Fourth of July actually came complete with fireworks and beer, huzzah America. We bought a fair amount of fireworks – the kind that give off sparks like a geyser and a few that went way way way up and then boomed into sparkling tentacles. We even belted out the national anthem at one point, and I must admit it’s a lot easier to feel patriotic when you are in a different country in a white mass of 40 amazing college children, trying to represent what little tradition we can all dabble in. The rains came around 11:00 and we danced in the muddyness wetness of it all, completely surrounded by a thick gray foggy mist that wouldn’t allow sight beyond the gate at the edge of the hills. Thick rain pelted me as I stood with open arms standing against an opaque wall of bushy grayness.
And speaking of America… I had a conversation about America vs India today with a shopkeeper. As I was purchasing an umbrella to protect me from the monsoon falls, the shopkeeper asked me about the differences I found between America and India. I mentioned things like the importance of timeliness and efficiency in America, and how that is replaced here by the importance of relationships and interaction it seems. Our time is precious, in America, and we often find ourselves in time ‘crunches’ of sorts, because we constantly have a mental ticking clock scheduling our lives day by day. Here, I feel like people let their day carry them by its events, and the people they run into. Things do get done, but just on a different, more flexible and unpredictable schedule.
Especially in a place like Mussoorie - it's small. A shopkeeper can give you change out of his pocket. There are no large corps or systematic inventories and schedules that trickle into the daily grind of this commerce.
Upon returning the same question to the shopkeeper, I got an honest polite reply that euphemized, “Americans are selfish.” We would be okay with letting our neighbor die, he said, because we don’t know them and we don’t care about them. We wouldn’t go fetch medicine for our neighbor, pay for treatment for our neighbor – we would say, “That’s life,” and go back to busying ourselves with… ourselves. And we also don’t give a shit about our country. [That was the abbreviated version.]
It’s hard to compare two places without distinguishing one as good and one as bad. One way as good and one way as bad – it got me thinking that the various societies which exist and the various ways of life which exist. It is entirely impossible to say that one way is the right way and one way is wrong – our societies and cultures work the way that they do because of all the ingredients which make them up. It isn’t that Americans birth selfish babies and thus perpetuate an individualized ideal of living. And it isn’t that living collectively can be perfect in India either – but the troubles in both places cannot be ameliorated in one day, and every for every trouble there is good. For every curious conversation I have here over a cup of chai, I know that I am still stripped of the ability to be outside past dark without a male ‘escort’.
Also – what IS patriotism? Do I really not give a fuck about my country? That comment definitely got under my skin. I am grateful for what I am able to do and be and feel and eat and see in my country, but it’s probably true that THAT sort of patriotism doesn’t exist in the same fashion of Indian patriotism. I would never get an American flag tattooed on me. I would feel like a douche bag. Can I feel both proud and ashamed of the good and bad aspects of my country? Yes. Fuck.
But I’m not here to compare. I am not here to analyze our differences and make judgments. I am here to experience this place and learn from this place, and take whatever it offers me.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Shum Shum SPLASH - Janki Chatti/Yamunotri
So happy fourth of July??
As it was put by someone on this trip, “organized chaos” is India. This being said as our taxi driver wove us through traffic and dodged oncoming cars and waited on the edge of a cliff for a jam of buses and jeeps to pass by. We just returned from a weekend at Janki Chatti. It’s crazy to think that I probably will never ever ever return to that place in my life. To get there, it took us eight hours to navigate 130 km around the Himalayan walls over bumpy rocky uneven terrain. We stopped a few times for chai breaks (India Lesson #465: You can’t do anything in India without a chai break) and parantha breaks and a lunch break and a skinny dipping in the Yamuna river break. Well… almost skinny dipping – the eyes of the Indian landscape can even intimidate the extent of my non-modesty. The water in the river was cool and gorgeous. It went shhhhhhhhh splashing over rocks creating white airy caps.
