posters:
“Horn not okay please.”
“We have touched a millions of hearts.”
“Flash not okay while the program.”
and
Dr. Kalpana keeps calling us “you people.” Jonathan and I don’t know how we should feel about it.

I wonder how grammatically incorrect my posters or phrases in Tamil, Hindi, Malayalam, French or any other language would be and are. Probably pretty bad.

The Beach

I went to the beach today. Beforehand, I walked along the street for a while to get a better understanding of Pondicherry in the morning, outside the walls of the University. I entered the beach through our normal entrance: St. James (not the pub, for any SMCM-ers, but a resort). I noticed that India does have a system of removing trash: having old ladies pick it up for you and dump it into a truck with decorations of cows. That’s a wonderful thing about India–all of the objects that are mundane in the States, including trucks, are individually, beautifully hand-painted and decorated here. Anyway, I got to the beach and decided to walk down a ways, closer to a clump of palm trees. It seemed more remote, more relaxing than where I was, which was still quite relaxing but filled with some fishermen and women. On my first small voyage alone, I was suspicious of everyone, but I’ve also been tired of the same old, “You from?” “The U.S.” “America! Uh, where in America?” “Washington, D.C.” “Aaaah Washington D.C.” “How long you stay?” “Until November” “November, November. Can I get picture?” It goes on. I put my head down, hoping the fishermen and women would not approach me, but they smiled and just held up a fish, which was nice because I was actually curious as to how large the fish are.

Then I walked, watching the waves and enjoying the fact that my classes were cancelled, and reminding myself that I am in school and not on vacation. Fish were jumping out from the tops of waves; the sea breeze cooled my sweaty pits. My backpack was becoming heavier and sweat wouldn’t stop going into my eyeballs, but I was all around very happy. I walked passed this building under construction. A line of people were carrying bowls of cement on their heads and pouring it down a column and returning back to the cement mixer. It was very systematic and seemed quite efficient. Then I saw a man, squatting at the edge of the  beach, where the water meets the sand. He had his hands, palms up, on his knees. After thinking that the fishermen and women would annoy me but didn’t, I figured that I really need to stop judging people. I thought, Wow, he’s meditating! Just letting the waves approach and leave him as they please; not worried about being swallowed by the sea. He seems so peaceful. I wonder how long he’s been doing that. As I got closer, I was looking back and forth from the cement pour-ers to the meditating man in awe. I did not want to disturb the man, so I walked behind him, and thought that it was weird that he didn’t have pants on. Then I realized he was squatting to poop. Just poopin’. Right there in the ocean. Not meditating. Pooping. I avoided looking at him, but I got the feeling there was no shame in his actions. “It’s no problem” as Dr. Sunny would say. It’s salt water, right? Yeah, I guess it’s no problem. This is one example of the exaggerated view of mysticism us Americans have about India. Although, there is plenty of mysticism, with un-trekked mountains, endless wildlife, history beyond the imagination, you could easily come across a man pooping in the ocean. I had arrived at the clump of palm trees, which I had previously assumed to be more relaxing, but it was only more confusing.

