Anyway. To continue with drunk retirees Phil and Mike arguing with Abhi about how to change a tire, Phil's head squarely under the axle as the civic balances precariously on the jack. After awhile, we started talking about the use of the word "negro." Abhi told us what his sister in Orlando had said about them, and insisted that Mexicans were the laboring underclass. It might have been the cramped quarters, but all of that talk about how blatantly unfair America is made my stomach fall. Whatever we do, it seems to turn to nothing. Gaaaaaaahhhhhhh.

That night the four of us lay out on the roof taking in he palace and the stars. Val, who has traveled the world over and has been living in Nepal for the last year, more or less shared it all with us...when she came home from a year in Switzerland she cried for two months straight because she couldn't help but feel angry that no one could understand how disjunct America really is. And now, she's realized that almost nothing phases her anymore, that she can shrug off near-death experiences and broken hearts and beautiful sunsets without even a second thought. I wonder what it is that makes her want to leave.

Then we got into the idea that traveling usually amounts to experiences that you haven't shared with anyone else, that change you in ways that others haven't. Val says she takes comfort in the fact that she'll always be a mystery and that there are some stories inside of her that she'll take to her grave. I don't know...what is life if you have no one to bear witness to anything you've done? What the hell does a cartwheel mean if your mom isn't watching? What do you have to live for if you can't tell your husband about everything that's happened at the end of a long day? Why do so many people write memoirs? Why am I writing this online journal with zero comments? Sometimes I feel like I'm living my life just to pad my old age with good memories and to make my grand kids think that I was cool, once upon a time. And I really do believe that a good part of why marriage is important to some is that it can help you find meaning in the darker corners of your own life's cabinets.

Laura, in our group, has decided to stop school because she's become so disenchanted with institutional education. She realizes that she learns far more outside of the classroom than in, and hates the idea of jumping through hoops to superficially prove something to someone else. She's sort of falling into that crisis that I had last fall, but she's actually deciding to go for it, to WWOOF around South Asia and help with an alternative education program in Udaipur. I admire her a lot.

Last year when I didn't decide to take that semester off, after all I was kind of disappointed...I don't know if I'll ever surprise myself with anything I do. Actually I surprise myself every time I defend one of my friends from assholes on the city bus, but I'm thinking more along the lines of running away to join the circus? Circus kehe he? That is Hindi for "Where is the nearest circus?"

Anyway. Our genius mechanic Abhi decided that we were best friends and took us out the next day to a waterfall at Bimla. It was incredible, out of a fairy tale. Out in the desert expanses of desert nothing there is a sharp three hundred foot drop into Heaven. We swam underneath and had an embarassing exit from the water with a few dozen women eyeing us from above.

When he dropped us off, I offered to pay for gas. He was really insulted. It's taken awhile for us to realize that here, extra tips for favors that people do really discredit relationships that they regard as above the level of money. I wrote him a card with a stupid stick figure picture on the front in the hopes that we can salvage some kind of friendship. The four of us giggled our way through dinner, attracted a crowd with our card games at the bus station, and then arrived at Jaipur at three in the morning to pass out in a heap at Val's house.

Vijay picked me up to say goodbye before I leave for Chittorghar...it was really sad. I had no idea that he'd been taking it so seriously, didn't even realize that he even regarded us as a couple in the first place. I'm such a jerk. A jerk that always makes convenient exits from relationships via airplane.

Phewwww. I'm really sad to be leaving Jaipur and everyone I know here, but after everything that happened last night I'm glad I'll only have to walk these streets by myself to come home from this internet cafe, and then never again.

Sunday was one of those awkward days in which everythign jerks along strangely but eventually works out in the end. Kristen and I headed up an effort to see 'Don,' the Bollywood version of the Matrix, but were so intimidated by the long line of adolescent boys staring us down that we ran and hid in Domino's instead. They still followed us and a few peopel stood outside the glass pickign their noses and staring as we hid our faces and chewed our garlic bread...a security guard started shooing some fo them away with a big stick.

