Sunday, November 14, 2010
I Crashed... Sort of
I guess, I have been in a rickshaw accident. It was all very surreal. One moment, I was talking to the ACM student in the rickshaw with me, ignoring the typical afternoon press of traffic; the next, there was a jerk as the rickshaw tried to stop, the screeching of tires, and another jerk as our rickshaw slammed into the left taillight of a big gold van. Rickshaws, as essentially a motorbike fused to a frame with a bench behind, cannot back up. So as our rickshaw driver tried to use his feet, Fred Flintstone style, to push his vehicle free; a frightening large police man appeared out of seemingly nowhere equipped with night stick and massive gun to yell at our driver. To my dismay, our driver yelled back, which I thought was going to get us all thrown in jail or worse. Until, the police man turned and started yelling at the driver of the van. the driver of the van then yelled back; the police man yelled at him more and gripped his night stick menacingly. Then the driver of the van just drove away. Soon after, our driver started up our rickshaw; and we drove away like nothing had happened. The whole process took maybe fifteen minutes and had almost no consequences. Only in India.
Nose Piercing in Pune
Along with more than half of the girls here at ACM, I got my nose pierced. I was the last one to do so. I put it off mainly becuase I wanted my parents to acclimate to the idea, to affirm to myself that I really wanted to do it, and to gauge the health of the nose piercings of my fellow classmates.
So a few weeks before my 22nd birthday (September 24th), I walked down Karve road with two piercing survivors to the jewelry store where the words Anju and ACM triggered a major response. It was quickly pointed out to the staff that I was the intended victim and a spread of three different sizes of nose studs, ranging from 130 to 160 rupees was laid out before me. I picked one; and then the guard (nearly all stores have one) went outside to fetch my piercer, a man who we had passed sitting outside on the dirty stoop. He came inside with a pair of pliers and immediately set about straightening out the selected nose ring to its full (almost one inch) length.
He then walked up to me, brought the stud to my nose, adjust it subtly, and abruptly shoved it through my left nostril with just the pressure of his grimy thumbs. At this point, my eyes watered; and my piercer grabbed his pliers, stuck them up my nose, clipped off the extra metal, and twisted what was left to ensure that it would stay in. Then, I was done...with only a little pain, no blood, and it only cost about three US dollars: $2.50 for the ring and $0.50 for the actual piercing. Sometimes I really love this country.
So a few weeks before my 22nd birthday (September 24th), I walked down Karve road with two piercing survivors to the jewelry store where the words Anju and ACM triggered a major response. It was quickly pointed out to the staff that I was the intended victim and a spread of three different sizes of nose studs, ranging from 130 to 160 rupees was laid out before me. I picked one; and then the guard (nearly all stores have one) went outside to fetch my piercer, a man who we had passed sitting outside on the dirty stoop. He came inside with a pair of pliers and immediately set about straightening out the selected nose ring to its full (almost one inch) length.
He then walked up to me, brought the stud to my nose, adjust it subtly, and abruptly shoved it through my left nostril with just the pressure of his grimy thumbs. At this point, my eyes watered; and my piercer grabbed his pliers, stuck them up my nose, clipped off the extra metal, and twisted what was left to ensure that it would stay in. Then, I was done...with only a little pain, no blood, and it only cost about three US dollars: $2.50 for the ring and $0.50 for the actual piercing. Sometimes I really love this country.
Ajanta and Ellora Caves Part 2: Paparazzi
We had a second set of unexpected adventures on our trip to the Ajanta and Ellora caves. Five minutes after entering the famous Kailash Temple, we found our group of twenty-nine (26 students, Anju, Gene, and our guide completely surrounded by pushy, loud, and overly friendly Indians. They were determined to get our attention and get photographic evidence of these exotic, pale-faced people. They quickly got so loud and demanding that the man who is employed to protect the temple had to leave his post to become our personal body guard, using his flashlight and khaki uniform to shoo away the crowds and clear a path to the next statue. He then stood guard while our guide gave her explanations to block the throng from getting too close.
Despite his vigilance, a young man or two would occasionally slip through and stand by us, gesturing wildly to his distant friends to take a picture of him by the foreigners.
Our fans made navigating the narrow and sometimes very dark passage ways with thirty people (including our body guard) more than a bit difficult. But we finally, haphazardly finished our guided tour and were turned loose to explore on our own.
Two other girls (Molly, Izzy) and I headed out and immediately picket up an entourage of eight 20-30 year old men, who asked us incessantly, "Madam, madam, picture? Madam, photo? Hello, madam, photo?" A request we refused to grant because we knew they would keep us there posing until they had each taken about a dozen photos in various positions and because we weren't exactly sure what they wanted these pictures for and probably didn't want to know. So we tried to ignore them as we traipsed warily into unlit and tight passage ways with the men following a little distance behind us.
