Now I’m sitting on the terrace, a little drowsy, a little disoriented, rashy, and unsure of what the hell I’m doing here in India. It’s better that I came, I know, it’s an adventure that will help me grow as a person—another semester at home would have left me feeling stagnant and in a funk. I am usually so drowsy that I don’t really feel like myself; I’m kind of unimpressed with my ability to make the most of things. Actually this past weekend was pretty wonderful; gave me a little bit more of a sense that I’m not just floating around on a tourist train. Nothing like a little rash to renew your sense of rustic adventure.
The highlight, so far, I guess has been the dancing. Every year there are nine days of Nivitra, and on every night there is an enormous dance held. Everyone between the cradle and the grave dresses up in their best sarees and jewelry, and they dance in circles for hours upon end. There are two types—one with hand clapping and the other called dandhya, in which you have a piar of stick in your hands and you and your partner hit the sticks together while you prance around in complicated swirls. I was completely enamored with it…Val asked some university boys to teach us, and they took us under their wings and flashed us into the VIP seating section with some special card. There aren’t many celebrations in our culture where all ages are invited and enthusiastic. It’s really overpowering energy and light and color—the guys looked so ecstatic to be out there.
The first night was a little awkward because they didn’t want to teach, they just wanted us to know it and to dance with them. The jumbo-vision followed us blonde girls religiously, even in our jerkiest movements, and someone from the stage introduced the Americans to a crowd of thousands. Rajev is very sweet and polite and eager to introduce us to new people, and his friends are likewise eager but a little bit more stern in their demands that I learn each step precisely on the first try. The second night we went back with Libby, Antonia, and Tess, and we met a sweet girl named Priyanka…this time Kristen and I finally found our rhythm and it started being really fun instead of an ordeal!
Although Kristen probably deserved it more, I was nominated for Best Foreign Dancer, and I went up to the judges table in front of all those thousands to receive my prize (a suitcase). After that children beamed at me and others stared, probably critiquing me down to the bone…I had a big, awkward suitcase that Rajev grabbed from me and luged around from stall to stall until he found someone to watch it for me for the rest of the evening. It’s so nice—not all Indian men are so rude! The rest of the time everyone was dancing cheesy camp dances—I was enamored, in love…pretending to set off fireworks, mooning people. It was great. People called the next day to tell me I was on the repeating loop for the news, and my picture was in the paper. "Foreigner priveledge" at its finest.
This weekend we went to Agra. Standing at the bus station, and being in the presence of Libby, really calls attention to how absurdly loud it is here and how many irritating noises are tolerated all the time. Some large truck had gotten stuck in reverse and was making a high-pitched beeping noise somewhere behind us. When the noise finally stopped I was about to comment when someone next to us started to fix the horn on his motorcycle. The horns are all assortments of trumpets and squeaks and hoots—some of which are pretty hilarious. A man in the bathroom at the halfway house opened the stall door for me, graciously surrendered the toilet paper, opened it back up for me when I was done, turned on the sink, insisted on soap, and tore off a luxuriously long piece of paper for me to dry off my hands. He makes his entire living handing toilet paper to tourists and demanding a tip. People jump on the bus just as it pulls away to sell trinkets and sewing kits and open packs of Starbursts—it really looks like they stole someone's purse and are selling everything inside--"THREE PENS. ONE BREATH MINT." Once they give up they jump back off the moving bus again. The long, sweaty bus rides took a toll on my skin, and I pretty much have broken out in an ugly, burning rash all over me.
When we got to Agra, a man barged up the aisles of the bus and demanded that we grab our backpacks, generally treating us like idiots because we’d been on the bus for too long. We got off, the bus rolled away, and we realized we were nowhere near the tourist sector…and then the man in the red shirt rolled up in a rickshaw and told us to hop in for 200 rupees. While we searched for the address of our hostel a swarm gathered and they fought to peer over our shoulders to see where we were going. We ran away at a faster pace than ever until we found an unassuming boy in a swarm who took us to the Taj Grange pollution-free zone.
Having Jeremy with us to talk in Hindi makes the whole world so much less intimidating-people shout a lot, yes, but often they’re trying to convey a point that is more helpful than ‘buy something from me.’ The group was fantastic, I enjoyed every second with them and it was hard not to stay up late talking all the time.
The Taj Mahal is entirely worthy of its reputation. Many tourist sights, I feel, are over-hyped to the point that they aren’t so worthwhile to see. But the first glance at the Taj is really something I don’t think I’ll ever forget. One man built it in memory of his wife. The incredible devotion it took…hard to believe. Afterwards we made like Europeans and lounged around the hotel restaurant for about four or five hours.
