Milky Treats Under the Invisible Stars

India is in a perpetual state of celebration.  Since I arrived in late August, there have been endless excuses for fireworks, drumming, processions, music, dancing, and generally cheery behavior.  It usually involves worship of a specific God or Goddess but sometimes it's just for the New Moon (last night)! For the New Moon, families celebrated within their homes and there were processions randomly scattered throughout the day today.  How do we celebrate a moon? We have warm flavored milk, of course.  It sounds kind of gross when I say it like that huh? Well, it was delicious.  Think of it like an eggnog.

We went upstairs to the rooftop terrace where I was actually cold for once.  It felt so nice to be cold.  The moonlight provided plenty of light for us to sit and chat and enjoy our milk.  The milk is heated up with cashews and almonds that have already soaked in water so they're soft, and then you add in cardamom, saffron and nutmeg.  It was the perfect drink to get comfy with under the stars... okay fine you can't actually see the stars because of the smog.  But you CAN see the moon so it was still beautiful.  I curled up with my warm flavored milk (I haven't learned the name... everyone just kept referring to the "flavored milk") and then nestled in for a good night's sleep.

In the Shadows of the Bordellos

Warning: this is not your typical guidebook-appropriate entry.  This is about my first visit to a red light district, more commonly referred to as “the area.”  The visit was part of my field work as an intern for an NGO whose mission is to empower women in sex work, to provide healthcare and other social services for women in sex work and to change the attitude of society towards these women.  I went into the area with two of my Indian colleagues from the NGO.

As I entered, it appeared to be just another downtrodden corner of a bustling city.  There is no sign that says, “Welcome to the Red Light District”.  There is no change in the air pressure.  It’s just another neighborhood.  Walking further into the area, there are a lot of men meandering about.  Old men, young men, short men, fat men, attractive men, creepy men.  Men of all kinds.  Then there are the women.  Women in traditional Indian clothing of beautiful patterns and sparkling colors, and other women wearing more western styles like jeans and a tight t-shirt.  There are typical businesses along the roads selling various goods.

The brothels sit along the lanes, squeezed together to take advantage of every inch of space.  Some of the buildings look like they should have been demolished several years ago, and I prayed they didn’t collapse on top of me.  As we got closer, I could see more women in doorways wearing mini-skirts (mini for Indian styles anyways, mostly around the knees) and tight t-shirts or tank tops.  The older women mostly wore traditional clothing.  Some of them were from other South Asian countries, while the majority of the women were Indian.  Mostly older, some my age.

We were greeted at the door and made our way up the extremely narrow, steep staircase with very little lighting.  We stopped on one floor to talk to a few of the women.  The brothel owner, an older scary-looking Nepalese woman, was lying on the ground in her nightdress applying eye drops and muttering to herself.  The room was lined with lockers that doubled as seating and sleeping areas.  There were televisions in every room we entered.  It helps pass the time, I guess.  Some of the girls were hanging out watching T.V., others were applying make-up, playing with their jewelry or sleeping.  As we were sitting for a moment, a young man in his mid-20s came upstairs to negotiate a price with one of the girls.  I suspected he was a customer but did not put much thought into it at the time.  A few minutes later, I was standing by the doorway as a young female sex worker (FSW) came through the door with an older man in his 50s or 60s.  She took him by the hand and brought him into the room next door.  I had no doubts about it this time.  My realization of what was to happen next finally made me feel sick to my stomach.  At no other point during my visit did I feel sick or uncomfortable other than being face-to-face with this customer.  The women looked at me to gauge whether I could handle this environment.  I kept my cool.  We continued our visit.

Two more dark, questionable staircases (more like tunnels leading upwards) and we found ourselves on an airy upstairs terrace with a different brothel owner.  This one was very nice and happy to talk to me.  I’ll refer to her as Owner #2 (O2).  She patted the seat next to her and I sat down to chat.  She even offered me some cool mango juice.  Very refreshing in the afternoon heat.  Her story is sad but unfortunately common.  A victim of child marriage with her own child by her early teenage years.  She’s been a brothel owner for about 15 years, but she has a life outside of the area.  Like many brothel owners, she was a FSW prior to her current position.

I asked her how one transitions from a FSW to a brothel owner.  Silly question really, because how does anyone get a job promotion? The same way whether it’s in the red light area or on Wall Street.  You must be economically beneficial to the business, have good relationships with clients and co-workers, have good leadership qualities, and management skills are a plus.

