Pushpa
The only aspect of my job that is stable is the smile on Pushpa-ji’s face when Jo Eun and I get off the bus near the slum colony. She wears a colorful sari everyday and without fail launches a giant hug towards both of us, squeezes our cheeks and hands, all the while her face is beaming, she’s grinning and giggling with excitement. It is as if we were old friends finally re-uniting, about to embark on a great journey, in reality though we only met in October and we travel to the same place everyday. I would never crush her childlike enthusiasm though, and frankly her joyful spirit is a must for NGO work.
Pushpa is the sole employee at our NGO since Jo Eun and I are volunteers. While she has no formal training, did not make it past the 9th class, and can hardly speak a word of English, her caring nature by far makes up for her lack of these skills. She stumbled upon NGO work when after years of an abusive marriage the site manager at Foundation for Sustainable Development (the organization based in the U.S. that I am associated with) helped her separate from her husband and provided her a job as a stitching teacher. Now she has been thrown into the position of field worker for a micro-finance organization, and don’t get me wrong she learns fast, but there are times when I feel like the whole community we are working in is going to turn against us because she misinterpreted something or makes a rash decision that a certain caste shouldn’t be included in the finance groups. I’m at a double disadvantage because I can’t speak Hindi, and she and the community only speak Hindi. So often they are arguing over something I have absolutely no control over and I can only conjure up the worst as I try to pick out the scattered words of Hindi I know. It’s in these moments I am imagining the community banishing me, only to realize they were arguing over the price of someone’s sari or simply having a conversation about where they went for Diwali holiday. I guess it’s a lesson for me to have more faith in people, even if they don’t speak your language. And it’s amazing how much you can communicate and hold a friendship based solely on body language (and laughing in Pushpa’s case)! I sometimes forget that as frustrated as I get at Pushpa because I can’t understand her, she must be thinking the same thing too. After all I am in India, and most people in Jodhpur speak Hindi, so she’s probably wondering what is this white girl doing here who can’t speak a lick of Hindi and she wants to help a community of people who only speak Hindi! If anything like this every crossed her mind though I would never know. Even when I try to act stern and communicate as best as possible that it is not ok to be late or that we need to stay in the field longer, she just chuckles, caresses my arm and leans her head against my shoulder, asking ‘why’? In other words, ‘Stef didi why do you worry about these trivial details, what you want to accomplish takes time, be patient and continue to smile and gain people’s trust in the mean time’.
I can only imagine her as a young girl, the same endearing grin present, only thinner and lankier. Her thick black hair in a knot behind her, her body language giddy and loose, she probably played in the streets with the other children, skipping over garbage piles and around cows loitering on the dirt roads, her laugh all the while echoing down the narrow streets and pathways that wind around Jodhpur. She probably looked forward to each Diwali, drawing henna designs on the palms and feet of her friends, while anticipating the numerous amounts of sweets to be consumed at the family gatherings. I’m sure she gossiped with her friends and talked about the cute boy across the lunch room. However, she also knew she would have an arranged marriage (as do most girls and boys still in Jodhpur). At age fourteen she was wed and a year later she had her first child. Her youthful spirit has not been crushed whatsoever despite her early and difficult marriage. Perhaps she is more appreciative of life now and that is why she cannot stop smiling. Whatever the reason for her pleasant nature, this women is the definition of hospitality and love. She is constantly inviting JoEun and I to her house, and the few times we’ve gone she serves an inordinate amount of food (which is why I can’t handle going all the time) and regardless of the weather, my mood, or what’s happening with the NGO you can count on her to be smiling and laughing through any situation.