Janki Chatti is a small village, one road winds through it, up up until Yamunotri, Saturday morning we were awoken by someone pounding on our door and providing us with cups of hot chai, before we delighted in a roti breakfast. We hiked 6 km up the path, some of us on horseback. (Two other options were either being carried on a lounge chair-like wooden structure by four men, or curled in the fetal position in basket perched on the back of some poor man.) The path was nestled in between tall green lushy hills, jagged pieces of stained rock jutting out of its side. The aroma of horse shit tingled our nostrils the entire way up, and we avoided it as best we could with our steps. My sweat warmed me against the cooler mountain air. Right before we hit the temple there were tents and tents of chai and samosas and trinkets. THEN –
Natural hot springs, baby. Heck yes. Women and men had their separate respective hot spring; so us ladies were free to splash around with topless Indian women in the boiling water. Hot enough to cook rice. Hot enough to boil your dumplings. Hot enough to make you head dizzy and your brain wispy after ten minutes. The men’s hot spring area was in open air and about three times the size of the women’s, which was hidden in a cave-like damp dark covered room. Steamy steamy steasmy like a thousand tea pots. The Indian woman jumped up and down in the water. Splashing us and smiling with us.
We meandered through the temple and I ended up with a red dot between my brows. Before we walked back down I sat on a stack of rocks by the river and listened to the shhhhhh and wshhhhhhh of the water – an overwhelming sound that isn’t so apparent when the eyes are open.
We are always the center of attention whenever we go places here. A fat group of 43 white children hiking in their rain jackets squeezing by 80 year old women draped in beautiful saris and men with big beards. Staying in Janki Chatti made me feel like a walking neon sign. Regardless of what people think, their eyes can’t help but catch. The picture taking and video taping and purring (yes, we were purred at?) and being asked if I liked to have sex didn’t dampen any part of this adventure, though. The sky is bluer here, I tell you. The clouds are more majestic and milky and soaked with moisture and the hills are more mossy and the stars twinkled free of ambient city lights so that they could show themselves freely. For as many uncomfortable stares, there are curious stares and people that will smile when you sing “namaste”. On Saturday evening before dark, I had some momos and roti and a bittermelon mixture to scoop with the roti underneath the tents of Janki Chatti, on the brown smooth dirt. The tents all have people cooking and eating and washing and sitting; smoke seeping from the spicy food over a fresh fire.
I feel intensely lucky to be having these experiences. Unreal.
Another good quote “it’s like we are walking through National Geographic.”
As it was put by someone on this trip, “organized chaos” is India. This being said as our taxi driver wove us through traffic and dodged oncoming cars and waited on the edge of a cliff for a jam of buses and jeeps to pass by. We just returned from a weekend at Janki Chatti. It’s crazy to think that I probably will never ever ever return to that place in my life. To get there, it took us eight hours to navigate 130 km around the Himalayan walls over bumpy rocky uneven terrain. We stopped a few times for chai breaks (India Lesson #465: You can’t do anything in India without a chai break) and parantha breaks and a lunch break and a skinny dipping in the Yamuna river break. Well… almost skinny dipping – the eyes of the Indian landscape can even intimidate the extent of my non-modesty. The water in the river was cool and gorgeous. It went shhhhhhhhh splashing over rocks creating white airy caps.
Janki Chatti is a small village, one road winds through it, up up until Yamunotri, Saturday morning we were awoken by someone pounding on our door and providing us with cups of hot chai, before we delighted in a roti breakfast. We hiked 6 km up the path, some of us on horseback. (Two other options were either being carried on a lounge chair-like wooden structure by four men, or curled in the fetal position in basket perched on the back of some poor man.) The path was nestled in between tall green lushy hills, jagged pieces of stained rock jutting out of its side. The aroma of horse shit tingled our nostrils the entire way up, and we avoided it as best we could with our steps. My sweat warmed me against the cooler mountain air. Right before we hit the temple there were tents and tents of chai and samosas and trinkets. THEN –
Natural hot springs, baby. Heck yes. Women and men had their separate respective hot spring; so us ladies were free to splash around with topless Indian women in the boiling water. Hot enough to cook rice. Hot enough to boil your dumplings. Hot enough to make you head dizzy and your brain wispy after ten minutes. The men’s hot spring area was in open air and about three times the size of the women’s, which was hidden in a cave-like damp dark covered room. Steamy steamy steasmy like a thousand tea pots. The Indian woman jumped up and down in the water. Splashing us and smiling with us.