So, what are the pros and cons of being a brothel owner?  It’s all about the power relations.  You have a lot more control over your life in this new position, but you also have the economic and legal risks to accompany your new power position.  Brothel owners are the first ones to get picked up in a police raid, and if your girl(s) run away before paying off their debts then you’re out a lot of money.  There are also the medical costs etc. of keeping the girls.  Interestingly, most brothel owners don’t think the extra profit is worth keeping minors because the police do not generally look the other way when minors are involved.  However, if you sit down with them and explain that you don’t keep minors in your brothel, they may do their best to avoid raiding your brothel.  This conversation may also involve a bit of bribe money exchanging hands.

We concluded our conversation and slurped down the remainder of our mango juice, and said our goodbyes.  O2 said she’d come visit me in the U.S.  I smiled, conflicted by my feelings towards her role in the sex industry and her cheery demeanor.  On our way out, they showed me the “compartments” where “the sex work is done”.  I swear, they find the most awkward way of wording things here.  I don’t know if it’s the English as a Second Language (ESL) factor or that there’s truly no nice way of putting it, but it never sounds quite right.  Anyways, this tiny room had three “compartments” for “the sex work” which were just large enough for one tiny little bed-frame adorned with a dingy old mattress which, if you’re lucky, may also come with a sheet.  Possibly even a pillow.  The floor and shelves were littered with Kingfisher bottles, making it difficult to disguise the rampant alcoholism in the area.

We headed back downstairs, saying goodbye to our new friends, and we were met with a handful of girls outside the brothel.  All of them were very excited to talk to me, to shake my hand, tell me I’m pretty, give me one of their bangles, ask me questions.  One of them started yelling at some guys behind us who were staring at me, probably wondering if the foreigner (me) was for sale.  Everyone was fascinated by the foreigner.  While we were standing chatting, a woman missing all of her fingers shoved her way into our circle to demand money.  Beggars really do penetrate every dark little corner of the city.

Next we headed into a one-floor brothel.  There were a few women sitting around at the entrance.  We said hi, removed our shoes and headed inside.  The first room was big enough for a woman to eat her lunch on the floor next to her sleeping grand-child (about 3 years old) and the brothel owner’s raised bed full of all of her belongings.  It was blocked off from the rest of the space.  There was one girl, about my age, wearing make up, jewelry, a tight but stretchy tank top and jean capris who bounced around excitedly talking to me.  I’ll call her Mia.  She knew how to say “I want to say hi” and “what is your name?” in English.  She led me through the brothel, showing me the various compartments in back.  There were about five or six raised compartments like floating solid kennels along the wall.  Again, just big enough for a mattress.  There was a little space underneath in which one girl was sleeping but there was “plenty” of room for a few more sleepy women.  Mia led me back to the front of the brothel where I spoke with an older woman who wanted to know everything about me.  I explained I was from America, here to study and she wanted to know why I was there doing the work I was doing.  I told her that I want to know their stories, what they want out of life and how I can help them have a better, happier life.  It was the simplest, most honest answer I could give without going into all of the details.  She seemed extremely content with this answer and proceeded to tell me that anytime I wanted to come to the area, talk to the women and spend time with them, I should let her know and she would help me.

Away from the area, I sat down to scribble everything I could remember from the visit.  It wasn’t too much to handle.  It wasn’t horrific or traumatic.  It just... was.  That isn’t to say that it isn’t terrible the way these women and girls are living.  It’s terrible, it’s disgusting and it’s horrible to see.  But it was manageable.  I could handle the stink of sweat and urine and decaying buildings.  I could handle the cramped spaces and the scars on Mia’s neck, arms and face.  I could handle having a conversation with the brothel owner.  The only thing that made me feel sick and jolted me back into my depressing reality was the presence of the customers.  Maybe it’s because without them, the picture isn’t complete and I forget about the women’s professions for a moment.  And maybe I’m not disturbed by what I saw because I could leave after.  Or maybe I just have a stronger stomach than I anticipated.  Whatever it is, I’m reassured that I can handle this work.  For now, that is.  My writing may seem detached but really, I wouldn’t be cut out for this work if I was an emotional wreck after one visit to the area.

Just to reassure you, I’m perfectly safe when I do these visits.  I have people with me who know the area well, and who have good relationships with the women and owners.  I will always include as few specific details as possible when talking about this sensitive area, and I will never include real names or locations.  This is for the safety and respect of the women and girls I interact with.  I hope you have found this entry interesting and informative, and I hope you are not too uncomfortable after reading it.  It’s not a glamorous subject to discuss, but I feel that it’s important for me to balance out my description of brunches at the Marriott, for example, with some ground-level realities of life in India.