Pushpa is the sole employee at our NGO since Jo Eun and I are volunteers. While she has no formal training, did not make it past the 9th class, and can hardly speak a word of English, her caring nature by far makes up for her lack of these skills. She stumbled upon NGO work when after years of an abusive marriage the site manager at Foundation for Sustainable Development (the organization based in the U.S. that I am associated with) helped her separate from her husband and provided her a job as a stitching teacher. Now she has been thrown into the position of field worker for a micro-finance organization, and don’t get me wrong she learns fast, but there are times when I feel like the whole community we are working in is going to turn against us because she misinterpreted something or makes a rash decision that a certain caste shouldn’t be included in the finance groups. I’m at a double disadvantage because I can’t speak Hindi, and she and the community only speak Hindi. So often they are arguing over something I have absolutely no control over and I can only conjure up the worst as I try to pick out the scattered words of Hindi I know. It’s in these moments I am imagining the community banishing me, only to realize they were arguing over the price of someone’s sari or simply having a conversation about where they went for Diwali holiday. I guess it’s a lesson for me to have more faith in people, even if they don’t speak your language. And it’s amazing how much you can communicate and hold a friendship based solely on body language (and laughing in Pushpa’s case)! I sometimes forget that as frustrated as I get at Pushpa because I can’t understand her, she must be thinking the same thing too. After all I am in India, and most people in Jodhpur speak Hindi, so she’s probably wondering what is this white girl doing here who can’t speak a lick of Hindi and she wants to help a community of people who only speak Hindi! If anything like this every crossed her mind though I would never know. Even when I try to act stern and communicate as best as possible that it is not ok to be late or that we need to stay in the field longer, she just chuckles, caresses my arm and leans her head against my shoulder, asking ‘why’? In other words, ‘Stef didi why do you worry about these trivial details, what you want to accomplish takes time, be patient and continue to smile and gain people’s trust in the mean time’.
I can only imagine her as a young girl, the same endearing grin present, only thinner and lankier. Her thick black hair in a knot behind her, her body language giddy and loose, she probably played in the streets with the other children, skipping over garbage piles and around cows loitering on the dirt roads, her laugh all the while echoing down the narrow streets and pathways that wind around Jodhpur. She probably looked forward to each Diwali, drawing henna designs on the palms and feet of her friends, while anticipating the numerous amounts of sweets to be consumed at the family gatherings. I’m sure she gossiped with her friends and talked about the cute boy across the lunch room. However, she also knew she would have an arranged marriage (as do most girls and boys still in Jodhpur). At age fourteen she was wed and a year later she had her first child. Her youthful spirit has not been crushed whatsoever despite her early and difficult marriage. Perhaps she is more appreciative of life now and that is why she cannot stop smiling. Whatever the reason for her pleasant nature, this women is the definition of hospitality and love. She is constantly inviting JoEun and I to her house, and the few times we’ve gone she serves an inordinate amount of food (which is why I can’t handle going all the time) and regardless of the weather, my mood, or what’s happening with the NGO you can count on her to be smiling and laughing through any situation.
The Taj Mahal is everything everyone has ever told you. It’s stunning, it’s the most beautiful piece of architecture created, it’s timeless, flawless, serene, unforgettable, and yet at the same time it’s beauty perhaps is exaggerated, over-stated, it’s crowded, expensive, and not worth the extra train ride. At first my expectations were let down as I waited in line anticipating my sunrise Taj Mahal experience, but instead I watched the sky lighten to a misty morning blue from outside the main gates (despite catching a rickshaw at 5:30am after only arriving in Agra at 1:00 am on a bumpy evening bus right from Dehli). When at last my friends and I were granted entrance, this is after we got to the security check point and they told us we were not allowed two bags and we had to carry everything with us since we were heading back to Jodhpur that night, and so we had to walk back a quarter mile to the locker rooms, maybe the Indian tourist bureau should consider a sign or two about that policy, any ways… I slowly realized why this palace is world renown.
When I first saw the Taj from a distance, I noticed the clear water pool lined by immaculately kept green grass, just as the pictures always portray it. But I guess because of all the hype around the building I was picturing some immense structure and overpowering body of water, with streams of light emanating from the building bursting into the sky. Of course it’s nothing like this, and if it was anything this dramatic or ‘Disneyesque’ I would have no desire to return.
Walking down the promenade towards the building’s entrance, I began to come under its spell. The large, mystical dome cuts into the pale blue sky, its perfect curves are an indescribable site, only made more beautiful the closer you get and the longer you wander around the palace grounds. The building is much smaller than I imagined, its salient feature being the large dome on top but otherwise the details are kept to a minimum. When you get close enough there are dark blue Arabic inscriptions latticed around the door-way, leading to the very dark and small interior of the building, with nothing more than a room commemorating the famous Mumtaz’s tomb.