Our plans for Mt Abu were shaken up and eventually we ended up with tickets for an 11:45 pm bus to Bundi, the town where Kipling wrote "The Jungle Book." We decided to kill time in the nearby revolving restaurant, where we could see all of the Vegas-like Divali lighting and fireworks over Jaipur...it was pretty incredible. The restaurant was moving along kind of jerkily, but it was well worth the twelve dollars we spent there. While I was looking for the bathroom I wandered into the nether-regions of the mechanics of the building, but I couldn't get a good look because someone came and I had to scurry away. Afterwards we stopped at a hotel, heard Val's stories of how she is technically married to her boyfriend's brother in Nepal because she wanted to get him a work visa to the States, and took our habit of telling everyone we're Canadian to an unprecedented level. When we got up to leave, a guy insisted on getting us dessert "because it was his birthday"...but after giggling and telling him that sure, we like paneer, but in Canada we eat it with gravy and our fathers wear red coats and big brown hats, we skedaddled. Slept like a rock on the bus, but Libby was so groped that she was in tears by the time we arrived at three in the morning to the middle of nowhere.

The next morning I woke up early at our gorgeous little Hotel KatKoun and drank my masala tea with two adventurous girls from Australia and Sweden and two hilarious retired British railway workers in golf caps and fanny packs. I fell in love with them and the charming management, Raghu and Chinto. Chinto has is the three-time Rajasthani boxing champion. And Monty is the long-haired tour guide with friends coming out his ears. We were loud and lingered far too long over breakfast, but after awhile we started wandering the streets and ofund the Bundi palace. Which was absolutely amazing. We climbed further up the hill in our good company talking philosophy with old men questioning whether or not they'd thrown their lives away as they hufffed and puffed up cumbling stairs. The fort at the top was completely deserted...it's so strange, in India there are so many thigns that escape the guidebooks and are still crumbling under Banyan trees virtually unnoticed. I felt like my eight year old self again wandering around those ruins through all of the little passageways and catacombs. On the way down we had an encounter with a pack of monkeys that scared me so much I had to sit down to keep my knees from shaking afterward. You know, as much as I generally resent chauvinism, I really appreciate it when giant packs of screaming monkeys with sharp teeth and rabies are involved.

Afterwards a man in hilarious eighties sunglasses led us to his guest house where we met his family and watched the sun set over the palace and the rest of the city from the roof. A guy sat silently with us during dinner, and kind of puzzled us by interrupting our heavy conversation with "YOU ARE ENJOYING BUNDI?" over and over again. My guess was that he was there with his slingshot to protect us from the oncoming monkeys, but that's just because we've started to find it less emotionally trying to give strange men the benefit of the doubt when they dont' seem threatening.

Afterwards, we ended up with the entirety of the hotel crew shoved into little cars and packed onto motorcycles to a rooftop dinner party at someone's old farm estate. It was a really great time--one of the first times we've gotten to really hang out with Indians in a social setting without feeling threatened and where our cultural insensitivities and loudness are appreciated. The stars were incredible. On the way home we ended up shoved into a very small car with very large British men...my head was resting on the dashboard. We popped a tire in the midle of nowhere and awkwardly fumbled around with the jack and had arguments about which words constitute racial slurs.

I wish I could really sit down and write one cohesive post, but I'm being whisked off somewhere else right now!

Just now as I was wandering back from Val's house in C-Scheme, a little crusty from our journey, a rickshaw wallah stopped me and shouted in impeccable English uncharacteristic of drivers that he'd give me a ride to Raja Park for only thirty rupees because he'd seen me as a student in Jaipur before, and he thinks that women should be educated. This man has somekind of white burn marks and some open lesions all over his skin and teeth ruined by the tobacco stuff they chew around here, but his eyes were very honest. He asked about my pending degree in international development and said he himself had a master's in economics from Rajasthan University He started telling me that his parents died when he was very young, and he'd been living on his own since he was four years old, and his uncle had taken all of his inheritance. He said that we all should work hard, honestly, and enjoy our lives as much as we can. He said that sometimes it's difficult for him to enjoy his life because he is always alone, and that sometimes he is ashamed because he has a hard time earning a living...I said that I didn't know how a person should be judged, but it certainly shouldn't be by his income. He gave me his best wishes for a good life and advised to be home by eight every night because otherwise I won't be safe--but he said I'm an intelligent girl, I can use my best judgement.