A Leafy Phenomenon

Every morning on my walk to school, I see around 10-15 people, men and women, sweeping the streets.  They’re outside my apartment building and all along the roads as I make my way through the side streets to the program center.  They also line the sidewalks on my way to class.  They’re usually barefoot and the brooms they use are about three feet long so they’re bent over the whole time they’re sweeping.  The brooms are made out of some blend of grasses.  They sweep the leaves and debris into little piles along the road and move on to the next section.  They usually disregard your sandaled feet when you walk by and continue sweeping in your direction.  At first, I thought oh how nice, they’re cleaning the streets.  But I’m convinced that these piles end up getting spread back out by the end of the day and they’re sweeping the same debris the next morning.  I have never once seen them actually getting rid of the debris.  Only moving it around and reorganizing, kind of like what you did with the vegetables you didn’t want to eat on your plate when you were little.  I suppose there is so much excess labor in this country, that it’s nice the state is supplying them with work.  But how is sweeping the same street corner effective if you’re not actually getting rid of what you’re sweeping?

This reminded me of a similar scenario I saw in Turks and Caicos on those perfect white sandy beaches.  Want to know why they’re so perfect and clean? Because workers rake the beach and then bury the debris.  Effective, no?

So is it worth it just so employ these people? Or is there something more useful they could be doing? Not to mention a more efficient way of actually cleaning the streets...

Bitches Who Brunch: Pune Edition

Brunch.  A fantastic event that is usually unreasonably priced, unnecessarily long, and exceptionally delicious.  It is a judgement-free zone while people take 3 or 4 plates full of food and for some reason society has decided it’s acceptable to drink bottomless mimosas on a Sunday morning/afternoon simply because you’re partaking in brunch.  And it’s an excuse to do nothing all day, after sleeping in.  I thought I had left this glamorous event back home in the States, but lucky for me the Marriott has brought brunch to Pune.

For some reason, American hotels in India are way nicer than the same version in the U.S.  Walking into the Lobby, it looks like the quintessentially beautiful 5-star hotel—leather couches and chairs, coffee tables, Pune Baking Co. in the corner, shiny floor, grand staircase, and finally the dining room with brunch.  The dining room is a high-ceiling deluxe space with stone pillars throughout the room, some of which are adorned with various bottles of wine or jars of candy or spices.  The bar outside of the dining room has a little ice bucket with our champagne options: Moet & Chandon, Dom Perignon and two lesser bottles.  Oh you fancy, huh?

When brunch opened at 12:30pm, our group was escorted into the far corner of the dining area right next to our live performers.  There was a hipster/jazz-styled dude and a Caribbean-looking girl who looked like she hadn’t made it home from the club.  She was wearing 5-inch stilettos and an electric blue mini-dress.  Maybe they think that’s what Americans or people with money want to see at Sunday brunch? I won’t judge.  They played/sang American pop songs the entire time which provided ample opportunities for sing-a-longs in between courses.  We got there a little after noon and stayed until about 330pm when brunch ended.  Yes, we spent three and a half hours at brunch.  There was also about 15 of us—that group of obnoxious American youths in the corner.  Oops.

So here’s the deal: Rs 1000 for unlimited food and Rs 1300 for unlimited food and alcohol.  That’s $20 for unlimited food and only about $5 extra for unlimited drinks.  And it’s a million times better than most American brunches.  They had savory foods, normal lunch food like truffle mash potatoes (delicious), smoked salmon, a fantastic cheese selection, grapes, melon, pineapple, almonds and other nuts, apple blueberry crumble (I had about 3 servings), and then there was dessert.  Dessert began with the white chocolate fountain.  Upon discovering this fountain, I proceeded to add white chocolate to anything I could justify, mainly fruit.  This white chocolate obsession was extended to my heavenly waffle which was actually the best waffle I’ve ever tasted.  It was the perfect level of fluffy and delicious.  They also had a bunch of little cake squares: apple cinnamon, swirl brownie, chocolate date, white chocolate mud cake, passion fruit delight, mango marscapone, pecan nut pie, and I’m sure there’s more that I’m forgetting.

We were also extremely excited about the coffee.  Generally speaking, Indian coffee tastes like coffee-flavored sugary milk.  They don’t understand the concept of normal coffee.  But the Marriott actually had black coffee, and it tasted good too! We were so ecstatic that we each had about 4 cups of coffee.  Probably not going to sleep tonight.  But to even out the caffeine, I took our waitress up on the test-tube shooter she offered our tables.  Remember those cool little racks full of test tubes you used to play with in science class? Well, they serve shots in them at the Marriott.  I’m not sure what was in mine... tasted like watermelon.  It was pretty great.

Every once in a while, the waiters would drop by with a plate full of treats for us—several kinds of gourmet pizza, gourmet tater tots, and more.  They also had impeccable timing cleaning off our plates.  Literally within seconds of pushing your plate away, one of the waiters would be at your table clearing it for you.  And bringing over yet another pot of coffee for our caffeine-addicted group.  I actually saw one of the waiters fold a girl's napkin and drape it over the arm of her chair while she was up getting more food.