We stopped in the small town of Bharatpur and wandered around the neighborhood. In an enormous dirt field, there were perhaps six or seven games of cricket going on, and hundreds of kids on bikes. We stoped to watch, and after a few minutes a crowd gathered and awkward conversation in broken Hindi and broken English ensued. Eventually Laura and I sweet-talked our way into letting us ride their bikes around and teaching us cricket. After awhile the crowd got so claustrophobic and their demands that we sing and dance so perverse that we left...A crowd of maybe twenty or thirty guys followed us up the steet, so we set off in a direction opposite our hotel in the hopes that we might lose them. It took awhile, but we did lose them, and ended up being escorted around by an old woman who wanted to show us all of the different temples in the town. People always insist that we shouldn't feel awkward or intrusive, but the feeling never goes away. On the way home Jeremy let down his guard long enough to talk to one boy who turned out toe be an English student who invited us to his home. It turns out he's the son of a police officer, and lives in the kind of house that you'd imagine about India--seven or eight people in a small cement flat with two string beds and a buffalo outside. They gave us some of the best chai we've ever had and invited us for holiday (last day of Nivitra) food the next day. Mahesh (the student) came with us to ride bikes around the bird sanctuary the next day. The bikes we rented were pretty fantastic--pedals going in all angles and not even a trace of brakes on mine. The sanctuary was beautiful; reminded me of Assateague Island...it was just great to get away from all the noise for a little while. Libby and I taught some old folk songs to the group so we spent more time just happily pedaling around singing than actually looking for birds.
My rash got to be a bit much for me so a few of us went home earlier...I swear to God, I hadn't listened to even a trace of music before someone lent me their i-Pod and it reminded me of an entire side of forgetting logistics and appreciating life than I had felt in a long time.
There are people waiting impatiently and staring at me in this internet cafe anda I can't tell if it's just because they want to stare or if they want to convey a point.
Yesterday was Dusshera, the day when they burn effigees of the demon god. It was absolutely incredible! 30,000 people squeezed into a tiny park with hundreds of vendors to see two 150 foot paper mache figures of Ravan burn to the ground. There were a lot of fireworks and plenty of hot ash and embers sprinkled over the crowd. Nothing here ever appears safe. The ferris wheel was powered by several men turning a hand cranks, and when they wanted it to stop they would grab a bar and drag their feet. It's insaaaannnnnneeee...When the fireworks were over there was a huge stampede of people headed for the gates. We watched from the roof of our house, so we were fortunate to avoid a lot of the hubbub.
And today we went to the planetarium, but all of the dialogue was from the 1980's and in Hindi so I just fell asleep.
The highlight, so far, I guess has been the dancing. Every year there are nine days of Nivitra, and on every night there is an enormous dance held. Everyone between the cradle and the grave dresses up in their best sarees and jewelry, and they dance in circles for hours upon end. There are two types—one with hand clapping and the other called dandhya, in which you have a piar of stick in your hands and you and your partner hit the sticks together while you prance around in complicated swirls. I was completely enamored with it…Val asked some university boys to teach us, and they took us under their wings and flashed us into the VIP seating section with some special card. There aren’t many celebrations in our culture where all ages are invited and enthusiastic. It’s really overpowering energy and light and color—the guys looked so ecstatic to be out there.
The first night was a little awkward because they didn’t want to teach, they just wanted us to know it and to dance with them. The jumbo-vision followed us blonde girls religiously, even in our jerkiest movements, and someone from the stage introduced the Americans to a crowd of thousands. Rajev is very sweet and polite and eager to introduce us to new people, and his friends are likewise eager but a little bit more stern in their demands that I learn each step precisely on the first try. The second night we went back with Libby, Antonia, and Tess, and we met a sweet girl named Priyanka…this time Kristen and I finally found our rhythm and it started being really fun instead of an ordeal!
Although Kristen probably deserved it more, I was nominated for Best Foreign Dancer, and I went up to the judges table in front of all those thousands to receive my prize (a suitcase). After that children beamed at me and others stared, probably critiquing me down to the bone…I had a big, awkward suitcase that Rajev grabbed from me and luged around from stall to stall until he found someone to watch it for me for the rest of the evening. It’s so nice—not all Indian men are so rude! The rest of the time everyone was dancing cheesy camp dances—I was enamored, in love…pretending to set off fireworks, mooning people. It was great. People called the next day to tell me I was on the repeating loop for the news, and my picture was in the paper. "Foreigner priveledge" at its finest.
