This one's going to be short as we're heading off to dinner in 20 minutes.
The Taj was one of the most beautiful places I have been in all my life, and words cannot render how spectacular it was to experience. But I took quite a few pictures, and since those are worth a thousand words, I'll leave it until I return to show you all what I mean. Though those don't quite do it justice either.
4 hours there, 4 hours back, and now we're off to dinner and an all-nighter before the British crew leaves at 4am. Noelle, Katrin (from Idaho) and myself are left with an extra day because our flights are late tomorrow night. We'll probably do one last tea and a Bollywood film.
So I wave goodbye in cyberspace until I can greet you all again in person and share so much more of my experience. Until then, "dhaniyavad" (Thank you) for reading!
~christiana
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Safari, Rain or Shine
We spent Thursday and Friday at Ranthambore National Park, a huge 400-km protected wildlife santuary famous for its 30-something tigers. We weren't lucky enough to see any (it's a 5% chance this time of year) but all the same, it was quite the adventure.
We arrived in the dead of night on Wednesday and slept through the heat for most of the morning. Prepared for the hot sun, we all wore light clothes and too much sunscreen, leaving behind our umbrellas and the waterproof covers of our two jeeps. You can surely see where this is going - right as we pull onto the park trail, ominous drops fall on our heads, and they're barely a warning before the sky rips open and we're drenched, immediately and continuously, for the next hour and a half. Never in my life have I been more wet, with drooping hair and transparent shirt for an added effect. But in spite of the torrential downpour, the spirit of our group proved strong through laughing and singing even as the rain pelted our faces. There were a few electronic casualties of saturated cameras and phones, but thankfully my camera lived through the storm.
When the sun finally did appear once more, we made the most of our remaining time careening full the park over extremely rocky paths and steep hills. We saw a bizarre type of deer/horse, tiny antelope, and lots of birds . . . about which our flamboyantly-mustached guide (green khaki safari) could only point at one and state "Young Male," and naught else. (Meanwhile, I wonder what all the females are up to, and how our guide can be so sure of this info from so far away.)
Day Two commences with a visit to a young leopard in captivity, saved by one of the head rangers half a year ago when she was injured and lost her mother. In hushed voices we stood in awe on the other side of a flimsy fence as the beautiful creature chomped away at bits of meat quite similar to my Siamese at her dish. And the ranger was chasing her around in her mini-jungle, capturing her in his arms for a moment when we were privileged to stare into her wild eyes before she leapt up into a tree to regard us at a safe distance.
Obviously, that was my favorite part of the day. Well, almost.
We saw more wildlife and more breathtaking expanses of green, sharing our last day as a full group in natural splendor. Then on the ride home came what my poetry professor would call a "moment of pure ecstasy" - spontaneous, vivid, ephemeral, unforgettable. We're suddenly all standing up lock-kneed tight-gripped in our open jeep, blasting through twisted jungle trails and square farm plots. So high up with the open-air rush that we were flying. And as we touch ground again, back in the village near the hotel, everyone is grinning and waving frantically and shouting out their few known English words. We do the same only with an enthusiastic "Namaste!"
Just in a few short hours we find ourselves at the train station, standing in a guard circle around our mountain of luggage, buying cookies and mango juice from food stands, ignoring the growing crowd of dodgy-looking men staring through our skin. But this is all unimportant as we hug goodbye to our four comrades who are to return to Udaipur for another four weeks.
And then there were nine.
We arrived in the dead of night on Wednesday and slept through the heat for most of the morning. Prepared for the hot sun, we all wore light clothes and too much sunscreen, leaving behind our umbrellas and the waterproof covers of our two jeeps. You can surely see where this is going - right as we pull onto the park trail, ominous drops fall on our heads, and they're barely a warning before the sky rips open and we're drenched, immediately and continuously, for the next hour and a half. Never in my life have I been more wet, with drooping hair and transparent shirt for an added effect. But in spite of the torrential downpour, the spirit of our group proved strong through laughing and singing even as the rain pelted our faces. There were a few electronic casualties of saturated cameras and phones, but thankfully my camera lived through the storm.
When the sun finally did appear once more, we made the most of our remaining time careening full the park over extremely rocky paths and steep hills. We saw a bizarre type of deer/horse, tiny antelope, and lots of birds . . . about which our flamboyantly-mustached guide (green khaki safari) could only point at one and state "Young Male," and naught else. (Meanwhile, I wonder what all the females are up to, and how our guide can be so sure of this info from so far away.)