We meandered through the temple and I ended up with a red dot between my brows. Before we walked back down I sat on a stack of rocks by the river and listened to the shhhhhh and wshhhhhhh of the water – an overwhelming sound that isn’t so apparent when the eyes are open.
We are always the center of attention whenever we go places here. A fat group of 43 white children hiking in their rain jackets squeezing by 80 year old women draped in beautiful saris and men with big beards. Staying in Janki Chatti made me feel like a walking neon sign. Regardless of what people think, their eyes can’t help but catch. The picture taking and video taping and purring (yes, we were purred at?) and being asked if I liked to have sex didn’t dampen any part of this adventure, though. The sky is bluer here, I tell you. The clouds are more majestic and milky and soaked with moisture and the hills are more mossy and the stars twinkled free of ambient city lights so that they could show themselves freely. For as many uncomfortable stares, there are curious stares and people that will smile when you sing “namaste”. On Saturday evening before dark, I had some momos and roti and a bittermelon mixture to scoop with the roti underneath the tents of Janki Chatti, on the brown smooth dirt. The tents all have people cooking and eating and washing and sitting; smoke seeping from the spicy food over a fresh fire.
I feel intensely lucky to be having these experiences. Unreal.
Another good quote “it’s like we are walking through National Geographic.”
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
monsoon taste
Just breeched the one week mark. How have I not been here for longer? I am still wondering when, or even if, it will set in that six months must elapse before I go home.
Just experienced my first taste of monsoon.
The clouds inched in until we were heavily surrounded. Thunder thunder thunder thunder and after it rumbled and threatened us for five minutes or so the water started. Drops heavy and fat bleating from the sky for… not too long. Maybe fifteen minutes or so, then it let up.
I am living in a two bedroom space in our hostel-like housing up here in Mussoorie. The space is meant for four, but we have only three. We crammed all three of our beds into one room, and the last bed is now our couch in our newly developed living room. (It reminded me of arranging furniture in a co-op room, determined to play Tetris until it all fits harmoniously.) Kelly Alyssa and I sat on this couch, at the window, watching the rain pat and the lightning flashes in the sky. Sometimes we saw bolts.
Needless to say this experience sparked a pure and temporary euphoria that lingers…
Just experienced my first taste of monsoon.
The clouds inched in until we were heavily surrounded. Thunder thunder thunder thunder and after it rumbled and threatened us for five minutes or so the water started. Drops heavy and fat bleating from the sky for… not too long. Maybe fifteen minutes or so, then it let up.
I am living in a two bedroom space in our hostel-like housing up here in Mussoorie. The space is meant for four, but we have only three. We crammed all three of our beds into one room, and the last bed is now our couch in our newly developed living room. (It reminded me of arranging furniture in a co-op room, determined to play Tetris until it all fits harmoniously.) Kelly Alyssa and I sat on this couch, at the window, watching the rain pat and the lightning flashes in the sky. Sometimes we saw bolts.
Needless to say this experience sparked a pure and temporary euphoria that lingers…
Saturday, June 26, 2010
MUSSOORIE!
In the Himalayas –
Fresh, breathable air that drinks cool.
It took us ten hours, a flat tire, mounds of traffic, a couple mangos, a cup of tea, and peeing in a hole until we transferred all our bodies from two large tour buses to six or so nimble taxis that would shimmy us around the bends of the ‘foothills’. This ride took us about another hour or so and thrilled me beyond belief.
Before the wheels even started turning our driver forcefully suggested that we lock our doors. The back of the car was jammed with luggage, and so although I saw the driver’s eyes wander to the rearview mirror quite often, I’m not entirely sure if he could see anything beyond our lumpy luggage sacs.