Walking around the streets on the holidays when it isn't so crowded really makes me feel much more at home; I can smile and wave at people I know without giving someone else the impression that it's okay to reach out from their motorcycles and grab at me. Life has been a lot more satisfying as I learn the situations in which it's okay to let down my guard and let my facial expressions melt from the look of death. Things are easier to understand, I recognize the songs on the radio and I like it here. I think one of the main things about getting to know India, or anywhere, is that certain superflous differences cloud our vision of people living their daily lives. At first when you think of India you think of the colorful sarees and unfamiliar sitar music and thigns along thsoe lines, but gradually you just see people working to get by, and the promenance of those very stimulating phenomena are pushed to the periphery.

I guess one of the other abstract thoughts that have been floating around my head is that a lot of the pity we think is due to people in developing nations is downright silly. There is no reason to think that every person in the world should have a hardwood floor when dirt works just fine, or a western toilet when something else works better...yes, outrage is justified in some cases, but a lot of the time our focus on the material wellbeing of people is over-emphasized because we don't realize how little is really essential to life.

And while I'm at it, I might as well throw in another dilemma...this weekend when we were climbing the mountain with the old British guys (I'll explain later) I kind of outlined how my thought process about poverty has gone. They asked what my response is to beggars on the street--one of thsoe very simple questions that I still haven't figured out a consistent answer to. Anyway. I went into how helping people get food in their stomachs is definitely essential, but after awhile of practicing straight charity any well-intentioned person would start to wonder if there were some way of doing something more sustainable. Then you step into that sticky realm of development and poverty relief that comes with all sorts of moral questions attached. And now, the phase that I've reached is that I'm wondering how much all of this attention paid to people's material physical and material well-being really contributes to them leading a mroe meaningful life. I might end up being a summer camp counselor for the rest of my life after all.

To play devil's advocate to all of the social justice work i've ever done in my life, one part of me is always remembering good ol' Osho's words that the freest person in the world is the one who is happy wearing hsi chains. All of these people on the streets, no matter what they've been through or how little they have, are still able to love others and experience life and ask questions. No one can ever lose the things that are most important. This certainly is not to negate the validity of working for change--there is a lot of shit out there that is really fucked up. I guess I just mean it as a sort of comforting notion.

Anyway. This weekend was awesome.

You can never go wrong with hookah on a cool night with coffee ice cream and butterflies in your stomach. After a chance meeting at an internet cafe we finally have some new friends for a day or two. I am definitely going to miss how unpredictable life can be here--always seeing the strangest things and learning about entire new universes. I just saw man ride by on a bike trailing a wagon piled sky high with rolling office chairs.

Today is Divali, the Indian equivalent of Christmas. The entire city is decorated with lights and every home has garlands of marigolds over their doors. I'm about to go dress up and go for puja at Mr. Bhatia's business, and then probably eat far too many sweets for my delicate metabolism. People lead such personal lives; have a few friends outside of their familes that they hold dear!

Crap I have to go againnnnnnnnnnnnn

I never know how we do it, but somehow we navigated the completely unintelligible and seemingly illogical and unnecessarily loud station to hop a bus to Pushkar, backpacker Mecca of India. The town is a reputably holy city situated on a lake in an oasis of a valley out in the desert that was overrun by hippies back in the sixties and is thriving off of the residual crunchy Westerners that pass through out of curiosity.