Day Two commences with a visit to a young leopard in captivity, saved by one of the head rangers half a year ago when she was injured and lost her mother. In hushed voices we stood in awe on the other side of a flimsy fence as the beautiful creature chomped away at bits of meat quite similar to my Siamese at her dish. And the ranger was chasing her around in her mini-jungle, capturing her in his arms for a moment when we were privileged to stare into her wild eyes before she leapt up into a tree to regard us at a safe distance.
Obviously, that was my favorite part of the day. Well, almost.
We saw more wildlife and more breathtaking expanses of green, sharing our last day as a full group in natural splendor. Then on the ride home came what my poetry professor would call a "moment of pure ecstasy" - spontaneous, vivid, ephemeral, unforgettable. We're suddenly all standing up lock-kneed tight-gripped in our open jeep, blasting through twisted jungle trails and square farm plots. So high up with the open-air rush that we were flying. And as we touch ground again, back in the village near the hotel, everyone is grinning and waving frantically and shouting out their few known English words. We do the same only with an enthusiastic "Namaste!"
Just in a few short hours we find ourselves at the train station, standing in a guard circle around our mountain of luggage, buying cookies and mango juice from food stands, ignoring the growing crowd of dodgy-looking men staring through our skin. But this is all unimportant as we hug goodbye to our four comrades who are to return to Udaipur for another four weeks.
And then there were nine.
The First Goodbyes
We've finally reached our last stop - Hotel Singh Empire in Delhi, smooshed and stretching high on a bustling street. And finally a bit of Western luxury - soft beds, air conditioning, hot showers (though it's too hot for them anyway), and room service! Our group collectively decided that the hostel we stayed in when we first arrived would simply not be a proper send-off after our adventurous month. Today has been sleeping, strolling, and snacking - an in-between before we leave for the Taj Mahal at 2am! (Apparently sightseeing will be better in the morning; less tourists, less heat.)
Internet is limited here, so I'll recap in the next few entries.
Wednesday - our last day at school, and one of the purest. We sit down with our individual classes and do magic with needle and sky blue thread, sewing on missing buttons, mending rips, hemming pants. It's difficult to describe the wonder in each child's eyes as we fixed up their only school uniforms; I'm hoping that some of that sparkle remains in the photos I managed to capture in the precious minutes before we left. I didn't think 2 hours of teaching for ten days would affect me so much, but somewhere between gripping their little hands for the last time, saying goodbyes they couldn't quite comprehend, and our coordinator closing the classroom doors on so many anxious faces peeking out, the care and frustration and worry and love build and burst from my eyes in salty tears, and I had to walk back to the rickshaw all too quickly so that the children wouldn't see me crying.
We returned early so that everyone would have time to figure out the puzzle of re-packing suitcases. Being nearly a master at this I was ready in no time, so my friend Ran and I went to town for one last rooftop tea. The dark lemony taste lingers in our mouths as we reccount our firsts, favorites, and futures, me trying too hard to hold onto all the senses of the past month like the smell of spice and sweat in the streets or the way everything turns red at dusk.
But it's too soon before we're off, after a row of squeezing goodbyes. We hang on loosely to rickshaw sides, now accostomed to the sporadic speed and random bumps. We hang on to our bags as a chain of beggars infiltrates our cluster at the train station, though we escape to buy mango juice and cookies. And we hang on desperately to each other, faces and names staying illuminated in our minds through joking impressions and familiar stories, hanging on still in darkening train cars even as we run out of time together.
~christiana
Internet is limited here, so I'll recap in the next few entries.
Wednesday - our last day at school, and one of the purest. We sit down with our individual classes and do magic with needle and sky blue thread, sewing on missing buttons, mending rips, hemming pants. It's difficult to describe the wonder in each child's eyes as we fixed up their only school uniforms; I'm hoping that some of that sparkle remains in the photos I managed to capture in the precious minutes before we left. I didn't think 2 hours of teaching for ten days would affect me so much, but somewhere between gripping their little hands for the last time, saying goodbyes they couldn't quite comprehend, and our coordinator closing the classroom doors on so many anxious faces peeking out, the care and frustration and worry and love build and burst from my eyes in salty tears, and I had to walk back to the rickshaw all too quickly so that the children wouldn't see me crying.