We wound up and up and up on roads that should have been at least two yards wider, and fought for a share of the narrow lanes. We passed by cars close enough to give them goosebumps, and a couple times we were forced to stop and back up in order to make room for an oncoming truck that was too bloated to share the road. We hopped in front of cars on our side of the road, too, around turns, honking and honking and honking… warning and warning and warning. Everyone honks here. It reminds me of volleyball, where they always tell you to yell, “MINE MINE MINE” if you are about to hit the ball so that two people don’t go for it at the same time. It’s how cars dictate their space and make their presence visible and aggressive.
Anyway this ride…
Winding and batting and pulsing in and out of lanes crunching on stony pebbly roads and degraded inclines that tossed you back views of green sprawling misty trees. Honking at every turn. Weaving through roads in an endless maze.
I feel like everyone that grew up here has a primal sense of how it all fits together. (Obviously) – but it just amazes me how people navigate! – whenever I get into a taxi or an auto rickshaw to tug me to a different part of the city to which all I know is a name. It’s so hard to gain a secondary sense of direction here, and I am so entirely aware of how reliant I am upon the people who live India, who know the mazes, who can tap into the movement of traffic and the dusty roads and the uneven cement and the trucks and the cars and the honking honking honking. As if everyone has the secret here, and I am so obviously foreign to the whole system, I just need to be tugged along until familiarity begins to sink in.
Fresh, breathable air that drinks cool.
It took us ten hours, a flat tire, mounds of traffic, a couple mangos, a cup of tea, and peeing in a hole until we transferred all our bodies from two large tour buses to six or so nimble taxis that would shimmy us around the bends of the ‘foothills’. This ride took us about another hour or so and thrilled me beyond belief.
Before the wheels even started turning our driver forcefully suggested that we lock our doors. The back of the car was jammed with luggage, and so although I saw the driver’s eyes wander to the rearview mirror quite often, I’m not entirely sure if he could see anything beyond our lumpy luggage sacs.
We wound up and up and up on roads that should have been at least two yards wider, and fought for a share of the narrow lanes. We passed by cars close enough to give them goosebumps, and a couple times we were forced to stop and back up in order to make room for an oncoming truck that was too bloated to share the road. We hopped in front of cars on our side of the road, too, around turns, honking and honking and honking… warning and warning and warning. Everyone honks here. It reminds me of volleyball, where they always tell you to yell, “MINE MINE MINE” if you are about to hit the ball so that two people don’t go for it at the same time. It’s how cars dictate their space and make their presence visible and aggressive.
Anyway this ride…
Winding and batting and pulsing in and out of lanes crunching on stony pebbly roads and degraded inclines that tossed you back views of green sprawling misty trees. Honking at every turn. Weaving through roads in an endless maze.
I feel like everyone that grew up here has a primal sense of how it all fits together. (Obviously) – but it just amazes me how people navigate! – whenever I get into a taxi or an auto rickshaw to tug me to a different part of the city to which all I know is a name. It’s so hard to gain a secondary sense of direction here, and I am so entirely aware of how reliant I am upon the people who live India, who know the mazes, who can tap into the movement of traffic and the dusty roads and the uneven cement and the trucks and the cars and the honking honking honking. As if everyone has the secret here, and I am so obviously foreign to the whole system, I just need to be tugged along until familiarity begins to sink in.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
aye carumba??
How else can I describe this place to you?
[…infinitely]
Half-demolished buildings expose the gaping mouths of doorways and crusted, jagged bricks.
Dust is everywhere. Small dirt particles that get in my nose and my eyes when the wind kicks up – the wind being a warm diaphanous wall of cake-y air that pastes itself on bodies like clay.
Cars never stop honking. Traffic is by far one of the most amazing feats of humankind that I have ever taken part in witnessing. Might I preface any further description by telling you that the white lines painted on the road don’t matter at all, and the entirety of the road is shared by all vehicles. India does not discriminate against bicycles and rickshaws pedaling mid-road, squished up against a large truck or bus. Rivers of cars and buses and trucks and rickshaws and bikes and motorcycles are constantly flooding down streets, peeling off from one river to join another in the traffic circles which dapple the area heavily. Pedestrians are side by side to the madness. And yet somehow the fluidity of this dance is hardly interrupted in an unfortunate collision. The amount of eyes and bodies that are engaged in the slew of traffic is truly amazing.