It was hard to believe that a few Indian tourists actually wanted to take pictures with my friend and I (a common occurrence in Jodhpur – and usually they don’t ask, they just stuff their cell phone camera in your face) I would have thought the Taj Mahal would have been a bigger attraction than tired white girls but I guess for a few visitors the white people are just as picture worthy as this beautiful white building. I think the Taj Mahal deserves the attention it receives, it might not be memorable for the reasons you expected! While you have to put yourself in the mood and ignore the other tourists, if you allow yourself to slip into the past and imagine you are there when only servants and princes glided around the grounds, I think you will find it a magical experience, but don’t let me tell you, I suggest you make the trip to Agra to judge for yourself.
When I first saw the Taj from a distance, I noticed the clear water pool lined by immaculately kept green grass, just as the pictures always portray it. But I guess because of all the hype around the building I was picturing some immense structure and overpowering body of water, with streams of light emanating from the building bursting into the sky. Of course it’s nothing like this, and if it was anything this dramatic or ‘Disneyesque’ I would have no desire to return.
Walking down the promenade towards the building’s entrance, I began to come under its spell. The large, mystical dome cuts into the pale blue sky, its perfect curves are an indescribable site, only made more beautiful the closer you get and the longer you wander around the palace grounds. The building is much smaller than I imagined, its salient feature being the large dome on top but otherwise the details are kept to a minimum. When you get close enough there are dark blue Arabic inscriptions latticed around the door-way, leading to the very dark and small interior of the building, with nothing more than a room commemorating the famous Mumtaz’s tomb.
It was hard to believe that a few Indian tourists actually wanted to take pictures with my friend and I (a common occurrence in Jodhpur – and usually they don’t ask, they just stuff their cell phone camera in your face) I would have thought the Taj Mahal would have been a bigger attraction than tired white girls but I guess for a few visitors the white people are just as picture worthy as this beautiful white building. I think the Taj Mahal deserves the attention it receives, it might not be memorable for the reasons you expected! While you have to put yourself in the mood and ignore the other tourists, if you allow yourself to slip into the past and imagine you are there when only servants and princes glided around the grounds, I think you will find it a magical experience, but don’t let me tell you, I suggest you make the trip to Agra to judge for yourself.
On the road to recovery...
I'm finally feeling better after a short bout of the flu (and I have a lot to write on after my visit to the Taj Mahal and Micro-finance Conference in Dehli but I don't have time at the moment). Despite the fact that I am used to cold weather, I also fell susceptible to the sudden and abnormal change in weather here. It is actually raining and gray (like Seattle!) and my host family told me it hasn't rained this time of year in Jodhpur in fifty years! The weather has made many people ill, but after watching a few of the other interns get worse from the Indian medicine, which were basically sedatives, I decided torough it and beat my illness the natural way. Some cultural medications I couldn't escape, however, such as it's bad to take a shower at night. After I had been on a seven hour bus ride and walked through muddy streets, it was hard for me to accept that a shower was not a good idea, but I guess the definition of good and bad is culturally dependent! Pictures and more comments coming soon...
Work Progress
My favorite part about interviewing the women is that no one seems to know how old they are. It’s usually about the second or third question on the list and sometimes takes the longest to answer. The women will first tell us a number that is obviously too young and then a lengthy discussion begins between the crowd that has gathered, with the women giggling among themselves, lovelingly slapping each other and after a few minutes come to a conclusion on the particular women’s age, and still there are dissenters in the crowd who are not satisfied with the final answer. Since I cannot speak Hindi, I spend my time holding the children and smiling at the women who are continually laughing at me and patting me on the back. They have gradually accepted me, and despite my lack of language skills we actually have conversations, which always end in laughter and utter confusion, but the translator tells me they appreciate my smile and say “Stef always laughs no matter what”.