We returned early so that everyone would have time to figure out the puzzle of re-packing suitcases. Being nearly a master at this I was ready in no time, so my friend Ran and I went to town for one last rooftop tea. The dark lemony taste lingers in our mouths as we reccount our firsts, favorites, and futures, me trying too hard to hold onto all the senses of the past month like the smell of spice and sweat in the streets or the way everything turns red at dusk.
But it's too soon before we're off, after a row of squeezing goodbyes. We hang on loosely to rickshaw sides, now accostomed to the sporadic speed and random bumps. We hang on to our bags as a chain of beggars infiltrates our cluster at the train station, though we escape to buy mango juice and cookies. And we hang on desperately to each other, faces and names staying illuminated in our minds through joking impressions and familiar stories, hanging on still in darkening train cars even as we run out of time together.
~christiana
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Winding Down
We're nearing the bottom of the spiral now - time seems to be passing faster and faster with only 6 days left. Today is our last day of school, but no teaching, just photos, games, hugs, and smiles. Then packing: taking down the mosquito nets, donating clothes to lighten our suitcases, turning off the room fans for the last time. I'm counting on one more afternoon chai lounging in window seats before we depart for the overnight train at 5pm.
But I guess I'm getting a bit ahead of myself.
Saturday night was a hot and sticky blur of mango juice mixes and inside jokes, of dancing too much and staying up too late . . . needless to say Sunday was spent in quiet dining room rumination over final lesson plans and student evaluations. Cabin fever spurred a few of us to escape for dinner to someplace new. The Whistling Teal was a hideaway oasis; walk through looming marble passages that open to a quaint courtyard surrounded by low tables and couches with tents. It's all soft conversation over candlelight and hookah smoke, lovely and exotic.
Monday after school a few of us accompany Meenaji, our sweet and amazing cook, to her house for our very own private henna session. Seated on floor mats, we pour over her life's accumulation of photos while cool dark flowers and swirls squeeze out of corner-cut packets onto our skin. I've got a little bit of India stained from my thumb to my forearm, and I'm hoping it lasts long after I return home to remind me of all the beauty I see here daily.
Last night we finally donned our saris (with much help from Meenaji and Janki, an Indian volunteer), and stepped delicate into rickshaws that carried us to the rooftop of Jagat Niwas, the group favorite of the guesthouse/restaurants and the one the can most easily accomodate a long table for 25! I splurged on tandoori chicken, cheese nan, rich coffee, and a glass of Indian Chardonnay. It felt a bit like how an ending should, but yet not at all - our group just going out for another nice dinner, like we do every Friday/Saturday.
I get the feeling that it won't feel like it's ending until it's already ended. Until the train starts moving, until the plane takes off, until I fall back into my own bed.
~christiana
But I guess I'm getting a bit ahead of myself.
Saturday night was a hot and sticky blur of mango juice mixes and inside jokes, of dancing too much and staying up too late . . . needless to say Sunday was spent in quiet dining room rumination over final lesson plans and student evaluations. Cabin fever spurred a few of us to escape for dinner to someplace new. The Whistling Teal was a hideaway oasis; walk through looming marble passages that open to a quaint courtyard surrounded by low tables and couches with tents. It's all soft conversation over candlelight and hookah smoke, lovely and exotic.
Monday after school a few of us accompany Meenaji, our sweet and amazing cook, to her house for our very own private henna session. Seated on floor mats, we pour over her life's accumulation of photos while cool dark flowers and swirls squeeze out of corner-cut packets onto our skin. I've got a little bit of India stained from my thumb to my forearm, and I'm hoping it lasts long after I return home to remind me of all the beauty I see here daily.
Last night we finally donned our saris (with much help from Meenaji and Janki, an Indian volunteer), and stepped delicate into rickshaws that carried us to the rooftop of Jagat Niwas, the group favorite of the guesthouse/restaurants and the one the can most easily accomodate a long table for 25! I splurged on tandoori chicken, cheese nan, rich coffee, and a glass of Indian Chardonnay. It felt a bit like how an ending should, but yet not at all - our group just going out for another nice dinner, like we do every Friday/Saturday.
I get the feeling that it won't feel like it's ending until it's already ended. Until the train starts moving, until the plane takes off, until I fall back into my own bed.
~christiana
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Sampling the Local Cuisine
Since several of you have inquired about the food situation here, I'm finally devoting a whole entry just to that subject. Before I came I was a bit reluctant about how things would go, due to my aversion to strong spices and strange vegetables. I was guaranteed by many that I would get sick and have a hard time adjusting to the vegetarian habits over here.