People are infinitely interested. I feel like I come as a package, with judgments attached to me, hanging off of my dusty blonde hair and embedded in my Californian clothing. I suppose people attach judgments to me wherever I am in life – but here it is blatant; no euphemisms, just how it is. It is crazy to see eyes that are associating so much with our appearance, as if our presence is a trigger of some sort which shows them exactly what they want to see.
Night life –
I’ve had two ‘bar’ experiences so far, and the latter of the two exceeded any expectation I had upon embarking on a tuk-tuk southward to find it. Went to a place called Urban Pind – a lonely planet recommendation, but we first heard of the place when Kelly (of course) stumbled across an ad in a magazine for it that flaunted their Ladies Night Wednesdays in which all females drink beer and mojitos on the house.
Imagine – a three story bar lounge with space to dance, space to sit, an orange toned dimness which permeated the first and second floor and bright pink and purple lights on the outskirts slightly illuminating a darkened dance floor. The top floor opened to the outside and let you sit at barstools by the deceivingly not-refreshing hot air that still milled about after midnight.
Walking into a place like this was too shocking, as the 99.9% of Delhi looks dusted over somehow – there are no sidewalks, there is construction on every corner, trash FLOODS the gutters, hot and ruddy… I feel like I could never read the outside of a place and get an idea of what is inside.
Being in this place brought on an utterly familiar feeling and made it comfortable to dance and act as I would back home when pounding down some cheap beer and listening to loud music that gets in me and dances me - and the large group we had made it easy to block out any unwanted stares or judgmental head bobs from the bartenders.
We were obviously wanted there; a picture taking man probably has about 100 shots of us dancing and drinking. We ended up posing as if we were on spring break in Cancun which emphasized its ridiculousness. I danced with some overzealous Indian girls who grabbed and tugged me into their dancing pit, but dancing with Indian boys struck differently, as they did not put their hands anywhere near me – it was not expected or assumed I would grind up to some dude’s horny pants whatsoever.
There seemed to be a mixture, actually, of males in the club. Some were having a great time, bouncing around dancing, but some seemed like they were slightly bothered and weren’t sure how to react to the web of people dressed with not quite so much modesty pressed in a hopping mesh of bodies. I wasn’t sure how to react to their reaction. Luckily, however, I didn’t have to care. Because nobody else seemed to – aaaaand… free beers and mojitos.
Also – a gem of the night – someone inquired if I was a salsa dancer. “Because you seem to dance that way.” Mmmm… I’ll take it.
I just awoke from a five hour midday slumber that was truly most bizarre – I was literally pulled into an immediate set of vivid dreams with a complete life of their own as soon as my eyes shut. Eyelids are merely a thin veil closing off reality to allow for dreamy surrealism to pour in. I think that my body has not yet come to grips with its new environment; it hasn’t a handle on where it is or the type of things that are circulating around it. I don’t think I have gotten a full night’s sleep upon getting here, but it has gone, for the most part, unnoticed; doing things and seeing things has taken precedence over any perception of fatigue. Today, however, succumbing finally to sleep my body craved has thrown me into a dazed state where I am finding it hard to tease apart dreams from the reality my body is living without conscious, attentive effort.
Needless to say this feeling is amazing – and making this experience all the more fantastical.
Walked outside and the air was surprisingly cool and mobile. “Cool” translates into a San Jose heat wave, yet the edge off of the powerful oven-like temperatures is noticeably refreshing. "Cool" means that an air conditioned room is 85 degrees. "Cool" means that I sleep underneath a ceiling fan on full blast bleating and bleating and bleating...
I am looking forward very much to Mussoorie; we head there on Saturday morning. The weather should be beautiful, absent of Delhi’s thick smoggy cover that doesn’t even allow for the visibility of clouds, blue sky, or stars. Really, the pollution lies so dense! Once the sun falls to a certain level in the sky, eyes can stare straight at it because of how dim it has become! As if someone covered a light bulb with mounds of opaque fabric!
I suppose I’ll be living here for another four months afterward so my lungs better get used to this.