Oh and at one point two people dressed in animal costumes with balloons came wandering through the dining area.  I have no idea why, but it added to the fun.

Per usual, I didn’t have my camera so you’ll just have to take my word for it that brunch at the Marriott is the best thing ever.  So if you’re ever in Pune... go.

[Also, if you're wondering about the title: http://bitcheswhobrunch.com/]

A Lovely Day

After our perfect lunch today, we headed to the travel agent to finish paying for our travel week! Yay!! We’re all booked! I am beyond excited to see a new part of India and I won’t say I’m not looking forward to the freedom too.  Just four of us girls exploring a whole new world, if you will.  We’re heading to Amritsar, Dharamshala and Dalhousie for one week with a few hours overlay in Delhi on the way back.  We’ll be going to the Golden Temple and watching the border ceremony with Pakistan in Amritsar (don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe).  And the rest of our trip is going to be in the foothills of the Himalayas.  Fresh air, mountain views and no city noise or pollution.  Perfection.  Relaxation.  I can’t even explain how much I’m looking forward to this!  Apparently Dalhousie has been described as the Switzerland of India and, considering Switzerland is by far one of my favorite places I’ve ever traveled to, I’m excited to see how it compares!

But our day doesn’t stop there! That wouldn’t be enough excitement for one day.  We walked to Laxmi Road next to do some Salwar Kameez shopping.  We found a fantastic little street shop with cottons, silks, chiffons, synthetics, and so many more fabrics to choose from.  After removing our shoes at the doorway, we headed upstairs, sat on the floor and watched the adorable little old man begin pulling out options left and right and helping us choose.  Well, sort of.  When J asked him which one out of her five choices she should get he grabbed one and put it aside, counting off.  Then a second, and a third.  Then a fourth.  And the fifth.  He thought she should get them all.  Laughing, she said no no no, not all of them! Just ONE out of the five.  He was jokingly disappointed.  As I sat with several options laid out in front of me, he kept pointing to ones saying I would look great in this or that color.  I would’ve believed him except he kept saying it so his words started to hold less meaning.  Or maybe I just look great in everything according to him? I’ll take it.  I ended up settling for two sets of nice cotton dress material.  This included the fabric for the top, pants and scarf.  I spent less than $20 put together for both outfits.  Now the next step is to find a tailor to stitch up the fabric for us.  Once they’re done, I’ll take pictures of the final product! I have never had so much fun shopping before.  We spent at least 30 minutes hanging out in the upstairs on the floor, chatting with the old man, comparing fabrics, colors and designs and just having a ball.  I loved it.

J, G & I surrounded by fabric options!

Food of the Week: Curry on the Roof

Today for lunch, J, K, G and I went to a nearby restaurant called “Curry on the Roof.”  Sorry to disappoint but no, we did not actually eat curry sitting on the roof.  However, it was a beautiful restaurant/hotel and although it was a bit pricer than usual it was absolutely worth it.  We each ordered something different and passed our dishes around the table like a celebratory feast so we could all have a bit of everything.  The only dish I remember the exact details of was the one I ordered so: first we had Gosht Coconut Fry which was boneless lamb marinated in Indian spices with coconut, “cooked to perfection” and fried.  It was fantastic.  I haven’t had lamb in months and it was really spicy but the coconut flavoring was incredible.  Then we had a potato curry dish with cashews in the sauce—also delicious.  We also had rice with paneer and other little things in it, and we had another paneer (cheese) dish just for good measure.  The last paneer dish tasted kind of like muenster cheese and it was sliced up in a loaf-like figure with a mint chutney paste in between the slices.  It was all quite filling but delicious and it was definitely worth the $4-5 we each had to shell out for the meal.  Yes, we each only paid about $5 for our lunch.  After we finished, they brought us each a bowl of hot water with a lime wedge so we could “wash” our hands while we waited for our chai and coffee.  With our drinks, they placed an adorable little plate in the center with some sweetener packets etc. and a little tin in the middle.  I opened the tin out of curiosity and squealed with delight—sugar cubes! Within an instant of realizing its contents, we all had grabbed at the tin and stuffed a cube into our mouths with excitement.

I remember when I was little and spent a lot of time at horse-back riding lessons and hanging out at the barn.  We would give the horses sugar cubes as a treat sometimes and the distribution was always equal.  One for the horse, one for me.  One for the horse, two for me.  One for the... all for me ;)

Anyways, the sugar cubes made us very happy and it was the perfect end to a perfect meal.