It was hard the first few days, ordering arbitrary dishes at a spectrum of rooftop guesthouse restaurants and tiny shops at train stations. But over the past few weeks I've figured out the basic combination: some sort of saucy dish (vegetables, cheese, lentils, and/or potatoes with spices) mixed with either rice or (more often) nan, which is chewy flatbread, which calms down some of the spices as to not upset my tongue... just wake it up quite a bit.
Now that we're in Udaipur we have most meals in the apartment, made by Mina G, our fantastic cook. Breakfast is my least favorite, because it's usualy just toast and bananas, but occasionally an oatmeal-like mix as well. Cereal's avaliable, but the few days I had it my digestive system went a bit off, probably because of the milk. Chai is always avaliable, and I usually down 3 cups in the morning to replace my coffee addiction!
Then lunch and dinner are 2 "sauce dishes" like I described above, rice and bread, and amazingly sweet tomatoes and mangoes. We've gone out for lunch and dinner a few times as well, and each time I feel more confident when ordering. Part of our Hindi lessons last week included the names for every vegetable imaginable, and knowing these has proven quite useful!
My favorite dish that I've had so far has been "Paneer Butter Masala", which is large pieces of cheese in a rich sweet tomoato sauce with lots of herbs and spices, and combined with cheese nan. Aloo (potato) dishes are also good, and the handful of times I've had chicken (always in commendable restaurants) it's been wonderful as well, cooked in all those spices.
When we went for tea a few days ago we ordered chocolate and banana "Pan Cakes", which to our pleasant surprise actually turned out to be thick crepes. We've had other sweetened grain dishes a few times, and they're uniquely yummy.
I actually haven't had a bad meal here. Of course, I often find certain foods to be too spicy, but I eat more nan and drink more mango juice and the problem is solved. Other than the day or two when my stomach was a little upset (but nothing unbearable), I haven't really gotten sick. It seems like nearly everyone at the apartment has had this sporadic day-or-two bug, but once you pop some immodium you're good to go!
~christiana
It was hard the first few days, ordering arbitrary dishes at a spectrum of rooftop guesthouse restaurants and tiny shops at train stations. But over the past few weeks I've figured out the basic combination: some sort of saucy dish (vegetables, cheese, lentils, and/or potatoes with spices) mixed with either rice or (more often) nan, which is chewy flatbread, which calms down some of the spices as to not upset my tongue... just wake it up quite a bit.
Now that we're in Udaipur we have most meals in the apartment, made by Mina G, our fantastic cook. Breakfast is my least favorite, because it's usualy just toast and bananas, but occasionally an oatmeal-like mix as well. Cereal's avaliable, but the few days I had it my digestive system went a bit off, probably because of the milk. Chai is always avaliable, and I usually down 3 cups in the morning to replace my coffee addiction!
Then lunch and dinner are 2 "sauce dishes" like I described above, rice and bread, and amazingly sweet tomatoes and mangoes. We've gone out for lunch and dinner a few times as well, and each time I feel more confident when ordering. Part of our Hindi lessons last week included the names for every vegetable imaginable, and knowing these has proven quite useful!
My favorite dish that I've had so far has been "Paneer Butter Masala", which is large pieces of cheese in a rich sweet tomoato sauce with lots of herbs and spices, and combined with cheese nan. Aloo (potato) dishes are also good, and the handful of times I've had chicken (always in commendable restaurants) it's been wonderful as well, cooked in all those spices.
When we went for tea a few days ago we ordered chocolate and banana "Pan Cakes", which to our pleasant surprise actually turned out to be thick crepes. We've had other sweetened grain dishes a few times, and they're uniquely yummy.
I actually haven't had a bad meal here. Of course, I often find certain foods to be too spicy, but I eat more nan and drink more mango juice and the problem is solved. Other than the day or two when my stomach was a little upset (but nothing unbearable), I haven't really gotten sick. It seems like nearly everyone at the apartment has had this sporadic day-or-two bug, but once you pop some immodium you're good to go!
~christiana
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Bright Skies, Bright Saris, Bright Smiles
The last few days have been some of the most relaxing so far. The weather's cleared up - all that rain we had last week went back to sleep, and the sky is saturated with sunshine once more!