They would probably be shocked to hear my frustrations and complaints of India. How tired I feel and overwhelmed by the poverty that surrounds every move I make. In India, like nowhere else I’ve lived before (or maybe I have just ignored it) the poverty chills your skin like a bucket of ice water every time you pull out your wallet or chump down a samosa from a street vendor. Either it’s a tattered beggar child with their tiny outstretched hand and green eyes gazing up at you, while they touch your hand or motion their hand to their mouth, whispering “kana” softly (meaning food), or it’s a stick thin bicycle rickshaw driver, blackened by the sun and emaciated from pulling plump tourists like myself, who shamelessly barter for a cheap price. The guilt of bartering weighs on me as I simultaneously put my own weight in the carriage, and now I try to avoid the eyes of these skinny men whose jobs are laterally on par with that of an animal. In fact the cows in India are treated better than these men! People give their left over food to the cows and all traffic gives way to a cow wandering the street, which is everywhere you look, but I’ve never seen anyone offer left-overs to a cycle-rickshaw driver!
After sometime it is too taxing to think about the poverty. I can walk by hungry children, a man with no legs, stacks of garbage, men urinating on the street, limping dogs, and beady stares from tired workers without blinking an eye. It’s too exhausting for me to think about how fortunate I am and how poor these people I pass everyday are, so instead I try to put it out of my mind, and usually end up complaining how different life is here in India, how hard the beds are or how loud the dogs were last night so I couldn’t sleep.
I came to India to volunteer, to make a difference, and experience a different culture but those thoughts now seem absurd. Sometimes I don’t know whether to give up and simply admit life is unfair. In my mind I want to justify the poverty I see, to think that what I am doing is actually making a difference, or that the situation is slowly getting better and it will just take a very long time. Occasionally I even want to blame their culture. (If they didn’t have so many holidays or show up to work late we could get something accomplished, or can people here learn what customer service is, the other day I waited an hour with my friends to get a simple cup of coffee! All these I realize are just reflections of a different style of life, different priorities, and who’s to say one is better than the other? Is it better that you can get a latte in two minutes in the U.S. or that in India you chat with your neighbor more frequently and share meals rather than feeling the need to “go out” for coffee or dinner?) It becomes so easy to judge as an outsider in another country, and I think some of the judgments are necessary and simply interesting. Certainly, an Indian citizen visiting the U.S. would make judgments and find certain customs in the U.S. interesting, entertaining, enjoyable, or repulsive. As an individual living in a foreign place, not as a tourist, but with goals, expectations, and different priorities than relaxing, I have found there is another level of frustration and judgments that I am constantly struggling to overcome. I feel I deserve breaks at the one air conditioned, western style coffee shop in town, but why? I came to sit with impoverished women and hold their naked children, yet at the end of the day, this work has made me utterly exhausted, and I want nothing more than to complain to someone, listen to music on my iPod, go to a gym, or sip a latte. My emotions are on a roller-coaster, ranging from tears of compassion, believing I could sit in the slum area with these poor little girls and their ratty-hair all day and night, allowing everyone and their neighbor to touch my cheeks, hands, and clothes, and then when I am back with my host family, my body on their couch eating chapata with my hands while my mind is still in the slum area thinking about the women and children I sat with earlier in the day, I realize how little I am contributing. I try to wrestle with my mind with ways that I could help in the future. I ponder what would be the most valuable degree, the best career path that would actually make a difference or bring some equality to the world. I suppose this is a question to wrestle with the rest of my life. As I have come to the conclusion before in life, the answers are usually never simple, and if you think you found the definite answer you will probably realize you are ‘wrong’ in a couple years. Life truly is about the process (as I learned through my years as a tennis player and student of Jody Rush), about living consciously in the present and not worrying about the final destination. You will end up missing everything along the way if you only focus on the end. Perhaps all this is to console myself, and the reason I struggle with these thoughts is because I am seeking the easy and comfortable solution. For the time being I am attempting to struggle in the present rather than come to any rash conclusion on how to “cure” poverty or shape my life. These are my thoughts for the moment but perhaps they will change tomorrow, so I don’t want to bore my readers any longer!