Also I am itching to learn Hindi in Mussoorie. I am dying to interact in Hindi – I am still an eyesore even if I dress the part, but knowing Hindi will truly show a gracious appreciation for where I am living and a want to experience the closest thing to assimilation that I can possibly feel.
[…infinitely]
Half-demolished buildings expose the gaping mouths of doorways and crusted, jagged bricks.
Dust is everywhere. Small dirt particles that get in my nose and my eyes when the wind kicks up – the wind being a warm diaphanous wall of cake-y air that pastes itself on bodies like clay.
Cars never stop honking. Traffic is by far one of the most amazing feats of humankind that I have ever taken part in witnessing. Might I preface any further description by telling you that the white lines painted on the road don’t matter at all, and the entirety of the road is shared by all vehicles. India does not discriminate against bicycles and rickshaws pedaling mid-road, squished up against a large truck or bus. Rivers of cars and buses and trucks and rickshaws and bikes and motorcycles are constantly flooding down streets, peeling off from one river to join another in the traffic circles which dapple the area heavily. Pedestrians are side by side to the madness. And yet somehow the fluidity of this dance is hardly interrupted in an unfortunate collision. The amount of eyes and bodies that are engaged in the slew of traffic is truly amazing.
People are infinitely interested. I feel like I come as a package, with judgments attached to me, hanging off of my dusty blonde hair and embedded in my Californian clothing. I suppose people attach judgments to me wherever I am in life – but here it is blatant; no euphemisms, just how it is. It is crazy to see eyes that are associating so much with our appearance, as if our presence is a trigger of some sort which shows them exactly what they want to see.
Night life –
I’ve had two ‘bar’ experiences so far, and the latter of the two exceeded any expectation I had upon embarking on a tuk-tuk southward to find it. Went to a place called Urban Pind – a lonely planet recommendation, but we first heard of the place when Kelly (of course) stumbled across an ad in a magazine for it that flaunted their Ladies Night Wednesdays in which all females drink beer and mojitos on the house.
Imagine – a three story bar lounge with space to dance, space to sit, an orange toned dimness which permeated the first and second floor and bright pink and purple lights on the outskirts slightly illuminating a darkened dance floor. The top floor opened to the outside and let you sit at barstools by the deceivingly not-refreshing hot air that still milled about after midnight.
Walking into a place like this was too shocking, as the 99.9% of Delhi looks dusted over somehow – there are no sidewalks, there is construction on every corner, trash FLOODS the gutters, hot and ruddy… I feel like I could never read the outside of a place and get an idea of what is inside.
Being in this place brought on an utterly familiar feeling and made it comfortable to dance and act as I would back home when pounding down some cheap beer and listening to loud music that gets in me and dances me - and the large group we had made it easy to block out any unwanted stares or judgmental head bobs from the bartenders.
We were obviously wanted there; a picture taking man probably has about 100 shots of us dancing and drinking. We ended up posing as if we were on spring break in Cancun which emphasized its ridiculousness. I danced with some overzealous Indian girls who grabbed and tugged me into their dancing pit, but dancing with Indian boys struck differently, as they did not put their hands anywhere near me – it was not expected or assumed I would grind up to some dude’s horny pants whatsoever.
There seemed to be a mixture, actually, of males in the club. Some were having a great time, bouncing around dancing, but some seemed like they were slightly bothered and weren’t sure how to react to the web of people dressed with not quite so much modesty pressed in a hopping mesh of bodies. I wasn’t sure how to react to their reaction. Luckily, however, I didn’t have to care. Because nobody else seemed to – aaaaand… free beers and mojitos.
Also – a gem of the night – someone inquired if I was a salsa dancer. “Because you seem to dance that way.” Mmmm… I’ll take it.
I just awoke from a five hour midday slumber that was truly most bizarre – I was literally pulled into an immediate set of vivid dreams with a complete life of their own as soon as my eyes shut. Eyelids are merely a thin veil closing off reality to allow for dreamy surrealism to pour in. I think that my body has not yet come to grips with its new environment; it hasn’t a handle on where it is or the type of things that are circulating around it. I don’t think I have gotten a full night’s sleep upon getting here, but it has gone, for the most part, unnoticed; doing things and seeing things has taken precedence over any perception of fatigue. Today, however, succumbing finally to sleep my body craved has thrown me into a dazed state where I am finding it hard to tease apart dreams from the reality my body is living without conscious, attentive effort.