As I've gotten more familiar with the kids, I've gone slightly lax with discipline and turned up the smiles. But a bit of talkative chaos every once in a while balances out with concentrated moments of hands shooting into the air, focused chalkboard writing, and soft babble as they fill out worksheets with glee. In the morning before class I have my girls crowning my head with their busy braiding hands, and my boys all running to get me chalk for the day and picking me "flowers"(i.e. haphazardly yanked-up leafy plants).
Unfortunately, the two boys that were struggling the most in class (and the worst behaved) haven't been at school for most of the week because they have to work on their family farms. I see them hanging around the village around the time that we leave, but our coordinator said that there's not much they can do about it because they would arrive too late to do lessons. They suffer because they must work instead of getting an education that could possible free them from the poverty they face daily.
On a happier note, we went sari shopping yesterday. I was extremely thankful for Ritu, our female coordinator, and our three Indian volunteer friends that came with Noelle and myself - buying a sari is quite the complicated process! The most important part is the actual sari, the long sheer fabric that comes in infinte colors and patterns. We sat in awe as chiffon rainbows spooled through the air, thick with Hindi negotiations. I chose a royal blue traditional hand-dyed fabric - lower-priced and without all the embelishments, but still vibrantly beautiful.
And that was step one. Today we returned to pick up our freshly ironed saris, and transfered to another store to be measured for blouse tops, match fabric color, buy peticoats, and have fabric sewn at the bottom of the saris to weigh them down. And so many questions involved! What length for sleeves? Drawstring skirt? Round back or square? We'll have them by Saturday, ready to wear to our farewell dinner and whatever else we choose...
After the sari details overload, a handful of us went to a rooftop restaurant for afternoon chai. We'd planned on doing this based entirely on the setting - wide, plush window seats with 3-inch high tables and plenty of pillows - perfect for lounging barefoot and sipping masala tea!
It's been nice to really settle down and enjoy the small luxuries of Udaipur these last few days, especially with so little time left. We depart next Wednesday for Rathambore National Park for a tiger safari, then the final stop in Delhi for the Taj Mahal. Only two more days of teaching are squeezed in; tomorrow we are visiting the communities of our schoolchildren, and our last day (Wednesday) will be simply spending time with them. It's remarkable how quickly the time is passing; it feels like we've only begun to make a difference with the children. But it's been a visible difference nonetheless, and for that my heart is brighter than the shelves of a sari shop.
~christiana
As I've gotten more familiar with the kids, I've gone slightly lax with discipline and turned up the smiles. But a bit of talkative chaos every once in a while balances out with concentrated moments of hands shooting into the air, focused chalkboard writing, and soft babble as they fill out worksheets with glee. In the morning before class I have my girls crowning my head with their busy braiding hands, and my boys all running to get me chalk for the day and picking me "flowers"(i.e. haphazardly yanked-up leafy plants).
Unfortunately, the two boys that were struggling the most in class (and the worst behaved) haven't been at school for most of the week because they have to work on their family farms. I see them hanging around the village around the time that we leave, but our coordinator said that there's not much they can do about it because they would arrive too late to do lessons. They suffer because they must work instead of getting an education that could possible free them from the poverty they face daily.
On a happier note, we went sari shopping yesterday. I was extremely thankful for Ritu, our female coordinator, and our three Indian volunteer friends that came with Noelle and myself - buying a sari is quite the complicated process! The most important part is the actual sari, the long sheer fabric that comes in infinte colors and patterns. We sat in awe as chiffon rainbows spooled through the air, thick with Hindi negotiations. I chose a royal blue traditional hand-dyed fabric - lower-priced and without all the embelishments, but still vibrantly beautiful.
And that was step one. Today we returned to pick up our freshly ironed saris, and transfered to another store to be measured for blouse tops, match fabric color, buy peticoats, and have fabric sewn at the bottom of the saris to weigh them down. And so many questions involved! What length for sleeves? Drawstring skirt? Round back or square? We'll have them by Saturday, ready to wear to our farewell dinner and whatever else we choose...
After the sari details overload, a handful of us went to a rooftop restaurant for afternoon chai. We'd planned on doing this based entirely on the setting - wide, plush window seats with 3-inch high tables and plenty of pillows - perfect for lounging barefoot and sipping masala tea!