Lunch at "Curry on the Roof"

Tribal Visit: Health, Humidity & Baby Animals

Sunday

We headed out of Pune around 11am for our “tribal visit” of the semester somewhere in Maharashtra, near Jawhar.  Halfway through the six hour trip, we stopped at an Indian rest stop.  Spoiled by the air conditioning on our cramped 15-person private buses, it felt like I had been smacked in the face when I stepped off into the wall of humidity that awaited me.  As I tried to adjust to the new climate, I looked around to see what an Indian rest stop involved.  There was no Dunkin Donuts or McDonald’s, no arcades.  Instead, there was a beautiful airy restaurant, little candy shops, perfume shops, clothing shops, and a man who brought us trays of chai while we stretched our legs.  The relatively nice atmosphere evaporated when I neared the ladies toilet.  The smell was foul, the lights dim and the lizards plentiful.  Although, I almost prefer the Indian toilet because I don’t have to touch anything.  For those of you who don’t know, an Indian toilet is literally just a hole that you squat over.  Sorry for the details, but it contributes to the overall experience! And of course no bathroom ever has any toilet paper.  The one girl that was smart enough to bring some ended up rationing it out to the rest of us.  Thank you!

We hit the road again, and finally arrived in the evening for some tea and snacks.  Our favorite part of the day.  While we waited for dinner, we watched a man from the Warli tribe demonstrate Warli painting for us.  It’s basically just stick figures using triangles but they look really cool on the finished piece.  The background is usually either mud (red), charcoal (black) or cow dung (green).  After our tribal art lesson, we ate dinner and headed out to the parking lot where we got some more tribal art in the form of music and dance.  They had a musical instrument that somewhat resembled a wooden saxophone and seemed to cover a wide range of sounds.  While one man played the instrument, my Public Health professor did some footwork and tapped the ground with his jingling walking stick.  Once the fire was going, we were joined by more tribal villagers who linked arms and began dancing around the fire.  We attempted to join but embarrassed ourselves with our stereotypical white lack of ability to hold a rhythm.  After our feeble dancing efforts, we were ecstatic to find out that the program had s’mores for us.  Some of us actually started jumping up & down clapping.  S’MORES!!!!!

We roasted our marshmallows, ate our chocolate, and adjusted to the biscuits covered in sugar because they couldn’t find graham crackers.  We even played a little “chubby bunny” where you try to squeeze as many marshmallows as possible inside your cheeks while still being able to say “chubby bunny”.  After the shenanigans, we sat around talking until about midnight enjoying the soft, cool night air and lack of bugs thanks to the fire.  Finally, we reluctantly crawled into our bungalows to go to sleep.

Monday

I woke up around 630am on Monday morning to follow our tribal leader down to the waterfall.  Him and his two friends did not speak any english, and before leaving, we were told to listen to them when they told us not to go any further.  We smiled dutifully and nodded, “of course!” When we got down to the little pool at the bottom of the waterfall, I was dying to go just a little further to the water’s edge.  I looked at our Indian guide and gestured towards the water.  He shook his head, no.  Please? He started laughing, but still shook his head no.  Just a little bit? Pinching my fingers to show what I meant.  Sighing, he looked around at the wet rocks, decided I looked capable enough, and walked a little further, gesturing that I was allowed to follow.  Yay! I made it down towards the water and sat on the rocks with a few others as we enjoyed the sound of the waterfall cascading gently from above and slamming into the pool below.  The fog was just slowly beginning to lift as the sun rose with us and we climbed back up for breakfast.

Following breakfast, we split into two groups and mine headed into a nearby village to check out the Primary Health Centre and Sub-Centre.  Both severely lacking funding, electricity, resources, etc. They are primarily funded by the National Rural Health Mission, so by the government.  However, the Medical Officer said that total health expenditure definitely needs to increase.  They often see patients with malaria, tuberculosis, HIV/AIDS, and many high-risk pregnancies.  There is a “Mother’s Home” where they encourage village mothers to have an institutional birth to avoid un-sanitary conditions that lead to maternal and infant mortality.  They do some really amazing work, and in some of the worst conditions, but there are so many areas that need improvement.  The reason we were able to visit this health centre is that my Public Health professor spent two years of his life living right next to the health centre, completing his degree with field experience in the village.

By the time lunch came around, I was already a dripping sweaty mess, having trouble breathing in the thick, humid air.  After our meal, my group headed to a local NGO/farm where we saw jasmine plants, mango trees and cashew trees.  I was pretty exhausted and miserable by this point so I don’t have too many details for you, sorry!

Guess what’s next? Tea and snacks!  We’re like little kids when we hear the phrase, “snack time.”  Everyone gets very excited.  Without any planned activities, we spent some time avoiding the beetles and moths as large as our hands and chatted for a while.  I dreaded returning to my bungalow that night.  I hadn’t slept at all the night before.  Picture the steam room in your gym at home, then picture dragging in a fleece blanket and a fan and trying to go to sleep.  Oh, and throw in a few large bugs for good measure.