They would probably be shocked to hear my frustrations and complaints of India. How tired I feel and overwhelmed by the poverty that surrounds every move I make. In India, like nowhere else I’ve lived before (or maybe I have just ignored it) the poverty chills your skin like a bucket of ice water every time you pull out your wallet or chump down a samosa from a street vendor. Either it’s a tattered beggar child with their tiny outstretched hand and green eyes gazing up at you, while they touch your hand or motion their hand to their mouth, whispering “kana” softly (meaning food), or it’s a stick thin bicycle rickshaw driver, blackened by the sun and emaciated from pulling plump tourists like myself, who shamelessly barter for a cheap price. The guilt of bartering weighs on me as I simultaneously put my own weight in the carriage, and now I try to avoid the eyes of these skinny men whose jobs are laterally on par with that of an animal. In fact the cows in India are treated better than these men! People give their left over food to the cows and all traffic gives way to a cow wandering the street, which is everywhere you look, but I’ve never seen anyone offer left-overs to a cycle-rickshaw driver!
After sometime it is too taxing to think about the poverty. I can walk by hungry children, a man with no legs, stacks of garbage, men urinating on the street, limping dogs, and beady stares from tired workers without blinking an eye. It’s too exhausting for me to think about how fortunate I am and how poor these people I pass everyday are, so instead I try to put it out of my mind, and usually end up complaining how different life is here in India, how hard the beds are or how loud the dogs were last night so I couldn’t sleep.
I came to India to volunteer, to make a difference, and experience a different culture but those thoughts now seem absurd. Sometimes I don’t know whether to give up and simply admit life is unfair. In my mind I want to justify the poverty I see, to think that what I am doing is actually making a difference, or that the situation is slowly getting better and it will just take a very long time. Occasionally I even want to blame their culture. (If they didn’t have so many holidays or show up to work late we could get something accomplished, or can people here learn what customer service is, the other day I waited an hour with my friends to get a simple cup of coffee! All these I realize are just reflections of a different style of life, different priorities, and who’s to say one is better than the other? Is it better that you can get a latte in two minutes in the U.S. or that in India you chat with your neighbor more frequently and share meals rather than feeling the need to “go out” for coffee or dinner?) It becomes so easy to judge as an outsider in another country, and I think some of the judgments are necessary and simply interesting. Certainly, an Indian citizen visiting the U.S. would make judgments and find certain customs in the U.S. interesting, entertaining, enjoyable, or repulsive. As an individual living in a foreign place, not as a tourist, but with goals, expectations, and different priorities than relaxing, I have found there is another level of frustration and judgments that I am constantly struggling to overcome. I feel I deserve breaks at the one air conditioned, western style coffee shop in town, but why? I came to sit with impoverished women and hold their naked children, yet at the end of the day, this work has made me utterly exhausted, and I want nothing more than to complain to someone, listen to music on my iPod, go to a gym, or sip a latte. My emotions are on a roller-coaster, ranging from tears of compassion, believing I could sit in the slum area with these poor little girls and their ratty-hair all day and night, allowing everyone and their neighbor to touch my cheeks, hands, and clothes, and then when I am back with my host family, my body on their couch eating chapata with my hands while my mind is still in the slum area thinking about the women and children I sat with earlier in the day, I realize how little I am contributing. I try to wrestle with my mind with ways that I could help in the future. I ponder what would be the most valuable degree, the best career path that would actually make a difference or bring some equality to the world. I suppose this is a question to wrestle with the rest of my life. As I have come to the conclusion before in life, the answers are usually never simple, and if you think you found the definite answer you will probably realize you are ‘wrong’ in a couple years. Life truly is about the process (as I learned through my years as a tennis player and student of Jody Rush), about living consciously in the present and not worrying about the final destination. You will end up missing everything along the way if you only focus on the end. Perhaps all this is to console myself, and the reason I struggle with these thoughts is because I am seeking the easy and comfortable solution. For the time being I am attempting to struggle in the present rather than come to any rash conclusion on how to “cure” poverty or shape my life. These are my thoughts for the moment but perhaps they will change tomorrow, so I don’t want to bore my readers any longer!
There can never be enough stories about transportation in India!