There was some help along the way. The temple guards were always very helpful, using their flashlights to show us down pitch-black, uneven staircases and shoo our crowd away.
On our way out, a woman ran up to us, yelling the same "Madams, madams, photos?" we had heard so much that day. For her, we relented and for the next fifteen minutes we posed for pictures with her, her husband, her friend, and her friend's husband--all of them throwing the arms onto our shoulders or holding our wrists, like we hadn't just met minutes ago. I'm sure they will show those pictures to their families and perhaps their future children by proclaiming us to be their American friends.
Despite his vigilance, a young man or two would occasionally slip through and stand by us, gesturing wildly to his distant friends to take a picture of him by the foreigners.
Our fans made navigating the narrow and sometimes very dark passage ways with thirty people (including our body guard) more than a bit difficult. But we finally, haphazardly finished our guided tour and were turned loose to explore on our own.
Two other girls (Molly, Izzy) and I headed out and immediately picket up an entourage of eight 20-30 year old men, who asked us incessantly, "Madam, madam, picture? Madam, photo? Hello, madam, photo?" A request we refused to grant because we knew they would keep us there posing until they had each taken about a dozen photos in various positions and because we weren't exactly sure what they wanted these pictures for and probably didn't want to know. So we tried to ignore them as we traipsed warily into unlit and tight passage ways with the men following a little distance behind us.
There was some help along the way. The temple guards were always very helpful, using their flashlights to show us down pitch-black, uneven staircases and shoo our crowd away.
On our way out, a woman ran up to us, yelling the same "Madams, madams, photos?" we had heard so much that day. For her, we relented and for the next fifteen minutes we posed for pictures with her, her husband, her friend, and her friend's husband--all of them throwing the arms onto our shoulders or holding our wrists, like we hadn't just met minutes ago. I'm sure they will show those pictures to their families and perhaps their future children by proclaiming us to be their American friends.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Ajanta and Ellora Caves Part 1: Nature Calls in Nature
Last weekend, ACM took my classmates and I to the Ajanta and Ellora caves, two World Heritages sites. This meant a bus ride that started around eight in the morning and brought us to our destination at nine at night; and India, not known for its public facilities, provides frequent adventures for the hydrated female.
I found, our schedule depended upon two variables: whether or not Anju, ACM's community mom, felt the call and the availability of organic cover. When these two conditions were present, the bus would come to a stop in seemingly the middle of nowhere, and Anju would yell "Potty break!", rousing us all from our Ipods, books, or naps. We would then stumble from the vehicle, Anju would separate the four boys from the herd, and then lead the girls into the available foliage. The first time we pushed our way into a cornfield (a difficult and painful process as Indian corn stalks are both bigger than American varieties and planted closer together), squatted literally arm-lengths away and within perfect view of each other, before releasing the flood.
Upon getting back to the bus, snacks would immediately be distributed. I think this was a kind of classical conditioning, trying to give us positive reinforcement for an otherwise unpleasant experience.
For any female attempting an Indian "potty break", a few tips to bear in mind:
1.) Roll up your pants!
2.) Face downhill
3.) If possible, make a hole with your foot (cuts down on splash back)
4.) Always have sanitizer handy (good for other things too--friendly strays, eating, etc.)
5.) Get used to drip dry (better for the environment!)
There are a couple more tips that I found out during the last pee adventure. That time we stopped at some bushes next to a sugar cane field. Sugar cane is a strong, rough plant that is a foot taller than I am and generally planted in an impenetrable mass, which also serves as a great hide out for jaguars and leopards...
So I chose the bushes, which just so happened to be surrounded by mud and composed of thorns. Two other girls and I navigated the mud, the thorns, and settled in (once again within full view of each other). Soon one of the girls yelled "Mosquitoes!" and started twitching forcibly back and forth. Since both her hands were holding up her korta (long dress-like shirt), her bare butt was an indefensible target for the swarms that the standing water nearby had bred.
Luckily, I am apparently not as tasty and was done; so I quickly pulled up my pants and got back to the bus.
I found, our schedule depended upon two variables: whether or not Anju, ACM's community mom, felt the call and the availability of organic cover. When these two conditions were present, the bus would come to a stop in seemingly the middle of nowhere, and Anju would yell "Potty break!", rousing us all from our Ipods, books, or naps. We would then stumble from the vehicle, Anju would separate the four boys from the herd, and then lead the girls into the available foliage. The first time we pushed our way into a cornfield (a difficult and painful process as Indian corn stalks are both bigger than American varieties and planted closer together), squatted literally arm-lengths away and within perfect view of each other, before releasing the flood.