Tuesday

As soon as I saw the sun through the crack in our window, I leaped out of bed, throwing on the least-wet item of clothing I could find, splashing cold water on myself and running out the door headed nowhere in particular.  I grabbed some chai and biscuits and settled onto a chair looking over the waterfall to read until breakfast was ready.

After breakfast, we headed into the village for some super awkward “slum tourism,” if you will.  We split up into groups of about six and walked around the village with the same guide that brought us down the waterfall.  We visited one house, where we spoke with a nice tribal man who answered our questions for us, translated through our program director who was with our group.  The house was actually quite nice.  The cow dung floor was a cool relief from the hot air, and they had beautiful wooden doors and posts throughout the house.  There wasn’t much furniture and I’m sure it’s a bit crowded, but it was by no means a decrepit hut.  We learned that five brothers lived in the house, three of whom were married.  They all worked out in the farms, their main crop being rice.  I asked the man what he thought of us coming to visit, hoping for an honest answer.  He reflected that when Indians go abroad, they visit cities full of skyscrapers and other impressive industrial feats.  When people visit India, they visit nature and villages.  I still don’t know if they like us being there or not, but oh well.

We left that house, walked past a crop of chillies drying in the sun, lots of chickens wandering around with their chicks, and some herds of cattle here and there—most of them resting lazily.  We stopped to check out the area where villagers were making their tools for the farm.  Heating up the metal in a fire, and pounding it to create the perfectly formed sickle.  Then they sharpened them in another station.  We asked if we could take a photograph, and some of them obliged happily, laughing when we showed them the picture we had just taken.  We continued on our journey through the village, and got to see the village schools where children sat in rows on the floor, extremely quiet.  Outside one of the schools, a classmate of mine discovered a cute baby goat and started slyly chasing after it until he was in a position to pick it up.  I was expecting baby-goat to squirm and yell, but he happily sat in M’s arms posing for our cameras.  One of my only instructions in going to India was not to touch the stray animals.  I decided that baby-goat was not a stray, and cuddling him was worth the risk.  So, M handed baby-goat over to me and I spent a few minutes completely enthralled with this adorable little rag doll of a goat.  I sadly handed him over to another classmate, and he remained un-squirming, happily being cooed at by all of us.

We were forced to leave baby-goat behind, and headed back to the “resort” to have lunch and head back to Pune.  The first three hours of the drive were a constant state of turbulence.  Riding a lame donkey piled up with luggage would have been a smoother ride.  My wrist began to hurt from being permanently affixed to the handle on the back of the seat in front of me.  After the rest stop, it was much smoother, with the occasional terrifying moment like when we began driving on the break-down lane of the highway along some cliffs... I had to remind myself that I was lucky enough to have a roof over my head and a seat to sit on through the bumps and swerves.  After all, we drove by countless trucks carrying various cargo with a whole group of Indians sitting on top of the packages or in random corners of the bed of the truck.

We finally made it home around 8pm and the most satisfying part of my day was taking a hot bucket bath, scrubbing the dirt and sweat from the village away.  A day later, and I'm still feeling a little under the weather and sleep-deprived but it was an interesting trip!  Here's some pictures!

Demonstrating Warli painting

Final product (Warli painting)

Dabhosa Waterfall

Primary Health Centre

Jasmine plant

Sharpening their tools

Making friends with the little village girl-child

Baby goat!

So many baby goats!

Food of the Week: Pumpkin Perfection

I don't know why I didn't think of this earlier, but I've decided to do a "food of the week" post from now on.  (We'll see how long I keep up with it)

This week, I had an absolutely delicious pumpkin dish.  It made me feel a little bit better about missing fall in New England.  I'm craving my favorite fall dessert, pumpkin cheesecake, and that crisp autumn air, and the colorful leaves! I don't think the leaves change colors here... Anyways, this dish gave me a little taste of my favorite season that I'm missing.

It was little chunks of pumpkin cooked to perfection in a scrumptious sweet and savory sauce.  They looked like hard chunks but when you grabbed them with your chapati (unleavened flatbread), they squished and squirmed between your fingers, but managed not to fall out.  The taste is indescribable and one of the most delicious things I've ever had.  I tried to ask my grandfather what they were made with, and I got a few basic details out of him (we have trouble understanding each other's accents sometimes).  The pumpkin was apparently cooked in jaggery (tastes like molasses), a handful of spices and I'm nearly positive the sauce had peanuts in it.  I honestly didn't even know it was pumpkin at first, there were so many other flavors competing for my taste buds' attention.  I am so sorry but I do not have any photographic evidence of this delectable treat.  I promise to have my camera ready at meal time in the future.  And perhaps I'll manage to get a more accurate recipe out of my host-family too.

xo A

Swimming to Class

When the monsoons ended, I was happy to dry out a little bit even if it meant enduring the October heat.  If only I were so lucky.  After the monsoons, there are post-monsoons.  Basically an angrier version of the monsoon rains with some added thunder and lightning for good measure.  They started Sunday night and continued for the last few nights but only after dark—until today.