The buses in Jodhpur are generally a dirty white color about half the size of an American school bus, with seats that line the inside and bars on the top for the majority of the passengers who have to stand. There are no clear marked bus stops, so you just kind of wait at any corner and hail down your bus number when you see it rumbling down the road. Often it hardly stops, the man who collects the bus fees, shouts in Hindi while hanging outside the continually open door at potential passengers running alongside the bus in order to leap inside. I’m assuming he’s saying hurry up and get on because we’re not stopping! I grab the vertical rail on the side of the door and slip into the bus, greeted immediately by inquisitive and shocked eyes, flirtatious grins, and shy women staring behind their colorful veils draped lightly over their faces, curious why a tall white girl in traditional Indian dress is taking public transportation.
I used to take a tempo to work (basically a larger version of a taxi motor rickshaw) while generally the tempo’s are no less crowded than the bus, they are slightly more expensive but take a more direct route. However, whether in a bus or tempo, you have to have a lot of patience as neither is really that efficient or takes a direct route. While the bus number always gets me to the right destination, I have this feeling we take a different route every time, and since the bus driver’s first concern appears to be speeding, there is often congestion of the same number bus stopping at the same place. This issue is addressed by one of the buses simply waiting for any amount of time ranging from five to twenty minutes, while the bus drivers gets out and has a cup of chai. There is no regular bus schedule, so you could wait a half hour for a bus or see two buses with the same number whizzing by one right after the other.
I try not to dwell on the inefficiency of the system but instead enjoy the adventure and sights along the way. There is at least one person per ride who tries to test out their English skills or at least pretends to speak English so they can ask which stop is yours and get off with you. Luckily I have become an expert at acting confused by these requests, pretending English is not my first language. Most people are just curious though what an American is doing in Jodhpur or genuinely want to help, often standing up to give me a prized seat on the perpetually over crowded bus. The seat order seems to be elderly people, then mothers with young children, and next confused white people.
The best seat is one by a window where you can escape the smell of sweat, dirt, and smoke for a brief moment as the breeze crushes against your cheek. The bus whizzes by countless small shops selling any array of products and snacks in seemingly undefined shops. The only clearly marked stores are cell phone shops, banks, and gas stations, everything else is a blur of dust covered cement cut outs, where shop keepers could spend eternity sweeping the dirt and sand off their storefront steps.
The bus flies by a camel pulling a cart of sticks and numerous rusty bicyclist, as dusty cars and motorbikes spit out black smoke, honking and passing on the right and left. Somehow this all appears normal to me now, I even recognize the jumble of shops, and can pick out my favorite cloth store and samosa stand. I know when I’m five minutes from home (unless we have to randomly stop in order to ease congestion of the fifteen number bus) and if I ever forgot my stop the change collector on the bus recognizes me now and calls out my stop loud and clear in his best English, and makes sure the bus slows to an actual halt to let me off. There are chuckles as I find my way through the passenger standing packed as tight as pickles in a jar as I’m plucked off the bus when it lurches to a brief stop. I’m smiling when I get off the bust too, trying to picture that many people squeezing onto a bus in the U.S.. The definition of comfort is definitely culturally dependent! As I readjust my shoulder bag and glance at the bus picking up speed again, my heart skips a beat in anticipating of the stories I’ll have tomorrow when I board the bus all over again.
I used to take a tempo to work (basically a larger version of a taxi motor rickshaw) while generally the tempo’s are no less crowded than the bus, they are slightly more expensive but take a more direct route. However, whether in a bus or tempo, you have to have a lot of patience as neither is really that efficient or takes a direct route. While the bus number always gets me to the right destination, I have this feeling we take a different route every time, and since the bus driver’s first concern appears to be speeding, there is often congestion of the same number bus stopping at the same place. This issue is addressed by one of the buses simply waiting for any amount of time ranging from five to twenty minutes, while the bus drivers gets out and has a cup of chai. There is no regular bus schedule, so you could wait a half hour for a bus or see two buses with the same number whizzing by one right after the other.