It's been nice to really settle down and enjoy the small luxuries of Udaipur these last few days, especially with so little time left. We depart next Wednesday for Rathambore National Park for a tiger safari, then the final stop in Delhi for the Taj Mahal. Only two more days of teaching are squeezed in; tomorrow we are visiting the communities of our schoolchildren, and our last day (Wednesday) will be simply spending time with them. It's remarkable how quickly the time is passing; it feels like we've only begun to make a difference with the children. But it's been a visible difference nonetheless, and for that my heart is brighter than the shelves of a sari shop.
~christiana
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Cobras, Beggars, and Skeleton Men
Just when I thought I was getting used to the cow roadblocks and gawking men of Indian streets, I get a series of bizarre sights jammed into a day.
1. We're outside at 9am as usual, waiting for the rickshaws, when an elaborately turbaned and mustached skeleton man strolls up, silent and casual across the path from us, sits down, and pulls a circular box from a dirty shoulder sack. I'm half-watching with curiousity until he lifts the top off and the head of a COBRA lifts out... I'm immediately swearing and backing up and hiding behind the few of us who aren't safe in idle rickshaws. And the skeleton man is oblivious to all of us, seeming almost as hypnotized as the swaying cobra, as our coordinator is chastising him and most of the girls are freaked. Never have I been more thankful to scramble into the rickshaw and off to school.
2. Again, a usual morning ritual is interrupted at school as we're serving the children their hot rice breakfast. Two village women are heralded in by the ten or so wild dogs that have been napping in the schoolyard. They beeline through the piercing barks toward our Western appearances, approaching us direct and unafraid with poor words ("hungry", "money", "help" - all in Hindi but translated by a knowledgable fellow volunteer) but not poor eyes. They were so aggressive; they didn't keep their distance, grabbing at our arms and nearly shouting a stream of angry Hindi. All I can think about is what this must look like in front of the children and how they may interpret whatever we do, meanwhile the teachers and our coordinator tell us to ignore them (nearly impossible) and try to get them to leave. They were offered food but didn't even want it, convinced that Western volunteers would be a free money handout. All we could do was ladle rice into their outheld skirts. I wanted to do more, but they were so bitter and the situation sadly complicated.
3. Departing from Cafe Coffee Day (i.e. Indian Starbucks) we sight Skeleton Man Number Two. He's across the street and naked. I'm a mix of shock and sorrow looking at his protruding ribs and ragged, palid nest of hair. He bathes and relieves himself, then re-dresses so nonchalant as if he's the only one on earth. And watching from the rickshaws we could do nothing, just like the pairs of silken women and collared men walking past.
India continues to surprise me.
~christiana
1. We're outside at 9am as usual, waiting for the rickshaws, when an elaborately turbaned and mustached skeleton man strolls up, silent and casual across the path from us, sits down, and pulls a circular box from a dirty shoulder sack. I'm half-watching with curiousity until he lifts the top off and the head of a COBRA lifts out... I'm immediately swearing and backing up and hiding behind the few of us who aren't safe in idle rickshaws. And the skeleton man is oblivious to all of us, seeming almost as hypnotized as the swaying cobra, as our coordinator is chastising him and most of the girls are freaked. Never have I been more thankful to scramble into the rickshaw and off to school.
2. Again, a usual morning ritual is interrupted at school as we're serving the children their hot rice breakfast. Two village women are heralded in by the ten or so wild dogs that have been napping in the schoolyard. They beeline through the piercing barks toward our Western appearances, approaching us direct and unafraid with poor words ("hungry", "money", "help" - all in Hindi but translated by a knowledgable fellow volunteer) but not poor eyes. They were so aggressive; they didn't keep their distance, grabbing at our arms and nearly shouting a stream of angry Hindi. All I can think about is what this must look like in front of the children and how they may interpret whatever we do, meanwhile the teachers and our coordinator tell us to ignore them (nearly impossible) and try to get them to leave. They were offered food but didn't even want it, convinced that Western volunteers would be a free money handout. All we could do was ladle rice into their outheld skirts. I wanted to do more, but they were so bitter and the situation sadly complicated.
3. Departing from Cafe Coffee Day (i.e. Indian Starbucks) we sight Skeleton Man Number Two. He's across the street and naked. I'm a mix of shock and sorrow looking at his protruding ribs and ragged, palid nest of hair. He bathes and relieves himself, then re-dresses so nonchalant as if he's the only one on earth. And watching from the rickshaws we could do nothing, just like the pairs of silken women and collared men walking past.
India continues to surprise me.
~christiana
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