On the bus we met two Danish girls named Gunovar and Heidi, and a charming French fellow named Lionel. I made characteristically awkward conversation, but we got to know them pretty well and I really fell for those European suckers. They all were in the disorienting period after graduation, and they are still searching for an authentic purpose in life in the face of many friends who have gone for phony ones. The other man next to me on the bus was a gregarious yet wise businessman from Jaipur who said he tried to really connect with people all the time and used me as an example. He taught me some acupressure points and read my palm…he said some things that struck me as wrong, and a few things that struck me as something he might say to anyone at all…buuuutt he said that I’d been living on my own, away from my family for some years and it’s going to stay that way for awhile. He said that I like to be alone, and that I can get very angry sometimes, and that I worry too much. I have a good, clean heart and a simple, too-trusting mind that combine to help others take advantage of me, and I’m destined to have a very healthy home-life whenever I settle down. The alone-ness prediction made me a little sad because I’ve been looking forward to a time when I can live in a community…and I like to think of myself as someone who enjoys the presence of others. What's a lonely cowgirl to do?
Annyway. The Pushkar lake, once you get away from the crowds of good-looking young men hired to woo lost backpackers to particular hostels, is incredible. The pace of life is slow and there really is an undeniable Good Vibration in the air. Maybe it’s all of the carcinogens that have been peed into that water over the years. Our room had four double doors that opened out onto the lake where we could watch everyone doing Puja and bathing early in the morning. There are enormous fish that jump four or five feet out of the water every once in awhile. We watched the sunset from the Eastern steps as jugglers and musicians and little boys painted blue like Shiva ran around jingling their jars of change. Maybe we lingered too long at dinner, maybe we didn’t.

The next morning we woke up at five to climb up a "mountain" to the Saraswati temple. As I gazed up at the holy moon I stepped in some holy cow shit, Aristotle-style. The sunrise was incredible, rivaled only by the one I saw from the top of Dragon’s Tooth back in ol' Virginny. We gave into temptation and had breakfast at the Pink Floyd Café, with shit-tastic service, bugs in the coffee and nutella served on stale Garlic naan. To its credit, the café did name all the rooms after albums and the bathroom was called "Paradise" and there was a room designated for drinking "Very Special Lassi," but overall the view from the roof was its saving grace. It’s pretty hilarious to find which random artifacts of American culture have been smuggled through international borders.

One of our companions had been suffering a terrible urinary tract infection for a week and hadn’t been able to decipher the Indian medical system enough of figure out that she could buy whatever prescription medicines her little heart desired. I stood there helping her understand the funny little pharmacist’s accent as he asked "if the pee is flowing freshly or it is burning" over and over and over again.

At the Brahma temple I didn’t have a scarf to cover my head, so a random guy took off his shirt and draped it over me. The line between people laughing with me and people laughing at me was definitely violated, and the line between being a respectful observer and an obnoxious American was trampled.

We again took forever at the sunset and dinner, and then they all came back to our hotel room to share stories of China, where they’d been traveling for weeks, of the incessant spitting and the women who never cut their hair…they all really enchanted me with the notion of going off backpacking on my own. I think it would be great to go off somewhere by myself, but it never occurs to me. This summer I had some sort of a vague desire to be more self-referential, to not need others’ company and approval so intensely, and I’ve definitely moved in that direction. I guess it all comes at a price.

Ajmer, the city nearby, is closer to reality but the people there were so much more friendly and easier to trust than in Jaipur. They told us the wrong directions and welcomed us into shops to drink chai for the sake of conversation…the city was beautiful, and the Muslim sector was distinct. Muslims account for a small percentage of the population here in India and they certainly suffer from the side effects of the conflict with Pakistan, but this community in Ajmer was so joyful and true. It was strange to see butcher’s shops and animals being skinned on the street. My vegetarianism of old is back with a vengeance. Damn it.

The Durga of the Sufi Saint Chisti was one of the most amazing places I’ve been in my life. There are several tall archways that bring you out into a large foyer all in marble and turquoise, with people carrying platters of rose petals to the shrine and incense beckoning everyone to think about the present moment for awhile. A student of the Koran showed us around and took us back to his room, and we sat and listened to people singing with an accordian for awhile. I guess that wa the first time I really experienced the intense joy and sense of community that strict religious practice can bring. They are definitely onto something.