A, C and I had gone to the Chocolate Room for a treat after lunch before we had to be back at the classroom in the afternoon.  As we got up to walk back, we noticed the torrential downpour facing us outside.  Standing under the awning for a moment, we weighed our options.  Only C was smart enough to bring her umbrella with her.  A and I had left ours at the program center.  Brilliant.  First, we tried to all huddle underneath one umbrella.  We must’ve looked absolutely ridiculous, three little foreigners clinging to each other in one wet blob underneath a single umbrella, inching forwards.

After about 20 feet, we realized this was not going to be effective, and we were better off just running through the buckets of water slamming into the street.  So, A and I broke off to run across the street when there was a pause in traffic.  I made it to the middle of F.C. Road and realized one flip flop had been left behind.  There weren’t many cars so I quickly decided to run back and get it.  My flip flops are beautiful leather Rainbows so they do not adjust well to the rain.  As I slid around to get my lost flip-flop, I realized I couldn’t make it back across the street at this rate.  So, I made the bold decision to hold my shoes while I darted back across the road to join my friends.  That’s right, I ran barefoot across a wet Indian city street.

Upon reaching the other side, I managed to get my shoes back on only to slide around like a dog wearing rollerblades, trying to make it back to the program center.  There are two main reasons the sidewalk is so slippery.  One is the fact that Indians don’t understand the concept of drains.  The second factor is the tiled sidewalks.  They’re just like bathroom or kitchen tiles... outside... on the sidewalk.  I don’t understand it.

We stopped a few times to catch our breath underneath a storefront awning with the other Indians.  The best part is that no one else was running around like a mad person.  All of the Indians were relaxing under various canopies, waiting for the rain to die out because none of them are worried about keeping to a particular schedule.  All I could do was laugh.  I mean, we must have looked completely insane to them, slipping and sliding around on the tiles, getting soaked to the bone.

We finally made it to the program center, toweled off and changed into spare kurtis from the cupboard.  But our trip wasn’t over yet.  We still had to go to class.  A, F and I set out for the journey to class, slightly more equipped this time with umbrellas or raincoats.  My jeans were still completely soaked though.

There were little streams, waterfalls and small lakes forming all around campus.  We managed to dodge most of them at first until we realized it was pointless and happily sloshed through the puddles.  When we reached the second security gate, the guards were standing in the doorway.  Clearly they had no intention of checking our IDs in this weather.  We all stopped upon noticing the lake as large as my bedroom that stood between us and the other side of the security gate.  There was no way around it.  I started laughing hysterically because what else could we do at this point? I gestured to the guards that we were going to swim across, which they found even more amusing.  We literally waded our way through, the water sloshing around my calves.  We reached another lake shortly after, this time with a bit of a current and came upon a dead rat floating near our feet.  Deep breaths.  Deep breaths.  I kept telling myself not to think about the contents drifting around my feet as I made my way through the streams and giant puddles.  We finally made it to class, but I couldn’t stop laughing.  I looked like a drowned rat.  Get it? Like the one we encountered on our way to class? Okay, a little too dark to be funny, I know... but you have to laugh to keep from crying, right? Where does that expression come from, anyways?

Don’t worry Mom & Dad, I came straight home after class and scrubbed myself from head to toe with hot water, spending extra time on my feet which are stained brown from my leather flip flops.  I still can’t stop laughing but again, laughing is better than worrying about the potential diseases I just contracted from sloshing around nearly barefoot in the street waters.  It’s not like we don’t have rainstorms in the U.S., but when we do I’m wearing knee-high Hunters, a raincoat, an umbrella, and we have this thing called a drainage system in the States.  Oh, India.  You continue to find strange and amusing ways of testing us.

A Reflection: 1 Month into the Journey

I’ve been here just over a month.  Crazy.  I’ve had stressful days, restless days and exciting, adventurous days.  I’ve tried so many new foods, almost all of which are absolutely delicious.  I’ve discovered new “favorites” for myself here such as cheese masala dosa for lunch, kokum juice, and candy-coated saunf (fennel) which is given after meals at most restaurants.  But I’ve noticed that I feel a lot younger here.  I have to remind myself that I’m a junior in college and I’m a few months away from being 21 years old.  I am not a child anymore, but I kind of lose track of that sometimes based on my new lifestyle.