I walked back, forced to pass the pooping man once more, and headed back towards the entrance. I stopped to read for a while until I went back towards the Nala Beach Resort we usually end up at to get Kingfisher. The owner, who has looked at me like I was stealing from him when I asked where the bathroom was last week, who pretends like he can’t speak English when we order something off of the menu that he doesn’t have in stock, who has told us to leave at 10:30 pm “SHARP,” approached me and pulled out the chair for me. Very gentleman-like. Maybe the tables have turned, I thought to myself. It turns out, he did not recognize me. I was insulted, but also saw this as an opportunity. To do what, I am not sure. He asked me the same questions (as mentioned above) and asked why I came to India. He cuts me off, like some older people have been doing to us when we answer their questions. I don’t know what he says, so I practice cutting him off. Maybe it’s a sign of respect or something. He asks, “Do you know what my name–” “Sound like?!” I say. “No. It means King of Cobras.” I nod and say a drawn out, “Coooooooooool.” He nods and gives me a look like, “Yeah I know it’s cool.” He tells me that he is adding 25 (I remember this number because it was repeated multiple times) cottages with A/C and a bar and a swimming pool. I add another, “Cool” which he must have mistaken for “Please let me stay at one of the cottages until I leave to go back to the U.S.” He takes me over to the building site, and says, “In two months, no in three months, no two months maximum, the cottages will be here with a swimming pool and a bar.” That is very quick, I tell him, seeing as he is pointing to a bundle of palm trees and trash, where a bed, but certainly not a pool or 25 cottages, could fit. He is very proud, so I feed his ego by telling him that he should feel proud that he is able to build such a marvelous resort. We head back to the table, and I eat the rice I accidentally ordered instead of peanuts, and drink a 7-Up. I attempt to start reading, but Nala owner man comes back and sits down with me. He asks me what I am reading, which is book by A.J. Jacobs on a series of one month-long experiments he has done on himself, such as doing everything his wife says and acting like George Washington. (Thank you Ms. Fran, if you are reading this, for lending me the book. It’s very funny.) I try to explain, but Nala man takes the book and begins to read a chapter about Jacobs’ explanation of the sex drive. I take the book back, wanting at all costs to avoid such awkwardness, and point him to a chapter on rationality. Jacobs has inserted a few funny metaphors, such as a brains are not Porshes but instead 1997 Dodge Caravans. Nala man laughs and laughs, while shaking my hand. He keeps reading, asking me to explain words and phrases like “ad hoc” and “paleolithic” while shaking my hand fervently each time he laughs at Jacobs’ jokes. I politely shake hands back and laugh with him. It’s nice. Weird but nice. I think he was wearing man perfume, because I can still smell it on my hand, and it makes me want to take a shower. He leaves, saying he hoped he didn’t disturb me, I say that he didn’t, although he did, but it was a pleasant disturbance.

We Ate This

Gabe, Emma, Ian, and I went on an adventure to see a Bollywood movie. Movie posters of men with mustaches and aviators flood the cities and piqued our interest. We asked the two men at the desk of our hotel in Kottayam where the closest movie theater is. After some confusion on whether we asked when a movie is playing, where a movie is playing, or what a movie is, the clerks pointed us to the left while saying, “Oh just to the left there” with an ambiguous head bobble, of course. After some walking in the rain past underwear shops, fruit stands, mobile stores, and very fancy jewelry stores where they serve customers tea, and other unrecognizable yet probably useful stores (all of which are virtually outside), we found what resembled a theater. We crossed the street, filled with traffic anarchy, and slid a gate open and walked some stairs up to a theater. The next movie, which I think involved “Indian Policeman” in the subtitle, was playing at 9 pm. We were a couple of hours early, and marked it in our temporary, but really non-existent, calendars. There were two ticket booths, one labeled “Ladies” and the other “Gents.” The theater owner had a limited-English response to our confusion about the gender separation in the movie theater, so theories are still lingering. I’ll get back to you when we’ve made a conclusive theory.

We made our way back on the never-pedestrian-friendly-Indian-street and walked into a candy store. We sat down in the small shop, overstimulated by the choices on the menu and stacks of various types of candy and cookies on the shelves. We asked each other what different words were on the menu, knowing quite well that none of us would have an answer. Asking the waiter kind of helped at first, and then over-helped by proceeding to tell us what a banana split is. Gabe pointed to a picture of a vanilla ice cream cone on the menu and asked, “What’s this?” and the waiter said, “Ice cream” and looked at us like we were dumb. Good way to get some giggles in. We asked what he would recommend, and he pointed to the picture of the banana split. We shrugged; although it was too American to get at an Indian candy store, we went with the waiter’s choice. A few minutes later, he brought these magnificent glasses of colorful ice cream bunnies. Bunnies? Yeah, I guess bunnies. Ian and I shared one, and Gabe and Emma shared another. We took the first bites, with vanilla ice cream pouring out the sides. From there on out, every bite was different and unrecognizable. There was a layer of noodles, a layer of cashews, and green, pink, and other colors flooding every layer. I felt like Elf when he put candy and syrup in his noodles and ate it for breakfast. It was confusingly delicious and definitely not a banana split and not how the waiter described a banana split. Ian and I finished, and Emma and Gabe gave up, both smart enough to prevent stomach aches.

In the midst of eating, we would take breaks and buy candy from the shelf, including chocolate eggs with fun surprises (a plastic mini-bike and a lame picture with what was supposed to be a 3-D lens) inside and stale mango sugar wafers. I’m not sure if the waiter was confused on what we had already purchased and what we hadn’t or he was just really nice, but he gave it all to us for free. I think it was due to a combination of confusion and kindness. The waiter is just one example of the kindness we have witnessed in India.