We ran into the "Robson United Methodist Church," which of course threw me into all sorts of annoying philosophical questions about colonialism and missionary work and development and all of that crap. Then I bought some ice cream. We scoured a park for any evidence of the "paddle-boating" so celebrated by our guide book, but when we found the lake the water was so green that Libby's gag reflex wouldn't let us think twice about hopping on the pink plastic swan bobbing through the trash. On the bus on the way home I talked awhile with a guy who was broken-hearted because he'd fallen in love with a Muslim girl but their families would never let them marry. I had to bite my tongue to keep from shoving him in the direction of 'following his heart.' It's really hard for me to decide what my place is here...my Indian friends told me, more than anything else, to come here with an open mind. They're right, because there are so many things that rub me the wrong way and can incite a violent reaction from me if I let them, but really, we all have to pick our battles. If I got upset about everything there is to get upset about, about our servant getting paid $26 a month for twelve hour days without a days off, about the women being treated like so much flesh, about the corruption of government officials crippling what could be an incredible democracy...I'd go insane.

After I sat by my cell phone worried to death about my friend who'd called from a rick shaw taking her somewhere she didn't know, the whole experience of how truly awful men can be has gotten overwhelming. I can't remember feeling this angry or helpless since I was in preschool. Why do men think they can treat us this way? Beacuse they can. Because we can yell and scream all we want and they can go on jeering and grabbing to their heart's content. Indian girls are almost always expected to be home by sundown, and who's to say that they should have more freedom if it comes at such a high cost?

Eeeven so. I saw a dog happily trotting around with its skull cracked open and its brain exposed the other day. "Hold my chocolate bar, I'm going to save that puppy. Yesterday, after a glass of orange juice at a club decorated with cobwebs and skeletons, Vijay scooted me around on his motorcycle to see the city all lit up for Divali. It was really fun, but I think I'm going to abstain from motorcycles in Indian traffic from now on.

This past weekend, several of us travelled out to visit "the Colonel" at his polo estate. It is a little bizarre to see so much green grass out in the desert. We wandered around and recieved a strange tour of "the village" nearby, and then went back to chatter with the other rich people scattered around. Eventually he insisted that Libby, Kristen, and I go for a dip in the pool. To our delight, the bottom of the pool was covered in slime so we could slide around and sign our names in the sludge...the Colonel walked up and explained that his first well had run dry, so he sank another 400-footer just so he could fill his pool and water the lawn. He went on to say his son is an investment banker making $25 million every year just to sustain an interest in polo--which is just about the most expensive hobby around. As we stared up at him from the pool, the video crew from the polo match decided that the white girls in the pool was the perfect introductory shot--particularly when they brought us the imported beer. The club professional photographer asked our names for some caption on the brochure, and the Colonel interjected with "oh, I forget their names but they're just pretty faces so that's all thats important!" Kristen and Libby are women's studies majors, and really started to protest when the photographers egged us on to pose, and overall it was extremely awkward, and at awkward times in the conversation very large dead bugs and soggy trash floating in the water would brush my side and I'd jump.

The match itself was pretty exciting. A lot of the villagers watched from the sides, and after the match during the prize ceremony a policeman walked around with a stick and slapped at the uppityones that tried to sit in front of the white line. We went to high tea with women wearing golden polo stick necklaces and various polo players of all shapes and sizes...I was manipulated into yet another awkward conversation with a young guy and after maybe five minutes of midunderstanding accents about a dozen people jumped out from behind a corner and shouted "YOU'RE ON CANDID CAMERA!" Apparently the joke was on him--he was supposed to say akward things in the presence of a blonde girl flirting with him. Awkward--the word of the day. Week. Month. I did everything possible to promote the stereotype of blonde American girls as "forward." Go me. Afterwards they invited us to a very swanky after-party. My host family didn't want me to go--in their opinion, I think, the polo players are pretty crass. Crass they are. Apparently the whole party was flooded with random foreign women who are invited more to contribute to the atmosphere than anything else.