I try not to dwell on the inefficiency of the system but instead enjoy the adventure and sights along the way. There is at least one person per ride who tries to test out their English skills or at least pretends to speak English so they can ask which stop is yours and get off with you. Luckily I have become an expert at acting confused by these requests, pretending English is not my first language. Most people are just curious though what an American is doing in Jodhpur or genuinely want to help, often standing up to give me a prized seat on the perpetually over crowded bus. The seat order seems to be elderly people, then mothers with young children, and next confused white people.
The best seat is one by a window where you can escape the smell of sweat, dirt, and smoke for a brief moment as the breeze crushes against your cheek. The bus whizzes by countless small shops selling any array of products and snacks in seemingly undefined shops. The only clearly marked stores are cell phone shops, banks, and gas stations, everything else is a blur of dust covered cement cut outs, where shop keepers could spend eternity sweeping the dirt and sand off their storefront steps.
The bus flies by a camel pulling a cart of sticks and numerous rusty bicyclist, as dusty cars and motorbikes spit out black smoke, honking and passing on the right and left. Somehow this all appears normal to me now, I even recognize the jumble of shops, and can pick out my favorite cloth store and samosa stand. I know when I’m five minutes from home (unless we have to randomly stop in order to ease congestion of the fifteen number bus) and if I ever forgot my stop the change collector on the bus recognizes me now and calls out my stop loud and clear in his best English, and makes sure the bus slows to an actual halt to let me off. There are chuckles as I find my way through the passenger standing packed as tight as pickles in a jar as I’m plucked off the bus when it lurches to a brief stop. I’m smiling when I get off the bust too, trying to picture that many people squeezing onto a bus in the U.S.. The definition of comfort is definitely culturally dependent! As I readjust my shoulder bag and glance at the bus picking up speed again, my heart skips a beat in anticipating of the stories I’ll have tomorrow when I board the bus all over again.
Diwali Break
Last week I had off of work for the Diwali holiday, which is like Christmas and Fourth of July combined. Basically, the city puts up a gaudy amount of tinfoil and lights and young boys light off firecrackers for a week before and a week after, covering the streets in paper wrappings and matches. During the break I traveled by bus to Udaipur, a very relaxing, small city for India, set on a calm albeit polluted lake. During the actual night of Diwali, I was in Jaipur, the capitol of Rajasthan. My friend and I took an overnight bus from Udaipur to Jiapur, in the sitting class, meaning we didn’t sleep all night, but I think a few people fell asleep on my feet and shoulder. I don’t think white people ride the sitting class overnight often, so we seemed to be the highlight of everyone’s ride. Every time I glanced up from my book countless sets of eyes were staring my direction. They were probably eyeing my biscuits and fresh water more than my pale skin, so we ended up sharing our biscuits over a cup of chai served through the train windows during the frequent stops. Our hospitality was taken advantage of by the middle of the ride but one man who ended up just grabbing our water without asking and even went so far as to take my friend sweater and put it on. I could tell we were not the only passengers annoyed at three am in the morning. There always seems to be one idiot who has to ruin the experience for everyone. After arriving in Jaipur and sleeping for a few hours I was able to forget about this obnoxious man and remember how generous and helpful most Indians have been to us. In Jiapur we ran into a mix of very kind and honest people and then the moment you started to trust everyone you would get scammed. I guess that’s what I get for being a white tourist, but it also can get quite exhausting and if you don’t keep the right attitude it can make you bitter towards the Indian culture. Despite my grumblings, I would recommend India to anyone seeking adventure, fabulous spices, colorful bazaars, awkward conversations in Hinglish, and chai!
Keeping clean
It’s impossible to keep clean in India, particularly your feet. While this is no doubt because I wear flimsy flip flops everywhere to fit in with the traditional dress (instead of wearing bulky sneakers or sandals as most tourists do in order to avoid this plight of dirty toes, I on the other hand have sacrificed my cleanliness for the culture or perhaps just not to look goofy). Each night I try to scrub the dirt off my feet but they only seem to be dirtier the next night I wash them. Last night my host mom took me to temple, barefoot! I shouldn’t have been shocked, taking your shoes off is a big deal here (as it is in most places except the U.S. or in my house it really isn’t) but since my host mom thought the temple was close enough we decided to walk a quarter mile down the street barefoot to the temple. I decided right then to give up on having clean feet the rest of my time here.
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