Upon getting back to the bus, snacks would immediately be distributed. I think this was a kind of classical conditioning, trying to give us positive reinforcement for an otherwise unpleasant experience.
For any female attempting an Indian "potty break", a few tips to bear in mind:
1.) Roll up your pants!
2.) Face downhill
3.) If possible, make a hole with your foot (cuts down on splash back)
4.) Always have sanitizer handy (good for other things too--friendly strays, eating, etc.)
5.) Get used to drip dry (better for the environment!)
There are a couple more tips that I found out during the last pee adventure. That time we stopped at some bushes next to a sugar cane field. Sugar cane is a strong, rough plant that is a foot taller than I am and generally planted in an impenetrable mass, which also serves as a great hide out for jaguars and leopards...
So I chose the bushes, which just so happened to be surrounded by mud and composed of thorns. Two other girls and I navigated the mud, the thorns, and settled in (once again within full view of each other). Soon one of the girls yelled "Mosquitoes!" and started twitching forcibly back and forth. Since both her hands were holding up her korta (long dress-like shirt), her bare butt was an indefensible target for the swarms that the standing water nearby had bred.
Luckily, I am apparently not as tasty and was done; so I quickly pulled up my pants and got back to the bus.
Monday, September 13, 2010
One Quick Announcement
I would just like to report that India has fast cookies! In this beautiful country, fasting doesn't mean not eating; it just means eating certain foods, like fast cookies--which happen to have a slight after-taste of dirt. But it's the thought that counts.
Originally, fasting did mean not eating. But since today's citizens are more active, it was decided that the religious would have to eat something to make it through the day. So the people in charge came up with a list of approved foods and were thoughtful enough to put cookies on the list. Just great.
Originally, fasting did mean not eating. But since today's citizens are more active, it was decided that the religious would have to eat something to make it through the day. So the people in charge came up with a list of approved foods and were thoughtful enough to put cookies on the list. Just great.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The Country of Many Sides
On August 26th (a couple of weeks ago), I went to register with the Pune police and along the way discovered two very different sides of Indian life: the quaint and the chaotic.
Because I was sick, I miss the day my classmates registered. So on my twelfth day in India (and, henceforth, my last day to register without having to pay a fine), I hopped on to a rickety motorbike with Suban ( a worker at ACM), and we took off into the crowded and exhaust filled streets of Pune. Suban steered us through the throng of giant buses and pushy rickshaws towards the heart of the city.
That day, my rash had reared its red, ugly, and insanely itchy head, so the breeze created by the ride quickly distracted me from any of the apprehensions I had about my current mode of transportation. I watched as we passed college kids in Western clothes, business men in suits and ties, and ladies adorned in every color of sari and korta imaginable. We sped over a river, glimpsing elderly women bent over doing their laundry and groups of holy Indian cows grazing. I wrapped my scarf around my head, choking on the clouds of pollution that enveloped us whenever traffic came to a stop and endured the stares from those we passed by, understanding that a white girl straddling, instead of sitting delicately side-saddle, on a motorbike with a much older Indian man was a spectacular and controversial sight.
At one point, Suban suddenly veered off the broad highway and away from the fumes and traffic onto a narrow neighborhood lined with cute, little concrete houses painted in vivid blues, greens, pinks, and yellows. Women balancing their parcels on their heads held their saris up in one hand and pulled their daughters with them by the other. Young dashed about, full of energy. Small goats feasted eagerly on the small piles of trash overflowing from the sole dumpster in sight, while dogs (who looked infinitely healthier than the strays I have seen all over the city) sniffed them cautiously.
This was the India I had been expecting. My astonishment must have been obvious because Suban turned to me with a grin and said in his accented English, "Shortcut".
Eventually, we arrived at a gated complex surrounded by men with rifles. We pushed the bike into slot and attempted to enter through the closest gate. We were immediately yelled at and pointed around the corner to another entrance as two scary, armed guards stepped towards us.
Around the corner, we found the other entrance was chained shut; and Suban (thank god for him) picked his way over to a guard and pressed his face against the bars to convince him that he should let us in. Eventually, he relented; and we squeezed through the still partially chained gate. We then bypassed a very long line outside for the "verification of C Form", which was luckily done when the other students registered. Suban and I entered a dingy building through an imposing metal detector and plunged into the crush of body odor and confused foreigners, mostly Iranians. Suban directed me into one of four lines that led to a harassed typist in front of a substantial computer screen.