It's strange, sometimes our white skin gets us treated like whores, and other times it commands an unorthodox amount of respect and admiration. The other day I went with Dr. Gupta, the charismatic and genuine founder of a really great health NGO, to a meeting where I would meet the person I'm going to be interning with in a few weeks. RIght now, the plan is that I'll be living in the village of Bhadesar, which is outside of Chittorgarh, which is outside of Udaipur, where no one even really speaks Hindi--working on Dalit land rights. Dr. Gupta led us into a room with a circular table with one microphone at each seat and dozens of people were yelling at each other in Hindi. Two men got up from the center table and gave us their seats, so Jessica and I sat in the crossfire of this argument feeling bewildered and recieiving important-looking documents in Hindi. Eventually, we figured what it was all about.

Basically, the food distribution system is set up such that everyone who falls below the poverty line recieves government-subsidied food, fuel, and other living commodities. Every few years the government conducts a census, decides who is poor, and issues them ration cards. Apparently the census that was taken in 2002 just took effect, and it has been found that thousands of poor families were excluded and have lost their benefits. So, there were representatives from several panchayats (village councils) who had put in requests with the Supreme Court that the census be thrown out. The other side of the argument was that the methodology of the census ought to be changed before the next one in 2007. The government representatives were peeved because they'd been asked to re-survey so many times, and everyone else was furious with the bureaucratic process.

One man was particularly fiery, and I found out that this was Khemraj, my intern host. By reputation he is the farthest left you can be in the NGO community--he thinks that NGOs here have diluted their grassroots spirit with all of this professionalism and organizational mumbo jumbo. He organizes Dalits to protest land takeover by development projects. I have been forewarned that he definitely won't go out of his way to make sure I'm comfortable (as in, have a toilet to pee in or a sheet to sleep on). I met his assistant--an Indian girl who had gone to U Texas, Austin for three years to study telecommunications and then went through some kind of existential overhaul and ended up on the dirt floor of this office out in the boonies. She seems wonderful, and I'm glad that there will be at least one person who speaks English. All of this sends chills down my spine.

Yesterday Jeremy and I were walking past the University of Rajasthan, and noticed a sign advertising a law conference on human rights. We wandered in out of curiosity, and awkwardly stood under a tent where everyone was eating a buffet lunch. People welcomed us as foreigners and within a few minutes the principal of the law school had our pictures taken with him ("this is very memorable moment. honor that you are here.") and we were asked to give a lecture at their next conference. They had absolutely no idea who we are beyond the fact that we were American, but they kept shoving ice cream at us so we didn't attempt to escape. We sat in on a few lectures. They were, as to be expected, very vague and general but passionately so...similar to an academic conference in the states but with heavy accents. One guy made a comment about America going to Iraq and Afghanistan merely to assert our status as a developed country, and I went up to the podium and responded, but they all smiled and nodded so fervently that I don't think they caught a word through my accent.

Sheila, Shobha and I are getting more and more upset every day with the way Purnima is treated. She sneaks to the balcony and whispers with the servant next door, who is apparently recieving clothes and medicine for her family back in the villages. Purnima gets less than a dollar every day and she works very hard all day long. She's pissed about it. She's warmed up to me and Sheila a lot, but her way of showing affection is often playfully hitting us with metal pots and spraying me with the hose. Jeremy is convinced that it isn't cultural difference, she's just absolutely nuts. Very true.

A big crowd of us went out to a bar yesterday--I have really relished all three drops of alcohol I've had in this country. Vijay came and seemed to be a little more clear in his expectations. He seems perfectly normal except for frequent bizarre text messages.

The other night Shobha, her friend Adite, Sheila and I went to the City Palace and more or less just made fun of the tourists. Shobha convinced us to take a ride in a rickety horse-drawn cart, which was great--I have no idea how the driver can convince that poor animal to make hairpin turns in that rushing traffic. Giggle giggle giggle all the way home.

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.