That night, I ordered a paper roast at dinner, which is another confusing dish (which I cannot do justice in a concluding paragraph) but just as delightful.

We forgot about the movie.

“Relax the Body”

Dr. Sunny promised we would experience an Indian massage, namely an Ayurvedic massage made famous in Kerala, on Monday. Monday came and went without a massage but instead mall madness as the girls hunted for salvaar kamiz and the boys found dhotis. We all had a case of mall exhaustion and impatience and a desire for a massage. After all of the walking and sleeping on buses and hard mattresses, we all literally ached for massages. There is something about the mysticism of India and the assumed Indian expertise and herbal treatments that had us all assuming an Ayurvedic (a word we were still learning to pronounce) massage, although mysterious, would be heavenly. This picture of Gabe giving Jonathan a massage is an example of our hopeful expectations. Actually, we expected something cooler.

Ian and I opted to go first. Ian walked into the men’s massage room and I the women’s as we gave each other a “here goes nothing” departing smile. The Ayurvedic massage therapist woman, no older than twenty-five, pointed to me and said, “Off.” I said “Uh everything?” She didn’t really understand, but Yup. She meant everything. She gave me a step-up-from-paper-step-down-from-doctors’-scrubs loin cloth. She pointed to a small children’s stool to sit down on and poured oil in the center of my head, in the area we learned earlier that day is one of the chakras of the body. It was an awesome head massage. Hair pulling was involved, but it was all friendly. For a moment, I forgot that I was completely uncomfortable. Then she had me get on a wooden table that was slightly crowned, and I rejected any notion that I would feel comfortable again. She said, “Relax the body” pronounced like “boedi.” I would like to say, “And relax I did!” but it was more like me telling myself, “Close your eyes, Gwen, and pretend to relax.” She poured more oil on me and used long, extended arm motions as if she was flattening pizza dough and wanted to be sure it wouldn’t stick to the pan. She motioned me to turn around, which I thought meant she wanted me to get on my stomach. After some guessing at what she wanted me to do and laying on my side in certain positions, none of which seemed correct, she mumbled, “Okay,” which sounded more like “Whatever.” In one hard-enough nudge, she pushed the center of my back, which had me and my oily self slowly but surely sliding to the side of the curved table, with my dignity sliding away with it. In one swoop, I was back at the center of the table, contemplating ways to alleviate the awkwardness and giving up within the same second. Eventually, she rubbed off the bottoms of my oily feet and motioned me to stand up. I felt like a slippery baby in the middle of an ice rink, and motioned back to her for some assistance in completing the impossible task. Then she had me sit in this red box. She put the lid on the box, with my head peering out like one of those magician’s assistants in a box that looks like the magician cut half of her body, but I was sitting upright. Steam filled the upright-magician’s box, and I tried to look everywhere but the painting on the wall of baby Jesus who looked like an adult with a skinny neck in Mary’s lap. The therapist said “Ten minutes,” but it felt more like five. I think she wanted the uncomfortable-ness to end just as much as I did. She left two buckets of water and pointed and mumbled. I heard “hot” somewhere in her mumble, but I couldn’t be sure. I had to wipe the rest of the oil off and somehow get it out of my hair. The shampoo was black, which was thankfully the last question mark at the end of a series of them.

As both Ian and I exited the confusion chamber and entered the waiting room, Gabe and Emma eagerly awaited our summaries. We both just told them to be prepared to be in the nude and just go with it. After comparing and contrasting our awkward experiences, Ian and I read a Hollywood-esque novel entitled “The Monk who Sold his Ferrari” until the rest of the gang showed up and waited for Ian and I to describe what an Ayurvedic massage actually is. We shrugged our shoulders and said, “You’ll find out” because nothing we said could have prepared them properly.

On the way back, we laughed about the awkwardness of it all and smiled in the fact that we didn’t have to feel like buttery lobsters outside of their shells anymore.