First, let me explain that India, if done right, is more or less a detox from the American lifestyle.  I’ve only had meat/“non-veg” once or twice so far and when I did, it was chicken.  I don’t drink any alcohol.  I pretty much have zero physical contact with anyone—no hugs, very few handshakes, no playing footsie (touching someone else’s feet is disrespectful).  I don’t consider myself a touchy-feely person back home, but it is strange to have no contact at all.  And of course, no dating.  There’s also a lot less caffeine.  Coffee shops don’t open until 11am.  Bye bye triple-shot lattes at Starbucks at 630am.

It’s strange to be in college but living at home, even if it’s not the home I grew up in.  I have a 10pm curfew (which I abide by happily) and all of my meals are prepared for me by my host-mother, the “help”, the program or a restaurant.  When I come home, I have a 12 year old sister who wants to know what I did today and what I’m doing later and why I’m doing it and how much fun I’m having doing it.  My host-brother is two years younger than me but somehow makes me feel like the younger one because he’s bigger than me and knows his way around here.

[Side Note: I absolutely adore my host-family, it’s just an adjustment for me after living independently in D.C. for two years]

At the program, everything is planned out for us without our knowledge.  We hear about things a day or two in advance, if then, and it can generally change on a whim without our consent.

And then there’s my classes.  It actually feels a little like high school in both the schedule and the structure.  Our classes are heavily lecture-based and our professors rarely want to hear our own opinions.  In the U.S., I’m used to being encouraged to question my professor (respectfully and constructively, of course) and the texts that we’re analyzing.  All of my international relations courses involve some discussion of current events, and our professors encourage us to think for ourselves and come up with new approaches to issues or topics.

Nearly every class I’m taking here feels like an Indian history course and the method of instruction is spoon-feeding.  Like when you were little and your parents held that gooey veggie mush up to your mouth on a spoon and said “chugga chugga choo choo” as they forced it down.  That’s what class is like sometimes.  The professors are there solely to dump their infinite wisdom on us and we should feel honored that they have lowered themselves to us dumb, lazy Americans.  My Development Economics professor is particularly stressful in many ways.  First, she has an odd way of explaining things, which is fine, but then gets angry when we try to explain it in a way that we understand.  For example, she told us that inelastic demand meant that if the prices go down, you won’t buy more.  Okay sure, but it makes a lot more sense to say that if the prices go up, you’ll still buy the same amount.  But it’s her way or the highway.  If I ask her a question or give an answer that she doesn’t like, she’ll either stare blankly at me like I’m mentally handicapped and she couldn’t possibly decipher what just came out of my mouth, or she will frankly tell me, “no” and move on to a more intelligent pupil.

In the end, it’s a very delicate balance between wanting higher academic standards with a larger role for ourselves in the classroom, and accepting that the Indian education system is structured differently than ours in the U.S.

Some of the professors here are quite interesting though.  My Social Justice professor does encourage more in-depth discussion sometimes, and my Public Health professor tells wonderful stories of villages and health clinics and teenage boys visiting brothels.  The language barrier does tend to cause some problems for us occasionally.  When we don’t understand something our professor has said, we’ll ask them to repeat it.  But rather than repeating the word or phrase we couldn’t quite hear due to pronunciation or a dog fight outside the classroom windows, they dumb down the concept because they think that’s what we were struggling with.

On top of living in a home again with parents who worry when my light is still on at 11:30pm, and being spoon-fed my academics, the basic fact that I can’t get around this country on my own without some hitches makes me feel like a child as well.  I have to constantly ask for help, for directions, for translations, for permission.  I’m exhausted by the end of the day because it took so much energy to cross the road, negotiate the ATM machine, AND print my paper in the right format from a random little street stall, plus the heat or the rains or both.  It may sound like I’m complaining about the strangest, smallest things but I’m learning that those are the most difficult adjustments.

Please don’t read this and worry that I’m not enjoying myself, because I definitely have many positive things to say about this country.  And not just about the food! But in the end, it wouldn’t be real life experience if it was all smooth sailing, right?

Aga Khan Palace

Quick blog update for you this time! I’ve been busy busy busy writing a 10pg paper for my Development Economics course that’s due tomorrow.  What are they doing to us, giving us actual work?! We’re here to explore India! Just kidding... kind of.

Anyways, today was a national holiday in memory of Mahatma Gandhi, or Gandhiji so we had a little field trip instead of class to visit Aga Khan Palace where Gandhi was held prisoner along with his wife and colleagues after some time.  It was actual quite beautiful even if the sun refused to come out, and it’s always interesting to go to those historical sites and think that 65 years ago, Gandhi walked the same grounds we stand on today.  Even stranger to think he was held captive there.

Although some of Gandhi’s ashes were spread here to be near his wife’s (she died in “internment”/prison), his ashes were spread all over the world in the cities he traveled to.

Enjoy the photos!

Gandhiji's room/prison cell 

The outside of the palace

Gandhiji's memorial at the palace with some of his ashes