Needless to say this feeling is amazing – and making this experience all the more fantastical.
Walked outside and the air was surprisingly cool and mobile. “Cool” translates into a San Jose heat wave, yet the edge off of the powerful oven-like temperatures is noticeably refreshing. "Cool" means that an air conditioned room is 85 degrees. "Cool" means that I sleep underneath a ceiling fan on full blast bleating and bleating and bleating...
I am looking forward very much to Mussoorie; we head there on Saturday morning. The weather should be beautiful, absent of Delhi’s thick smoggy cover that doesn’t even allow for the visibility of clouds, blue sky, or stars. Really, the pollution lies so dense! Once the sun falls to a certain level in the sky, eyes can stare straight at it because of how dim it has become! As if someone covered a light bulb with mounds of opaque fabric!
I suppose I’ll be living here for another four months afterward so my lungs better get used to this.
Also I am itching to learn Hindi in Mussoorie. I am dying to interact in Hindi – I am still an eyesore even if I dress the part, but knowing Hindi will truly show a gracious appreciation for where I am living and a want to experience the closest thing to assimilation that I can possibly feel.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
india time
What have I done to my LIFE.
I have spiced it up avec curry powder in exorbitant amounts! All that I have seen so far has saturated my senses with fresh colors and smells and dusted my feet so that they are gritty and brown. (At least my feet can pass for Indian.) Never have I been so aware of the fact that I am a white ‘american’ and that I am used to things being unchangeable, stable, and orderly. Americans, I see now, are OCD about their orderliness. They like things to be set in place and they don’t like you to be able to alter them.
[So far my experience in Delhi has obviously given me tools for perspective-taking in various lines of life.]
While traveling, I have also never felt the need to assimilate into a culture with such pressing necessity. This little ‘pressure’ that I feel to wear a salwar kameez and eat every curry in sight and learn Hindi enough to barter and query of simple matters is an entirely welcomed pressure; because as soon as you do these things, the whiteness, while still visible, crumples its offensiveness. I realize that I can either be seen as ignorant and snooty, or interested and curious. (Both cases still create the eyesore of the ‘white foreigner’ stamp that is imprinted on my forehead.)
I like the pressure. I like the direction that the smog of Delhi is leading me toward. When you visit another place, you should embrace it. Especially a place that is so rich with culture! Culture pools at my fingertips! And yet I know I will never be able to really touch it. To really be part of it – but I can get close. I can be accepted. I can become an active observer instead of an instrument of tourism.
I have spiced it up avec curry powder in exorbitant amounts! All that I have seen so far has saturated my senses with fresh colors and smells and dusted my feet so that they are gritty and brown. (At least my feet can pass for Indian.) Never have I been so aware of the fact that I am a white ‘american’ and that I am used to things being unchangeable, stable, and orderly. Americans, I see now, are OCD about their orderliness. They like things to be set in place and they don’t like you to be able to alter them.
[So far my experience in Delhi has obviously given me tools for perspective-taking in various lines of life.]
While traveling, I have also never felt the need to assimilate into a culture with such pressing necessity. This little ‘pressure’ that I feel to wear a salwar kameez and eat every curry in sight and learn Hindi enough to barter and query of simple matters is an entirely welcomed pressure; because as soon as you do these things, the whiteness, while still visible, crumples its offensiveness. I realize that I can either be seen as ignorant and snooty, or interested and curious. (Both cases still create the eyesore of the ‘white foreigner’ stamp that is imprinted on my forehead.)
I like the pressure. I like the direction that the smog of Delhi is leading me toward. When you visit another place, you should embrace it. Especially a place that is so rich with culture! Culture pools at my fingertips! And yet I know I will never be able to really touch it. To really be part of it – but I can get close. I can be accepted. I can become an active observer instead of an instrument of tourism.
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