July 15; “Venice of the East”

From Cochin, we took a houseboat around what the westerns call the “Venice of the East.” We landed at a small village, where an abandoned factory welcomed us. Our tour guide showed us all of the different spices, like ginger and cinnamon, and he told us about some herbal remedies. For the most part, he was pretty informative, but he talked too much for Jonathan and I’s liking. I guess that’s what tour guides are supposed to do, but it felt like he was trying to sell some islands to us. He said he knew a little about ayruvedic medicine as he told us some names of different body types. None of us really remember. He did say though that Ian is healthy, and Emma and I are unhealthy. Whatever, Tour Guide. Anyway, the people of the village showed us a ladder they made from rope and coconut shell to get coconuts off of palm trees. Emma, Ian, and I each went up a bit, but Gabe just went for it. Tour Guide shouted, “Come down, my friend!” while the villagers shook their heads back and forth as if implying, “Here we go again.” They grunted at Gabe, and Gabe somehow thought they were encouraging him to go higher, but soon heard the worried tone of their voices and proceeded to make his way down. After a couple of wobbles on unstable coconut-rope ladder rungs, he made it back to Earth. It was fun to give Tour Guide a fright. Us students and an old guy laughed throughout the process.

Tour Guide insisted that we try some spicy shellfish for some rupees. As we held the questionable yet inticing shellfish in a banana leaf, he asked us if we wanted spoons made form leaves. Emma said, “Sure!” and as Tour Guide turned his back, she bent down to feed the skinny dog with puppies some grub. A couple of us followed. That dog probably threw up, but at least she had a tasty meal.

We proceeded to another village, where we saw the first of the many captive elephants we have seen here. Apparently, they were nursing it back to health to be sent back into the wild, but I’m not sure if they were just telling us that to make us happy or if it was true. We took a canoe ride up and down a river, with an old man with spectacular balance using a stick to push the canoe along. We saw beautiful foliage, and went through long, hanging vines that made me feel like I was dreaming, or going through the doorway of a hippy (or a St. Mary’s student). A number of women were beating their clothes in their river. Sunday is laundry day. We came across this girl in the picture fishing with her brother. They were speaking their native language, Malayalam and the boy attempted to blow a kiss to me. I blew a kiss back, and he and his sister squealed and laughed. I could potentially be married to the child now, but no one can be sure. The canoe ride took us to a family’s house, where we had some tea and played with their dog, which humped Meshan. All good fun. We came back to find Jonathan, who felt too sick to go on the canoe ride, had made some friends, including two village children and a priest and his family.

Mangrove Forest

We thought Dr. Sunny was saying we were going to a mango forest, but we ended up at a mangrove forest. Just as cool. We climbed a treehouse while Sunny swatted mosquitoes on our legs. There, we could see trees and wildlife for acres, as well as markings of people professing their love to each other on the treehouse walls (Rajeet ❤ Pooja, RJ + SL forever, etc.). The mangrove forests provide places for fish to mate, which allows for biodiversity. Apparently Kerala is known for it's biodiversity hotspots.

Just around the corner, there was an unbelievable amount of flying foxes, just danglin' there on trees and eating mosquitoes.

And that is a ceramic dolphin in the picture.

What I've noticed about southern India is although the cities are unbelievably busy and overwhelming, each city leaves a vast amount of nature preserves. Just behind the tea shop or xerox place, there are forests that go on beyond the imagination and sometimes go untouched. Here at Pondicherry University, the beach beyond the village is the quiet place beyond the hustle and bustle. At the mangrove forest, the wall at the entrance was decorated with quotes like, "Let mother nature take her course. She understands her own affairs better than us." and "Biodiversity is greater than the sum of its parts."

Trash still swarms the beaches, lakes, and pretty much everywhere. This paradox is interesting, but I can only make assumptions about the dynamic between Indian people and preserving the environment, and all of them are contradictory.

Pondicherry Wedding

To us westerners, the title “Wedding” does not match this picture. That is an inflatable Pooh Bear at a wedding in Pondicherry near our hotel, Hotel Suguru. Emma and I stumbled upon this wedding when we went to explore what all of the commotion was about. Pooh Bear greeted us as well as many other wedding attendees and guards. We thanked them, but didn’t feel appropriately dressed and didn’t want to steal the bride’s thunder by sticking out like sore thumbs. So we quietly sneaked out by hopping a nearby fence, out of Pooh Bear and the wedding attendees’ sights. By the time we left, fireworks went off in the middle of the street. Pondicherry does weddings the right way.

Hey Mom, I’m gonna get a tattoo of Pooh Bear on my lower back to remember this night.

One morning, we got our pictures taken with a beautifully dressed up and henna-d out newlywed couple. It turns out they wanted to get a picture of white people just as much as we wanted to get a picture with them. Many head bobbles and hums that represented “thank you” followed.