This weekend we went to Agra. Standing at the bus station, and being in the presence of Libby, really calls attention to how absurdly loud it is here and how many irritating noises are tolerated all the time. Some large truck had gotten stuck in reverse and was making a high-pitched beeping noise somewhere behind us. When the noise finally stopped I was about to comment when someone next to us started to fix the horn on his motorcycle. The horns are all assortments of trumpets and squeaks and hoots—some of which are pretty hilarious. A man in the bathroom at the halfway house opened the stall door for me, graciously surrendered the toilet paper, opened it back up for me when I was done, turned on the sink, insisted on soap, and tore off a luxuriously long piece of paper for me to dry off my hands. He makes his entire living handing toilet paper to tourists and demanding a tip. People jump on the bus just as it pulls away to sell trinkets and sewing kits and open packs of Starbursts—it really looks like they stole someone's purse and are selling everything inside--"THREE PENS. ONE BREATH MINT." Once they give up they jump back off the moving bus again. The long, sweaty bus rides took a toll on my skin, and I pretty much have broken out in an ugly, burning rash all over me.
When we got to Agra, a man barged up the aisles of the bus and demanded that we grab our backpacks, generally treating us like idiots because we’d been on the bus for too long. We got off, the bus rolled away, and we realized we were nowhere near the tourist sector…and then the man in the red shirt rolled up in a rickshaw and told us to hop in for 200 rupees. While we searched for the address of our hostel a swarm gathered and they fought to peer over our shoulders to see where we were going. We ran away at a faster pace than ever until we found an unassuming boy in a swarm who took us to the Taj Grange pollution-free zone.
Having Jeremy with us to talk in Hindi makes the whole world so much less intimidating-people shout a lot, yes, but often they’re trying to convey a point that is more helpful than ‘buy something from me.’ The group was fantastic, I enjoyed every second with them and it was hard not to stay up late talking all the time.
The Taj Mahal is entirely worthy of its reputation. Many tourist sights, I feel, are over-hyped to the point that they aren’t so worthwhile to see. But the first glance at the Taj is really something I don’t think I’ll ever forget. One man built it in memory of his wife. The incredible devotion it took…hard to believe. Afterwards we made like Europeans and lounged around the hotel restaurant for about four or five hours.
We stopped in the small town of Bharatpur and wandered around the neighborhood. In an enormous dirt field, there were perhaps six or seven games of cricket going on, and hundreds of kids on bikes. We stoped to watch, and after a few minutes a crowd gathered and awkward conversation in broken Hindi and broken English ensued. Eventually Laura and I sweet-talked our way into letting us ride their bikes around and teaching us cricket. After awhile the crowd got so claustrophobic and their demands that we sing and dance so perverse that we left...A crowd of maybe twenty or thirty guys followed us up the steet, so we set off in a direction opposite our hotel in the hopes that we might lose them. It took awhile, but we did lose them, and ended up being escorted around by an old woman who wanted to show us all of the different temples in the town. People always insist that we shouldn't feel awkward or intrusive, but the feeling never goes away. On the way home Jeremy let down his guard long enough to talk to one boy who turned out toe be an English student who invited us to his home. It turns out he's the son of a police officer, and lives in the kind of house that you'd imagine about India--seven or eight people in a small cement flat with two string beds and a buffalo outside. They gave us some of the best chai we've ever had and invited us for holiday (last day of Nivitra) food the next day. Mahesh (the student) came with us to ride bikes around the bird sanctuary the next day. The bikes we rented were pretty fantastic--pedals going in all angles and not even a trace of brakes on mine. The sanctuary was beautiful; reminded me of Assateague Island...it was just great to get away from all the noise for a little while. Libby and I taught some old folk songs to the group so we spent more time just happily pedaling around singing than actually looking for birds.
My rash got to be a bit much for me so a few of us went home earlier...I swear to God, I hadn't listened to even a trace of music before someone lent me their i-Pod and it reminded me of an entire side of forgetting logistics and appreciating life than I had felt in a long time.
There are people waiting impatiently and staring at me in this internet cafe anda I can't tell if it's just because they want to stare or if they want to convey a point.
Yesterday was Dusshera, the day when they burn effigees of the demon god. It was absolutely incredible! 30,000 people squeezed into a tiny park with hundreds of vendors to see two 150 foot paper mache figures of Ravan burn to the ground. There were a lot of fireworks and plenty of hot ash and embers sprinkled over the crowd. Nothing here ever appears safe. The ferris wheel was powered by several men turning a hand cranks, and when they wanted it to stop they would grab a bar and drag their feet. It's insaaaannnnnneeee...When the fireworks were over there was a huge stampede of people headed for the gates. We watched from the roof of our house, so we were fortunate to avoid a lot of the hubbub.
And today we went to the planetarium, but all of the dialogue was from the 1980's and in Hindi so I just fell asleep.
posted by Sandy at 4:45 AM
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