After forty-five minutes of being shoved around, budged several times, and waiting for the typist to return to her post, I finally handed over my forms and my passport. She filled in the computer blanks using those documents, as well as, by gleaning information from a cursory look-over (a physical description is required), handed my stuff back, and said, "Go to scanning". I had no earthy clue what that meant but was pushed out of the way by the guy behind me. So chaos and confusion ensued, and I returned to Suban, who put me in a line that I was soon told to leave by the police officials and then later redirected to. They then sat me down, took the worst picture of me ever (I was not allowed to sit up straight or smile), and made me sign a computer pad. I was then point towards a long counter crowded with people that I shoved my way into. In the press of bodies, I met a beautiful man ( maybe twenty-five years old) from Sudan who offered me his place in line and was blatantly hitting on the sweaty, disheveled, and rash-covered me. In shock, I chatted with him until he had to go. I walked out into the comparatively fresh air of Pune two hours later and rode the motorbike back to ACM.
Monday, I have to return to the police station to collect my hard-won certificate that will allow me to buy a sim card. Then I can finally make calls both here and at home. I hope this time the process is a little less eventful.
Because I was sick, I miss the day my classmates registered. So on my twelfth day in India (and, henceforth, my last day to register without having to pay a fine), I hopped on to a rickety motorbike with Suban ( a worker at ACM), and we took off into the crowded and exhaust filled streets of Pune. Suban steered us through the throng of giant buses and pushy rickshaws towards the heart of the city.
That day, my rash had reared its red, ugly, and insanely itchy head, so the breeze created by the ride quickly distracted me from any of the apprehensions I had about my current mode of transportation. I watched as we passed college kids in Western clothes, business men in suits and ties, and ladies adorned in every color of sari and korta imaginable. We sped over a river, glimpsing elderly women bent over doing their laundry and groups of holy Indian cows grazing. I wrapped my scarf around my head, choking on the clouds of pollution that enveloped us whenever traffic came to a stop and endured the stares from those we passed by, understanding that a white girl straddling, instead of sitting delicately side-saddle, on a motorbike with a much older Indian man was a spectacular and controversial sight.
At one point, Suban suddenly veered off the broad highway and away from the fumes and traffic onto a narrow neighborhood lined with cute, little concrete houses painted in vivid blues, greens, pinks, and yellows. Women balancing their parcels on their heads held their saris up in one hand and pulled their daughters with them by the other. Young dashed about, full of energy. Small goats feasted eagerly on the small piles of trash overflowing from the sole dumpster in sight, while dogs (who looked infinitely healthier than the strays I have seen all over the city) sniffed them cautiously.
This was the India I had been expecting. My astonishment must have been obvious because Suban turned to me with a grin and said in his accented English, "Shortcut".
Eventually, we arrived at a gated complex surrounded by men with rifles. We pushed the bike into slot and attempted to enter through the closest gate. We were immediately yelled at and pointed around the corner to another entrance as two scary, armed guards stepped towards us.
Around the corner, we found the other entrance was chained shut; and Suban (thank god for him) picked his way over to a guard and pressed his face against the bars to convince him that he should let us in. Eventually, he relented; and we squeezed through the still partially chained gate. We then bypassed a very long line outside for the "verification of C Form", which was luckily done when the other students registered. Suban and I entered a dingy building through an imposing metal detector and plunged into the crush of body odor and confused foreigners, mostly Iranians. Suban directed me into one of four lines that led to a harassed typist in front of a substantial computer screen.
After forty-five minutes of being shoved around, budged several times, and waiting for the typist to return to her post, I finally handed over my forms and my passport. She filled in the computer blanks using those documents, as well as, by gleaning information from a cursory look-over (a physical description is required), handed my stuff back, and said, "Go to scanning". I had no earthy clue what that meant but was pushed out of the way by the guy behind me. So chaos and confusion ensued, and I returned to Suban, who put me in a line that I was soon told to leave by the police officials and then later redirected to. They then sat me down, took the worst picture of me ever (I was not allowed to sit up straight or smile), and made me sign a computer pad. I was then point towards a long counter crowded with people that I shoved my way into. In the press of bodies, I met a beautiful man ( maybe twenty-five years old) from Sudan who offered me his place in line and was blatantly hitting on the sweaty, disheveled, and rash-covered me. In shock, I chatted with him until he had to go. I walked out into the comparatively fresh air of Pune two hours later and rode the motorbike back to ACM.
Monday, I have to return to the police station to collect my hard-won certificate that will allow me to buy a sim card. Then I can finally make calls both here and at home. I hope this time the process is a little less eventful.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Indian Flu
So my tests results are back, and I get a clean bill of health. I don't have Chikungunya, Dengue, or Malaria. Woo!! Though this means that my mystery illness was just an Indian flu, so I don't even want to think what something more serious would've been like...
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